Day 30

We were early risers in camp. On the recommendation of our new friends, we rode deeper into the park to a trail that went into the Big Sur River Gorge. An early morning hike seemed like a good way to start this big ole day-- this Big Sur day: We hoped to ride from our camp by the town of Big Sur all the way to where the mountains begin to pull away from the sea, around Ragged Point, nearly three end of the region.  We knew there'd be lots to see, too much for a single day probably, but I had compiled a list of places one should be sure to see on the way, helped in large part by Bailey, who gave us a map with locations emphatically circled. This hike, however, was a new addition. It was short, perhaps a half a mile, but strenuous semi-bouldering over big marble giants in a deep dry canyon. The water was clear, and we hopped between rocks working our way over it and deeper into the canyon. After a log jam, two deeply angled slabs on both sides converged into a pool where the bubbling stream rested. A small beach bordered the right side and a leaning tree shaded the left side. It was paradisical. We stood on a boulder in the course of the water, staring, before watching our faces and hands in the stream. It appeared so pure it seemed necessary. 

Back again to the trailhead, I was confused for a moment what these bright-colored masses could be, when I realized it was the bikes. I had nearly forgotten about them.

We made our way out of camp and into the 1, to be met with a substantial climb out of the gate. At least we were warmed up. Stopped at a few establishments in this small populated area to find an internet connection (no service expected to be found out here) before coming over the hill's crest to the coast again.

The landscape did not disappoint. Each bend in the road lead to ever more combinations of sheer cliff and throbbing sea. It reminded me of places we had ridden through in Oregon and Washington, but far more bare; a naked coast. Where there had been thick trees before, now only small shrubs and grasses of the chaporalle existed. It hid very little. This is what happens, I thought,  when one puts together two raw earth elements; where mountains and ocean meet. The were fighting it out before my eyes, creating ever more spectacular permutations of coast. Each one was so well composed, it was difficult to imagine it not being intentional. A rocky point here, buttressed by a steep cliff, harboring a small crescent beach, with poised cypress trees standing together on top of a pinnacle, the water fading from a cloudy bright blue with the waves to a deep, clear blue in the distance, glowing in the sun as if it were a big cobalt marble lit from the other side.

The "Vista Point" signs became obsolete. There was no end to this view.

We stopped at several state parks along the way, looked down on McWay falls, spurting like a faucet out of the cliff onto the beach, and Limekiln, where we stood on the sand watching the wind blow the spray off the top of the waves.

It was another day of Northern wind. I nice pat on the back from the atmosphere. It propelled us 30 miles by 2 o'clock, and we still had things to see. Next stop was Salmon Creek Falls, 20 miles downwind.

We were exhausted by the time we got there. The constantness of the sun, the wind, the cars and the motion of the bike can wear one down even if the view is amazing. The road had been like riding a moving snake, moving every which way, and being blown around the road from wind gusts the whole time. So we got off the bikes and hiked again away from the road. It was a more popular trail, and noticeably, the dirt turned to dust, the rocks polished by feet. But when we found the spot, it didn't matter. The sound of the daintily trickling water was deflating our heads of all unpleasant sensation.

We had about 10 miles to go still, and day was fading. These days are becoming noticeably shorter. We had no camp awaiting, but I made a guess that we could find a place out of the way past Ragged Point where the land starts to get flatter and the people are still few. We rode on in the golden hour, up and down again until we came to an Inn, where we filled our water not expecting to find much in the arroyos to come. Good thing we did. We came across Arroyo Carpofino and scouted the scene. A small patch of thorny grass near the bridge but hidden by the shrubs from the road presented itself as good enough of a home as any. Soon it was dubbed "Camp Big Sirloin"

The sun fell fast and we ate in the dusk. What a day. Come to think of it, what a month! Indeed September was drawing to a close with the fading light. It had been so dense with experience, fuller than most months of our lives, it was astounding to think of Cape Flattery as four weeks prior. It must have been at least a year. Either way, there still much more to go. And I don't think it's likely to be any less dense.