The Long and Winding Road to Pescadero

Isolated Pescadero Beach is just twenty-two miles south of busy San Francisco.

One of the most remarkable, and beautiful, things I've re-discovered about the San Francisco Bay Area is that in and around this region of seven million people are rural hills and forests, open spaces and green spaces within minutes of the major population centers. Though the number of people living here has increased by about seven fold since I was a child, the region has retained much of the beauty and isolation of its hills and coast.

I decided it was time for another Northern California Road Trip. Pescadero, on the California coast, was my destination.

I had heard from a friend that you could take Page Mill Road west from Palo Alto, through the hills, and that it would deliver you straight away to Pescadero. I decided to try it. I found that the directions were correct, but there was nothing straight away or straight about the road.

The hills all around the Bay Area were once covered with redwood forests. On the bay side, much of the timber was gone by the end of the 19th century, and loggers began turning to the stands of timber on the ocean side of the Coastal Range. It sounds like a terrible thing today, but it is only now that we know the centuries required for a stand of redwood to grow back. The lumber was the best you could build with. It resisted insects and it would, not surprisingly, last forever. My Dad built our first house with redwood timber.

Page Mill Road heads up into the hills above Stanford University. The oak and chaparral (from the Spanish word chaparro: small oak) gradually give way to the small forests of scrub and pine that filled in after most of the redwoods were gone. Grizzlies once roamed these hills and above, the condor cast its enormous shadow on the land below. The grizzly could not live adjacent to humans and, though it is featured on the California state flag, the last one in the state was killed by a rancher in 1922. The condor dwindled as its habitat was destroyed. It has been reintroduced into California; but, I have never seen one. With a wing span of nine feet, you would know if you had.

Even lacking these two monsters of the hills, the road above the bay is spectacular. Full of hairpin turns and few places to turn out it isn't a road you can use to speed along to your destination. As you travel there is an occasional gate for the home of some isolated eccentric. Farther up in the hills, you see the rusted cars and the peace sign of a commune. It is California. But mostly it is empty land, land without fences, a road in which the twists are so sharp I was delighted to see a family of quail tiptoe across the road on the other side of a hairpin turn.

I discovered I was on Alpine Road here, and also discovered a few remaining stands of redwoods. The scent of them and the shade they cast was lovely.

I didn't always know exactly where I was. Some of the time I was on Skyline Boulevard at the top of the ridge, and some of the time I was in Los Trancos Woods. but it didn't really matter. In California if you just point your car to the west, you will eventually find the ocean. In the meantime the views from the top of the ridge were spectacular. The few cars I saw on the road were often pulled over to the side to gaze at the view.

And, since it is California, there was the occasional lone cyclist cranking up the hills slowly in complete cycling costume and helmet, the sinews working at maximum glycogen levels. Not for me, but its a free country.

And then, almost suddenly, you roll down into a gentle arroyo and in the distance is the Pacific Ocean. Little farms appear, with fields of artichokes and vineyards and here and there, a herd of goats and some horses. The wildflowers are in bloom and you say to yourself: this is where I would live if I were one of those Silicon Valley multi-millionaires.

The view, looking back at the hills I had just crossed from Palo Alto to the coast. It had taken less than a hour.

Before you reach Pescadero State Beach, you can turn off near the foot of the arroyo, to visit the little town of Pescadero. Pescadero means fish town in Spanish, handed down to us from piscis, the Latin word for fish. The Spanish learned that the coastal Indians (whom they called the Costanos) used to fish here, hence the name. Pescadero became a popular fishing resort in the 19th century when there was a train down here from San Francisco (the line had to be rebuilt after the 1906 earthquake). Pescadero is much smaller now than it was back then. But the old houses on its main street that recall its past are very pretty.

A house on Pescadero's North Street, just off Stage Road.

There's not much else to see, unless you want to stay and eat at Duarte's Tavern, a family owned restaurant now run by the fourth generation of Duartes. It is a highly rated restaurant. Duartes is known for their wines and gourmet artichoke dishes and serve 13,000 diners a month.

Then down to the sea, where it is impossible to take a bad photograph, no matter how hard you try.

The Pacific, off Pescadero Beach.

Perhaps I am a romantic, but standing on the edge of the North American continent at Pescadero, it is impossible for me not to imagine the wonder of the lands beyond. Perhaps, one day, I will be lucky enough to go even further west than the spot I'm standing on now, further west across the Pacific on an even more magical road trip on the sea.

Duarte's Tavern Link
Coastside and Half Moon Bay Link