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Well, I made it.
Left Mojave before 10:00 AM and headed north on CA-99 until I hit US 101-N. Once I left Mojave, the landscape changed. I left the desert behind. I drove through gentle hills covered in golden winter grass, then hit Bakersfield. Bakersfield was a blur, but I think any city that touts itself as ‘The Ninth Largest in California’ is just trying too hard. Once past Bakersfield, I entered wine country, passing fallow fields lined with row upon row of grape trellis’s waiting for next years crop. The hills became a little rougher the further north and west I went, but when I hit US-101 N, the mountains had vanished. So too, had the sun. The horizon was white cloud as far as the eye could see. I overshot my exit and had to turn back, just as it started to rain. Recovering my route, I left the highway and took a number of side roads until I arrived in the little town of Carmel.
Carmel was a jewel box of a town. Draped in lush greenery, its streets were hillocks lined with specialty stores, boutiques and art galleries. Unfortunately, after making various inquiries around town, I discovered that there was no room at the inn. Any of the inns. Or the hotels. The place was packed tighter than a fat girl at an all you can eat buffet. So, with a shrug, I turned south and rolled along California Highway 1.
Here, at last, California delivered. The drive down through Big Sur was breathtaking. The mountains descend into the oceans, so you have earth on your left and sea to your right. Everything was shrouded in late afternoon fog, which thickened as the sun set into white clouds. It began to rain, and the wind began to blow. The breeze smelt wonderfully of rain, sage and heather. I proceeded down the highway, until it was dark as the inside of a cat, and the rain was falling in vertical slashes. Rocks tumbled off the mountains. The sun vanished. Cars flashed past me at breakneck speeds and all I could think of was that they must be driven by suicidal jerks. At last, I came to a little lodge in the community of Lucia. I took a room for the night with an ocean view, (irrelevant as everything was black). Once settled in the room, I returned to the lodge for a wonderful dinner: a glass of Madera, a small house salad, chicken cordon bleu with rice pilaf and steamed vegetables seasoned to perfection. There was a couple from Montreal taking a road trip of their own, celebrating their fortieth anniversary. We toasted each other and our hostess, who laughed with us and produced a glass of her own. Then, after supper, I returned to my little room, where I passed some time with a good book, before settling in for the night, lulled to sleep by wind and rain.
I woke this morning and spent a few moments enjoying the ocean view from the porch of the lodge. The night’s rain had passed, and although the sky remained somewhat cloudy, the sun was visible in the distance. It shone down through gaps in the gray heaven, turning the churning Pacific Ocean to silver.
I left Lucia Lodge (which I highly recommend to anyone passing through the area), and proceeded south along California Highway 1. The scenery was lovely. Green, lush, with brilliant flowers blooming here and there on the mountainside. As the morning progressed, the clouds parted and the day became quite sunny. By the time I left the mountains behind me the day was golden and lovely.
Beyond the mountains, I paused at a sea lion rookery. There, on the beach, cantankerous and fat, were at least a hundred sea lions: cows, alpha males, pups. All of them sprawled on the wet sand, honking and roaring at each other. If they noticed us humans standing at the view point, they didn’t deign to react. I watched there for a while, amused by the cows behavior, biting each other on the rump when one cow got too close to another’s pup. Along the water’s edge an enormous alpha male lunged at one female after another, in a futile effort to mate. They wiggled away from him, leaving him frustrated and howling at the heavens. It was all very Shakespearean.
I continued along the highway and came to Hearst Castle. I’d done Biltmore House on the East Coast, so thought Hearst Castle might make a nice counterpoint. I paid for a tour ticket and rode a bus with a dozen other visitors up the winding road to the Castle. The vistas were remarkable. Gentle green hills to the east, the Pacific Ocean to the west. I tried, futilely, to take a picture of the scene, but it didn’t work out.
Comparing Biltmore House to Hearst Castle would be like comparing apples and oranges. Although Biltmore House has more presence, in my opinion, Hearst Castle was simply prettier. Our guide , an 85-year-old gentleman bundled up against the blustery winds outside, led us through the castle. He regaled us with bad jokes as well as the background of the house, pointing out the 13th century ceilings in the midst of being restored, informing us of the centuries old statuary outside the house, the unique art pieces inside it. When the tour was over we were free to wander the grounds, to admire the statues and the views. In summer, it would be an idyllic experience, but on this January afternoon with the wind roaring off the ocean, it was simply too cold to linger. I toured the grounds in a rush, then made my way to the Neptune Pool where a dozen other visitors were waiting for the bus to take us down the winding hillside, back to the visitor center.
There, I climbed into my car and headed south again, coming after a little while to the lovely beachfront community of San Simeon. I’ve checked into a hotel here for the next two nights, possibly longer.
And here, on the gusty beach beneath the hotel, I finally did what I came to California to do. Descending a rocky path to the beach, I kicked off my shoes, rolled up the cuffs of my jeans, and walked into the Pacific Ocean.
