The Dirtbag Database

XVI. The Coast’s Call

March 14th, 2025 

The sun had just crested the Black Mountains. Standing 191 feet below sea level in the gravel lot beside the truck, a smile came easy. Two months in Death Valley felt like a blur, a cloud of cigarette smoke and sin, but they had been necessary. A stepping stone to a beginning. With a little clarity clawed from the chaos, leaving wasn’t too hard. The coast was calling.

My dreams had been filled with the winding curves of Highway 1, sandy beaches of Santa Barbara, waves lapping the shore. I set my Coffee in the cup holder, slammed the driver’s door, the engine rumbled awake like an old friend. One chapter closed, another cracked wide open. Pointed the truck west, the straight, lonesome, desert highway lay ahead, pressed the pedal down, gone. In the mirror, the ranch shrank like a strange dream. A laugh broke free. La vida loca, baby.

Hours later, cresting the final ridge, there she was — the Pacific, endless and sparkling like shards of glass in the sunlight. Below, tucked between mountain and sea: Santa Barbara. The place that always finds a way to pull me back.

The best part wasn’t just returning to a town loaded with rich memories, but knowing more would be made — this time with a steadier rhythm, keeping clear of old trouble. And knowing, in the time I had been gone, Frizzy had returned. The legend. I gave him a call.

He answered on the first ring with his signature greeting:

“Ohhh heyyy there partnerrrr.”

I laughed. “What do you say we grab a burrito?”

Frizzy had known I’d return, just never told him when. “Hell yea! Come by my new place!”

“Already on the way.”

He was out the door by the time I pulled up. Frizzy ran to the driver’s door and gave me a hard hug, slapped each other’s back, and laughed like no time had passed.

“Long time no see, brother.”

“Oh, you can say that again,” he grinned. “Now let’s get these burritos. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

Stuffed with carne asada, rice, and guac, we stretched out on the beach, sun in our faces. 

“One of the last things you told me in Missoula was that you had to get back to California. Once you said that, Frizz, I knew you would.”

His nose was sunburnt, hair a mess, grin wide. “I loved Missoula. But this —” he gestured at the horizon, “out here where the mountains kiss the sea… this is where I belong.”

And he was right. It showed in his face, rang in his voice. Santa Barbara was the dream he’d been chasing since growing up on the East Coast, hearing of California for the first time. Now he was living it — burritos, waves, sunshine, a touch of chaos. Just his style.

After the sun slipped beneath the horizon, I said my goodbye to Frizzy and drove across town. Time to see Mayo and Kenneth — two friends who knew a version of me that felt more like an out of trend phase now. My first return to Santa Barbara after hitting the road had spun out messy and fast, but this time was different. Now I carried a steadiness, a clarity, that let me walk back into town without being swallowed by its old distractions.

On Kenneth’s back patio, we settled into conversation. Since my last visit in December, I’d wandered Death Valley and lived the outlaw rhythm of that desert — stories I spilled, as the stars above came out to shine. Kenneth told me what life had been like in Santa Barbara since we’d last met. Kenneth has always been one of those rock-solid guys, the kind you want next to you when the ground gives way. Nearly a year before, we’d staggered down the icy slopes of Mount Whitney together, half frozen and halfway to death. He’d seen me through the highs of Santa Barbara’s wild days, and the crash that followed.

Mid-conversation, the patio door slid open. Mayo burst out, as subtle as ever, shattering the quiet of the evening.

“Yo,” he grinned. “Wanna hike to the hot springs with me and a few friends?”

Nearly nine p.m. on a day that had started at sunrise in Death Valley. Still, something inside said go. This was Santa Barbara. Of course I was going to the damn hot springs.

“I’ll grab a towel and a couple of lavender smokes.” Lavender and blue lotus rolls had replaced the tobacco cigarettes that became too much of a habit in Death Valley.

By ten, we were on the trail. It wound back into the Santa Ynez mountains behind Montecito, the smell of sulfur and sage thick in the canyon. Moonlight shimmered across the top pool — the source — seven pools with walls of stone and mud, water whispering down in between.

Clothes slipped off, bodies sank into heat. Muscles eased. A nearly full moon lit the canyon in mystic glow. Eyes closed, soaking it in.

A while later, the heat of the top pool sent me down to a lower pool looking for cooler water, I found one — already occupied. By a girl with blonde hair wild and messy, and an open, curious face.

“Mind if I join?”

