From windy cities to windy roads...

     As the days wear on, the mornings are beginning to creep earlier and the car rides are piling up. Each city is a blur, only making a faint impression in my mind as less and less time is being allowed for both exploration and relaxation. An 8 day vacation in California is seeming like a mad dash through a mall where every store has a unique and interesting selection of sights and sounds that must be seen before the day ends and the doors are closed. The images of the relaxing sandy shores of a southern California postcard are quickly being supplanted by ever changing scenery zipping through the plexi-glass barrier. Lawn chairs and sandals are replaced by adjustable leather seats, swim suits are traded for jeans, and monotony is obliterated by the flurry of new experiences passing through our grasps like hot potatoes. And although the above description seems bleak and full of disdain, I wouldn’t change the past few day’s experiences for anything. California is a massive reservoir teeming with novelty that makes the notion of slowing the pace seem both un-American and downright insane. Although a leer jet and private airstrips at each individual stop on our tour-de-force would be ideal, us middle-class Missourians will have to stick with long car rides along untamed routes with both adventure and surprise lurking around every turn.
    Tirade aside, the city of Monterey welcomed us with morning sun as we emerged from beneath the covers to conquer yet another day of power-vacationing. The city was especially enticing, as it was the home of John Steinbeck, and the setting for his novel Cannery Row. Maybe someday down the road during or after my college years in California (finger’s crossed), I can sit down and gaze at the bustling coastal scene and pen words as genius as Steinbeck’s. But that’s a future dream, which must be built on past experiences, and my future past is now the present, requiring me to stop daydreaming and start experiencing! Wait, did that sentence make sense? Oh well.
    Anyway, cannery row was as unique as the great author described, and the smell of fish and sights of old piers tantalized the senses. The feel and function of the town were palpable, as even today old ships motored in and out of the bay in search of the silver of the sea. As with Sausalito, Monterey was an obvious choice for a repeat vacation, and the few hours we spent not cooped up in a hotel room were extremely enjoyable.
    Our taste of the sea didn’t stop on the sidewalks, as we ponied up the dough to tour Monterey Bay Aquarium at the end of Cannery Row. Spoiled with the expansive and utterly jaw-dropping menagerie of aquatic life housed at the aquarium in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, we were semi-disappointed. A few tanks held the mystique of reef and ocean life, but most fell short as small enclosures, ugly fish, and lack of diversity made the aquarium kind of a dud. However, a large octopus, an aviary, a row of disheveled flamingoes and a massive tank of rays made the experience worth-while. Overall, the aquarium is a good choice for newbies, but lacks the bite that larger and more renowned aquariums possess.

    A two-hour tour amongst the fishes left us in a bit of a time crunch, so lunch was a quick affair at the Cannery Row Brewing Company. A couple of Honey Wheat ales along with a Tipsy Pale Ale accompanied spinach dip and a Reuben done right as we annihilated our cuisine in record time. Chasing our San Diego born waitress to the register, we were eager to head down the coast on the infamous Highway 1.
    Thanks to a handy “Explore Monterey” app on my droid and a host of web surfing the night before, we achieved a Rood family first-a planned day! Yet due to my OCD style, the day was jam-packed. Along the way we learned quickly that every stop cost $10, a strange concept for exploring nature, with the evening being capped with an exploration of the Hearst castle at 6pm sharp in San Simeon, a good 100 miles away. Translation, we needed to get a move on.
    The first route was 17-mile drive winding around Monterey. In haste, we pointed out landmarks, took hurried pictures, and even sprinted outside at one spot to take the lone family picture:

