Big Sur Backroads

I had nowhere to be and time to kill. The Coleman cooler in the back was packed with enough food and ice to last me a few days.   The Syncro's fuel gauge was just north of 3/4.  Quick-mental-math. 230 mile range. Freedom.

Reminding myself that I was in no rush, I pulled over to the side of 1 in Big Sur and inspected the surf a few miles off with a cheap pair of binoculars. Closing one eye,  I adjusted the focus ring until the lone surfer came into clear view.

"No chance in hell," I murmured,  reaching for a handful of almonds from the bag resting in the drivers seat.  Munching and peering through the binoculars-turned-monocular at the distant surfer,  I sat for twenty minutes deliberating if I should join him.  I never saw the surfer catch a wave.

Travel's with Charlie and the Monkey Wrench Gang, both half read, lay in the passenger seat next to the almonds begging for attention.  Avoiding them with my gaze, I grabbed another handful of almonds and set the binoculars down.   With a turn of the ignition, the Syncro rumbled to a start and I released the emergency brake.  Continuing on the single lane dirt road,  traffic on the 1 some few hundred feet below whizzed by.  Reminding myself that I was in no rush,  I kept it in first gear and crawled up the winding road at 10 mph.

Redwoods.

Not a bad address.

Climbing above the tree line, I pulled over onto the shoulder and turned the van off.  The analog face of my Casio read 11:35.  Time to kill.  Grabbing my iPhone, I put on Cortez the Killer and placed it my breast pocket with the speaker facing up.  Setting the car alarm out of habit, I followed the trail out onto the meadow.  I wouldn't be gone for long I thought,  but then again I didn't have to be.

Here are some more links,

Big Sur Backroads (Facebook).

Steamer Lane

Riding the whitewater on my stomach,  I leaned left towards the rocky point of Steamer Lane.  Rolling off my board ten feet from the rocks, I landed in waist deep water and felt my way towards the shore.  Scrambling out of the water,  I ripped  the Velcro leash off my right ankle and wrapped it around the board haphazardly.  Following the route of the handful of surfers in front of me, I climbed and jumped between the boulders until reaching the stairs.  From there, it was a foot race along the sidewalk towards back towards the point.

Trailing the other surfers I stopped my light jog at the Syncro, and dropped my board in the grass. Fight against light.  Rushing to pull off my wetsuit down to the waist,  I popped open the sliding door and grabbed my Olympus XA from the center console.  Its analog dial read 17, meaning that there were still 20 or so exposures left in the roll.  Equipped to rip.

A set rolled through the lineup and with a distant crash  the ground shook and the crowd of onlookers cheered their approval.  Their hoots continued and, based on the continuous grinding of the wave,  I assumed some lucky surfer was getting a great ride all the way back to the rocks that I had climbed out of.  The kind of ride that end up as people's Facebook profile pics.   Slamming the door, I followed the ant-like trail of running surfers along the sidewalk towards the point.

Holding the camera strap in my mouth, I climbed over the fence and headed towards the group of surfers waiting their turn to jump back in.  By now the sun was a half circle on the horizon,  giving the surfers an added sense of purpose.  This combined with some exceptional waves rolling in had them talking in two-word sentences and grunts.

One after another,  the surfers jumped the 10 feet or so off of the point into the water and paddled back into position.  Each wave advanced the cycle.

Standing in my dripping wetsuit,  I snapped shots and wound the film with the thumb wheel.  A good winter swell at Steamer Lane is one of those things you will never forget.

Here are some more links

Steamer Lane (Wikipedia),

Santa Cruz (Facebook album),

Twitter.

Southern Oregon Coast

The southern Oregon ccoast feels like no other part of the Northwest.  From Portland,  it takes five hours to get there along I-5 south with a cut through the coast range near Eugene.  Take the 101 from Tillamook or Seaside, and you're looking at seven hours of winding road reminiscent to the 1 in California.   Because of this remoteness, the area gets limited visitation in the summer and in the winter, well its all but a ghost town.   Think of it as Twin Peaks with a few bags of meth borrowed from Deadliest Catch, and without the cute girls.

After a few weeks of the Pacific Northwest's signature rain and gloom,  I headed south along the coast on my way to California.  Like most Oregonians,  I grew up spending weekends during the summer playing on the rugged northern beaches of Short Sands and Canon Beach.  My knowledge of the coast goes from good to nonexistent around Lincoln City.  With my buddy, Spencer Phillips, sitting shotgun, we worked our way down the coast searching for waves and views in the heart of winter.

Blasting.

Lagoon.

Ripping a few hundred yards out.

Late night.

Foaming.

Locs only, bro.  These gulls hold it down.

Dodge Rampage.

Sometimes slide film has a mind of its own.

Fixings.

Deers,  beware.

Holding it down.

Sunrise with Portra 160 and an Olympus XA on January 7th.

Traveling is always best in places that you don't know that well.  The parks were empty save for a few dog walkers and retirees in their RV's.  If you ever get the opportunity, head to this part of the country.  Bring your surf board,  there are plenty of waves.

Here are some more links,

Southern Oregon (Facebook),

Foreverenroute,

Twitter.

Loose Ends

This week I'm doing some house keeping, working on a few projects,  surfing and waiting for some film to develop.  Regular, Tuesday and Thursday, posts will be back next week.  In the mean time,  head over to the A Restless Transplant Facebook Page to see some flicks from the Oregon Coast that I shot on an Olympus XA.  I accidentally dropped the camera and the back popped open, giving the roll some light leeks.  Also, check out my travels on Instagram @fosterhuntington.

More links,

A Restless Transplant (Facebook),

#vanlife.

Twitter.