Day Twenty Six_San Francisco to London

I wake up early on the morning of our last day, a little saddened but with a real sense of purpose - today I am getting a cruffin, come hell or high water. I leap out of bed and realise, as soon as my soles touch the soft carpet, that my amazing day of walking yesterday didn’t come without a cost - my feet feel like they’ve been mashed with a meat tenderiser. I chose to wear my Toms yesterday (I know, I know, but they’re comfortable, lightweight and are probably the only vaguely charitable thing I’ve done this year), and their lack of padding means my poor feet are black and blue.

Undeterred, I shower, pack and set off for the now famous (in my head, at least) Mr. Holmes Bakery, located on Larkin Street, about 15 minutes walk from my hotel. I can't say I relish the experience, on the flattened steaks that are now my feet, but I get going anyways, arriving around 8.15AM to an already well-established queue of about 20 people. As I walk past the line, I'm impressed by the eclecticism of those waiting - there are the obvious tourists, like me, student-looking types and local professionals on their way to work. It make me think that the cruffins must be more than just hype, if even San Franciscans are prepared to wait in line for them.

Over the next forty minutes or so, in between reading a book on my iPad, I watch as the queue get longer, and longer... and longer still. By the Tim one of the bakers steps out to issue the stickers that entitle you to two cruffins, there must be over a hundred people forming a queue that literally stretches around the block. I'm not quite sure I would have the perseverance to join a line like that - although the walk past the bakery does show the cruffins on display so maybe that's motivation enough.

Eventually, after a nice chat with the three Anglophiles waiting in front of me, I pick up the cruffins (banana chocolate today, there's no choice in that), some bilberry danishes and some blood orange doughnuts. They all look amazing, but I've decided to share them with my traveling compatriot when he collects me later, so I watch them get packaged into a beautiful gift box - whoever has led the branding exercise for Mr Holmes has done an excellent job - and leave the bakery absolutely ravenous. Somewhat fortuitously, I walk back past a place called Saigon Sandwiches, somewhere I'd read about last night when I was researching what to do for dinner. It's an innocuous looking establishment, but, and this is important, it's my only cast iron recommendation for if you ever visit San Francisco. The roast pork sandwich I order is probably the tastiest thing I've eaten on the whole trip, so much so that I consider going back for another - even on my ruined feet. It's amazing, and incredibly cheap, so please go if you get the chance.

Returning to the hotel, I do one final check of the room, finish packing and lug my bags to reception to await Nick. As I'm sitting there, trying to understand whether Donald Trump's seeming success with the conservative voters is some sort of massive practical joke, I reflect on my time in San Francisco. It's been a hugely enjoyable part of our journey, which is rapidly coming to a close, and whilst it's something of a shame that Nick and I never really got a chance to have a proper send off together, this city has still managed to be an amazing place to explore and ranks second in my internal list of 'Favourite US Cities' (second only to New York, which is a pretty ringing endorsement in my eyes).

Eventually Nick arrives, and it's comforting to get back into the truck, if a little unusual after a few days on my feet. As we approach the airport, I think we're both feeling a little melancholy about a return to London. We have both relished the freedom this trip has afforded us and a return to the constrictions and (only mildly enforced) routine of our day-to-day lives doesn't appeal after three weeks of boundless horizons, crystalline peaks and effortless evenings.

As such, the journey through the airport goes past in a bit of a blur - except for a momentary adrenaline spike when I thought they might try to take my cruffins from me at the security gates - and finds us sitting in a crowded lounge at the airport, drinking champagne (thanks Air France) and eating cheese and fruit (and again). As we catch up with our social networks, there's definitely a feeling of malaise that's as unlikable for its rarity between us as it is for the actual impact it has on our moods. We strike up conversation with two Londoners sitting next to us who are also traveling back after a tour of California and we share our baked goods with them (although not the cruffins, of course - they'd already gone by then and they were excellent) in the spirit of goodwill between travelers.

Before long we're boarding the plane, finding our pre-booked seats right at the back - it was worth the cash not to have people constant prodding the back of your head as they change channels to find the next episode of Will & Grace - and then we're airborne, with the United States of America 13,000 feet below us. The flight is uneventful, if long, but we both arrive in Heathrow relatively awake and partially alive. Not much happens between picking up our bags (which always takes what's seems to be an inordinate amount of time at London airports) and our key hitting the lock in Shoreditch. We unpack, get some food and then get to bed - our first day back at work is tomorrow and I'm already questioning the wisdom of that decision. At least it gave us another day in the US.

I'm not quite sure I can do a 'closing statement' here. So much is still in my head and much of my mind is still eight hours in the past, in a different country and on a different continent. I think I'll save that for another post, so I'll just leave and say 'Thanks America, see you again soon'. That seems a fitting summary of how I'm feeling.

Day Twenty Five_San Francisco

I’ve already failed my mission. The one I mentioned in the last post. Dammit. What was the mission you ask? Well, I’d heard about these things called ‘cruffins’ - essentially a muffin made with croissant dough - and I wanted to try and get my hands on one. Simple enough, you may say, but the trick is that the bakery that produces them, Mr Holmes Bakehouse, only makes a limited number every day, they go on sale at 9AM and once they’re gone then that’s it for that day. Apparently you need to be there well before 8.30AM to secure yourself a cruffin - I realised I’d blown it when I awoke shortly after 9AM with a pretty fuzzy head. That should be a lesson to me about the risks of drinking before a mission… Oh well.