The coast was beautiful, and scenes like bird rock, the lone cypress, and the sheer beauty of the natural landscape was breathtaking. In fact, the frantic pace at which we were now forced to travel was breathtaking.
    Point Lobos was stop one, and a scenic hike down Cypress Grove Trail ensued. The guide was far from inaccurate, as a (insert overused adjective describing beauty) grove of ancient cypress trees peppered the rocky landscape. From the end of the trail, the aptly named Seal Rock boasted a large gathering of howling sea lions, or sea wolves as the natives called them. Luckily, a few ventured to our side of the cliff to swim and flip about in search of dinner. It must be fun to be a seal, as their aerodynamic bodies jet through the water with ease and without a care amongst strong tidal forces constantly trying to crush them against razor sharp rocks. Their grace in the water is unparalleled, but on land the lumbering oafs resemble a fat guy sprinting up a cliff more than a world-class athlete. A semi-sprint back to the car put us on schedule, as we rumbled down the treacherous highway precariously perched on the very edge of the coastal mountains.
    Every twist and turn brought another postcard worthy image of the sea, and each mile reinforced the inconceivable amount of work required to pave such a ridiculous stretch of road. Bridges over the steepest ravines highlight the fragility of this two-lane wonder, and stray rocks and dirt over some sections are a grim warning that at any moment the entire street could collapse beneath the tires sending a line of tourists sliding down the mountain into the sea.
    After another hour of driving, the “town” of Big Sur emerged from the seemingly uninhabited coast, and with a screeching of brakes we rolled into Pfieffer Big Sur State Park. Within these grounds, we truly discovered the meaning of “slight-seeing.” At full speed we thundered up dirt cliffs towards the peak to glimpse a waterfall nestled in the valley. Sweltering heat unabated by the cooling winds from the water bore down on our jean-clad bodies, and immediately our sweaters became more of a decoration than a heat source. Back sweat in excess, we finally found the waterfall and snapped a few pics, resting only a few minutes before conquering the next trail. A hike further up the mountain and with climbing mercury lead us to a spectacular valley view. Two minutes of resting on a bench later we were off barreling down the dirt path towards the trailhead. When the car engine started we were ten minutes ahead of schedule with only a 50 mile stretch of highway 1 separating us from a truly unique experience. Or so we thought.
    The entire coastal drive, though beautiful, was an ominous reminder that we were far from any civilization, save our comrades driving in each direction. The mountains blocked all cell phone service for well over 200 miles, and gas stations were like gold mines, scattered few and far between. That said, as we floored it out of Big Sur skipping a gas station in hopes to save time, we were fueling a disaster in the making.
    Ignorance and stubbornness are the prime candidates for our next decision, as we completely ignored a flashing “Road Closed 35 Miles Ahead” sign. We simply couldn’t wrap our minds around the possibility that an entire highway could be shut down with no detours in place. As time slipped by and the fuel gauge continued to plummet, we were determined to make it to the castle. That is, until we got to a second, less ignorable sign: “Road Closed 10 Miles Ahead. Businesses Still Open.” After much deductive reasoning, our fate was finally realized: we were paddle-less. Consulting a ranger solidified our assumptions, and our options were laid out. We could either continue for 5 miles and hope the gas station ahead hasn’t been emptied by travelers like us, head back to Big Sur, or take Nacimiente Highway over the mountains to Highway 101, where a gas station was promised to be not 20 miles away. The gas gauge read 60 miles to empty, the time was 5:00, and our hopes of making a timely entrance to San Simeon were officially squashed.
    Siding with the ranger, we took the treacherous road that cut through the mountains after hearing the town ahead was most likely out of gas. A lack of guard rails, 180 degree U-Turns, and two-way traffic on a seemingly one-way road seemed not to bother mom, as all her worries were resting on the fear we would run out of gas and she would die in the mountains. Amusing, at best, my fears rested on the possibility that the gas station of fable either didn’t exist or was much farther than previously described. The hellish road kept speeds at 20mph or less, and the climb from sea level was arduous. Ears popping every few minutes, we were soon eye level with the clouds, and completely dependent on fellow motorists should our gas tank turn out empty. The crest of the hill came as a relief, and ten miles of gasless coasting provided a nail-biting experience as we all sat on the edge of our seat peering around each corner in hopes of a beautiful large yellow shell or something of the sort. After passing the twenty-mile mark, mom’s worry turned into hysteria, as scenarios as grim as horror movies traversed her mind. I admit, a knot in my stomach grew as I began to imagine running 20+ miles to both find a gas station and return to the car a hero.
    Thankfully, out of nowhere, Fort Mitchell Brag ascended from the vast nothingness to aid in our quest for the holy grail of liquids. A helpful soldier guided us down a road towards the town of Jolon, with promises that a station would appear just 10 miles down the road. The car’s computer read 11 miles to empty. Six miles later with brooding fears that we had missed our turn, we stopped at a bar to once again inquire the location of the filling station. The same soldier sympathetically told us that we were nearly there, and as the computer switched to completely empty, we rolled into the only gas station within thirty miles. Wow is the only word that truly sums it up. After purchasing the world’s worst sandwich, viewing a cell phone video of a dust storm created by a C-17 take-off, and being invited to come dancing by a large, black-toothed redneck, we bolted down highway 101 with $5 a gallon gas overflowing our tank. We still had an hour and a half drive to Morro Bay, and the stress of the drive and long day truly set in.
    Arrival in the Bay lead to frantic phone calls to catch up on a day’s worth of no service along with a quick jaunt down to the coast to find some food. Overzealous, we all ordered way too much, and my clam chowder, though delicious, sat mostly uneaten when I finally threw in the towel. A stop at the nearest liquor store was a necessity, and a night filled with pinochle in the spacious hotel was a great way to unwind the stress and simply relax for a few hours. Too bad the girls whooped us until the very end. All in all, the day of scenery and sensory overload could have easily been stretched into a week, but with significantly greater costs. The onset of sleep was quick after mom finally gave up her conversation tirade, and I anxiously awaited the morning run to further relieve my tense body and mind.

