Easter in the Valley of Death

Being on a mini-vacation could be the opportunity to take it easy, right? Wrong, we were up by 5:30. Just as we were about to leave the Inn, Caroline took the opportunity to WhatsApp family in Germany who’d assembled for Easter dinner. However, out here in Shoshone, California, the connection is less than optimal, and the call brief. I am able to use the short delay to jot down a few things, and then we’re on our way towards Death Valley for a hike before things get too busy over there, and we need to head home to Phoenix.

The Death Valley Coyote Committee fell short, with only a single member showing up to greet us, can you tell that this otherwise wild animal has grown accustomed to approaching cars up at the main entrance to the park for meal handouts?

There’s no time to spare if we are going to get on the Golden Canyon Trail this morning, and knowing that the first part of this 5.5-mile hike draws a big crowd, we opted to head into Golden Canyon first, which would have us taking the trail we are ultimately interested in clockwise. You see, Golden Canyon is just one small part of our intended hike; our main objective is the Gower Gulch Loop Trail with a detour to the Red Cathedral. After being shocked by the crowds at Badwater yesterday, this location was running a close second for pulling in throngs of visitors. We knew that if we were going to enjoy this trail, we’d have to arrive before the masses overwhelmed the parking area with overflow parking ending up on the main road.

Our faulty memories initially thought we’d hiked this short segment with my mother-in-law Jutta, but as we got further into Golden Canyon, we realized that we’d likely never been here before, and we were well aware that even this assessment might be wrong. I could scour our previous seven visits to Death Valley to verify things, but how many hundreds, if not thousands, of photos would I have to check? As I finished writing that question, my curiosity got the best of me, and it turns out that I have over 2,000 photos that have been properly tagged with the words “Death Valley,” and I only had to scroll forward to 2008 to find that we were indeed in this canyon on a previous visit. Taken on a beautiful February late afternoon were photos of Caroline and her mom walking in a very empty Golden Canyon that we apparently had all to ourselves. Sometimes, I think things are changing in ways I don’t like, and I tend to attribute my disdain for those changes to those of a man growing grumpy and looking at the past through those proverbial rose-colored glasses, but by judging by those old photos, I see that, in fact, this national park has grown busier.

Fortunately, we are still able to find moments when we are seemingly alone and must offer gratitude that we’ve had so many previous opportunities to visit, oblivious that within little more than a dozen years, the number of people in the parks would go so high that it would interfere with our memories of what solitude meant to us and how we were able to experience it on those earlier encounters. I can’t write this without thinking that Caroline and I need to make every effort to revisit our favorite places yet again before the next burst of visitation threatens to put everything on a reservation or lottery system.

What I couldn’t really identify in my photos from 2008 was exactly how far we trekked into this canyon, but it wasn’t likely very far. My mother-in-law in tow wasn’t one with big stamina, and making surface impressions was certainly enough for her. That really means that this was all new to us, and what’s better than getting to experience something for the first time twice in a lifetime?

Our previous encounter with Golden Canyon was at 5:00 in the afternoon, while we arrived today before 8:00 in the morning hence, the shadows are falling in very different patterns. This triggers the thought that I should collect earlier photos before leaving for these trips and have them on hand so I can compare what we see with shots I took years prior and try to take them again, but what would really make that work is if I’d taken notes about the conditions regarding visitors and then I could contrast the experience from a decade or two earlier with today.

I’ve stared at these rocks a good long time trying to understand the erosion patterns. To my eye, it looks like this was uplifted just yesterday, and the sharp edges formed while it was lying down are yet to be worn down. Knowing that this wasn’t thrust into this angle in the past month, let alone a few hundred years, only adds to the mystery surrounding time and how much of it must pass before things start to appear familiar as far as eroding mountains are concerned.

To suggest that there is art here seems to imply that the rest of nature might be devoid of it; on the contrary, art is in everything and everywhere. In researching for this post, I came across a photo of the nearby Manly Beacon taken by Ansel Adams back in the 1940s, and now I’m looking at my own stuff through the filter of someone who made a serious craft of capturing the western United States, but I’m me, and this is the best I can do, and I can take great solace in knowing that I’m trying to express myself.

We think this is the Red Cathedral, and while we’ll get closer, there never was a sign pointing to a specific spot letting us know that this was it.

This, though, is Manly Beacon and that we are certain of.

That’s Telescope Peak over there.

This is Caroline Wise over here, near the end of this part of the trail. Time to connect with the Gower Gulch Loop Trail.

The first part of this trail is a bit steep, which is great with views such as this.

I’ve spotted something ahead, and it’s not the sun that is making me nervous over at the foot of Manly.

First, though we must go higher as everything changes perspective depending on from what distance you are looking at a thing. If you look at the center of the trail we are slogging up, you’ll see a couple who, in passing, told me not to worry a bit and that the object of my concern shouldn’t be one. That’s a relief.

That was until I got up on the razor’s edge, where my imagination of imminent doom stole any confidence I might have been trying to bring forward. My knees buckled, and I knew this was the end of the trail for me. I think it’s high time for me to get those trekking poles I’ve considered to give me a bit more stability and something to lean on in these situations or simply accept that I could crawl on my hands and knees to the other side. But no matter today, as panic set in and in an instant, we were on our way back down to the place whence we came.

I’m trying hard here to put on a brave face because I’m seriously and, to my core, disappointed in what I cannot do. While we’ll have accumulated 27 miles of walking and hiking over the long weekend, these turnarounds slap hard at what I want to accomplish, and it’s not just me here; I know for certain that Caroline, too, wants to see what’s out there on the other side of the trail we’ve never experienced. So, I try to suck down the pride and giant sense of failure before putting on a grimace of a smile to say to myself, “It’s okay; we can’t do everything in life we might want to do.” And anyway, we are doing a lot and know that, but still, it’s bittersweet.

Exiting the canyon, we encountered a lot more people, which was exactly what we hoped to miss by taking the Gowers Gulch trail, but looking on the bright side, finishing our time early in Death Valley means we’ll be getting home earlier than we might have otherwise.

Unless we end up stopping at a bunch of other places because we think we’re so early.

Good thing we felt flexible with our time because while out exploring one of a few areas of the saltpan, we were able to catch sight of these very fine and fragile salt filaments, which ChatGPT informed me are quite rare.

In a landscape with so few large plants, a dried-up old bush skeleton stands in stark relief of the vast space where little else interrupts the eye.

Could it be that on our way into the park/life, we take things for granted as we aim for the places that will bring glory and a sense of accomplishment, and then on the way out, we grow fearful that we’ve missed many important sites due to our myopia of not always seeing what seems to have been right in front of our faces. Looking at this rock formation, one might suddenly capture the essence of Death Valley held right here, but on closer examination have second thoughts that it holds so much relevancy. When departing places/life, moments of recognizing small details you missed take on greater significance, and possibly a little panic seeps into those fleeting thoughts, triggering you to gaze deeper. This is one of those instances.

Salt and mud crusts such as these are part of where the Devils Golf Course further north takes its name. These hard and very resilient jagged surfaces rise up over the underlying mud during wet periods, and if I were a geologist or could find a really knowledgeable source who could explain the precise action, I’d share more, but I’m coming up empty.

My fingers hover over the keyboard as I’m reminiscing how our feet are occasionally sinking and slipping in the mud out here. Gazing at that image, I’m trying to find something to say that speaks louder than the poetry of being out in the middle of a place where one can sense isolation and quiet that lingers in the small corners of the soul for a longer time than the body was present. It’s funny how people want to visit other planets when similar experiences can be had in so many places right here on the earth we live on but see so little of. We have the opportunity to walk on the surface of a sphere hurtling through space that has been evolving for billions of years to get most everything right before our arrival, and we’re already bored of it and fantasize about going to Mars so we take a photo of someone walking across its landscape with an exclamation of, “Wow, we did it.” Meanwhile, on our own space-traveling outpost, we can’t make the effort to realize the perfection we exist in every day.

Right here might be some of the precursors of the macro-minerals we are made of, including calcium, phosphorus, potassium, sodium, chloride, magnesium, and sulfur. There might also be some of the 16 trace minerals: iron, zinc, copper, manganese, iodine, selenium, fluoride, molybdenum, boron, cobalt, nickel, vanadium, silicon, strontium, chromium, and bromine. Finally, there are other trace minerals whose role in our bodies we are still trying to figure out, such as arsenic, aluminum, barium, beryllium, bromine, cadmium, chromium, cobalt, gallium, germanium, gold, lithium, nickel, palladium, platinum, rubidium, silver, strontium, tellurium, thallium, tin, titanium, tungsten, vanadium, and zirconium. What I’m pointing out is that we consider life to be living beings (like ourselves), but without the rocks that become soil, the plants and animals that nourish other things wouldn’t have been able to give rise to us.

At first glance, I thought this was sulfur, but on reflection, I remember we didn’t smell anything that would have confirmed that. Limonite is yellow, so maybe that’s what we are looking at. Whatever it was, it was attractive enough for me to stop yet again on this trek to leave Death Valley.

I referenced the minerals that make up the human body and how we consume them from the food we eat, but the really big deal is that we are 65% water and oxygen. So, if you consider a 150-pound (68kg) person, 98 pounds (44kg) of their weight is in the form of water and oxygen. But wait, there’s more! This part might have you thinking I’m stoned as I write this, but I had never considered that when we look at H2O, it is the oxygen that makes up 89% of its weight. While this may be basic chemistry to everyone else, this is the first time I learned of this. So tell me again, why does a creature that is so reliant on soil, oxygen, and water desire to try living on a planet that is mostly dry, has only trace amounts of oxygen, and the dirt is called regolith, which means it is not soil and will need considerable work to become useful for growing food? The only answer I can come up with is that it is easier to distract people with fantastic dreams of leaving our earth instead of trying to live on it and care for it. And somehow, we believe we can make another (extremely inhospitable) planet habitable. We must be insane.

