Day 10: Salinas, Steinbeck Museum, Gilroy of Garlic, &Henry W.Coe S.P.

Monday
I left Pinnacles in the early morning, noting as I passed that HL's site was already empty. Back out along the dry hills, the phone came back to life with messages. I stopped in King City and went back once more to the laundromat, this time hoping that by washing the duvet cover I could improve the atmosphere inside the van. It wasn't exactly reeking, but I could tell I was not the first one to live in this tiny box --- and besides, I love this laundromat. It's my only chance to get caught up with Spanish cartoons. Now I could also listen to the sound track of a video clip from my daughter: snow geese chattering to each other on tidal flats along the coast of British Columbia.

By early afternoon I reached Salinas and the National Steinbeck Center. As I bought my ticket in the large atrium just inside the doors, I noticed attendants putting away folding chairs. The man at the counter informed me they had just had state dignitaries and journalists on hand for an official naming ceremony: Route 101 through the Salinas Valley is now The John Steinbeck Highway. A life-size   paper doll of John based on an old B&W photo still stood there at the podium. He would have hated this event, as I learned by paying attention to the exhibits.  I hope being dead makes it easier to bear.

I made my way first into a small room to watch a couple of short movies about Steinbeck's life, then on into the exhibition space. It's a nightmare of a place, a bit like a page out of Yahoo, with so many talking exhibits all going at once within earshot of each other that it's hard to concentrate. I can't imagine what this would be like for someone with worse problems than mine in filtering out the extraneous.

 I lingered over one handwritten letter to his editor. Every day before sitting down to write East of Eden, JS would write another letter to his editor. The one I saw was early, describing how the book was written for his sons to read when they were older. He felt he might have started this book earlier in his life, but it would not have been the same book, for it is written by and requires a reader of some maturity. It treats of good-evil, beauty-ugliness, kindness-cruelty, all the classic opposing pairs that we use to describe our world. His sons were so young that they only knew the Salinas River, the river of his own youth, a river which he says he himself does not love. He has discovered other rivers. Some people, he goes on, never know that there is another river beyond the one they know: they never do mature.

From Salinas I was undecided how far to travel, and stayed undecided until the last minute. I kept going north and came to a sign for the town of Gilroy, "Garlic Capital of the World." Another sign for something called Gilroy Gardens attracted my attention and I began to follow that trail. With some areas of road construction and detours it was an uncertain journey as I looked constantly for more of the non-committal signs urging me onward but not revealing the remaining distance.  I was strung along further and further and was at last pleased to arrive at the large entrance gates. This must be a massive garden!  Now, to my horror, I discovered the thing I had been naively chasing was  a "family theme park." How many miles had I wasted on this?

I backed up as quickly as I could, and soon found something much closer to my heart in San Martin: a large farm market called LJB Farms on Fitzgerald Ave. There I piled up apples and tomatoes and admired a tree beside my parking spot that bore persimmons the size of softballs.

Again I had the question how far to go today. It was late afternoon already.  I could drive all the way back up across the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin County or I could take a chance on finding camping at a park a few miles east of the highway called Henry W. Coe State Park. What I knew so far about the park was this: it is approached by 11 miles of steep, winding unpaved road, has only 19 campsites and they were not answering their phone.

Reminding myself this is all an adventure, I chanced my luck on the park. When I arrived at the right exit off Hwy 101 --- oh, alright: the John Steinbeck -- the iPhone said it would take almost an hour and a half to get to the park, but I tried not to believe that.

It was a long haul, as it turned out. It probably did take over an hour, though gauging that is so hard in the circumstances: eyes on the road, hands on the wheel, foot on the gas, winding up and up and up we went, Neetie and I. I kept telling myself to enjoy the beauty, take it in good heart if I got to the end and found "Campground Full." I passed a camper on its way down the hill. What did that mean? I passed a truck with a cap on the bed. Was that a would-be camper also turned away at the gate? RELAX, enjoy the view.

After all that internal yabber, what I found was this: a fabulous hilltop spread, an old barn, a bunkhouse, a reclusive ranger who never could be found, and a campground that was completely empty. The place was silent. No human noise. Silent and warm, like an assurance of a home you never knew you had but which is here and ready to wrap you and hold you while you melt into its peace.

I sat under the posada at the picnic table that evening, eating my dinner by the light of the moon. She had risen in the sky to just about face-level, a guest at my table who stopped in to share a meal and muse over the day. She didn't make much noise. She did keep me awake that night, though:  I did not sleep well until she had set in the early morning.

Day 9: Pinnacles National Park

Sunday
Very early morning sight : a cloudy sky, the moon dim behind a haze. I rose later and had a refreshing sponge bath in the loo. Tea made, I sat at the picnic table huddled in the down jacket that seemed so out of place when I first landed in CA, but which has been perfect for early mornings.

I played again with the new binoculars, watching trees and bushes around my campsite, practicing long and short focus. I had good views of the steller's jays and for one exciting moment spotted an orange, white and black bird I'll call an oriole until I learn different. I had plenty of views of the boys in their unceasing play as they crossed my sightline. Occasionally parents could be heard urging: "Come back & finish your milk," or "Rest your legs for the day's hike." Adults forget the way energy is generated by its expense. I heard a mother telling one to come play closer to the family campsite, but the crowd was undiminished. They seemed a happy lot.

I went over to the entrance station to see if I could register again for tonight, and had another wait until they opened for the day. If the cool and overcast conditions continued, it would ease the water equation a bit on my hike. They opened and I was indeed able to get another night there: on Sundays the crowd in the park thins out. With the senior pass, the tent site is a mere $11.50 a night.

The temperature was predicted to rise up to yesterday's levels, but it was still cool as I started out. The hike I'd chosen, the Condor Gulch/High Peaks loop, was  5.3 miles long and went up to the Pinnacles peaks and circled back through steep, narrow terrain that would be fully exposed to the afternoon sun. My water supply added up to 2 liters, which theoretically would last only 2 hours. If the cool of the morning lasted, it might work, but I had reservations and stayed watchful as I climbed and drank and recalculated.

After about 45 minutes it got sunny and warmer and finally just plain hot.

The weirdness of volcanic rock forms.

Olmec terracotta figure 1000-800 A.D.

