The Pacific Coast - The Other Story

The Route

Last week I wrote a piece about a three week bike trip down the Pacific Coast Highway my wife, Christine, and I did twenty years ago on our tandem. I offered a few pictures while concentrating on the most amusing events. A few relatives and friends on social media recalled aspects of the story I relayed over the years. True, I left out many things that happened to us due to the length of the tale, but not wanting to disappoint a readership I didn’t know I had, I agreed to write about some of the other events that occurred on that excursion so long ago.

As mentioned in last weeks post, we flew into Portland, Oregon then spent two days making our way to Astoria. A port city founded in 1811, Astoria was named after John Jacob Astor who built a trading post at the site. Known as the oldest settlement west of the Rocky Mountains, Astoria back in 1999 had seen better days. There were houses stripped of paint, falling to the ground, abandoned barges and beached fishing boats. There was a Nike plant nearby and other manufacturing facilities, but no tech industry.

Coast of Astoria

 Water views were in every direction, and there was no attempt at preventing access to the shore like in New England. We wandered about finding wild raspberries amongst rusty discarded industrial equipment. When we finally collected ourselves and headed out, the map we had guided us off Route 101 and onto Lewis and Clark Road which wound by a river of the same name. The road turned to deep gravel making traversal commensurate with the namesake expedition.


Pushing Forward

After pushing the bike eight miles and past three angry dogs, we were back on pavement. We met up with another tandem team ridden by a couple from Vancouver, BC. David and Kathleen were familiar with the area and offered many insights. We crossed paths and chatted often before we agreed to stay at the same campground. Kathleen was a doctoral candidate in psychology. A few years older than us, our new friends were enthusiastic parents of two children.


Canadian Friends

 We shared many breathtaking views along the roadside with our new riding partners. When we told them that our destination was San Francisco they informed us that a large avalanche the previous year cut off the highway just north of the city. They urged us to confirm that the road was passable.

Along the Pacific Coast Highway

One morning, we diverted from our route to venture into Cape Mears, leaving David and Kathleen back on 101. After climbing up a huge hill in the fog, we arrived at a vista. Someone welded up a motorcycle wheel onto a fork. We spun the wheel then moved on uneventfully as the view was obscured by mist. We learned not to ever again deviate from the main road when pedaling your vehicle.



The Wheel

Although our stock wheels were built for a tandem, the 75 pounds of gear we carried along with our bodies took a toll on the rear wheel. A few days out we snapped our first spoke. Luckily, I had spare spokes and knew how to replace them.

 

Fixing the Machine

When we were flying down the side of a hill with all our gear, a driver would give us a thumbs up or that three finger symbol for love. One guy yelled out,

"Free bird!"

When crawling up a hill, the comments were less optimistic. Once someone shouted out the window of a passing car as we were pedaling up a steep rise,

“How can you do that to your wife, asshole!”

We met a father, son and nephew team along the road. Jerry, Zak and Geof all hauled trailers holding all their equipment. Jerry was an electrician who had a penchant for zip ties. He was a last minute addition to his son's trip and as such was using his time trial bike for touring. The trailers they pulled were called "Bobs." Apparently they still make them. We called the group "The Three Bobs." Jerry also warned us about the avalanche and road blockage.

The Three Bobs

We travelled in a loosely formed pack, passing each other throughout the day. We met a young guy from England named "Tom," who had no cooking equipment. Tom was surviving on Slim Jims and Doritos. Jerry was meeting his wife at a campground in the redwood forest on their last day. He said that she was bringing pasta and invited all of us to dinner. As we travelled southward, I would scramble to the beachhead to write a message in the sand informing the group when we passed through.

Early Texting

The pasta dinner was very much appreciated. Jerry arranged for us to get our bike serviced when we would roll through his town, Eureka, in two days. He said he would look into the state of the road repair further south and let us know if 101 was open.


