Dear memoiresque musing seeker,
I took a little break from writing for this newsletter but I am back! Thank you as always for your bottomless patience. I’m a bit rusty but I do hope you enjoy my reflection on our most recent trip to Big Sur, CA, this past winter.
Stay charming,
M
“They built a road where no one should build a road.”
The best summation of Big Sur, California, I heard whilst on our trip. And from a local no less.
There lives a kind of feral spirit up there in Big Sur. A village essentially built on the side of a cliff, but with only an elevation of 135 feet above sea level, can be difficult to encapsulate with words. I had heard rave reviews from multiple friends and acquaintances over the years but none of them could have prepared me for what I encountered this past winter.
But maybe, in this case, one must admit defeat at the outright. Admit to yourself and nearby ears that you do not possess the skill or talent to do it justice. With neither words, nor photographs, nor video.
To be unable to express just how bewitching this strip of Californian coast can be, what a cruel trick.
Other than its location just south of Carmel-by-the-Sea, the only thing I knew about Big Sur before this past winter was that it was hauntingly gorgeous. People only seem to remember a time after having visited Big Sur. As if they had lived in a sort of fugue state before finally waking up to much relief. A trip to Big Sur always sounded practically baptismal. With each subsequent visit a kind of pilgrimage. Over and over, this was the fairy tale told to me.
Yet, I remained unconvinced.
The change on people’s faces when they began remembering, as if they were greeting the Pacific Ocean right then and there in the middle of our conversation. I found myself wrapped up in their reverie with each longing, far-off stare.
They would come to, eventually, and say something to the effect of: “Oh, you gotta go. I can’t believe you’ve never been.” This was what I was told, time and time again.
And time and time again, I politely agreed that yes, I should find a way to trek 4 to 6 hours to the middle of the Golden State to drive along yet another part of the PCH.
Like I said, I remained unmoved.
I was born and raised in California. Let’s be honest with one another here: I have had my fair share of natural beauty. What could I find at Big Sur that could possibly top the crystal waters of Zuma Beach, the temperate shores of Coronado, the magnanimity of the Redwoods, or the mysticism of the deserts of Palm Springs. I just couldn’t understand why these devotees were trying to convince me that upon my death I would not have lived a fulfilling life unless I went to Big Sur.
In my attempt to grasp its power with both hands, and with no travel plans on the horizon, I took to the written word. A bohemian friend of mine generously lent me her copy of Big Sur by Jack Kerouac. A nomad and mystic in her own right, she has always found infinite inspiration in the landscapes of California. Nature is her church. It was no surprise when she, much like Kerouac, really and truly endeavored to convey how spiritual a trip to Big Sur should feel. Putting my best bookmark forward, I dove into the semi-autobiographical novel hoping for an epiphany.
Much to her dismay, I was unable to finish the book.
I read through about half of it and laid down my bookmark. One can only read a first-person account of their depressive spiral and rampant drug use structured in a non-linear narrative for so long. While I love the man as a figure in the literary Beat movement, his writing had and continued to elude me. Nor was I anymore convinced that I needed to visit Big Sur, unfortunately.
Yes, nature is wild, Mr. Kerouac. And the question of whether nature’s wildness and our human wildness is one and the same, is a good one. Sure. But I believe several writers have expounded on these concepts many times over, and many centuries before you. Maybe if I had finished your book, I would have discovered what particular brand of wildness Big Sur would be unlocked within me?
Maybe.
This past December was a triathlon of social soirees, housework, and holiday prep. With the opportunity to stay in California longer in duration than trips past, we decided to take advantage of the extra time and take a drive north. The Boy really wanted me to see Big Sur.
And I can’t say no to him. (I had also run out of excuses not to go…)
So, off we sped along in our economic rental to the southern region of Monterey County. We were greeted by farmland, elephant seals, and the infamous Hearst Castle. (Not one zebra was sighted, sadly.1) Due to a road closure near the middle of the Big Sur Coast, we were not permitted to finish the drive along Highway 1 to reach the mouth of the Big Sur Coast Highway at Carmel Highlands.