Wine Country 5/19

Another morning rise at 8am was not as difficult as the previous day. As the ‘rents went in search of a coffee and breakfast, Kara and I packed up and dressed for the long day of driving ahead of us. When the coffee seekers returned, we made like Christmas trees and exited the Handlery Union Square Hotel en route to Sonoma and Napa Valley! But first, as any American Tourist would, we drove through Mickey D’s to grab some grub and drinks to fuel our voyage.
    I figured out the hard way, 20 miles north of the correct turn towards Napa, that I should not be in the backseat typing this blog. My duties as navigator were never more apparent than in the disdain filled silence that hung like the fog of a San Francisco morning inside our roaring Mercury. After straightening out our course towards Napa, the massive menagerie and selection of wineries in the valley became painfully apparent. An hour of Droid web surfing did no justice, and Fodor’s guide was consulted to land us at Frog’s Leap Winery in the Y valley. The day was gorgeous, a reprieve from the windy rain and chill of the big city. The sun shone down and heated the air to a balmy 75 degrees, as we enjoyed a flight of expensive wines on the patio adjacent to a plantation of grapes. Turns out, Frog’s Leap was an ideal starting point, even according to the guide, as they allowed us to scope out all the wineries in the area with a handy guide. The sheer number of wineries listed in that directory was astounding, leaving the mind to wonder how the entire United States supply of Napa Valley wine was grown in the vicinity of HWY 29. I definitely didn’t see that many grapes….

