I awoke to the feeling of pure and utter pain. Soreness had gripped my feet, thighs, and shoulders. I spent at least 30 minutes slowly stretching my various damaged tendons and muscles. Gradually I came to my senses and unzipped my sleeping bag. I hoisted myself into an upright position and found the zipper of my tent flap. After pushing myself through the tent's small opening I carefully began to stand. My legs screamed in agony as my eyes adjusted to the early morning light around me. The sound of waves crashing against rock was jarring to my tired senses. I had pitched my tent on a small concert platform 15 feet above the waterline. Wave upon wave surged beneath the platform and sent tremors of energy through the ground after each large swell. A fog had snaked in around me through the night and made my 6 AM awakening mysterious and peaceful. Through a part in the fog, I could see the lights of Carpentaria - The small surf town rested only 3 miles North of me. I broke camp for the first time and painfully pulled my gargantuan pack onto my back. Each step along the gravel bike path which ran to the seaside of Highway 1 was a challenge in some way. I tried to focus on the stretch of land ahead of me, but the pain from either my shoulder straps or hip supports put me to the ground at times. After a brutal morning in the muggy fog, I walked into downtown Carpentaria. There, on the county line, I met a man named Micheal.
Micheal was sitting on a large rock, humming to himself, and packing a small metal pipe. I approached him and asked if he minded some momentary company. I positioned myself on the rock to his right and unclipped my hefty pack. After a brief introduction, Micheal began telling me about his life. He began with his interesting and notable high school experience then, before lingering long on his adolescence, switched to a monologue about his botched college experience. He then told me about his Grandfathers influence in Santa Barbara County. He spoke of engineering, architecture, culture, faith, and mental health. He then told me about his personal relationship with his father.
"He was a better man than I'll ever be" He began, "My father never fought with anyone. He was patient and kind- But not soft! He was a strong man, and he taught me more about life than any other person or teacher, or tutor. He was also a smart man, like me"
I asked Micheal about his living situation. He told me about what homeless life is like in Carp, and his qualms with the local government. I asked him about faith and he professed to have a personal relationship with Christ. He began taking long pulls from his silver pipe while telling me about his first spiritual encounters. I took various portraits of him before I went on my way. As I heaved my pack onto my back and shook his hand Micheal pulled me in close, grabbed my forearm tightly, and said,
"Don't forget me, Matthew. Too many people forget too many people"
With that he let me go and, after promising to remember him, I continued walking towards Main Street.
Micheal, Age 72
I found a Subway and gulped down 6 cups of Powerade. I scarfed down a large sandwich while considering my next moves. I found a local coffee shop and spoke with various locals about my future travels, their life in a small surf community, and any key advice they had for my coastal pilgrimage ahead.
My goal was to make it out of Santa Barbara County by nightfall. I took a bus to the edge of central Santa Barbara and began a long hike up the foothills of the Chumash mountains. After accidentally cutting through a private vineyard and fleeing two plus-sized pitbulls, I hid in a large greenbelt on the side of the highway. The road which cuts through the mountain pass is a narrow two-lane highway. I needed a ride to get through the pass. So, after scratching my way through barbed wire and malicious rose bushes, I found a dusty pull-off on the side of the road and began thumbing. After a few hours, I was picked up by a Latino man driving a Rolls Royce. The man spoke little English (And I speak little Spanish) but we managed to make pleasant conversation about his work in the motorcycle business and his little life in Solvang. I rode with him for 30 minutes and he dropped me off past a roundabout just South of San Olivos. I hiked along highway 154 for 2 hours before briefly stopping for strawberries at a small roadside stand. The man who sold me the fruit seemed utterly confused as to this dirty, young man in the middle of nowhere, on foot, though he did not question me. I thanked him and munched on the delicious berries while the sun met the horizon, turning the rolling pastures around me to gold.
I found a grassy clearing between a high-fenced cow pasture and a large foliage-covered berm which hid me perfectly from the road. I pitched my tent on the soft grass and had little trouble falling asleep.
