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| The 7:30 a.m. Sun breaks through the haze at Pheiffer State Beach, Big Sur. Not a bad way to start the day. |
It’s a mere 229 miles from Santa Monica to Cambria via lovely US 101, a simple enough drive even for 80-year-olds, but we nonetheless made an errant turn and wound up traveling inland a few miles. Just in the nick of time, we ran across a stupendously attractive fruit and vegetable stand, the likes of which always demands a stop.
“Where y’headed?” asked friendly Farmer Jones. “Cambria,” we told him, as Siobhan filled several little bags with plunder. “They even have FIGS!” she exulted.
Farmer Jones’ lips twisted into an almost imperceptible smile as he found yet another opportunity to correct some fumbling city slickers. “You missed the turn about eight miles back,” he said. “Happens all the time. You’re the third today.” Siobhan came around the corner with her growing haul. “And dates!” she celebrated. “They’ve got dates.”
“Good for business, though, that turn back there,” I teased. “How much do you have to pay them to confuse the tourists?” The old man almost-smiled, bagged our loot and counted out the change. “Not as much as you’d think,” he said, looking proudly at the four full bags. “Got family with the road department.”
Fact or fiction? It matters little. You’re never going to get the best of Farmer Jones.
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| Above, Farmer Jones, you've got a lovely fruit stand; below, Bill catches some fog at the Inn. |
If you haven’t read your travel brochures, you’ll drive right by this little pearl, just a short hop from Route 101 in Cambria. Moonstone Beach Drive extends a little more than a mile and consists of several brown sandy coves separated by rocky bluffs. A winding wooden boardwalk extends along the beach for a longer distance than the road. The charming little town of Cambria, not far from famous Hearst Castle, is just a couple of miles away.
We stayed at the Fogcatcher Inn, one of a half-dozen similar hideaways along the beach owned by the same family. Our apartment was a spacious two-room palace which offered a functioning fireplace and terrific views of the beach. Of course, every palace has a few minor inconveniences; in ours, the phone didn’t work, the pilot light in the fireplace malfunctioned and the light around the bathroom mirror was flashing on and off like a strobelight at the Electric Circus. Pish-tosh, who cares when you can watch the brilliant sunset from the comfort of your own room? Management tended to most of the problems but that mirror was a doozy. Eventually, we shut it off. The fireplace came in handy with morning temperatures in the high fifties, though reaching 70 by noontime. Chilly by Florida standards, but just right for the famous elephant seal colony nearby.
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| Siobhan on Moonstone Beach, across from The Fogcatcher Inn; below, lurid seal orgy. |
Seals Of Approval
When I asked before the trip what Siobhan was most looking forward to, she was quick to answer. “The elephant seals,” she said immediately. We had seen them six years ago while driving the long distance from Monterey to Camarillo, but that was just a quick stop on a long journey. This time they were just a short drive from the hotel.
Now, if you are an average American male, the fascination with these creatures may escape you. They mostly lie on the beach flopping around and grunting, occasionally rising up to chastise a lesser seal or to assert dominance. They are genteel enough to keep the real fisticuffs under cover so as not to spoil the tourist ambiance and reduce financial contributions. Several Friends of the Elephant Seal wander about answering questions and dispensing knowledge. For instance, the seals spend eight to ten months a year in the open ocean, diving 1000 to 5000 feet deep for periods of fifteen minutes to two hours. They migrate thousands of miles to their land-based rookery for birthing, breeding, molting and rest. The homestead near Cambria is called the Piedras Blancas Rookery and is home to an astounding 17,000 animals, of which you will see maybe 200. The rest are playing Wii in the game room.
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| The Keyhole Arch, Pfeiffer State Beach, Big Sur |
Big Sur
Hard as it may be to believe, there will come a time when you have seen all you need to of the wonderful elephant seal. (This does not necessarily apply to Siobhan or animal fanatics like Will (Snakeyes) Thacker, who was given the wrong kind of rattle as a child.) When all the seals have been kissed on the cheek and waved to, the glories of Big Sur await.
If you haven’t been there, whatever you think of Big Sur, it’s better than that. For about 80 miles of narrow, winding cliffside roads between San Simeon and Carmel, Big Sur weaves its spell, unveiling one spectacular vista after another on California’s superscenic and often misty coastline. The region is sparsely populated, with only a smattering of homes and very few inns or hotels, but there are state parks and beaches for hiking, camping and exploring.
The most stunning strand is off-the-beaten-track Pfeiffer State Beach just south of Big Sur Station, an unadvertised scenic marvel down the less than obvious Sycamore Canyon Road, an often one-lane byway which twists and turns its way for two nervous miles to the shore. This bit of fantasyland is used mostly by locals who get there early and fill up the tiny parking lot. No RVs or trailers, thank you very much.
