Well rested, I rose the next day excited for my trip north up the Pacific Coast Highway (the PCH to those in the know) to my next destination: Big Sur. I left at the crack of ten and about five minutes later I saw at least a dozen cars parked by the side of the road. Not one to miss out, I pulled over. As near as I could tell, everyone was looking up into a field of cattle. City folk, I mused. But still, they were so enthralled I had to take a closer look and saw several zebras mixed among the cattle. Now, as a wannabe naturalist, I had a definitive list of must-sees for my trip, and zebras figured nowhere in there. Adding to this encounter, a few miles past the zebras I saw my first elephant seals, which are the oddest looking creatures. Weighing up to a whopping 5,000 pounds and measuring 12 to 16 feet, these behemoths do not possess those cute seal/puppy faces, but rather, they sport what looks like the nub of an elephant’s trunk for noses. It’s not a flattering look.

Not long after my African detour I started climbing what must be the most beautiful, hair-raising, jaw-dropping bit of road the United States has to offer. The PCH clings to the side of a never-ending cliff that plummets down into the Pacific and soars up into the Santa Lucia mountains. For miles, I wind, climb, descend, and resist the urge not to stop at every vista point to ogle the sheer beauty of the place. I whipped out my cell phone to text absolutely everyone a picture and got my first lesson in semi-off-the-grid travel—no cell service, which seemed perfectly appropriate given the venue.

 

So, disconnected, I continued my journey up the coast, stopping for lunch along the way and $6.50/gallon gasoline (they don’t have to worry about on-line reviews up there). By the time it was late afternoon, I knew I should be looking for the turn-off to my campsite. Everything on the coast was booked, so I snagged something “a little inland.” Now, when you are driving along a cliff face, there are only so many turn-offs, so I knew missing Naciente-Fergusson Road would not be a problem. The problem turned out to be something much worse—the road itself.

When driving along the middle of a cliff, there are only two ways to go: Into the ocean or up and over the mountains and my inland camping site was up and over the mountains. So, The Shroom and I climbed and climbed, negotiating one hairpin turn after another. The “shoulder” was about the width of my own shoulder and the abyss off the side just didn’t compute on any human level, especially a human with depth perception issues. Worse still, every turn afforded a view of the Pacific that seemed to increase in beauty the higher we climbed, almost like a siren luring the driver to sea and the effect was scarily hypnotic. Finally, and before my hands started to actually become part of the steering wheel from gripping so hard, we started our descent.

The driving/beauty trance came to an abrupt halt when I realized that I was, in fact, in the middle of nowhere, with no cell service, and that’s when the banjos erupted in my head, egged on by the only road signs I saw, which were for hog hunting grounds. Finally, after what seemed like hours (it was 20 minutes), I saw a sign for a campground and pulled in. It was a side-of-the-road thing, with only a half dozen sites, none of them filled. I thought, “This can’t be it. I have a printed out confirmation for this campsite, with my number, 21, so there has to be more than this.” With what little faith I had left, I pulled back onto the road and kept heading inland. I was rewarded a few miles later with a proper sign pointing me to the campground. Oh, Thank God! Soon I would be surrounded by ring fires, shouts of children and the oddly comforting hum of generators.

That was not the case. The sites were spread out and the entire ground had a handful of cars and tents tucked away to themselves. Yet, I was glad to have arrived. I hopped out and set about setting up camp for the two nights I had booked. It took only seconds for the flies to descend on my sweaty, unwashed, weary body. Normally, I am not bothered by flies, but these poor souls had so few options that news of fresh blood seemed to have traveled fast. So I did the only thing I could think of—I hopped on my bike to outrace the flies. After wandering down the road some, dusk started to set in, and I knew I had to return. I got back to camp, made myself a quesadilla, and encased myself in the van, which has a great indoor table set-up when the bed is not in use.

The next morning I was determined to give the campground another chance. I went outside to revel in the peace and quiet and practice my Qigong before I set out. After two minutes of swatting flies (if ever there were an enemy of meditation, flies win, hands down), I broke camp and launched myself back up and over the perilous side road until I hit the PCH with Big Sur in my sights.