My winter wanderings

[USExplorer]

As I enter California Route 1 in Santa Monica, I start the Pacific Coast Highway leg of my trip. This first section is a multi-lane highway, with a steep vegetated embankment on the inland side atop of which sits the city of Santa Monica. The Pacific Ocean sits at the base of a rocky embankment against which the waves crash and splash. In a beach overlook parking lot, there are not only RV campers but also tent campers. A LAPD cruiser idling in the parking lot does not pay them any mind.

Santa Monica on the right is replaced by the Santa Monica Mountains. The steeper foothills are covered with scrubby grey-green chaparral, the less steep ones cleared for high-end housing. Some of the higher peaks have rock outcroppings. I enter the Malibu city limits, "27 miles of scenic beauty". This town is as unlike LA as possible, low-density, low-key but high-end development along the small area between the mountains and the sea. The whitest town in the LA metro area. Traffic is very light on a Sunday morning, and a few obviously affluent residents are out exercising. The ocean turns azure blue under the clear sky, its cool breeze perfectly complementing the warm sun. I stop at the Malibu Civic Center, where a farmers market is being set up. I check the price of a single organic grapefruit: $3.53. Umm, no thanks.

Down to downtown Malibu, where I find the meeting place of the Waveside Church at the elementary school. The church appears to have a very laid-back style fitting with the town's image. As usual, I greeted and chatted with a few of the members, then joined the service. Midway through the lesson by a hipster-looking pastor pro tem about some marriage issue or other, I notice a female cop walking around outside with some other guys. Soon afterwards, the deputy enters the building and taps me on the shoulder.
"Could you please step outside for a minute, we need to talk."
I walk out, and the guys close the church doors and stand with their arms folded like bouncers.
"We've received a report of a threatening person at the church here, and you match the description. Do have any ID?"
"Am I being detained?"
"No you aren't."
"So am I free to go?"
"I have to ask you some questions. There has been a lot of violence against religious institutions lately, so I have to check you out. By the way, what is that bulge under your shirt? Do you have any weapons?"

"I've got a can of pepper spray."
"Well don't reach for your belt or I will view that as a threat. Could I see some ID?"
"No. Who made the call that I was threatening people? I was having friendly conversation with several church members."
"I'm trying to be nice to you here. I could have you dragged out the door with your hands behind your back, but I am trying to do this the nice way. And you keep blocking me, and getting agitated. What you need to do is calm down, and just help me do my job. Could I have your name?"
I give her my name and date of birth. She calls it in. "Could I please see your ID, just to make sure everything matches? I won't take it." I oblige.
"I got a call of a disturbance here. If I just ignored it, and something happened here, like God forbid a shooting, then I would have to live with that."
"There was no disturbance. Are you...gentlemen...with the church or are you cops?" I ask.
"We're with the church," they reply. "They're here to make sure I stay safe, after all I'm quite a bit shorter than you are," the deputy adds. 
"Well you've got the firearm here." She does not reply. "This is definitely a first," I continue. "I've walked into dozens and dozens of churches, wearing these same belt holsters, and I've never had anyone have an issue with them. I should have known, though, this is the left coast, and I kind of look like a conservative redneck."
The deputy disagrees. "This is a very tolerant area, we have all kinds of people here. We just need to make sure everyone stays safe."
The all clear comes over the radio. "OK, well, if it's fine with these folks, you can go back in and worship."
The church guys shake their head firmly. "It would be best if you would just move on now."
"I wouldn't want to fellowship with church people who claim to be open-minded but call the cops on a guest because he looks different from them. Have a nice day, y'all." I walk back to my truck, thinking: if the sheriff's office actually took the threatening person call seriously, they would have sent a heavily armed squad, not a single female deputy. This must not have been a first time for this group. 

It takes a while for the perfect California weather and beauty of the Malibu area to remove the bad taste left by this pseudo-church. I park in a free spot down by Zuma Beach and set out for the Point Zuma rock formation. A switch-backing trail climbs up through the scrubby hills to a spectacular coastal view. The faint smell of several decaying seals on the rocks below drifts up to the top. The temperature is several degrees warmer than down by the surf. Ropes demarcate the closed off sections of the hill; many hikers ignore them. Down in a tidal cove, amateur videographers film a movie scene.

I decide to quit the beach and focus on the mountains next.

1682: Camping on the Santa Monica coast. You wouldn't see this anywhere on the East Coast.
1683: The Pacific Coast Highway near Malibu. This section is very prone to landslides.
1685: Post-card perfect Malibu beach.
1687: Point Dume, an old volcano heavily eroded by the sea.
1689: The view from the top of Point Dume, a rocky landing for the sea here.

 

[USExplorer]

Lots of pics coming up. If you haven't deduced it yet, I enjoy photographing the sections of the earth's surface which deviate from the horizontal, or are composed of water.

1688: The chaparral vegetation of Point Rume, stunted by the sea breeze.
1690: Seals sunbathing. (evil laugh)
1691: The ocean so blue it boggles the mind, especially given the milkiness of the smoggy foggy skies near the horizon.
1692: This trail stairway leading down into the cove near Point Rume has been treated roughly by the salt spray. Holes have corroded right through the steel steps. Some of them have been replaced by wood.

 

[USExplorer]

I turned down Busch Drive and headed up into the lush green hills. The road and surrounding houses are heavily shaded by greenery. After a mile, the road stops in a small parking lot, then continues on through a gated dirt road. I park and walk up the well-graded road, hard dry clay mixed with gravel. The road switchbacks above the last of the retreat houses, then moves on into undeveloped country. The deep and wild Zuma Canyon slashed the mountain on the right, and the road clung to the side of the hill as it made its steady descent. Several other hikers were out on the road or climbing the peaks. Due to the lowness of the vegetation, I had a clear line-of-sight to the ocean the whole hike. The shaded portions of the road were moist and green with grass, but most of the chaparral was dry and only partly green. It felt great leaving the violent thorny desert plants behind. An occasional gust of air from the ocean kept the temperature just right for quick hiking. 

