December 27 to 31, 2003

We leave the coast and turn inland thinking to arrive at Santa Cruz. We meet Rich and the Moreys while eating lunch near a lighthouse. Denise, Rich and a whole slew of kids give us cookies and invite us to visit them when we’re in their neighborhood. Ten miles short of Santa Cruz we camp on a cliff edge outside a small town. Our tent is set up beside a cabbage field not far from the railway tracks. The night is clear and we can hear the surf crashing from our spot.

December 27th, 2003
Marina mishaps

We get to Santa Cruz early in the morning and meet up with a guy named Steve in a café. Steve tries to explain how to take back roads to get to Monterrey but keeps confusing himself. He ends up deciding to show us the way, hops on his one speed cruiser, and guides us through a maze of bike paths until we’ve made it to the other side of town. The road goes through enormous, flat industrial farmlands. We are enjoying the sun and have a nice lunch on a log in the tall grass. We continue on and when the evening arrives we’re still in the middle of agribusiness heaven and far from any possible camping. We hope to reach a trailer park in Monterrey and push on through the failing light. Johanne gets a flat tire and night falls during the repairs. We’re on a deserted highway support road so luckily there are nearly no cars and within half an hour we arrive in Marina. We fill up our water bottles at a local gas station, and the attendant ends up inviting us to her apartment to spend the night. We spend the next four hours drinking coffee in a burger joint until the end of our future host’s shift at midnight. We still haven’t had a chance to introduce ourselves. She tells us to follow her car and takes off, leaving us stranded once again. A little confused we settle for a campsite hidden in the bushes beside the bike path and sleep through what’s left of the night.

Eating with the Homeless
The next day we pedal our tired butts out of town and towards the coast. We follow a beach view bike path for a little while and are invited by a friendly group of homeless folks to join them at a food-line for lunch. We have some yummy grits, lasagna, salad, desert and coffee among some jovial bearded company. We meet Joel who tells us of a homeless community that seems to be set up as a sort of camp up in the hills outside of town. We are invited to join the folks and head off with a guide, Jim, who rolls in front of us pulling a makeshift squeaky trailer.
We decide that in spite of our serious tiredness we need to go farther than their spot and continue on to Carmel-by-the-Sea. This little tourist town makes us somewhat sick to our stomachs with its rampant consumerism. We meet some locals who warn us about a coming storm. They seem scared “it’s supposed to start at 4pm” says a young man looking at his watch. He seems to be getting supplies to wait out the storm with. Around four we find a spot to camp in a forest outside of town. The sign says ‘water treatment’ and the rain still hasn’t started and we have time to relax in the sun on our sleeping pads.

We start the day in the heavy rain reminiscent of Northern California. Arriving in a small town completely soaked we resume our NoCal habit of stopping for a long coffee break to get out of the wind and rain. The locals in the gas bar tell us that we’re in for a big storm and had better not continue down the road for fear of landslides and wind that could blow us off the road into traffic or better yet into the sea. A lady named Sara offers to bring us to a campsite on the other side of Big Sur about 40miles down the road. We accept and make some sandwiches while waiting for her to do her shopping. We talk to the owner of the little shop where we sit amongst cases of wine sipping coffee that he kindly offers us. Of course, we accept donations of any sort.

The drive past Big Sur is through sideways rain and the truck vibrates in the wind. Our wet butts stay wet on the rear bench of the truck. The man in the passenger seat, Jurgen, knows one of my professors from Concordia and gives us some kind cash before we unload the bikes into a puddle of a campground.

We hang out with some South-Americans before going to set up the tent in the rain, happy for the company and the excuse to stay inside the camp lodge for a few hours. Johanne picks a campsite on a slight rise between a few enormous redwoods. During the night it rains monkeys. The next day we see that the four-inch rainfall caused a stream, half a foot deep, to run through the campsite just five feet from our spot.

We continue on down the road in fortunate sunshine. We have heard about a landslide that blocks the road up ahead, but must check it out as the only detour would be at least a ten-day ride. In the three hours before we get to the road block we are approached by maybe forty cars going the other way who all find different ways of communicating that the road is closed ahead. Some draw a finger across their throat, some shake their heads, and some stop to tell us to turn around; but we continue on.

What they say is true. The road is blocked. But the Transit worker tells us that what we do after dark when he leaves is our own business. We hang out with a group of cyclists who offer us beer, company, and even some crucial mechanical advice. They’re going from San-Fran to San Diego, but unlike us, they have a support vehicle that carries all their gear and provides beds in which to sleep.
After dark we coast by a live landslide. We can hear the rocks falling in a not too reassuring patter. Johanne stops to take a picture in the middle and scares me to death because just at that moment bigger rocks begin to fall. Heads intact, we head down the road to sleep close to the road hidden by a fat thicket.

December 31st, 2003
No Name

The second day of sun in a row and we’re starting to believe our luck. We roll southward looking forward to meeting my parents who will be in Mexico on January 6th. We pass a beach filled with Elephant Seals. The sand is covered in what look like giant slugs. They look like the most relaxed beings in the world. The males have what look like short elephant trunks. Every once-in-a-while they raise their huge bodies onto the back tail and open their big mouths to emit a low call. It sounds like water escaping down an extremely long pipe “GAGAGAGA”. I think you need to be there to understand…

To celebrate new years we pitch our tent beside a big hill and treat ourselves to a simple dinner of pasta carbonara followed by chocolate fondue accompanied with a bottle of port.