Day 22, Part I: Santa Barbara, California

14 October – My abode for the night was Sister3’s high-school friend’s grown-up daughter’s bedroom.  High-school friend was not actually home, but left a key outside, under some dog toys.  Her home is lovely, orderly, tidy.  Why are everyone’s homes lovely and tidy?  What is happening when a generation of children is growing up, or has already grown up, without the full measure of home-life chaos that was the norm for my siblings and me, and at least some of our friends?  Then I remember that three of my nieces grew up in the same 18^th-century farmhouse that I did, but instead of seven dogs of various breeds, they had a full-scale bull-terrier breeding operation taking place around them.  So those young women at least know how to roll with the waves of domestic disarray.  Not that any of the others will be worse off for thinking breakfast shouldn’t have dog hair in it, and this daughter has done a primo job of creating a distinctive, personalized room that is inspiring and comfortable.

Santa Barbara means beaches, and my GPS points me to one that’s less than three miles away.  As I drive past the airport, I wonder if the GPS programming was scrambled.  Beach by the airport?  Yes, indeed; there’s a beach near everything in Santa Barbara, and Goleta Beach Park is a lovely one.  Long arc of pale sand, gentle waves, big rock formations jutting into the water at either end of the arc, a handful of people footprinting the shingle.

Random stranger.

One of those people stops to ask whether I’d like him to take my picture with my camera, and I ask to take his instead, holding a Betty Neels novel.  He’s agreeable.  He’s very agreeable, and chatty, so I learn he’s from central California but served at Fort Belvoir outside DC many years ago, with the Army Corps of Engineers.  In the private sector, he spent seven years in Anchorage, building the airport parking garage there amongst other projects.  He now lives in Seattle, though not right on the lake, which property seems to go more to folks like Bill Gates – and my godmother.  His companion (probably wife) is not nearly so genial, and seems to disapprove of his outgoing ways, or maybe just the quantity of information he’s sharing.

Successful balance pose suggests
he's done yoga on sand before.

Another woman, in her 50s or 60s, is striding into the ocean as I stroll past in the edge of the surf.  She’s wearing an athletic-style two-piece and goggles, and asks whether I’ve been swimming.  I’m in a suit, but entirely dry.  When I respond that I have not been, she seems to lose interest in me and strides on.  There’s a man doing a series of yoga poses on the sand.  I already had this idea, given the serenity of the scene and the still-rising sun.  I have done yoga outdoors before, but never in sand.  A sun salute on the beach concentrates the mind in a very different way than one done on a surface that doesn’t slide around.

Gorgeous, glorious weather – did I mention? – and back at the house I remove my swimsuit on the back deck, mindful of the lesson of Gold Beach.  Very little detritus.  Leaving my sister’s friend’s house, I pause to sniff one of the roses by her front walk.  It smells divine.  So often roses have no perfume, it’s a little gift to come across one that does.

It is less of a pleasure accidentally to hear some news on the radio as I drive into town.  Yikes!  Strife and confusion and a world in conflict; but also the announcer tells me that stocks are up in mid-afternoon trading.  But it’s morning!  This starts all sorts of mental associations.  I worked in the capital markets for about twenty years before quitting my career this summer.  I was always on the east coast, where the New York Stock Exchange and Nasdaq are, and despite frequent travel across time zones, always thought of New York time as ‘real’ time.  Plenty of my colleagues worked in the Pacific zone, and I think for many of them, New York was ‘real’ time as well.  Po Bronson wrote his first novel, Bombardiers, based on his experience working in institutional bond trading for First Boston in San Francisco.  It is an absurdist, and therefore realistic, look at that environment in the go-go 90s, before the derivatives-market meltdown of the mid-90s (and long before the derivatives-market meltdown of the late 00s).  His depiction of a world where people start work long before sunrise and knock off in mid-afternoon is surreal but real.  Many of my colleagues in investor relations would work eight-to-six in Silicon Valley, and just miss the first few hours of stock trading.  One of them moved to Hawai’i, and started a consulting business with most of her clients on the east coast, so she would often be starting work at 2:00 or 3:00am.  I’ve never been to Hawai’i, but from all I’ve heard it would be worth a challenging schedule.

