Ahh, California -- the salt breeze, the scent of eucalyptus, the veggie burritos -- how we love it. Having both lived here at odd times in our lives, Kristanne and I always enjoy getting back to visit and enjoy the cornucopia of delights California affords the casual tourist. Today would be a good day to slow down and enjoy some of the sights, too, since (for a change) we didn't need to drive more than about another fifty miles south to be able to meet Kristanne's parents at the LA Airport on Thursday.
We set out to find a scenic spot on the beach to park Otto and do some work. I had some help files to write for work, and Kristanne had some relaxing to do. First stop -- Pismo Beach. We headed down to the public beach there and managed to get a nice parking spot facing the ocean. The parking lot was full, but it wasn't too bad a spot to work...we'd definitely been in worse. As I was pulling out the laptop to get started, I noticed some movement behind Otto. A wiry little fellow with bristle-brush hair and a Brillo pad of a mustache was making agitated hand signals at someone I couldn't see. He looked more than a little like the World's Worst Breakdancer, spastically splaying his limbs first this way and then that. "That dude is going to get no spare change with those moves," I thought to myself. "Maybe I should show him a few steps."
As I was getting out of the car, cracking my knuckles to loosen up, I heard a cry go up. "Achtung! Achtung! Links abbiegen! Links abbiegen! Schnell! Schnell!"
This was odd. As a matter of course, most breakdancers don't speak German. Then, I saw it. The Land Barge. The Road Zeppelin. The Deutsche Earth Dirigible. And it was headed right for Otto, the only thing standing between it and our bumper being the aforementioned Brillo Pad Mustache, now pretty clearly not a breakdancer, but in fact, the dreaded German Tourist (turisticus germanicus). How could we tell? The language was our first clue, but that didn't cinch it. He could still be Austrian, maybe even Swiss. Nope, what cinched it were his swim trunks, a shocking orange Speedo-style pair of entirely-too-brief briefs that would've earned our friend a citation in some of this country's southern states. That and the fact that we has intent on parking his motormansion no further than four inches from our open sliding door, smiling all the way. Hey, dude. What's up?
This wouldn't do at all. The sonorous tones of the German language do nothing for my concentration. It's like listening to someone hock up a loogie...time and time again. We opted out, heading south for fairer climes.
As we trundled down the Pacific Coast Highway, I began to scan the map for signs of scenic beaches that might not feature so much tourist activity. I saw one particularly promising spot called, "Pt. Sal State Beach." There was a gray line on the map snaking out about eight miles from the PCH to reach it. No indication of services, amenities, whatever. Just that line. We decided to try it. Gray lines are usually good ones to follow -- it means that there's a road there, but they really don't know what it's like. It was up to us to find that out.
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The turnoff from the PCH was unsigned -- there was no indication of any state beach. We took it anyway, heading off on a paved two-lane road. After about two miles, we spotted a sign scrawled in spray-paint on a broken-down bridge abutment. "Pt. Sal," was all it said, looking for all the world like a stray graffito that had gotten lost out here in the boonies. We put our faith in providence and took this turn, too, passing over a cattleguard and onto a two-lane dirt road. At the next cattleguard, the road turned into single-track dirt with the odd turnout for passing traffic. The road was carved out of the side of these coastal mountains, featuring some breathtaking drops into deep canyons. Things were getting a mite more adventurous. |
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| Down and down we descended as the road switched back on itself precipitously. Kristanne began to worry aloud about burning out Otto's brakes before we made it to the bottom. Several times, I had to get out of the car to make sure we could make it over sinkholes and obstructions without scraping Otto's soft white underbelly. Then, the ocean, blue and majestic, spreading out below us with nary a soul in sight. The beach, too, sparkling in the sunlight. "Oboy," I thought. "Oboy." | |
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We drove until the road ended at a cliff about two hundred yards above the beach. The place was amazing. Apparently, it was a state beach, but it was completely unimproved. There were no facilities, no parking lot, no signs. Unfortunately, there were also no trash cans, so a lot of unthinking folks had just seen fit to litter. Bummer. We parked Otto with the sliding side door facing out to the ocean, right on the edge of the cliff. There, we had our lunch, tasting the salt breeze along with our food. A fellow was parachuting off the cliff above us, floating on the breeze for as long as he could, only to touch down and do it again. |
After our lunch, we hiked down the cliff to the beach. Thankfully, the litter abated there, leaving only the sand, the surf, and us, strolling hand in hand among the breaking waves and the laughing gulls. A couple pelicans were hunting just offshore, divebombing into the saltchuck with great explosions of water. Onshore, huge flocks of terns twittered about, amusing us with their antics. It was a pretty amazing scene. |
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| The only black mark on the whole beach experience were two dead seals and a dead pelican. At first, we thought the seal was a victim of drift nets. It was wrapped up in what appeared to be nylon mesh. On second inspection, though, the mesh turned out to be only seaweed. No, it was bullets that killed this seal. Big entry and exit wounds from what would have to be a fairly high-caliber weapon. Probably the same weapon that killed the second seal and the pelican, too, since they bore the same telltale holes in their hides. It made me so mad I almost cried. Who could be so cruel and stupid as to shoot a seal? A pelican? Just plain criminal. We tried to shake it off, though, and headed back up the beach to where we could climb back up to Otto. | |
There, we set up the table and I did three hours worth of work in our little office overlooking the sea. Fantastic. This was what I'd envisioned the Odyssey to be like from the beginning -- escaping the confines of the office to do my work in peace and tranquility, surrounded by natural wonder. I composed a little haiku in honor of the occasion, and then we headed back, wondering if we had enough gas to get back to the main road.
Thankfully, we did, so we continued on down south to Ventura. There, we camped at Emma Wood State Beach. This campground was fairly cool, being right on the ocean as it was. It was for self-contained campers only -- RVs, trailers, vans, and the like. You park parallel to one another, the side of your vehicle facing the ocean. Although you are in very close quarters, the sound of the surf drowns out all the surrounding noise, making for a very peaceful evening. We left the door open all night, taking in the bug-free salt air. Fantastic! Today's Scenic Shot is the view from our campsite there. Enjoy it, and we'll see you next time on the Odyssey!
Total Miles for 8/13 = 133