Recently I viewed part of a PBS special about places to visit in the United States, with video footage and flyovers of iconic locations. And I realized that I have visited many of the places they filmed for the show. College and early career thrust me into travel, to the West Bank of New Orleans, on through Houston, followed by a trip across country to my first job assignment in California.
I have been blessed to see the western states up close; a hundred small earnings. Passing through the southern deserts in winter, across to the central beaches and green hills of coastal California, light gleaming across bluffs as the sun slides west, finally lying atop the flat Pacific Ocean. Stopping all along the coast from Santa Monica up through Santa Barbara, to Cambria (moonstone beach) and further still along highway 1 and 101 Carmel by The Sea, Monterey and Santa Cruz, the towns themselves are a bit worse for wear through time and life; the real beauty lies just beyond. Heavy surf pounding the shoreline, deep beds of kelp, cold fog rushes in and then lingers until the next noon.
San Francisco, how to describe its sharp lined beauty, what a place to start my adventures. My first trip up the coast of California, Yosemite to the east, Muir Woods to the north, Sequoia forests, rocky beaches, and great granite waterfalls, places I had only read about, then seeing in real time.
Further to the north, dense second and third growth forests, give way to bright summer skies of central Oregon. Across to the coast, the sun setting on another fine day, my son and I we drive along looking for a late dinner, and seafood eventually appears to (temporarily) sate our hunger. Portland is rough and tumble with still a small-town feel; bridges abound. And then east along the Columbia River gorge, waterfalls stare from the cliffs and urge us to stop for a visit. Small towns, more hungry lunches, to the top of Mount Hood and back. Mount Saint Helens. I stop and stare at both the past fury and renewal of nature; it might be my favorite place on Oregon. Washington state has beautiful country, and farms to the north, though heavy industry and traffic weighs it down below and around the city of Seattle. We visit first Starbucks, the Space Needle, see it all as a first-time tourist. East of the city rolling hills climb the slopes of Mt. Ranier, drive up and run back down. Twice. Cross the border into Canada, Vancouver brings beauty along with unsettled city danger. We loved it though we did not.
To the south, San Diego, built upon generations of development, try to picture the beauty of its youth. Laguna, Newport, Huntington, Redondo, Manhattan Beach, the once tired beach housing is refurbished, renewed, and glows softly in the morning light. We ran together out along the piers and back. Fresh air alone and together. The oil industry shaped my familiarity with Southern California. The heavy industry of El Segundo refinery, based in a sleepy beach town that bears its name. East across the city through concrete lined streets to Inglewood, tough and stark bright sun has hard edges, the land softens a bit as you travel further east to Whittier and La Habra, and oh Pasadena. Pico Canyon and the Newhall refinery, hidden in plain site from freeway travelers, and beyond up over the Castaic Pass to Bakersfield, two years a resident. Flat fields of cotton framed by slight, slanted oak trees, straight dusty roads rise toward the high eastern hills. Ventura was also a home base for many years, truly a paradise. The houses had a warm comfortable 50’s style demeaner, holding their charm through generations of homeowners.
The west coast was a second life home, for many years a resident and through frequent enough travel for work and play to fill in the blank spaces, as a curious traveler. It has grown and matured, reborn many times over and has struggled with the most recent ills of society and environment. Still resilient, retaining its beauty and sense of wonder on bluebird mornings and crisp bright evenings, imprinted on my life.