Back in the Saddle*: More glory on the Pacific Coast Highway (Mendocino and McKerricher State Park)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Thirteen, Friday June 15

Funny, I think of San Francisco as northern California, but if you look at the map, it isn’t at all.  It’s hardly past the half way point up the coast, really, so – what luck! - there’s plenty more of the state left to see.

After a two day sabbatical from my sort-of-sabbatical, it feels good to be riding again.  Disappointingly, but not surprisingly, I don’t have the glorious open roads I had earlier, when I retrace my path north of the Golden Gate Bridge.  But as I continue away from the city, the traffic eventually thins out, while the pavement remains smooth and ever-twisty.   Even so, I find myself thinking something I’ve never thought before or since:  I almost don’t mind being stuck behind this RV, it’s that beautiful (the view, not the RV).   And then I have another thought, a terrible and terrifying thought:  The rest of my trip - no way, no how can it possibly measure up.    With more than a little sadness,  I brace myself for disappointment, and make a special point to savor what remains of the painfully beautiful California coast I've come to adore.

Are you tired of the Pacific Coast Highway yet?  Clearly, I am not.  As I wind my way ever northward, the ocean view slowly shifts into something more cozy, rustic, and rugged with a misty feeling even though the sky is clear, recalling a Folger’s coffee advertisement backdrop, perhaps, with less of the sparkly almost gaudy Hollywood blingy-blue green of my more southerly exploration.  But it’s getting cold, too, and, in a bizarre break with my character, I’ve yet to reach for my electric vest.   I quickly realize that by the time I reach Mendocino, there’s a very good chance I will simply fall over when I try to put my feet down as I come to a stop.  I am that unsure I’ll be able to move at all.  When I do arrive, I don’t fall over, but I can barely make the left hand turn into town towards the gas station, because I can’t move my arms.  A BMW rider passes me impatiently as I try to do so, and I wonder what he must think I’m doing.  A moment later we find ourselves at the same pump, paying  nearly $6/gallon for gas.  He makes a funny comment,  but I don’t even care about the price.  I’m freezing, and hungry and need to stop.  Besides, Mendocino is beautiful and I have a special point of interest here to visit.

Here’s the Kelley House Museum.  Remember my host in San Francisco?  Her name is Kelley.  No, not Kelly, but Kelley.  It’s also her mom’s maiden name.  And no, it’s not a coincidence.  The museum is closed by the time I arrive, but I have fun peering in the windows.




After a bowl of blessedly warm and caloric but not particularly delicious angel hair with tomato basil cream sauce at “A Cultured Affair,” I head to the water.  It makes for a nice backdrop for the flowers everywhere and I lazily dabble around a bit, enjoying the peaceful landscape while waiting for the pasta to raise my core body temp and blood glucose levels before continuing on my way.






Even though the population density is thinning out, campgrounds are still full and I had only one option when I made a reservation a few days ago.  But the West Pine Campground at MacKerricher State Park is everything the Lake Casitas Campground was not.  Such a diversity of beauty!  Tall pines create a feeling of quiet and privacy at each site, but a few steps away lie rolling dunes covered in interesting plant life. Beyond, the frothy sea.
 


I continue down the beach, looking here and there, and I nearly trip over a sea lion.  Pardon me!
 


There’s tidal lagoon Cleone Lake to explore, and the trail and boardwalk around it takes me deep into those trees you see at the far side.  It’s a Central American jungle back there, dense with enormous and unrecognizable brilliantly green plants having leaves so preposterously big they might double as a kayak and float me across the lake, up to the distant floating mats of pink flowers that are too far away to photograph.  Such a bizarre contrast to the simple blustery coastline only a few steps away!



The surf is up at Laguna Point, and I’m captivated by the crashing waves, but I have no real luck in preserving the excitement on camera.  Too late, I notice my SD card is full, and the other is by now a mile or two behind me, in the Ducati top box.    I’m mesmerized by the surf, and it’s not hard to believe the signs describing the potential for dangerous rogue waves. “Never turn your back on the ocean!”  “Stay back and stay alive!”






Back in my tent, consciousness ebbs into slumber as I listen to the roiling sea.

* I started this post months ago.  Funny that my “Back in the Saddle” post should appear after my unexpected blog hiatus.

Pacific Coast Highway (Big Sur to San Francisco)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Nine, Monday June 11

After a night’s sleep under the redwoods, I’ve regained the good sense and ability to actually photograph a view or two from the wondrous Pacific Coast Highway that had me so transfixed yesterday.

Good morning!  The gentle cool undergrowth of the redwood forest wakes up my eyes...

Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park

…before I head back into more improbable razzle dazzle.

Ho hum.  More spectacular blues of every sort.  No photo-shopping necessary.

Pfft.  You know what this place is missing?  A waterfall.

On the left you can see the 84 foot drop of McWay Falls.  Because a turquoise blue cove simply isn't enough, I guess.

Oh, silly me.  Of course there’s a waterfall.

If you have the foresight (and luck) to reserve one of the two campsites at Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park a good year in advance, you can enjoy the first overlook from your tent.  But you don’t have to be at an actual park for this kind of view.  Any old stopping place for hundreds of miles along the Pacific Coast Highway will serve equally well.  It really is absurd.

