Thursday, June 20, 2024 - Destination: Covered Wagon
The name Covered Wagon RV conjured up images in my mind of Conestoga wagons circled under a star studded sky with cooking fires flickering within the enclosure. Ample bosomed, wasp waisted women in long flowing dresses intently stir bubbling pots of beans while keeping an eye on trail dust encrusted urchins poking sticks at Gila monsters and scorpions. Men in floppy brimmed Stetson sombreros riddled with holes gathered around a central fire drinking coffee from tin cups and gnawing a chaw from dark tarry twists of tobaccy. But alas, those images were a far reach from this glorified parking lot filled with fiberglass trailers baking in the searing summer Phoenix sun.
Despite the juxtaposition between image and reality, this wasn’t a bad spot considering it location deep within an urban wasteland. The kids had flown home, leaving me and Mr. Buttons to continue our quest. The campground was located next to the interstate only a few blocks away from where my sister, Suzanne lived. This morning was spent leisurely rearranging the contents of the van. With the kids gone, I had regained some storage space and there were some items I could get out of the way. I had planned on going to Suzanne’s by 2 pm, but she texted and said she had a migraine. So being quite fond of the torture of headaches myself, I went to Walmart. That bit of the day was as expected and I finally escaped with a modicum of sanity left.
We got to Suzanne’s around 4 pm to find her in good spirits. My niece Jorie and grand-niece Aurora came for a visit. We ordered our dinner through Door Dash. To my best recollection it was some form of a Mexican food like substance that resembled a burrito. After some additional chit chat I left and turned the WAyBAC machine toward the closets Sprouts Market. If you aren’t familiar with Sprouts, it is a quasi-national grocery chain with fresh, natural and organic foods. The selections are fair, but of good quality. I filled my market basket and headed back to the campground.
The temperatures in Phoenix were topping out around 114 degrees and I was beginning to question the wisdom of spending any more time in the desert. I decided to cut my planned stay at the date farm by a day. After a bit of research I reserved a single night at a Kampgrounds of America (KOA) in San Diego. I figured it would be a safe bet and a lot cooler than the desert. I watched an episode of Netflix’s Wednesday on my computer and then turned in. It was a pretty miserable night. The combination of my leg pain and the churning of my gut from the somewhat dubious Door Dash dinner didn’t make for a peaceful rest.
Friday, June 21, 2024 - Destination: San Diego Metro KOA, 111 North 2nd Avenue Chula Vista, CA 91910
I finally got a bit of rest that night and woke up feeling decent. After having my breakfast, I made a few notes in the journal and then organized the camper a bit more. The day started warming up quickly. I packed up the camper and got away from the Covered Wagon RV park around 10:30 am. On my way out, I was greeted with the sight of what appeared to be a hooker and her pimp gleefully strolling down the road. The temperature was already over 100 degrees. Needless to say, I chose to keep driving.
I had made arrangements to have lunch with a former colleague who lives in Buckeye, Arizona. The drive was a short one of only about 35 minutes. It was a heartwarming and joyful meeting. We had not seen each other in 30 years. Graciano and I had worked together in a challenging environment and had become close friends. The Cracker Barrel fish fry special was a good back drop for a time of conversation and re-living memories.
Around 1 pm, it was time to hit the road again. The drive started out on I-10 as a hot and hectic ride on four lane interstate filled with tractor-trailers and anxious speeder zigging and zagging through the traffic. On the western edge of Buckeye, I hit Arizona 85 South that took me to Gila Bend and I-8. The traffic calmed a bit and I settled in for a drive through barren desert. Sparse brush and the occasional dust devil broke up the monotony of a desolate landscape. I was surprised at one point to see low sand dunes spreading across the desert.
I stopped at a rest stop some 10 to 15 miles from my destination. It was still early afternoon and the temperature was 114 degrees. The host had informed me that their brewery was closed, which took away some of the incentive to make Naked Dates a destination. I researched my possibilities in San Diego. The temperature was 73 degrees and the KOA had an additional night available for my campsite. This was a no brainer and I kept rolling.
It was around 7 pm when we arrived at the San Diego KOA to find a campground with a very Disneyish atmosphere. The facility was full, but was a welcome site for Benjamin and I. The poor guy had been suffering in the heat and absolutely hated his all-terrain booties. The hot sands in the MOAB dog park had proven that they were a necessity. But hey, the bright red booties brought out the greenish tint of his cataracts making him quite the catch among the older canine crowd. I am still hoping that he will prove to be a chick magnet, but so far he has failed in his role as wing man.
We set up camp and took a short walk. After a pleasant repast of salad and calamari, Benjamin and I settled in for the evening. He crashed and I watched another episode of Wednesday on Netflix. I went to bed around 10 pm and slept well until about 2:45 am. I woke up to a constant pain in my hip. After a couple of Ibuprofen and about 45 minutes of fidgeting, I was able to get back to sleep.
Saturday, June 22, 2024 - Destination: San Diego Metro KOA, 111 North 2nd Avenue Chula Vista, CA 91910
Hiding behind the standard bright yellow KOA sign was an RV resort quite unlike any I had experienced before. I was clearly in a weekend getaway for urbanite campers. The sunlight sparkled on a myriad of chrome ornamented trucks and SUVs. The odd syncopation of the Latin hip-hop beats filling the air created an almost festive atmosphere. A large pool, climbing wall, massive bounce pillow and grassy playground provided the activities director a broad pallet upon which to create the perfect weekend for both young and old.
I did my best to settle into my normal routine. The air was pleasantly cool, so I could open all of the screened doors and windows. I wrote some and took Benjamin on a couple of walks to Kamp K-9 for exercise and a poop. In most KOAs, other dog owners are friendly and readily share the dog run space. Not so here. Both dogs and owners were clearly not native to the outdoors. They ranged from the broad floppy brim straw hat adorned self-absorbed urban princesses cuddling yappy fur balls resembling a tribble with teeth to the be-muscled young men trying desperately to hold back pairs of tongue wagging rottweilers straining at their leashes.
Respect for others was somewhat at a premium among these temporary occupants of this paradise they perceived to have been created solely for their own use. The character Andy Sipowitz in the television show Hill Street Blues used the unique term “Urban Yutes” to describe city-dwelling young people. Alas, there was a constant stream of Urban Yutes flowing through my campsite on foot, scooter, three-wheeler and bicycle, presumably headed for the swimming pool. One young girl appearing to be about 15 casually careened through the campsite anxiously toking on a hand rolled cigarette filled with the pernicious no-no weed. Occasionally, a family would waddle through led by a pair of well padded rotund people in bathing trunks and flip-flops resembling adults that were followed by a flock of giggly, screamy and wriggly offspring.
Ultimately, I dragged the picnic table as an obstruction and put out a line of cones. That was a waste of energy. Regardless, I spent a somewhat enjoyable day and evening writing and occasionally snarling at the interlopers. Thankfully, the din was wafted away on the cool evening breezes to create a peaceful night. I slept well.
Sunday, June 23, 2024 thru June 29, 2024 - Destination: Mission Bay RV Resort, 2727 De Anza Rd, San Diego, CA, 92109
As I was packing up to leave, a gentleman camped across from me walked over to chat. He was quite amazed at the activity in my campsite that he had witnessed the day before. According to him, one young girl on a bicycle almost took her head off on my awning. After a number of incredulous head shakes, he meandered back to his campsite. Benjamin and I climbed into the WAyBAC machine in search of other high adventure.
The drive that morning was short and sweet. It was beautiful Sunday morning and we beat the church crowd to the highways. Mission Bay RV Resort is located next to the water. My campsite was within 100 yards of the Bayshore and adjacent to a public recreation area that was a reclaimed trailer park. There was a mile long perimeter walking path around this area that circumvented De Anza point providing a relaxing stroll upon the shores of Mission Bay. This was a time to regroup and rejoin my quest. My time at Mission Bay was a return to a solitary life focused on the moment.
During my time at Mission Bay, I spent some time on a number of mundane activities. One of which was determining how to get medications and other items delivered to me while on the road. I purchased a solar shade for the Rangeline exhaust vent. My expectations were high as I had it delivered to an Amazon pick up point. Well the reality of picking up my package was a bit surprising. The Amazon locker or whatever it was called was on a college campus next to a construction project with no parking places to be found with in a several block perimeter. Ultimately, I parked in a delivery zone a few hundred feet away and scurried over to get my package. Obviously this facility was designed to serve campus dwelling students and not the general public. Shame on Jeff Bezos for not telling me.
The installation of the vent shade went okay. I wasn’t completely satisfied with my work, but it is functional and worth the effort. I can fix the few flaws at a later time. Fortunately, I was able to accomplish the task without aggravating my back and leg. The most important thing about this portion of the trip was the slow improvement in my ability to walk. While I still had residual and nagging pain, I was able to walk some distance. I could walk a quarter to a half mile is without serious consequences. While walking, I found myself carrying my stick more than using it.
Another important aspect of this part of the journey was that I let myself enjoy where I was. The transition point came while visiting the MCRD, Marine Corps Recruit Deport, which is where many Marines get their basic training. I visited the MCRD to get a feel for the place where my uncle Bud went through boot camp in 1944. I took an Uber to the base without problem. After visiting the museum there, I realized that I was stranded in a restricted facility where public transportation was unavailable.
