 "The Californian coast where the redwoods disappear")
A road trip with friends is the quintessential holiday — ever-changing vistas, good company and, most of all, the freedom to stop wherever you desire.
So when we find we’ve a long weekend free in San Francisco, we decide to take a road trip with friends down California Highway 1 to Elk, Mendocino County.
Elk is a picturesque community with a population of barely 220, alive with artists, entrepreneurs, farmers and fishermen. We have booked rooms in Harbor House Inn, a cottage perched on top of the cliff with great views of the Pacific.
As we drive out of bustling San Francisco, over the Golden Gate Bridge, it seems most of the city is headed out for the weekend too. Soon, the traffic thins and Redwood trees appear along the road. They’re tall — taller than any others I have seen.
They’re old too, some can live up to a thousand years. One of the effects of jet lag is that I tend to nod off unexpectedly. Fifteen minutes later I wake up as the car halts. I must still be asleep and dreaming, I think. The trees are gone. We are on the edge of a cliff, the Pacific roiling a hundred-odd feet below.
“Where did the Redwoods go?” I ask bemusedly. My friends chuckle. “The beauty of this highway is that the scenery changes every couple of kilometres,” they say. I step out of the car and look around. Surf’s up and the seagulls are calling and swooping raucously amongst the rocks on which fat sea lions bask lazily in the sun.
The husband and I gravitate towards the wine racks and pick up enough wine, olives and cheese for a month. Meanwhile our friends have armed themselves with a Frisbee, scrabble and nothing else. We stare silently at each other’s bags and agree to find some middle ground later.
The drive to Elk takes almost five hours. We check in at the Inn, a stunning old place with a garden that leads down to the beach. Just as I sink into a soft bed with the best view ever of the Pacific, our friends are knocking on the door, Frisbee in hand.
We walk down the cliff, past wildflowers and waterfalls, to the beach. Other than the occasional screech of a gull and the crash of waves, it’s absolutely silent. The cliffs and rocks are riddled with mysterious caves through which water is gushing forth with the rising tide. On the waterline, an errant wave drenches us with water so cold that I can barely breathe. These currents come from the Arctic, and I can well believe it.
It’s no wonder this section of the Californian coast is famous for abalone fishing. Sportsmen hunt for these sea snails under rocks and caves in shallow waters, and some even free dive to greater depths for them. We find some, with their rough exteriors hiding iridescent nacres inside.
Even more iridescent are the sea glass pebbles of Mendocino. History has it that trash used to be dumped into the ocean hereabouts between 1906 and 1967. The ocean churned this garbage and is now depositing stunning pebbles on several beaches in the area. Locals and tourists beachcomb for sea glass pebbles, even though they’re now protected.
The ruby red pebbles are rarest (apparently from pre-1967 auto tail lights) as are the sapphire gems from ancient apothecary bottles. Today, the beaches are squeaky clean, probably because no one can afford to throw garbage in the ocean any more (the fine for littering in California is $1,000). We beachcomb until the mists roll in, turning the black beach into a stunning black and white montage.
After his cries for help in the wilderness went unheard, he gave up hope of being rescued, took out his knife and “took care of business”. Then he crawled back to Elk and stoically changed professions to become the town barber! Maybe Li Foo had something to help him along. Mendocino is known for producing the best marijuana in the country.
The chef at our Inn uses only fresh local produce, and we’re almost too hopefully looking forward to dinner. To our consternation, the crab cakes arrive looking like bridal bouquets, garnished with lilac and nasturtium.
I feel a little bovine eating flowers, but have to admit they taste rather nice, fresh-plucked from the garden of Harbor House. Later, sitting in the garden, we discover that Californian wines pair well with scrabble. We drink and play the evening away, wondering why we never find time for board games in everyday life.
It’s time to return to San Francisco. In the car, sleepy, jet-lagged images flicker in my head — my husband’s expression when he saw the fancy crab cake bouquet, the endless rounds of scrabble with our friends, the rogue wave that drenched us on the beach…While the Californian coast indeed affords the most spectacular vistas, its these experiences that my memories of Mendocino are going to be made of...
