Update 7

I think I left off at the Olympic Peninsula, where on the 4th of July I camped at Hobuck Beach, near Neah Bay. It was on a reservation, so there was lots of alcohol, fireworks and motorized shenanigans on the beach.



Taking a cue from a fellow on an ATV I rode up and down the beach for a bit, then stopped by to meet the driver, also the owner of a KTM 620. He was a hippy of some kind with his large extended hippy family. As they set off fireworks and smoke wafted in the air, I began to rethink my prior comments about the 4th of July. Fireworks may be loud and annoying crap most of the time, but they sure are pretty if you're up close and in the right state of mind.



I must have stayed there for a while as it was completely dark when I peeled myself off the sand and got back on the bike to head to camp. This was to be the second time in my life that I'd ridden sand and a great challenge was building itself in my mind.

As an avid fan of the Paris-Dakar, I had always known that riding in the sand is a special kind of a challenge, but I finally began to understand at a more intuitive level as I tried to find my way home that night. I wrestled the squirming bike through the soft part of the beach, seeking some kind of guiding marker in my bike's dim cone of light or on the horizon ahead--a motorcycle track, a familiar tree, a light. From this trivial experience I found a new sense of awe for riders who try to find a final checkpoint after a whole day of hard riding, for hours digging their way through bottomless fesh-fesh as stuck 4x4s wail in the blackest desert night. Surely guided by the ghost of Thierry Sabine himself, I rode a few hundred feet down the beach until I found my own tracks and returned to my tent.

The next morning I returned to the beach to see how far I could go in either direction, and take some photos.




Leaving the Olympic Peninsula, I caught the ferry from Port Angeles over to Victoria, Vancouver Island. Leaving Vancouver Island for Vancouver proper, I took another ferry and as we crossed Puget Sound a pod of orcas was visible off to port.



Vancouver was a miserable experience, hot and congested. Traffic was backed up for at least an hour on the bridges into town. Despite having been popped for lane-splitting within 2 minutes back in Washington, my mind revolted against waiting in the sweltering heat, and in for a penny, in for a pound, I threw caution to the wind and wove my way across town.

At last I made it to the Sea to Sky Highway that headed up to Whistler. I camped at the Stawamus Chief, a big climber's destination outside Squamish. Everyone wore headlamps so after dark the campsite was a sea punctuated by a strange sort of luminescence. Lit from inside, the tents glowed green, orange, and red, while spots of light bobbed around the inky blackness like the lures of so many anglerfish. Fortunately, the worst these creatures could do is temporarily blind you with their million-lumen spotlights, which conveniently shine straight into your eyes whenever they turn to face you.