Potter Valley, CA, to Morgan Hill, CA
I knew I would love California wine country long before I ever saw it. Becoming an overwhelming demographic on wine lists in restaurants across the United States, a land of perpetual beauty, and impressively producing 60% of all wines sold in the U.S. It is a land that has been producing wines since the 1700s and may very well be one of the most beautiful regions in the world. Annoyingly consistent good weather, rich and highly productive soil, and a sun that beckons you to sit down and grab a glass. My name comes from the Ancient Greek Dionysus, the god of wine, so it holds a particularly alluring attraction to me. I’ve said before that if America had a pantheon to rival the Greeks, Yellowstone would be their Olympus, our home of the gods. Napa Valley would be their vacation home.
It was in this state of mind I found myself as the morning light filtered through the thin curtains of our room in Potter Valley, casting a gentle amber glow over the scattered remnants of our evening. I, as usual, rose before the rest and began to prepare breakfast. I procured a can of cinnamon rolls at the wine-filled corner store the night before, and its smell swirled with sizzling bacon wafted through the air. It wasn’t long before the girls piled into the cozy kitchen, still rubbing their road-weary eyes, where I laid out our hearty breakfast. Some conversation over the hectic coming day encouraged a quick meal, followed by a rapid departure.
By mid-morning, we were on the road, the van winding its way through the lush, rolling vineyards of central California. The sky was an unbroken expanse of blue, and the golden topped hills glowed in the warming sun. Rows of grapevines stretched out in every direction, their vibrant green leaves a stark contrast to the golden hills in the distance. We stopped often, compelled to capture the beauty surrounding us.
One by one, we passed the county signs for the iconic valleys of Mendocino, Napa, and Sonoma. Majestic oak trees lined our path, their branches creating intricate patterns of light and shadow on the asphalt. The air was filled with the scent of earth and grapes. It was easy to lose oneself in the rhythm of the drive, the landscape unfolding before us. I was in this kind of driving meditation as we wound through the iconic valleys, looking out over the expansive fields and the distant mountains. The scene: a perfect subject for rhyme or prose.
We paused at the iconic Napa Valley sign to mark our journey with a photograph. The sign declared, “Napa Valley… and the wine is bottled poetry.” Each bottle of wine produced bore the fruits of the land, each sip of wine telling its tale of sun, soil, and care. To see the grapes sparkling in the bright sun of Central California was simply beautiful. As we explored the roadside vineyard, a train filled with amateur winos and possibly a sommelier or two rolled by and cozied up to the Napa sign, blocking its view from the roadway. We lingered a while longer, but knowing time would not allow us to stay, we continued south, and again, the landscape shifted. The afternoon sun was high as we pushed towards the bustling energy of San Francisco. The vineyards and valleys slowly receded into the distance, replaced by the anticipation of the city’s skyline.
As we continued south, the steep coastal mountains kept the city mostly out of view. Short of the fabled bridge, we turned off the highway towards the Marin Headlands across the Golden Gate from San Francisco. As we ascended to the summit, the road wound steeply, ever higher. As we crested the winding road of the Marin Headlands, the Pacific breeze whipped through the open windows, carrying with it the faint, salty tang of the ocean. In a sudden, breathtaking reveal was the Golden Gate Bridge stretching across the strait like a burnished sentinel. Cloaked in its iconic International Orange, the bridge shimmered in the mid-morning sun, defiant against the backdrop of the rolling fog and low clouds that often sneak in like a thief from the Pacific.
It was a sight that demanded reverence—a marvel of human ambition set against the timeless splendor of nature. The vast expanse of the bay spread out below us, dotted with graceful sailboats and bulky cargo ships like scattered confetti, while the city of San Francisco, with its pastel houses clinging to steep hills, unfolded in the distance. We stepped from our mobile base of operations, the wind whipping across the summit in a boisterous fit. Making our way to the edge of the viewpoint, the bridge and city laid out before us.
The Golden Gate Bridge is more than a span of steel and cables; it’s a symbol of American ingenuity and the rugged romance of the West. Rising boldly from the icy waters of San Francisco Bay, the bridge connects the city to the untamed hills of Marin County, where the Pacific Ocean meets California’s rolling green headlands. Designed by engineer Joseph Strauss and completed in 1937, it was once the longest and tallest suspension bridge in the world, a feat that defied the relentless tides, fierce winds, and stubborn fog that shrouded the Golden Gate Strait.
Its Art Deco towers soar 746 feet into the sky, anchored by sweeping main cables that cradle the roadway like a delicate thread between two worlds. Painted in the distinct, eye-catching hue of International Orange, the bridge is a vibrant beacon against the often moody, fog-draped landscape—a vision both inviting and formidable. Whether bathed in mid-day light or half-hidden by mist, the Golden Gate Bridge is a testament to human audacity, a breathtaking combination of form and function that captures the imagination of millions who cross it each year.