While sitting in front of the PX munching on a chicken pesto wrap, I decided that I simply had to walk out. This was a bit daunting given the problems I had been experiencing. The Red Bull that accompanied my wrap and Cheetos gave me the energy to begin. Off I went for a half mile walk in the baking San Diego sun trying to find Gate 5. Upon arrival there, the guard was somewhat perplexed at an old man walking off his base and voluntarily surrendering his pass. The short walk from the gate to the Pass and ID center took me to the assistance of two guardian angels. One of the angels was dressed in Marine camo and the other was a civilian who was destined to be a mother within a few short months. They helped me recharge a dying phone battery and I was finally able to secure an Uber ride back to my campsite.
I spent two days in and around the Maritime Museum of San Diego. My initial hope was to get a feel for the naval presence in San Diego. On the first day, I made my way to the ticket booth for entrance into the museum. The attendant informed me that the only World War II focused exhibit was on the USS Midway, an aircraft carrier that has been transformed into a museum. It was about a half mile walk down the wharf.
As I was walking, I realized that it was lunch time and was hungry. The Brigantine Seafood and Oyster Bar caught my eye. It appeared a bit upscale and pricey, but what the hey, I decided to treat myself. I asked for an outside seat and was escorted to a narrow seating area running along the edge of the wharf. It was shielded from the cold ocean breeze by a six foot glass partition that provide a beautiful view of the bay and all of the aquatic activities. I dined on a wonderful lunch of sea bass, broccoli and garlic mashed potatoes.
There was a huge personal yacht moored at the Port of San Diego pier. It had its own private helicopter on the front deck. My mind wandered wildly as I imagined all the wonders that lay within her. Boats filled with Coppertone tanned buxom beauties would buzz the yacht and the Oyster bar waving at all of the onlookers. Being one of those people enjoying the view, I nestled back comfortably in my chair and sipped slowly from my chilled glass of a very excellent Sauvignon Blanc.
Following lunch, I walked down to the USS Midway. This was a wonderful experience, but fell short of my goal. Generally, the museum focuses on the breadth of the Midway’s service over the years. The World War II focus was on the Battle of Midway. On the other hand, it was exciting to be on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier. A tour was available of the Island which is the carriers control tower. One of the tour guides looked at my silver hair and walking stick and questioned the wisdom of my ascending the ladders to the bridge. Undaunted, I fashioned a lanyard for my stick from the cord attached to the provided talking tour device. With an internal chuckle I surmounted the challenge of shipboard ladders and narrow passages.
Standing on the bridge of an aircraft carrier overlooking the flight deck was a thrilling event. This flight deck was covered from one end to the other with carrier based aircraft of all kinds. There were fighter jets including a Korean War era FJ-2, a Viet Nam war era A-6 Intruder and an F-14 Tomcat. Alongside them were a WWII era TBM Avenger torpedo bomber, an early warning surveillance E-2 Hawkeye, as well as a C-1 Trader cargo aircraft. It was easy to exercise your imagination to see the constant movement across the deck and the incessant roar as an endless series of aircraft hurdle down the startlingly short deck runway to dip briefly out of sight and then soar towards azure blue skies. This had been a worthwhile and enjoyable trip, but it did little to enhance my knowledge of the role of San Diego as a Naval Base during WWII.
My second trip to the port of San Diego was to the Maritime Museum itself. The museum is a collection of a variety of seafaring craft including a schooner, submarines, a ferryboat and an old steam powered yacht among others. I made a reservation for a mid-day harbor tour on a Navy Swift Boat that visited the Navy shipyards of San Diego. Prior to the boat ride, I scoured the museum for information regarding the World War II presence of the Navy. Unfortunately, there was little and it mostly focused on aircraft carriers. My interest is focused on the Marine Corps and submarines.
The day was not a disappointment. For me, anytime on the water is joy. I scrambled for a seat in the bow of the boat as we left port. I’m not sure what I expected, but what I found was a continuous row of docks along the shore that housed the massive ships of the Navy Fleet. Some spots were obviously designed for repair and maintenance, while others appeared to be places of rest. I had initially envisioned an enclosed harbor dedicated to our fleet. What I found was a continuous shoreline occupied for a variety of purposes to support Naval operations. I never identified where the World War II submarine fleet may have resided.
The trip on the Swift Boat was a pleasure in and of itself. We left port slowly and made our way out into the middle of the bay. The captain piloted the boat at a moderate speed along the shore line that house our Navy fleet. There was a docent aboard who had served on an aircraft carrier during the Vietnam war. He was older than the boat and possibly God himself. I watched with wonder how his 80 year old legs remained steady as he crept across the deck. What he told us is a mystery as his words disappeared in a dispersed crackle from a malfunctioning audio system.
This particular boat was designed as a river boat. It was widely used in Vietnam for any number of missions. As a river boat, there is no keel and the bottom is very flat. The captain allowed passengers to take turns piloting the boat. I quite anxiously took my turn at the helm. While having navigated a number of craft on open waters, this was a challenge. Given the size of the craft and the lack of a keel, the boat was highly susceptible to influence of the wind. It was a good day.
Sunday, June 30, 2024 thru July 4, 2024 - Destination: Avila/Pismo Beach KOA
I was ready to move on as the holiday crowd had moved into Mission Bay. The drive to Avila/Pismo Beach was everything one would expect of a leisurely Sunday morning drive in Southern California. Following a brief one mile drive on surface streets, you are introduced to the mighty I-5. I had heard the constant drone of traffic while encamped at the Mission Bay RV Resort, but had been able to block it out. As Benjamin and I boldly sped down the entrance ramp, we became one with the metallic riptide of traffic within a sea of ever shifting automobiles and trucks.
The four to six lanes of interstate highway were filled to capacity as they twisted and heaved along the pathway from San Diego to Los Angeles. As we were swept along in the traffic like a bit of flotsam bobbing down a raging river, I realized that the occasional pair of CHP motor patrolman were there simply to annoy the other drivers. Some of those drivers appeared to be normal human beings concerned about their own safety and the safety of the people around them.
There were other drivers who blazed past with a viselike grip on their vehicle’s steering wheel, blood shot eyes bulging from their sockets, sweat streaming down their crimson faces and the tiniest bit of spittle dripping from their chins after making its way down from the foam bubbling from the corner of their mouths. These Dale Earnhardts of the highway would switch lanes Frogger style to gain a half a car length of advantage, only to loose it at the next slow down caused by the rubber banding traffic.
While this would seem like sufficient excitement, the So Cali culture held one more wonder to amaze the intrepid travelers in the WAyBAC machine. This was the needle threader. The needle threader comes in a variety of flavors. One of these flavors is the brightly bedecked rider straddling a flashy fat tired crotch rocket exuding a banshee scream as it speeds down the broken white lines between lines of stalled or slow moving cars. Another popular flavor is the denim cut covered leather jacket adorned rider sporting a half shell helmet sitting aloofly astride a pimped out hog emitting a guttural roar resembling the blast of a flatulent Brachiosaurus on its own journey between the lanes of traffic.
I breathed a sigh of relief while navigating the Burbank Boulevard exit ramp enroute to the Highway 101 coast road. Merrily humming the Johnny Carson theme song, I decided to pull into a convenient gas station to top off the tank. The sun was hot, hot, hot, but the pumps were shaded by an ample canopy to protect the customers. As I approached the pumps, there was a scruffy looking man in a tee shirt, shorts and sandals sitting sideways in the door of his car between the pumps chatting on the phone. It became clear that he was there for the shade and not the gas.
I politely asked the gentlemen to pull forward so that I could get to the pumps. This was a small gas station with tight turns and limited space. The response I received was a guttural go around. I calmly repeated my request with the same response. My continued appeals remained unheeded until that little switch in my brain flipped and kicked in my warrior gene. I quite politely flipped him two birds and called him some sort of an asshole, stopping short of saying anything negative about his mother or the horse she rode in on. He responded in kind and stepped toward the van. Without further utterance, I calmly reached up over my head and grabbed my shillelagh like walking stick out of its cradle. The young man stopped short and said, “I think I’ll move my car.”, to which I responded with an exuberant thank you.
Following my heart warming greeting by the Los Angelean welcome committee of one, Benjamin and I proceeded on our merry way. We cruised the coast road enjoying some occasionally spectacular vistas. All the while, I was humming fragments of songs by the Beach Boys, as well as Jan and Dean. Once a bit north of Los Angeles, the traffic ebbed and it was a pleasant journey. We arrived late but found the check-in packet at the gate and setup camp in our new temporary home.
The stay at Avila/Pismo Beach had been planned all along as down time. Except for a quick trip to the grocery, the WAyBAC machine stayed docked and hooked up to the utilities. A fair amount of the time was filled with mundane activities including laundry, cooking entrees for the week and napping. I was able to carve out a number of chunks of time for writing.
Another goal for this time was to get some exercise. Shortly after we got to Avila/Pismo Beach I decided to try riding my bike. I mean, I had hauled the thing all the way from Virginia and it was not for the purpose of being a symbol of machismo, but rather as a source of entertainment and exercise. Unfortunately, I discovered that the back tire was flat. Ah, but I was prepared.
