Where the bluebird sings to the lemonade springs

I'm writing this in my only clean windbreaker and my hiker shorts, commando-style.  Its laundry day here in Murrow Bay, about 15 miles north of San Luis Obispo and these are the only articles of clothing i have that didn't make the wash.  Its a wonderful thing, the laundry day.  Its filled with picture-downloading, journaling, plenty of cups of coffee, and stretching.  We made 66 miles yesterday, our longest stint yet, through two gigantic hills on highway One with the surf pounding in our ears and the cliffs just inches off the retaining walls.  I think the last stories we have documented were from the Santa Cruz area, so I guess i'll try and fill in the blanks.  Outside of Santa Cruz we paced through farm country and fields of strawberries red on the vine and artichokes.  The migrant workers leaned on their hoes and waved from the back of flatbed trucks as we passed.  Think of these men and women the next time you eat a salad, or any fruit.  They labroed in the sun with sweatshirts on, their mariachi music blaring, backs forever bent.  We passed the Artichoke Capital of the World, whose name I now forget.  We passed elephant seals and chaparell brush bent in the coastal wind outside of Monterey.  We passed, and were passed. Monterey is beautiful and windy.  Cannery Row shares only its name with the place Steinbeck wrote about.  No whorehouses, sardines or wine-drinking men, just revamped buildings and tourists.  "Nothing lasts," Kesey and his Merry Pranksters were fond of saying.  Brit and I both gave the Aquairum a mild "eh" partly because the place was packed on a Saturday, and partly because we had both visisted it before when we were really young.  The jellyfish are still amazing, iradescent and mesmorizing in dark light.  We both laughed at the sea otters being fed.  Out of Monterey along Highway One.  There are few good adjectives for this stretch of road.  It is man's attempt at navigating the unnavigable.  Surf and wind and clouds and convertibles that honk at you over the bridge when there is no shoulder.  Highs and lows in elevation, asphalt curving and winding over cliffs on the edge of soil.  Brit is posting the pictures.  But humanity still cannot hold a wide enough lens, still lacks all the colors and light of nature's hand.  Now inland, we both remain in awe looking back.  Into Big Sur, itself overrun and harkening back to the glory days of Henry Miller and Kerouac.  It was the first time I ever paid $20 for a hamburger.  There was indeed something about the place, though.  I got homesick for Idaho seeing the mountains rising steeply, the smell of pine in the air.  We craned our necks at the redwoods and Brit fought off racoons and skunks in the night; she is a much braver person than i am.  Yesterday over the passes, me singing Marley:"Lord, I gotta keep on movin..." to keep my legs from failing, into this coastal town with no real mantra but "south" in our heads.  Thoughts and prayers are with you all.