Photo by Mr. BlueThe creative is the place where no one else has ever been. You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you'll discover will be wonderful. What you'll discover will be yourself.
Alan Alda (1936 - )
It takes me a few seconds to process the problem, when the world crashes down around me. The very expensive and hard to locate camera battery has run out of power. I can’t belief it knowing I took the time to recharge both batteries the night before. All of a sudden I recall needing to plug my computer into the wall because the maid turned off the power cord attachment. The stupid bitch turned off my battery recharger and in the process drained both batteries of all power. I am crushed after traveling a couple thousand miles to be here at this moment with the perfect light and the perfect subject. Stunned I am completely without direction, do I head back to the hotel and wait a couple of hours to recharge the batteries, or do I blow off the reason I came and just wander the trails imagining what the scene would look like in a view finder? Having spent more than one trip trying to find a camera store, of which everyone has been obliterated by internet purchases, I abandon the idea of spending all day looking for another battery which is also likely not charged. I can’t recall being so disappointed and distraught, without knowing what to do next. Sitting down facing the mission steeple bathed in soft light I feel that this all seems like a cruel joke or a divine test that I’m supposed to learn something profound from, but all I feel is anger and frustration. Mindlessly I just give up and point the car south on the pacific coast highway toward Big Sur with the windshield wipers slapping away.
To punish myself for being so unprepared I pull into Point Lobos State Park and set out on the Cypress Grove trail with only a black hooded sweatshirt to protect me from the weather. Within a few hundred steps I discover the spectacular scenery which surrounds me. Undistracted with a camera or any other objective my senses are heighted by the elements. Rounding the point the entire rocky coast of the Pacific Ocean is revealed as the wind howls. The small wire guides preventing you from traversing the rocky wet slopes are shrieking as I fight the headwind. Bracing my body sea salt fills every breath which reminds me once again of my childhood along the Atlantic shores. The earth shakes as the waves pound the massive bedrock with a furious unrelenting determination just as determined is the granite to withstand the endless assault. Sporadic cypress trees yield to the power of the sea, seeking cover from the attack in the deep fissures of cliff face. Twisted and bent the limbs are worn grey covered on the seaward side with thick layers of brilliant colored mosses. The thrashing boughs release the scent of cedar into the swirling air, as I round the point the rain feels like bee strings on my exposed face. The footing is uncertain with gathering rivulets of water winding across the trail. The raw power and wildness of the landscape is humbling.
A windswept clearing opens before me, revealing a large rocky island sitting in a boiling sea of blue white fury. I can see the a rugged trail that leads to an open point where a large colony of sea lions have taken shelter, as their deep baritone bellows punctuate the rustling sound of the wet sage. Winds whips the sage and dwarf shrubs releasing a pungent spicy aromatic perfume of earth. Tears fill my eyes in self defense when I look forward at the open ocean staring into the transparent onslaught, as I am freed in this wonderful place devoid of humanity. Subtle calls of gulls drift on the wind as a spray of sea salt mix in the hazy mist being lifted from the crashing waves. Reaching the battlefield where land and sea meet a reverence of the power of nature overtakes me. Standing in silence I trace the range of blues from the waves mixing with the white foam then spilling over the black rocks creating thousands of ever changing tones in this monochromatic paradise. Slowly the energy required to hold my position unprotected on this rocky promontory begins to erode the distress of how the day began, no longer trying to consider what my options are, I allow the wind to rip the tension from me. I realize this is exactly why I’m come to this place to be humbled in its presence, to be a child before an omnipresent master. The rain has done me a favor, because I have the entire coast to myself, thousands of acres, mile after mile, I need not share any of this with a single person in the world, it is mine alone to behold.
