A Ride On The Pineapple Express

  Arcata, California, United States
Tuesday, December 5, 2006

From late fall through to early spring warm moist air from the tropics blows ashore across the Pacific seaboard of the U.S. North West and Canada. The phenomenon, which is commonly known as the Pineapple Express, gives rise to the often-violent tempests that entice a steady trickle of (quite possibly certifiable) tourists to small towns along the Oregon coast during the quiet - or 'storm-watching' - season.

I arrived in Florence (pop. 7,263) towards the front end of a six-day storm that dumped a dozen inches of rain onto the town and rendered the prospect of going anywhere on a bicycle wanton lunacy. The best part of four days I spent in a motel room, flicking between doom and gloom on The Weather Channel and election coverage on CNN. Aside from the fact that the Republicans seemed likely to lose Congress, the only redeeming feature of my confinement was that I'd managed to hit the coast far enough south to avoid the worst of the deluge.

Elsewhere in Oregon and in neighbouring Washington State a downpour of epic proportions was in progress - Lees Camp in the Oregon Coast Range saw 14.3 inches of rainfall in one day alone. Across the region hillsides collapsed, rivers flooded and a number of people were swept to their deaths.

Squalls rippled continuously across the ever-expanding pool of rainwater that masqueraded as the motel parking lot, ensuring that my occasional forays out into Florence began and ended with a vigorous dousing. Wherever I went, be it bar, bicycle store, library, Laundromat or diner, business was slow and the streets were deserted - all but a few were indoors or out of town.

One evening I fell in with Doug, a volunteer fire fighter, over a couple of beers. Though wildfires were understandably scarce just then, the fire department had its hands full - clearing up road-accidents and keeping highways open. My companion had landed a plum job for himself: flood-prevention at the low-lying local casino. Doug readily confessed to having spent the better part of his day heroically chatting-up female croupiers.

On election night I gate crashed a staff-only soirée at the local library. Wine flowed as a large screen disseminated the latest results. I helped myself to a glass of white and a couple of vol-au-vents; and went a-mingling. Introducing myself as a storm-chasing Irish cyclist with a taste for U.S. politics, I engaged the librarians in small talk. The big issue of the night was not the Republican v Democrat battle for control of Congress but the fate of the Lane County ballot-measure that, if approved, would fund a new library for Florence; and that wasn't being covered by any of the major networks. Anxious faces looked on as the head-librarian telephoned the counting centre before reporting that the result still hung in the balance. Everyone had another glass of wine and a man called Randy offered me a bed for the night.

River Siuslaw at Florence OR

Finally, on Thursday morning, as I ate breakfast at the local diner, the sun appeared. I finished the remains of my omelette and raced back to the motel to load up. A few minutes later I pedalled south across the Siuslaw River Bridge on Interstate 101, committed to putting as much tarmac between Florence and myself as was physically possible before the day was out.

The highway twisted and climbed through thick pine forest for several miles before arriving at a scenic lookout. A break in the trees revealed an undulating corridor of dunes that fell away to the shore. The sand on the dunes, still wet from the rains, glinted gold in the bright morning light; and across the sparkling-blue sea beyond rode waves, their white frothy lines lengthening slowly before linking together to collapse with a low booming rumble. Continuing along an exposed ridge, the highway granted extensive views into the interior where low ranges of pine-smothered hills stretched off towards a hazy horizon. Out of this wilderness flowed a broad river, the Umpqua, its brilliant-blue waters contrasting with the pine-green hills that enclosed it. The river curved briefly to the south before turning west one last time to discharge into a broad sandy estuary. I raced down the hillside and over the truss bridge that led to Reedsport (pop. 4,378). A rain-shower swept over the town as I ate lunch at the local shopping mall.

Sand Dunes Near Florence OR

A couple of miles south of Reedsport, at Winchester Bay, I turned off the Interstate, to follow a detour to Cape Umpqua. From a harbour filled with gently bobbing boats a narrow by-road wound its way up to a promontory that was topped by the gleaming white tower of a lighthouse. After pausing awhile to admire the view over the bay, I climbed to the summit of a wooded ridge and thence to the Interstate and its long tunnel of pine.