So when we find we’ve a long weekend free in San Francisco, we decide to take a road trip with friends down California Highway 1 to Elk, Mendocino County.
Elk is a picturesque community with a population of barely 220, alive with artists, entrepreneurs, farmers and fishermen. We have booked rooms in Harbor House Inn, a cottage perched on top of the cliff with great views of the Pacific.
As we drive out of bustling San Francisco, over the Golden Gate Bridge, it seems most of the city is headed out for the weekend too. Soon, the traffic thins and Redwood trees appear along the road. They’re tall — taller than any others I have seen.
They’re old too, some can live up to a thousand years. One of the effects of jet lag is that I tend to nod off unexpectedly. Fifteen minutes later I wake up as the car halts. I must still be asleep and dreaming, I think. The trees are gone. We are on the edge of a cliff, the Pacific roiling a hundred-odd feet below.
“Where did the Redwoods go?” I ask bemusedly. My friends chuckle. “The beauty of this highway is that the scenery changes every couple of kilometres,” they say. I step out of the car and look around. Surf’s up and the seagulls are calling and swooping raucously amongst the rocks on which fat sea lions bask lazily in the sun.
The husband and I gravitate towards the wine racks and pick up enough wine, olives and cheese for a month. Meanwhile our friends have armed themselves with a Frisbee, scrabble and nothing else. We stare silently at each other’s bags and agree to find some middle ground later.
The drive to Elk takes almost five hours. We check in at the Inn, a stunning old place with a garden that leads down to the beach. Just as I sink into a soft bed with the best view ever of the Pacific, our friends are knocking on the door, Frisbee in hand.
We walk down the cliff, past wildflowers and waterfalls, to the beach. Other than the occasional screech of a gull and the crash of waves, it’s absolutely silent. The cliffs and rocks are riddled with mysterious caves through which water is gushing forth with the rising tide. On the waterline, an errant wave drenches us with water so cold that I can barely breathe. These currents come from the Arctic, and I can well believe it.
It’s no wonder this section of the Californian coast is famous for abalone fishing. Sportsmen hunt for these sea snails under rocks and caves in shallow waters, and some even free dive to greater depths for them. We find some, with their rough exteriors hiding iridescent nacres inside.
Even more iridescent are the sea glass pebbles of Mendocino. History has it that trash used to be dumped into the ocean hereabouts between 1906 and 1967. The ocean churned this garbage and is now depositing stunning pebbles on several beaches in the area. Locals and tourists beachcomb for sea glass pebbles, even though they’re now protected.
The ruby red pebbles are rarest (apparently from pre-1967 auto tail lights) as are the sapphire gems from ancient apothecary bottles. Today, the beaches are squeaky clean, probably because no one can afford to throw garbage in the ocean any more (the fine for littering in California is $1,000). We beachcomb until the mists roll in, turning the black beach into a stunning black and white montage.
After his cries for help in the wilderness went unheard, he gave up hope of being rescued, took out his knife and “took care of business”. Then he crawled back to Elk and stoically changed professions to become the town barber! Maybe Li Foo had something to help him along. Mendocino is known for producing the best marijuana in the country.
The chef at our Inn uses only fresh local produce, and we’re almost too hopefully looking forward to dinner. To our consternation, the crab cakes arrive looking like bridal bouquets, garnished with lilac and nasturtium.
I feel a little bovine eating flowers, but have to admit they taste rather nice, fresh-plucked from the garden of Harbor House. Later, sitting in the garden, we discover that Californian wines pair well with scrabble. We drink and play the evening away, wondering why we never find time for board games in everyday life.
It’s time to return to San Francisco. In the car, sleepy, jet-lagged images flicker in my head — my husband’s expression when he saw the fancy crab cake bouquet, the endless rounds of scrabble with our friends, the rogue wave that drenched us on the beach…While the Californian coast indeed affords the most spectacular vistas, its these experiences that my memories of Mendocino are going to be made of...