2nd Official Tate-LaBianca Murders Blog

Our 101 Wonder Tour, as I decided to coin it, was well underway, both Charlie and I saying a fond Hello and a rather brackish Goodbye to Monterey, Morro Bay (Chapters One , Two and Three ), and just recently, Pismo Beach. Whatever ghosts had been haunting this old man from that long-ago vacant property in Pismo seemed to be dead and buried, now, for good. There were more Lows than Highs, so far, on this trip, at least for my diminutive cohort, but I didn't care. I wasn't really keeping score for either one of us. We were slowly heading south as the general plan dictated and at least for my part, not a care in the world was dragging me down; except for possibly the price of gas and the fact that you had to pay before you filled up. Carefree California, not so much, not anymore. We weren't on the road for more than a few minutes outside Pismo when I heard the squawk, squawk, squelching of the walkie-talkie. “I wanna take a detour, okay? There's another friend I...

The chores taken care of in Monterey, and the campsite getting a wee bit old, Charlie and I decided to hit the road, south, in search of our past lives, however diverse they may have been. He driving behind me and my Airstream, we headed south along 101 and didn’t stop until we hit… Morro Bay. Charlie had honked at me and blinked his headlights at the first intersection on Beach Street, so I pulled into a small strip mall to get off the beaten path. Charlie’s VW van sidled along side my SUV , he rolled down his passenger side window and told me properly park my silver bullet behemoth, so I did. “Hey Man, is there any extra dough for say, a CB or some two-way radio get-up?” Charlie asked. “Why?” I asked. “Just so I don’t have to play no charades with you, Man, to know where we’re headed and where we’re going.” he coyly said. “Oh, yeah, I see what you’re saying. Hey, yeah, let’s find a hardware place or something....

Photo: Graham Owen Gallery Mornings come early on the coast. Nothing to block the sun, even if it has to climb over the low lying hills which lie East of Highway 101, better known as the Pacific Coast Highway. There are very few trees and exposure to the elements, whether from sky or from land, is all encompassing, but in a good way. The morning tide seems to make more of a racket too, and it was with all Mother Nature’s noise and fury which woke me up from my first night’s slumber, on the road to my past. The Airstream was well-endowed, I must say, and this, my second trek, up and down the PC Highway was certainly in style. I stumbled out of my queen sized bed housed at the back of this shiny grey bullet and padded to the kitchen where I flipped on the coffee pot, easy as pie. Sitting down in my swivel rocker, I gazed out my picture window to the ocean below, the waves as gentle as the moniker which was bestowed upon this watery beast belies – Pacific, Pacifica, Peacefu...

Chapter One… I haven’t been up the Pacific Coast Highway in years, 1968 was the last time I had laid eyes on this scenic wonder. That time, it was in a VW Bug and a tent, this time its an SUV and an Airstream, but I’m older and “roughing it” is only a fond memory and not a very realistic option now. The surf and the cliffs are the same, the wild flowers and the tall grasses flow back and forth with the breeze just as they did way back then. This trip is to be my swan song before I’m too old to appreciate it. And as I pulled into one of the many campsites along the coast, I spied a man already encamped with only a tarpaulin tent and a dilapidated VW camper van, a healthy fire burning in a pit nearby. “Well, hello there” , said the man perched on a log next to the fire. “Hello” , I said. “You just pulled in?” he said. “Yeah, you been here long?” I asked, wondering if my arrival would disrupt the serene campsite he had made for himself. “Been camping for a v...

I haven’t been up the Pacific Coast Highway in years, 1968 was the last time I had laid eyes on this scenic wonder. That time, it was in a VW Bug and a tent, this time its an SUV and an Airstream, but I’m older and “roughing it” is only a fond memory and not a very realistic option now. The surf and the cliffs are the same, the wild flowers and the tall grasses flow back and forth with the breeze just as they did way back then. This trip is to be my swan song before I’m too old to appreciate it. And as I pulled into one of the many campsites along the coast, I spied a man already encamped with only a tarpaulin tent and a dilapidated VW camper van, a healthy fire burning in a pit nearby. “Well, hello there”, said the man perched on a log next to the fire. “Hello”, I said. “You just pulled in?” he said. “Yeah; you been here long?” I asked, wondering if my arrival would disrupt the serene campsite he had made for himself. “Been camping for a view da...