With one dream already dashed before 10AM, I got my casual gear on and loaded up my day pack - I want to see as much of the city as possible today, but really want to do it using only my feet. I set off up towards Mr. Holmes anyways, just to rub salt in my own wounds, and find that around 9.45AM it’s actually pretty quiet. I have a ham and cheese bake - I always crave savoury things when I’m slightly hungover - and eat it warm, fresh out of the bag as I walk up yet another insanely steep slope on my way to the bayside.

I crest a hill, which in many ways was tougher going than some of the mountains we’ve walked up during this trip, and then suddenly see the bay. Alcatraz floats rather forlornly in the water, being much smaller and further away than I’d imagined it, I can see boats sailing out toward the Pacific and can just make out a small stretch of beach somewhere to the west, but no sign of the famous Golden Gate Bridge just yet. My walk towards the shore takes me past Ghirardelli Square (home of the famous chocolates) and Fort Mason, an historic military base that now houses an arts centre.

The walk over Fort Mason’s grounds suddenly reveals my first view of the Bridge - it’s red and big (watch out Bill Bryson), but more stunning is the day growing around it. It’s stunning, with bright sunshine and and increasingly warm temperatures making me glad I decided not to go with some of the warmer clothes I’d thought about in the morning. I walk along the edge of a crowded marina, as lots of people are clearly taking advantage of the weather, before spying something I recognise from the movies.

The Palace of Fine Arts is an unusual thing, built for the Panama-Pacific Exposition in 1915 and completely demolished and rebuilt in the 1960’s. It’s a remarkably ostentatious construction - one that I recognise from several movies but most notably Michael Bay’s classic, The Rock - but it doesn't really seem to mark anything out. There’s a sort of conference centre / exhibition space adjoining it, but that seems relatively empty as I wander around. It’s still a pretty impressive piece of architecture, although I wonder about the motivation to totally demolish and rebuild an icon exactly - maybe this is something that ties into the ideas of identity that I discussed in an earlier post, but it seems a bit disrespectful in some way.

I head along the shoreline, walking on the sand of a nearby beach and dipping my toes in the Pacific waters. It really is a glorious day and, were it not for my self-imposed agenda, I think I would have stopped here for longer. But I race on, up a steep hill and winding pathways that eventually bring me to the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s packed with people and the shared pedestrian / cyclist pathway over the Bridge is absolutely heaving - I actually see somebody get thrown off their bike after clipping a meandering tourist so it makes me especially wary.

It actually takes ages to walk across the Bridge; my timekeeping wasn’t up to scratch, but I’d say it takes at least twenty minutes. It’s well worth doing though, despite the congestion and chance of cyclist-strike, as it give you great views back towards the city and makes me realise just how vertical San Francisco is. When I eventually reach the viewing platform that ends the Marin County end of the Bridge, I spot a little set of stairs that actually take you underneath the suspension structure and on to a little path on the other side. I follow the route, which leads to an old gun battery on the northern shoreline and the looks I’m getting as I walk up the steep hill suggest that not many people use their feet to get there.

But I continue to use my feet and keep walking on the path - it looks like it reaches all the way up to another viewpoint on a much higher hill some way off in the distance. So I push onwards and upwards and end up setting out on one of the most enjoyable walks of the trip - it’s only about a mile’s walk, although at quite a gradient, but with the sun in my face the time just flies by. I eventually reach the top, another gun emplacement called Hawk Hill and spend half an hour at the top enjoying the sun and stunning views along the Californian coastline. It’s a genuinely rewarding experience, one made even more so when I spot none other than Lydia and Nick getting out of the truck and walking towards me. Serendipity indeed - both in the chance meeting and in that this gives me an opportunity to reclaim my sunglasses from the glove-box of the truck, something I’ve been missing all day.

After a brief catch-up, I head back down the hill - it was a mistake to not bring any water, and I’m feeling a bit woozy as I wander into a deserted cafe on the San Fran side of the bridge to buy a bottle. Suitably refreshed (and without the white and black dots skittering in front of my eyes), I wander back along the shoreline and end up walking along the Embarcadero - the road that runs along San Fran’s bayside and connects all its wharves, piers and landings. It’s now a little bit of a tourist trap, with lots of branded restaurants and chain shops, but the atmosphere is good and there are lots of people on the streets.

I eventually reach Market Street and walk through the Financial District and the shopping malls on my way back to the hotel. I arrive just after the sun’s gone down - today has seen me walk for almost nine hours straight and my motion tracker tells a similar story. My typical day in London will see me achieve around 3,000 of Nike’s now-defunct ‘FuelPoints’ - my FuelBand today is reading almost 12,000. Not bad, and something that probably explains why I have two blisters on my feet that look like you could use them as flotation devices in the event of a water landing.

A message from Nick tells me that I’m on my own this evening, so I hit Google to find a place that might be lively - I end up at Tommy’s Joynt, a nearby hof-brau that serves simple but tasty food and decent beers. I have the bison stew (which was great) and end up chatting to a couple sat beside me at the bar. This leads on to a wider discussion with some of the other people sitting further down and before I know it, I’m collapsing into my bed at 11.30PM.

It’s been an excellent day, one of the best of the trip, and I’m determined to get my cruffin tomorrow. What can go wrong?

Day Twenty Four_Los Banos to San Francisco

Today feels like it might be a bit of a transitional day - something we’ve not had many (if any) of this trip. Our aim is really to just arrive in San Francisco and get established in time to head out for dinner in the evening - I’ve booked Flour + Water, a restaurant that specialises in handmade pastas and has been getting good reviews from San Fran’s foodie press.