    After the first flight, and a decision not to revisit any delectable merlots, we headed up the mountainside to bring our boisterous “Missourah” attitude. Rutherford Ranch, the first nice red barn at the base of the hill, had no outdoor seating, and thus no appeal to us. A quick jaunt higher up the mountain landed us at Rutherford Hills, a gargantuan refinery with two story doors and a massive outdoor picnic area shaded by slow-growing olive trees. A large swath of the beautiful valley was visible through the aged and gnarled branches, shedding light on the multitude of perfectly strung grapes basking in the California sun. “No outside alcohol” signs warranted only a chuckle as we popped open a couple Kona Longboards, Great White Ales, and Red Tails while the women enjoyed a whole bottle of buttery chardonnay.
    The heat of the valley warmed our skin as the spirits both lightened the mood and amplified our ability to be obnoxious. A bag of pretzels served as an alternative medium for artistic expression, as we chomped our way through half a bag to carve out the letters of our names. The wine was sinking in, and the day was getting late, so we headed back to the car to start our academic journey through the outlying areas of San Francisco. Lunch was the only obstacle standing between me and my possible future institution, but it was not an obstacle that could be skipped. Pacific Blues in Yountville fit the bill, and a beautiful dining experience on a back patio filled our stomachs before the drive. Driving out of Napa, it was clear that we all needed to take a Napa.
    Berkeley was our first stop, and a quick tour of the campus ensued. The buildings reminded me of the Missouri campus, but were much more spread out. The vibe of Cali was also apparent, as a skateboarder wiped out right in front of us, and in front of all the “No Skateboarding” signs. Berkeley’s highlights were the beautiful clock tower in central campus, and the brand new engineering/science building full of research labs. I truly believe I would feel at home at this magnificent campus.
    An hours worth of scoping the academic buildings was more than enough, but Urban Outfitters grabbed our attention. A pair of shoes and a few souvenirs later we were back on the road to Palo Alto. However, time is something we didn’t have.
    After crossing the bay on 92, the affluence of Stanford became increasingly apparent. A stretch of road over 5 miles long was littered with high end retail stores, ritzy cafes, and beautiful facades. University Avenue turned into Palm Drive, and a stretch of roads that epitomize Stanford. A picturesque view of the Spanish style campus loomed a mile ahead as a road surrounded by two rows of equi-spaced palm trees lined our path. A quick roll through the main loop of campus showed the true beauty of the university, and upon seeing the white and orange terra-cotta buildings I became hooked. If I am accepted to Stanford, I’m almost positive that’s where I’ll be spending my next four or so years.
    The sun began to set and the fog rolled in to ruin what would be our first Pacific Sunset. Rolling through Santa Cruz towards Monterey was a long journey after a long day, and driving was becoming increasingly unpleasant. However, Hotel Abrego in the beautiful city of Monterey was exceptionally nice, and after a journey to grab some essentials and a tasty pizza from Gianni’s, it was time to relax. The movie “Signs” let us slip slowly into slumber, with only a mass awakening at 2 am to chug water and crack a window, as the heat became too much to handle. Strangely, the AC didn’t work, as the switches next to the temperature only seemed to turn on and off an unnecessary but unique in-room fireplace. Nonetheless, tomorrow is packed full of activity, and a lot more driving.

California here we come...

     It’s a well-known fact that every good vacation begins with a stroll down a ghetto towards a red light district… wait, they don’t? Well someone should have definitely sent us that memo. Upon paying serious cash to park a classy powder blue grand marquis in a garage overnight, we hiked up streets as steep as the ones in San Francisco towards Chinatown. A California Tourism guide in hand along with two droids and an iPhone streaming mad quantities of data sent us on a meandering journey towards a nonexistent brewery. Nevertheless, our effervescent gusto was enough to keep us trudging up a 200 foot elevation change on 45 degree streets and a mile down a street lined with Chinese signs until we officially became the epitome of lost tourists. With a fanfare of screaming and arguing and a quick stint down a street with more than five adult video stores, our sense of adventure had completely worn off, and we turned about face, tails between our legs, back to get our car and our beloved GPS. Needless to say, we were not initially fans of San Francisco.