The shapes of the volcanic forms were weird and wonderful, very much alive. Every few feet another aspect suggested new animals or human forms. Like many of my fellow hikers I had hopes of spotting a condor up in these peaks. Twice as I stood gazing through the binoculars people passing by asked, hopefully, if I'd seen one. One hiker reported that he'd heard that a pair had been spotted on the far side of the High Peaks loop. For a few breathless moments I thought I was seeing them myself, circling around overhead. I could see the narrow triangles of light coloring underneath that would be present in adult condors, but this turned out to be an illusion caused by reflections from the shiny feathers of a couple of ravens.

A few times I passed couples and even small families who appeared to be sharing very small supplies of water. I saw some who were carrying nothing. Was this possible? Had they been airlifted into place and were strolling downhill for a drink? I later read about some sobering cases of dehydration in various western parks when hikers did not take precautions.

In the end I cut short my own hike, just to be on the safe side. I backtracked the way I'd come and arrived at the trailhead with water left over. I had been out for 3 hours or so, covering around 4.6 miles. It was disappointing to miss the view of the Balconies and the challenge of that steep narrow trail on the western side of the loop. I could probably have done the whole High Peaks loop, as my actual consumption came to only 1/2 liter per hour, but thinking about it constantly had impinged on my fun, and I'll pack more water next time, just for the peace of mind.

After some replenishment and a wet towel treatment for my head, I meandered over to the nature center to see what I could learn. This turned out to be memorable. The tall ranger there, PT, was friendly, bright, and generous with interesting lore. I wondered if the small snaky tree with the glowing red skin was manzanita. Yes, it was. And the red layer was an outer layer, not an inner layer exposed by injury. Then he asked if I had touched it (No). "Well, try touching it next time -- in fact,  touch your cheek to it -- and feel how silky it is."  He felt like kin when he said that.

I hung around longer, alternately reading posters and listening to his teaching as others came in with their questions. He had an engaging manner as he spoke to a father with two young daughters, and from their conversation I learned about granary pines:

When I saw this at another park, I now knew what it was.  Woodpeckers carve the niches and store acorns in them to ripen. This also supports insect life in the tree and the drilling helps decompose the tree back into its constituent atoms and molecules.

There was a new zing of energy as PT suddenly recognized someone who had entered the door and called out a greeting. As he was still in midstream, he signaled to the newcomer to hold on a moment while he finished his narrative. A moment later the man came into my view and the two hugged each other and out tumbled their stories. The newcomer, HL, had met PT in Denali National Park where PT was stationed just prior to taking the job here in Pinnacles. HL is a great hiker, loves Denali, and they had struck acquaintance over their shared enjoyment of nature and the outdoors. They carried on for a bit, catching up.

HL has been living and roving for 2 years in a Toyota RAV4, which he loves; PT landed a permanent position at Pinnacles this year and has some high rank in the park though I don't know his title. At a pause, I asked PT if he knew NJ and it turned out both of them know her and know of her involvement with the Wolf Seminar offered by the Murie Science and Learning Center at Denali. I told them my daughter and I had taken that seminar in 2013 to learn more about Adolph Murie's wolf studies in the park. I explained our family connection to Adolph (my great uncle) and his naturalist brother Olaus (my grandfather). They both seemed really pleased with this connection to someone on the pro-wolf side of things.  HL : "I've got to shake your hand --- this is like shaking hands with Willie Mays!"

It was fun to share this bond, but the wolf news from Denali is not good. Population has been sorely  diminished in the last few years. Global warming means mild winters, so the wolf's prey species do not weaken as they normally would. The snowshoe rabbit population is likewise affected by global warming: they are too easy to catch when their white fur stands out against snow-free ground. So they've been over-preyed, leaving fewer to reproduce to maintain a food supply for their predators.

Hunting wolves outside the park is legal, so if one of the Denali band crosses the boundary it is at risk. This leads to some truly criminal acts (my term). Dead carcasses positioned just outside the park boundary lure the wolves into traps. One hunter rode his horse to a point outside the boundary, dismounted and shot the horse. He then set traps all around. Attracted to the smell of the dead animal, along came two members of one of the Denali packs and snap! they were caught in the steel jaws. No one knows how long it took them to die.  One was an alpha female who was thought by most observers to be pregnant, so unborn pups very likely died with her.

The wolf question is a hot topic in Alaska. Many, though not all, hunters believe the way to keep up the supply of game animals is by killing off the predators. (They distinguish between animal and human predators, feeling it's the animals who have to go, not their buddies in safety orange). A buffer zone around the park has been declared, rescinded and argued over since 2002. When in place, it makes it illegal to kill wolves within a set zone just outside the Denali park boundary. Currently the Alaska Game Board has abolished the zone and declared they don't want to hear any more about it until 2017. The controversy is by no means settled, however.

The conversation in the nature center at Pinnacles took an interesting turn toward condors, but before we left the wolves altogether, PT said to me: "Be very proud of your Murie heritage and know that there are still fierce advocates who will shed blood, sweat, tears --- whatever it takes ---  to defend the wolves of Denali." This gives me the shivers still. I know the voices of Adolph and of Olaus, and can hear them in my mind's ear. I know their careful patient words, never spoken or written in haste, nor exaggerated. They built and treasured their own integrity as scientists seeking to find the truth, whichever study they were embarked on --- elk, coyotes, wolves, grizzlies. The voices of careful thought and patient observation and carefully drawn conclusions can be shouted down when the other contenders in the debate disdain the slow, the ponderous, the evidence-based and the modest. Speed and tumult are seductive and so is Lordship -- the belief in our entitlement to all that can be harvested or wrenched from this earth.

Condors, then:
Pinnacles is a major rehab and release site for California condors who've been injured or ill. A major hazard for them is poisoning from lead, which they ingest in two main ways: directly by eating carrion that has lead fragments from bullets or shotgun pellets, or second-hand by eating animals who have fed on other gunshot victims. In a long-lived creature like the condor, lead accumulation over years can rise to deadly levels. Creatures with shorter life-spans are not affected because they normally die of other causes before the lead levels build up.  The rehab solution is to slowly feed a form of calcium that replaces the lead that has been deposited in the bird's tissues. It's a costly program to maintain, but total extinction would be painful beyond measure.

