Skinny Dipping in the Light at the End of the Tunnel

“Should I take the restaurant waitress up on her offer to let me camp in her yard?” I ask myself in a state of exhausted delirium swatting ineffectively at an angry swarm of mosquitoes. I am about to pedal past the turnoff to her farm from the graveled Iron Horse rail trail. “She kept introducing me to her sons who were bar tending at the restaurant I ate at. Was she really trying to help a solo lady on a bike tour? Is she just trying to hook up her sons?” I deliberate. Seventy-five miles into the ride and hindered by a post-dinner food coma, I am too tired to make a decision.

The Yakima River snakes beneath me as I ride across an old train trestle bridge. Eight or nine years ago, I rode this very same Kona Cyclocross bicycle on this very same route.  It had been 95 degrees and my back resembled a broiled lobster. (Inter-shoulder blade sunburns are a hazard of solo travel). I think back on how the chilling waters invited me in for a swim. Not wanting to later ride in soggy spandex, I had hung my pack towel on a tree (priding myself on thinking ahead to have it ready), stripped down to my birthday suit, and jumped in the water. I had assessed that I would not be visible to anyone crossing over the bridge, as long as I remained directly under it. Unfortunately, I did not calculate my visibility to those approaching by watercraft. Getting caught in the act by a family in a raft with a teenage son, I submerged myself in the opaque green waters, hoping they would soon leave. However, they stuck around for what seemed like 15 minutes as I froze beneath the icy surface. Assessing possible exit strategies, I discovered that my pack towel was placed comically just out of reach. In order to grab it, I would have had to stand just high enough to expose my hind quarters.

Laughing at myself as I remember that bike trip gives me just the energy to continue onto my planned campground. I mean everyone finds themselves in these situations, from time-to-time, right? From my tent, I call the waitress to let her know I made it safely to my destination and thank her for her offer of hospitality. She had seemed concerned for my safety out here alone. She even asked me if I was carrying a gun. This reminds me that I am back in the USA and am not traveling abroad.

I roll over in the middle of the night to find that A) it is raining and B) My borrowed tent is leaking. Fortunately, I am able to catch the drips in my foldable camp bowl and mug/pot. Slightly soggy, I lay awake thinking about how much has changed since the skinny dipping escapade. For one thing, I packed a bikini this time!

Back then, I wilderness camped in a cleverly constructed “tent” consisting of a rain fly, which staked down using an upside down bicycle as the tent frame. I felt uneasy at my campsite; probably because I could too easily be found by unsavory humans where I had parked myself: close to the edge of a forest road. I told myself I was just being wimpy, that I had no reason to be scared, and to suck it up. This time, trusting my instincts at the first sign of disease, I abandoned the first camp site I found because I thought it was creepy: the first thing I saw was an RV, clearly owned by childless adults. Only they had a child-sized doll sitting in one of their camp chairs. Second, I saw confederate flag-printed fuzzy dice hanging from a windowless van. These aren’t necessarily indicators of danger but I had a general sense that something was creepy. I did not try to convince myself that I was being a ‘fraidy cat. I just got the hell out of dodge the moment I started to ask myself, “Hmm, should I be here?” What I have learned about traveling and life since I was 19: if you have to ask that question, the answer is “No.”

The next morning, it becomes apparent that another thing has changed in the last decade: I haven't been riding as much as I used to. I am exhausted and certain parts of my anatomy are not as well adapted to the bike saddle as they once were. I indulge in a few chapters of Orson Scott Card and stretch my legs on a short walk along the river before packing my bike. As I start to leave, but my bike makes an awful grinding noise. I have lost the bolt that bears the weight of my rack and panniers so that the weight of my saddle pack is resting on my chain ring! Thank goodness for zip ties.

You know, because sometimes in life you find a freestanding abandoned chimney.

The history along this route is tangible and interesting. There are still prospector plot claims laid on some of the land I passed through over Old Blewett Pass yesterday. I even saw a miner's hat sitting on the side of the road. Or there was that part where I found a random chimney standing in a clearing. Chugging slowly uphill, I pass signposts that mark old mining township stops along the former railway. I make it to Hyak, the Snoqualmie Pass summit and former railway station. It will be “all downhill from here”, as they say. It is times like these that I understand how clichés begin.

Here's another cliche I discovered to be based on truth: "Like flies on Shit."

After the pass, there is a cave-like, unlighted two mile tunnel. Feeling gratitude for my expensive, high quality bicycle headlamp, I reminisce about the last time I took this ride. I very much learned the meaning of the phrase “light at the end of the tunnel”. I had been under the impression that a small camping headlamp would be sufficient to get me through the tunnel. What I did not consider is that my camping headlamp was so crappy that it wouldn't get me to the toilet at night if I were car camping near the north pole on summer solstice. When traveling slowly, it takes a full fifteen minutes to ride the length of the tunnel. Fifteen minutes drags on for an eternity when spent trying to avoid crashing into the tunnel walls in near darkness. Miraculously, I did not crash that time. The only explanation I can invent for this luck is that I must have spontaneously developed the ability to use SONAR like a bat temporarily. In any case, getting my first glimpse of light pin-pricked far in the distance was a substantially reassuring relief. There really is a light at the end of the tunnel.

Dear Light at End of Tunnel, Thank you! ~19 year old Karen

Gliding through the tunnel, this time, my light is so bright I have to shield it from blinding oncoming hikers. It will be "smooth sailing" from here, as they say...Except that my bike has a slow leak in the tire. I pump up the tube and ride 100 meters or so until I have a full-fledged flat. I check for glass and thorns, shimming a few slits in the tires with dollar bills and gum wrappers. But 200 meters later, I have another flat! At this point, I am getting ‘hangry’ (hungry-angry) and a little frustrated. I'm way behind schedule due to my leisurely morning routine.

A passing rider and her cycling partner stop to see if I need help. Technically, I do not really need help. I know how to change a flat. But like an angel, the woman refuses to let me waive her off and helps anyways. She inspects my tires, adds a few more shims and patches and we try again. The pair scold me for my tire choice. I am fully aware that ten year old slick road tires are inappropriate for long distance cycling on gravel with a bike fully loaded down by camping gear. But I decided to do the trip with this setup anyways. I am trying to stretch my funds to accommodate further story-worthy travels, so I didn't buy new tires. Unfortunately, "knowing better" is not sufficient protection against the perils of using the wrong gear.

The rest of the couple’s cycling group catches up to us and now there are 5 people trying to help me. They agree to distribute my gear among them to lighten my load. At this point there are so many cuts in the tires that a true fix is unlikely. Alas, I continue to get flat after flat, I have run out of spare tubes, patches, and dollar bills. Moreover, my phone battery is dying. I use the helpful woman’s phone to call my mom for a rescue. Yes, I’m a grown woman, but I’m calling my mom to come pick me up. Usually, when I find myself in a sticky situation, I am in a foreign country reliant on strangers for help. It is nice to be able to call mom for once. I think I would not have called for help when I was 19, but I call this time. Either I have matured or gotten lazier, I’m not sure which.

I hike a few miles to get to the nearest road outlet, appearing to be weird dragging my loaded bike along a single-track hiking trail. A group of eleven year old boy scouts look at me funny. I reach the roadside and make a cup of tea while waiting for my ride.

The next day, the helpful woman calls my mom’s number (since she had it in her call history) to check on me and to verify that I made it “out of the woods” safely. There are a few good, non-creepy people in this world. And there are a few cliché figures of speech that have renewed meaning to me.