© End of the Day - Goat Rock State Beach
South of Jenner, CA at the mouth of the Russian River
©2008 David S. Nadal. This photo may not be used in any form without prior permission. All rights reserved.
The story of the cow that was in a place no cow had any business being.
I wanted to be in Ft. Bragg before 11:30 that night. After driving up from Monterey, I survived the fun and joy of damn near running out of gas between SF and Bodega Bay (there were 18,000 effing people at Stinson Beach...not one gas station? I scored half a tank at Pt. Reyes Station, and then topped off at Bodega Bay...at which point I relaxed, toddling alongside Tomales Bay, taking a little side trip to see St. Theresa de Avila Church in Bodega (Ansel shot it, and the classroom in back was the one you see in Hitchcock's The Birds), and then wandering up the Sonoma Coast. Loved it; have to go back.
I found this place called Goat Rock State Beach, and it was beautiful...the sign up the road from the park entrance said 30 mi. to Ft. Bragg, so I figured I was golden for the sunset. I pulled over on the headland overlooking the beach, and a stream of hippies trundled past on their way down to do who knows what. I set up, pulled the folding chair out of the truck and kicked out until the light show started. Well worth staying, don't you think?
After the show ended, there were other things going on on the hillside behind me, so I was shooting some loooong exposures of the leftover light when the hippies began their exodus. I was timing the 20" exposures between cars...and dust. All of a sudden, one of them pulls over in a big cloud of dust, and a serious hemp-wearing modern-day pagan woman with essential oils in her dreadlocked hair sticks her head out the window and says, "Duuuude! Did you catch the green flash, man? Tell me you caught the green flash...ever so righteous!" Uh, no, and you're getting dust on my gear. Head retreats into vehicle, "Oh, dude is too harsh." Zip, up goes the window and off they go. More dust.
I hope all that doesn't make me sound like some kind of crew-cut reactionary, it's just that any kind of large group with similar interests tends to reinforce the worst aspects of its particular obsession...hippies, gun people, photographers, whatever...and these folks were living up to every NorCal/Lost Coast stereotype you could imagine.
Anyway, they fled...to the nearest spirit lodge, I don't know, and I dusted off the gear and packed up. I get back out there on the 101---or is it the 1 by then?---and, as I'm driving past, I notice that the sign that I thought said 30 miles to Bragg had been amended by the local nonhippies: in reality, I had 80 miles to go. And I had no idea what those 80 miles were like!
We've established that I'm not a fan of edges, particularly when I'm behind the wheel. The Pacific Coast Highway may not be the hairiest road ever, but damn! it has its moments, and the section north of Jenner is right up there on the hairy scale. I tootle northward, when all of a sudden, in the twilight, Satan's Rollercoaster begins. At every hairpin, 220° corner, there's just enough light to see the 500,000-foot drops to the ocean below. And my brakes were not feeling their freshest (they were wearing, but not worn out, and the wear wasn't precisely even, so odd noises and pulling ensued). I'm managing 15 to 25 miles an hour, when an early 70s, avocado-green, Cadillac Coupe deVille convertible arrives on my back bumper. You know, those enormous things you could sleep stretched out in either front or back seat, or play ping-pong on the hood. Obviously a local: knows the road blindfolded and drunk, and begins to try to push me faster.
The dance goes on for four or five miles: no passing zones, no pullovers. Finally, we hit a spot that runs maybe 150 yards straight, and he roars by, saluting...evidently not on his way to the spirit lodge. I am quite pleased by this turn of events, and return the salute with equal vigor. We both feel better, and I settle back in to the 15-25 mph routine I'd established.
Then, I come upon it. Downhill, outside hairpin, 245° degrees, those shitty CCC/WPA rock 'guardrails'...the ones that look like headstones. This one is subsiding so bad that CalTrans has preset materials and equipment and a jobshack so they can get right to work every time it fails. The brakes are groaning, my innards are turning to whatever Clif Bars turn into when that's all you've eaten since breakfast, and I am cursing the Governator roundly. I'm gritting my teeth, and watching the edge, when I look to the inside of this curve from hell, and there is a lone cow, standing there, looking back at me, chewing its cud.
The drop off to the ocean side is sheer; the cliff on the inside of the curve is just as steep...and it's been that way all the way through the curve, and it continued on that way for quite a while after. Me and the cow, we made a connection, and shared a moment: I'm wondering, how the hell did you get out here? Cow is thinking, "Dunno, but the grazing is killer-diller, dude." At which point, I redirect my attention to the rapidly approaching EDGE, and drag my vehicle back from impending doom and into its assigned lane.
After that, a strange, bovine placidity infused me; the curves and edges, they were still there, and they were still hairy, but it was OK. My friend the cow managed to pass along that deep, deep cow-tao-like wisdom, bordering on catatonia, and I was going to make it. And I did. After cell service resumed somewhere around Pt. Arenas, I was able to call ahead to the Super 8 and let 'em know I was late. They left the keycard under the mat for me. I arrived at 11:30 on the dot. But that was OK. Moo, moo, buckaroo.
