Started Saturday, Aug.6thI am still possessed, though having returned homeВ earlier this afternoon,В by the beauty of the Central Coast of CaliforniaВ .The experience of this region is not one that is convenientlyВ tucked away and putВ out of mind.It stays with you and onlyВ gradually fades as life's immediate demands once again rudelyВ shoulder itВ asideВ and push toВ the forefront of the mind.But the memories are not entirely displaced.I don't think they can be......they areВ like a dream that leaves a lasting imprint on our waking hours.
We left early lastВ Sunday morning withВ no defined travelВ agenda, other than visit as many MissionsВ 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 Pa*s, past Lake Cachuma, and into the Santa Ynez Valley.
Taking some backroads past Los OlivosВ 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 mountainsВ to Carmel ValleyВ 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 aboutВ four other gringo's, all pa*sing 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.ThenВ 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.TheseВ towns areВ where the labor force that tends and harvestsВ the crops we consume lives when not working in the fields.The towns and the people who live in themВ are largely invisible to the general public pa*sing by on the highways.It was as if we had happened upon a campВ 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 forВ my bottle of water.The road was two blocks down the street, still unmarked.....we turned andВ drove into the WestВ toward Carmel.Once out of the valley flatlands and across an old steel bridge spanning a river gorge we climbed rapidly into aВ world of rugged beauty...oak studdedВ hills the color of straw and valleys green with sycamores, willows and twisted, ancientВ white oaks adorned with dripping tendrils ofВ spanish moss.
Past memories of this roadВ included a tight curveВ ascendingВ seemingly into theВ blue andВ a lone live oakВ rising to the right,В silhouetted against theВ sky.It was ifВ it were a pavedВ path to heaven for it took the breath away with the expectation that there was nothing beyond the horizon.That sameВ curve and the oak tree is still there and theyВ 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 toВ 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 atВ a message posted on theВ roadside trees....."Watch for newts crossing the road in damp weather".
Carmel-by-the-Sea, for that is the correct nameВ of that specialВ villageВ setВ among cypress and pines, touches the soul of all who have visited the town.Memories are made there, memories that stay with one forВ a lifetime.Every visit is memorable.Every visit is too short.Every parting isВ reluctant and regretted.
I think twenty years have pa*sed since we last saw Carmel.The boys were very young, but old enought to travel.В 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 moreВ galleries.It is out in the residential neighborhoods that one can see subtle changes.Many of the original cottages built in theВ 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 andВ 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 seeВ 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 protectiveВ southern arm of Carmel Bay.It is called Point Lobos and it is a preserve.В It is here where the crashing surf breaks
against theВ towering rock of theВ bluffs.They are like ramparts manned by cypress and pine standing sentinel against the wind and waves that eternallyВ a*sault the lower walls.
IВ liken these dramaticВ rocky cliffsВ В toВ 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 manyВ ribs after the waters had eroded the softerВ layers of stone between the harder.TheВ ocean surged back and forth through a small slot and revealed a section of rock that had been worn to a knob.......the pattern ofВ erosion determined by the shape of theВ knob, ironically.
Whatever footprints I left behindВ were gone in hours, washed away by the tide.
SRH
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