Last weekend, I went on my other favorite road trip in California: The incredible Highway 1, which runs along the coast and offers views like no other.
Jaw-dropping views. Views that make you pinch yourself and wonder if it’s all real. Through the Big Sur region, Highway 1 is a designated American National Scenic Byway and the drive alone is a destination in itself.
Driving south down Highway 1 on the Central Coast is a highly worthy excursion — you’re next to the water, up on a cliff, meandering along a two-lane road that hugs the South Coast Ranges.
We began our drive in the middle of the night from Monterey, hoping to snag a first-come first-served campsite nearly two hours south at Plaskett Creek. But unfortunately, like every state and county beach from NorCal to SoCal, the campground was completely full. So was Kirk Creek down the road, booked up for the rest of the summer.
We had two choices: Keep driving to Morro Bay where we could check into a motel, or find some free, unimproved forest land to camp for the night. We chose the latter.
It was nearing 2am. We veered off onto Nacimiento-Fergusson Road, a dark, lonely, and sneaky little road perched above Highway 1 that winds through the Santa Lucia Range.
The Milky Way was out in full force. We even spotted the first of the Perseid meteors darting across the sky. We pulled off the road, groped our way down a grassy slope with a headlamp, and found a decently flat spot to set up camp. We just needed a simple place to rest for the night.
It was pitch black and we were so exhausted, we collapsed in our tent a short while later, snoozing on a random patch of land off the side of the road.
When we woke up the next morning, we couldn’t believe our view.
Somehow, we had blindly ended up on a bluff overlooking 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 falcons soar overhead. It was the epitome of one of my favorite sayings: dolce far niente… “sweet doing nothing.” Delicious idleness.
Only a small handful of cars passed us that morning, none the wiser to our impromptu campsite down the hill.
Around midday we packed up shop and went in search of surf. The rugged Central California coastline is full of secret spots still to be discovered, and not-so-secret spots that still feel amazingly remote.
Somewhere along that coastline, tucked into a picturesque cove below the highway, were beautiful lines of swell gently rolling into the beach and peeling both directions. The wind was calm and the tide was dropping. I had an inkling that my surf god had set this day up especially for me.
We had our pick of peaks and got to surf by ourselves on the most glorious day Big Sur had seen in nearly two weeks. (The region is notoriously foggy in the summer.)
Riding those long waves, under the warmth of the sun, over water so clear that I could see the ocean floor beneath my board — I would’ve been happy just catching one wave.
But I caught wave… after wave… after wave. 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 buttery brown sand.
The stoke. This is what surfing is all about.