Summer 2000
Loop around Northern California

	After finding an apartment, and returning a rental car, I started
from the San Jose airport.  My first day consisted of cycling down El
Camino Real to Page Mill road, climbing up to Skyline, and then descending
to Highway 1, which I followed north to Half Moon bay.

	Somewhere around Tunitas Creek Road, perhaps ten miles from Half
Moon Bay, my bicycle developed a case of the wobbles.  A brief inspection
revealed that despite holding up well during several days worth of
equipment shakedown, the rear wheel had become largely detensioned.  
Planning to obtain a repair in the morning at the local bike shop, I
wobbled into the hiker-biker site at the Half Moon Bay state beach.

	While watching the waves and eating dinner, I noticed a recumbent
rider building a wheel with considerable skill.  He proved to be a retired
mechanic from Edmonton, touring on one half of a detachable recumbent
tandem, his touring partner having returned to Edmonton several weeks
previously.  For a small fee, he retensioned my rear wheel.  With the
exception of two broken spokes, his repair held up for the duration of the
tour.

	 For the next several days, I largely followed route 1, a scenic
two-lane road which hugs the shoreline for most of the California coast.  
Scenic bays, shorebirds, coastal deer, redwoods, and California quail were
the rule.  Numerous other cyclists traveled the same route I did, so
although I wasn't traveling with anybody else, I encountered several other
touring cyclists each day.

	Hiker-biker sites, common in state parks along the coast, are
campsites where passing tourists may stay the night for $3 without needing
a reservation.  In the areas nearest San Francisco, these were critical to
being able to tour, as I was not yet certain how much distance I could
cover in a day, and consequentially could not make reservations.  These
sites ran a very wide range in the extent to which they had been
developed.  The hiker-biker site at Samuel P. Taylor state park is located
among redwood rings, and has hot showers available a short walk away.  In
contrast, the one at Manchester Beach has pit toilets, and no hot water or
showers.  Others range between the two.

	At the Standish-Hickey State Recreation area, near the junction of
routes 1 and 101, I arrived at the hiker-biker site to find a pair of
cyclists packing up.  Apparently, the other cyclists had just experienced
a photography-related altercation with a large group of nude female
sunbathers.  Describing the sunbathers as violent extremists, they feared
for their lives, and were trying to get as far from them as possible.  As
we spoke, the police arrived, and a woman in fatigues began peering at the
hiker-biker site from the next campsite over. I offered them use of my
cell phone, so that they could find someplace else to stay, but my offer
was declined.  I have no idea where the other cyclists ended up spending
the night, but it certainly wasn't anywhere near the hiker-biker site at
the campground.

	After Leggett, I found myself alternating between route 101 and
back roads.  101 varied from a narrow two-lane road with tourist traps to
a four-lane road with a wide shoulder freeway- type on and off ramps.  
One back road, the Avenue of the Giants, passes through the Humbolt
Redwoods state park, a fantastic 30- mile stretch of truly enormous
redwood trees.  Arriving in Fortuna on my seventh day of cycling, I
stopped and took a rest day, letting a local mechanic check over my
bicycle.

	Continuing northward to Arcata, I stopped at the forest service
office in Eureka to obtain maps of as many national forests as possible,
as well as a campfire permit.  I then spent a strenuous afternoon on route
299 climbing over the mountains to a campground just outside Willow Creek.  
The last cyclist I encountered for the next several days told me that
'There's nothing but God’s creation between here and Willow Creek.' He
proved quite right, as the road, although heavily traveled, passed through
a dense conifer forest.

	From Willow Creek I followed route 96 north, passing through an
indian reservation.  The area appeared to be very economically depressed,
even by the standards of economically depressed rural areas.  Strangely,
the local population didn't seem to even be able to find employment as
clerks in the local stores.  After passing through the reservation, my
ride switched from downhill to uphill, as I followed the Klamath river
through a narrow winding valley.  As I neared Happy Camp, I saw large
numbers of white water rafters enjoying the rapids.

	I spent the night at a motel in Happy Camp, where I learned that
the rafters generally flew in for their vacations.  The next morning, I
continued along route 96, which still followed the Klamath river upstream.  
Because of recent forest service policy changes (in particular, they've
stopped building new roads)  logging in this area has completely stopped.  
The end result is a scenic road in excellent condition with virtually no
traffic.  Upstream of Happy Camp, the major use of the Klamath river
switched from rafting to dredging.  Numerous small gold mining claims are
posted along the river, and miners, largely men, work in ones and twos to
dredge gold from its bottom.  In one store along the way, I saw a nugget
the size of two fists held together for sale.  The asking price was
$11500.

