CosmicCoastalC

CosmicCoastalChronicles

Adventures along the WestCoastBy:Meade Fischer

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CH. 1

THE BIG SUR COAST: MISTY, MYTHICMAJESTY

Driving through the rolling hills of California’s centralcoast during the luxuriously long spring of 1993, I watchedthe scatters of violet lupine on the hillsides and the poppies,like veins of gold ore along the road. This was the springthat ran to months rather than the usual weeks and createdan illusion of permanence among the patterns of transientcolor. Lost in the sensory flood, I couldn’t help think of aline from Wallace Stevens’Adagia: “Life is an affair of peo-ple not of places. But for me life is an affair of places, andthat is the trouble.”I was on the road alone again, as I’ve often been since Ifell totally in love with every facet of the magnificent worldaround me. Often alone, I’m seldom lonley. The experi-ences I collect fill spaces in my heart that can’t be reachedsimply by the company of another.My old Toyota pick up droned steadily over the undulat-ing hills past green waves of artichokes, toward MossLanding and on to Santa Cruz and the promise of surf atPleasure Point. Akayak was strapped to the top, mountainbike hung on the back, and surf gear stashed under thecamper shell.Many times, during summers and weekends, this sturdylittle truck, faded and rusty, has been my home. The longbed accommodates my long frame. Amat from a patiolounge fits between the wheel wells. The built-in, carpet-ed compartments give me storage and shelf space. My pil-low is stuffed against the back of the cab, and a long, thick

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sleeping bag is rolled and ready. Abattery powered lanternis stowed in a compartment along with a pup tent, mask andsnorkel and assorted gear I’ve been too lazy to unload. Agood book is always stuffed under the sleeping bag in caseI spend the night in some scenic turn out along the road.Naturally a bottle opener and a cork screw are in the glovebox at all times. I’d rather not drink twist off beer or screwtop wine.Each of these trips adds to the growing collage, the ongo-ing coastal trip. Slowly, I was starting to fathom that thesetrips were more than isolated experiences, unrelated islandsof joy. They were signposts, stepping stones, a trail of crumbs through the forest of my life. They were all per-sonal miracles, as numerous as stars in the night sky. Somewere as big and dramatic as the sun, while others were likethe glow of a nebula in a distant corner of the universe.Each one, whether my first art sale, reaching the almostmythical waves I’d dreamed of, or watching a fall leaf silently drop into a calm and dappled forest pool, were infi-nitely valuable events on the path my life was taking. I wason the road to discovering the full measure of what it meansto be alive and aware, a road that may take lifetimes totravel.I remember a night two years earlier when I went downto the San Simeon area for a long weekend. It was the yearwhen almost all the year’s rain fell in March. Big Sur wasso green that it was probably, at that moment, the most per-fect stretch of coast on the planet, and the usually tinycreeks were raging torrents, with Yosemite-like waterfallsdropping from the narrow, vertical, redwood-chokedcanyons. I passed through Big Sur to check out Pico creek at San Simeon and Moonstone Beach in Cambria.Sunset found me on the San Luis Obispo coast. I think of this as the gentle coast, with its wide turn-outs beside

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