Jealous rivals have scoffed at the Railroad Man's discovery. They argue the thirty foot high, six hundred foot long wharf at Santa Cruz is impossible to miss. They point out the pier is the only structure of its kind for at least fifty miles in either direction so it is an obvious landmark. They contend our parking directly in front of the pier made finding it too easy. And they argue anybody with a copy of Bruce MacGregor's South Pacific Coast, a rudimentary road map, and one good eye could recognize the pier even on a dark night.

But it was not a dark night; it was mid-afternoon. And it was raining. A lesser railfan easily might have neglected such a detail as a pier through the murk and blur of a downpour. The Railroad Man was able to recognize it within five minutes and thus had determined the starting point of Phase Two of our Exciting Northern California Adventure. In satisfaction, he munched a Fig Newton, the Official Snack Food of Exciting Railroad Man Adventures.

For nearly twenty-five years, until the Southern Pacific widened the rails in about 1908, the pier at Santa Cruz had been the southern terminus of the narrow gauge South Pacific Coast Railroad. The tracks extended onto it so flatcars and boxcars could load and unload cargo for sailing vessels and steamships. At the turn of the century, it was one of the busiest ports in California. Even today, the standard gauge tourist line from Felton to Santa Cruz operates on the former SPC and Southern Pacific tracks. They now end near the entrance to the pier.

The South Pacific Coast ran 91 miles from Oakland to Santa Cruz. Construction of the narrow gauge right-of-way began in the late 1870s. The railroad carried produce, lumber, general freight, and passengers. It was so successful the Southern Pacific bought it in 1888. In 1940, the S.P. abandoned the mainline through the mountains and operated the two ends of the former narrow gauge as branchlines. By the 1980s, even those operations had become unprofitable. Today only the tracks of the tourist line remain.

"What now?" the Railroad Man asked, still giddy from his deduction.

I suggested we follow the tracks inland. "Good idea," the Railroad Man agreed. "Which way?"

"Away from the water," I answered.

"Oh," he said, and swung around the TranSport. Moments later, we passed a drenched and disheveled denizen of the district pushing a shopping cart through the driving rain. The Railroad Man lowered the side window, thrust his cap into the downpour, and waved it wildly. "Heigh ho, fellow adventurer!" he cried. "I am the Railroad Man and we are in search of the South Pacific Coast Railroad!" We ignored a gesture the wet wayfarer offered in reply and plunged up Chestnut Street through the storm. The adventure had begun.

About a mile from the pier, the street and the tracks diverged. The right-of-way entered a short tunnel and we pulled into an adjacent parking lot to explore. The Railroad Man tried to turn the TranSport in the narrow driveway but the engine died. He repeatedly tried to start the engine but it was hopeless. He reached for the cellular telephone and called the Auto Club.

As I listened to his side of the conversation, it became apparent the voice on the other end of the line belonged to a nincompoop: "I don't know where we are," the Railroad Man explained patiently. "I am from out of town and I am lost. No, I have no map; if I did, I would not be lost. No, I told you-we are in a driveway. No, it has no name; it is a driveway. Yes, I did say it is where the railroad tracks turn off the street into a tunnel. Well, how may places in town does a railroad track go down the middle of a street and curve off into a tunnel? We will be an a white minivan. It resembles a Dustbuster with a 700 megawatt sound system and has served us well on previous adventures." He paused. "Then tell your driver to listen for The Sounds of Small Steam, Volume One or some such tape. Goodbye."

An hour and a half later, a tow truck arrived and hauled us to a gas station. The mechanic said we needed a new alternator and he would have to keep the TranSport overnight. He stood nearby, out of the rain, watching us unload baggage and said nothing until the Railroad Man slid open the side door and reached in for Rhonda the Railroad Polar Bear. Rhonda, as you may recall, is a big white teddy bear. She wore a filthy, tattered engineer's hat, sunglasses, and no clothing whatever. The Railroad Man had buckled her into the back seat. As he wrestled with the seatbelt, the mechanic asked, "Why does he have a teddy bear?"