For a moment, we were silent, caught between the rush of the journey and the quiet majesty of the view. Transfixed in its massive presence, it wasn’t just a bridge but a gateway—an emblem of possibility, resilience, and the allure of the West Coast. Its grand, sweeping arches welcome those searching for opportunity, freedom, and a better life, bridging the chasm between the past left behind and the promise of what lies ahead. As they pass beneath its towering spans, the bridge becomes a silent witness to countless journeys, embodying the spirit of resilience and the enduring belief that one can cross from one world to another, stepping into the vast and unknown future with courage and ambition. It was a symbol I had always planned to show my wife and three daughters, and here we were, standing in its mighty presence.
Caught up in this profound moment, we took our photos before returning to our modern wagon and winding our way down from the Marin Headlands in the mid-morning light. The sun hung high, casting a bright and crisp clarity over the landscape. The road snaked through hills brushed with golden grasses and speckled with coastal sage, each curve unveiling a fresh, tantalizing angle of the Golden Gate Bridge.
As we finally reached the bridge, the air was cool but sharp, the wind whipping against the car, carrying the distant echoes of seagulls and the low, mournful call of the foghorn, now silenced in the morning’s clarity. By luck, a fleet of Navy Helicopters flew over the bridge as we passed the first tower. It gave the ride an extra element of patriotism. It’s hard to imagine the size of the bridge until you are on it. Its just substantially larger than anything you will probably ever cross.
The city drew closer with every second, framed perfectly between the mighty pillars, and for a moment, we were part of something bigger—a fleeting connection between the headlands and the city, the wild and the civilized, the past and the possibilities ahead. It felt to me much like a checkpoint. Marking the place in our journey where the true, lush wilds of America were now behind us. From here on out it would be a ribbon of urban sprawl, broken only by the expanses of barren desert.
As you crossed the bridge, the 101 continued and began to descend, offering beautiful skylines of the city before the presidio tunnels engulfed you. Upon popping out, you are immediately faced by the lovely and antique-looking Palace of Fine Arts. Initially built for the 1915 Panama-Pacific Exposition, its towering rotunda and classical colonnades reflect elegantly over a tranquil lagoon, creating a grand and serene scene. The Beaux-Arts style structure, with its soft pink and ivory hues, evokes the romance of ancient ruins yet stands proudly amid the city’s modern landscape.
The Palace has been used in countless television shows and movies and is said to be George Lucas’ inspiration for Queen Amidala’s royal palace in Star Wars. It was this connection to Lucas Films that designated our next stop on our grand adventure, the Yoda fountain at the entrance to Lucas Films Headquarters, which, interestingly enough, is in the shadow of the Palace itself. So we pulled off the highway at the palace and pulled into the Lucas Films parking lot. It is at this time that I will beg your forgiveness for the coming geek out.
The guard at the gate had a thick mustache and a humorous disposition, giving off a Rip Taylor vibe. He made a few jokes about our family adventure, something about how sad it would be to drive 8,000 miles to see Yoda only to be turned away. But he assured us that if we could find a spot to park, he wouldn’t bother us for half an hour. We were to be as inconspicuous as possible and not draw attention to ourselves. It seemed like a reasonable request.
Luckily, we found a spot and headed to the fountain. It was set in a courtyard directly before the main entrance, flanked by two multistory office buildings. The fountain was designed to resemble the representative platforms from the Republican Senate from Star Wars. On top, Yoda stood, leaning on his cane in his classic pose. Water flowed from under his feet down the tiers to the square pool below. We took a series of pictures with the fountain and other beautiful scenes in the courtyard.
The lobby to Lucas Films was opened, and we went inside to have a look. Again, we were asked to be quiet and not make a fuss, and in exchange, we could peruse the artifacts and memorabilia. The lobby was a conservatory with a beautiful glass roof and paneled glass walls. With all of the artfully crafted buttresses and trim in a brilliant white. The lobby was lined with bookshelves filled with books, toys, statuettes, and other items relevant to the Lucas Films library. A few life-sized Star Wars statues, as well as a glass case containing various awards the studio had acquired over the years. It was, in some ways, a small pilgrimage for me. As a child, I found nothing more captivating than Star Wars. Here we were at the home of it all.
After exploring the lobby, we returned to the van and pulled out of Letterman Drive onto Lombard St. The street was wide and rose off toward downtown. We slowly and methodically worked our way up Lombard towards Van Ness, careful to take our time and soak in the beautiful city. At Van Ness, we turned south for a few blocks before turning east on Clay Street to our next destination, Chinatown. As we came down Clay, the iconic Transamerica Pyramid stood tall just off center, and the streets became compact and narrow.
