I stood beneath a large canopy of Fir trees which blocked the midday sun and provided excellent shelter from an unusually windy afternoon. Gusts blew along the pacific and, combined with the surf, met the rocks and cliffs of Big Sur with absolute hostility. Tourists were pulled into various small, tucked away parking lots, and brave beach bums un-mounted boards from the roofs of their various vehicles and began towards the craggy shore. I shuffled pine needles with my feet and made small, neat mounds next to my monstrosity of a pack, which was laid frame-first in the dirt. I keenly listened for the sound of an approaching car, which I often mistook for the whooshing of waves, and did my best to stick a sorry smile on my face and a sore thumb out towards the small, two-lane highway. Each car that passed me, though, only seemed to speed up or pull into a campsite parking lot. That is until I met Louis.
Louis picked me up towards the Northern end of Big Sur National Park. He drove a beaten minivan which was filled with musical equipment, boxes of food and camping supplies, and a weeks-worth of drive-through wrappers. He took a few moments to clear a space for me in the passenger seat, afterwards I hauled my pack into the already overcrowded backseat. I climbed into the cockpit, arranged my camera and cell phone, and shook the hand of the man who sat to my left.
“-Nice to meet you, Matthew. I’m Louis. Where are you headed?”
I responded with an answer which had already become my typical line. “North!”
Louis spoke in a slightly Canadian accent, bending and softening certain vowels, and it did not surprise me when he shared his eventual destination.
“I’m headed back to Toronto. I started my trip down on the Baja Peninsula, surfed there for quite a while, and now I’m headed home.”
Louis shared his passions, hobbies, and interesting lifestyle which consists of copywriting for various companies in the Toronto area and long bouts of cross-country road-tripping. He told me about his ex-wife and child who died in the spring of last year. He was articulate and opinionated but also very curious and open-minded. He told me about a time when he and a close friend of his hitchhiked across Asia and became stranded on a small, uncharted island.
“Our guide,” he began, after pausing to recall, “Told us that he would be back in 3 days. He told us that we could catch the best waves in Indonesia on that island. When we got there, it was a lake.”
“Not a single wave?” I asked.
“Not one. There was one surprise, though!” He looked over from the driver's seat “The guide abandoned us.” Apparently, 5 days went by without a return boat in sight. Louis and his friend had only enough food and water for 3 days. They considered swimming in the direction of land. Then, on the 6th day, the skipper returned, only to deliver them to an ATM and drain their only funds at gunpoint.
“All things considered” Louis continued “We didn't mind being mugged, all we cared about was getting some food and water.”
Louis had many fascinating stories from his exotic life and as we plunged in and out of the various coves of Big Sur he told me many of them. We discussed politics, art, and parenthood; all themes brought into the conversation by Louis with intent and charisma. He was good company to me, and as we barrelled into downtown Monterey I was sad to depart from him.
Louis dropped me off at a stop sign 6 blocks from Cannery Row and the main boardwalk. The sun and sky was incredibly brilliant and I enjoyed a short stroll, downhill, towards the bustling beachside.
I took photographs of the vibrant flowers in the flowerbeds of many front yards even though I knew that they would turn out to be mediocre pictures. I stopped to read the various plaques dedicated to John Steinbeck and Ed Ricketts and the other literary and scientific giants which emerged from this particular corner of California. I found a small restaurant and ate a large plate of fresh tortillas and pinto beans and a heap of Carne Asada. I paid a visit to a market and restocked on water and granola, not long after washing up in the bathroom of the market. I passed a charming gallery that was half underground and was filled with many people, all of whom looked interesting, but I deemed my framed pack and disheveled demeanor to be too cumbersome amongst the blown glass and delicate paintings, so I continued on without stepping into the gallery.
I walked down Cannery Row and wanted to spend my precious bills on every donut, oyster, and grilled cheese I saw. I wanted, very badly, to stay in Monterey, but it was almost four o’clock in the afternoon, and I wanted to reach Santa Cruz before nightfall. I made a two-hour urban hike through 3 miles of snaking neighborhoods before reaching an onramp which put me on the very large, very crowded Highway 101.
Hitchhiking on such a busy freeway was certainly intimidating, but to my rueful surprise, a large rig hauling a camper pulled onto the shoulder almost immediately. I ran to the passenger seat and climbed into the large Ford F-250. The man in the driver's seat introduced himself as Andrew. Andrew looked to be in his late fifties and had worry marks and smile marks and wrinkles all over his arms and neck. He was driving home from a day at the beach and felt compelled, ‘By the voice of God’ to pull over when he saw me. He told me about his wife and his addictions and his hobbies, all of which he explained with an impressive and articulate vocabulary.
“I want to tell you,” Andrew began after a methodical pause “I’ve been to heaven. I’ve seen the pearly gates and there isn't a thing prettier or a voice sweeter.”
Andrew told me, in vivid detail, about a concussion he had suffered two years prior. He spoke about a slippery floor and a sharp kitchen counter and a long, uncomfortable bout in a rundown hospital.
“In that moment,” He continued “I could feel the darkness grabbing at me- tearing at my clothes and limbs, ardently trying to pull me into the grave. Then-” He smiled, taking a moment to reflect or pray or perhaps both, “-the voice of God spoke to me. Christ spoke to me, Matthew, as clear as I’m speaking now, and he said ‘Not yet', and the darkness let me go, and then I awoke in a hospital bed and my wife was next to me, crying”
Andrew teared up as he spoke and a tear escaped the sunken skin around his eyes and rolled down the right side of his boney cheek. He asked about my journey and asked If I write poetry.
