The Collective

The Collective

I live in a relatively sterile city within a population of bland and homogenous people of little character who do little to get to know one another. It is the fifth-largest city in America: Phoenix, Arizona. Conformity is our largest industrial product with banality being its most harmful pollutant. The air quality from this constant smog of soul-crushing monotony does have the positive effect of adding a layer of brilliance to all things surrounding the place I call home.

When I’m in Europe, I live in the vibrance of places of great cultural activity where someone is writing, making music, planning a vacation, celebrating life, and exploring potential.

I’m fully aware that these activities are alive and taking place here in Phoenix, but that most tiny locus of creators struggles under a veneer of fear that is the foundation of existence here in the desert and, to a large extent, most of America for that matter. Our safety net is fragile, and for the individual, the holes in that webbing are so great that the idea of not crashing into the open jaws of personal destruction is unfathomable. Being accepted is a paramount concern when fitting in is the straightjacket we are bound within, which also restricts our opportunity to discover a unique self.

A creator in Europe can struggle for years without concerns about insurance, transportation needs, a roof over their head, or the basics of things like food, as there are ways to accommodate those needs without working 80 hours a week and still not earning enough to pursue a meaningful life.

When I left America for Europe in 1985, Starbucks wasn’t yet a ubiquitous operation. As a matter of fact, the United States did not have a coffee shop culture. In Europe, I found a thriving coffee shop, cafe, and Konditorei (cake & coffee) culture where friends and family would meet to chat. Dinner was and remains an affair that consumes a good couple of hours of hanging out, as servers do not need to turn tables to have more tips walking in the door.

In America, when I visit coffee shops, cafes, and diners, I eavesdrop on the conversations about the love/hate of guns, politicians, celebrities, rich people, poor people, liberals, the health care system, cost of living, immigrants, law enforcement, conspiracies, homeless people, and the list goes on.

In Europe when I visit coffee shops, cafes, and Konditoreis, I eavesdrop on fragments of conversations about music, vacations, TV, weather, international politics, food, and friends. At times, I hear them lamenting fascists, how crowded a beloved city has become, immigrants, or the crazy person who recently vandalized something.

When on vacation in America in Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, or the Great Smoky Mountains, I hear American and foreign tourists celebrating how amazed they are. Their happiness shines through as they are overwhelmed by the enthusiasm for how spectacular the moment is.

Here’s my reasoning behind this post: when I’m in Phoenix, I find it hard to write on a daily basis, especially creatively. That’s not true when I’m somewhere away from America’s large cities where life is happening at a different speed unless I’m in an economically depressed town in decay. I can easily and happily write when in any environment in Europe or in America’s National Parks. Today I was wondering, why is that so? I live in a place that prizes individualism and so the majority of conversations revolve around personal identity and one’s accomplishments, while in Europe, the collective resonates out of conversations. We endlessly complain about the non-existent social fabric of our country and heap hate on all those who exploit the individual while simultaneously demanding that the individual and their rights are the only paramount concern that exists. In Europe, the complaint might be about disappearing traditions, but what serves the entire culture is of paramount concern. New train lines, improving bicycle and pedestrian zones, expanding museums, fixing the environment, or building a new park where a factory once stood are all reasons to see the good in politics and taxes amongst average Europeans.

Then, I realized that, secretly, Americans likely desire the exact same safety net and social fabric as people from other countries. Otherwise, how do we explain the #MeToo Movement, BLM, GoFundMe, and the multitude of other groups that are trying to help the collective? Before a chorus arises taking me to task for minimizing the true reason behind these entities, please understand that it is not my intention to slight the importance of what’s at the core of those organizations but to emphasize how people on the periphery of those movements want to lend power because the collective is that important to our survival.

