Mendocino Blues

Something's lost when something's gained. For example, I finally have some disposable income as opposed to being ill disposed to having income. As a result, I can afford a state park or private camp ground, not that I'm acclimated to actually paying for one.

Case in point is my almost annual trip to the Mendocino coast. I can afford, assuming they are not full, to stay at one of the three state parks in the area. In prior years, that would have upset my travel budget for the summer. So, state parks are nice, clean, have restrooms and showers and noisy neighbors. They also cost plenty. Bottom line is convenient but kind of mundane.

I've been camping in the Mendocino Coast area for quite a few years, and I know all the free places. In fact, I am to free camping what Warren Buffet is to investing.

One of my favorite spots, a place I may not camp at again, is Blue's. There is no sign, no gate, no delineated spaces, no restrooms, no amenities. This is one of the few access places to the coast along the rugged and almost empty stretch of coast from Fort Bragg to Leggitt. It is about fifteen miles north of Fort Bragg, and a short drive from the wonderful Pacific Crest Winery.

You got to know this place, a dirt road leading off of Highway One for a short ways to a small dirt parking area at the edge of the beach. This is a great surfing area, if you don't mind the great white sharks, and the surf is the reason I first checked it out.

Since it isn't a regular camp ground, there are no fees, and the restroom is the dunes. There is room for six to eight vehicles to park and/or spend the night. It's used by hippies who have a bias against establishment camping, people with pets that are not allowed in some camp grounds, and people like me, coast bums who search for cheap adventures rather than getting a real job.

The first time I camped there, I ran into a hippy couple who were delightful, and we shared stories. The next time, there was a wonderful octogenarian who traveled all over in a camper with his dog, and thus couldn't use some of the developed camp grounds. We sat in his camper, looking out the window and the crashing waves and drinking wine until the wee hours.

My last trip there, a group of local blue collar workers were getting drunk of Miller beer and making no end of noise. Another camper, in an actual camper (I was in the back of my van), got out and shouted at them to quiet down, it being after 10. They responded by getting louder, so I pulled further up near the highway, out of range.

A few minutes later, these guys, in three cars, drove past me as if the devil were after them, so I drove back to my original spot, speculating on what the camper did to get them to flee so rapidly. Perhaps he pulled a gun. It doesn't matter. I had a peaceful sleep, lulled by the breaking waves and the ocean breeze.

Things like that don't happen in the state park camp ground