One nice thing about Monterey is that it is just minutes away from wildness. A short jaunt down highway 1 will take you to Big Sur, arguable one of the more beautiful bits of coast I have seen in this country (and up there with the North Sea coast in England). Mountains tumble into a steely sea under an ever present blanket of clouds. A sharp turn inland took us up a narrow valley lined with wooden houses tucked among towering redwood trees. A wooden stairway up up up to a wooden house above, houses on stilts clinging to the steep canyon walls, wood houses hidden behind tall wood fences. Up and up, beyond this fairy tale community, we escaped the clouds to the sunny day above. We set up camp high in the hills with a view of mountains across the valley.
The peace was abruptly cut when the campsite impossibly close to ours was taken by four ex-military men with a penchant for meat and beer. Through the course of the evening they offered us both,as well as the opportunity to join them in drinking games, and to all offers we politely declined.
We sat on the cliff, watching the alpenglow fade as the stars popped in the sky. Serenaded by a banjo and guitar. Much to our surprise, upon returning to our campsite we found that our boisterous neighbors had tucked themselves into their cavernous tent before us. A quiet night.
I wandered the campsite as the sun drifted over the ridge in silence. No sound of zippers or whispers or rustling sleeping bags. As the sun warmed the sleepers, the zipping began, the sliding of nylon against nylon, whispered noises and slamming doors. As the sun warmed the insects, the humming began.
Down the mountain, into the clouds, past the sleepy wooden hamlet tucked under redwoods, North on the winding coastal highway to Garrapata. We hiked along a foggy trail winding among the hills and incongruous prickly pears. Then down we went, winding towards the ocean, scooting through a gully, over rough rocks, to sit and stare at the vastness of the sea.
The peace was abruptly cut when the campsite impossibly close to ours was taken by four ex-military men with a penchant for meat and beer. Through the course of the evening they offered us both,as well as the opportunity to join them in drinking games, and to all offers we politely declined.
We sat on the cliff, watching the alpenglow fade as the stars popped in the sky. Serenaded by a banjo and guitar. Much to our surprise, upon returning to our campsite we found that our boisterous neighbors had tucked themselves into their cavernous tent before us. A quiet night.
I wandered the campsite as the sun drifted over the ridge in silence. No sound of zippers or whispers or rustling sleeping bags. As the sun warmed the sleepers, the zipping began, the sliding of nylon against nylon, whispered noises and slamming doors. As the sun warmed the insects, the humming began.
Down the mountain, into the clouds, past the sleepy wooden hamlet tucked under redwoods, North on the winding coastal highway to Garrapata. We hiked along a foggy trail winding among the hills and incongruous prickly pears. Then down we went, winding towards the ocean, scooting through a gully, over rough rocks, to sit and stare at the vastness of the sea.
Meg, this is so beautiful!
ReplyDelete(And funny - I cracked up, audibly and alone in the farm house, when I read about the impossibly close four ex-military dudes.) ;-)