Stairway To Route 1

photo 2(3)Big Sur is not a place on the landscape it is the first line to a cult indoctrination, a method used to determine life experience, a test of casual sexual partners in order to determine if they’re bangable yet again because, I mean, after all, they’ve been to Big Sur. Or surfed it. Or both.
photo 1(3)Route 1 on the West Coast is like it’s companion on the East Coast and is the same route of many fables and lore as Route 66 (blessed be upon it) and is part of The American Dream. Of course not all of it. Route 1 on the East is more known for the drive to Key West than slogging through every ass water town in Virginia as on the West Coast it’s all about Northern Cali (aka Northern California) and of course … Da da daaaa…. Big Sur.
I’m not sure where the little Surs are. There may be many of them. It’s hard to tell.
photo 4(1)We escaped L.A. by way of Route 5. Route 5 is a many many many lane highway that allows you to escape the Flav A Flav of Lost Angles and head for he hills. Fantastic dry mountains that heave and ho wain and warp twist and turn and present their young bodies, geologically speaking. To these old eyes used to the same tired spouses of the Laurentides, Adirondacks, and eroded plains of the Catskills, the young nubile mountains of California awaken in my nether bits an aerosol that only sharp peaks and unexpected earthquakes can. These are not inexperienced crests and falls sitting about the landscape these are not young lovers to teach, they are street hookers far out pacing you in their knowledge, dangerous and tempting with their doe eyes and strong forms and knowing how to pleasure you with one part and split your neck over with another. Then… Of a sudden, you are abandoned.  Just out there baking in the sun.
photo 5A glass of water on the night stand. The reek of personal lubricant and the hills give way to a flat and crackling valley of orchards, plantings, and anti Barbara Boxer billboards. Is she… Still in office? How did she cause the drought?
We divided at the risk of tacking on a few hundred miles a few hours into the long and equally dry drought darkness a move to leave behind these vistas of soy and venture to the west coast.
“I’m not sure if I’ll ever be here again,” I or my companion or the radio or my personal soundtrack said, “but I think we should go over there,” I pointed at my Google application on my iThingy.
photo 3(1)Route 1 was a long way off but in the sun baked fields of oil and scratchy grass there came a field of most and fog and the land have birth to trees of a grand stature and we made a few more turns and suddenly there was salt in that hot air. We could smell it. Even with the air conditioner on and Stairway to Heaven playing.
And then. We were on the coast. An improbable road built for it seamed no reason but for us. And thousands of other visitors. So close to the ocean and having to cut against cliffs I can’t see any practice reason for a road.
Perhaps it reached fishing villages, she said.
The signal was out.
The service was cut.
photo 2(2)There was no way to Wikipedia it anymore. We were lost and left up and turned out to just wonder, as we had in the olden days of not so long ago.
The fog held close. There were stopping points and sea side views. Some we passed by others we stopped for.
The rocks.
The seals [they were sea lions].
The must and most and mist and fog ebbing and flowing and the rush of surf smashing on rocks as it had been doing before and after we parked the car.
We lost stairway to heaven. You know if you let a song fully load you can play it without service. I’m not sure what we did wrong but 8 times into Stairway we had to then drive in silence. Just us. And the hum of the air conditioner.
In time we passed a rock outcropping I was certain was the Sur of Big Sur or at least the biggest Sur of them.  We came again to civilization. Some hippie kids begging for gas to get to the concert. And left the wilderness for the now not so open part of the open road.
I was driving so I needed someone to open the glove box of the the rental car. Under the other junk we stashed there was my bucket list.
I could check off that I had listened to Stairway to Heaven 10 times in a row.

photo 1(2)

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