Boardwalk to Spanish Bay

This is Friday and the groove is moving very slowly.  Faceplant, deep sleep, staggering around house, putting travel stuff away, thinking of Hawaii.  No fluting songbirds here or large lush leaves shedding tropical rain; leaves big enough to wrap a baby in.  Just squawking seagulls.  It's just not the same.

After a few cups of coffee it was determined that a walk out there in the wilds of the Groove would be revivifying, good for the blood.  We packed up the day pack and drove over to Asilomar State Beach through the western reaches of the town.  On that route, a groover was seen emerging from the woods, staff in hand, hat firmly planted on head at a jaunty but commanding angle.  He wore a long skimmer and strode purposefully with eyes cast to the eastern horizon.  He looked like a shaman, we decided, Pacific Grove style:  White guy, probably college educated at some point in time, possibly an attendee of Esalen Institute on the Big Sur Coast, probably now a devotee of Buddha and all things zen.

On we drove, past the sentinel plinths guarding the entry of Asilomar Conference Center, designed by Julia Morgan.  We got a glimpse of the esthetically beautiful buildings, built of local materials like sandstone, redwood, pine and slate.  They look rugged and enduring but graceful.

We parked on Scenic Drive across from The Fishwife Restaurant and The Beachcomber Inn, walked west and downhill to the dune boardwalk and headed south along its winding undulations.  Pebble Beach Corporation has generously placed Mutt Mitts along the way for dog owners to use after their dogs do their thing along the trail.  Nice touch, especially since there are many dogs who frolic in the area every day.

There have been soaking rains the last week and the dunes are draining tannin-stained runoff water through the willow thickets.  There used to be a small steam train that ran from Monterey out along part of the coast in Pacific Grove, cutting inland a bit and heading over to the very spot where we walked.  Del Monte Properties also housed a sand plant; sand was used to manufacture glass and they also shipped the fine white sand to other areas to be used for a variety of reasons.  I have heard that a certain amount of it was sent to whiten a beach at a resort on the Big Island in Hawaii.  Spanish Bay -- one of the major golf courses in Del Monte Properties (locally referred to simply as Pebble Beach) -- sits on the sand plant site now.  There was a small salt lake in the drainage area where we walked, and passengers on the steam train would enjoy picnics in the area.  Locals who grew up here in the 40s and 50s can recall hearing the steam train's whistle every day.

Poppies, our state flower, are just blooming.  They look very bright and dance among the dunes when the wind blows, which is all the time, pretty much.

We found ourselves stumbling along the boardwalk, distracted by 10-15 foot waves rolling to the shore, one glassy rumbling comber after another.  Surfers were out and doing well.  Also, a Coast Guard plane was flying a grid pattern out over the water, flying back and forth, pretty low, obviously searching for someone lost at sea.  

The walk is about a half mile over past Spanish Bay to the parking lot on the other side.  It's a very pretty way to gain access to Del Monte Forest area and avoid the fee you'd pay if you drove in; I believe it's about $11 now to drive in.

Walk finished, we drove along Scenic Drive to its intersection with Ocean View Boulevard, taking note of the many and varied folks trotting around, artists painting, babies on leashes wandering at Lovers Point Park with moms in tow.  Peaceful today.  Storm coming on the horizon though, so we had a nice interlude before it arrives.

Storm's Coming

The word's out:  There's an approaching storm, and it's gonna be a soaker, coming in slowly, heavily, from the west and south.  It's just the way nature is.  You know it's coming, taking its good old sweet time, like a fat old aunt who comes and sits on the sofa with a big heaving sigh, settling in for a long time. 

The city hangs its toes over the edge of the country's left coast with nothing but a zillion miles of blue, deep cold water between us and Foreign Lands.  As we teeter on the edge of the continent and peer to the western horizon, we see hints of weather coming, written in code by the clouds.  Just as a soothsayer gleans knowledge from the dregs of Turkish coffee in a cup, we predict what kind of trouble might lie ahead by watching clouds.  We tilt our heads, squint our eyes and look at the ocean's surface, reading the chop and swells, feeling the direction of the breeze.  Then we shuffle back to town for a stiff cup of tea.  We go indoors and stay there, out of the wind and wet, knowing that our homes are sensibly built on solid rock.  Coastal chaparral and stubby trees grow low to the ground with roots in the west and tips of branches stretching to the east, parallel to the ground, bent that way over years of abuse by the prevailing wind.  They are tough and hardy, built to endure.

On the other hand, folks in Pebble Beach (aka Del Monte Forest) prepare for storms quite differently:  They go get an extra round of golf in and then zoom home in their Benzes and Beamers.  They are a wealthy bunch, keen to remain apart from the ordinariness of the Peninsula, safe in their locked community. Better be wealthy in The Forest, 'cause trees are gonna getcha.  Those who live in "The Forest" own expensive properties filled with whippy, top-heavy Monterey pine trees that are just no damn good in high winds.  Every year their houses are smashed and flattened to a spectacular degree when the big storms hit.  The local paper always features dramatic photos of crushed cars, squashed houses and downed power lines - storm damage.  "Bob Jones of Seventeen Mile Drive in Pebble Beach views the remains of his home and car," states the photo caption.  A dismayed man wearing clothing purchased in an LL Bean catalogue stands next to a pile of splinters and distorted metal faintly resembling a structure.  There is usually a sidebar indicating how many trees crushed what number of cars and houses and, of course, how many trees went down on the various golf courses. 