One strategy the park uses to support the rehab mission is to spread information about copper-based ammunition as a better choice. The Park sends personnel to give talks at hunting clubs and other venues, where they demonstrate the types available, let the hunters try it out and send them home with free samples to encourage change.

The rehab center is hidden in the park somewhere, along with a condor school where birds who are injured beyond self-sufficiency spend their lives. Because a condor only lays an egg every ten years, the survival of that chick is critical. When an egg is discovered it is carefully stolen from the bird and replaced with a dummy. The real egg is transported back to an incubation site where it can be kept safe until it hatches. At some point it is turned over to the real authorities, the adult mentor birds, who teach it how to be a condor.  More good details here: http://www.nps.gov/pinn/learn/nature/condors.htm

Now it was time to take another hike, look for condors, clear the brain! After another round of handshakes, we all parted ways and I went off to water up for another foray, this time up Bear Gulch Cave Trail.

I had no flashlight for traversing the caves so I turned back after an hour or so, enjoying the late afternoon sunlight and all around me rocks, rocks and more rocks.

Back at my campsite as I was eating dinner I had a brief visit from HL, whose campsite was nearby. He saw that I had my notebook out and was doing some writing, so he did not stay long. We exchanged email addresses as a way to continue the conversation and he left, promising a story "some other time" to explain how his name got its spelling.

I'd had a great day and was tempted to stay on to hike again, perhaps to do the entire Condor Gulch/High Peaks loop, perhaps to try a new trail. However, the wanderlust had taken hold again and I decided I'd be off in the morning to see what lay further north along Highway 101.

Day 8: King City to Pinnacles N.P.

Saturday


In the morning I roamed around looking for the highway and chanced upon a small shopping center with a laundromat. This would be a good opportunity to freshen up the sheet that came with the bed and I stopped and pulled together a pile of laundry.

It was a big, bright, well-equipped place, intended to help and not hinder this essential household chore.  I've never seen a laundromat so richly supplied with carts: along one wall was a line of them waiting and ready, and the attendant walked through often, returning vacant carts and checking up on things. I was the only Anglo in the place. Signs were in Spanish with small English translations; the TV was tuned to a Spanish program; customers visited with each other mostly in Spanish and I felt the occasional stare and was given that degree of physical leeway that told me I was the outsider. This is a good thing to experience.

As I waited for my laundry I sat drinking tea on one of the chairs by the window, reading emails on my phone and watching the scene. A young man came in carrying his laundry in one of the wide flat collapsible plastic crates that are used in the picking fields. I have a few of them at home myself, leftovers from some church food pantry program a coworker helps to run in Columbus. Here in the  Salinas valley I had been seeing them put to their intended use, as I passed trucks on the road or in the fields, piled high with these crates filled with green. I expect this valley has seen a succession of container types over the decades. I know of four: the wooden type with thin slats nailed to thicker   end pieces whose colorful labels are now collector's items, another version of much thinner wood slats bound together with wire,  the heavily waxed corrugated cardboard box and now this plastic  collapsible crate with fold-up sides that pop into place.

One young woman brought in basket after basket of laundry and was loading it into a long row of machines. Greeted in English by a friend she hadn't seen for a while, the two stood talking together, exchanging news. The woman with all the laundry said that her family had divided their house in two parts to share with another family. After the dividing was done, the woman discovered that she was now partitioned off from her washing machine, and while she waited for a new laundry room to be devised, it was easiest to trek down to the laundromat. She had a niece who stayed over often and added to the clothes mound. I wondered how many people she was keeping clothed, how many beds and towel racks she was supplying. I've seen photographs of people from different countries around the world standing in front of their dwellings with all their furnishings beside them. It's one way to comprehend the world's distribution of goods. But what would our laundry piles look like?

Then I, the interloper, dropped my cup and sent broken shards and hot tea onto the floor. I looked in the nearest trash can to see if there were any rags available. No luck there, so I checked the next one and the next. Then I spotted the attendant and told him I'd made a mess and wanted to clean it up. He watched me, uncomprehending, and I saw that English wasn't getting through. Miming comes naturally, and odd bits of sign language surface without warning from my one-time career, and now he got it. He found an old clean towel from the supply closet and followed me back to my spill. "I'm sorry," and "Thank you" are easy to show, no words needed.

When my laundry was done and packed away again I set my sights on Pinnacles National Park, hoping to camp there for at least one night. As I drove through sere hills, I lost signal on both the cellphone and the Tom Tom, then regained it and lost it again. It didn't matter, I knew my way and arrived at Pinnacles in time to snag one of the 5 remaining tent sites.

The whole park is in a cell phone shadow, a little pocket of peace from the traffic of images, alerts, promotions and deletable messages claiming urgency. I am constantly reminding myself of a line from The War of Art by Stephen Pressfield:

"Learn to know the difference between what is urgent and what is important. Do what's important."

 It was important to walk. I claimed my territory in Site 33 and set off in the van to get to one of the trailheads. This was a Saturday and the place was busy with people. The parking spaces at the trailheads I wanted were full, so I returned to camp and set out on foot. We were now in serious dehydration territory and the warning signs and maps and brochures advised hikers to carry one liter per person per hour. I drank deeply before starting and packed several bottles for the walk.

This was sort of a warmup hike, testing my injured pelvis after a thumping fall on the steep path at Ragged Point on the coast highway. Every step, especially a step up, torques the sacrum and draws attention to itself. After the fall, I was so thankful my joints were intact and working that the pain was more a reminder than a deterrent. Having a sore bum puts eyes in the back of your head: you are mindful of what's back there that might make contact unexpectedly. You also pay attention to your footing.

I walked along the Bench Trail, a flat easy hike that traveled past several water spigots. The temperature was in the 80's, so the cycle of water in and water out was palpable. I drank and sweated and drank some more. At one water tap I soaked a small terry cloth towel to dripping point and draped it over my neck and down the front. I wore it for the rest of the hike and the evaporating effect was wonderfully cooling. Because of all the watering holes, I returned after 3 or 4 hours of walking with several bottles still full. Tomorrow would be different, for I planned to head up and out into rougher terrain where I'd have to carry my own water ration.