Meanwhile, there is that segment of America trying to maintain a death grip on rugged individualism that says you struggle through your hardship and suck up injustice because that’s the backbone of being an American. But the reality is that the wealthy have always had access to support networks and capital as they enriched themselves and paid for a reputation bathed in deep mythologies while they luxuriated in a mansion with servants to cater to their whims. Not to say they weren’t pioneers and often worked hard while making great sacrifices, but it was still with a reliance on the collective systems that could be exploited for their benefit while painting the endeavor as real true-grit Americana.
But after feasting on greed, it almost always happens that people approaching enlightenment or the end of their days begin to recognize their selfishness, even if it were for the greater good, and decide they have a lot to give back for their fortunate place in life. This is where “pay it forward” starts to happen, and with Andrew Carnegie, it was funding libraries and cultural centers; William Randolph Hearst worked to save the wild California coast, while the Rockefellers gave new life to Colonial Williamsburg and protected large tracts of land to keep Yellowstone and the Tetons the unique places they are. Those actions were to protect places for the collective enjoyment of all people on Earth.
So, how do we come to have such poor images of groups and individuals on the margins and in a struggle to be a more integrated part of the fabric of what they believe America to be? We call them communists, agitators, socialists, and liberals because those in power can’t fathom a more equitable distribution of equality and wealth systems that afford themselves and their offspring privilege.

Keep the masses in fear and striving to fit in so they might earn some small part of the pie and not be rendered destitute, and you have added another brick in the wall of conformity. Use the evening news to offer a granular and microscopic look at the worst dirt we have to attack people’s sense of security, and the fear for their own safety will be a popular reminder that we need strong controllers to protect us. This then is adopted by captains of industry, which is evidenced by their extraordinary pay, so they must be doing something essential for my well-being if they are going to earn those millions. But by doing this, it is as though we are looking at the bacterial layer on the skin between two toes instead of recognizing the whole person. By distracting us with chimeras, we lose sight of reality.

We become easily confused about what authenticity is, and with so many conflicting messages from self-anointed authorities breeding mental illness, the machine grinds along, feeding a money supply responsible for intellectual and physical slavery to the brand of cult consumption. Just keep extrapolating anecdotal nonsense as being some kind of national trend of great relevance, and soon, a plurality of your population will believe that these anomalies must be the very character of our nation. Should you be so unfortunate to realize it’s broken, you may start to believe that we must fix it, but there will never be a fix because the fixers are the very same people who are telling you that what they have done is what must be repaired. The vicious cycle of our own stupidity feeds itself.

So, do authenticity, real individuality, and truly curious characters still exist in America? It is found in infants and some children, in handicapped people, and in those rare individuals who don’t care much about conformity. For everyone else, the reality is to survive the game of fear and be thankful for the scraps thrown at them while allowing the chasm of denial to consume the bits of intellectual curiosity that might have existed at some other time in their lives.

But isn’t this way off from what I suggested above about finding the space to write creatively? When I’m in places where people are generally celebrating life, I pick up on that vibe and find myself able to let go of the tensions that follow me when I’m in aggressive spaces and locations. It’s as though those neurons in my gut are talking to other guts in turmoil, which drives my distraction. It’s time to go find others experiencing happy thoughts.

Traveling Socks

Socks being made by Caroline Wise in Phoenix, Arizona

While the story’s been told before, it bears repeating: yarn destined to become a pair of socks for me is collected while the two of us are out exploring our world. After entering a yarn store, I head directly to the fingering weight section and begin looking for appealing colors made with a natural fiber such as wool and at least some synthetic material, else they are too fragile. Then, once home when Caroline is looking for her next knitting project, she’ll pick a random skein of the many I’ve selected over the years and her loving hands transforms it into socks. This particular yarn is called Blazing Fibers. The colorway is Pineapple Express. The yarn was dyed in the same state we bought it: Oregon. This past November, as we entered Brookings in Southern Oregon, the first yarn store we stopped in was By My Hand Fabric and Yarn Store which is also where I chose this to be one of my new pairs in the future. Well, that future is happening pretty quickly as Caroline will finish them this evening. If you think the heel is a different color, that wouldn’t be exactly right, as Caroline has knitted in reinforcement yarn in order to make it more durable but the main yarn is the same as the rest of the sock. So why am I posting these before they’re done? I find it interesting that my finished socks look like they were made in a factory because they are so perfect but this is proof of them on their way to completion. My intention is to wear them on my next flight, the first since before the pandemic. When that is isn’t exactly certain yet but it could be sooner rather than later. Details to follow as certainty becomes a thing.

Mount Fagradalsfjall

Iceland Volcano by Robert Runarsson

Maybe you’ve missed watching the Mount Fagradalsfjall volcano in Iceland that’s been erupting for nearly two months, if you have, you are missing out on some of the most beautiful displays of raw primal nature humanity has ever captured. The still image [click it to watch a 4k video shot by a drone looking into the cone or click the hotlink below] is barely representative of the awe induced by watching the 2-minute clip. Be sure to watch the clip in 4k if you have the resolution, you won’t be disappointed.

