Maureen

Which way to the beach?

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Troy was thrilled to be here. And here’s how I know. For the first time in two weeks of travel, he was the first one out of bed. (Well, air mattress, in this case, but still.) In fact, he was so eager to find a surfboard and hit the waves that he was up and gone with the van before I was out of the tent and making coffee. And that was a problem. Because in his haste, he rode off into the sunrise with the coffee and the pot. Now, under most circumstances, I am a patient woman. But a morning without coffee is like a day without sunshine…even in California. He also rode off with our breakfast provisions. So in addition to a caffeine deficit, I had to try to soothe hungry children as they stumbled from their tents. Plus, a hot sun was rising over the canyons and onto our campsite, and there was not an inch of shade in site. So I called that sucker as soon I could locate my phone and explained the gravity of the situation. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “Why don’t you come back, and we can try this again?” I suggested…very politely. But the man was already in San Clemente, renting a board at Stewart’s surf shop. So I waited…and waited…and waited…for 15 whole minutes, and finally he returned, looking like a kid at Christmas. So I forgave him. I do love that guy. After breakfast and sufficient caffeine intake, we planned the day. Troy was anxious to hit the waves at historic Trestles beach. The kids were anxious to just hang out and swim and stay as far from the car as possible. So I suggested we take the nature path to the beach. Its only about a mile according to the internet. What could go wrong? So the kids and I packed a few snacks, a chair and a towel or two and headed off on foot in search of the beach. It was going to be a bit far to travel with a surfboard, Troy thought, so he loaded his new best friend, Stewart, lovingly into the van and headed out by car. I should have known I made an error when none of three folks I asked knew where the elusive path was. We did find it however, and we did walk all the way to Trestles with me cursing my husband under my breath the whole time. Just so you know, the path is really quite nice if you like to hike…and most of us do. However, it was hot (really hot), hilly (like cliff-hilly), and we were lugging beach gear. My children tried to be cheery, really, and they kept their eyes on the horizon hoping at any moment to see the Pacific. And eventually we did. It just wasn’t what we expected. Trestles is a surfing beach. Really that’s all it is. There was a huge drop-off at the shoreline. The shallow water is rough and rocky, and in the distance, dozens of surfers, some in wetsuits, danced like sharks just below the horizon. Meanwhile, my children, who were exhausted and aching for fun in the sun looked around, wondering why we had driven them all the way across the country for this. Somehow (to their great credit) they managed to suppress their disappointment when we caught up with Troy on the nearly empty beach. They knew this was something he really wanted to do, so we sat by the water, and rested up from our hike and watched the surf show for a while. Luckily, I met a nice local lady and her son on the beach. Like us, they were watching the surfer of the family. Unlike us, they knew what they were getting into beforehand. She was very kind, pointing us to family-friendly beaches in the area. After a morning at Trestles, we hopped in the car and headed into the center of San Clemente, where we found a lovely beach near the pier. The next day, we spent most of the day at nearby San Clemente State Beach. They were both winners–a bit crowded, but guarded, sunny and absolutely swimmable. Surfable, too, mostly, just not as historic. After spending the second day together at San Clemente State Beach, I went home to cook dinner at camp and Troy disappeared for some late afternoon surfing at Old Man’s (near the iconic Nuclear boobies). He came back satisfied, exhausted and almost ready to bid Stewart good by.

Camp, Sweet, California Camp

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We drove down out of Arizona’s Black Mountains and into California. Hooray! Even though the scenery hadn’t changed much as we drove past the Mojave National Preserve and through Eastern California, we knew we were almost there. Something else had changed, too. For the first time in more than a week, we found ourselves in traffic. But even that, couldn’t dampen our spirits. Exhausted and excited, we pulled into San Onofre’s San Mateo Campground at about 5 p.m. You’ll have to take my work for it because there are no pictures. Duh! I guess we were kind of busy. It took a few hours to unpack the car and set up camp at our new home. We were all glad to be planted somewhere for a while, and what our campsite lacked in amenities (We had two tents–one for the grown-up and one 3-room tent for the kids, a makeshift kitchen and of course, a campfire!) it more than made up for in location, location, location. We were not beachfront. San Onofre’s bluff top campsites are little more than a parking lot with no running water or amenities, and while wasn’t opposed to hanging out with the surfers, late night parties and no showers were not quite what we had in mind. There are other beachfront site in Southern California, but they require a letter from God and the foresight to make reservations 7 months in advance, one second after the sites become available. So we stumbled upon San Mateo, just outside of San Clemente. We couldn’t see the Pacific, but we knew it was close. We could hear it. And from what I read it was just a short mile or along a nature trail to the beach (more on that later.) We grabbed some food supplies…including wine and beer from Ralph’s, a local San Clemente supermarket and we settled down to a candlelight dinner of cheeseburgers (in Paradise) just as the last light disappeared to our west. We fell asleep, listening to waves roll and crash to shore, and dreaming of days at the beach. Tomorrow: A day at the beach…sort of.

Meep! Meep!

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With the Pacific Ocean calling to us from just over 400 miles away, we were tempted to hop on I-40, and make some time. Luckily, the owners of the Rusty Bolt, a biker/souvenir shop in Seligman convinced us to take the scenic route through Kingman and Oatman. It added an hour or so to our trip, but we all agreed, it turned a day of making tracks into a day of making memories. In fact, that one side trip, along a treacherous road that twisted through the desert, showed us unbelievable sites seen only before on Saturday Morning cartoons. Unfortunately, some of them were moving a bit too fast to be photographed. I posted what we had, but included some photos from other sites for illustration purposes. We saw: Road runners–Real live road runners, who on a few occasions scooted along the dusty trail beside us, just long enough to be seen before zipping off into the horizon (Our sympathies to Wile. E. Coyote. He will never catch up!); Old Mines (“Scooby Do, Where Are You?”); The Mystery Machine (Instead of Fred, Daphne and Velma, however, the passengers were what my children called “Real Live Hippies.” They kindly pointed out some wildlife to us, and moved on, before we could get a good picture. But not before giving us a heartfelt peace sign…really.); There they go! A Desert Big Horn Sheep, which our hippy friends pointed out to us as it jumped off a precipice, and crossed the road just 10 feet in front of us before disappearing over a hill; Artistically wrecked vehicles; Artistically abandoned buildings; Wild Burros In Heat; A wildly curved abandoned road, just perfect for a movie car chase; And finally Oatman, an old mining town with a population of less than 200 that specializes in old-timey, Old West charm. There are gunfight reenactments in the center of town and a herd of semi-wild burros that roam the streets begging for treats. We fed the friendly beasts, grabbed a few snow cones from a local shop, and hopped on the highway with our sites set on San Onofre State Beach. California or Bust.

Life is a Highway

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The residents of Seligman, AZ, and other tiny towns that dot the map along Route 66 are a lot like the residents of Radiator Springs in Disney’s movie, Cars. They are dedicated to renovating and revising old tourist stops in hopes that if they build it we come. These are places where ghosts of prosperity walk the streets in poignant anticipation of whatever comes next.

Isn’t it Grand?

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Initially, I had dreamed about a mule trip into the Grand Canyon, Brady-Bunch style, but with 2 coasts to see and just 31 days to do, Bobby and Cindy getting lost would certainly put a kink in our itinerary. We had places to be, darn it!