I climbed to the top of a small rise, which commanded a view of the entire Malibu lowlands. Point Rume looked like a tiny distant zit on the right angle corner of the coast. Later, a map revealed my elevation gain to be nearly 1400 feet. The white of the crashing surf looked like a thin line of suds. Flies cruised around me, enjoying the view as they do on every mountain top when the weather is warm and the sun is out. I discovered that I had laid down in an ant highway, and quickly moved to a more suitable location. When I started down the mountain, I noticed a snake lying across the path. I grabbed a stick and gently poked it, and it didn't respond. I poked it harder, and it sat up instantly alert testing the air with its tongue, then decided that flight was better than a fight and fled into the brush. I continued descending, following a mother and daughter out walking their dogs and being followed by a young hiker couple.

1693: A Santa Monica hilltop. 
1696: A wild canyon descends into Malibu resortia.
1698: These canyons are very steep and damn near impassable except where trails have been cut.
1700: The trail road carves a belt around this hillock.
1702: Outta the way!

 

[USExplorer]

Outside of Malibu, I take a detour up Decker Canyon Road, which winds its way up through 1400 feet of elevation into a remote mountain valley populated by hobby ranches and horse farms. The road is very good two-lane blacktop, with sharp curves and a moderate grade. The road splits, with Mulholland Highway going back down to the coast and Route 23 continuing on into the northern valley town of Thousand Oaks. I choose the former, and pass through a mountain retreat before descending into a deep, shaded canyon. The bottom of the canyon was home to many large trees, giving the area an almost Appalachian appearance. I reach the bottom again without having to downshift below third gear. The PCH is very busy in the warm evening sunlight, cars lined along the road for miles near Point Mugu State Park. The road is perched on a terrace cut into the steep hillsides, at one point chopping through a rock outcropping. 

Then, I round a corner, the hills disappear, and the road widens into a highway lined by flat farmland and greenhouses, a navy base on one side. The farmland gives way to the strip malls and fast food joints of Oxnard, and Route 1 merges unsigned with the 101 and crosses the Santa Clara River into Ventura. I exit and find my way through an industrial park lined with RV campers to Harbor Blvd. I turn toward Ventura Harbor, passing a strip mall catering to beach tourists. There is no fee for beach parking, and I walk out to the rocks and watch the sun disappear fiery red over the Pacific.

A ratty pickup-bed RV camper sits in the parking lot. Its occupant is talking to the occupant of a VW camper van. Both have California plates. I ask them where is a good place to park for the night. The RVer recommends parking in the industrial park that I came through earlier. He estimates there to be nearly 2000 car campers in the Ventura area, and the police have long ago stopped hassling them, as long as they do not violate any other laws. I do not feel like camping in a run-down industrial park with a bunch of van bums, so I set out down the boulevard and stop at a fast food joint to make last night's posts. Gas is $1.89/gallon here, very cheap for California.

Around 9:30, I hit the 101 out of town, exiting onto the Old Rincon Highway. A light sea fog makes it difficult to sea out of my windshield. The narrow corridor between the mountains and the sea is traversed in descending order by the 101 freeway, a railroad, and the PCH. Miles of roadside parking empty under the moonlight, signs prohibiting parking from 9 pm to 7 am. I pass a small beach village, then turn across the only road crossing the tracks for several miles. A sign warns against trespassing, but fortunately a construction access road is squeezed between the 101 and the railroad. I turn down the access road, which is alternately asphalt, gravel, and dried mud, reversing my course. Eventually the road crests a ridge with a commanding view of the beach village and the moonlit ocean. There is a wide flat sparsely vegetated hilltop nearby. There is also the roar of the 101 not 50 yards away. I decide to stay there for the night, using earplugs to deal with the noise. 

I wake up just before 7 am the next morning. As I am getting ready to leave, a construction truck drives past on the nearby road, the worker looking at me with bland amusement. He stops several hundred yards up the road, but does not turn around. I turn around and head back the way I came. Another oncoming construction truck obligingly pulls to the side of the narrow road as the trespasser in the gold Explorer makes his escape. I wave in greeting, and he waves back. 

I pull into the Faria Beach Park day use area, where RVs are crowded into a beach campground. The shower is marked "Registered Campers Only". I register in my imagination and pay my last three quarters for a 4.5 minute hot shower (the rest of the quarters being given away to panhandlers), the first one in a week. There is free WiFi for campers as well, but one courtesy is enough.

Near Carpinteria, traffic on the 101 slows to a crawl, and I exit for Rincon Beach Park, which does not charge for parking. The hillside is terraced here, with the beach on the bottom, the railroad in the middle, and the 101 on a third level. The bluffs are steep enough that the beach appears wild and untamed, all noise of the freeway muted by the echo of the crashing waves. A ramp and a staircase lead down to the beach from the middle-level parking lot. A few retirees/RVers walk their dogs on the isolated beach. On the middle terrace, an old disused overgrown road is converted into a multi-use trail. The surface alternates between dirt, blacktop and gravel. The road provides a panoramic view of the sea from 100 feet up along its entire length, much of which closely parallels the railroad. I move off the trail as a train towing numerous tanks of some highly flammable chemical barrels down the tracks.

By now, it is 9:30, and the 101 has cleared up sufficiently. I make a beeline for the Santa Barbara library. The town of Santa Barbara is one of the most beautiful I have seen, with a price to match its beauty and variety. It sits in a low bowl-shaped valley, with the Santa Ynez Mountains as a steep backdrop and the Pacific at the foot of a small bluff. The mountains here are part of the Los Padres National Forest. As usual, the weather is sunny and in the low 70s. Several run-down RVs and vans are parked on the city streets. Just like Venice, there are no parking meters, and parking restrictions are few. I find parking on Anapamu Street a few blocks from the library. 