Or maybe you want to see a drone fly right overhead through erupting lava? Stop and consider that never before in the history of our species has any previous human being ever seen anything like this!

Maybe gazing upon lava rivers is more to your liking? Click below and be sure to watch FULL SCREEN.

Sunday Closing The Loop

Moonstone Beach Boardwalk in Cambria, California

We got up a minute before the alarm at 5:59. An exchange of telling each other that we love each other, a hug, and a moment of recognition about how wonderful a vacation we’ve been having. Things were mostly packed last night; I just needed to get on my shoes, stop this quick bit of writing, leave Seferina, the housekeeper, a little something of gratitude, and head out the door. Hopefully, it will still be before 6:30 as we take our last walk of this journey along the sea, and then we’ll turn our car east for the long drive home.

Moonstone Beach Boardwalk in Cambria, California

Out before the sun peaked over the mountains to the east, we were able to watch its first rays illuminate the world around us in golden sunlight. The flowers return to their vibrant colors, birds become more active, and humans emerge from their lodgings to join us on the boardwalk.

Moonstone Beach Boardwalk in Cambria, California

And here comes the sun, oh glorious sun that illuminates our way and breathes life into all.

Moonstone Beach Boardwalk in Cambria, California

Just met a fellow Canon camera enthusiast who was down on the Central Coast from the Oakland area. Her name was Tabitha, should she stumble on this entry and read a bit. She seemed most interested in the wildlife but also the catharsis that comes with being on the seashore. Tragically, I also learned that where she lives has become a trap because high rents and low-paying jobs have limited her options to escape the crushing despair of a bleak existence. But here at the ocean, she finds her better self and is able to celebrate the win of being away from home, if even for a short while. I wished her the best and rejoined Caroline on an overlook where she was patiently waiting for me.

Snail on Moonstone Beach Boardwalk in Cambria, California

Minutes become hours, become days, and still, we reach for another moment where the secrets of what draws our fascination to the coast might be made known.

Moonstone Beach Boardwalk in Cambria, California

Maybe the great mysteries should remain just that so we can continue to return again and again as we search for the elusive in places that strike magic into the depths of who we are.

Snail on Moonstone Beach Boardwalk in Cambria, California

Only an hour was carved out for our time along the Pacific before we dropped the key off and moved onto Main Street for breakfast at the Creekside Gardens Cafe. After we leave there, the challenge will be moving without distraction to arrive home before midnight.

While Google suggests that the way we came via Santa Barbara and Los Angeles to the south is the fastest route, it is also the one that takes us by a dozen or more beaches that will tug at our inner Schweineschnecke that would defeat us from getting home while we are still able to keep our eyes open. We both know that we’ve seen a fair share of the abundance of beauty that lies out here along the western edge of the United States, and still, we want just one more photo, one more walk along the crashing surf, another chance to listen to the birds, or clean sand out of our shoes. We will try to do our best to just drive, I swear.

On Highway 1 near Harmony, California

That intention lasted maybe 10 minutes before we pulled over to snap a photo of the green rolling hills that we missed on the way up. This is certainly the end of giving in to temptation…

Harmony Headlands State Park in San Luis Obispo County, California

…That lasted for almost 5 minutes before we were making a U-turn to check out what Harmony Beach State Park might have to offer. It appeared that we might be able to walk to an overlook about a mile down the trail, but unfortunately, the information didn’t offer any real indication of exactly how long the trail would be. But we easily convinced ourselves that 20 minutes out and 20 minutes back was manageable.

Harmony Headlands State Park in San Luis Obispo County, California

Wouldn’t you just know that the ocean view wasn’t to materialize until we were right upon it at about the 2-mile mark?

Harmony Headlands State Park in San Luis Obispo County, California

The trail extends up the coast, but now we have a 40-minute walk back to the car, so we’ll have to be content that we visited yet another destination on this trip that we would have driven by on previous visits.

When we pulled into the very small parking area here at Harmony Beach, there was one other car parked. On our way back, we passed a family of about a dozen members and maybe ten other small groups that were hiking in. So lucky we were that our time out here was in quiet isolation.

