Route 1 to Point Arena, CA

I woke at the Bodega Bay Equestrian Trailhead in Bodega Bay, CA. I slept well, and there was very little traffic or noise through the night. It was one of those quiet coastal mornings where nothing pulls you out of sleep too early.

I drove about a mile to Roadhouse Coffee across from the Bodega Inn. It’s a small shop with a steady stream of locals mixed with a few tourists passing through. The owner seemed to know just about everyone who walked in. I ordered a latté and a banana walnut muffin. The banana flavor was strong, with plenty of walnuts—exactly what you want. I stayed for about 90 minutes, got some writing done, and eased into the day before getting back on the road.

Route 1, the coastal highway, runs right through Bodega Bay and was only about a hundred yards from the coffee shop. I headed north toward Point Arena, CA. Google said it would take 1 hour 42 minutes, but I knew right away it would take much longer.

The drive north on Route 1 is one of those stretches where the clock doesn’t really matter. The road winds along the coastline, climbing and dropping as it follows the shape of the land. There are long sections where the Pacific opens up beside you, waves breaking against dark rock formations below, followed by tighter inland turns through rolling hills and pastureland. Small pullouts appear just often enough to make you consider stopping every few minutes. The light shifts constantly with the clouds, and the colors move between deep blues, muted greens, and the browns of the coastal bluffs. It’s not a fast drive, and it’s not meant to be.

I stopped often—letting cars pass, taking in the sheer beauty, and photographing the boats, rocks, and ocean below the cliffs. I drove through small towns that are likely packed in the summer and kept finding myself pulled back to the landscape around me. Point Arena wasn’t really the destination—it was a natural stopping point on the way north, a way to break up the drive toward the redwoods into something more manageable and a lot more interesting.

I pulled over and opened a book, Coming Into the Country by John McPhee. A friend I had just visited loaned it to me, knowing I was on my way to Alaska. It’s part travel writing, part history, and part portrait of the people who chose to live there—especially in the more remote parts of the state. It felt like the right book to read before heading north, and I spent about an hour with it before driving into Point Arena.

Point Arena is a very small town, and it feels like everyone knows each other. It was close to 1 PM, and I was hoping to find a place to eat. I ended up at Arena Market & Café. There were other options, but this place stood out—a casual hangout with a small grocery in the back, a proper espresso machine, and a simple sandwich menu. I ordered a BLT, which was solid, and a bowl of green Mexican soup that turned out to be excellent. I also couldn’t pass up a Russian Imperial Stout from North Coast Brewing Co.—a rare midday choice, but it felt right.

I stayed a couple of hours and just absorbed the rhythm of the place. With a population of around 450, it felt like a central meeting point. Some conversations were quick—“Are you coming to Jenny’s birthday?” “How’s your mom doing?” “George, are we still on for Sunday?” Others stretched on for 30 minutes or more. People sat together over coffee, catching up. The staff were friendly and clearly knew their regulars. There were even a few quiet complaints about out-of-towners who hadn’t treated them all that well.

I packed up the computer after getting some writing done and headed north. I thought about coming back later for photos in better light, but that never happened. I drove toward the lighthouse a few miles away, but access looked to be temporarily closed, so I continued on to Manchester State Park a couple miles north.

Manchester State Park isn’t large, but it has camping, a beach, and a few hiking options. A bird was bathing in a small puddle near the trail, and I tried to get a few photos without disturbing it, but the reflection of the sun was too bright to capture much detail. Fog hung low over the distant hills, and a steady wind came in off the ocean. As I walked, I spotted a kite in the distance, which brought back memories of Kite Day at Venice Beach near Los Angeles.

I had passed a sign pointing to the beach but took a more direct route west, which quickly led me to a 60-foot cliff with no access down. A path running north along the bluff eventually connected with the main trail and led down to the beach. The first thing that stood out was the color of the sand—a deep brown. It reminded me of the sand collection at Pink Coral Dunes in Utah. It would be fun to start something like that.

I spent a few hours on the beach until the sun started to drop.

Around 6:30 PM, I found an overlook near Manchester—a large parking area on a cliff above the Pacific. I opened the side door of the van and looked out over the ocean in the distance. I had the place to myself as I made dinner and let the day settle in. Route 1 had been a spectacular drive.

Around 10 PM, two cars pulled into the far end of the lot. It was pitch black. They sat there revving their engines and shouting to each other over the noise, then left as quickly as they had arrived. The quiet returned just as fast. I went back to reading about Alaska and eventually drifted off.