Driving Ellen, Part 3

Back in Ellen’s loving arms, Kris and I geared up for a few days of camping and parks and no showers. It was late afternoon when we reached Joshua Tree National Park. Taking the advice of the slightly frazzled woman at the visitor’s center, we set up camp at Jumbo Rocks. The site was beautiful with lots of, as expected, large rocks. There we sat, watching the sun set behind the mountains. The miles of Joshua trees were bathed in shades of purples, pinks and yellows. The desert air, excruciatingly hot by day, was at a perfect temperature. Kris and I turned to each other with a look that said, “You’re a great friend and all. Glad we’re here. But it’d be nice if you were a hot guy because then we could just do it right here and now.” Then millions of flies surrounded us putting an end to our various jumbo rock fantasies. We quickly set up our tent, which was a task that, by this point, we could accomplish within minutes. In an effort to escape the attack of the flies, we decided to go on a short hike before dinner. The Joshua Trees all looked like people standing in various positions. I took advantage of a Kodak moment involving Kris mirroring the stance of the cheerleader tree, with her invisible pompoms in hand and left leg kicked in the air. Keys Point was a particularly scenic spot; the smog from L.A. made the sky an incredible hazy blue color. As we marveled at the beauty of pollution, a little man, with a thick German accent, asked us if we were trekking. “Uh…yeah, we’re trekking.”

“Walking is the same thing as trekking, right Kris?” I asked, after leaving our German friend.”

“Guess so.” We trekked on, passed by a coyote that was sauntering down the dirt road full of purpose, as if following directions. Jackrabbits also ran among us. Fortunately, we failed to come into contact with any kangaroo rats. The park brochure provided a picture of these creatures and a happy little blurb insinuating that we should look forward to greeting such nasty looking rodents. As we ate dinner under a sky full of bright stars, another coyote strolled right by us. We exchanged hellos, cleaned up, parted the wall of flies surrounding the tent, and went to bed. I slept like a baby. The next morning’s one and a half mile ascent to the top of Ryan Mountain was fairly steep, but worth it. Not only for the amazing aerial view of the park, but for the opportunity to watch a guy run around trying to take the perfect lizard picture. Lizards can move fast, and do when being chased by an overly eager amateur photographer.

L.A. was new to me. I looked forward to exploring the city of fame and fortune, but had a feeling that I may find it to be a pretentious hellhole. Turns outs I eat that showy shit right up. One may think it’s easy to get to Hollywood since it is written in gigantic bright white letters on the side of a mountain. Well that one clearly is not being guided by Ellen. She may know her way around a k.d. lang concert, but getting to Hollywood was not so easy. After driving in many circles, squares and hexagons, we finally came upon the Walk of Fame. “Wow Kris…lookie there. Betty Grable’s name on the sidewalk,” I said as I stepped over the wad of pink gum covering the Y.

“Yeah, and there’s Will Rogers. Wait a minute, who the hell is Will Rogers?” Kris said in way that indicated she didn’t care what the answer was. Conveniently, I didn’t know the answer.

We continued to walk, and read aloud as if the other was suddenly illiterate. “Bob Hope!” “Look…there’s one for Tom Hanks.” Busy staring at the ground soaking in the glamour of Hollywood, I bumped into someone. I looked up and said excuse me to the homeless woman with the shopping cart standing in front of me. Thinking about the paradox of that moment was likely to make my brain ooze out my ears, so I just went the way of ignorance being bliss and continued my announcements, “ Ooh…Charo!”

Dodging traffic while standing in the middle of the street, Kris took the traditional Hollywood sign picture. The time had come for a walk down Rodeo Drive. It was a parade of tall, emaciated women, with Kate Spade bags, and stiletto heels, carrying twice their weight in shopping bags. I’m sure Julia Roberts has God pump in the clear blue skies and the warm air with just the right hint of cool breeze. Driving down celebrity row would have been better had we a clue whose homes we were driving by. Kris and I got smoothies at Jamba Juice, complete with the shots of energy and bee pollen and all that other California flare. We drove to the biggest mansion in Beverly Hills, passing the big pink hotel featured on the cover of The Eagles “Hotel California” album. That was just the kind of useless crap that I was looking for. The biggest mansion was indeed really big.

