California & Arizona 2022

Before The Road Trip Begins: Early Days In California

With a four week full on tour of California ahead of us, our first few days here feel something like a warm up exercise before the green light goes on and we’re away on the tour. Shorter but varied walks, some steep climbs and a measure of acclimatisation have been in order, though not without some surprises along the way – never mind the whole of California, there is plenty of variety in LA County, it seems.

Our first base before we commence our road trip is my daughter Lindsay’s home in Acton, some 47 miles north of Los Angeles – although in truth we are a couple of miles outside of downtown Acton on the other side of Highway 14 in the foothills of the mountains. This is a piece of small town America just how we outsiders might picture it, the wide open spaces of rural California unmissably reflected in the private houses each perched on its own sizeable plot of land, each plot proudly bordered by gleaming white ranch fencing.

These plots could never be described as gardens, lawns are non-existent and the dusty arid ground supports little in the way of flora  – due not only to the non-conducive climate but also the very real need for protective fire breaks around each property. What these houses lack in greenery they make up for in vehicles: almost every house seems to be home to cars, a pick up, an RV, horse boxes, trailers and various other modes of mechanical transport. Stars and stripes flags flutter in the breeze, horses mooch around the stables, quails and rabbits scuff around in the dirt. There’s at least one dog guarding each property.

We look over all of this from the top of the nearby ridge, climbing the steep incline, ambling along the top of the ridge way above the highway and scrambling down the crazily steep eastern end. Birds of prey circle overhead and gophers kick up dust as they scurry around. With a combination of jet lag, the steep climbs and the intense heat on this first day, we limit ourselves to five miles of hiking before we call it a day and grab an iced coffee. The terrain around Acton is truly parched, crisp plants crackling underfoot, the brutal heat only partly soothed by the mountain winds. 

Like so many other California towns, Acton owes its existence to gold, although a railroad workers’ camp apparently existed here before the prospectors came on the scene. Gold was discovered here not as part of the major Gold Rush of 1849-1853 (what a wonderful piece of history that is!) but a little later in 1887, first at the Red Rover Mine and subsequently at the Governor Mine just off what is now Highway 14. In downtown Acton the saloon bar, providing the locals with food and beer since opening to serve the miners in 1889, is called The 49er and properly looks the part.

With temperatures comfortably lower by Friday we revisit Malibu and its stretch of sumptuous coastline, taking a stroll up and over Point Dume and along some of the fine sand beaches. At one point just south of the headland, a colony of sea lions bask in the sunshine on the rocks down below the cliff path, seemingly relishing the cool spray as the rollers turn to white surf on the rocks. Pelicans glide overhead like heavy military aircraft, gulls gang up to scavenge from picnics. The sea lion colony is the highlight though, maybe a foretaste of all California is destined to show us.

A half hour drive from Acton, beyond Santa Clarita, lies Towsley Canyon where hiking trails wind around the hills and through valleys far more lush than most of this arid, drought suffering area. Following the 5-mile Towsley Canyon Loop Trail provides some surprises on the bird spotting front, incorporates a near-1,000 foot elevation gain, and takes us past a natural phenomenon which is a first for us.

As well as the woodpeckers, wrentits and scrub jays, we see a spotted towhee, house finches, hummingbirds, an unidentified bright yellow bird, and an oriole, all while vultures circle silently above the canyon. Wild oats thrive amongst the greenery, strong scented herbs fill the air with an almost medicinal odour, empty seed pods of every shape and size hang from the parched plants, their job done for another season.

Descending towards the bottom of the canyon a new smell reaches our noses – the familiar but somehow incongruous scent of tar. Here lies the unusual natural phenomenon: natural tar pits. Thick black tar oozes from the earth’s pores, slides languidly down the hillside to reach barely moving pools and rivers at the bottom, the liquified remains of the dead wood of millennia, some dating from as far back as the Ice Age. 

With LA’s famed La Brea tar pits, where the tar brings dinosaur bones to the surface, not so far away, this strange sight may be common in these parts, but for us it’s a new one! 

We may not have even started the big road trip yet, but these first few days have already provided some surprises.

Giant Trees & Changing Weather: Acton-Sequoia-Morro Bay

So crystal clear is the light around Acton that the surrounding mountains are frequently cast into sharp detail, so clearly defined as to appear, at times, almost one dimensional. Morning light brings a shadowy dapple to the contours, evening sunsets swathe the mountainsides in a pinkish tinge; in between those times the bright sunlight brings a majesty to the whole scene. There is something very special about it.

But our time in Acton is up and it’s goodbye to the mountains and canyons and it’s goodbye for now to my daughter Lindsay – opportunities to be with loved ones who live so far away are precious and it has been absolutely lovely to be here. Now, a California adventure awaits.

If diverse scenery is one of California’s renowned characteristics then we certainly get an introduction to it on the drive upstate towards our next destination. Collecting our hire car from Palmdale – with glorious imagery we have a Chevvy for our road trip – our journey northwards on Highways 58 and 99 takes us out of the mountains and into barren desert-like plains, and then down into the lush green of fruit farms and vineyards. Mile upon mile of fruit trees pass by, punctuated by acres of parched grass the colour of a surf bum’s blond hair.

Eventually we drop in to Visalia – you say it “Vye-Sally-a” – a small town with oak trees and a fast flowing river, a main street full of bars and eateries, and, judging by tonight, a thermometer where the mercury never drops too far. It’s extremely hot as we settle into our new surroundings.

Visalia is our gateway to Sequoia National Park, and the spectacular approach to the Park is just a tiny foretaste of the magnificent sights of our fabulous day hiking its trails. Home to the Giant Forest and including the world’s largest tree, the Park is an endless delight as we walk through and among these towering Goliaths.

Forest management includes both controlled burning and branch removal, creating a strong scent of cut pinewood throughout our walks. Giant sequoias, like the equally huge giant redwoods, are unique to California, the distinctive colourful bark catching sunlight through the trees and shining a shade of cinnamon amongst the greenery. We’re still in awe of their sheer size after over five hours studying these majestic beasts.

Following three trails – the General Sherman, the Morro Rock and the Soldiers Loop – also takes us to the top of Morro Rock, a soaring granite monolith towering above the canyon below. A “morro” is the former heart of a volcano, exfoliated by wind erosion to leave an immense rock seemingly reaching for the sky. The views from the top, across the mountains and canyons and with a clear sight of the mighty Great Western Divide, the Sierra Nevada, are absolutely staggering.

Down in Visalia today the temperature tops 100F, though up here in Sequoia it’s “only” in the low 80s so with the extensive tree cover the hiking is easily manageable despite the heat. And yet, with 100-degree temperatures just a few miles away, pockets of snow are clearly visible on the peaks as we look across from the top of Morro Rock.

The General Sherman is the largest tree in the world by volume, but isn’t either the tallest or the oldest, and in fact despite its colossal form, it wouldn’t really stand out in this land of thousands of giants if it wasn’t for the helpful signs. It is estimated that the weight of the General Sherman is some 1,300 tons, its height 275 feet, and each year it grows enough wood to form a foot-wide tree 60ft high. It has been dated at 2,200 years old and still going.

The trails are fabulous; only at the major points are there any crowds and we meet just handfuls of other hikers on the more remote stretches. Spending a full day wandering amongst some of nature’s most impressive creations is absolutely fantastic. Afterwards, of course, we have to take the obligatory drive through the Tunnel Log, including the equally obligatory photo opportunity for me and the Chevvy.

