The Road Traveler

Join Us On Our Trips Around The United States

California's Hidden Gems

California. Just the word summons a mood: freewheeling, sun-enriched, coastal bliss.

Sure you've got mudslides, perpetual traffic and the San Andreas Fault; but they just balance the scale back to even, so the rest of us can sleep nights, feet firmly planted in the other 49.

You can't see it all in one visit, but a trip up to Yosemite and back down the Pacific Coast Highway offers enough soul warming to last you quite a while back home.

Yosemite is an easy drive: over the mountains, mile after mile of roadside blooms overflowing until you hit Mariposa Grove, where massive redwoods sleep, with names like Tunnel Tree and the Grizzly Giant, clocking in at 200 feet high and 2700 years old.

El Capitan and Half Dome define the place. Their beauty simply took my breath away. Ansel Adams' gallery underscored the point with fabulous black and whites. For the kids it couldn't get much better than ice cream cones served poolside at the Yosemite Lodge where they relaxed with their cousin, the towering Yosemite Falls framing the picture.

Then there was Monterrey. Sea otters and pulsing jellyfish danced inside Monterrey Aquarium.

Moments later, we wandered just past Fisherman's Wharf, and quietly discovered families of sand dollars nestled below the water's surface just beyond the docks where local vessels are readied for sea.

A spongy pink starfish floated atop the sea, still alive, on its way to somewhere beyond our world. My son held it in his hand, then cast it back to the wild ocean. Our hearts pounded at his proudest discovery.

Over at Cannery Row, we tiptoed around barnacles to see the sea lions mingling with the shorebirds. John Steinbeck spoke in my ear: "Cannery Row in Monterrey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream."

If Monterrey was a dream, Carmel by the Sea was a fantasy: pristine white beaches there for us alone. Alas, Clint Eastwood's Hog's Breath Inn opened after we breezed by, perusing the moss covered galleries.

Like JFK & Jacqueline before us, we witnessed serenity at the Carmel Mission, built in 1770 by Father Junipero Serra ("Always go forward and never turn back").

That evening smiles were wide, as the kids donned tall paper chefs hats and made their own pizzas at our table at the relaxed Allegro Trattoria.

17-Mile Drive was spotless and soaring, and afforded a whisp of "the good life". The Lone Cyprus, always inspiring, still holds its own against the rough, windy tides and the diamond encrusted golf course surrounding it.

Heading south, the Pacific Coast Highway unwound like a ribbon set free. This is the wild California. Shoulder tapping clouds meet the pavement here. Teetering precipices dare you to hug the road and keep your eyes off the splendor while movement propels you forward.

What I liked most about this area was the grand uncontainable vistas coupled with close up explorations which brought immediacy and intimacy to our visit. At Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, just inland off the coast, the water was as clear as Roger Daltry’s blue eyes: the kids waded stone-to-stone across the forested stream, green agates the catchof the day. My daughter posed for a picture, arms straining to stretch around the trunk of a giant Redwood, the Colonial Tree, which rests here unassumingly. It’s clear why locals camp here for an entire week; we met the land face to face, then moved on.

Missed the turnoff for Jade Cove, and landed at Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park. Venturing through an arched tunnel, we emerged high above an ocean vista as a waterfall cascaded into a turquoise inlet, nestled against the rocky Pacific shore. Paradise.

That night in Morro Bay, an unassuming town with less than stellar pizza, a massive rock outcropping provided a safehaven for migrating sea birds. Here we found a moment to slow down and join together as a family, resting on the shore to watch a sunset more brilliant than even the best episode of "House".

Down the road, Hearst Castle, built in the 1920’s by magazine tycoon William Randolph Hearst, was truly over the top, featuring 165 rooms, and overlooking the endless Pacific Ocean. The 127 acres of pools, gardens and terraces, sprouting classically designed columns and beautiful white sculptures were both offputting and uplifting. This is California, too.

Just north of Randolph Heart’s indulgent creation, lies Point Piedras Blancas. Here wild elephant seal bulls arc their bulky heads back and roar, battling their rivals each spring, for the love a good woman. Row upon row of these beasts lay like fat sausages on the sand. When they get too hot they flap their flippers to thrust sand upon their blubbery bodies. Even the most ardent couch potato will feel like an athlete compared to these tankards.

Now we turned inland and the miles of lunar landscape blended into one. We tipped our hats to James Dean at the solitary monument just past Paso Robles which bears his name and his time of death. It was here, at the barren, dusty junction of Highways 41 & 46 where James Dean crashed his Porche Spyder on September 30, 1955 while en route to a car race in Bakersfield.

Who could resist his independent yet vulnerable attitude ("I’m going to play my bongos and the world can go to hell?") (he was known to hole up in a corner at parties, cigarette dangling, bongos in hand). Only in California.

Back in L.A. we enjoyed the company of family, and the unlikely melding of many into one. The golden and the pale, the rich and the struggling, the promise and the reality. This is L.A. Petersen’s Automotive Museum celebrates the journey of travel and the automobile.

Universal Studios celebrates the industry that darkens and illuminates.

La Brea Tar Pits explores prehistoric times, where they are still uncovering beasts from the past, submerged in the murky depths.

In Malibu, the air and the sand are still free. Buried to his neck in Zuma Beach, my son beamed for his final photo op. In California’s warm sun everyone can feel like a star, at least for a moment.