OMG dude, I totally went off the deep end this weekend.
You know those wild times we had checking out the scenery up north? Totally blew that out of the water. Yeah this trip got one look at those past trips and would have none of it. This was the trip, comprende? And it was off. The. Hook.
I woke up at like noon today and I totally didn’t know where I was. I was like:
“Where am I, man?”
No shitting you, I didn’t know if I was still in Big Sur, ‘Frisco or the moon!
You were there, you heard me say that. Right, man?
Did I ever tell you you’re my best friend—’cause you are. Not being weird about it. You’re just a good, stand-up dude. Mon frere. My best bud. Don’t let anyone tell you you aren’t!
If you aren’t sitting down, you should. Sit back and let me elucidate the weekend to you. It’s a doozy.
So Saturday morning, J and I get up and hop onto the highway. We head south along the 101, destination: Big Sur. You know the place: dramatic ass views. Nature. Ocean Pacific. Cliffs that run up in the sky so deep, you’d think they’d need to by the clouds dinner first.
Around Salinas, we cut over to the 1 and end up in the smack dab of, you guessed it—Carmel! This is the same quaint-ass oceanside town that once had Clint Eastwood as the mayor. Bet people didn’t litter back then or they’d get a magnum blast to the face.
This view was a dime a dozen.
The cliffs by Bixby Bridge.
It was like I died and woke in a car commercial.
Word of advice man, don’t try grab onto to this fence.
Looking down from the cliff to the beach by McWay Falls. Whoa, vertigo!
These fisherman are totally temping fate over the maelstrom.
Big-ass elephant seals litter the beach.
The source of the seals: a big pipe they must be spilling out of. It’s the sad effect of the elephant seal industry on earth’s oceans.
Such a perfect tour bus.
Church in San Simeon. Simeon must have been a tiny saint.
Yeah it was cloudy as shit, and the road was so windy I wanted to blow chunks, but what of it. The blue ocean was to our left, the dramatic green and gold landscape was to our right, and our car was copper like the hot asses of Lauderdale.
I had so much to drink, man. Coffee, yerba mate, lemonade, sparkling water. If it was in a bottle, I’d drink it.
Dude, confession. I was so wasted. Oops, I mean I generated so much waste. The bottles clanked around in the footwells, and I got totally paranoid when I saw cops cause I feared they’d hear the clinking.
Around San Simeon, we still hadn’t found a place to sleep. All the campsites were full and what should be cheap-ass motels were charging around $200 for a crappy room.
We decided to head inland, cutting across to the 101 on the 46. We checked out a trailer park, took one look at the people sitting in lawn chairs, and kept on driving. One dirt road detour and a drive through vineyards and farms, we came to Lake Nacimiento campgrounds. These grounds were bumping, packed site to site with tents, wild children, and bumping ranchero music.
We pitched out tent at the “quietest” corner we could find. I lit a fire.
J and I sat out there, making smores and gazing up at the stars. Around us, people broke off tree branches to feed their fires, kids screamed, and the beats of the music threw off the hunting ability of bats and owls alike.
Sunset on the 46.
Yeah, we stopped to soak it all in.
J even took a photo of it too.
In the morning, I lit another fire. The campground was quiet. I looked over and saw a cottontail pop out from the brush. He stopped and looked at me, shaking his head in disapproval of last night’s madness.
“Sorry for all the noise people make, Thumper!” I yelled. The rabbit ran away.
J and I were getting all bothered by the situation. Not having a plan was driving both of us bonkers. And we took it out on each other.
If I could take back some of the looks I gave, or the things I thought or the disenchantment I entertained, I would man. I’d turn back the whole clock of the world like Superman, if I could. But I’m not Superman. Never was, never will be. No use crying over spilt milk, so they say. No use crying over a little bad blood.
I’m in it for the long haul man. I’m totally in it to win it. They say a race is not won by the first few steps but by the last. But you know what? A race is won BY ALL THE STEPS! What is that proverb-maker smokin’ to imply that it’s the home stretch that counts the most.
Everything counts in large amounts.
Depeche Mode. Now those guys spoke THE TRUTH. Am I right, man?
What was I… Oh right. So Sunday morning we started driving again. We went back up the coast. It was sunny. Saw a classic car show in Cambria. Went on a quick hike up a hill to stretch our legs and cheer our mood.
Fog along the coast.
Rich doric leather.
Have you photographed an emblem, lately?
Road closed for awesomeness.
Third row seating.
An expensive, cherry Benz.
Lion’s Club clubhouse.
The electrified trolly cage is an example of pointlessness.
The abandoned Piedras Blancas Motel.
Zombies were here.
J is somewhere amongst the thorns and poison oak.
Looking down to the road where we started.
Looking north at the highway along the coast.
A postcard view.
You know me, always burning both ends. I might be a long candle, but even I have my limits.
We began the long drive back up the 1. I needed to come home, kick up my feet, and replenish my wax.
Hate to say it dude, but I think I’m getting old. Some day, these bender weekends will have to stop.