The adventure officially began when I acquired the following items from Walmart: axe with hand saw combo, cast iron skillet, 2-burner stove, plastic cookware set (DO NOT buy), headlamp, and a cooler.
I'd be traveling in my new stallion of a car - a red '03 Subaru Outback named Donny. Donny is named after the classic song that blessed my ears when I first flipped on the radio of my fair stead: 'This Christmas' by Donny Hathaway. Donny would be the vessel carrying our misfit group of cheap survival gear and non-negotiables such as my camera equipment, laptop, and guitar. All led by their courageous captain, yours truly. I sought out Donny specifically because it's (he’s…?) built like a station wagon and the back seats can fold down. This leaves just enough room for all 5'11 of me to sleep comfortably in the back. I cut a memory foam mattress to fit and I was a happy camper.
San Diego
I have fond memories of San Diego. I remember the moment I first fell in love there while a saxophone man lulled us together. And I remember frantically pounding borgs there before a Getter show with my hometown buddies, just a few years later. San Diego has the care-free attitude the rest of the country so idealistically engulfs the whole state in. The mythical aura of the sunshine state seems validated in San Diego; the sun shines brighter here and the water reflects clearer.
Ironically, my first day in paradise was met with a torrential downpour. I found warmth and safety in a local Starbucks, what would become an almost daily ritual of the trip. As the fresh coffee warmed my spirit, I realized I didn't have a damn clue where I was going to sleep that night. If you had asked me before the trip where I would be 'camping' at, my answer would've been "Mother Nature baby". It was only now dawning on me that this trip would require a great bit of thought in finding safe and legal spots to set up shop for the night.
Dispersed camping websites showed that the only few free camping spots in the area were an hour east into the mountains of Cuyamaca Rancho State Park - oof. I hit up an SD local named Tristen who I had met while climbing in Joshua Tree for a second opinion. His recommendation was a low-key spot - get this - an hour east into the mountains of Cuyamaca Rancho State Park. I accepted my fate and texted one of my best friends Lukas where I was heading for the night, since I knew I wouldn't have service in the mountains. You know...just in case I got mauled by a mountain lion or something. I'd need a second hand disposing its body after I single-handedly choke it out, obviously. We'll roll with that story.
Climbing the incline of those sparse mountain roads in the mist and haze of twilight was a clear message from fate: "You wanted nature b*tch, here's your nature." Fate graciously guided my way safely to the spot, however. Upon arrival, I moved some of the bigger gear outside the car and cozied up in my sleeping bag in the back for the first time. With the dim light of my electric lamp, I began the first chapter of 'Wild' by Cheryl Strayed. As I read of Cheryl's courageous lone embarkment of the PCT, all those mortal fears one conjures up when alone in the mountains seemed more silly now. Evaporated into the single, hopeful lamp light amongst the dark surrounding me.
I felt like Harry Potter in that one scene where he’s excitedly learning spells under his bedsheets with his wand light. Except Harry was learning about casting powerful magical spells, and I was learning about walking on man-made trails. Which in comparison seems a lot less cool now that I think about it. Nevertheless, my excitement for the coming weeks couldn't adequately be put into words. I just knew I was in the exact place I needed to be, doing the exact thing I needed to do.
An hour passed and I stepped outside to brush my teeth. My electric toothbrush grinded to a halt as I brushed and I came to two realizations. One, I forgot my toothbrush charger, and two, the contrast of the hum of my toothbrush and the deafening silence that now surrounded me was startling.
In today's world of constant stimulation, the stillness was both unnerving and incredible. More so, I could now see the details of the sloped terrain I was engulfed in.
I looked up to find the curtain of smothering clouds had been unveiled for the main act - the great gig in the sky. A deep turquoise canvas perfectly painted with scattered stars. Their ancient light had traveled millions and millions of miles to illuminate my soul in that moment, just as they had for the human race for thousands of years. With the comfort of this thought, I hopped back in Donny and drifted off.
The San Diego sun made its long-awaited debut the next morning. The day was spent skating along La Jolla and getting a feel for my new Canon m50 Mark II.
The day was perfect - for hours I moved where I pleased and captured the scenes along the way. San Diego did not disappoint, as usual, and proved to be a fitting playground to retrain my eye.
San Elijo State Beach
Two thousand four hundred dollars.
That’s how it costs to stay at a $60 a night campground for 40 days. When I arrived at San Elijo State Beach just north of San Diego, the camp ranger informed me this cost is typical of coastal campgrounds in California. You can give me any explanation - COVID-induced price gouging, the high quality is reflected in the price, yada yada yada - $60 felt absurdly high and very unsustainable due to the shape, or lack thereof, of my bank account. That being said - I thanked God for inventing credit cards and treated myself to a site.
