After crossing the Russian River, the low-lying coast gives way to mountains that shoot straight from the sea. This is America's Amalfi Drive—bold and rocky, a more precarious roadway than the gentle loops that wind through Big Sur. Fog comes and goes. But I keep the top down, betting the mist will burn off. It does, and dancing sparks now ride the swells out to the horizon beyond the breaking waves.
Highway 1 flattens after Fort Ross as it passes through Sea Ranch, the community of environmentally sensitive homes that hide like good eyebrows on a mountain. I cross the river into Mendocino County, stopping in Gualala at a restaurant so bathed in sunshine and New Age music I feel as if I'm eating in a hot tub. Farther north, in Manchester, the beach is bigger than a Wal-Mart parking lot and littered with driftwood the size of dinosaur bones.
I keep plugging away, pumping faster because it's close to five and I'm ready to call it a day. Finally, just south of Mendocino, in Little River, I pull into Heritage House for the night.
Heritage House isn't trendy. It's old-fashioned and comfortable, like a Saturday snooze on an overstuffed couch. It also happens to be set on 37 sprawling acres right above the ocean. Picture the cliffs of County Cork in western Ireland—green and flat like a golf course but suddenly dropping into the sea. Then add some mountains and eucalyptus as a backdrop. Heritage House was started in 1949, long before there were rules forbidding such waterfront land grabs—or a California Coastal Commission to enforce them. The ramshackle cottages are grouped together by name in units of two or more (Sunset, Greenwood, and the duplex Same Time, Next Year—after the movie that was shot here). I settle into Vista III and marvel at the unobstructed panorama up and down the jagged coastline. From my deck, I can hear the throaty rumble of the waves trapped below in the shallow coves, resonating with the slow-vibrating thud of a ship slamming into rough seas.
Heritage House was in the same family for almost 40 years, and only recently sold. But it's still homey. White bedspreads and mismatched pictures rule. A Proctor-Silex toaster sits on each dining room table in the morning. The fireplace in the lounge, large enough to walk into, is wonderfully warming on a cold and foggy night.
The music festival is on when I arrive in Mendocino the next day; I hear melodic strains from the orchestra practicing in a tent above the Pacific. The pretty seaside town prides itself on looking like New England. Its claim to fame, aside from the 1970s hippie anthem "Mendocino," is having served as the shooting location for Murder, She Wrote, which pretended to take place in Maine. Pottery and souvenirs abound; at Wilkes Sport, the house shaving cream costs $28 a tube. This is the last place up the coast within the civilized web spun out of San Francisco. Keep going north and you'll hit Fort Bragg and the belching smokestacks of the Georgia-Pacific lumber mills.
Back on Highway 1, this time heading south, I turn onto Route 128 for the trip across the Coast Range to the freeway that leads down to San Francisco. The road begins in the Navarro River Redwoods, a spooky world still within the ocean's foggy grip, where tall timber hides the light even on a clear day. When rays start poking through, I know I'm almost free. Soon, I bust out of the forest into open hills and bright sun.
Route 128, through the Anderson Valley, is Napa without the tourists. There's no theme train, hardly any places to stay, not much of anything except homespun wineries and acres of space. I stop at Husch Vineyards' wooden shack of a tasting room to pick up some Pinot Noir, and, just before Philo, I turn into the driveway of the Apple Farm.
Sally and Don Schmitt, along with their daughter Karen Bates and her husband, Tim, launched the Apple Farm in the '80s. At the time, Sally and Don also had The French Laundry in Napa Valley, which they sold in 1994 to Thomas Keller before moving to Philo for good. Today they make jam and chutney while running a small B&B. Their products sit out on a long table by the barn, luring drive-by shoppers. I decide to spend the night in one of the designer-chic cottages, which are made of wood and corrugated metal and sit smack in the middle of the orchards. While opening the wine, I realize that the Anderson Valley formula of four parts nature to one serving of civilization suits me fine.
For dinner, I pry myself out of a low-slung chair to drive 15 minutes over to the Boonville Hotel. I'm soon rewarded with smoked trout followed by duck confit with corn salsa and twirly strands of wilted greens. After the meal, I step outside to engage the black Lab that's been staring at me from the patio all evening. And I remind myself to tell Sally and Don how much I enjoyed the meal, cooked by their son, John, who bought the place 13 years ago.
On the last day of the trip, I follow 128 over to the freeway and gas up in Cloverdale, running off a curb as I exit, a jarring reminder that the best part of the journey is over. Now it's a straight shot down the 101 freeway, through Healdsburg, back to the city. But before crossing the bridge, I pull off at Tiburon to stay at Waters Edge, a new inn that truly lives up to its name. San Francisco, framed perfectly in my window, shimmers across the Bay, teasing me to return. And I will. Tomorrow.
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