In honor of the great weather we’re having this week, I’m reprising my piece on the best beaches for playing hooky. Here is how to call in sick. But hurry: the fog returns this weekend. Tip: When you want to find out if it’s foggy on the coast, before you go, check the fog-view satellite during daylight hours. (Click on the 1K visible satellite, and the 2K fog satellite.)

No car? Fear not. Take Muni to Baker or Ocean beach. Baker Beach is often warmer and always sexier—you can tan nude at the north end (pack a slingshot to ward off the slack-jawed boys spying from the cliff tops). Ocean Beach‘s saving graces are easy access and close proximity to the super-cool Camera Obscura and Louis’ Restaurant, the greasy-spoon diner with the million-dollar views.

Weekend traffic is horrendous in Stinson Beach, but not on a Thursday. Sprawling for three miles, Stinson is one of Northern California’s rare long, sandy strands. And it’s a primo spot for a beach party: not only are there freestanding fire grills, but alcohol is permitted on the beach (no glass). One caveat: Make sure your passengers aren’t the sort to get motion sick on tortuous Hwy 1.

If you can’t deal with bridge traffic or carsick friends, head south. Grey Whale Cove (aka Devil’s Slide) is California’s only state-sanctioned nude beach, and has sugary-soft white sand with stunning vistas. If bare breasts make you squeamish, continue two coves farther south to the locals’ favorite, Montara State Beach (aka McNee Ranch). Though it’s close to Hwy 1, the sand is long and wide, and at low tide, you can comb critter-packed tide pools.

Southern San Mateo County beaches have the most variety. Among the best: Gazos Creek State Beach is ideal for long walks down sandy strands—and it’s usually empty. If you long for New England-style beaches, those compact crescent-shaped rocky coves, head directly to Bean Hollow State Beach, the only dog-friendly beach this side of Half Moon Bay.

Gay boys and grlz have one (fabulous) choice: San Gregorio, the big daddy of Northern California gay beaches. Normally it’s sopped in by fog, but not this week. Head north of the state beach parking lot—way north—to the private lands where nudists have built driftwood shelters. (There’s an exclusive private parking area down a toll road on private property, but its location is the province of the gay underground. Ask your ‘mo friends, or park at the state beach and hoof it north.)

The best beach for off-leash dogs is Fort Funston, at SF’s southeastern edge. When you tire of playing fetch, you can watch hang gliders take their lives into their own hands. The best beaches for barbecues are in San Mateo. Read my tips on cooking over an open fire. It’s easier than you may think.

Beach days are rare. We live at the westernmost edge of Western civilization, at the very margin of land and sea, but we get so caught up in our day-to-day dramas that we forget to recognize what’s around us. The time is now. In the words of Horace: “Seize the day! lest the years imprison us.”

More beaches, hotels, restaurants, and hikes in San Francisco

Soaring above the Ansel Adams Wilderness in the saw-toothed eastern Sierra, Mammoth Mountain is California’s best ski resort, bar none. High above tree line with a base elevation over 8000ft, Mammoth is actually a dormant volcano, and from atop the sky-punching 11,053ft-high summit, you can see clear across the entire state to the Coastal Range. Three miles of wide-open bowls stretch across the mountain’s 3500-acre face, some nearly vertical with gulp-and-go chutes, others gently sloping, ideal for ballroom-style shooshing.

The cross-country center looks like a scene from a snow globe, with 19 miles of groomed trails wending through dense pine forests dotted with icy-blue lakes. At its center is the Tamarack Lodge, a vintage 1930s log-cabin-like lodge surrounded by rustic cabins. Downhill skiers do better staying at the Village at Mammoth or the new Westin Monache, both near nightlife and walkable to the village gondola, which whisks skiers to the base of the mountain. Alas, the town of Mammoth Lakes is strictly utilitarian—a patchwork of condo complexes, subdivisions, and strip malls—but with skiing so great, who cares?