I used to love going west for business.  I could, usually, wake a bit later than usual, and it would still be 4:00 or 5:00am.  So I’d have a couple of hours to get things done before starting my round of meetings for the day.  Ah, luxury.  Maybe I’ll go back to that kind of work some day.

Baby palm (so cute!); downtown S.B.

For today, I am exploring Santa Barbara a bit before heading east into the desert.  I figure this town will have the poncey breakfast Napa failed to provide.  There’s a shop called the Juice Ranch, and remembering my Iowa City smoothie of excellence, I peep through the window.  They’ve got a sign on the wall advertising a lavender-liver concoction, and I amble nervously away.  D’Angelo Bread gives me eggs and toast, and my craving for ponce fades away, un-regretted.

And now I point the Honda east for the first time in over three weeks.  My psyche is deeply confused.  There’s an ocean to my west, and I’m driving away from it, into the driest part of the country.  This makes no sense to me.  I shall explain that in a Day 22, Part II post since this one is getting a bit long and there’s a lot to consider when the subject is oceans.

Days 20 and 21: Gold Beach, Oregon, to Santa Barbara, California

Awaking in California, and getting back on the road to move deeper into wine country – the first thing I see on the freeway is a California Highway Patrol motorcycle officer, making a traffic stop.  And he’s wearing riding breeches!  CHIPS!

I’m headed toward Sonoma and Napa, and thinking I’ll have a late breakfast in some poncey little wine-country bakery-café with unpasteurized sheep’s cheese in quails’ eggs omelets with organically cultivated purslane.  Curiously, despite this ambition, when I see an El Torito bad-chain-Mexicali restaurant in a strip mall in Rohnert Park, I’m seriously tempted.  The first Mexican restaurant my suburban-Boston hometown ever hosted (it was actually in the next town over, by the entrance to the interstate) was an El Torito.  Ah, memories.

Despite the beauty of the day, blue skies and sunshine again, I consider closing the sunroof.  There is a strong aroma of fertilizer abroad.  And when I say ‘aroma,’ I mean ‘stench.’  And when I say ‘fertilizer,’ I mean the non-chemical kind.  You get that, right?  Little Macy is right when she says cows’ poo smells bad.  Plus, the 18-wheeler in front of me, which seems to be loaded with grapes in an open container, is screeching in agony every time it brakes, and on the side streets I’m hoping to find bursting with poncey little breakfast shops, there are many, many opportunities to brake.  But my hardy Yankee heritage wins out, as it so often does, and the sunroof remains open.  Yes, I am a tough guy.

I find a semi-poncey roadhouse with chickens’ eggs and a choice of Swiss or cheddar.  Breakfast is excellent, for which hunger is at least partly to thank.  This is not a great restaurant.  Then it’s back on the road to San Rafael.  On the way, I see a cement mixer with a bright orange, revolving tank painted with the San Francisco Giants’ logo.  My nephew is a big Giants fan (his dad’s fault; the good side of the family pretty much goes Red Sox), and if he were still five and into trucks, I would have followed that machine until I could take a photo for him.

Retirement living in Marin County

My dad lives in San Rafael, at 89 qualifying for an apartment in an active retirement community.  One of the places he is most active is at the breakfast table.  A night owl, he doesn’t wake up until about noon, so he’s ready to eat when I arrive.  His first choice isn’t open on weekends, but his far-distant second choice is an unexpected delight.  They stop serving at 2:00pm on weekends, and we arrive at 2:05 – but the owner invites us to order anything anyway, as the cooks haven’t cleaned up yet.  Dad spots eggs benedict on the menu, learns there are no more English muffins, and declines eggs benedict on toast.  He settles for scrambled eggs, sausages, home fries, two thick slices of house-made toast and two cups of high-test.  He does not finish all the potatoes.  That’s right, folks:  89, and this is his standard breakfast.  So we’re both thrilled with Eduardo’s – that owner is so nice – and Dad vows to return for those eggs benedict another day.  Probably tomorrow. 

