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.

Redwoods.

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).

Steamer Lane

Riding the whitewater on my stomach,  I leaned left towards the rocky point of Steamer Lane.  Rolling off my board ten feet from the rocks, I landed in waist deep water and felt my way towards the shore.  Scrambling out of the water,  I ripped  the Velcro leash off my right ankle and wrapped it around the board haphazardly.  Following the route of the handful of surfers in front of me, I climbed and jumped between the boulders until reaching the stairs.  From there, it was a foot race along the sidewalk towards back towards the point.

Trailing the other surfers I stopped my light jog at the Syncro, and dropped my board in the grass. Fight against light.  Rushing to pull off my wetsuit down to the waist,  I popped open the sliding door and grabbed my Olympus XA from the center console.  Its analog dial read 17, meaning that there were still 20 or so exposures left in the roll.  Equipped to rip.

A set rolled through the lineup and with a distant crash  the ground shook and the crowd of onlookers cheered their approval.  Their hoots continued and, based on the continuous grinding of the wave,  I assumed some lucky surfer was getting a great ride all the way back to the rocks that I had climbed out of.  The kind of ride that end up as people's Facebook profile pics.   Slamming the door, I followed the ant-like trail of running surfers along the sidewalk towards the point.

Holding the camera strap in my mouth, I climbed over the fence and headed towards the group of surfers waiting their turn to jump back in.  By now the sun was a half circle on the horizon,  giving the surfers an added sense of purpose.  This combined with some exceptional waves rolling in had them talking in two-word sentences and grunts.

One after another,  the surfers jumped the 10 feet or so off of the point into the water and paddled back into position.  Each wave advanced the cycle.

Standing in my dripping wetsuit,  I snapped shots and wound the film with the thumb wheel.  A good winter swell at Steamer Lane is one of those things you will never forget.

Here are some more links

Steamer Lane (Wikipedia),

Santa Cruz (Facebook album),

Twitter.

The Start of the 1

California's Route 1 starts, or stops depending on which way you drive it, in a sleepy area of northern Mendocino county known for its "trees."  (I'll give you a hint; some are big and red and the others small and green.)  An unassuming sign for Fort Bragg designates the turnoff from 1o1 onto one of the country's most celebrated highways.  Shortly after sunrise,  Spencer and I pulled onto the 1 after spending a few days in Arcata and headed south for San Francisco.

Cutting through Mendocino, Sonoma and Marin Counties, the 1 wraps around cliffs and through small towns.  Despite looking similar to the Oregon Coast,  the Norcal  is culturally very different from its neighbor to the north.  If the quazi-monster truck is the vehicle of choice in the southern Oregon,  the 80's bio diesel drinking Mercedes wagon gets the honks and waves in this neck of the woods.

Point Arena.

Two tone.

"It was a run by fruiting..."

Drop off.

The Mendocino Coast.

Bumpers.

Someday..

An old growth eucalyptus tree.

Twinsies!!

Tide pool.

Vultures in Marin County.

As we worked our way down the coast a hundred miles a day,  the weather warmed up and the rain subsided.  Slowly the days lengthened.  Later in the year I will head north,  but now it's time to head south.

Here are some more links:

The Start of the 1 (Facebook),

Twitter.

Let Them Eat Sand!

"Dude. Did you see that sign?" I said, taking a sip of tepid coffee from my thermos.

"No. What was it?" Spencer looked back through the rear window of the Syncro.

"'Sandboarding!  Rentals$20 for 24 hours. The sign is straight out of Back to the Future."

"Fuck yah, lets check it out."

Signaling my concurrence, I turned onto the shoulder just north of Florence, Oregon on the 101 and let the minivan behind us pass.

"I have always wanted to try this.  It looks totally ridiculous."

Five minutes later,  Spencer and I were standing in one of the world's only dedicated sandboarding shops getting the scoop about the history of the sport from the owner, operator and enthusiast.  Resembling a former WWF wrestler, and sporting a mustache and ponytail, he informed us that sandboarding has been around long before snowboarding and that it was in fact an inspiration for Jake Burton.  I kept my mouth shut and nodded.   After the "history" lesson and short video highlighting the sport's potential in various sand dunes around the world, Spencer were on our way, boards in hand.

That afternoon, we hiked around the dunes of Honeyman State park exploring shoots and picking lines.  Although the conditions weren't ideal,  (sandboarding favors dry sand and being the middle of January in Oregon, the sand was wet) we got the hang of things pretty quickly.  Sandboarding feels like riding a snowboard in powder.  All the steering is with your back foot, and bad things happen when you put weight on your front foot.

They ollie just like a snowboard.  Yours truly shredding a shoot.

Waxing up the board before a session.

Spencer summitting the hill.

The boards have similar construction to a skateboard, but with a layer of polyurethane on the bottom.  Home Depot project perhaps?

Sand scrub.

Cranking a turn,  hand on the wave.

Dodging a patch of grass, I carved my way down the narrow shoot.  Pointing the board directly at Spencer,  I picked up speed and turned to the right at the last minute spraying him with a few handfuls of sand.

"Duddde.  Seriously."

"Haha you were asking for it."

"I'm over it.  Lets head back to the car."

Taking a moment,  I looked back up the hill at our handy work.  In the distance a yahoo's four-wheeler screamed up a hill.  I kicked off the board.  "Alright.  I'll be doing this again."

"As will I."

Here are some more links,

Sand Surfing (Facebook).

Twitter.