Bicycle Touring Across America
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When Sharon and I crossed America by bicycle, we began our trip with blustery weather. It got to the point where we wondered if it were possible to cycle across the States and have rain every single day. This is from my journal on the day we cycled from the Natural Bridge campground in Oregon toward Crater Lake. May 31 When I got up, the clouds were still an entire grey blanket covering every square inch of sky. This is the highest elevation we have camped so far on the trip and, without even consulting the old thermometer, it feels the coldest. Yesterday, we enquired at a ranger station about conditions at Crater Lake and were informed that Rim Road was closed. The lodge area had received about 10 inches of snow. I wouldn't be surprised to learn it snowed there again overnight. We packed our soggy tent and went to find Natural Bridge. Why, to our surprise, it wasn't a bridge at all! More like a tunnel, I'd say. Created from lava flow, the outside portion of lava cooled quicker than had the lava on the inside. When the interior lava was gone, a tunnel was left. Later, water came, and now the Rogue River enters the lava tube. For some 200 feet the entire river disappears. Awesome. The ride into Union Creek was dismal and wet. The entire town consists of three buildings. One has a small stock of dry goods and a lodge. Another is Becky's Cafe. Great pie. The hot spiced cider hit the spot, too. A third, and final, place is an ice cream shop. Not today, thanks. At noon I checked my thermometer -- 40 degrees F or about 4 degrees C. A little cool, even for Canadians, to be slurping ice cream. On the bright side, at least it wouldn't melt all over the place. During our $22 lunch at Becky's Cafe, where we sat nibbling and dripping copiously onto the 1960s-era linoleum, we tried to decide what to do: return to the Natural Bridge campsite and wait for more salubrious riding conditions? Or, take a chance that the weather would clear (Ha! Fat chance...), and head uphill towards Crater Lake. Sharon leaned heavily toward the former, while I, the eternal optimist, voted for continuing to Crater Lake. The owner (Becky, I presumed, but actually, Molly), in an attempt to aid our decision-making, phoned the lodge at Crater Lake. It wasn't good news. It had snowed another 10 inches overnight (so we're up to 20 inches of white stuff, for those of us keeping track), with another 7 inches expected that day. The only promising bit was that the forecast (unbelievably) called for clearing later tomorrow. Somehow, with quick wit and lies, I managed to persuade Sharon that continuing onward and upward was the correct decision. We left the warmth of Becky's Cafe and trudged out into near-freezing temps and rain. At that point, without the bravado of Becky's raging heater, even I began to suspect it may be a bad idea.
Throwing rain-covered legs over heavily loaded touring bikes, we pedalled toward Crater Lake. At the 4000-foot level it began snowing lightly. "Ha!" I said to Sharon. "Guess you got your wish!" For days she had been wishing for it to quit raining. Well, now it had. But it was snowing. Like they say: Be careful what you wish for.  The uphill wasn't too bad -- some pitches along coastal route Highway 101 had been far worse. By the time we hit 6000 feet, we were pedalling blindly in a near whiteout, riding (or perhaps I should say mushing) in about 8-inches of wet sticky snow. "Perfect for snowballs," I spouted to the unimpressed Sharon. Evergreens, packed with a thick layer of pure white snow, created a picture postcard winter wonderland. We struggled into Mazama campground, still about 7 miles from the lodge. But it was growing late, the snow was getting deeper, and I had neglected to pack my tire chains. We could kind of determine where the campground road was because the top of a stop sign was sticking up through the snow. Besides us, there were a couple of other crazies in the campground. Dave, from California, taking a cue from the flags atop our poles, shouted to us as we arrived: "Hey, Canadians! Want a beer? They're cold!" No, thanks. I sort of had a hankering for a hot chocolate. The second fellow was from France. He was super-excited about the snow. "I live on the coast," he explained, "and we only get snow about once every 20 years." My hands were frozen and my feet felt like lumps of ice. We borrowed a shovel from Dave and dug out our picnic table and a spot in the snow for our tent. After pitching the tent, we attempted to fire up our Coleman Peak 1 stoves. We weren't having much luck, when, on the fifth attempt, mine sputtered to life. Sharon gave up on hers. We cooked beneath the tent fly, making soup and hot chocolate from our sleeping bags (well, not from them -- that would taste awful -- but from while being tucked inside them).  I heard the guy from California start his car about an hour ago. Not sure if he's cold or if he's worried that his car won't start in the morning. The water in our bottles has already begun to freeze, so it's at best zero degrees C out there. In a rare instance of forethought, I poured our water into a pot awaiting morning. The wind continues to blow and the snow continues to fall. The snow is drier. I can hear it hitting the tent fly with the sound of tiny crystals. This is cycling. Camping in the snow. I love it. Only in Canada, you say? Naw. Guess we're gonna find out how warm our sleeping bags truly are. Good night. Warm dreams and toasty toes.
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