Assaulted and insulted by incessant rain episodes, my confined mind turned again to the crumbling old bike path running between two favorite local beaches at Refugio and El Capitan state parks.
The 3.5-mile bike path between the beautiful headlands defining these state parks does rear up more than 100 feet above the beach in stretches, but other sections drop right down to the beach where access is easily available.
In early February, between gusty winds and unpredictable rainfall, my usual outdoor consolations hiking up frontside trails like Jesusita or Cold Springs became impossible. It is true that in the days of yore I’d thoughtlessly race up Rattlesnake Canyon with guru Franko and Rolf Scheel, but our shoes were harming the footpath and there certainly was a greater likelihood of slipping or falling. Winter rainstorms are times to avoid our fragile local trails, so I pivoted to a seaside hike above the ravaged strand.
Parking outside of Refugio State Beach, my bandmate JJ and I strolled under concrete arches supporting Highway 101 soaring high above. We immediately turned south onto the seldom-used former bike path.
While gray and sodden, we could just make out the looming silhouettes of Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa islands while the restless sea pounded the beach littered with rubble and the outflow of various streams like Arroyo Quemado. Seabirds wheeled overhead and swooped down to detect what two wandering figures were doing alone on the bluffs.
Over the three hours, we encountered zero humans on the dilapidated old bike path, but we did enjoy the few lizards and isolated remnants of Indian tobacco plants. Indigenous Chumash made pespibata nicotine-laced balls from this native species of tree tobacco (Nicotiana glauca).
Below us on the battered shore, I finally picked out two humans — a surfer without much action going (bad shape there, dude, must be either a beginner or an expert), and another sussing it out from the beach. Did they construct the cool-looking palapa you see in the photograph’s foreground?
I’ve read that in Spanish, palapa originally meant a “petiole of the palm leaf” and originates out of the Tagalog language. It means a mostly open-sided dwelling with a thatched roof of dried palm leaves. Locally, what you see in the photograph is a postmodern Santa Barbara-style palapa, meaning a shack of driftwood serving as a barrier to the sun. It has monumental value in a way, and must have been fun to construct.
My beach friends and I have constructed many a wobbly palapa near places like More Mesa, near Hendry’s Beach, near Guadalupe Dunes, Hollister Ranch and more. Choose any beach where you can scavenge longer pieces of driftwood (palm fronds not essential) and feel that child-like need to build something with your own hands. No tools, no nails, no rush to complete the task. I recollect my 2-year-old son happily constructing amorphous sand castles by the hour at Refugio decades ago.
Some of the allure in these very temporary structures is the dim sense of defeating linear time and simply remaining there forever. Imagining that one could simply camp out here with water and basic supplies … just veg on the eternal beach ignoring politics and climate change and all the worries back home.
Novelist Stephen King runs a much-quoted retake on the Latin phrase tempus fugit (time flies) by asserting that time does not really fly by as in the hackneyed quote, and a better phrase would be tempus est umbra in mente, which roughly translated means “time is a shadow in the mind.”
About midway to El Capitan, the eroding bike path officially ends, and there is some fencing with an “Area Closed” sign you will notice in the photograph.
No gate bars the intrepid hikers, and everyone goes ahead, although bicyclists must stop here since the ribbon of asphalt contracts to a sliver up ahead and the vertical drop is at least 40 feet in places. With waves crashing below, keeping my left shoulder brushing up against the support wall (below the railroad tracks above), I crept along easily for the 100 yards of very narrow path. (Dogs are a poor idea here; at least have a leash for this portion.)
We walked on and then through the seaward cliffs of El Capitan State Beach. The fresh winter grass glowed green with astonishing brilliance as sun and shadow played tag on these natural lawns all day. Note the shimmering shamrock green that readers might think I filtered or enhanced for the two photographs. Nope. All the many El Cap campsites emitted these emerald hues, and when the sun would strike stunning green shone everywhere.
There were very few overnight car campers at El Capitan, which is often the case in winter and during rainfall. However, driving up to either state park with family and friends for half the day on one of these bluff sites provides joy and awe. I might bring cooking gear, frisbees and a book — and occasionally tea and crackers works better than a major feast.
Keep it simple, get off the clock (and iPhone) and look seaward for the leaping dolphins.
4.1.1.
Drive Highway 101 north to the Refugio Road off-ramp; park outside to avoid the parking fee (note the “No Parking” signs and avoid them). I did not feel bad about avoiding the $10 payment to park inside Refugio State Beach since JJ and I carefully avoided any use of amenities inside the state park — no water fountain (had my own water), no restroom, no sitting at any vacant tables. More information about pespibata here; Stephen King, “Fairy Tale: A Novel” (2022), p. 412.