A cantilever bridge carried me across a broad estuary and into North Bend (pop. 9,544). I followed signposts west through the coterminous city of Coos Bay (pop. 15,374) and out along a busy road that followed the southern side the eponymous bay. By now I was racing to keep pace with the sun, which was just then dipping behind a low range. A bridge over a narrow inlet led to the small fishing port of Charleston from where a short sharp climb through darkening woods brought me to the crest of a hill. I hared down an empty road, arriving at Sunset Bay a few minutes later. Waves crashed onto a beach amid the shelter of a rocky cove while, out at sea, a dark band of cloud sat atop the horizon, transforming an alluring place-name into somewhat of a misnomer.

The Umpqua River Near Reedsport OR

Darkness had fallen when I left the campground on foot to go in search of food. I hadn't got far when I heard loud voices and saw a light ahead. As a foot-party approached I could distinguish a bald man with crazy eyes, a stout woman with greasy hair and a young girl of about ten years. The adults wanted to know who I was; why I talked funny; and what I was doing out walking after dark. I told them as best I could and, in return, I learned that they were staying in a trailer nearby. The couple kept talking loudly over each other and I had difficulty in understanding what they wanted of me - at first I thought that they were drunk but then I couldn't smell alcohol. It transpired that they wanted to borrow a phone in order to call a taxi but I couldn't get a signal either and was unable to help them. Becoming emotional, the man told me that his great-grandfather came from Ireland - from non-existent County Meagher. He then told me that he loved me; and that he wanted to go to Ireland to kiss the Blarney Stone - source of the legendary 'gift of the gab'. I made my excuses and left, walking towards Charleston at a brisk pace.

On arrival in Charleston, I made my way down to the waterfront and found a bar. A group of cantankerous fishermen argued loudly at a nearby table as I washed down a plate of flavourless fare with a couple of beers.

A light fog had descended by the time I emerged to walk the three miles back to camp. The light of the moon imbued the mist with an eerie glow and ghostly shadows flickered in the woods. The soothing sound of water breaking on sand - a tonic for my over-active imagination - accompanied me as I retraced my steps across Sunset Bay. Arriving back at camp, I discovered that hungry raccoons had ransacked my pannier-bags.

I lay awake in my tent, forced to listen as slamming doors echoed like gunshots around the campground. Deranged male voices roared bloodcurdling threats while a woman howled like a banshee. An engine revved up, brakes screeched and finally peace was restored. I wondered whether the strange goings-on involved the couple that I'd encountered on the road earlier.

The wind whipped in across the bay as I ate breakfast in Charleston the following morning. Although the sky was heavily overcast and visibility was poor, the day was still dry. When a pretty waitress asked whether I was really planning to cycle I responded 'Aye!' with only a hint of bravado.

I left Charleston on The Seven Devils Road, a quiet back road that zigzagged across the wooded slopes of a steep-sided mountain. After considerable effort I gained the ridge and paused to catch my breath. Rugged brown hills, their sides sheathed with gorse, stretched away to the south and west. A fierce wind gusted across the range, shifting intermittently between these same compass points, as rapid descent alternated with sharp climb and I exchanged ridge-top for valley; then valley for ridge-top.

I'd knocked off all seven of the devils and had commenced my descent through pine-forest - along the quaintly named Whiskey Run Road - when the first droplets of water began to fall. Arriving at the Interstate, I turned south towards Bandon (pop. 2,833), to be pounded by stinging rain, lent extra force by an unrelenting headwind. Two miles short of town I pulled into Bullards Beach State Park and set up camp in the lee of a pine-copse.

The storm blew itself out overnight and I pedalled across the Coquille River Bridge into Bandon the following morning beneath a blue-sky flecked white with fluffy cloud. Breakfast taken care of, I headed for the sea front and a beach that was littered with driftwood. Across the entrance of the bay, a chain of rock-stacks stood amid a sea of raging surf: there were giants - a couple of hundred feet wide and a few dozen tall; and closer in, ground down by the power of the ocean, rounded stumps and jagged pinnacles.

