We awaken to an eerie sight outside of our cabin door: fog as thick as pea-soup, with barely enough visibility to see our parked Jeep across the road. For the landscape photographer, a foggy morning is bittersweet - no chance for a decent sunrise shoot, but also less pressure to perform, and more opportunity to breathe deeply, eat a hearty breakfast, and enjoy the moment. Besides, we’ve seen plenty of fog throughout our northern and Chesapeake travels, and we know that it tends to be more ephemeral than any other weather condition I could shoot in. Just an hour or two before the rising sun burns away the mist and leaves us with either gorgeous, sunlit scenery or dramatic cloud-swept landscapes, right? Boy, were we ever so wrong.
Fog along this part of the California coastline is not like fog anywhere else, we gradually realize after we hop in the car and begin our journey south. I’m driving at a snail’s crawl (thankfully, no commuters or other cars on the highway this early in the morning), barely able to see the center stripe of the highway, let alone the next bend in the road, the sheer precipice beyond it, or the pounding waves that would greet us below if I failed to react to either in time. We drive for miles and miles, passing by overlook after overlook that I diligently marked off in my research - all of them choked with fog. Nothing to see, here.
With my hopes for shooting sunrise at Partington Point (or any other point) dashed, I figure we’ll continue south, until either the fog relents, or we reach one of several trails of interest where I’d planned to spend some time. Somewhere twenty miles later, nearing the southern boundaries of the Big Sur coastline, we finally come to understand that the fog has no plans to go anywhere. It just lives here, and here’s where it’s gonna be. This dense marine layer, which can last for days or even weeks, is a uniquely Big Sur phenomenon, an ugly lovechild of the sun, the ocean, the temperate year-round weather, and the soaring walls of the coastal range. At least the redwoods are happy.
At Pacific Valley, we pause the southward exodus and park beside a ranger station on the landward side of the highway. From here, we cross the road, pass through a cattle gate, and embark on a short walk across an expanse of coastal bluffs. Though we are in a completely different time, place, landscape, and biome, the grey weather and the entirely flat, straight trail, receding inscrutably into the horizon, remind me instantly of our walk to the downed naval plane in the south of Iceland, over five years earlier. Having made the connection with Sólheimasandur, I become acutely aware of this dreary and lonesome but beautiful place; the wind howling through the valley and the waves crashing in the distance only serve to complete the illusion. It is an utterly different experience than I would have had if we visited this stretch of seashore on a radiant, clear day - one of the reasons why I so love being in nature, and why I use landscape photography as an excuse to do it.
A mile in, the grass path brings us to the edge of the sea. Once the tripod is set, Jane sets off walking north along the bluffs; I take photos of her standing on the distant cliffs, enveloped in the gloom of the mist, with the roiled Pacific Ocean thundering onto the gravel beach far below her.
Back at the car, we resume our drive to the south, passing by Sand Dollar Beach and Jade Cove in short order. The morning is well underway now, and it has become clear that the coastal fog is here for good. With the whole day ahead and not much else available to us in terms of seascapes, Jane and I decide to beeline all the way south out of Big Sur in order to spend extra time at the elephant seal colony at Piedras Blancas (photos in the next post). We pass additional viewpoints that would have been lovely in better visibility, including the sea stacks off of Cape San Martin, and the pine-covered ridges at Ragged Point. South of Ragged Point, the winding cliffside highway finally makes a long, gentle descent to the floor of a broad coastal valley, which is carved by the water of San Carporforo Creek. We stop to look for a view with the creek flowing toward the ocean, but not finding much of a trail or a leading line, we continue on our way. The Pacific Coast Highway straightens now as it follows the coastline south; the view along this stretch of road, looking toward the foothills in the north, is another signature landscape of the central Californian coast, but in the fog, there is nothing to be seen but two lanes of asphalt and some surrounding greenery. A few miles more of easy, fast driving, and we arrive at Piedras Blancas (“White Rocks”), home to the largest mainland colony of elephant seals in the world.
The northern elephant seal is one of the stranger creatures I’ve ever watched in its natural habitat. Its population ranges along the entire Pacific coast of North America, from Vancouver Island down to northern Mexico, but the greatest number of these massive, sea-going blubber-tanks is concentrated on the rocky shorelines of central California - and more specifically, on the few miles of beach immediately surrounding Piedras Blancas. Though they spend the majority of the year out in the open ocean, underwater, and hunting or eating, we have arrived in the spring molting season, when female and juvenile males come ashore to shed their outer layer of fur and skin. The resulting sight is a strange one - thousands of fat, fetid mammals, spread over every square foot of the beach (in many cases, unhappily piled atop one another), each gigantic body flaky and rashy enough to make any self-respecting skin care professional shudder in fear. The fully reclined seals intermittently reach back to scratch their itchy backs using the little finger articulations on their flippers - an oddly anthropomorphic action that I certainly perform on a nightly basis. The air is filled with the constant sound of grunts, groans, and sighs (whatever sound you might imagine a two-ton creature to make when it is imposed upon by another two-ton creature). Accompanying these, there are frequent bouts of loud honking and roaring, emitted usually by two males with their heads reared back, their eyes bloodshot and widely glaring at one another. I presume that this is a gendered act of territoriality - the elephant seal equivalent of two drivers cursing and gesturing wildly at each other after a fender-bender in an intersection, or two drunks ineffectually shoving each other in an alleyway behind a small-town bar.