A fading sign caught my eye, necessitating a quick backup to pull over and read what I thought I had. Sure enough, those horizontal edges are remnants of shorelines from Lake Manly on what was at one time an island. We should have noticed this before as we’ve seen similar features in the Yukon, Canada, where a backed-up Alsek River flooded a valley nearly all the way to Haines Junction, leaving similar shoreline markings on nearby mountainsides. This rather large, still-visible detail allows us to easily imagine the 100-mile, 600-foot deep lake that stretched from here to points north. Just one more instance of not being able to see what’s in front of you due to a lack of knowledge or not knowing where to look.

For years Caroline has been looking for a Neopolitan ice cream sandwich as she finds the plain old vanilla to be boring. Well, we finally found one here in Baker, California, and still, she’s not happy on two counts. First, the version in Germany she grew up with uses waffles for the outside instead of the sticky chocolate cake-like stuff we are accustomed to in America. Second, she realized that if the flavors were distributed using the length of the sandwich, she’d be able to enjoy all three flavors at once.

Ivanpah Solar Electric Generating System or Thermal Plant is the world’s largest bird roaster. The atmospheric glare is extraordinary to witness as we approach the (miniscule) town of Nipton, California. It’s obvious that there’s a bizarre amount of ambient light illuminating the air being reflected and directed from the strategically angled mirrors. After getting home, I was looking to learn something or other about this peculiar sight, and in one particular article, they talked of the 900-degree (482c) instant-combustion beam that has smoking birds plummeting to earth roasted if they get to close to the bad hot place. This has me thinking that these thermal plants might be avian hell because, for a bird that is innocently out and about in their normally supportive bird environment, things become instantly torturous as the sky aims to cook them alive in a blindingly fast millisecond.

Seems like it was only ten years ago that my hair was hardly gray, and now, in the right light, it looks like I have a personal thermal plant perched upon my head.

Whoa, how have we missed this Joshua tree forest out here? It turns out that we’ve not previously driven Highway 164, a.k.a. Nipton Road, and so we knew nothing of the Wee Thump Joshua Tree Wilderness. The words Wee Thump mean “ancient ones” in the Paiute language. This is the third largest Joshua tree forest on earth, as in the entire earth, and we’ve now seen these giants with our very own eyes.

And not only that, they are in bloom. We cannot say we’ve ever seen Joshua trees in bloom, so we’ll go with this being a first. In that sense, come to think of it, this is like an Easter egg, well for me at least. I’ll explain that comment in just a sec.

Not one to miss abandoned roadside America, this old “Fresh Produce” sign seemingly held fast by the saguaro was a site that needed recording. We are passing through Wikieup north of Nothing and only about 120 miles from home at this point, and it was here that Caroline found her Easter egg.

Happy Easter, Caroline! Yet another dental floss pick, an Easter egg of the best kind. You see, Caroline had been haunted by these stupid little things and sees them everywhere. They pop into her view all the time, to the point that she’s considering getting a task-specific pair of tweezers and a plastic bag that she carries with her to collect these bits of trash used in the hygiene of caring for one’s mouth. Why they seem to be so widely distributed is a mystery, but maybe if she starts documenting their location and picking up these discarded tools, she can start to identify what they have in common or if there is a pattern on the map that might become apparent. While they are something absurd to be consumed by, their vexing ubiquity found strewn across the landscape is likely creating a bit of neurosis for my wife. Does anyone know of a lost dental floss pick support group she can join?

Stamina in the Face of Death Valley

Death Valley National Park, California

Recently, I turned 60, not with dread but also not without the nattering echoes of those who came before me and groaned of declining energy and poor stamina when they entered this age. When we left home yesterday, it had not been my intention for this trip to be a test of any sort, but maybe it will end up being some of that. With the arrival of my 60s, what impact might I find? Leaving Phoenix, we had a 450-mile drive ahead of us that should have taken about 7.5 hours, but with countless stops for photos of this and that, we optimized our indulgence by stretching out our time crossing the Sonoran and Mojave Deserts before arriving at the doorstep of Death Valley at 7:00 p.m. Checked-in to our room in Shoshone, we walked across the street to the old familiar Crowbar Saloon we first ate at back in 2007 and then took the dark road up to the hot spring pool, this also brought us to having walked 5.5 miles for the day. By 10:30, we were snoring, but if you read yesterday’s post, you’d already know some of those things.

It’s 5:30 in the early morning as we peel ourselves out of bed after sleeping better than is typical for our first night out on the road. We are embarking on our day in the wee hours even after our lengthy 17-hour day of traveling yesterday. The point here is, and this is only now dawning on me, we are still plowing into experiences and doing our best to take advantage of our time in the world. As we turned on the road that would bring us to Death Valley, the sun hadn’t yet peeked over the horizon, but by the time we were about to descend to the saltpan, the world of this harsh landscape was becoming well illuminated. Who knows what the rest of my next decade will bring, but here on the other side of 60, I’m thrilled to know that my stamina hasn’t fallen by the wayside.

Death Valley National Park, California

Having passed in and out of Death Valley from the west, the north, the northeast, and the south, the southerly approach is by far my favorite. The gradual approach from this side of the park also benefits from the quiet due to so few people out this way. Most visitors will congregate in the relative proximity of the visitor center. While many will go as far south as the iconic Badwater location (282 feet below sea level), that leaves the bottom 50 or so miles of the park relatively unvisited, and it is down here where our day begins in earnest.

Room Canyon at Death Valley National Park, California

There is no trailhead and no parking lot. We just pull up in front of mile marker 39 and start walking east. Our first hike of the day is Room Canyon, rated as a moderate 3-mile trail. The path to the canyon is not identified with cairns, but if you look at the ground ahead of you, you’ll see the footprints of others, and you can hope they went in the right direction. This is as good a place as any for me to include my endorsement of the AllTrails app and how important it has become to us. Before arriving somewhere, like here in Death Valley, which doesn’t have phone service, one should identify the trails they are interested in and then download the trail maps while they have plenty of signal. Our go-to trails are typically rated as moderate because easy is just too easy, though, for an interpretive experience, those are often not bad. The strenuous trails often feature rock climbing, exposure, or some serious elevation gain. Everyone who ventures into America’s national parks and hikes should have AllTrails with them and do some research before embarking on their adventure.

Room Canyon at Death Valley National Park, California

After our short hike into an alluvial fan, we are now in the mouth of a canyon carved out of the alluvium that’s been deposited from the eroding mountains behind us.

Room Canyon at Death Valley National Park, California

The post title mentions stamina and is in reference to what we’ll have to muster if we are to capture the three hikes we have penciled in as the activities for our day, but by now, it also speaks to what I’ll require to complete writing this post that still has nearly 50 photos below this one. Should you be able to slog your way through this marathon post, which will likely veer into a fair amount of prolix (defined as speech or writing using or containing too many words/tediously lengthy), you too will have had to find your stamina for such a long post to find what gems might exist here, if any.

Room Canyon at Death Valley National Park, California

For Caroline and myself, the gems are many, at least in viewing the photos that we find to be magnificent. The writing that accompanies these images is often a mixed bag where at least I wonder if I’ve not said this all before. Even if I add a new twist or some bit of delightful poesy where a verse finds a potentially enchanting resonance, one must toil over hundreds if not thousands of words until they, too, find a diamond in the rough.

Caroline Wise at Room Canyon at Death Valley National Park, California

Speaking of finding a diamond in the rough, it’s now been 10,000 years and 12 trillion experiences shared with this woman, who (according to her) has enjoyed being between the proverbial rock and a hard place that is our relationship. There’s something about her smile here that may not be apparent to others: it is the look of “Wow, I can’t believe we are here.” Today, along with our planned hikes that are not considered to be some kind of “I’ve worked for this, and I’m owed it,” is a day of astonishment that we have the ambition and compatibility to venture into places with someone who equally enjoys the time. How far we go is irrelevant; how far we’ve come carries a satisfaction that accumulates, as does our love.

Room Canyon at Death Valley National Park, California

Had this been the extent of our adventure, we’d leave and realize our good fortune to have been able to find so much indulgence between yesterday’s drive up, time in the hot spring last night, sunrise this morning, and this first bit of exploration in Room Canyon here at Death Valley. But this is only the beginning, and nobody should ever, for even a second, consider that there are greater rewards ahead. Every moment is the most valuable token of a splendid life any two people have been granted.

Caroline Wise at Room Canyon at Death Valley National Park, California

I don’t believe that those who named this place Death Valley were being ironic, but then again, we do not call Earth the Death Planet, though death happens every day. I vote for renaming this national park Massively Wow Life Valley because being here amplifies the sense of how incredible it’s been that life took hold on this outpost in the Milky Way.

Room Canyon at Death Valley National Park, California

As a telescope acts as a portal through space into unknowns, so too does nature act as a portal into its history and maybe its future. As I peer into this crevice with light falling in from above, I can surmise what is out there, but I do not have first-hand knowledge. This mystery is the intrigue that helps propel our dreams.

Room Canyon at Death Valley National Park, California

From one space, we enter another by the simple act of going forward. Obviously, we had to have the means to be here, but I’d argue that everyone has that opportunity if they were to desire such things. The argument that most people can afford this if they own a relatively decent car could easily be taken issue with, but I’d say that while those more than 500 miles away would have to focus on something closer to where they live, such a weekend could cost as little as about $200. Without going into too many details, that’s about $120 for gas, $40 for two nights of camping, and park admission. As for food, that was going to be consumed at home regardless. Instead, people will convince themselves that a real immersive vacation must take place at Disneyland, Hawaii, Las Vegas, or on a cruise to the Bahamas. This all-or-nothing mentality is great for Caroline and me because we find ourselves all alone today at Room Canyon.

Room Canyon at Death Valley National Park, California

If you look closely at this image and the one above it, you’ll see that we’ve progressed about 100 feet up the trail. Sometimes, it’s not the broad vista, i.e., the big picture, that’s all important but the readjustment of your focus to see what you might miss if you are only honing your hyperopic vision.