Falling asleep and waking up to the muffled roar of the ocean has to be one of the most grounding human experiences we can experience. Half-asleep, I stumbled to the edge of the bluffs and found a sunrise that nearly matched the beauty of the sunset the night before. I was glued to the surfers in amazement and envy, imagining what it must feel like to be down there in the water. The ocean was welcoming me home.
Pauma Valley
On the third day, I decided to try my luck at a casino. Through reddit, the most reliable source on the internet, I learned that overnight parking is allowed at most casinos as long as you play some games inside. I hightailed it inland at dusk and arrived 40 minutes later at Casino Pauma in the heart of the Pauma Valley.
I’m not exactly proud of what happened next. But I’m not…not proud. I knew it was likely I would lose money inside the casino, so to mitigate risk I cooked myself dinner right there in the furthest, darkest corner of the parking lot. I remember flipping that sizzling chicken breast thinking, “This…now this, is the crustiest thing I’ve ever done.” And that’s saying something.
Remember at the beginning of this page when I told you to not buy plastic cookware for camping? That’s because I ate half of that stupid, no-good, deliciously scrumptious chicken breast before I realized my plastic spatula had MELTED into the skillet, the chicken, and my poor stomach. That melted plastic spatula probably melted a year off my life with it. Cursing Walmart’s bargain deals, I approached the mirage of lights ahead as faint howls carried in from the hills’ shadows.
The crowd inside the casino had 3 things in common: they were from ages 45-70, had a loosely-held, stiff drink in their hand, and sported glazed-over eyes locked to the portals in front of them. The bright lights and sporadic sounds bouncing off the walls seemed like failing attempts to convince the crowd, “You’re having fun! Buffalo!!"
I had a $20 in my wallet and decided I’d play a single game and then book an escape. With the nervous excitement of a virgin heading to college, I approached a blackjack table, muttered something I can’t quite recall back & forth with the dealer, and walked away with $55 in chips. What I do remember is that what she lacked in teeth, she made up for with kind, expressive eyes. And she sure looked excited as she shoved chips my way. I’m now part of a select few who can say they’re net positive from casinos. Special thanks to the dealer, Rebecca - I could hardly understand a word you said, but I could feel Fate’s puppetry working through you.
The howls continued to echo through the valley as I made it back to my traveling companion. I’m not sure if it was the plastic-poisoning, the rush of the gambling winnings, or the sense of freedom seeping into my bloodstream, but I could’ve howled right along with the creatures of the night. I was convinced that on this trip, fate would nudge Donny and I along in the right direction.
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As I drove out of the Pauma Valley at dawn, I made sure to detour into the various orange groves that filled the valley. The soft blanket of morning light filled the gaps and made every direction look like inspiration for a Monet painting. I was truly alone, and I was at peace.
Oceanside
I spent the next morning sipping an overpriced latte in one of those trendy coffee shops in Oceanside. I GEEKED over the photos and videos from the first few days and got right to work on the editing. It was actually this morning where things started to click. The camera, myself, and this trip.For background, I grew up behind a camera. And as long as I can remember, I loved to create. What began as funny little improv movies with friends as a kid, morphed into skate videos at the dawn of my teenage years, then video production classes in school, then… then nothing much. Somewhere along the way I lost track of this love. Somewhere along the way I got in line, sadly.
At this point in the trip though, I was still just scratching the surface. All I knew was that rekindling with the camera gave me simple and pure joy. With the time and freedom to follow simple joys, I committed that day to posting every day on TikTok while I was on the road. To share what I saw and further fuel this rekindling.
The camera now lived around my neck. I skated to the street above the Oceanside pier as it swung from side to side. My back was damp, the air was cool, my mind was empty, and the surroundings spoke. I listened, following camera-first. This seemed to lead me exactly to what needed to be seen. I believe the Earth is speaking to us at all times, in every nook and cranny of the world there’s hidden dialogue. I think we’ve just forgotten how to listen. Or worse, never learned. Please, go out, preferably alone, get lost, and listen. Beauty turns out to be quite loud. You’ll find it was demanding to be heard all along.
Laguna Beach
After a brief stop in my hometown of Mission Viejo, I joined my hometown crew and entered the new year in a cold and rainy Laguna Beach. A beach town with the most gorgeous beaches in California and a huge reason I feel so connected to the ocean. I can now recognize how fortunate I was to have been able to enjoy these beaches hundreds of times over the years.
But on that night - with a sweet buzz and dancing, soaked shoes, I stumbled down from ten surrounded by people I’ve known my whole life. Childhood friends, high school acquaintances, old crushes. I felt, for the first New Years in my life, that when we hit one, it would actually be marking the end of one era and the beginning of another. I hardly knew the version of myself these people so dearly seemed to know. Him and I had lost touch in the rat race. That’s why I needed to leave. I thought I’d find him, whoever he was now, on the road.
