Spirit of Aloha | Features | May/June 2005

DICEY CURVES AND MILLION-DOLLAR VIEWS:
THE UPS AND DOWNS OF HIGHWAY ONE
By: Eric Kalb

The best and the worst of driving California

PHOTO: CRAIG AURNESS/CORBIS PHOTO: W. PERRY CONWAY/CORBIS PHOTO: CRAIG AURNESS/CORBIS MAP: Brian Kossen PHOTO: NIK WHEELER/CORBIS

It is hard to imagine a state more beautiful than California. Or one that's uglier. And if you travel up the state's historic Highway 1, you can experience both.

Meandering through land as diverse as its 25 million people, Highway 1 is California's most scenic highway—one that is witness to the dramatic growth that has taken place in the nation’s most populated state.

Beginning at Dana Point near the Mexican border, Highway 1 traverses congested, traffic-clogged cities, the actors’ colony of Malibu and empty farmland. It’s alternatively a six-lane highway and, as it approaches San Francisco, a two-lane, exhausting series of hilly switchbacks hundreds of feet above unspoiled ocean, cutting through some of the most fabled areas of the American West Coast. North of the Bay Area, it finally peters out as it rejoins Highway 101, ending its journey at the Canadian border.

You'd need the stamina of a long-haul trucker to experience the road in its entirety. Unless you’re a traveler who enjoys a hardscrabble trip as much as a relaxed one, that’s not necessary. It’s easy to witness the best of the route’s charms in a day or two of driving.

How? First, skip the boring bits. That’s what I did as I ventured up the coast one recent sunny, brisk winter’s day. Having lived in Southern California for more than 30 years, I’ve traveled up Highway 1 often; in fact, my first published article was about small communities along the road.

Most of my trips have been during the summer, when sections of the narrow thoroughfare become clogged with cautious sightseers creeping along the coastal route’s dicey curves. I knew that if I traveled up the road in the middle of a winter week filled with sun and 60-degree temperatures, I’d have the road pretty much to myself.

While you can join Highway 1 at the southern tip of the state, or again just a few miles north of LAX, where it’s known as the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH), don’t bother. The seaside road that begins near Santa Monica’s Rand Corp. may at first be picturesque. But the expensive homes dotting the sides soon give way to a mélange of multimillion-dollar shacks, a warren of utility poles and fast-food joints, as the road skirts the mostly hidden enclaves of Malibu’s mansions.

During this year’s torrential rains, PCH was periodically closed as tons of mud oozed off the precarious hillsides that butt up against the tarmac, creating traffic jams on L.A.’s freeways that rivaled those of Bangkok’s.

I left this part of Highway 1 to the California Transportation Department’s dump trucks and intrepid surfers. Instead, I took a freeway, Highway 101, north beyond Santa Barbara and on to San Luis Obispo, where the real beauty of Highway 1 begins. While the two roads often share the same roadbed, it’s at their point of longest separation that the most intriguing part of the trip can be found.

Just before I approached the Highway 1 turnoff, I stopped at the Madonna Inn for one last taste of urban consumer life. The subject of scores of documentaries chronicling the crassness of American culture, the Madonna Inn is kitsch incarnate. Its storybook faux Tudor architecture encloses 108 rooms, no two of which are alike. And that’s probably a good thing, for each room has created its own level of bad taste, from the aquamarine chaise longue of the Buffalo Room, to the bright-green carpet and walls of the Safari Room.


Eating in the coffee shop, with its red banquettes and gaudy table decorations, was exposure enough for me. And for the fellow who’s just looking for some relief, there’s always the cave man’s men’s room: Instead of traditional urinals, a rock wall complete with a motivating waterfall is at your disposal.

The Madonna is a far cry from another of San Luis Obispo’s hostelries, the Motel Inn. Situated a few miles up the road, the Motel Inn was the world’s first motor hotel, built by Arthur Heinemann in 1924. The Spanish-style inn was meant to be the first in a nationwide chain, but, evidently, travelers preferred the bland 1960s motif of Holiday Inns, as Heinemann’s plan never took hold.

Rather than utilizing a traditional off-ramp, the turnoff to Highway 1, just north of the Madonna Inn, traverses through San Luis Obispo’s streets, past a few modest, but brightly painted yellow, purple and green Craftsman-style homes.

A once-sleepy central California town, skyrocketing real estate prices have turned San Luis Obispo into a property speculator’s paradise. According to the Los Angeles Times, more homes are purchased here as investments, as opposed to primary residences, than anywhere else in the country. With its quiet atmosphere, temperate climate and sufficient distance from the chaos of Los Angeles, it’s easy to see why.

A few blocks later, I was on the first rural patch of Highway 1, heading toward the cloud-enshrouded Morro Bay. The ramshackle seaside bars popular in the 1960s are now giving way to new housing developments pushing up against the road, urbanizing another area of the state.

This seaside town is defined by Morro Rock, a giant stone outcropping that sits in the bay. You get to the rock via a 1930s causeway. The entire place is a state wildlife preserve, protecting the peregrine falcons that nest on the top.

The land spreads out into gently sloping hills populated with a sprinkling of cattle; about 16 miles up the road on the right is the tiny hamlet of Harmony, population 18. Naturally, a town of this size needs its own post office, and it’s housed in the former and still charming Harmony Valley Creamery. As is de rigeur for any village that thrives on tourism, Harmony also has an antique store and art gallery; if you’re not in the mood to buy, you can see the entire place in about 30 seconds.