Anyway, we set out from the hotel and head west. The landscape seems to be shades of green grass, mottled with yellowing patches - kind of like a English lawn that’s been neglected over the summer. We drive through fields and hills, with occasional patches of water making an appearance - it’s hard to tell exactly where we are making identifying these bodies of water difficult. They could be rivers, they could be lakes, they could be the sea… Who knows? Eventually humanity starts to reassert itself and the level of development ekes upwards. Soon we’re in Cupertino, on the western edge of San Jose and just at the beginning of the peninsula that will take us to San Francisco.

Now some of you might recognise Cupertino and, if you do, then I’d be able to hazard a pretty confident guess at why. Maybe a clue is in order - I’m editing this blog on my MacBook Pro, having written text and taken photos on my iPad Air 2 after the loss of my iPhone 6. Yep, Cupertino is the home of Apple, of iPhone and Mac fame - Nick and I are both long-term admirers of the Apple design philosophy so a short stop at their spiritual home seems appropriate, given we’re passing by.

To be honest, the Apple campus is pretty uninspiring. The office buildings themselves are just bog standard, modern-ish blocks separated by roads and parking lots, with nothing special to comment on. There are lots of Apple-lanyard wearing people walking about, but even 1 Infinite Loop - Apple’s headquarters building - is unremarkable. We did stop at the on site Apple Store though, which sells exclusive Apple-branded merchandise not available at any other location (outside the street markets or Taiwan, China, Korea etc.). I think Nick was sorely tempted by the ‘fist bump emoji’ t-shirt, an actual Apple product you can buy, but eventually thought better of it.

We stopped at a little deli across the road from 1 Infinite Loop and had a rather excellent sandwich - it wasn’t excellent in any particular way, just really being meat in a bread roll, but the lashings of fresh vegetables and salad leaves was weirdly refreshing after a three week diet that has largely precluded that sort of food. It makes me excited for San Francisco, a place that’s renowned for its Californian, slightly-more-healthy-than-two-slabs-of-beef-and-cheese diet. After lunch we head just down the road to see Foster + Partners’ Apple Campus 2 - the huge new, entirely circular Apple headquarters campus that’s currently under construction. Our brief peak into the work site doesn’t really reveal much, other than that the building is enormous but quite low to the ground - I can’t wait to go back when it’s finished.

We carry on towards San Fran and encounter something we haven’t really seen this entire trip. Traffic. Almost as soon as we reach the outskirts of the city, the brake lights intensify in the rain (another thing we’ve seen very little of) and the flow of cars grinds to a halt. It takes us a couple of hours to reach what looks to be recognisably San Franciscan architecture and, strangely, as soon as we’re in the city proper the traffic starts freeing up - it’s like everybody just wants to stay on the edges before diving into town at very specific locations, leaving most of the inner roads pretty easy going.

We head to my hotel and I get dropped off in the pouring rain for another first - this is the first night since we started in America that we won’t be sharing a room. Nick has a friend here who he’s staying with, Lydia, so I’ve decided to get my own base from which to explore the city. I’m staying in the Carriage Inn, a really nice (and amazingly cost effective) boutique style hotel, where each room is named, rather than numbered, after a famous San Franciscan.

I get Sister Boom Boom, which sounds like an auspicious occasion until I realise that the Sister is actually the drag nun alter-ego of astrologer Jack Fertig - hopefully this room wasn’t selected for me via any sort of personality assessment. I read a little about the naming - Fertig used the Sister to run for a variety of governmental offices in San Francisco, and actually met with enough success to require a law passing to require candidates to only use their real names on ballots, the so-called ‘Sister Boom Boom Law’.

I drop the bags off, have a quick shower and head back out onto the streets - I’ve actually been looking forward to re-encountering a ‘real’ city environment, using my feet to get everywhere rather than an enormous truck. I walk up to Market Street, the Oxford Street of San Fran, and have a look around. I keep moving, as there’s really only shopping to be done on Market Street, and head up through the Tenderloin (not a euphemism) and onto California Street - one of the classic SF streets, packed with trams and cars, all rising up a road that must be at an almost 45˚ gradient. It’s insane.

Image Credit_Flour+Water

After returning to the hotel, I get a taxi to meet Nick, Lydia and Lydia’s friend Jenni at a local bar in the Mission District, which is kind of like my current home of Shoreditch, only a little more spread out. After we’ve all said hello and had a quick drink we head off for our 9.30PM reservation at Flour + Water - Jenni, kindly drives us as the Mission is a little more spread out than I initially estimated. We have a really fun meal - both Jenni and Lydia are psychotherapists, which is like catnip to Nick and I - the food is good (we decided to all go for the seven course tasting menu) and the wine is plentiful so we end up being the last four people in the restaurant, doing our best to ignore the polite (if meaningful) glances from the waiting staff (never has a name been more appropriate).

Image Credit_Lydia Stevens

Eventually, and to the delight of the staff, we stagger out (except for Jenni, who appears to have an iron stomach) and head out to the nearby Cat Club - they’re doing a David Bowie retrospective, which turns out to include approximately three (obscure) Bowie songs but a whole lot of 80s tracks and we spend a good few hours dancing away. Eventually, enough is enough and I somehow manage to stagger back to my hotel room. So thanks to Lydia, Jenni and Nick for another excellent night - this bodes well for our time in San Fran.

I have a very specific mission I’d like to embark upon tomorrow, one that requires an early start, but seeing as it’s 4AM already I’m not sure how that’s all going to go. Peace.

