Day 2 Half Moon Bay to Monterey

Sunday
In the morning it was chilly and the picnic table and benches were wet with that brief rain. I huddled, relishing my hot tea and heard the throaty "Rhah, rhah," of a raven flying low over the campground. By campground I mean, of course, miniature city of metal and fiberglass boxes on wheels. I sat hunched over Nella Last's War. As I told my Sewing Sisters in an email picked out on the iPhone, I read her that morning thinking three things:

1) I love her and wish the book would never end
2) She's a great antidote to the over-consumption that surrounds me (us all)
3) I haven't yet got my new dwelling in order. Dishes are still soapy from the previous renters, the ice chest reeks. My things have no logical, assigned places yet. Nella's clean habits and household economies and her determination to scrimp and save and care inspire me to pay attention to details and make this vardo a working home.

Lisa, the woman who checked me in last night, had given me a map of the RV park and described a nice walk I might take that started right here. I followed the map out to the dead end road out front,  passed some baseball diamonds and a horseshoe pit and arrived at an open area that clearly was leading to the ocean shore. It turns out this is a special raptor preserve. Norah would love this. I did see hawks circling overhead, so they're using it.

The succulent I so admired for the first 12 days of my trip -- days of ignorance, as it turned out. It carpets the dunes in lovely fall colors and creates a strong root system.

Isn't it lovely?

The dunes are criss-crossed with trails getting lots of human use. Runners and walkers came into view frequently. The ice plant captivated me over and over and I spent many photo frames on it in various locales other than this. Some of the spears are like lobster claws reaching for the sky. Viewed from afar, the range of reds, golds, greens is quite striking, reflecting the season's colors spread all over the dunes. I should say these are the season's colors as we in the east and midwest are accustomed to think of them. The flowers are similar to portulaca:

***************
Retrospective: It wasn't until my last day, up at Pt. Reyes in Marin County, that I learned the dark truth. Ice plant is invading. Planted first along road cuts, it was useful at holding the soil. Now, however, it has outpaced and smothered more delicate dune species and is a serious threat. There are ice-plant eradication efforts along the coast in CA just as there are campaigns against the invasive Japanese honeysuckle in OH.

So now the ice plant's beauty in my eyes has soured a bit. I can see and love those Monet-like compositions of color which are especially glowing in late-afternoon slanting sun, spread large over shapely dunes, but I can no long separate the appearance from the deed.

***************

It was nearly noon by the time I left the RV park and got on the road again. I made my way south mainly because Lisa had said that if I tried to go north, traffic would be jammed with the Sunday rush of visitors returning to San Francisco after the revelries. That was enough of a heading for me. South I went down Highway 1, the famed scenic highway full of hairpin turns, breathtaking sights and many opportunities to drive over cliffs and into the sea. There is one lane in each direction, with occasional very short passing lanes and many pull-offs for admiring the views. I made good use of these, of course. Sometimes the road dipped closer to sea level and there were state beaches and pulloffs that allowed a closer look.

In Santa Cruz I stopped at a Safeway for more supplies and to boil water for a thermos of herbal tea to see me through the afternoon. I think this is where the Safeway Moment fits: I had just stowed new supplies away and had the back hatch open with the propane stove set up on the counter, the single pot filled with water waiting to boil. This pot had no lid so a huge teflon frying pan was centered on top to serve as one. Past experience tells me that this activity sometimes alarms shopkeepers nearby, so I stayed alert for signs of trouble. I was returning to the back hatch from some rummaging up front when my eye was caught by movement as a car slowed and stopped. A young Latino man got out and asked me something I didn't catch. He was not in uniform (good) but was quick and assured and at first I thought, "store manager." He, on the other hand, was slightly taken aback when he saw me, and quickly said, "Oh! I thought you were selling tamales!"