Arizona Rest Stop on Interstate 10 at Sunset

Prior to leaving ten days ago, we already knew where today’s lunch was going to be: Shakey’s Pizza and that’s exactly where we went. Traffic out of L.A. was at times heavy but the traffic returning to the Southern California area here on Mother’s Day was crazy. All the same, here we were already in Arizona before sunset and managed to arrive home at 8:30 p.m. instead of the midnight return I was worried about.

Saturday Winding Down

We beat the Saturday breakfast crowd by heading over to Lily’s Coffee House at 7:30. We had slept in, which meant there wasn’t a walk along a dramatic coast or into a mysterious forest before eating either. The entire process we typically rely on during these travels is all akimbo as we have forsaken the rising sun in order to lazily get moving when the light of the day or the tension of bladders finally pulls us out of slumber.

Sitting at Lily’s with the locals, easily understood by the conversations, we spent two hours sipping our coffee after finishing our first meal of the day. What remained the same out of our habits was Caroline pulling out her knitting and me the computer to write about the previous day. Now, with the absolute necessities out of the way, we drove back to our measly motel of mostly meh (and convenient parking) for a walk along the Moonstone Beach Boardwalk.

Walking, walking, and more walking…discussing how we are likely entering the phase of the trip in which we panic and take photos of every single thing we see to capture all the important details. This was followed by a conversation about the quality of the images we take, and when I say “we take,” I mean that I feel unable to take photos alone as nicely as I can when Caroline is by my side. I’m certain I’ve written about this before, but we have a new take on the subject, and that is when we are together, the images when viewed at some future date, have shared memories embedded in them. When I’m off taking photos on my own, we don’t share what the experience was, and only I was taking inspiration from what I was seeing. Out here on the coast, or anywhere for that matter, when we are together, our experience is laden with love, and so it must be the lingering memory of these special moments that seeps into the images and reappears when we gaze upon them years into our futures.

Allow me to introduce you to Dipsacus Greenstein, joining the likes of great conductors Leopold Stokowski and Herbert von Karajan and currently conducting the Cambrian Coast Ensemble, bringing the roar of the ocean, the subtle breezes of offshore cool winds, and the waving plant life into full orchestration for us visitors’ enjoyment. We offered a standing ovation for the incredible piece we were enjoying. The second number performed for all those present was Teasel’s Dream; you should have been there.

We’ve passed through Cambria a number of times and, for some reason or other failed to ever visit this stretch of ocean. Maybe it was our enthusiasm to reach Big Sur or Monterey or the thought that had we headed down Moonstone Beach Drive; we would be in some wealthy enclave with views of the ocean thwarted by mansions along the shore. It turns out that the majority of the beach here is wide open, and about a mile of boardwalk above the cliffside offers everyone an easy path along the shore.

Icicle, you sickle, we all suckle for ice cycle! So that was goofy, but that’s what came to mind before I learned that these succulents are now called ice plants. When I was a kid growing up in Southern California, we called them icicle plants. Speaking about growing up and not being totally effective in that endeavor, when I learned the Latin name of this plant, I chuckled. It’s Delosperma, and yeah, there’s a part of me that’s that childish.

And no, I didn’t post this photo to indulge my inner idiot. Caroline loves the green-to-red transitions on these beautiful plants that populate so much of the California Coast, and so it’s here to bring us back.

Finally, she took off her shoes to walk along the ocean, and after about 30 feet of nice soft sand, we were walking on gravel that wasn’t as nice or as soft, but she was committed and endured a million ticklish and moments of painful pebbles that made up this section of beach.

Indulge me with my broken record, but once again, I have to wonder out loud: why are two of only a few people out in this spectacular landscape? By midday, I’ll struggle to take photos of the environment without people obscuring the view, but right now, we are essentially alone on a beach in Cambria.

The Monterey cypress tree is named as such as it’s native to the area between Carmel and the Monterey Bay of the California Central Coast. These trees down here and farther south in the San Luis Obispo area are transplants and help control soil erosion. They are well suited to high winds, but the number one reason, in my view, that they are here is found in their aesthetic value.

Can you sense my grabbing at more images than I should be posting? I often wonder how many will be enough when, some years down the road we no longer live near enough the places we currently love to visit. Or maybe our state of health precludes us from ever returning. And so I’ll continue pushing up what will hopefully be an adequate number to bring smiles to our old faces about those days we stood here holding hands, pinching ourselves at how lucky we were to be somewhere so beautiful.