Day Twenty Three_Yosemite to Los Banos

As we wake up and look out of our bedroom window, I think we both realise that we’ve made the right decision in making for the mountains rather than staying at the beach. A clear, if somewhat overcast, sky hangs over our head as I pack my day pack with food and water (plus a change of socks, showing I’d at least learnt something from our last adventure in the snow), lace up my boots and push out onto the Yosemite Falls Trail. The valley looks amazing in the early morning light and we get a much clearer picture of just how vast some of the rock formations can get in this part of California.

Much like the hike at the Arches, I’m keen not to let Nick slow me down as I know he’ll be stopping a lot around here - it seems like the sort of landscapes that will suit his photographic leanings, all mist covered peaks and desolate grey skies. So on I go, getting some good pace up on the ice covered tracks that twist and turn up the edge of the valley - the first point of interest is Columbia Rock, a jutting spike of stone that provides excellent views to the west of Yosemite, including Half Dome and Sentinel Rock. It’s a just reward for the climb though - this trail rises a thousand feet in just two miles, so the elevation gain is pretty intense and I’m already peeling off my outer layers by the time I get my oh-so-convenient iPad out to take some pictures.

Nick is nowhere to be seen, so I leave him a protein bar in a nearby snowdrift (which he manages to miss) and continue on to the next part of the trail. The track weaves around Eagle Tower and then heads down, before swiftly rising and presenting me with a pretty impressive view of America’s tallest waterfall, Yosemite Falls. The weather starts to worsen at this point, with freezing sleet forcing me to reapply the layers I’d only just removed. At this point of the journey, there’s an option to head back or push on up the mountain valley to try and reach the head of the waterfall - that’s not really an option when I’ve got all this gear on.

As I reach the start of the next part of the trail, I decide to wait for Nick and use the pause as an excuse to take on food and water - unfortunately, the protein bars we’ve been packing have gone rock hard in the cold mountain air, so every gnawed bite makes me fear hearing the crack of a tooth. It was at this point that Nick rounded the bend, unprepared for the majestic sight of me tentatively munching on my frozen cereal bar, and so he nearly keeled over in fear. Who would’ve thought I’d be so intimidating? Once he’d recovered, we set off, together this time, and head into a decidedly more snow festooned landscape than the lower trail.

The snow now comprises the majority of the track and the going is getting tougher as it snakes up the mountain in tighter and tighter coils. It’s getting steeper as well, made ever tougher by the increasingly icy conditions underfoot. Whatever’s at the top of this hellish route better be worth it. Exhausted, we reach a partially covered sign that isn’t really helpful as it doesn’t have any arrows on it but, after a moment’s pause to consult our map, we decide to head towards Yosemite Peak - the mountain from which the waterfall springs.

There’s a problem however - the snow here is almost chest deep and I have a sudden flashback to the frozen hillside in Colorado that robbed me of my phone. Clutching my iPad for dear life, we press on but it quickly becomes clear that it’s only going to get worse before we reach the peak. Nick describes these conditions as ‘depressing as f*ck’, a technical mountaineering term if ever I’ve heard one, so I think it’s a good time to call it quits. It’s a shame to be denied, as I think we’re actually quite close to the top, but this is yet another experience that’s made me consider buying snowshoes - that’s an expression I never thought I’d say.

As we head back down we pass quite a few people who are attempting the route we’ve just abandoned; the most entertaining was a pair of couples, one member of whom was wearing skate shows with ankle socks - she’s obviously taking this trek pretty seriously. The weather improves as we drop back down the trail at pace, which makes me worry for my knees, but I think we’re both keen to get out of our sodden boots and find a hotel with a hot tub as soon as possible.

Luckily, that’s exactly what we do in the small town of Los Banos. The La Quinta hotel we stop at has an excellent pool, complete with hot tub, so we have a brief swim and a soak before heading out to see our first film in the US - The Revenant. It’s excellent and returns us to the hotel after 11PM, where we gratefully collapse onto our (separate) beds.

San Francisco, and the end of our adventure, is really starting to close in fast now, and I’m feeling a little melancholy - it was a great day today and I’m reluctant to think about it ending.

Day Twenty Two_Avila Beach to Yosemite

We awoke to another glorious morning in Avila, and I go for a run in the warm morning breeze along the quayside. Arriving at the end of a working fishing pier to the north of the main town, I spot some seals lounging in the sun as fisherman start bringing in the first of the day’s catch. I haven't gone out in my trainers much during this trip, but I’m glad I went this morning - it’s really left me feeling good.

So much so in fact, that with the sun beating down on us and the waves lapping against the beach, Nick and I have a really tough decision to make. Today’s plan was to head back east, away from the coast and into the mountains of the Yosemite National Park. Normally, the mountains would be an instant draw for both of us, but I think the warmth and comfort of Avila is making it hard to focus on dragging our dirty hiking boots back on and heading off into the snow line.

But head off we do, because, you know, mountains. We make a quick stop just outside Avila for lottery tickets, petrol and burgers - the first one of those might seem odd but, in case it didn’t make the British newsfeeds, the Powerball Lottery in the US has been rolling over since November and is now sitting at a staggering $1.6 billion. Yes, you read that right - BILLION. So we thought it was worth a punt. The gas station we stop at is packed and everybody’s there for the same reason. The woman in the queue in front of me bought $60 dollars worth, so she’s in a much better position than Nick and I with our measly three lines. Oh well, you only need to get lucky once right?

Anyways, we move on back through the rolling green hills toward Yosemite. The rise towards the mountains is gradual, with shallow lumps becoming slightly less shallow lumps (I did say it was gradual) and then becoming more impressive hills. Eventually we’re making our way along a broad river valley and the hills are spikier and glazed with white - this finally gives way to the brilliant snow we last saw in Colorado and the mountains are clearly visible, even in the dimming evening sun.