Later, as we wander in to downtown Visalia for our evening meal, it is, implausibly, still 98F at 8pm – perhaps unsurprising then that we experience a huge thunderstorm during the night, torrential rain hammering down on to the arid ground.

There is though something odd about the weather forecast for our next destination as we head away from Visalia and towards the California coast – surely it’s an error on the website, it can’t really be nearly 40 degrees cooler, can it? Only fifteen miles or so from Morro Bay, the temperature drops below 90, down through the 80s, the 70s, until eventually we arrive on the coast to find a sea fog enveloping the town and a proper chill in the air.

So here we are on the Pacific coast of California, our minds full of those images of endless summer on surfing beaches, yet we’re wearing sweatshirts and long trousers and putting the heating on in our room to take the chill off the air. Just about the polar opposite of our visions of this part of the journey.

A first saunter around Morro Bay’s picturesque harbour reveals a gorgeous little seaside town and fishing port which is clearly a thoroughly charming place, still obviously so despite the strange weather. It somehow feels a little bit like a March day in Cornwall. The unusually shaped bay is absolutely teeming with wildlife – more on that in our next post – and the barking of seals joins the sound of the fog warning drifting through the murk.

As I stir in bed at around 4am, I can just detect the sound of the foghorn still sending out its warning. We may not see the sun again just yet, I fear.

The Pacific Coast: 3 Days In Morro Bay

“My name is Claudia, I live here”, says the elderly, stooping lady, “I’ll show you to your room”, and leads us into a room which looks rather like an attempt to recreate an English country house, with deep pile carpet, fussy wooden furniture and a bed which needs a step ladder to climb into. 

Michaela says she’s back in Auntie Marjorie’s house. All I can think of is an English comedy show, The League Of Gentlemen – “this is a local hotel for local people”. It’s clean and it’s very welcoming but we’re in 1950s England rather than the thrust of modern America: we have to stifle our laughter as we unpack our backpacks. It’s a bit like sleeping in a lovingly kept museum.

“In the morning you will find scones, yoghurt and granola here, on the table, in a basket” says Claudia, “but you must put the empty basket back in the same place”. Yes Claudia, of course we will. 

Just as we feared, the fog hasn’t dispersed by morning and Morro Bay is still cold, the Pacific still hidden behind a thick bank of swirling ha. Frustratingly, this is purely coastal fog – you only have to travel a couple of miles inland to find blue skies and sunshine, and now and again we can even see where the fog barrier ends and the sun kiss begins.

Yet despite all this, Morro Bay is a charming little fishing town with a bay teeming with wildlife and a lively and foodie seafront. It’s a bit like taking a Cornish surfing town (say Perranporth), mixing it with an upmarket fish restaurant town (say Whitstable) and dousing it in American culture. Trouble is, the comparison with England includes the weather.

The curving bay, with stretches of land in midwater and the burgeoning rock which gives the town its name, is unusual in shape, with natural spits and islands forming what are almost separate bodies of water.

Ships have been wrecked and lives have been lost entering the narrow neck of the harbour entrance which, it seems, can be suddenly battered by raging seas as storms well up out of nowhere without warning. A touching memorial to the families of fishermen stands at the water’s edge, depicting those praying for the safe return of loved ones.

In today’s fog, the sound of barking seals travels eerily across the shrouded water from the concrete island which they have adopted as their cramped home, huddling together in the mist. A huge flock of pelicans occupy the bay, occasionally all taking to the wing but mostly idly riding the waves. Ground squirrels scurry around the rocks completely oblivious to the close presence of humans; an osprey swoops overhead searching for prey. To our absolute delight, a sea otter puts on a swimming display in the harbour waters, rolling in the water to its heart’s content, apparently smiling as it does so. You can watch the little fella here……

Clams, a restaurant specialty here, live in their millions beneath the sand, although many of them end up in the delicious chowder served at the waterfront restaurants. The seafood here is a delight in all its forms.

Exploring the coast either side of our current base, we first venture southwards to the town of Pismo Beach, a seaside resort town which is, dare we say, rather more tacky than Morro Bay, though there is no arguing over its impressive golden sand beaches. A little further south is Oceano where huge sand dunes lie behind the beach, though unfortunately the fog is so thick on our visit that the dunes are all but invisible.

We’re learning about this fog, and it turns out not to be an unusual event, but is in fact a predictable June effect. Known as the “June gloom”, this huge bank of thick fog which clings to the shoreline is caused by the very hot air from inland California meeting the cold Pacific air and forming large amounts of condensation. Moses, the barman at the “Three Stacks And A Rock” brewery bar, grew up here, and tells us that summer is always like this. A far cry from the Beach Boys/endless summer/wall-to-wall sunshine/California Dreamin’ pictures we had in our minds before we arrived.

Friday though brings respite in the form of warm sunny patches between the fog belts – to tour different destinations is to play a game of fog dodgeball. We do it well, seeing Morro Bay in morning sunshine for the very first time, then taking in the absolutely charming little town of Cambria with its picturesque wooden houses and quaint cafes, and strolling along the path above the delightfully named Moonstone Beach.

Beyond Cambria and north of San Simeon, the fog rolls out to sea and leaves us with an afternoon of clear blue skies and striking blue-and-white shoreline, providing some classic and beautiful coastal views. And just here, at a point known as Piedras Blancas, is our most thrilling sight of the day, a colony of elephant seals wallowing in the sand.

This colony, or rookery as it’s correctly called, was believed to have almost reached extinction when a group of about fifty were found on an offshore island.  Migrating to the beaches around this area only in 1990, the rookery bred with enormous success and there are now thought to be more than 15,000 based here.

These are huge beasts, so cumbersome and ungainly on land, so graceful in the water. Watching them haul their huge bulk in short bursts across the sand and then taking a necessary breather, flicking sand over their bodies, young males mock fighting, is all mesmerising. It’s a wonderful wildlife watching experience.

And so we return for our third and final evening in Morro Bay before we move further upstate. We can see the fog from two miles away – this very pleasant town is once again choked by sea fog even though we’ve been enjoying sunshine just half an hour away. 

Claudia greets us, knowing we’re checking out tomorrow.

“I’ll be sorry to see you go”, she says, but adds, rather pointedly, “by eleven o’clock very latest if you don’t mind”. Yes Claudia, we’ll be gone.

Along Route 1: Morro Bay To Monterey

One of our last conversations in Morro Bay is in The Libertine bar, with two guys who are driving Route 1 north to south, the opposite way to us, who tell us the fog has been so consistent that they haven’t seen much of the Pacific all the way from San Francisco. So we say goodbye to Claudia and farewell to Morro Bay hoping that we don’t have the same experience.

Unfortunately, for the most part we do – what we hoped would be a spectacular drive up the Pacific Highway (Route 1) sees the coast obscured by fog for well over half the journey once we are beyond Cambria, but those sections where we have clear views do provide spectacular vistas. The huge mountains seem to plunge straight into the waters, interrupted only by the road itself.

Nowhere has the narrow coastal grip of the fog been more obvious than when we stop en route at Hearst Castle. As we turn off, the highway is misty and the ocean invisible; as we park the Chevvy just a few hundred yards inland off the highway, it’s bright but crisp; by the time we’ve taken the shuttle bus up the hill to the house, it’s scorching – and we look down on the huge expanse of fog which sits below us just above the ocean.

