It has been my pleasure for most of my life to ramble up and down the state of California.

Recently, I’ve done more than my share of rambling. Sobering family matters have had my wife and I back and forth from Los Angeles, where we both have roots, several times in the last month or three.

While the mission at hand may not always be pleasant, the road trip always is and, for me anyway, always will be.

When we have the time and our druthers, we usually drive down Highway 101.

We have discovered a lovely dog-friendly beach in San Luis Obispo County, and since my wife’s hound has quietly but masterfully seized control of our recreational agenda, that is a regular stopping point. Being amateur wineaux, when we have the chance we get lost in Paso Robles, the Edna Valley or along Santa Barbara County back roads to taste the local stuff.

I will never tire of California landscapes. I’ve driven through the Salinas Valley more times than I can remember, yet the Santa Lucia Mountains that separate this fertile valley from the wild Big Sur shoreline always make an impression.

After several hours landlocked on 101, one sweeps around a bend south of San Luis Obispo and the Pacific Ocean fills the view, the cliffs just a 100 yards or so from the highway.

On a clear day, the outlines of the uninhabited Channel Islands are visible just off the continent‘s edge.

The fastest and most dreary of the routes to L.A. is Interstate 5, but even going through the Central Valley on 5 can have its pleasures. Sunrise or sunset, of course, can be magical even from the concrete apron of a (usually overpriced) gas station.

Beyond that, the grassy hills on the west side of the valley are often a lovely golden hue, occasionally a vibrant green, and only uninteresting during the shadowless mid-day, when it is time to floor it anyway.

On the last trip we took the more civilized Central Valley route, Highway 99, with a town every 10 miles to keep you from feeling like you are lost in an expanse of dirt, as happens on Highway 5.

Highway 99 is not so scenic as 101, but offers a glimpse onto what Gerald Haslam, the bard of the Central Valley, proudly calls the Other California.

Jesus is everywhere on the radio, billboards advertise herbicides and silos and refineries loom along the side of the road, which often is enveloped in thick tule fog.

It is always a pleasure to come home to Napa, whether looking down at the vast swamp north of the Butler Bridge or banking through the Carneros hills.

I might get tired of rush-hour traffic in L.A. or San Jose and the drone of the news stations cycling back over the same five stories every 30 minutes, but I‘ll never get tired of looking out at California and finding out little by little what secrets it holds.