It’s definitely colder here and we make a beeline towards one of the two hotels in the Yosemite Valley that are open at this time of year. The first we try is clearly out of our meagre price range, as it has guys to take your luggage and an actual red carpet - a quick investigation inside reveals a very nice hotel, although with definite overtones of the hotel from The Shining. Not exactly the ideal place to spend a snowy night, unless you like your bathroom doors with a hint of ax. We move swiftly on and manage to find space at the much more appropriate Yosemite Lodge, which is right at the foot of the trail we’d picked out for tomorrow’s adventure.

It’s been a long and relaxing day, so we’re happy to have an early night if it means we can attack the trail a little harder in the morning. I’ll let you know how we get on, and if we win the lottery… Maybe.

Day Twenty One_Mojave to Avila Beach

We left Mojave feeling much more rested and continued our trip west - we’re hoping to try and get into California today, if at all possible. Our itinerary is at its loosest for the next few days, as there are several things we’d like to see - we’re both keen to see the western coastline of California and Yosemite National Park, which are kind of awkwardly placed and require a zig-zag up towards San Francisco. This has meant that we’ll most likely have to ditch Los Angeles as a destination for this trip - I’ve been (briefly) but Nick wanted to see it, but maybe that’s something for another time.

As we drive out through more parchment coloured hills, we can see what the receptionist at the hotel meant when she said that there were ‘too many’ wind turbines. They are everywhere. Almost every field, every hilltop, is covered with them, in a range of sizes that vary from the seemingly domestic to the heavily industrial - it makes me wonder where the hell all the energy is going as there seems to be so little life around here. There are a lot of factories and bits of infrastructure dotted on the skyline however, so perhaps that’s what all of this is supporting.

We also seem to be descending - a lot. I hadn’t realised just how high all of our previous destinations had been, but we seem to be constantly heading down for about an hour or two. The landscape is also definitely getting greener as we head towards the coast, with what seems to be actual grass growing on the rolling slopes of the hills around us. I appreciate the appearance of grass doesn’t seem all that noteworthy, but I honestly can’t remember the last time we saw long stretches of flat greenery. Our journey thus far has been much more towards the reds, yellows and oranges of the midwest - tinged with the white and deep greens of the mountains, admittedly - so seeing emerald green flowing away from us on all sides is definitely a different experience.

With very little ceremony, suddenly we’re amongst the fields and vineyards of California’s wine-growing area. Tight rows of obsessively organised vines line both sides of the roads, mostly bare-branched as we must’ve just missed the harvest. It’s hard to communicate just how massive these plantations are - they stretch way off into the distance and we see people pruning, clipping, replanting the rows as we pass. We spared a moment’s thought for the three poor guys that must be planting a fallow field - their job is to put seeds in each furrow and the field must be at least 10 acres, I can’t believe there isn't a more efficient way to do it but I suppose there isn’t a cheaper way.

We also pass rows of orange trees, that are fully laden with ripe fruit. Nick’s influences must have rubbed off on me over the past few weeks as I am strangely unresistant when he suggest I leap out of the car on an empty road and grab a couple of oranges. His role is ‘getaway driver’ apparently, so after a frantic dash when the road’s quiet, and having nabbed a couple of large fruits, I’m a little disappointed when it takes us about 45 seconds to drive away. Starsky and Hutch we ain’t.

After driving on through the seemingly unending plantations, we finally arrive at our first view of the western coastline that it’s taken 4,500 miles and three weeks to reach. It’s a hazy day, but the sun is warm and we walk along a surprisingly busy beach, eat our ill-gotten gains (I mean the oranges, rather than that being some sort of euphemism), and reflect on what we have achieved. It feels like this is one of the watershed moments of the trip - we’ve gone coast-to-coast and everything that follows this will be sort of a bonus. Not a very eloquent way of describing how I felt, but economic at least.

We drive up the coast, which is really, really, beautiful by the way, and try to figure out what to do. We end up in a really pretty little coastal town called Avila Beach and decide to have lunch whilst we figure out where to head tonight. Avila is kind of what I think all the English seaside towns are trying to aspire to, but never quote reach. It feels lived in, but is also neat and focussed. A few restaurants and bars line the sea front, which leads onto a small, if attractive, stretch of beach, and something must have swung us because we decide to stay for the night. After checking into the room of a lovely family run hotel, with a truly staggering view of the ocean, we try to find some entertainment at the one bar in Avila. Unfortunately the off season puts paid to that idea when the bar calls last orders at 8.30PM (!!), emptying the place of both us and the other three people in there - we decide to head back and watch a movie instead.

It’s been a really beautiful day and I’m glad we stayed in Avila, despite the lack of nightlife. As I lie on my sofa (Nick’s earned the bed, for sure), listening to the waves crash on the pier outside, I think back on the past few weeks and wonder what the last days have in store for us. California looks like it will be fun.

Day Twenty_Las Vegas to Mojave

Wow. Last night was rough. I awake in a panic at around 8.30AM with the unenviable task of waking Nick up -  for those of you who aren't that familiar with my traveling compatriot, he's not exactly a '0-60mph Guy' in the morning; in fact 'borderline psychotic' is probably a more applicable term. Given that the hotels in Vegas are looking for any excuse to squeeze a little extra cash out of you, I was concerned that leaving the room even a micro-second after 11AM would result in $400 being lifted from my account, so a rushed pack'n'dash saw us both sitting, bleary eyed and hurting in the car trying to align our fractured minds and decide where we're heading to next.

