Archive for the 'Tour de Cascadia' Category

Decompressing, the Oregon Coast, and Home

TO BORROW THE WORDS of Alex Garland in his description of Ko Sahn Road, Canon Beach is, for us, a decompression chamber. Here we soak in misty ocean vistas as we reflect on our trip, discussing from a comfortable distance what it will be like to return home – to the organized days of school and work, to familiarity, and to the challenges that lay waiting on the back burner.

After camping for several nights, the basic comforts of a hotel room seem amazing to us: a shower that isn’t quarter-fed, actual pillows (not stuff bags filled with clothes) and clean sheets. We feel reintroduced to modern society.

Despite having become largely a vacation spot, Canon Beach has mysteriously (and thankfully) retained an authentically Northwest character. Nary a modern building can be found amid the salt-encrusted wooden guesthouses, pubs and shops; while the young traveler may feel a bit out of place among the mostly middle-aged crowd, the atmosphere is unpretentious and provides enough breathing room for people like us, who are just seeking a little downtime.

Here I write postcards to relatives, read and take in the last coastal sunset I will see for a long time. But after a couple days of slow living, we take a breath and decide it’s time to go.

***

We stop outside of Portland to see Nick’s sister’s family, and are given a delicious meal of ravioli before making the final haul. Passing through Portland’s arteries I relive experiences from a month ago: time spent driving aimlessly with my dad, long bicycle rides on my own. Halfway over the Columbia River we see a sign welcoming us to Washington, and all of it is swept into the past.

By the time we roll into Seattle, treated to the skyline as we drive up and away from Tukwila, the sky is transitioning from a burning pink to a cool, fizzling purple. I drop off Nick at his house, exchange a hearty man-hug, honk the horn and head down south.

Back in the suburbs I debate what to eat for dinner, guiltily enjoying the fact that for once I know exactly where I’m going. I know that both Paul’s and Ai’s teriyaki joints will be closed because it’s Sunday, but am sure that Ichi will be open. I pull in, order the usual from back in my high school days, and get it to go.

As I pass through the streets that divide the memories of my youth, I accept that this is where I am from. I feel a sense of connection, of unexpected pride for my hometown as my car fills with the smell of rice and spicy chicken, knowing that – for better or for worse – these are my roots.

The things that have changed in this city – the new buildings, the closed shops, the unfamiliar families where friends used to live – are reminders of the time that has elapsed, and of all the places I have been.

***

This concludes the Tour de Cascadia – thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Happy travels.

Fourteen Hours


somewhere in northern california.

THERE IS SOMETHING MISCHIEVOUSLY satisfying about knowing you are one of the few people awake in a given city. And there is something absolutely cathartic about being able to roll up your tent, turn up the stereo, and blast past state lines.

And so that’s just what we decided to do.

Over the course of our southbound trip, Nick and I reevaluated our return plan. Originally we had settled on the notion of a slow meander back up Highway 101, but as time wore on and we increasingly had the itch to go back north, we decided to tackle the journey in one fell swoop. We would travel from Santa Cruz to Canon Beach in one day, mashing up through the center on Interstate 5 and totaling nearly 800 miles.

Continue reading ‘Fourteen Hours’

Slow Times in Santa Cruz

IT’S PITCH DARK, probably sometime around 3:00 a.m., and I can hear a rustling outside the tent. I quickly try to recall whether I closed the cubby with all our food in it – I did, and I turned the latch. But then I hear a crunching, and what I’m pretty sure sounds like packages of Pop Tarts being opened. Nick stirs from sleep. “Hey man, where’d you put the pretzels?” he asks.

“In the cupboard man, and I latched it.”

“Fuckin ‘coons.”

Nick steps outside with the lamp to use the bathroom (aka, the bush), but not before knocking against the side of the tent and making growling noises to scare off any critters. Then he investigates the scene – it’s bad: an empty box of pop tarts, a half eaten bag of pretzels strewn on the ground.

In the sleepy morning, I sip orange juice and ponder the implications of raccoons not only possessing the superior intellect to understand the function of a lock, but also the dexterity to compromise it. Eerie.

Nick and I roll into town (we’re driving, feeling lazy and without a good night’s sleep) to find some breakfast. Right along the beach in Capitola we find Mr. Toots, a cozy second-floor cafe with good coffee and and a fantastic balcony facing the coast. We order bagels and sit out in the sun for a while, reading and reflecting. It’s surprisingly breezy – so much so that when Nick puts a Tolkien novel on the ledge of the deck a gust carries it away and into the water. The barista comes out (he saw us jump up) and asks what fell. We tell him a book. “Ah man, that sucks,” he says. We don’t tell him the book was the cafe’s. Oops.

We take that as our cue to leave and head towards Santa Cruz. As we cross the river and begin to take in the scenery, I’m a bit surprised – SC is pretty suburban, and while it maintains a laid-back appeal it’s also a far cry from the beach bum, hippie town I envisioned.