“Not at all.” She said cooly 

I slid into the water across from her, offered her a lavender smoke, and we lit up as steam swirled around us. Her name was Funk. We talked about everything, Santa Barbara, travel, strange questions about life and meaning. She had that rare spark: playful but grounded, childlike curiosity with old-soul depth. I couldn’t place it then, but something about her pulled me in like gravity, something about her. 

That night, I got her number.

She took mine down too, on a flip-phone. In this day and age? I thought, How cool.

I didn’t know when I’d see her again, but had a feeling this wouldn’t be our last adventure.

March 15th, 2025 — Isla Vista, CA

The following night, Mayo was playing a show in the legendary Isla Vista. 

First I called up Frizzy 

“Hey there partner, Mayo is playing a show tonight, what do ya say we boogie on down?” 

“Ohh you know it partner, send me the address I’ll see ya there.” I could hear the excitement rising in Frizzy’s voice, It would be a good night.

Mayo has this way of laying down a beat that makes your body move without realizing it. There we were Frizzy and I, drenched in sweat from getting down to heavy tunes, when I bumped into a friend I hadn’t seen in far too long.

“Hey Matt! No way, I haven’t seen you in forever.”

I turned, blinking through the dim lights. “Thorn! Oh my gosh, it’s been a minute.”

She grinned with that same adventurous spark I remembered. “I’m headed up to Pinnacles on my way home on Thursday. Wanna caravan?”

Spontaneous trip to Pinnacles with Thorn? Not even a question. “Hell yeah. Gas in the tank, money in the bank, let’s do it.”

Thorn is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. Her curiosity perfectly preserved. She carries this wild energy, this hunger to wring everything she can from life. On hikes or random adventures, she’ll stop suddenly and point out striations in a rock, an edible berry clinging to its stem, or a tiny mushroom tucked in the roots of a tree — things I would’ve walked right past. Her sharp eye for the overlooked slows me down, grounds me. Around Thorn, it feels not just acceptable but necessary to stop and smell the flowers.

“Cool. I’ll text you tomorrow.” She melted back into the crowd, and I went right back to dancing.

Later, I found Frizzy.

“Hey man, what are you doing Thursday?”

He laughed, dragging a hand down his face. “Ah, don’t remind me. Got a couple midterms in the morning.”

Unfortunate. I thought, still, Santa Barbara was full of familiar faces — if Frizz couldn’t roll, I’d find someone else to ride shotgun.

Jumping and spinning in the grassy backyard of the apartment  where the show was. That’s when I saw her, Funk. From the night before. But under the backyard string lights, I got a better look. Wild spiky hair, wide jeans, and a funky vest, the kind of outfit that lets everyone know she’s the main character. I danced my way over.

“Hey, Funk!”

“Yo, what up, Matt?”

With a grin, I said, “I got a shotgun seat headed up to Pinnacles with your name on it.”

She thought for a moment, clearly intrigued. “When are we going? I’ve got work on Saturday.”

“Early morning Thursday. I’ll get you back to SB by Friday night.”

“Hell yea, let’s do it.” She said, and we got back to dancing.

I wasn’t sure what had prompted me to do something so spontaneous, maybe it was her wild hair, maybe the thrill of meeting someone so exceptionally unique. Either way, I trusted my gut. If it feels right, how could it be wrong?

XVII. Natural Mystic

March 20th, 2025

That Thursday, my alarm went off at four a.m. by five, I had coffee in my system, a good hot shower, and was ready to pick up Funk. She’d sent me her address, so I drove across town from where I was staying with my buddies and found her waiting out front with a bit of camping gear, a pack, and an excited smile. She climbed in, and I texted Thorn: Yo, Funk and I are headed north, we’ll meet you in SLO.

Long car rides with strangers are always exciting, especially once you’re rolling and realize you’ve got plenty to talk about, not to mention you’re headed to some of your favorite places in the world. In the first light of morning, we crested Cachuma Pass, then had a hundred miles of rolling ranchland ahead.

I glanced over at her, the road stretching ahead.

“So, Funk — what’s your story?”

She grinned. “That’s a loaded question.”

I laughed. “Well, I didn’t invite you along for small talk.”

That seemed to unlock something. She leaned back in her seat, eyes on the passing hills.