When I asked Dad whether he still notices the impressive
views from his home, he talked about the architecture. 
He doesn't think highly of it.  "But the HILLS," I said.

View from traffic jam

I get more quality family time, with Dad and his wife, in the afternoon and evening, but press on south at night.  On Day 21, I awake in Redwood City, just east of Half Moon Bay, and with a convenient Jiffy Lube where I can change the oil three weeks after the car’s last oil change.  Since I do most of my driving on weekdays, in the middle of the day, I am currently spoiled rotten, and it does not occur to me that driving to the coast – driving to a renowned coastal resort town just south of the Bay Area’s many cities – on a bright, sunny Sunday is more or less insane.  The 13 miles of two-lane (one in each direction) Route 92 take about 90 minutes; a solid line of cars pointed west is literally parked at frequent intervals.  Two cars ahead of me, driver and passenger both get out, stretch a bit, and change sides at a stroll, and no one in the line cares at all.  They are not slowing us down.  In my notes I wrote, “The back-up is so bad it must be something more than volume,” but it’s not.

Closer to ocean - note cars on switchback, center right

And closer still

Fortunately, the view from the jam is lovely and soothing.  Watching the various greens – dark green and shaggy trees and shrubs in the drier parts; puffy and mid-greens near water – I am unconcerned by the sight of the road ahead, switchbacking downhill with cars creeping along, at about eight miles per hour, on every inch.  The smell is also soothing.  I think it includes ocean scents, but I may be deluding myself; there’s certainly eucalyptus and the cedar-y smell of the redwoods, and more.  There’s something in the mix, or maybe a combination of somethings, that smells like cloves.

Yard art, but not my yard, thank you.

Finally I am past the pumpkin patches and landscape-art stores of Half Moon Bay, and headed south on Route One, with ocean on my right and marshes on my left, exuding their muddy, low-tide stench.  The ocean is calmer than the Oregon one, but still keeps changing colors constantly according to cloud formations and the angle from which I see it as the sun strikes it, or doesn’t quite.  One moment it’s a cloudy indigo green (that’s a real color; it is); another it’s as blue and glittering as a star sapphire in a sterling mount.  I am wondering whether the ocean is more beautiful seen from this small distance, and low height, than it is when I’m on foot right there on the beach.  I think not, eventually; both perspectives are beautiful, though very different.

Route One seems less touristic than 101 did in Oregon.  The small towns along the road have more going on than serving vacationers.  For instance, several of them are clearly heavily engaged in serving surfers, who may be nomadic but also bring a sense of permanence, as a culture, that I don’t feel with the tourist population.  Santa Cruz is one of the bigger towns on my way, and a handy place to fill up with gas.  Since I’m stopped anyway, I get a sandwich at a bagel place and then head out of town – making a dramatic swerve when I see a sign for a chocolate shop boasting it was selected by National Geographic as one of the ten best in the world.  Richard Donnelly himself is staffing the shop, and we talk about La Maison du Chocolat, where he trained, and other makers (did you know LMdC is owned by Valhrona?) as he plies me with samples.  The cardamom is excellent.  I buy an ice cream sandwich concoction that would be better for a trip to Moorenko’s.   I think pretty much everything would be better for a trip to Moorenko’s.

This is just south of Carmel.

Past Santa Cruz, the view changes from ocean and beach towns to cultivated fields.  These aren’t, mostly, the corn and soy fields I’ve seen in the midwest and Washington; these crops are lower and bushier, and mostly green of various shades.  There’s an enormous field of something cruciferous growing right next to the ocean, and I suspect most of what I’m seeing are table-vegetable crops.  In Monterey the farm stands start:  kiwi or avocado, ten for a dollar; artichokes, too.  Oh, imagine paying a dime for the avocado that costs you two bucks on the east coast.

And glory, I do love how it smells around here.  Except, of course, when it smells like a very wet seal with a digestive disorder writhing in the mud of low tide, as for example around the Big Sur area.  That may not be Big Sur, though, but the nearby Esalen Institute, home of Gestalt therapy, which many people think stinks.  I am feeling pretty good about my own ability to maximize my human potentiality, so I keep driving.

