Day 21 – Standish-Hickey State Park, CA. 76 km
Spent most of the day riding through the redwood forest. Passed through a few very small towns – Myer’s Flat, Miranda, Phillipsville, and the larger Garberville. All seem a bit faded and dowdy, unimproved from the seventies when I suspect they were in their prime. Hippy heaven. Today we saw lots of young people – 21st century “hippies,” although the word is now meaningless. They seem to emerge from the forest and from behind the rundown buildings of these rustic towns. I assume they’re living rough. Some have backpacks and presumably the funds to pursue alternative arrangements if they wish. Others clearly don’t.
In Garberville, we stopped for coffee and lunch in a Main St. cafe and saw the wildest collection of individuals I’ve ever seen in such a place. Young guys with tattooed faces, piercings everywhere and in shabby clothes in line for coffee next to middle class town folk. It was a bizarre scene and absolutely puzzling until we heard about the “trimmigrants.” This is weed growing territory and it’s coming up to harvest time. People come to this region from all over the country to earn $40/hr picking buds – and presumably, pocketing some of same. The qualifications must be minimal. At the going rate for this work, I don’t understand why Mexican farm workers aren’t yet involved. Maybe because the whole business is still illegal. I suspect legality in California and Mexican bud trimmers are just a matter of time.
This was a tough day of riding, although not particularly long. We climbed two long fairly steep hills in succession. At the summit we were at the highest point on the California coast, although the actual coast still wasn’t in sight until we finished the descent. It was stunning to emerge from shaded forest to full sunshine and the bright blue sea pounding the rocky sea stacks and beaches below.
The ride continued up and down as the road follows the contours of the coastline. We arrived at the campground exhausted. In the darkness, just before going to bed two guys arrived on foot – we camp in designated “hiker/biker” sites, although we rarely encounter hikers. In this case, hitchhikers. One from LA (45-ish) who didn’t say much but liked to smoke weed. The other from Oklahoma where he recently lost his job as a horse walker. I didn’t know such a thing existed. I asked where he was headed. He said “here”. And when he heard we were from Canada, he mentioned that someone had told him there might be work up that way. “But you need a passport to go there, right?” Yup – it’s a foreign country for Americans, just like Mexico. Something about this whole situation brought to mind Steinbeck and the Grapes of Wrath – the depression era and the mass migration of Okies and other dust bowl farmers to the promised land of California. I was surprised when he brought up politics. He called Trump an idiot and said he was voting for Hillary.
I love this part of the country. The coastal scenery is jaw-drop beautiful, and the weather is perfect. Sunny with a light breeze – blowing in the right direction. The road, however, features narrow to no shoulders. In some places the crumbling edge of the pavement is just five feet from a cliff-edge drop 150 feet to the crashing sea below. It can stir a mild panic attack if you look down. We try not to. I suspect drivers don’t even notice.
Riding as we do, on the shoulders where they exist, but more often on the actual roadway, we are constantly in the way of drivers who must slow down before passing as the constant twists and dips of the road mean you can’t see too far ahead. It really is amazing that there aren’t more accidents. Actually, I have no idea about the stats in that dept. But just from our experience, the incidence of dangerously close encounters – mostly between vehicles trying to pass and on-comers – is pretty frequent.
A hard day of riding, made a bit easier by the beauty of coastal Sonoma and Marin counties. We pulled into Olema utterly exhausted, but having achieved our goal – to be an easy day’s ride from San Francisco for tomorrow.
If road builders rode bicycles, things would be so much better (easier, safer) for us milegrinders.
On arriving in San Francisco I was belatedly struck by an interesting observation about our trip to now. We’ve been on the road in America for more than three weeks and I could count on two hands the number of African Americans we’ve seen. We’ve not been in any sizeable cities until now, but it still comes as a surprise.
The hostel we’re in is on the edge of the notorious Tenderloin district (think East Hastings), in a funky old hotel – The Atherton, built at the turn of the century. It’s full of charm and young people from around the world. We’re the only touring cyclists in the place. We plan to stay here for a couple of days to rest and explore. I’ve been to SF a few times before, but everything looks different when you’re travelling by bike. After just one afternoon riding across town to find our hostel I’ve got a very different feeling for the city. I’m charmed.
Riding over the Golden Gate Bridge was a bit of a challenge. But unlike the challenges of other bridges we’ve ridden, e.g competing for space with fast-moving traffic, being buffeted by heavy cross winds, etc. The wide and separated sidewalk of the GG Bridge was great, but it was jammed with people for the whole length. Many of them were on rental bikes and unsteady in their ability. It wasn’t hazardous, but it wasn’t much fun either.
Last night was my first night in a hostel since I was 20 and traveling through Europe. Although exhausted, I couldn’t sleep. At midnight my two (as yet unmet) roommates arrived and climbed into their bunks. This caused me to become more awake than ever. Sleeping in a small room with strangers you’ve not even seen is unsettling. I couldn’t have got more than five hours sleep by the time I got up at 8. By comparison, when we’re camping Sophie and I are in the habit or going to bed by 8:30 – it’s dark by 7:45 – and getting 10 hours of sleep every night.
I met one of my roommates in the morning. Thomas, 26, from Belfast. He’s doing a trip across the US between a working stint in Toronto for seven months, and his next situation, probably in Calgary. Talking with him I realized I felt no age difference. I have no idea what he thought about me – probably humoured me as an old guy. But the shared experience of budget travelling has a way of erasing differences between people. This is what I like and is much of the reason for why I’m doing this trip.
A nice long day of riding. Light traffic, wide shoulders and rolling hills. All good until we reached Santa Cruz and had 
Santa Cruz is a pretty place. The road along the coastal area of town reminds me of Dallas Road in Victoria, except that it’s much longer and the housing is more interesting. The city’s little bay was absolutely filled with surfers although the waves came in gently and not often. The area around the pier was filled with amusement park attractions in the same way as English seaside towns, except on a much bigger and flashier scale. This is America, after all.
The further south we get, the less we see of touring cyclists like ourselves, i.e. cyclists with a plan and a destination. Here at the Vets Memorial Campground we’ve met a very sociable Austrian (early 20s) who is hitchhiking around the western states. Dave (62) is an old hippy from LA, although he says he now spends most of his time in the Monterey area. But camping? I didn’t ask. He says he’s taking care of some business before cycling down to LA. HIs business? “Ganja.”