Beneath the Bixby Canyon Bridge

"I descended a dusty gravel ridge beneath the Bixby Canyon Bridge. Until I eventually arrived at the place where your soul had died." --Ben Gibbard in the Death Cab for Cutie song "Bixby Canyon Bridge."

Of all the places I knew I'd visit on my journey through the West, I most anticipated seeing Bixby Bridge. It spans a creek and inlet of the Pacific Ocean in one of the most beautiful stretches of California's Big Sur coast.

But it also plays a key role in Jack Kerouac's book "Big Sur." He retreated to a cabin beneath the bridge to escape the stress of growing fame -- a result of his smash hit novel, "On the Road." He didn't find the solace he wanted. In the throes of severe alcoholism, Kerouac had a mental breakdown at the cabin. He died about a decade later.

"Big Sur," in my mind, is much better than "On the Road." It's rawer, real and better written.

The book -- and the bridge -- have become an inspiration for many artists. Death Cab's Ben Gibbard is chief among them. Gibbard went to the cabin to try to channel his inner Jack, an important influence on Gibbard. But Gibbard -- like Kerouac -- found nothing at the cabin beneath the bridge, which he explains in "Bixby Canyon Bridge." (Why he added the "Canyon" to the title, I don't know.)

Anyway, the book, a recent documentary about it ("One Fast Move or I'm Gone") and the film's soundtrack recorded by Gibbard and Son Volt's Jay Farrar inspired me to do my own exploring beneath the bridge. On a glorious California day, I drove to the bridge, hopped out of my Honda Civic with a copy of "Big Sur" in my pocket and intending to descend that dusty gravel ridge.

It wasn't that easy. The ridge is actually a poorly maintained road. All of the property along it is guarded by gates. So if you want to get beneath the bridge, you actually have to down-climb steep rock walls closer to the bridge.

I poked my head over the cliffs, trying to decide how to get down. I meandered a while, too scared to try any of them. Then I ran into four 20-somethings from Riverside, Calif. They were on their own quest for Jack's ghost. We coaxed each other to try to descend the 500 or so feet down to the water.

We cut a steep path through bushes and along dusty paths -- run-walking toward the lush green trees below. I never would have tried it alone. After slipping, sliding and fretting about poison oak and ticks, we finally made it.

The creek ran high from the spring rains. The trees glowed green for the same reason. Violent crashing waves provided a far-off soundtrack. It was exactly like Kerouac had described in the early chapters of the book.

We followed a trail toward the ocean. We eventually passed an old, rusted car that had fallen from the bridge decades before. It, too, plays a key part in the book.

Then we saw the ocean, the spot where Kerouac penned the poem "Sea" that concludes "Big Sur." We rolled up our pants, ditched our socks and shoes and pranced through the sand and gravel-floor creek. At one point, marooned against some rocks, a huge wave smashed us and coated our lips in salt water.

We then followed the creek away from the ocean and into the trees. We knew Kerouac's cabin was somewhere in that direction. Where the trail crossed the creek, we rigged makeshift bridges of fallen trees.

Eventually, though, the creek drank our trail. We had to turn back, having not found Jack's cabin.

Still, we could feel the writer. We were in the place where his soul had, in fact, died.

Getting back up the parking lot was a chore. We free climbed a very steep rock face. It was scary and difficult.

But each pause in the climb provided incredible views of the Pacific. And Kerouac stayed constantly on my mind.

Later that night, after climbing another mountain further south of the bridge, I opened a bottle of wine and read "Big Sur" b the fire ring. I finished the book there in the campground, jotting down thoughts, memories and feelings from my climb and my life.

Unlike Gibbard, I felt I was closer to some kind of truth. Because of Jack. Because of Big Sur. Because I was there, and I'd done it.


The details:
Bixby Bridge
Location: California's Big Sur Coast, 15 miles south of Carmel
Length: 2ish miles
Beginning elevation: 500 feet (descending to sea level)
Peak elevation: 500 feet
Difficulty (out of 5): 4

Older is better

So I turned 30 today. It's really not that big of a deal to me. Birthdays never really are. The best part is that you get to do things you enjoy. So today, I ran three miles on a desolate Nebraska gravel road. I played football with my dad, son and niece. I held my adorable daughter a whole lot.

And, of course, I drank a beer I love.

Today, it was Pliny the Elder. And, man, do I love that beer. And since I'm officially an old man, it made sense.

It's a beer brewed by Russian River, which I've already written a ton about. It's super hoppy. Not as bitter as its son, Pliny the Younger, but still very piny and crisp. My friend Dustin said that bite gives it an almost apple-like flavor.

Elder also has some serious history. Russian River brewer Vinnie Cilurzo brewed the first double IPA at San Diego's Blind Pig brewery in 1994. The style has taken off since, and Pliny the Elder is very similar to that original.

