I’m not sure who was in a worse mood, the sky or me. My hot-air balloon ride in Tehachapi had been canceled, which brought my plans for the perfect daytrip tumbling down. On top of that, my house was being fumigated, I hadn’t slept well, I hadn’t showered, and I still needed to write my Daytripper for the Sun.
Less than enthusiastically, I looked up things to do in Guadalupe and set out, feeling slightly better for having a plan: I’d check out the Guadalupe Cultural Arts and Education Center, the Guadalupe Dunes Center, and the water tower; see what’s going on in the community; and visit Oso Flaco Lake.
I arrived in Guadalupe beneath a damp-concrete sky and started taking notes and snapping photos, trying to soak up details. Who was honored for what in the sports hall of fame at the Cultural Arts and Education Center, and what did the locals think was noteworthy about their town?
The one thing people mentioned constantly was Guadalupe Beach. I was trying to ignore it. I’ve been there, done that. My father used to take us out there to get photos for multi-media shows, and I’ve gone out to see big waves or to get my feet wet and then head back home. Still, the beach came up over and over as the thing to do.
With lunch creeping up on me, I relented. Romo’s had been suggested as the place to chow down, so I grabbed a carne asada burrito and a young-coconut juice before heading west on Main Street through the fields toward the dunes. After leaving my car in the impromptu parking area, I followed the temporary rope line leading to the beach.
I stopped beside the road to eat my lunch and thought about heading back to town. I still hadn’t seen Oso Flaco Lake, and some of the other buildings I had spied on my way through town looked noteworthy. Between the gusts of wind, all sound ceased and waveless moments passed, which made the surfer in me wonder what the waves would look like today.
There is something about the ocean at Guadalupe Beach. The amount of water swirling around reminds me of a person thrashing a hand around in a bathtub all willy-nilly. There are so many tempting peaks out there, but, honestly, the thought of paddling to them freaks me out.
The waves had pulled me to the beach, but what kept me from heading back to town were the monumental dunes dominating the southern landscape. Despite my previous visits, I had never before taken the time to see them close up.
This day, I had the luxury of time, so I started walking, and as I walked, I got lost within myself. I stopped focusing on my plan and started noticing the different colors of sand in the rippled plain, the textures in the storm clouds overhead, and how some steps were like walking on sandy cement while others were like wading in golden particles.
My mind began to wander. It leapt from the look of the landscape to how it made me feel, spinning off to thoughts of how neat a setting the dunes would make for a scene in a book, which reminded me of my own writing I had put off for so long.
I paused at the top of the first dune to scope out the best route to ascend the next. The scattered plants in the defiles provided the only bits of contrast. I marveled at the tenacity of life in the sand. The farther I went, the harder the going got. These were no longer casual ascents, but climbs surmounted by strategic approach or sheer brute force. As I climbed, a sense of contentment hit me. The day was no longer about the perfect trip; it was about the mountain of sand right in front of me. Beyond this dune was another higher dune, and beyond that another that seemed to kiss the boiling gray sky. It seemed like there was always one more, and I just had to keep going.
Several dunes later, I stood considering the behemoth and the storm, wanting to make the climb, but not wanting the camera—the only one in the office—to get rained on if the storm turned. At the base of the dune was a tangle of brush, and at its edges two coyotes caught sight of me. One disappeared into the brush while the other circled around me.
I dropped below the horizon line of the dune and tried to get back downwind so I could get a better picture. For several minutes we played a game of predator and prey from a distance, until the coyote bugged out.
I turned back and headed for my car. The possibility of rain and traipsing through wild canine territory was a slight deterrent to continuing, but there was something else: I had the desire to leave that mountain for later, to leave a reason to come back.
Michael McCone makes a tasty treat for any and all predators. Contact him at intern@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Oct 27 – Nov 3, 2011.