“I try, though I am not very good”
“Well, you should keep trying,” he responded.
Ever since then, I have tried, consistently, to write poetry, no matter how awful it may be.
Andrew also asked me if I plan on writing a book about my hitchhiking trip. I explained that, while I may not write a book, I hope to write about many of the people I meet while traveling.
“Please write about me, Matthew. I want my story to be out there. I want the world to know that I have seen true darkness and true light. I want the world to know that I have seen God’s face”
Andrew prayed for me as I looked out at the fields of produce and the distant peaks above Carmel. The highway split into a Y and Andrew took a route into the small town of Castroville. Castroville rests in the crux of Interstate 1 and highway 156. I informed him that I was headed back to the 1, and he told me that I should walk through the small, dreary town and take in ‘The sights’. I did not argue.
He dropped me off in the parking lot of a Motel 6. I watched him maneuver his large rig and pull out onto the highway, back the way we came. The sun was beginning to set and turned the stucco surfaces of the businesses and houses around me to pure gold. The only thing between the town of Castroville and the Monterey shoreline was 2 miles of strawberry and lettuce fields and a large, unaesthetic petroleum plant. I began walking along the main street, trying to make it to the Northern onramp of highway 1. I stepped through overgrown lots filled with abandoned cars and spoke with a Latin barber on the steps of his small, empty shop. I bought 3 oranges from the back of a Toyota tacoma. The man who sold them to me did not speak English but was close to the kindest person I met throughout my entire trip-- his smile was radiant and he offered me the third orange for free. I soon traded weeds and gravel and split cement for the smooth pavement of the interstate. The sun was a perfect sphere and was only moments away from meeting the horizon. I thumbed frantically, hoping to get a ride before dark, and within a few minutes, I heard honking from behind me. A large white sprinter van was pulled onto the shoulder and I sprinted after it, praying the driver would wait for me. The driver did wait for me and emerged from the driver's side when I came within a few years of the van. He was young and well-built and had a kind look about him. I shook his hand and he introduced himself as Gavin.
The young man gave me a brief tour of his live-aboard van, which was decked out with a bed, sink, bathroom, bike rack, and plenty of storage. We sat in the cab for a short spell, chatting about our previous paths and our eventual destinations. Gavin has lived a nomadic lifestyle for over four years and was on his way to Seattle when he picked me up on the coast of California. Soon after the tour, I found a seat in the cab and we began driving. As the last light of day crept beneath the horizon Gavin and I talked about hitchhiking, biking, backpacking, and our various takes on many of the challenges which arise while on the road full-time. I had much to learn from this young man, and I did my best to ask him as many questions as possible. We drove for 35 minutes before he dropped me in the heart of Santa Cruz. We took a brief moment to exchange information before Gavin climbed back into his van and continued his own journey.
I had my heart set on something which, at the time, seemed incomprehensibly wonderful: Taco Bell. After finding refuge in one for the better part of an hour I began the arduous task of locating an inner-city camping spot. Santa Cruz took a dangerous turn after dark. The wholesome light of dusk was replaced by a starless, bleak night sky, and I was, for the first time on my trip, afraid. I held my knife and flashlight tightly as I navigated various homeless encampments along the banks of the Saint Lorenzo river which snakes down from the Sierra Azul mountain range and empties into the Monterey Bay. I crossed a footbridge and had no luck on the West side of town. The city of Santa Cruz reminded me of a much smaller Los Angeles. It was grim but also alluring in certain areas.
The town was, to me, oxymoronic: at the same red light, I witnessed two dodges revving their engines at one another and, in the same panoramic view, two gentlemen on bicycles, wearing knit sweaters, chatting about the waves they had caught early that morning. I passed an ice cream parlor with warm light and outdoor seating and parents who had toddlers running freely, shrieking with joy. A few minutes later I heard nearby gunshots.
There was a health market that advertised cheap produce and so I entered into it. It was cramped in the best way; filled to the brim with boxes and bags and packs of every nut, granola, grain, and fresh fruit a progressive cross-country cyclist could need. It was also exactly what I needed that night. The young man who worked behind the counter was fulfilling a difficult sudoku puzzle when I first entered. He was incredibly kind to me and we spoke for over 20 minutes about my trip and his aspirations of becoming a professional surfer. He chatted freely with the few customers who came into the store and called most of them by name. I cannot remember the name of that young man, but I doubt I will ever forget him. He discounted a jar of peanut butter for me and sent me back into the dark fray of the night with a few apples and a bottle of homebrewed kombucha.
Outside that same store, I met Garrett. Garrett was a local with a large beer belly and long, curly hair. He was curious about my pack and offered to walk with me along a neighborhood that runs parallel to what he described as ‘The Goonies’ or ‘our skid row’.
“You don’t want to walk through the goonies with a pack like that, man,” Garrett explained. “Cops stopped going there a while back. Only respond to murders and crap like that--I doubt you’d make it two blocks without getting mugged. I’ll show you the way I take it at night.” And he did. Garrett led me through 5 blocks of convoluted neighborhood streets, all the while educating me on the history of Santa Cruz. He was incredibly proud of his hometown but was also prone to outbursts of anger when the topic of homelessness, drug abuse, and the city council came up in discussion. We parted ways on Southview street and I continued, alone, back onto highway 1, which was perfectly deserted. I pitched my tent on the shoulder of Cambrillo Road, over Moore Creek. The occasional car would set my tent ablaze with light. I heard coyotes in the hills of the greenbelt nearby. The occasional siren or gunshot could also be heard, though it only took me a few minutes to fall into a deep, uninterrupted slumber.
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