The road meanders through ancient redwoods and I ride with awe in my heart. The tree trunks rise endlessly, straight up to heaven. It is like being in a cathedral; such a cliché – I’ve read that a hundred times before – but it is true.

Or perhaps not.

Maybe the truth is that a cathedral is a hollow echo of a magnificent forest. I feel like I’ve been told I might feel in a church, if I was religious: I feel a sense of awe, a sense of wonder, a sense of my own insignificance, a sense of infinite connections. The forest is not silent but it is hushed, the noises muted, light filtered, time suspended. Too soon, far too soon, I emerge blinking into the sunlight and time begins again.

I am always so happy to get off the highway and this is an instance where the alternative road is perfect for easy riding.

These trees leave me speechless.

And there is even an edible funghi to keep me happy. A colourful flush of chicken-of-the-woods.

I still have only inadequate maps, the ancient disintegrating map of the entire state of California and a sketchy pictorial map for car tourists. The road I am on crosses Highway 101 and a sign on the other side of the highway seems to indicate the existence of a bike path. While I am still considering this a car that pulls up next to me and I signal to the driver I would like to talk to them. The woman turns out to be a park ranger – off duty, but still in uniform -  and this somehow gives me a confidence in her advice. I ask her if I take the road straight across the highway will it take me through to the 101 further down the coast. She assures me it does.

At a small park overlooking the sea, I stop to eat a snack of dried fruit and nuts with a few crackers. My food pannier is a little sparse. I had intended to stock up in Crescent City but my route through the forest side-stepped the town. A South African couple stop to chat. They offer me a beer which, at midday, I refuse; it would be the end of my day’s ride.

Beyond the park the road is blocked to motor traffic but there is a rough track on the other side of the barriers. I go to investigate an information board: a map shows a six mile section of the coastal trail, a walking track that follows the coast through Washington, Oregon and California. The path is described as strenuous, with numerous switchbacks and severe grades. I contemplate this information. There are a couple of bicycle symbols which I take to mean that the trail is passable by bike. I completely ignore the fact that my bike is weighed down by about 30 kilos of baggage.

I set off and the beginning seems promising – a gravel track with a mild downward gradient. I meet a couple of women, who don’t appear accustomed to strenuous walking, and quiz them for information but discover only that they haven’t gone far. I continue past a steep track on my left which provides access to the beach – I am not far above sea level – and round a bend.

Here, without warning, the track changes totally in character. From a road that would be passable in the average car it suddenly transforms into a narrow, rocky, horrendously steep, metre-wide trail. I can see upwards for maybe a hundred metres. I pause to consider. I don’t like turning back. Tough, but doable, I decide.

I get off and push, resting every 10 metres or so, hanging onto the brakes. My arms start to ache. A hundred metres stretches into a hundred and fifty and then, round the corner, the ascent continues. It would be a challenging walk without a laden bicycle. I can see another 100 metres of rocky path. I keep pushing.

I round another corner and I have an appalling sense of dejavu. The same scene appears in front of me – the path continues to lead upwards, narrow, rocky, steep. The rocks are large enough to seriously impede my progress. At times I think I will need to take the bags off the bike to proceed.

As I rest again, clinging to the brakes, to stop the bike hurtling back downhill, I glance down. The ocean is far below, glittering serenely between the trees, noiseless because it is so distant. I go on – rising higher and higher – the path levels out a little and my hopes leap – but the ascent continues. I am surrounded by trees, totally alone.

Nothing in particular marks the summit but after a time I find myself descending on an equally unforgiving trail. I still can’t really ride the bike but I sit astride it and bump and rattle down the hill until a section where the path, crumbling and eroding, follows the contour of the ridge dropping precipitously down towards the sea. Caution prevails and I get off and push again; unsure if I, or the bike, should take the riskier outer edge of the path.

Finally the path levels out and becomes smooth enough for me to ride, still following the contour of the ridge. The ground is covered by leaf litter and a creeping plant, similar to the garden weed we call oxalis in Australia. Tendrils of other plants – maybe poison ivy, which I know of but do know how to recognise – creep across the path, brushing against my bare legs.

A sudden patch of tarmac and faded white paint unexpectedly reveal this part of the trail to be an old road. It is smooth sailing until I reach a point where a washout has dropped a section of tarmac by several feet and I have to unload all the panniers and carry them and then the bike, one by one, across the obstacle. I reload the bike and continue, coasting along now and therefore, feeling extremely satisfied with my adventure, the long upward struggle forgotten completely.

An unexpected patch of tarmac reveals how a road can disappear almost without a trace.

It reminds me of a scene from an 'after-the-big-disaster' movie - Planet of the Apes, perhaps, or something like that.

The only people I meet in six miles are a couple of joggers heading in the opposite direction. I emerge suddenly back onto the Highway 101 to a traffic jam caused by road construction. As I rejoin the highway two cyclists with loaded touring bikes sweep down the smooth tarmac surface and come to a halt beside me as we wait for the signal that we can proceed. Their eyes widen at my unexpected appearance out of the forest and I start to excitedly relate my adventures to them.

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 Pacific Ocean is so beautiful that it never stops surprising me.

After the racoon incident, I obviously need to replenish my supplies and I make a number of stops at various grocery stores in the towns I pass through during the day. I am irritated to discover that in the majority of regional supermarkets in the US the only thing you can reliably buy from bulk bins is candy, while things like oats are much harder to source. Buying from bulk bins means that I can control the quantity of each item that I purchase which is pretty handy with the limited space I have available in my food pannier.