350 miles to San Francisco, and 5 days and 22 hours to do it. Durnit, I'm running out of time again! This happened on the way to the RTR in Quartzsite too.

1703: Santa Monica mountain range vista, from a mountain road.
1704: Quiet isolated mountain valley, just ten miles from the beach and ten from the heavily populated Thousand Oaks valley.
1707: The cut.
1712: The light fog diffuses the blues and violets of the sun's light, leaving the reds and yellows.
1716: Catch you later.

 

[USExplorer]

1720: As the sun sets, the moon rises in the soft purple eastern sky.
1721: My free campsite along the PCH.
1722: Designated RV overnight area along the PCH. Cost unknown, if any.
1724: This is what salt does to galvanized steel without a sacrificial anode.
1726: A concrete seawall, protecting the sensitive railroad embankment above it.

 

[USExplorer]

Route 154 traverses the rugged Santa Ynez Mountains over the San Marcos Pass, climbing from ocean level to 2200 feet through an increasingly forested landscape. At the top of the pass, a scenic pull-off reveals a glimpse into the green and pastoral Santa Ynez Valley. I walk down the short paved trail to the vista. A lizard basks in the sun on a trailside rock. As I approach to take a photo, he starts awake, but decides to attempt camouflage rather than flight. I get within a yard of the reptile and snap a portrait he might be proud of.

At the vista, the San Rafael Mountains stand as a backdrop, a mix of brown rock and green forest. On the way down, the highway crosses a deep canyon over a high bridge. Ugly suicide barriers block most of the view of the canyon from the bridge, while signs prohibit pedestrians from loitering on the bridge. A road descends to the bottom of the canyon, and I take it. At the bottom in a heavily shaded dell stands the Cold Springs Tavern. A few tourists are out taking photos of the rustic building. The road continues along the canyon, with the bridge over 400 feet overhead.

154 leaves the Los Padres National Forest and passes a golf course. My GPS shows the dry, brown, weedy basin on the roadside as being Cachuma Lake. Several miles down the road, I pull into the recreation area and get a free 15 minute visitor's pass. The recreation area is deserted, with a giant concrete boat ramp leading down to dirt, floating docks laying in the dirt. What is left of this lake provides Santa Barbara with drinking water. Recent El Nino rains (still well below average rainfall) have turned the grass green but failed to replenish the lake. A report shows the lake as being at 14% capacity, steadily decreasing.

The highway drops down into the vibrant green rolling hills of the valley, pastures and vineyards and farm country. My gas gauge drops low, and I stop in Los Olivos to fill up. The Chevron gas station in town charged $3.69/gallon for regular. Nope nope nope. I continue up the 101 into Santa Maria, getting gas and some groceries in town. The Santa Maria River borders the town on the north. I drive up to the levee, park, and walk out onto the riverbed, which is completely dried up and looks like a desert wash in places. A sign says "Absolutely No Trespassing w/ Off Road Vehicles". The 101 causeway is heavily tagged and just as heavily painted over by Caltrans. 

I exit the 101 in Arroyo Grande, a small town with not much of anything going on, just three straight line miles from the coast. Its namesake creek flows over pebbles through riotous greenery. A fallen tree near the creek bank is covered with grapevines, creating a natural cave. It shows signs of past human habitation, cardboard on the ground, a packed earth trail leading to it. Down the creekside trail, a suspension bridge crosses overhead, and two kids go hand over hand on the cables over the creek, despite the creek being far too shallow to drop into. 

I take another hop down the 101 into Pismo Beach, a quiet beach town with a very flat and wide beach bordered by dunes and cut by Pismo Creek. Development covers the entire face of a single hill overlooking the ocean, the rest of the range starkly green and pastured. One section of the beach is open to vehicles and campfires, and dozens of SUVs are parked on the beach enjoying the last rays of the evening sun. A few burn scrap wood in sand pits. I choose a spot in the beachfront lot a block away from the town center and the coastal highway and walk out on the shore. The waves crash far out with a roar, then work their way up the beach slowly. Due to their frigidity, very few venture into the water. 

On the downtown pier, several fishermen cast lines into the surf. The downtown itself consists of multiple hotels and a few restaurants. There are no vagrants visible, and only one place that might qualify as a bar. The sun sets into clouds, and the town winds down for the evening. Walking back along the sand near the boardwalk, I get hailed by a very drunk young hobo. He denies that he is drunk, but slurs his words so much I can't hardly understand him. When I tell him I'm traveling through, he insists that I let him travel with me, but I tell him that I'll be moving on right this evening. He says goodbye and returns under the boardwalk to "get his drink on."

I drive down Shell Beach Road and pull up next to the local library at 9 pm. I start creating the Google map of my travels. While working on this project in my truck, I notice a minivan cruise past several times. A few minutes later, a police spotlight turns on in my rear view mirror. I continue nonchalantly working as the officer approaches my window.

"You got the cops called on you, man." He says, smiling.
"Why, is it illegal to use the WiFi connection when the library is closed?"
"No, it must be another concerned citizen. But you're all right." I talk about my travels a bit. The cop is from Florida, and he has relatives in Eustis, where I volunteered back in December. 
"I'll be gone in about 15 minutes," I say.
"It's all right. Have a good evening now." He drives off, the backup car following him.

