A Night in Big Sur
Memorial Day weekend be damned, a friend and I decided to go to Big Sur. We were very much winging it, without much preparation. Who watches a trailer before what will undeniably be an worthy movie?
Nature, of course, requires more resources than a trip to the movie theatre, and so we'd come with rations, tent, and sleeping bag, but couldn't be certain what our camping options were. We stopped at three national park campsites along the way, at each to find they were occupied. Other than concern for where we would sleep, in no case were we particularly put out. Something about the stomp-ass motorhomes, their generators, and ginormous shade shelters was scaring the crap out of us. In a brighter mood, the shade's plastic patterns would reminisce of Alice and Wonderland. But this was a foggy day, and I saw checkered flag - which implies wholesome-fun-for-the-whole-family.
Well fuck that. I have only a vague understanding of Big Sur and its history, but I could guage nonetheless that this was a charade. I asked a resourceful looking ranger at the third campsite where we'd be able to pitch a tent and he set us on the right path: a little south of us was a spur road called Nacimiento Ferguson.
We embarked, splitting west of the coast to wind through the switchbacks of 'the birth'. Whoever Ferguson was, he surely must have been a special man to've been associated with this road. We drove increasingly uphill, until we saw a path splintering off of the road. Parking, we scrambled up the promising hillside until we reached a crest, where to our surprise and mild chagrin we ran into another hiker, Alex, who was planning on spending the evening there. We ate our sandwiches remarking at the seclusion and the massive view below us. At this patch there were many places worthy of camping, but we decided to pay our respects to Alex and continue up the Nacimiento in search of a hilltop of our own.
Several unpaved hairpin-turns later, we were beginning to second-guess. The trail appeared to bend further and further inland. The rocks where beginning to rattle the undercarriage of poor Song Lee. As we stopped at a turnout to discuss, we noticed an uphill trail. A short wander led us through some trees, and then abruptly opened to pasture. There we found fortune: a majestic lookout that, at first sight, we knew would be our home for the evening.
Below was a valley, with mountain rises on both sides. Eucalpytus, evergreens, and bright Yucca sapplings dotted the slopes. These descended further and further downhill, where at the convergence of the mountains a snap of sea could be glimpsed. Farther out - much farther out - far as the distant horizon our considerable altitude allowed, gentle sea-clouds rolled off into infinity, not unlike those you'd witness from a plane. The wine uncorked, we watched the sun pinken the clouds in descent. As the light gave way to halfmoon, the unfamiliar far off rolling white beggared existence-thoughts: what we saw - were we really here? Is this a trick, below us only a vast plane of ice and snow, viewed from high over Greenland? Do I compare this way because I am a stranger of the coast of California? If I could close my eyes, travel to another life moment atop another apex, and reopen, what would I see?
The grass floated in a modest wind. All was of a highly mortal accent.
Nature, of course, requires more resources than a trip to the movie theatre, and so we'd come with rations, tent, and sleeping bag, but couldn't be certain what our camping options were. We stopped at three national park campsites along the way, at each to find they were occupied. Other than concern for where we would sleep, in no case were we particularly put out. Something about the stomp-ass motorhomes, their generators, and ginormous shade shelters was scaring the crap out of us. In a brighter mood, the shade's plastic patterns would reminisce of Alice and Wonderland. But this was a foggy day, and I saw checkered flag - which implies wholesome-fun-for-the-whole-family.
Well fuck that. I have only a vague understanding of Big Sur and its history, but I could guage nonetheless that this was a charade. I asked a resourceful looking ranger at the third campsite where we'd be able to pitch a tent and he set us on the right path: a little south of us was a spur road called Nacimiento Ferguson.
We embarked, splitting west of the coast to wind through the switchbacks of 'the birth'. Whoever Ferguson was, he surely must have been a special man to've been associated with this road. We drove increasingly uphill, until we saw a path splintering off of the road. Parking, we scrambled up the promising hillside until we reached a crest, where to our surprise and mild chagrin we ran into another hiker, Alex, who was planning on spending the evening there. We ate our sandwiches remarking at the seclusion and the massive view below us. At this patch there were many places worthy of camping, but we decided to pay our respects to Alex and continue up the Nacimiento in search of a hilltop of our own.
Several unpaved hairpin-turns later, we were beginning to second-guess. The trail appeared to bend further and further inland. The rocks where beginning to rattle the undercarriage of poor Song Lee. As we stopped at a turnout to discuss, we noticed an uphill trail. A short wander led us through some trees, and then abruptly opened to pasture. There we found fortune: a majestic lookout that, at first sight, we knew would be our home for the evening.
Below was a valley, with mountain rises on both sides. Eucalpytus, evergreens, and bright Yucca sapplings dotted the slopes. These descended further and further downhill, where at the convergence of the mountains a snap of sea could be glimpsed. Farther out - much farther out - far as the distant horizon our considerable altitude allowed, gentle sea-clouds rolled off into infinity, not unlike those you'd witness from a plane. The wine uncorked, we watched the sun pinken the clouds in descent. As the light gave way to halfmoon, the unfamiliar far off rolling white beggared existence-thoughts: what we saw - were we really here? Is this a trick, below us only a vast plane of ice and snow, viewed from high over Greenland? Do I compare this way because I am a stranger of the coast of California? If I could close my eyes, travel to another life moment atop another apex, and reopen, what would I see?
The grass floated in a modest wind. All was of a highly mortal accent.
posted by bhoundstooth | 10:50 AM
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