1991 Road Trip Day 1 Afternoon | Santa Cruz- Big Sur | The Cost of Freedom on California Route 1

Coastal pasture and rugged Pacific shoreline along California Route 1 in Big Sur, photographed during a 1991 road trip, with grazing cattle overlooking the ocean and cliffs. — California Route 1, CA, USA — May 1991 ·Velvia 50

ROAD TRIP 1990–1992

May 1991. It was a time before GPS navigation and smartphones, when a road trip began with nothing more than a paper map spread across the passenger seat. This entry covers the afternoon of Day One, from Santa Cruz to Big Sur along California’s legendary Route 1.

A hotel reservation meant I now had to reach Santa Maria before nightfall. To do that, I would have to pass by Monterey and Carmel-by-the-Sea without stopping. The disappointment lingered as the miles rolled by. Yet as if to soften the loss, Big Sur gradually revealed itself ahead—towering cliffs, rolling pastures, and the vast Pacific stretching beyond them. Sometimes the places we leave behind make the places we finally reach feel even more extraordinary.

The Invisible Chain Called a Reservation

From a pay phone at a gas station, I made a reservation for the night at the Santa Maria Airport Hilton. At least I had secured a place to sleep. The possibility of spending the night in the van was gone, and that alone lifted a considerable weight from my mind. But the reservation created a new constraint as well. I now had to reach Santa Maria before the day was over. This was supposed to be a journey of freedom. Yet in exchange for the security of a guaranteed bed, I had unknowingly accepted an invisible chain called time.

The deeper I drove into Santa Cruz, the slower the traffic became. Traffic lights interrupted my progress. Tourist cars crowded every lane. Long lines stretched through intersection after intersection, and every glance at the clock tightened the knot in my stomach. The sun was still high overhead, but night was steadily approaching. What if I took a wrong turn? Today, a smartphone would solve that problem instantly. In 1991, nothing of the sort existed. There was no GPS, no internet, and no mobile phone. The only way to know whether you were lost was to keep driving and find out.

Near the center of town, California Route 17 merged into my path and the highway widened to six lanes. Each time the tires crossed a concrete expansion joint, a familiar vibration echoed through the van. Thump. Thump. Thump. The dry mechanical rhythm reminded me of Interstate 80 earlier that morning. Somehow it already felt like a distant memory. Then a strange vehicle swept past—a dune buggy consisting of little more than a frame on wheels, with no roof and no doors. The driver wore sunglasses and seemed to embrace the wind with his entire body. He looked like freedom itself. For a brief moment, I envied him.

Along the roadside stood nostalgic supermarket signs, aging storefronts, and brick buildings. It was undeniably a city, yet something about it felt strangely familiar. Though I had never seen these streets before, I felt as if I somehow remembered them.

The Distance Between Wanting and Having

I suddenly remembered the bag of Trail Mix I had bought at a supermarket in Woodside. Reaching over to the passenger seat, I pulled it from among my gear. It was the same snack that had looked suspiciously like birdseed when I first saw it. I pinched a handful of chopped nuts and dried fruit and tossed them into my mouth. The taste was better than I had expected, and somewhere along the way I had grown fond of it. But no amount of chewing eased my frustration over the shrinking hours ahead.

I took a sip from my paper cup of coffee.

Lukewarm.

Not hot. Not cold. Just stuck somewhere in between.

Then it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen a single iced coffee since arriving in America. What I wanted was a cup of coffee so cold it hurt my teeth. Yet nowhere seemed to sell one. Why didn’t California have iced coffee? The question began to bother me far more than it should have. Looking back, it was simply another form of wanting what I didn’t have.

I rolled down all the windows and convinced myself I had a brilliant solution. The rushing air would cool the coffee. Stretching my arm outside, I held the paper cup into the wind. But every time the tires crossed another concrete joint, coffee splashed everywhere. My hand became sticky. Drops landed on the door. The coffee itself remained stubbornly warm. I had hoped the iced coffee I couldn’t find would cool my head. Instead, only my arm got colder.

Places I Passed but Never Reached

A while after leaving the city behind, the ocean returned once more. Monterey was approaching. Marinas lined the shoreline as far as I could see. In Japan, a harbor like this would have been filled with fishing boats. Here, it was white yachts. Hundreds of them. The scene stretched on and on. It was the same ocean, yet it felt like an entirely different world.

I wanted to stop.

I wanted to visit the famous aquarium. I wanted to eat seafood at a waterfront restaurant. I wanted to walk the streets of Carmel-by-the-Sea.

Carmel was known as the town where Clint Eastwood had once served as mayor. I had even heard he owned a business there. But not today.

The sun remained high. It showed no sign of sinking. Even so, I knew how quickly time could disappear once I started wandering. I had no choice but to keep moving.

Keeping both hands on the wheel, I repeated the same promise to myself.

I’ll come back someday. Someday.

It was both hope for the future and surrender in the present.

Choosing to Stop

The highway narrowed once again to a single lane in each direction, and California State Route 1 finally entered Big Sur.

The disappointment of passing Monterey and Carmel had not faded. Yet with every curve of the coastline, the scenery grew larger, more dramatic, and more impossible than before.

Eventually, I lost the argument with myself.

I don’t have time.

I have to reach the hotel.

Even so, my foot eased off the accelerator.

Before me was a landscape unlike any I had seen all day—a meeting of rugged coastline on the right and rolling pastureland on the left. This one, I decided, was worth stopping for. I hadn’t given up everything.

Leaving the engine running, I reached for the Canon T90 resting on the passenger seat.

The road became increasingly dramatic, rising and falling with the contours of the land as it traced the edge of the Pacific. Sheer cliffs dropped away beside the pavement. Far below lay the ocean. There were no guardrails.

There was no time left to dwell on the disappointment of Monterey and Carmel. I had seen countless scenes in movies and television shows where cars plunged from the cliffs along Route 1. On the screen, it lasted only a second. In reality, it felt very different.

Beyond the edge of the road, there was nothing but sky.

My fingers tightened around the steering wheel until the knuckles turned white. Without realizing it, I had raised my shoulders so high they were beginning to ache.

A large motorhome crawled along in front of me. Each time an oncoming vehicle passed, the massive rig drifted slightly toward the cliff side. Every time it did, I felt as though I was being pulled toward the edge with it.

It was terrifying.

Yet it was breathtakingly beautiful.

Both truths existed at the same time.

And after a few more miles, my foot once again eased off the accelerator.

California Route 1 Coastline — California, 1991 — California Route 1, CA, USA — May 1991 ·Velvia 50

The Taste of Places Never Visited

Before setting off again, I opened the ice chest and pulled out a cold can of RC Cola.

Then an unnecessary thought crossed my mind.

What if I poured the cold cola into the remaining lukewarm coffee? Maybe it would become the iced coffee I had been searching for.

Without hesitation, I poured the dark liquid into the paper cup and took a sip.

Terrible.

That was all.

Looking back now, memory works in strange ways. I had come here for the scenery. Yet many of the finer details of Route 1 have begun to blur with time. What remains perfectly clear is the fact that I passed through Monterey and Carmel without stopping. And somehow, I still remember the taste of that absurd mixture of coffee and cola.

The things we lose often stay with us longer than the things we keep.

Even now, whenever I think of lukewarm coffee and the blue Pacific beyond the window, I can still feel the weight of that invisible chain.

Continue the Journey →

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