Hearst Castle is a place of wonder, the brainchild of William Randolph Hearst and the creation of his obviously gifted architect Julia Morgan. The only child of a self-made mining and ranching millionaire, Hearst travelled extensively throughout Europe and the Americas as a youngster with his mother and later as a young adult. Ahead of inheriting the family fortune, Hearst built his own majorly successful empire as what today we would call a media mogul, with populist newspapers, magazines and movies helping to generate considerable wealth.

The gigantic area on which Hearst Castle stands – the northern boundary of the estate is 35 miles from the house – had been acquired by Hearst Snr and was always a favourite of the son, so much so that on inheriting the place he set about building “a little something” on the hill. Despite its name, it isn’t a castle, and it definitely isn’t a “little something”, but it is truly magnificent.

Set in something resembling a Mediterranean village way up on the top of the hills, Hearst Castle is a somewhat outrageous example of indulgence and opulence, stunningly designed and sumptuously finished. If Hearst himself was inspired, then Julia Morgan was one serious talent. With in-depth knowledge and considerable wealth at his disposal, Hearst assembled a major collection of artefacts, sculptures, artworks and other features, which Morgan then absorbed into the design of the property.

Columns from Rome, ceilings from Spain, statues from Egypt, even fireplaces from France, all feature. Rather than displayed on plinths or the like, these were all incorporated into Morgan’s designs, forming integral parts as the “castle” rooms were built around each feature. The result is a level of splendour which has to be seen to be believed. 22-carat gold tiles and Murano glass in the swimming pool? You got it…

Sumptuous room after sumptuous room greeted the great and the good throughout Hearst’s tenure, from serving Presidents (Coolidge) to future Prime Ministers (Churchill), and an array of movie stars including Cary Grant and Charlie Chaplin.

Hearst also created America’s largest private zoo in the extended grounds, and descendants of the original zebras still roam amongst the cattle today. The tours of the castle are, by the way, terrifically done, informative, entertaining and well thought through.

North of Hearst Castle the fog swirls and the sun occasionally peeps through, providing stunning glimpses of the amazing Big Sur coastline. Construction of Highway 1, the Pacific Highway, must have been a considerable civil engineering challenge; with good fortune, the weather clears enough for us to obtain great views of the famous, and spectacular, Bixby Bridge.

With time moving on, we pass by Carmel-by-the-Sea, intending to return later, and drop into our new base of Monterey, former sardine capital of the world, under bright blue skies. A few nights ago in Visalia, we stumbled upon a micro brewery, the Sequoia Brewing Company, which had a large selection of beers brewed on site and meals of superb quality. Wandering into downtown Monterey, we soon find ourselves entering a similar establishment, the Alvarado Street Brewery, where the beer, the choices and the food all hit the same high as Visalia.

Mac’n’cheese with bacon, anyone?

Monterey is a delight, one of the most instantly welcoming and appealing places we can imagine. Downtown Monterey, centred around Alvarado Street which houses the brewery, is one of three separate areas full of life, together with Old Fishermen’s Wharf and Cannery Row. The former is a wooden pier whose name tells its history, the latter was the centre of the sardine industry where, at its height, 200,000 tons of sardines were processed each year.

Intense fishing systems hauled heavier catches more and more quickly, until around the late 1940s/early 1950s the sardines suddenly vanished and the canneries all went bust. Some blamed over-fishing, some blamed changes to the tidal flow, others cited divine retribution, but, whatever the reason, the Row’s heyday was over.

Except now it’s conceivably heyday number two, with Cannery Row a tourist destination packed with bars, fish restaurants and a giant aquarium, buzzing with life and vitality. Immortalised during the sardine heyday by Steinbeck’s novel of the same name, Cannery Row nowadays promotes leisure rather than industry but tributes to its past are evident everywhere.

Monterey generally is obviously fiercely proud of its history, a history which includes original Rumsen tribe hunter gatherers, occupation by the Spanish, a period of Mexican rule and ultimately incorporation into the USA. In fact, it was in Monterey that California’s first constitutional convention was held, effectively paving the way for California to become an American state. 

An interesting “path of history” leads us around much of Monterey’s sights including many adobe houses, California’s first theatre, the jailhouse and Robert Louis Stevenson’s briefly occupied home. This city has much to celebrate in terms of heritage.

In our time so far in Monterey, the fog has settled out at sea and the sun has shone warmly on the city. This is a city full of life, colour and vibrancy with a rich past and a welcoming present; every bar seems to have at least six draught beers on tap and sensational seafood is served in the many restaurants with fabulous views across the harbour and out to sea.

What’s not to love about Monterey?

Going Large: From Monterey to San Francisco  

A few miles south of Monterey across the peninsula lies the celebrated, Clint Eastwood-famed town of Carmel-by-the-Sea, nestling amongst the tall pines and cypress trees and looking out across the Pacific. There’s no mistaking, even at first glance, that this is one seriously wealthy town, as exquisite and well presented as it is possible to imagine. Almost too perfect.

The pristine, gleaming main street slopes downhill through the trees to an immaculate white sand beach where the Pacific rollers roar and rumble; on its leafy streets Carmel must surely set a world record for the number of art galleries per square mile. Every garden seems manicured and well stocked, every house well maintained, every shop upmarket. We glance in the window of a “realtor”. 3 million dollar single storey house? You got it. 11 million dollar seafront property? You got it…

From Carmel we take the renowned 17-Mile Drive around Pebble Beach and the peninsula, passing Spanish Bay and several golf courses. We’re not sure which is the most spectacular: the stunning coastal views, the wildlife (birds, seals, sea lions and deer), or the billionaire homes peeping from between the trees. No wonder this drive – you have to pay a toll just to enter the road – has garnered its reputation as a must-do.

Having left our planned boat trip until what is forecast to be the brightest day, there’s a bit of a scare as the skipper ponders cancelling today’s trips – apparently the seas are rough out there. In the end they decide it’s on, but our briefing prior to boarding includes instructions on how and where to be ill if you’re seasick, including the line, “if you can, go for distance, and feed the fish”. Nice.

This is the 100ft Atlantis, one of Monterey’s whale watching boats, which hits the rolling waves pretty much as soon as we leave the protection of the harbour wall and pass the baying sea lions on the rocks. What we are then privileged to witness leaves no room for anything as mundane as seasickness: it is an absolutely thrilling two-and-a-half hours. 

Over and over again the humpback whales perform what our narrator refers to as surface behaviours, with tail and flipper slaps and body breaches common and repeated sights. A mum and her calf seem to play endlessly in the choppy sea, for a while joined by another adult whale, giving us fantastic views of these giant mammals which are way beyond our expectations for the trip. Their performance is so good that Michaela captures several terrific shots…

The sun is powerful but of course it’s cold on deck, so the delicious clam chowder on the wharf afterwards gives us chance to sit and chat through all we have just seen. What a great experience.

OK so the seafood here in California is on a different level. Soft white fish, great chowder, delicious shellfish and the tenderest calamari we’ve ever eaten. Mussels to die for. And then there’s craft beers and California wines. And mac’n’cheese. But crispy fried brussels sprouts with lime juice and pecorino? Yep, you got it.

As we pack up in readiness to leave Monterey, it’s pretty obvious that we got lucky: after enjoying several bright sunny days in our time here, the fog has rolled right in this morning and it’s considerably colder. Off next to San Francisco, via a brief lunch stop in the pleasant town of Palo Alto.

