Angry, that is to say somewhat disappointed, in Victoria.
So we leave in a holy-baptism shower,
Up and down hills through Tacoma...
for two hours.
40 miles pedaled. Its dark. We're tired.
Scanning every roadside ditch and lane for a place
to cook the food
and lay out the bivy-sack
stretch the tarp
dry our feet
eat
eat
sleep.
Come the morning I ride beneath the watchful eye of my father
I ride beside my mother
Oh, paternal mountains!
Oh, maternal sea!
One night in a true campsite,
one bottle of ginger-cider,
one park ranger telling us, "don't burn the twigs"
one greasy bacon.egg.flapjack meal
two sleeping cyclists...
under one blue tarp
one true-blue tarp.
The next day finds a trail.
A true trail, a you and me and anybody trail.
Port Angeles! (we only want you for your ferry)
such a long ferry ride...from home to strange
but less strange than it is a little different.
Oh Canada!
(you're pretty much the U.S...
but you have lots of pretty girls)
