(If you’re late to the party, no worries.
Here’s where you can find the posts on the Southbound leg,
and the Northbound legs Part 1 and Part 2.)
At this point, if I as a newly-minted sixty-something had learned anything, it was . . . well . . . that I was sixty-something.
In my early years, I could hop in the car and drive for days. Thousands of miles. Little to no sleep. Who needs motels? Just pull over, push the seat back, and catch a few winks. Dead simple. I once traveled 3,000 miles in six days on a whirlwind tour of the American Southwest, looping from San Francisco to San Diego to Tuscon to Canyon de Chelly to the Grand Canyon to Zion National Park to Las Vegas to Death Valley to Yosemite and back home, all in a two-cylinder Honda car with a dodgy clutch. Easy peasy. No sweat. (Okay, there was a lot of sweat—it was the desert—but you get my drift.)
But after our day of rest and exploration in San Francisco, as we were packing up for the next northbound leg, I had a revelation: I don’t like road trips as much anymore, at least not the kind where you drive all day, bed down for the night, get up, and do it all again. I’m much more into quality these days, not quantity. I don’t want to see as much as I can; I want to see what I see as fully as I can.
And that’s a big difference.
It’s not that I wasn’t enjoying the trip—I was enjoying it a lot—it’s just that I felt rushed, pushed, even cheated by our own itinerary. I was seeing so much, but didn’t have the time for that “deep dive” into the place, the people, the culture, the habits, the smells, sounds, and tastes of wherever we were when the car came to rest for the night.
However, lessons learned notwithstanding, today we were on a schedule, and our next stop was a fair ways up the coast.
What’s That Name Again?
Gualala.
Say it with me. Gualala. Gwah-LAH-lah. Fun, right? Well, after twelve hundred miles, we were a bit road-punchy, and we thought it was hilarious. Anyway . . .
Gualala is a little town—technically, not even a town, but an “unincorporated community”—on the Mendocino Coast. Back in high school, when my friend and I used to ride our bicycles up from San Rafael to the cabin his family had in Anchor Bay, Gualala was the town we called “Almost There.” It’s a tiny burg of two thousand souls situated at the mouth of the Gualala River (from the Pomo phrase for “coming down water place”). There’s not much to it: a couple of markets, a gas station, a hotel, a land office or two, some B&Bs, and dozens of homes perched over (or at least in view of) the magnificent rocky coast. Essentially, it’s either a retreat, or a place to pass through.
Or, in our case, to stop for the night.
History Revisited
Thirty-six years ago, on our honeymoon, my wife and I spent a week at that same cabin my friend had up in Anchor Bay, and as we passed through Gualala, my bride (through her Dramamine-induced torpor) pointed out her window and said, “Wha tha?” I looked at where she was sort-of pointing, and saw an unusual building. I had ridden by it many times on my cycling trips but, as it was Gualala and we were “Almost There,” I’d never given it much attention. (In my defense, after a 100-mile bicycle ride, one begins to lose interest in the scenery.) This time, though, being in a car and not on a fifteen-speed touring cycle, I slowed down and looked more closely.
Built of dark, sun-scorched, unfinished wood, with turrets and onion-dome cupolas, it was a hotel/restaurant called St. Orres. While it was unique, beautiful, and rather interesting, this was my honeymoon and I had other things on my mind than inquiring further, so I tucked it away in my brain for future reference.
For our first anniversary, I remembered St. Orres and inquired. They had rooms with shared baths, and cottages for a more private getaway. I rented the best we could afford, which was two nights in their cheapest private cottage. It was wonderful and quirky and very 1980s California, with a small sitting room, a loft bed, bats chirping in the eaves, and an outdoor shower overlooking the coast.
With that as prologue, you can imagine that when I was planning this road trip (I’m the detail-guy, when it comes to itineraries), the realization that we’d be going back past St. Orres set off alerts in my brain. Were they still there? The interwebs answered: they were, and not only that, they had expanded a bit, too. How could we not go back? Having gotten into the “almost top drawer” groove, we opted for the room they called Black Chanterelle. When we checked in, I mentioned to the host that our last stay had been in The Wildflower cottage. “You’re going from the doghouse to the penthouse, then!” she told us, and she was right.
Unlike The Wildflower cottage of our previous stay, which was a simple one-gable affair, this place was built along the same designs as the main buildings: onion dome cupola, hand-fitted tongue-and-groove panels, massive redwood beams, airy, bright, and clean. It was sumptuous, but in a very Arts and Crafts style manner, where all the quality and expense was in the workmanship and raw materials, not in gold and filigree.
Sadly, the restaurant (which we remembered fondly for its stupendous food) was closed on Mondays, and this was a Monday. Since Gualala isn’t known as a foodie mecca, once again we opted for a bread, cheese, and wine dinner. We fired up the wood-burning stove, opened the doors to let in the birdsong, and enjoyed the serenity. In retrospect, seeing as we only had one night in that wonderful place, I’m glad the restaurant was closed.
In the morning, I was up at dawn and decided to give my wife another hour of sleep while I went to explore the local beach. A short walk down to the road and a block along the highway brought me to the stairs and the trail down to a cove called Cooks Beach. It’s a small, sandy beach about the size of a football field, ringed by cliffs on which rest the aeries of the well-to-do. A creek tumbles down along the northern edge, and the place is littered with driftwood waiting to be stacked, and bracketed by rocky outcrops that await a beachcomber’s interest. It is a secluded and peaceful spot, where you will only find one or two other folks who have come down for a quiet moment by the ocean.
I’d be hard pressed to pick a favorite, between the quirky Art Deco motel in San Francisco and the masterful craft of St Orres, so I won’t. They’re too different—one urban, one rustic—and too wonderful, each in its own way.
We left, wishing for more, and vowing that it would not be another thirty-five years before we returned.
And the last two legs of our trip were going to be much more demanding, of time, and of stamina.
More later.
k
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Ages ago, when the world and I were young, there came a summer when I was just plain fed up.
A right turn at Atascadero led us into a narrow ravine, which became a defile, which dropped down to follow an old creekbed through bends and hairpins, where the knee-high grasses leaned out over the tarmacadam and lichenous oaks waved ghostly scarves of Spanish moss above our heads. Within a mile, the temperature dropped twenty degrees. Within three miles, it had dropped another ten. Lush, green, moist, it was a hidden Eden betwixt Hell and the Pacific Coast. The track debouched without warning or omen onto the Coast Highway, and we had arrived at Morro Bay, a town named for a rock that looked to the Spaniards like a nose (morro, Sp. “nose”).
Unraveling Time
Desert Wind
Ploughman's Son
Ploughman King
The Year the Cloud Fell
The Spirit of Thunder
Shadow of the Storm
The Cry of the Wind
Beneath a Wounded Sky
Cryptogenesis: A Memoir
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 