Jerry and his Wife


Having to pedal hundreds of miles out of our way to circumvent a landslide meant we would not make it to the Golden Gate Bridge by the time we had to fly out. We had return airline tickets so we had to be in San Francisco on a specific day. Any delays meant we would have to quit and rent a car. As we pressed on through the redwood forest we reconnected with Tom from England. Christine and I were known as "The Couple from Connecticut" who ate really well. A few miles out, we would start collecting food for dinner which was often salmon, wild rice, bread and wine. Sometimes we picked up a bundle of campfire wood. Once, I was so hungry after a day of pedaling that when Christine asked how much fish she should get I answered,

"Five pounds."

Seemed like a good number. We invited Tom to dine with us that night because he looked like he was slowly starving to death, and we had plenty of food. I recall him snatching up my fork and knife before I had time to wash them and with the utmost manners, polishing off the rest of the salmon.

Dinner (note the lemons)

Back on the road the next day, we said goodbye to Tom, who had also heard that the road ahead was out. Seemed like everyone knew about the landslide except us, even a guy from England. David and Kathleen punched out as well just outside the redwood forest.

The Last of Tom


That night we stayed in a remote campground identified in a guide as being near a small town on a river so we elected not to buy a bunch of food on our way in. After setting up our tent and showering we ventured off in search of dinner. When we arrived at the settlement, all we found was sidewalks and a lone stop sign. The town had vanished. Returning to the campground, we asked a park ranger where the town was. He informed us that during the previous winter an ice flow, raging down the river, washed the town away. When we got back to our tent and took stock of our food, we found we had one package of oatmeal, an apple and a power bar. We saved the oatmeal for breakfast.

In Oregon, you crossed bridges and passed through tunnels as you travelled the coast. In California you spent half the day going down a switchback, only to cross a stream at the bottom, then spent the rest of the day climbing back up. The switchbacks were steep and challenging. The signs would read the road gradient as eight to twelve percent, but I thought they were steeper.


One of the Many Switchback Ascents


When we passed through Eureka, Jerry's guy restrung our rear wheel. Jerry and his wife put us up and fed us again.


Local Wheel Overhaul

Jerry gave us the good news that the repair to the road had in fact been completed the previous month, and he believed that the road was open. He said the road was closed only a mile from the slide so we wouldn't know for sure until we got fairly close. The next day, we said our goodbyes and thanked Jerry and his wife. Later when we got home, we sent them four jars of our homemade strawberry jam, and a package of reusable zip ties.

As we left Eureka, we pedaled through the town of Elk, where we ran into a parade. After stopping to watch the festivities, a group of people began chatting with us. The usual questions arose like where did we start, what do we carry, where are we from, how far are we going. A gentleman in the group was an avid photographer. He took this picture and others which he mailed to us.


A Quizzical Group

He also took the picture below which he said he used in a photo contest. We never learned if his entry did well. After telling them we were heading for San Francisco, they explained that the road was out. We had heard otherwise, but they warned us emphatically like concerned parents, explaining that landslides in California were much bigger than in Connecticut. I'll bet the wildfires are worse too.


A Contest Entry

In a few days after pedaling up and down some pretty impressive hills, we reached the area in which the avalanche had occurred. That's me at the base of wall, rejoicing.

Road Reconstruction

On the final night of camping, we reminisced about our adventure on the road. We planned many more grand journeys on our tandem, including a ride overseas, but we never did anything so adventurous again. As the fire hissed and snapped, we heard owls calling to each other. Huddling together in the night air, we were confident in our achievement, ever thankful for the help we received along the way. We had propelled ourselves over a thousand miles carrying everything we needed on a machine built for two. Not yet parents, nor tested by the chaos of life, we had more years ahead of us than behind, years that would see us through the births of our two boys and the loss that inevitably is experienced by those wishing to be parents. We had many of life's wonders, yet to behold, as the fire dwindled into a red glow. The next day we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge.


Final Night

Some have asked me what happened to our bicycle. Did we trade it in for a flat screen television and a reclining couch? You know, the ones with the cup holder in the armrest. For many years, our tandem hung from the ceiling of our garage, the tires flat, the handlebar tape dangling like the tail of a kite. I passed by the bike numerous times as I retrieved my weed whacker, gas for my lawnmower or mouse traps on a nearby shelf.

It may be hard at times to see the blazes on the trail, but life rarely leads you to a place you don't already want to go.

 

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.