Sights along the trail: stunning blue steller's jays, tiny 3"-4" lizards, bridges built of  large blocks of  a lovely greenish stone I take to be serpentine, a dragonfly, a couple with a small child in a stroller, struggling off-trail and trying to force the stroller's wheels through a sandy dry riverbed, a California buckeye the size of a plum. I saw no condors but I did see black-&-whites who could have been magpies or mockingbirds. It's time to get more bird-educated.

I returned to the campsite well-used and satisfied, reminded of long day hikes with my father in the mountains of Nevada, Utah, Wyoming. It was nice there in my spacious, open campsite screened off visually on three sides, but connected by the sounds of excited children at play and adults working on dinner and cleanup and visiting with each other. I sat for a time writing and looked up once to see a quiet cluster of 11 wild turkeys scouting around for food across the road from me. There's something about the curvature of their backs when they are walking slowly that brings to mind sowbugs.

The band of small boys from across the bushes came tromping through my site at dusk in search of the raccoon who had just stolen grapes from my little camp table while I was off refilling a water jug. I had spotted it myself creeping off into the brush and I pointed the way I thought it might be found. They charged around for a while but I heard no sounds of triumph. Other urgent chasing and strategies soon eclipsed the coon hunt and their voices faded away again.

The moon was waxing full and the new binoculars give a stunning view of her craters and those streaks like longitudinal lines that star down her surface from one of the poles. As the moon progressed toward full I was sadly reminded of the coming of Halloween, the end-point of my trip, and I wished I could back up and prolong these days of freedom and exploring.

Soon after dark I was tucked away in bed, reading by flashlight until sleep time.

Day 7: Morro Bay to San Luis Obispo and Stealth Camping

Friday
The early morning quiet of the Morro Bay campground was subdued by comparison with the night before. A bus filled with high school kids had arrived yesterday and set up a cluster of tents as I was settling in. Thereafter, the boys played a vigorous and joyful game of soccer while the girls gathered in talkative groups and occasionally yowled in the bathrooms. They spoke in Spanish, unfamiliar  to my brain, forming a sort of background music like birdsong that did not distract much, nor derail sleep.

A brief stop in Morro Bay gave me a chance to greet the morning properly. If I sent Christmas cards this would be the image I'd want.

Un mar saludable.

Much of the day was spent stocking up, driving, and then at last buying the binoculars I've been contemplating for a year. When I walked out of the Dick's Sporting Goods store in San Luis Obispo I thought maybe I should turn right around and revisit all the great places I'd already been, this time equipped to really see it all! But I still yearned for new sights, so I made a plan to turn inland and travel north  up Highway 101. This would take me through the Salinas Valley and right by something called the Big Sandy Wildlife Area. It was marked on the map with a binoculars symbol --- irresistible.

I was still in the shopping center parking lot, once again brewing up tea water. Parked next to me was a well-worn over-the-cab camper truck with the entrance over the back bumper. A young man stepped up on the bumper to go in and in his hand I saw the familiar turquoise and dark blue design of a pack of Bugler tobacco. "Wow!" I blurted out. "I haven't seen Bugler in years!" He smiled and said that yes, it was still around. He said that if he has to roll his own, he finds he smokes less. It's also much less expensive. I agreed, remembering the poverty of those years in my life. We got onto the subject of travel and he was surprised to see that my ordinary-looking van was equipped as a camper. I explained the advantage of carrying no advertising logos or garish paint jobs and he readily understood, saying: "That would have to be the ultimate in stealth campers!" There is no disguising a vehicle like his, and if you travel that way you have to take it into account: you will be noticed.

Now that I was out of the boonies, the loud commercial bustle of SLO and of Pismo Beach were repellent. I crossed eastwards over a range of dry hills at Cuesta Pass, stopped briefly at San Miguel to admire the old mission and continued on to my wildlife viewing area just south of Bradley.

The hills around are stunning in dry gold fur,  shaped in voluptuous folds and curves like giant walruses:

The path into the Wildlife Area was barely discernible across the first flat quarter mile, and was crossed by other faint lines showing alternate routes created by other earth walkers.  I stayed on the one I started with and as it descended into the first arroyo it became a well-defined but extremely narrow line of bare dust and rock, taking me steeply down one slope, crossing over at the bottom and heading just as sharply up the next fold on the walrus. Trying to keep track of my bearings, I gazed for a while at some power poles near the road, just to remind myself of my way back out.

Stickers from the grasses collected in my socks. Is this cheat grass? The name fits. The path was so narrow only a couple of snakes could have traveled two abreast. Any handhold or foothold can crumble, even solid-looking mounds of earth, for they were formed back when there was water to hold them together. Dry remnants only, any one can give way, collapsing into little landslides of rock and fine dust.

After a few more zigs and zags the path dropped suddenly down a nearly vertical drop of 6 feet and I slid/landed onto a wide, dried up river bed. I was still getting used to juggling the new binoculars and the camera, alternating as the urge to see something far away vied with the urge to capture images of all the new things around me.

An owl called from within a cluster of sycamores and other trees on the far edge of  the riverbed. I searched the branches and leaves, walking closer as it called again. I never located it, but it was fun to see everything else so clearly. At 10X magnification it's a bit of a challenge to hold the glasses steady and breathe at the same time, but having this new range of sight is exciting. I fed my eyes and kept my trigger finger busy, collecting images of the unfamiliar plants that managed to find sustenance in the gritty loose sand. Names, anyone?

I retraced my way up the narrow path with the persistent grass seeds, found my landmark power poles and a few minutes later, Neetie was waiting where I'd left her.

She and I returned along the dusty route that led back to the 101 and headed north. It was time to think of a place to stop for the night. One RV campground I spotted on the southbound side of the highway looked promising. I pulled over to look them up and call them on my phone and found that they had no room for a mere van. The man I spoke to suggested I try King City because there was a county park there with camping, so I continued on. I found King City, found a park, but it was closed for the night. Now it was almost dark and I was running out of steam. Had I simply missed a sign somewhere and found the wrong park? I wandered loose on streets I didn't remember traveling, making random turns and getting nowhere useful. Finally I gave up on finding the park and saw that this might be the night to test the van's invisibility. Could I get away with just sleeping on the street?