Room Canyon at Death Valley National Park, California

Earlier this year, we spent a couple of hours in Kartchner Caverns, and in my subsequent writing about them, I deeply considered their formation and the molecular processes harnessed across time. Peering into those details in ways I hadn’t previously, I was enchanted watching in my mind’s eye the accretions forming to produce the cavern features we were there to experience. Today, we are here in an open-air canyon, and under an overhang are signs of accretions dripping down a wall. Where’s a geologist when you need one? How old might these be, what is their mineral composition, and how many other places in Death Valley can we find others?

Room Canyon at Death Valley National Park, California

Again, my kingdom for a geologist! While I understand that softer rock erodes faster than the overlying harder rock, I dream of knowing what was at work during those years these layers were forming. The greenish layers are making a sandwich of what appears to be sandstone, and within the green lower area, there is red rock, but it’s not evenly distributed, so what’s the story?

Room Canyon at Death Valley National Park, California

And then this small area of turquoise-hued rocks catches my eye and while I can appreciate the aesthetic qualities, I’m being denied any knowledge of precisely what’s at work here to have created this pocket of blue-green treasure. Learning that Death Valley has not really been a place to find much copper, I’ll eliminate the chance that the minerals at work here are malachite or azurite, which both oxidize towards green and instead, I’ll lean towards this display being caused by the presence of chlorite.

Flowering plant at Room Canyon at Death Valley National Park, California

Hey Caroline, have we ever seen flowering desert rock nettle before? Looking for them, I learned that the International Carnivorous Plant Society considers the Eucnide urens a “murderous plant” because flies that come in for aphids are killed by the plant, but while this nettle strengthens its stinging spines with calcium phosphate, the same stuff our bones and teeth are made of, it can’t “eat” the flies so it does not qualify as carnivorous and is simply a murderer.

Wildflowers at Room Canyon at Death Valley National Park, California

On the other hand, there’s this notch leaf scorpionweed that, while intensely and beautifully saturated in a wonderful shade of purple, can cause a rash similar to the effect of poison ivy. Please consider that I may be wrong about identifying this wildflower, just as I can be wrong about almost everything I write here.

Wildflowers at Room Canyon at Death Valley National Park, California

After an exhaustive search, I’ve come to the conclusion that this is the gravel ghost flower.

Conglomerate at Death Valley National Park, California

The scale of my lack of knowledge is often frightening because it took until the day in Phoenix writing this post that I was able to answer the question of why I wasn’t able to find a single hint of fossils in all of the alluvia I was scouring for hints of life. While I wanted to believe that this was made of eroded materials that settled on the shore of the long-gone Lake Manley, I should have noticed that the rocks that have been cemented together do not show signs of water erosion. This debris arrived from high above where it broke off the surrounding mountains and collected at the foot of them. It should have been obvious that there would be no fossils in this type of alluvium. This feels like a gaping chasm in the basics of understanding how our planet was made, how it evolves, and how what we perceive shouldn’t be taken for granted.

Caroline Wise on the salt pan in Death Valley National Park, California

The world of John would certainly be rendered simpler if I were to drop the curiosity and join the modern clan/cult of “Veni, vidi, vici,” best exemplified in the digital age by posting an iconic photo to Instagram while sitting back to enjoy the influencer cred. Maybe you ask, what is this Latin phrase harkening back to Julius Caeser? “Veni, vidi, vici” is translated to, “I came, I saw, I conquered,” which has been reduced to, “I came because someone really cool also went; I saw what I had to see in order to take the same photo, I’m a winner because everyone else tells me I am.” Am I alone in thinking that my totem should read, “Odi profanum vulgus et arceo?”

Carolne Wise at Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

This is the moment we realize just how important AllTrails is to our peace of mind, as there are five potential trails that lead into Sidewinder Canyon, and only one can be right. A family of four coming off of one of these warns us from heading that way, so we consult our AllTrails map that we downloaded in Shoshone the night before to adjust our bearings. With nearly a dozen cars at the trailhead, we can only wonder how others made their decision.

Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

From our initial impression, it would appear that the others are heading into places that are not Sidewinder Canyon. Should this prove true, we are promised a quiet 5-mile hike this afternoon.

Carolne Wise at Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

It was a slog under direct sunlight in loose gravel before Caroline took up this perch in the shade of what appeared to be a fallen slab of the cliffside. After what felt like about 45 minutes, maybe even an hour, where we had 1,145 feet of elevation gain to contend with, there was serious consideration of turning around while we wondered what could possibly be so interesting further up the wide mouth of this gravelly canyon.

Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

There were these occasional spectacular views of looking back at the snowcapped Telescope Peak in the Panamint Range, and as you can see, we are now able to enjoy a bit of shade as the canyon narrows.

Carolne Wise at Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

When do the exciting views that make this such a highly recommended trail begin? Just kidding, if a massive rock overhang that could fall at any time to snuff us out of existence isn’t thrilling, what is?

Carolne Wise and John Wise at Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

We’ve reached the end of the trail as it relates to our skills of clambering up the rock faces behind us. While we could see the way up, the way back down might present other challenges for the overweight guy afraid of heights, so we’d just have to turn around, check out the side canyons, and call it quits here at Sidewinder Canyon.

Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

On the way in, we skipped all four side canyons that branched off the main trail with the idea that we might do them on the way back down. This was the last one and is now the first one on our return. The only one marked with a cairn, there must be something special here, so, at a minimum, we’ll explore this short quarter-mile hike.

Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

Right away, Sidewinder Canyon transformed into a gem, but at this time, we’d not yet seen a thing.

Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

It is impossible to convey just how astonishing the sight of what you are looking at is. Not only did things cool off substantially in this narrow slot, but the light was at a premium, though there was just enough to understand that the hole we were about to walk through was a bizarre feature tucked away back here. We stood here a good 5 minutes examining things from all angles trying to figure out if it was manmade or carved by nature. There’s a steep path up and around it that Caroline braved, trying to gain a vantage point that might explain how this doorway got here. The surrounding rock and towering slice of earth overhead balanced over the opening suggest that it would have been stupidly foolish for any human to dare stand under so many tons of rock precariously resting in this space and dig it out, so it must be a natural path to the other side.

Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

Step through the open door and look up; this is that view, which helps explain why it’s so dark down here.

Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

The word that comes to mind regarding the state entered in this passage is stupefied. How does the hand of nature massage its contours to offer us a perfect world that not only supplies the essential ingredients to care for ourselves but then throws in a load of sensual aesthetic qualities that present our senses with an exquisite orchestration of visual, audible, and other sensory delights that dumbfound us as we stand there in awe? Incredulous that we’ve been gifted this ability to perceive such intense beauty, we are often brought to the edge of emotion that wants to find a way out in some way that far exceeds the exclamation of “wow!” Much of what I write here is a feeble attempt to capture the tiniest fragment of that enthusiasm that feels all too impossible to convey, and so I just keep on searching for the proper sequence of words that might talk back to us in the future and remind us that we’ve traversed the furthest reaches of the incredible that few will discover within or outside of themselves.

Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

Charles Darwin once said, “The love of all living creatures is the most noble attribute of man.” I’d change that to include the love of all things, even those things we cannot overcome.

Carolne Wise at Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

That large boulder was the end of this side canyon for us; we turned around and were able to enjoy it all over again.

Carolne Wise at Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

Slot number two. See human for scale.

Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

If you take nothing else from this post, leave knowing that these photos are poor representations of the breathtaking sights found here in Death Valley.

Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

We have emerged from slot canyon number three in our sequence, and I’m left with the impression that hikers should consider visiting these in reverse order compared to what we chose, meaning visit each side hike as you are entering Sidewinder Canyon in order to save the best for last but then again, who am I to judge what is pleasing to others?

View from Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

Let’s return to the subject of stamina as I now have 36 photos I’ve written to and have 16 ahead of me, including this one. Caroline often wonders why I don’t just slice the image count in half or even a third when the chore of writing to each and every photo means I’ll be spending an inordinate amount of time teasing thoughts out of my head, often longer than the actual time spent in an environment. You see, this is a clever ploy used by me to spend studied time in front of the photo waiting for some intrinsic value or grand inspiration to seep out of the pixels to talk to me about what I might share. Once I find that muse, er um, delusion, I run with it, and in so doing, I create the situation where my wife will have to then look into each bit of writing to ensure I’m coherent and grammatically correct, but there’s a side effect to writing so much, and that is she is then compelled to dwell within the scene allowing her memories to find a deeper place within our shared experience.

Wildflowers at Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

This entire process, no matter the motivation, requires the stamina to persist and, if need be, go slow to find my footing before establishing a flow that hopefully brings me to the end of the page without cutting out the remaining images before continuing with the next day. This is the third or fourth day of returning to this evolving post, and other than my wife reading this; I really have no expectation that anyone else will, other than some artificial life algorithm training another Large Language Model (LLM) so it can sample yet another human in order to learn how people express themselves. Like these wildflowers that must bloom in a hostile environment where nobody may ever happen by to appreciate their tenacity to persist, they pop into life for a brief time, grace us with their beauty, and could care less if they’re well received. Right there, that’s my writing philosophy.

View from Sidewinder Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

Just to the right of the center of the image is our car, which will whisk us away to lunch if we don’t become distracted on the way up the road.

Death Valley National Park, California

This is not Badwater, we didn’t bother to stop at Badwater on this visit to Death Valley because EVERYONE else was there. Never have we seen so many people and such a number of cars at that iconic location ever. It was an absurd level of visitors, as though Badwater had become an extension of a Disney ride. All we could do was crawl by with mouths agape wondering which influencer delivered the horde to this formerly serene place.

