Big Sur Backroads

I had nowhere to be and time to kill. The Coleman cooler in the back was packed with enough food and ice to last me a few days.   The Syncro's fuel gauge was just north of 3/4.  Quick-mental-math. 230 mile range. Freedom.

Reminding myself that I was in no rush, I pulled over to the side of 1 in Big Sur and inspected the surf a few miles off with a cheap pair of binoculars. Closing one eye,  I adjusted the focus ring until the lone surfer came into clear view.

"No chance in hell," I murmured,  reaching for a handful of almonds from the bag resting in the drivers seat.  Munching and peering through the binoculars-turned-monocular at the distant surfer,  I sat for twenty minutes deliberating if I should join him.  I never saw the surfer catch a wave.

Travel's with Charlie and the Monkey Wrench Gang, both half read, lay in the passenger seat next to the almonds begging for attention.  Avoiding them with my gaze, I grabbed another handful of almonds and set the binoculars down.   With a turn of the ignition, the Syncro rumbled to a start and I released the emergency brake.  Continuing on the single lane dirt road,  traffic on the 1 some few hundred feet below whizzed by.  Reminding myself that I was in no rush,  I kept it in first gear and crawled up the winding road at 10 mph.


Not a bad address.

Climbing above the tree line, I pulled over onto the shoulder and turned the van off.  The analog face of my Casio read 11:35.  Time to kill.  Grabbing my iPhone, I put on Cortez the Killer and placed it my breast pocket with the speaker facing up.  Setting the car alarm out of habit, I followed the trail out onto the meadow.  I wouldn't be gone for long I thought,  but then again I didn't have to be.

Here are some more links,

Big Sur Backroads (Facebook).