Chapter 5: Thru-cycling the Oregon Coast
Kia ora e te whānau! The helmet tan has made itself at home on my forehead, which means the sun is shining and I’m spending more time on the saddle, either hugging busy roads (60% of the time) or enjoying space on a bike lane (40%). Sirocco is holding up well, I’m quite proud of the both of us for coming this far!
Over the past week, the ever-changing Oregon coastline has provided splendour and ruggedness at every corner and it’s making me feel very alive. There’s comfort in knowing that home is just on the other edge of the vast Pacific Ocean. I’ve now crossed over the Californian border just for a few days to visit the mighty redwoods. Cycling at least some of the Pacific Coast route following Highway 101 had been on my radar for a while. It looked like the Oregon stretch would be an achievable goal for this trip, taking 6-8 days to cover just under 400 miles (650ish km). I get the sense that one day I may be back to complete cycling the west coast of the USA. One day.
Fellow cyclists were few and far between on this trip, but the few (all five of them) I’ve met have been generous and friendly. Two of the five were called Chris (a fun and irrelevant fact for you), and I rode with the second Chris for a bit on the final day. It’s certainly been an interesting sociological experience passing through seaside towns, each with their own demographic flavour. in times of loneliness I’ve found company in the birds, trees and in the books and podcasts I’ve devoured. Many times I thought how cool it would be to share this with someone else who I knew well, but then I remembered you all who would read about it later, and take you on the ride that way (even if retrospectively) and here we are!
☺️ 🌊 🚴♂️🥯
On Wednesday, the day after arriving back from the mountains of Montana (what a whirlwind) I caught the train out to Longview, an average town (sorry Longview I’m sure you’re really great deep down!) where I stocked up on the necessary goods like food for the next few days, and a gas canister from a shop that had a whole wall of guns for sale. Not sure I’ll ever get used to the fact that that’s normal here. I had 37 miles to cycle that afternoon, most of it a formality to get out to Astoria, the northernmost town on the Oregon coast. It was a hot and busy stretch but the motorists largely kept their distance. I got into Gnat Creek campground right on time for dinner, which that night was some mashed potatoes that I devoured. Thankfully there were no gnats in sight.
In the morning, a family of chipmunks wanted to share my breakfast but I asked them to keep their distance. I’m surprised at how cold it still is in the nights and mornings, still the prelude to summer. I started the day along a shady, misty stretch of road. Apparently the mist lifts in the late morning around here. Sure enough, by the time I arrived in Astoria, the sun had broken through and all was sunny again. The sleepy town is characterised by old colourful villas. A coffee shop provided a spot to rest and people-watch and eavesdrop on the latest local news.
While the first half of the day was about getting out of the inland traffic, the magic truly began once the highway began hugging the sea. My first real meeting with the Pacific Ocean again was at Cannon Beach, where the low tide made the sand and ocean feel even more expansive. Like the tall trees, walking on this scale of a beach can only make you feel small. Many people were out enjoying the bird colonies on Haystack Rock, the large formation jutting out in the ocean that you can’t miss if you tried. (I’d later come to learn that there are many Haystack Rocks scattered along the coast of Oregon).
The road between Cannon Beach and Manzanita has got to be one of the most scenic stretches I’ve cycled so far on this trip. After dipping into several coves, the road climbed up through old-growth forest, one of Oregon’s many many state parks. This one was named after Oswald West, a guy who helped protect the Oregon Coast from privatisation: almost all of the coast is uniquely open to public access. A climactic view of the ocean and town of Manzanita below, welcomed me and a dozen other people gaping from the lookout point. The Downhill Whizz was extra fun.
Another Oregon state park fun fact: many of the campgrounds have hiked/biker sites, and there’s a state-wide policy that people who arrive on foot or bike cannot be turned away from the campsite. I thought the ranger at Nehalem Bay state park was having me on when he said there were USB charging ports AND hot showers, all included in the modest price of $8 per night. He pointed me to a forested area where a few hikers had already set up camp. It was all true.