Death Valley National Park, California

By the time we reached The Oasis and the Last Kind Words Saloon, our lunch options were pretty limited and, to be honest, as I was having no kind thoughts about the type of visitor the park attracts these days, I just wanted a quick bite so we could get back on a trail away from the grotesque superficiality on display here. Having a captive audience in Death Valley, the concessionaire puts us visitors in the bind of not having many options, and they are able to charge what the market will bear. We shared ten wings ($26), Caroline had a beer ($10), and I had an iced tea ($4). With tip, our bill for a shared appetizer and two drinks was $51. Not only that, our time at the saloon stole an hour from our day. Growing discouraged with our brief time here at the hub of Death Valley, we had one more thing to take care of, which was buying a new annual pass for our National Parks at the visitors center. Asking the ranger about the mayhem, we were advised to reconsider visiting on holiday weekends. This is Easter weekend, and there are still remnants of spring break filtering through. Now we know.

Desolation Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

Time for a return to peace and quiet, which is exactly what one might expect at Desolation Canyon.

Caroline Wise at Desolation Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

Who needs to check with AllTrails? The path very obviously goes that way.

Desolation Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

There were some sketchy areas along the way for me, but as much as possible, I at least went as far as I could before my vertigo was either overcome or defeated, and we had to turn around. Things were going along more or less fine until I reached the point of ultimate pucker, where my butthole gland jolted me with a surge of anxiety that screamed a clear and resounding “nope!” It was at this point that we looked at the AllTrails map and saw that we were off the main route. How could this be, as the trail was so clearly defined?

Desolation Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

We’d already been hiking back when it occurred to me that I should have taken a photo from our furthest point up the pucker trail. Oh well, it’s early enough; we can try this again once we get back down there.

Desolation Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

I see; we weren’t supposed to walk on the visible trail next to the wash; we were supposed to be in the middle of the wash.

Desolation Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

We quickly learned why this canyon earned its name: this is absolute desolation. Not a single plant, lizard, or bit of moisture though we did hear the occasional bird tweeting from above. Then there was also that guy who was on his descent from a nearby peak because he has the kind of hooves that allow his species to ascend escarpments and was now racing to reach Dante’s View at Coffin Peak before sunset after he whipped out his wings.

Desolation Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

It’s intensely beautiful down here, but the sun is not in our favor, and like just about anywhere on the trails in Death Valley, we wouldn’t want to be out here after the sun sets, so we keep on moving, not taking the time we should in order to take it all in.

Caroline Wise at Desolation Canyon in Death Valley National Park, California

There was another dead end ahead for us before finishing the Desolation Canyon Trail, a rock face with obvious hand and foot holds but purely vertical and something that I wouldn’t have been happy needing to come down. Mind you; this is certainly a disappointment for me as I, like any normal person who’s already invested the effort in getting out here, want to reach the end of the trail for that sense of winning a prize for reaching the end of the trail. Alas, this isn’t meant to be my way of winning; I’ll have to accept that by being forced out of this canyon earlier than expected, we were able to do other amazing things that were meaningful, too. Those details follow.

Sunset over Death Valley National Park, California

It feels like a rare moment when we are afforded the opportunity to experience a glorious sunset here in Death Valley. I don’t know why we can’t find any memories of sunsets in the park; maybe it’s due to being overwhelmed by the sites of the day or that they simply can’t compare to the spectacular sunsets we witness in Arizona, regardless of the reason, today, we were gifted with this late burst of color in the early evening sky that bore remembering.

Sunset over Death Valley National Park, California

From where we left the trail, the nearly 70-mile drive down to Shoshone was going to take us nearly 90 minutes, getting us to dinner shortly before 8:00, but here we were stopping yet again. There’s no question in our minds that whatever might be sacrificed later is just the way it is because capturing yet another reminder of a perfect day takes precedence.

Sunset over Death Valley National Park, California

Nearly 15 miles covered by 32,000 steps on three different hikes is what we got in today. Starting with Room Canyon, moving on to Sidewinder Canyon with a quick jaunt out onto the salt flat in-between before finishing the day on the Desolation Canyon trail. When we pulled into our motel, we figured it was too late to hit the hot spring, so we went for dinner at the Crow Bar across the street and talked of taking a dip in the morning before the day got underway, but as luck would have it, we got our order in before a large (loud) party of Germans and before we knew it, it looked as though we could clear our bill and get to our room to change by 8:40 allowing us almost 15 minutes at the pool. We wasted no time and were in the water by 8:45. The gate is supposed to be locked at 9:00, but as luck was once more favoring us, the guy didn’t show up until some minutes after 9:00 allowing us a full 20 minutes of hot spring winddown for our tired bodies and heavy feet. This was just the elixir nature ordered for this couple of outdoor enthusiasts who were celebrating their stamina to be on the go and enjoying every moment of a day that stretched into a 15-hour adventure of non-stop sublime impressions.

Desolation is a State of Mind

Wildflowers off Highway 74 in Arizona

Avoid all highways, embrace empty spaces, and drive so slow that the tortoises and lizards pass you by. Our wandering route promised to require no less than seven hours before we’d arrive in Shoshone, California, outside of Death Valley National Park, but when taking the backroads, there’s a good chance of frequent fortuitous stops to collect visual souvenirs seemingly lying in wait for a collision with seeking eyes and thoughts that may or may not give them context.

Aguila, Arizona

Similar to the rarity of wildflowers carpeting the desert, encountering a long-closed store is an uncommon sight for people living in an economically viable neighborhood. As I started to write that sentence, it occurred to me that I needed to point out the economically viable part because I know firsthand that those who live in the blighted areas of America’s cities are all too familiar with abandoned buildings that once provided local services. To my eyes, though, they are a novelty that draws me in to capture the current state of a facade that apparently has been neglected since between 2007 and 2012 (based on a poster in the window showing the price for a pack of Marlboro as $5.39 which coincides with that aforementioned time frame). So, while the town looks the worse for wear due to this decaying artifact of the past, up the street, Family Dollar swooped in and, while offering what is likely a greater choice of goods, declined to assume the cost of tearing out this eyesore.

Wenden, Arizona

On the other hand, take the Sunset Motel further west in the town of Wenden, Arizona. Years ago, it was an abandoned hulk collecting cobwebs and graffiti, while today, it has been converted into an artists’ colony. With so much road ahead of us, we felt that our time would be better spent covering said road and considered that maybe a day trip out this way might be in order to better explore these towns we rarely visit.

Salome, Arizona

It has been about 20 years since we last stopped at this place next to the road in Salome, Arizona, wondering what it once was, and to this day are still intrigued that the tie-ups for horses are still standing.

Bouse, Arizona

Well, Bouse, Arizona, must be going to hell because the first time we passed through here, the sign read that they’d gone from 3 to 4 grouchy people among the 875 inhabitants. That it’s grown to 35 grouches suggests the quality of life has gone downhill.

Parker, Arizona

South of Parker, Arizona, along the Colorado River, lives a tribe of Indians called the ‘Aha Havasuu, made up of various other groups, including the Mohave, Chemehuevi, Hopi, and Navajo. Just behind me is a canal full of Colorado River water being used to irrigate the land on that side, while on the far left, fire is being used to clear the remains of a depleted crop. Why the canal on the south side has been allowed to fill with sand is a mystery.

Highway 62 in California

Now, in California, on Highway 62, we have about 100 miles ahead of us, but until we arrive at the outskirts of 29 Palms, we have a wide-open desert to drive across.

Highway 62 in California

Along the way, we’ll see sand, rocks, dirt, shrubs, whispy clouds, deep blue skies, trash, and a lot of asphalt.

Shoe Tree in Rice, California

What we didn’t expect to find was a peculiar variation of the shoe tree. Here in Rice, California, at the remnants of an old gas station, the shoes of passers-by who made a donation to the roof are covering the spot where the pumps would have once stood. It turns out that there used to be an underwear tree that had taken shape on a dead tamarisk tree, but it and the underwear burned, and with what was left, a shoe tree took root before another fire burned everything to the ground. There are a few other works of art close by: someone decorated a shrub with COVID masks, and a wall is covered in graffiti. Apparently, there’s also a shoe fence out here, but we missed that one, creating a solid reason to return one day.

Rice Desert Signpost in California on Highway 62

This signpost out near Rice, easily identifiable as a signpost, features pointers to names, things, or places beyond my simple ability to comprehend just what they are pointing to.

Off Amboy Road in California

Out there, somewhere beyond the horizon, are unknown sights waiting to be seen by eyes that haven’t yet seen what lies in places they’ve never visited. While the road looks relatively well-traveled, it’s obviously not a thoroughfare, nor is it a boulevard or a destination that has the kind of pull that can illicit the common influencer to venture into its still hidden secrets.

Off Amboy Road in California

And then, around the corner, we are delivered into an abundance of more nothingness that is, in reality, a misnomer because anyone can easily see that everything is found here. The peculiar nature of people missing what could be perceived as a cruel joke because everything is within their minds. Desolation is a state of an empty mind that doesn’t allow the spoonfed person the usage of their imagination to understand that they are nearly always looking at the most immense beauty that contains all the gravity of life they will ever know but can’t quite understand. Would this space somehow gather more value if there were someone in an evocative pose and clothing? For the simple-minded, that is precisely what they require for a location to assume value; that is a tragedy larger than the breadth of this desert.

Amboy, California

There was a time in the golden age of travel, a time I’ve not personally lived through but of which I have some awareness thanks to older family members who shared stories about seeing the exotic sites out west along Route 66, some of the best experiences one might hope to capture. Likewise, for those from out west, going to New York City, Niagara Falls, or Florida could be the vacation of a lifetime. So here we are in Amboy, California, at Roy’s long-closed motel in the Mojave desert where probably everyone who passes by snaps a photo, and not one of us will ever get to eat at the cafe or stay the night without seeing our stop as a trophy having been collected. This begs the question, why should a side-of-the-road motel and cafe deserve this kind of recognition? It’s because we are nostalgic for normal stuff without understanding that in our age of conformity, where everything and everyone looks the same, these artifacts are hints of what’s been lost. Now consider that while these architectural relics are able to draw our attention, those capturing these moments can’t yet see their own ugly sameness as a part of the disappearance of anything we used to take for granted that was unique.

