Inquisitive Quest

Sunrise overlooking the Pacific isn’t as prodigious as a sunset, Gary’s astute observation  amidst this extended journey,  he and Dale having spent their first night on their venture camping on the side of scenic Highway #1 .  Gary was entertaining thoughts of breakfast and a rummaging thru their provisional supplies,  withdrawing a small box of Maypo,  maple flavored oatmeal  and with a little water added,  a morning snack was entertained.

The Wayfarers of Highway #1

 The two youths being uncertain about the availability and the location of the next roadside service convenience, but fuel was never a concern,  the Cushman having a mileage range of more than two hundred miles.   The weather was in cooperation, a clear morning sky for motoring south,  the waters of the Pacific ever pristine,  providing a scenic wonder view from their open air jitney.   A hesitation, a cigarette stop, dismounting gazing with admiration of the preternatural outcroppings, carved by the incessant sculpturing from the continual sea.   Man’s mark was encountered, the bridges stretching over the exiting ambulating  water flow from the mountain crest in search of destiny,  returning home to the sea.   Traveling on,  a wandering vacancy prevailed, the adventurers meeting few travelers to share in the  beholding of the spectacular array, Gary concluding ,  February was not the month for tourist.

San Simeon, penned Hearst Castle

The library conference hall, a missed opportunity

The indoor/outdoor pool, no longer part of life, forever an exhibit

The access road sign read San Simeon but underneath in bold print was “Closed for repairs”.  Gary having read the history of this iconic historic landmark. William Randolph Hearst having spent a good portion of his life fulfilling a dream penned by the press as Hearst Castle. With his death in 1951 he left this magnificent estate consisting 56 bedrooms, 61 bathrooms, 19 sitting rooms, 127 acres of gardens, indoor and outdoor swimming pools, tennis courts, a movie theater, an airfield, and the world’s largest private zoo.  Gary realizing another missed opportunity, disappointed but not discouraged,  there would be other expositions yet to be realized.

Morro Bay Rock as seen from Highway 1

The Channel Islands

Continuation was perpetual and solidarity,  the constant disquieting from the scooter’s muffler it’s droning ever-present.  The diurnal course progressed and eventually  signs of inhabitants, a small community advancing into view,  a picturesque town with  a famous monument jutting from the sea,  Morro Bay.  Gary, having explored the realm of abalone fishing, finding this location noted as the abalone capital of the west,  renown for capacious harvesting.  The natural inlet, the standing Morro Rock a monumental pavilion,  establishing  shelter for the many small fishing crafts that lay nestled at anchor.  He noticed when approaching this diminutive  community a rock spewed coastline but just out of sight fared the Channel Islands of Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa and San Miguel staunch providers for the mollusk fishing industry.  Departing the somnolent community, the aura of graphic surroundings would fade and the well-traveled mechanized world would once again present itself in the form of  highway #101 with San Luis Obispo,  a thirty minute destination.

The sun was devaluing in the west,  its brilliancy  diminishing to a fragmented amber and attentiveness was put on the agenda,  a station for tonight becoming foremost.   A stop for fuel at a commercial location found the two  accosting the pacific.  Across the highway,  an expanse of beach protected from view  by a raised sand dunes stretching for as far as the eye could see.  Reaching the dunes knoll,  casting a gaze towards the sea,  a sanitary restroom station building stood and beyond,  a scattering of stationary cooking grills.   The beach was deemed desolate, the fog beginning to filter in, nor a person present.   The two determined that this bleak area was famous Pismo Beach, its emptiness was similar to San Francisco during the winter months,  especially in the evening hour when the beach is embraced by the incoming fog.   The travelers approved and the appointment was made,  they would repose on the beach with the dunes blocking the view from the highway and solitude could be observed.

A gathering of driftwood and a warm fire benefited as the two surveyed their accomplishment thus far.   The adventure having materialized and Gary finding the aura difficult to believe, to experience  sitting before a contingency of glowing embers,  the sound of the breakers discerning their way to the  beach and to embrace an inconceivable journey with no benefaction except to be present.   Bundling in his mummy sleeping bag,  burrowed on the beach sand of the Pacific, the rhythmic sound and slight of the ocean spray providing a concluding audience for a mellowing  rest.

This entry was posted on February 10, 2017 at 3:06 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.