Bike Adventures

---

I went bikepacking in the San Juans because I needed quiet roads and salt air. The ferries make the days feel like chapters: roll on, breathe, roll off, explore. I kept it simple—45mm tires, a tiny stove, and a plan made out of tide charts and snack stops.

Day 1 — Lopez Warm-Up → San Juan Island (≈ 37 mi / 2,100 ft)

Lopez is the friendliest kind of warm-up: patchwork farms, little bays, and drivers who wave back. I spin easy past cedar fences and weathered mailboxes, then angle to the afternoon boat bound for San Juan Island. The ride into Friday Harbor is soft light and grocery smells—perfect for a quick resupply before I point west.

I camp in the trees with the sound of water working the shoreline. Dinner is tortillas with peanut butter and apple slices—proof that hunger is the best spice.

Day 2 — Around San Juan → Orcas & Moran State Park (≈ 44 mi / 3,400 ft)

I circle the island on quiet ribbons of pavement and the occasional surprise hill, then catch the midday ferry to Orcas. The vibe changes immediately—tighter roads, bigger climbs, more trees. I thread into Moran State Park where the pavement turns to hush and the lake appears between trunks like polished stone.

With light left, I aim uphill. The climb toward Mount Constitution is steady—edge of the big ring, breathing like I mean it. The switchbacks trade lake glimpses for island mosaics until the road runs out at the stone tower.

I drop back to camp on cooling brakes, cook noodles, and fall asleep to loon calls stitched over the water.

Day 3 — Lakeside Rollout → Ferries Home (≈ 33 mi / 2,000 ft)

Morning is lake glass and oatmeal. I loiter on the shoreline, then weave out of Moran under cedar perfume and ferry timetables buzzing in my pocket. Orcas’ rollers keep me honest all the way to the dock. The boat back is a slow-motion transition: salt air thinning, cell bars blooming, legs humming with that good kind of fatigue.

---

Route Sketch

Anacortes → Lopez (counter-clockwise meander) → ferry to San Juan (Lime Kiln & west side) → ferry to Orcas (Moran, Cascade Lake, Mount Constitution) → ferry back to Anacortes. Build days around ferry times and the big climb; everything else is gravy.

---

I went bikepacking along California’s north coast to trade cell bars for tree rings. The plan was simple: roll south through the Avenue of the Giants, cross to the ocean, then trace the edge of the redwoods back on quiet roads and dirt. It felt less like a route and more like a permission slip to go slow.

Day 1 — Avenue of the Giants → Prairie Creek (≈ 36 mi / 2,800 ft)

I start with bakery crumbs in my frame bag and cold air pooling in the river bottoms. The Avenue of the Giants is a tunnel of red trunks and filtered light; every turn feels hushed, like I’m pedaling through a library. Chipseal gives way to short, steep ramps beneath cedar shade, and the bike hums like it knows where we’re headed.

By mid-afternoon, I’m off the main drag and into smaller lanes that smell like wet bark and fern. I camp on a soft bench above a creek, pitch the tent under a lace of branches, and cook ramen doctored with olive oil and crushed chips. The night is all creek song and the soft creak of trees.

Day 2 — Prairie Creek → Gold Bluffs Beach & Fern Canyon (≈ 34 mi / 2,300 ft)

Dawn is damp and quiet. A set of rollers leads me toward the coast and the rumble of surf. The first sight of the ocean hits like a reset button: gray water, low cloud, wind tugging at the guy lines I haven’t packed yet. I stash the bike and walk the sand until it turns to pebbles and sea foam.

Inland, a gravel spur threads into a narrow canyon where the walls are furred with ferns and water stitches down the rock. It’s cooler here, a different kind of silence that sticks to your jacket. Back at camp, I tuck the tent behind a drift log, eat tortillas with peanut butter and an apple, and watch the tide pull color out of the sky.