“I grew up in New York City. Life there was good — my parents, my friends, the exciting life of the city. But the real gift was travel. As a kid, I went everywhere. Family in one place, friends in another. Thanks to that I got to see a lot of the world from a young age…”

The way she spoke wasn’t bragging. It was softer, almost reverent, like each trip had left a mark on her. She’d seen more of the world before eighteen than most people see in a lifetime.

As she talked, I began to understand what pulled me toward her. A mutual interest, hunger to see the world, and Funk carried it differently than most. For her, it wasn’t about stamps in a passport — it was about connection. She spoke with an old-soul depth, but her curiosity was still fresh, alive, untouched. It made sense now, how she could come off as both seasoned and brand new simultaneously.

She never mentioned why she chose California, and I didn’t press. We had miles ahead of us. I figured the story would surface when it needed to.

After the sun came up we reached SLO where my parents and Marley met us with open arms. I introduced them to Funk, and made us a quick breakfast while we waited for Thorn to arrive. When she did, I took Marley with us, telling my parents I’d drop her off at school. The four of us went to my favorite, sleepy hole-in-the-wall coffee shop tucked away on a side street, with funky art on the walls and a koi pond in the back. We sipped lattes and talked. After my adventure with Marley months earlier, we’d grown closer, and I felt proud introducing her to Funk and Thorn — two women who lit me up with their energy, who never apologized for being entirely themselves. They were wild in their own ways, unafraid to live loud and true. I hoped some of that might rub off on her — that she might draw courage from their example, let go of the weight of other people’s opinions, and learn to blaze her own trail.

After I dropped Marley off, Funk settled into the passenger seat, Thorn close behind in her car. Somewhere along the winding two-lane that hugged the coast before turning inland, conversation with Funk drifted deeper. 

Funk leaned back in the passenger seat, watching the ocean pass in the side mirror.

“Growing up in New York,” she said. “Thought I had it figured out. Then I met this girl, an ex for now, but she had this way of… waking me up. She rekindled a sense of adventure in me.” 

I glanced over at her, the wind tangling her hair, the hills racing past.

“So when it ended… you left?”

“Not because it ended, or the heartbreak it left behind” she said with a faint smile. “Because that sense of adventure, It shoved me out the door. Made me hungry again. For the world, for life.” 

“Hence, I’m way out on the West Coast” 

I nodded, feeling the truth of it in my chest.

“I think I know what you mean,” I said, glancing over. “I’ve been heartbroken before, it reminded me who I was, it got me off my ass and on the road. The end of a chapter can be the beginning you need.” 

She smiled at the windshield. “Guess we’re both proof of that.”

In that stretch of road, we found a quiet kinship, the kind you can only find when someone cracks themselves open a little. 

The road turned inland, careening through vineyards and ranchland, climbing over a low mountain range before dropping into the Salinas Valley. It was a beautiful day, a warm breeze pouring through the sunroof as we tore up Highway 101, listening to the Grateful Dead. Funk flipped through a novel by some wanderlust romantic; the breeze fluttered the pages. Thorn cruised behind us, occasionally sticking her arm out to ride the wind.

We were free, me unanchored from a timeclock, the girls untethered from school for spring break. The highway hummed beneath us until a sign appeared:

Pinnacles National Park – Next Exit

I flicked on my turn signal, peeling off the highway into The little old town of Soledad By the time we hit the farm roads outside Soledad, the mountains were shouldering higher, green and gold under the midday sun. Pinnacles rose in the distance, jagged teeth against a bright sky. Funk put down her book, soaking in the new scenery. It had been years since I’d driven this road, and it felt nostalgic to see an old place through new eyes, in the same truck.

Twenty-something miles later, we reached the East Entrance. The ranger at the gate handed us a pamphlet, we rolled past the gift shop and across a little stream into the shade of the campground. I rolled into the dusty site we had reserved and Thorn pulled up beside us. We climbed out, hugged, and grinned, we’d made it.

With hours of daylight left, we set up camp. Funk stretched out in the tent with a book and a lavender cigar I’d rolled, Thorn napped in the sun, and I sat on a beat-up picnic bench, sticky eating a mango, listening to the stream trickle by.

What a life.

Hours later I woke up on the same picnic table, content, listening to the girls’ voices carry through the golden air. The sun had dipped lower, stretching shadows, and  softening the edges of the mountains around.

“Hey Matt, let’s get out for a hike!” Thorn called.

“Sounds good to me!”

I brushed the dust from my bare feet with a sock, slid my boots on, grabbed my pack, and hopped into the backseat of Thorn’s car. “Let’s hit it!”

