Our hikes are a little different," warned Steve Harper, a naturalist who was leading a wilderness trek out of the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, Calif.

How different could they be? You put on boots, you huff up hills and through muck. You ooh and ahh and kvetch . . .

"We bow to the trees."

Now wait just a minute.

"What if I can't find a tree I respect?" I joked, but nobody laughed.

Nature is serious business here.

Whether you're trekking along forested ridges and bonding with the vegetation, cantering across one of the wild beaches on horseback or simply gazing out on the Pacific from a cushy cliff-top resort, nature is the star attraction throughout this 90-mile expanse of coastal highlands that stretches roughly from San Simeon, 260 miles north of Los Angeles, to Carmel, 130 miles south of San Francisco. The performance is so magnificent, that, in truth, bowing would not be an excessive gesture of appreciation.

We spent five days sampling three dramatically different styles of Big Sur vacations, from rustic to royal.

We booked simple lodgings deep in the woods at the laid-back 1930s Deetjen's Big Sur Inn, where the dining room was as likely to be filled with locals as tourists, chowing down on hearty fare and catching up on news and gossip in equal proportions. Our room, once occupied by the legendary Norwegian homesteader Helmut "Grandpa" Deetjen himself, came complete with Grandpa's old pot-bellied stove, a slew of scratchy old classical records and a scratchy old phonograph to play them on, and journals of the old man's musings about life -- and after-life.

We joined the aforementioned "Big Sur Wilderness Experience" at Esalen, known popularly as the "Harvard of Human Potential," which runs hundreds of weekend self-awareness workshops, from Gestalt psychology to couples massage to inner golf. Our consciousness-raising nature outings were followed by huge buffets in the institute's dining room and communal soaks in a cliff-side hot tub.

Finally, we pampered ourselves at 500 bucks a night in one of the oceanfront bungalows at the swank, year-old Post Ranch Inn, perched on a bluff 1,200 feet above the sea. When fog blotted out the expensive view, and lashing rain made venturing out unappealing, we holed up in front of our wood-burning fireplace, slathered each other in jasmine-scented oil, and, assisted by soft music wafting from the room's Nakamichi tape deck, dutifully practiced Esalen massage maneuvers.

The common thread throughout our trip was time each day given over to exploring the woods, beaches and cliff trails for which Big Sur is justly famous. Starting in Los Angeles and driving slowly up gorgeous coastal Highway 1, with an overnight en route in trendy seaside Cambria, we were deep in Big Sur's Santa Lucia Mountains by late afternoon our second day on the (( road.

We had only 60 miles to go from Cambria to the heart of Big Sur, but distance and time rarely jibe in this captivating region. Just minutes after pulling over to photograph the most beautiful seascape we'd ever seen, we'd stop again to snap an even more dramatic shot, and then another and another. My companion finally begged me to close my eyes for a while so we could get to our lodgings before dark.

We pulled into Deetjen's Big Sur Inn in plenty of time to stash our suitcases in the redwood cabin marked "Grandpa's Room" and get in our first Big Sur hike, at Andrew Molera State Park, a few miles north. At the park entrance we paid a $4 car fee and were handed a trail map with several routes to a secluded beach where the ocean and Big Sur River meet. We chose an easy one-mile stroll along a sandy path flanked by wildflowers. The view at the end of the line was everything we had hoped for -- a wide expanse of sand, and at each end of the beach, towering cliffs curving out to a roiling, deep blue sea.

No wonder so many artists and writers migrated to this magic land over the years, seeking inspiration and solitude. (There wasn't even a passable road through the region until state Highway 1 was completed in 1937.) Here, playwright Henry Miller, poets Robinson Jeffers and Lawrence Ferlinghetti, singer Joan Baez, and countless others had composed impassioned works.

Dinner was another visual feast. We had heard that the best view in Big Sur was from Nepenthe, an informal restaurant high on a cliff with outdoor decks overlooking the Pacific and adjacent mountains. Devouring fresh Pacific salmon while soulful jazz played over the loudspeakers, we thought surely life was perfect -- until a guy behind us whipped out a cellular phone and loudly began negotiating stock deals.

There were no such mood-breakers back in Grandpa's room. With a fire crackling in the stove, we listened to Mozart on the old phonograph, and read a yellowed magazine feature memorializing Deetjen, who died in 1972 at age 80, leaving the inn to be run as a non-profit preservation trust. A bedside guest book solicited impressions of the place. We fell asleep before we could add our own contribution, and the next day scribbled a quick "Nice" before rushing 10 miles south to Esalen.

