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!