This is the 19th installment detailing the bike trip that my brother and I took in 1971. The previous story, posted last Thursday, is here. Each diary contains a link to the previous one.
Y’all are going to be sad to see the story end, aren’t you?
June 11, 1971
The day began cloudy. After two days of rain, we were willing to wait for the clouds to part before returning to the road. Pam fixed an excellent breakfast while we waited. I added this note to my journal:
They must have thought we were worse off than we actually were, for we had been riding in the rain for two days, our supplies were low since we were nearing Vancouver, and my shoes were so badly burned. Bill or Pam put a new shoelace on one of the burned shoes while I wasn’t looking.
The final two days, from Lake Stevens to Vancouver.
This is why we couldn’t take Highway 20 through the North Cascades. Scan of well-worn 1971 map.
In Arlington, we mailed one last letter home. We would be in Vancouver by the time it arrived in Missouri. North of town, State Highway 9 narrowed and became more scenic. The sun had finally come out, and trees shaded the road in many places. Twenty miles to the north at Big Lake, we had a mid afternoon lunch in a grassy spot next to the grocery store.
Douglas-fir forest in western Washington. Not Highway 9, but similar to what we saw.
Someone told us about a way to bypass the busy Mt. Vernon – Burlington area. We continued north on Highway 9, crossing Skagit River at the oddly named town of Sedro Woolley. From there we took Cook Road to connect to Highway 11 with a minimum of traffic. We pedaled through flat farm country, until the highway abruptly met a hill and gained elevation. To our west, we beheld the Pacific Ocean! Samish Bay, to be more precise, but we had reached salt water.
The view from Highway 11.
We took a few minutes to savor the view, then we continued on to Larrabee State Park. With the bay on our left, and trees towering overhead, we had a joyful end to the day’s ride. A pleasant campsite cost us $1.75, and a phone call to Vancouver set us back forty-five cents. Two cyclists camped nearby; they were beginning a trip from Vancouver to San Francisco. We shared travel tales around the campfire.
The campground at Larrabee State Park.
July 12, 1971
Excitement was in the air as we packed our bikes. Day #40 had arrived, and Vancouver was within reach. Bright blue skies greeted us. We made the short ride into Bellingham, where the first order of business was to find a bakery. Fueled by a power breakfast of donuts, we set about finding a bike shop – Patrick’s gearshift cable was still broken. Down the street, I ventured into a shoe store to replace those shoes I’d set afire at the Money Creek campground. I had to be more presentable at Customs, after all.
2015 view of Bellingham. Photo by RonK.
Lynden was the last town we’d see in the US. Ice cream cones were in order, as if we needed a reason. As we headed north out of town, a Border Patrol official flagged us down to make sure we weren’t up to any mischief. Soon we were at the border crossing. As I recall, it consisted of a small building manned by two employees. One guy spoke with an Irish accent, and he wanted to be sure we were not runaways or draft dodgers. I produced the letters from my parents in Missouri, and my sister in Vancouver, stating that we had permission to make the trip.
Just to be sure, the Customs official opened up a giant Vancouver phone book to make sure the address and phone number matched up. My brother-in-law had a last name that was quite common, and there was a whole page to look through. I looked for “Bruce” but there was no entry. Wait, that’s his middle name. I looked for his first name, and it wasn’t there either! Finally I found the correct listing under “W. B.” The Customs dudes were satisfied, and we returned to the road, now on foreign soil. This was the first time Patrick or I had ever been to Canada, and we had gotten there by bike.
2025 Google Street View image. The border crossing is no longer a quiet place.
When we reached Langley, we found a bank where we exchanged travelers’ checks for Canadian currency. As we rode northwest on Highway 1A, traffic became heavy. Only a handful of bridges crossed Fraser River, funneling motorists onto those busy thoroughfares. Arriving at Pattullo Bridge, we saw that the pedestrian lane was on the opposite side. Traffic was so furious in both directions that we nearly got run over while crossing the highway.
Pattullo Bridge with pedestrian/bike lane on left. 2009 Google Street View.
We had so successfully avoided cities on our forty day ride that we were unprepared for the relentless pace of city traffic.
Ten miles to go! My journal entry reads,
After several close calls from unyielding motorists, we reached our final destination at 4:30PM, Pacific time.
We had pulled it off. Two Midwestern kids with no role models or coaches had successfully navigated 2,600 miles of roadways. The title I had boldly written on my journal before the trip, Forty Days to Vancouver, turned out to be correct. We had experienced flatlands and mountains, brutal heat and freezing cold, sunshine and rain, wind in our faces and wind at our backs, and we had met many fine people along the way. The memories would endure for a lifetime.
Vancouver skyline, from a 2014 visit.
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