A Love Letter to a State Park

Point Lobos, I can’t quit you.

Point Lobos is a state park, wait excuse me, a nature reserve in Monterey, California, and it’s bonkers. It’s like my crazy aunt Rachel, who won a spicy curry eating contest and led a conga line around the neighborhood at my tenth birthday. Absolutely nuts in a good way.

I’m no scientist or even a vaguely smart person, but Point Lobos seems to have three ecosystems squished (I’m assuming this is the technical term) into one state park. I like to imagine Mother Nature taking her sixth shot of tequila, slamming her hand on the table, and yelling “Yes! I want otters and red hanging moss in one place!”

The Rocks

When you pull into the parking lot of Point Lobos, you see a blanket sandy rocks, guarding the ocean. At least I think they’re rocks. They could also be years of sand and other rocks smooshed (another technical term) together over a zillion years. As a kid, I decided this was one ecosystem, and no one has talked me out of it yet.

You can walk on, scramble over, or sit on these smooshed sandy rocks, which hide secret tidepools and small beaches with smaller, prettier rocks. As an adult, it’s cool. As a seven year old, the age when I was first introduced to Point Lobos, it blows your tiny mind.

I grew up in California, middle class in a way that doesn’t exist anymore. My father was a professor at a state school and my mother didn’t work outside the home. We never wanted for the basics, but we also kept our cars for twenty years and ate spaghetti a lot. Keeping with our budget, our summer vacation was the same every year: driving up the California coast.

I was enthralled. I loved eating Danish food in Solvang, fried clams in Morro Bay, the Hearst Castle tours. But the pièce de résistance was Point Lobos.

Once we hit the parking lot, I’d throw open the car door before it rolled to a stop and run toward those sandy rocks. This was the early eighties and cars didn’t beep to alert parents about escapes like this. “We’ve got a runner!” my father would bellow.

I’d spend the first hour or two exploring every nook and cranny, finding tide pools and sticking my finger into sea anemones. I’d pretend I was the protagonist from The Island of the Blue Dolphins. When I saw a sea urchin I’d remind myself that they were edible, and that maybe someday when I was the last girl on earth — an apocalypse I was certain was coming — I would have to crack one open and eat it.

Time spent on those rocks was pure meditation. I would tell my parents not to talk, lest they interrupt my wild daydreams. But eventually even the most patient parents lose it, and we’d have to move along.

The Ocean

Next was checking out the ocean itself, which I decided was the second ecosystem. There are several trails to stroll on while looking for whales, seals, sea lions, pelicans, you name it — they all show up to the party.

If you’re lucky, you’ll find a nice nature guide with a telescope who will let you watch sea lions or er, seals (still can’t tell the difference) sunning themselves on a faraway rock. They don’t move. They just lie there sighing and sunning themselves, and yet it’s still better than any Breaking Bad episode. I can’t tell you why. It’s just the spooky, dark blue watery, vortex-y magic of Point Lobos.

Next, I would get in a fight with my parents. By the time I had thoroughly explored the rocks and the ocean, they were over it. They wanted to get to Carmel, where a nice room was waiting for us at one of the motels that felt more like a fancy hotel. Dad wanted a beer. Mom wanted a bath.

War

But we hadn’t seen the forest yet, the third ecosystem and possibly the most magical of them all. So I had to go to war.

My bargaining position was strong. I was a good kid who loved to read, and was simply asking to stay at a nature reserve a little longer so I could learn. “What if I want to be a marine biologist?” I would say through tears and hiccups.

I absolutely did not want to be a marine biologist, but my parents didn’t need to know that.

We struck a deal: go back to Carmel for the night and come back tomorrow. Even though Point Lobos is in Monterey, it’s only a fifteen minute drive from Carmel, where my parents could get French food and good coffee.

We’d clean up and go to a 1980s version of a fine dining restaurant — duck l’orange, artichokes, vichyssoise. A waiter would invariably comment on what a good kid I was, while I ate my French onion soup with one hand and held a book in the other. Meanwhile the table of kids next to us would demand plain buttered noodles.

