Cruising the Pacific Coast in a camper van
Meandering along the Pacific Coast Highway in a rental pop-up camper
When the sun started to set over the Pacific Ocean, I sprang into motion. I pulled off U.S. 1 and parked alongside bluffs softened by swaying grass. I opened the rear hatch, filled the kettle from the sink faucet and lit the gas stove. While the water boiled, I prepared the penthouse. Ladder down, shelter up.
I climbed into the rooftop tent, tea in hand, and watched the fiery orb drop like the New Year’s Eve ball. After the sun completed its descent, I tapped my legs against the vehicle, transmitting aMorse code of contentment to my buddy on this California road trip.
Unless you drive-about in the Land Down Under, introductions might be in order. Meet Jucy, the camper-van rental company that was founded in New Zealand in 2001, expanded to Australia and opened three U.S. locations in the States — Las Vegas, Los Angeles and San Francisco’s Bay Area— four years ago.
The Jucy Champs— custom-designed Dodge Caravans— stand out in traffic. The mini-RVs are painted asparagus green with purple accents and wear a rooftop carrier like a hard hat. Lettering on the exterior hints at the domesticated world within: “This Jucy RV comes with everything including the kitchen sink.”
To be sure, an entire house, minus the bathroom, squeezes into a 17-foot frame. Erect the table in the center space, and the back transforms into a den or dining room. Pop a movie into the DVD player, and bask in your own private theater. Unfold the seats and wrap the cushions in linens, and a bedroom for two materializes. Raise the structure on the roof for additional sleeping quarters. Open the rear
door for the much-heralded kitchen.
And when the road beckons, simply revert Jucy to its firstborn role.
The minivans occupy a niche bracketed by RV-tripping and car camping. In a Jucymobile, for example, I could maneuver along narrow, curvy roads, such as the Pacific Coast Highway, with temerity and park without fear of toppling trees. I could reserve tent sites, which are often more numerous than RV spots, and cook and sleep without having to disturb the ghosts of Girl Scouts. The only skill required: folding furniture.
In mid-November, during the off-season, I booked a car for three nights, at a cost of $55 per night. The winter price included a personal kit with bedding and towels for four people and 100 miles per day. Knowing my penchant for wandering (translation: getting lost), I paid an additional $36 to double my mileage allotment for the entire adventure. I drafted a rough route that started in San Francisco, wriggled south to Big Sur and looped back throughMountain View. I didn’t set a hard plan because I knew that no matter where I was, I would always have room and board for the night.
Taking flight
The 70-mile route to Santa Cruz is a roller-coaster ride of sharp curves, steep climbs and winding plunges. Behind me, my luggage reeled and the dishes rattled with each elbow poke in the road. But the Champ stayed in its lane and easily kept up with the SUVs and sports cars, as well as its hippie ancestor, theVW camper.
I had booked a campsite at Sunset State Beach, south of Santa Cruz, but didn’t feel any pressure to arrive before dusk: Jucy comes with interior lights. My trip coincided with the winter migration of the monarch butterflies, which vacation in Natural Bridges State Beach from October through February. A chalkboard at the entrance booth announced, “The monarchs are here!” A ranger confirmed that thousands of butterflies had landed, with more en route from west of the Rockies. At the height of the season, she said, up to 100,000 monarchs will settle in the grove, transforming the eucalyptus forest into an overdecorated Christmas tree farm.
On the way to the natural preserve, I read about the journeying bugs on informational plaques. The insects fly 60 to 100 miles per day, for example, and feast on the nectar of milkweed flowers. After resting in Santa Cruz, they will return north, where their tale turns Dostoevskian: “They lay their eggs and die.”
Their inescapable fate was months away, and on a sunny fall day, the monarchs were basking in the amber light streaming through the treetops. The weather was cool, so most of the insects huddled on the high branches, forming brown clumps that tricked the eye.
On the wooden platform, I joined a family resting on their backs and looked up. I watched a few of the more intrepid butterflies float through the air like small paper airplanes with no immediate plans to land.
Inside the gift shop, I asked a volunteer whether the monarchs wintered elsewhere in town. He directed me to Lighthouse Field State Beach, which attracts about 300 butterflies. I walked along a dirt trail, following stray butterflies to the treasure trove (trees lumpy with monarchs). A couple joined me at the roped-in area.
“There aren’t that many,” the guy said, clearly disenchanted. “I grew up here. We used to see clouds of monarchs.”
Jucy protocols
Moment-of-truth time: How well had I listened to the Jucy instructions? Verdict: Pretty well, but room for improvement.
At my first campsite, I set up the bed without serious struggles and used the two bags of bedding to build a sultan’s lair. I decided to make a cup of tea. I dug out the kettle and removed the cutting board covering the sink. I pushed hard on the pump but got no water. Across the way, a pair of tent campers had laid out burgers, chips, beer and a jug of water. I enviously eyed their nonalcoholic beverage. Plan B: bathroom sink. For the stove, I struggled with the butane can, which refused to lock into place. I switched it out with the other can. I poured the tea into a thermos (my own) and ventured toward the beach.
I spotted a Jucy compatriot in the back seat, flipping through photos on his computer. I knocked and introduced myself. He told me he had started in Los Angeles and was on his third night in the camper. Had he overnighted in the penthouse?
“I spent the first night in the tent, and it was cold,” he said. “I had to warm up with oatmeal and tea, and I bought a blanket.”
Since then, he has slept only in the main cabin.
Ambitious meal
On my drive down from San Francisco, I had planned an ambitious dinner. After my campground amble, I was cold and lazy. I made a bowl of cereal and curled up under the covers. I fell asleep with my clothes on— just like a true camper.
At Limekiln State Park, my second campground, I resolved to elevate my meal plan.
Santa Cruz County is home to more than 650 farms that groom their fields for lettuces, berries and assorted vegetables, including Brussels sprouts, a multimillion-dollar crop. At Farm Fresh Produce, an aggrandized stand nearMoss Landing, I roamed the aisles stacked high with avocados, artichokes, pomegranates, kiwis, strawberries, kale and more. I bought a stalk of Brussels sprouts as long as a walking stick, plus pasta, a mustardy sauce, radishes, persimmons— and a bottle of water, just in case.
The Limekiln campground is nestled in tall redwoods. I arrived after dark and started to prep my dinner. As the water heated up, I padded over to a bridge and hiking trail that led to two limekilns that operated in the 1800s. While the pasta cooked, I explored the opposite direction, discovering the restroom and a pathway to the beach. By the time dinner was ready, I had completed my evening campsite rounds.
I erected the table in the center of the camper and set it buffetstyle - an assembly line of bowls with spoons. I slid open the back door, switched off the overhead light and dined by the flickering flames ofmy neighbor’s fire.