And so I continue, torn between a wonderfully twisty road and nearly paralyzing scenery, until cold, wind, and hunger get my full attention.  I’m hoping to scout out the Italian restaurant in Half Moon Bay my friends speak highly of, or perhaps the famous Alice's Restaurant in Woodside, but I’m just too cold and hungry to  make the effort. I pull over at the first sign of potential nourishment I see, which happens to be Cameron’s Inn and Pub, complete with British phone booths, Royal Mail post boxes, and red double decker busses.  Despite being a wacky funny place, with endless U.K. knick-knacks up and down every wall, and restroom ceilings lined with game boards, I’m not entirely convinced I’m about to get a world class meal.   But I’m ravenous enough to not care.  I suck down cup after cup of hot coffee in an effort to defrost, and although in a different situation I might not be fully impressed with the chowder, I am grateful for the complimentary bowl, since my meal is inexplicably delayed.  The fish and chips are good, I think, but chewing my food is not really a priority at this particular moment.

I’m feeling better after a bit, and gear up for the final short hop to San Francisco.  I wonder how difficult it will be to find parking, and with greater concern,  I wonder exactly how many times I’ll have to struggle with my too-far-to-comfortably-reach-with-my-little-hands clutch lever while stopped at the top of the city's famous (and dreadful) hills.  It's been several years since I've dropped a bike, but between not really being able to reach my clutch lever properly, and the added weight of my luggage, this seems like a good opportunity to reacquaint myself with the technique of picking up a downed motorcycle.  I take a deep breath and head north.

Motorcycle specific parking abounds. For free, even!  The Ducati makes its home amongst two wheeled neighbors of every sort on (I Am Not Making This Up) Hill Street.  Someone was nice enough to let us two-wheelers have the flat bit.

My host and her dog meet the Ducati.  The dog doesn't seem appropriately impressed.

Turns out it’s just as well I didn’t eat Italian food back in Half Moon Bay.  Because upon arrival in San Francisco, my good friends providing me with a much needed “hospitality stop” greet me with all manner of tasty treats from Lucca. This Italian deli, along with many other fine establishments I’ll sample over the next few days, happens to be dangerously located just around the corner.  I have chosen well!
 

Pacific Coast Highway (Ventura to Big Sur: Elephant Seals and Redwoods)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Eight, Sunday June 10

Joshua Tree – check!  Santa Monica Market – check!  Angeles Crest Highway – check!  Channel Islands  – check!  I make a big swoosh with my imaginary pen, smugly cross off my successes, and point the Ducati’s front wheel northwards.

I knew it would be beautiful.  The Pacific Coast Highway, that is.  I really did know.  In fact, I’d traveled it before, from Santa Barbara to Santa Cruz, albeit in a car, and many years ago.  Even so, I am simply not prepared for this kind of scenery.  For over 200 miles, as I round every bend (and there are many, much to my delight), I’m slapping my palm on my helmeted forehead, while making unintelligible sounds of disbelief.  I’m torn between the view and the twists of the road, and the view wins. Yes, the view wins, and I wind my way slowly, slowly, taking it all in.  My inner speed demon is quiet - some might say good has (temporarily) triumphed over evil.  Somehow I can’t even manage to stop and get off the bike to photograph anything, because I’m far too star struck to choose one spot over another.*  Every shade of brilliant blue is represented by the ocean waves – here a deep royal, there an eye popping turquoise, and most often, all the variations in a single psychedelic eyeful.  Lest one tire of the spectacular monochromatic display, enormous jagged boulders, strewn about artfully as if by some larger than life supernatural hand, catch the eye and give the ocean waves a reason to splash and froth joyously.  Wild flowers spring up here and there, and if I can tear my eyes away from the west, grassy, gentle, peaceful mountains greet me on the east.

Early on in my journey, there is one moment, one sole moment,  perhaps only because I am not yet fully under this road’s spell, when I am shaken loose from my transfixed state.  I see the sign, and hit the brakes hard.

I can not leave without photographing this spot, not because Point Piedras Blancas is the most beautiful view on the PCH (it isn’t, although it’s lovely, no question)…




….but because I see, lounging up and down the beach, like cats napping in the sun, these:




Yeah, that’s right.  An entire colony of elephant seals.  This photo shows perhaps half of them, the other half being behind me.   Not everyone is fast asleep however.  Some of the males are vocalizing and sparring…




…and others peep comically over the flowers…




…but most of them are content to simply sunbathe.




Once the animal encounter is complete and I’m rolling again, my last remaining bit of free will is quickly consumed by great waves of intoxication.  For the rest of the ride, I am powerless to do anything other than gawk and gasp.

It’s probably a blessing that Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park isn’t actually on the Big Sur coastline.  I think I need some time to clear my head after such an intense blast of nature’s glamour.  Even so, just as soon as I touch down and set up camp, I’m racing up two miles of switchbacks to catch the only water view to be had – a too far away glimpse of blue at the top of the Buzzard’s Roost trail.

Mostly, though, I’m finding the steadying hand of solid and silent redwood trees.  They bring a welcome softness to the end of a day filled with almost blinding sparkle.

 

Actually, it was a sunny bright day in the redwood forest, too.  But it didn't FEEL that way.  It felt cool, shady, and mysterious. So  I spent about a zillion hours adding fog to this photo.  I'd feel guilty not telling you as much, but this really does capture my feeling better, and that's the point, really.

*Photos next post!