Travelling California is not easy on the wallet – this will be our most expensive trip to date by some distance – accommodation is pricey, eating out is high cost, even coffees and beer will hit your budget hard. But one of the shocks when we were at the planning stage was the cost of parking the car in downtown San Francisco: get this – the handy parking near our hotel would cost more than any accommodation we had in either Egypt or Tunisia. Yep, more for the car to sleep than it’s been costing us!

Our solution was to leave the car in the long stay car park at San Francisco Airport, where the cost for five nights is only marginally more than a single night in the city centre. So our not-cheap hired Chevvy will now sit waiting for us at SFO for a few days while we explore this iconic city.

Coming into the centre on the efficient BART train is quick and easy, the cost for once reasonable, particularly for me as an over 65 (62.5% discount!); our hotel room has such sensational views from the 25th floor across the city to the bay that we spend our first few minutes just gazing in awe through the window.

And so we begin our SF adventure, securing our “Clipper” cards for public transport and within the first hour taking our first streetcar ride to Fishermans Wharf, followed by a wander along the seafront, up through Washington Square to North Beach. Fishermans Wharf is an exaggerated, slightly overblown version of its Monterey namesake. Or maybe Monterey is a modified version of this one.

Despite its name, North Beach isn’t a beach but is a series of downtown streets with more Italian restaurants than your average Italian town, red, white and green everywhere and the smell of pizza in the air. Our pasta is OK, they give us a free beer.

Proper bone chilling cold winds blow in off the harbour and the grey fog descends as the sun abandons its job for the day. It’s cold well before dark. Later, as we watch the city lights from our 25th floor vantage point, the fog lifts a little and the skyscrapers seem to do what their name suggests. Coit Tower glows rainbow colours in sequence. 

This is going to be an amazing part of our California adventure. 

San Francisco #1

Where do we begin, to describe this exciting, unique city. What makes San Francisco what it is? Is it those incredibly steep streets which look like a tarmac roller coaster, is it the streetcars and cable cars we all associate with the views? Is it THAT bridge, is it THAT prison on its isolated island? Is it the amazing things you can do (and we did) here, is it the bars that just make you want to grab a stool and try all the beers? Chinatown? North Beach? Pier 39? Restaurants at the waterfront? Crazy shit like Lombard Street or Haight Ashbury? Or even the way the fog wraps itself around the tops of the skyscrapers?

We guess the truth is, the best thing is just the feeling of being here in this cosmopolitan, inclusive city, full of experiences, yet where the sum is greater than the not inconsiderable parts. 

“I’m Brad, I just wanna say welcome to my beautiful city” he says from behind his beer, “where you guys from?”

“England”.

“Oh my God”, he drawls, lengthening the vowel sounds, “if you’re from England, you must love how friendly we are here”. 

We confirm that they are, and we do.

“Well, welcome to this beautiful place, you make sure you have a great time”.

Yep, we did…..

We’ve had a couple of hours to kill waiting for the fog to clear to enable the flight to go ahead, time enough to wander around the strange houseboat village near Sausalito, across the water from the city. To our delight the sun has broken through, the fog has retreated to the hilltops and we are now pretty confident things will go ahead.

Consequently we are full of excitement as we walk back to the wooden jetty where the little yellow and white seaplane is already chugging in readiness. A seaplane flight was on our wish list right from the start when we drew up our retirement travel plans in 2019, so for the moment to have at last arrived is pure joy. And yet the flight still exceeds our expectations…

Across the water to a calm stretch for take-off, up and above those houseboats, then round to the Golden Gate Bridge, across the bay, over the city, Alcatraz and Angel Island, it’s half an hour of absolute bliss. Just us two and the pilot and co-pilot, above this magnificent city, buffeted by the mountain air, unable to stop grinning, watching the city and the sea pass close beneath the plane, the whole panorama laid out beneath us. What a place to make our seaplane wish come true. Fantastic.

You don’t have to be a lover of transport (we are!) to get a buzz out of darting around San Francisco on any of its different modes. The BART and the metro are efficient, the buses are regular and easy, but the real fun is to be had on the streetcars and especially the world famous cable cars. Hanging on to a pole as we ride the clanking cars over the peaks of the hills, the driver (actually called a “gripman”) wrenching the oversize control stick back and forth, is not only enormous fun but also something we’ve seen pictures of since we were kids.

The cable cars are of course a tourist thing, but simply being able to use those and the streetcars to shoot around the city gives a great feeling of just being somewhere different, somewhere special. A streetcar here, a cable car there, a bus when we need one. Easy. And so so cool.

One of the most recognisable structures in the entire world, the Golden Gate Bridge spans across the bay with an almost ghostly presence – not the majesty of a Taj Mahal or the romance of a Rialto, but an eerie, looming quality as it drifts in and out of the fog. Until you’re up close, you can’t see its colour. And then, when you are indeed up close, its mighty power takes over.

Having seen it from afar and having seen it from the air, we now see it from…well, on it. From the spectacular viewing platforms at Fort Point, we walk out on to the bridge to see its towering body for ourselves, trudging more than half way across before turning back. The walk is a massacre of our ears, the fierce howling wind competing with the roar of the traffic to block out all other sound: we have to shout our words just to speak. 

It’s cold too. Around us the biting wind blows hard; above and around us the giant stanchions and muscling cables stand tall; beneath us – way, way beneath us – the choppy Pacific waters loom cold and grey. It’s cold and it’s loud and it’s full on, yet the whole walk is somehow exhilarating and uplifting, our spirits taken ever upwards by the rush of adrenaline.

For the inmates, life at Alcatraz was tough. A hard line, no nonsense policy of rule enforcement (we would call it zero tolerance today), a repetitive daily routine, harsh punishments for anyone not toeing the line but, worst of all, spending every day among the most violent and psychotic criminals in America, all made it no bed of roses. 

The recreation yard was large and spacious, the food reputed to be the best in the US penal system; but the cells were tiny, depersonalisation and loss of identity were the norm. Prisoners were numbers, not names. As we walk today through the corridor the inmates nicknamed “Broadway” and round into a second hallway, the wind is pounding the walls. In its days as a federal prison, there was no glass in the upper windows, with open bars on the cells facing the same wall. That icy, howling wind would hammer right into those cells, 24/7.

All the while, the sounds of San Francisco nightlife drifted across the water, taunting the prisoners that an ordinary world was tangibly close yet totally unreachable. In its 30 years as a federal penitentiary, there were no confirmed successful escapes (though three escapees were never found, presumed drowned but still on the US wanted list), five suicides and eight murders, plus one notable riot in which two prison officers lost their lives. 

Alcatraz Island, “The Rock” to prisoners, is one incredibly windy island, but, with no mammal predators, bird life is spectacular, with seabirds roosting and nesting in huge numbers. The gigantic colony of Brandt’s cormorants is so huge that it’s reminiscent of penguins on an island rock.

Our San Francisco days begin cold and foggy, there really isn’t any need to rush breakfast. Cold winds howl, moisture from the fog wets our faces, tops of buildings disappear. Alcatraz ghosts in and out of view. Somewhere around 1pm the sun breaks through and within minutes it’s warm, too warm for the clothes we’re already committed to. At about 6pm, the cotton wool fog once again wraps itself around the skyscrapers, the mercury drops quickly, and darkness falls with the temperature. The warm, long, polished bars with their numerous draft beers are suddenly calling. The next morning it’s cold and foggy, there really isn’t any need to rush breakfast…..