    A beer at Lefty O’Doul’s put the vigor back in our step, and it was off to chow down on “The best fish sandwich in San Francisco” according to Google. The powder blue beast sailed down bustling city streets into a much better part of town, and with a sign from god as the rain clouds cleared and a parking spot right by the restaurant opened up, we were back in business. Pacific Catch was great, and my Chinatown experience didn’t quite deter me from ordering a delicious Asian Bowl with grilled Mahi Mahi. Add in a Kona Longboard (let’s face it, I’m a sucker for anything Hawaiian), a beer I had only drank a few times on the islands of Hawaii and I was already in a much better mood. Let’s go exploring.
    Driving around the city was both frustrating and amazing at the same time. The traffic and travelers clog the old city streets, and bikers, trolleys and buses make merging and navigating a tall order. However, San Fran never ceased to change. Every few blocks the city morphed into a completely different microcosm of activity, scenery, and atmosphere. The aforementioned Chinatown does not do justice to the true heart of the city. Downtown in a forest of sequoia-sized skyscrapers is a dirty, scary scene where the only refuge lies in back booth seats of the various restaurants and bars within sight. Sneak up the hill and head west and you’re in a town reminiscent of Forest Park in St. Louis, with a large expanse of greenery and trails surrounded by quaint shops, unique architecture and less imposing building facades. Even farther west, and you encounter the shores of Ocean Beach, with a great view of Seal Rock from Highway 101. I’ve concluded that the area of San Francisco is a mirror of Missouri weather: If you don’t like the town, drive ~5 blocks away.
    However, there are a few staples present in any part of the city. The most noticeable is all the fitness junkies, both running and biking to conquer ridiculous hills and annoying intersections to complete a ride or run unimaginably different from any I’ve ever experienced. Along with the fitness junkies, junkies of all kinds line the city streets, cup in hand, begging for money and wishing us a blessed day. These less fortunate strangers become increasingly “friendly” at night, and interactions loom precariously close to confrontations. Also, every road is a free-for-fall, one-way jungle, where rules are nonexistent and tourists are not enjoyed. Less honking occurred than one would imagine, but brake slams, cutoffs, and passes were part of the territory. The only way to escape the hubbub of humanity is to escape the overcrowded San Francisco peninsula and head across the International Orange suspension bridge present in many a postcard.
    Although day one was spent driving in north SF in the Presidio and along Ocean Beach, day two would put us across the 4,200 ft. long Golden Gate Bridge. Although morning was technically later then usual, the 8am Pacific Time rise was still difficult. Only the lure of massive redwoods could get us out the door. A stop at a Lebanese breakfast shop let us collide with the language barrier for the first time, but after multiple verbal exchanges, our orders came out correct. More arguing and GPSing led us to Muir Woods, a grove of redwoods unperturbed by civilization due to foresight of a single man who purchased the area to prevent total deforestation. Although, the government seems to be double dipping, as they purchased the land and deemed it a state park in the 50’s and now have the audacity to charge $5 a head to view what the entire nation once tried to demolish. I suppose the cash does go towards keeping the park nice and running, so I’ve conceded to the monetary loss.
    The woods were amazing, with multitudes of 100+ foot trees rising as tall as some of the buildings in the city we had just escaped. The majestic giants grow from vast expanses of root systems grown over centuries. The tallest of trees stand over 200 feet tall and are over 1100 years old! These monsters can only grow this high from a combination of time and diminished competition that arises from forest fires that clear the low-lying trees and shrubs to both clear space and enrich the soil.