When you’re driving through such majestic scenery, you hardly notice the clock. I made the seven-hour trek from San Francisco last week—and the time flew by. US 395 is among California’s most spectacular roads, rivaled in beauty only by coastal Hwy 1.

Mono Lake always catches me off guard. As US 395 wends south along the Walker River, your eye grows accustomed to whitewater, tall pines, and narrow mountain passes. Everything rises so high around you that you forget you’re at elevation. Then suddenly the sky opens up and the Mono Basin unfurls a thousand feet below in eerie vastness. At the South Tufa Trail, you can sit on this bench and apprehend space in ways not possible in the city.

I’m forever amazed how few Northern Californians make the trip to the eastern Sierra. Whenever I need to hit the reset button, to find new perspectives on day-to-day life, this is one of my favorite places to go. The mountains hang like curtains from heaven. Everything is so big, it’s impossible to judge distance. Consciousness snaps into the present.

Nothing beats the exhilaration of skiing in a Sierra snow storm, but after three days of powder-skiing, my legs burned out and I was ready for home. On the way, I detoured north around Lake Tahoe to see the snow depth at Donner Pass, near Sugar Bowl ski area. At one point during last week’s storm, snow fell at a rate of two inches per hour, dumping a whopping four feet in a single 24-hour period. That house in the above image is buried to the second floor eaves. Spring skiing will be fantastic this year.

The competition for the Best Job in the World is sweeping the internet. Send in your 60-second video showing why you should be the caretaker of a tropical island off the Great Barrier Reef, and win a six-month stint that pays a whopping US$103K, plus some serious perks, including round-trip airfare; housing in a three-bedroom villa with swimming pool; and all the outdoor activities you could possibly imagine. The ‘work’? Twelve hours a week of blogging, shooting images and video of your fun and fabulous life. Tourism Queensland is genius. Frankly this is the most brilliant PR idea I’ve ever heard of. Demand is so intense that their servers keep crashing. Even an Amazing Race Winner is applying. I’m thinking about it. I’m qualified too. Right?

That’s me on that camel in the Sahara, a couple weeks ago. I’ve a serious case of culture shock. Australian film director (and kick-ass song-writer) Tony Jackson took the picture. I shot the following video clip in Marrakech in the olive souk (Arabian covered market). Donkeys are ubiquitous in Morocco, and the only effective means of goods-transport. Vehicles can’t navigate the thousand-year-old, winding alleyways of the medinas (old cities). Sometimes a donkey meets another donkey and freaks out, as happened here. Marrakech is stressful. I much prefer Fez. Next month I’m off to Madagascar, the furthest place on the globe from California.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BtbmxLw9W-I&hl=en&fs=1]
Back home, the Bay Area weather is shockingly spring-like. Skiing is off my radar till rains blow in coastside and dump fresh snow in the Sierra. Until then, if you’re looking for someplace to travel near home, I’d suggest an overnight in Monterey County—they’re desperate to fill beds. You can score some killer deals, from Carmel Valley to Big Sur.

I’m so out of touch with where the hell I am—season, latitude, hemisphere—and in five weeks’ time I’ll be crossing the Mountains of Madagascar during the summer rains. Before then, London. I’ll do my best to post now and then, but until April I’m on a wild ride. Stay tuned.

It’s time to play hooky. The huge storms that drenched the Bay Area brought eight feet of snow to Tahoe—and it’s not Sierra cement, but bona fide feather-light powder, a rarity in Northern California. Don’t hesitate. In the words of Horace, “Seize the day! lest the years imprison us.” Blow off work on Thursday, when the forecast calls for fair skies and temps in the 40s. But if you’re a serious off-piste skier, skip out on Wednesday, the last chance for squeaky-dry snow until the next big Alaskan storms blow—which may not happen again this season. Go now.

For extensive reviews and insight into the resorts, read my North Lake Tahoe ski guide; and South Lake Tahoe ski guide. If you’re a snow snob, review current ski conditions. And check road conditions before setting out. (While driving, call 800-GAS-ROAD for highway information.)

