6 January 2010 - Day 1 - "Short-lived Greyhound Romance"
7 January 2010 - Day 2 - "Steak on cardboard platters"
8 January 2010 - Day 3 - "Big basin redwoods"
[Just view photos from these days.]
6 January 2010
Northbound on the Southern California coast
There were other options available when I booked several long-distance tickets with Greyhound, the first leg being bound for Santa Cruz, California. The price was not substantially lower than a flight, but having flown so much for business, ground transport now seemed to offer a certain romantic, more plebeian experience which would better suit the rustic spirit of my adventure. Bay windows would, I supposed, afford a quintessential panorama of the common American vantage. More than this, though, Greyhound advertised free wireless Internet built into their vehicles, and power outlets to boot. Thus, I was looking forward to fifteen hours of website productivity, or so I thought.
6 Jan. 2010, Oceanside, California. Packing efficiently.
The transportational romance began breaking up just as soon as the coach rolled in. Instead of the well-appointed vehicle shown on their site, Greyhound connected me to their Los Angeles hub via another carrier headed up from Mexico. This bus seemed very narrow and unkempt. Climbing constricting stairs with forty pounds of gear, I peered into the dank interior to find an empty seat. None were obvious, not merely because of drawn curtains, nor because the company had oversold tickets, but that in all places lumberous slack-jawed passengers were strewn unconscious over two seats together, or, when awake, guarded their areas with unwelcoming countenances from behind barricades of baggage. The air was permeated with a dense musk of ethnic odors and on-board septic. Here and there one might see persons wearing medical face masks. Their phobias, if not their diseases, were infectious. I found myself filtering air through my jacket.
6 Jan. 2010, Southern California. Lines.
Following the connection in Los Angeles, however, I boarded a real Greyhound. The switch was comparatively vast. Gone were the curtains, the narrowness, the odor. Nevertheless, over the loudspeaker our driver droned a lengthy explanation of laws and taboos which affirmed that I was still riding with some of society's dregs. It would have been equally informative to observe any of the hombres beside me whose faces and bodies were a scrawl of prison ink tattoos, or the toothless man with grocery bags tied to his feet for shoes. Regardless, something in me feels a kinship with such persons, myself being separated in large measure only by circumstances beyond personal control.
6 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Rainbow in the clouds.
To my right sat a well built twenty-nine year old man, a Mexican national named Louis, sporting knock-off Gucci sunglasses and his fair share of native machismo. We chatted for a while about fatherhood, faith in Christ, and cultural differences. I found him to be quite friendly. Louis admitted, however, to being hesitant about speaking with me because my olive green outfit gave him the impression of Border Patrol. Later, while my seatmate dozed, I listened on portable radio to the live NPR broadcast of Arnold Schwarzenegger's final State of the State address. I hear critics gave his performance two thumbs up.
North of Santa Barbara the landscape became increasingly robust, just as I remembered. Sea worn cliffs rose like amber honeycombs across the channel to San Pedro. Our highway wound into verdant hills roiling beneath pink cumulus cloud blossoms, until plunging down an asphalt vein cut through the heart of an almost vertical mountain face. Songs by The Album Leaf set the score for an evening of reminiscing, filled with a mixture of bittersweet fondness for the past and excitement for the mystery of coming months.
From a text massage sent to an old friend,
6 Jan. 2010, Santa Barbara, California. Ships.
Around 11:00 PM, I was deposited onto an obscure corner of downtown Santa Cruz. Ryan, a fellow believer and photographer who had flown out from Colorado for a wedding that weekend, was waiting with a rental car. After greetings and loading, we sped off to our Pine Beach campsite, but not without stopping at a drug store for essentials - beef jerky, water. Pitching our tent near gnarled cypresses and wind washed seashore we fell fast asleep.
* * *
7 January 2010
Santa Cruz, California
Just past the white bar of shoreline dunes, we made our breakfast on a castaway tree trunk, sand blown and succulent with the smell of the coast. Gauze like haze shrouded the distance even as warm sunlight spilled down from above. One could barely make out a power plant to the South.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan leaves the tent.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Dunes.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Shrouded coast.
Our meal consisted of bananas and blueberry oatmeal, cooked over a brass Trangia alcohol stove. The conversation was at times jovial, then solemn, in the way that thoughtful young men oscillate between humor and sober candor.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Myself. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan and I.
The afternoon was passed by myself in a coffee shop, writing while Ryan met with his clients. When he returned, we shopped at Whole Foods natural market for our bohemian dinner. Over a hardwood fire we cooked magnificent steaks -- which we ate on platters of cardboard -- sauteed chick peas with minced garlic, and beef sausages. We would have eaten more, too, had not some bourgeoisie cat made off with a whole block of our delicatessen cheese.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan's cross.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan wading. [view larger!]
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan wading II. [view larger!]
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Tracks.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Wash.
6 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Burn.