Apparently the sight of an open hatch with cooking going on resembled an impromptu food stand and he was curious, or hungry. I said I was just brewing up some tea. "Oh, I see!" he smiled, and got back into his car. "But that's an idea!" I called after him, and he paused and asked where I was from. He seemed surprised I was not local. I couldn't catch the name of the place he said he was from, but wherever it is, he identifies as "not from around here, either." I wondered if he was homesick for the food of some distant land.

It was a nice exchange, anyway: my favorite way to travel, making small (or significant) connections human-to-human. We share this planet, struggle under common constraints, dance the same dance with death and taxes.

By this time I knew people at work and at home wanted to see pictures of my gypsy vardo, so I took shots and chose which went to whom. If I did it right, only Linnet got the underwear-drying-in-the-back-window image (a reference to our Alaska trip).

The black shape is a small folding table that I sometimes set up right near the bumper as extra work space. That grubby white shape under the counter is a small cooler. Folding chairs are stowed behind it but I never investigated them.

Another item I ignored was the side awning mounted on the edge of the roof, visible here at top right. Sebastian had trouble even unzipping its cover to demonstrate how it worked and that was enough to deter me.

Both side doors give access to the platform that forms the bed. The wooden slats transform into a table and bench arrangement, but I never had need to try it. Every morning I'd drop one section of the platform and flip back one/third of the mattress to allow the driver's seat to slide back into driving position. At night the reverse: jam the front seats as far forward as they'll go, and prop up the last section of wood to support the mattress. It was a very comfortable bed.

From Santa Cruz I continued down the coast, stopping and gazing. Photos show more beach shots and video clips of the ever-fascinating surging tides.

I passed Moss Landing and possibly even stopped there (there is a Moss Landing State Beach), but I would not know until later that at 7:00 this morning some high-voltage power lines came down in the PG&E electric yard near Moss Landing. This caused a major power outage all over the Monterey Peninsula, affecting Monterey, Pacific Grove, Carmel, Seaside and others. 55,700 residents  were affected.

I knew nothing of all this until I reached Monterey/Pacific Grove and even then, all I noticed was that the stop-lights -- the many, many stoplights -- were not working. I assumed it was a local signal problem and  the loss of power did not register with me. It would have, if I'd tried to buy anything: there were no credit card machines or even cash registers working. What I do remember is trying to keep pace exactly with the car in the next lane whenever I came to one of these dead intersections. With 2 lanes running in each direction I found it hard to interpret the 4-way-everybody-stop behaviors. So I just went when the guy next to me went. Several days later the clues came together when I saw the headline of a newspaper. Officials were saying this was an opportunity to test local readiness for big disasters in future. Stock up, be prepared, and expect the possibility, folks.

I stopped in at a Visitors Center in Monterey to see if I could get a lead on the dunes we visited as a family when we were young. There's a photo of us three kids sitting on the crest of a dune eating sandwiches and getting our hair blown around. I have always understood that it was taken somewhere around here. The man I asked said the dunes were likely back up the coast toward Sand City. Indeed I had passed signs for several dunes areas just before arriving in town. He also told me there were rocky beaches and tide pools south toward Point Lobos, white sand beaches along Carmel Beach, and that the monarch butterflies were starting to arrive to spend the winter among the eucalyptus trees. There is a butterfly sanctuary in Pacific Grove, which is officially the next town west, though it feels like a continuation of Monterey. Also known as Butterfly Town, its citizens tax themselves to provide the funds to maintain the sanctuary and staff it with volunteer docents.

When I asked about camping, he circled Veterans Memorial Park on a map that showed it to be right in the center of town. It offered tent camping first come, first served and sounded promising.

This was all good and useful news. It turned out the Visitors Center closed for the day moments after I left, so I felt lucky to have the information and the maps he'd given me. I used all three items constantly in the next few days: 2 Monterey area maps and one full CA state map. I was to remember fondly his quiet, somewhat sad face in the days to come. He treated with kindness  my hunt for those long ago dunes.

