We would never be thought of as perfect travel planners, but for our Christmas vacation we always felt a step behind (as is often the case with our gift buying as well). After we returned home, TJ summed up our cruise down the Pacific Coast Highway best: It was a series of missed opportunities. The first one was because of the email that triggered our trip. Although there had been rumors early in December, the federal government did not announce that we would have the Monday before Christmas off until the Friday morning before. Previously, we had discussed what we would do if we ended up with a four-day weekend, but we had given up hope and not packed, so we didn't get on the road until Saturday, a day later than we would've liked.
TJ had big dreams of making it all the way to the Oregon border, but when he realized how unrealistic that was, he settled on Santa Cruz. That, too, turned out to be unattainable. After being stuck in Los Angeles traffic for about two hours, we decided to divert from I-5 at Highway 46, so we could make it to the coast before dark. Right before the turnoff, we stopped for gas, and BBQ at
Willow Ranch (left). A deserted gas station next door was a good spot to walk the dog -- until two local mutts broke through their fence to chase us. Luckily, they left us alone as we ate our pit-beef and tri-tip sandwiches (right).
As we headed down Paso Robles Highway, we passed the intersection of Cholame, where James Dean had much worse luck than us. On Sept. 30, 1955, he was stopped for speeding in his Porsche Spyder right before he rammed it into a Ford Tudor, obscured by the twilight sun. Now, the intersection has been officially named
James Dean Memorial Junction. Unlike Dean, we actually made it to Paso Robles, where we stumbled on the
Firestone Walker Brewing Company. Unfortunately, the tasting room was closing in 10 minutes, so we only had time for one taste apiece. Luckily, its adjacent
Taproom was open for dinner. We joined some fellow tourists underneath the fake bottle conveyor belt (left), where we enjoyed an unexpectedly delicious cheese plate (right) served by a bartender who was blown away by the mere mention of the existence of
beer cheese soup.
By the time we left the bar, the drizzle had turned into an all-out rain, which didn't stop until the middle of the night. Therefore, we were unable to enjoy any of the beer that we bought from the brewery, a six-pack of
Pale 31 and a big bottle of
Wookey Jack, around a campfire. This was quite a letdown considering the tranquility and beauty of
Morro Bay State Park. We were able to set up our soggy site without neighbors, but with some protection from tall pines (left). Nonetheless, we had to spend some time drying out the next morning, and Sage was not impressed (right).
The skies cleared just long enough for us to get our damp gear in the car. By the time we headed into the town of
Morro Bay, "Gibraltar of the Pacific" (top left), it was already drizzling, and as we took a walk around
Morro Rock State Preserve (top right), the rain started coming down pretty hard. That didn't deter many surfers, who were almost racing to catch the high waves whipped up by the bad weather (bottom).
Even though we didn't make it in one day, we still set our sights on the redwoods outside of Santa Cruz, so we headed north up Highway 1. We stopped along the way, hoping for a glimpse of
Hearst Castle, but it was decidedly fogged in (top left), so we had to settle for seeing the photos in the visitor center (top right). However, we were able to sample the famous
Hearst Ranch beef at the historic
Sebastian's Store across the road (bottom left). We both ordered roast-beef sandwiches, mine smothered in avocado and TJ's melted with bleu cheese (bottom right).
Further up the coast, at
Piedras Blancas, some seals seemed to be bearing the fog more bravely than we. A huddle of harbor seals snuggled together on the sand (left). But there appeared to be some discontent in the grunts issued by elephant seals (right), described by the on-site newsletter as sounding like a motorcycle revving up in a gymnasium.
We preferred the comfort of our car as we ate our sandwiches, but TJ did make one damp dash down the pier at
San Simeon State Park (top left). The windshield wipers stayed on full throttle as we drove up the
Big Sur Highway (top right), which is renowned for its car-commercial-quality vistas of the ocean cliffs, not that we could verify that fact. We took a wet spin through
Monterey, which seemed a little overfabricated, especially
Cannery Row (bottom), which was a far cry from the "gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses" detailed by John Steinbeck.
