Biking the Pacific Coast



Twenty years ago, my wife Christine, and I pedaled a tandem from Portland, Oregon to San Francisco, California. We carried everything we needed, - tent, sleeping bags, cooking equipment, spare parts, clothes and a map. We had a phone too, but back then, mobile phones were mostly just used to talk to people. They didn't have email, internet browsers nor map applications. After packing our bike in a mattress box, we brought it to the cargo area at the airport. We flew in our bike clothes, carrying our panniers and front wheel. My journal entry indicated that we needed "water, fuel, matches and oil," all the things we couldn't bring on the airplane, even back then.



When we landed in Portland, we had less than an hour to get across the airport to the cargo area to retrieve our mattress box. Lugging our packs and front wheel, we decided to take a cab which in retrospect was a good idea as we made it to the cargo terminal with fifteen minutes to spare. Someone tore open the box to inspect the contents leaving a gapping hole from which we almost lost a bag containing our pedals. It took us two hours to assemble the elaborate machine that would carry us for the next three weeks. Ahead was a sixty mile ride to the town of Rainier. There was a distinct freeing moment when we set out on our journey with all our possessions stowed neatly on the frame of our tandem. On this trip, the sense of smell would compete with our eyes. You see, when you fly, you go over the country, but on a bike, you go through it.

We pushed up some impressive hills on our first day, taking us half way to the coast. The weather lived up to our immediate destination as it began to rain. We stopped on the side of a busy, four lane road to take a break from the up hill churning when I started to think about what we were attempting. When we resumed the rear wheel slipped on the slick asphalt, causing us to momentarily lose our balance. Once we were stable and stationary, I looked back to my wife as the rain dumped on our heads and speeding cars buzzed past us.

"I don't think we know what we're doing," I said.

Drops of water beaded up onto Christine's Oakleys. Although I couldn't see her eyes, I felt her resolve in her words.

"This is our personal eco-challenge. Pedal up."

With that I spun the crank into the start position, then we continued with our ascent. The regiments of clouds broke rank as the sun dried our clothes. We went through several towns before signs for Rainier began to show themselves. The first told us our destination was nineteen miles away. It was 4 pm PST, but three hours later back home. After flying across the country and assembling our equipment, we reached Rainier in just under five hours of pedaling. By the time we found lodging, showered and had a meal it was 8:30 pm PST. It was easy to fall asleep as our bodies were still in a later time zone. We settled in half way to the pacific ocean.

We woke the next morning with only one of the four things we needed. Where to get fuel, matches and oil was still an unknown. On this leg of our journey, I was certain we would pass a camp store or bike shop. Over breakfast, an elderly women said that there were three big hills between us and Astoria. We encountered the first just outside of town. Going up we stopped to strip off our jackets, only to put them back on for the descend. Hours later, we rolled down the third, more moderate hill into Astoria. Still looking for camp fuel and bike oil, we picked up matches earlier at a lunch stop. After another hotel stay, we turned south and headed for San Francisco.

The mornings in August were cool and foggy. We had planned on getting underway in the early morn, but the thought of cramming onto a bike seat in the fog made us creatively procrastinate. We would check and recheck our gear, then go for a coffee. Often we didn't get underway until 11:00 am. With our last hotel stay behind us, we would be camping for the duration of our trip. As we pulled out of Astoria and headed south, we were rewarded with spectacular views along the way.

At first we would venture down to the water when coming onto interesting places, but we quickly realized that the disadvantage of travelling under your own power is that there is little energy left for exploring. The small yellow dot in the center of the above picture is me. I walked down there while Christine waited with the camera. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but I was pretty tired when I got back.

Camping was a lot of fun, especially because they had "hiker biker" accommodations. If you made it to a campground under your own power, they would have a place for you. This usually pissed off the guys driving RVs who were routinely turned away. At one campground they had an outdoor amphitheater in which a naturalist was coming to speak about local wildlife. After a day riding, we thought an evening lecture would be stimulating. There was six adults, including us, and two kids seated in the theatre. A camp counselor arrived to introduce the speaker, but first she had us all stand to sing a camp song. Instructing us to follow her lead, she stuck her thumbs in her ears with her fingers flared, then proceeded,

The moose goes moo.

Then she Pelosi clapped while saying,

The duck goes quack.

Followed by wide eyes as she sang,

The owl goes who.

Christine was unamused. We got up and left. I probably would have fell asleep five minutes into the talk anyway. When we rolled into California the road went from bridges to switchbacks. We would spend the whole day winding down into a valley, then cross a stream, only to have to climb back up on the other side.

Five miles out from a campground, we would search for a place to get food for the night. Christine would cook salmon with rice. We bought bread and wine. It was cumbersome to have to scavenge for and carry your food each night, but it was part of the adventure. Camping among giant trees in northern California was certainly amazing. We were puzzled by the big metal boxes at the campsites though. Christine asked me to inquire about them if I saw a park ranger When I did, I asked what the metal boxes were for.

She explained, "You put your food in the box so the bears and mountain lions don't get it. "

When I returned to our camp, Christine asked, "What's the deal?"

"I'm sleeping in the box," I answered.

There were two herds of elk that roamed freely in the region. The locals seemed always to know where they were. The park rangers told us not to approach them. Problem was back then I had a crappy camera that shot cellophane and didn't have a good zoom lens. When we came upon one of the herds, I decided to venture into the tall grass to get a closer look. Just after I took this picture, I came upon a dead elk.

From the matted down grass, covered with entrails and blood, I surmised the kill was fresh. I also recalled the park rangers saying that you would never see a mountain lion, but they would definitely see you. As I looked at the large dead animal surrounded by tall grass, I thought,

"Huh. Mountain lion's probably looking at me right now."

Then as fear replaced my acute awareness, I fought the urge to turn and run for my life. I backed away slowly until I was far enough to turn and bolt. I only wish I took a picture of that eviscerated elk carcass. What a way to check out. One time while camping, I got up to urinate. It was cold at night so you had to really have to go badly to get out of a warm sleeping bag then stand outside your tent in the night air. I decided under the star filled sky to venture to the bathrooms rather than marking my territory. When I returned, I crawled back into the warmth of my sleeping bag. When I settled in comfortably, Christine said,

"You went all the way to the bathrooms?"

"Yeah, it's a beautiful night," I answered.

She convinced me to escort her to the bathroom, having not wanted to exit the comfort and warmth of her sleeping bag if I was going to relieve myself in the woods. I was certain that a mountain lion would pounce on me during a second trip to the loo, but that never happened. After twenty days of pedaling, we made it to San Francisco and crossed over the Golden Gate bridge.

Arriving a day early, we found a hotel, packed up our bike, then went off to dinner. After three weeks of collecting and preparing meals for ourselves at campsites, we were both enamored by the thought that there were places you could go to and give people money, and they would come out with food for you to eat. The appreciation for restaurants only lasted for a day. Life returned to normal for us. We never did another bike excursion that required the level of planning as did our west coast trip. As the years passed, we continued our education, got promotions at work then had two children of our own. I'm glad I wrote in a journal every day of our ride, the last entry of which reads,

The miles will record indifferently on the display tomorrow and mark off the final distance. I think we will always be on this ride with the wind rushing by our helmets, the scent of the approaching sea, the sun searing through the morning fog, the taste of wild blackberries along the roadside, forever bearing witness to a single moment high in the hills of the Pacific Coast.