We eventually decide to move through, rather appropriately given our current condition, Death Valley at the north-western edge of Nevada. The landscape is noticeably more desert-like and as we head into the national park. We're only a few miles from the Mojave desert here, so we're expecting to see sand but it's got a kind of brutal beauty that's augmented by an amazingly blue sky. We drive along roads that are almost cartoonishly long and straight, in the accepted 'American desert' motif, and eventually the environment changes again.

As we dive into Death Valley, sandy, rolling hills become more pronounced, like a sine wave increasing in amplitude. It's a beautiful day, and we pass a nice example of this folded stony, landscape so we decide a walk might clear out our combined cobwebs. As we set off up the first rise, it's clear that we'd misinterpreted the landscape - these hills are actually comprised of a kind of compressed sand, firm at first but crumbles as soon as you stand on it. We slide and stumble up and along the ridges, trying to find away to the top, but we eventually have to drop back down to the valleys.

The landscape seems to go on forever, as we move around the peak we're trying to climb, and we spot an unusually circular structure at the base of the central mound - we investigate and discover that it's the remains of an old mine. It's hard to imagine what people might have been mining for in what is essentially sand, or more importantly, how the hell they mined in sand in the first place. It's quite a spooky find, and out echoing voices suggest the tunnel is actually quite deep, so we head back out to try and finally conquer the peak above us.

Eventually, we manage to strike a route that carries us towards the top. As we climb, it slowly becomes apparent just how alien this landscape is. We walk around the ridges, it feels like we could be exploring another planet - despite the three or four other groups that are climbing with us of course - and it puts us in a reflective frame of mind.

Once arriving at the top, it's an easy decision to spend a hour or so resting in the blazing sunshine - we'reboth still slightly broken after last night, but the exercise has definitely made us feel more human. We continue on through Death Valley, part of which is actually five hundred feet below sea level, and we see salt planes, undulating dunes and huge expanses of desert plain. As night closes in, we try to find a hotel but seem unable to drop down from the high steppes that surround the valley. One benefit of this height, and lack of population, is that the sky is incredibly clear. Stars are bright and look close enough to touch, so Nick can take some night sky images.

Eventually, after what seems like forever, we arrive in the town of Mojave. I feel a little disingenuous calling Mojave a town in all honesty - it's clearly a working place that supports the huge array of wind turbines in the surrounding hills. We'd spotted the row after row of blinking red lights in the night sky from miles away, but it was impossible to tell what they were in the darkness - we had to ask the receptionist at our motel. We head out to seek dinner, but as Mojave comprises only a single short street, with only a couple of fast food joints on it, we don't have a lot of choice. One tasty burger meal later, and we crash out in the room. I genuinely don't remember falling asleep.

Hopefully tomorrow should see us hit the west coast, so I might be posting the next entry from a beach on the Pacific.

Day Nineteen_Page to Las Vegas

We left Page after breakfast and headed on into Nevada. We seemed to have recovered some time on our schedule, so we've decided to detour slightly so that we can see the Grand Canyon. The journey takes us through the rugged lands of the Navajo Territories - it's pretty barren here, with dust being thrown relentlessly across open orange plains, although the sun is a beautiful cloudless blue for the whole day.

The roadside is also scattered with strange, three-sided shacks, like abandoned sheds - these turn out to be trading posts for the local Navajo to sell their jewellery and craftwork including tomahawks, pottery and dreamcatchers. There's the definite air of the tourist trap about the merchandise, but we buy some bits and pieces any way - the lady we buy from looks to be in her sixties, wrapped in a heavy shawl against the cold and shade of the trading post. She's definitely Native American, so it at least feels like we're supporting local industry, even if the materials might have come from China.

We stop at a viewpoint that gives us our first view of the system of canyons that criss-crosses this part of the state. After passing a sign forewarning of the various things that can kill you around here (rattlesnakes, lizards, spiders, centipedes, scorpions and, presumably, heights), a short walk brings us to a hole in the ground that truly warrants the use of the word epic. The scale of the geography is hard to grasp, with a thrown rock failing to elicit a single sound as it presumably hit the ground hundreds (?) of metres below.

As we get back on the road, we start a slow but steady ascent. Snow creeps back onto the surrounding trees and the temperature drops through the floor. The plains we'd passed through previously were surprisingly warm, given the clear skies and high sun, but it's back to freezing as we head up towards the Grand Canyon National Park. We pull up into a well ordered car park - this place must be swarmed in the summer, so we're starting to see Disney-like levels of presentation - and walk towards the mock-Navajo tower that marks the viewpoint.

Well, if the scale of the previous canyon was hard to grasp, then the Grand Canyon is impossible to fathom. Seeing it in photos and movies, you'd be forgiven for thinking that the Grand Canyon is a sort of impressively deep gorge, big for sure, but still hemmed in by cliffs on either side. The reality is that the canyon system is more like a deeply scoured gouge, like some interstellar giant has decided to take a shovel to the Earth and has had a bloody good go at digging the biggest hole they could. It's astounding, but I couldn't really register too much wonder - it's just too big to comprehend.

We try another viewpoint, at the main visitors centre, a little further into the park, but this is packed with tourists on coach tours from Las Vegas and we don't hang around for long. It's a bit jarring, especially for me, to move from the relative isolation Nick and I have experienced over the past couple of weeks, seeing people in handfuls in small towns, if at all, to being surrounded by hundreds of them, all at once. Needless to say, we don't hang around for long. We drive out through beautifully snow-frosted forests, branches heavy with fresh powder and sun lancing through the trees, and get back on the highway that will take us to Las Vegas.