Prior to departing Waynesboro I had researched bicycle tire pumps. The ones I really liked simply consumed too much of the precious cargo space. As a result, I settled on an inexpensive foot pump offered by the world renowned outdoor outfitter Walmart. Feeling quite proud of myself, I lowered my bike from the rear door rack and hooked up my recently acquired bike pump. It filled up the tire with ease and the built-in pressure gauge informed me when to stop. Of course when I tried to remove the pump nozzle from the tire valve stem, the pump nozzle immediately broke. This left me with a tire pump permanently attached to my bicycle.
I broke out the old tool kit and was finally able to disconnect the pump with a pair of channel locks. Of course the tire went flat again during the process. Not one to be got caught with my pants down, I typically have a back up for most things. In this case, the primary backup was the small tube like bicycle pump that had been attached to my bike’s frame for at least 15 years. Regardless of how hard I tried, I couldn’t get a single pump of air into the tire using that most fine piece of precision equipment. I had almost given up when I remembered that the WAyBAC had her own electric powered tire pump. Finally, I had a rideable bike.
I rode around the park that day, but didn’t venture any further. The Bob Jones trailhead was only about a quarter of a mile from the campground entrance. This Bob Jones was a California environmentalist, not to be confused with the Evangelist. Benjamin and I did brave walking across the bridges to the trailhead on a scouting mission on the same day that I got my bike roadworthy.
On the following day, I bravely set out to ride the 6 mile round trip of the trail. It was actually, a very nice level paved trail wide enough for parties to comfortably pass in opposite directions. That is to say comfortably pass if everyone is displaying a certain level of courtesy and decorum. Overall, it was a mostly pleasant ride. I had a remarkably similar experience with Californians on this trail as I had 30 years ago hiking some mountain trails in Marin County.
My impression has been that many California trail users are avid outdoorspeople, but have a certain sense of entitlement. To butcher Woody Guthry’s lyrics, “This is my land, this ain’t your land, from California to edge of Oregon…..” Everyone else is a bother and intruding upon their space on the trail. To make matters worse there are also the weekenders with their dogs that let them run across the trail both leashed and unleashed. That can be somewhat of a bother.
Independence day began as a chore day. I did laundry, sorted out some of the clutter in the van and packed up some of the camping gear in preparation of a departure the next day. Mr. Buttons and I walked to the trailhead again. Upon returning from our walk, we found that a tamale truck was in the park and bought a pack of
chile relleno tamales that later in the trip proved to be muy delicioso.
Being the fourth of July, there was a somewhat festive atmosphere that day. The American flag was displayed prominently and I pulled out my star spangled wind sock to hang from the camper awning. I celebrated the fourth with Morningstar Farms corn dogs and a beer. Even though it was a cold day with a high in the 60s, folks were out and about. I chatted up a number of folks and had a good day.
Friday, July 5, 2024 thru July 6, 2024 – Destination: Red Tail Ranch and Yosemite National Park
The day started off like any other departure day. I got up, made breakfast, and did the last few minutes of packing. Benjamin was a bit of a slug-a-bed and didn’t want to get out of his cozy nest. With some coaxing he finally got his lazy butt out of bed for his morning walk. He had breakfast, and we started off. My first stop was at the Bob Jones trail head for a short walk. To my chagrin, Benjamin Buttons decided he just wanted to poke around. We finally made it back to the van.
My first inclination was to drive to Pirates Cove beach since I had been within a few miles of beaches and not seen them. Following our unproductive stroll, I was becoming somewhat concerned about time. I blew off the side trip to the beach with full confidence that the sand, surf and ocean breezes weren’t that much different from other beaches I have visited. Possibly the only real down side was missing the chance to catch sight of one of those surf board riding California girls that the Beach Boys had conjured up in my mind so many years ago. Oh well.
Off to the grocery we went for last minute provisions and then we hit the road. I wasn’t very confident that the day would turn out well when I realized that the grocery I chosen was across town from the “101”. The shopping chores went smoothly and I decided to give Benjamin one last chance to relieve himself of what ever load he might have. Once again our short walk in the flower beds produced only sniffing and balking.
The ride across town seemed endless, and I was relieved to get on Highway 101 headed north. That relief was fleeting when I was greeted by a highway packed with holiday travelers and truckers. The roadways in that part of Southern California had an urban feel to me. There were a lot of exit ramps to worry about. I started to wonder if this part of the world was completely urbanized.
The traffic thinned out a bit once I got into the central valley and away from the coastal mountains. But then the roads ultimately led to I-5 with its own brand of torture. Fortunately, this last for only about 50 miles when Google Maps took me onto the back roads. Suddenly, the day took a turn for the better. The next several hours took us through flat open lands dotted with farms and orchards of all sorts. Our route crossed many irrigation ditches which are the only reason agriculture can exist in this fertile but water starved region.
Within about an hour of our destination, we entered the foothills and then the Sierra Nevada mountain range. This was a country of tan straw grasses dotted with green shrubs and short twisted trees. The route snaked through the foothills and then led into the mountains. For some reason, these mountains weren’t quite what I expected. I guess I had imagined something craggy like the Rockies. My impression was of a landscape somewhat akin to the Alleghanies wearing a southwestern costume.
I pulled into the Red Tail Ranch well in advance of sundown. Following the owner’s directions, I quickly found the two RV sites. The layout was a bit unconventional, but I figured it out. A group of oriental youths from the “Bay Area” were camped in one of the sites using a rented Cruise America clunker. They approached me to ask if they could use the sewer connection since their site apparently lacked one. I said okay, pulled into the welcome shade of a nearby tree and watched the fun. These were obviously newbies to camper life.
I chatted with one of the young folks about their trip to Yosemite. They had left the campground around 3 am to make sure they got into the park before 5 am. Evidently, he hadn’t slept at all that night and was at that almost goofy stage of exhaustion. They hadn’t had any problem getting into the park, so I was hopeful for my own prospects. Eventually, they finished their business and moved on.
As I was setting up for the night, it became very obvious that the electric hookups were non-functioning. Bummer. My travels to this area were right in the middle of an excessive heat wave. Air conditioning was going to be necessary for a decent nights sleep. A message from the owner indicated that there was a regional power outage of unknown duration. Needless to say, I fired up the generator.
A few minutes later, one of the owners drove up. She was quite apologetic and was delivering water to any who needed it. We chatted a bit and I found her to be quite pleasant. Sometime later her husband appeared on a four wheeler and was also quite perplexed by the situation. We chatted a bit and he went on his way. After munching on the last of the chile relleno tamales I had purchased, the owner reappeared. The power was back on and he was much relieved.
I offered Robb, one of the owners, a cold beer and we chatted for a bit. This was an interesting couple. Both were quite entrepreneurial and had a number of side gigs besides the ranch/campground. His main vocation was a photographer and has published a number of books on the geology and wildlife of Yosemite. Her main vocation was as a water conservationist who traveled extensively working with clients across California.
Well the evening was quite pleasant. I fed Benjamin and cleaned up the camper. There was minimal camper setup that night since I was determined to get up early and head into Yosemite. I had tried desperately to get a day use permit on the one day they were available. They were all whisked away while the only response I got was “System too busy to handle request”. National Park regulations did allow free entry without permit prior to 5:00 am. I was in bed by 10 pm feeling quite happy with the day.
Yosemite National Park
Even though I wasn’t completely adjusted to Pacific time, the 4:00 am alarm was still quite jarring. Washing my face and drinking some iced tea helped a bit. Once dressed, I unhooked the shore power cable and hopped into the cab of the WAyBAC Machine. We surged off into the Stygian night.
With no moon to light the way, the narrow twisting back roads from the ranch to the main road were a challenge. Wrangling roughly 4 tons of metal on mountain curves can prove to be a bit of a challenge. I was relieved upon reaching route 120 which was the main road into the western part of Yosemite. I proceeded on at what I considered a reasonable pace.
Soon I came to realize that I was not alone in my attempt to beat the clock to Yosemite Park. My fellow nocturnal travelers apparently disagreed with my definition of a reasonable pace. These were obviously deranged individuals as the sped around me on double yellow lines and blind curves at maddening speeds. It was clear that entry into the park was far more precious than life itself.
Determined to reach the park in one piece, I proceeded onward as fast as I thought prudent. I had given myself about 40 minutes to make a drive that Ms. Google had told me should be 32 minutes under normal circumstances. The road seemed to stretch unending through the black night. Finally, the speed limit dropped to 25 mph and lights appeared around a distant curve. I approached the entrance cautiously and interpreted the open sign to mean I could keep going. After all it was only 4:59 am and I had a minute to spare.
Not a hundred percent sure that my interpretation of the open sign was completely correct, I did keep an eye on the rearview mirror. It would not have been surprising to see an array of red and blue flashing lights approaching me rapidly. I reached the turn to Tuolomne Meadows with a clear view behind me and turned north with a small sigh of relief. I had grabbed the brass ring without incident and without a permit.
My first order of business was to stop for breakfast. Shortly after making the turn I came upon the Tuolomne Grove parking area. I guided the van stealthily into parking space some distance from some other early risers who were obviously napping a bit. Benjamin breakfasted on his usual bit of kibble while I made do with some cottage cheese, oatmeal and fruit. Settling down for a few winks seemed the logical thing to do at the time.