We screamed into the sky, and with a kiss on the cheek - I was gone.
Los Angeles
I somehow spent an uneventful three days meandering through the streets of Los Angeles. The company I would be working for at the end of February was able to subsidize a hotel for three nights to apartment hunt, so I figured I should take up the opportunity. It was supposed to be the true beginning of my trip, but those three days made me feel even more claustrophobic.
I finally caught some breath on the third day as the sun slipped through the gloom. I wanted to get a good look at the city I would soon call home. Griffith Observatory seemed to do the trick, and proved to be just as I remembered.
I’d been once before at the end of senior year on a school trip with my Humanities class. If the optimistic energy of a graduating class of high school seniors could be bottled and sold, the world would run at twice the speed. Or it already exists and we just call it crack. Or kombucha…that stuff tastes too funky. Regardless, that pure energy is rooted in exciting questions and their unknown answers.
The hopeful question marks at graduation four and a half years ago surrounded leaving home for college. Too much beer and hell of a lot of life-learning later, those questions acquired accompanying answers. The question marks on this go around surrounded more daunting yet simple concepts. You go from wondering what people you’ll meet in college and the trips you’ll go on, to wondering what kind of man you want to be. How will I spend the weekend, to how will I spend my life? To tell you the truth, it’s not clear to me what questions I should be asking after twenty-three years. And I think it’d be a waste to desperately search for answers to my blurry questions that can’t seem to sit still. Through the confusion, I confidently believe that life’s simple, daunting questions are best accompanied with simple answers. Maybe the goal should be to work backwards and live through simple answers that work for the most questions.
For now: Kind, appreciative, and deliberate.
Malibu
As I cruised along to Monte Cristo Campground, the only question I was asking myself was, “What the hell am I doing?” I needed a place to sleep badly and the closest campgrounds were an hour deep into the San Gabriel mountains. I winded up and through the mountains begrudgingly as the sun was setting and arrived at a barren campground.
I had no cell service and was completely alone except for the occasional speck of a car passing along the thin highway adjacent to the grounds. As my numb hands fumbled with my stove and a pack of ramen, I had a realization…this is actually pretty sketchy. If a bear, mountain lion, or worse, a human wierdo, wanted to mess me up, I’d be served on a silver platter. That night the temperature dropped below freezing, but I was comforted by the warmth of my ax, nestled closely in my sleeping bag with me. Just in case…
On the next day, I paraded back to coast and into the crevices of Malibu and found myself at Pepperdine University. The school is just off the water and propped 765 feet above sea level, mimicking a castle on the Malibu hills. The view is absolutely incredible, and I’d hope so if I were paying 60k a year to go here. I'm glad Zoey 101 made it work.
Point Dume offered 270 degree views of the Pacific, making my job of capturing the beauty of the coastline a whole lot easier. The first step in being a better photographer: find better subjects.
I would've ran out of money quickly on this trip if it weren't for the iOverlander app. It’s an app that van-lifers typically use to post and find sweet, legal, and most importantly, free, spots to stay for the night. It was here I found an ocean-front pull out along PCH right at Point Mugu. It’s always spectacular sleeping next to the ocean and this spot was certainly worth more than the $0.00 price of admission.
As I reached the summit, I was deeply moved by the stillness of the dreamy scene. I was the only person in the world up there. 360 degrees around me, everywhere I looked, every ripple of the ocean, was pure beauty. The subtle moving textures of the world below were indication that this inspiring scene was not a dream - it was real life. It was life bursting at the seams, punching me in the gut, yelling in my face, “You are human. You are ALIVE. You are a perfectly imperfect, integral component of the madness."
Santa Barbara
Santa Barbara is a shiny pearl, a missed call, and a splintering of a million timelines. In my few run-ins with this town on the water, I’m sedated by its pace and reminded of the malleability of life.
[brief aside]
I was actually originally set to go to college at UCSB. I was between UCSB and Georgia Tech, but the more affordable in-state tuition of Santa Barbara tipped the scale in its favor. That is until the strange and omniscient work of Fate got involved. My mom unexpectedly got a job offer to work in Georgia for a family friend right before my senior graduation. At the time, our living situation turned sour and her and I needed to get out. Backed into a wall, my Mom packed her bags that week for Georgia with an understanding I’d meet her out there. I moved in with my friend Tate and his family for that unforgettable summer before college. (Forever grateful to the Keirs!)
Her living in Georgia meant I would be able to get in-state tuition for Georgia Tech after one year, making the school affordable and a no-brainer at that point. It’s now hard to imagine not spending the next four and a half years in Atlanta and am extremely appreciative I did. I used to think going to Tech was purely an intentional decision, but the reality is that that journey was itself a detour. A large, wonderful, and partially out-of-my-control detour, but a detour all the same.
[and now back to your regularly scheduled programming]
Three experiences really stood out to me over my three days in SB.