The traffic in L.A. is just wrong. I’m no stranger to city traffic, but sitting in the car, with twelve lanes of cars around me and endless lines of cars on the roads overhead, made me just a wee bit homicidal. Sometime during the twenty mile drive that took two hours, I thought about how there must be a correlation between rush hour traffic on the L.A. freeway, and the amount of drug overdoses I see on “True Hollywood Story.” With the help of deep cleansing breaths, we safely reached my friend Andrew’s house in Torrance. Andrew, his girlfriend Lisa, Kris and I had a relaxing dinner at the Redondo Beach Brewing Company. Still overly fascinated by all things entertainment, I bombarded Lisa with questions about her job as a television scriptwriter. Lisa’s energy and knack for writing wacky science fiction scripts, seemed to be a great balance with Andrew, the very levelheaded aeronautical engineer. It was fun to see an old friend and get a snapshot of where life’s roads have taken him.

Friday was Baywatch day. Kristen and I were going to Hermosa Beach to soak up the sun and do some intense people watching. I went for a run along the path that lined the beach, and passed all sorts of characters. It was a lesson in stereotypes having a basis in reality. Young women looking like they had just finished up taping “College Girls Gone Wild” roller bladed by in their itsy bitsy, teeny weenie, leather bikinis. Each pair of fake hooters was appreciated by a different meathead, coming straight from getting his chest hair waxed. Then I had the pleasure of jogging by the apartment that Donna and Kelly lived in on 90210. I stared in the window and remembered that special moment when Donna, dressed in lacey weirdness, surrounded by a zillion candles, finally remembered that she was born to be a slut and threw away her virginity like it was a gram of saturated fat. Could this day get any better?

Apparently it could. It took a lot of walking around the town of Torrance, before Kris and I decided to settle on Soup Plantation. Another appropriate title for Soup Plantation might be, “Come Turn Into A Senior Citizen In Just Three Seconds Flat.” All you can eat for just $7.99. But wait, they have a triple A discount! Make that, $7.49! Caught up in the frenzy of bargain food, we rushed around the aisles and loaded our plates with salads, soups, meat and pasta as if this was the last supper. Dessert would have to wait for round two. As we sat, shoveling the array of mismatching foods in our mouths, an employee came around with baskets of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. We attacked her with praise and grabbed a few cookies. “Holy shit…I love this place!” Kris yelled. Finally, we gave in to our complete lack of hunger, and slowly, with sweat beading on our brows, walked back to Andrew’s and nursed our indigestion.

What’s a road trip without getting really lost at least once? Probably very relaxing, but I wouldn’t know. Finding Big Sur was about as easy as finding a good piece of pizza anywhere west of New York. A few of the necessary roads were closed because of some pesky fire or something. We suddenly found ourselves driving through a military base, and the road we were on ended abruptly. A soldier approached the car, and said smoothly, “Can I help you ladies with something?”

“Geez, look what two weeks without Neutrogena foaming face wash has done to my combination skin!” I thought, as I stared at myself in his mirrored sunglasses.

Kristen, apparently not as vain, got to the heart of the matter, “We’re trying to get to Big Sur, but it seems like all the roads we need are closed.” Luckily Kristen was listening to the directions, because after obsessing about my pubescent facial issues, I thought about how this guy’s shiny black hair, olive skin and sparkly white teeth made him look like the heartthrob in a Disney cartoon. It turned out that the suave soldier was not aware that the road at the opposite side of the base was also closed. Frustrated, tired and now really lost, we stopped at a campsite, with the hopes that there may be someone there with a clue. Sounds of conversation and cooking whispered from the distance. We followed our ears and came upon a couple, preparing dinner at their site. We asked them for directions, and the man was very eager to help us. He pulled out his laptop, fired up his map program, punched in the information of where we needed to go, and hit enter. An unreadable map, involving thousands of little crisscrossing lines, appeared. This gentleman was very excited by the results and described in his English accent, exactly where we needed to go in a way that made absolutely no sense. Meanwhile, his girlfriend, bearing a striking resemblance to Rosanne Barr in looks, personality and tone of voice, continued to set up for dinner and make wisecracks about how he was going to get us more lost. Rosanne, while brushing crumbs off her black Harley t-shirt, took the liberty to translate her beau’s confusing ramblings into succinct sensible directions. Thanking them profusely, we agreed that we would take their advice and stop in Lucia for dinner. With a spring in our step, and confidence that the Brit and Rosanne knew what they were talking about, we got back in the car. However, as Tom Arnold can attest, Rosanne is not to be trusted. Their directions led to an all new closed off road. In case the giant orange “Do Not Enter” signs weren’t enough, two soldiers stood in the road waving their arms to ensure that we would stop. One of the soldiers approached the car, and we exasperatingly asked, “How do we get to Big Sur?”