I moved the van to a public pay lot and tried several times to pay at the kiosk, but my money was returned. Another man was getting the same treatment. Was this another effect of the power outage? By the end of the day much had been restored, according to newspaper accounts I read later, but a machine out of order is such a commonplace that again, I took the power itself for granted and suspected the device.

I was in the neighborhood of Cannery Row but had no urge to go see it. I'll keep Mack and the boys safe inside my memory. The sandy beach immediately adjacent to the parking lot was full of current-day hippies perched about with their belongings. One young woman walked around talking to herself, cause unclear to me: whether she was high or mentally busy with her own internal life I did not know. She could have wondered the same about me --- I do catch myself talking out loud at times when thoughts are suddenly vivid and need expression. I wondered, though, what this Veterans Memorial Park would be like, smack in the middle of town as the map showed it. Would this be a replay of Amsterdam parks back in the 70's?

As it turned out, the Veterans Memorial Park is so far up a very big hill in the middle of the city, that no horde of drifters was to be seen. And what if it had been? An opportunity to live my claims to a wider life (or eat my words).

There were plenty of sites. I chose one near the entrance and the ranger's house, filled out the self-pay envelope and deposited it in the Iron Ranger. I think I must have been feeling wary about this city campsite -- thus my site location -- but I soon relaxed. It was a lovely place. I had a picnic table under a tree with a water spigot and a bathhouse nearby. Ideal. All roads were hills. Walk uphill to the loo, back down again to the campsite. I felt very lucky to find this place at the tail end of the day. I cooked up more vegetables and read more of Nella Last's War by the glow of my new water jug lantern. This was a small LED flashlight hung by its tail loop from the neck of a full plastic gallon of water. The water diffuses the light in an interesting fashion and the slope of the jug holds the bright spot of the lens just about exactly on the page. It was a useful discovery I used throughout the trip.

I hate to see Nella go --- I've loved this book so much. Maybe there are works available from other Mass Observation diarists.

Day 1 San Francisco & Half Moon Bay

3:30 am

A text from Bob, just as I was looking up his number to give him his wake-up call: I'm up. C U 3:45?

Soon he was in the drive, engine running, and by then my luggage was assembled on the front porch and the house was ready to lock up for the next two weeks. Anything I'd neglected to do ---- well, it would just have to wait. I was off to San Francisco and the unknowns of a solo camping trip in a rented camper van. Columbus airport is about an hour away and I usually drive there myself and park in one of the long term lots. This time Bob was kind enough to offer to ferry me despite the hour. Lovely!

He could see I was traveling light, and did not need help with the bags.  It was a generous favor already: getting up in the middle of  the night to drive me to CMH, and then doubling back home again. All this would be repeated in two weeks, though at a more civilized hour.

It was a nice ride and he had me laughing. We agreed TV makes people fearful. As he said, "No one who watches the local news on TV can escape without fear and dread. And then, horror scenes from distant parts of the world are inserted to jack up the alarm levels."

I think of my coworkers, one of whose habitual refrain is "Stranger Danger!" when the subject of Craigslist or her neighbors comes up. If I had grown up in different circumstances I expect I'd be different, but I am who I am. I am determined not to succumb to the fearful cringing I witness in others. Harboring unrelenting suspicion of strangers and unfamiliar settings is no way to live.

***********
The flights to California went as planned. My rollaway and loaded daypack passed for carry-on luggage and I was not forced to check anything. Good. It makes for a quicker getaway at the far end.
***********

The taxi ride from SFO to my van pick-up at Lost Campers was brief and breathless. I hoped I would not find SF traffic forcing me to such speeds. But the driver got me there, to an industrial looking block consisting of a line of old concrete buildings and loading docks, fronted by a large gravelled  yard. It was enclosed in chain link fence, with a gate at one end and a colorful sign announcing Lost Campers. I asked the cab driver how I could get a taxi again at this same location at 6:00 am two weeks from now, and he gave me his company card with a phone number to call.