We were forced to travel back from whence we came and loop around the state park. Not the most efficient way to see Big Sur, for most.
Why was Highway 1 closed? The only road along the coast and therefore, the fastest way — why was it closed, you may be asking yourself?
A land slide.
Periodically, a tremendous amount of dirt and rock dislodge themselves from the sides of these magnificent cliffs and fall precipitously into the sea.
If you have never heard the joke about California breaking off and sailing away from the continent, well, you’re not going to hear from me. For my money, I think it likely if not entirely possible.
Some people opine that the frequency of land slides along the Big Sur Coast Highway has risen within the past 10 years. With a bit of research, you’ll quickly find moments in the recent past in which Highway 1 has even collapsed completely. But the words of the local echo loud and clear:
“They built a road where no one should build a road.”
From what they told us, there have always been land slides in, near, and around Big Sur. It’s merely the nature, if you will, of the locale. I speculate that sheer will and a higher calling were what fueled the state of California to build infrastructure along what is arguably the wildest of wild coastlines. In all seriousness, this area of California was once crowned as “the last frontier” in the United States.2
Big Sur, you are indomitable.
The human race has certainly tried to tame you, at least since the late 19th century. This was never more true for one Dutch couple in the 1930’s. About 40 minutes south of Carmel Highlands rests a homestead-turned-lodge by the name of Deetjen’s. Helen and Helmuth Deetjen fell in love with the Big Sur Valley and decided to build a home there long before the completion of Highway 1. Their adventuresome spirit was shared by hikers and expeditioners to that area. They soon found themselves hosting many of them which inspired the Deetjens to turn their barn into a business.
Nestled in a wooded thicket, mere feet from the pavement of Route 1, we found the warm and inviting lights of Deetjen’s Big Sur Inn. We dined at their snug restaurant filled with antiques and ephemera. An old piano slept next to the bar stools and China tea sets. Lovingly hung on the cabin clapboards, the sepia photographs looked onward at the patrons. You can fairly quickly spot the captured faces of Helen and Helmut pleasantly bemused by their legacy.
With our full bellies and my soothed nerves, I silently gave thanks to the Deetjens and managed to pull myself away from the whimsical splendor of it all.
There’s no other way to put it: Big Sur cabin living is enchanting. You’ve been forewarned.
Anyone with an addictive personality or not could indeed have the greatest love story with Big Sur. Creative, hippie, and rugged types have all found reasons to sojourn to this unique spot on the West Coast.
Driving those winding and curvaceous roads shan’t be minimized. Zigzagging to and fro along the Big Sur Coast Highway was a test of my mettle. And then the road closure added another variable to consider. And to begin and end our trip with such a long trek to and from the middle of nowhere…
But almost instantly, with a gentle pause, I remember…
The pungent zest of evergreens. The air spiced from the combination of eucalyptus bark and native shrubbery. The infinite charm of Deetjen’s cabins and their delicious breakfast. The refreshing waft of mountain water from a nearby creek. Forest woven with shoreline in a tapestry of natural wonder. The salty sea air greeting you every time the Redwoods part like the Red Sea. The pristine shores characteristic of remote territories. And at night, the enormity of true darkness all around us, swaddling and terrifying all at once. The blue-black tapestry of the night sky, bejeweled with stars and nearby planets.
Only then do I realize that I do look forward to returning for more future ramblings across the ginormous state of California.
And you know what else?
I’m resigned — you just need to go there yourself.
Hearst was a very strange man. https://hearstcastle.org/history-behind-hearst-castle/the-castle/the-zoo/
https://news.google.com/newspapers?id=ohUrAAAAIBAJ&sjid=xpsFAAAAIBAJ&pg=5590%2C2609546
Brilliant!
Beautiful photos, really enjoyed this essay/post it was nice reading after a stressful day.