A tour of California's Central Coast (Part 2)

Entering Central Coast region
(click to enlarge)

Point Mugu
to Pismo Beach

By motomynd

[Sequel to "Staking a claim on
California’s Central Coast"]

Heading north from Point Mugu, we settle into the rhythm of the road. The ocean is a crisp blue on our left, the sky a nearly cobalt blue above, and the sun is shining brightly. California is even better than we remember and today is all we can possibly want it to be—even on three hours sleep.
    Then we get to Oxnard. In fairness, we are now about 50 miles into our trip, have made several stops, and may be in need of coffee. But—to turn a phrase—Oxnard just doesn’t do it for us. We have no intention of living in town when we move to California, but we at least want to be reasonably close to one. And we want it to be a good one, a cool one—not one that apparently specializes in window tinting and muffler repair. Oxnard does not make our list of cool towns we hope to live near.

Rider magazine offices in Ventura

    We decide to detour to the headquarters of Rider magazine. It is one of my favorite motorcycle rags and is based in Ventura, which we will drive past as we escape Oxnard. Rider not only does the usual bike and gear reviews, it also specializes in the same type of travel articles I have written and photographed for other magazines much of my 30-year career. Rattling in my brain is a pipe dream of an idea that I might move to California, get hooked up with Rider, and be paid to be a riding writer: have laptop, camera and bike, and will travel. Yes!
    Rider is part of Good Sam Club. We don’t expect to see much happening when we drive into the parking lot on a Saturday afternoon, but we don’t plan on seeing absolutely nothing happening. We don’t even see a sign saying Rider is even based here; we just see signs for Good Sam and Camping World (another of their magazines)—and signs that say they have office space for rent. I love the setting and can envision having the office behind that cool curved corner glass back under the trees. It shouldn’t be a problem since most of the building seems to be for rent. With the pipe dream now well to the back of my brain, and the plan of getting serious about my own little motorcycling website moving to the front—and possibly freelancing for Rider on the side—we head north.

California gull and bronze dolphin sculpture

From Ventura to Santa Barbara, Highways 1 and 101 run together—it is a great place to cover ground and see stunning scenery at the same time. Until we top a rise and a gust of wind off the Pacific nearly shoves the rental car off the right shoulder at 70 miles per hour. Note to self: On a motorcycle, this would not have ended well.
    As we blast past Santa Barbara, it looks great. We can’t afford to live there, yet we can’t wait to see it more closely from the east side as we drive Foothill Road on the way back to LA. Next comes Goleta, and Isla Vista: we detour to the University of California, Santa Barbara to see what’s happening with the college crowd.
    The dominant fashion trend this winter in the Southeast is women wearing boots—and leggings that cling tightly in all the right places. Or all the wrong places, depending on who is wearing them. Professional career women rushing through the Atlanta airport dress this way, as do female students at North Carolina colleges, as does my 12-year-old stepdaughter—since all her friends do. Apparently some sort of decree was passed last fall that every female old enough to be visually identifiable as a female must wear boots and leggings, and a coat worthy of the boots—even when it is 60 degrees outside.
    Here at UCSB, they are not slaves to any such fashion nonsense. Instead of leggings and boots, the official “distinctively different” look is sandals with “Daisy Duke” style shorts that are cut perfectly short enough to show some cheek—yet still be legal. At least in California. For the willowy women of UCSB who look like distance runners hanging out at school waiting to be discovered as models, this look actually works. For their less perfectly sculpted classmates, not so much. I am sure there is much more to remember about UCSB, but this is what I recall. It must be the lack of sleep.
    As we walk past some shops, the wind is blowing so hard that palm fronds are dropping like bombs around us and we wonder if a regatta will sail down the street. Most importantly, my wife’s hair is whipping like crazy, and my wife does not usually let her hair whip like that—at least not in public.

Following my all-time favorite car

    We retreat to the car and at exit 107 in Goleta we find the Ming Dynasty restaurant and have a fantastic meal. It is the best hot and spicy broccoli I can remember, even better than my old favorite place in Charlottesville, Virginia—which, coincidentally, was also named Ming Dynasty. The only broccoli I can remember that rivals this is some I had in the foothills of the Rockies back in 1997 as I was driving through Montana on my way to Alaska. That broccoli also had more bluish green color to it than does the eastern variety, and was equally crisp and flavorful. This is how it is for a vegan: you carnivores remember your favorite steak or lobster; we wax poetic about our broccoli.