Not so for the next town up the road. Until the 1980s, Cambria was one of that breed of small California towns catering to the working class. Many retired civil servants found their little bit of heaven in the town’s modest cottages, built within the area’s pine forests and along the ocean bluffs.

But like so many other towns within easy reach of major metropolitan areas, Cambria now has a new constituency, as the upper middle class seeks a place for its weekend dachas.

Coming from Los Angeles, Cambria’s a great place to stop for the night before heading up the more challenging part of Highway 1. You can stay in one of several single-story motels overlooking the ocean, a country house in the woods or in the five-room Squibb House, a 19th-century Victorian structure in the center of town.

It also gives one the chance to explore William Randolph Hearst’s opulent Hearst Castle, just north of the town. Designed by Julia Morgan, the first female architect licensed in California, the castle and its three grand guesthouses were built with unlimited budgets. Hearst stocked them with what is said to have been the largest private collection of paintings, silver, tapestries and furniture in the world.

The house itself is situated far off the road, past the oceanfront Best Western motel, the Motel Six and the Silver Surf Motel, which scar the seascape. To get to the castle, you park at the state-run reception center, a showcase of fast-food counters, souvenir shops and a movie “experience.” Did I mention they also sell admission tickets here? To take the hour-and-45-minute bus tour up to the house, it’s best to book online before you travel.

I've gotten a bit of a reputation for being a wind witch. I was at the helm tonight with the spinnaker up when we saw a black cloud working its way toward us. Peter asked if I wanted to switch, but I said, “No, please, just call wind shifts!” I held on as the wind started howling and the rain started pouring down. It was such a rush. Lee said when the squall started she looked up from the hatch below to see what poor soul was on the helm. She was shocked to see me with a huge smile on my face and slightly demonic eyes. As soon as I got off the helm, the wind died.

Come at the right time of year, and you’ll be mano a flipper with a den of 800-pound sea lions, as they bicker and sun themselves on the sand a few yards below. Just remember to bring a facemask if pungent ocean odors don’t agree with you

Five miles farther north was the first hint of the unrelenting curves about to come. Now the road began to climb. And climb. And twist and turn. Speeds dropped to 20 miles per hour and the road narrowed.

Homes suddenly disappeared from view, replaced by rural mailboxes, the only markers of habitation. The homes themselves are hidden down the seaside cliffs and sport undisturbed 180-degree views of the ocean from 400 feet above sea level.

Driving the road in winter is relatively easy. In summer, despite California’s reputation for rain-free days, fog can descend along this part of the coast without notice. Round a bend, and the sun can give way to zero visibility in seconds. Just as quickly, the fog will lift, only to reappear a few hundred yards later.

I floored the gas, careening around a few corners, hoping that I wouldn’t meet a slow-moving tourist at the next curve. After 20 miles with no traffic, I arrived at Big Sur.

Here the Santa Lucia Mountains rise up from the ocean, itself home to the world’s largest kelp beds, as well as sea otter, migrating whales and sharks. The jade-colored ocean shimmered with the light of the migrating sun, as the line of rolling canyons deepened, then became less visible as shadows descended on their clefts.

A few miles beyond, Redwood Gulch marks the start of the California redwoods. From this point, the tallest trees in the world splay across a 450-mile-long area of the state’s coastline. As I drove among them, I remembered some of the most memorable names of American popular culture: the Esalen Institute, Nepenthe, the Big Sur Campgrounds.

Big Sur has always been a haven for the counterculture. Writer Henry Miller made his home here for 18 years. To stem the tide of decadence, local restaurateurs in the 1960s admitted customers, or not, based on the length of their hair. (On my first trip to California, I came close to getting thrown out of one.)

Today, as elsewhere along the route, Big Sur has moved away from the counterculture and embraced the over-the-counter culture. Expensive, gorgeous hotels with breathtaking views are the new draw. Perched on the cliff, the Post Ranch Inn offers discrete cottages nestled in woods and sea to well-heeled guests. Its all-glass restaurant is perched atop a cliff, giving diners what may be the best uninterrupted sea view this side of a cruise ship.

Drivers just passing through can grab an inexpensive meal at one of several stops along the way, prior to moving on to Monterey and Carmel.

Despite the brilliant sun and cool ocean breeze, I spent little time in Monterey; even at this time of year, Cannery Row, now a collection of restaurantsand shops, was crowded with tourists. Instead, I headed on up the coast to Carmel. The picture-perfect town has managed to keep its charm, no doubt due to the resources of the people who inhabit it.

Along the coast, small cottages line the bay along a winding, tree-lined street. The town itself is quiet and sleepy, with attractive, modest, wood-clad homes. This is a town where $1 million buys little more than a shack, but the views are free and the bayfront road is the perfect place for a relaxing stroll.

There's much more to see along Highway 1, but, leaving Carmel, the road moves away from the coast as it approaches the university town of Santa Cruz, and I decided to turn back. From this point, the drive back to Los Angeles was still doable in a day. If I didn’t run into traffic, I hoped that I’d still be able to take a tour of Hearst Castle, even though I once again forgot to make a reservation.
                                                                                                                                                          

ERIC KALB writes regularly for The New York Times, on subjects as diverse as travel, business and technology. He has also written for Parade, Talk magazine and the Los Angeles Times, and is the author of four nonfiction books

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