I found myself on a street of plain homes, apartment buildings and a school. There was no metered parking, the curbs were unpainted, and a line of cars was parked along the right side, with plenty of gaps so I wouldn't be depriving the locals of room. I pulled in, made the bed ready and just lay down. The police department was a few blocks away (I had rejected the idea of parking in full view of the station). For a while I lay fully clothed, expecting a rousting by flashing blue and red lights, but nothing happened. A few cars passed by. Children's voices could be heard now and again. I slept off and on, eventually shedding jeans and socks and slept through until 7:30 a.m. It worked. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised, but I certainly was pleased.

Day 6: From Big Sur Down Highway 1 to Morro Bay

Thursday
It was smoky all night in the campground but it brought no headache or sore throat.  This was a day for travel. As ever, southward. As ever, on Highway 1, an easy number to follow.

I made a brief stop at Sand Dollar Beach. This meant walking down an impressive wooden staircase built down over the dune to reach the sandy beach below.  For some reason this beach did not touch me. I think I was still in thrall to those watery pebbles on the beach at Andrew Molera. I climbed back up, passing a surfer carrying a board with some wicked looking fins (rudders?) sprouting from the underside, and got on the road again.

On impulse I pulled in at Limekiln State Park to take a walk, but when I presented my state parks pass at the kiosk the attendant treated it like foreign currency. He frowned and said, "This isn't run by the state any more. It's $5.00 to park." Now I had a new impulse and I left.

In early afternoon I pulled over at a nice wide viewing area to stand on a high cliff looking over the sea. A cheerful group of a dozen bikers from a motorcycle club in Mexico were there, enjoying the view and having their photo taken by one of the other bystanders. The shore line curved out into the sea to the south of us, forming a nice dark background for an odd bird I spotted down below. This bird rose vertically and came close enough that I could see it was a drone with the characteristic four arms and odd darting motion. I immediately thought "We're being watched," and I heard it in Michael Emerson's voice as he narrates the standard intro to every episode of Person Of Interest. For the longest time as I gaped at it and tried to film it, I didn't realize it belonged to one of the onlookers. When I think "drone" I think Afghanistan,  U.S. Armed Forces, spy network, weapons of  supposedly discriminate destruction. I don't think "latest fad plaything." But such it was, though I never did sort out who was controlling it. It rose and flew low over our heads,  swept out to sea and went down to film the cliffs below us, then rose again.

Now for just a few hundred  dollars anyone can have their very own large house fly.

Wondering what the marauding insect was going to do with those images, I climbed back in the van and headed south. It would be hard not to know we were near Hearst Castle, once the weekend getaway of William Randolph Hearst, newspaper mogul. Mileage signs had been counting down the distance for days, but it held no more charms for me than Pebble Beach had. I learned later that in nearby Cambria, there is a take-off on the Castle: a  fantastical two story house built of castoff building materials, beer cans and miscellaneous junk, called Nit Wit Ridge.

 That would have been fun to see, but I had no urge to goggle at the excesses of the 1%. Even the idea that the Hearst Family gave the castle and grounds back to the people of California after his death is telling. Here's what would be truly worthy of  respect: the exercise of restraint from gathering all the riches within reach. I would be impressed if the Hearsts of the world made, instead, a deliberate decision not to take more than their fair share of the world's goods. The custom of the controlled dribble of charity ---"giving back to the community" after one's personal pile is amassed --- is overdue for extinction. Don't take it in the first place.

Says me.

 After a time the road descended almost level with the shore and signs told me we were approaching the Piedras Blancas lighthouse and elephant seal rookery. This was worth stopping for. At this time of year the critters on the beach are females and juveniles who haul out to fast, rest and molt. All seals that I saw had skin and fur intact, so it must be early in their molt season.  Occasionally the young males practice sparring to gear up for serious dominance contests later in their lives. But the beach is host to rows and clusters of smooth, tapered forms shining in the sun and moving slowly, if at all.

Females and Young Fasting and Resting.

There's a deep, echoing snorting noise that can be heard when the young males are at their jousting that's fascinating to hear. Where a pig says "oink" in tenor voice, even these young guys say oink in a rich burbling bass. My video clip is wind-addled, but here's something better:    Alpha Males in Song

I had no binoculars to bring the seals into closer view, but their mere presence now after near extinction a few decades ago was a cheering sight.  

Further down the road I made a stop in San Simeon to get visitor information at a Chamber of Commerce. It took me a while to find this VC but as I stood outside it picking brochures from a rack by the door, a woman came out and gave me such a friendly welcome I felt repaid for all my wrong turns. Asked where a full grocery store could be found, she said,"Well,  you're out of the Boonies now. Morro Bay has an Albertsons. There's also the Cookie Crock in Cambria, but it's smaller." I think of dark forested mountain hollers when I hear "boonies" and her phrase lingered in my mind. To me this coastal journey was a Mediterranean cruise, bright with blue sky and water. On the other hand, there was that 2-pack of AA batteries for $5, that tank of gas for $75, and nothing but cafes and snack food racks to offer sustenance. 

Morro Bay State Park had good camping space left, and I got settled in time to take a walk out of the park and over to the harbor. I crunched along an oyster shell beach and back up onto the road to pass under towering eucalyptus trees that the herons and others have made their rookery. 

Morro Rock across the bay; oyster shell beach.

Outside a natural history museum up on a hill overlooking the bay.

Approaching the heron rookery.

By order of the governor, state parks have been taking measures to control water use. I had encountered spigots and restrooms that were closed down and all showers were coin-op to honor the ruling. I was surprised, therefore, to come upon this lush carpet of green adjacent to the park: 

It turns out Morro Bay S.P.  has its own 18-hole golf course. 

Cut off the drinking water if you must, but don't mess with the entertainment. 

Day 5: Big Sur Area -- Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, Ventana Wilderness, Andrew Molera S.P.

Wednesday
They were pumping out the RV waste tanks at Fernwood in the morning and it was getting smelly. I heard the man in the next campsite giving voluminous directions and travel tips to some foreign visitors and after they'd finished talking I wandered over myself. I hoped he might know what the camping possibilities were at Pfeiffer Big Sur S.P., which had been all booked up the night before. He didn't know much and in fact was quite modest when I said he sounded knowledgeable talking to the previous group. Different audience, I guess!