I finally arrive at Beverley Beach State Park campsite late, after a long day. Night has fallen and I ride to the hiker/biker camp in almost complete darkness. The only thing I can really see is a guy standing tending a fire in the middle of an open grassy area.

“Is this ‘hikerbikerville’?” I enquire.

He admits it, somewhat reluctantly, not seemingly overly pleased to have his solitude broken. However, as I case the area in the dark for a suitable tent site he points out what he considers the most favourable position available. I pitch the tent and then address myself to the matter of dinner. My food pannier is in total disarray and I need to repackage and reorganise the new supplies before I can even think about cooking.

The guy seated at his fire behind me is silent. The fire pit is in communal space but it seems a little problematic making friends in the dark, with someone who I can’t really see. I rustle through plastic bags as I dispose of bulky packaging and place various food-stuffs into zip lock bags.

After a while he announces, somewhat irritably, that I am welcome to join him at the fire. I explain about the racoon disaster. When I have sorted the food, I cook some pasta and stir in tomato paste – not a culinary highlight, but I have no patience left to make something nicer – and go to the fire. It is cold enough to be grateful for it.

We sit side by side at a picnic table facing the fire in silence while I eat my mess.

“If you’re interested in edible mushrooms, there are a lot of lobster mushrooms around here,” the man informs me suddenly.

Mushrooms are a subject that interests me enormously but not one that I know a huge amount about. I have been mushroom hunting a couple of times before in the Czech Republic, where the pastime is something of a national passion -  rivalled, perhaps, only by beer and ice-hockey.

“What are lobster mushrooms?” I inquire, eager to expand my knowledge.

“They are red and orange – like lobsters. They are in the woods, there… and there…,” he gestures into the darkness.

I am not satisfied and press for more information. Eventually he offers to show me and so we walk, not ten metres away, to where the nearest trees are, with our torches and he points out a lumpy misshapen reddish-orange funghi. I am thrilled to have learnt a new edible mushroom – especially such a colourful one.

We return to the fire and our conversation is more animated now; we discuss mushrooms we have seen, mushroom expeditions we have been on, mushroom books. My new-found mushroom mentor describes a funghi called chicken-of-the-woods and I feel sure it is one that I have seen recently. I drag out my computer to show him the photos of mushrooms that I took in the forest around Forks. I proudly show off the takings of a particularly fruitful mushroom hunt, with my first mushroom guide, in the Czech Republic.

Eventually talk drifts to other topics and I discover that Dave makes hand-made vegan truffles for a living, in Portland. I am impressed.

In the morning, I get up early eager to search out some lobster mushrooms for breakfast – especially since I haven’t managed to replace my oats yet. I wander into the wooded area beside the my tent and immediately see numerous reddish-orange forms pushing up through the bed of needles carpeting the forest floor: there is not much searching to be done here.

Lobster mushroom (Hypomyces lactifluorum) - this mushroom is actually two: a parasitic funghi engulfs it host (a gilled mushroom - usually the short stemmed russela) forming this brightly coloured intriguing creature.

Another one.

Breakfast.

I look around for the most attractive funghi, choosing firm ones with the prettiest colouring. I return to my table with four choice specimens but I feel dissatisfied. The thrill of the hunt is lacking in this experience. I walk across the road and climb a steep bank passing a multitude of the lobster mushrooms; they no longer interest me. Clambering up the hill, there are numerous funghi that I stop to examine but none that I recognise.

Unidentified white mushrooms.

Mystery black mushrooms.

Brown funghi.

There are so many boletes that I never know which ones are good to eat and which ones are not.

Towards the top of the hill my progress is halted by a sturdy wire fence and I walk along it for a while before turning to descend. I see a flash of yellow and, scrambling over fallen logs and evading the trailing blackberry brambles, I make my way towards it. More frilly yellow circles come into view. I find myself in the middle of a sizeable patch of fresh chanterelles. Luckily, I had the foresight to bring a bag with me to collect them in.

Chanterelles are really yummy.

I make my way back to the campsite where Dave has emerged from his tent and is already cooking his breakfast. I show my find to him for a second opinion. As he examines the contents of my bag I see a flash of envy and new respect in his eyes as he confirms my identification.

Chanterelles - yummmmmy!.... this is a really good breakfast!

“Would you like to have some for breakfast with me?”

He seems a little surprised by this offer but doesn’t hesitate for long. We both voice regret at the lack of butter. We discuss cooking methods and the benefits of dry sautéing* mushrooms. Dave lends me a bigger pot as I still haven’t managed to replace my tiny cooking pot that is barely capable of feeding one adequately.

It is not long before we are sitting eating mushrooms, straight from the pot – definitely friends now, in the daylight, over a shared meal.

Dave, a new-found mushroom mentor.

After polishing off the chanterelles I remember the lobster mushrooms. I decide, in the spirit of discovery, to cook them as a second course. They do, in fact, look remarkably like lobster flesh as they cook and, while they are certainly not equal to chanterelles, they are pretty tasty.

Cooking up lobster mushrooms in my tiny pot.

Some, perhaps, are edible while others are definitely not. I wouldn’t, given my current state of knowledge, risk eating any of these. Please feel free to correct any error of identification or contribute any other information with a comment.

A classic fairytale scene. A fine example of Fly Amanita. (Amanita muscaria).

Chicken-of-the-woods. (Laetiporus sulphureus). This is, if my identification is correct, edible although it does apparently cause some gastrointestinal complaints in some people.

Possibly Shaggy Mane. (Coprinus comatus). Shaggy Mane are edible but highly perishable.

No idea on this one.

No idea on this one either but it was very pretty with all the dew drops on it.

Another unidentified funghi.