Dear humanity, please continue your obsession with watching and listening to streaming life instead of being out here polluting the outside world with your inanity. Instagram is your friend, your mentor, and your god. You, as an average mortal, only require your drive-thru Taco Bell and more stickers from your favorite coffee shops. Experience is well over-rated. Can you sense the loneliness of visiting such a forsaken place without others to affirm how amazing you are to yourself?

Continued from above. The water leaps out of the ocean due to boredom, as there are no otters, dolphins, whales, penguins, giant sea turtles, or polar bears that might otherwise make this place cute. Nobody of any particular note ever comes here to showcase anything of value. Bands don’t play out here, there are no Buffalo Wild Wings for over 100 miles in any direction, and you’ll notice we don’t shoot selfies out here as it’s embarrassing to have fallen into such a void. So, in closing, you will serve the rest of humanity well by telling others to veer away from the California Central Coast. Thank you to the victims of being tricked into visiting this area.

We now return to our regularly scheduled program already in progress.

Pink, white, and yellow flowers framing a wooden boardwalk with a blue sky and the sea in the distance are part of a well-balanced diet that feeds the soul and staves off premature old age. Holistic dietary requirements depend on age, physical activity level, and happiness goals. Only consume under the supervision of love and know your limits.

Why, oh why, have I given myself such a steep ladder to climb so close to the end of this vacation? Worse still, I’m writing this five days after we were here, and I’ve already shared so many impressions on the previous posts that I feel that I’m not really adding anything new other than the sights of what we saw.

Finally, we are about to transition to something else…

…but not all that far away. We are across the street from the boardwalk for some lunch at the Moonstone Beach Bar & Grill. Should you consider visiting, please heed our warning; it is not cheap here along the coast. As a matter of fact, it’s downright expensive. Our room a few doors down from here was $191.25 a night, and a lunch of 1 beer and iced tea, calamari appetizer, three oysters on the half shell, an avocado bacon cheeseburger, fries (they are separate), a vegetarian sandwich, and a dessert of a scoop of vanilla ice cream topped off with hot berry compote came in at a hair over $100 including tip. Now add about $35 for breakfast and $150 for dinner, and without any shopping or other drinks/snacks the price of a day out here is quickly surpassing $500.

I’m reminded of the days when we avoided these pricey enclaves and instead headed to Seaside north of Monterey to find the cheapest motel we could (we did that here in Cambria for this stay, too), and we’d kind of choke on the idea of paying $79.95 not including tax for the night. Nature’s Valley Oats ‘n Honey granola bars were our breakfast, turkey sandwiches made from ingredients in an ice chest and backseat were our lunch, and just as often our dinner, too. But when we got tired of the cold meals, we splurged and hit Burger King.

After lunch, we headed into the quaint old shopping area around Cambria’s Main Street, off Highway 1. After driving by those other years, it was time to check out just what is here. Of course, the coolest things we found exceed our comfort zone of what we are willing to spend on such treasures, but these redwood objects pushed a few buttons. (Never mind that we have no space in our apartment for any of these things.) Lucky for us, you can only shop here by appointment, and we had to satisfy our curiosity by looking through the windows.

This is the Squibb House Bed & Breakfast, and while not across the street from the ocean, it is in the wonderful Main Street area at a fairly reasonable price of between $195 and $225 a night.

This was an essential stop in town and our second time here at the Ball & Skein yarn store. Caroline lost a needle required to knit my socks, so why not buy more needles and other stuff while we’re here, supporting the local economy?

Then it was back over to Lily’s Coffee House for a second time today, taking a coffee break to knit and spin yarns. Caroline is doing the knitting while I’m responsible for the stories. Part of the winding down is not wandering more than two miles away from our motel. There’s no special meaning behind this total slowdown other than maximizing relative laziness.

It’s a cool 64 degrees (18 Celsius) with a calm breeze under clear blue skies. Other than it being perfect out here, there’s not a lot to report. But I do have a lot left to write about yesterday, so I’m turning my attention to that page.

After some temporary leisure-induced writer’s block, I was able to open the spigot of words and sat for nearly two hours with my cold coffee, which had been boiling hot, to hammer out another thousand or so words, thus completing the tale that was yesterday’s adventure.

