Journey to the Pacific

From atop the crest of the Costal Range I gazed back at the flat lands towards Vancouver, Oregon. It was as if the mist had parted to create this incredible vista of the lush countryside. Straddling my bike on the side of the road I tried to take in the beautiful view gained by timeless hours of pedaling up the steep hill. The camera was left in its pouch because such a view would be impossible to capture on film. I took one last long gaze at the view and then mounted the bicycle and pedaled down the other side.

I had picked this route because it was the quickest way to the Pacific Ocean and was designated by AAA as a scenic route. During my childhood the family had often visited the Great Lakes surrounding my home state of Michigan. Their chilling waters and gentle waves created a sense of awe in my youth and I always wondered how far it was to the other side and what lay there. Although I starred into the distance with great concentration I could never see to the other side of these big waters. A few summers my family took vacations to the salty waters of the Atlantic. One of my scariest childhood memories was swallowing mouthfuls of the bitter salt water after my floating tube was overturned by a wave. When I was fourteen the family took a five week vacation along the southeastern seaboard. I lived in a swimsuit and t-shirt the whole time. The place that stood out for me was Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. During the day I reveled in the gigantic ten foot waves pounding the surf. During the hot muggy nights I laid in my tent, unable to sleep, listening to the waves breaking on the sandy beach.

Now five years later, I was traveling by bicycle down the West Coast, heading west towards the Pacific Ocean for the first time. I had already been on the road for about seven weeks and along the way experienced many ups and downs. Now I was within one or two days of the mighty waters of the Pacific. My emotions were stirred, much like those of Lewis and Clark on their Corps of Discovery. As I crested the hill and cruised down the other side I entered another national forest. The road weaved through the lush costal forests and the time passed with little notice. The road and the primitive campsites were unoccupied and this only deepened my sense of solitude. The forest seemed to close around me and the ancient trees seemed to take little notice of my passing. I had the road and this tremendous beauty all to myself, and I reveled in this knowledge. As darkness approached I stopped at one of the campgrounds and chose a spot beside the creek. After setting up my tarp and eating a simple meal I nestled within the warmth of my fluffy down sleeping bag and drifted to sleep.

A few times during the night a hooting owl woke me. Its eerie sound added to the mystic feel of the place with its moss laden trees towering above and the softly babbling brook. In the morning I prepared my breakfast consisting of oatmeal and two bagels. As usual I sneaked in a few cookies to satisfy my sweet tooth. After a short time on the road I came to a fork in the road. The northern fork was longer and only partially paved. The southern route was shorter and paved the entire length, but the bridge was under construction and so this road was closed. This forced me to take the longer northern route and this was a hard pill to swallow because I was very anxious to reach the ocean. I cycled a few miles to the end of the pavement and then walked my bike along the gravel dirt road. It soon became very clear that it would take a very long time to walk the remaining ten miles, which was a very discouraging feeling. A few minutes later a pickup truck with two hunters approached from the opposite direction. When they reached me they stopped to talk. I asked them about the road ahead and they must have seen the discouragement on my face because they quickly told me that the other route was passable. As they pulled away I turned my bike around and headed back to the fork in the road. I reached it and traveled down the road a few miles before I came to the bridge. At this state of construction the bridge consisted of two pillars on each side of the wide, shallow creek. I switched into my walking shoes and took the four panniers off my bicycle. Taking two of them in my arms I cautiously entered the chilling water. The rocks on the bottom were very slick, but I managed to make my way across successfully. I scrambled up the muddy bank and placed the panniers down. Then I returned for the other two panniers and finally the bicycle while two curious construction workers observed the comic scene.

After successfully crossed this obstacle my spirits lifted greatly. I quickly mounted my bike and continued towards the Pacific. In ten short miles or about an hour’s time the forests opened and before me lay the expansive ocean waters. What had begun as a sunny day was now overcast and cold. Draped in rain jacket, pants, and hat I marveled at the stormy gray waters that had taken me nineteen years to reach. In elation, I raised my arms above my head for a photograph. The Pacific, the mighty Pacific, I had reached it at last.

For the next few weeks it became my constant companion. I cycled along its coast with its numerous bays, hills, and inlets with wonder. I saw incredible sunsets with vibrant colors streaking across the heavens. I watched seals play and make their strange noises among the jagged rocks. I felt the despair of being soaked to the bone by relentless rains and marveled in the glorious sunshine. Near the end of my journey I passed over the magnificent Golden Gate Bridge to San Francisco. A few days later I flew back to Michigan, but I have will always remember my first sighting of the Pacific and this wondrous journey of my youth.