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| Manresa Uplands State Beach and Campgrounds, Steve Brown 2022 |
April 12, 2022
After a bad tasting dinner at an overly priced restaurant on the Old Fisherman's Warf, we drove up the coast to Manresa Uplands State Beach and Campgrounds, which is unlike any campground I've ever been to. It is well off California Highway 1, accessed by Buena Vista Drive, a narrow, curvy road that winds through a mixture of low, wooded hills, open farmland, and occasional small residential developments. It was nearing sunset, the trunks of the oaks golden on one side and deep in purple-blue shadow on the other, but we were tired, and the road seemed to be going absolutely nowhere noteworthy. After a while, I wondered if we'd gotten lost and started to get grumpy. Marci assured me we were headed the way Google told us to go, but I didn't see how that could possibly get us to the beach.
The way I'd always known the coast is as follows: there you are on Highway 1, literally hugging the coastline, the ocean crashing way down below you; the road curves inland slightly as you drop down to a valley of farms; and then the road curves out again to a small, beachside town, and a couple of state parks and campgrounds located right on the beach. There's no getting off California 1 miles away from your campground and following winding, very worn, not-well-maintained road that seems to go nowhere. Something must have gone wrong.
Though tired, the experience must have been deeply meaningful because I can still see the late afternoon sunlight on that shaggy landscape now. I no longer know where on that road it is, but somewhere there is a building with a corrugated metal roof amongst some great trees that were throwing shadows across it, but then there were these patches of sunlight reflected back from the metal that just exploded between the shade. It's these moments that always make the trip. They seldom occur at the designated scenic spot. They often happen at gas stations, rest areas, or while passing an old barn. Usually, they involve light. But not always. They can be dismal, verdant green scenes sopped by endless rain. But to me, they always stand out. At such moments, I think to myself, I don't know what the purpose of other people's life is, but this is mine: All I need to do in life is witness this.
That is what the road trip is all about. It's about what happens between the destinations. I'm human. I know if I didn't reach whatever destination I set out for, I'd become frustrated, and in that moment, I would most likely not be able to enjoy the journey. And yet I also know from experience the most remarkable sights will occur when least expected--that tug of the heart that says, Yes, this is it. I sometimes doubt the meaning of life could be so simple, and yet I know it to be true. That doesn't mean that's the meaning for everyone though. Who says we all agreed to this journey called life for the same reason. I do think we all took this journey to learn to open up, to learn to love more fully, and to take in more light, feel more glory. But who is to say how that glory is manifested is the same for each of us? Someone else may feel that power through a hardball hitting a leather mitt; or feeling the perfect arch in their back as they go over a metal bar; or being stunned by countertop gleaming after a good scrubbing.
I just know for me, when my eyes take in light, I am. At this point, even if I lost my sight, that's what I'd keep doing because that light is forever burned into my being and will never leave. Now that I've seen it, I no longer need sight to experience the California Coast. No matter how glorious the next life is, I will remember this one forever because I'm simply blown away. My religion talks about enduring to the end. If I'm fully in the moment, there is no enduring--just awe of the rich tinfoil tapestry shook out before me sparking light every which way oh so gloriously.
Today, on the highway home from work, out in the least attractive patch of desert in the entire valley, tiny stubbles of tumble weed that had been mowed repeatedly by the highway and stunted to almost nothing had turned that deep maroon they turn to in the fall shortly before dying. When there is beauty like that there, well the California coast is simply celestial in comparison. When I die, all I want to do is thank God for making Earth so beautiful, and if those who have near-death experiences are correct, and Earth is indeed a dismal place compared to Heaven, well then, I don't need any rewards for attempting to live life right. God can leave his mansion for the others. I'll be content to spend the eternities looking at the new flowers. Is there any more grand purpose for existing than to exist and be fully aware of it?
I think Hell is simply existing mostly unaware of what you've got because you're stuck inside your mind you can't get out of it. Like everyone, I sometime place myself in hell through my thoughts. But I'm in training, and by focusing my eye more frequently on now, I spend less and less time in the hell that is my mind, that hell of my own making.
I want to see. I want to be. Always.
Well, usually. I'm getting so I'm not so fond of the cold. This was true even two and a half years ago. And there is no cold like California coastal cold. My brother tells a story about visiting the coast after we'd lived in a valley in northern Utah that frequently got down to -5 and once in a while -30. We lived on a ranch, and because my brother and sister had to feed cows in that weather, they had coats made for it. Once in February, my dad, who lived in Reno, took Lloyd to the coast. Lloyd brought that big, green coat made for surviving in Alaska to Fort Bragg, California thinking he'd be toasty. Oh, how wrong he was. Just because the thermometer says it's 40 degrees doesn't make it so. There is cold, and then there is California coastal cold. It doesn't start until about fifty miles north of Morrow Bay, but north of there that cold is very real. I've since been to the Oregon coast many times and its cold is nothing like the cold between Crescent City and Big Sur. It's got to be the ocean currents, and it can be brutal.
We drove down this long park service road to the campground. It took us fairly high up on a hill to some pale green mowed grasslands between big, broad oaks and other similar trees. The sun had just set, and we pulled into the special parking lot that was for unloading only and had 30-minute parking. As I opened the door, I could feel that cold closing in. I grabbed my coat.
We had a lot of camping gear, and neither of us were happy about the distance from the car to the tent site or how hard it was to find the site that we had reserved. We became less and less happy with that distance with each return trip with more of what we needed to survive that cold night.
Yet, I had to admit it was beautiful. Acres and acres of mowed expanse between gloriously big oak trees. And the restrooms were also very nice. Even cold, tired and grumpy, I could not discount that this was a beautiful place to be.
As I've gotten older, I've realized the same thing about life. Though I've had some heartache and definitely some big insecurities and at times crippling shyness, I cannot discount that this life is a beautiful experience. I know some moments are so brutal for some that they are left with life-long trauma that covers their lens on the world with an icky black film. That is understandable. Life is not equal. Life is not fair. But I also know that we are so connected to this our temporary home that there is some part of everyone that knows the beauty here is undeniable. They may give up hope, feel there's no way they can ever access it again, but that realization that life is beautiful is still there somewhere. This book is a grand wish that somehow, I might clear just enough crud off a lens to stir a memory. And if not that, that it will at least serve as a simple reminder to myself to be present more often than not. Even with all the shit we go through (some way more than others), this thing we call life is a grand gig, even camping in that California coastal cold.
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