jack kerouac and i have at least one thing in common

mileage: 3300

day: 16

We both fell in love with Big Sur. Though, while Kerouac wrote his novel Big Sur while staying at Deetjen’s Big Sur Inn, I couldn’t get a room there on a Monday or a Tuesday night. We stopped by Deetjen’s anyway just to see it (check out their website - you’ll want to stay there too) and then I wrote my blog from our campsite instead. Though we didn’t get to stay at the culturally and historically significant Deetjen’s (back in the old days, they were a secluded getaway for the Hollywood elite), we saved about $170 by camping at Fernwood Resort along the Big Sur River, with redwood hiking trails (and even wifi), so I wasn’t too disappointed.

Let me back up a bit though, because some interesting things did happen on our way from LA to Big Sur.

We didn’t leave Malibu until 6 pm, so we had only a few hours of daylight with which to find a place to crash for the night. Travel tip: When you’re rolling into a less than ideal campground at dusk and your less than secluded campsite is bordered by a teenage drinking party, a father and sons group of inattentive dads and screaming kids, and a mystery person in a tent who can apparently snore through anything - this is the night to forfeit the tent and sleep in the car. I can attest that Subaru Outbacks make excellent noise barriers. Additional travel tip: When removing items to make room for your makeshift bed in the car, it is best not to leave perishable food items such as crackers and marshmallows outside. Even in crowded, noisy campsites, some little critter will inevitably come eat them during the night.

The following morning, Mystery Snoring Person awoke (after the screaming kids had gone through a couple renditions of the Jeopardy song) and turned out to be a woman in her 50s with a tent to herself and about 20 grocery bags, not all of them filled with groceries. She kindly offered us some tips on where to stay and what to avoid on our way north. I appreciated the tips, since we’re really just figuring things out as we go, but it didn’t take long for us to realize that, when you’re taking traveling advice from someone, you have to measure that with how much you have in common with that person. For example, we were given two recommendations for camping between where we were and Big Sur (with the highlights being that one had a pool and the other was in a town where there were two (two!) grocery stores). We visited both. The first seemed to be the dune buggy headquarters of America, with wide, sweeping dunes and ATV rentals as far as the eye could see. The second was not bad, but was crowded, and didn’t offer anything that made us want to stay the night. We decided to continue on to the off-the-beaten-path campground, Montana de Oro, instead. There were no showers and only ‘primitive’ toilets, but camping was a very reasonable $25 and it included access to some of the most gorgeous hiking paths I’ve ever seen.

I should note (in case you go there, discover this for yourself, and then hate me) that there were rattlesnakes. Real ones. On the walking path. I was relatively cool when we saw the first one (quietly repeating ‘Oh shit, oh shit’ as I hid behind Curt), but when we saw the second one’s head popping out of a hole in the ground as we were passing it, I was considerably less cool (speechlessly leaping behind Curt and grabbing onto his back). Apparently my instinct with poisonous snakes is neither fight nor flight but hide-behind-your-husband-and-offer-him-up-as-bait instead. (To be fair, I don’t technically know that the second one was a rattlesnake, since we only saw the head, but it was a large snake quickly emerging from a hole in the ground where my feet were about to be. And yes, I am now afraid of holes in the ground.) Despite that, this was the best place we’ve camped so far because it was so beautiful and peaceful.

You’re starting to think I’m crazy because I’m calling the rattlesnake camp beautiful and peaceful. More evidence then -

In addition to the rattlesnakes, though, it also had an abundance of poison oak (in case you're wondering - Curt is apparently allergic and I am not) and some mountain lions in the area (which are apparently rare - but I thought rattlesnakes were too...) In the middle of the night, we were awoken by a loud, angry, feline-sounding growl/hiss that was coming from somewhere much too close to our tent. Curt grabbed his weapon (a Swiss Army knife tied to a stick) and was ready to defend our camp against the mountain lion/raccoon/raccoon being eaten by a mountain lion. I remember being somewhat concerned, but Curt says I was sound asleep again within a minute. Apparently I felt protected (or I was ready to offer him up as bait again...).

