Today was rough.
I got up as quick as I could and packed up camp. I wasn't necessarily afraid of Jim, but I didn't want to stick around for him to pitch me the idea of starting a cult again. I left before the sun rose and rode towards yesterday's original goal: Apalachicola National Forest.
I rode into a nearby town and refilled on water and bought a snack as I began my spin onward. I hugged the coastline as the overcast early morning cast a sense of malaise over the water. At one point I stopped and pointed my compass towards the South. Just two weeks ago I was 800 miles to the South, spinning my wheels for the first time on this trip. Now, as I sat eating a slop of beans, rice, and tuna on an abandoned dock, I tried to muster up the emotional capital to realize what I had accomplished so far. Instead, I just stared at the water thinking: "I should probably clean my chain." I guess the weather is filling me with a sense of ennui. I packed up my cooking gear and got back on Kona, heading West.
I crossed a river and hooked right towards the woods as the main road continued along the coast. At the time, I thought nothing of leaving US-98--a road with wide, cyclist-friendly shoulders, and turning down a road that was significantly less cyclist-friendly. I rode on the road for a short distance until it turned into a dirt road. That dirt road eventually rolled into a logging road. At this point the thought "is this the right way?" popped into my mind. I immediately ignored it and continued forward. Eventually the logging road lead me straight into being lost. There was no cell service and to return to the main road was a waste of two hours. In a race against the sun, those hours count.
I pulled up my maps app in hopes of catching a cached version of the maps or at least able to get some sort of GPS signal. To my luck, the map was still loaded up and had my last position marked. I lost service two miles South. The campsite I was heading towards was North along the logging route and then West on the first road I crossed. There was hope! I quickly miscalculated the distance to the town and began my haul North. I thought it would be a nice change of pace. A whole forest to myself. In the beginning it was peaceful. The clouds had cleared a bit and there was sun poking through, making me feel a bit better.
It ended up with having to haul my bike through thick sand, loose rock the size of my fist, and throngs of mosquitoes. Any sense of lassitude I had before now turned into anxiety. I knew I had to head North to reach a road that lead into a small town. I figured it would take two hours to get through the forest and back to a proper road.
I figured wrong. Two hours in I ran out of water and food. I wanted to use my water filter on the ditch running parallel with the trail I was on; however, I was still close enough to the ocean that I didn't want to risk ruining my water filter on salt water and being left filter-less in the place where it really mattered: the desert. I figured the town couldn't be much further. I figured wrong, allowing my brain to convince itself that it could do it. Me, as a person and not the collection of neurons that are my brain, was long gone. I was functioning on lizard brain. My legs ached, my feet hurt, and my attitude was nothing short of hostile after two and a half hours trudging through the quiet pines. At one point, in utter frustration, I yelled as loud as I could to no one in particular just to vent the building tension inside. It did nothing. I had more trudging to do if I wanted to get to a campsite before dark. I had to keep moving.
I finally left the forest four hours later after a long, aggravating, and exhausting haul. I was dangerously low on calories, exhausted, and with no real clear idea where I was headed. I only knew Sumatra, Florida had a single restaurant and about five or six streets. I didn't even know if that restaurant was open, but it was the only town for miles so I had no other options. My front wheel eventually rolled out of the pinkish-yellow sand and hit cracked, old pavement. Just a short distance down this road stood a small shack with the chimney and dumpster out back that implied some grease-laden food was served here. I made it to “Family Coastal Restaurant.”
Fortunately, the restaurant was open and had WiFi. I quickly tossed Kona to the side of the building as I stumbled in to a mostly empty restaurant and hid in the corner near a power outlet. I was able to re-calibrate my location, recharge my phone, and refuel on food. As I updated my friends and family to my location and inhaled all food placed in front of me, a gentleman behind me began to ask me about my bike and my trip. I quickly told him the bare facts of my trip, being unintentionally rude, hoping to get back on the road soon. As I finished my meal I asked him about himself, feeling the rules of politeness dictate my actions. He told me his name was Richard.
Richard had retired only a few years ago and decided to turn his work van into his travelling van. He was spending retirement traveling around the states, going to places he always wanted to see and leaving only when he felt like it. "I'm trying the nomad thing out for a bit," he told me with a smile. He mentioned he had a permanent address--"only for tax reasons"--out in Oregon. Otherwise, he was a man of the road. He did a trip of the nation's National Parks last year, this year he was doing forests and working his way back West. After chatting with him for nearly an hour, he invited me to stay at his campsite. Once again, I agreed to spend an evening with a complete stranger. As I finished my meal Richard told me how to get to his campsite and that he would follow along shortly as he had some planning to finish up. I got back on Kona and headed back into the woods, following along a paved road and the directions of a stranger.
As I approached the campsite, Richard passed by with a big smile and even larger van and pointed towards a state park, indicating to go right, not left. I found Richard's campsite hidden among the trees in Apalachicola National Forest. After setting up camp, having a shower beer, and chewing the fat, Richard told me he was heading over to another camp nearby to meet some of his friends. Me, with nothing else to do beyond sleep, agreed to go. Let me say that Richard has good taste in friends.
They were extraordinary.
There was Emile and Mat, a Quebecois couple who traveled the US when the farm they worked at was out of season. They live out of a Toyota Land Cruiser that could barely make it to fifty mph on a good day. They traveled via country roads that stitched together enough small towns that they had traveled from Quebec to to Texas and then the Keys. They were now beginning their trip back to Quebec to prepare the farm for the next season. There was also Ron, a retired psychologist and programmer turned wood/metal worker. He too had recently retired and was on the same retirement plan as Richard: traveling the US and only leaving campsites when he felt it was time to. As we all took a seat around the campfire, something magical began to happen.
We shared stories of our individual pasts as the smoke floated into the air up to the stars. We were enthralled in everyone else's opinions and stories, each representing our own little corner of the North American continent. Ron told us of how a flippant woodworking job he took ended with him unexpectedly becoming a crew member on a sailboat in the Caribbean. Mat and Emile pointed out the absurdly beautiful qualities of American culture as we asked them what life in the Canadian Shield was like. Richard waxed poetic on the value of labor groups in the formation of the Pacific Northwest and how the sublime, dreary beauty of Portland was as mystical as people claimed. The group turned to me and asked about my trip and life in Michigan and if the mythos surrounding Detroit was true. I also chose to gush endlessly about the stunning beauty that is the ocean of fresh water surrounding the piece of land I called home and the resilience of the city that the rest of the nation seemed to make the butt of their jokes.
At one point the group began to gossip about an apparent police raid that occurred earlier in the day. A once-believed-to-be-abandoned boat that listlessly sat on the water only 100 yards away was apparently the local hot spot for meth production. While I was shoving my bike down the half-abandoned logging road earlier in the day, police were emptying the boat of boxes and boxes of chemistry equipment. This only sparked more conversation as we shared our own harrowing adventures with the law; or how good of a show "Breaking Bad" was. Eventually, the campfire mellowed into hot embers and we all parted ways, preparing to continue our separate adventures when the sun got up.
As we returned to our campsite, Richard and I had a friendly talk. He told me to contact him as I approached the Pacific Northwest because he might have a place or two for me to stay. Thanks to him I know when I'm in Oregon I have a warm bed and cold beer waiting for me.
He as well in Detroit.