This is only part of our time in San Francisco. Rest to follow in next post.

San Francisco #2

For those of us of a certain age, the very words “San Francisco” evoke memories of 1960s music, flower power, the hippy generation and the 1967 summer of love. That entire movement, if movement is the right word, may have been synonymous with the wider city, but it was actually centred around the district of Haight Ashbury, just over a mile west of downtown. 

A district which was hit hard by the Depression and fell into decline during the 1950s slowly became a haven for the hippy counterculture during the 60s due in the main to the availability of cheap rental accommodation in a downbeat and under populated neighbourhood. Within a short space of time the genre had grown to not just a sizeable community but the worldwide epicentre of the hippy generation.

Today, 55 years after the summer of love, Haight Ashbury still happily and proudly carries the hippy vibe. Psychedelia, messages of peace and love and the smell of cannabis is everywhere – one commentator once suggested renaming it Hashbury – and so is music, both of the era and more contemporary. 

Every shop is quirky, sometimes borderline weird, and it’s a great place to be. Just as we think we’ve seen everything, a naked cycle club calls in for coffee, simply wandering in with everything dangling and asking for a cappuccino. If San Francisco has everything, then Haight Ashbury takes it one step further.

An integral part of San Francisco’s character is the hills which are such familiar images to all of us, but which really are steeper and more dramatic when seen in the flesh, as it were, than you picture before you arrive here. In fact we found them an endless source of amusement.

The daftest of these hills is surely one section of Lombard Street, such a steep downhill road that it is in reality a tarmac slalom veering around the flower beds. By necessity there is a 5mph speed limit here, and the whole thing is made even more surreal by the queue of drivers waiting to totter down, all marshalled by a pair of laughing policemen at the top.

Lombard Street…….

It’s not very easy to be bored in San Francisco. Cold yes, windswept yes, fogbound yes, but bored, never. Apart from the obvious major attractions this city has to offer, there are many, many other fascinating aspects.

Coit Tower, a memorial to the city’s firemen who perished in the great fires and earthquakes, sits on the top of Telegraph Hill, reached by something approaching mountaineering up some more of the most ridiculous steep streets you can imagine. It’s well worth the climb though, not just for the wonderful city views, but also for the brilliant murals around the inside, depicting San Francisco life, its workers and their occupations, in classic American fresco style…….

Out on bus number 5 from Market St, we find our way to Alamo Square with its signs warning that coyotes might attack your dog. Strung up an adjacent hill are a group of houses known as the Painted Ladies, a group of Victorian/Edwardian properties preened and finished in attractive colours, as the name would suggest. In their own right, these houses are really nothing special (beautifully presented though no more than that) but the attraction is the photo opportunity, with the backdrop of the modern skyscraper city spread out behind these quaint properties, creating an especially pleasing clash of old and new styles.

Chinatown, much vaunted and much anticipated – we were intending to sample the fare – is these days pretty dead at night, with, we would estimate, over three quarters of restaurants shut down with roller shutters tightly closed. Most, apparently, have never reopened after the pandemic, and in fact one guy told us of the reluctance of San Franciscans to visit Chinatown due to China’s connections with COVID. Whatever the background, the shops in Stockton St trade during the day, but at night this “heart of Chinatown” street is deserted.

Our last day in this brilliant vibrant city bucks the trend, the fog lifts early and we are treated to many more hours of warm sunshine than has been the norm here. We are leaving this full-of-life city with a sackful of great memories.

As it happens, we’re also leaving on the fourth of July, driving away just as the city and the seafront prepare for tonight’s celebrations. We may well be missing out, but we have a strong feeling that our next destination will give us Independence Day party time anyway.

Perhaps fittingly, our last glimpse of San Francisco is as we drive over the Golden Gate Bridge, the Pacific now blue instead of grey, the golden fields of the Golden State soon opening out before us.

It’s the wine country of Napa Valley next, but we think maybe, just maybe, we left our hearts in………you know the rest.

From City To Wine Country And On To The Hills 

With the delights of San Francisco behind us, we drive into the town of Napa just before lunchtime on that most significant of American days, the fourth of July. Stars and stripes are very much in evidence, bunting and banners adorn the streets and there is a sense of anticipation in the air.

The River Napa which flows swiftly through the town and runs directly into San Francisco Bay, once supported heavy industry here, until alternative forms of transport took away its water borne advantages and Napa and its neighbours suffered a downturn. What followed later wasn’t quite the Gold Rush of 1849 but you could conceivably call it the Grape Rush, as the booming wine industry gave the Napa Valley a new lease of life.

Widening of the river and avoidance of floods followed, as did wine-related tourism: the old derelict factories were dismantled and gentrification dawned. The result is a sparkling, confident town which proudly pushes its viticultural heritage at every single opportunity. And why wouldn’t it.

But today is the fourth of July and Napa has other things on its mind. We amble down to Oxbow Common, join what seems to be most of the townsfolk gathered in front of the big stage; we drink beer, eat hot dogs, watch live bands and whoop at the extended fireworks display just after dark. If someone had handed us a star spangled banner we probably would have waved it. We nearly even sing along when they play “Born In The USA”. We’re not sure that you could get much more of an all-American evening than this.

So here we are landed deep in wine country. There’s something very satisfying about looking at vineyards: green, lush, peaceful, and almost always blessed with both sunshine and beautiful landscapes, yet so neat, tidy and orderly, and it’s that orderliness which really satisfies. One’s mind is sort of stimulated and edified in equal measure. It’s as if you can relax because everything is in order.

To explore the region as fully as possible in the time available we take a drive from Napa up to Calistoga along Route 29, returning via the more picturesque route of the Silverado Trail, right through the heart of the vineyards. The sheer acreage of land covered by wineries is incredible; mile upon mile of neat rows of vines striping the valley between the lofty hills on either side. 

At the northern end of our loop, just above Calistoga, lies an unassuming ranch style entrance with a familiar name – Old Faithful. Like its Yellowstone namesake, this is a regularly spouting hot water geyser, which, according to its own literature, is one of only three geysers in the world granted the “Old Faithful” title as a result of the reliability of their “eruptions”.

Everything about this little place is surprising, not least the modest, by California standards, entry fee. But it’s all so understated – surrounded by collections of goats, sheep and llama, the geyser looks rather like a duckpond on an average farm. Until, that is, it erupts – and it does so in style. OK so it’s nothing like as spectacular as Yellowstone, but it’s actually quite exciting when this boiling outlet shoots 135F water about 30ft into the air.

Along the Silverado Trail, there is, sadly, much evidence of recent damaging fire on the hillsides and many of the wineries which normally offer tours are currently closed to the public; we pictured lunching at one but we don’t find one which isn’t “reservations only”. Of course, given that we are driving today, we can’t properly indulge anyway, so a tasting session at a wine bar back in Napa is suddenly appropriate, followed by a couple of hours at Downtown Joe’s.

Now, we’ve found a LOT of good bars on our travels around the world, but, honestly, Downtown Joe’s in Napa is right up there with the best of them. If you’re ever in Napa, go there! It’s karaoke night tonight – maybe it is every night – and these guys and gals are soon right in the spirit. We get so whipped along that we almost, almost, make our karaoke debuts, but what stops us is the fact that even Napa’s worst vocalist is way more tuneful than we are, so we resist the calls for us to have a go.

