You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.
The Gorge. One of the most pristine places on Earth.
DATELINE: BIG SUR, California.
When God should have been resting, on the 7th day, The Almighty created Big Sur. He saved it for last, to savor it, to enjoy it, like you save the cherry on top of your sundae.
It begins just south of Carmel on Highway 1. You get there on a twisting turning road that dances with the Pacific Ocean.
HWY 1 is nestled between a steep falling rock zone on one side and a sheer drop of hundreds of feet to the jagged rocks on the other.
Along the way there are hundreds of places to pull over and admire the view. For 4 decades I have seen every type of human standing on the side of this serpentine black top posing for pictures, trying to capture the majesty that fills their field of view.
You can take as many pictures as you want, but you can never really bottle the awe that fills you when you gaze at the mighty ocean, dark and green and filled with white caps. It smashes the prehistoric coast line that zigs and zags in a pattern cut by the sea and forged by the wind.
26 miles South of Carmel, below the lighthouse and the secret submarine base that intrigued us as kids, the road turns East, away from the Pacific.
The fog dissipates, replaced by endless sunshine as you drive through redwood trees as tall as the sky.
This is the other part of Big Sur. This is the one where you would imagine Yogi Bear lives. It is breath taking as you drive beneath wooden sky scrapers a thousand years old. The sun dances through the needles filtering down in a soft diffusion of light.
There are a number of places to stop and relax. Nepenthe, an adult tree house that over looks the ocean. The stone deck is relaxing, accentuated with wind chimes. To have a cocktail here, over the Pacific below, is to stand at the foot of Nirvana and let it bathe over you.
The River Inn is another Big Sur must visit. It backs up to the river and allows the kids a place to wade ankle deep in water that has left the chilly mountain and is headed to the sea.
And then there is a place that brings me back to my youth.
The Gorge.
I started going there in high school. It’s hidden inside Pfeifer State Park, behind the ranger station, and outside ear shot of the camp grounds.
You have to want to get there. You need good water shoes and a bit of fortitude. You need to cross a wooden foot bridge and then you make it up, hop scotching over rocks that are as old as dinosaurs.
You ping pong through icy water that occassionaly gets up to your waste sending your private parts to seek shelter.
This trek is an ankle sprain waiting to happen.
But after a 3/4 of a mile hike that sometimes makes you wonder how safe an idea this was, you arrive.
You know you are there because it unfolds before you like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
It’s that moment when Dorothy pushes open the door of her recently fallen home and in pours the colors of Oz.
Before you is a cool, crystal clear pool, surrounded by rock formations, constantly refilled by rushing water from the canyon beyond.
By noon the sun peeks over the 70 foot canyon walls warming the gigantic boulders that God tossed like so many irregulary shaped dice. The stones are smooth and dark which absorbs heat and feels wonderful to your skin when you are wet.
The water is cold and reminds you that you are alive. I would estimate it is 65 degrees and once you get in, you better start moving.
The gorge use to be a furtive destination known only to locals and hard core hikers.
Now, probably due to the internet and facebook, the gorge is an attraction, a destination for the curious.
There are families with small children here. There are dogs yapping. There are people with more tatoos than skin. There are hot bikini clad girls and girls who are wearing bikinis who should not be.
There is a pit bull chewing rocks and eyeing a 4 year old girl like she is meat.
The four year old’s mother is barely old enough to drink and she wears a SF Giant’s hat and a belly ring.
A teenage girl stands on a fallen redwood tree and does a flip into a 7 foot section of tranquil water.
It is a kaleidoscope of rustic california.
And then the unmistakeable smell of marijuana fills the air.
This place has been and always will be a natural church where life is celebrated, through spirit, and through combustible material.
I watch as a man moves to the side of a boulder and sparks up a joint. He does not appear to be overly concerned with the Drug Task Force swinging out of the trees.
Throughout the day, I will see a number of people spark one up.
Like the rocks around me, some things never change.
Big Sur is known for it’s beauty and easy going pace. And its climate of sunshine and a constant water supply make it a haven for illegal pot farmers who have cultivated patches of wacky tobaccy for as long as I can remember.
Legend has it that locals planted their fields in the middle of the redwoods where only they knew it grew. Some say it was guarded by dogs or explosives. I never saw either.
On this day, I will swim in the cool water and jump off the fallen tree. I will watch my kids swim in a place that I came to as a teen.
As I watch them enjoy the same spot I once did with my friends, I think how generations pass the torch. I have often told them of this spot, but till now, never brought them here.
I enjoy the day and know they did as well. Now they too have a memory of the thrill, the beauty, and the place that God created on the 7th day when he should have been resting.
And that is crazy.