I found myself alone on Canada’s west coast at the end of August, with a longing for adventure before returning home for my first term of university in London. With just a bike and my camping gear, I set off solo for the legendary Pacific Coastal Highway and on down to San Francisco 1200 miles south.

The conditions were tough for the first few days; busy roads and unpredictable, temperamental showers made progress arduous, but the sweeping views of towering mountains just across the crystal-clear water of the Strait of Georgia made up for it. I set up camp by a canyon on my first night and got a swim in before dark. The next day I headed to BC’s capital: Victoria. I was lucky enough to have a friend let me stay the night and show me around the historic (relative to Canada) city.

After a ferry across into Port Angeles, the reality of the trip sank in – I was very much alone. It took adjusting to, but I learnt the importance of a routine and keeping both the mind and body busy. Washington was sparse. Skirting the west side of Olympic National Park I saw dramatic open landscapes and thick pine forests disappearing on the horizon with the only sign of life being the occasional gas station every 30 miles or so. There were plenty of campsites, so I spent only a few nights wild-camping and the price of accommodation amounted to only £60 for all 18 nights.

I crossed the longest bridge of my journey into Oregon and instantly a switch flipped: bustling coastal towns like Cannon Beach made for great rest spots; long stretches of coastal road exposed elegant sea arches and bright white sand beaches, while the promise of a bright orange Pacific sunset each evening made every mile tick by faster. Along the way, I met a few cyclists on their own wild journeys, too, such as a couple who helped fix an issue with my handlebars who had begun a year earlier in the northern tip of Alaska, and nine months on, they’re passing through Peru.

The third and final US state on my journey was California; crossing the border I was welcomed with a humbling sign reading “San Francisco 354”. The scale of this state was hard to fathom, and I covered only a third of its coast in six days. This sentiment remained as I cycled through the avenue of the giants, with 200-foot redwoods casting deep shadows over me as I rode through the thick morning fog. As I counted down the miles to San Francisco before a reconnaissance with an old friend now at Berkeley, I felt gratitude for what I had been able to achieve. I felt as though I had grown a lot during the journey, preparing me well for my next journey of an independent university life.

Many thanks to the generous financial support from the OB Masons via the Bradfield Society Travel Award scheme for helping me undertake this trip.