I work a little longer, then drive down the road paralleling the 101 until the land flattens out near San Luis Obispo Creek. I find a farm access road and turn down it, slopping through a couple mudholes. I decide to camp for the night on the side of this rarely used road, again not 50 yards from the roaring 101. I spend the night unmolested, and in the morning drive into San Luis Obispo. The downtown has parking meters, so I pull into a city park. It is barely 7 am, but kids are out skateboarding at the skate park. Stenner Creek flows through a corner of the park over water-sculpted bedrock in a wooded knoll. The nearby road bridge is actually three bridges; an old stone arch bridge flanked on two sides by bland modern bridges to carry the five-lane boulevard across the small creek. 

My detour ended, I take Route 1 down to Morro Bay, and stop at the library. There appears to be a plethora of natural scenery to investigate around here.

1727: A Santa Barbara street.
1729: Winding my way up the Santa Ynez Mountains.
1731: Ugly view blocking suicide barriers. How dare you destroy my view to save lives!
1732: The Santa Ynez Valley, with the San Rafael Mountains in the background.
1733: In a normal year, this side of the mountains gets over 30 inches of rain a year, so the hills are heavily forested.

 

[USExplorer]

1736: Sleepy lizard.
1737: This bridge is so high, it has a clearance of 420 feet. (It really does.)
1738: Boat ramp to nowhere.
1740: Full level for Cachuma Lake is 100 feet higher than its current level.
1742: Beautiful green hills off the 101.

 

[USExplorer]

1745: The dry Santa Maria riverbed.
1746: Pismo Beach, a river of homes spilling down the hill.
1747: Pismo Creek flows into the Pacific.
1748: A high rocky hill standing over the low fertile plain of San Luis Obispo.
1749: Stenner Creek, flowing through the town of San Luis Obispo.

 

[USExplorer]

I took 44 pictures in the last 24 hours, more than any other day on the road, due to the extreme variety of landscapes present along this stretch of the coast. It's all downhill from here.

The Morro Rock formation is an ecological reserve, inaccessible to the public. Even if it weren't, it is far too steep to climb without equipment. The oceans breakers crash against the crumbled rock at its base. Back in town, the three tall smokestacks of the local power plant degrade the small town vista. Several seafood restaurants line the sheltered harbor; they all look very expensive. The bay itself is created by a long series of sand dunes, part of a state park. Swarms of tiny black gnats land on my face and shirt, while dozens of sea otters relax and play in the calm harbor water.

I got a few groceries at a local supermarket. The cashier asks me if I want to buy a bag. He said that in this county they cannot use disposable bags. Development here is on a long flat grassy strip between the ocean bluffs in front and the pastoral hills behind. Outside of the small beach town of Cayucos, the development ends and the Estero Bluffs State Park begins. The flat grassy bluffs are cut with ravines of varying depth leading to the rocky coast fifty feet down. Trails of hard packed earth follow the bluff edge and connect with various parking areas. Another California perfect day. I take a nap in the sun-warmed grass not 50 yards from the ocean. Cows munch grass and enjoy the ocean view on the green hills in the background.

1750: The 581 foot tall Morro Rock looming over Morro Bay.
1751: Otters chilling in the bay.
1756: Turn your head, a close-up of Morro Rock and the vegetation at its base.
1757: A deep ravine cutting through the flat bluffs.
1760: Estero Bluffs at low tide

 

[USExplorer]

Route 1 continues north of Estero Bluffs through a pastoral landscape dominated by green rolling hills. Signs discourage truckers from going past San Simeon. I stop at the San Simeon Creek and hike down along the wooded valley. Nothing interesting, so I continue past San Simeon, turning in at a parking area marked "Elephant Seal Rookery". A rather large crowd of people are standing along the bluff-top boardwalk. As I walk up, I hear lots of snuffling noises over the splash of the waves, as well as some loud calls. Down on a small sandy beach, dozens of elephant seals lay in the sand. Most were sunbathing, periodically flipping sand onto their backs. The younger seals squabbled occasionally over beach space, making a lot of noise before settling down again. The seals manuevered with a humping motion, like two-ton inchworms. A sharp but not foul odor drifted up from their rookery every time an ocean breeze came in. 

In the parking lot, tame ground squirrels hopped up in tourists' laps and begged for food. A sign said do not feed the squirrels. Farther north, the hills get steeper, and the flat bluffs disappear. The road begins winding back and forth, alternately passing through groves of large conifer trees or cutting across steep brushy slopes. I cross the Monterey County line. Signs prohibit camping along the highway for the next 72 miles. The coastline here is largely devoid of human habitation, and traffic is relatively light along the two-lane road. Frequent vista pull-offs allow visitors to enjoy the view hundreds of feet over the sea. The steep sided mountains make for very few side roads. Then, a roadside mini-mart and gas station in the non-town of Gorda. The gas price is a cool six dollars a gallon for regular. I'm not joking; this is the most expensive gas station in the continental United States. Fortunately, my gas gauge is above three quarters. The last sucker who had to get gas here got 10 gallons. 

A very short distance down the road, I turn off on the first side road I find and enter the Los Padres National Forest. I drive up the beautiful mountain road past several other campers 900 feet up into a redwood forest with a gushing mountain creek and park for the night (or so I thought). It was barely 5:00; I don't normally find a campsite until 9:00 pm. Regardless, I set out walking down the well graded gravel road, stopping along the way to talk to an old surfer living out of his Jeep Patriot. He lights up a joint and tells me how he is stuck in one of the most beautiful parts of the country. Colorado and Oregon are too cold for him, most other states are not tolerant of his treatment drug of choice for his bipolar disorder. He has gotten two warnings so far for camping along the PCH, so now he stays up here, where camping is legal. 

A little bit down the road, I climb a hill and watch the sun set with a trio of stoners who are tent camping on the rocks and passing around joints and beer. By their behavior it seems that they started several hours before. Their truck has Texas plates.

It is dusk by the time I reach the bottom of the hill. The PCH traverses the creek on a high bridge, and two dumpy vans are parked for the night in the picnic area, despite signs prohibiting such activity. A paved road descends all the way down to the waterline, and I watch the last of the evening redness in the west fade to gray. 