Our Esalen trek took us up the Tan Bark trail of Partington Ridge, a steep ascent through towering redwoods, wild strawberries and fragrant fennel, and along a winding creek with cascades of tiny waterfalls. At the trail entrance, we followed Steve Harper's lead, and bowed to the forest -- which Mr. Harper explained was a Shinto-inspired gesture that expressed our reverence for all living things. Per Mr. Harper's suggestion, most of our hike was in silence, so we could concentrate on our breath and be fully present to the sights and sounds around us.

Back at the trail-head, we crossed the road and followed another path down to Partington Cove, where we watched sea otters frolicking in the foamy surf. Then, facing the ocean, we joined Mr. Harper in a bow of farewell before returning to Esalen for lunch.

After a meal of huevos rancheros, fresh veggies and multigrain bread, Mr. Harper led us on a tour of the grounds, which sprawl over some 12 cliff-top acres, and include flower and vegetable gardens, staff housing and a children's center complete with hot tubs for tots.

Guest accommodations, meanwhile, were spread out around the property and ranged from dormitories with bunk beds to small but cheerful double rooms with lots of wicker and balconies overlooking landscaped lawns and the ocean.

In addition to being a weekend retreat for workshop participants, Esalen also is a residential community where scholars and practitioners of the healing arts pursue all manner of new philosophies and trends, prompting cynics to dub the center Ink Blot U. Esalen enthusiasts take the criticism in stride.

Whatever the visitor's philosophical bent, nobody goes to Esalen without taking a dip in the clothing-optional, cliff-side thermal hot baths. We were assured by Mr. Harper that we'd be more conspicuous clothed than naked. Maybe so, but it was hard to concentrate on the view while trying not to look at all the naked bodies around us.

At the exclusive Post Ranch Inn, 15 miles north of Esalen, for a minimum of $255 per night for the "cheap" forest-view rooms and up to $495 for the most desirable sea-view Ocean Houses, you get to experience Big Sur's newest resort and the only one built right on the cliff. We splurged for the top of the line (and the top of the cliff), and spent two nights living everybody's California dreamin' fantasy.

Our Ocean House, which was built right into the bluff, with a sod-covered roof ablaze with wildflowers, looked from the outside like some primitive shelter. But inside all was nouveau luxe, with a queen-size bed, kitchenette with fridge, sink and coffee maker, and a double-sided, wood-burning fireplace that warmed both the bedroom and the whirlpool spa area on its other side. Soaring picture windows framed Pacific views, and sliding glass doors in both the bedroom and spa led out onto a private redwood deck, which faced the poppy-filled lawn and the ocean.

Nice, huh?

So nice, in fact, that we found it hard to pry ourselves out of bed our first morning, and rang for a room-service Continental breakfast in lieu of the spread at the resort's glassed-in Sierra Mar Restaurant. (Both options are included in the room price.) At the crack of 10, our assigned bellman arrived with a giant basket stocked with jars of fresh-squeezed orange juice, chunky granola, a salad of mango, grapefruit and strawberries, warm banana bread, little pots of cream cheese and yogurt, milk and two stale bagels (better they should stick to California fare).

We slowly worked our way through the meal, then ventured out at 1 p.m. We were bound for Carmel, 26 miles north, and the famous Seventeen Mile Drive to Pacific Grove, with its views of ocean cliffs, flat-topped cypress trees, harbor seals and exclusive country clubs. The sky turned darker and darker as we wound our way up Highway 1, and we reached Carmel as the worst weather and hunger pangs hit simultaneously. Escaping both the rain and the cutesy town, we ducked into the Hog's Breath Inn for lunch -- the restaurant owned by former Carmel mayor Clint Eastwood.

We emerged from the Hog's Breath into what had become a sunny afternoon -- giving us no excuse for missing a hiking opportunity. En route back to the Post Ranch Inn, turning sharply right at Big Sur's only stop sign, we followed narrow, curving Sycamore Canyon Road two miles down a lush fern gully to Pfeiffer Beach, perhaps the most dramatic beach setting in Big Sur.

Our faces wet with cool mist, we reluctantly headed back to Post Ranch Inn, where we found the entire resort swallowed up in a thick, white fog. Perhaps, we mused, Big Sur had been a mirage all along, a Shangri-La escape we'd fantasized. But just then the fog lifted, and glints of sunshine burst through the clouds, gilding everything in a sparkling golden glow. We stood silently for a while as the fog rolled back in, closing the curtain on nature's latest stellar performance. Then, we smiled at each other, turned to the sea and bowed.

IF YOU GO . . .

* Big Sur Chamber of Commerce, P.O. Box 87, Big Sur, Calif. 93920; (408) 667-2100.

* Monterey Peninsula Visitor and Convention Bureau, P.O. Box 1770, Monterey, Calif. 93942; (408) 649-1770.