In my parents’ eyes I beat the buttered noodle kids by a mile. They would soften toward me despite my afternoon dramatics. I took note of this, and the next morning I would frog march my exhausted parents into a small grocery store, where we got made-to-order sandwiches for Day Two at Point Lobos.

We had to pack a lunch, because although there was only the forest left to see, my parents had woefully miscalculated. In my mind the plan was clear: we would, in fact, be spending the whole day at Point Lobos again. On the rocks. Looking at the ocean. And in the forest.

I’d order the sandwiches. I’d determined early on that there was only one sandwich sturdy enough to withstand eight hours next to a windswept ocean: salami on sourdough, with mustard and lettuce. This was no longer a democracy, but a benign dictatorship, because salami sandwiches are in fact delicious.

With our three identical lunches in tow, we’d make the short drive back to Point Lobos. The park ranger would wave, “Welcome back!”

The Forest

There’s also a forest. But then again there isn’t, because how can there be a forest next to the ocean? Blame Mother Nature’s seventh tequila shot, I don’t know. It’s a tangle of cypress trees and hanging moss, both red and green.

Fairies hide in the branches, and troll families live under the mushrooms that pop up among the itty bitty flowers on the forest floor.

It’s a little scary, even as an adult. It’s ancient, and there are ghosts. You can feel them at your back and swirling above you. But eventually you walk through the entire spooky, beautiful tangle and emerge on a cliff.

Look down and you see otters floating on their backs, opening abalone shells with rocks.

The otters sent me completely over the edge. The illegal amount of cuteness, the tap-tap-tap-tap of the rocks hitting the abalones on their chests— it was all just too much to bear. I’d have uncomfortable thoughts, Wait, if they are smart enough to be using rocks as tools, should we be eating animals…? And then I would remember the salami sandwiches and push that thought aside.

I’d stare at the otters for hours until my parents finally asserted their dominance and told me it was time to go. I’d drag them back for another romp through the rocks and tide pools. But soon I’d find myself with a salami sandwich at a picnic table, my parents discussing the drive back to Los Angeles in a whisper.

And then all of a sudden my father would sling me over his shoulder, and BOOM! PLOT TWIST. We were back in the car, driving home to Los Angeles. I was, in the end, too tired to protest.

Adulthood, Sorta

I’m in my late forties now, and I still think Point Lobos is the most magical place I’ve ever seen — and I’ve seen a lot, from cloud forests in Costa Rica to hot springs in Iceland to bogs in Denmark to alabaster churches in Italy.

As an adult I’ve dragged four people back to Point Lobos, two boyfriends and two friends. Each time I wait for them to become overwhelmed by the magic, but mostly I get a simple “Yeah, it’s really beautiful.” (They do, however, love staying in Carmel drinking California wine and sucking down oysters).

It is beautiful, obviously, but that’s not it. It’s a wrinkle in time. There are ghosts, fairies, trolls, flowers, whales and bunnies. It’s something else altogether, something words can’t capture. Granted, I’m a little militaristic about the whole thing — I still demand the salami sandwiches. But I know the right type of person will understand the alien magic of the place.

Travel Tips

You might be that type of person. These tips are for you.

1. Stay in Carmel. Yes, it’s expensive, but worth it because once you park at your motel, the entire place is walkable. You can drink as much California wine as you want without risking a DUI. Restaurants range from a low key Greek to fancy French, and of course the grocery store that makes the sandwiches is still there. My favorite motel is the Coachmann’s Inn. Maybe someday I’ll be flexible enough to try a different one.
2. Two nights, one full day. Arrive in Carmel the night before. Check into your motel, have dinner, walk home tipsy. Wake up the next day, get good coffee and scones, walk over to the grocery store and get your salami sandwiches. Drive to Point Lobos, spend the full day, hit the rocks, ocean, forest — in that order. If you do it right, you’ll be exhausted by the end of the day. Return to Carmel, another wine soaked dinner. Leave the next day.

If anyone else finds this corner of the world as magical as I do, I would love to hear from you. — AD