I am still possessed, though having returned home earlier this afternoon, by the beauty of the Central Coast of California . The experience of this region is not one that is conveniently tucked away and put out of mind. It stays with you and only gradually fades as life's immediate demands once again rudely shoulder it aside and push to the forefront of the mind. But the memories are not entirely displaced. I don't think they can be......they are like a dream that leaves a lasting imprint on our waking hours.
We left early last Sunday morning with no defined travel agenda, other than visit as many Missions as practical and make "landfall" in Carmel by late afternoon to check in at the Hotel La Playa. After breakfast in Santa Barbara, we went over the San Marcos Pass, past Lake Cachuma, and into the Santa Ynez Valley.
Taking some backroads past Los Olivos we entered the flow of traffic heading north on Hwy 101. North of Santa Maria we pulled off the freeway to visit Mission San Miguel Arcangel, a modest structure, under some restoration, but peaceful and sunbaked. Our eventual destination on 101 was Greenfield where an obscure road that traversed the coastal mountains to Carmel Valley originated. I had taken that road many years ago and found it challenging. It coursed through beautiful hills and valleys.....true backcountry sparsely settled. However the road was not marked in any manner along 101 and we found ourselves backtracking to Greenfield looking for it, finally parking and going into a 7/Eleven for directions.
Greenfield is in a parallel world to ours. It is entirely Mexican. I saw about four other gringo's, all passing through, while I was in the town. Then it struck me that essentially the town of San Miguel, site of the mission bearing the same name, was Mexican. Then I remembered on an earlier trip that the town of Guadalupe was also entirely Mexican. I am sure there are many more such places in California. These towns are where the labor force that tends and harvests the crops we consume lives when not working in the fields. The towns and the people who live in them are largely invisible to the general public passing by on the highways. It was as if we had happened upon a camp of gypsies, so foreign was the feel of the place. Hwy 101 was no more than several hundred yards away from the main street, but it might just as well have been in another dimension.
The 7/Eleven clerk looked up from his last transaction and was a bit surprised to see an "Anglo" standing before him. He looked uncomfortable, but gave directions in broken English and took the money for my bottle of water. The road was two blocks down the street, still unmarked..... we turned and drove into the West toward Carmel. Once out of the valley flatlands and across an old steel bridge spanning a river gorge we climbed rapidly into a world of rugged beauty...oak studded hills the color of straw and valleys green with sycamores, willows and twisted, ancient white oaks adorned with dripping tendrils of spanish moss.
Past memories of this road included a tight curve ascending seemingly into the blue and a lone live oak rising to the right, silhouetted against the sky. It was if it were a paved path to heaven for it took the breath away with the expectation that there was nothing beyond the horizon. That same curve and the oak tree is still there and they measured up to the memory, confirming that it wasn't a fantasy. I last saw that scene almost thirty years ago, perhaps more.
That stretch of road marked the crest of the coastal mountains and the descent into the Carmel Valley began.
It is out of this valley that the Carmel River begins its run to the sea. Higher up the stream is narrow and tumbles through banks covered with oak, sycamore and willow. Poison oak seems to be the predominant understory so there was no straying from the road to streamside when we stopped for a stretch. About a quarter mile of the road and adjoining stream was a preserve for a species of newt that was peculiar to the area. We had a good laugh at a message posted on the roadside trees....."Watch for newts crossing the road in damp weather".
Carmel-by-the-Sea, for that is the correct name of that special village set among cypress and pines, touches the soul of all who have visited the town. Memories are made there, memories that stay with one for a lifetime. Every visit is memorable. Every visit is too short. Every parting is reluctant and regretted.
I think twenty years have passed since we last saw Carmel. The boys were very young, but old enought to travel. Upon first look it has not changed much. There are more stores selling $20,000 wristwatches than I remember, and there seems to be many more galleries. It is out in the residential neighborhoods that one can see subtle changes. Many of the original cottages built in the twenties and thirties have been leveled and new homes erected in their place. Most of these newer homes are done in good taste and replicate the old "stone and wood" rustic look demanded by the environment and the planning commission. A large number of homes were on the market and priced in the millions of dollars. The closer to shore, the higher the asking price.
It wasn't unusual to see homes posted with four to seven million dollar price tags.
Within sight of the Carmel beach is a promontory jutting out into the sea and forming the protective southern arm of Carmel Bay. It is called Point Lobos and it is a preserve. It is here where the crashing surf breaksagainst the towering rock of the bluffs. They are like ramparts manned by cypress and pine standing sentinel against the wind and waves that eternally assault the lower walls.
I liken these dramatic rocky cliffs to bones projecting through the thin veneer of life that sits atop them. The bones of the earth reminding us that we are small and shortlived. Walking along the water's edge of a small cove I could see the eroded stone strata turned vertically and exposed like so many ribs after the waters had eroded the softer layers of stone between the harder. The ocean surged back and forth through a small slot and revealed a section of rock that had been worn to a knob.......the pattern of erosion determined by the shape of the knob, ironically.
Whatever footprints I left behind were gone in hours, washed away by the tide.
"...and a lone live oak rising to the right..."
"...oak studded hills the color of straw..."
SRH
No comments:
Post a Comment