Our destination was San Luis Obispo, on the Central California coast, and our quarry was the elusive Pacific Coast Railway ghost train. Our vehicle of choice for invading a rural area normally would have been the shiny black Ford F-150 pickup with matching camper shell. But the Railroad Man had neglected to unload about forty LGB boxes from the truck so we stowed our equipment in the white Pontiac Trans Sport. You may remember it resembles a Dustbuster with a 700 megawatt sound system and has served us well on previous adventures.

Each of us secured his camera and gadget bag, extra film, jacket, and train hunting cap with official narrow gauge logo in the rear of the Trans Sport. We also packed our shiny black Big Gulp 44-ounce plastic cups complete with insulation sleeve, nylon reinforced flexible straw, and two-way snap-down access caps.

But we still lacked essentials. For example, our traditional train chasing tape, The Sounds of Small Steam, Volume I, was lost and instead we had a horrid blues tape featuring Etta Somebody, live at the Somewhere. Consequently the device best able to duplicate a locomotive noise was the Pontiac's horn. At 11:35 the Railroad Man sounded two longs and a short on it and we pulled out of the driveway.

First we stopped for fuel. For an additional 25-cents, the Union 76 attendant gave us an orange ball with a blue "76" on it to slide over the Trans Sport's radio antenna. It was one slick touch the Railroad Man simply had to have. We also needed pink lemonade, so we stopped at an AM-PM MiniMart and filled our Big Gulp cups, remembering to snap down their access caps to prevent a possible spill. Naturally, we required Fig Newtons, the Official Snack Food of Exciting Railroad Man Adventures so we bought two boxes, just in case.

We were about to head north when the Railroad Man stopped abruptly and turned back. He had realized we first should buy lunch. By now you know he has an uncanny sixth sense about such things and I never question his decisions in those matters. With singular efficiency, we acquired roast beef sandwiches from an Arby's take-out counter. By 11:55, we were accelerating up the Highway 101 on ramp.

Moments later our Trans Sport approached a van full of children. The Railroad Man thrust his cap out the window and waved it wildly in the air. "I am the Railroad Man," he cried, "And we are in search of the Pacific Coast Railway!" The children shrieked with delight and waved back. The Railroad Man sounded the horn. The adventure had begun. Next stop, San Luis Obispo.

We had learned about the Pacific Coast Railway from the November/December 1983 issue of the Narrow Gauge and Shortline Gazette. The "PC", as the truly hip refer to it, began in 1873 as a 30-inch gauge horse-drawn gravity railroad. It served the wharf along the San Luis Obispo shoreline. By 1876, its owners had changed the gauge to 3 feet and extended the tracks ten miles into the town of San Luis Obispo. But the surrounding area was full of farms and ranches so, over time, the railroad moved inland and south down the coast to Los Olivos, about seventy miles away. Then, in the early 1900s, somebody discovered oil along the Central California coast. The PC built branches to serve the oil fields.

The narrow gauge interchanged with the Southern Pacific standard gauge division point at San Luis Obispo. Nothing remains of the narrow gauge. The extensive S.P. yards and engine servicing facilities have shrunk to a mainline and two sidings. A water tank, tool house, freight house, turntable, and the foundation of a brick roundhouse still exist but are deteriorating. The mission style passenger station with its red tile roof is still in use and in good shape.

The PC's most dramatic feature was the pier at Port San Luis. Steam trains and steam ships met there to load and unload freight and passengers. An attractive wood hotel stood on pilings at the foot of the pier where the water met the mountains. A large covered freight and passenger station still stands at the far end of the pier, but now it houses a fish packing business. By the 1930s, highways, trucks, and buses began to erode the railroad's revenue and, in 1941, they tore up the Pacific Coast Railway.

It may be dead to the rest of the world, but it still lives in the mind the Railroad Man. At 2:35, he parked the Trans Sport in front of Pete Thorp's house. You may know Pete as the Duke of Details, King of Castings, Prince of Parts, Boss of Brass, Potentate of Plastic, and the owner of Trackside Details. Indeed, he was fiddling with some of those details when we arrived but quickly put them aside to hand us maps and photos to enhance our understanding of the railroad we were about to explore. Pete happens to be an authority on the Pacific Coast Railway.