	Climbing into the Sacramento River valley, I picked up a secondary
highway towards Yreka.  As I came around a bend, a fantastic looking,
snow-covered peak came into view.  For the next several days, I was
treated to fantastic views of Mt.  Shasta.  I spent the night in Yreka,
and then followed old route 99 towards Mt. Shasta.  Several miles out of
town, I encountered a cycling club going the other way.  If I understood
correctly, they were from Sacramento, and had gone to Yreka for several
days worth of cycling in the surrounding valley and mountains.  I
continued south on an old stagecoach route, missing the town of Mount
Shasta, and having to backtrack, before turning into town at the fish
hatchery.

	After spending the night in Mount Shasta, I headed south along
route 89, into the mountains.  About 20 miles out of town, just past
McCloud, the local rock changed to lava beds, the first indication that I
was approaching Lassen Volcanic National Park.  After a couple of passes,
each involving a few thousand feet of climbing, the road settled down into
gently rolling terrain, but with the top of each little hill a little
higher than the one before.  In early afternoon, I reached McArthur-Burney
Falls state park, where a double waterfall pours over a lava cliff.  
About half-way down the cliff, a solid sheet of groundwater pours out of
cavities in the lava.  I admired the waterfall, and pushed on, to a forest
service campground near a little town called Old Station.

	The major sight at Old Station is a lava tube, where the roof has
collapsed in two locations, about 1/3 of a mile apart, making it possible
to walk a substantial distance underground, and then emerge, and walk back
on top of the tube.  No lighting is provided, and the black rock makes for
a very dark and eerie experience.  There are solidified bubbles,
stalactites made of lava, and ripples in the floor.  In addition, at the
time I visited, the water fountain in the parking lot had ruptured,
providing a gentle mist and a puddle.  The two of these seemed to have
attracted every bird in the area, ranging from warblers and goldfinches to
rufous-sided towhees.

	After Old Station, there was a substantial climb, up to 6000', and
then a rapid descent to Lassen Volcanic National Park.  As it was still
morning when I reached the campground, I went for a walk up to the Chaos
Crater, a water-filled depression just before a jumbled lava formation.  
Upon returning to the campground, I met a friendly couple and their
children who had stopped to eat after cycling from the other side of the
park on a pair of tandems.  We spoke briefly, and then they headed back
over the 8500' pass to the other side of the park.

	That evening, I went for a walk around lake Manzanita.  After a
discussion about white-headed woodpeckers with a couple of birdwatchers, I
continued on, and saw several black-tailed deer scamper off as I
approached.  I then saw the tiniest fawn I have ever seen.  It was about
as long as the distance from my elbow to the tip of my fingers.  When it
saw me, it tried to stand, shook, and then sat down.  Realizing that the
mother couldn't be far off, I hid, watched, and waited.  My legs fell
asleep, and a nearby doe didn't appear be paying much attention to the
fawn.  However, after what felt like an hour, my patience was rewarded,
and the doe trotted directly to the fawn, and they licked each other.  
The fawn then stood up on shaky legs, and its mother gave it a tongue
bath.  The doe then strode off into the underbrush, and the fawn
hesitantly staggered along behind.

	In the morning, I packed up, and cycled up to the trail leading to
the top of Mt. Lassen.  The scenery and the altitude were breathtaking.  
Upon arriving at the parking lot, I ate lunch, and hiked to the top of Mt.
Lassen, where I met the tandem family of the day before, and was treated
to a final view of Mt.  Shasta on the horizon.  Descending, I entered a
sulfurous valley, full of hot springs, boiling mud pots, and fumaroles.  
I camped for the night at the walk-in campground near the park boundary,
having cycled a mere 30 miles on my 15th day, but having encountered some
of the most amazing scenery of the trip.

	I then continued along route 89, where I was treated to views of
Lake Almanor.  Just outside of Quincy, I stopped at a forest service
office to obtain water and maps.  While I was rehydrating, I listened to a
miner discussing his claims with a forest service official, who seemed
rather more intent on complaining about how his road maintenance crews
needed more money than on discussing mining.  Once in Quincy, I discovered
the town filled with iterant firefighters, which the forest service moves
around to areas which they believe to have a higher fire risk.

	Several miles outside of Quincy, I broke a spoke.  While I was
replacing it with a spare, a California Highway Patrol officer stopped to
ask me if everything was Ok.  I assured him that it was, and we discussed
my route.  He suggested that I might want to take a brief detour up to the
Gold Lakes.  I climbed up to the lakes on a forest service road (paved)
and returned to 89 via route 49, and camped shortly after passing through
Sierraville.  The Gold Lakes look very much like the lake region of the
Adarondacks, but transported to an altitude of about 7000 feet.

	The next day, I continued along route 89 to Lake Tahoe.  While I
was eating in Truckee, I saw a couple on a pannier-laden tandem fly past.  
Leaping on my bicycle, I chased them for half an hour, finally catching up
near the top of a hill.  They proved to be conducting a pre-tour equipment
shakedown, with the intent of heading northward through the mountains.  
Drafting them along the descent as I approached Lake Tahoe certainly made
life a bit faster for the day.