On our way to the other side of town that we were supposed to explore too, I caught sight of this object out of the corner of my eye and had to make a quick U-turn to verify that I had seen what I thought I had. Wow, this is the Fresnel lens from the Piedras Blancas Lighthouse (now Light Station) that we had walked out to yesterday. I had bet Caroline when we were out there that I believed there had been a lighthouse atop the tower in the past, but she was disbelieving. I was right.

We didn’t make it to the other side of the shopping area as it was getting late, and we were wanting to walk the other half of the boardwalk we hadn’t explored yet. So we’ll postpone the remaining window shopping and browsing in that part of town to a subsequent visit. I’m hoping it is obvious to most people that you are looking at a closeup of the Fresnel lens.

This is where we would spend the next two hours as we walked into the sunset on our last full day on the coast. It also turns out to have been a photo I stared at for two hours as I tried to kick-start what I wanted to write for the remainder of this blog post. I’m sitting in a coffee shop four days after our return from this adventure and my difficulties are being compounded by the fact that it’s also the fourth day of a fast, so the thinking circuits move with the speed of cold molasses.

From above, so below. In the previous photo, we were just above this cliff that can be seen left of center, but Caroline wanted to walk along the water’s edge instead of on the boardwalk, so we headed down. It turned out that we were already at the end of the boardwalk anyway.

This recurrent theme of me focusing on the low sun to set my exposure in order to shoot something in silhouette is an old favorite of mine. It also helps in yanking down the reflective brilliance of blinding white light coming off the ocean, creating a warm ambiance that makes the already molten sea appear even more metallic. The sense of the late day also feels amplified, and to me, this type of image is a kind of exclamation point signaling that we’ve reached that perfect moment in the golden hour.

We are at Moonstone Beach, and while these rocks look a bit like Swiss cheese that might come from the moon, these are not what the beach is named for. Little white speckled gem-looking rocks are scattered across the stretch of beach here in Cambria.

These are happy people wearing the faces of gratitude for all that we get to do and for the privilege of being with each other to share these experiences.

This is sad kelp on its way to desiccation as it has been dislodged from its grip on the ocean floor for this journey onto land. While we can appreciate our encounter with the still fresh, fly-free, and shiny sea plant, I can only imagine the turmoil it must be suffering as it realizes it has no ability to bring itself back to its watery home.

On the other hand, there’s this beautiful creature already well versed in navigating the land who I’m fairly certain will bring herself back to the car where I’ll be able to return her to our desiccated desert-dwelling hundreds of miles from here that we call home.

But hey, isn’t home where the heart is? If it is, that’s Caroline sitting out on the bench while I soar overhead, trying to poop on her.

Yeah, I had to go there on that last bit of writing just so after Caroline reads it while proofreading the entry, I can hear her over at her desk ask me, “Really? You seriously wrote that you see yourself pooping on me?” You can rest assured I will laugh my ass off, and then years down the road, after this is long forgotten, we’ll both laugh at the folly of youth…even though we are already approaching old age.

And with that, the sun set and we peeled away from the golden ocean as we finished winding down another amazing vacation.

Friday Closer Examination

You can rest assured that I had yet another photo of Caroline in the Nest that could have been posted here, but after more than half a dozen images of our perfect lodging on the coast, maybe those were enough. That begs the question: how much of enough is ever enough? When it comes to being out at the edge of the sea, we apparently have an insatiable need.

We are trying to make better sense of why this is only the third time in 10 years we’ve chosen to be out here on Highway 1. The reasons are multiple, but now that we’ve been on the coast for a week, we understand we’ve been missing out on some immense beauty. About those reasons that kept us away, the first, which I think I’ve shared before, maybe even on this trip, are the driving conditions as they relate to other drivers. While the road is twisting and narrow with not many places to pull over, there are so many aggressive drivers using the road to challenge their mettle that those of us out here to soak in the beauty are abused by having them on our asses. The second reason is that the Oregon coast has pulled us up to its more casual, more accessible, and equally beautiful shores.

In the intervening years since we first started driving this incredible stretch of scenic road, I’ve learned to go as slow as I want and pay a lot of attention to people behind me. If I see a car on the straighter segments a half-mile or so behind us, I start looking for a pullout right away. This has turned out to be a great strategy as by being proactively defensive and rarely driving faster than 30 mph in a 55 mph zone, I can maneuver into the smallest pullouts that would be too dangerous to pull into if we were moving a little too fast as the gravel and lack of guardrail next to the ocean can be intimidating. This has allowed us to discover natural springs, drinking fountains, and overlooks we would have never stopped at 20 years ago.