The door closest to the gate was unmarked so I started around the corner in search of the office. I must have been spotted through the window, for a man emerged from that door and asked if I was there for a camper. This was Sebastian Figueroa and despite appearances and name he spoke with a British accent and called me "love." He was born in NY, but grew up in England. We went through the paperwork and a brisk and mesmerizing demo of what was where in the van. The Tom-Tom GPS device was cranky, so we were in and out of the office seeking replacement parts. At one point he informed me that the device is illegal in CA, so I should not mount it up on the dash but should keep it down out of sight. On one of our passes through the door, I spotted a weed growing in the chain link fence nearby. It could have been the twin of a certain stunning yellow flower I always associate with lucky strokes of fate. I had to get a photo. This was a good omen.

Diversion to WV, 2007:
The story of that original yellow flower came about 8 years ago. I was traveling in the terrible white Taurus wagon Mark helped me buy from a ditzy and rather deceptive woman in Ashland, OH.  I paid as much to repair that car in the two years I owned it as I originally paid to buy it.  It was a delight to finally be free of it some months later. It was tainted, not just by its association with financial blight, but --- closer to the heart --- misplaced trust and love. But, back to the story. The good story.

I was enroute to a weekend of contra dancing in West Virginia. It was Friday evening. Right around Charleston things started to go wrong with the wagon. I came to a standstill on the shoulder of a busy highway with only my AT&T-issued cellphone "not for personal use." I rummaged around for the AAA number, made the illicit call, and a tow truck eventually arrived. I knew nothing of the area, of course, so I asked the tow truck driver for advice and he took me to a place nearby with a huge blue and white sign:

Sure enough they were there, and open, and able to diagnose the problem: transmission shot. Must be replaced. Part not available until morning. I would not be dancing Friday night.

It took a few hours to get all the payment issues ironed out (they wanted cash), but they let me sleep in the car overnight in their yard rather than fork out for a motel across the highway. I remember feeling doubtful about one of the "boys," some of whom seemed to sleep on the property in trailers strewn among the dead car hulks. But I was tired, happy that the car was on track for recovery, and all in all it felt safe. I can't explain how I came to that calculation and final sum of all the vibes, but I did. Some might reject my calculations or doubt my sanity, but I slept fine, grateful things were in hand and I was heading for a solution.

Next morning one of the boys and his girlfriend drove me to a nearby branch of Wesbanco (which fortunately is headquartered in WV), and I got the cash needed for the transaction. We returned to the service center and my long wait began.

This gave me plenty of quiet hours in which to actually read the thick owner's manual that had come with my new digital camera. I'd barely even unpacked the box. It was something I bought with AT&T employee rewards points and was my first encounter with digital photography. I had put off learning to use it. Now was a good time.

I sat long in the International House of Pancakes next door to the repair yard, studying the book and the camera and getting used to the lingo and the settings. Finally I was ready to try it out. I walked back to the service center yard and took my very first photo: a yellow wildflower blooming bright and cheerful right up against the chain link fence. The wind from passing cars caused it to tremble, but by some luck I got the shot:

That image and the shot of the Good Old Boys' sign still give me pleasure when I see them at the top of my vast photo file. I frame the whole experience as a token of the kindness of strangers and the sweet kiss of luck in trying times.

When the repairs were done and paid for and I was ready to get back on the road, one of the boys said to call them when I got to my dance, just so they'd know I'd made it OK.  I said I would, and I did so, some hours later after winding my way up mountain roads to the camp where the event was held.

It was Saturday night and I got there in time to dance. What more is needed?


Now here I was in San Francisco and a yellow flower was smiling up at me out of a chain  link fence. 