	Lake Tahoe itself is beautifully situated.  Rugged mountains
provided the backdrop for my view of a female common merganser fishing.  
The surrounding towns are not nearly so nice.  Nasty sidepaths, full of
surprise blind driveways, corners, dogs, and unmaintained surfaces
endanger those who make the mistake of using them instead of the roads.  
Talk of gambling fills the shops.  I spent the night at the D.L. Bliss
state park, where there is a hiker-biker site.

	From Tahoe, I continued on route 89, reaching Markleeville in
midafternoon.  Much to my surprise, the town, with a population typical of
small rural towns, was filled with more road cyclists than local
inhabitants.  I had arrived about a week before the Death Ride, a one-day
supported ride in which a large number of cyclists from silicon valley try
to ride over all five of the passes surrounding Markleeville.

	Shortly south of town, with a full supply of food and water, I
picked up route 4 heading west.  At the intersection of 89 and 4, a large
yellow sign warns "narrow winding road ahead ... 24% grade ... Trailers
over 26 feet kingpin to rear axle not advised."  Despite the warning, the
climb starts gently at first, no more than a 5% grade or so, although the
road is extremely narrow.  After passing the ruins of an old silver mining
town, the grade steepened, but not to anything noticeably more than
Buffalo Street (located in Ithaca, NY).  As I gained altitude, I passed
ponds and small lakes nestled into the mountains.  I stopped to assist a
road cyclist who had gotten a flat tire by cycling over sharp gravel on
his way down.  Much to my surprise, he wasn't carrying a spare tube.  I
gave him one of the four I carried.  After a brief chat, I continued
uphill, and the climb began a series of false summits, each higher than
the last.  While cycling along one of the many alpine lakes, a local
cyclist on a lightweight bicycle caught up with me, and we chatted for a
while.  At the final climb, he pulled ahead, and reached the 8700 foot
pass a few seconds before I did.  We stopped, put on warm clothing for the
descent, and watched a woman climb the last stretch to the top of Ebbett's
Pass.

	After a brief chat, I began my descent of the west side, taking
care to avoid gravel patches on the switchbacks.  About a mile later, I
realized that I was not descending, but climbing.  Indeed, the steepest
stretch was yet to come.  I stopped for a moment to remove a few layers,
and then tried to mount my bicycle.  My legs proved too tired and the
grade too steep.  Despite several tries, I simply could not get moving.  
For the only time on the whole trip, I found myself walking up a
switchback.  After making it over the pacific grade, I reached my intended
campground, and discovered that due to the Fourth of July, just about
every forest service campground in the sierras was already full.  I
continued on, eventually finding a site with easy access to potable water.

	I started off the next morning with a very long descent to
Calaveras Big Trees state park, where giant sequoias tower above the path.  
Unlike redwoods, which narrow considerably near the top, and which tend to
grow in rings, rather like some mushrooms, giant sequoias remain thick as
far up as you can see, and grow singly.  I continued on, reaching a Bureau
of Reclamation campground by a lake near a small town called Tuttletown.

	Like the numerous eastern towns which proudly boast historic
markers reading "George Washington Slept Here," every town worth its salt
in Calaveras county bears a sign stating "Mark Twain Slept Here".  
Twain's tale of frog jumping contests not withstanding, I saw not one frog
in Calaveras county, perhaps a result of the dry weather I encountered.  
As I headed towards Mariposa on route 49, I began to notice a smell of
smoke, and then flakes of ash settling down out of the air.  As I
approached Coulterville, an enormous brown pillar of smoke rose from the
forest to my right.  Roads up into the hills were closed by fire
officials, and many ranches appeared evacuated.  Reaching Coulterville,
where I stayed for the night, I found the town filled with firefighters,
but the local residents went about their business, apparently unconcerned.  
They'd had a fire the year before where the flames had been visible from
town, so a fire which was still several miles away didn't seem like much
of a cause for concern.  Around sunset, the fire was extinguished, so I
slept peacefully.

	I continued south through the foothills to Mariposa, where I
started on route 140 west into the central valley.  The terrain flattened
considerably, and went from rangeland to fruit trees.  Farms raising
everything from pigs to emu lined the road.  After spending the night in
Merced, I continued on towards Mount Hamilton, for the final stretch of my
journey.  On my last day, I was treated to a beautiful view of the
southern bay area, and a fantastic descent into San Jose.

	Useful resources included _Bicycling the Pacific Coast_ by Tom
Kirkendall and Vicky Spring, the DeLorme Northern California topographic
atlas, the Adventure Cycling maps of the pacific coast, the US Forest
Service maps, which show where you can obtain potable water within the
national forest system, Caltrans cycling maps, which are essentially a
primitive version of the Adventure Cycling maps, and the numerous local
maps I obtained at local chambers of commerce along the way.

	Many thanks to those of you who offered route suggestions, or who
otherwise assisted me in planning the trip. These made my 3 week, 1410
mile tour so much the nicer.

		David Sacerdote

Copyright 2000, 2001 David Sacerdote