A Big Sur-Prize

by Emily Perrins (Canada)

I didn't expect to find USA

A mountain had fallen into the sea. Two million cubic feet of rock had tumbled into the Pacific and severed the highway caught in between. It’d been three weeks since I set out from British Columbia on my bicycle. Other cyclists had warned of the landslide and advised me on how to avoid the blocked road. But I ignored the intersection in Monterey that led down the lengthy inland detour, along with the traffic signs that flashed ‘closure ahead.’ Sticking figurative fingers in my ears, chanting la-la-la, I refused to miss this stunning section of coastal highway that I’d heard would be the highlight of my journey—Big Sur. A salty breeze whipped as I puffed along the narrow and winding road that clung to the side of the Santa Lucia mountains. The barking of sea lions echoed from the shoreline below as I shared the dramatic ocean views with motorcyclists, RV drivers and one-day excursionists from San Francisco. At midday, I rolled into the tiny village of Gorda. Motorists that I’d shared the road with turned around a bollard that signalled the end of drivable highway and began the 67-mile journey back to Monterey. But that was no longer a time-viable option for me. I ordered food from Gorda’s only restaurant and sat looking out over the road closure. As I watched from my perch, a cyclist riding on fat tires with a full set of panniers and rucksack rode down the highway, continued around a concrete barricade and into the construction zone. A guard sprang from the security booth and into a nearby car, speeding into the fenced-off area behind the cyclist. A short time later, both cyclist and guard car reemerged and I watched as the cyclist pedalled back towards where he had come, overladen with gear and heavy tires. My server, I learned, lived three miles south of the construction zone. For a period, he walked the site twice a day to get to and from work—there were access exemptions, strictly for locals—but now he was living three weeks at a time in a trailer on this side of the rockfall, his house sitting empty on the other. I lingered in the restaurant until dusk. Despite attempts at subtlety, my continued presence and helmet made my intentions clear. Sure enough, shortly after five o’clock, the server approached and asked if I intended to cross the landslide. My heart spluttered; he was going to insist that I backtrack and take the detour! “The guard’s gone home for the night,” he said. “You’d be safe to cross now.” I cycled furtively around the orange mesh fencing and rode until the road became impassable. Having removed the gear from my bicycle, I then laid it down and began picking my way between boulders and huge dump trucks abandoned for the night. I had to ensure I’d still have light to continue the ride, but was wary of rolling an ankle or slipping down the steep mounds of rock. Panniers cached on the other side of the 200-yard swath of rocky debris, I hurried back to collect the bike and hauled it over my shoulder to return once more to the far end of the frayed road. I threw a leg over my saddle and sped down the asphalt of the empty highway. The fresh evening air and the rush of having succeeded in crossing the slide made me feel giddy. For the next six miles, the still-closed road hugged a stunning stretch of coastline. I could ride fast and enjoy the views, not limited to focusing on the sliver of hard shoulder ahead, or on any road markings at all for that matter. I was alone amidst the rugged mountains that loomed over me on one side and the mighty expanse of the Pacific that stretched to Japan on the other. Iridescent reflections of a waning sun danced on the water as I peddled through the humbling landscape. Eventually I’d have to find somewhere to camp, but for now this vista deserved an audience and this saddle-sore traveller of Highway 1 was only too happy to oblige.