Highway 1

In the spring of 2017, Highway 1 broke. The Pfeiffer Canyon Bridge in Big Sur was sentenced to death in February and torn down in March, and for the rest of that year the most famous coastal road in the world simply did not go through. That same spring, on the other side of the Pacific, a film called This Is Not What I Expected came out. Cheer Chen sang its closing song, with lyrics by Han Han:

说一号公路上那座桥断了我们还去吗
要不再说呢会修一年吧
一年能等吗你还去吗你喜欢吗

They say the bridge on Highway 1 is down. Do we still go?
Or maybe some other time. It will take a year to fix.
Can we wait a year? Would you still go? Do you like it?

The bridge took eight months to rebuild, for once beating the song’s estimate. But Highway 1 kept breaking. In February 2024, a whole hillside near Lucia let go, and the resulting closure became the longest in the highway’s ninety-year history. On January 14 this year, Caltrans finally reopened the last stretch. For the first time in three years, you could drive the coast end to end.

Do we still go#

Go? Of course. Ten days later we were on the road.

January falls outside Highway 1’s best season and is the California coast’s secret spring: after the rains the hills turn a green that will not survive June, and the tour buses have not figured this out yet. Good views, few people, perfect for pulling over along the way and climbing onto the rocks.

It barely counts as early spring, and the surf is heavy. Each set rolls in, and first you feel the chill coming through the rocks beneath your feet; your ears get their turn after.

The green winter hills of Big Sur in the side mirror

Dusk on Highway 1: the curve, a bare tree, the last pink light

Highway 1 is a long way from home. Drive a little farther and it is usually dusk. The road gets emptier. Sometimes a bare tree stands in the last of the pink, and that is your cue to turn around and head home. On the way home, there are usually other sightseers with the same idea of fun, or small-town working stiffs just off work clogging the road ahead; either way, two hours of taillights.

Then home#

The living room in February: a red mug, a bear-shaped chair, trees in every window

While Highway 1 was being repaired, we moved (what does that have to do with anything?). We moved in the fall. By the weekend the clocks went back an hour, the place was already put together and the pumpkins were out.

The corner of the new home: dried flowers and yarn pumpkins in the afternoon sun

White lilies on the dining table by the window

The leather bulldog standing in a shaft of evening light

The place is rented. The flowers are from the grocery store. The bulldog is made of leather. None of that matters to a dog. Real dogs and fake ones alike have a strong sense of entitlement, strong enough that even the leather dog thinks this beam of afternoon light is his alone.

The lounge chair, the bookshelf, and the bulldog headed for the balcony