As for the much-hyped best job in the world, I’ve determined that it’s not, actually. A close read of the terms and conditions reveals that Tourism Queensland will own all the winner’s intellectual property for the entire six-month stint. That means, were I to win the post, I couldn’t write a book about the experience. Paradise must always have a dark side, or else it wouldn’t be paradisical. Why go through heaven and hell, only to tell half the story? Besides, I dare say, I’ve already the best job in the world. Off to London tomorrow. More news soon.

I’m on an adventure. I begin this post at SFO, en route to Morocco where I’m to shoot the pilot of a new international TV series. And guess what? I’m the presenter. The show follows Lonely Planet writers as we discover off-the-beaten-path locales for adventurous travelers. I can’t quite wrap my head around the implications of this (nor do I want to), but I do know that the next three weeks will change my life.

I can’t speak publicly of the broadcaster or distributor, but I will say this: they are household names. The show will be a 13-episode series. I’ll host at least two, potentially more. It will premier next autumn in Asia, Europe, the Middle East and Latin America; then will be distributed worldwide by ___. I’ll keep you posted as things develop. I must say, I’m psyched to be one of our city’s first international ambassadors following Obama’s election. It’s a good time to be an American abroad!

On the subject of our fair city, did you know that until recently, SFO was the only airport in America that had zero advertising? Instead our lovely terminals were adorned exclusively with well-curated art installations. Then, around the year 2000, nasty Clear Channel quietly began blighting our public commons—with no public comment period that I ever heard about. Since then, billboards and kiosks have multiplied like cancer cells in the domestic terminal, ruining the aesthetic. The international terminal remains mostly untouched—for now. SFO is owned by the city, and belongs to us. Speak up. Reclaim public art.
But I can’t think about SF at present. I’m writing from seat 12-J, aboard UA930, somewhere over Hudson Bay, just wrapping up the cheese course of my supper—and I’m having such a fabulous time in business class (a rare indulgence) that I don’t even want to pop an Ambien. (For the record, and from the point of view of an expert, United’s premium-cabin service needs upgrading, but it sure beats economy.) Expect silence from me till at least mid-December, when I return from North Africa. Meanwhile, remember to remove the wishbones from your holiday turkeys before roasting to ensure long, even slices of breast meat. And a very happy Thanksgiving to all! —John

Speeding down US 395 along the backside of the Sierra Nevada, it’s hard to apprehend scale. On one side, towering saw-toothed peaks—the highest in the continental US—hang like curtains from heaven. On the other side, the Great Basin‘s vast sagebrush-studded deserts extend clear to Utah, to the western front of the Rockies. Distances are great, towns few.

Tioga Pass Road drops out of Yosemite into tiny Lee Vining, home to the culinary pitstop, Whoa Nellie Deli, a gas-station diner serving unexpectedly great eats and good wine at picnic tables outside. Just south lie the eerie shores of Mono Lake. Migratory birds flock here by the thousands. I’ve never made time for the South Tufa bird-watching walk, nor for a kayaking trip, but they’re on my must-do-before-I-die list. The place to stay: Tioga Lodge, a simple, but surprisingly well-decorated assemblage of attached cottages by the lake’s shore. (NB: The lodge fronts on the highway, but traffic dies at night.)

This is volcano country, and hot springs dot the land between Bridgeport and Mammoth Lakes. I took this shot while sitting in the hot pool at Wild Willy’s—bathing suits not required—but I won’t give you directions. Locals will already be furious I’ve told you the name. Don’t tell ’em I sent you.

When you spot the turn-off for the June Lake Loop (SR 158), take it. Here’s your chance to drive directly beneath the Sierra’s eastern escarpment , which rises straight up from a series of icy-blue lakes. The place to stay: Double Eagle Resort & Spa, a compound of detached housekeeping cottages built around a surprisingly great full-service spa. And oh! what scenery. Alas, the food could be better, but Mammoth is a short drive away.