We hit the road south from Napa around 9am, heading to our next destination four hours or so away. Weeks ago when we were planning this trip, we had mental images of what an American road trip would look like, and today just absolutely brings those images alive. Freeways, highways, miles of fruit trees, giant corn fields, quirky bridges spanning over wetlands. Giant sparkling trucks, 2-mile long freight trains on nearby railroads. Mountains, valleys, fabulous vistas.

The crowning glory is the diner, just so totally the kind of place we envisaged calling in to whilst on the road. It’s even called the Highway 12 Diner: there’s “grits”, “pancake stacks” and “sunny side up” on the menu. You have to remember we really are novices with American travel so this is all just a delight.

Somewhere around mid afternoon, after a haircut stop in the Wild West-like town of Mariposa, we pull into our rather super next home. Rural now, a few miles from the Yosemite entrance gate, a shack amongst the hills and trees is our base for a few nights. Part campsite, part lodge dwelling, just too far from the nearest town to eat anywhere but here, this is the Yosemite Bug Rustic Hostel, and our first impressions are that we absolutely love it.

After hours on the road we stretch our legs by following the 2-hour “Bug Trail” through the woods around the site, which, with its steep climbs and equally steep descents, tricky on the loose topsoil, feels like a good warm up for our time in Yosemite. 

This is a big change of scene from our stops so far. It promises to be a good one.

This Is Yosemite

So many people had told us that Yosemite was fabulous long before we came here, and just about everyone whose advice we sought before planning our California adventure checked that we’d included Yosemite on our itinerary. Then, the guy in the Santana T-shirt at Downtown Joe’s in Napa said that we will never forget seeing Half Dome for the first time.

None of this was a case of over selling; in fact, no amount of pre-warning can really prepare you for the unbridled joy of Yosemite. Even before we enter the Park, the drive from our base at “the Bug” to the Park gates is absolutely stunning, following the River Merced as it surges through the beautiful valley, frothing over rocks and crashing playfully down from the mountains.

And then we enter Yosemite, through El Portal and the Arch Rock entrance, into Yosemite Valley itself, and for the rest of the day we just simply keep having our breath taken away. For the first of our two full days here, we figure our best option is to drive to several of the major sights in turn, taking a short stroll at each one. It works a treat and we take in some truly, truly amazing scenes.

Towering sides of the valley, incredible giant rock formations reaching improbable heights, dramatic waterfalls and surging rivers, green meadows in the base of the deep valley, it’s all absolutely stunning. Just taking in the proportions of it all is a challenge to the senses. Rarely have we seen anywhere where beauty meets power meets size meets beauty, with such magical effect.

The waterfalls may be past their springtime spectacular but they remain impressive nonetheless; the Bridalveil Falls living up to their illustrious name as the white sheen both descends the gorge and drifts away in the wind; the Upper Yosemite Falls cascading in seeming slow motion from way, way above. 

Immense, towering rock features with descriptive names like The Sentinel, El Capitan, Three Brothers, Half Dome and Cathedral Rock are so incredibly steep that our necks hurt just craning to see the top. But all around us there is stunning beauty in so many styles; beauty far better displayed in photographs than described in words…

Our second Yosemite day sees us take the opposite options: less stops, less driving and more hiking, in fact in the end we hike over 13 miles of this sensational scenery. Our wonderful day takes in a trail up to Mirror Lake, including wading through its cold waters, followed by an afternoon hike up the John Muir Trail towards Vernal Falls.

Yosemite is busy. People flock to the main sites, and at times even car parking requires patience, but as ever, the further we hike, the more the crowds thin out, until eventually there are few enough hikers for pleasantries to be exchanged each time we pass. As human numbers fall, animal sightings increase. A black tailed deer casually wanders along the river, almost posing for us; squirrels dart around the sandy ground; colourful birds and butterflies flutter by. 

But the hike to Vernal Falls provides us with an afternoon which is a succession of fabulous experiences. Prior to arriving here we had joked about seeing a bear but, having never seen one in the wild before, we didn’t think for a moment our wish would come true, but it does: this beautiful specimen foraging amongst the undergrowth no more than 50 yards away from us. We can’t quite believe what we are seeing as the young bear slowly goes about its business, oblivious to our presence.

Up and onward we climb, following the ribbon of cascading waters which roar as they crash through the rocks, the river racing downhill as we climb steeply up and up towards the head of the falls. The pure white waterfall teases us with glimpses of its pure beauty, until eventually we emerge on to its terraces.

Approaching the highest, most dramatic section of Vernal Falls, we just stand in awe at where we are, and what we can see.

Spray from the falls soaks us we stare, looking up at this incredibly beautiful scene. The water roars yet is graceful, pummels yet drifts, in paradoxical movements which are simply mesmerising. It’s incredible to stand and watch nature at its most unleashed. We’re not even sure we thought we’d ever be standing in a place like this.

Amongst the rocks around the cascade are lush, bright green plants, gorging on the endless spray – these plants effectively live in perpetual rainfall, and the iridescent colours reflect this. It’s summer, this is not the falls at their most spectacular, yet being here and seeing this is more than wonderful. Whatever must this place look like in Spring, we wonder.

It’s emotional, standing here in awe of nature’s beauty and nature’s power, and revelling in our great fortune in just being here. It’s almost as if our whole reason to travel and see the world has been encapsulated in one single day.

Wow, Yosemite has delivered. 

Returning to our base at “the Bug” each night is a different level of welcoming. Everybody at the Bug has been out exploring Yosemite all day – there are suntanned faces and tired legs everywhere. Everyone is ravenous and the June Bug cafe does brisk business as we gather around our tables, eat the unexpectedly excellent food and unwind from our day. And everyone seems to be glowing from their experiences.

There’s a campfire pit and a mini amphitheatre, but both remain untouched each evening, as if all guests are worn out and sleep comes early. By 10pm it’s quiet at the Bug – well, at least we think it is, but we’re already in dreamland by then. 

One of the utter joys of travel is that wonderfully delicious mixture when you’re moving on – a mixture of wanting to stay longer fighting with the excitement for seeing the next place. We’re full of that heady mix as we leave the Bug after breakfast on head out on to the Highway. Ahead of us lies a 2-day drive and yet more new experiences, including crossing a state line.

It’s goodbye Yosemite, our next stop is on Route 66. 

A Ghost Town, Route 66 And Rock ‘n’ Roll: Yosemite-Barstow-Arizona

It’s not hard to work out why we chose the town of Barstow, and the Route 66 Motel, as our overnight stay on our longest drive of this trip. A Route 66 town? Route 66 Motel? Classic cars preserved in the motel grounds…why wouldn’t you??

The route from Yosemite to Barstow is ridiculously diverse: first the mountains of Yosemite, then the richly verdant fruit farm regions, then the flatlands as the world becomes more and more spartan. Once past Bakersfield, Spanish language signs reappear, something we didn’t see to the same extent in Northern California but are commonplace down here. Over the mountains we go, dropping next into the Mojave Desert, barren and arid, miles and miles of nothing but desert scrub. No wonder flying saucers chose to make experimental landings here. Well we think they did, anyway.

But did we really know what one night in Barstow might constitute? This is as much a desert town as anything we’ve seen in North Africa, the hours of nothing on the drive to get here, the pink tinged mountains surrounding the town, the sand blowing through the town on the hot wind, the sense that the rest of the world is a far off place, somewhere some distance away from here.