On the way back up, a Class C driven by a young family from Alberta pulls in the lowest and easiest spot on the mountain road. A little farther up, a NorCal camper on his way to LA has let his pet goat out for the evening. He is familiar with the area, and recommends a campsite called "Two Joint Point" a few minutes above my current site, with a far better view. I thank him and continue ascending the road. The redwood forest is very dark, but I find my truck without the aid of my headlamp, which has died on me. (Of course I have another flashlight.) I drive up, and find a tent pitched already at Two Joint Point. I move up to 1100 feet above sea level, and park on a gently inclined wide spot on the road. The air is warmer and drier than down in the forest, and there is more air movement. It is 8:30 by this time, and I read a couple short stories and retire for the night.


1763: Seal rookery, packed like sardines.
1764: Sun loving seal.
1765: Leaving the flat bluffs behind.
1767: The foothills of the Santa Lucia Range.
1771: Dank redwood campsite, with clear running water, a first since New Hampshire. I chose a wide vista and dry air over this sheltered location.

 

[USExplorer]

1775: I hope y'all like sunsets.
1776: The clouds distort the setting sun into strange shapes. At one point the sun almost looked like a mushroom cloud. Or maybe my camera ate a shroom.
1777: Lone tree silhouette.
1780: I didn't even get out of bed to take this picture of a fog-obscured ocean. I only grabbed the camera from behind my head, pushed open the tailgate, and CLICK. It was a wonderful dry 55 degrees in the morning.
1781: The view from Two Joint Point. Note the Willow Creek Bridge carrying Route 1 over the canyon  near the coast, as well as the winding mountain road leading up to the campsite.

 

[USExplorer]

The next morning, I drive down the mountain and eat a breakfast of PB&J sandwiches on the seashore. Down the road, the sun crests the ridge, lighting up the fog over the ragged coastline and creating an awe-inspiring view. The highway gets more forested, forests of firs and pines and redwoods and other trees alternating with more open prairie and brushland. I pull in the entrance to Pfeiffer Big Sur SP and get engulfed in gloom in a forest of redwoods. The ten dollar parking fee chases me back out. At Andrew Molera State Park, I park along the highway and hike in, no fee being extracted in that manner. I pass thick groves of poison oak, ford the frigid rocky Big Sur River and set out down the beach trail, through a green verdant meadow and riparian forest. The beach is natural, covered with driftwood and pebbles. A blufftop trail leads through scrubby brush on top of the bluffs, with a view of the Pacific on one side, forested mountain hills on another, scrubby plains in the foreground, a pastured valley in the distance, a snow-specked mountain the background, and a wild grassy meadow the way I came. The sheer variety of habitats here is astounding. 

I take a detour up the Old Coast Road, a single-lane dirt track cut with thousands of tiny gullies that make for a very bumpy ten miles. The road winds its way up steep brushy canyons before entering the El Sur Ranch, heavily posted against trespassing and loitering. Canyons alternate with steer pastures before the road drops into a canyon forested with redwoods, also fenced and posted. The road leaves the canyon, then enters another forested canyon. I greet a guy in a pickup with Maine license plates. Eventually, the road comes out on the side of a canyon with a great view of the Bixby Creek Bridge, a 260 foot high coastal arch bridge that made this section of the Coast Road obsolete. 

1785: The crags of the Big Sur coast wreathed in luminous fog.
1788: The dominant sound in this quiet wild meadow is...
1789: ...the wild violence of ocean breakers barely a quarter mile away.
1790: Brush extends from the oceanfront bluffs seemingly unbroken by trail or road
1791: A riparian forest, again barely half a mile from the Pacific.

 

[USExplorer]

I rejoin the coastal highway and enter sparse development for the first time in many miles, stopping to cook lunch on the roadside near Point Lobos State Reserve. A homeless bearded man pushing a bicycle loaded with belongings makes a celebrity joke out of the blue after I greet him, then talks about a project he is trying to get approved by Caltrans, a pushbutton-triggered flashing light which would warn oncoming traffic of a bicyclist on one of the narrow bridges of the coastal highway. He appears to be lucid. I ask him if he lives up in town. "I'll never go back there. Those people treat you like you were something floating in their toilet bowl." He then complains about the prevalence of immigrants from our southern neighbor. I tell him he should move to New Hampshire as there are few Hispanics up there. His response is the typical Californian one: "Way too cold up there for me." He wishes me a good trip and continues walking down the road shoulder. A cardboard sign taped to the back of his bike reads "NEED FOOD". 

Carmel-by-the-Sea (just look at that name) is an extremely artsy-fartsy town along the PCH. They have no streetlights, nor house numbers, nor parking meters. The town is filled with very rich-looking people, as well as artists and artist-pretenders. Other than the menial laborers in various businesses, no one here appears to actually work for a living. I had to move my truck as the two-hour parking limit on town streets is electronically enforced.

1792: The snow-covered Junipero Serra Peak in the massive roadless Ventana Wilderness, 5862 feet high. 
1793: Turn your head, some redwoods
1794: More redwoods on the El Sur Ranch.
1795: The Bixby Creek Bridge in profile from the old coast road.
1796: Another view of the bridge.

 

[USExplorer]

After watching the sun set by the town beach, I moved over to Pacific Grove, another quiet affluent beach town. I slept on the town's main street a short distance from an RV camper. No one bothered me. 

The next morning, I messed around on the town's rocky coastline. A guy came up to my truck window and mentioned that he climbed Mount Washington in his younger years.