It’s Jane’s first time seeing these creatures, and she walks along the the top of the beach, from one pile of seals to another, mesmerized. She most enjoys watching the seal pups (just born in the winter), whose plump, shiny bodies are still small enough to appeal to our conventional sense of cuteness. An even funnier sight is the occasional seal’s attempt to return to the sea; though it can reach graceful cruising speeds of several miles per hour in open water, the elephant seal’s mobility on land is pitiful. Imagine a thousand-pound sack of rendered candlewax attempting to move across a beach using two hand trowels, stopping for a minutes-long breather every couple of feet.
After spending most of the morning with the elephant seals, we drive a few extra miles into the town of San Simeon to catch a bathroom break and to visit the Friends of the Elephant Seal visitor center and souvenir shop, which is located on the second floor of totally deserted shopping plaza. Here, we pick up the second of this trip’s 3 fridge magnets, a close-up portrait of an adorably smiling elephant seal. From San Simeon, we reverse course and make the long drive back to the Sur to finish exploring the southern part of that famous coastline. In hindsight, we might have been spared from backtracking by spending one less night in Big Sur, in favor of exploring the environs of San Simeon, Cambria, and Morro Bay - iconic central Californian settings in their own right. But I have no qualm with how things turned out, considering that our next two locations for the day - a wildflower-laden spur trail from the roadside near Pacific Valley, and a 2-mile trail in Limekiln State Park - bore some of my favorite photos from the entire trip.
During our long drive back up into the mountains, we note that omnipresent fog remains thick as ever, but it now has a luminous quality to it, lit from above by the midday sun. The entire coast seems to be tinted sapphire, held within a massive lightbox that casts a soft glow on the land for miles on end. These are horrible conditions for shooting sweeping, dramatic landscapes, but wonderful conditions for plant, flower, and nature photography. Practiced after a spring of photographing Baltimore’s procession of flowering trees, I turn my camera to our closer surroundings, stopping by the roadside whenever convenient to capture the beautiful spring colors of California’s wildflowers. At Sand Dollar Beach, we discover that neither of us has cash for the parking fee, so we instead move up the road, just south of our last walk in Pacific Valley, and take a short hike among the flowers and across the bluffs. Jane walks ahead to another cliff-top view over the roaring ocean, while I take photos of morning glory, thistle, mustard, and poppy.
Further north, we leave the coastal bluffs behind and re-enter the land of harrowing sandstone cliffs, steep creeks and canyons, and boulder-strewn mountainsides. Here, we turn off the road to visit Limekiln State Park, a campground and network of trails among some of the loveliest redwood groves on the planet, all nestled against the base of imposing Cone Peak. After paying a small day-use fee, we set off on a walking trail that winds through the redwood trees, climbing as it follows Limekiln Creek upstream. The foggy weather works wonders here in the forest, negating the usual harsh glare-and-shadow contrast that would be present beneath a bright afternoon sun. Instead, working with a soft light source and a cleaner range of luminosity, the camera is free to capture a sumptuous amount of color and detail - the rich, textured mahogany of the redwoods’ bark, and the luscious, cool greens of the carpeting clovers, ivies, and ferns.
The trail upriver toward Limekiln Falls is mostly easy and flat, and the cool, moist air is perfect for forest walking. About a mile in, we come to a log bridge crossing over the creek; Jane goes first, accompanied by a troupe of elementary school children, who stop and watch as I embarrassingly tiptoe my way across the log, with my camera in one hand and tripod in the other. Up a few switchbacks at the next crossing, I elicit a chorus of conspiratorial ooh’s and aah’s when I skip the line and wade across the ankle-deep creek in my boots. Better to be wet, than to fall and be wet, I tell Jane when she looks inquiringly at me. We continue this way up a series of smaller falls, including one interesting section where we shimmy along the side of a fallen redwood to climb directly up the creek. At the top, the path levels out, and we come into view of 100-foot-tall Limekiln Falls, where the creek drops from its course along the flank of Cone Peak into the valley below. I take a photo of Jane standing in front of the falls before schoolchildren overtake us and go clambering all over the wet rock. We retrace our way back down the creek, stopping frequently to admire the gorgeous light and scenery of this sylvan paradise. Nearly back at the campground, we encounter a birder (you can identify them by their sun hats, khaki shorts, and oversized binoculars) who has evidently been doing much more admiring of the scenery than we have; he has barely walked a quarter-mile in the time that we walked two. “This place is unbelievable,” he says to us as we pass, as if he simply has to tell someone, anyone. “I could spend the entire day here!” We answer with a smile and a nod. I take more photos of the winding creek and the redwood trees before we return to the car.
Back on the highway, we continue north along the winding coastline, driving through the ever lighter and more ethereal fog. Near Gamboa Point, we finally get enough of a clearing that I am able to photograph Big Creek Bridge in the distance, with a foreground of thistle flowers and turquoise-blue water. The rest of the drive is uneventful; we eventually return to Big Sur Valley, where I hop into the Big Sur Deli to grab a corn dog and an ice cream bar for a late lunch. Jane opts to return to the cabin and finish the rest of our focaccia bread with fruit. I take an afternoon nap while Jane takes the Jeep to the main lodge for WiFi access, in order to respond to a few work-related emails.
In the evening, we return a short distance south on the highway to the valley overlook where stopped the day before. I set up for a long sunset timelapse here, which turns out to be interesting not for the quality of the light (which is fairly morose), but for the bank of fog that gradually rolls into the valley from its seaward side to the north. The mist and clouds gradually approach us over the course of the hour, until the view is all but blotted out by a tinted sheet of white. Not much of a golden hour, but nevertheless an interesting subject to shoot. Jane and I take a selfie here at the edge of the valley, before retiring to the cabin for our last night in Big Sur.
