Secret Sierras
I have taken many many road trips over the 20 years I’ve worked at Sunset, but my experience shooting our 2013 “Secret Sierras” story was incredibly special. My assistant Ebbe and I worked our way through the eastern part of the range, setting out at McGee Creek Pack Station where we went off-road on a guided mule trip(pictured) deep into the mountains—and what felt like into a different era. We visited the quaint town of Bridgeport, set against a backdrop of horses and cattle grazing on meadows, as well as such iconic natural landmarks as Devils Postpile, the Dardanelles, Lake Alpine, and Calaveras Big Trees State Park. The scenery wasn’t the only thing that blew me away. I had one of the best steak dinners of my life at Kit Carson Lodge, and Ebbe and I were psyched to discover that a WWII B-24 bomber is buried in the depths of Huntington Lake. This trip instilled in me how important it is to get off the main road and discover the hidden gems of a region, or in this case, the secret Sierras, if you will. — Thomas J. Story, staff photographer
Rocky Mountain High
When my friend Eliza was visiting the States from London, I took her on a weeklong road trip through some of Colorado’s most iconic mountain towns. Heading to Breckenridge from Boulder, we pulled off I-70 in the tiny mining town of Silver Plume so Eliza could check out Bread Bar, a former bakery that now serves pilgrimage-worthy cocktails. We could have driven the 100 miles from Aspen to Crested Butte, but it was July, a.k.a. peak wildflower season, so we decided to hike the 11-mile trail that links the two towns and shuttle back. Before leaving Aspen, we rented bikes and cruised the Rio Grande Trail, stopping for nachos at Hunter S. Thompson’s old haunt, Woody Creek Tavern. We stayed at family-run Smith Fork Ranch in Crawford, a true gem and the perfect base for exploring the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park (pictured), Colorado’s version of the Grand Canyon. For some mind-boggling reason, it’s the state’s least visited national park, which means we had its nooks and crannies, like the 3-mile Warner Point Trail, all to ourselves. We splurged on our last night with a stay at Dunton Hot Springs, just outside of Telluride. Emboldened by some cocktails, one of the couples at dinner snuck off to go skinny-dipping in the hot springs. En route to the bathhouse, the wife stepped on a harmless garden snake. It gave her such a fright she took off sprinting back to the lodge, not realizing her robe had loosened, giving the entire dining room a peep show. Some things you can’t unsee. — Jen Murphy, contributing editor
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A Big (Sur) Birthday
I’m not one for spotlight moments on birthdays, so when it came time for my 30th, I decided I’d rather do some solo soul-searching. I flew from New York to San Francisco and borrowed a Harley for an epic trip down the Pacific Coast Highway through Big Sur to Los Angeles. I remember the shoreline scents of salt flats and brackish water wafting over me, the swing of momentum in the saddle, the refreshing presence of being in a helmet, no phone or nav system to distract. All I had to guide me was a piece of paper taped to the tank with turn-by-turn directions, and the jaw-dropping views to keep me entertained. I saw the eternal Lone Cypress on the 17-Mile Drive; crossed the signature Bixby Bridge (pictured); stopped for pie at Big Sur Bakery. After an overnight stay outside Big Sur, I awoke to sprint up the coastal hills on foot to clear my head. I reached the summit and saw the stunning sight of yellow grass against the water fading into foreverness. This fueled my spirit for the remaining distance to Los Angeles, where I locked both tires in a sudden caterpillar traffic jam, the heavy back end of the bike threatening to kick-slide out from under me. Somehow I kept the rubber on the road, a fitting end to my journey. This was the trip that convinced me of the greatness of the West Coast, and I’ve since threaded the loop by moving to California. — Matt Bean, editor-in-chief
A bison at Yellowstone National Park
Topping my list of best road trips ever is a 2012 family vacation through Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks. In the Tetons, we hiked high alpine lakes from morning to dusk. Our strangest stop was the Jackson National Fish Hatchery, where we saw thousands of tiny cutthroat trout in a tank and learned that a lot of nearby lakes and rivers need to be replenished. We had the AC, as well as A River Runs Through It on audiobook, blasting on the highway as we crawled through Yellowstone traffic jams. When we finally made it to Yellowstone, we were dead-set on spotting park wildlife—not an easy gambit in summer, when most animals, except bison, are hard to find. Our photography expert guide found a herd and coached me on how to capture those gigantic beasts on camera while they roamed and bathed in dust. He memorably shouted, “Money shot!” when a bison looked right into my lens. — Zoe Gutterman, assistant digital producer
Arizona Desert Splendor
On a cross-country road trip, when my friends and I weren’t crashing with friends or family, we camped. My favorite pit stop was at Monument Valley in Arizona. Ours was the only car on the road and as we drove in around 5pm. The thunderstorm that had just passed through left a cool mist in the air and a mystical ambience pervaded the landscape. We set up our tent about a mile off the road on a hill with a beautiful view of the valley and its astounding red rock formations. We heated up canned tomato soup on our mini portable stove. While we ate, we decided we’d wake up at 6am and drive towards the buttes to watch the sunrise. The next morning, true to our word, we rose for the occasion and discovered the desert was surprisingly freezing, so we bundled up in all 10 sweatshirts we’d packed for the trip. We found the perfect spot on the side of the road, set up our GoPro to record, and waited. Although the sunrise only took about 2 minutes from when it peeked over the horizon to ascend above the valley, it was one of the most incredible sights I’ve ever seen. — Kelsey Maloney, editorial assistant
A Major California Moment
