Riding over the mountains to Paso Robles

When I finally leave on a trip, it takes me a while to realize I'm on vacation. Driving along Highway 88, soaring over Carson Pass (elev. 8,850), the moment arrived. Then it vanished as we wriggled between 18-wheelers on U.S. 99 in the San Joaquin Valley.

Back it came on Highway 46 in the wine country of Paso Robles. Tidy rows of neatly tied grapevines in military formation paraded over the smoothly contoured hills. With over 200 wineries, this new wine producing region calls themselves "The New Napa Valley."

Italian Cypress stood at attention along the driveway to the EOS winery as we drove up. An impressive rose garden and surgically coiffured lawns framed the tasting room. Inside, ebony beams, tomato red tile floors and casks of wine, pegged wine making as a serious business at EOS winery.

Angela, with raven black hair and a winning smile beckoned from behind a counter. We instantly took a liking to each other. Angela lives close by, raises sheep, pays $14 a bale for hay (there isn't tax on hay for sheep but there is for horses). I try a "husky" red wine, swirling the liquid, savoring the fruity aroma and ask, if there's a charge for the wine tasting experience. "For the production wines, no...for the Estate wines we charge $10 and you keep the glass." I swallow hard, feeling a little queasy at the $18-$55 per bottle wine list and decide to stick with "Two Buck Chuck" from Trader Joe's.

Route 46 gets greener the closer you are to the ocean. Thick woods crowd the road. Postage stamp size farms paste themselves against encroaching hillsides. We top out at 1,500 feet, pull off at a lookout and have lunch. Beneath us, chubby oaks and carpets of golden grasses co-mingle over the lumpy hills. In the distance, Morro Rock stands stockily in Morro Bay. We've arrived at the Pacific.

It's my good fortune to represent "Mrs. Hughes," a very funny comedienne who lives nearby in Arroyo Grande. I'm her manager. Grandmotherly in the extreme, Carol pulls people's heart strings with ease. Merv Griffin brought her to Atlantic City and that's where she and I met. Years later, Merv asked Carol to appear in a fundraiser for the Art League of La Quinta. Unexpectedly, Merv invited Sam, Carol's husband, Orllyene, my wife, and me to join him for dinner at his estate in La Quinta. Merv insisted on being called "Merv" not Mr. Griffin.

We followed Merv in my car to an outcropping of burgundy hills. He punched in the combination, the iron gates swung open, we drove past a row of stables and then parked in the porte-cochere of his palatial digs. Merv guided us through his home; exquisite oil paintings, statues, thick carpets, step-down living room and through sliding glass doors to an elegant multi-leveled garden. Planters bursting with purple petunias and crimson geraniums flanked a tiny stream set into the stone deck. A miniature lake surrounded by palms shimmered beneath a full moon as a geyser shot water a hundred feet in the air. A chef from a boutique hotel owned by Merv in Palm Springs served sautéed veal, herb seasoned veggies, etc., finishing off with platters of pastries, all by candle light beneath a star studded sky.

Guests? Well, there was Carol Channing, who complimented Mrs. Hughes profusely on her performance, Marge Champion, a dance legend I idolize, a former ambassador to Uruguay and a former Surgeon General. The conversation was enthralling. Merv was magical. You felt a sense of safety when you were around him, a freedom to open up and join in. Most powerful men lack kindness. Merv's kindness is what made him powerful. He recently passed away. We'll all miss him.

I was frazzled, spent, totally drained. Even the short walk to the end of the Port San Luis pier was exhausting. I sat unspeaking in the deep shade of the old wharf building. A cool breeze washed over me. Directly across the bay was Pismo Beach. Could you really say to someone you'd just met, "Yeah, I live in Pismo," and not expect to get a laugh?

It was nap time for a platoon of seals on a platform beneath the pier. They looked like a box of whiskered sausages in a cigar box, flopping over each other "ark, ark, arking" furiously. Overhead, seagulls, those scavenger mongrels of the air, were in a dogfight, screeching non-stop. Only the stealth bomber like pelicans in tight formation, were silent, skimming just inches over the ocean surface.

Deep inside I felt a twitch. My torpor was melting. "I think I'll become a beach bum." Just the thought, as crazy as it seemed, lifted a crushing mantle of responsibility from my shoulders. Immediately I fashioned a plan to walk down the beach to a very appealing RV park wedged into a ledge above the bay and get some information. "A perfect place to spend the winter." The future was suddenly brighter.

Just as the pier attaches itself to the beach, a small crowd had formed. "You don't whack, whack, like this, the way they do on TV," he blustered. It was Elmer Gantry with a gyrating cleaver cleaning his catch. Each deft incision, dazzled his audience. "Right here (pause to gain full attention) and twist and then slide the blade gently back" and with a flourish he pulled the skin back so that nothing was left but the skeleton and a filet. Although with the hands of a seafood surgeon, his grizzled beard, healthy beer gut and cigarette dangling from his lips weren't quite the image of a "beach bum" I was hoping to emulate.

Avila Bay is shaped like a big "C" with Port San Luis at one end and Avila at the other. The road along the beach is squeezed between buff colored plump matronly hills and tiny waves that unravel meekly on the beach. The scent from the translucent lime green water mixing with a dash of kelp and a smidgen of salt is exhilarating. Ecstatic RV'ers, awnings out, windows flung wide open pay $20 a night fee for the privilege of spending the night right at waters edge.

The driveway to the prized RV park is laced with purple flowered ice plant. A lacy pepper tree dances in the wind and I pull a pod of red pepper corns free. An explosion of blood red bougainvillea flounces from the hillside toward me and a clump of beaver tail cactus screams "stay away." Parked in a semi-circle at the top of the driveway are 10 rigs, each with a panoramic view of the harbor. Shangri-La. A smiling blond woman carrying a load of groceries walks past. Oozing as much charm as I can muster, "Are you the manager of the park?" I croon. "Nope, the harbor master is the person you ought to see. It's first come first serve and these folks call their friends so they can have their space when they leave." I was a broken man, standing forlornly in a puddle of "ooze."

I admit I was more than a little glum but as often happens, good news wasn't too far away. Within weeks I received a call from Carnival Cruise Lines. They want Orllyene and me to reprise our roles as ballroom dance instructors. Yep, 13 days in Hawaii. Fancy that. From "beach bum" to Fred Astaire and I didn't even have to muster any "ooze" to do it. Aloha!

-- Ron Walker is a Smith resident.