After awakening to the sound of cows and distant hens, I unzipped my tent flap and stuck my head out to greet the beautiful morning. Cows milled not 10 feet from where I camped and watched me curiously as I rolled my gear and packed my bag. It was a sleepy Sunday morning in the northern section of Santa Barbara county, near the vineyard town of San Olivos. A quick scan of my maps guided me to a nearby church and, after reading under a large oak tree near the chapel to pass the benign dawn hours, I soon found myself in the cozy embrace of a small baptist congregation. The behemoth pack on my back and my generally disheveled look made me stick out like a sore thumb among the well-dressed, wrinkle-faced attendants. I was warmly met by every member of the church before the sermon had even begun. During the service, I sat next to a retired Army Ranger who told long stories of his youth and how he too hitchhiked long distances. After the service, each member made sure that I knew how cared for I was by our father above and by my newfound family in San Olivos. Several older folks sat and prayed with me before I left. Many of the deacons made sure my pockets were crammed with cookies before I made it through the door. A woman named Susan offered to drive me an hour North after her weekly wine-tasting meeting with her best friends that afternoon. She invited me along to a large country club overlooking rolling vineyard hills and distant cattle pastures. I sat with 4 elderly women as they peppered me with questions about my family, travels, career plans, and personal spiritual walk. They bought me a tri-tip sandwich and countless cappuccinos as they sipped on glass after glass of Red. their spunk and unique connection was revitalizing after several days alone on the road. Their collective bond of 40+ years of friendship was a spectacle beyond compare. Each member of the group brought their own individual sense of humor and perspective to the group dynamic. I was brought to side-splitting laughter after countless stories of collective tomfoolery. After several hours of chatting and drinking, I drove Susan's car, full of all of my new pals, and dropped them off at each of their homes until it was only Susan and I left.
Susan (Second from the left) and the 'Church Winos'
Susan then drove me an hour North to the town of Morro Bay. During our drive, she told me about her grandkids, political views, and stories from her own childhood. She left me in a Vons parking lot after a long prayer, a sturdy hug, and an insistently placed $50 in my palm. I watched her drive away before entering the grocery store and restocking on my food supply. I slowly hiked down the hill to the boardwalk and sat with a few different homeless folks and made dawdling conversation with them. I stopped in at the Coast Guard station to speak with some of the officers there.
I sat on a pier and watched sailboats set their anchors and baton their gear for the night. There was a time, during my younger childhood, when I lived in Morro Bay. we Moored a wooden yacht there and I spent my days exploring the beaches, paddling a small rowboat around the bay, and irritating the local fishermen. As I sat on that pier, some 6 years later, I reflected on the undeniable beauty of the local landscape. Morro Rock, rising high against the golden horizon, shaded me as I walked North along the coast, exiting downtown. I followed a sandy horse trail for a few miles before setting up camp behind a large line of trees. I munched on a loaf of bread and sipped on lemonade before falling into a worriless sleep.
The following morning I continued along that same horse trail until I reached the highway. I rode with a local artist who told me about his years as a marathon runner. I met him in the parking lot of a large beach-side campsite. He and his wife talked with me for 20 minutes before the man, named Ian, offered to drive me a few miles up the road.
throughout that morning I was picked up and dropped off four times before my ride with Jacob.
Jacob was an enthusiastic man who greeted me with a friendly smile and a strong handshake. We snaked through the treelined roads of Santa Rita. He told me about his near-death experiences and his work history. He shared that he was a recovering alcoholic who prioritized treating others with the golden rule. Jacob told me that he had a deep faith in Christ and was willing to become a martyr for him. He shared advice about love, lust, and life in general, all in a 20-minute ride. He dropped me off in the town of Cambria near the short but lively mainstream.
Jacob, Age 48
I found an old cafe in Cambria to recharge in. I ordered a large cup of coffee, plugged in all of my equipment, and cleaned up in the pristine bathroom. I made a temporary home in a far corner of the cafe. It was a traveler's joint, with dozens of road-trippers coming in and out every hour. Various strangers stopped to speak with me when they saw my impressive spread of camping gear. Many of them sat with me for a few minutes to ask about my pilgrimage and tell their own accounts of the journey I was about to undertake. I was given names of shops in San Francisco to check out and numbers of people who would host me. One couple, Tim and Linda, spoke of how they met.
"She was a firecracker, and I couldn't get her out of my head" Tim shared. They told me stories of their travels in Ireland and Northern Europe.
"Married 53 glorious years," Linda said. "I never thought we'd both live this long"
Tim and Linda
I was graced with many kind people in the town of Cambria. After a full day in the cafe, I knew it was time to continue on. I tried to hitch a ride, but with no luck. So, with the wind to my back, a fully charged phone, and a diverse playlist, I secured my pack on my back and began a rueful journey on foot along the beautiful coastlands. I cut through a large sheep pasture and found a path down to the beach. I hoofed over sand and rock for the better part of an hour before finding myself in the cozy embrace of a small pine-lined bay. A single schooner was moored in its center. I walked inland towards the highway, and after finding a clearing in a thick of woods, I pitched my tent and hunkered down for the night.
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