Sunday, May 25th, 2008
It wasn’t easy to leave the Surf Motel. I had been there for two nights, which felt like a real commitment. I had bonded with the place. I again needed to pack up my life which had also bonded with the motel room and found a way to reach every corner of the space. With the complementary breakfast fueling my body and soul, I said audios and got behind the wheel again.
I wasn’t quite done with San Francisco though. I drove the truck over to Fishermans Wharf and took about half an hour to see the piers in the fresh sunlight. That’s right. The sun was back. By 10:30am I was riding the waves of the city’s downtown streets towards highway 1 and the continuation of my southward direction. At this point it became clear to me that a car chase would really add to my Sunday, so I swerved and cut off a jacked-up truck full of hooligans while giving them the figure, and the race was on. Okay that’s a lie, but I did replay some classics in my head like the Hummer catching air in the Rock, and the mustang showing its stuff in Bullitt. Back to the real world; Things got interesting when Market turned upwards and sent me to the top of Twin Peaks (with a view just as dramatic as the eerie TV series). From there I finally let go and saw the last of San Francisco… at least for this trip.
Along Highway 1 I found that the first signs of Southern California were revealing themselves to me. Around every bend in the road was a strip of sand with crashing waves bringing wet-suit clad surfers towards the beach. It was very cool. I then started to notice that for the next fifty miles most of the cars on the road were carrying boards in their back seats, similar to the way you might see a hockey stick peaking out the rear window of a car in Calgary. It’s been little things like this that have really made my trip a riot.
Enter the Big Sur. Named El Pais Grande del Sur by Spanish colonists at Camel in the late 18th century, this central Californian coast line is the wildest stretch of the pacific ocean’s shoreline that I’ve seen. Heavy, untamed forests lash out over the rolling hills at the ocean’s violent waves as they find the steep walls of the rocky cliff face. Meanwhile Highway 1 gets pushed around in all different directions forcing cars to slow to a crawl in order to hold on. This was a fun drive. By the time I reached San Luis Obispo and met up with the 101 again, I was absolutely exhausted from griping the steering wheel. As an advisory, I would suggest avoiding this scenic route if you are afraid of heights, can’t handle roller-coasters, drive like a sissy, or find adrenalin to cause panic. The Big Sur is not for the faint of heart, or the heart that tends to faint. I for one loved it!
Santa Barbara welcomed me with the southern California feel that I am familiar with as the highway cut through the Palm lined communities with the mansion-covered hills laid out as their back drop. Following an afternoon of rain and cloudiness along the Big Sur, the sun had come out and gave me hope that my return to the camping life would be a dry one.
It wasn’t easy to leave the Surf Motel. I had been there for two nights, which felt like a real commitment. I had bonded with the place. I again needed to pack up my life which had also bonded with the motel room and found a way to reach every corner of the space. With the complementary breakfast fueling my body and soul, I said audios and got behind the wheel again.I wasn’t quite done with San Francisco though. I drove the truck over to Fishermans Wharf and took about half an hour to see the piers in the fresh sunlight. That’s right. The sun was back. By 10:30am I was riding the waves of the city’s downtown streets towards highway 1 and the continuation of my southward direction. At this point it became clear to me that a car chase would really add to my Sunday, so I swerved and cut off a jacked-up truck full of hooligans while giving them the figure, and the race was on. Okay that’s a lie, but I did replay some classics in my head like the Hummer catching air in the Rock, and the mustang showing its stuff in Bullitt. Back to the real world; Things got interesting when Market turned upwards and sent me to the top of Twin Peaks (with a view just as dramatic as the eerie TV series). From there I finally let go and saw the last of San Francisco… at least for this trip.
Along Highway 1 I found that the first signs of Southern California were revealing themselves to me. Around every bend in the road was a strip of sand with crashing waves bringing wet-suit clad surfers towards the beach. It was very cool. I then started to notice that for the next fifty miles most of the cars on the road were carrying boards in their back seats, similar to the way you might see a hockey stick peaking out the rear window of a car in Calgary. It’s been little things like this that have really made my trip a riot.
Enter the Big Sur. Named El Pais Grande del Sur by Spanish colonists at Camel in the late 18th century, this central Californian coast line is the wildest stretch of the pacific ocean’s shoreline that I’ve seen. Heavy, untamed forests lash out over the rolling hills at the ocean’s violent waves as they find the steep walls of the rocky cliff face. Meanwhile Highway 1 gets pushed around in all different directions forcing cars to slow to a crawl in order to hold on. This was a fun drive. By the time I reached San Luis Obispo and met up with the 101 again, I was absolutely exhausted from griping the steering wheel. As an advisory, I would suggest avoiding this scenic route if you are afraid of heights, can’t handle roller-coasters, drive like a sissy, or find adrenalin to cause panic. The Big Sur is not for the faint of heart, or the heart that tends to faint. I for one loved it!Santa Barbara welcomed me with the southern California feel that I am familiar with as the highway cut through the Palm lined communities with the mansion-covered hills laid out as their back drop. Following an afternoon of rain and cloudiness along the Big Sur, the sun had come out and gave me hope that my return to the camping life would be a dry one.
I was aiming for the Carpinteria State Beach Campground. This was a tall order since the Memorial Day weekend had clogged my peaceful holiday with busy commuters and crazy Vacationators. All day I had suffered the ill-effects of sharing my adventure with a national holiday; the highway was crowded, the pumps were constantly occupied at the gas stations, and my Vista Points were overflowing with tourists. I pulled into the Carpinteria State Beach and saw a big ugly sign that said Campground full. I thought to myself, ‘okay, challenge accepted, let the games begin’. I passed the entrance in order to turn around and casually asked about the full lot. Sure enough someone had just pulled out. There was one site left out of the 100-plus scattered throughout the grounds. Someone pulled in behind me as I paid for the site, and I realized that two minutes separated me from the poor bastards who were now on the haunt for a place to stay.
I set up my tent and wandered out to the beach. The sun was setting and I was in no rush to stop enjoying the light breeze the pacific was offering up. I walked the campground to stretch out my legs (they were not happy with my decision to tear it up all over San Francisco yesterday only to return to nine hours in the car today). The camp was a crowded set up, giving off a sort of trailer park meets Woodstock type of vibe. Everyone seemed quite settled in. I realized that camping was just ‘big people’ excuse to create forts. Every site had circled the wagons and comfortably built themselves a home away from home. I was impressed. As I brought my legs back to life I found that the majority of people were taking their Memorial Day Weekend camping seriously, from the Dads who had gathered around the camp fire to tell tall tale while juggling brewstofas, to the millions of little kids that ran rampant around the grounds throwing every type of ball imaginable while getting as dirty as possible. There was however those who were regretting there decision to camp it up long weekend style. Some of the classics were present; the crying baby, the arguing husband and wife, the girl who specializes in tanning and gossip magazines, the teenager who determined partway through the weekend that he was too old for the family vacation and had locked himself in the car with his laptop and a movie, and of course the many apartment buildings on wheels with full satellite, steam room and king sized bed carrying people who obviously can’t get enough of the great outdoors (just a hint of sarcasm on that one). The last campground I pulled into had me so far away from anyone else that I didn’t even cross paths with another camper my entire stay; this was a fun change of pace.
So I was back to roughing it. I pulled out the Coleman again and worked open a can of beans for myself (there are advantages to being on your own…). It had been a good day, and I was ready to hit the sack. Los Angeles awaits, and I am ready.
Day Seven: I am Canadian, I don’t care about Memorial Day… until it messes with my Adventure. Now I have holidays stomping all over my holiday.
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