The Oregon Coast Trail is a thru-hike that, you guessed it, runs the length of the Oregon coast and makes use of the same state parks that cyclists travelling the coast do. Some of the hikers at this camp had actually started walking the Pacific Crest Trail but were forced to change plans due to historic levels of snow that made passing the Sierras very challenging. Apparently a few brave souls had attempted it, but the folks I met had decided to walk the Oregon coast instead to kill time while the snow melted. I ate dinner with a person named Lisa from Berlin.
The next morning I left the comfort of my tent early to allow for a potentially big day of cycling, but would see how the day played out. Because of the spacing of campgrounds, it would either be 40 or 80 miles of cycling. I don’t think I’ve ever ridden more than 80 miles (130ish km) in a day, so part of me wanted to push myself to doing that. Thanks to the tailwind and lack of huge hills, most of the miles would be pretty easy.
The stretch between Nehalem and Tillamook was nothing to write home about (and here I am, doing exactly that). Tilllamook is known for its dairy industry and racist history, so I was happy to give that town a miss. The estuaries I passed were rich bird life, and I enjoyed seeing many white herons chilling in the water. Unlike the day before, the mist hung around for a while. A peculiar thing happened when cycling up and down the headlands, though: I would climb up a damp mist-clung hillside only for it to suddenly become sunny at the top of the hill, and it was like it had been sunny all day while cycling down. The climb up over Cape Lookout was lush, damp and dark green, yet the ride down was through sand dunes that smelt of sweet dry pines, like a New Zealand Christmas.
At lunchtime I decided to turn the small day into a big one, meaning there were 47 miles to go. It’s funny how things that start out as feeling impossible become more achievable over time. Just 17 miles before my destination at Devil’s Lake, the road veered off Highway 101 onto the old highway. On the map it’s called a scenic bypass, and despite having the word ‘scenic’ in its name, I was tempted to just continue on the straight and flat busy highway. So glad I didn’t though, because the old route turned out to be amongst a gorgeous old-growth forest. Only one car passed me for the whole time, and it was a needed breather before entering the busy highway into the big smoke of Lincoln City. Did I mention it was Memorial Day weekend? The roads were packed with RVs and every type of motorhome under the sun.
At Devil’s Lake campsite I met a few more hikers and a cyclist (the first Chris) who was very modest about his riding abilities — turns out he competed at world mountain biking champs in Rotorua as a teenager. They made a campfire and roasted up some veggies and sausages. I indulged on the veggies and offered up a measly almost-finished bag of scroggin that was quickly made inferior by the bag of marshmallows another hiker whipped out for roasting. Having never lit up a campfire before, and despite not contributing helpfully in any way to the creation of the fire, I quietly felt I’d entered a rite of passage into North American camping culture. People love their campfires here.
The next morning was a slow burner, chatting away to my hiking friends about bikes, hitchhiking and travel dreams. One hiker, Hannah, was coming to NZ in September so I gave her a few tips on walking Te Araroa. I set off, not having too far to go that day.
All this biking was making me eternally hungry. Rolling into each town, my radar was instantly set to finding a cafe for a bite to eat and coffee. At Depoe Bay, a town that boasts the world’s smallest harbour and the whale-watching capital of the world (watch out, Kaikōura), I stumbled on a cafe called the Whale’s Bite. Like everything else in this town, all the decor in this cafe was whale-themed. I ordered a peanut butter and jam bagel, which was so much more than I could have ever dreamed of. It oozed sediments of peanut butter, jam, bananas and hazelnuts.
With an abundance of energy from that bagel, I powered on into the moody misty day. It eventually cleared, as it always does, and made way for views of impressive rock formations jutting out of the foreshore, a characteristic of the Oregon coast.