I napped until the sun had fully risen and driving would be pleasurable. We left our little hideaway and proceeded toward the meadows. It was an absolutely beautiful morning. One magnificent vista after another caught my eye and I would pull over to drink it in. After snapping a few pics, I would climb back into the van and start the journey anew. Tenaya Lake and Olmstead Point were two of the most memorable stops. From Olmstead Point, you get a wonderful view of the back side of Half Dome, as well as Clouds Rest. The culmination of this journey is the bright green expanses of Tuolomne Meadows.
Before heading back down to visit Yosemite Valley, I decided to stop into the Tuolomne Meadows Visitor Center. I wanted to make sure that there was nothing in the gift shop that I absolutely couldn't live without. Without warning, a Yosemite Conservancy cap and Yosemite Valley map leapt off the shelves. They attached themselves to my hand in such manner that I thought best to pay for them. I’ve heard that shoplifting in a National Park is federal offense and carries a good bit of Bubba time in a federal pen. Not my cup of tea.
When I got back to the van, Mr. Buttons was hopping around in the fashion that says “Take me out now or I will pee right here”. Leashing up, he hopped out of the van and did a beautiful one point face plant on the asphalt. He shook it off and we headed down a short trail. Approaching us from the opposite direction was a tall, slender old codger outfitted for long hikes. We chatted a bit and he indicated that he had run out of food. He was going to catch the bus down to Yosemite Village to do a bit of shopping.
Immediately parting ways, I turned and offered him a ride down the mountain. I was going there anyway and he seemed like a decent enough sort. He waited by the van while Benjamin did his business. As I walked toward the van a tiny voice was chanting, “Is anybody going to the village?”. It was a tiny young woman in her late teens or early twenties who had that deep brown tan of someone who worked outdoors I looked briefly at my new friend Brian, shrugged as I turned and said, “Sure, we are”.
After loading Brian’s gear in the van, the three Mess Kit’eers set off toward the heart of this magical place. The young lady told me her name, which immediately flew out my open window. I will call her Kim for lack of a better name. She, Brian and I began introducing ourselves and provided each other with some background information. It really is wise to know a bit about the people you travel with. I learned that the hard way, but that is an entirely different story.
Being a quite loquacious sort, Brian was the first to contribute. He was an avid long hiker and had spent a significant amount of time in and around Tioga Pass and Yosemite Valley. While planning this hike, he had counted on restocking at the Tuolumne Meadows Store, only to find that it was closed. Prior to retirement, he had spent 20 years as a merchant marine captain sailing the seven seas in the hire of whomever would pay top dollar.
Kim was a bright young college student majoring in Environmental Sciences. This summer, she was working at Yosemite restoring habitat. Last summer was spent in the Moab, Utah area doing similar projects. Her focus of study was endangered species, but was unsure if she would complete her degree. Her on the job training seemed of higher value to her than the time spent in the classroom.
After talking a bit about myself, we settled into an easy flowing conversation. At one point, Brian showed his deep love and study of Yosemite. He launched into the legend of Chief Tenaya for whom the lake is named. While legends differ, he was the leader of the Ahwahneechee people who lived in Yosemite Valley. It was said that they were feared by both Native Americans of the region and miners who intruded in search of shiny stones and metal. In 1853, Chief Tenaya was either stoned to death by fellow indigenous valley inhabitants or killed by a stone in gambling dispute with miners. The truth will remain hidden.
The ride down Tioga Road to the Yosemite Valley road was quite pleasant. We traveled as kindred spirits sharing our thoughts and hopes. That left hand turn toward the valley and Curry Village was a return to reality. I failed to mention that the date of our travels was Saturday, July 6, only two days after Independence Day. This was probably not the smartest day to visit Yosemite, but that was the way it worked out. I was quite happy that Kim was a denizen of the park. As we approached the center of the valley, the roads and open spaces became increasingly crowded with vehicles and amblers of all sorts. Kim helped me choose the correct turns to reach our chosen destination.
I haven’t found the visitation statistics for that fateful day, but past years have seen counts in excess of 8,000 cars per day. If you figure 2 to 5 people per vehicle that is a lot of folks before you through in those who came in buses. Needless to say Curry Village was covered in a blanket of vehicles and people resembling a swarm of red ants boiling from their hill after some young fool had peed down their entrance hole. In the parking lots the space between flesh and tons of metal was measured in inches. There was an international blend of sweat, frustration and give a shit attitudes.
The stream of shark parkers inched their way around the lots. Desperate drivers deftly dodged the double parked cars whose owners thought that emergency flashers made it okay to abandon their vehicles. On my second or third circuit, I became one with my peers and slipped brazenly into an open blue striped handicapped parking space. I whipped out Darlene’s placard and displayed it proudly. During the trip, I had been using it sparingly when my sciatica made it difficult for me to walk. On this day, I was leaning far more to the "give a damn" end of the spectrum.
A tree shaded the front of the van. I cranked up the generator and turned on the house AC. Together it brought the van to a comfortable temperature despite the 110 degree stagnant air. A late lunch of salad and some random bit of protein contributed to my fatigue. A nap was the saving grace. Upon awakening, I was refreshed enough to get the hell out of that God forsaken place. I’m sure that I caught a glimpse of the glorious Half Dome and El Capitan, but wouldn’t swear to it in court. Stopping for a quick pic was out of the question. Fortunately, the lanes leading out of the park flowed more smoothly than those in the opposite direction.
Finally, I made my way back to the Red Tail Ranch. It was quiet and peaceful as the sun started to set on a long and eventful day. The air cooled and the tension of the latter half of the day drifted away. All in all, it was a good day that I will remember with fondness. After a cold beer for me and time in the dog run for Benjamin, we settle down for the night. We were ready to head west.
Sunday, July 7, 2024 thru July 12, 2024 San Francisco North / Petaluma KOA RV Camping Resort
The day started out with the sunlight blanketing the golden grassy field. Cool morning air was stirred softly by a light breeze. Breakfast for both of us, a cup of coffee for me and prancing circuits in the dog run for Benjamin prepared us for our journey west. I was in good spirits as the WAyBAC Machine lumbered through the curving mountain roads.
The first part of our route was along pine forest embraced mountain roads that led through quaint western villages. Traffic was reasonably light enough for me to enjoy the ride and absorb the scenery. As it had on several occasions, the feeling of “belonging in this moment” warmly swept over me. I was at peace.
Descent of the final Sierra Nevada foothills introduced us to the rolling hills of Gold Country. The road led us past Black Jack Bluff and the Shores of Poker Flat. It meandered through small towns such as Chinese Camp, Yosemite Junction and Copperopolis. These mystical names conjured up visions of short grizzle bearded codgers whose sunbaked faces were only minimally shaded by wide brimmed battered hats. Accompanying these visions was the clanking of the gold pans strapped to the backs of weary over laden pack mules which added musical tones to the percussion of clip-clopping hooves on a stony trail.
Our modern day asphalt encased trail led us next into the Sacramento Valley. At first we encountered endless seas of golden warm season grasses. The fields lay like a peaceful blanket covering seemingly endless rolling hills. As the route approached the Sacramento River, the grasses were slowly replaced by orchards, vineyards and lush green fields covered by a myriad of crops.
Entering Stockton jarred me back to reality as I was reintroduced to the urban face of California. The Sunday morning traffic was picking up. When the route turned north on the I-5, peace and tranquility vanished instantly like a soap bubble bursting at the end of its short luminescent life. Fortunately, the maddening maze of meteoric glass and metal flashing through the stuttering stream of traffic was short. Within about 15 miles, I was relieved to exit the freeway for calmer westwardly highways.
After a bit of research, I had chosen as northerly a route around San Francisco as possible. The majority of the way was on two lane highways wandering through the countryside. Traffic was moderately heavy, but far better than what was to found the multilane freeways from hell. California’s GPS temporal paradox was far less prominent on the back roads. In these regions the ETA time didn’t decrease at a sun-time based rate, but at least it didn’t reverse. There were only sporadic distortions where time didn’t move at all.
Our destination was a KOA campground with a full array of amenities. My positive spirits in the last mile was based upon my decades of wonderful experiences across the nation. I had not factored in that California’s urban KOAs typically used a management style on modeled on what must have been used in The Eagles’ Hotel California or Stephen King’s Overlook Hotel. The warm golden aura that accompanies climbing from the cab of the van at a destination was swiftly blown away.
As a bit of an aside, every other KOA I have visited has clear instructions as to where one should park their rig while registering. Here there was a solitary stop sign at the entrance without any way faring or other instructions to the entering driver. As a result, I pulled up to the best parking spot that my tired mind could recognize. A short belligerent man in a yellow shirt approached me with a condescending scowl and waving finger. He informed me quickly that I was in the wrong place. With great restraint, I followed his orders after spewing a few words of disgust about the lack of signage rather than giving him a sound trundling about the head and shoulders.
Upon completing my registration, I returned to the van ready to proceed into the campground. The yellow shirted curmudgeon donned his sweet as apple pie customer service mask and opened that gate for me. Pausing briefly, I ate a bit of “fowl” tasting crow and apologized if I had displayed a somewhat combative attitude in our previous encounter. He quickly agreed my stance regarding a lack of clear signage and blamed the problem on management. I still felt like he fell well within the classification some sort of asshole.