A few miles later we pulled into the Bear Gulch trailhead, where chaparral gave way to riparian pockets, and boulders the size of houses stood stacked like something from a dream. We spilled out of the car, buzzing with the kind of energy only adventure sparks.

The trail pulled us upward. Shade cooled the path, birds called from hidden perches, and every turn revealed new rock formations to scramble over. Then came the talus caves, monument-sized boulders carpeted in moss, collapsed into strange passageways, beams of light cutting through cracks high above. A stream trickled unseen beneath our boots, the sound of water mixing with our laughter. We followed narrow, winding steps of stairs up through the dark caves, occasionally a bat would flit past a ray of light coming from above, we could catch the silhouette. In parts where the cave had no light leaking through we’d sit, daring the complete darkness, giggling, whooping, and hollering as our voices bounced back at us from the walls.

Climbing into the light again felt like surfacing from another world. Sun blinded us as we stepped out onto narrow stone stairs beside a small waterfall, the sound echoing against the boulders on either side. At the top lay the Bear Gulch Reservoir, a glassy pond tucked into its rock basin, glowing gold in the late afternoon light.

We threw our packs down and collapsed near the water’s edge. Bullfrogs croaked, a small snake glided across the surface, Vultures, silhouetted in the golden light soared above, in that moment it felt like we were the only people on earth, laughing, passing around dried fruit, skipping stones. Bliss was simple and it was right there, unadorned.

Spontaneous trips always end up perfect. When there’s no plan, everything falls into place. And the kind of people who say yes to a wild adventure, who don’t hesitate at the thought of dirtbagging it, waiting for tomorrow to bathe in a river, and chasing sunsets, those are my people.

As the sun slipped away, the stars spilled out overhead. Time slowed to a crawl. Moments suspended, untouchable.

The hike back was darker, spookier than before, the caves swallowing us whole, our headlamps casting weak cones of light. We laughed in the shadows anyway, enthralled by the unique trail. By the time we stumbled back to the car, the night had grown quiet. It felt like we had been gone for days, we hugged beneath the stars, after our hike I felt so much closer to Thorn and Funk, simple fun can do that. 

Funk and I stayed up late, talking about this and that, throwing random sticks on to the weak fire, we built from what we could find, it didn’t matter to us, we were in a national park under diamond embezzled skies, deep in conversation. Thorn had passed out quickly once we got back to the campsite.

Funk had jokes, stories, sharp observations, reflections from the day that cracked us up and sparked deep conversation. Around the fire that night it all flowed easy, laughter, sparks lifting into the dark, the kind of fun that brings you to the present, makes you forget everything but here and now. 

When the measly fire finally gave out, just a bed of embers glowing low, Funk and I climbed into the cab of my truck. Rolled a joint. Spark, flash. Inhale. Exhale. Reclining back in the seats, we let ourselves sink deeper and deeper into the high, the smoke rising in lazy spirals, caught in the green glow of the dash lights.

I handed Funk the aux cord. She plugged it into her beat-up flip phone and queued the first track: Lebanese Blonde by Thievery Corporation. The bassline slid in smooth, heavy, hypnotic, spilling from the speakers like velvet. I leaned back behind my shades, shot her a sly grin. She smiled back, a reverent silence blanketed us, it felt disrespectful to speak over such a hot track. 

The music spoke for us, lifting us from where we sat, carrying us to the stars that burned through the sunroof, higher, somewhere untethered. In that cab we traveled dimensions without moving an inch, completely immersed in the sound.  Each beat carried us further from the world, deeper into some shared rhythm we didn’t have to explain. 

The next track crept in — Natural Mystic —and it was like the truck filled with something more than smoke. The air thickened, charged, as if the song itself had weight. Tendrils curled and twisted, forming shapes that shimmered and dissolved. Funk and I swayed, eyes half-closed, our movements syncing with the slow heartbeat of the bass.

The voice of Bob Marley didn’t sound like it came from the speakers anymore — it poured straight through the air, through the smoke, through us. Every note felt alive, seeping into my skin, tugging me somewhere beyond the truck, beyond the night, into a space where time bent and blurred. The campground outside dissolved; only the mystic remained, creeping steady and unseen, whispering that we were part of something ancient, vast, and breathing.

For the moment, it felt like we weren’t just hearing a song — we were inside it, drifting through its current, carried by an invisible tide.

