The following morning Albert awoke to the sloppy, salivating licks of a large Border Collie. Complementary of the farmers’s wife, Albert filled up on a large bowl of steaming hot oatmeal, followed by freshly baked wheat bread, smothered with melting butter and strawberry jam. After washing down the food with a great cup of Maple syrup sweetened, Rooibus tea, Albert departed under grey cloudy skies.
Heading west, leaving the area of Dungeness, Albert noticed the ‘Yarn-Barn’, and dumpster-diving around out back, pocketed himself some discarded yarn that he promptly put to use. Continuing west on the Old Olympic Highway, with the ‘Straights of Juan de Fuca’ off to the north and the snowy Olympic mountain range to the South, Albert passed by Lark Meadow Farm and Wild Currant Creek. Crossing over the lazy McDonald River, he thought of his mother back home and her fondness for the singer/songwriter, Amy McDonald. He wondered if his mother wasn’t right now, busily tending to the ‘Old Vic’s needs, with Amy’s, ‘The Road To Home’ floating out of the foyer speakers.
Along rolling country roads he rode to Port Angeles, and on through the tiny hamlet of Joyce. He noticed greeting signs announcing ‘Entering Joyce’ and ‘Spend The Night In Joyce’ and wondered if many cyclists had had the pleasure.
From Joyce the road began to climb, and climb, and climb. Had his previous dream been a premonition? It sure felt like it. The road, climbing at times with as steep as a 10% grade was seemingly never ending. One good thing was that it was relatively void of traffic – just the occasional car and logging truck passing by. On some level, this kind of challenge was what Albert was looking for and on he soldiered. Eventually, after what felt like a good hour of climbing, the road summited and Albert started his descent. Zipping past clear-cut forest, the road plummeted back to sea level and at Pillar Point Recreation Area, Albert pulled up to rest.
From Pillar Point, the road turned south and followed the Pysht river. For about ten miles the road gentle rolled past tree plantations and abandoned old dilapidated homes. Eventually, Albert found himself on Burnt Mountain Road where the rolling hills seemed to take on the appearance of the beginnings of a mountain climb. For what looked likely to be an arduous ascent ahead, Albert prepared himself mentally, the best that he could. He wasn’t mistaken, it was now for sure a reality, that this was going to be a mountain climb.
At one stage Albert found himself on a 6% grade for over three miles. Okay I suppose if you were riding a multi-geared bicycle, but with his fixed-gear, 49-toothed chain-ring with 17-toothed cog, it sure made it tough. With his head down, practically between his legs, the sweat pouring off his chin, Albert, barely able to turn over his crank, could now respect the introduction of the multi-geared carousel and derailleur set-up. But Albert had what he liked, and liked what he had – and with his legs and lungs burning, on he pushed. With a white-nuckled grip of his handle bars and the summit still nowhere in sight, small doubts started to enter his mind. With fatigue setting in, his mind clouding, Albert now wondered if he could actually complete this climb. It was at this point, just like in his earlier dream that the Blue Bird and Golden Piglet appeared. “You can do it Albert, you can beat this mountain,” called the Blue Bird. “It’s how you respond to the challenge that shapes one’s character,” said the Golden Pig. And again, with their support, Albert found that little extra that was required, and exhausted, pulled himself over Burnt Mountain Summit.
Like in his dream, when Albert sought to thank Blue Bird and Golden Piglet, they were nowhere to be found. Bewildered by both their appearance and disappearance, Albert, now recovered from the grueling ascent, continued on down the road. Crossing over the Sol Duc river, passing natty llamas, and dread-locked billy goats, Albert’s latest strand of yarn finally pulled taut – 85 miles from the farmhouse where he’d spent the previous night. Here, in the wettest region of north-west Washington State, Albert, exhausted from the day, pulled into the now infamous town of Forks.
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