6 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Myself. Photo: Ryan Thompson
* * *
8 January 2010
Big Basin Redwoods, California
We broke camp early, taking our beach side breakfast once again before hiring out a hotel room for Ryan. He was staying another night, and I would be catching the evening Greyhound to Salt Lake City. All things being sorted out, we drove an hour to the world famous redwood forests of Big Basin.
8 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Myself. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Limbs in moss. [view larger!]
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Myself in tree. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Myself by giants. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
I must say, I have never tired of the dramatic and diverse landscapes which California affords. One could never leave and yet feel he has seen wonders innumerable. From the rusted pigment wastes of Death Valley to the enormous granite walls enclosing Yosemite, there is no American State more generous with scenic grandeur. Big Basin State Park is no exception. The location was recommended to me by a friend at Oceanside URC. Taking his word, we drove into the mountains and found ourselves hushed with awe and nearly anonymous amongst three-hundred-foot tall evergreen behemoths, thick-skinned titans standing prominently over mossy tangles of woods below. Red-lipped mushrooms whispered of our arrival, or so I imagined, to the pale twisted fungi who populated rocks with their sparse villages. For two hours we wandered gingerly with our cameras, enjoying the solitude and silence. Before leaving we prepared a fine stirpot meal of Andouille sausage, garlic, fancy cheese, and peas. Who says one must have reconstituted food while traveling?
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Myself, leaping. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Fallen tree. [view larger!]
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Red mushroom.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. White fungi.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Yellow fungi.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Moss.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Mossy bough.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Ryan.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Cooking.
In the evening, Ryan attended a rehearsal dinner while I remained at the hotel to write, shower, and pack. We had a glass each of white wine, something sweet with a rabbit on the label, and left to the depot. Ryan waited with me for the bus and in that time we spoke with a small crowd of ravers who'd been partying at a nearby club. One of them, upon hearing of my proposed bicycle journey, said approvingly, "that's savage." A young woman warned us of a curse upon Santa Cruz, that those who come must return. It might be the one time I hoped for some truth in such things, but if God wills I shall be back to this beautiful corner of the country.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Myself by the fence. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
8 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Myself, hotel room.
7 January 2010 - Day 2 - "Steak on cardboard platters"
8 January 2010 - Day 3 - "Big basin redwoods"
[Just view photos from these days.]
6 January 2010
Northbound on the Southern California coast
There were other options available when I booked several long-distance tickets with Greyhound, the first leg being bound for Santa Cruz, California. The price was not substantially lower than a flight, but having flown so much for business, ground transport now seemed to offer a certain romantic, more plebeian experience which would better suit the rustic spirit of my adventure. Bay windows would, I supposed, afford a quintessential panorama of the common American vantage. More than this, though, Greyhound advertised free wireless Internet built into their vehicles, and power outlets to boot. Thus, I was looking forward to fifteen hours of website productivity, or so I thought.
6 Jan. 2010, Oceanside, California. Packing efficiently.
The transportational romance began breaking up just as soon as the coach rolled in. Instead of the well-appointed vehicle shown on their site, Greyhound connected me to their Los Angeles hub via another carrier headed up from Mexico. This bus seemed very narrow and unkempt. Climbing constricting stairs with forty pounds of gear, I peered into the dank interior to find an empty seat. None were obvious, not merely because of drawn curtains, nor because the company had oversold tickets, but that in all places lumberous slack-jawed passengers were strewn unconscious over two seats together, or, when awake, guarded their areas with unwelcoming countenances from behind barricades of baggage. The air was permeated with a dense musk of ethnic odors and on-board septic. Here and there one might see persons wearing medical face masks. Their phobias, if not their diseases, were infectious. I found myself filtering air through my jacket.
6 Jan. 2010, Southern California. Lines.
Following the connection in Los Angeles, however, I boarded a real Greyhound. The switch was comparatively vast. Gone were the curtains, the narrowness, the odor. Nevertheless, over the loudspeaker our driver droned a lengthy explanation of laws and taboos which affirmed that I was still riding with some of society's dregs. It would have been equally informative to observe any of the hombres beside me whose faces and bodies were a scrawl of prison ink tattoos, or the toothless man with grocery bags tied to his feet for shoes. Regardless, something in me feels a kinship with such persons, myself being separated in large measure only by circumstances beyond personal control.
6 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Rainbow in the clouds.
To my right sat a well built twenty-nine year old man, a Mexican national named Louis, sporting knock-off Gucci sunglasses and his fair share of native machismo. We chatted for a while about fatherhood, faith in Christ, and cultural differences. I found him to be quite friendly. Louis admitted, however, to being hesitant about speaking with me because my olive green outfit gave him the impression of Border Patrol. Later, while my seatmate dozed, I listened on portable radio to the live NPR broadcast of Arnold Schwarzenegger's final State of the State address. I hear critics gave his performance two thumbs up.