All the same, I can’t help but feel that I’ve already shot almost every ocean view out here ten times before. If we are lucky, we’ll travel this road another ten times during our remaining years.

We found a parking spot in a crowded curve and decided to take the hike anyway. This is the Salmon Creek Trail that is supposed to lead us to some spectacular waterfalls.

Sadly, we didn’t make it to the waterfalls and had to satisfy ourselves with this small cascade. The combination of a big crowd and people playing piano music (because the natural environment without such accompaniment might have been boring?) sent us in the opposite direction back to our car. If we didn’t know we were old earlier today, this would certainly be an indicator of our intolerance for the selfish shenanigans of youth. On the other hand, maybe it simply signifies that after so many days in remote locations listening to the surf, wind, birds, scurrying lizards, barking sea lions, and encroaching squirrels looking for snacks in settings of cliffside, ocean, and fog, we’ve grown comfortable with the tranquility that is a large part of the Central California Coast.

Instead of making the theme of today’s Closer Examination, maybe I’ll change it to The Lament. Here we are at Ragged Point. We stopped for lunch and decided to walk over to a trail that leads down to that beach. I was already uncomfortable at the restaurant as we were mostly among people our age and older. So, it wasn’t that they were our age; it was the difference in attitude when compared to those our age back at Treebones. This place is for the cruise ship crowd having passive experiences while we enjoy at least a hint of being among adventurous people. That’s it; I’ll quit right now with any more complaints or negative observations, I hope.

San Carpoforo Creek pullout has space for three or four cars; we were the second one. It was a nice walk out to the beach past the creek that is pooling out there. For a moment, we weren’t sure we’d be able to pass the creek until we reached the point where we were able to walk around it because it wasn’t actually flowing into the sea. The other car belonged to two young women setting up a tent on this windy beach. A smile came up on my face thinking of their adventure of trying to sleep in the howling wind. Certainly, the days of building grand memories.

Another new spot for us to explore here at the Piedras Blancas State Marine Reserve & Conservation Area. It’s dawning on us out here that we’ve never before taken the luxury of having so many consecutive days on this short stretch of the coast. This grants us a level of granular scrutiny that is similar to what we experienced on our 20-some-odd days up in Oregon this past November.

California and some of the wealthy here who made it their life work to protect the coastal regions should be commended. These areas are outstanding in their natural beauty and no amount of manmade architecture could add an iota of value to what nature has sculpted out of the landscape. There is nobody else out here, not a single person. We know this because there are few places to pull over and park, and we’d not passed another parked car for miles. Further south, there were no other cars parked along the road, just the ever-present circuit racers zipping by.

Happy to slow things down even more, I get down on my stomach to gain a ground-level view of the low-lying plant life hugging the windswept earth.

It’s colorful down here, crawling upon the tough plants, looking for the tender ones that solicit my eyes to take notice.

I wish I could have pulled out a notebook and pen while I was looking at this succulent because here I am a day later at Lily’s Coffee House in Cambria, sitting in the shade while a nice breeze washes over me and Caroline has taken a walk back to the car to fetch a knitting item and I’ve got nothing but an empty mind that’s enjoying the down moment to listen to the birds. And then Caroline walks up still holding a bag she was going to drop at the car. She found herself distracted in another nearby shop and is now walking over to where we parked. I wish her luck at not being drawn into another shop, telling her I’d see her in 10 minutes to an hour.

So, back to the plant life and something witty or insightful about this beautiful specimen. Well, I still have nothing and will have to just leave it here as an example of a color scheme we were both taken by.

Scroll back up half a dozen photos to the one with a trail leading to the edge of the land and check out the grasses; there’s not a lot to see in a broad overview. But take your gaze away from the ocean and blue skies and look down towards your feet, and that’s when this other universe becomes apparent. What I didn’t share with you is that as we got closer to the sheer cliffside, there were deep cracks in the dirt where it looked like runoff from rains was draining through widening openings in the earth. While I’m not a geologist, it looks to me like more of this coastal land is heading into the sea.

Our car sitting there next to the road is significant to the two of us. You see, so many travels we’ve made up and down this highway and often short on time, we’d see those lone cars pulled over at the narrowest of places just barely off the road, and we’d wonder, what is so interesting out there? With so many named sights to see, who just stops at random spots along the coast and then disappears from view? Today, we are those people.