The goal was to find a place to park our oversized vehicle and explore downtown. After several trips around the central streets, we found an open lot that would accommodate us. Near the corner of Post and Grant, the friendly attendant assured me we could get the van in without a problem. It was a family-run lot, so no need to worry about being in an actual space. He was keen not to lose the $50 fee we would be paying. Family members were posted in the lot, and I left the keys so he could move the van if needed. He said they would keep an eye on our stuff. The area was known for its break-ins, and the van had become our home for the journey. Any incident would have been devastating.
It was high noon as we made our way up Grant Avenue, the sun hanging overhead, casting sharp, clear light across the cityscape. The red lanterns swung lazily in the slight breeze, their bright colors vivid against the cobalt sky, their shadows crisp and flickering on the pavement below. Sunlight glinted off shop windows, illuminating displays of jade figurines, silk robes, and porcelain teapots, each item glowing like a treasure in the midday heat.
The air was alive with the mingling aromas of roasted duck and hot scallion pancakes, intensified by the sun’s warmth, and I caught the sweet, smoky drift of incense from a shrine nearby, curling up like a whispered prayer. The street buzzed with the sounds of clattering dishes, lively Cantonese conversations, and an erhu’s occasional rhythmic hum. We spent a couple of hours crisscrossing the streets, perusing storefronts and the deep recesses of the tube-style buildings. Any cheap and not-so-cheap item could be purchased here—everything from giant marble sculptures to tacky little key chains.
Eventually, we approached the Dragon Gate. Its jade-green tiles sparkled brilliantly, and the stone lions seemed to bask in the sunlight, watching the vibrant scene unfolding. The voices of tourists and locals rose above the city’s pulse, filling the afternoon air with a chorus of languages and laughter. As the afternoon drew late, we found ourselves at Portsmouth Square, where we enjoyed some people-watching. The older generation of the demographic who gave the neighborhood its name sat at benches playing Chinese checkers and Chess. While youth of all backgrounds hung out, skated, or simply enjoyed a nap on a blanket on the lawn.
At this point, we had been walking for several hours, and our crowd needed food beyond the little snacks procured throughout our hike. Just across the street from the park sat Golden Star Vietnamese Restaurant, a fact that I had used to encourage us in this direction. I knew Diem had been looking for something authentically Vietnamese since Montana, and what better place than one of the largest Asian neighborhoods in the country? We immediately went to the crosswalk when she realized it was there.
The building was old, and the restaurant seemed to be, too. Wood paneling below the chair rail, old 80s-era booths, and a few round and square tables filled the center of the one large dining room. A few ancient pieces of art addorned the walls, and the place had a feeling that not much had changed in the last 40 years. But the patrons were friendly, and a gentleman at least a decade older than myself came to take our order. He spoke basic English, but it was clear that Vietnamese was his primary language, and Diem quickly took over negotiations.
Our drinks were quickly delivered, and the food began to arrive in short order: a platter of fresh spring rolls, fried Vietnamese rice paper rolls, Bun bo for Diem and Jennie, dry Bun with shrimp and lemongrass pork for myself, and a plate of stir-fried chicken, broccoli, and noodles for Maggie. We sat in the restaurant amongst a crowd of Vietnamese that have probably been in the neighborhood since the end of the war. As we sat eating, I couldn’t help but wax philosophical with Diem and the girls. It seemed almost surreal. After living within Diem in Da Nang for several years, we went through many hoops and red tape to finally move to the States. And here we were, Almost two years later, crossing the North American continent, enjoying an early dinner in one of the largest Asian communities in America. It has indeed been an amazing journey.
But our journey had not yet ended. We bid farewell to the new friends and the incredibly lovely family that owned the restaurant, and we made our way a few blocks back to our mobile command post. Tonight, we were staying at a motel a couple of hours south of the city, so we weren’t in a rush. We slowly worked our way out of San Francisco, sure to get glimpses of its many attractions. After a few stops for bubble tea and the occasional snack, we arrived in Morgan Hill around 8.
We would push into southern California tomorrow before turning east for the last time. I couldn’t help but feel that our journey was reaching the final stretch. Twenty-two days in, six more to go before we arrived back home. What did it all mean? I wasn’t entirely sure. I knew in my heart it was a journey I would be unpacking for years to come. We had seen and grown so much, yet there was still a thing or two to stand in awe of ahead. It wasn’t by any means over. But I was beginning to feel its culmination on the horizon. But enough of that somber reality, we are still on this insanely ambitious journey. After all, It was another incredible day beneath an endless sky.
To explore some of the Parks and Monuments we’ve explored and more, click here for the National Park Services.
Beneath An Endless Sky – Day 1