North of Santa Barbara the landscape became increasingly robust, just as I remembered. Sea worn cliffs rose like amber honeycombs across the channel to San Pedro. Our highway wound into verdant hills roiling beneath pink cumulus cloud blossoms, until plunging down an asphalt vein cut through the heart of an almost vertical mountain face. Songs by The Album Leaf set the score for an evening of reminiscing, filled with a mixture of bittersweet fondness for the past and excitement for the mystery of coming months.
From a text massage sent to an old friend,
"Remember the first night of the road trip, 2006. Totally lost. In-N-Out messed up your food. We slept near a beach. I'm near there, now. Lots of memories. Love you."
6 Jan. 2010, Santa Barbara, California. Ships.
Around 11:00 PM, I was deposited onto an obscure corner of downtown Santa Cruz. Ryan, a fellow believer and photographer who had flown out from Colorado for a wedding that weekend, was waiting with a rental car. After greetings and loading, we sped off to our Pine Beach campsite, but not without stopping at a drug store for essentials - beef jerky, water. Pitching our tent near gnarled cypresses and wind washed seashore we fell fast asleep.
* * *
7 January 2010
Santa Cruz, California
Just past the white bar of shoreline dunes, we made our breakfast on a castaway tree trunk, sand blown and succulent with the smell of the coast. Gauze like haze shrouded the distance even as warm sunlight spilled down from above. One could barely make out a power plant to the South.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan leaves the tent.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Dunes.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Shrouded coast.
Our meal consisted of bananas and blueberry oatmeal, cooked over a brass Trangia alcohol stove. The conversation was at times jovial, then solemn, in the way that thoughtful young men oscillate between humor and sober candor.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Myself. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan and I.
The afternoon was passed by myself in a coffee shop, writing while Ryan met with his clients. When he returned, we shopped at Whole Foods natural market for our bohemian dinner. Over a hardwood fire we cooked magnificent steaks -- which we ate on platters of cardboard -- sauteed chick peas with minced garlic, and beef sausages. We would have eaten more, too, had not some bourgeoisie cat made off with a whole block of our delicatessen cheese.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan's cross.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan wading. [view larger!]
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan wading II. [view larger!]
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Tracks.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Wash.
6 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Burn.
6 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Myself. Photo: Ryan Thompson
* * *
8 January 2010
Big Basin Redwoods, California
We broke camp early, taking our beach side breakfast once again before hiring out a hotel room for Ryan. He was staying another night, and I would be catching the evening Greyhound to Salt Lake City. All things being sorted out, we drove an hour to the world famous redwood forests of Big Basin.
8 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Myself. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Limbs in moss. [view larger!]
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Myself in tree. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Myself by giants. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
I must say, I have never tired of the dramatic and diverse landscapes which California affords. One could never leave and yet feel he has seen wonders innumerable. From the rusted pigment wastes of Death Valley to the enormous granite walls enclosing Yosemite, there is no American State more generous with scenic grandeur. Big Basin State Park is no exception. The location was recommended to me by a friend at Oceanside URC. Taking his word, we drove into the mountains and found ourselves hushed with awe and nearly anonymous amongst three-hundred-foot tall evergreen behemoths, thick-skinned titans standing prominently over mossy tangles of woods below. Red-lipped mushrooms whispered of our arrival, or so I imagined, to the pale twisted fungi who populated rocks with their sparse villages. For two hours we wandered gingerly with our cameras, enjoying the solitude and silence. Before leaving we prepared a fine stirpot meal of Andouille sausage, garlic, fancy cheese, and peas. Who says one must have reconstituted food while traveling?
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Myself, leaping. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Fallen tree. [view larger!]
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Red mushroom.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. White fungi.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Yellow fungi.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Moss.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Mossy bough.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Ryan.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Cooking.
In the evening, Ryan attended a rehearsal dinner while I remained at the hotel to write, shower, and pack. We had a glass each of white wine, something sweet with a rabbit on the label, and left to the depot. Ryan waited with me for the bus and in that time we spoke with a small crowd of ravers who'd been partying at a nearby club. One of them, upon hearing of my proposed bicycle journey, said approvingly, "that's savage." A young woman warned us of a curse upon Santa Cruz, that those who come must return. It might be the one time I hoped for some truth in such things, but if God wills I shall be back to this beautiful corner of the country.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Myself by the fence. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
8 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Myself, hotel room.
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So much fun! Great post. I watch for further updates of your journey with excitement!
Where is video?
See my photos of the trip over at http://www.rdtphotoblog.com/journal/2010/1/12/santa-cruz-ca.html
Also, I didn't realize anyone else knew The Album Leaf. Love it.
Beautiful photos and great stories. I especially like the panoramas and the shallow depth of field tire tracks below those. 'Limbs and moss' and 'leaping' make me really miss summer.
Thank you both. Ryan, your photos are great, as usual. Graeme, thank you for the compliments on the stories, they take forever to write, with all of the interruptions of travel!