He, matching our level of enthusiasm, said, “You’ll go straight and then you’ll go the mission….I think.”

“Holy Mother of God, get me off this damn base.” I said to myself. To him, I said, “You think or you know?” What’s the worst that could happen? He doesn’t like my attitude and shoots me with that big ass gun he’s got slung over his body? At least the road to hell is not closed off. Soldier man rambled on something that mentioned Yuma. Kristen told him that we had driven past Yuma when we went to Flagstaff. Well, apparently Yuma was this guy’s Nirvana. He immediately changed his tune. “Oh Flagstaff! I was in the army there! Route 40 and 17!” I suddenly had a change of heart about this fellow. There was something about his extreme excitement for southwestern highways that I found endearing.

“Yeah, Route 40! We drove right down that road!” I said enthusiastically.

He then gave us the same exact directions as before, but this time with energy, confidence and a big smile. We were off…a man that drove on Route 40 AND 17 would not lead us astray! After about twenty minutes, we drove up to a closed off road. Who was there to greet us but Disney’s answer to Erik Estrada. “Hey ladies, you’re back…” he said in a way that made my skin crawl.

“Holy fucking shit,” I said. “How the hell do we get to friggin Big Sur?” We promptly ignored everything he had to say, turned around and drove up to the base church. Maybe God knows how to get to Big Sur. As it turned out, the guy on his way into mass did. By 8pm, we were there.

Andrew Molera State Park is a camping free for all. We drove through the sea of cars and eventually found a parking spot along the highway. We paid our $1 each and followed the trail to the camping area, with our headlamps leading the way. It seemed we were walking the path to Woodstock. In front of us were rows and rows of tents. The smell of soyburgers barbecuing filled the air. Tons of people and their dogs skipped around in a pot-induced oblivion. Unfortunately it was fairly dark, making people watching difficult. We set up the tent somewhere in the center of Hippieville and bummed a lighter off the guys next to us. One said, “Sure man”, probably totally stoked that we were going to ask them to toke up with us. But I just needed to light the camping stove. We ate our lentil soup and crackers and called it a night. I laid in my sleeping bag listening to a group of dorky guys quoting “Best in Show”, “The Simpsons” and occasionally singing “Can You Picture That?” from the Muppet Movie. The lighter lenders were putting together their lists of top five Saturday Night Live actors. And yet another guy was hacking up various organs. The sweet melodies of these burnt out trust funders lulled me to sleep. In the morning, I zipped open the tent door and was staring directly at a thin woman with long wispy hair, doing yoga. California. Breakfast was being served on the side of Route 1, right in front of the car. As we enjoyed our oatmeal and banana we realized that there were guys asleep in the car parked right next to Ellen. It was just another morning on the shoulder of the Pacific Coast Highway.

Big Sur Campground was our first stop for the day. The slightly attractive ranger, donning the bat tattoo on his arm, gave us some input on where to go. We took his suggestion to hike Pfeiffer Falls, Oak Grove and Valley View. The schizophrenic weather kept things interesting; it was windy, cloudy and cool one minute and then almost immediately the sky cleared up and the temperature rose 20 degrees. Following those brief hikes, we made our way into the Nature Center, At the front of the small building sat a sixty-something man with a long gray ponytail. As we were so used to doing by this point, we asked him for suggestions on hiking. He pulled out his folder of maps and said, showing his toothless mouth, “Ya know Murphy? Whatever ya need is at the bottom? Well…Murphy and I go way back.”

This was a refreshing change from the directionally challenged folks at the military base. Not only did this guy’s maps make sense, but he explained things in a way we could understand. He offered a variety of options and practically demanded that we check out Partington Cove, which is a “ver-TEE-cul” short hike but worth it for the view of the ocean. We thanked him and left him to continue opening his credit card offers. “Whenever my own bank sends me an offer I send it back to the Department of Confusion. I sometimes get an interesting response back!” he said laughingly, as we walked out the door.

Partington Cove was as vertical as we had been warned and very beautiful. The trails in Julia Pfeiffer State Park had a bit of everything, mountains, wildflowers, waterfalls, and a short tunnel to creep through that stepped out to an incredible view of the Pacific. After hike-o-rama, we drove along the scenic coastal highway behind a snail’s-paced Winnebago, and eventually arrived in Carmel-By-The-Sea. The overly expensive shops were fun to wander around in for a while but hunger pangs took precedence. We set up our traveling kitchen on a log at the beach, and enjoyed our dinner-by-the-sea.