I made my way slowly to my campsite and did a quick survey of the situation. All seemed in order. The site was an end unit within a short walk of the dog run. I found that despite the sloping terrain, the site itself was tolerably level. Once the van was in as an ideal a spot as possible, I began connecting all of the utilities which includes water, sewer and electricity. I soon found that the architects of the campground had been counting on a gravitational distortion in completing their design.
As a child, my family had made a whirlwind Griswold-like western sweep and visited California. One of our brief stops along the way was Knott’s Berry Farm. Cautiously exploring the Haunted Shack, I was awestruck to see water run up hill. Perhaps the designers of San Francisco North, Petaluma KOA were counting on a gravity vortex as seen in that shack or has been reported at Gravity Hill north of Los Angeles. Regardless of the source of their inspiration, these science fiction afflicted engineers placed the top of the sewer connection between seven to eight inches above the level of the parking area. To make a long story short, shit don’t run up hill.
Stubbornly, I resolved myself to face any challenges that arose. This part of the trip had been set aside as a chance to explore the San Francisco Bay area. I had chosen sites to visit that would give me context for the book I am writing about the lives of my mother, father and uncle in war-time 1944. My plans were to visit the USS Pampanito submarine moored at Fisherman’s Wharf. This was the last submarine my father had been assigned to. Other excursions would bring insight into the U.S. Navy’s World War II history in the bay area. I was planning to take advantage of public transportation to cross the bay on the Golden Gate Ferry and ride the trolley cars through San Francisco.
Needless to say, my plans were dashed against the rocks and life took a brief ninety degree turn. Benjamin’s vet had wanted to have a number of blood tests run to double check his blood sugar levels and kidney values. His visits to the vet in Erie had shown a lower blood sugar value that was shrugged off at the time. His vet had been alarmed and disagreed with the Erie vet’s diagnosis. After a number of phone calls, I determined the best way to have Benjamin’s health checked was to take him to emergency veterinary hospital in Rohnert Park.
To make a long story short, I never made it to San Francisco. The bulk of my time at the KOA was split among multiple visits to the vet, laundry, shopping, cooking, caring for Benjamin, developing a quest recovery plan and facilitating the uphill battle of poop vs gravity when the tanks needed dumping. After making a number of phone calls and writing frantic emails, I was able delay my arrival at the next few stops to make room on the calendar for a second attempt to visit San Francisco.
Saturday, July 13, 2024 thru July 16, 2024 San Francisco RV Resort, Pacifica, CA
I had prepared well for today’s escape. My plans were laid using my best estimates as to when to avoid the Sunday traffic. Within a few minutes, the WAyBAC Machine was purring down the 1 oh 1 in only moderate traffic. All seemed well on the western front. To my chagrin, the green signs announcing exits and entrances on to the freeway came with alarming regularity. They bore the names of communities including Haystack, San Antonio, San Marin, Novato, Terra Linda, San Rafael, Mill Valley, Tamalpais-Homestead and Sausalito. I was distressed to note that at each interchange few vehicles left, but there was a steady stream of fellow travelers entering the fray.
Breathing deeply and chanting OM MANI PADME HUM over and over, I proceeded as calmly as possible. Of course, I had no clue what the chant meant. Having heard it quite frequently during my brief stint as a quasi-hippie, I presumed that it would only help. As we approached the Golden Gate Bridge, I was anxious to experience the wonderous sights of the bridge and the bay. Shortly after passing the exit to Sausalito, a heavy fog began to roll in. This brought the challenge of driving to the level of Ben Hur charioting. Clearly, I was not to have peace and harmony nor achieve Nirvana.
With a slight shrug I fell back on a strategy that had been successful as I flew over the burning Burgan oil fields in Kuwait during late March or early April of 1991. I amped up my game with a blaring background of ZZ Top’s Terminator to set the mood. Where the calm chants had failed, the driving over amped Billy Gibbons riffs allowed me to become one with the surrounding chaos. The WAyBAC Machine smoothly maneuvered through the curves, conquered the hills and stayed steadfastly in the center of her lane. Then suddenly, I felt like a pilot landing on instruments through clouds at minimum elevations. The burnt orange cables of the Golden Gate bridge magically appeared before me and I was rolling across an iconic engineering marvel.
Needless to say, the low flying clouds made sightseeing impossible. I slipped passed vistas of Alcatraz, Mare Island and the Pacific Ocean completely unseen. That was probably for the best since rubbernecking may have led to my early demise in the madness of surrounding traffic. Of course, Benjamin was sleeping quite peacefully. Ultimately, the bridge crossing ended and we made a quick exit from the freeway and began to find our way along the city streets of San Francisco. Our path down Highway 1 led us through the Presidio and Golden Gate Park. We crept past neighborhoods filled with a wonderous display of architecture of all types and a multinational gumbo of inhabitants.
Hopes were high. We were headed to the San Francisco RV Resort in Pacifica, California. The luxury of a resort was going to be a welcome change from the inanity of our last campsite. Final approach went smoothly and I was greeted by a friendly young man. He checked me in without issue. As I meandered through the aisles of parked campers, I realized that this wasn’t living up to what I had imagined.
It had been the name San Francisco RV Resort and some carefully angled photos that set my expectations. I had conjured up the picture of a well-groomed 5 star campground adjoining pristine sparkling beaches filled with well muscled Coppertone tanned surfers. Fade to Beach Boys "I wish they all could be California girls............". Nope. This wonderful destination resort had the distinct feel of a Walmart parking lot outfitted with full hookups. There was no beach access due to cliff erosion. The Safeway parking lot on Highway 1 in this quaint sounding community of Pacifica was well appointed with old Amazon boxes and a proud display of an extensive assortment of litter of all types.
The good news was that the campground felt safe and its inhabitants seemed friendly and well behaved. The stop for the 110 bus that would get me to the BART was only about 1,000 feet from the main entrance. Functionally, the place would suit my goals to a T. Fortunately, I got an end spot in the corner of the campground, so it is about as private as I could hope for in such a fine establishment.
Setting up camp was quick and easy. I was becoming a bit more satisfied with my surroundings. While there was no fenced dog run, there was a grassy area that stretched from the front of campground to the fence overlooking the Pacific Ocean in the back. This area was only about 100 feet from the campsite, which was quite convenient. We walked around a bit and surveyed the ocean view. It was quite a spectacular sight to see about twenty-five feet of asphalt draped like a thick black curtain over the edge of the cliff. The protruding pipes from the cliff face made it clear that this had once been part of the campground. I was quite glad not to have gotten an ocean view site.
On our return, Benjamin and I met one of our close neighbors. This was a very friendly young man that I guessed was of Eastern European origin. His primary concern was that his blaring music wouldn’t bother us. I told him that he wasn’t bothering us and to enjoy himself. Obviously, he was ready to party but appeared to be all alone. He reminded me of Steve Martin’s wild and crazy guy on Saturday Night Live. I was too tired to boogy all night long and excused myself politely. Shortly thereafter, Benjamin and I had our respective suppers and turned in for the night.
San Francisco at Last
I had mapped out a lot of details as a part of planning my second attempt to visit San Francisco. I set the alarm clock for 5:00 am to give myself time to have a leisurely breakfast and easy walk to the bus stop. Sipping on my coffee, I double checked the schedule to find that the bus to the Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) station only ran hourly on the weekend. Undaunted, I booted the Uber app and summoned a car to pick me up. Krisia arrived in a short time and delivered me to the BART station in short order.
As I strode into the transit station, I realized that I had no clue what to do. I had assumed that my experience riding the Washington DC Metro prepared me for maneuvering through San Francisco’s mass transit system. That was simply not so. In DC there are clearly worded instructions posted in plain sight so newbies can make their way with confidence. San Francisco’s approach leaves much to the imagination with only a few garbled instructions.
For a number of minutes, I bounced from ticket machine to ticket machine in search of some modicum of information. It was quite obvious that I was a newbie stranger in a strange land. After a few minutes, I was approached by a down on his luck Jimi Hendrix look alike who had me pegged as a juicy target. I simply readjusted my grip on my shillelagh-like walking stick (got lots of compliments on the one I carried to Scotland) and he readjusted his interest. A very nice attendant helped me sort it all out and got me headed in the right direction.
The next challenge was figuring out the trolleys, which was pretty easy with a bit of help from Ms. Google. The BART station was a couple of blocks from the Embarcadero. I thought that would be the easiest spot to catch a trolley to Fisherman’s Wharf and the USS Pampanito. As I approached the Ferry Building on foot, I got a glimpse of a traffic snarl. A single white automobile had stopped completely blocking one of the lanes. I watched this unmoving vehicle for a few minutes and realized that there was no driver. This was my first encounter with a Waymo autonomous taxi.
To the vexation of the drivers behind it, the Waymo sat quite still with a number of cylinders on the hood merrily spinning away. Evidently, it was waiting for a fare with complete disregard for the results of its inaction. Finally, a break in traffic allowed the line of blocked cars to get around the errant taxi. The vehicle leading the charge around the Waymo was a well apportioned urban pickup truck. With his horn blaring and fist shaking, the pickup driver did a superb job of squealing his tires while creating quite the spectacle. I burst out laughing at the notion of a frustrated driver honking his horn and cursing at a vehicle with no driver.
