God's country? California's dreamin'

PISMO BEACH, Calif. — I have a new theory about the West — above and beyond the realm of existing natural history — and it goes like this:

As we all know, North America is more or less split in two by the Rocky Mountains, with odd accents to the East and normal English speakers to the West. The line also is known as the Continental Divide, which has more to do with the flow of water than the flow — or lack thereof — of words.

Obviously, most of the west side of this divide drains toward the Pacific. What's less obvious is what all that water picks up and stows in its hip pocket along the way.

Among these things are viruses, insects, garbage, general pestilence, fertilizers, used combs, 2-square-foot plastic packages used to sell 2-square-inch items at Costco, and approximately 17.5 billion cigarette butts.

Once it's aflow, all that detritus has to wind up somewhere. Who knew it would turn out to be the curb right next to the fine eating establishment we had chosen right here in Pismo Beach, the pituitary gland of the California coast?

It's true: Due to geologic forces we cannot even pretend to understand, most of the undesirable stuff produced in the Western states — including 27-year-old "Bubs Daddy" gum wrappers and California Gov.-soon-elect Gary Coleman — eventually washes right down into the tourist town of Pismo Beach, where it drains into the ocean only after stopping to shout "Howdy!" to unsuspecting tourists from the greater Seattle area.

Not that the entire place stinks or anything. It's just in need of a good hosing off — preferably by the Columbia River at flood stage.

Let's put it this way: When they've finished begging for your last French fry and leaving signs of displeasure on the umbrella over your table, even pigeons leaving Pismo Beach stop to wash off before proceeding to Santa Barbara.

Needless to say, short-suffering wife Tara Firma and I — in the middle of a week's vacation, driving a rented gold Cadillac (don't ask) up and down the coast of California — didn't linger for dessert. We barely lingered for the check. And over the course of the rest of the week, we learned two very valuable lessons about August auto vacations in the Golden State:

(1) Almost all of the rest of the California coast is better than Pismo Beach.

(2) But not much.

Now, we know this will sound downright blasphemous to all those uppity North Coast/Bay Area Californians, who at the mere mention of the word "coast" point with great excitement toward Big Sur, or perhaps Point Reyes National Seashore, and begin spewing superlatives that invariably include the words "God's country."

They do have a small point. Even though it is geophysically inferior, in too many ways to list, to the Northwest, Northern California is fairly livable. Assuming one does not stray more than 6 feet inland and get swallowed up by one of a long series of valleys, all of which are hot enough to scorch you like a Kleenex on a Hibachi.

Southern California is another story. In fact, it's a whole book on tape — an eight-track, as it turns out, with no ending. Drive through it in August, and all the pieces begin to fit together: The greater Los Angeles area has record numbers of both people and guns because you have to have one pointed at your head to keep you there. It is every bit as green and livable as a box of Triscuits buried for 12 years in the sands of Toppenish.

Formerly sane people we know who have lived there for a half-dozen years often will point out this or that Southern California hillside, gulley, ravine or inlet which they invariably describe as "beautiful."

You quickly learn that this is all relative: To us, "beautiful" means Hurricane Ridge or Shi Shi Beach. To them, beautiful means three or more living green plants in a sea of scorched earth, poignantly lit by the glow of a Del Taco sign.

It's OK, really.

Every Californian clinging to the notion that their patch of barely irrigated desert is beautiful is one person that much less likely to point their Ford Expedition north to someplace that really is.

And we don't mean Pismo Beach.

Ron C. Judd: 206-464-8280 or rjudd@seattletimes.com