Funk played track after track, weird, funky, foreign grooves I’d never heard before, and together we just floated, two shadows in a haze of smoke.

When the last song faded, we both knew it was the last. Neither of us reached for another. We just looked at each other, grins mirrored in the dim green glow, and in that wordless moment I knew, I’d found a friend. A shotgun rider for the long haul.

We crawled from the cab in a thick cloud of smoke, I climbed to my tent and passed out content from a day well lived, still wearing my jeans

March 21st, 2025

The next morning we woke with the sun, shaking off sleep and lounging around at camp making breakfast tacos. After our meal we tore down the camp with fresh energy. I pointed the truck west. “I’ve got a spot in mind.”

Miles of farmland fell away until we wound down into a canyon, across a narrow green bridge high above a river cutting through through the canyon in shimmering blues and greens. Then all the way down to the waters edge. We sprawled on the gravel beach in swimwear, snacking, sunning, diving into the cold water. The quiet canyon cradled us in leisure.

After hours by the river I stood, brushing sand from my legs. “We’ve got more to see.”

Back on the road, we cut west into Carmel Valley. Old oak tunnels, cracked pavement, potholes, the kind of backroad that hums with character. Windows down, music up, Funk stuck her arms through the sunroof, hair whipping. I dangled my hand out the window, letting the wind dance between my fingers.

By the time we reached the little town in the valley, we were ready to keep snacking. Elderberry tonic waters, dried mango, chips and guac outside a sleepy market. The sun warmed our shoulders as we lounged in plastic chairs.

“What’s the plan?” I asked.

“Down for anything,” Thorn shrugged. Funk nodded.

“Big Sur?”

Both smiled. Funk’s eyes lit up.

The coast didn’t disappoint. It never does. South from Carmel, Highway 1 hugs the cliffs, meadows green from spring rains tumbling to the sea. Funk was glued to the window.

“It feels surreal,” she said softly. “To be in a place I’ve only ever read about. I get it now…”

”get what?” I asked.

“How this place inspired so many authors.” She said, still staring at the passing scenery.

We stopped at a pullout near Bixby Bridge, the ocean crashing below, wind whipping the grass around us. Postcard-perfect. Funk smiled, wide, genuine, unguarded. We jumped around and let the wind make our hair dance, as we posed for photos like a couple of tourists. 

Further south we ducked beneath the redwoods into Pfeiffer State Park, somewhere along the way we had lost sight of Thorn, but soon she pulled up. We wandered out redwoods towering, a cold river tumbling over big smooth stones. We lounged by the water, passed a joint, chatting, while the hours slid past like the current. I thought of my younger self biking into this very campground years ago, chasing freedom with friends. Full circle now, here I was older with new friends Funk and Thorn still chasing freedom.

Eventually dusk came. We hugged Thorn goodbye, grateful for her electric spark, her willingness to pull us into adventure. Her taillights disappeared around the bend, and just like that it was down to two.

“I’ve got one more place to show you,” I told Funk.

Nepenthe. Perched high above the Pacific, the restaurant’s deck suspended between mountains and sea. We sat at the bar, 

“Two Shirley temples please” Funk said, smoothly sliding her card across the counter.

We carried them out to the balcony, and watched the sun bleed gold over the horizon. It was the perfect ending, two days lived to the fullest, and a friendship set in stone.

The ride home was quiet. Funk fell asleep before we even left Carmel, curled against the door, her head resting on the seatbelt. I kept the music low and let the quiet become its own rhythm. Highway therapy.

I reflected on the hours we had spent jam packed, with a perfect balance of travelling miles, energetic engaging conversation, moments when no conversation was needed, and moments spent in pure leisure. I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, and it was only because the three of us had been at the same show, and all had enough of a touch of spontaneity rising up in us. When there’s no plan, everything runs exactly as it should.

By the time I pulled onto her street in Santa Barbara it was nearly midnight. I carried her bag and gear from the trunk, shook her gently awake. Sleepy smile, soft words:

“Thanks for taking me along for the ride.”

“Thanks for the time,” I said. “I’m so glad we met.”

She stepped out, gave me a hug, promised our paths would cross again. Then she climbed her porch steps, turned once to look back, and disappeared inside.

I slid behind the wheel and kept driving, north now, exhaustion heavy but spirit light. Two days. Two friends. A wild adventure. A reminder of why I chase the road.

And I slept that night more than satisfied, anchored not in a place, but in the connection built along the way.