In a year marked by historic storms, droughts and the aftermath of wildfires, a Guardian reporter hit the road to see how three routes are faring.
The romance of the American road trip has lured travelers into their cars over the last century, offering a break from itineraries and access to wild landscapes across the west. These adventures also provide one of the only ways I can visit the far-flung places I love most.
They are places that are rapidly changing. From the coast to the mountains, the forest to the desert, California’s long drives offer a frontline view of the climate crisis.
This year, transformations were on full display after record-breaking winter storms wreaked havoc on landscapes already reeling from years of drought, wildfires and coastal erosion. While scientists are still debating whether the intensity was increased by human-caused climate change, they have long predicted events like these will worsen as the world warms.
So, in the middle of a historic year, I set off in three directions from my home in the Bay Area (north, east and then south of the state) to see how three popular routes fared in the face of disaster.
Starting in the spring, I ventured up the Volcanic Legacy Scenic Byway, in the northeast corner of California, and into Oregon, past burnt skeletal trees and along bumpy trails. As summer approached, I drove through the Sierra Nevada, which runs along the east coast. Snow is on the edge of the state and unusually covered in snow beyond the season, before driving down historic Highway 395, the backdrop to California’s historic water wars. When fall came, I headed for the Pacific Coast Highway, where stretches of the scenic highway through Big Sur remained isolated, months after the winter storms.
Even with beauty, these places are pursued through advances of what awaits them.
Large drops of rain hit my windshield as the wind picked up: the typhoon that accompanied me on that long trip was not yet over as I headed north.
It was early June and I was on my way to the Volcanic Legacy Scenic Byway, known for its ancient lava fields and the aftermath of eruptions that have shaped its picturesque lakes and peaks. Today, disasters of other kinds pose demanding situations for rural communities, such as Situations ranging from fires to floods.
In the months leading up to my trip, California had been hit by a brutal wave of storms that swept through highways, submerged small towns, and sent cascades of dust and debris down hillsides broken by wildfires. The pouring rain as she drove made it clear that the arrival of spring offered little respite.
Traces of the wildfires that have raged in recent years lingered in the brown patches of trees that dotted the vast vegetation, eerily reminding us that, despite the mist swirling around them, the flames might one day rekindle them.
Even after the rainy weather, the effects of a prolonged drought are still being felt along the California-Oregon border. I woke up early the next day in the Klamath Basin, a domain once nicknamed the Western Everglades because of its abundant wetlands, with a maximum of which have been tired or diverted since the domain has an agricultural center.
“We know how to solve this problem,” Jeff Mitchell, former chairman of the Klamath Tribes, told me with infectious optimism. He and other Indigenous tribes and organizations spearheaded the nation’s largest dam removal effort along the Klamath River, which they hope will pave the way for system-wide recovery.
This is only one piece of the puzzle, even if it is one, and there are still other threats looming over me. His words danced in my head as I crossed the border into California and stopped at the Tule Lake National Wildlife Refuge, a critical stopover for migrations. waterfowl.
I entered a meadow where many birds were flitting among the vegetation; This domain was once used by more than 6 million people as they made their long journeys north and south. Their numbers have dwindled dramatically after decades of human development, but I have been comforted by their pleas to break the silence.
Continuing on through Lava Beds national monument, where the aftermath of ancient volcanic explosions shaped the land, more wildfire-charred trees made for a moody view against the rainfall as I passed closed campsites and blocked roads. Even access into Lassen Volcanic national park was still cut off due to damage from the winter storms.
I fell asleep that night thinking about how this wild position had been forged through violent volcanoes and the new crack that was being drafted. The consequences of major mistakes have become more beautiful in the centuries since, and I wondered what the future would look like in the future. the ones we’ve caused.
As summer approached, the Sonoran Pass, a scenic drive that climbs into the mountains north of Yosemite National Park and the steep slopes of the diverse Sierra Nevada, had just opened after a 211-day closure. winter and were still covered in snow.
Beyond those high-altitude peaks, he had planned to descend into an entirely different landscape: California’s Route 395, a highway that stretches for more than 1,300 miles, dotted with hot springs and ghost towns. The part of the trip I took is known for its dramatic changes in landscape, skirting the eastern edge of the mountains near the California-Nevada border and descending into the upper deserts farther south, passing Mount Whitney, the point in the contiguous United States and the lowest point in North America at Death Valley.
I set off with my boyfriend, Rob, and his trusty old Subaru Outback, packed with gear for a drive that would span ice-covered trails to scorching heat. The hours passed quickly as the view shifted from suburbs to ranch land to amber foothills, before giving way to trees and towering banks of snow that shimmered under the summer sun.