Day 3 — Newton B. Drury Parkway → Back Inland (≈ 41 mi / 3,100 ft)

Morning breaks with fog lifting and elk tracks stitched across the shoulder. I climb into the redwoods again on a road that bends like ribbon. The grade is steady; I drop a gear and let the cadence sort out the thoughts I carried in with me. Sun shafts slice through the canopy and turn the dust to glitter.

I stop at a pullout, sit on the guardrail, and eat the last of the gummy bears while trucks whisper past somewhere far away. Then it’s a gentle tilt back toward the inland valley: a few hairpins, the hiss of tires on damp pavement, and that soft return of radio stations and coffee smells. I don’t hurry the last miles. You shouldn’t hurry a place that grows trees this slowly.

---

Route Sketch

Avenue of the Giants → small connectors toward the coast → Gold Bluffs Beach & fern-walled canyon sidetrip → Newton B. Drury Parkway → quiet backroads inland. Build days around climbs, not miles. The forest will set your speed.

---

I went bikepacking on the Lost Coast because I wanted to feel small again. Out here the King Range pitches straight into the Pacific, Highway 1 ducks inland, and what’s left is a crooked web of pavement and dirt where wind writes the rules. I packed 700×45 tires, a small stove, and more stubbornness than fitness—and it turned into one of my favorite rides.

Day 1 — Ferndale → King Range (≈ 38 mi / 4,300 ft)

I rolled out from the gingerbread storefronts of Ferndale with a bakery croissant in the frame bag and fog still braided through pastures. Mattole Road tilted up so fast my coffee fizzed. Past Capetown the road finally bared its teeth—narrow lanes, damp corners under redwoods, and that metallic smell of ocean pushing inland. When the grade eased, I could hear the surf before I saw it.

By afternoon I was on Kings Peak Road—dirt, honest grades, a steady drumbeat of switchbacks. I camped on a mossy shoulder above a creek, cooked ramen fortified with cheddar and crushed chips, and fell asleep to the canyon breathing surf up to the trees.

Day 2 — Shelter Cove & Black Sands (≈ 32 mi / 3,100 ft)

Dawn delivered gulls, a cold crosswind, and a jittery descent into Shelter Cove. I topped bottles at the market, warmed my hands behind the wall, then walked the edge of Black Sands Beach—a bruise-dark ribbon under knife-steep bluffs. The waves hit hard; this is a “look, don’t swim” beach. I watched pelicans stitch the horizon and let the noise reset my head.

The climb out was all cadence and breath: sit, stand, repeat. I traded gummy bears and trail intel with two riders near a pullout; they warned me the ridge winds would bite later. They did. I tucked the tent behind a curve of firs and slept to the ocean’s long exhale.

Day 3 — Sinkyone Bluffs → Usal Ridge (≈ 41 mi / 4,900 ft)

South of Shelter Cove the road threaded the edges of Sinkyone Wilderness. It narrowed, heaved, and smelled like wet cedar. I stopped above Bear Harbor and let the view turn my heart rate down—green amphitheater, white water, black rock, and a breeze that tasted like salt and rain.

One last push brought me to Usal Ridge. The Pacific opened in widescreen, then the road tipped down toward the creek. Ferns brushed the bars, gravel pinged the downtube, and potholes appeared like punchlines. I kept it tidy—Usal Road can be ugly when wet—then rolled onto 101 with salt on my lips and that ahh of cell bars, espresso, and civilization.

---

Day 1: Starting in Government Camp

The morning fog hangs low on Mount Hood as I unload my bike at Government Camp. The air is crisp, scented with pine and wet earth. My tires hit the forest road, and immediately I feel the rhythm of the Hood Loop: climbs, descents, gravel crunching under every pedal stroke.

The first section follows Highway 26 briefly before turning onto forest roads that wind through alpine meadows. Sunlight filters through tall pines, and small streams cross under rustic bridges. By midday, I reach Government Camp Café for a quick refuel: a hot coffee and oatmeal to fuel the climbs ahead.

Afternoon brings a steady climb, the forest thinning to reveal distant volcanic peaks. I camp near Timberline Lodge Road, setting up beneath towering pines as dusk paints Mount Hood in oranges and purples.