I drank Elder on tap at a bunch of spots in the west -- Seattle, Portland and -- most importantly -- Russian River's brewery in Santa Rosa, Calif. Visiting that temple of beer was really cool -- plus I meet some cool people and ate some good food.

But back to the birthday. I bought five bottles of Elder at Seattle's Bottleworks. I knew I'd be drinking one on my birthday. Is Elder better than Younger? When it comes to beer, I'm not so sure. It's a close argument. But in life, yeah, I hope as I age things will only get better.


The details:
Name: Pliny the Elder
Brewer: Russian River Brewing Co.
Beer Advocate rank: 6
Style: Double IPA
Alcohol: 8 percent
Cost: $5 for a 500 ml bottle; or $8 for a pint in an LA bar
My Grade: A+
Skinny: It may not be as sexy as Pliny the Younger, but it's still a damn good beer with a lot of important history. And it's a great beer to drink on your birthday. It's a big gift to yourself.

Tick walk

Big Sur is a pretty special place (look for another post on that soon), but I have to admit my journey up Mt. Manuel in Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park was anything but awesome.

It's a 10.5-mile slog that covers about a 3,300-foot elevation gain across some really beautiful terrain. But guidebooks warn to be wary of two things: poison oak and ticks. Well, I avoided one.

A couple miles into the tough hike, I felt a stinging on my back. I reached under my shirt and discovered what felt like a zit that needed to be badly popped. So I reached back to pop it -- and pulled out a red tick. I freaked out and threw it to the ground before I had time to see if its head was still attached to its body.

For the next 8 miles, I was super paranoid about ticks. Whenever I walked near some timber or branches on the trail (which was often because it wasn't very well maintained) I would wipe down every inch of my clothes, check my pack and search my hat for the little critters. A few times, a couple would be crawling up my pant legs or hanging out on my pack.

Aside from the tick stress, the hike was just plain hard -- steep, long and lonely. And it had a bunch of false summits. In fact, what appears to be the summit at the end really isn't. You have to hike another quarter-mile to a rather unspectacular summit. But the summit medallion was there, and that means you've reached your goal. I was stoked to see it.


I was also stoked to see great views of the Santa Lucia mountains, the Point Sur lighthouse and the beautiful Pacific Ocean.

Turns out, I must have got the head out of my back when I ripped the tick away. It stung for a few days, and I was highly paranoid about getting Lyme disease -- especially since I'm uninsured. But I'm fine now, a couple weeks later.

All in all, it's a beautiful hike. But it's a trial -- both in steepness and in creepy crawlers.

The details:
Trail name: Mt. Manuel
Location: Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park
Length: 10.5 miles
Beginning elevation: 300 feet
Peak elevation: 3,3800 feet
Difficulty (out of 5): 3 (5 if you count the ticks)

Never say die

One of my staple beers has long been North Coast Brewing Co.'s Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout. I'm not much of stout lover, but Old Rasputin is easily my favorite (aside from maybe Deschutes' Abyss.) Long story short: The recipe increases the amount of hops and alcohol, which a long time ago helped keep the beer from spoiling when the English shipped it over to Russia.

The beer is named for Rasputin, a Russian mystic who held influence over the ruling family in the early 1900s. Many attempts to kill him off failed. Hence Old Rasputin's "Never say die" catchphrase.

That history just adds to the fact that the beer tastes really good.

When I was planning my West Coast excursion, I knew from the start I wanted to visit a bunch of breweries. North Coast was at the top of the list and persuaded me to take a swing through Fort Bragg -- which isn't a fort at all, but instead a really small town on the Northern California coast.

Walking along Fort Bragg's Main Street, you can smell the malt heating in the brewry tanks. It's a mouth-watering aroma. So I sauntered over the taproom and tried the brewery's range of beers, including -- of course -- Old Rasputin.

The beer is way different depending on how you drink it. Out of a bottle, it has a reddish tint, and the hops are very intense. Out of a tap, it's much frothier and creamier and the malts dominate. (An aside, the beer is a tough one for bartenders. Like Guinness, it froths a lot. Most bartenders waste a lot of beer pouring it off to get a thin head.)

Either way, the beer is very complex for a stout. It has a lot going on, and makes for a very interesting drink. One that will continue to be one of my staples for a long, long time.


The details:
Name: Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout
Brewer: North Coast Brewing Co.
Beer Advocate rank: 96
Style: Imperial stout
Alcohol: 9 percent
Cost: $4 for a 10-ounce pour
My Grade: A+
Skinny: One of my all-time favorites. It combines an aggressive hoppiness upfront with a strong, stout maltiness on the back end. Add the interesting history of the style of beer -- and the nefarious character for which its named -- and you've got yourself a winner.