MAYBE IF WE HADN’T ARGUED.
Maybe if my mother hadn’t lashed out at me and called me a pagan squaw.
Maybe then, I would’ve waited until morning and said a proper goodbye, instead of driving off during the night, putting an even greater distance between us.
Big Sur. Images of mountains, forests, and ocean drew me, balms for my wounded soul. I was running away from one mother and reaching out to the other. How long would my journey last this time? What lessons, what teachers, would it hold?
I could’ve called Dr. Mendez. He would’ve put my mind at ease, assured me that everything was okay, that I was doing the right thing. “You need to push past your perimeter of comfort and safety,” he told me during our first therapy session. “Slow down, follow some blind alleys, let the truth catch up to you.” When I responded that I was scared, his comforting words gave me the courage to move on. “Freedom comes at a price. Is your mother your protector or your keeper? Is your home your castle or your prison? How will you know unless you break the bonds for a while? Your heart has been silenced for too long. Let it be the expert.”
A parade of vehicles surrounded me, their headlights piercing the dark, all illuminating the same path. But I wouldn’t stay on this highway for long. I would be turning off soon, to a place close to the trees.
~~~
Big Sur. Big South. How I loved those words. To me, they symbolized freedom and hope, this ribbon of dark highway, my yellow brick road, Big Sur, my Oz. Once there, I would find the way to my center, and then, hopefully, my way back home.
The sun was rising, but fog veiled the road with an eerie mist, giving me the sense of entering a new world. I checked my rear-view mirror. Gray fingers misted the road behind me, making it difficult to focus on what I had left behind.
I lowered my window and breathed in the thick, icy air, marveling at the smell. Pine forest? Kelp? Iodine? Whatever, it smelled wet and wonderful.
Robinson Jeffers’ poem, “Return,” came to mind, how it spoke of allowing life to run to the roots again, down at the Sur Rivers. It was time to allow Big Sur’s miraculous healing waters to pour out of the mountainsides and into my soul. Like a slab of clay that had been wedged, kneaded, and punched into malleable softness, I was pliable, responsive, and ready to surrender.
Ten miles south of Carmel, I spotted the Rocky Point Restaurant perched high on a cliff above the dissipating June fog, a perfect place for breakfast and a fantastic view.
The host led me onto a heated terrace overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Solid, dignified boulders protruded from the churning water, reminding me of mothers watching over their children. Vigorous waves splashed against the stable rocks. No orders, no signals, no directions from the elders; no whistles, no rules. The waves appeared fearless, energetic, and mischievous, slapping against the rock-mothers’ laps and encircling their rock ankles with foam-inducing play.
After placing my order, I focused on the hypnotic churn of the ocean. Glittery sprinkles blanketed the water’s surface all the way to the horizon, and blobs of seaweed floated like powdered cinnamon on top of foaming coffee. There, right in front of me, lay the antidote for the emotional difficulties I’d been experiencing—nature therapy, instead of books and gadgets and antidepressant pharmaceuticals. Been there, done that, skimming across the surface of life, rather than pausing and holding my breath long enough to notice, let alone partake of, the generous gifts of nature. How tragic, that I could name the make and model of my car, the brand of my clothes and shoes and the vast number of manmade items in my possession, but could only name a fraction of the plants, trees, animals, birds, clouds, and rocks that made up my world.
Breakfast arrived. Canadian bacon, poached eggs, and country potatoes. I gasped at the size of it. Enough to feed two people. Twice. “I’ll get a container for the part you can’t eat,” the server said, confirming that my jaw-dropped expression was nothing new. I dug into my meal, knowing I wouldn’t be eating like this for a while, not in a camp kitchen with limited cooking supplies and my equally limited camp-cooking skills.
I left the restaurant sated and reflective, only to notice a butterfly land on the Harley parked next to my Jeep. What a contrast. Gossamer and steel, wings of iridescent yellow and orange quivering against slick and shining metal.
“Like it?” a male asked from behind me.
Transfixed by the glistening, almost translucent wings of the butterfly, I sighed. “Absolutely beautiful.”
“It’s a Fat Boy,” he announced. “Just added those chrome pipes. Gave it an extra ten horsepower. Too powerful for a lightweight like you.”
I turned and met the man’s flat brown eyes. “Sorry, I was talking about the butterfly.”