He'd heard on the grapevine that even though this is now mid-October and school would normally be keeping families close to home, the parks were very busy. He was not thrilled about camping in the parks. In his opinion the sites were small and too jammed together for comfort. True, prices are lower than in the RV parks, but he and his wife were apparently flush enough to be choosy. He'd grown up in the Monterey area and the two of them had recently returned  north after a few decades in southern California. I had not yet decided whether to make the trek east to get to Yosemite and his responses were not useful in determining me, but it was nice to speak to someone in their retirement years who appreciates the land and is still out and about in it.

I got the van ready for departure and went immediately down the road to Pfeiffer Big Sur to try my luck. They had about five spots available and with campground map in hand I went to go choose one.  I wound round and over the Big Sur River and the through the fretwork of one-way narrow camp roads trying to escape the haze of smoking eucalyptus campfires. There was no real escape, but I marked down a few choices on the map. I soon forgot why I liked each one, but no matter: the important thing was to get back to the ranger station soon to plunk down my $33 and lock it in place. I beat the rush and was now claimant to site 184, relatively close to the ranger station and the river, but far away via the one-way loops and more loops. I had left a few things on the table to make it clear it was occupied, but I was told to go back once more to the site and clip my placard to the number post.

Then I was free to go find a hike. I'd passed a sign somewhere along the park road that marked an access point for the Pine Ridge Trail, but could not recall just where I'd seen it. Instead, I drove back out onto Highway 1 to Big Sur Station, where a parking lot, visitor center and restrooms make a clear and well-appointed trail head. I spoke to the man at the counter in the visitor center and made a donation toward a trail map to take with me. I had to move the van to a second parking lot intended for long term use by hikers. I read all the instructions on the fee collection envelope and still was not sure if either of my two passes would absolve me of the parking fee. I noticed a shiny white truck with a National Park Service medallion on the side, and as its driver was inside, I approached him.

No, he assured me, there was no such thing as a dumb question. I asked him if he knew if my passes applied here. Was this a state park or was it federal, anyway? Both are in this immediate area: Pfeiffer Big Sur is state run, but it is engulfed within the massive Los Padres National Forest, and the Ventana Wilderness I was about to enter by walking the Pine Ridge Trail is part of Los Padres. He told me this was federal land but as a matter of fact he was about to have a meeting with the man in the visitor center because they had some joint management issues to discuss. He was pretty sure I was covered by my National Parks pass. If I wanted, I could walk back over and ask the visitor center guy but I decided to go with NPS's hunch.

I filled out, deposited, tore off and displayed and decided that was enough paper work. It was time to get out and walk!

It started in shade, and I got glimpses of the campground as the path flanked the river valley the campground occupies. Then the path rose and rose and rose above it and out into sunlight. I was astounded to find that whereas I had had zero to poor cell signal in the parking lot and campground, here I was in Ventana Wilderness, breathing hard and free, looking at steep mountainsides, and suddenly I had great reception on my cell phone. I sent Linnet a text on the strength of it, feeling peculiar. Next thing you know I'll turn into one of those annoyances I meet in the middle of Holy Nature, who stride along yapping loudly into their cell phones.

For this wilderness hike I was wearing my sunhat, some pajama/exercise pants, a T-shirt and my hiking boots. I wasn't yet in dehydration territory, so I made no special effort to load up on water. I didn't expect to be out long. I did bring my thermos with the remains of the hot tea, and every now and then I stopped for a refreshing half cup. I was meeting hikers geared up for serious backpacking, water bottles and sleeping bags dangling. There are hike-in camps further up into the range and these hikers were on the return journey, the final leg of their hike back out into the wilderness of civilization.

One hiker was resting on the side of the trail when I encountered him, rummaging through his pack in search of something. He told me he had come all the way through from "the other side," which I understood to mean something several days' hike away. He held up his find in triumph: "There! My last macaroon!" He did look happy.

I encountered another man a couple of times. First he passed me and then I overtook him as he was resting. He was wearing a shirt that said "FEEL THE BERN." Something made him ask me, "Are you local?"  I said, "No, I'm not, but I used to live here." By "here" I meant California broadly, forgetting that of course Berkeley does not comprise the entire state. He told me I looked like I was on my once a week hike. [OK, Not sure why you're telling me that. ] We were on a steep rocky path. I turned, looked back down the trail at him and said, "Oh, I'm just out for an afternoon stroll."  [Well, Mr. Throughhiker, if my puny daypack bothers you, wait till you see me drinking hot tea. That'll raise your hackles.]

The cell coverage was good enough for me to use the Maps app and I asked it to find my location. By the shape of the PBSSP boundaries on screen and on the paper map, I could see pretty well where I was at present even though there had been no intersecting trails to indicate specific points along its length. I sure wouldn't want to rely on cell coverage or battery life for a serious hike, but I had fun using the app for something other than finding the nearest Home Depot. It was great to be out and moving my body, breathing hard and feeling my lungs expand and grow easy and more elastic.

Once on a shady stretch of the path I heard two young men approach from some distance away. The path was narrow so they had to go single file and their voices were raised to keep their conversation going. Guy in front: "Who cares? Some people just get way too stirred up about what other people do with their private parts." As we were about to pass, I said: "I agree!!"  He looked up slightly startled, then he grinned and said, "Thank you!"  We passed by.

When I was ready to return, I simply turned around and backtracked. Rough calculations say I walked a bit under 4 miles.

In the parking lot I met the NPS ranger huddled with the attendant from the Visitor Center. No doubt they were hashing out their joint management issues. NPS asked me if I'd had a good hike and I happily nodded. He told me he'd checked with VC guy on my question, and he'd been right: my federal pass was valid here. VC chimed in then and repeated the steps: "fill out the card, cite the Pass number on the card and display both in the front windshield. No money required. Check, check, and check.

I snapped a photo of a drought notice I found mounted next to the restrooms:

I've been keeping a steady store of five gallons at all times, refilling each jug whenever I have the chance. Water = Life.

