Otter – the other white meat

For the first time this holiday we actually had time to burn, a strange sensation. With little else to do except wait until 1:00pm for a trip out on Elkhorn Slough, we had a slow start then decided to get out in the sun and head as far down Highway 1 as we could. Regretfully, it would have been perfect weather for a drive down to Big Sur, all sunshine, sea haze and gentle, ruffling sea breezes.

Incidentally, I would like to notify everyone I’ve officially decided Big Sur shall be my new nickname. How cool would that be? “Hey everybody, here comes Big Sur”. Sure beats some of the lesser ones I’ve had. But I digress.

We headed as far as we could, through coastal redwoods, winding groves and, presumably, past Clint Eastwood’s house where we finally got to the end of the road, maybe 5 miles north of the famous Bixby Bridge, just past Point Lobos where we stopped, squinted through the haze hoping to catch sight of the bridge (without success), turned around and headed back after stopping to take some photos from a restaurant offering a nice view down the coast.

Deciding we needed to get something resembling food to keep us going the next couple of days, we took the turn off to Carmel only to drive straight past the Carmel Mission, looking for all the world like it should be 1000 miles south, or in a Sergio Leone Western. I’d love to have had the time to check it out, but time was disappearing and we still had food to buy, so we had to pass this time around. As it turned out, we only just made it back to Moss Landing in time to board the pontoon, tie on life-jackets, and head out on the near still waters of Elkhorn Slough to go otter hunting.

At last, it seemed, our recent spate of misfortune was turned around. It was an absolutely perfect two hours of chugging around Elkhorn Slough, spotting roughly 3% of the entire Sea Otter population, drifting around in large pods, known as rafts, wrapped in kelp, pounding the crap out of clams dredged up from the murky mud-banks of the slough, rubbing their faces vigorously as though they’d just woken up, and generally doing everything possible to amp up the cuteness wherever possible. They’re also absolutely delicious – our captain harpooned one as we were drifting past, gutted it in lightning-quick time, and before you could say “protected mammal” we were enjoying the most outstanding otter taco’s you’ve ever experienced.

Obviously that last bit is a bit of a flight of fantasy. Clearly only a mad man would make a taco out of meat as delicate and tender as otter. We ate ours raw.

The trip would have been outstanding even without multiple, repeated otter, Harbor Seal and migratory bird spotting – perfect weather, no swell, sunshine and, just at the right time, a quick round of coffees and cookies. And no driving. What’s not to like?

We eventually, regretfully, drifted back to the dock, and handed the chick who was doing the wildlife talks a $5 tip to help her get through Uni. That may sound a bit tight fisted – and probably is – but given we’d already spent $122 for a two hour trip on a motorized raft, my fiscal rectitude might be a little more understandable. Still, we bought some otter related merch at the kids’ insistence, then jumped back into the Escape to head south as far as possible.

Ultimately, we made it to Morro Bay on what, for it, was an unseasonably warm afternoon. It’s a near-perfect California sea-side town, an echo of what I imagine Monterey and Carmel once were, dominated by a massive… erm…  massif, witlessly named Morro Rock, parked square in the middle of the bay and connected to land by a man-made concourse of stone blasted away from the rock itself, prior to its protection in 1963. Sadly, the rock itself is overshadowed – literally - by the triple smoke stacks of a power station artlessly plonked nearby by some environmentally mute clod years before, much like Elkhorn Slough and Moss Landing.

After securing a pleasant but blazing hot sea-view hotel room at the Days Inn we wandered down along footpath-less roads for a seafood dinner on the waterfront, seals barking under a large fishing net full of what I can only assume was something a seal would find irresistible, then walked in gathering darkness to pick out spots for a sunrise shot of Morro Rock the following morning.

The night was warm and still, the kids (and us) had no desire to call it a night, so we wandered, meandering past shops and restaurants inhabited to varying degrees by locals and visitors alike. One proudly told everyone it was “Morro Bay’s best kept secret”, presumably in a desperate effort to no longer be Morro Bay’s best kept secret. Ultimately the fatigue of the day won out so we returned to our stifling room for a scotch and a less than satisfying sleep on a windless, hot night.