I soon found my trolley stop by observing where a cluster of waiting people and the trolley tracks were in close proximity. Once on board the packed trolley car, a nice young Hispanic man offered me his seat and I gladly accepted. I got down to Pier 45 without incident and disembarked. As I was walking toward Fisherman’s Wharf, I had my second Waymo sighting. All three of the vehicles on the other side of the street stopped at the traffic light were Waymos. This was a curious glimpse into the future.
After buying my ticket to board the USS Pampanito, I decided to have a bite of lunch. I found a small restaurant about a block away. I had a mediocre crab chowder served in a Boudin sourdough bowl. As I sat and looked out the window, I noticed that something was awry. There were three police cruisers and about a half a dozen police officers in the parking lot adjacent to the restaurant. Two of them were talking to a couple standing next to a minivan. The rest of the officers were nonchalantly guarding the perimeter of the scene.
Courtesy Google Earth
Having slept through endless hours of Law & Order, as wells as having slept in a few Holiday Inn Express motels, I immediately realized that I was witnessing the interrogation of two potential perpetrators. Of course, I had no idea what they might have done. One of the people being interrogated was a tall skinny dorky looking man wearing a rumpled tee shirt, shorts and a brightly colored fanny pack. The other was a middle aged bruiser of a woman with brownish red hair and sporting a number of gaudy tattoos.
About halfway though my bread bowl of soup, there was a new development in the drama unfolding outside the window. A broad shouldered bullet proof vest wearing young officer with a high and tight haircut approached the van. He had been interviewing the man and left him under the watchful eye of his fellow officers. After opening the van’s side door a young boy aged 8 or 9 stepped out into the parking lot. He was a stout looking boy sporting a tee shirt, blue jeans, tennis shoes and a neon green cast on one arm. First impressions of him reminded me of a miniature Biff Tannen who had been Marty McFly’s nemesis in the movie Back to the Future.
The officer knelt and calmly talked to the young boy. Somehow this child was the focus of the police presence. The interview lasted some minutes before the officer rose and took one of the other officers aside. Following their conferences, the interviewing officer returned to the boy. The other officer pulled out his cell phone and began making some phone calls. The lanky male suspect paced nervously, fiddling with his fanny pack. Ultimately, he pulled out what appeared to be some sort of ID. The woman had been interviewed and stood glaring as events unfolded.
Ultimately, the officer on the telephone completed his phone calls. He reconvened his conference with the interviewing officer. There were a number of shoulder shrugs and sideways glances at the suspects. It appeared that the situation was approaching resolution. The interviewing officer spoke to the two adults for some time before turning his attention to the boy. The officer knelt and chatted with the lad for several minutes. Ultimately, he reached in his pocket retrieving a small plastic badge that he presented to the boy. Standing and turning on his heel, the interviewing officer joined his partner. Ultimately, everyone involved left the scene leaving behind the confused gawking faces of the on-lookers, myself included.
After finishing my dinner and a show, I spent a couple of hours on the USS Pampanito. I took a couple of hundred pictures and spent some considerable time sitting and absorbing the atmosphere. The tour was self-guided, so there ws no pressure to hurry. On the other hand, there was no one to answer questions. One of my questions had been whether the crew had access to news of world events beyond their immediate sphere of operations. Entering the crew’s mess, I was excited to see a Hughes Laboratory RBO-2 radio that could receive both short wave and commercial radio waves. Certainly radio news and entertainment broadcasts were available to them on some clear nights while running on the surface.
By the time I left the boat, I was ready to head home. Luck was with me all the way. I promptly found the correct trolley stop to get me back to the BART. Lo and behold, a trolley came clanging along within only a few short minutes and took me all the way to the station. The operator was quite friendly and took me under his wing. He made sure that I got off in the right place and directed me to where I should go.
I descended into the underworld of the subterranean railways with the help of elevator attendants and walked right into a waiting train. A few minutes later we were off. I joked with one of the elevator attendants about the ups and downs of her day. The attendants were there simply to keep ne’er do wells from wreaking havoc in the elevator cabs and to tell riders which button to push. What a bizarre life it must be to spend 8 hours every day riding an elevator up 2 floors and then down two floors in an endless cycle.
There were a couple of cabs waiting at the BART terminal, so I grabbed one back to the campground. The driver was chatty and very interesting. He was of Czech descent and his father had moved to Brazil after World War II. He was writing a book and hoped that he was close to publication. He was a retired magazine editor and cab driving was a side gig. One thing I learned from him was that the Pacifica is actually a well known whale watching spot.
While walking Benjamin that afternoon, I spoke to a couple of ladies with binoculars peering out into the ocean. They said the whales were active. I went back to the camper and grabbed my camera. I went out for about an hour trying to get an award winning whale photograph. The whales were cavorting a mile or so offshore which meant I had to use my camera’s longest telephoto setting. I was able to grab a fuzzy shot of a spout and another fuzzy shot of a breach, but they are barely recognizable. Nevertheless, it was fun afternoon diversion.
I was completely worn out that evening. All of the walking had gone well that day, but the back and leg pain kicked in early. I popped a few Ibuprofen and headed to bed early.
7/15/24
I awoke feeling quite refreshed. The daytrip into San Francisco had been a rousing success. I decided to write today and take do some mundane activities around the campsite. That notion was whisked away in short order. I had noticed that Benjamin was restless during night. When I took him for his first morning walk, I noticed a bare spot on his hindquarters that was rubbed raw. On closer inspection, I really didn't like the looks of it. After several phone calls, I found a vet within a few hundred yards of the campground as the crow flies. They were very helpful and very responsive.
Upon arrival at the vet, I saw that Benjamin had a larger spot on his belly that was also bare and raw. This was quite worrisome. The staff at the veterinary clinic was very welcoming and he was given a thorough exam. Basically, the diagnosis was that he is allergic to California. The vet seemed to think that Benjamin came in contact with pollen or some other agent in the environment that was causing him to itch. He licked the spots raw and then that led to infection. I told her that I didn't know exactly how long I would be in the region, but that I was ultimately planning on heading north up the coast to Washington State. She gave me enough meds and salves to last me 3 to 4 weeks.
The highlight of my day was one of those old man fantasies. One very attractive young technician at the veterinary clinic chatted me up a good bit. I sized her up as a bit of a wild spirit. She seemed genuinely interested in my travels and fell in love with Mr. Buttons. As we were leaving, she showed considerable interest in the van while make some wistful comment about living the good life. I drove away with a well satiated ego and a mind full of fantasies.
The nearest PetSmart was only a few blocks away. I purchased an inflatable collar to keep Benjamin from licking his wounds. Of course that pissed him off and he sulked around a bit. Stopping at the local Safeway, I purchased some cheese whiz to camouflage Benjamin’s meds per recommendation of the vet. I also purchased a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc to soothe my spirits. The rest of the day was spent doing laundry and winding down.
I was excited about the next day. It was to be a start of a new leg of the journey. My first stop was Shingle Springs, California which is east of Sacramento. I would be staying in the home of one of my high school and college best friends. We had a lot of catching up to do.
Wednesday, July 17, 2024 Shingle Springs, CA
I began the day with the normal routine of taking Mr. Buttons for his morning walk, fixing breakfast and breaking camp. While the campground was situated on the Pacifica shoreline, it was only a few short blocks away for the maddeningly twisted spaghetti of freeways. Upon launching into the stream of hurtling glass and metal, the WAyBAC machine was caught up in the flow. Our concrete path led through a maze of freeways that cut diagonally across the San Francisco Peninsula skirting downtown to the south.
Approaching San Francisco Bay, the freeway transforms into a double-decker that defines the boundary between the modern high rise glassy monoliths of downtown and lower brick encrusted structures built in decades long past. Almost without warning the freeway morphs into the San Francisco-Oakland Bridge. After sailing 100 or so feet above the waves for a couple of minutes, the double suspension bridge touches down on Yerba Buena Island.
The pungent California mint that once proliferated on this haven and gave Yerba Buena Island its name has become a rarity. For centuries the island was developed as a center for naval operations. While it is now just another San Francisco neighborhood, the Coast Guard still maintains a base on the eastern shore. Halfway across the island, your eyes and mind are assaulted with a bright, dark, bright strobe as the freeway blasts through a short tunnel. Almost immediately the roadway rolls across a beautiful modern self-anchored suspension bridge completed within the past 15 years.
Over the next 20 some miles the path led through a seemingly endless cityscape while skirting bays, crossing the Carquinez Strait and winding through low hills. Upon crossing American Canyon Creek I was relieved to begin traversing the foothills north of Sulphur Spring Mountain. My hopes of escaping the city and returning to a pastoral landscape were interrupted by a number of small cities along the way. That was the pace of the drive. My impression was of driving through endless city broken only occasionally by low mountain ranges and valleys. I was convinced that California had become a mosaic of endless city and exurb.
Of course, I hit Sacramento mid-day with the expected lunch hour traffic stop and go slowdowns. While the drive from the western edge of Sacramento to the end of the eastern suburbs is only about 30 miles, the drive took close to an hour. From there it was an only a short drive to Shingle Springs through an area mixed with barren hills and cityscape. I was full of excitement and anticipation as the faithful WAyBAC Machine climbed the exit ramp.
My hopes for a warm reunion were fulfilled in spades. Scott and his wife Peggy welcomed me into their home lik a long lost brother. It wasn’t long before I felt like I was at home. Scott and I have a deep history. We became close friends in high school while sitting next to each other in Mechanical Drawing class. While hanging at his childhood home, I was welcomed and felt like a part of the family. After that, we were college roommates for a year.
