Day 120: Okanogan National Forest to Bay View, WA

August 10, 2011

I climb out of the tent and into a 40-something-degree morning with clothing covering every inch of skin from the neck down. None of it feels like it's there as I freeze on the three-mile drop from the top of Washington Pass. But then, in the span of only a few minutes, I go from feeling hypothermic to forgetting all about the cold, because just after the grade levels out it starts to head back up for a 400-foot climb to Rainy Pass. I curse my stiff, dead, tired legs the entire way.

The North Cascades Highway winds along the edges of mountains and over canyons that fall so steeply down that I often can't see the bottom. As I head down from 4,800 feet at the pass I see waterfalls and streams and creeks rush next to and under the road, all eventually feeding into a white-green torrent that speeds violently down toward Ross Lake. Farther on I spot the stunning Diablo Lake, where greenish-turquoise water presses up against a rocky brown shoreline and a backdrop of thousands of untouched evergreens. When I tilt my head back and look up I see the narrow paths of waterfalls that wander left and right and left and right as they snake their way down nearly vertical mountain faces. Even though I've passed through this part of the state several times before, the hugeness and beauty of it all still blows me away.

I lose more than 4,000 feet during the 44-mile ride to Newhalem. A cold headwind howls through the narrow valley where the highway runs, the sun is blocked out by thick clouds of light gray, and for the first time since some rainy day in North Carolina or Virginia I feel cold standing outside at noon. When I stop I find that the ends of my fingers are numb, the hair on my arm is standing up, and there's a dampness in the air even though the calendar says I'm still in the sweet spot of summer. It's exactly the kind of welcome home I expected from Western Washington.

In the early afternoon I head west along the Skagit River and think about what's coming, which I'm able to do in detail because from this point forward I've seen almost all of the roads I'll be traveling, either on the bike or in a car. The novelty of unknown routes is one of the things that I love the most about bike touring, and knowing that it's all but come to an end for this trip sends a wave of sadness washing over me. It's one more sign that the end of this ridiculous and wonderful journey is less than a week away.

The place I stop for lunch is a carnivore's wet dream, offering not only beef burgers, but also burgers made from buffalo, ostrich, venison, elk, salmon, chicken, and kangaroo. I could use a hop in my step, so I go with the kangaroo and power through it as some awful acoustic performance of an unpopular Gordon Lightfoot song plays in the background.

I seem to be the only one in the place capable of ordering like a normal person. The woman next to me grills the waitress about whether or not the salmon burger has onions in it, to the point that the waitress has to head back to the walk-in freezer to check the label of the box they come in. The older man across the way makes half a dozen changes to his sandwich order, ignoring the bold "No Substitutions" label on the menu, the waitress's warnings, and the angry look on her face. It seems like his 30-something son is about to get through his order without sounding like an idiot, but then asks in a wussy voice, "Can I get half Pepsi and half Diet Pepsi? Just, you know, a half-and-half thing?" Later the owner of the restaurant walks around, says hello to each table, and asks where they're from. Redmond, Bellevue, and Seattle are the answers. Of course. No one who drives a Dodge Ram or drinks Busch Light or lists hunting as a hobby would ever pull such fussy behavior.

I pass through a steady stream of small towns with rock-themed names: Marblemount, Rockport, Concrete. I try to pick out new and interesting things as I speed to the west, but I can't, because I've been through and written about this part of Washington State so much in the past few years that I know what's coming a mile before I get there. The only reasonable response is to mash the pedals and power through it, so that's what I do. I dig down deep, hit it hard, and dream about the islands that wait for me only a day ahead.

Over the next few hours I hustle along completely empty back roads and pass more than a hundred run-down homes and double-wides, dozens of angry and barking dogs that must have been imported from Kentucky, and overgrown yards decorated with fake plastic deer. I ride by a state park that fills the air with the wonderful smell of campfires, the joy of which is soon replaced by terrible clouds of tiny mosquitoes that stick to my arms and legs, crawl up my nose, and sometimes sneak into my mouth. Farther on a lumber yard gives off the scent of freshly chipped pine trees and I ride by a house where the owners lifted the red velour seats from a 1980s conversion van, dropped them on the front porch, and called them chairs. I also see what it looks like when a cow takes a leak at full blast (wow!)

When I break free of the trees that most of the time surround me I see a wide valley bounded by smooth mountains, all with giant clear-cut bald spots. I push through a town that's almost dead (Hamilton), a town that's fighting hard to avoid the same fate (Lyman), and one that couldn't decide between two ridiculous names so it went with both and threw in a hyphen just for kicks (Sedro-Woolley).

I smell salt in the air as evening starts to give way to the night. I push over a little hill not long after and spot Padilla Bay less than a mile away. It's the first time I've seen ocean-fed water since leaving Fernandina Beach, Florida in April almost four months ago. It gives me a rush of energy that shoots some extra power to my legs and I fly down toward the shore and then pedal along its edge. Soon I make my way to the beach, where I sit on an old wooden bench, listen to tiny waves fall into land against the pebbles and seaweed, feel chilled by the breeze, and watch the sun and clouds come together to turn the sky into a canvas of pinks and oranges and blues with the lights of Anacortes twinkling across the bay below. After 116 miles of riding it's the greatest reward I could have asked for.

I tuck into the loving arms of a Milky Way and a Mountain Dew as the darkness sends the hundreds of people at the state park around me into their tents and travel trailers and motorhomes, and my mind switches from thoughts of passes and Grizzlies and mountain lions to ferries and tsunamis and drowning. The towel-pillow sits damp against my head after a late-night shower, but it doesn't bother me at all because tomorrow I take to the water and reach the islands and I couldn't be happier about it.

Today's ride: 116 miles (187 km)
Total: 6,265 miles (10,083 km)

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