One - When I arrived, the weather was painfully perfect and I decided to get reacquainted with the town by going on a long run. I started at Waterfront and lined the beach past Stearns Wharf, curved along the coast into Shoreline Park, and looped back after bouncing through the neighborhoods of West Mesa. I hit the halfway point around Shoreline Park.
That’s where an elderly man playing the guitar on a bench hit me with the smoothest “Groovy day, isn’t it?” my ears have ever been blessed with. The euphoria I felt after that line was criminal. I ran with such intense gratitude to be young, alive, and a moving piece of the universe experiencing itself that I forgot to stop running. That run is my furthest to date - 10 miles. Running in a beautiful place gives you 2x endurance I swear. Real life cheat code.
Two - The second day was spent capturing the town as best as I could. Days like these tend to be my favorite. I can turn off my brain and just freely skate to wherever the wind blows.
Three - On the third night I went full-groupie (always go full-groupie). It was a Friday so I figured I’d hang around downtown as the sun was setting. For a while I sat on a curb on State Street next to an older, guitar-wielding busker fella and assumed the role as his #1 hype man. We started chatting in between songs, and once he found out I played as well, he invited me to come up and play a song. It’s cliche but true that when you get asked this question on the spot you somehow forget every single song you’ve ever learned. I slid the strap over my neck and played some Bossa Nova-ish progressions ingrained in my muscle memory. The busker started humming to my tune and ushered me to the mic. I harmonized along and to my great surprise, the world didn’t explode!
I'll never forget hearing the sounds I was making reverberate down State Street. I have very limited experience playing in public and absolutely no public singing experience (although I sing to myself all the time). The singing in public was odd and surreal but honestly…not nearly as nerve-racking as I always played it out to be. For how insignificant of an experience this must've been for that old man and the Friday night strollers, it meant everything to me. So thank you rockin’ old dude - I really needed to make that leap.
I rode that high all night and strolled into Night Lizard Brewery where a love-child of Marvin Gaye and John Legend was belting buttery-smooth 70s ballads. I grooved as one beer became three, and before I knew it I was following him and his small band to the after-show at the Blue Owl. Full groupie mode. It was a lot of fun, fun that led me to sleeping in my car in the 99 Cent store parking lot. Not my proudest sleep spot, but I had officially become a live-performing musician that night. And that’s something worth celebrating for!
~~~
Santa Barbara is filled to the brim with beauty, from its active and laid-back people, to the scenic foothills that embrace its edges. I would lay in my hammock amongst the palm trees along East Beach every day if I could.
However, by the fourth day, I got the sense I was overstaying my welcome. Fate had made its decision and I needed to respect it; this town belonged to a different version of me.
Today, the real flesh and blood me, is a culmination of a million cosmic deviations. Lucky for us, true beauty can still be found along even the most unexpected of detours. When things don’t seemingly go how I want them to, this fact keeps me grounded to Earth. How lucky are we to be on a ride at all! I gave UCSB Will a fist bump, and went north with arms wide open to the detours.
P.S. N Hope Ave along Calvary Cemetery is a great low-key spot to post for the night if you’re car camping and okay with hangin' with ghosts and ghouls. OooOOOoo, spooky!
Solvang and Santa Ynez
I peaked out over SB while climbing over the foothills to the east.
Coming down the other side, I saw I was approaching an alluring lake to my right - Lake Cachuma. I’d never heard of it in my entire life, but its shimmering surface and my ‘Analog 2’-inspired obsession with lakes called me over. The ranger at the entrance let me in for free like an absolute king and gave me one hour.
Wryly oak trees with impossibly contorting limbs lined the deep blue water and I was a kid in a candy shop.
I continued to bounce around the vineyards of Solvang and Santa Ynez, soaking in the sights around every corner. I found a particular oak tree - grande and solemnly alone. The watcher of the fields.
I also had a spiritual moment with a horse (surprisingly, no shrooms were involved). I think he was begging me to break him free. And I wanted to, I really did, but the only thing I broke was the news that I already had a fair stead of my own - Donny.
On this day, I felt truly free from any binds of people or things or obligations, and it felt so, so damn good. The attempt to bottle this feeling is the driver of this site in the first place.
I reluctantly left the Valley and headed north through Los Alamos and Santa Maria. I remember passing through those vibrant emerald hills dotted with more oak trees and even more cows (so many cows…), thinking why couldn’t I feel even a fraction of this every day? When did my priorities shift to the mundane? And why had it been so many years since I felt something so pure, enveloping, and addictive?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And this is where I’ll draw the somewhat arbitrary line between Southern and Central California. I need a break from typing; I’m not used to writing this much, or at all really. Plus, the next chapter begins with throwing up in a crowded coffee shop. I just ate a burrito and I don’t think I can relive that memory right now.
- willy