"That is the Railroad Man," I answered. The mechanic nodded sagely.

The rain stopped overnight and the next morning was dazzling. My cousin, Ronn, met us at the motel. Ronn is something of a performing arts celebrity in Santa Cruz but was traveling incognito. Besides, with all attention focusing on an imposingly large middle-aged attorney hugging a white teddy bear wearing sunglasses and an engineer's hat, nobody even noticed my cousin.

We retrieved the TranSport, found the tunnel where we had broken down the day before, and located the tracks on the opposite side. We followed them northwest, out of town. Within minutes we were in a dense and beautiful redwood forest. The road paralleled the tracks. Ronn asked, "Where are we going?"

The Railroad Man explained we were following the route of the South Pacific Coast and Ronn pointed out if we wanted to go south we should be heading in the opposite direction.

"It's the name of a railroad," I clarified. "It went to Felton."

A light went on behind Ronn's eyes. "Oh, I get it!" he proclaimed. "But there's a shorter way to Felton."

The Railroad Man muttered something under his breath and I explained the idea was to retrace the path of the old right-of-way rather than to take the most efficient route. Ronn shrugged and opened a back issue of Outdoor Railroader. He asked, "Do people actually read this?" and, when he noticed my expression, stayed quiet until we arrived at Felton.

Felton is the home of the Roaring Camp & Big Trees narrow gauge tourist railroad. The Railroad Man and I looked everywhere for signs of the South Pacific Coast but found nothing. We did photograph various derelict Shay and Climax locomotives, rolling stock, and hardware but its heritage had little to do with our immediate search.

Ronn knew the area and suggested he guide us farther into the mountains, up what used to be the SPC's Boulder Creek branch. We drove through Old Felton, Ben Lomond and, ultimately, Boulder Creek itself but no trace remained of the old narrow gauge.

Suddenly the Railroad Man jerked upright. "What?" I asked, "Did you find something?"

"No," he responded, "It's time for lunch. I know just the place!"

By now you know the Railroad Man has an unerring sixth sense about such things and, with only a subtle suggestion from Ronn (who knows intimately every culinary establishment in Santa Cruz), we retraced our route and bought submarine sandwiches in a charming restaurant downtown. After Ronn escaped, the Railroad Man and I proceeded back into the mountains to search for the SPC mainline.

We spent hours combing every secondary road through Zayante, Glenwood, Laurel, and Wright seeking even the slightest trace of the long abandoned roadbed. We found no evidence of even the tunnel portals our SPC guru, Llagas Creek Railways' Gary Broeder, assured us still existed. By about four o'clock, the Railroad Man had begun to nod off behind the wheel and I wheezed in frustration. Eventually, we arrived in Los Gatos. It was time to drive back to Los Angeles and we had found absolutely nothing.

Abruptly the Railroad Man perked up. He accelerated around a corner and up a main street, began to moan and rock back and forth in his seat, and swung the car across oncoming traffic into the parking lot of a Denny's restaurant. "What is it?" I asked. "What do you see?"

The Railroad Man was unable to answer. Instead he began to hop, skip, and bellow uncontrollably. He snatched Rhonda the Railroad Bear from the car, entered the restaurant and, as the hostess, bus boys, waitresses, and I stood reeling in stunned disbelief, the Railroad Man paid enthusiastic tribute to the sacred gods of steam by performing the secret railroad dance. He leaped madly about, utterly humiliating me, eating tuna melt sandwiches and pancakes from the plates of fleeing patrons.

The thoroughly bewildered staff was only too happy to see us leave. When we were safely back in the TranSport and heading for home, I asked the Railroad Man what on earth had happened.

"Oh, that," he chuckled. "I was hungry and realized I had spent all my money. Since, in my imagination, I had seen evidence of the South Pacific Coast at every turn, I realized if I played my cards right I could kill two birds with one stone-do the sacred dance and get a free earlybird dinner at the same time."

My eyes widened. "But you-."

"Yeah, I know," he grinned. "But it worked."