I left Big Sur Station and did some running up and down Highway 1. At first I was trying to find Andrew Molera State Park, but then I got distracted onto a hunt for gas. I wasn't terribly low on fuel, but a gas station I passed had a sign claiming it had the last gas for the next 40 miles so I thought it might be smart to fill up so I could forget about it. The Tom-Tom, however, claimed there was gas at some shorter distance in the opposite direction, so I started off in chase of that. I drove long enough to get into another wrangle with Tom (my ignorance or its crankiness? I don't know). I wondered if its data base is out of date. Maybe it would be like the map L and I had in Alaska, dotted with gas stations that no longer existed and stores that had closed down. Once again I found a place to turn around and returned to my starting point. Sometimes you eat it:

I did at last get to Andrew Molera. The only camping here is primitive walk-in camping, reached by a trail that leaves from one end of the parking area. I took a different path that led at length to the beach. The sun was setting by now and cool and dark were moving in. There were pebbles and big rounded smooth rocks embedded in the sand here. The sound of the tide was lovely --- with all the pebbles and smaller rocks washing back with the receding water, it gave off a liquid pebbly sound I found so delicious I took video footage hoping to capture the music. I overheard someone say it was like ice cubes, but there was no glass-clinking here. This song was pure polished stones and water: "Rubble, rubble, rubble, zjzweeeeee ..."  Wonderful.

 

My video skills: Completed Lesson One on capturing in loud detail the sound of wind whipping across the camera's puny microphone. Lesson 2 on removing and avoiding those sounds blew away, so I haven't got it down yet.  A brief stretch of pebbly sounds is just audible at the tail end of this  clip. 

And a shorter edited version below, for the sake of saving bandwidth:

Day 4: Pacific Grove to Big Sur

Tuesday
In the morning I made good use of the shower house and as I stepped back out into the chill,  a park maintenance worker asked me if anyone else was in the women's side because he had to close things down to work on a water line break. A minute later I heard him answer his cell phone and say impatiently, "If you're not going to come help, then I don't have time right now. Bye."  Secretly I hoped he was talking to his boss. Aren't those the words on the tip your tongue your entire working life?  Those and the classic "Take this job and shove it."

He and a couple of others spent an hour or so digging and pumping out a hole a little way uphill from my campsite, slogging around in the mud and discussing strategy. All the water ran downhill from the break, but a curb of raised asphalt kept the stream confined to the road surface as it curved around my corner site and down the slope of the road to another section of the grounds.

Across the way from me, a woman in her mid to late 20's had the back hatch of her van open and I recognized a fellow Lost Camper by the stove and sink arrangement. I went over to say hello. It turns out she is English and has been traveling all over the world for the past year. She, too, had rented from the San Francisco location and it was Sebastian who checked the camper out to her. She didn't know that the bed platform could be transformed into table and benches, so he must have been even more speedy with her than he had been with me. I didn't linger in her space, as she was in the middle of cooking something, standing with a ginger root in one hand and rummaging around with the other in search of a grater. I wonder what sort of traveling she'd done for all those months? Camping the whole way? It's a lovely thought, all the possibilities there are when Time is an open river.

 One advantage to the van: it's possible to keep everything inside and ready to roll on a moment's notice. This morning when I left for the day's excursions around Monterey, I was also on the road for the next phase of the trip. No tent take-down, no cooler to lug in from the picnic table or sleeping bag to compress and tie up. If I ever return to Monterey, I know a great place to stay.

Navigation via the iPhone maps app was by now my preferred way to go. The TomTom device remained a mystery to me and if I was in good signal territory for the phone it was easier to use the familiar rather than tangle with Señor Tom. Later in the trip when I really needed Tom because my phone was SOL, I discovered that Tom had also lost connection, so there went my only reason for renting the device in the first place. [Save that $60 next time.]

You can still have adventures misinterpreting iPhone directives, however. One such misstep landed me at the gatehouse of a resort town/exhibitionist kingdom called Pebble Beach. For a fee one can drive a loop called 17 Mile Drive to admire how and where the disgustingly affluent live. I declined the opportunity but I did have a chat with the 50-60 year old Latino manning the toll booth. He gave me a brochure and asked if I knew that Pebble Beach was originally founded and developed by Samuel Morse, inventor of Morse Code? He edged past me to allow me to read a blurb on the wall. What I read said that this connection between Pebble Beach and Mr. Morse actually concerned a distant cousin of the famous one, though there's only one middle name to distinguish them: Samuel Finley Brown Morse founded Pebble Beach Company in 1919. Samuel Finley Breese Morse invented the telegraph and the code that goes with it. I tried to point out the difference but he would have none of it. He was used to quoting that bit of glory and wasn't going to make changes that would weaken the tie. I thanked him and got back on my route again, adding the glossy brochure to the pile on the passenger seat. It turns out you can win back your $10 gate fee by spending at least $30 in one of the restaurants within the compound. Woop.

Pacific Grove and the Butterflies: they were there, in singles, fluttering slowly against a bright blue sky or sipping from tree blossoms. We were among eucalyptus and some other trees unfamiliar to me. I saw no massed swags of orange, for it's early in the season. It will take more arrivals to get them to coalesce. While I was there I was mistaken in thinking these guys were just resting up for a longer journey. But the story is more complicated : the eastern ones do travel down to Mexico. These ones just hang here for the winter. I would, too.

The best view of these creatures is the sight of them against the wide blue sky, not something I could capture with my equipment.

At the entrance to the sanctuary I spotted something for my friend the dedicated Denver fan who visits Aspen every year for some event celebrating his music and legacy. 

A connection to butterflies? To Pacific Grove? Not known.

After the butterflies I located a laundromat on Lighthouse Ave. and piled together a small load. The soap dispenser stole my 75 cents and I asked others in the place if they knew of some special trick to get either my money returned or my measly box of detergent. One couple told me they had lost $1.50 to it already, and that the nearest place to buy supplies was xxxxxxxxxx, which sounded far away. The man asked how much laundry I had and I showed them my half-full machine and they gave me a glug from their bottle. 