As we climbed and descended into the valley, we saw a landscape emerging from the ice. This would give us a soggy sleep on the first night, which we would spend in one of the many camps still soaked by the melting snow of the mountains.
The next day we’ll head south on 395, making quick stops next to the boiling turquoise springs of the Hot Creek Geological Site and hiking over volcanic rocks still covered in white. As we continued to drive south and the temperature rose, the snow gave way to sage and desert dust as we traveled the roads leading into the hills of Alabama in search of a spot for our second night.
Located on otherworldly rocky terrain, this popular film and television set is also a popular camping destination. The site was even busier than usual due to the closure of nearby campgrounds (all sites along the Whitney Portal had been affected during the harsh winter). which had brought many more campers to BLM lands. As the sun crept over the Sierra Mountain Range, we were still looking. It would be dark before we discovered a position to settle.
The next morning, we drove to Lake Owens, which is part of a once-bustling basin that was emptied in the 1920s to quench Los Angeles’ thirst. Today, much of the bed of the Great Lake is dry and dusty, but we’ve heard rumors. which is coming back to life after being fueled by the heavy snowfall of the Sierra.
After a few hours on the two-lane road through an endless desert marked by swollen streams, we saw the lake in the distance. We couldn’t get any closer, but it looked like a blue mirage, blurred by the heat and surrounded by machines. The dry lake contained water.
We turned onto 395 and headed south to learn more water history at Fossil Falls. We walked along paths filled with spiky plants and rested our hands in front of the ghost of a waterfall that once flowed through the valley.
There was just time for a quick picnic in the 105F (41C) heat before heading home. As we drove north, we thought about snow, heat and the effect a shift in water levels can have, contemplating the extremes felt along a single road in a single year.
The Pacific Coast Highway, also known as PCH or Highway 1, is one of the most well-known highways in the world. Millions of tourists take to the road every year, especially a stretch that passes through Big Sur, to appreciate the wild nature. Land where the mountains meet the Pacific.
But the thoroughfare is also beleaguered by landslides and coastal erosion. Tourism and traffic combined with the climate crisis have made it worse, leaving sections of the road closed for months at a time.
According to some rumors, the highway has never been fully operational from north to south for more than a year since its opening in 1937. With its steep slopes and varied geology, it has a Sisyphean maintenance project. Winter storms caused further damage, as crumbling hillsides slid out to sea and prompted a new circular of road closures.
In the fall, I had been waiting for months for the reopening of the PCH segment between Los Angeles and San Francisco. It was still damaged halfway, so it was highly unlikely to go all the way. However, Rob and I made our way to one of our favorite beach camps, going through the enclosed parts and coming from the south, adding about two hundred miles to the trip.
These extra miles allowed us to arrive late the first night. Early the next morning, with a surfboard and a bag under our arm, we set off on the steep and winding path that descends to the water.
Signs along the bumpy, wet trail warned of volatile conditions: “Enter the winter storm-ridden domain. Enter at your own risk. ” Bathers strolled happily.
That afternoon we drove on toward the site of the landslide that had closed the highway for so long. The road ended abruptly at Limekiln state park, blocked by signs and a single man in a truck, whose job was to tell tourists to turn around – and make sure they actually did. He told us there was no end in sight to the work, as the softened earth continued to shift and hamper roadworks.
The route was covered with construction equipment that sat idle on the sun-swept cliffs, next to freshly churned piles of dirt. With so many campsites closed, crowds of cars could be seen parked on the beach south of the slide where dispersed camping is allowed.
Prolonged closures have only been difficult for visitors and have complicated the lives of local citizens and businesses that rely on tourism.
We had planned one last breakfast overlooking the Pacific, at a beachfront dining spot called Whale Watchers Cafe. We arrived and discovered chairs still on the tables, the dining room closed and silent. The adjacent store sold goods to locals and casual campers, but when we asked a woman at the counter if she planned to reopen for breakfast, she shook her head and replied that she wasn’t sure.
At that point, he says, it’s too hard to continue.
Wild places have always been forged by catastrophic environmental shifts. Now spurred by human intervention, these shifts seem more sinister.
However, after those three trips, like Mitchell, the tribal chairman I met in the Klamath Basin, I still can’t remain optimistic.
“Is there going to be some pain? Probably,” he had said as we talked about adjusting lifestyles to the new climate normal. He was speaking about Klamath, but his words felt applicable to the places on display through my car window.
“It’s the loveliest country in the world,” he said. “I don’t see anything here that we can’t fix if we think about it. “