I am sure One-Eyed Willy's treasure is in there.

This year was the first time I ever really watched the Tour de France. No, it had nothing to do with increased interest in cycling because of being on a bike tour, but rather that we were taking a break at our friend Jamie's house, she had 500 channels, and there are a few shows on Food Network that I didn't want to watch. During those breaks, about the only thing worthy of watching was the Tour.

What I found most interesting about bicycle racing is that it is not straight forward at all. I always thought it was about who went the fastest and crossed the finish line first. But it is actually about who has the best time, and therefore the first guy to cross the line on any given day is not necessarily winning the whole race. As a result, there is a lot of strategy that goes into the race, and the final day of the race, which covers a relatively flat and easy stretch through Paris and on the Champs-Élysées , is generally inconsequential to the overall standing. It is really a fun ride, a victory lap for the winner, and a time for the rest of the pack to revel in the fact that they completed such an enormous feat.

For me, the Pacific Coast is the Champs-Élysées. It is the victory lap. Break out the champagne and chug the bottle as you ride. We have done it, reached the promised land, the golden shore. We traversed the continent twice in the last six months, and now it is time to relax.

 Or, if you don't have champagne, grab 40 oz of PBR.

To get to the coast we left Eugene, Oregon and made our way to the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area in Florence. We spent the day exploring the dunes, watching some guys sandboard, and listening to ATVs jump over enormous hills of sand. I got my first real glimpse of the Pacific from atop a very large dune, and I couldn't help but feel like it was significant. The end of the continent and a return to the waters of my birth—so to speak.

For more photos of the dunes, click the Oregon link to the right.

After Florence we continued down the Oregon Coast on Highway 101, stopping to camp at various state parks along the way. One major change in the whole trip has come about in our planning. Before the Pacific Coast, Joel and I had done all the planning for routes on our own. The Adventure Cycling Association puts out maps that bicycle tourists can use to plan a route across the entire country or just through a small section of it. We considered getting these maps for our trip, but a major downfall was that it would have left us with very little freedom. We would be stuck to one route and it would have been a hassle to leave it in order to do something unexpected, like go to Bloomington, IN.

For our trip we opted to go it alone, learning from our mistakes and refining our technique along the way. For this reason we have met very few other bike tourists in our travels. But for the Pacific Coast, we knew we would be passing through dense areas like San Francisco, Los Angeles, and San Diego. We figured we have made enough mistakes over the course of this trip and we could let somebody else do the planning for this section, so we got the ACA maps for the whole Pacific Route. As a result, we are now running into other bike tourists each day, seeing how other people go about doing this, whether it is a smaller trip down the coast or a large expedition like Anchorage to Tierra del Fuego in Argentina. And every night, instead of having to look for the best bush to hide behind, our maps give us a barrage of camping and lodging options. They even tell us where we can find cheaper “hiker/biker” sites. It makes everything so easy.

The ride down the coast has been incredibly scenic—to the point where it almost gets old. Almost. But it is hard to get tired of seeing rocky cliffs that fall into the roaring ocean beneath or waves smashing against jagged rocks, or any other combination of rocks and water that you can think of. Each vista offers its own unique take on ocean scenery.

My favorite spot in Oregon was Harris Beach State Park, where we stayed for two nights. It was just north of a little town called Brookings, and in addition to rocks and water it had a nice beach that we hiked down to. Along the trail were more blackberry bushes, which are incredibly abundant in this area. Fresh blackberries are a great addition to peanut butter and crackers. The second day at Harris Beach a thick fog rolled in, but by noon it was gone. We have been lucky with the weather—only one day of rain since we hit the coast.

Harris Beach sunset.

On our way out of Brookings we passed by a drifter hitchhiking on a corner of the 101. He asked us where we were going, and then told us he was going back to Arcata, CA. “This place sucks man. Everyone is so nice in Arcata.” As we left him, he shouted: “Rock & Roll brothers!” It made me excited to get to Arcata, and we were getting closer. Just a few miles south of Brookings we crossed into California. Both of us were born in the Golden State, so it was a strange kind of homecoming after traveling through so much of the country; we were back to our origins. I call it an unfamiliar familiarity. By name I know it as home, but it is such a vast piece of land. I have never been north of San Francisco, at least not that I can remember, and really have spent so little time in the state. Still, if I knew anything, I knew that I came from here and that I would be alright.

The first place we hit was Crescent City. The outskirts were beautiful. We passed through on a road that was literally on the edge of the water. But when we got into town it looked a little beat up. Our maps took us down by the docks where Joel stopped to take a photo and I swear I saw some people shooting H down by the water. It was pretty dirty and many of businesses looked run down or closed. “So this is California,” I thought to myself. It was great to be back home. Back to my origins.

Outside of Crescent City we climbed a huge hill that brought us into the Redwoods National Forest. We made plans to stay at a campground near the top of the hill, but it turned out to be closed. Down the hill we went, with very little shoulder room, winding turns, and a canopy of trees blocking out the sun. Just at the bottom of the hill our map indicated there was a hostel, the Redwood National Park Hostel, so we stopped in to check out prices. For $21 a night, it was well worth the stay. We got hot showers, raided the “free food” shelf for our dinner, and got to meet an interesting array of people. We enjoyed it so much we stayed an extra night, taking the day to go hiking into the Redwood Forest.

We had to hike about three miles up into the forest until we actually came upon groves of redwoods. Before this I did not know the difference, but the coastal redwoods are the trees that grow to tremendous heights—up to 370 ft tall. The giant sequoias are shorter, wider, and grow inland near the Sierra Nevada mountains. The coastal redwoods really are impressive. They grow so tall and straight it is a wonder they are able to stay standing. In the grove we did see a few fallen trees, and I kept thinking that to witness such an event would be amazing. One of those trees falling would affect so many others. And the sound must be incredible. Not that I had any ill intentions toward the trees, but I couldn't help wishing that I could see it happen.

One of the most exciting things I saw was an abundance of banana slugs. I lived in Santa Cruz for a few years as a child and I remember slugs, but none that looked like bananas. When I found out later in life that the mascot for UCSC was a banana slug, I thought it must be those same gray slugs I saw in my youth. But then I saw these:

That night we were lucky to have musical guests that put on a little acoustic show in the living room of the hostel. Bryson and Jill, the Troubaduo (www.troubaduo.com), played a free concert for the hostel guests. There were delicious snacks that Joel and I ate heartily of. It was tough to think of leaving the next day, and as we stayed up late talking to our new friends about their travels it only got harder. If you travel to the Redwoods area I would recommend staying in Redwood National Park Hostel. But hurry. The hostel occupies a very historic building that is in need of renovation and thus will only be open until mid January 2010.

 The Redwood National Park Hostel.

We summoned all our will to get up early and make pancakes. Sufficiently fueled, we said goodbye and continued on. The bulk of California, and countless adventures, lay in front of us. We have crossed the continent twice now, and it now seems like everything we do now is just a kind of bonus. Not to say that all the hardships are gone, but they are fewer and farther between. In the meantime we can take out the champagne and have a glass, and really think of how far we have come.