Oregon's dune area is a sea of shifting sand.

Sand encroaching on the highway.

I pass a sign indicating a campground and continue climbing to the top of a long hill. I am riding through forest on a still warm afternoon. Fireweed, a roadside companion that has been with me all the way from Alaska, still lines the highway: the plants are like old friends now – I have watched them bloom and fade over more than six thousand kilometres.

Fireweed is an old friend now.

At the top of the hill I change my mind, make a u-turn, and speeding back down the slow upward mile I just covered I return to the campground. The area is heavily wooded and the campground, quiet, almost deserted – closing for the season at the end of the week, a sign at the entrance informs me. I choose a sheltered site where my tent is not visible and set up camp before exploring.

An information board displays a map of a six mile loop trail traversing forest, dunes and the beach. Ignoring the lengthening shadows, I set off uphill through the forest and after quarter of an hour emerge onto golden sand dunes. Where the path crosses the sand all traces of previous footprints have been effaced by a relentless wind. I case about until I find the path again where it crosses a more sheltered area of the dunes but, after some hesitation, I decide that if I walk as far as the beach it will be dark on the return trip so I, opting for ’sensible’, make my way back to camp.

Dunes in the evening.

Grass and sand.

A perfect dune.

Grass and sand calligraphy.

In the morning, I return to the trail and set off heading the other way around the loop which takes me on a longer walk through the forest. The forest is hushed with that special silence which is filled with small sounds: rustles and sighs, stirrings and sudden disappearances. Constantly irascible squirrels scold shrilly and then silence falls once more. The light is soft, filtered again and again, first by mist and then by foliage. The forest floor is thick and soft, padded with green moss, grey lichen and red brown fir needles. I walk slowly, the path winding gently uphill through old trees – Douglas fir, spruce and hemlock.

A tree frog.

At the top of the hill the forest opens out and I am lured off the path by mushrooms – mysterious life forms that are neither plant nor animal. They are everywhere bursting forth from the ground, pushing vigorously through the forest litter, clinging delicately to tree stumps, rising up in holes and crevices – magical indescribable beings.

Most of the funghi I see are unknown to me and I have left my new mushroom guide at my camp but a few chanterelles appear and find their way into a makeshift collecting bag created by my tank top sealed by a knot. A white mushroom, which I take initially for a pale chanterelle growing at the bottom of quite a deep hole, turns out to have no gills on inspection of its underside. I put it in the bag for later identification. Some mushrooms have been disturbed and I can see the small yellow stumps here and there. I am not the first mushroom hunter here.

Not sure - a small amanita of some description?

Clusters of mushrooms - honey mushrooms, perhaps?

Close up of the clusters.

A mushroom with patent vigour!

Small knobbly mushrooms.

Vanished conks (Ganoderma tsugae) - bizarre creatures, inedible but used medicinally .

Yellow funghi on the ground.

I wander slowly through the forest drifting away from the path, losing it, finding it and losing it again, heading always upwards. At the top of the hill I can see down the other side over the dunes to the sea. I come suddenly upon a young couple with a dog in a sandy clearing on the hill, packing up camp. The dog runs forward barking as I approach but what I notice is the magnificent mushroom the girl has in her hand. A flash of mushroom envy must have passed across my face, at that moment.

A proud mushroom hunter.

King Bolete (Boletus edulis)

The couple have been here for a couple of days and they have kilos of chanterelles in a couple of large brown paper bags and an odd assortment of other funghi. The mushroom the girl is holding is probably a King Bolete, the prize mushroom, and this one is a beauty. I show the couple the mushroom I am uncertain of and they name it and show me the entry describing it in their book. It is supposed to be good eating.

I walk on down the hill. The forest opens out as the ground becomes more sandy until I find myself crossing the dunes, wind blowing, sand flying, silver tussocks of grass undulating, gulls crying, blue skies above. My heart always leaps as I approach the ocean. I pass through a thicket of dense low conifers and I then I am on the beach – deserted for miles in either directions with barely a human trace. I walk on the hard sand examining the offerings washed up by the tides – broken sand dollars, scraps of kelp, a fish carcass, clam shells. There is remarkably little plastic or glass.