I’m generally quite happy to keep driving today.  The road is interesting; the twists and turns keep me engaged with steering and the small towns require plenty of shifting as speed limits drop and drop again.  And the scenery is varied, and I’m always wondering what might come next, and I’m actually quite curious about what is causing this filmy schmutz that is coating my windshield.  Could it be salt spray?

About 7,500 seals live here at least part of the year.

This guy looks like the dragon/worm of the movie
The Lair of the White Worm, a very peculiar campy/
funny/sexually-bizarre/really bad Ken Russell movie.

And then... there’s a sign about seals on the beach up ahead, and I am quite, quite happy to pull over, slide into a parking spot and leap from the car into the gloaming (it’s been getting cloudy and cool for a while, and now the sun is getting serious about setting, too) with my camera in one hand and the telephoto lens in a pocket, and rush to the walkway that makes it easy to look over scores of elephant seals on the sand.  They are awkward and weird looking here, not the sleek creatures they seem to be in the pool at the aquarium, but wonderful.  A little boy walking up the boardwalk catches my eye; we’re both grinning.  “Whaddaya think?” I ask, and he answers, “Pretty cool.”  “Pretty stinky,” I say; “Yeah!”  “And really loud.”  “Yeah, really loud.”  “But great.”  “Yeah, really great.”

There are a ton more seal pictures here, plus a video.  Please forgive the peculiar few seconds at both beginning and end of the video.  I think it's the first one I've made with this camera.

Once it’s dark the seals get even spookier, and then back on the highway there’s a sign advertising scarecrows.  It has an arrow, pointing west, toward a clump of palm trees that look like scarecrows.  Their trunks are long sticks, topped with old palms that curl down and in to form a kind of stuffed-pillowcase ball, topped with the spiky hairdo of new palms sticking out and up.  I don’t know that they’d scare any known bird, though.  I reflect happily that as much as I enjoy seeing elk, or deer, or moose, at least with seals I needn't be afraid I might run into one on the highway.

I get a bit of a scare when a pick-up truck high beams me from behind while I’m passing an 18-wheeler.  I pull back into the travel lane as soon as I can, and the pick-up passes me, moving briskly.  About 15 minutes later I see it pulled over to the side of the road, in the company of a police vehicle with its blue lights flashing.  Oh, dear.

There’s a tiny bit of sunlight still left, off to the west, as I pull off at Santa Barbara.  It is backlighting the hills.  How kind of it.

Day Nineteen: Gold Beach, Oregon, to Santa Rosa, California

Friday 11 October

view from motel room

The Gold Beach Resort is my favorite cheap motel of the trip.  Not only is my washcloth origami’d into the shape of a swan, the view from my room is of sand and beach grass and, if I crane my neck just a tiny bit, ocean.  So after laps in the indoor pool, on with the warm outer layer and the hiking boots, and off to the beach.  A little snake rushes away as I tread down the path, and I think how nice to be in chilly Oregon where the snakes cause little alarm.

Amazing quantities of driftwood, actually.

After a brisk walk with lots of driftwood and a few pieces of sea glass, I arrive at a little rivulet carving through the sand.  It’s wider and deeper than it looked from a distance, and I choose not to wade through it to get to the mammoth rocks at the edge of the waves on the other side.  These rocks are so big, they get names:  Kissing Rock is before me; later I’ll see House Rock, Rainbow Rock and a few others.  For the moment, I turn back motel-wards, enjoying the crashing of the waves and the “grating roar of pebbles that waves suck back, and fling, at their return, up the high strand, begin, and cease, and then again begin.”

Start back here...

Of course I cannot be on this beautiful, wild beach by this massive, wild ocean, in a swimsuit, and not go in the water.  None of the other dozen or two beach-combers is going in, but they’re probably locals who have to get to work or something.  So off with the outer layer, way up by the beach grass, and then jog west, working up to a pretty full-tilt run so I’m well into the waves before I notice the cold.

gain speed...