A lift of his brow. The shake of his head. A grin. “Well, I’ll be...”
Mr. Harley’s longish, windblown hair and tanned face appealed to my senses. But something about him triggered an emotional truth that made it through my memory-filter as significant. You’ve met men like him before, only to rock you off center.
His glance wavered between me and his bike. “At least the butterfly knew something good when he saw it.”
I grinned in spite of myself. “What makes you think it was a he?”
“Because he appreciated my bike, of course. And because he just landed on your shoulder.”
“Really?”
He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and smiled.
“Oh, I get it.” I chuckled at how easily I’d been duped. “No butterfly on my shoulder.”
Another shake of his head. “Babe, you’re either a good loser or a good actress.”
“I’m a terrible loser,” I admitted, grimacing at the term, babe. “I thought it was a lot funnier when the joke was on you.”
He lifted his hands and shrugged in a you-hurt-me-first fashion. “How would you feel if all I noticed was the butterfly if he landed on you?”
“Relieved,” I said.
He folded his arms and narrowed his gaze. “Not the answer I expected.”
“Oh, there you are, honey.”
We both turned at the sound of a sultry voice belonging to a woman blessed with looks rarely seen outside of Hollywood. Her full auburn hair lifted in the coastal breeze as if encouraged to do so by a photo-shoot fan. Her eyes were light brown, her skin iridescent. She reminded me of the butterfly.
Harley Guy signaled for her to come closer. “Hey, Claudia, I just met a woman who prefers insects to Fat Boys.”
Her full lips stretched into a polite smile, then curled into a grin, as if she had caught the punch line to a joke. Nice, too. Darn. She angled her head and presented me with a demure Lady-Di smile.
This goddess, shy?
Well, there was nothing shy about her outfit: red spandex top, brown fringed-leather jacket, and black leather pants and boots.
I pulled out the keys to my Jeep and unlocked the door, feeling sudden loneliness weigh down on me. How I wished Morgan were here with me now. “Nice to meet you.”
“Maybe Cecil and I will see you around,” Claudia said with an eager note in her voice.
I opened the door and tossed my takeout container onto the passenger seat. Strange. For a moment there, I sensed that Claudia was lonely, too. Nah. Not with that hunk she was with. “You never know,” I said, though I doubted it. By the looks of her, tent-camping wasn’t her style.
She pulled on a full-face helmet and buckled it under her chin.
Cecil’s half helmet struck me as more of a choice of style than safety. Or maybe it was a sign of defiance. Full helmets are for pussies. He straddled his Harley and ignited it into life.
It rumbled. It roared. I took a step back.
Claudia smiled an apology, then slid her visor down and swung onto the elevated seat behind Cecil.
Broad handle bars. Monster chrome headlights. Nothing skinny about that machine.
Another, louder, roar.
I raised my hand in farewell.
Three months earlier, I would’ve been impressed with this couple’s obvious wealth and good looks.
Now, I was just glad to see them go.
~~~
After another sixteen miles down Highway 1, I turned into the entrance to the Pfeiffer-Big Sur State Park and drove past the Big Sur Lodge to a dollhouse-sized building where I verified the number and location of my campsite.
Shafts of sunlight penetrated the branches, needles, and leaves of the redwoods and oaks that formed a canopy over my reserved spot, highlighting my temporary allotment of paradise—as well as that of my neighbors. Cramped into their small space were two family-sized tents, a giant gazebo, tables, chairs, a camp stove, a sink, a stack of deflated air mattresses, and... Jeez, was that a portable loo?
Currently, all was quiet, my neighbors nowhere in sight.
It didn’t take long for me to figure out that pitching my tent would take a while. After spending a week camping in the Los Padres National Forest two months earlier, the process should’ve been second hat. But the tents we’d used then were small and strictly functional.
Unlike this one.
I unfolded the instructions, which started with a tip: Always practice at home before your first trip. “Woulda, coulda, shoulda,” I grumbled before dumping the tent parts to see what I’d be dealing with: ground cloth; tent; rainfly; stakes; main body pole; vestibule pole; rainfly pole; tent stakes.
Back to the instructions: Enlist help of at least one other person to assist you to assemble the tent. “Yeah, right.”
Trial and error got me as far as spreading the ground cloth, stretching the tent over it, staking the tent corners through the stake rings, and snapping together the flexible, collapsible poles. Now for the tricky part. Make an X shape over the top of the tent with the body poles and insert into the pole sleeves. May require some pulling, stretching, and adjusting.