The focal point of the beach is the massive pair of natural rocks in the crashing surf. One of them, Keyhole Arch, allows waves and even the last rays of sunlight to pass through it. On the north end of the beach, you can find unique purple sand which comes from the manganese garnet rocks in the cliffs. There are also tide pools at the north end during low tide. We got there at a chilly 7:30 a.m. and had the place to ourselves for twenty minutes. It was a pleasure seldom duplicated.
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| Above, confrontational deer on the path to Pfeiffer State Beach; below, Siobhan the Beachcomber |
A River Runs Through It
The backyard of the Big Sur River Inn, that is. Nestled among the towering redwoods along the picturesque Big Sur River, the area’s first hotel and restaurant is not just a hostelry but more a beloved gathering place for locals and visitors alike. Several chairs have been placed smack dab in the middle of the quiet waterway and customers of the hotel, its bar and restaurant linger for hours with their toes in the water while children splash and play. Nobody seems to mind the absence of a roller coaster or Back To The Future ride.
The rates at the River Inn are less than half the $1000+ per night cost of the few other resorts in the area and the old rooms are still in great shape. We stayed for two nights, made the required visit to the iconic Nepenthe restaurant down the road and particularly enjoyed dining at a small pearl of an eatery called Deetjen’s, which offered exemplary food, erudite waiters and appropriate classical music in an antique setting. We also spent time hiking in nearby Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, a large and accommodating place with various levels of exercise opportunities. I am sad to report we did not take Leonard Jourard’s generous tip and sneak in the back way to the Esalen hot springs. My wife, if turns out, is an inveterate law-abider. Into every life, a little rain must fall.
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| Above, the Big Sur River runs behind the River Inn; below, Deetjen's terrific dining room peeks through the greenery. |
Carmel By-The-Sea
On the way to our evening stop in Monterey, we paused to spend the morning in beautiful Carmel-by-the-Sea, once the bailiwick of Mayor Clint Eastwood. There are a few things we can guarantee you about any town the name of which ends in “by-the-Sea.” It will be expensive. Very rich people will live there. There will be spas, galleries and coffee shops on every corner. A small orange juice will cost at least $5. The public restrooms will be pristine. Alleged homeless people will be wadded tightly and heaved. Nobody will open until eleven unless they serve food. Old men in Izod shirts will be everywhere walking sissified dogs. You can’t afford to live there for a week.
We found a very nice restaurant with sophisticated waiters who read Chaucer between customers. The food was excellent, but we were forced to check our remaining credit card balance when we left. As soon as we departed the breakfast studio, a smiling young man nabbed Bill off the street and offered him a miracle cream which would obliterate bagginess under the eyes. Only $200. Bill told him he’d become quite fond of his bagginess, never more than now. Meanwhile, Siobhan checked out the fancy-schmancy pet store, but found they didn’t serve Rottweiler owners. “Oh, dear!” huffed the manager. “Those creatures are nothing but ruffians.” You get the idea. Very cute, though, Carmel. It’s by the sea, they say, but very few Carmelites actually go near it.
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| Above, Bill at Pfeiffer State Park; below, statue honoring James Steinbeck and cronies on Cannery Row, Monterey. |
On The Road To Monterey
Monterey seems to be a good town for laundry. We did ours last time we were there and we did it again this time. I hadn’t been in a non-hotel laundromat for years and I have to admit being surprised by the impressive laundry skills of the staff and customers of the place. This was not your laundromat of silly comedy movies where shrieking redneck wives battle one another for the only spare drier in the place, this was a professional operation with endless aisles of available machines attended to by personnel skilled in the arts of loading, unloading and advanced folding.
The manager was an attractive young woman with great peripheral vision and fast feet. She was all over the place, making change, providing soap, directing her underlings with a booming megaphone and dispensing washing advice to less gifted customers. When Siobhan offered her a big handful of quarters, she rushed over and dumped a dollop of soap in our machine and turned it on. We were amazed by her speed, dexterity and hand-to-eye coordination. Eventually, however, Siobhan unloaded the drier and frowned.
“Not enough soap,” she commented, drily. “Not quite an odor but the tiniest hint of mustiness. No Bounce to perk up the load. All in all, a C-plus performance in washateria skills. We’ll have to redo this mess at home.”
Not only that, but Monterey was freezing cold and the lines at the Aquarium were ridiculous. Get us out of here, Rochester, and bring us a strong drink.
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| The gang singing "The Washateria Blues." And whites. |
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