The Beach at Bandon OR

From the harbour I followed a road that wound sharply uphill and then along the edge of a low line of cliffs. I paused atop a promontory to take in the view south along the coast. Below me, groups of weekend strollers patrolled the beach, negotiating courses between rock-pillars left stranded by the tide. Out at sea, reflecting sunlight silhouetted clusters of whale-like humps and jagged fins of submarine stone sharks.

After regaining the Interstate, I pedalled south through a monotonous pine-enclosed corridor for a score of miles to Port Orford (pop. 1,153). After pausing to eat lunch and tumble-dry my still-sodden shoes, I continued south. As I crested a rise on the edge of town the coast opened up dramatically before me. Above a broad sand-fringed bay, dotted with rounded stacks of rock, steep wooded hills swept around to a point at the foot of Humbug Mountain, a triangular dome over which hovered brooding black clouds. A series of hazy headlands tapered off to the horizon beyond.

Sea Stacks Near Bandon OR

The highway wound around the slopes overlooking the bay before climbing around Humbug Mountain through a wooded ravine. From a saddle at the back of the mountain a wild stretch of coastline presented itself. As the fiery afternoon sun sank ever closer to the ocean's blue-grey expanse I coasted downhill ecstatically, my progress punctuated by towering sea-stacks in the waters below. Some way off, a thin white mist of sea-spray clung to the dunes by a long lonely strand.

Some time later, I stood on the desolate beach as waves thundered in and the sun, which had promised so much, sank limply behind an ominous grey band that divided the sea from the sky. Racing once more against descending dusk, I disappeared into thick pine forest, from which I emerged to cross the elegant seven-arched Rogue River Bridge into Gold Beach (pop. 1,897) only after night had established itself.

Storm Clouds at Port Orford OR

The anticipated weather system rolled in off the Pacific the following morning. There was nothing to be done except find a motel and sit it out. For two days and two nights the storm raged, cutting the town's power-supply on a couple of occasions.

By Tuesday morning blue skies had returned - a perfect tonic for my deep-rooted cabin fever. As I raced south past empty beaches and giant sea-stacks I had only one thing on my mind - California. The highway disappeared into thick pine-forest, climbing then dropping, climbing then dropping again. Occasionally the corridor of conifers would part to give a tantalising glimpse down to a rocky cove or a deep ravine below. By lunchtime I'd made it as far as Brookings (pop. 5,774).

A couple of miles south of Brookings I passed the sign that I'd so long looked forward to: 'Welcome to California - The Golden State'. Such was my elation that I broke into the following refrain:
California über alles
California über alles
über alles California
über alles California

But the sobering realisation that the Pineapple Express had not yet finished with me brought an end to my short-lived punk celebration.

I left the Interstate to follow back roads across a narrow coastal shelf. The rich scent of slurry filled the air amid an idyll of green pastures, lowing cattle and milk-sheds. Beyond the settlement of Smith River - self-proclaimed 'Easter Lily Capital of The World' - I wound through a landscape of brown bulb fields on quiet country lanes. With the sun dipping behind yet another dark cloud band far out to sea, the woods swallowed me up again. I arrived in Crescent City (pop. 4,006) just as darkness fell.

Some strange things happened in Crescent City the following day. Firstly, I saw two cyclists, their bikes burdened with panniers both front and rear, examining a map by a road-intersection. Curious to find out who else would be crazy enough to cycle that part of the Pacific Coast in November, I pedalled over to say hello. 'Holy fuck!' was my reaction when I learned that Alice and Andoni, who were Belgian and Basque respectively, had been on the road for the previous two and a half years. They'd cycled all the way across Europe and Asia before setting out on a north to south traversal of the Americas. They were searching for the municipal library - I wondered whether it was a long-distance cyclist thing - but I was unable to help. After wishing them good luck in their quests I set off into the gloom. As I pedalled south I felt substantially less hardcore.

