we all went up there

In which our merry band had disbanded, leaving our hero bereft of drinking companions and the solace of friendly company. Day 3:


I awoke with the sun, as you will out of doors. It took a while to clear the ridge East of me. I used the time to realize my lack of coffee, to curse the entire group I'd been camping with, and to really freak out. I'd been surprisingly (to me) sorry to see them go the night before, but that changed in an instant. I checked every nook and cranny in my bag(s) multiple times. I vowed to henceforth be even more rigidly accountable with my camping coffee preparedness.

It's a Big Deal.

Then I noticed that I'd been pouring my pee bottle (don't drink out of the clear Joselyn's bottle) just up hill of my shifter in the night. So that really helped my temper.

Then I made a bleak, coffee-less breakfast.



Packed and up the road.







The ridge.

Looking down slope. It was at that point that I realized how J__ had made such a long term wizened choice of rig.

Mid-slope.




This is the spot where I came off. I hadn't really given much thought to crashing (it happens) until I landed down slope with the (heavilyish) loaded rig on top. If those chainrings had been several inches down...that's a lot of potential ugliness. Technical touring is best done with a partner.

This is one of several nice potential camping spots.



Looking back up to the knob. It's a lot of steep drop right away.


Real singletrack.



As you progress, it gets more shaded and Redwooded in the narrower canyons.

Back out into the oaks, and Maritime Chaparral.



Highway 1 and the Pacific.


The whiskey ran out with the final bubble at the trail head.





Whooooooooole lotta this. Highway 1 North.


51 miles to go...


Then those rotten hippies at Esalen wouldn't let me in on account of my super secret squirrel contact wasn't working that day. I was so charming and pleasant- nope. Next time I'm just barging the back gate, and the hippies can try and throw me out if they think they can.


It quickly passed the point of whooping and hollering, at which I settled in to pedaling and pedaling. Just past Andrew Molera State Park, The Wind began in earnest. Pedaling as hard as you can to go downhill type earnestness.
I truly dislike riding in the wind.
Your ass will eventually go numb and then it stops hurting.

By Carmel Highlands I no longer cared about anything but food and being off the bike. I texted my Sweetie and she came and rescued me and had spring rolls and a chimichanga, too!

Good Times.