Got to Sol Duc by 9am to find that the campground was almost entirely full, with a cue of people in their huge idling SUVs just waiting to pounce on an empty site. I managed to eventually find a walk-in camp spot with a bear box and by lunch time I was snoozing, still exhausted from the long ride two days ago. After a Dove ice-cream to satisfy my out-of-control chocolate addiction I wandered down to the river for a bath in the chilly water. My bathing-in-colder-than-comfortable-water method goes something like this: I stand ankle deep in the water, massaging the soles of my feet on the riverbed stones until I can no longer feel my feet.

Woke up at 4:30am this morning for a hike around the Sol Duc Loop, a 22 mile hike starting from the campground. The campground is at about 1900 feet and the path meanders upwards through moss covered forest, until it thins out to just low ground cover and colourful flowers at about 5200 feet. Got to see my first live marmot. After seeing probably a dozen or more dead marmots stuffed and on display in museums I was starting to wonder whether they really existed or whether it was some museum curators idea of a joke.

I eventually got to Bogachiel peak which has an amazing view of the entire snow-covered Olympic mountain range and several glaciers. The thirsty mosquitoes barely let me have time to take a photograph. The path wandered downwards past some small lakes, one heart-shaped where there were a bunch of warning signs about the aggressive mountain goats in the area. I passed a number of people camping in the area who called me “ambitious” for attempting the loop in one day. I now know why; I barely noticed my surroundings in the last few miles back to camp; I was so tired and numb. I finally got back to my tent eleven hours after leaving.

This morning I woke to find a group of deer walking right past my tent. Ran out of food so I rode down to Fairholm where I was hoping to find something for brekkie at a gas station. Had to make do with only a coffee but was treated to the sight of seeing the sun rise over Lake Crescent. The water, the hills and the sky were all various shades of blue and only a bunch of ducks broke the clear reflection of the lake.

Just before the store, on highway 101 that borders the lake, was another very large and prominent bicycle warning sign. I saw the last one when I was heading to the north coast on highway 112. They’re basically big yellow signs with a very descriptive warning of how dangerous the road ahead is for cyclists; narrow, winding, short line-of-sight and no shoulder. When I spotted the first one of these signs a few days ago I almost considered changing my route but after tentatively riding the road I found the warning to be a vast exaggeration.

As I was riding into Port Angeles this morning to stock up on grub a guy stopped beside me in an SUV and let me know that Lance had won the tour de France for the 6th time. At the camp ground I unloaded my bike completely and began the twelve mile ride up to Hurricane Ridge, a ride that Luke, a park ranger back in Lassen National Park more than a month ago, had recommended.