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.
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