Along about the end of February, I start hanging our at Border's, drinking copious cups of coffee and raiding the travel book shelves. I'm desperate for spring. Miraculously, a trip to California materializes and my lovely wife, Orllyene, (she might read this) and I are going to share a small villa in the Carmel area of California with friends.
By the time we reach Coalinga, a rural town smacking of 1940s California (off Interstate 5, north of Bakersfield), we peel off onto state Highway 198. How freeing to be behind the wheel on a squiggly back road. You never know what's going to be around the next corner. Knobby hills squeeze in on us as the road slinks up one hillside and down the other. Going over 35 mph is ill advised and who wants to miss all the beauty anyway? The fields are intensely green, luminous from rain that turns California a shade of green Ireland would be proud of. A happy little stream joins us and then vanishes down a mysterious ravine. An occasional ranch house, a broken down barn or rickety corral are the only signs of civilization. This is the California I remember as a kid. Deeper and deeper we penetrate, slowly climbing until we reach the top of the mountain range and of course the only way to go is down.
Our first views are of softly molded mountains. This side of the mountain range is cattle country, velvety green pastures, miles of white fence and designer barns. California's agriculture and animal husbandry is primo all the way. In just minutes we've left forests of pine and oak behind and found picture perfect farms. Our "joy ride" soon ends and we join the herd on Highway 101 and aim for the Monterey Peninsula at Salinas.
Next morning, as most residents of Carmel Meadows are still dozing, I slip under the guard rail of a path to the beach. Is there a better way to greet the day? To my right, the Carmel River flows clean and clear, finishing its journey from the nearby mountain range. A sand dune, recently ruptured by a storm, provides easy access to the ocean and the river slips beneath the waves. The scent of salty ocean spray is delicious. A mile away, to my left, I see Point Lobos jutting seaward, covered in cypress. To my right, vacant mansions await their masters who seem to have no time for them. Later in the day I sit on the beach and watch a lucky fisherman catch and release a 30 inch steelhead trout. What a thrill.
The Monterey Peninsula is at the top of everyone's vacation list and that's a stumbling block: Solution, travel south past Carmel to Monastery Beach, walk a half mile to your right and voila, solitude.
On Sunday, our little group of vagabonds head south on Highway 1. It's our second day of sunny weather and we're jubilant. Our goal is to find county road 3004 that will take us up into the Ventana Wilderness to Mission San Antonio de Padua, Father Junipero Serra's third mission in the El Camino Real chain.
With a map and three navigators; I still miss the turn off.
"It's back yonder, 'bout five miles," so says an old duffer with a huge scoop of white sun block on his nose. He's decked out in a wet suit, carrying a surf board, and is right at home in these parts. California attracts folks who like to get close to nature.
County road 3004 appears to be deliberately hidden behind some bushes but we prevail, rattle over a cattle guard and our big sedan begins the long climb up the side of the mountain. This is the Ventana Wilderness, protected by more laws and restrictions than the White House.
"Is this a goat track that just happened to get paved?", I wonder. Moments later a vigorous twosome comes tramping down the road ahead of us. "Is there a Denny's nearby?", I ask, which, of course, there isn't. We find out that today is the ladies birthday; 60 years old; she looks fit as a fiddle. We congratulate her, offer her some chips, which she declines because she recently lost 35 pounds and they continue to ramble down the road to their campground on the beach. Meeting folks and hearing their story is one of the best parts of travel.
Ever upward, curving back on itself, the road flares out to a view pull off. Thousands of feet below is the famous Big Sur coastline. Out of ear shot, we watch the waves as they bash themselves into frothy foam, recede and try again. Up and down the coast are miles and miles of unrestricted view with absolutely no buildings. The sky turns a transparent blue as we climb higher; a smooth carpet of grass plummets down the steep slope inches away from our car. Just before we lose sight of the ocean, we pull off and devour sandwiches and hard boiled eggs.
Eager to be on our way, we push ahead, driving headlong into a hollow of dense shade. Chartreuse moss covers the embankment beside us and nearby stream zig zags toward us through a series of miniature pools. We are as high as we can go and we begin our decent, squeezing through ravines into a sylvan valley. With trepidation, we are admitted to Hunter-Ligget military base where Mission San Antonio de Padua is located. (drivers license and proof of insurance required.)
San Antonio is 200 feet long, 40 feet wide with adobe walls 6 feet thick. Spanish to the core, the rooms are cool, segmented by graceful archways and domed ceilings. We slip into a cocoon of early California history. The clang of the three lovely church bells signals it's time to be on the road. What a fitting conclusion to backroading, California style.
-- Ron Walker is a Smith Valley resident and traveler.