Kelbaker Road and the Mojave National Preserve in California

We are entering the Mojave National Preserve, where we are being requested in a humorous way to slow down. If ever there were people desiring to oblige a wish, this one speaks to our hearts. There was a time when we yearned to race into everything, which might be an artifact of evolution because if life is short, you’d better get all you can as quickly as can. Life spans are longer, yet people have less time for themselves as they divide their hours and days between jobs, getting to and from those jobs, consuming entertainment, and the consumption of things that are supposed to bring satisfaction while not offering any kind of purpose or growth. Distracted without intention or an idea that there could be a purpose aside from collecting, people race ahead to collect the trophy of participation.

Mojave National Preserve in California

Without intention backed by curiosity to evolve one’s knowledge, the desolation of purposelessness takes over the landscape, and other than a single objective, nothing is found about the world around them or the world within. That type of person may have ended up racing over sand dunes, shooting some targets, reaching a peak, or skiing down a mountain, but everything between the culmination of the end goal and being locked back in their cocoon is the toil of futility as they had to endure the boring parts. They don’t understand that there are no boring parts.

Kelso Depot in Kelso, California

In gazing at our past that no longer has a function apart from serving as a sad reminder that our present is absent of authenticity, we look through a prism of uncertainty, not recognizing that this empty space is reflecting the desolation of our minds. For about 80 years, the Kelso Depot served workers and travelers as a rest and refueling stop on a line that ran between Salt Lake City, Utah, and Los Angeles, California. Today, there’s no hint of their shadows, voices, or footsteps that carried them into a place in the middle of nowhere they needed to be, unlike current visitors who are trying to figure out what the attraction is of visiting something that once had a purpose and now only serves as a reminder of something from an era we hardly understand.

Kelbaker Road and the Mojave National Preserve in California

Soon, all recollection of who we were or are will be gone as we fade out of relevancy due to not wanting to know who we are. As a species, we held the potential to be more than the appearance of a thing; we had cognizance and a desire to adorn ourselves with the artifacts of crafts learned and mastered, from jewelry to music and words. Today, we purchase what others tell us will complete us; we borrow mannerisms and use pre-ordained colloquial jargon that demonstrates our membership in the club of cool hipster culture in order to buy instant influencer cred. That moment where we luxuriate in the pretentious, artificially contrived place known as Flash-in-the-Pan soon dumps everyone out at the end of the intersection of Uh-Oh and Oh-Shit. If we are fortunate, we rapidly adapt and jump into the vehicle of Remain-in-Childhood; otherwise, it’s off for a bumpy road trip down the Existential Crisis Highway.

World's Largest Thermometer in Baker, California

In the numbness of oblivion where desolation dwells, a chemically induced existence invites those who embrace banality to flutter about the light as they, on occasion, crash into the margin of awareness. For those determined to weather the heat of curiosity, we have few beacons to guide or warn us of impending collisions that may temporarily derail our ambition to go it alone. We are not here to pose for you; we are here to remind ourselves that when the opportunity arose for us to leave convenience and laziness behind, we accepted the challenge to witness our wandering across the space between, and if it were a flower, a ruin, or the world’s largest thermometer, we were on-hand to consider where it might fit in the encyclopedia of our experiences.

Salt Creek off Highway 127 south of Shoshone, California

It’s likely easier to understand that this water will flow into another stream or river and that it might end up in a lake or the ocean while understanding our own flow is a non-stop mystery of guesswork, or so it seems. We, too, are flowing, flowing into a life that will end up in a metaphorical ocean of all life that has been. If this feeds the life of what is yet to be, that is left beyond the horizon of my comprehension as I can only take the perspective of where I am from the place I’m at in the current of any given moment. What I do know is that I’m still in constant motion; I’ve not pulled up to the edge of the stream trying to delay where I’m going because stopping my travels would risk being absorbed by the thirsty desert, or I might simply evaporate. Either way, my journey will have ended prematurely and so I must keep going and going.

Salt Creek off Highway 127 south of Shoshone, California

If you thought you were going to read about desolation and our travels into nothingness, you must be the naive type of person who’s convinced themself that something like nothing is even possible. I’m not here to offer affirmation about your shortsighted delusions; you should stick to your couch/computer chair, where electronic media are the wildflowers that talk to your soul. We refuse to wallow in pity for the things we cannot see and do or can’t afford as we take off driving into the biggest adventures ever offered to humanity. Sure, one could point out the obvious that this is no Paris, Kilimanjaro, Everest, or Hawaii, but that would be silly because we went somewhere better; we traveled in love, looking for beauty found in everything we looked at.

Shoshone, California

It was 16 years ago when we first pulled into the Shoshone Inn just a few miles outside of Death Valley National Park, and since that time, we always make an effort to stay here. Are these luxury accommodations? Heck no, at least not to what others might think, but for the two of us, this is the height of luxury. First of all, it’s about half the price of a room in the park. Secondly, the Crowbar Cafe & Saloon is across the street, and although they don’t open until 8:00 in the morning, they are open until 9:00 p.m., so no matter what time we leave the park, the Crowbar is going to be cooking our dinner. But this doesn’t touch on the most important aspect of staying here, and that’s the soaking pool nearby. You see, this pool is no ordinary resort pool. It is a concrete enclosure fed by a nearby hot spring with water in a temperature range of 100°F to 104°F (38°C to 40°C) year-round.

Shoshone, California

Do not look for gourmet food at the Crowbar, but then again, who’d ever think a place with this name would feature that type of cuisine? We are not into this for a culinary experience; for those desiring that experience, check out The Inn in Death Valley, where you can dine on a $150-a-person meal before retiring to your $400-a-night room. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but we want something more, considering the harsh nature of the place we are visiting.

Shoshone Hot Spring near Death Valley, California

After our patty melts made of rusty nails and lizard cheese, we headed up the dark, dark road to the hot spring pool where the acidic waters flowing out of Death Valley scoured four layers of skin off our aging bodies, making us look 11.5 years younger. About these waters, one should consider that they are likely remnants of ancient lakes fed by the intermittent Amargosa River that once flowed into Lake Manley in Death Valley and Lake Tacopa near Shoshone before seeping into nearby aquifers. The research that has me writing this inspires thoughts of a quick return to the area again this year to trace the flow of the Amargosa near Beatty while trying to piece together the history of this part of Death Valley. Time to crawl into our bed made of plywood and snuggle up under the World War II-era wool blanket, as we call it a night of roughing it here in the desolation of absolutely nowhere.

Oregon to Arizona – Day 11

John Wise and Caroline Wise in Eugene, Oregon

I’ll never know you, creepy passenger in seat 2A, but someday, an artificial intelligence algorithm will identify you and tell your descendants that it found an old photo of you, and they’ll see you peering our way to see what we were photographing which was nothing more than us on a plane out of Eugene, Oregon.

Flying over California

Last night as I was checking in for our flight, we were offered an upgrade out of peasant class, where the likes of us belong, to sit among royalty for only $92 a person extra. We couldn’t turn down this bargain as our checked bag was now included, we were among the first dozen to board the plane, and we’d certainly have overhead bin space. While waiting for the cattle to load, we were offered coffee fitting our new status with promises of more luxuries to come as soon as the curtain was closed between us and “them.” Once in the air, our three-course white-glove breakfast service was brought out with silver dining utensils. When this part of the formalities was finished, there was nothing left to do but for Caroline to kick back and enjoy her mid-air pedicure.

Flying over California

Eleven days ago, flying over California on our way to Oregon, shamefully, as just two more cows in peasant class, I cracked open Bruno Latour’s After Lockdown. I was certain I’d finish it while out on the coast, but it turned out that I never found a moment to read even one more sentence. As we were taxiing this morning, I was struggling to write legibly, but as soon as I put a period to this paragraph, I’ll be turning back to the book to see where he takes his ideas on metamorphosis.

Flying over Arizona

Providing size comparison that the earth is merely 0.14% the weight compared to the weight of energy the sun emits, Latour posits that, in effect, we live in a thin biolayer of existence much like a termite, though we’ve tricked ourselves into believing we have the autonomy to go where we want. Lockdown thus turned us into the termite and changed our perception of who and what we are.

Flying over Arizona

If women and earth are feminine and men and the universe are masculine regarding our species’ evolution so far, when will we recognize the need for more humans to be caregivers and nurturers? This need to have men accept roles that have traditionally been female roles will change the way men see themselves. Maybe we are already seeing this change.

Flying over Lake Pleasant in Arizona

That’s Lake Pleasant out there, which is at the edge of Phoenix, meaning we are almost home. Time to close that chapter from Latour and put the Oregon coast behind us before settling into a long slog of trying to document another incredible vacation.

In Love – All Day, Everyday!

Cambria, California

We easily remember transgressions, one-liners, and bad jokes but try to remember the crashing waves at dawn, a sunset of purple-orange gold, or the sound of a bird chirping as it glides over a river. Try to see in your mind’s eye the pelican’s wing flirting with the ocean, the smile of a best friend no longer part of the world, or the voice of someone who told you they loved you many years ago.

Cambria, California

It is only through words that any of these things live on and are able to be recalled and then shared with others.

Cambria, California

Writing is the exercise that all who claim to be human and have meaningful experiences should be practicing, else these precious moments are as easily lost as the last wave that crashed ashore and is now gone forever.

Cambria, California

Carving names and dedications on trees and benches, drawing them on rocks and walls, attaching locks to cables, bridges, and branches, we try to leave something that offers a kind of permanence that we or someone we’ve loved has been here.

Cambria, California

Leaving a symbol so that we might return someday and find it still there is full of hope that someone should stay in our hearts and memories well into the future. Maybe more of our lives should be spent practicing writing our stories in order to give a larger space to the meaning of the moments that inspire us to not forget those we’ve loved and the special places we’ve shared with them.

Cambria, California

To that end, I must share how I smile at Caroline standing at the cliff’s edge, looking over at me and the small amount of fog between us. She smiles at me and then returns to watching the sea. When pelicans pass by I know she’s taking mental note if they are flying in a V formation overhead or as a string following one another over the waves. My wife is certainly aware that as the morning sky brightens with hints of pink, blue, and a pale gray due to the late summer fog that’s rolling in, the sun crawling over the horizon will be making dramatic changes to the entire scene. To her left, waves have started to capture the first rays of direct sunlight; we are seconds away from seeing the sun for ourselves.