Needless to stay, it wasn’t long before we fell into old behaviors. As our antics became more pronounced, Peggy would sagely shake her head and mutter, “Two peas in a pod”. We spent endless hours laughing, reminiscing over youthful foolishness and spinning tales of our lives during intervening years.
It wasn’t long before we slipped into a bit of a routine. Peggy would insist on fixing a big breakfast of fruit and eggs smothered in Bitchin’ sauce, yum. During the mornings, I would write while Scott and Peggy went on with their daily routines. They made appointments for me with their chiropractor which did help my back a bit. As we spent the afternoons relaxing in the pool with a cool beverage, Benjamin Buttons would pace endlessly around their yard. Dinner was always topped off with a wee dram of Bourbon to compliment the evening’s activities.
The days were full and went by quickly. My stay in Shingle Springs ended up to be in two parts. My plans were to spend several days with another old friend in San Jose after leaving Scott and Peggy’s. They helped me process the anticipation of this next visit while sipping on a wee dram or floating in the pool. My next stop was to visit Cynthia. Over the years, she and I have had a somewhat complex relationship. We became friends in our youth and I visited her sporadically over the years. I have always cared deeply for her, but somehow the stars never aligned. Scott and Peggy convinced me to return to Shingle Springs after spending a few days in San Jose.
Wednesday, July 24, 2024 San Jose, CA
It was a lonely drive to San Jose. While working out the details of my visit, Cynthia had let me know that her cat was somewhat freaked out by the presence of dogs in her space. As a result, Mr. Buttons remained behind in Shingle Springs in order to maintain his vigilant pacing of Scott and Peggy’s property. He would be well cared for, but my wingman was gone.
Today, I was backtracking part of the route I had taken from San Francisco to Shingle Springs. At Cordelia, Ms. Google Maps courteously told me to head south through the San Ramon Valley. This route led through heavily populated areas, but somehow felt less urbanized for a while. The roadway was lined with Jersey Walls on one side and an almost continuous dirt mound on the other which helped mask the presence of the cityscape. The Las Trampas and Pleasonton Ridges were unambiguously present just to the west.
My mind wandered as I hurdled down a concrete artery chock-full of mid-week truckers and people scurrying about on who knows what kind of undertakings. I would be lying if I didn’t admit that the lilting notes of Dionne Warwick’s “Do You Know the Way to San Jose” kept swirling around in my head from time to time. The melody would intertwine itself with memories of days long past. The WAyBAC machine had me time-tripping.
If I remember correctly, Cynthia and I met at the Foxfield Races in Albemarle County, Virginia in either Fall ’73 or Spring ’74. I was trying to survive my academic endeavors with a college degree from Va Tech while spending a lot of time as a denizen of the Yippie House in Charlottesville. It was a colorful time of life chock full of adventure and exploration that left little time for studies. My youthful heart had me pursuing a deep relationship with Cynthia, but fate continually intervened in the most peculiar ways.
Both happiness and apprehension overwhelmed me when Cynthia welcomed me into her home in San Jose. I was ecstatic about reuniting with another old friend. Still feeling the pain of losing my soulmate less than a year before, my defenses were on high alert. It was a bit confusing, but still a Joyous reunion. As old friends do, we spent a lot of time talking about the old times, our shared experiences and a few deep secrets. Around the house, we played some games, watched the offerings of Britbox and made shrimp on the barbie. Cynthia let me help her assemble an Ikea TV console that was delivered while I was visiting. We worked as a natural team and it felt good to accomplish something together.
Part of our time was spent tooling about San Jose. We had high hopes for hand made cannolis only to find the shop permanently closed. Ever intrepid, Cynthia led us to a fabulous ice cream shop. The next day, we went downtown for Vietnamese noodles. The restaurant was a local dive with authentic and absolutely wonderful food. It was fascinating to discover the types of places that interest her.
While Cynthia’s condo is in an upscale part of San Jose, the area is still plagued with many of the tribulations of urban living. She is faced with one of the most iconic city dweller problems, RATS. Cynthia is a fiercely independent, creative, resourceful and persistent person. Rather than timidly shying away from the dreaded scourge, she tackled the problem head-on.
The Rat War was clearly evident in the small courtyard at Cynthia’s front door. Hav-a-Hart traps had been strategically placed throughout the area. It was a pleasant space adorned with small trees, low shrubs, a small pergola, ruby nectar filled hummingbird feeders and a suet holder meant to provide snacks for her winged friends. The mild meaty odor of suet that wafted tantalizingly throughout the area was too much for the Nefarious Rat Brigade.
Raids could come at any time of day or night. Despite his swift and stealthy approach, we caught one of the razor toothed ninja rodents in the act. Bucky Roofwalker, for lack of a better name crept silently across the neighbor’s roof to gain access to the trees lining the entrance to the courtyard. Scurrying swiftly down a trunk, he then deftly tiptoed across tree limbs and made a three foot leap to a bird feeder that would have made the Flying Wallendas proud. Snatching a morsel of bird food, he then tried to make his escape.
The normal escape route for these sons of germ infested dumpster marauders was to first climb the recess of the front window. An abandoned cable ran from the foyer roof to the top of the window where it made its entrance into the house. This slender wire was like an emergency escape ladder to the fur encrusted vermin with hand-like front paws. A blitzkrieg raid with a swift prize laden retreat was the norm. But alas, this was to be no more.
After some hours of observation and careful analysis, a devious plan began to form in Cynthia’s mind. She was not to be defeated. War had been declared upon her when the scavengers began to invade her avian sanctum. No doubt, Notchka the cat was an important confidant while musing battle strategies over a glass of wine. The solution finally became crystal clear. Cutting the cable eliminated the escape route. They would be trapped like a rat. Oh yeah, they are rats.
Back to the story of the arch nemesis, Mr. Bucky Roofwalker. His disdain for our presence was quite apparent as he deftly made his way along the escape route. He leapt from feeder to feeder and then dropped to the window ledge. A few quick steps and it was up the edge of the window recess to a short hop to the TV cable and freedom. Mid-leap it became apparent that something was drastically wrong. There was no cable and he went crashing to the ground.
Much to our amusement, this rat was a determined cuss. His mantra was obviously, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” We chuckled as we watched him repeatedly climb the window and make his leap of faith, only to crash to ground. After four or five attempts, he finally scampered across the ground toward the road in hasty retreat. This was one win for the humans, but I suspected the war rages on.
As we witnessed, the "cutting of the cable" had the desired effect. I know that Cynthia and Notchka celebrated their success over a glass of wine and possibly a pinch of catnip. But alas, as it is with many a victory, it had it's downside. Initial analysis had suggested that the particular cable in question was nothing more than an abandoned telephone line. Oops. Much to her chagrin, Cynthia soon realized that this particular cable was the entrance cable for the local ISP. But what the heck, a few days without email and Britbox streams were well worth it.
Prior to my visit, we had agreed that my visit would be short. Cynthia’s home is her safe haven. Her passion for birding and travel place her in highly socialized environments in widely divergent cultural settings. Home is a calm, quiet refuge to be disrupted only on rare occasions. I was fortunate that she was willing to share it with me briefly. Mild tension ebbed and flowed as my scheduled time of departure drew near. It became clear that it was time for me to go.
Saturday, July 27, 2024 Hy View Ranch, Thornton, CA
I didn’t rest that night and had nightmares for the first time since Darlene died. This is something I will have to ponder. After cleaning up and dressing, I slipped downstairs for a quick breakfast of coffee, cottage cheese and blueberries. Within about an hour, I had everything packed into the van and my bicycle back onto the rack. After doing a couple of quick chores, I went back upstairs to say goodbye. Cynthia was just getting up and asked me to wait. We walked over to the van so she could look it over. I hugged her, gave her a kiss on the forehead. We said our goodbyes, which felt more like farewells, and promised to keep in better touch.
Traffic in San Jose was actually reasonably light, but had the feel of people escaping for the weekend, I made it to Thornton without major incident. There was a constant flow of traffic with only one episode where we dropped below 45 mph. I stopped at the Trader Joe's in Stockton to get groceries. As my first experience at one, it was a fun experience. On the other hand, I ended up going to Sprout's to pick up food for Benjamin. Scott had texted me that Benjamin’s food was running out.
The Hy View Ranch is an intriguing spot. The owner, Frank, is in his mid 80's and quite a character. He is spry and quite gregarious. We stood and chatted for a while before he would show me the campsite. I got half of his life story then and the other half over the course of the day. There were a number of bits of information that he made sure I knew by repeating them several times. The first was that his heritage was Spanish and French, not Mexican. Secondly, the toughest time for him in his entrepreneurial life were when Democrats held the oval office (Carter had been an especially tough time).
The third and most important point was that he was packing heat. Evidently, there had been some murders somewhere and “everyone” was advising him to carry a gun. He had what appeared to be a 9mm semi-automatic pistol neatly thrust into his left pants pocket. He assured me that he had been a member of the NRA for years and was well versed in gun safety.
