West Coast North

I could tell that I underdressed as soon as I got into Washington, and now I realized that I am going to be underdressed for a long time on this coast. Standing still, the temperature is in the seventies and pleasant, but moving at any speed above 35 and the windchill takes off maybe 30 degrees. I am on 101 heading south and my joints are slowly congealing into place. My knees ache when I try to stretch them away from their slightly angled positions at the side of the gas tank and my wrists feel cemented into place - not the best manner of cruise control. My entire body is tensed against the cold as I take the turns into the cool Pacific wind. It's not long before I put on my rain suit just for the added layers. The rubbery material is pretty windproof but it doesn't insulate, and I look like a fool prepared for rain when it's dry, but I suppose that the gray skies could open up at any time. I start thinking of a Goodwill or Salvation Army where I can get warmer under layers for cheap, and miraculously there is one when I hit Lincoln City. Five dollars buys me some warmup pants that fit well under my jeans, and another five buys me a thinly lined jacket that fits under my burn jacket. Definitely helpful. In the same plaza I eat lunch at a brew pub and as I am walking toward the restroom a guy notices my Bruins shirt on and starts up a conversation. He is from Quebec but he's not a Canadiens fan so I continue talking to him.
I find the southern third of Oregon the most beautiful part. Cannon Beach has spectacular scenery with what I assume were once arches, now rounded rock stacks, standing high out of the water. I recognize them from recently watching the Goonies. The rest of Oregon is equally as beautiful, if not more for the lack of tourism plaguing Cannon Beach, and northern California is the same way. At some point I see rocks jutting out of the sand along a nameless beach as I drive by and I feel compelled to turn around and put my climbing shoes on for an impromptu bouldering session. I completely skip Portland, sticking to the coast, for lack of knowing anyone there, and not feeling like finding a hostel in a city I've never been to before. I hear there is a killer music scene there but no one I want to see is playing tonight so I don't feel bad. I turn inland at Newport, and head east to Sweet Home where I have a friend living on a mountain as a fire lookout, but I can't get a hold of her so I leave and as night is fully descended, look around for a campground in the darkness in the middle of nowhere. I am unsuccessful and so I check into a motel near I-5 in Harrisburg. A warm shower and bed are great.
I head back to 101 the next morning and drive into northern California. The redwoods are enormous and very beautiful, and I drive beneath them up and down hills in their cool shade which of course chills me right to the bone. Oh well. I turn off the road to drive down the "Avenue of the Giants," a smaller road littered with campgrounds among a massive stretch of redwoods, and then get back on 101ofter a dozen miles or so. I stay in Arcata that night, camped on dunes next to the beach just north of the town. The town itself is a riot. I have never seen so many hippies in one place. There is a fine line between homelessness and just being a hippy for a lot of them in the main square it seems. The pot in the air is unmistakable as I walk past a grizzled old black man blowing out a rip from a bowl with a glazed look over his eyes. I spend the evening at a local brewpub with Jaqui who just got back into town tonight, and two other friends Megan and Melissa who just happen to be driving through the area at the same time as me. I am beat from driving all day though and I don't last long before I head to the campground and unsuccessfully try and get change to pay for my campspot from whatever campers are still up. I pay the park ranger the next morning as he is checking fees with no problem.
Back in town, I can't get a hold of any of the girls so I decide to just leave after relaxing in the main square. I call up another friend of mine who lives in Willets, a few hours south of here and I head down the coast, getting on route 1 where it begins in Legget. The beginning turns of route 1 catch me off guard and I'm just lucky there are no cars in the oncoming lane as I drift way too far. I know better now. At Fort Bragg I turn inland for the remaining 30 miles to Willets, and as I work my way through the hills and twists the temperature gradually rises, which I am very grateful for. I make it into Willets and find a bar Jeremy wants to meet at and settle down for a beer. The bartender is extremely friendly and when he finds out I'm from NH, gets excited as he asks me if I know what the state bird of Vermont is, seeing as how he lived there for awhile. I cooly respond, "the Jeezum Crow." He cracks up as no one has ever answered correctly before and it earns me a free beer from a guy sitting next to me. I am glad I made Maury buy me that shirt at the Vermont Brewers Festival a year ago.