I moved the very short distance down into Monterey. Cannery Row is a tourist trap lined with souvenir shops and overpriced candy stores and very fancy restaurants. I grew tired of the area, and moved down through the tunnel under downtown Monterey, parking near a ball field and walking out to the Fisherman's Wharf. Despite its name, there were no fisherman, and the wharf was lined with touristy restaurants and souvenir shops. Some had people outside soliciting the public. Having ate four nutrigrain bars for lunch (and three packs of ramen and a grapefruit for breakfast), I didn't have much of an appetite. 

I start talking to a panhandler near the wharf entrance. Michael is 28 years old, a civil engineer by trade, who was screwed over by his now ex-wife and got into debt and the bottle. Recently, the bank repossessed his car and he was out on the street. He wanted to get to Palm Desert, where some relatives live, then go to Phoenix and rehab. His partner in homelessness is a quiet older man who has lived all his life in this area. He tells me Salinas is full of gangs and that I shouldn't go there. Across from him, a bunch of hippie kids also panhandle, and their aggressive pitbull takes a dislike to passersby and barks furiously, straining against his leash. No one stops to give money. Michael complains about the hippies like a professional panhandler would, telling me they drive down donations. Another hippie plays the guitar behind us. Michael bums a smoke off two people and gets a hamburger donated from a vendor, which he then gives to another homeless guy. He talks of the informal support network among the homeless that has sprung up in lieu of an official shelter. He has gotten several tickets for sleeping in public.

A man who looks like The Dude from "The Big Lebowski" (if The Dude used meth and bath salts) pulls up in a bicycle and starts yelling at Michael, threatening him with grievous physical harm due to an insult delivered earlier. I attempt to calm him down before anything crazy happens, and he yells at me to mind my own business before repeating his threats a whole bunch more times. When he finally loses steam and pedals off, Michael is shaking with fury. It appears the disagreement is over a woman whom Meth Dude called a whore and Michael rallied to defend. This is the second time Meth Dude has yelled at Michael today for something that happened over a week ago. I tell Michael he should leave this place behind, but he does not seem to know how to, after living here for four months.

I say goodbye to Michael and head out looking for a grocery store using my GPS, which leads me back to Pacific Grove and the very overpriced Safeway. A can of pasta costs twice as much as it does at a regular store, so I drop my purchases and walk out emptyhanded. Being friendly is an effort when some airhead Californian with her airhead boyfriend start making inane remarks about a Mount Washington neighborhood in L.A. in reference to my Mount Washington sticker. 

I drive north into Sand City and buy a box of crackers at a more normally priced grocery store. After several failed attempts to find a working WiFi connection, I pull in the Seaside library. Several car campers are parked on the quiet streets of Sand City/Seaside, which looks more like a working man's town than the other bay towns. Time to set out into the night.

 

[USExplorer]

After leaving the library, I end up parking for free beside the well-lit multi-use path and walking the mile into Monterey. The downtown is alive at night, buses coming and going at the bus plaza, skateboarders racketing through the streets. The affluent enjoying fine dining at the many expensive restaurants and clubs down by the wharf or on the city streets. A pair of hippie performers dance and play accordion at the fisherman's wharf. Next to them sit a trio who look very out of place in this beach town. I talk to Ricky, a heavily tattooed ex-con built like an MMA fighter who is "quiet but deadly". He is in town to scatter the ashes of his recently deceased dad out on the Pacific. His two companions also look like ex-cons, and one of them stares at me with suspicion and hostility. They are rather close-mouthed about their past, although Ricky tells me about his past travels and jail time. He then asks in a quietly challenging tone, "Are you religious?" I say yes, I'm a Christian. He replies, "Well, you wouldn't want to hang around with us, you would get your soul tainted."

The suspicious guy asks me, "Just who are you, anyway," without any greeting or attempt at friendliness. I reply in kind, "I am an undercover FBI agent." They actually believe it. Ricky starts asking me what kind of gun I am packing, while the suspicious guy says "You should just leave, man," while giving what he intended to be a mean and hateful stare. Meanwhile, the other three are drinking cans of cheap swill and avoiding any eye contact with me, not really talking to each other either. I make known that it is a joke, but they do not relax. Ricky does tell me that he is not affiliated with the hippies, but is only "harassing" them for the evening. They seem like they would like the toughs to leave them alone but do not have the balls to say so. I decide to take my leave of this strange group and walk off the rocky beach and back up the steps. 

I stop at a pool lounge downtown, but everyone is absorbed in themselves, and the bar is empty. By this time, it is nearly 10:00, so I begin walking back. An old man is looking for his cane in the sand dunes next to the multi-use trail. I offer to help him look, but he says it was stolen not lost. A homeless person stoned on God knows what walks right into me like a zombie. I redirect him away, and the old man starts berating him for stealing the cane. He protests innocence. This is all happening in an unlit area, by the way. I joke that the cane must have grown legs and the old man starts berating me. I leave the two arguing futilely and walk back to my truck in the now-deserted parking lot and park on a city street near an apartment complex and a city park.

The next morning, there is a homeless man sleeping on a fishing dock in the park's lake, a homeless minivandweller in the parking lot, and various RVs parked along the main boulevard. It is damp and cool, and the morning sun is obscured by light fog. I drive up to Marina and stop at the Walmart, which practices price fixing across the nation regardless of local trends. Here I am glad for such a policy.

North of Marina, the Route 1 freeway drops down into the extremely fertile Salinas Valley. Farm fields extend right up to the sand dunes on the beach. The Salinas River in its narrow marshy bed crosses Route 1, then parallels the dunes before passing into a harbor sheltered by a rocky breakwater. The low dunes are treeless but covered in vegetation. Moss Point is a community perched on the narrow spit of land between the ocean and the river. The businesses are strictly utilitarian, a research laboratory, a fish processing warehouse, a few residences, and the harbor facilities.

A little down the road, I stop at a farmer's market a quarter mile from the beach. They have small grapefruits, ten for a dollar. They are about as large as oranges. I get fifteen. They also have other produce at absurdly low prices. The stand is marked by many farming interns from around the country. 