Heading north on 101 we pass a patch of purplish lupine and it reminds us of when we were married in Reykjavik and spent two weeks traveling all around Iceland. If you want to see what must be the greatest stands of lupine in the world, go to Iceland.
    Further along we see alpacas at a place called El Capitan Ranch, which reminds us of—alpacas at a ranch. Near Gaviota State Park the highway turns sharply inland and cuts through the mountains at Gaviota Pass.

Memorial to the battle that wasn't
(click to enlarge still more)

    We stop at a rest area and marvel at a memorial to a battle that did not happen. Back east you can’t throw one of our overly plentiful defense contractors without hitting a war memorial of some sort. The fighting apparently started when the Brits waded ashore at Jamestown in the early 1600s and didn’t stop until the unpleasant distraction of WWI. We have monuments to all kinds of wars: King Philip’s, King William’s, French and Indian, Revolutionary, 1812, Civil—the list goes on and on.
    What our war memorials back east all have in common is carnage. If you want to earn a monument, you have to do some killing. Not so in California. Here you find some folks laying an ambush, and you lead some other people around it, and you get a memorial. Seriously. And even better, the people who planned the failed ambush are so unsettled they give up and leave town without a fight. The laid-back California stereotype apparently has deep roots—no wonder the beloved LA Lakers of my youth, led by star guard Jerry West, always lost to the much-hated Boston Celtics.

Back to the drive. We leave the memorial to the battle that didn’t happen, drive through a tunnel, and shortly after we follow Highway 1 as it heads west toward Lompoc—while 101 angles north toward Buellton, Los Alamos, and Santa Maria. We plan to see more of 101 on the way back, but right now we are heading toward the coast!

The eagle landed...

    Just before we top a rise maybe five miles beyond the tunnel, we see a very large predator-type bird swoop in for a kill by the right side of the road. It turns out to be a golden eagle and Anissa manages to snap a couple of photos to prove it. In any culture the eagle is a good omen—in Native American belief it is one of the most powerful and positive totems. We have barely entered what is officially known as the Central Coast region of California—the place we hope will be our future home—and we have not only seen an eagle up close but have taken a decent photo. Even we who can sometimes be jaded believe this must be a positive sign.

...and took off

    A few miles south of Lompoc, at a place called Cross Creek Ranch, we stop to take photos of what appears to be Spanish moss hanging in trees. We usually associate this moss with the deep south—antebellum plantation country, Gone With the Wind, that sort of thing—but here it is, hanging in trees in California canyon country. Go figure.

The valley east of Vandenberg AFB

    We drive through Lompoc, turn east to bypass Vandenburg Air Force base, and cross a small mountain range that opens to a vast view across a wide valley. We decide Lompoc may have appeal as a place to live, even if it isn’t on our dream list, but Guadalupe, a bit north, is too agricultural. Somewhere further along, near a place called Monarch Dunes (which is near 2490 Willow Rd/Highway 1, if you are still awake and/or charting this), is an interesting place with metal art, antique shops, and other artsy offerings.
    By now the lack of sleep has taken its toll and we are nearing Pismo Beach, even if we aren’t exactly sure how we got here. Basically we stayed on Highway 1, drove through a lot of farm country that all looked pretty much alike, took a left and—voila!—we are in Grover Beach and headed for Pismo. In California, magic happens. Or the spirit of the eagle guides you. Or you get lucky.

Look closely—those aren't leaves
(click to enlarge even more)

The last stop before the hotel is the Pismo Beach Monarch Butterfly Grove. From October through February, some 25,000 monarchs flock to this stand of eucalyptus trees at Pismo State Beach. Even though we are just catching the last of the season, we see more butterflies than we can imagine. A volunteer tells us the Pismo Beach monarchs are a special variety that live six months, instead of the usual six-week lifespan of most monarchs.
    Begrudgingly leaving the monarchs, we arrive at our hotel—the Best Western Shelter Cove Lodge. Due to renovations the staff are handling check-in from a small guest room instead of their usual expansive entry. They apologize about any inconvenience and the lack of a view, but we are staring through the glass at an unbelievably stunning Pacific Coast scene and thinking that if this is Plan B, then Plan A must really be something.

Full moon rising over our hotel

    With the car unloaded we have time to walk the grounds of the hotel and watch the sun sink into the Pacific. It is even better than we remember. We could not possibly ask for more from the day, yet we selfishly hope tomorrow will be even better.

End of a long but perfect day

Two Saturdays from now: Mountain meander around Santa Margarita
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Copyright © 2013 by motomynd

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