Along the way

It has been such a vanishingly long time since we have heeded the call of the great Pacific Ocean’s shorelines along the southern California coast, yet here we are: approaching the border that separates Arizona from that state to our west, at long last anticipating being in the surf this afternoon.

No matter that we have overpacked, forget that the bedroom window is still wide open after being ajar to invite in the cool night air.  We have six days carved out between Tuesday night music gigs at Augie’s Restaurant and we intend to spend them in the San Diego vicinity, primarily up to our necks in salt water or lounging on the sand.

Am I crazy anxious to be there - yes, most emphatically!  Does that stop me from calling a halt at various sites to satisfy my curiosity about what I spy out the window of the truck speeding along the highway - no!  Admittedly, I do allow a few things to pass in the rear-view mirror; however, by 10 a.m., we had already turned around a couple of times for photo ops.

One acreage speckled with moldering melons and accented by weeds grown beyond maturity piqued our interest enough for a shot stop, as if somehow, we would find the answer by standing at the edge of the field.

Alas, we could not discern the why of it, but clearly a farmer had planted the large plot with watermelons, installed miles of plastic mulch and drip line.  Come harvest time, however, the melons remained where they grew atop deteriorating plastic.  

The good news is that we never have to stand in line to see the things that grab my attention; no one else gives a rip, and for good reason.  Even stopping to be amazed at the jagged skyline of the Kofa Mountains, causes no backup, as we recall the time we climbed up in there to fulfill my long-term yen to see the unique native palm grove tucked up into one of its canyons.

Further back up the road, we pulled over briefly for a photo op at the entrance road to the former Robson’s Mining World, just because the iconic sign is sure to complete its submission to the elements before too long.

At this advanced age, many things dredge up memories from past occurrences, and that is one of those.  It was like this: along about 1990 or so, Charles Robson contacted the señor with the request that he expand his Elderhostel program to Robson's facility.  

One thing led to another, as things are wont to do, with the result that for about a decade, Yavapai College offered week-long active educational programs for senior adults interested in hiking, history and the natural world.

Sadly, the lodge at Robson’s burned; Charles passed away, and the site was for a spell relegated to day trips by the señor’s Edventures programs until it wasn’t,  Subsequent visits have revealed frightful conditions resulting in extensive damage to Charles’ once impressive multiiple-room museum of old west artifacts.

Thus I pass the time while my pard drives the six-hours-if-we-didn’t-keep-stopping journey to the ocean.  Can I sense the smell of ocean spray yet?  Not really, after all, we have only just passed Yuma’s vast agricultural fields (now dormant in the summer heat, but soon to be lushly verdant with their mild winter crops), crossed over the border marked by the Colorado River, remarked at the mountainous sand dunes, and entered the flat flat Imperial Valley.

But soon . . . the Pacific!

In conversation, it becomes clear that it has been nigh on to 30 years since we have ventured into those parts.  I am incredulous at the thought, as I always am when I realize the extreme passage of time that I might have categorized as "just the other day" or something similar.

Before the beach . . .

. . . we check into our living quarters that will be home for five days.  Perfectly adequate, squeaky clean . . . and approximately the size of a postage stamp, albeit the airmail type.  For those under the age of 100, I refer to the olden days, when, in order to have our letter delivered to its destination via an airplane, as opposed to ground, we bought a special "air mail" stamp, wrote the words "air mail" on the envelope, lest the post office not notice the special slightly larger stamp.  Granted, our ground delivery was a step above pony express, but air mail was something special. (I admit that when I scribe memories such as this, I wonder if I actually recall this, or did I read it in a history book.)

And then . . .

. . . I tested the waters - warm enough for swimming rather than the icy cold I remember from earlier-in-the-summer visits . . .

. . . and the señor agrees.

 

Fairly rough surf at Mission Beach on our first venture into the water; a rip current was present shortly afterward, and lifeguards were calling for folks to get out.  It will be interesting to use the next few days for exploration.