Sebastian asked casually where I planned to go and at that point my only plan was to see Monterey, so I told him that. I left the lot and just roamed around for a bit, getting used to the van. When Sebastian told me her name was "needy" I wondered, "Ugh! WHY?"  However, it is spelled Neetie, and although it is still a strange name, it is at least palatable.

After a few minutes I saw signs for Highway 1 and that sounded promising, so I pursued it. At some point I made Half Moon Bay my target because of the lovely name, and we were off.

And then we were at a standstill. The traffic moved so slowly that I finally had to take seriously the light board that informed us that the 26 mile trip to HMB would take over an hour. What could be the hold-up? We never passed an accident or a "road work ahead" sign. What was it? In truth, I did not care. I was on an adventure with no set boundaries other than a 1300 mile quota for the duration of the trip. I did not HAVE to be anywhere for the next 2 weeks and this stop-and-go traffic gave me a chance to roll down the windows, smell the eucalyptus leaves and notice the dry dusty look of drought-struck grasses and trees. I enjoyed looking at unfamiliar vegetation, and bright colored flowers occasionally shouted, "You're not in Ohio any more!" I passed through a cloud of midges --- no, dust motes -- no, was this fog? It was water vapor, and I was surprised because the particles were airborne and yet were big enough to see distinctly in the sunlight.

We crept closer to Half Moon Bay and started to see pumpkins in fields and at roadside stands. And then more pumpkins and then signage indicating that this small town was hosting a festival of some kind and finally it dawned on me that this was a massive event and that it was the cause of the great back-up of traffic on Highway 1. The annual Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival is a huge celebration of orange. Gorgeous masses of pumpkins had been brought to the roadside edges of their fields and there were many invitations to stop and pick "the very best," even before we reached the town center.

HMB, it turns out, is also a big producer of flowering plants and I passed several big greenhouse operations and landscaping centers. Parking was impossible when I reached the grocery store I wanted, even when parts of the lot were roped off only for customers. I did manage to get into the Ace Hardware store for a bottle of propane, but for groceries I had to go another 1/4 mile to find a Safeway with sufficient room to park. It was a nice big store, well stocked with all the things I needed immediately, and I set in a supply. I had seen enough festival by this time and I drove away from the center and over toward HMB State Beach. My new California State Parks senior pass let me park for free.

The beach! Ocean waves! The sound of surf! I had arrived now. I traipsed along noticing odd little "beach carrots" scattered about on the wet sand. They must be some kelp flotation organ. They're tawny brown in color, wet and shiny in the late-day sun. Each is from 2 to 6" long, tapered like a carrot and there's a wormy-textured triangular flap sprouting from the top like the spread of a carrot's foliage. The top part is generally at least as long as the carrot so it doubles the total length.

In my delight at touching the Pacific once again I took video clips of the wash of waves on the beach, relishing the sound:

The dune cliffs were lovely in the lowering light of the sun. Varicolored layers all average out to an autumnal gold. Deep shadows where arroyos are carved back into the land mass are dark, highlighting the gold.

Back in the van I started to wonder where I'd sleep, and looked up campgrounds on the iPhone. I chose one not far away and followed verbal directions from the maps app. A wrong turn led me to my lucky find for the night: while iPhone was repeating "Return to the route! Return to the route!" I spotted a sign saying "Campground check-in this way," and I followed it instead.

The woman running things was dismayed to know I had arrived at "Half Moon Bay RV Park --- the Friendly Park" without reservations on this, of all weekends of the year. However, she had 2 possible sites left, small ones kept for tent camping. I was happy to take one. By then I had been awake too many hours to calculate and it was good to know I had a place to bunk down. I was a bit fizzy as I handed over my cash, and she had to run out after me with the change I forgot to wait for.

I cooked carrots and parsnips and ate them with yogurt and soon crawled in to make up the bed. Even the yip-whining of a dog nearby whose owners were out celebrating pumpkins did not register, once I'd got flat. I slept. I was surprised to hear rain at some period of the night, but it did not last more than a few minutes.