We were shut out of two campgrounds on this rainy night: One was blocked by an overflowing river, and one was closed because of flash-flood warnings. So we ended up in a Santa Cruz motel more reminiscent of the flophouses described fondly by Steinbeck. We got some great use out of the room's hot shower and heater, which were as refreshing as the morning sunshine at
Capitola (left). Even on the morning of Christmas Eve, the old shipping village's boardwalk was full of people taking advantage of the break in the weather (right).
Walkers, joggers, bikers and hikers were also abundant in
Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park (top left), where TJ finally reached his goal of being among the mighty trunks (top right). One of the mightiest was the
Fremont Tree (bottom left), whose hull was once used as a honeymoon suite by a mountain resort. The ground was a swamp, so I didn't go in, but the docent assured me that 75 kids had once squeezed into the hollow at one time (bottom right).
Further up the mountain was
Big Basin Redwoods State Park, the campground we were barred from reaching the night before (top left). We thought about spending a solitary night in one of its tent cabins, cozied up with a wood stove, but we knew the long ride home the next day would be undoable. We resigned ourselves to a missed night amid the redwoods as we viewed
Berry Creek Falls, flush with water from the recent storms (top right). Besides the roaring waters of Waddell Creek, we visited
Roaring Camp Railroads (bottom). Once again, we thought about staying for a train ride, but we knew lingering would prevent us from seeing more of the Pacific Coast Highway.
On our third night, we made it back to about the same point we stopped the first night, but a few miles farther south at
Pismo Beach State Park, a truly underutilized park in the winter. Its access to the beach more than makes up for its close proximity to the highway and numerous trailer parks (left). We weren't too upset to be somewhat closer to civilization, considering we were able to find an open bar in Grover Beach,
Mongo's Saloon, where we could share a Christmas Eve nightcap (left).
Before we settled in for our long winter's nap, TJ made a reservation for a hot tub at
Sycamore Mineral Springs Resort. The hotel features rooms with private mineral baths, but you can visit the resort's spa by the hour as well. A soak in our private arboreal outpost, "Rendezvous," was the perfect Christmas present to ourselves.
We made our reservation for the morning, so we could stop at more sights along the way home. One unexpected one was
Surf Beach, near Lompoc and Vanderberg Air Force Base, where we were able to take Sage for a walk (left), since it wasn't nesting season for the
western snowy plover, a threatened species of shorebird. Apparently, humans are threatened at this beach, too. Numerous
shark attacks have been reported in the remote waters next to an Amtrak station (right). To wit, a guy who overheard us talking about the nature of some blood on the parking-lot pavement suggested that it was the result of a bite, then proceeded to the bathroom, since his own hand was inexplicably bleeding.
I had my heart set on buying a danish from a bakery in
Solvang, a village settled by Danish immigrants in order to form a pastoral school. I don't know if the school succeeded, but "Little Denmark" has positioned itself as a tourist destination with its "authentic" architecture and food. The Disney-style facade made it hard for me to buy into the magic, especially when the streets were full of surrey bicycles overflowing with families, many of obviously non-European descent (top left). And I'm pretty sure palm trees are not the landscaping most fitting for Tudor-style alcoves (top right). The main square almost got it right, with its festively decorated gazebo and tree (bottom), except for the fact that all the picnic tables were taken up by an Indian family clearly not eating herring, cabbage, and roast duck.
We had stocked up on food, suspecting that we wouldn't be able to find a restaurant open on Christmas Day. But just a few miles from Solvang was
Andersen's, a long-standing roadside restaurant known for its pea soup (top left), served in bowls marked with its mascots: Hap-Pea and Pea-Wee (top right). From our table, I saw servers scoop out at least a dozen bowls (bottom left). Indeed, the soup was quite filling (there is an all-you-can-eat option), but we still got a full meal; TJ got Danish sausage with onion gravy, and I opted for the Danish meatloaf (bottom right).
The clouds finally broke for good after it was time to speed home after a stop at
San Buenaventura State Beach (left), so I could call my family to wish them Merry Christmas. We blew through Santa Barbara and Malibu, but we pulled off the road for a moment at
Point Mugu State Park (right). After all the places we visited too late or too wet, we weren't going to miss the one sunset we had a chance to see. And as luck would have it, we got to watch the sun go down all the way to Santa Monica, where we headed east to the interstate and back home, this time with very little L.A. traffic, of course.
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