In the transition zone between night and day, there are a few others out here: some dog walkers, another photographer, and the surfers who were here before all of us. The waves grow larger in the advancing day, the fog thickens, and we must get going as nobody gets to linger forever.

Cambria, California

Just one more moment, one more walk to take a seat before the seas and gaze at all that must remain unknown. At night, we’ll do the same as we ponder the void and countless stars that will never warm our brief existence. Though we may never visit the bottom of the sea or a distant planet, storytellers have the ability to bring us places that remain out of reach for most people. When we write our own story, we have a reference point to revisit later in life. The adventures of our younger lives become the narrative of that long-forgotten self whose journey was possibly vastly different than that of the person approaching their sunset years.

Cambria, California

There may come a day we find ourselves sitting at a favorite place by the shore, missing the other who had shared our smiles, joy, and gaze of amazement as we dream of what adventures might still lay ahead. Look out there, out into the distance, and then try to pull it all within you. None of it will stay long as the next horizon beckons, but you should leave yourself and others these breadcrumbs of memories upon the page; one distant day, they might just bring delight to someone looking to remember their time at the seaside when they were lost in love and wonder.

Cambria, California

We must turn to writing in the same way we each care for our own physical health: by exercising. Just as the bird flies as a large part of its nature, humanity uses words for all that we do, and yet we most often simply satisfy ourselves with how we verbally express ourselves, even to the point of being oblivious of our own poverty of vocabulary. At my age, approaching a stage of late-life maturity, I still see the fledgling wordsmith trying to master the flight of narrative that might one day glide effortlessly as birds do over the ocean. The truth is that strength is an evolving asset that must be cultivated on a regular basis, or the skill will atrophy.

Cambria, California

I’ve learned over time that the same might be said about our ability to see and that far too many people are blind while their eyes are still perfectly functional; only their minds have taken their sight away. Truth and beauty may be subjective, but the desire to paint the world as unworthy or digging deep to find truth too demanding is the domain of the human returning to the animal or, worse, a kind of death. To be present, we must be alive and vibrant, riding in on waves and gliding into our potential but can the majority of us bring this idea or reflections to the page? Pride in driving a car, owning a home, and winning a game, are surrogates of distraction to knowing one’s self. When you write, you codify your thoughts and risk exposing that you possess a great inability to articulate thoughts deeper than the thickness of skin, able to tolerate the ridicule of yet being stupid. Writing makes you vulnerable; hence, the majority avoids it.

Cambria, California

But one day, you will be gone. Who might remain that could have enjoyed exploring the depths of the person they want to keep on remembering? What about children, great-grandchildren, or future relatives a couple of hundred years from now interested in looking into the history of their lineage? Who among us wouldn’t treasure the diary of a distant family member writing of their time, surviving in a world so vastly different than the one in which we find ourselves? Our age makes this capturing of fragments so simple, allowing me to sit here in front of the page exploring the brief experiences Caroline and I have so we may never need to sit alone after one of us takes permanent leave.

Cambria – All Day!

Cambria, California

After our intense 16-hour day yesterday, we skipped setting an alarm, but our internal clocks didn’t seem to appreciate the effort to sleep in as we woke shortly after 6:00 anyway. We looked out our hotel door over to the ocean and while there was plenty of light out there, the sun itself was yet to appear. The same might be said about us getting ourselves out on the other side of said door as we sat in the room reading and writing. At any moment, I’m certain one of us will take the initiative to shower and it’ll be in the middle of that when the sun barges through a window and has us feeling lazy.

Now aware that we might miss the greatest sunrise ever, I get to the adulting and get this ship of Wise underway. Because I know readers are looking for the smaller details, I’ll overshare by letting you know that just seconds prior, I had doffed my drawers and was heading to the shower when Caroline pulled her head up from her searching for English words related to weaving in her quest to translate some things for her friend Claudia and told me she was just about to do the same. Shooting her some side-stink eye, I turned around and put those still warm and slightly funky underwear back on because who wants to sit their bare ass on a hotel chair? I got back to writing. Later, when Caroline gets to editing this post, she’ll be wishing she’d let me go shower instead of adding this little tidbit regarding my musky nethers in need of washing being aired out here on these pages. Oh good, she’s already turning off the water right before I start in on describing my bowel movement.

Cambria, California

From my butthole, we head out for breakfast which is a short 1/2-mile walk north along the ocean. Yeah, I, too, am hoping my chocolate starfish, or the more politically correct Fudgy Seastar, does not become a theme for this beautiful day.

Caroline Wise knitting in Cambria, California

Breakfast at the Oceanpoint Ranch Canteen was finished, but our coffee was still hot, so why not sit a while, knit, read, write, and sip that coffee for a while longer? Our plan, or lack of a plan, with nothing etched in stone or even drawn in the shifting sands, was as amorphous as my occasionally missing maturity. We could drive up the coast attempting to find the one spot we’ve not been a dozen or more times before (not to imply we wouldn’t enjoy it all over like it was the first time), but sitting here in the cool 63-degree sea air (17c) with me writing and Caroline working on those socks using the yarn from our trip to Rügen, Germany, last year, also by the sea, it starts to feel like we should have a down day. Why not just stroll along the beach, grab more coffee, and return to the Moonstone Grill for lunch while incorporating more of this post-breakfast activity? That sounds perfect, and it’ll be just what we do.

Cambria, California

Across the street to the boardwalk and trail that we’ll follow to the north, further than we’ve ever traveled on this path. For unknown reasons, we never made it this far on our visit last year. Then again, I could be forgetting things, but to the best of our collective memories, this is our first time right here.

Cambria, California

How could we have missed this beach?

Caroline Wise in Cambria, California

We’ve traveled this 100-mile length of coast more times than most Californians ever will, and still we are enchanted by this opportunity to be here again and again regardless of the effort or cost. That we are still able to stumble upon places that we’d somehow missed might baffle us, but we explore them and the familiar sights like they were all found during our first visit here. It’s as though living in a desert prepares your senses with a kind of sterilization process to see the vibrancy in the verdant world where everything is new all over again.

Cambria, California

While we are not looking for jade here on Moonstone Beach, as we are looking for moonstones, of course, that doesn’t mean Caroline won’t pick up the nicer examples of some pretty jade and share them with me. Many years ago, we owned a rock tumbler and used it exactly zero times, and ultimately handed it off to Goodwill. Trying to find the balance between hoarding, collecting, and not getting to attached to things, we do our best to fight impulses to have it all, but as I just looked at new tumblers over on Amazon for only about $100 I can’t help but want to nudge Caroline into getting another one we can store in our closet unused for 5 or 10 years before giving it away too.

Cambria, California

Regarding this photo, I took no notes while out on the coast and so I’m in Phoenix right now trying to find what I’d like to say about it. On my headphones here at Starbucks, I’m listening to Max Richter’s On The Nature Of Daylight, looking for an emotional context to paint the right image, but even with some of the most beautiful music I can find to help inspire me after I’ve left a place, it’s not always easy to find meaningful words that might accompany a photo I found worthwhile to share but difficult to write about. Such is the nature of beauty.

Caroline Wise in Cambria, California

Went as far as we could before realizing that we could sprint around a corner and that if the tide came up, we could return by the road on our right-hand side. What you might not see with clarity is that Caroline is walking on pebbles instead of sand, rock hounds paradise over here and the place where she hopes to collect a solid half a dozen moonstones to take home with us.

Cambria, California

So there we were, all by ourselves, on a private beach of sorts due to the circumstances of nobody else being here, aside from lots of birds. Why no one else is here is a mystery; it’s Labor Day, a holiday, and there’s not a soul unless these feathered friends have souls. Is everyone else bolting home already? And was there ever an everyone else out here? Guilty admission time, yes, for photographic purposes I triggered this seagull blizzard that I’ll from here forward refer to as a “gullard.”

Cambria, California

There’s the matter of a lone surfer, but he’s out in the waves, seemingly content to float alone and enjoy the moment of solitude, not appearing to offer a care about riding the many waves that pass under him. I suppose the same might be said for us as we have an entire beach of sand, and Caroline even found a pink bucket, yet we are not building sand castles.

Cambria, California

It all looks so well laid out, somewhat permanent, really based on the ice plants behind the bleached driftwood, but the reality is that one storm will roll in and redesign everything. So the truth might be that we have been on part of this beach before, entering from the northern end, but on that visit, the configuration was so different that today, we recognize nothing other than the joy of being here.

Cambria, California

Not feeling like we’d walked enough, we continued right past the stairs that brought us down here and around another corner at what appeared to be the south end of how far we could go, but again, we could pass easily enough. Ah, there are stairs down there, so we can go back up the cliffside on those.

Cambria, California

Nope, that wasn’t going to work unless we were about to start entertaining a latent death wish due to the surf cutting between us and the other side where the stairs promised us a path to lunch. Maybe we could have gotten there, but a vertical cliff with what might be a precarious trail to some young bucks screamed at us who are full of age-instilled wisdom with brains that measure the rocks with jagged edges and consider our buoyancy factor determining that if we enter that rollicking water, there were hints of serious injury if not total annihilation.

Caroline Wise in Cambria, California

Are you sure that’s the best place to grab a seat to rinse your feet before putting those sandals back on?

Cambria, California

Finally, off our private beach walk and four miles later, we see that our path is going to take us right over to the Moonstone Grill for some seaside grub. How it became this late is one of those great unanswered questions, as it felt like we just left breakfast. Caroline insinuates that we’ve been lollygagging.

To celebrate such dawdling, Caroline raised a toast with a Manhattan and set in for an extended lunch of resting our feet and senses as just how much ocean can one take in at a time. From previous experience, we knew that no matter what we had for lunch, a dessert was going to be had, and it was the ice cream with hot Oregon berries because, oh yeah. After this indulgence, it was time for more sounds and visions of the sea, and that boardwalk across the street was beckoning.