A sign says "Freedom: Next Exit". I choose slavery instead and continue into the suburbs of Santa Cruz. In Soquel, a laundromat charges four dollars for a top loading washer which does not even do a good job at washing clothes in its extra-short water-saving cycle. The going rate is $1.75 elsewhere. The dryer costs $1.50, and leaves the clothes damp. An old couple, presumably homeless, sit outside the laundromat smoking pot. 

In Santa Cruz, I pay $1.00 for two hours of parking downtown and use the large and well-appointed library. Santa Cruz looks to be an interesting college town, with a river flowing through the center of town and the coast not far off. The map shows hilly redwood forests outside the town, but the long sweeping views of the Far West are just a memory.

The airport is 70 miles away, and scenic routes 9 and 35 travel through the unpopulated hill country west of San Jose and associated sprawl. I have a little less than two days to get there.

 

[Sabatical]

Big Basin is a beautiful drive. Exit at Scott's Valley and roll North.

 

[USExplorer]

@Sabatical: I ended up taking that route, although I drove much of Route 9 after dark. 

I think I will take a break from this trip log for a few days.

1799: The redwood-covered hills and cloud-filled valleys of the Bay Peninsula.

 

[Silver]

"Am I being detained?"
"No you aren't." Can't you leave right then ?
"So am I free to go?"
"I have to ask you some questions." She didn't say you arent free to go . .
"I've got a can of pepper spray." I dont bring pepper spray to church. Thats abnormal behavior.

"Just who are you, anyway," without any greeting or attempt at friendliness.
I reply in kind, "I am an undercover FBI agent."
Not a good idea.

"Just who are you, anyway,"
I would probably just walk away. No need for confrontations.

[ "You should just leave, man," while giving what he intended to be a mean and hateful stare]
This is a warning I would take seriously. I dont want to mess with strangers.

 

[USExplorer]

San Francisco, named after Saint Francis of Assisi, established as a Spanish mission on June 29 1776 as a different set of colonists to the east were concocting a little revolt against King George. Seventy years after its founding, its population stood around 400. Today, it is a bustling metropolis of 850 thousand, most of them crowded into a few dozen square miles. The Pacific Ocean rages against the quiet and lightly populated (by SF standards) western coast, while the murky San Francisco Bay laps quietly against the bustling northern and eastern shores. 

My traveling routine was suspended for a week here; I chose to abstain from Internet access or use of my truck for the duration of my stay in Fog City. Funding for this trip was provided by a corporation in which my father holds a prominent position. A room on the fourteenth floor of the Hilton was reserved for six nights for upwards of three thousand dollars. Parking was provided in an indoor lot a couple blocks away for those six days, one hundred twenty dollars. 

After taking a walk along the bay and watching planes land for a couple of hours, I picked up my dad at the airport twenty miles outside of town and drove up crowded arterials to the Golden Gate NRA. The weather was cloudy for the first day since I started on my California coastal excursion. Out on the Golden Gate Bridge, the traffic noise was unceasing. Multitudes of bicyclists traversed the bridge on the opposite side. The four foot high railings had several holes rusted into them; several sections were replaced. The rippling waters of the strait tossed two hundred feet below the deck. A few months back, the bridge company began construction on an 80 million dollar suicide net, but no net was visible. Upon reaching the other side we turned around and walked back and drove off to a downtown church. The pastor mentioned that the building was worth $15 million, and that through the providence of God the small congregation owned it debt-free.

Seventy-five dollars in South Carolina will buy a more luxurious hotel room than five hundred dollars does in San Francisco. The view from the fourteenth floor was of a high-rise parking garage and various dull hotel and office buildings. I walk the foul and litter-strewn streets of the Tenderloin in the evening. Insane individuals yelled and cursed at no one, and no one paid them any attention. Homeless people slept on the filthy sidewalks or sat against the wall smoking or conversing or periodically asked passersby for change with little success. Fellow walkers kept their eyes on the ground and hunched their shoulders as if defending against a potential onslaught. The cars in the parking garage my truck was parked in were protected by a large family of Arabic descent who relaxed in a small streetside employee lounge. 

That evening I fell ill with a head cold. I slept in late then shuffled the streets toward the library in a semi-delirious haze one with the drug addicts and imbeciles. Security guards at the library watched the patrons expressionlessly. The library was devoid of any padded chairs, and I exited into the unseasonably warm afternoon and laid down on the lawn of the imposing city hall building with my cap over my face and let the sun bake the cold out of me, assisted by the dozen grapefruits consumed in the past few days. 

The next day I got two dollar bills and a quarter and pushed them into a slot on a municipal bus. The driver handed me a receipt wordlessly and I took a seat and rode down a commerce-ridden boulevard into a development of expensive townhomes each with their own garage. By ignorance I had boarded the wrong bus of the route and so I had to walk a mile down the gradual hill through four-way stops down over the Great Highway and onto the Pacific coast. The waves broke far from the beach and worked their way up the purple sand with a constant roar. A wall of graffiti-painted jerseybarriers as a breakwater between the coast and the houses beyond. To the right the high ground of Point Lobos, to the left a flat beach extending into fog. I catch a different bus and repeat the procedure and ride back past the massive Golden Gate park and the University of San Francisco through the upscale Japantown back to the civic center. Fire trucks scream down Market Street. By the time I arrive at the fire, it is extinguished. The blackened hull of a bus stands near a gas station, cops blocking off vehicle and pedestrian traffic and questioning bystanders. 