It’s 102F as we pull into the motel car park, the dry desert wind only serving to increase the heat. There’s no mistaking the fact that we’re on Route 66; reminders are everywhere, from the preserved old cars to the murals on the walls to the “66” logos every hundred yards or so. Barstow is clearly very proud of its Route 66 history. Ours is just one of several similar motels in town – Barstow is a strange mix of a substantially isolated community mingling with a constant stream of those “passing through”, on a one night stand. Like us.

But Barstow has long embraced transience: as well as the draw of Route 66, this was a major tourist and hotel centre during the heyday of the passenger railroads. There remains today a gigantic rail freight terminal but the passenger service is long gone – mind you, the quadruple-header two-mile long freight trains are a sight to behold as they rumble through.

A few miles outside Barstow, nestling just off the LA to Vegas freeway, is an American diner which is such a destination in its own right that the car park is nigh on full at 8.30am on a Sunday morning, way out here in the desert. This is Peggy Sue’s 50s Diner, a crazy retro establishment stacked with 50s memorabilia, its walls adorned with rock ‘n’ roll and Hollywood history. 

The stars have dined here; autographed photos abound. Waitresses wear 50s dresses and bobby sox, a mannequin Elvis watches over the diners, John Wayne looks from the walls with just a hint of menace. The menu is Grandma’s cookin’, the front door is a giant juke box. We smile our way through breakfast – a breakfast where the omelette is accompanied by “home made biscuits in country gravy”. It’s hard to tear ourselves away, this place is so unusual and amusing.

But we do just that, because just up the road is something else: the deserted town of Calico. Calico was a boom town of major proportions when silver was discovered here, enjoying a phenomenal period of wealth as pioneer miners extracted both silver and borax from the hills. The small Calico community, which never exceeded 3,000 inhabitants but developed 22 saloon bars and a red light district, a school and a jailhouse, reaped Gold rush style rewards. In the 26 years between 1881 and 1907, Calico generated 131 million dollars in revenue from its mines, equivalent to around 4.5 BILLION today.

Eventually silver prices crashed, the boom was over as quickly as it had begun, and every one of Calico’s residents moved on, leaving behind a ghost town. During the 1950s, the owner of the land, one Walter Knott, funded renovation and restoration, creating what is now a fascinating insight into those unique times, a living museum of a boom town in the wild West.

By the way, as a charming little side story, the town of Calico was split into two halves, a mile and a half apart. Each time the mail stagecoach arrived, it would drop the mail at only the main village, meaning that Dorsey the local postman had a 3-mile regular walk to ensure the relevant mail reached the second village. Nothing odd about that – except that Dorsey was a dog, trained and kitted out with mailbag and boots.

And so from Calico we continue our long drive east, across more hours of the Mojave Desert, through startling scenery which features sand dunes and tumbleweed, dramatic rocks with colourful strata, mountain ranges with serrated tops like a giant chainsaw, and miles and miles of broken landscapes. At one point the temperature gauge hits 115F (46C).

Across the state line into Arizona and across the wide and deep Colorado River which is such a startling change after so many hours of desert driving, we happen upon our last break of the journey at Seligman, self proclaimed origin of the Route 66 phenomenon. As if we haven’t seen enough quirk already today, this is the Roadkill Cafe….”you kill it, we grill it”……with menu items such as “Bambi Burger”, ”One Eyed Dog Hit In The Fog” and the “Chicken That Nearly Crossed The Road”. Ah, the madness of it.

As you may have guessed, we’re headed for the Grand Canyon. It’s been a long drive over two days from Yosemite to here, but it’s going to be worth it.

“I’m gonna issue you just a warning, no fine this time, but you be careful now, ok?”, says the traffic cop who’s just pulled me over for infringing an Arizona driving law which I didn’t even know existed.

Well, that’s a relief. And there’s always something new to learn, huh?

The Grandest Of Canyons

It’s only ten days since we crossed off a bucket list item with the seaplane flight over San Francisco, and now here we are boarding our first ever helicopter with pen metaphorically poised to cross off another. Is there conceivably a better place to do this than here at the Grand Canyon?

A brief walk to the Bright Angel trailhead on the day of our arrival has given us our first glimpses of this wonder of the world, so our excitement levels as we receive our safety briefings are absolutely off the scale. There’s a short delay to check the craft – a bird has hit the windshield on its previous flight – but we are soon boarding, an animated Michaela is given the front seat alongside our pilot.

I have no superlatives left to describe the experience of lifting away from the heliport, journeying over and above the pine forests until …. until…. until….we’re out over the South Rim, the Canyon falling away below us. What follows is possibly one of the most exciting half hours of our lives. I don’t think either of us ever thought we’d do anything like this, see these incredible sights from here, up in the air above this amazing, wondrous place. The flight is over too soon: a thrilling and fabulous experience.

Recovering some sense of normality we hike along part of the Rim Trail, just soaking up the incredible views of this majestic location. It’s impossible to walk more than a few yards without stopping, and looking out in awe, again and again. The statistics and numbers are just mind blowing: but for us the hardest thing to grasp is that the opposite rim on the northern side, so clearly visible, is 18 miles away: it just doesn’t seem possible that something so clear is actually so far away.

Glimpses of the Colorado River, a whole mile below us in the bottom of the canyon, hide its immense power, flowing through these mighty rocks formed billions of years ago. No matter which fact you consider or which way you look, your mind is reeling. Just staring at the rock formations, the gigantic forms and dramatic shapes, is breathtaking: seeing the colours of the rock change in the shifting sunlight is magical.

I’m seriously losing the ability to find the right descriptions for the things we’re experiencing on this adventure. After everything we’ve seen and done over the last few weeks, and now seeing the Grand Canyon from the Rim and from the air, it’s hard to find the words. However, I soon feel better about not having the words when we see this quotation from the famed John Wesley Powell, explorer, geologist and leader of the first Govt sponsored expedition through the Canyon:-

“The wonder of the Grand Canyon cannot be adequately represented in symbols of speech, nor by speech itself”. Exactly, JW.

It’s extremely hot today: the park is full of warnings about not underestimating the difficulty of hiking in extreme heat, and we are bombarded with advice about quantities of drinking water. It’s good advice: the need to drink kicks in extremely quickly and lack of preparation would be a folly.

There are also permanent warnings regarding the electrical storms which hit here regularly throughout summer: what to do when the lightning starts. As we walk, dark clouds gather, black downward brushstrokes decorate the sky: the rain so desperately needed during this drought is falling somewhere nearby, though not quite here on the Rim. It may look dramatic, but it denies us our first sight of the famed Grand Canyon sunset.

So we rise before dawn and make our way to Mather Point where, alongside a fair few other early risers, we witness a beautiful sunrise as the deep orange scatters across the morning clouds, shards of deep colour changing hue with each passing minute. Azure blue takes over the sky within moments of the sun’s appearance.

For our second full day here we take the shuttle bus out to the western end of the Rim Trail at Hermit’s Rest, and walk the trail back to the village, a walk which is officially 7.9 miles but with regular detours to every overlook we’ve clocked more than 10 miles by the time we’re back in the village. Those overlooks are stunning, the views, of course, unique – no matter how often we stop, we are still in awe.

Clouds gather and grow in size. We have been warned again about possible storms today and as we reach the half way point, thunder is rumbling and cloudbursts are visible in different directions around us, but again the storms circle like the Canyon’s condors and we stay hot and dry. The heat (low 90s), the humidity (storms close by) and the oxygen levels at this altitude (30% lower than at sea level) combine to make it a sapping 10 miles and we are tired by the time we’re back.

