2010 March 6 - Day 21
Bear Creek Campground > Port Angeles (bus) > Bear Creek Campground
Distance Biked: 2 miles
Several days had lapsed since charging my sundry electronics so this morning I determined to take a bus one hour into Port Angeles. Another town, Forks, was less than fifteen miles away but since the same fare would be paid in either case, wisdom seemed to favor the assurance of Internet access and the wonder which is Swain's General Store. After morning duties and prayer, plus a few extra petitions on behalf of the gear I was about to leave unattended, I walked to the 101 and waited for the white Clallam County Transit bus.
Treated again to views of Pyramid Mountain
First to be done in town was mailing a parcel to a friend. Therein was a specimen of drift wood, shaped like a stag horn in miniature, from the river Sol Duc, and a cherry blossom no doubt handled to pieces in the postal process. Mostly it was the thought that mattered in the envelope, but postage scales aren't so sentimental.
Off to Swain's for gloves. How hungrily I poured over their gigantic selection of types, eyeing synthetic mitts and rag wool blends, fleece wind breakers and flannel-lined leather workers. For a mere .44c some brown jersey liners were first in my basket. Over these would go rag-wool convertibles with Thin-sulate filling and fold-over mittens, which seemed most suited to a combination of bicycle riding and camp tasks. And into these would go another prodigiously huge bag of Swain's .25c popcorn. The only other purchase to be made was of stove fuel. For half the price-per-ounce I could buy three weeks worth, but admittedly an 128 oz. can was absurdly large for my purposes. However, figuring I could stash the tank somewhere in the woods and come back for the remainder in a week or two, this seemed the most frugal option and I bought it.
Next came my customary visit to the good man, Jack, for 1000 calories of food graven in the likeness of two beef tacos and one chicken sandwich, as I am sure it was none of these things really. Never before had the idea occurred to me that one might incorporate such industrialized vittles merely to increase his caloric intake, but my typical diet of oatmeal, peanuts, raisins, and rice soups were probably amounting to under 1500 calories a day. Meanwhile I was riding or hiking ten to thirty miles daily and burning more than I was bringing in, as evidenced by the belt having to travel an extra distance to account for losses. Besides, at $2 something fried tempts a man sorely who twice daily eats boiled fare. I asked for a combined 400 calorie side of ranch dressing and Frank's hot sauce and dipped heartily into circumstantial health food.
It was my happy lot to again sit beside Mike, the elderly gentleman from Neah Bay, on the ride back. He insisted I come to Cape Flattery to begin my beach walking portion and, if I should like, meet some surfer friends of his who have jam music sessions on weekends. Receiving this fortuitous connection as from the Lord, I told him I might choose his route instead of going north from Ozette, as originally planned. In the evening I poured over maps and weather reports, determining which plot was best and wondering what adventures lay ahead on the coast.
Bear Creek Campground > Port Angeles (bus) > Bear Creek Campground
Distance Biked: 2 miles
Several days had lapsed since charging my sundry electronics so this morning I determined to take a bus one hour into Port Angeles. Another town, Forks, was less than fifteen miles away but since the same fare would be paid in either case, wisdom seemed to favor the assurance of Internet access and the wonder which is Swain's General Store. After morning duties and prayer, plus a few extra petitions on behalf of the gear I was about to leave unattended, I walked to the 101 and waited for the white Clallam County Transit bus.
Treated again to views of Pyramid Mountain
First to be done in town was mailing a parcel to a friend. Therein was a specimen of drift wood, shaped like a stag horn in miniature, from the river Sol Duc, and a cherry blossom no doubt handled to pieces in the postal process. Mostly it was the thought that mattered in the envelope, but postage scales aren't so sentimental.
Off to Swain's for gloves. How hungrily I poured over their gigantic selection of types, eyeing synthetic mitts and rag wool blends, fleece wind breakers and flannel-lined leather workers. For a mere .44c some brown jersey liners were first in my basket. Over these would go rag-wool convertibles with Thin-sulate filling and fold-over mittens, which seemed most suited to a combination of bicycle riding and camp tasks. And into these would go another prodigiously huge bag of Swain's .25c popcorn. The only other purchase to be made was of stove fuel. For half the price-per-ounce I could buy three weeks worth, but admittedly an 128 oz. can was absurdly large for my purposes. However, figuring I could stash the tank somewhere in the woods and come back for the remainder in a week or two, this seemed the most frugal option and I bought it.
Next came my customary visit to the good man, Jack, for 1000 calories of food graven in the likeness of two beef tacos and one chicken sandwich, as I am sure it was none of these things really. Never before had the idea occurred to me that one might incorporate such industrialized vittles merely to increase his caloric intake, but my typical diet of oatmeal, peanuts, raisins, and rice soups were probably amounting to under 1500 calories a day. Meanwhile I was riding or hiking ten to thirty miles daily and burning more than I was bringing in, as evidenced by the belt having to travel an extra distance to account for losses. Besides, at $2 something fried tempts a man sorely who twice daily eats boiled fare. I asked for a combined 400 calorie side of ranch dressing and Frank's hot sauce and dipped heartily into circumstantial health food.
It was my happy lot to again sit beside Mike, the elderly gentleman from Neah Bay, on the ride back. He insisted I come to Cape Flattery to begin my beach walking portion and, if I should like, meet some surfer friends of his who have jam music sessions on weekends. Receiving this fortuitous connection as from the Lord, I told him I might choose his route instead of going north from Ozette, as originally planned. In the evening I poured over maps and weather reports, determining which plot was best and wondering what adventures lay ahead on the coast.
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