After graduating from college, I moved from the Northeast to San Francisco by road tripping with some friends cross-country. They also happened to be a rock band on their first national tour. It was pretty low-budget and the venues were tiny, not at all the glam rock star experience, but that meant having authentic interactions with locals, whether at shows or not—like the day we got stranded in Cheyenne, Wyoming with a busted engine (one of many common blunders I—and other Sunset editors—have experienced on the road), wandering around town conversing with wizened residents while waiting for the van to be repaired. The peak moment of the trip was when we crested the Sierra on our way westward across the Nevada-California border. We cranked up the chorus of the Grateful Dead’s “Estimated Prophet” (“California, I’ll be knockin’ on the golden door…”); I let the significance of the lyrics and the setting wash over me, as well as the jaw-dropping scenery. Then one of us noticed that there was snow on the ground. In July. We exchanged wordless grins and the driver immediately pulled over and parked so we could all jump out of the van, kick off our shoes, and jump around in the snow barefoot. Because we could. Because California is that magical to a bunch of East Coasters. — Jessica Mordo, associate digital director
An Unexpected Meal in Oregon
Back in 2007, I was doing rare plant surveys for a rural telephone company in central Oregon, where, needless to say, there aren’t many dining options. My coworker Tammy and I were feeling a bit peckish, and still had at least four hours to go before we hit the Deadwood-ian town of Prairie City. We stopped in Madras, the last “urban” area we’d see for a while on Highway 26 (near the wilderness pictured above), nearly screeching to a halt upon finding a pupusería on the main drag (Los Gatos Comida Salvadoreña, 129 S 5th St.). This was my first time trying Salvadoran food, so we ordered pupusas revueltas and platanos con frijoles y crema. We were overjoyed when our hot-and-cheesy dishes arrived quickly, dressed with a crunchy slaw. The pupusas were filled with frijoles, chicharrón, and melted quesillo cheese—dense and chewy—yet they bore an airy quality that begged you to devour the whole damn platter in one bite. The tortillas were made of rice flour (de arroz is the typical Salvadoran way), which gave the whole dish a bit of lift. “I want to eat nothing but this for the rest of my life,” cooed Tammy. I don’t remember whether or not we even found any rare plants on that trip, but I’ll never forget that meal. — Heather Arndt Anderson, garden contributor
Grand Canyon Awe
The summer after we graduated from college in New Hampshire, my friend Wendy and I drove her car back to her home in California. From New England we meandered west, hitting several national parks, including the Grand Canyon, Bryce, and Zion, traversing Nevada and southeastern California desert before ending in L.A. The geography of the Southwest was a revelation to me. The baking sun, the lizards, the cacti, the red rock formations…I thought it was all gorgeous but it was hard for me to imagine living there. But then we got to the Grand Canyon, which I’d never seen firsthand. At the South Rim, we walked a short distance through a pine forest and then suddenly the canyon was before us. I gaped at the sheer size of it for a few minutes, but then Mother Nature decided she had a point to prove to the New Englander. Clouds moved in out of nowhere, and a ferocious rain cut visibility down to almost nothing—there was just a hazy gray wall where the biggest hole in the world had just been. The cloudburst moved fast, and as it did, the distant North Rim came back into focus. At first there were just eerie glimpses of rock visible through the mist. Then more clouds shifted and more of the canyon was revealed. And then it happened again. And again. And again. I kept thinking that the vista couldn’t get larger or more beautiful, and then it would, almost exponentially. In that moment, my personal horizon expanded right along with the literal one and I could tell the change was permanent. I was fully on board with this steep, red, rocky place. In less than two years, the West would become my home. — Nicole Clausing, content producer
Oregon Coast Discovery
Toward the end of a three-month cross-country drive, I was ambling up the Oregon Coast Highway when night began to fall. I wasn’t sure where to go. This was August 2007, the summer the iPhone was launched, long before Google Maps utterly transformed road trips, so I just followed my instincts, turning off the highway to get closer to the Pacific Ocean. A few miles up the coast, I spotted light and activity emanating from a parking lot and turned in to find a beachside restaurant where folks were gathering for a surf competition the next day. I ate dinner, drank a fantastic beer or two, then laid my sleeping bag out on the beach for the night. No tent. No security. No worries. Just the cool air and lapping waves and an overwhelming atmosphere of joy and peace. It wasn’t until months later that I’d figure out where I was—at Pacific City Beach, on Cape Kiwanda—and realize it’s one of the most popular spots in the West. That was what was so wonderful about that moment, and about road trips in general: When you’re on the road, whether you know where you are or not, that feeling of discovery, even if you’re discovering something everybody else already knows, is never very far off. You just know you’ll get there eventually, somewhere on up ahead. — Matt Gross, special projects director
A Life-Changing Introduction to the West
When I was in college, I drove from New York City to California in three days. It’s not a timeline I’d recommend to anyone, but I was young and dumb and had nothing better to do. While the landscapes of the West impressed me, there are some 2,000 miles between the Mississippi River and California and somehow it went by in a blink. I recall the shift in temperature climbing in elevation in Utah, the shock of snow in the Rockies in June, but most of all I felt the foundation of all that I knew about life in America turning to miniature behind me. We got to Lake Tahoe around midnight. I smelled night-blooming jasmine for the first time just before falling asleep, and in the morning I woke to a view of the bluest of lakes stretched out ahead of me from the living room window. A lake as big as a sea, a flower that smelled like sugar. It was all so alien, yet so thrilling. This turned out to be the road trip of all road trips, really. Not dotted with secret finds and tchotchkes and swimming holes and hikes and little mom-and-pop restaurants—all fine road trippy things—but with a payoff I couldn’t predict then: in San Francisco that summer, I met the woman who is my now wife. A couple of decades have passed and we’ve taken countless California road trips since then—food-focused jaunts to the Central Coast, wine rambles in Sonoma, Cayucos beach weekends, high desert getaways—but that first blur of a Western road trip is the one on which the second half of my life began. — Hugh Garvey, executive editor
