I Have Not Seen An Elk
But I have seen a frog. That's it right there, being small and hidden. I spied it hopping along the sandy path as I walked the three-quarter mile trail from my campsite here at Bullards Beach State Park to the beach proper. Once it was convinced I couldn't see it anymore, it stopped, and I got in close to get the photo.
The beach here is a new type for this leg of the journey: the Dangerous beach. It's narrow, with steeply sloping sands, so that each wave that comes in fights against the remains of the ones that have clawed their way up the shore ahead of it and failed in their attempts to inundate the continent. The bleached remains of trees litter the base of the dunes, looking the like skeletal remnants of ancient dinosaur combat. I flew my kite for awhile, keeping one eye on the encroaching waves in case "high tide" turned out to mean "this beach goes away." The trail back to the campsite wound through the wilderness that must've bordered all the beaches along the coast, before they put resort towns there: grasses, scrub pines, thick growths of low shrubs and other sand-dwelling vegetation.
The day started with another somewhat technical ride over a long tall bridge - the Coos Bay bridge, in this case, and the technical bits involved keeping the trike's left front wheel about five inches away from the curb's edge, while trying not to scrape the right hub or fender too badly against the stone and metal railings. Failure to keep the left wheel on the curb meant a sudden eight-inch drop, possible frame damage, and tumbling sideways into traffic. Still, it was exhilarating, having to focus so intently, while slowly riding up into the air along a high arc over the waters of the bay.
After that, things got a little less elevated - the inland detour around the Seven Devils I mentioned yesterday involved riding through the city of Coos Bay, which was a weirdly bleak sort of place. I've noticed that the cities and towns that are surrounded by clear-cut areas tend to be much less pleasant. Brad, a hiker staying here at the site, pointed out that these are the logging towns, which makes sense...they're the northwestern equivalent of mining towns in Kentucky like Hazard and Elkhorn City. At one point, I passed by a large assemblage of conveyors, towers, and hoppers, the sole purpose of which seemed to be to shred logs into chunks, and then arrange those chunks into large piles. I did manage to find a supermarket on the way out of town, though, and secured a good meal for dinner, which mitigated the rough, unmarked shoulders, the traffic, and the general weird vibe of the place.
Once out of the city, I dealt with two or three long, not so steep climbs, finally reaching the campground around 4:00. Dinner ensued.
Tomorrow, there will be another 29-mile ride to Port Orford, but without any bridges or logging towns. Always a good thing.
And now, as my increasing brevity indicates, sleep.
But first: beach.