It is not the cold, though, that’s a concern this morning in Gold Beach, Oregon.  The water’s chilly, sure, but not Rexhame-Beach-outside-Boston-at-Thanksgiving cold yet.  It’s not the waves, either; they reach almost to my shoulders and are powerful, but they’re not mean.  My concerns are dual:  1) the pebbly – one might reasonably call it rocky – ocean floor; and 2) the ferociously powerful outward tide.  Yipes!  The incoming waves knock me around a bit, and that’s fine, but the outgoing current is trying to ship me to Sapporo, in northern Japan, or somewhere thereabouts.  This is not a swimming beach, today.  But I am delighted to get in a couple rounds with the rocks and the tide, and as delighted to emerge intact.

and don't slow down -- the ocean will do that for you.

Sodden and triumphant, hiking boots in hand, I head back to the motel, and come up in back of the wrong one.  Fortunately, mine is just next door, and I find a pass through so do not need to parade even a short distance down route 101 in my bathing suit.  With a warm shower running, I am reminded why my parents made their youngsters strip off swimsuits in the back yard and get hosed off before entering the house.  In recent years, most of my swimming’s been in pools, and undressing in the shower makes sense.  At the Gold Beach Resort, at least today, removing the Speedo also releases about a quarter pound of gravel, maybe more, into the bathtub!  Emergency shower shut off, gather gravel into the spare hand towel, and a lot of swimsuit waving on the balcony before I’m eventually warmed through, cleaned up and ready to go.  Leave three dollars for the maid instead of the usual two.

Driving out of Gold Beach, a local radio station plays “Me and You and a Dog Named Boo,” a song my sisters and I used to sing as it played on one of my very first record albums, Super Hits of 1972, or something like that.  The refrain is, “Me and you and a dog named Boo, travelin’ and livin’ off the land/Me and you and a dog named Boo; how I love bein’ a free man.”  It’s not a song I admire any more, but it’s fun to sing on a sunny day, driving along a coast.

Of course, I’ve now gotten to a point that I’m frequently hearing Willie Nelson in my head, singing, “On the road again...”  I am still enjoying it, though I drive myself in a Honda while Willie gets driven in a large bus, with video players and beds and friends.  It is amusing to notice things like, as I get closer to California, the warning signs – single words on yellow diamonds yesterday – become more loquacious:  SUNKEN GRADE, ROUGH ROAD, WIND GUST.

And the bicyclists are starting to occur far more frequently, but whether that’s location or weather (it’s dry and sunny today, compared to yesterday’s cool rain), I don’t know.  I do know it’s hilly enough here that at least a few of them are probably wishing for a sag wagon.  They tend to travel with tremendous packs on their backs, and sometimes straddling their rear wheels, and one man has things lashed to his handlebars as well.  The recumbent bikes look much more comfortable than the uprights, although the high-recumbents look terrifying to me.

When the road narrows for a bridge, the cyclists have the opportunity to ride over a sensor, marked with signs, to start lights flashing to warn approaching cars that there’s a bike on the bridge.  I did not see the lights flash during my drive, but then I don’t think I crossed any bridge with a cyclists on it before me.  So the state has the cyclists’ safety in mind, but can’t do anything about the chill and the fog descending as I approach Brookings, Oregon.  By the time I reach the Boardman State Park, I can’t see the ocean anymore.  As much as I appreciate being offered scenic viewpoints with safe parking areas, they’re not very tempting in these conditions.

Over the highest bridge in Oregon – the Thomas Creek Bridge, at 345 feet – and shortly after I’m in California.  Almost the first thing I see is a warning sign:  ELK CROSSING.  That’s right, not just ELK, but elk that are crossing the road.  So watch out.  A few miles farther along:  ELK CROSSING/Next Two Miles.  Whoa!  They’re chatty here in California!

The fog has lifted, or maybe it never landed this little bit farther south.  There are a lot of classic cars cruising the highway.  I’m no good at identifying cars, but it’s fun to pass them, especially three in a convoy.  The middle one is a deep-coral Impala; the other two have flames painted on their front fenders and hoods.  The Honda zooms past, un-intimidated.  The surf here looks much less rough than Oregon was.  Hmmm.  I’m actually glad I stopped in Gold Beach, instead of pressing on to Crescent City, California, as targeted.

