A Drive Down the Coast

          Just off the PCH at the mouth of the canyon lies a narrow, one-mile stretch of sand called Topanga Beach. With its sweeping view of Santa Monica Bay it seemed another perfect spot to pull over and appreciate this journey as reward. To pause for a bit and, again, be in the moment. Once my toes were buried in the warm sand I felt immersed in the coast. Just as I had when walking among the giants in Humboldt Redwood State Park or relaxing amid the grapevines of the Anderson Valley. These were more than just moments of repose; more than just being in the forest, at the vineyard or on the beach. They were opportunities to reflect; to capture the finer points of this experience and even to document them in real time. Another passage from Emerson’s Nature spoke well to this deeper connection to our natural surroundings:

          “When we speak of nature in this manner, we have a distinct but most poetical sense in the mind. We mean the integrity of impression made by manifold natural objects. It is this which distinguishes the stick of timber of the wood-cutter, from the tree of the poet.”

          From the outlet of Topanga Creek at the western end to the rocky foreland that bounds it in the east, Topanga Beach proved a fine respite from the road. With the call of seagulls and lapping waves once again serving as background music, I caught a faint profile of the Palos Verdes Peninsula at the far end of the bay while scanning the horizon for a glimpse of Santa Catalina Island some twenty miles offshore. Although third largest of the eight Channel Islands, Catalina is the only one with a sizable and permanent settlement; the resort town of Avalon – the southernmost city “in” Los Angeles County.

          Turning from the beach I began my scramble up Topanga Canyon Boulevard into this land once sacred to the indigenous Tongva tribe (as was Catalina) – Topanga Canyon. In addition to being named in reference to their village site being above the high water of the creek, I discovered that Topanga (“a place above”) was an old Shoshonean word that also – and rather aptly – alluded to the sky or heaven.

          As with its countercultural cousin Laurel Canyon to the east, this one-time bohemian haven on the outskirts of Los Angeles is as well known for its rustic landscape as for its musical heritage. Songs by Neil Young, The Doors and Eagles guitarist Don Felder, among others, were inspired by experiences in these hills and my trek into their historic folds was encouraged, in part, by Felder’s captivating description of his first home being “set on a steep hill at the end of a dirt road on top of a mountain.” This sounded so isolated and nearly unreachable that even on the page it was music to my ears. As discovered while passing through the extremely remote Lost Coast back in Humboldt and Mendocino Counties, disappearing into such a beautifully complex landscape could be intriguing. And the notion of getting there – as always – even more so.

          At once surrounded by oak trees and outcrops, this winding two-lane pass held a promise of reward that improved commensurately with each gain in elevation. Even though the beauty of the setting was obvious, little roadside signs with a logo of the California poppy set against snow-capped peaks appeared every so often – an indication that this was officially a “State Scenic Highway.” Various vista-point views reached far and wide across the canyon where a brilliant blue sky faded to white along the horizon. Clearly visible dirt trails hugged the steep and harsh terrain of sister mountains, cutting across vertical bare protrusions and winding their way up to those distant summits. More immediately the road became an endless array of bends – tight, narrow and precarious – where hairpin turns, steep embankments and inclines were often negotiated simultaneously. Along the more meandering and constricted upper reaches, where center lines were no longer painted on the road and guardrails were intermittent, signs reminded of “Two Way Traffic” while others recommended a fifteen-mile-per-hour speed limit – the slowest yet in my travels.

          Perhaps most puzzling was that this was actually a residential neighborhood, though hardly your typical subdivision. These roads I was scrabbling on were a daily commute to those who call this rugged terrain home. And yet I shared them with very few cars at the lower elevations and none along higher, more challenging passes. Of course, having the road to myself was always a luxury, especially on a scenic drive. But it seemed almost a necessity along this combination of tapering twists and turns where keeping eyes on the road and hands on the wheel were more than just offhand poetic sentiments by The Doors as it was this very pass that Jim Morrison was referring to when he wrote the lyrics for “Roadhouse Blues” in 1969.