A few miles beyond Crescent City I entered Redwoods National Park. Slender poles of grooved red-brown timber soared upwards on either side while an evergreen canopy blotted out the light and vehicle headlights illuminated a rusty blanket of detritus covering the forest floor. As I progressed further into the trees along a long steep incline I became weighed down by a sensation of claustrophobia. Arriving at last at the end of the climb I began the long descent, sweeping down through the forest, curve after curve, an occasional break in the trees allowing a glimpse of the ocean, dark-grey under an angry sky beyond.

'Did you hear about the tsunami today in Crescent City?' asked the man who welcomed me at the motel in Klamath (pop. 651).

'You're shitting me?' I felt like saying but didn't.

I flicked on the TV to find it was true. A powerful earthquake had taken place off the Japanese coast, triggering tidal waves across the northern Pacific. A two-metre surge had struck Crescent City, uprooting docks and sending boats bouncing around the harbour, at around the time I'd met the two cyclists. Fortunately nobody had been injured.

The storm had come ashore by the time I ventured out to explore Klamath. Despite the wind and the rain, knots of youths loitered aimlessly outside the general store, lending the place somewhat of a down-at-heel flavour. I picked up some supplies and headed back along the main drag. Over a great log-built hall a sign announced 'Headquarters of the Yurok Tribe'. A couple of dozen pick-ups filled the parking lot outside.

By noon the following day the sky had cleared up. Eschewing the promise of 'Las Vegas Style Magic' on offer at an ugly steel barn on the edge of town, I pedalled south over the Klamath River Bridge and began climbing though the forest again. After a couple of miles I turned off the Interstate onto a 'Scenic Parkway', a quiet back-road that wound its way down through ancient groves of redwood trees. On either side broad poles of deep red wood stretched skyward through long ladders of coniferous branches.

I chained my bike to a fence and followed a trail deep into the forest. As only a small amount of sunlight filtered through the canopy the air was cold and still. I proceeded across an ochre carpet of nuts, needles, nuts and cones around the decomposing trunks of fallen giants that were two or three times as wide as I was tall. I paused to listen to the sound of the forest but heard only the occasional chirp of small birds. Passing beneath an arch formed by two trees that had grown together over the passage of time I arrived amid a grove of colossi, a score of trees that had stood for some fifteen hundred years. As I stood, minnowed, at the base of one particular behemoth which was thirty-feet in diameter and three hundred and fifty tall, I felt very humble indeed.

Elk Herd, Redwoods National Park CA

After retracing my steps I pedalled down the Parkway past aptly named Elk Prairie to the intersection with the Interstate. Outside somebody's house a stag with antlers three-feet high nonchalantly munched away at the front lawn while, a little further on, an elk-herd grazed in the grounds of a gaily-coloured wooden schoolhouse.

After briefly rejoining the coast, the highway climbed to the crest of a hill. In the hollow below, a lagoon shone invitingly in the hazy afternoon sunshine, enclosed on three sides by low wooded hills. Faint traces of smoky-white mist clung to the treetops while the ocean crashed ashore beyond a sandy spit. Having descended to the water's edge, I followed the highway around the lagoon's leeward shore and up to the hillcrest beyond. The waters of another, almost identical, lagoon spread out before me.

As I climbed away from the shore of the second lagoon I spotted a fellow cyclist weaving precariously across the hillside in front of me. Within a couple of minutes I'd reeled him in. Grant, a student from Montana who was on his first trip to the coast, had seen out the previous night's tempest in a bivouac in the forest - and looked somewhat bedraggled as a result. I wished him good luck and continued on my way.

Sometime later, I stood on a low headland, looking north as waves pounded on a long empty strand and spray drifted onto the dunes behind. Further on, tree-topped sea-stacks guarded the entrance to Trinidad Bay while, to the west, a burning ball of red fire sank spectacularly beyond the ocean, its parting rays setting a wispy sky alight with a flame that turned slowly from orange to pink. For the first time in my travels along the coast the dark cloud-band that had been such a feature of previous sunsets was missing.

ENDS