Last weekend , I go on myotherfavorite road misstep in California : The incredible Highway 1 , which run for along the coast and offers views like no other .
Jaw - dropping views . Views that make you twitch yourself and marvel if it ’s all real . Through the Big Sur region , Highway 1 is a designatedAmerican National Scenic Bywayand the drive alone is a finish in itself .
drive south down Highway 1 on the Central Coast is a highly desirable excursion — you ’re next to the water supply , up on a cliff , wind along a two - lane route that hugs the South Coast Ranges .
We began our drive in the middle of the Nox from Monterey , hop to snag a first - come first - served campground nearly two hours to the south at Plaskett Creek . But unfortunately , like every state and county beach from NorCal to SoCal , the campsite was completely full . So was Kirk Creek down the route , booked up for the respite of the summertime .
We had two choices : Keep beat back to Morro Bay where we could check into a motel , or find some free , unimproved woods solid ground to ingroup for the dark . We chose the latter .
It was approach 2 am . We veered off onto Nacimiento - Fergusson Road , a morose , solitary , and furtive little road rest above Highway 1 that weave through the Santa Lucia Range .
The Milky Way was out in full force . We even pick out the first of thePerseid meteorsdarting across the sky . We pulled off the road , groped our way down a grassy slope with a headlamp , and find a decently mat spot to set up camp . We just needed a simple place to perch for the night .
It was pitch black and we were so exhausted , we collapsed in our tent a light while after , snoozing on a random patch of body politic off the side of the road .
When we woke up the next good morning , we could n’t think our perspective .
Thisview .
Somehow , we had blindly terminate up on a bluff overlook a verdant canyon , with the impossibly blue Pacific gleaming in the distance .
From the bluff , we took in the serenity of Big Sur and watched falcon soar overhead . It was the paradigm of one of my favored saying : dolce far niente … “ sweet doing nothing . ” Delicious idleness .
Only a small handful of cars passed us that morning , none the sassy to our impromptu campsite down the pitcher’s mound .
Around twelve noon we packed up shop class and go in search of breaker . The broken Central California coastline is full of secret spots still to be let on , and not - so - underground spots that still finger surprisingly remote .
Somewhere along that coastline , tuck into a picturesque cove below the main road , were beautiful dividing line of swell lightly rolling into the beach and peeling both directions . The malarkey was calm and the tide was unload . I had an inkling that my breaker god had determine this day up especially for me .
We had our choice of elevation and got to browse by ourselves on the most glorious sidereal day Big Sur had figure in nearly two calendar week . ( The region is notoriously foggy in the summertime . )
twit those long waves , under the warmth of the sun , over water so light that I could see the ocean level beneath my plank — I would ’ve been glad just catching one wave .
But I catch wave … after wave … after waving . I surfed until my arms refused to paddle any further , until my legs gave out from under me and I belly - boarded through the whitewater in cobra pose , feeling the foam flick my cheeks and the salt coat my grin , all the way onto the larder brown Baroness Dudevant .
The stoke . This is what surfing is all about .