The University of California Santa Cruz is tucked up into the woods, several miles from the coast. This means the actual city has less of a college feel than one might expect. There is, of course, a main drag of shops and restaurants similar to those present in any college town (the Ave in Seattle, Telegraph in Berkely, and Pacific Avenue here), but beyond a new-agey shop selling some pretty cool handmade journals and a pretty phenomenal pizza joint, there’s nothing much to write home about. The one treasure I do find is a CD I’ve been on the hunt for since Los Angeles – Television’s ‘Marquee Moon,’ an album that will become the anthem to our journey.
Continue reading ‘Slow Times in Santa Cruz’

Highway 1 to Capitola

kitesurfers along highway 1. photo by dailytransit.

WE THROTTLE OUT OF San Francisco and are winding southwards on Highway 1, gunning down the roadway precariously close to coastal cliffs. Excited, resigned, taking in all we can as we silently acknowledge that we are headed to our southernmost destination – after Santa Cruz, it’s the way home.

The scenery is fantastic, a rolling gradation of bucolic fields, harsh drop-offs, sand dunes and beaches.

Feeling spontaneous, we spot The Half Moon Brewery and turn off of the highway. At the restaurant, we sit, take in a breath of sea air, and have a look at the menu – and it looks a little pricey. So in the same vein, we “spontaneously” decide to ditch it and are peeling out of the parking lot before we get our waters.

A ways down the road we are greeted by an amazing panorama of the Pacific, and can’t resist pulling off the road to really soak it in. We get out and see the masses of kite and wind surfers dotting the shoreline and cruising out amid the deep blue surf. It’s idyllic. “This is what I picture when I think of Northern California,” I say to Nick.

Miles later (and after we passed the really cool-looking HI lighthouse hostel) we roll into a gas station in Santa Cruz, fill up the tank, and decide we ought to figure out where we’re camping. Nick asks the station attendant, but she can only think of spots back up the way we came – and there’s no town, no nothin’ up that ways.

We pull out a map (purchased back in Portland), and find that the only real spot to camp is a state park on the edge of Capitola – the town adjacent to Santa Cruz.

By the time we get to Capitola (maybe 15 minutes later), we’re starving, and so we park it in town and settle on a delicious Thai joint before trying to make camp. After our meal we stroll out to the beach, checking out the funky multicolor bungalows, and spotting a couple who are happily asleep in the sand.

The park ranger at the entrance to New Brighton State Park is out for a break, so we find ourselves a campsite and hope that nobody has it reserved – it’s about 8 o’clock, so we figure if someone is gonna show they’d be here by now. We figured wrongly, as it turns out, and the ranger (who can’t be older than 18) tells us we have to move. We pick up our tent and shuffle across the way to our new site, which is actually a lot nicer.

Tent set up and a fire going, the sky fades from dusk to black. We clink together some beers, and call it a night.

Last Days in San Francisco

north beach. photo by Andrew Møøre.

AT SOME POINT IN your drinking career, it will happen. You will walk into a bar amid a strange silence – that awkward period between jukebox tracks where everyone realizes how loud and rowdy they’ve been. And then, catching you completely unawares, Journey will boom through the stereo. But by then my friend, it’s too late.

Such is the case for Nick and I as we stroll into North Beach dive up on Green Street. By the time Steve Perry is belting “livin’ in SOUTH Detroooit!” a woman who is phenomenally drunk wraps her arms around both our necks and croons along, urging us to do likewise. I escape from her talons by excusing myself to the bathroom, and come out to find Nick looking both awe-stricken and sincerely pissed as this chick guzzles half his beer.

Somehow he manages to convince her to resume her spot at the bar stool, but by this point we’re really not feeling the vibe. The bartender tells me as she pours a pint of Newcastle that she saw a guy get his head blown off outside her apartment last night. Sweet. Nick and I look at each other wearily, and I drain my beer.

We’d started the night out with the lofty goal of getting wobbly drunk. But we wanted to kick off our bar hopping on a classy note, and so circled several blocks looking for a spot serving great martinis and chilled atmosphere. We come across a waiter taking a smoke break and ask him what he’d recommend. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he convinces us to come into where he works – Joe Dimaggio’s. Pricey, yes, but it’s exactly what we’ve been looking for: plush leather booths and strong drinks.

A little alcohol swimming in the belly and we decide that we need some proper drinking food. We stumble upon Golden Boy, a place serving life-changing Sicilian pizza with great beers on tap. I bite into steaming slice and look up at the curved aluminum ceiling, and think that this place almost looks like a small airplane hanger.

We hit the Journey dive after Golden Boy, and I finish my drink as we stand up to leave. Buzzing in the cool night air, we fall back onto the tried and true – Vesuvios. There’s just something about the atmosphere of the place, the stained glass windows, the wooden booths, the dark corners. We order a couple pints of Hoegaarden and grab a seat. Our conversation blurs into the din of the bar. Several German men sitting next to us chat loudly. Nick and I talk about the trip, about life. We order another drink. We feel content, we feel a stir of wanderlust, and finally, we’re slurring. Time to head back to the hostel.

Continue reading ‘Last Days in San Francisco’


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