Trout-fishing is huge in the eastern Sierra, especially at Convict Lake, where you can stay in a bare-bones cabin like this one at Convict Lake Resort—ideal for budgeteers. By contrast, the Restaurant at Convict Lake merits a special trip for a hold-hands-by-candlelight dinner: think beef Wellington and luscious premier-cru wines.

The Minarets—saw-toothed remnants of an ancient volcano—bite the sky just north of Mammoth Mountain, a dormant volcano and California’s top ski resort. In summer the gondola whisks mountain-bikers and sightseers to the 11,054ft-high summit for top-of-the-world vistas from the new Top of the Sierra Interpretive Center. If you come, stay in the woods at Tamarack Lodge, a vintage-1920s log-cabin resort fronting on a little lake. The top-three restaurants for dinner: Petra’s Bistro for earthy California cooking; Skadi for Euro-Cal with Scandinavian overtones; and Lakefront for provincial French. Alternatively, drive ten minutes to Convict Lake (above). Alas, LuLu, like its San Francisco counterpart, is inconsistent.

The little town of Lone Pine straddles US 395 and sits in the shadow of Mt Whitney, the highest peak in the lower 48 states. Just west of town lie the Alabama Hills, where scores of old westerns were filmed. Take the loop drive along Movie Rd. to see the locations. If you stay overnight, book a motel room at the Dow Villa Motel. The best food is at Seasons, which makes a kick-ass steak.

And now my comrades all are gone;
Naught remains to toast.
They have left me here in my misery,
Like some poor wandering ghost. —Anonymous

Barreling down US 395—that long, lonely highway paralleling the saw-toothed backside of the mighty Sierra Nevada—it’s easy to zip right past the turnoff for Bodie State Historic Park, one of the West’s great ghost towns. Hardly anybody I know has been there, except for a few intrepid road-trippers unafraid of long dirt roads that go nowhere for miles. I finally made the trip last week.

It’s as if a neutron bomb hit the place. Scores of weather-beaten clapboard buildings stand in arrested decay. The town boomed in 1879, soaring nearly overnight to a population of 10,000. Within a year or so, the gold mines went bust and everyone left, abandoning their possessions.

The arid desert air works like embalming fluid. Cupping my hands against the window of a sideways-leaning house, I was stunned to spot a half-empty heavy glass bottle of faded-pink calamine lotion, its label weathered, but still clearly legible. The dry-good store still stocks century-old items, all covered in a thick layer of desert dust. Child-sized coffins lie toppled in the morgue.

This is one creepy place. Countless souls died miserable deaths in Bodie. Shootouts, robberies, and whisky-fueled, bloody brawls were commonplace. At its peak Bodie had only two churches, but an amazing sixty-five saloons. The town’s reverend called it ‘a sea of sin, lashed by the tempests of lust and passion.’

The detritus of a dead town lies everywhere—broken glass, rusty nails, splintered wagon wheels—and woe be to you if you pocket anything to take home. A little binder in the back of the museum (formerly the post office) shows page after page of hand-written letters from people who have taken, then mailed things back to the park in an effort to undo the curse they wrought. Some notes are short: ‘Take these god foresaken items back!’ Others ramble on, recounting stories of horror, like this, my favorite, ‘My father is in ICU bleeding from the nose and mouth.’ I didn’t dare test the hex, but would love to hear if you do. Feel free to post a comment telling me how your life has gone to hell.

Bodie never gets crowded. Most passersby spot the signs at the turnoff from US395 to CA 270 (Bodie Road), warning of a partially unpaved 13-mile-long road, and keep driving. The closest place to stay is Virginia Creek Settlement, a cute, simple and clean log-cabin motel, with a restaurant, beneath tall pines on the banks of a roaring creek. It’s in the middle of nowhere and close to the road, but it’s great for families and budgeteers. Fancier digs are at June Lake, Mammoth Lakes, and Lee Vining. I’ll talk about those in a future post about driving spectacular US 395, the forgotten California highway that rivals Hwy 1 for postcard-perfect scenery.