California’s Coastal Trail, established in 1976, is a work-in-progress, made up of a variety of segment types–sometimes a footpath, sometimes a highway shoulder, occasionally long sections of pristine, sandy beach such as the three-mile stretch north of Cambria between San Simeon pier and Pico Point.
I parked at the first vista point north of Pico Creek and let Dexter out to sniff his surroundings. Before we even left the parking lot, a gang of squirrels began working together to torment the dog. One of them whistled to catch his attention, then they began a round robin of sequential whistling that had him running in circles trying futilely to catch up with the sound.
I called him to come, put him on leash and we headed for the edge of the bluff to make our way down to the water. We found no boardwalk, no stairs, no steps–just a worn path sluicing through rough dirt with rock handholds. It’s times like these that I love gravity.
When we landed on the beach, kelp-covered boulders jutted out of the sand around us, making me feel small. Brown daubs of mud nests dotted the rocky cliff and swallows swarmed like angry bees. A saltwaterfall trickled through brushy vegetation rooted in the rocky cliff and a blanket of orange nasturtiums crawled down a sloping shoulder.
The tide was out, a foot and a half below normal level, and we had lots of room to walk on wet, firm sand. Fog swirled and the sun was a faint, white disk.
Carpets of yellow, blue and orange flowers flowed over the undulating edge of the bluff.
Green, hairy plants that you normally see waving lazily at the bottom of the sea sprawled across the beach and strands of kelp lay embedded in the sand, looking like morning hair. Starfish and anemones lay exposed on the sides of rocks that would be under water in another six hours.
I spotted a leopard-marked seal dozing on a rock not far from shore and took a photograph. When I angled toward him for a closer shot, he sat up and watched me until I backed off.
North of Little Pico Creek, rising water forced us to climb onto a rocky ledge. We walked around tide pools and across mussel beds and threaded through purple and gold starfish until we were able to descend and resume walking on the sand. The fog disappeared and sunlight illuminated pools of water with startling clarity.
As we rounded a point of land, within sight of the pier, I saw a colony of seals sunbathing on an offshore rock. When I stopped to take photos, several of them slid into the water and watched me, heads rising and falling with the roll of the swell.
The waves in the lee of San Simeon Point seemed docile and subdued as they rolled quietly onto the beach. We stopped for a doggy drink at an unnamed creek that was dammed behind a sand bar into a stagnant-looking pool.
A hundred yards from the Hearst Beach parking lot, we passed a set of steps that led upward to a rusty chain link fence. I watched a solitary bicyclist amble the length of the pier in his helmet and bright jersey.
On the way back to Pico Point, we found a shelter that someone had constructed of driftwood. It lay close to the foot of the bluff above the water line and looked as if it had room for two sleeping bags inside.
Fog returned as we approached our starting point. We climbed up the bluff trail, Dexter a bit more easily than I, and settled into the car for the drive home.
I parked at the first vista point north of Pico Creek and let Dexter out to sniff his surroundings. Before we even left the parking lot, a gang of squirrels began working together to torment the dog. One of them whistled to catch his attention, then they began a round robin of sequential whistling that had him running in circles trying futilely to catch up with the sound.
I called him to come, put him on leash and we headed for the edge of the bluff to make our way down to the water. We found no boardwalk, no stairs, no steps–just a worn path sluicing through rough dirt with rock handholds. It’s times like these that I love gravity.
When we landed on the beach, kelp-covered boulders jutted out of the sand around us, making me feel small. Brown daubs of mud nests dotted the rocky cliff and swallows swarmed like angry bees. A saltwaterfall trickled through brushy vegetation rooted in the rocky cliff and a blanket of orange nasturtiums crawled down a sloping shoulder.
The tide was out, a foot and a half below normal level, and we had lots of room to walk on wet, firm sand. Fog swirled and the sun was a faint, white disk.Carpets of yellow, blue and orange flowers flowed over the undulating edge of the bluff.
Green, hairy plants that you normally see waving lazily at the bottom of the sea sprawled across the beach and strands of kelp lay embedded in the sand, looking like morning hair. Starfish and anemones lay exposed on the sides of rocks that would be under water in another six hours.
I spotted a leopard-marked seal dozing on a rock not far from shore and took a photograph. When I angled toward him for a closer shot, he sat up and watched me until I backed off.
North of Little Pico Creek, rising water forced us to climb onto a rocky ledge. We walked around tide pools and across mussel beds and threaded through purple and gold starfish until we were able to descend and resume walking on the sand. The fog disappeared and sunlight illuminated pools of water with startling clarity.
As we rounded a point of land, within sight of the pier, I saw a colony of seals sunbathing on an offshore rock. When I stopped to take photos, several of them slid into the water and watched me, heads rising and falling with the roll of the swell.
The waves in the lee of San Simeon Point seemed docile and subdued as they rolled quietly onto the beach. We stopped for a doggy drink at an unnamed creek that was dammed behind a sand bar into a stagnant-looking pool.
A hundred yards from the Hearst Beach parking lot, we passed a set of steps that led upward to a rusty chain link fence. I watched a solitary bicyclist amble the length of the pier in his helmet and bright jersey.
On the way back to Pico Point, we found a shelter that someone had constructed of driftwood. It lay close to the foot of the bluff above the water line and looked as if it had room for two sleeping bags inside.
Fog returned as we approached our starting point. We climbed up the bluff trail, Dexter a bit more easily than I, and settled into the car for the drive home.
No comments:
Post a Comment