A two-hour hike up around a 300 ft. change in elevation led us through groves of massive Douglas firs, redwoods, and sequoias, all providing enough awe to make you contemplate your significance on this planet. A tromp down a paved valley along a creek led us back to the entrance, where our beautiful behemoth of a blue beast stood waiting our next move. We were hungry. Off to Sausalito to get some grub.
   

As soon as we drove down the coast, saw the sea-plane sitting in a patch of mud at low tide and the sails off in the distance, we were hooked. We all agree that if another trip to San Francisco ever occurred, we would immediately book a room on the Sausalito coast, rather than fight the inner city maze of San Fran. On a coastal road overlooking the bay we found a quaint little Italian bistro and plopped down on a bench overlooking a harbor teeming with white fabric triangles. A round of Anchor Steam Boats and a thick IPA for dad helped us munch our one cheese pizza with three leaves and a tomato as we gazed out over the water. The bay bridge was in the distance along with Alcatraz, and a friendly bunch of seagulls loomed in the foreground, begging for scraps. The highlight of the meal was an unexpected visit from a seal, as it poked its head out for a brief moment, then resumed doing seal things under the surface.

    Constantly on the prowl for sweets, we headed to a saltwater taffy store and filled our baskets with an assortment of the candies. Cinnamon Swirl, Caramel Cheesecake, and Chocolate Chip were just a few of the delicious morsels that ended up in our harvest, along with some Reese’s and chocolate covered peanuts. With eleven minutes to spare, we once again boarded our four-wheeled vessel and took towards the coast.
    A quick jaunt to Stinson beach provided a reprieve from the claustrophobic car. The shore was covered with worn down rocks, smoothed from years of battering waves along with large, bulbous seaweed stalks. I couldn’t resist the urge to run shoeless down the shoreline, so I happily chased the waves in and out of the sandy coastline. Dogs ran amok with Jai Alai ball launchers providing endless entertainment with little effort as I made my untraceable path of footprints in the sand. The waves washed away my existence mere minutes after my impressions, and the salty air rejuvenated my lungs. There’s nothing like the feel of running barefoot on the beach, as your entire existence immerses into the moment. The sun, sky, surf, and sand are alive with sounds, sights, feelings, and tastes that cannot be reproduced. If I had my choice, I would wake up every day and run ten miles of down the beach until I traversed every inch of coastline that California could provide. Yet, with fears of Achilles problems on uneven sand, a mile today would have to suffice, as we turned around and headed back to the car to head north.
    North of Sausalito is a vast expanse of protected coast known as Point Reyes, the Nation’s only National Seashore. Actually, vast was an understatement. Sir Francis Drake Highway led us north through towns similar to the North Shore of Hawaii that quickly morphed into hilly farmland that resembled Calhoun County! Dairy cows, horses, and large wheat fields lined the rolling hills, as both the Pacific Ocean and Tomales Bay were sometimes simultaneously visible. After much screaming occurred, a random spark of inspiration generated an idea that simply could not be ignored: We simply had to flip off a cow. The poor sap never saw it coming as we randomly chose the first unlucky bystander chewing cud and staring mindlessly back at us. I have to admit, it was one of the most satisfying moments of my life, and although before the idea came to be I had never dreamed of doing something so mindless and immature, the allure and prospect of the act was simply overwhelming. I wonder if the cow is wondering what the hell he did to deserve such treatment…

    Post-bovine demoralization, we motored to the very end of the road to a parking lot void of all human life. The only way to the coast was a half-mile hike down a gravelly trail between two hills. Wildflowers lined the edge, as the one-man trail wound down towards the craggy coast. Finally, the ocean appeared between the two peaks, along with fields of sand on a pristine beach.
    The ocean was formidable, as it unleashed its fury upon the weathered and beaten rocks one swell at a time, slowly chomping away at California’s western seaboard. Great plumes of water jetted skyward with each crashing wave, showing the unfathomable force of the mighty Pacific at just one infinitesimal speck of coastline. The beach was picturesque, empty and surrounded by the high reaching sheer cliffs of the mainland. The scene was one that was impossible to absorb in less than an entire week of observation. Paradise is an understatement to nature enthusiasts, as the uninhabited shore trumped the unmistakable beauty of the towering sequoias. If I had my way, and I’m sure my dad would say the same, the entire vacation would be scrapped for a week’s worth of ocean gazing atop this perfectly placed perch.
    The unforgiving ocean was more amazing to hear than to see. Whitecaps surging and collapsing back to the surface created a cacophony that echoed off the cliffs in a roar that both inspired awe and instilled fear. A swim in these waters could easily prove to be your last. Exploring the beach towards the largest of seawater explosions led me to a valley carved between the rocks toward yet another coastal gem. The entire coast of California was a landmine for photographers and scene seekers alike, and an entire lifetime spent blazing trails and seeing sights would not do justice to the magnificence that is the west coast.

    An hour ride back to Sausalito landed us at my favorite kind of restaurant. Fish., a restaurant located in the bustling harbor brimming to the breakers with sailboats, was a catch-of-the-day eatery. Fresh fish caught that afternoon were served on pasta or salad on picnic benches overlooking the millionaire’s harbor. My halibut was amazing, as well as the tilapia and sturgeon ordered by my family members. Fresh fish is simply unbeatable. But with full stomachs, sun-bleached faces and a days worth of hiking under our engorged belts, we were in need of some downtime. A hotel shower and rejuvenation was the ticket to our second life out on the town.
    The spot to hit was Johnny Foley’s Irish Pub, where dueling pianos play only requests, but we arrived about 8 months too early. The 21 and up bar kicked us to the curb, and we began stumbling through lost circles in the city at night, staring at our phones and drawing unsolicited attention. After a fist-fight almost ensued over the refusal to hand over some cash to a “Caribbean” fellow, we decided to try upstairs at Foley’s. Shoved in a back bar facing a wall was not exactly what we had in mind, so we called it a day and darted across O’Farrell Street to get horizontal. Sleep came easy as our bones ached from the bustle of activity and our minds comprehended the next week of excursions the lay ahead of us. I was just glad to be staying in downtown San Fran for the last night.