Cambria, California

Caroline coined a new term today; feel free to Google it after I share it, as it simply never existed before today and will be published for the first time in history right here on this blog. The word, with a drum roll, is “pelicanado.” It describes the masses of pelicans that fly in to drop down to the sea where a bunch of other birds has gathered, as there must be a school of fish below that they are feasting on. As waves approach, the pelicans scramble out of the water (not always successfully), returning to the air but circling back around just to dive bomb right back to where they were feeding. Well, she’s right; it looks like a pelican tornado, a.k.a. pelicanado. Regarding my summation about the school of fish or if this was a social gathering, I willingly admit a total ignorance in the way of pelicaning.

Cambria, California

A young couple sitting at the seashore, they are us, we were them. There were others before them, and others will follow. For the moments we sit there, we are the first and only to see exactly what it is we are witnessing, and these times influence who we are beyond the minutes we’ll take up the bench and claim it as our own. Putting into words what we’ve taken in and shared with our minds and imaginations is as impossible as teasing apart the sand from the surf and sky, and yet we’ll sit there knowing that we are somehow in love with more than the person on our side.

Cambria, California

After walking the length of the beach, this is, in fact, the end, we headed over to some stairs away from the hot sand to find a bunch of benches, a pool, some massive barbecue facilities, and other amenities such as nice cool shady trees here at Shamel Park. A break was just what we needed.

Cambria, California

Somehow, it’s approaching 4:00 in the afternoon, and it feels as though we’ve done a bunch of nothing or, again, in Caroline’s parlance, we’ve been honing our lollygagging skills. Unable to do a thing while we sat doing nothing, we tried rubbing our two brain cells together to muster a plan and realized we needed coffee like pelican need fish. It was awful nice just remaining at our picnic table, planted under the cool canopy sheltering us from the now oppressive sun. The sea breeze wafts over us at a pleasant 72 degrees, and our only complaint might be that we can’t take some with us tomorrow when we point the car towards home. Realizing these perfect conditions, I don’t believe anyone could blame us for this momentary proclivity into zero action and total laziness.

Surfing in Cambria, California

Eyes are heavy by the time we reach our hotel, where the car is parked. We have two options for that coffee, with the second one closing in an hour; it’s the one we’re going to. It’s called the French Corner Bakery. On the way over, I called ahead to Robin’s International Restaurant, where we have a reservation for 8:00, to see if we can move it up to 6:00, no problem. We sit down for our coffees after meeting Justin, the guy behind the counter, and start a nice chat with him instead of doing much writing or knitting.

As the bakery is about to close, we only have to walk a short way across the street, and we’ll be at Robin’s. Our original dinner date was to ensure we’d be on hand for sunset, as we just love sunsets. So now we might miss our cherished moments as the sun dips below the horizon, but we’re practical enough to know that we can’t have it all. Then again, maybe dinner goes by quicker than anticipated and we’ll be back on the other side of Highway 1 before dark. This being our last night out, if we weren’t satisfied with things yet, this trip would have been for naught as you can’t capture perfection in the last hours of a multi-day trip.

Sunset in Cambria, California

Maybe we skipped dinner? Not a chance; we simply didn’t dilly-dally. We got down to business and felt that we’d just have to get back to the ocean for one of these moments of golden glistening ocean and warm orange sky.

Sunset in Cambria, California

Since when was one photo enough when 3 or 4 can better get the point across because choosing one was impossible?

Caroline Wise and John Wise in Cambria, California

Selfies of Caroline and me are obviously not as frequently shared as images of her because I’m the one behind the camera. At some point down the road this or last year, Caroline had said she didn’t feel we were taking enough so I’ve made the effort to get us to pose for these more often. To this end, I scrolled back through the blog this year; 17 pages with seven posts per page took quite a long time, as I’ve probably shared thousands of images this year for Mexico alone. Anyway, it looks like I’m fairly well represented on these pages, though I think I could share more photos of me with my hair out for the mad scientist look.

Sunset in Cambria, California

And this, as they say, is that. The end.

Aquarium, Coast, and Whales – All Day!

There was no sleeping in today; we were out at the first moment the sun peeked over the distant horizon. Golden light spilled into the sky, accompanied by a blinding streak of white slicing over Monterey Bay. Over in Germany, some of our family are spending this Sunday together for their annual September reunion. Over WhatsApp, they share smiling faces; we share a view of the rising sun over the Pacific.

Strangely, there are only about a dozen of us out here for the start of the day, well, us people, the pelicans, some seagulls, a few others, and a splashing seal putting on an acrobatics show. The sound of the surf and birds don’t appear to offer the local group of women exercising under the trees enough of a background, so they’ve brought a soundtrack the rest of us can listen to as we pass by. The same goes for some of the walkers and runners who somehow don’t think that they might be disturbing others who prefer to listen in on the natural environment.

We move away to find another beautiful spot under the riot of nature, unpolluted by the ugliness of our fellow humans. Once we’ve basked in the cleansing light of the sun but not yet burned to a crisp, we’ll need coffee to wash off the grime of disdain for the rude people around us. That’s right, we bathe in boiling coffee before trying to drown in it. And where does this ablution occur this morning? At the Red House Café on 19th and Lighthouse. Any ill will towards others that I might have gathered was temporarily kicked to the side as a father passed by with a baby and a toddler in a stroller and their dog in tow. The toddler excitedly announced to us and everybody in earshot that he’d just seen a fungus. That four-year-old boy was serious about how amazing the sight of a real live fungus was, and if that enthusiasm isn’t able to put a smile on someone’s face, nothing will. Not to imply that I’m not generally happy, but I cannot turn off my annoying trait of always paying attention to others, something at which Caroline is coolly adept.

The day had started to resemble yesterday as we were the first in line again and we found ourselves at the same table on the patio, only I order something different while Caroline opted for the yummy frittata again. Last year, when we first ate here, Caroline pointed out how unbelievable it was that we were now sitting here on the cafe’s sunlit porch while on our earlier visits to Pacific Grove, we wouldn’t have wanted to afford the place nor join the line. By the way, this patio and house is not where we ate breakfast; it was just a nice little bungalow on our way there.

Back to the similarities between days: we’ll walk away from the Red House Cafe after our breakfast for a return visit to the aquarium. I’m fairly sure, though, that it will be like visiting for the first time as all the swimming creatures in the cold seawater tanks will have reorganized themselves just for our time among them. Of course, I’ll be taking plenty of photos to prove this. Not that this matters, but I’d like to point out that I’m not, in fact, ignoring Caroline right now as I write these musings as she’s practicing her texting-fu chatting with her German bestie, Claudia. Not only are they communicating across the oceans as Claudia is somewhere in Europe, but my wife is smiling like a loon from time to time. The reason I can’t be sure about Claudia’s whereabouts is that she and her significant other seem to vacation as much as we do if not more. [Nobody we know vacations as much as we do, I reckon. – Caroline]

The parallel universe of coincidence again sees us walking the water’s edge to the aquarium. Is it the exact same time we are arriving for the 9:30 members-only opening, or is it slightly earlier or later?

Once inside, a glitch derails our move to the always-beckoning Kelp Forest, and instead, we are drawn to the Open Sea to experience the jellyfish all for ourselves. Not content to just have my photographs and potentially nonsensical blog posts, Caroline saw the opportunity to bring videos of the jellies home with her.

Was our time among the jellies two minutes, or was it a half-hour? It’s hard to tell now that we’ve learned that these gelatinous Medusozoas warp time with their tentacled ancient arm things. After more than 500 million years they’ve evolved to a level of sophistication that allows them to live in a timeless infinity, pulsing through an ocean traveling forever; that, or they lay in wait to sting a hapless human to death.

After our psychedelic jelly encounter, Caroline needed to maintain the visual intensity, and what other than laying down under a school of sardines could come close?

Try as I might, I cannot understand just why the hammerhead shark evolved with its eyes so far away from its body. What kind of wicked sensing system is in that crossbar that holds eyes that cannot possibly see what it’s about to eat? I should probably do a little bit of searching before making such assumptions, as it turns out that hammerheads have 360-degree vision thanks to their peculiarly shaped heads. Combine that kind of vision with the old ampullae of Lorenzini, and I’m growing increasingly certain that the ocean is stuffed chock full of aliens.

I’m noticing a trend with animals that sport some level of transparency, such as man-killing jellies. These predatory tunicates are able to swallow whole scuba divers who approach too closely. I know they don’t look that big, but that’s because we are looking at them through rearview mirrors, so we can see their immense size in such tight confines found here in the aquarium.

You could wager that I’m now fearful of searching for information about the brittle stars, and I don’t mean the ones from Hollywood. First of all, I came to see that this is not what I thought it was; it is a sea star of the Brisingida family, meaning it’s a predator (hopefully not like the one from the movie). Not your ordinary sea star, of course not; this one doesn’t just filter its meals from the current of water around it. According to an NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) article, “Their spines are covered in tiny claws which act as sort of a “starfish Velcro.” Using these claws, they snag all passing life (regardless of size, I’m speculating) and then pass their meal down to their mouths using tube feet.

Here you go; it turns out that Brisingida sea stars are related to brittle stars, and before I got to the NOAA article, I opened a page from Scientific American about how brittle stars see. This won’t be good, and spoiler alert, the details are about to be shared. I’ll paraphrase here, “Their arms are loosely coordinated by a nerve ring in the animal’s core, almost like eight co-joined monster animals with a mutual interest in where to go, what to eat, and making little monster stars.” And people have the audacity to complain about paying taxes when we are able to go to a restaurant, sleep in a cozy bed, and live on land in houses instead of in this underwater world of nightmares?