If the few hundred people at the Grand Canyon was the cause of some culture-shock, then Vegas blew my mind wide open. Some of you might know that I grew up around hotels and have seen a pretty good cross section of the typology - but the Vegas hotels are something else entirely. We are staying in the Mirage, one of the Strip's classics, and I have never seen anything like it - it's like it's own city. We passed about ten restaurants, ranging from Michelin starred steak grills to New England bistros, a shopping mall's worth of shops and, of course, uncountable opportunities to hand over vast wads of cash to sense-destroying machines and surprisingly disinterested croupiers. There's even a dolphin encounter and white tiger enclosure, and that's just at the Mirage - all of the other big hotels offer similar attractions - it's bonkers.

We got to our room and, after a quick costume change (I'm still cutting a sharp figure in my hiking gear and dust covered boots), we head out onto the strip. A brief walk, and is brief as the strip is only a mile long, sees us in a bar that sells over 140 beers on tap, for $8 a pint, but has the soul of a Wetherspoons - and I don't mean that in a good way. Just as our night looks like being a bit of a wash, the internet tells us to head to Freemont Street if we're after a little less glitz and glamour in our life and would prefer the company of hipsters, which we obviously would. This proves to be good advice, as although it's not exactly Shoreditch, Freemont Street seems to be a slightly older version of the Strip (and actually much more like I'd imagined Vegas)  and we find a couple of really nice bars and start making friends. I'm going to fall back on the 'What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas' maxim here, but I can say that a night that looked like a bust at 8PM didn't see us back in our room until 5.30AM.

Of all the places so we've visited, Las Vegas seems the most divisive amongst the people we've spoken to. Some have had nights of legend, filled with wild debauchery, intimate affairs with Lady Luck and, presumably encounters with dolphins. Others tell of seedy hotels attempting to hide their true nature with a veneer of gold leaf and fake marble, full of a thousand ways to lose your shirt - both figuratively and literally. I have to say, I'm siding more with the latter opinion, but don't let that put you off visiting - there's a lot of fun to be had here, if you know where to look.

Four hours sleep will see us on the way to Death Valley - send us your thoughts and prayers. G'night (morning, but you get it).

Day Eighteen_Moab to Page

In the morning we get up slightly earlier than usual and head back north to the Arches National Park, a little way outside Moab and the reason for the town's existence. The park is famous for its unusual rock formations, the towering red fins and impossible arches that you'll probably recognise from the silver screen. We'd decided to hike up to Delicate Arch, the most famous of the rock formations in the park, so much so that it's actually included in Utah's state emblem.

The ascent to the trailhead was pretty jaw dropping in its own right. Boulders larger than buildings balance precariously on the top of rock columns, looking like they're just waiting for Wile. E. Coyote to come along with his TNT to finally stop the Roadrunner. The scenery is still scattered with snow and, although it's a beautifully sunny day, you can still be cold when you're in the shade. I think we're really lucky to see the landscape like this, as it's not how most people will experience it - Utah is baking hot in the summer, so much so that the trail guide for the route we're taking advises you not to undertake the climb if the weather's warm.

We pass more of these deeply suspicious looking rock formations on the way to the trailhead, as well as the desert like plains that sweep between the karsts and, once we've arrived, we get ready for the hike which should take no more than three hours based on the literature. Nick's excited by this sort of landscape, and I'm feeling a bit lazy given how much time we're spending in the car, so I decide to push on up the trail at a faster pace. I must have really felt energetic, as once I reach the large slickrock escarpment that comprises the majority of the ascent, I stow my bag and begin to run up, walking boots and all. It's cool, but actually incredibly comfortable for running, and it feels great to stretch my legs.

The route passes some incredible sights, many of which have been torn from the Westerns that are a second-hand part of my childhood, and I see Native American wall paintings, narrow creeks and even a jackrabbit bolt out from under the gorse bushes that are scattered across the trail. It's a beautiful day and, as I climb higher, the scale of the landscape begins to reveal itself to me - some of these formations are as huge as only geography can allow and it's clear that I'm actually much higher than I thought.

The actual ascent to the Delicate Arch was the cause of some consternation though. I must've taken a wrong turn on the trail and ended up trying two different routes to reach the Arch. The first involved skirting the arcing bowl of the basin that sits beneath the Arch, which was solid rock but grew increasingly vertical as I edged around the five storey basin and started to disagree with my inflexible walking boots. I got tantalisingly close to the ledge in front of the Arch, and could see other hikers taking their selfies, but it got too sketchy for me and I had to retreat. I then tried to actually scale the Arch itself, which was an even less advisable route as it had me teetering on the edge of a 150m drop. Clasping only the remains of metal posts, cut out long ago, I tried my best but again was forced back. The attempts left me coursing with adrenaline - not all of it the good kind - as I made my way back down, but I can see why rock climbers do what they do. It was thrilling to be on the edge of things.

I eventually found the 'approved' route up, which was still pretty harrowing - it involved a steep climb up some icy steps, which were seemingly designed to throw the unwary on their backsides at the first opportunity. When I did reach the top, it was well worth it. The arch itself is impressive, but not half as impressive as the views of the landscape surrounding it. It's humbling to see geography on this sort of scale, but I find it incredibly rewarding.

I sat in the sun, warm and content, awaiting Nick's arrival - his ascent was also marred by some ill conceived routing, but when he appeared (and after he'd put his lens away), we had some water and took our usual 'challenge completed' selfies and headed back down. We both agreed that this might be our favourite day of the trip so far and I would encourage you to visit Moab and the surrounds if you get the chance.