It would be interesting, though, to spend the night in a redwood forest.  The road has gone very twisty and moved inland, through the redwoods.  They are so straight, so symmetrical, they have a mystical quality compared to nature’s usual bends and twists and sprawls.  I’ve had to stop for road work – we’re down to one lane somewhere far ahead, with north- and south-bound traffic taking turns using it – and I turn off the engine given the long delay.  Even with a car idling in front of me, another behind me, and at least a half-dozen more in each direction, I am very aware of the deep silence of these woods.  Once I’m underway again, I switch on the radio and find a clarinet concerto.  It seems a perfect fit with this formal and serious landscape.

More animals start to show up – cows and horses, and one herd of sheep.  There’s not a huge lot of commercial activity now, still inland, but I take an exit in Arcata and find the Fiesta Grill -n- Cantina.  (They use jalapenos for those hyphens around the n.)  After lunch, I’m at the counter paying when I hear a loud thunk from the roof, and the restaurant shudders, very briefly.  “Was that an earthquake?” I ask the hostess.  “I didn’t notice anything,” she answered, “but I always miss them.  I was talking to my boyfriend about who’s picking up our daughter from daycare.”  She goes back into the kitchen and comes back to report that yes, there was an earthquake – the cooking staff noticed it.  I’m glad it was a very mild one, as I would not choose a good-but-not-great chile relleno as my last meal.

Whether it’s the time, or the location, or the minor tremor, the morning’s clouds have vanished and the world is blue skies and sunshine again.  Sunshine is important to Eureka, California, or at least the small stretch of it on highway 101, because otherwise it’s just used car dealers, tire shops, family-owned restaurants of many ethnicities and uninspired aesthetics, car stereo shops, auto parts stores, cheap motels, Walgreens and Target.  Cheering news on the outskirts of town, at the mall:  It’s Pie Month at Marie Callendar’s!

Elk, hanging out.

It’s also mating season for elk, as I learn from the special AM radio station publicized on roadway signs.  The recorded message warns that herds have been spotted nearby.  I pull into a park with viewing spots (Stay in the car!  Rutting elk are unpredictable!), but no one’s around – the employees because it’s a national park, and the elk most likely for other reasons.  They are hanging out down the road a piece, on private property where someone’s offering horseback riding and elk tours.  The elk here look tame (I stay in the car), as if they’ve been induced to make this ranch or farm or whatever their home.  The inducement is clearly not fences, nor electric collars, and there’s no one handy to ask, so this elk resort remains a mystery for me.

Little man, I guess.

Big man, throwing his weight around.

And then, just a bit farther south, the transportation department offers a choice of remaining on 101 or detouring off onto the Avenue of the Giants.  The avenue winds along for 32 miles, bumping against the highway every five miles or so.  I choose to drive the full length, which includes numerous private commercial enterprises along the lines of drive-through redwoods, one-log houses and a whole lot of gift shops.  Ignoring the exclamation-point-laden signs, I switch off the music and marvel.  The sun can’t get in through these trees; the noise of the highway can’t penetrate; I can’t even see how tall they are from the road.  But I am very, very aware of their size and their age.  They are a grounding force, like the prairies of South Dakota; they root the area in history far more ancient than anything we humans have recorded.

I am pleased to note that the Residents of Massachusetts have a grove named for them, in acknowledgement of generous contributions to upkeep of the avenue.

Apparently I was too awestruck to photograph redwoods.
Here is a boat on land instead.

Emerging from the trees, I realize the sun I couldn’t see in there has in fact been setting.  So I’m driving in the dark again, but tonight no ocean views.  The moon is lighting fields and small towns, but it can’t compete with the gigantically gaudy red neon sign welcoming travelers to Willitts.  Willits is in Mendocino County, and Mendocino County smells like musty grapes.  I feel like I’m traveling through the stoneware crock in which my sister made tutti-frutti as a teenager.  Mendocino is wine country, and wine country is expensive country.  I travel all the way to Santa Rosa before finding a cluster of the blue-collar motels I’ve come to love.