© End of the Day - Goat Rock State Beach
South of Jenner, CA at the mouth of the Russian River
©2008 David S. Nadal. This photo may not be used in any form without prior permission. All rights reserved.
The story of the cow that was in a place no cow had any business being.
I wanted to be in Ft. Bragg before 11:30 that night. After driving up from Monterey, I survived the fun and joy of damn near running out of gas between SF and Bodega Bay (there were 18,000 effing people at Stinson Beach...not one gas station? I scored half a tank at Pt. Reyes Station, and then topped off at Bodega Bay...at which point I relaxed, toddling alongside Tomales Bay, taking a little side trip to see St. Theresa de Avila Church in Bodega (Ansel shot it, and the classroom in back was the one you see in Hitchcock's The Birds), and then wandering up the Sonoma Coast. Loved it; have to go back.
I found this place called Goat Rock State Beach, and it was beautiful...the sign up the road from the park entrance said 30 mi. to Ft. Bragg, so I figured I was golden for the sunset. I pulled over on the headland overlooking the beach, and a stream of hippies trundled past on their way down to do who knows what. I set up, pulled the folding chair out of the truck and kicked out until the light show started. Well worth staying, don't you think?
After the show ended, there were other things going on on the hillside behind me, so I was shooting some loooong exposures of the leftover light when the hippies began their exodus. I was timing the 20" exposures between cars...and dust. All of a sudden, one of them pulls over in a big cloud of dust, and a serious hemp-wearing modern-day pagan woman with essential oils in her dreadlocked hair sticks her head out the window and says, "Duuuude! Did you catch the green flash, man? Tell me you caught the green flash...ever so righteous!" Uh, no, and you're getting dust on my gear. Head retreats into vehicle, "Oh, dude is too harsh." Zip, up goes the window and off they go. More dust.
I hope all that doesn't make me sound like some kind of crew-cut reactionary, it's just that any kind of large group with similar interests tends to reinforce the worst aspects of its particular obsession...hippies, gun people, photographers, whatever...and these folks were living up to every NorCal/Lost Coast stereotype you could imagine.
Anyway, they fled...to the nearest spirit lodge, I don't know, and I dusted off the gear and packed up. I get back out there on the 101---or is it the 1 by then?---and, as I'm driving past, I notice that the sign that I thought said 30 miles to Bragg had been amended by the local nonhippies: in reality, I had 80 miles to go. And I had no idea what those 80 miles were like!
We've established that I'm not a fan of edges, particularly when I'm behind the wheel. The Pacific Coast Highway may not be the hairiest road ever, but damn! it has its moments, and the section north of Jenner is right up there on the hairy scale. I tootle northward, when all of a sudden, in the twilight, Satan's Rollercoaster begins. At every hairpin, 220° corner, there's just enough light to see the 500,000-foot drops to the ocean below. And my brakes were not feeling their freshest (they were wearing, but not worn out, and the wear wasn't precisely even, so odd noises and pulling ensued). I'm managing 15 to 25 miles an hour, when an early 70s, avocado-green, Cadillac Coupe deVille convertible arrives on my back bumper. You know, those enormous things you could sleep stretched out in either front or back seat, or play ping-pong on the hood. Obviously a local: knows the road blindfolded and drunk, and begins to try to push me faster.
The dance goes on for four or five miles: no passing zones, no pullovers. Finally, we hit a spot that runs maybe 150 yards straight, and he roars by, saluting...evidently not on his way to the spirit lodge. I am quite pleased by this turn of events, and return the salute with equal vigor. We both feel better, and I settle back in to the 15-25 mph routine I'd established.
Then, I come upon it. Downhill, outside hairpin, 245° degrees, those shitty CCC/WPA rock 'guardrails'...the ones that look like headstones. This one is subsiding so bad that CalTrans has preset materials and equipment and a jobshack so they can get right to work every time it fails. The brakes are groaning, my innards are turning to whatever Clif Bars turn into when that's all you've eaten since breakfast, and I am cursing the Governator roundly. I'm gritting my teeth, and watching the edge, when I look to the inside of this curve from hell, and there is a lone cow, standing there, looking back at me, chewing its cud.
The drop off to the ocean side is sheer; the cliff on the inside of the curve is just as steep...and it's been that way all the way through the curve, and it continued on that way for quite a while after. Me and the cow, we made a connection, and shared a moment: I'm wondering, how the hell did you get out here? Cow is thinking, "Dunno, but the grazing is killer-diller, dude." At which point, I redirect my attention to the rapidly approaching EDGE, and drag my vehicle back from impending doom and into its assigned lane.
After that, a strange, bovine placidity infused me; the curves and edges, they were still there, and they were still hairy, but it was OK. My friend the cow managed to pass along that deep, deep cow-tao-like wisdom, bordering on catatonia, and I was going to make it. And I did. After cell service resumed somewhere around Pt. Arenas, I was able to call ahead to the Super 8 and let 'em know I was late. They left the keycard under the mat for me. I arrived at 11:30 on the dot. But that was OK. Moo, moo, buckaroo.