We got back in the car and oriented ourselves southward towards Arizona and one of our most anticipated destinations - Monument Valley. As we drove on, the landscape levelled out, becoming flatter and gentler, but the weather began to worsen. Lead grey clouds promised snow, and there has clearly already been a lot of snowfall over the past few days and weeks. We passed Cowboys driving cattle along the road, blanketed fields and tens of wind turbines hidden in a shroud of falling snow. It was a serene moment in a trip that's been pretty full of activity - something I think struck us both as a valuable experience.

Then we saw a handful of small black dots on the horizon - these grew, and continued to grow, until they were the recognisable structures of Monument Valley. Snow-covered and dark red against the moody sky, it's almost impossible for me to describe how accurate the name for this place is. The rock formations are truly monumental and, powder dusted as they are now, seem other-worldly in their scale and presence. Hopefully the pictures will communicate some of the spectacle, but Arizona and Utah are quickly becoming places that need to go on your itineraries.

We carried in through Arizona, accompanied by the sun settingbehind the mesas, and arrived in Page, a small town dominated by an enormous power station that sits just beyond the city limits. We checked in to a hotel and headed out to find some food, eventually settling in a local bar that seemed to be the only place with any life in it. After an excellent burger, we got chatting to some of the locals, particularly a couple of teachers and an ex-cop, Travis. They were there for a friend's birthday, but we essentially hijacked their night, talking about Travis's experiences in London when he was training, discussing the survival probability of Native American culture (we're deep in Navajo tribal lands here, and Native American faces are commonplace) and, in Nick's case, fending off the affections of an increasingly drunk 46 year old teacher.

We moved on to the local bowling alley, a local hotspot apparently, having just missed Ladies Night (dammit). We were greeted by a guy from the previous bar, who had traveller stamped all over him (backpack, ponytail, South American trousers etc), performing some of the wildest dance moves we've ever seen, and not in a good way. After a couple of drinks, we're advised to move on to another bar which is closing so we only have time for one drink before we leave. On the street on the way out a young kid accuses me of talking about one of his friends in a less than positive way (some what ironically, in this case I'm actually sure I'm innocent) so I look around for my backup, my buddy, my partner - somewhat predictably he's half way down the street attempting to chat up some of my accuser's friends. Luckily, my silver tongue got me out of the situation that it (almost certainly) didn't get me into and my Britishness manages to shame the young guy into actually apologising and throwing a hug on me. +1 for my diplomacy, -5 for Nick's reliability.

Another small town adventure concluded, we head to bed. Tomorrow is our night in Vegas, by way of the Grand Canyon

Day Seventeen_Breckenridge to Moab

We leave Breckenridge in the early afternoon, after the exertions mentioned in the last post, and headed west out of the mountains. Our itinerary is a looking shakier by the day, requiring longer and longer stints in the car, and were hastily revising it almost mile by mile. Augmenting the dodgy planning is an increasing ignorance of the areas were heading into; Florida, New Orleans, Texas, Vail - these are all places we have established expectations for, either because one of us has been before or because they include places and towns that you recognise from the movies or other fiction. That's not so when we head west of Colorado. Suddenly the map becomes a guessing game, and we have no idea whether a town will have a motel, a petrol station, somewhere to eat... 

It's not causing us undue concern, mostly because the drive out of the mountains is as stunning as on the way in, and this time we're seeing the mountain passes in the daylight. The snow is still falling and the roads are icy, despite the best efforts of the snowploughs we see relatively regularly on the drive out. The landscape is predictably stunning, with a scale that's hard to fit inside your head.

We press on through the valleys and passes, alongside tree lined slopes and frozen lakes, but what's equally impressive is the engineering on display here. Before you all rush off to do something else, just hear me out. I've mentioned before what I'm now going to term as 'Infrastructure Arrogance' that exists in the States and it's employed here to great affect - mountains mean nothing to the road builders and the highway out of the Rockies is surprisingly straight, with tunnels driven where there bends would be too much hassle, and the lanes split and separate with little regard for what's around them. It's an impressive, if somewhat disrespectful, approach to taming your natural environment but it seems the way things are done over here.

As the hours tick by, the landscape gradually softens and the mountain erode slowly into rolling hills. There's still plenty of snow about - the temperature has barely risen above freezing for the past few days - but it now lounges over everything rather than just dusting the high peaks. We decide to try and make it to the town of Moab, just over the border in Utah, as it sits at the head of Monument Valley and seems to be one of the few places worth stopping at.

As the sun begins to set, we get an impression of another change in the scenery around us. Hills soften again, but there are dark silhouettes on the skyline that imply the word 'Mesa' might soon be part of our future. Signs of inhabitation also seem to be dwindling, small towns shrinking into tiny collections of buildings and some shady looking motels.

As darkness descends, we realise it's been a long time since we last saw a petrol station, or indeed any other form of life. We pull into what appears to be a gas station and restaurant, lights blazing and the sole bastion of humanity for miles around. Somewhat eerily, the place is deserted even though everything's on in the petrol station, so we plunge on towards Moab (after Nick had played the hilarious 'drive off when you're trying to get in the car' game).

We arrive in Moab to find it's very definitely off-season in Utah - there's literally nobody else on Main Street as we drive up to a supermarket in the hope of grabbing some beers and some fruit for dinner (after a substantial barbecue lunch). We ask the cashier what you do in Moab in the off season and she replies 'You sleep'. An early night beckons I think. We find a hotel, do some laundry and enjoy a late night soak in the hot tub before getting an early night. We're going to try and fit another hike in tomorrow so perhaps it's better to be well rested - I wonder what it'll cost me this time?

Tomorrow we move on to Arizona and Monument Valley.