PG has fewer trees.  We are more exposed to the bluster of storms and take the brunt of them before they blow over to Monterey and points beyond.  The trees left standing now are ornery and mean trees that have withstood wretched abuse; they stand around in the evening and tell their tales, spitting seeds to the ground for emphasis.

Our birds have adapted nicely to our blustery climate.  They know how to adjust to severe winds, flying backwards and upside down with a jaunty devil-may-care attitude.  Raccoons, residents of the storm drain system, find higher ground once the rain begins in earnest, but the inconvenience is short-lived for them as the town is built on a slope and the drains empty quickly to the bay. 

About three years ago, an intense storm system blew across the peninsula, and the surf was whipped to a gigantic frenzy of pounding breakers.  The lights flickered on and off for a day and a half, trees were bent sideways and all over everywhere debris and leaves littered the roadways.  Finally, as the storm relented, residents began to emerge and peer about for evidence of the storm's fury.  We drove over to Pt Pinos to have a look at the still very large storm surf, to oooh and ahhh and count ourselves lucky.  It made us feel like gritty survivors, tough and wise in some way, to look at wreckage and destruction. We'd had the good sense to live here, not in a disaster-prone region someplace else, and we had snug homes from which to gaze upon a more unfortunate world Out There Someplace.  Police yellow tape blocked our progress along Ocean View Boulevard, so we parked, got out and walked the rest of the way to the point.  The Big Blue had smashed relentlessly on the bashed-for-eons coast, overwhelming the scenic road that snakes along the perimeter of the peninsula's western face.

In that area of the city's coastline, the distance from the usual surface of the ocean is only about 10 feet below the road's surface.  Storm waves at peak high tide had thrown tons of kelp, boulders and large drift logs across the road, all the way to the nearby municipal golf course water hazard, giving new meaning to the phrase. It was dramatic and amazing and it was a mess.  Sand covered some sections of the road, with seashells, sea stars and anemones littered around.  Usually bucolic and pleasant parking areas were eroded and sections of the coastal boardwalk hung ragged and forlorn, like old laundry flapping in the wind. Waves were still in the 30-foot-high range - surfers call this double overhead - cresting wildly, then blown backward by the stiff breeze.  They looked like charging horses galloping to the beach, manes flying. This was a memorable storm, worse than usual, but that was about the extent of the damage to our coast.  Pebble Beach was without electricity for five days and could have passed for a third-world country disaster zone except for the caliber of cars flattened here and there. 

Gradually our birds came back, some with suntans after being blown all the way to Cabo, and the city righted itself pretty quickly.  Weather just does not take us down.  No sir.  I think the worst I can say about climate conditions in PG is that the air temperature now is exactly the same as it is in the summer when fog throws its wet blanket over us for the season.  It's a very steady specific weather groove, to be sure.

In a Strange Land

Pacific Grove has a couple of gems in its boundaries.  Mainly, there's Asilomar Beach State Park, way out over west there, elbow to elbow with the exclusive ghetto called Del Monte Forest.  I think you could easily say about one fourth of the habitable Monterey area (Pebble Beach, Tehama, San Carlos Rancho, Pasadera, Carmel Valley Ranch) excludes the other three fourths of its inhabitants either totally or only admits them if they hand over a wad of cash. 

Pacific Grove doesn't exclude anyone from gazing at its prettiness.  Because of that, visitors find it peaceful and tranquil and make plans to move here.  If they hand over a very large wad of cash indeed, they commence life as we know it:  Very quiet -- hushed actually -- and a bit eccentric.  Consequently, it has evolved into yet another kind of exclusionary enclave. 

A man I once knew described the little towns on the Monterey Peninsula as fiefdoms, each pointing fingers at the others and each one filled with folks who felt comforted to know that all the bad apples lived in those other towns.  A case in point:  Another man  I spoke with once said he'd moved to Pebble Beach because it was beautiful.  (It is)  He had lived in Seaside, a town that grew up next to Ft Ord catering to the needs of the Army soldiers training there.  Seaside isn't very beautiful but it has the most beautiful view of the Monterey Peninsula you'll find anywhere around here, especially on a clear moonlit night.  This man lived in Pebble Beach and no one would talk to him.  Neighbors, if they ever inhabited their homes (they could be a second or third home), drove into their garages, the doors closed and no one emerged for long periods of time.  He felt alone, existing in a strange void of not-neighborliness.  He left in disguest and went back to Seaside.  There, neighbors offered each other help and gave out their surplus vegetables to each other.  Kids played outside and life had a happy rough-and-tumble feel that he said was "a million times better than being in the Forest." 

Pacific Grove is somewhere in between.  You'll find both kinds of neighborhoods here.  Mostly, people will help you out and consider themselves unique, special, above average.  They'll share vegetables with you, but they gotta know you first.  You are not welcome until you've found your own friends and established yourself somehow.  It takes a long time.  People new to the area complain that California is unfriendly, people don't say hello, and they feel lonely.  I can see that it's true here.  It's not an attitude of blatant, obvious rejection so much as it is a strong hesitancy to venture a greeting, an approach to life and strangers that stems from self-distraction and abhorrence of chaos.  Be careful! it says.  No loud talking! especially in loud foreign languages.  Hush!  My quietude and isolation are paramount to my success in the world, and I require you not to intrude into it! I have paid a lot for the right to remain silent!  Hush!  

Pacific Grove is a pretty town, beautiful even, depending on what view you're taking in.  There is a bucolic peace here.  But, it's deceptive.  It's a twilight zone, an expensive,  even a timid one.  It sits between a cold deep bay to its north and a wealthy exclusive neighbor to its south.  East is Monterey, and I'll get to that another time.