THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, September 17, 1995 TAG: 9509150064
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY GREG RAVER-LAMPMAN, TRAVEL CORRESPONDENT
LENGTH: Long : 173 lines
MY FIRST DAY IN CARMEL, California, I ran into Z.J., a middle-aged man from mainland China who emigrated to San Francisco four years ago. Z.J. was playing the erhu, a Chinese violin.
Z.J., I found out, was a professional erhu player. He produced a cassette he had recorded, illustrated with a picture of him clad in a tux, surrounded by violinists, his chair on a raised platform next to a conductress, his head thrust back in exultation. Clearly, Z.J. was the featured performer.
In Carmel, though, Z.J. had no desire to be featured. When I told him I was a writer, he urged me not to use his name lest cautioned San Francisco patrons might discover he plays for spare change in Carmel. But those fears didn't stop him from returning. Clearly, Z.J. was in his element.
As the sun set over the Pacific, giving his face a warm hue, he played a strangely haunting rendition of ``America the Beautiful.''
A fitting welcome to Carmel, an artists' colony on one of the world's most spectacular stretches of coastline. The region has long lured musicians, artists, poets, sculptors, golfers, scuba divers and tourists from around the world.
Some come for the scenery, some for the shopping, some for the food.
Although I was born and raised in California, I hadn't visited in well over 10 years. When I left California, I remember some people thought I was nuts. One friend boasted that he lived in ``one of the richest towns in the richest state in the richest country in the world.''
What more could I want? But leave I did. Since then, I've lived in Paris, Jamaica, Ecuador, and the Czech Republic, not to mention Florida and Virginia. I've traveled throughout Europe and the Caribbean. Although I've visited friends and family in California over the years, I haven't taken a real vacation there in more than a decade.
Until last month. During a visit to Sacramento, I broke away to visit the coast where I once had lived, a coastline I figured I'd probably romanticized.
When I arrived, I found the region even more staggering than I remembered. I'd forgotten the hypnotic grace of the coastal mountains, the breathtaking gorges carved by seasonal rivers, the endless fields of strawberries.
On the culinary front, I'd forgotten the tangy taste of California sourdough bread. I'd forgotten the sweet taste of fresh picked nectarines. Nor did my memory do justice to reality of a Santa Cruz shrimp louie, a salad piled with cucumbers, beets, tomatoes, lemon and jumbo shrimp bathed in a sauce some unjustly compare to thousand island.
I'd also blanked out the charm of Carmel. A quaint, seaside village, Carmel was created in 1906 as a haven for writers, poets, potters and sculptors. Carmel got a burst of publicity worldwide when actor Clint Eastwood, a downtown resident, was elected mayor. Although Eastwood is no longer mayor, he still owns a Carmel restaurant, the Hog's Breath Inn, where people come to quaff Anchor Steam and munch coho salmon, hoping to spot his eminence.
Carmel has worked hard to balance its increasing wealth with its identity as an artist's colony. Stone walkways and Spanish tile paths meander past hidden courtyards with balconies and flowering window boxes. Seafood houses and gourmet restaurants line the main drag, Ocean Avenue. Carmel has no street lights, no jail, no neon signs. Most residential streets have no mail delivery, sidewalks or addresses. The homes are known by name.
Carmel continues to consider itself a mecca for artists, writers and actors, living in an oasis of creativity. In downtown Carmel there are 70 art studios or galleries, one for each 70 inhabitants, clearly some sort of galactic record. Still, Carmel artists are anything but starving. Some locals' sculptures fetch $18,000 to $20,000 and are displayed alongside Peter Max originals.
Still, no sculpture at any price surpasses the artistry of the nearby coastline, sculpted by millions of years of wind and waves.
This coast owes its harsh and craggy appearance to tectonic happenstance.
Along its east coast, the North American continent tugs away from the Atlantic, leaving a wake of gently sloping land and long beaches. Out west, the continent plows forward, smack into the Pacific, rearing up, a jagged ship's prow, riven with cracks and canyons. Not too far off shore, the continent's leading edge forms a massive underwater precipice plunging hundreds of feet to the ocean floor. That underwater bluff creates churning Pacific currents.
Along the shore, crags of land jut into the violent ocean. In some places, cypress trees take root on what seems bare stone, as if taunting the wind and the waves. Even during summer months, the region is often clothed in ethereal fog.
European settlement in the area actually predates the landing at Jamestown.
In 1602, a Spanish navigator named Sebastian Vizcaino settled in Carmel, creating a haven from pirates. Stunned by what he saw, he dispatched enthusiastic reports to the king of Spain, urging him to colonize California.
