Big Sur has been overrun. Trampled by summer. The secret is out, betrayed by hashtags and majestic photos. The ocean mist that is Kerouac’s ghost shouting “DAMN YOU EARLYBIRD, VALENCIA & X-PRO II, DAMN YOU TO HELL!!!” Everyone took the bait and descended at once. Trying to park near a waterfall on a recent visit was like vying for position at Wallmart on Black Friday. Boxing out LA expatriates, attempting to catch vistas like you were throwing elbows for Elmos circa Christmas 96. Picture a woman in a hot pink jumpsuit with the word “Sexy” bedazzled onto her ass, holding a big mac and devouring space like the aforementioned burger, selfie sticks reaching for the heights of the redwoods themselves and a Steve Miller song blaring from a campground as a football sails through the air like a stealth missile aimed at your peace. At one point during our set, some dude threw $2 at chanteuse Shelbi Bennett and told her to “play some Guns N Roses.” And as much as I wanted to hear a spectral version of It’s So Easy, this was very different from previous outings beneath the quiet. But who am I to criticize, I don’t live there, I’m just another contributor to the din, gazing slack jawed at the slightest verdant sliver of marvel that I can fit into my distracted existence. We’re all just trying to trade concrete canyons for something more. To partake in the vastness. Tourist in our home trying to rekindle the fraying thread that once kept us attached to nature. I pray the bait of whim never eludes me, that once my fluffy roof is Morgan Freeman gray, I can still muster the energy for escape. I had the time so we kept the car aimed north, to the rocky shores and breathtaking vistas of the Oregon coast, empty roads, respite and cozy quiet. #Imnottellingyouwhere.