The ruggedness of the terrain, the fury of the weather, the impenetrable cliffs make me struggle with each step, making me work to discover the secrets of the rugged coast. I needed the physicality of this trip to break down the idleness of my mind and body. Breathing hard I press on over the next ridge to discovery a bay more spectacular than the last, each revealing a unique profusion of wildflowers painted on the hilltops slightly out of reach of the beckoning waves. China Cove is a turquoise gem as blue as any Caribbean island with white pure white sand in an alcove hundreds of feet below the cliffs. Its shores are covered with seals and sea lions resting motionless sheltered in this bay as if on a European vaction. I open my mind to every sensation of smell, touch and sight to fully embrace the present, wanting to absorb the world in real time, not aware of a past or future, but to engage the moment. The sea is part of me and I am part of the sea indistinguishable from a wave, or the scent of sage, or the cry of the wind. Grounded I cannot conceive my own existence outside of the realm of nature, I am not more or less than a rock on the shore, or a wildflower clinging to the cliff, or a drop of foam swirling on the surging tide. I am the cycle of life which is without dimension in a place which is enduring and timeless, a place which has no concern for me, a place which has remained unchanged for centuries. The only awareness of myself are the Muscles in my legs that are burning as I continue climbing higher and higher into the cypress forest clocked is fog and dew, focused on pushing forward without direction, getting lost while being found. Sweat streaming down my chest is immediately chilled by the reoccurring blast of ocean air in each exposed gap along the sheltered trail. Resting to catch my breath I turn around to descend back to where I began.
During the day while driving south along the coast I frequently pull off the highway to inject myself back into the steeply dissected ravines and valleys snaking to the pacific. Each stop is a discovery more amazing than the last. A small beach access posting between two long curves implore me to escape the confines of the vehicle. Not more than four steps from the car I drop into a rolling field of wildflowers dappled with blues, whites, yellows and oranges as all vestiges of man erode. The highway disappears as a small trail circles toward a clef in the landscape. Suddenly a small rocky stream appears with crystal clear water bubbling over smooth worn black granite cobblestones. For the first I realize that Calla Lilies are native to the lowlands here as large white drifts buffer and caress the stream’s edges. A more beautiful scene could not be imagined as I slow my pace to once again become a child of wonder, allowing the cold water to lure me deeper into the ravine.
After spending an unmeasured amount of time examining each pristine white lily the roar of the ocean begs me to continue toward the opening in the cliffs sheltering me. Never in my entire life of exploring seashores have I seen an untouched wild stream exit to the roaring ocean. I am overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the clear water emerging from the stone riverbed then gently rolling across the white sand into the waves. Like a child I walk around the flowing waters examining them from each and every perspective, as if I was unable to understand its secret mystery. Almost my accident I look up to view a long stretch of shoreline beach only about 150 feet wide before it is overshadowed by sandstone cliff reaching into the sky, an endless perspective of sand receding to infinity. The far reaches of the shore are masked in a soft pearl mist generated by the pounding surf as it is pushed up the headlands. I turn around only to see another endless shore different in many ways but just as spectacular as the last. Whatever I was seeking, was discovered in this apex of my journey, this I what I was yearning for, the nourishment I was starving for washes my soul in abundance. There is no place to find, there is no need to look further absolute perfection is found in the wind and the rain as I plant myself firmly on the sand next to the stream. My life could end without disappointment at this moment, I could give myself to the sea and be satisfied knowing that this confluence of earth and sea exists and I have touched it, knowing that this place will remain unchanged for centuries where my spirit can return to my heart’s desire. Sitting motionless in the sand with the waves dancing for me I am content, the miles of climbing and hiking have tortured my body extracting a measure of surrender. I can see the arc of the chasm before me and I understand that this is truly living a life of extraordinary purpose. I have not capitulated to the droning grind of routine, but have ceased the opportunity to live for a moment which so few people can say they have experienced alone on a remote wilderness shoreline next to a pure mountain stream pouring into the ocean as the rain strings my face.
Exhausted, soaked I am torn between experiencing the ray few rays of daylight and the fear of hiking back in a wilderness in the dark. Lingering far too long the path darkens to grey soft shadows with indistinct edges as the mist consumes the light as a lover yields to desire. Realizing that only instinct will provide guidance in retracing a path to civilization, I detach my soul from the pounding surf, turning my back on the origin of dreams, but not without a mournful glance toward the last fading strip of orange light that holds the sea and sky from its union. At that moment I know that I shall capture every extra moment to return to these stolen seconds of bliss that exist in every landscape on every hill, shore, forest, desert, prairie, mountain and in doing so the arc of the chasm will close.
“The Promised Land always lies on the other side of a Wilderness.”
Havelock Ellis (1859-1939)