Time-warping hallucination-inducing jellies, people swallowing tunicates, and now these f&%#ing hagfish. Blind and toothless, they eat the dead, from the inside no less! Not enough horror for you? They are known to suffocate other fish that try eating them by the copious amounts of slimy mucus they are able to produce; we’re talking serious bucketload amounts of the stuff that clogs the gills of the fish, and if that’s not doing the trick, they can tie themselves into an overhand knot while in the fish creating more difficulties for the idiot fish that won’t be trying to snack on this creeper again, should it survive.

Right after we return to Phoenix, I want to find out if there’s a doctor performing hagfish stem cell therapy so I can be the first man on earth with a self-lubricating slime penis.

After our encounter with the self-lubricating seaworms snarfing on death, we were psychically contacted by the flamboyant cuttlefish to pay a return visit to the salmon snailfish. How did we miss this yesterday? Their bodies are semi-transparent, which does not portend good things, and what about those mesmerizing hypnotic eyes? Oops, too late! Caroline was the first to be put in a trance by the blue-silver eye that allowed the fish to communicate to her that, as a species, they do not like their scientific name of Careproctus, which was derived from Ancient Greek where κάρα or kara translates to face and πρωκτός or prōktos is translated as anus meaning they are Butthole Faces. I want to adopt one.

Are things weird enough for you yet? Do you see those chin fins? The salmon “asshole-head” snailfish uses them to look for food in the sand as it plants itself face first on the sea floor, see photo from yesterday. By the way, you might notice its eyes are now black; that’s because this “Po-Kopf” (German technical term) has met its match with a bigger asshole-head who is stealing its powers in order to crown me King Facia-prōktos.

See that crab? Salmon snailfish are known to use them as repositories for their eggs; yep, you read that right: the fish with butt face uses king crabs parasitically by installing its eggs in the crab gills, turning them into a mobile home/incubator for their offspring. Jesus, Caroline, what are we doing here in this house of horrors?

This is the point in the aquarium where all truths gleaned from any loose-lipped Perciformes will be erased using the kinetic color pulsing living embodiment of the “Neuralyzer” as seen in Men in Black (oh my god, John, just how hypocritical are you?). Obviously, it didn’t fully work on me, and I can only surmise that my good fortune in retaining the truth about the secret marine culture that uses us for its entertainment has been left partly intact due to our particular sequence of events whereby some strange chance I took notes prior to my mind-washing and didn’t trash the crazy stuff I wrote. Trust me, I thought twice about sharing what’s in my notebooks but this is what I found there.

No, seriously, where did the first two hours of the day go? We cannot leave the aquarium without a pilgrimage to the Kelp Forest, but getting there could be problematic as we suffer from “Needtoseeitallagainitis.”

Any number of things could distract us on our journey that must conclude with finding the exit. Oh, what’s this? It’s the old boilers used here when prior to the aquarium taking over, this was a sardine cannery. Funny how, in all the years of visiting Monterey, I think this is the first time I’ve ever photographed the old sardine processing equipment near the entry.

Well, sure, that is a kelp forest out there, but we’re looking for the one with that old familiar musical accompaniment that makes us all sentimental when we listen to it at home in the weeks and months between visits (MBA Kelp Forest Live Cam).

Ah yes, the soundtrack of Jaws starts its haunting throb as the shark approaches.

And with that, we have to bid adieu to another visit to one of our favorite places ever here at the great Monterey Bay Aquarium.

Obviously, we broke free of the aquarium, which is more than any of the fish can say (not that fish say a lot, as far as we know). Though a magic sardine whispered at us that Queen Elizabeth would die in four days, but come on, how could a sardine know that?

You can trust this isn’t just some more lollygagging for the sake of wasting time; we left our car at the motel as parking anywhere near the aquarium is difficult at best and an underwater horror story at worst. Regarding this never-before-seen view of the bay, by us anyway, there’s a small passage between the Hopkins Marine Station operated by Stanford University on the left and the aquarium on the right. The white sand beach is Cabrillo Beach and appears totally inaccessible to those of us on the wrong side of the fence, which is apparently anyone not working at the research facility.

We know we are inching towards the next exit, that of leaving Pacific Grove and the Monterey Bay area. Heavy hearts weigh on empty stomachs having us consider our lunch plans. Oh no, the Mexican joint we ate at yesterday doesn’t open for lunch on Sundays! Lucky us, I called ahead to the Borg that we’d be a bit late picking up our car as we were looking to have something to eat first, and our choice of grabbing a bite at Peppers was nixed; well, the mysterious voice on the other end commanded us to go to the Monarch Pub and Restaurant for some English grub. All of a sudden, the words of the sardine were haunting me like this was some kind of foreshadowing or were the butterflies trying to message us?

Klingeling! That’s the sound a German bike bell makes and has brought me around from my fits of hallucinatory madness, which propelled this writing. Now, back in reality, I’m here thinking of that wonderful post I wrote in Germany just last year that featured 23 images of bicycle bells and some thoughts about the process of aging. You should read it if for no other reason than to cleanse the mental palate of the things drawn out of my imagination, you might have endured in the paragraphs above.

It was 3:00 when we hit Highway 1, traveling south. We were well aware that we couldn’t afford the indulgence going down the coast that we took on our way up. With only 4 and 1/2 hours of daylight remaining to our still glorious day, we’ll be measured, discriminating, and intentional about where we choose to spend our precious time under the sun.

Knowing this limitation, we hadn’t planned on the heavy traffic with two complete stops at construction sites and a serious backup at the Bixby Bridge.

We were about to sail right past Big Sur, or so was my intention, before Caroline wailed about how beautiful the view of Point Sur was, so I quickly pulled over.

Did we even make it a few miles before the view had us pulling over again? Nope, this is looking behind us from the same pullout where I photographed Point Sur, but it is beautiful that way, too; I just had to include it. Now, we’ll hit the gas and get moving, as we have a long drive ahead of us before we pull into Cambria for the night.

Oh, this is nice, but so were the other stops along the way that I’m not including in this post because I’ve already included 42 photos, and that’s simply enough, along with being the answer to the Great Question.

How had it taken us 90 minutes to get this far? The Henry Miller Library is in Big Sur. We’re hardly crawling along at a snailfish pace, but the library is open which for us is surprising as we are typically on the wrong side of the clock for a visit. This can only mean we MUST stop.

For those who don’t know, Henry Miller is considered a literary innovator and has been said to be a major influence on the original generation of Beat writers. His works were banned in the United States for many years, likely due to the sexual content. When I was in my early 20s, I tried reading Tropic of Cancer and Sexus, and neither title gelled with me; they are now long gone. As I cannot deny his influence nor the respect I have for an author who inspires so many other writers, it was fitting that we’d take this opportunity to stop in and even support the place.

While I feel my interest in the Beats has passed, and I read On The Road by Jack Kerouac many years ago, I’d never read his book titled Dharma Bums, and so that was my title of choice today. We didn’t have a lot of time to make choices as we’d arrived shortly before they were closing. Caroline chose Straits: Beyond the Myth of Magellan about, you guessed it, Ferdinand Magellan. This is a beautiful little bookshop full of interesting titles for those interested in alternatives outside the mainstream books that are not typically carried by the dominant big box store.

Leaving the library and enjoying the art and grounds here next to Highway 1, a fully naked, bubbly young lady flutters by as if this might be how she goes about life every day. I keep my camera aimed at this old typewriter as I must control my creepy old man persona trying to escape.

Not 10 miles down the road, the massive view beckons, and we easily oblige, but it’s okay as we are getting close to the halfway point to Cambria at a mere 55ish miles down that way or so. Caroline had already gotten back in the car, and I was about to do the same when something caught my eye.

A spout of water is what flashed into my peripheral vision, and not two seconds later, a whale breached. Yelling at Caroline to jump back out, she was soon next to me. Not only did the two of us see the breach, but the crack that followed was amazing, too. The lens I was using is obviously not ideal for capturing whales more than 2,000 feet away from shore and maybe 150 feet below us, but that’s what I had. I took a lot more photos than this, as we witnessed several breaches in a row, but this was the best one. I also photographed them spouting, but from this distance, those plumes look like tiny, rather unspectacular white splashes.

We sat here a good while, waiting to see the pod surface again and hoping for more breaching, but it wasn’t on the menu of events that blew minds on this great day. Well out of sight, was a barking seal that likely wasn’t breaching. As we continued south, we saw more pods spouting in the distance, but taking photos of them didn’t work out; the memories were terrific enough.

Here we go stopping again as we saw more spouting. No seals within earshot, but we did see some pelicans and some old architectural thing. That’s the Big Creek Bridge built back in 1938, just a few miles north of Lucia Lodge, which is also about the halfway point between Pacific Grove and Cambria.

Now, on the next stop for even more whales and some excited Germans looking for wildlife. While the distant cetaceans spouted there would be no breaching, we left quite satisfied I hope the Germans were too.

There comes a point in time when, as daylight is slipping away, my mind goes to work on the geometry of what lies ahead, where we want to be, and the position of the sun in the sky. There’s no reason to be in a less-than-optimal place for sunset, so we have to pace ourselves; hence, this stop to sprawl before it all.

This photo is only here as a reminder that while traveling Highway 1, there is not only the ocean side of things. Not sure you can see it but there’s a house in the center of the image and something like an artists workshop cabin on the right.

This looks promising, but I think there’s better, so we keep going.

But not before I snap this perfect photo of Caroline smiling in the golden late day light on a curvy coastal road with a background of pampas grass, little fluffy clouds, the moon, and sea while wearing her Mayan motorcyclist t-shirt picked up from Taller Leñateros in San Cristobal, Mexico, earlier this year. What a life.

The last stop during daylight hours, as this is the place we’ll watch the sunset. It has vibes of “best spot” to me. We crawled under some barbed wire and stepped onto some crumbling coastline to find the position that would be just right for this curtain call.

We’re still about 20 minutes from Cambria and were not leaving this spot before that sun fully disappears from view. It is Sunday night, and not sure what restaurants will still be open after 8:00. We opt for a poor excuse for a Mexican place in San Simeon, but who cares when we’ve been feasting on all the wonderful sights found on another perfect day?