Road Trip

 

The year had caught up with me – the steady work demands, my father’s illness and subsequent death, and another year without a green lit pilot.  Vacations restore me, and my psyche was well aware it had been a year since I had taken one.  I was in need of an adventure, but the pull to be in LA to deal with the future was anchoring me.  I was mulling over the thought of a road trip when a friend told me about a little cabin in the woods of Big Sur.  The perfect place to get lost with my camera and hiking boots.  No website, no photos, just a word of mouth invitation to inquire about a rental.  A few days later I had a number for Clovis, a long time resident of the wilderness.  Her sons built the shack as temporary housing when they were renovating their house 15 years ago.  “It’s still standing”, she said incredulously. 

The 101 out of LA was choked with traffic.  A slow start to my adventure, but within a few hours I was in San Luis Obispo, and my head firmly rooted in holiday.  I was grooving to an Average White Band inspired compilation on Pandora.  I’ve been to Big Sur only a half dozen times in the twenty years I’ve lived in California, yet this portion of Hwy 1 is so familiar and comforting to me.  The cliffs were purple with springtime lupine.  Tourists in bright colored convertible mustangs hugged the curves. 

Twelve miles past Esalen, the spot I typically visit, I found my turnoff onto a steep gated road.  Distraction could lead to a serious accident over the side of the road so I tried to stay focused and searched the route for the landmarks on the hand drawn map Clovis mailed to me.  A dirt road led to a red flag, the spot Clovis told me to beep and wait for her.  An angry neighbor approached first, and berated me for the honk.   I’m sure I fit in perfectly with her theory about loud, obnoxious people from the city.

The cabin is in fact a tree house, built high above the ground, cradled in trees.  A deck floats from the one room interior.   A wood burning stove and heated blanket for warmth.  A 1970s brown refrigerator is housed outside, crowned in birds’ nests.  A claw foot tub anchored in the deck begs for a nighttime soak.  I journey back out to Pfeiffer Beach where the wind is whipping at high speed.  Even though the back of my neck is pelted with sand, I hang out to absorb the astounding beauty.

Next stop, the acclaimed BIG SUR BAKERY for a latte at the bar.  I engaged in easy conversation with the guy who took my order.  He asked about my camera.  I asked what it’s like to live in Big Sur.  We registered we’re both from NJ.  I’ve cheered in his high school gym.  I realized he’s one of the owners of the restaurant.  I know portions of his story from articles I’ve read, but it was better to hear about his travails first hand. 

Back at the cabin for sunset and dinner.  I lit the wood burning stove to take a chill out of the air.  I assessed my fate with a bag of Runes I found on the shelf.  I lit incense and filled the tub with bubbles.  The soak under the trees was amazing.  The hippie in me was very satiated.