Coasting along Big Sur

A Porsche tore past us as we set out along Big Sur, paralleling the Pacific Coast. "Here's a good shot," Andy said at every pullout. We cruised about a quarter mile at a time, letting the tailgaters pass at every opportunity and easing off the road to photograph the scenery and admire the spectacular coastline inlets and ocean vistas. Each time Andy said, "You've got a shot in this direction" or "Try that way."
I couldn't focus fast enough to capture the cormorant airing its wings or the monarch floating over a slope of ice plants or the wave crashing high over a lava sea stack. Beds of seaweed floated on the water, and kelp danced on rock surfaces when waves washed over as the tide came in. We caught the morning mist at 8:30 a.m. before it burned off, and I hummed the song, "the morning fog may chill the air, I don't care..." And I really didn't. We stripped to shirt sleeves by 9:30 a.m.

"They do have landslides along here during the rainy season," said Andy, as we drove south of the town of Big Sur. We hugged thousand-foot high slopes that dropped straight to the sea. "But this year the rainy season is holding off," he added, as the road wound through a stand of redwoods. Then the cliffs popped up again. "I've read that it's easier to drive north on this road, because you're on the inside," he said. We rounded a curve on the outside lane that dropped at least 400 feet straight down to the ocean. No guard rails. I didn't look.

We headed the 50 miles back north from Lucia. Now, instead of the ocean views, we were seeing more of the mountains as the road climbed, the sun behind us.

At Point Lobos State Reserve, the site of a determined cypress tree growing from the rocks, we left the car by the highway and hiked in along the road to the Allan Grove. Spanish moss dripped from hardy trees. Closer to the point, gnarled trunks twisted around boulders and bent away from the salt spray. To our right, another trail climbed to the top of the rocky point and then down to shell-encrusted tidal pools among the sea stacks and lava and sandstone. I pictured Doc from Cannery Row picking his way around the puddles and checking for marine life.

Off shore on the sea stacks, the seals yelped in rhythm to our steps.

"I could live here," said Andy as he drove Scenic Drive in Carmel-by-the-Sea. We parked and strolled five or six beach blocks down and back as the sun dropped. A line of surfers waited patiently, alternately catching waves or bobbing over them. A good ride counted about ten seconds. Everywhere on the beach people walked dogs: golden retrievers, dashing into the surf for sticks; Lhasas and poodles, prancing in the sand; terriers, running after tennis balls.

At Carmel River State Beach, gulls gathered just at the wave line. We watched them step back as the tide forced water higher on the beach. Andy said, "Get ready with the camera. I'm going to run." Just like the dogs, we dashed across the sand.

When the fog rolled in and settled, the sand and water melded together in white. Forty-five minutes later, the fog had shifted, in the words of Carl Sandburg "on little cat feet" a block away.

"It's all going to be blanketed by morning," said Andy.