By late afternoon the air is heavy and still and tastes of hot pine and dust. The Canyon is half bathed in sunlight, half under cloud, as the shadows begin to lengthen. The changing light plays glorious games on the colours and contours of the rocks; the heavy air brings a different kind of silence, a silence which is a sound in its own right. We look out again from the Rim, across this unimaginable vastness, and go quiet: this place gets into your soul.

Desert View is the final overlook towards the eastern end of the Canyon, some 25 miles from Grand Canyon Village. Driving the Desert View Road on our final day here, and stopping at every vantage point gives more sensational views as the Canyon begins to narrow – the North Rim is “only” 8 miles away now – and the desert beyond comes plainly into view.

Colours and contours once again shift – in fact some of the amazing vistas along this route are as good as any we’ve seen elsewhere in the Canyon. Information boards along the way speak of the micro climates and diverse ecological systems within the Canyon, with its startling temperature ranges and differences in rainfall. The bottom of the canyon can, for instance, be 25F hotter than the Rim during a summer’s day.

Afternoon thunder rumbles again, this time accompanied by a smattering of giant raindrops – though not many, and not for long. The rasping call of the ravens seems to grow louder as dusk approaches; swallows swoop around the rock faces for a last feed before bedtime; elk and deer wander between the pines. Deep into the night the howls of the coyotes echo eerily through the forests.

We finally get to witness a Grand Canyon sunset, the shadows and silhouettes of the peaks probably as dramatic as the sunset itself. And so our time in the Canyon is concluded; another long drive next, back into California and on to Joshua Tree.

Rocks, Trees & Fault Lines: Back Into California

When you imagine temperatures of over 110F (43C), you picture blistering sunshine and the need to find shade, yet for a good part of our drive across the desert from the Grand Canyon to Joshua Tree, the temperature gauge is up there above that number yet the skies are consistently overcast. It even rains a couple of times. When we step out of the car for a break, we are hit by a wall of heat incompatible with the cloudy skies above.

Leaving the Interstate 140, we drive south west through some extraordinarily barren country, miles of dead straight road through open land. Once past the salt flats at Amboy and out into the desert, we pass only occasionally through anything resembling a village, eventually reaching a remote community where the surprisingly small houses are spaced an awful long way apart. It’s as if the residents seek further isolation even within their isolated village.

Signage tells us that this is Wonder Valley, which, according to the internet, is “a community of artists, musicians and other desert dwellers”, but it’s certainly a strange looking place. Just at the point where we’re thinking how weird this all is, these letters appear roadside…..

Yep, we’re just starting to think that that’s precisely where we are.

After the unusual drive, surely today isn’t going to get any more strange…but it does. Our next base, a “ranch house” dwelling in Joshua Tree village, is deserted when we arrive. There’s no reception, just a scrawled note advising that the “hotel” has no staff and we are to let ourselves in to any one of the rooms which has a key in the door. We try all three such rooms, each one has an unmade bed with dirty sheets, one has a table full of cleaning fluids, each of them has an unpleasant smell. None are fit for occupation. There’s another couple in the car park who are in the act of leaving after just a cursory glance into their “room”. Hastily, we do the same, and head off in search of another place to stay: there is clearly something very wrong. God knows what’s happened here but this place is not going to do any business tonight! We settle instead in the nearby village of Yucca Valley.

Friday morning, July 15th. No cloud now, just open, unforgiving sun. The rough, sandy rocks around us are hot to touch as the temperature starts to move from bearable to brutal as noon approaches. From where we sit among these strange rocks, the sweeping view is monumental, the very point where two deserts meet. Behind us is the Mojave Desert, ahead of us the Colorado Desert, at a much lower elevation and consequently more dry and more barren than its cactus and yucca filled neighbour.

We are looking across the Coachella Valley, and somewhere down there in that valley, running straight through what lays before us, is the San Andreas Fault, poised for what one day will be its big move. Haze fills the valley and blurs the mountains: city pollution swirls into this place on the prevailing wind and sits as living proof of human damage. A thought occurs: this is a place where the natural world could one day destroy some of humanity; yet it’s a place where we can also see direct evidence of humanity destroying the natural world.

This is Joshua Tree national park, full of crazy landscapes and strange sights, and not just those odd trees which give the park its name. The rock formations here don’t have the appearance of hills, cliffs or mountains – they look more like giant piles of rubble. Magma formed these rocks something like 15 miles underground, and somewhere around 85 million years ago: earthquakes and the uplifting of mountains pushed the rocks closer to the surface, water seeping in and cracking the rocks on the way.

Once above the Earth’s surface, cracks became divisions, weathering and erosion changed the shapes, until eventually we were left with what we see today: boulders of weird shapes and different sizes, some sculpted into natural statues, others precariously poised to fall from the pile. It’s an intriguing, moonlike landscape.

Filling the open spaces between the piles of rocks are the joshua trees themselves, looking coppiced by nature, their twisted arms bearing leaves which appear feathery yet sport vicious spines. The Spanish name for this tree is “izote de desierto” – the “dagger of the desert”. Highly appropriate. This tree – not actually a true tree and more accurately named yucca brevifolia – is only found in desert conditions at altitudes between 400m and 1800m; its distribution coinciding mostly with the spread of the Mojave Desert, through the south western states and down into northern Mexico.

Whatever, the trees and the odd rockpiles, coupled with stout cacti and the comical kangaroo rat bounding between harsh shrubs, combine to form most unusual landscapes and vistas. Pointing out likenesses in the natural sculptures in the boulders becomes an amusing aside as we walk – there is a whale, next a tortoise, then a tower block, and a cowboy hat, even a clenched fist. But pride of place in this display of nature’s statuary goes to the appropriately named Skull Rock.

The heat gets brutal early. Thankfully, the Park features a large number of short trails designed no doubt to enable summer hikers avoid too much exposure to the unforgiving sun. Of course, we manage several of these trails during our stay here, but even hikes of less than 2 miles have an exhausting effect and restriction to those short trails, with respite between each, is the order of the day. You can’t afford to run short of water when it’s 109F.

Amongst the trails we follow is the Hidden Valley Trail, an atypically green area where in bygone times cattle rustlers would hide, and graze, their ill gotten herds. A second trail wanders us through the Cholla Cactus “garden”, where these unusual cacti with vicious needles grow in remarkable quantities. It’s another very unique landscape.

The trails, despite their shortness, have plenty of informative boards, many detailing the ingenious ways in which the desert flora and fauna have evolved to cope with their harsh, extreme environment. Every board is a fascinating read, from the shrub which now has no leaves at all, as a way of retaining water, to the bird which finishes off its prey by impaling it on the spines of the joshua tree.

Each of the four National Parks visited – Sequoia, Yosemite, Grand Canyon and Joshua Tree – has been markedly different from the other three. And that’s just the Parks: the rest of our California trip has provided immense variety, and has been one of the most exhilarating and exciting trips of our travels so far. We’re not done yet though – after a couple of days back with my daughter in Acton, it’s off to Mexico, and on to the next stop….Guadalajara.

Mexico here we come!

(Trivia note: Yucca Valley is the first town/city/village we’ve stayed in on our travels which begins in Y, meaning we’ve now stayed in at least one place beginning with each of the 26 letters of the alphabet!).