This reminded me that I was still on the lookout for a good night jar, and I looked into the nearest trash container once I got my machine going. Sure enough, a large orange Tide bottle was in there, WITH the essential screw-top lid. It was dripping with the blue streaks of its former contents. I waited until my benefactors were loaded up and off to their car --- wouldn't do for them to see me holding a big detergent bottle right after they'd kindly supplied me --- and I reached in. Fortunately this laundromat had a nice big sink and I was able to rinse it out. That's where another idea struck: trash cans could also be a source of leftover detergent. If a sink is available, the rinsings from discarded bottles could come in handy --- something to keep in mind. 

Now I was rich. Night jar, soon-to-be clean clothes --- what else did Pacific Grove have to offer? I knew that the used bookstore I'd spotted was far enough away that I would want to finish the laundry first. I wandered along the street, spotted the news dispenser where the headline about the power outage jumped out at me. Further along I came to Spirals, a consignment shop with used clothing. I scored a pair of black Levi's, brand new for $10: perfect memento of a trip that started in San Francisco just as Levi Strauss did back in his day.

Laundry dried and put away, I went off to visit Book Buyers at 600 Lighthouse Ave. It was a nice place, crowded with bookshelves. I described the Mass Observations project to the man at the desk and he went online and found that there are, indeed, more published works arising from the M.O. project. He didn't have any of them, but he took me through a few twists and turns of shelving and showed me the section on WWII history. I had barely started to browse when another customer edged up the narrow aisle and asked me if I had a special interest in WWII, as he'd overheard me talking to the bookseller. I said I wasn't really keen on the war per se, but he handed me a sticky note on which he had already written: 

Hans Fallada  

Every Man Dies Alone

Excellently written, he explained, this novel is set in wartime Berlin during the reign of terror inflicted by the Nazis in power. The main characters are engaged in anti-Nazi propaganda, trying to  encourage badly scared people to resist the regime. The characters are based on real-life counterparts who did the same thing and lost their lives in ultimate consequence. I said I'd keep an eye out for it, and that sticky note stayed for days on the dashboard of the van, a reminder of how enthusiasm for books that one has treasured will spontaneously bubble over if receptive ears come within range.

[Now, as I write this up, I have in front of me a review of the book with the following quote:

 "He might be right," she concludes, "No one could risk more than his life. Each according to his strength and abilities, but the main thing was, you fought back."]

I scanned the WWII shelves and moved on empty handed, then went to ask where diaries and journals in general might be found. Again the clerk (owner?) led me around corners until we reached "Biography." I picked out a book by Elizabeth Gilbert called The Last American Man. When I went up to pay, he was interested in what I'd found.  I had Elizabeth Gilbert confounded with Cheryl Strayed in my mind, I don't know why, but the bookman set me straight. I said I'd been unable to get through Eat, Pray, Love and he nodded and murmured something that might have been agreement, but I did like the look of this one and wanted to get into it.

[An intriguing read it is, too: the story of an amazing and maybe tragic man living in a century that rarely sees his level of wilderness skills. Gilbert is an engaging writer with a respect for her subject that never fails to show itself even as she describes his flaws.  It's a timely tale and Gilbert uses it to talk about what's missing in the way our young are growing up disconnected from the essential skills of survival that have always been part of human life.  It's not over yet. Eustace Conway is still alive and kicking and stirring up controversy. Whether he really is who he or Gilbert claims, the problem remains: if the grocery stores we take for granted suddenly disappeared most of us wouldn't know how to keep ourselves alive.]

I made my way south now, heading for Point Lobos State Reserve, skirting the whole Pebble Beach area, which sits smack in the way of a direct route.  On arrival, my first sight at the trail head was a large poster offering information on the dusky-footed wood rat, aka packrat. The reserve has some of their nest piles and if I was lucky I might get to see one. I spoke to the nearby docent about packrats and shiny things and nest building, and thought of my father and his Packrat Books self-publishing venture.  The docent recommended 2 trail loops in the northern section of the reserve: Cypress Point Trail and Whaler's Cove Trail, so I walked both of these, admiring enormous cypress trees, rocky cliffs and more crashing surf and cormorants.

The rocks of this area are marvelous and geologists flock to this point to study the earth history revealed in them. The brochure took some study to absorb, both that day and then again later, but even without knowing the details a person can see two main types. One is a sandstone with woodgrain-like stains of lovely rust color. Some of this sandstone has areas of conglomerate, rich in rounded pebbles and smaller bits and interesting gaps where pebbles used to be. Its official name is Carmelo Formation. The rocky cliffs of the Cypress Trail are different: they are like the stacked towers I found so appealing near Point Pinos, and I believe are the same: a rock called granodiorite. It's almost a granite and would be so called if the type of feldspar crystals within it were of a slightly different chemical composition. This is the oldest rock present and was formed of molten magma 10 miles deep in the earth that cooled over time and slid up here from around Mexico a few eons ago. Because it's crystalline rather than sedimentary, it has some fascinating fractures. If I am correct in my identification, the photo below shows the granodiorite in the background on the left, with the darker  Carmelo Foundation rotting away in the foreground:

Left of center is a mass of almost cubical shapes and I believe they cleave that way because they are composed of millions of crystals which individually share the same characteristic shape. Again, if I got it right, in the foreground is the other rock of the area, the Carmelo Formation which is sedimentary in type so it is more like a sandstone.

I could fill this page with rocks, but I won't because there are still the seals and they cannot be left out.

My favorite clip is of this seal working hard to get up from the water to the surface of the rock its friends were resting on. Imagine being cuffed with hands behind your back trying to do the same. Those flippers are strong, but just not designed for rock climbing. It's heave, flump..... heave, flump,  landing on the breast/belly each time.

There are signs at numerous seal viewing points along the coast that keep reminding, pleading with people not to approach the seals. Not just for humans' safety, but for the seals' sake. Every ounce of energy spent trying to avoid an approaching human is an ounce not available when they need to escape one of their ocean predators. Watching this seal work and work to get herself landed makes the importance of energy conservation stunningly clear.

I was pleasantly tired when I returned to the van nearing sunset. I headed further south to see if there was a hope of camping at Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park. 

Campground Full

said the sign on the kiosk when I arrived. I went back up Highway 1 about a mile and pulled into a well-appointed RV park called Fernwood Resort and parted with $55 for the privilege of parking and sleeping. One feature was very nice: a lovely outdoor kitchen sink with tiled counter and running hot and cold water. There were hot showers as well.