Mission accomplished.
Left Mojave before 10:00 AM and headed north on CA-99 until I hit US 101-N. Once I left Mojave, the landscape changed. I left the desert behind. I drove through gentle hills covered in golden winter grass, then hit Bakersfield. Bakersfield was a blur, but I think any city that touts itself as ‘The Ninth Largest in California’ is just trying too hard. Once past Bakersfield, I entered wine country, passing fallow fields lined with row upon row of grape trellis’s waiting for next years crop. The hills became a little rougher the further north and west I went, but when I hit US-101 N, the mountains had vanished. So too, had the sun. The horizon was white cloud as far as the eye could see. I overshot my exit and had to turn back, just as it started to rain. Recovering my route, I left the highway and took a number of side roads until I arrived in the little town of Carmel.
Carmel was a jewel box of a town. Draped in lush greenery, its streets were hillocks lined with specialty stores, boutiques and art galleries. Unfortunately, after making various inquiries around town, I discovered that there was no room at the inn. Any of the inns. Or the hotels. The place was packed tighter than a fat girl at an all you can eat buffet. So, with a shrug, I turned south and rolled along California Highway 1.
Here, at last, California delivered. The drive down through Big Sur was breathtaking. The mountains descend into the oceans, so you have earth on your left and sea to your right. Everything was shrouded in late afternoon fog, which thickened as the sun set into white clouds. It began to rain, and the wind began to blow. The breeze smelt wonderfully of rain, sage and heather. I proceeded down the highway, until it was dark as the inside of a cat, and the rain was falling in vertical slashes. Rocks tumbled off the mountains. The sun vanished. Cars flashed past me at breakneck speeds and all I could think of was that they must be driven by suicidal jerks. At last, I came to a little lodge in the community of Lucia. I took a room for the night with an ocean view, (irrelevant as everything was black). Once settled in the room, I returned to the lodge for a wonderful dinner: a glass of Madera, a small house salad, chicken cordon bleu with rice pilaf and steamed vegetables seasoned to perfection. There was a couple from Montreal taking a road trip of their own, celebrating their fortieth anniversary. We toasted each other and our hostess, who laughed with us and produced a glass of her own. Then, after supper, I returned to my little room, where I passed some time with a good book, before settling in for the night, lulled to sleep by wind and rain.
I woke this morning and spent a few moments enjoying the ocean view from the porch of the lodge. The night’s rain had passed, and although the sky remained somewhat cloudy, the sun was visible in the distance. It shone down through gaps in the gray heaven, turning the churning Pacific Ocean to silver.
I left Lucia Lodge (which I highly recommend to anyone passing through the area), and proceeded south along California Highway 1. The scenery was lovely. Green, lush, with brilliant flowers blooming here and there on the mountainside. As the morning progressed, the clouds parted and the day became quite sunny. By the time I left the mountains behind me the day was golden and lovely.
Beyond the mountains, I paused at a sea lion rookery. There, on the beach, cantankerous and fat, were at least a hundred sea lions: cows, alpha males, pups. All of them sprawled on the wet sand, honking and roaring at each other. If they noticed us humans standing at the view point, they didn’t deign to react. I watched there for a while, amused by the cows behavior, biting each other on the rump when one cow got too close to another’s pup. Along the water’s edge an enormous alpha male lunged at one female after another, in a futile effort to mate. They wiggled away from him, leaving him frustrated and howling at the heavens. It was all very Shakespearean.
I continued along the highway and came to Hearst Castle. I’d done Biltmore House on the East Coast, so thought Hearst Castle might make a nice counterpoint. I paid for a tour ticket and rode a bus with a dozen other visitors up the winding road to the Castle. The vistas were remarkable. Gentle green hills to the east, the Pacific Ocean to the west. I tried, futilely, to take a picture of the scene, but it didn’t work out.
Comparing Biltmore House to Hearst Castle would be like comparing apples and oranges. Although Biltmore House has more presence, in my opinion, Hearst Castle was simply prettier. Our guide , an 85-year-old gentleman bundled up against the blustery winds outside, led us through the castle. He regaled us with bad jokes as well as the background of the house, pointing out the 13th century ceilings in the midst of being restored, informing us of the centuries old statuary outside the house, the unique art pieces inside it. When the tour was over we were free to wander the grounds, to admire the statues and the views. In summer, it would be an idyllic experience, but on this January afternoon with the wind roaring off the ocean, it was simply too cold to linger. I toured the grounds in a rush, then made my way to the Neptune Pool where a dozen other visitors were waiting for the bus to take us down the winding hillside, back to the visitor center.
There, I climbed into my car and headed south again, coming after a little while to the lovely beachfront community of San Simeon. I’ve checked into a hotel here for the next two nights, possibly longer.
And here, on the gusty beach beneath the hotel, I finally did what I came to California to do. Descending a rocky path to the beach, I kicked off my shoes, rolled up the cuffs of my jeans, and walked into the Pacific Ocean.
Mission accomplished.