This is an old farmstead home just south of the Piedras Blancas Motel we’ve mentioned on so many other opportunities. We’ve stopped out here due to something we missed as we were driving north last week. As we passed the motel, we were looking for a low spot on the road where I took a picture of a large wave crashing well above the highway, but we couldn’t figure out where it was. We told ourselves that as we came back down this way, we’d be sure not to be distracted so we wouldn’t miss it this time. We still couldn’t find it. So, we pulled into the motel parking area and went on a walk.

Seeing a trail over by the ocean without a No Trespassing sign, we walked that way, and the path went south behind the old farmstead. Well, this was interesting enough as I saw that, at first, I thought was a coyote but then realized it was a bobcat. I’ve never seen a bobcat in the wild.

We found part of what we were looking for; no, it wasn’t this snake, nor was it the greasy black skeletal remains of a seal that were scattered about. Before getting to what it was we were looking for, let me satisfy anyone’s curiosity that might be wondering. Yes, Caroline picked up one of the vertebrae, asking, would I have a problem bringing it home? Gack, yes, I’d have a big stinky problem with that. We agreed that if she found the skull, we’d have to bring it with us. Lucky me, we didn’t find it. I’ll bet the caretakers at the falling-down motel took it with them to boil the rancid meat off the bones. The fur that was shredded in small pieces stunk too, but even I had to examine it closely and touch its bristles, as the hair was way coarser than I could have ever guessed.

Back in January 2002, we stayed overnight at Piedras Blancas during a pretty fierce storm. As we left, driving north, there were some frightening large waves breaking over the highway; click here and scroll down to see a couple of photos from that day. In front of the farmstead, we started walking along a paved section of road that I finally realized wasn’t the access road to the old house; it was a two-lane highway with a double yellow line on it. At the end of the pavement in front of the motel, it dawned on us that we were walking on an older version of Highway 1, and where it was cut off, the old road had been removed and realigned further inland. To the right of these coastal cypress trees, where there is no longer any ground at all, is where the highway had been. We were incredulous.

While it’s a bit difficult to make out, the old Highway 1 scar is on the right of the photo, and the wave photo from 2002 is breaking over a bridge that crossed the drainage. No, the ocean was NOT that close to the road before. After figuring out the mystery and getting back to an area with cell service, we Googled things and learned that back in 2017 and 2018, when the realignment took place. When we get home, we’ll be looking for other old photos that were never published that we might have shot while taking this part of Highway 1 that no one will ever drive again.

There’s an unmarked driveway about 1/4 of a mile north of Vista Point, where a large parking lot welcomes visitors to see a giant colony of elephant seals. This photo of seals is not from the main location but from this unmarked smaller lot. But we are not here to see more belching farting elephant seals; though we do enjoy their scratching, sunning, and rude sounds as much as we ever have, we are going on a hike.

We are on the Boucher Trail, walking north. How it should work out that on a Friday afternoon, we are the only people out here is beyond my wildest imagination. Okay, it could be the howling wind that is contributing to the isolation as others enjoy comfort more than beautiful oceanside walks among the wildflowers.

Twenty-five years ago, when we first learned of the elephant seal colony while on a drive north during my mother-in-law Jutta’s first trip to America, we were directed to a spot we had sped right by. There was no parking lot, no marking, or anything else, giving a hint of what was out of sight just below the cliff. We were able to walk right out on the beach to get fairly close to these enormous creatures. Now, all these years later, the colony has grown and inhabits many coves along the coast here in the San Simeon area. While we can’t go down to the beach, it was nice to be here away from the crowd.

We continued on the trail, continuously hoping for a better shot of the lighthouse, and then, all of a sudden we were at a junction with the road that travels right to it. From the road, a gate prohibits access, but from the trail, we were able to walk down the gravel driveway to get to this secondary gate. A sign asks that we do not enter without being on a guided tour; we heeded their request and were quite satisfied to have been this close.

The walk back was as wonderful as the walk out.

This is the last photo of the day where we covered 22 miles of Highway 1 in 8 hours instead of the 35 minutes Google suggests it should take. What an absolute luxury it is to have the time to do a slow crawl, taking a closer examination of a small section of coast we’ve usually mostly driven past.