Highway 1 along the Pacific

After a few days of trembling, Scott from San Francisco replied after all and confirmed the stay. That makes me happy, now the next few days are safe. I set off very early and head south on Highway 101 from Arcata. The redwoods continue to accompany me. Especially in the “Avenue of Giants”, the really big ones stand close together right next to the road. You can even drive through one tree by car. Finally a benchmark…

After about 80 miles, I leave Highway 101, which drifts inland here, and change over to Highway 1. A really fun route. After too many straights in the Great Plains, every bend is a reason to cheer. I cheer for the entire rest of the day, without a break, for 350 miles.

The pines after the redwoods soon give way to pine trees. It smells like Italy. I arrive in Mendocino around midday. There is a noticeably sweet smell in the woods around here. The old hippy village has unfortunately gone over to the dark side of the force. Anti-establishment my arse: the cheapest shitty motel costs just under $100 a night. Definitely beyond my budget.

I’m already dead tired, but I can’t stay here. I quickly surf the net, write a few emails and try to prepare Scott for my early arrival tonight. It’s another 200 miles of non-stop bends to San Francisco. I tighten my sense of balance and speed off. The motorway is wonderfully empty. Steep cliffs to the Pacific on the right, meadows and forests on the left. Mighty breakers roll ashore. There’s not enough time to kite today anyway.

70 miles from San Francisco, the Pacific Ocean turns into a gschamig, I must have looked at it too hard. Thick fog covers the sea. I drive through Bodega Bay. The cafe from Hitchcock’s “The Birds” unfortunately burnt down two years later, but the school building and the church are still standing. There’s a large colony of seagulls on the beach. Never been so scary.

For the last few miles, the motorway bites firmly into the steep rock. Spectacular views, old fortifications and millionaires’ mansions line the road. I can hear the horns of big steamers even before I see the Golden Gate Bridge. The Pacific is pushing clouds into the bay again, I’m glad to at least see the first pillar – and not to be blown into the bay in winds of over 60km/h.

I log back into the net and look for Scotty’s address. Directly above Fishermans Wharf, on the highest hill. Marvellous. It’s difficult to get going here, even with an automatic. At first, you drop off quite a bit, then the engine howls. A few blocks further on, I find a car park where I don’t have to worry about the car tipping over when I open the door. I pull up to Scott’s house and realise that the nameplate is still missing after his move. Shit. I can’t reach him by mobile phone and decide to book a night at the youth hostel in Fishermans Wharf.