Up on the Embarcadero, numerous piers jut out into the water. Pier 39 is heavily commercialized, and not as a loading dock for crab shipments either. Nearly a hundred businesses clamor for the tourist dollar, selling five dollar hot dogs and ten dollar "44 Magnum keychains", simply a .44 shell emptied of powder and primer and fit with a simple keyring. Near the marina on a cluster of floating platforms, dozens of sea lions rest, or at least try to do so, many of them squabbling for space and repelling new arrivals from the bay. Tourists watch them from the railing. 

Out on the bay, where the Oakland Bay Bridge plunges into the tunnel of Yerba Buena Island, an exit travels a precipitous route along the island bluffs onto the manmade Treasure Island, a flat dull place formerly a Naval base and now home to economy housing. I do not get off the bus and it returns me to the Trans-Bay terminal. It being close to evening, I walk over and past the shopping complexes of Union Square and take Stockton Street through a long tunnel echoing with car horns into Chinatown. The streets here are alive with a foreign tongue, and some business do not advertise anything in English. Several hawkers offer menus for Chinese restaurants. I turn onto Broadway and pass a row of strip clubs with heavily painted strippers beckoning pedestrians to enter and bars and nightclubs with doormen greeting those walking past. The attitudes of the wealthy revelers and the prices disgust me and I walk back to my hotel for the night.

Another day, another dollar. Van Ness all the way down to where it dead-ends at the base of Bernal Hill. I turn down Folsom and ascend the hill, gaining a panoramic view of the city. Numerous dogs walked near their owners or frolicked on the grassy hill. Back up Mission Street through the mostly Hispanic Mission District, parts of it looking much like a Mexican city. At the bazaar, a very un-Mexican price of $9.00 is being charged for a burrito. Prices for fresh fruit are very cheap though.

I mostly remained a disinterested observer throughout my time in the city, eating cheap crackers and grapefruits. Down in the Tenderloin, a crackhead assaults a woman waiting outside the soup kitchen and she pepper sprays him, mostly missing. Staff from the kitchen rush out and defuse the conflict. A day earlier, police in cars and on foot charge down the block to arrest a suspect barely a block from the station, the suspect's girlfriend vigorously arguing his innocence while they handcuff and search him. 

In the library, an insane man curses extremely loudly striding around the various floors until security escorts him outside. I read a little Faulkner, I read Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness", I read a little of a murder mystery set in Iceland, I begin to re-read a travel memoir by Richard Grant. A storm system moves in, and the temperature settles in the low to mid 60s while the clouds thicken and the rain begins falling. My dad and I try a c couple restaurants in this city which has more restaurants per capita than any other in the country.

This morning, I pack up what little is in my hotel room, retrieve my truck, and drive the steepest streets of San Francisco, then take the scenic route to the airport and drop him off. I drive across the San Mateo bridge in the pouring rain, no toll being charged for eastbound travel, then stop at the nearest library to access the Internet. As usual, the library is closing shortly. 

On the road again. I met a couple people in the city who were very intrigued by my travels. It was a great experience, but time for open spaces and the freedom of the open highway again.

1802: Alcatraz.
1805: Sea lions.
1807: From Yerba Buena I.
1808: $500/night view in SF.
1810: San Francisco overlook, Bernal Hill.

 

[USExplorer]

Three nights ago when I could not sleep, I set out walking the rough streets of the city a little after 3 am. Zombies dotted the streets. A few fellow insomniacs solemnly said good morning. A drunk repeatedly threw a bottle into the street, but the bottle refused to break. Every business was barred and shuttered except for one nightclub which other than the doorman was deserted of any conscious partygoers. Down by Market Street, a crew of workers tediously pressure-washed the sidewalks and scooped litter into dustpans, leaving squares of unwashed sidewalks where bums slept blanketed against the night cool or sat staring bleakly ahead amidst the shouting and cackling of the insane waiting for the darkness to fade. Police cruisers drive their beat aimlessly and somnambulently, staring apathetically through plateglass into their concrete purgatory.

South of Hayward along Mission Boulevard I stop at the terminus of the Alameda Creek greenway. Night falls as I listen to an NPR radio program. Walking down along the park path, a pervert approaches me in the rainy darkness. I tell him conversationally that where I come from, such behavior will get you shot. He stammers a half-excuse, half-apology, and I walk back to my truck and drive off. Not a minute later, as I am driving out along the road overlooking the creek, a police cruiser comes down the paved path, spotlight sweeping back and forth.

I continue on down Mission Boulevard, stopping in Union City to stock up on groceries at the Walmart, then join the 680 and take it down to the East Capitol Expressway and exit at the Eastridge shopping mall and park for the night on the fringe of the parking lot. Rain pours most of the night. The next morning, I eat an early breakfast and drive Quimby Road through a few miles of subdivisions up into the lightly populated hills. Seventy miles to the next gas station. 

The steep switchbacks offer great views of San Jose and the sprawl I just left behind. The road enters a large county park consisting of open grasslands mixed with oak-grass savanna. I stop at Grant Lake, which is full from the recent rains. After leaving the park, the road remains paved and graded but becomes increasingly curvy as it rounds the rugged canyon country of the Diablo Range. The temperature drops into the 30s as I summit Copernicus Peak, 4200 feet elevation. The warm humid air rising from the west has cloaked the mountain in thick fog. The forested hills are heavily posted against trespassing on all sides. The road descends out of the fog and enters a relatively flat mountain valley surrounded by hilly pastures. I turn down Del Puerto Road and descend out of the hills into the dead flat Central Valley. 

1811: The arrow-straight Van Ness cutting through the Mission neighborhood in the foreground, Nob and Russian Hill in the background.
1812: The Financial District and the Bay Bridge in the background. 
1814: San Jose downtown visible in the background on the right, with the sprawl spilling to the edge of the hill country and fading into the bay fog in the background.
1816: Grant Lake in the county park, surrounded by natural savanna habitat.
1818: On the other side of the pass, the rugged Diablo mountains. The pass road is visible in several places descending the canyon.