We drove for hours, winding and cliff hugging the 123 mile Pacific Coast Highway, all the way up to Big Sur. This kind of rugged beauty makes our normal lives seem inconsequential—with redwood groves on one side, and the Santa Lucia range plunging into the sea on the other.  Ragged, angry rocks jut out at the shore, churning the ocean into froth.

The smell—oh god the smell was unbelievable. It had rained the previous day, and when we stopped at a viewpoint, we were enamored with the thick bushes and mint-smelling plants, all mixed with the brine of the sea. I stopped for a pee, the most beautiful pee, overlooking the ocean, surrounded by fresh, floral bushes. Mikey took a picture. You can’t see anything but my head sticking up, thankfully.

The drive was exhilarating, except for the fact that Emmylou suddenly felt overwhelmed and would not shut up. She whined and shook and yawned when we yelled at her. We tried everything, even holding her tight like a baby, stroking and shushing her. Nothing worked. We turned up the radio and tried to enjoy the view, eventually tuning out her never ending cries, like a balloon slowly being deflated.

We drove next to the endless sea with little to no civilization for miles until we reached Nepenthe, a restaurant/bar that sits 800 feet above the water. On the first level there is a natural, hippy inspired shop full of books, candles and flowing, colorful clothing. We climbed to the top, where the patio hung over the trees, offering the most amazing view. A giant fire pit is carved out of the center, and bench style seating surrounds it with India-style pillows and rugs.

Big Sur sits inland a bit, where the giant redwoods loom, and the Big Sur River runs her clear, icy fingers through the earth, exposing the bed of rocks below.

We camped at the Big Sur State Park. Once settled, we walked around the redwoods, flashlight in hand. We were reminded of our walk at Arches; the trees were more ominous and powerful at night, like giant bodyguards standing in the shadows. We’d shine our light on the base, following it up, up up, until the light disappeared.

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The next day we hiked up to Pfeiffer Falls and then kept on until the trail opened up into wide views of the valley. As soon as we got back to the camper for lunch, it rained. We felt giddy to be inside, safe and warm with hot coffee and a bowl of rice.

Later that afternoon we hiked to the Colonial Tree, the oldest in the park. The tree was burdened with branches, thick and heavy, reaching toward the ground. It was over a thousand years old. I try to imagine what life was like when it was just sprouting in the ground; the world unspoiled from civilization.

In the morning, as we were packing up, I was shocked to see how many California Blue Birds were surrounding Emmy and her food bowl. There must have been half a dozen, so pretty, with their tufted, black head fading to blue, hopping closer and closer to her as her gaze snapped from one to the other, rigid. Apparently Blue Birds love dog food.

We drove on, stopping at Carmel-by-the-sea, a village of colorful cottages and small shops next to the mile-long Carmel River State Beach, and spent an hour walking slowly along, picking up rocks and wading in the water.

We were driving along, thinking about where we would stay for the night, when we saw a sign for New Brighton beach campground. We put our blinker on. The campground was pretty but nothing to write home about—overgrown grass and smallish sites, but if you walk to the clearing next to the wooden fence you’ll be standing next to a sandstone cliff overlooking the ocean. A hundred steps lead down to the beach, and we set up shop on a blanket with a bottle of our fancy wine.

To our left, a weathered old man played the ukulele at the base of the cliff, while his two chihuahuas explore the sand, digging for crabs in their matching sweaters. To our right we heard someone playing the the didgeridoo, and the sound was the perfect background music to watch the sunset.

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Up Next, San Francisco!