Before leaving the next morning, and after the mountain lion scare had worn off, we decided to go hiking up a mountain. You know, where mountain lions live. (We had a largely uninteresting but loud and sustained conversation during the hike - taking the advice of the warning sign at the trailhead, which also advised against hiking alone and said to keep any small children in your party close, as they tend to be targets). Aside from the fear of being eaten, it was a lovely hike with almost no one else on the trail. By the time we got to the end, it was so hot and sticky that Curt stripped down to his boxers (when I told him I was putting that in the blog, he dropped the boxers too). Here's the PG rated documentation of that moment:

Having survived the hike, we were back on the road - next stop, Big Sur. There’s a point on the map called Big Sur, which is around the thickest concentration of Big Sur stops, but Big Sur is technically about a 60 mile stretch along Highway 1. A 60 mile stretch with almost no gas stations (not to mention few guard rails, pull offs, or shoulders). We nearly ran out of gas (we’re not fast learners with this sort of thing) and then had to pay $4.89 a gallon. That was a bit of a shock - and the possibility of running out of gas on that already nauseating, go cart track stretch of Highway 1 was a little nerve-wracking - but I’m actually glad it happened that way, since the fuel stop included the most interesting coffee stop we’ve had so far. There was a little espresso stand next to the gas pumps with two black cats and a guy playing a banjo on the steps in front of it. After a few seconds of waiting at the espresso stand, I realized that the banjo player was also the barista. The latte was not great. It wasn’t even good, actually, but the humming, singing, mumbling banjo player who made it was a great introduction to the world of Big Sur.

And it is a world of its own. More beautiful than any place I’ve seen in this country so far, and somehow retaining a remote feeling even though its in the middle of California’s coastline (maybe it’s due to all the hairpin turns on Highway 1...) We spent the first evening watching dolphins and surfers play in the same stripe of ocean at Sand Dollar Beach and then camped at Los Padres National Park (second night in a row of camping with no showers, but it was pretty and there was a little silver fox who kept us company in the evening. If you’ve never seen a fox hop around, it’s one of the cutest, most playful things I’ve ever seen. But I don’t know much about foxes. So maybe he was hunting or trying to steal our food.

Also that evening, the universe taught me a lesson in going off the grid (which I think Curt has been trying to teach me for years). My phone was going back and forth between no service and roaming with one bar, but I could tell I had a voicemail message. So I spent 20 minutes or so standing on the picnic table trying to get reception, only to finally discover that it was an automated message from Target pharmacy, telling me that the prescription I had already picked up was ready. Moral of the story: no one needs to get ahold of you that badly. Turn the freaking thing off when you’re in a place like Big Sur.

A note to Ben and the rest of the LA crew: If you know someone who’s scouting locations for a horror movie and they need the creepiest bathroom in America, Los Padres is where it’s at. It’s a cold, cement box with no lights, no mirrors and a door that creeks open and slams shut. Which brings me to another point:

Penis Envy

On a long road trip with bathrooms like the above, out houses, primitive toilets, gas station restrooms, and port-a-potties, I have developed a strong case of penis envy. All Curt needs to use the bathroom is a quiet ditch.

The next morning was foggy, damp and muddy, and after two days of no shower and a couple of hikes, we were pretty dirty and feeling a little gross. Necessity is the mother of invention, though, so with a tarp, some trees, a couple bowls of water warmed with a camp stove, and a short break from modesty, we cleaned up.

Other than the incredible views along every inch of Big Sur’s 60 miles, I would also recommend a stop at the Henry Miller Library (which is actually a book store/performance space/cool place to hang out). You might be wondering if I bought Jack Kerouac's Big Sur there. Yes, yes I did.

One thing I wouldn't necessarily recommend: traveling directly to Carmel-by-the-Sea as you leave Big Sur. This might seem like the logical thing to do, since Carmel is basically the first civilized thing you hit when you leave Big Sur, but it's a bit of an unpleasant culture shock. Carmel-by-the-Sea has some really great art galleries, which is why I wanted to visit it, not to mention some nice little cafes and a decent amount of shopping, but it also has, as Curt explained it, 'Too many old dudes in too short shorts, windbreakers, and that I'm better than you expression.' So, to prevent yourself from wanting to turn around and run back to the secluded comfort of Big Sur (or skip the art galleries and rich geezers and go swimming in frigid water at the beach instead, like Curt opted to do), I would suggest, I don't know, pulling over and reacquainting yourself with the more annoying things in life, like radio commercials and class wars. Because the art galleries are worth seeing. They really are.