US 101 / I-5
Posted on 18. Feb, 2010 by Abe in Blog, Travel
I’m driving along the Camino Real in rainy weather and imagining the journey of Franciscan monks on horseback. Hundreds of years ago, this road stretched from San Diego to San Francisco, connecting Spanish missions across verdant hills and redwood forests. From Los Angeles to San Jose, it’s more commonly known as the 101, but the road has grander, more exotic meaning as part of California’s missionary past. Today, heavy rain splatters across my windshield. The criss-cross motion of the wipers creates a mirage-like flicker over the view outside. Unlike the monks who followed the road in the 17th century, I’m protected by steel and glass, so the cold rainfall doesn’t bother me. I glance at my left to see the still waters of the Pacific. To my right the Santa Ynez Mountains are topped by icecaps formed by recent storms. One fatal maneuver, and I could plummet into the ocean or crash against a granite face. Red and orange leaves give the trees of Santa Barbara an autumnal glow, while palm trees remind me of California’s paradise myth. The city resembles a Mediterranean resort town, with beaches and Spanish villas. I think of the Franciscan priests. How much they must have seen of this land on horseback. Looking out the window, I get distracted by the beads of water sweeping past me, the scenery becoming distant memory at 80 mph.
No one stays long at the Gaviota Rest Stop, but the birds have found a new ecosystem where they’ve settled permanently. The country near San Luis Obispo is all hills and forests. The Gaviota Tunnel punches through a canyon side and leads to the entrance of the rest stop. Large flocks of tiny sparrow-like birds walk the concrete floor here, pecking at invisible crumbs and underground insects. I see signs warning against rattlesnakes, but it’s not reptiles that make me fear death today. Last November, police discovered a dead man in a truck parked here at the stop.
The rainstorm blankets the greater part of California’s coast. Nothing’s been dry since a brief break of sunshine near Thousand Oaks, almost five hours ago. Storm clouds hover above the landscape like icy precipices that seem to touch the tops of mountains. The waters fall fresh on pastures so green and bright that they resemble the glow of neon lights. Grassless fissures against the hills look like dry cracks against paint. I am moved to wonder about the cosmic hand that painted this stroke of California land. The effect of landscapes occasionally has the sublime beauty of paintings.
- Horse-drawn wagon on a road through the Gaviota Pass, Santa Barbara County, California, ca.1900-1940 (Public Domain, USC Digital Library)
Moving past Salinas, I think of John Steinbeck, who knew better than anyone else the life and history of California farms. A child of cities, I sometimes forget the vast agricultural expanse of this state. One drive up north reminds me of all the land that feeds the mouths of Californians. Artichokes come from Castroville, garlic from Gilroy. The children of these towns often go to college to learn agriculture. Some of them participate in the Dionysian tradition of viticulture, making people happy with the fermented juices of grapes harvested all across this temperate state. I read the bumper sticker of a wagon heading west toward Santa Cruz, where the kids go to school amidst towering redwoods. A bumper sticker passes my left—“Keep Santa Cruz Weird”—fading fast and far as I continue my way up north.
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On my drive back down the 5 South, I pass by valleys fenced-in by government and private keepers. My friend Bryan tells me that beyond the hills, the Sierra Nevada Mountains remain wild and pristine as in the days of John Muir, accessible to the seasoned backpacker. “You can see what Muir saw,” Bryan says as the sun sets behind the snow-capped valleys. “I can relate to anyone who’s been to the Sierras and witnessed things whose existence is unquestionable, no matter how dorky they might sound talking about it.” Approaching Los Angeles, I later drive by familiar landmarks like Six Flags Magic Mountain, which seems to undermine the real wonder of California’s mountains, ones not requiring modern amusements and human imagination.
The roadside sights across California have renewed my love for the state, its natural beauty. Later, on the 405, I spot clouds of smoke swelling out from factories adjacent to the freeway. The oil refinery illuminates this part of Long Beach with bright yellow lights in stark contrast to the pitch-blackness of the Central Valley, which terrified me on occasion with its vast desolation. A colossal American flag is draped across the front of the refinery as smoke rises on each side of the stars and stripes in patriotic salute. We’re almost home, almost back to Orange County.
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Top photo courtesy of idogcow, licensed under Creative Commons
Bottom photo courtesy of mattjiggins, licensed under Creative Commons
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Nicely written (not that I am the authority on supreme writing). I totally pictured everything you said. Two points to note:
1. Why are you driving 80 miles per hour in the rain?!
2. My favorite line:
I am moved to wonder about the cosmic hand that painted this stroke of California land. (love it)
Thanks Michelle for the comments! When you’re eager to get to your destination and the road is clear and visibility’s still manageable, even 80 mph can seem too slow. One of these days I may pay for it.