---

Day 2: Ridge Lines and Remote Singletrack

Sunrise lights the ridge lines as I tackle the most technical section of the loop: singletrack winding through lava rock and dense forest. The tires slip in wet moss at points, but the payoff is in the views — endless ridges, waterfalls glimpsed through the trees, and the quiet hum of wildlife.

Midday, I pass through Oakridge, a small mountain town famous for its bike culture. At Oakridge Bike Shop, I top off water and chat with locals about trail conditions. Their tips save me hours of searching for the next connection northward.

Camp that night is tucked in a small clearing, the stars vivid above the Cascades. The air is cooler here, and the scent of resin fills the campsite.

---

Day 3: Southern Descent and Lakeside Reflections

The third day is more gradual. Rolling hills give way to smooth forest roads, and I descend toward Clear Lake. The lake mirrors the sky perfectly, and I stop to soak my legs and refill bottles. Few people are around; the trail feels private, as though it exists solely for riders who make the effort to find it.

Continuing east, I reconnect with forest roads leading back toward Mount Hood. The loop closes with a long descent back into Government Camp. My legs ache, but there is a sense of accomplishment. Three days, multiple ridges, thousands of feet of climbing, and the constant reward of Oregon’s wilderness.

---

Day 1: Rolling Out from Klamath Falls

The first light hits Upper Klamath Lake as I roll out of town, legs fresh and spirit high. The bike feels heavy, packed with food and gear, but the promise of the Oregon Outback stretches ahead — 360 miles of gravel, rail trail, and remote forest roads leading all the way to the Columbia River.

After leaving pavement, I follow the OC&E Woods Line State Trail, once a railway, now a corridor of dust and sage. My first stop is Henzel’s Grocery in Sprague River, a classic small-town store with an old Coke sign and a friendly hello from behind the counter.

By evening, I camp near Beatty beneath a stand of pines. One truck passes, the sound fading quickly. The first night reminds me how vast Oregon really is.

---

Day 2: Through the Sage and Into Silver Lake

The next morning brings wind and wide horizons. Dust coats my shins as I ride through cattle country, a hawk tracing lazy circles overhead. Around noon, the road spills into Silver Lake, a one-street town that feels like a movie set. I stop at Silver Lake Café & Bar for a burger and conversation with ranchers swapping stories over black coffee.

As the afternoon heat climbs, the landscape opens into shimmering desert. I refill my bottles at a cattle trough and push on toward Fort Rock, where volcanic cliffs rise from the plain. I camp in their shadow under a violet sunset.

---

Day 3: From Fort Rock to La Pine and Prineville

Morning brings a pink glow over Fort Rock. I ride north through pine forest until the route dips into La Pine. Civilization feels strange after so much silence. At Harvest Depot Café, the pancakes arrive stacked and steaming. Locals ask about the route and shake their heads when I tell them where I started.

The trail climbs again into forest, then drops into the Crooked River Grasslands. The light is sharp, the gravel smooth. I camp near the canyon rim and fall asleep under a sky crowded with stars.

---

Day 4: Wind and Color in Brothers

Day four feels like the essence of the Oregon Outback. Wind in my face, empty road ahead, and nothing around but sky. The landscape becomes more painted and surreal as I reach Brothers, Oregon — a tiny stop on Highway 20 where The Feed Barn serves coffee and conversation.

The owner warns me about afternoon winds. She’s right. The last twenty miles into Prineville Reservoir are a fight. I camp by the water, shoes off, sipping the beer I carried all afternoon.

---

Day 5: The Descent to the Columbia

My legs are sore but strong now. The road rises through wheat country and then plunges into the Deschutes River canyon. The Columbia River appears at last, wide and silver in the sunlight. When I reach Deschutes River State Recreation Area, I set the bike down and walk to the water’s edge. The ride is complete.

There is no finish line. Just the quiet hum of the river and the satisfaction of having crossed an entire state by pedal power.