As I let the Isuzu Amigo idle at a pullout along central California’s Big Sur Coast south of Monterey, a thought occurred to me: Isuzu might want to add a caveat to its mantra at the time “Go farther” mantra. Like, “Go farther, except when …”

Except when there’s a man of authority parked at the entrance to the mountain road that I know can indeed take me beyond the bounds of everyday motoring, and he will not let me by.

I’d spent two days listening to Isuzu officials explain to the automotive media their strategy for securing SUV market share: Be loud. Be heard. Be focused. Lure restless souls with an evocative chant, Go farther … Go farther ...

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I’d decided to take their advice, to find that zone called farther. I would spend a day exploring the backroads of Big Sur that spur into the mountains above Highway 1, a region I’d explored extensively in the past in my personal adventurewagon, a Toyota 4Runner.

On the morning of my departure, the hazy sea air was still spiced with the smoke of the smoldering Kirk Complex fires, a trio of lightning-caused blazes that had charred almost 85,000 acres in Los Padres National Forest, which encompasses much of inland Big Sur. I was concerned that at least some of the dirt roads that allow more adventurous travelers to trade the traffic on famously spectacular Highway 1 for loftier and more private vistas would be closed.

But the Santa Lucia Range is the largest of the South Coast ranges. They vault from the sea to more than 5,000 ft., creating one of the world’s most breathtaking coastlines. Largely undeveloped and unpopulated, they encompass some of coastal California’s last remaining wildlands. And through them thread a number of relatively little-known mountain roads. I knew I’d find someplace to test the Amigo.

I headed first to Bixby Canyon, where Bixby Creek pours into the Pacific below Bixby Bridge. Originally called Rainbow Bridge, the 260-ft.-high concrete span was the highest single-arch bridge in the world when it was built in 1932. When I got there, southbound traffic was stopped at its north end for construction work, so I made a quick left turn out of line, maneuvered between the construction equipment and onto a charming little relic of bygone California, Old Coast Road.

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Old Coast Road, though narrow and winding, is well-maintained, so I left the Amigo in 2WD. But when washboarding on the uphill segment caused the rear end to swing out, I engaged 4WD with a touch of the dash-mounted button to calm things down.

As I drove into the Santa Lucia, I stopped to gaze down into the wooded canyon, which lay east of a ridge that separated two different worlds: two-lane Highway 1, pinched between the mountains’ soaring escarpment and the craggy coastline’s relentless waves; and this quiet backwater, dotted with hideways.

In the late 1950s, the Bixby Canyon cabin of San Francisco poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti was visited often by Beat Generation luminaries, including On the Road author Jack Kerouac. In the summer of 1960, Kerouac sought refuge at the cabin from the pressures of his growing fame. But the chronic alcoholic couldn’t leave his inner demons behind, and the isolated, wild environs that bring solace to many instead brought drunkenness, paranoia, depression, dementia and a mental breakdown, which Kerouac described in his novel Big Sur.

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After the road turned south and away from Bixby Creek, it descended to meandering Sierra Creek, where it was lined with moss-draped trees, ferns and coastal redwoods. I stopped along the creek to savor the sweet forest air. Then the road took me to the crest of the ridge, where I could gaze out at the Pacific Ocean. From there I descended to a pair of single-lane, plank-floored bridges across the Little Sur River, a state-protected waterway that supports spawning steelhead trout and, at its headwaters, Big Sur’s largest redwood forest.

After about 10 miles I emerged back on Highway 1 (a.k.a Cabrillo Highway, after the Portuguese navigator who sighted the Monterey Peninsula in 1542), at Andrew Molera State Park, a remnant of an old Mexican land grant. The Californios who ruled from Monterey in pre-statehood times called this rugged land el grande pais del sur, the big country of the south. Anglos shortened it to Big Sur. Homesteaders arrived in the 1870s, tourism in the 1880s. At small landings along the coast ships were loaded with lumber, tanbark and lime. Highway 1 was threaded along the coast in the 1930s. In 1965, the serpentine segment between the Carmel River south to the county line was designated the Golden State’s first official scenic highway.

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At the hamlet of Big Sur, I stopped beside the Big Sur River, where visitors lounged in log chairs and benches set in the rocky riverbed behind the Big Sur River Inn. Continuing south, about four miles beyond the village of Lucia I reached the turnoff to Nacimiento-Fergusson Road, where I encountered the roadblock. It was a disappointment, for I knew where this paved canyonside road would have taken me. Where it reaches the crest of a high ridge, for example, one finds a four-way intersection. From there, a narrow dirt road that is “cherry stemmed” north into the Ventana Wilderness leads to a short hiking trail to the 5,155-ft. summit of Cone Peak, which provides a sweeping panorama of Big Sur. Another dirt road runs south along Coast Ridge, providing more views. Moving inland toward U.S. 101, Nacimiento-Fergusson Road descends to Fort Hunter Liggett. But the way was closed this day.

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Farther down Highway 1, I found one more chance to penetrate the mountains: Willow Creek-Los Burros Road. It was in better shape than Plaskett Creek Road, but not as scenic. Yet it did go all the way to Coast Ridge Road, which connects to Nacimiento-Fergusson Road at the north end, making a loop possible. It was getting late, though, so I decided to follow this road and conclude my off-highway travels after eight twisting miles, when I’d reached the summit of San Martin Top, a peak that rises 2,702-ft. above the ocean.

A couple of miles before I reached the top, I detoured down to the campground at Alder Creek. Gold was found in these parts in 1887, sparking establishment of the town of Mansfield nearby. It had 200 souls, a hotel, post office and five saloons, but fire destroyed it in 1909, and the gold and silver mining in the area ended in 1915. I found only tables and campsites, and too many airborne bugs for comfort, so I decided to turn around.

I had a top-of-the-world view at San Martin Top, where I could look south for many miles at waves washing over the rocks, at cars and motor homes inching along the Pacific Rim, at mists drifting in from the sea. Leaning against the Amigo, longing for one of those inspiring Pacific Coast sunsets, I knew that Isuzu was right, that we can, and should, go farther.

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