Big Sur

A few years ago my son Jack and I took a road trip. It started with a family meet up and rim to rim hike of the Grand Canyon and, when everyone else flew back home, the two of us rented a car and drove across the desert to California. 

It was 110 degrees. But we had air conditioning, and a playlist. Since the kids were small it has been the family custom on car trips that we take turns playing music, everyone channeling their inner DJ. Each person gets three songs, then it’s the next person’s turn. It’s fair, democratic, and there’s a good chance you’ll get turned on to something you haven’t heard before. 

So, driving out into the Sonoran Desert, I generously offer the first round of audio to my fifteen year old son. And the music he plays is so good that we just let it continue on. And on. Three hours into the desert it is still playing, one great song after another. I ask him about it.

“I made a playlist,” he says. “ For the trip.”

My heart grows two sizes in that moment. I could not have been more proud had he just won the Nobel Prize. So, accompanied by the best in rock and pop music from the last fifty years, we continue on, into Los Angeles.

We spend a couple of sunny days in LA, taking in the whole Southern California classic 60’s experience. Drive up into Laurel Canyon, where so much iconic music was made, from Frank Zappa to The Mamas and the Papas, The Turtles to Joni Mitchell. Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. Spend a couple hours at Guitar Center on Sunset Boulevard. Lunch at Barney’s Beanery, Jim Morrison’s drinking establishment (one of many.) I ask the bartender where Morrison liked to sit. He waves down the long bar.

“Pick a stool,” he says.

And then dinner at Chateau Marmont the last night, just because. 

Next morning we leave Santa Monica and merge on to the Pacific Coast Highway, PCH1, up through Malibu toward Santa Barbara. Late afternoon we pitch our tents at El Capitan State Park, in the same campsite my brother and I had camped the year before, in route by motorcycle to the MotoGP race at Laguna Seca, outside Monterey. This winding, rugged stretch of coast is where I picked up the technique of standing up on the pegs to see over the cars in front, waiting for a spot to pass. And of course lane splitting, that joyous, legal, and effective past time of the California motorcyclist. Ahh, motorcycling…but I digress.

Our campsite at El Capitan sits on an exposed point jutting out into the Pacific Ocean. All night the waves crash into the cliffs below, and a cool breeze moves over the campground. If I have ever had a more restful night’s sleep I don’t recall it. Early next morning we break camp and drive on up the coast, to Big Sur.

Big Sur is a mystical place. Jack Kerouac lived and wrote here, as did Henry Miller. A seemingly perpetual fog rolls in off the Pacific, flowing up through the giant redwood trees and narrow valleys. We camp in Big Sur Campground, setting up tents and stringing our hammocks along the rushing Big Sur River. It’s a perfect base for exploring the isolated beaches and forest. The restaurant here also serves a fine breakfast and that’s where we begin the days. Sipping hot coffee and watching the morning fog dissipate. 

The town of Big Sur has an air of old school Northern California community about it, plucked right out of 1968. It’s our last day, a Sunday, and the local fire department is sponsoring a fundraising barbecue in the park. Out under the redwoods we eat tri tip, ribs, baked beans, potato salad, deviled eggs, and coleslaw. A bargain at $10 a plate, families gather, live bluegrass wafts across the lawn, and barefoot children play hide and seek.

Jack and I, bellies full, lean up against a tree and take it all in, the beautiful setting, the friendly people, the mellow vibe. “You know,” I say, only partly in jest. ”This is how the hippies did it.” 

“What’s a hippy?” he replies, with half a smile.

I’ve been treasuring this entire journey with my son and, just like that, I understand a little more. 

“You’re looking at one,” I say.