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Morro Bay is a bay west of San Luis Obispo, and also a city
on the bay. Both get their name from Morro Rock, a dome-shaped volcanic
plug 177 meters high, just outside the city’s fishing harbor. Juan
Rodriguez Cabrillo sighted the rock in 1542, and named it
El Morro. One fanciful folk etymology claims that the shape of
the rock resembles the turbans worn by Moors (Moros in Spanish),
the North African Muslims who controlled various parts of Spain from
the eighth through the fifteenth centuries. Another derivation relates
it to the Spanish word for “pebble.” But morro is a Spanish
term— also used by English-speaking geologists— for a round hill or
rock outcrop. This morro is the remnant of an ancient volcano that
oozed magma from an underground vent. The cooled magma turned into very
hard rock that remained after the surrounding rock eroded over millions
of years. Morro Rock is one of the “Nine Sisters,” a chain of volcanic
hills stretching from Morro Bay to Islay Hill (right) near San Luis
Obispo.
Morro Rock is frequently shrouded in the “low clouds and fog” that
blanket the California coast more often than any chamber of commerce
likes to admit. I have visited Morro Bay three times. The first time,
the bay was completely fogged in. The second time was when I took
these pictures. The third time was an overcast day, with fog just far
enough off the coast to draw a white curtain over the rock. Visible or
not, you can drive to the rock on a breakwater that also
serves as a causeway. Since Morro Rock is a state sanctuary for for
the formerly-endangered peregrine falcon, climbing it is illegal.
Those who break the law may be subject to severe extrajudicial
sanctions, since the rock tends to crumble under human weight.
The City of Morro Bay has all the tourist-oriented shops and restaurants you’d expect in a seaside town. The harbor is also a working port for a fleet of fishing boats (and fishermen). But Morro Bay may be particularly noteworthy for what it lacks.
It’s an Indisputable Fact that beach towns (and any other places
that attract motorized visitors) need parking meters and aggressive
enforcement officers to ration their limited parking as fairly as
possible— and (by pure coincidence) to provide the cities with reliable revenue from the
inevitable violations. Nearby Pismo Beach and downtown San Luis Obispo
have meters and enforcement officers. Morro Bay does not. How do they ever
manage without them? Let me now indulge in a bit of the reflection that
travel often encourages.
I have long questioned whether meters, restrictions, and enforcement actually ensure
the fairest access to limited parking. Living near Southern California’s beaches, I can’t avoid noticing that despite
all the meters, convoluted restrictions, and ruthlessly aggressive enforcement, parking
anywhere near the beach on a sunny weekend is all but impossible. A ticket may generate
vital revenue for a cash-strapped city, but it doesn’t make an overstaying driver’s space
available for someone else. And the parking enforcement officers’ forlorn patrols of
their sparsely-occupied territories during the off-season can only serve their need to
remain employed and in practice.
I mention all this because in June 2009 (a week after I took these pictures), the
Morro Bay City Council rejected a proposal to install parking meters as a revenue source,
along with a more modest proposal to charge for parking in one lot near the harbor. Maybe
they realized that a ticket can have the same aversive effect on a visitor that an
experimenter’s electric shock has on a laboratory rat. They may have also recognized that
visitors are more likely to spend time (and money) in the city when they’re not under the
pressure of a ticking clock. And for that matter, I can’t be the only one who decided not
to stop for lunch in Pismo Beach because I didn’t have enough change to feed parking
meters that clearly were hungrier than I was. But a few days later, when I was in the
area at lunchtime, I made a small detour to Morro Bay because I knew I could take my time
finding a place to eat.
The semi-ghost town of Harmony— Population 18, according to the sign at the entrance to the town— is just off Highway 1, 7 kilometers south of Cambria on the way to or from Hearst Castle. It was founded in 1869 by Italian-speaking Swiss dairy farmers who, as the story goes, feuded over land ownership until someone got killed. That finally convinced everyone involved to settle their disputes and live henceforth in harmony. And so they renamed the town in 1907 to commemorate the accord. The creamery became locally famous, operating until the 1950s when relocating to more populous San Luis Obispo proved economically advantageous.
Nearly everyone in Harmony left the town after the creamery closed. Only the post office remained. In 1972, young “counter-culture” artists saw the town’s possibilities as a rural artist’s colony and began restoring it. After only a few years, most of the artists left town in search of better inspiration. What remains is a one-horse town with a pottery shop, a glass blowing studio, a winery, a small wedding chapel, and a few houses in which people still apparently live.
In 2008, the
Postal Service closed what had become a part-time post office located
in the former creamery building, citing inadequate volume and seismic
safety concerns. Residents now receive their mail in a block of
industrial mailboxes along the town’s one road. The abandoned post
office now has a guest register that invites visitors to sign a
petition to reopen the post office.
State Route 46 leads from Highway 1 (2.5 kilometers north of
Harmony) to Highway 101 near Paso Robles, then on to the high desert of
the Antelope Valley. Heading east from the coast, it crosses the Santa
Lucia Mountains. On a clear day, the view from several scenic turnouts
extends all the way to Morro Bay.
As you near Highway 101 and Paso Robles, you’re entering wine country. Back roads lead from the 46 to vineyards and wineries with tasting rooms open to the public. Any hotel in Paso Robles or San Luis Obispo will probably have a rack filled with brochures and maps of the wineries. There are also wine-tasting tours that shuttle visitors between the wineries on a bus, providing a safe way to enjoy the various fermented grape products.
The climate, soil, and the rolling hills that add up to the right
terroir for vineyards are also well suited to horses and cattle.
If you’re not in a hurry, it’s well worth spending a day exploring the
many small roads leading from the 46 and Vineyard Road that meander
past ranches, pastures, and farm houses.
Mission San Miguel Arcángel is 60 kilometers north of
San Luis Obispo. It’s right off of Highway 101, the freeway that
follows much of the route of the Camino Real, the “royal road” the
Franciscans established to link their chain of missions. Fermín
de Lasuén founded the Mission on 25 July 1797, to bring the
Salinan Indians into the Catholic and Spanish fold. It also
provided the Franciscans a convenient overnight stop on the two-day
trip between San Luis Obispo and Mission San Antonio de Padua in
Monterey County. Lasuén named it for the Archangel Michael,
whose numerous roles in both the Christian and Jewish traditions
include guardian of the Catholic Church, Christian angel of death, and
Supreme Enemy of Satan.
San Miguel suffered the same fate as the other 20 California missions. The Mexican government “secularized” the missions in 1834, sent the Franciscans back to Spain, and distributed the property to favored cronies. During the 1849 Gold Rush, the Mission again became a stopping place for travelers— in this case, gold miners on the way to San Francisco from Los Angeles. The Mission returned to the Catholic Church in 1859, and to the Franciscans in 1928. It’s now a monastery. The Franciscans carefully restored the Mission, making it one of the best preserved in California. The church interior, with its murals, looked just as it did in 1821.
An earthquake in 2003 severely damaged the Mission and closed it to the public. A repair and restoration project is proceeding slowly, hampered by the difficulty of raising the $15 million it’s expected to cost. When I visited in June 2009, a small museum, a gift shop, part of the courtyard, and a small section of the monastery garden were open. But most of the Mission was a fenced-off construction zone, with “No Trespassing” signs and buildings shrouded in scaffolding and plastic. By carefully working around the construction, I was able to take a few pictures that offer glimpses of a site that may eventually resume its place in California history. But for now, I call San Miguel the “No Ad-Mission.”