We were about to leave. Suddenly crazed artist and the owner of Railway Garden, Ltd., Samuel Addison Muncy, careened into the driveway to pick up some Outdoor Railroader back issues I had brought for him. He politely refused to join our exciting adventure. "Who cares about an old railroad?" asked Muncy, his eyes wild. "I have work to do this afternoon and three dates for tonight. Thanks for the magazines. See ya later." The car door slammed, the tires screeched, and a cloud of dust slowly settled where Muncy's car had been.

The Duke of Details and the Railroad Man and I climbed into the Trans Sport. We were off to Port San Luis. Well, almost. First the Railroad Man had to find his keys; he often misplaces them in the heat of an exciting adventure. Eventually they turned up in his camera bag.

Four miles from the coast, Pete took us on a detour to point out a stretch of abandoned right-of-way. It seemed to be a dirt road parallel to a creek. Lush foliage encroached upon it from both sides. No ties or rail were evident. Only tire tracks. But the Potentate of Plastic showed us a pair of rusty, foot long rail sections peeking out from beneath the paving of the See Canyon frontage road. They are the sole remnants of the old right-of-way.

We approached the Port San Luis pier on a two lane road running along a ledge where trestles and fills once enabled the little narrow gauge line to cling to the shore. The Boss of Brass pointed out where the original 30-inch gauge gravity railroad had run. Then we walked out to the former freight and passenger station at the end of the pier.

On the way back to town, the Prince of Parts directed us past a pair of farms so we could see two former PC boxcars. Then we drove to the site of the former narrow gauge yards and shops. A big commercial center now sits on the property. One building used to be a huge warehouse and we were able to recognize it by comparing its profile to some old photographs Pete brought along. Finally, we drove up to the old interchange with the Southern Pacific. Nearly everything was in ruins. There was no indication the little narrow gauge had ever existed.

By then it was 5:30 and the Duke of Details was ready for dinner. We took him home, thanked him for his help, and headed south to explore the former PC terminals at Betteravia, Zaca, Los Alamos, and Los Olivos. We found nothing at Betteravia or Zaca. Los Olivos has only a Railroad Avenue. But at Los Alamos, adjacent to a corrugated iron warehouse (now an art gallery), we found a decaying boxcar. "Great Scott!" exclaimed the Railroad Man. "The lettering says Florence & Cripple Creek!"

Once again the Railroad Man's perspicacity had proven accurate. The boxcar was indeed former F&CC number 665, one of ten such cars the Pacific Coast Railway acquired third hand from the Nevada-California-Oregon in the late 1920s. I knew what must come next but, frankly, greeted it with apprehension..

The Railroad Man vaulted from the Trans Sport across the unpaved parking lot, deftly avoided an approaching new white Cadillac, and charged toward the old freight car. I tried to hide behind the Trans Sport as he paid enthusiastic tribute to the sacred gods of steam by performing the secret railroad dance. Even though he insisted I join him, I demurred, explaining it was equally important to photograph the boxcar before we lost the waning sunlight. I concentrated intently upon the images in the camera's viewfinder, but I still recall the shocked man and woman fleeing from their Cadillac as the Railroad Man leapt madly about, shrieking, "We have found the lost boxcar! Al Akhbar!" They seemed to be such a nice couple; it was humiliating.

Ultimately the Railroad Man calmed down enough to return to the Pontiac and blast a long and three shorts on its horn. We left the inhabitants of the quiet village of Los Alamos reeling in stunned disbelief.

At eight o'clock in the evening we drove through Santa Barbara on our way home. The Railroad Man's sixth sense again came to life. "Time for dinner," he announced. "I know just the place."

We exited the 101 near State Street and parked next to the Southern Pacific depot. We walked a block to the Original Enterprise Fish Company so the Railroad Man could order his favorite skewered scallops. Our waitress, Brenda, was a tall, pretty young woman with dark hair, a white T-shirt, blue shorts, and long tan legs. She introduced herself so I told her who we were. "This is Don M. Scott, Railroad Man and I am Uncle Russ," I explained. "We are passing through town at the conclusion of another of our exciting adventures and have stopped for dinner." Brenda burst into uncontrollable laughter. She managed to gasp, "Oh my God!", and ran off to regain control of herself.

Some people certainly have an odd sense of humor.