In the 1770s, Spanish friars arrived intending to bring the word of God to California's 300,000 Indians. They built missions in San Francisco, Monterey and Carmel. Instead of bringing the word of God they brought disease that decimated the Indian population.
Today, the Carmel Mission is home to a museum and an operational Catholic church surrounded by gardens full of geraniums and rhododendrons. On Sunday mornings, Carmelites still flock to the sanctuary in their finery.
American settlers flocked to California in the mid-1880s during a tumultuous gold rush.
The coast between Monterey and Big Sur didn't have gold, but settlers in San Francisco recognized its unparalleled beauty. In 1880, the elegant Hotel Del Monte opened it doors. Among the most popular diversions was a horse-drawn carriage ride on the gravel road that wound 17 miles around the Monterey Peninsula. Robert Louis Stevenson was among the visitors. It's said that the view from Spyglass Hill inspired him to write his classic, ``Treasure Island.''
Today, those 17 miles are paved, surrounded by spectacular mansions and well-groomed fairways of the Pebble Beach golf course.
Just a few miles south of Carmel is the equally spectacular Point Lobos State Reserve. Originally slated for residential development, Point Lobos was saved at the turn of the century by the foresight of A.M. Allan, who bought up residential lots to keep anyone from building. With the gift of a cypress grove and funds from the Save-the-Redwoods League, Point Lobos became a state park in 1933. Today, the Point Lobos reserve encompasses more than 500 acres.
Park officials restrict access to Point Lobos, so it's best to get there early in the morning before the crowds arrive. By late morning, cars often line 20 deep waiting for people to leave.
Point Lobos is a mosaic of steep headlands, irregular coves and rolling meadows. Within the preserve, the variety is astonishing. Craggy Santa Lucia granite gives way to water-rounded rocks. Sea lions, otters and harbor seals frolic nearby in coves of sand and gravel.
Trails meander through the woods and along the 28 coves, beaches and rock formations. One of the most spectacular sights is the Devil's Cauldron where churning currents make it appear the ocean is about to boil over.
Farther south, about an hour from Carmel, coastal bluffs grow steeper. Bare hills give way to the lush groves of oak, cypress and redwood of Big Sur.
In one Big Sur campground, memories overwhelmed me. I remembered swinging from a rope to drop into the cold, crystalline water of the Big Sur River. I remember returning years later with a woman I would marry.
Although I couldn't find that rope swing, the same restaurants were perched over the river, with the same shops alongside.
Then there was the park itself, the splendor of Big Sur redwoods stretching hundreds of feet skyward like the walls of a cathedral, sun shivering through a lattice of leaves and branches as if through stained glass.
During our second night in Big Sur, we decided to hike into Andrew Molera State Park, where campers set up their tents on a sprawling meadow near the confluence of the Big Sur River and the Pacific Ocean.
When we arrived, the wind gusted. We set up our tent on the lee side of a stand of trees. From there, we walked to the beach to collect firewood.
Near the beach, eddies of sand gusted over wind-sculpted dunes. The gusts pelted us with stinging grains of sand and whipped spray off the crest of waves. For a while, we huddled in a driftwood lean-to built along the beach, waiting for the wind to die down.
When it did, I made a rope sling and collected driftwood for our fire. As I did, I was struck by the familiar look and feel of this Pacific driftwood. Worms had eaten through the skin of the wood, creating a kind of natural hieroglyphic.
At our campground, we cooked peppery steak over a driftwood fire. As the sun slowly set over the Pacific, the Santa Lucia range grew a deep amber. Above one hill rose a white sliver. The moon.
The moon slowly inched above the amber hillsides, half a disc, then more, until the whole moon was visible, absolutely full. From our campsite, the moon appeared poignantly three dimensional, a crystal sphere, its ruddy face close enough to touch. This was a moment that Ansel Adams had worked so hard to capture in his photographs, but they could never compare to the reality.
It felt good to be back. ILLUSTRATION: COLOR PHOTOS BY GREG RAVER-LAMPMAN
The Point Lobos reserve is a mosaic of steep headlands, irregular
coves and rolling meadows.
ABOVE: Drifwood bears a worm-made hieroglyphic.
LEFT: The Lone Cypress at Pebble Beach is a famed sight on this
harsh and craggy coast.
Photo
GREG RAVER-LAMPMAN
The Carmel Mission is home to a museum and an operational Catholic
church surrounded by gardens.
by CNB