Darling & Wolf: Southern California

The San Luis Reservoir provides water to the people of Central California. An unimpressive body of water, this splash in the middle of nowhere accompanies the San Luis Reservoir Recreation Area. Lots of reservoirs in the US are accompanied by a recreation area charging punters to launch boats, camp and park cars. Dismayed at the $30 fee to boondock (AKA dry camping or camping without hook-ups) we were directed down the road to a smaller, cheaper yet equally as undeveloped campsite. The dusty track took us toward the smaller lake, flanked on one side by rolling hills of gold and on the other a small plateau where we made our camp. A row of scrub and trees separated us from the water and sheltered us from a brutal wind which swept across the brown soup, pinning the waterborne coots to their spots and suspending the vultures in the air as if inanimate. We parked the van with the side doors to the lake so as to provide a view as we sat on our sofa. The doors opened we immediately accrued a swarm of insects which took Emma the best part of an hour to massacre. I rotated the van and we set about exploring our surroundings. Emma checked out the toilet facility. The brochure said that there were none available but the small hut with the international ‘male/female’ signs suggested otherwise. Hiroshima circa 1945 was a more hospitable place than this toilet, Emma informed me. I guess once the toilets got dirty they just started telling people that there were no toilets, thus negating the need to clean them. The paid attendant sat a mile away in a booth watching TV; I thought she might have been happy for a project to do-do.

As sun set the swallows dive bombed around the van to a background of bronze hills and lapping water. If it wasn’t such a weird place I’d recommend it for the views alone but once the sun had sunk the glory faded and we were reminded once more that we sat locked in a van, isolated from civilisation next to a man-made dam of muddy water occupied by mosquitos and adorned with a small hut filled with rotting human excrement.

We hadn’t intended to go to Santa Cruz, but memories of a trip I’d made three years prior drew me back. Previously, three friends and I took a two week road trip along the Californian coast. Santa Cruz was a highlight as we chatted to locals and danced away to a local band at the highly regarded establishment – The Crepe Place. I spent a few hours dragging Emma up and down the back streets looking for a bar we had visited before the gig. All I could remember of it was the vaudeville interior and dingy red lights. To my dismay I found it shut-up and I assumed closed down. We located an off-piste campsite called Bob’s Pineground and showered and changed before heading back out. Bob’s Pineground was Bob’s back garden. Just before leaving I saw a hummingbird check out a brightly coloured beach towel slung over the van door. Then, as Emma popped her head out to see what I was making a fuss about, a pair of reclusive Californian Quails ran across our path as a Western Scrub Jay landed on the table in front of us. If that wasn’t enough up close wildlife for 5 minutes, I looked up to see a Red Shouldered Hawk swoop into its nest right above our heads. Needless to say we were gobsmacked with the nature on offer at Bob’s place.

Our ornithological passions satisfied we strolled into town for a few beers. Not wishing to give up on the red roomed bar I had visited and encouraged but aforementioned beers I dragged Emma one last time in search of the mythical watering hole. Lo and behold I found the doors open and in exactly the same condition as I remembered. I bounced in like an overactive puppy who had drunk a few too many beers and immediately struck up conversation with the locals. One, Tate, turned out to be from London, coincidentally from the same area we (used to) live; he even had the same doctor as me! Tate chatted to me about his life in Santa Cruz before I bluntly insisted he took Emma and me on his night out. It turned out that he was waiting for the barmaid to finish her shift so she could drive him to a metal gig out in the sticks. I politely forced her to take us with her and before we knew it we were in the back of a stranger’s car being driven across town.

The bar was a shed like complex located on the outskirts of town. Emma and I tucked into some local brews, observed the old-school bowling alley out back and listened to the terrible dross emitted from the ‘doom-metal’ band on stage. Before long we began to wonder where the hell we were – nobody walks in the US, everyone had driven to this bar – so we could have been miles and miles from where we were staying. With my last dregs of phone battery I opened Google maps and pinpointed our location which happened to be right next door to Bob’s. Sometimes you do things which on any other day you would deem foolish. By all accounts we should have found ourselves 20 miles from home on an industrial estate surrounded by miscreants. Not today; today my foolishness paid off. We swayed back through Bob’s yard, past his pit-bull terrier and flopped happily onto our bed – pre-set up by an otherwise organised and resourceful me.

