Finding Our Way to Pigeon Point

Leaving San Mateo was a little rough as we climbed around some steep hills in the hot sun through shade,less suburbia. And as we drew nearer to the bridge that crossed highway 92 towards what we thought looked like a bike path on google maps, we got quite a few looks from people who thought we were stupid, and some annoyed honks too. Though there were racing bikes speeding all around us (hopefully towards this magical bike path?), we were out of the land of loaded down touring bikes, miles and mountains away from highway 1. On the other side of the bridge, we saw a cyclist disappear around a corner and low and behold, he had hopped onto the bike path. Thank God! We left the traffic behind and rolled safely through dry, grassy hills around highway 92 and then up and over highway 280 on an impressive pedestrian bridge. It spit us out on Canada Road, and as we pondered what to do next (google said go right but or instincts said go left), an older English man in full cycling gear rolled up to us and started asking us questions about where we were headed. He gave us detailed directions about how to get over the mountains to the coast in safe cycling-friendly roads and as it turned out, our instincts were correct, we headed left. 'If you have all day,' the man said just before leaving us, ' you'll make it.' Oh we have all day, I thought.

The road that got us over the main ridge was barely wide enough for a car and a bicycle going one direction, and it was sure a slap in the face after 4 days of rest, we went up on that thing for over an hour, but we didn't regret going that way. There were more cyclists than cars and we were shaded by tall redwoods and observed by deer, both babies and bucks along the way. The down hill was dreamy. At points the road was no wider than a bike path, and we didn't pass a single car.

When we finally hit the coast, it was 6:15, and we still had 10 miles to go until Pigeon Point Lighthouse, which doubled as a hostel. I was determined to get there, so we hunkered down and kept riding, finally back on coastal highway 1. The only problem on our minds as the sun sank to our right, casting a red light over the Pacific, was that, despite having called the hostel numerous times, no one had answered. We were racing against time towards a place we were unsure would have a bed for us. Finally, when we saw a sign for the town of Pescadero and, knowing it would be pitch black in 5 minutes, we bailed. All day we had not seen a single campground or inn, and when we got to Pescadero, nothing changed. We decided to get dinner at the local historic tavern to think and see if the locals had any ideas.

The only idea our waitress had was for us to stay at this Swedish-style converted barn which probably cost $200 a night. We thanked her and proceeded to order our cream of green chilli soup, imagining ourselves sneaking onto someone's farmland and pitching our tent for the night.

Delaying the inevitable, we went next door to the bar. Sure enough, a woman i'd run into in the bathroom (we bonded because her hair was a mess from her walk on the beach earlier and mine was a mess from riding my bike 40 miles) asked us a little more about our bike trip. And eventually the question of ' where are you staying tonight' came up. We admitted that we didn't know. For the first time on our trip it was after dark and we didn't know where we were sleeping. Evangeline, as we later learned was her name, called the bartender over and said, ' hey, these kids rode their bikes from Seattle. Where should they sleep tonight?' The bartender, whose hair and mustache were gray, but whose speech pattern was like that of a young surfer dude, scrunched his face in thought. Butano State Park was 5 miles that way, or if we went down stage road we'd probably find empty farm land, but there were really no hotels. When I mentioned that Pigeon Point Lighthouse had been our original destination, his face lit up as if he'd forgotten about that option. 'That place is cool!' He said. 'And they have a hot tub!' We told them we hadn't been able to get through so we didn't know if there was vacancy. ' call them one more time' he directed. Lyon did, and he got through. The message: plenty of beds, be here by 10. Evangeline went to consult with her husband at the other end of the bar and came back and said, 'Okay, I want to help.' It turned out they had a gigantic diesel dodge truck parked outside, so she and her husband Jim, an avid mountain biker from Colorado, drove us to the light house in time for us to grab the hot tub key and soak our bodies in the ocean-side jacuzzi before an early bedtime.

Thank you Jim and Evangeline! I'm so glad this morning I got to wake up in a bed instead of on a farm next to someone's cow.