Today was grocery shopping day (which is every few days, given the volumes I’m eating). Grocery shopping with a bike is a clunky experience at the best of times — the trick is to make your bike look as unattractive as possible, and drag as many panniers as you can inside in a huge trolley. I refrained from buying the whole shop’s worth of food, in spite of the hunger. A very friendly shop assistant asked me twice if I’d found everything I’d needed. according to her name badge she had won employee of the month in July 2022. I think she should have won it this month, too. With very heavy panniers stuffed with high energy nourishment, I rode on, somehow not minding the busy memorial weekend traffic too much.
The piece de resistance was Cape Perpertua, a steep rugged coastline with the Sliuslaw National Forest on the land side, and views of the azure ocean stretching out forever. Riding right next to where the cliff drops off into the sea provides unmatched exhilaration for a cyclist. I felt a bit smug having front row views of the ocean, while the motorists were a little more removed.
Washburne campsite was set in a beautiful shady grove. I shared the hiker biker space with a couple of people who kept to themselves. The camp had free wifi (!!) what a luxury.
From this point, highway 101 turned inwards and skirted miles and miles of sand dunes, which were not very accessible by bike (bikes and sand are not a good mix). I’m sure I could have tried harder to get a good look at the dunes, to run down them in fact, but to be honest the number of pesky trucks with dune cars attached on the back of them that passed too close to me deterred me from wanting to share the dunes with even more cars.
The next camp was a little out of the way and, again, I had the hiker biker site all to myself! Hikers and bikers, where are we at?! A little early in the season I guess. By this point, despite being surrounded by people out for the long weekend, I was beginning to feel a little lonely. A call with mum and dad earlier that afternoon did fill me up a bit though, enough to get me through.
Seven Devils Road took me back to highway 101 the next morning. I couldn’t help notice by this point how many landmarks along the coast involved devils. Devil’s Punchbowl, Lake, River, and now seven of them?! The road was deceptively hilly, and one property I passed a property that graced passers-by with a sign nailed to their front gate that read I DONT CALL 911 with decorative guns around it.
I got into Humbug Mountain camp pretty early on purpose, to climb to the summit of Humbug Mountain. Getting up to the peak was a decent trek but worth every degree of the views north and south of the coast. It felt good to be on my feet for what had felt like a lot of time spent sitting down.
Another thing I’ve noticed about Oregon’s coastal towns is that many of them claim a world famous status. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not doubting their credibility, just wondering what they’re famous for. Take the town of Langlois: its sign read ‘Welcome to world famous Langlois’, although there was no indication of what this small town was famous for until I reached the Langlois Market, which claimed to sell world famous hot dogs. Clearly word hasn’t gotten round, or I just missed the memo.
Riding inland for a while made getting back to the coast all the more special. It was getting too easy to take the sea for granted, yet I never lost the sense of awe of how dynamic the coast is. Some headlands provided viewpoints of flat sandy beaches with layers of waves licking at the shore, and other stretches were covered by mysterious forested cliffs.
At last, I made it to my final Oregon hiker hiker camp in Brookings, the southernmost coastal town just a few miles from the Californian border. It felt surreal to have cycled a significant stretch of the length of the US, all 361 miles of it. One pedal at a time. The biker hunger was reminiscent of the constant state of being ravenous on Te Araroa. Physical tiredness hung in the background, although my body had held up well overall, I thought.
Having factored in a few buffer days into this trip, I took a rest day and hatched a plan to visit the Redwood National and State Parks on Northern California for a bit. If you’ve been reading the previous chapters, you can guess where I hung out on my rest day: The Chetco Community Library. They had a Pride display right at the front so I felt right at home. Thank goodness we’re not in Florida, am I right…
I thoroughly enjoyed being in the almost-constant company of this coastline and its changing scenes and moods. As a land mammal, my enjoyment of being by the sea surprised me — maybe I enjoyed marveling at the vast unknown that our oceans hold and are.
In the next handful of scroggin: into the Redwoods we go! They deserve their own chapter.