The beach in the morning.

Scary fish carcass.

I walk along the beach until I see the sign directing me back across the dunes to where I was the evening before and return to my camp to a breakfast of mushrooms.

Breakfast - a mixture of chanterelles (chantharellus cibarius) and hedgehog mushrooms (hydnum rapandum).

The shop is largely un-illuminated and for a second I wonder if the place is closed but the middle-aged couple inside indicate that I can enter. In the gloomy light, I survey the produce available and select a Snickers and a couple of packets of Ramen noodles, more out of politeness than actual need. As I pay for the goods, the man asks me where I am intending to stay for the night.

“Oh, some place in the next ten miles or so,” I answer, noncommittally.
“We have a bus out the back where people can stay,” he volunteers.
“Hmmmm…,” I say.
“It’s free,” he adds and then elaborates, “There is a bed and a stove and a big steel door so that the bears can’t get in.”

I am intrigued now. He points out the back door to a beaten up old grey bus and tells me that it is nicer inside than it looks. If I stay, he will leave the back door of the shop open so that I can access toilets and water.

We go together to the bus, Jay accompanying me to make sure that the last people who stayed have left it clean and tidy, and I am instantly charmed by its interior. Beyond the basics of a comfortable bed (and it’s the first one I’ve slept in since Palmer) and cooking facilities, everything a travelling cyclist might need is provided – a first-aid kit for body maintenance, hand de-greaser for post-bike-maintenance, a tin of camp stove fuel for a top up, some magazines for entertainment. There is a table with bench seats inside the bus and folding lounge chairs to make the most of the evening sun. Electricity and gas are laid on.

I quickly realise that I am not the first person to have discovered this bus. Other cyclists have stuck their cards and written their web-blog addresses on the walls and I suddenly remember reading a post in another Pan-American cycle blog that must be about this place. Curious, I ask about the history of the bus and Jay tells me that some moose hunters used to have it in the woods but they didn’t need it any more so they towed it to the store. He and Debbie maintain it for passing travellers, with no thought, apparently, of recompense. I tell him that I think they are extremely generous and he merely replies that it was it was generous of the hunters to give it to them.

A chance to spread my things out and relax in the bus.

Interior of the bus.

The view from the bus.

My bike and the bus.

I spread out for the evening and make the most of the opportunity to download my photos, recharge my batteries, and read and write in comfort. I cook on the stove, unfortunately, still restricted to my ridiculously small saucepan which, although it fits neatly in my panniers, invariably leaves me hungry.

In the morning I go to the shop and chat for a while to Debbie about life in Slana. We talk of winter and bears. The subject of bears leads to a story about picking fireweed and I discover that you can make jelly from the blossom of this ubiquitous, but beautiful, flower. I wish that I was here long enough to do so – it must turn out the most amazing colour!*

Fireweed.

Debbie in the shop.

The shop is full of stuffed animals and photos of bears, moose and other beasts that have fallen victim to hunters adorn the walls. Hunting is very much part of Alaskan life.

*For those that find themselves with the opportunity, here is a recipe for fireweed jelly:

FIREWEED JELLY

8 cups fireweed blossoms
1/4 cup lemon juice
4 1/2 cups water
2 packets powdered pectin
5 cups suger

Pick, wash, and measure fireweed blossoms (flower part only, no stems). Add lemon juice and water. Boil 10 minutes and strain. Take the strained juice and heat to lukewarm. Add pectin all at once and bring to a boil. Add 5 cups sugar and return to full boil. Boil hard for 1 minute. Pour into hot clean jars and seal. Process in boiling water bath for 10 minutes.

It is also possible to make fireweed ‘honey’ and fireweed ice-cream and I am dying to try all three recipes!