We drove south via Big Sur to the town of San Luis Obispo. I had been here before on my other travels but the town had been dead and we found nothing to entertain us during our stay. This time however the lively atmosphere was in full swing as prospective students flooded to town to check out the local university. We spent a happy number of hours walking round the town, browsing the shops and drinking the local coffee. We eventually ended up in Mother’s Tavern or Mo-Tav and I started chatting to a bloke who looked like Lemmy about the baseball on TV. Mickey, as he introduced himself, told me he was playing in a band next door at SLO Brew, the local brew pub/music venue. Mickey happened to be Mickey from the band Mickey and the Motorcars, a country-rock outfit touring the country at that time. I told him we’d come and watch so later that evening we headed into the plaid-infested SLO Brew to watch a genre of music I have very rarely been interested in. Well Mickey and his lovely little motorcars were awesome. Although Emma refused to two-step dance with me I dragged her to the front and we cheered him on like a couple of very out of place British losers. It was worth is to see the look on everyone’s faces when Mickey looked down and saluted Emma and I. Groupies. I think that makes us groupies.
So yeah that's me now. I pretty much hang out with rock stars. We had at this point taken to sleeping in the van parked on a quiet street. Saves us $30-50 a night which leaves more money for rock star things like leather and expensive seafood.

Further down the coast we visited Pismo Beach, occasional holiday spot for what I have called the Pismo Dicks. Arriving at an oversubscribed state park campground we were turned around and told to come back at 12pm. We parked outside for an hour and drove back, along with around 15 others, at 11.55. Lacking in management skills the ranger in charge of the entry booth told everyone to drive round in circles. The result was people who had been waiting for 5 minutes briefly found themselves at the front of the queue whilst those of us who had waited for hours were sent to the back. Round and round the circle of vehicles went until the ranger arranged a queue. By this point we had been cut up and over taken by a bunch of Pismo Dicks who wouldn’t know a polite queue if I had organised a public forum to discuss the details of a polite queue and provided biscuits and coffee. I got angry but we got in – just; we were the last campers given a spot for the night. Livid at the behaviour of the jeering, and frankly overweight, visitors to Pismo we left early the next morning lest we encounter more dickish behaviour on the way out.

Santa Barbara was a lovely little town which Emma had recalled from her travels here during her childhood. Wealthy and it knows it, Santa Barbz was once again a pleasant place to wander on a warm spring day. We visited the beautiful town courthouse so as take in a small piece of the culture (other than coffee shops, restaurants and breweries). There also seemed to be relaxed regulations regarding overnight parking as the streets a short walk away from the centre hosted a number of beat-up campers and RV’s. We parked out of the way under a big tropical tree and spent the night undisturbed, but for a heavy footed squirrel smashing about on the roof.

Our journey on to San Diego was a quick one. We had intended to stop in Santa Monica in LA but the roads approaching and within LA were absolutely atrocious. Deciding whilst we were still on the move to bypass LA completely we pushed on to San Diego by way of an overnight stop in Dana Point.

Both Emma and I had looked forward to San Diego for a while. We had read up on an area of the city where RV owners could park up for weeks at a time and enjoy the ocean scenery. Also we would be making a stop at the world famous zoo, a must for any animal lover in Southern California. Since the blog containing the San Diego RV parking information had been written, the city had cracked down on all overnight parking leaving us with the choice of paying $50 for a simple tarmac spot by the freeway or a slightly cheaper option of camping up in a the hills at Sweetwater State Park. We opted for the state park. This meant that we had to drive in and out of the city to explore and pay very high parking charges whilst we were there. This, plus the fact that San Diego has no real centre of activity – the downtown occupies a number of blocks, most of which contains buildings no tourist would ever have any interest in – meant that we weren’t all that taken with the city. Still, the zoo was excellent. We watched the zookeepers feed the Maned Wolves mice and explain a little about the animals and their preservation programs. The problem with Maned Wolves is that they smell like nothing I have ever experienced before. At first you notice the scent of melted cheese and herbs which makes your mouth water. This is closely followed by the bitterness of marijuana and urine before clipping the back of your throat with full blown sewage. On their own these smells are bearable but when you think you are smelling something delicious only to be tricked into sniffing acrid piss your mind (and stomach) does somersaults. This is how I imagine businessmen visiting Thailand feel when they pay for sex only to find that Tina is actually Terry. Ashamed, disgusted and only slightly aroused. But mostly disgusted.

Before leaving San Diego we picked up a nest of ants that had managed to get inside via our hookup cable. Emma and I had fun murdering an entire colony as well as transporting a few remaining survivors across America and out into the deserts of Arizona.