At this rate, I’d be lucky to get the darn thing up by nightfall.
“Looks like you could use a little help.”
I glanced over my shoulder.
The speaker had the face and figure awarded to people who eat well, take their vitamins, and exercise. Her hair was gray, though she looked no older than forty, and her clear blue eyes sparkled with good humor.
“You bet I could, if you’re offering.”
“Happy to help out a fellow camper in need,” she said.
I would have reached for her outstretched hand if my own hadn’t been balancing the flexible main body pole like a telescopic fishing rod.
“I’m Anne,” she said, her bracelets jingling.
I dropped the pole to the ground. “I’m Marjorie. Would you care for a drink?”
“Water would be lovely,” she said, eyeing my Olympic Dome 4-Person Tent. “That’s a pretty fancy house you’re erecting. Four bedrooms?”
“I know it’s a bit much,” I said, pulling bottled water out of my ice chest, “but I wanted plenty of space. The ad said it would set up in five minutes.”
“Ads can be misleading.”
I handed Anne her water. “Yeah, I figured that out about an hour ago.”
Anne uncapped the bottle and raised it in a salute before taking a sip. “Seems I came just in time.”
“I’ll treat you to baked beans and hotdogs after...”
“Twenty-four grams of protein, twenty-seven grams of fat, fifty-five grams of carbs. Not part of my usual diet, but for today, I’ll make an exception.”
With Anne’s help, the rest of the tent went up in minutes. She compared erecting a tent to ceremony, the instructions a test. “Sometimes you have to nix the instructions and trust your intuition,” she said. “For instance, I always use more ground stakes than called for, just in case my handiwork isn’t as sturdy as it looks.”
“Wow,” I said. Clear-view windows; mud mat; front and rear vestibule; rainfly; blue dome; interior pockets for stashing gear. A little over-the-top, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Anne took a step back and inspected my new home. “Eddie Bauer, with all the bells and whistles. Did you bring a groundsheet and mattress?”
“Yep. And a sleeping bag and pillow.”
“How about an extra blanket? It gets pretty cold at night when the fog rolls in.”
The thought of fog creeping in and engulfing the campsite gave me a moment of unease, but I shrugged it off. “In some ways, at least, I came prepared.”
“Good.” Anne pointed to her right. “The bathrooms and showers are thatta way. Be sure to use them before bedding down, so you won’t be searching for them after dark. Did you bring a gas stove?”
“Yep. In the back of my Jeep.
“Good, I’m hungry.”
~~~
The tent looked inviting, with the inflated air mattress, sleeping bag, flashlight, blanket, bottled water, and just about everything else I could imagine needing inside, including a catalog for the four-day Esalen Institute workshop Dr. Mendez had signed me up for while I was here. Something about opening up to further growth and eliminating accumulated patterns that numb the perception. “Don’t limit your life experience,” he’d said. “Extend your spiritual family with people who will provide you with new learning experiences.”
The smell of barbecued beans and hot dogs wafted through the newly operational camp kitchen. “I could get used to this.”
Anne turned the hot dogs and stirred the beans. “Hate to break this to you, but the reason it’s currently so peaceful is that your neighbors from the Circus Camp next door are out sight-seeing. Enjoy the quiet while it lasts.”
“I wondered why there weren’t any vehicles around,” I said. “Looks like they haven’t finished setting up yet.”
“Notice the air compressor?” At my nod, Anne said. “What do you think they’ll be doing when you’re all hunkered down to go nighty-night in that cozy tent of yours?”
“Oh no.”
“And they’ve got three kids.”
“Kids are cute.”
Anne’s brows shot up, and she slapped a hand over her chest. “Not these. No one watches them. They’re everywhere, all at once.” She sighed. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
It felt like I’d just been sucker-punched. “Maybe I shouldn’t have pitched the tent.”
“I was thinking about moving to a quieter site myself, but” —Anne paused, then shook her head— “there probably aren’t any other spaces available. And, to be quite honest, I don’t like the idea of camping too far out on my own.”
With a brave smile, I assured her, “Well, now you have me. That is, if you don’t mind helping out a greenie camper now and then.”
Anne reached over and patted my hand. “We’ll help each other.”