Over the period of the day, I saw Frank on a couple of more occasions. He showed up at my campsite after showing another camper to their spot. That was a young father and his daughter for an overnight campout, as well as some swimming and fishing in the Mockelumne River. The river serves as his northern and eastern property lines. It flows between two high levies. Ultimately, it flows into the San Joaquin. According to Frank it is the only uncontrolled river in California. He says there are smallmouth bass, largemouth bass and catfish in the river. At times, there have been sturgeon, sea bass and salmon caught in the river.
The afternoon was quite cool and pleasant. Besides writing a bit, I took a one and quarter mile walk yesterday without any major problem. I am becoming more optimistic about my back and leg. About half way through my walk, I rounded a curve on the roadway on top of the levy to see Frank’s truck parked in the shade of a grand old tree. I could hear melodious notes drifting through the open window. At first, I wasn’t sure that he was in the truck. As I got closer I could see that he was fast asleep, mouth agape and his snow white beard and hair a sharp contrast to his sunbaked skin. Later that day, he told me that he would drive up there on nice days to listen to Christian music and sip on a glass of wine. I walked on quietly and made sure that I didn’t startle him. I was thinking of that 9 mil lurking in his pocket.
The evening was quite pleasant. The air was cool and kept the screened doors and windows of the van open. My neighboring campers fixed a typical camp dinner and had a bonfire. Seeing them interacting brought back some pleasant memories of time spent with Katie as she was growing up. I spent some time completing my travel plans in California. After that, I briefly sauteed some precooked shrimp in olive oil and spices. The shrimp on a bed of spinach and lettuce, topped with grated parmesan and some pistachios served as dinner. After eating dinner and enjoying a couple of glasses of Trader Joe’s Reserve Sauvignon Blanc I was ready for bed.
Sunday, July 28, 2024 Hy View Ranch Thornton, CA
I slept well last night and stayed in bed until around 7:00 am. I hadn’t looked at the weather forecast before going to bed. As a result, I missed the fact that the lows would be in the mid-50s and didn’t turn on the furnace. I realized during the night that it was getting cold, but was too lazy to do anything about it. It was much easier just to snuggle deeper into my warm blankets and pillows.
Following breakfast, most of the morning was spent identifying the major stops of interest between California and Colorado. I had texted Katie last evening and we agreed to chat this morning. I reached out to her around 10 am and she called about 20 minutes later. It appears that we would be able to do a meet in Yellowstone. She and Jason were flying up to West Yellowstone for their anniversary. The private airport there has a campground and Jason rented a plane for the trip. I planned to get to Yellowstone a couple of days ahead of them. My campground was in the center of the park, which is about 60 miles from the airport.
I had a few moments of sorrow this morning. As I stood fixing my breakfast, my thoughts shifted to Benjamin. He was safe and I suppose content being pampered by Scott and Peggy. While traveling, my breakfast preparations are his cue to begin stirring from his bed. To my constant consternation he shouldered his way to the closest point where the tiniest morsel of food might miraculously spill down from above. Today, he wasn’t there. I was alone. My mind drifted to Darlene and wondered why she wasn’t here to share my escapades. I had to remind myself that with the passing of a loved one, there is no why.
This brief interlude among rows of Pinot Noir grapes, Catalpa trees, Crepe Myrtles, rusting farm implements and pipes was intended to be a moment of respite and reflection. It has proven to be just what I needed. I have been in California for over a month. The time has been a worthy investment in research for my book. More importantly it has been a chance to reconnect with important people from my past. The WAyBAC machine hasn’t taken me to those olden times, but rather shown me glimpses of happy times, much like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
I look forward to the next several days of comradery and peace with Scott and Peggy. On the other hand, I am ready to move on. I will make a slow crawl up the coast and finally turn my face to the east. It will be a slow, eventful and wonderful trip back to Virginia. There are still curiosities to satiate, but I am more confident that I am closing a chapter in my life and beginning a new one filled with unknown wonders and sorrows.
Monday, July 29, 2024 thru August 2, 2024 3734 Whispering Pines Ln, Shingle Springs, CA
After another restful night, the morning presented itself with cool breezes, plenty of warm sunshine and the ruby blossom of the crepe myrtles. This two day break had provided the perfect respite. I was leaving Frank and his domain in great spirits. My route from Hy View Ranch to Shingle Springs followed back roads the majority of the way. The first part wound among agricultural fields of all sorts thriving on flat river delta lands.
The ranch was situated in eastern part of the Sacramento-San Joaquin River Delta. This is a unique area that covers over 1,000 square miles in central California. Hundreds of rivers, tributaries and streams form a mosaic patchwork of islands and tracts covered in a layer of rich soil. Crops of fruit, vegetables and grains of all sorts thrive in the fertile fields. The fields, waterways and preserves are home to undreds of species of fish and other wildlife.
I was at peace, drinking in the abounding beauty of the countryside while the WAyBAC glided on black ribbons of road that occasionally kerchunked across irrigation ditches. Alas, this was to end and I began to approach the urbanized areas that lined California’s
major roadways. Scott sent me a text message inquiring about my ETA. I quickly responded that I would be there in about 30 minutes. It was at that moment that the Fates remembered me.
The landscape was a sea of golden grass that rolled out like a carpet to the low foothills in the distance. I remember trying to take a picture by steading my hand on the gear shift lever. As the van jolted across a bad patch of road, warning messages began flashing across the console. I quickly pulled over and followed the instructions to no avail. It was clear that something had gone awry with the transmission.
Within a few minutes, I was able located the closest Ram dealer and map out a route. It was only about seven and a half miles. The WAyBAC would still move, but it was clearly stuck in a high gear. I let Scott know what was happening and started creeping my way toward the Folsom Lake. Needless to say these were anxious moments. All was going well and I became more confident that my destination would be reached without further mishap. Wrong!!
The last leg of the short trip to the dealership was on US Highway 50. It is a major four lane limited access highway and the onramp I needed was on the opposite side of an overpass. As luck would have it, the stoplight changed just as I was approaching the top of the overpass. Once the light turned green, the WAyBAC refused to move forward. The steep slope of the roadway was too much for the high gear the transmission was stuck in. So, I put it in neutral and managed to drift back off of the road.
My years of AAA membership finally paid off. A new bright shiny daisy yellow rollback tow truck was dispatched and arrived in short order. The driver was a skilled, cautious and intelligent young man, determined to do a good job. I could only shrug when he asked the weight of my vehicle. We both began searching the web for the weight of a RAM Promaster 3500 HD and quickly had an estimate of around 6,500 pounds. Fortunately, this was in the limits of his tow vehicle.
As I watched the young driver load the van on the truck, it became apparent that he was a bit perplexed. He double checked all of his connections and took a number of precautions. Once the van was loaded, he dogged it down and we were ready to roll. Well, it was more like a rock and roll. The driver was extremely cautious as he made his way toward the Ram dealership. He commented several times that the WAyBAC was a beast. Later that day, I found out that the of the van with the Airstream outfit was closer to 9,500 pounds which is about 3,000 pound more than the tow vehicle capacity. Fortunately, we made it to our destination without incident and he turned me over to care of the Folsom Lake Chrysler Dodge Ram Service Department.
My afternoon was spent in the waiting room of the dealership. The service department was accommodating and worked me into their schedule. Even so, it wasn’t quick. As time wore on, it became clear that I wouldn’t get the van back that afternoon. After consulting with the service manager, I rented a car to continue my return to Shingle Springs and the refuge of Scott and Peggy’s home.
Over the next few days, we fell back into the same pleasant sequence established on the first half of my visit with them. We joked, laughed, floated in the pool and sipped on iced bourbon. Our routine was broken by trips to the store and the chiropractor. Peggy actually let me fix one meal with only minor protestation. Later in the week, I was able to return to Folsom to pickup the WAyBAC once she had served out her sentence. All they did was a software update and all was well. Go figure.
There was one major of out of the routine event that week. Scott’s rock and roll band held a practice in his backyard music studio one afternoon. I lounged on the sofa and did my best groupie thing while sipping on a cold beer. The band leader overindulged a bit and confessed that he was jealous of my nomadic life. Needless to say, it was an entertaining afternoon.
The final few days of my visit with Scott and Peggy were mostly very pleasant. I had the wonderful opportunity to meet with members of their respective families. Unfortunately, Peggy fell during one of the nights and was pretty banged up. Being the stoic type, she maintained her equilibrium and kept on with her normal life activities. Even with that unfortunate event, my time with them was precious and will be a cherished memory.
Saturday, August 3, 2024 DanDan Farm, American Canyon, CA
The morning began on a leisurely pace. We drank coffee and ate another of Peggy’s wonderful breakfasts of scrambled eggs, sausage and strawberries. After that, I gathered the remainder of my belongings and transferred them into the van. Peggy packed me a goody bag reminiscent of one a mother would pack her son as he left for summer camp. There was a bittersweet moment saying goodbyes to Scott and Peggy while transitioning back to my quest. I slowly drove out the gate waving good bye and turned down Whispering Pines Lane.
Traffic was moderate but steady from Shingle Springs to Sacramento. From that point on, traffic increased steadily the further I drove. Ultimately, there were a lot of traffic slow downs and rubber banding, but there was no grinding to a halt. I experienced the California GPS time warp again. This phenomenon is where miles to destination keep going down but the time to destination keeps staying the same or going up. Upon nearing the end of my day’s journey, I missed the last major exit. This cost me about 10 miles. It turned out okay, because my new route took me past a number of gas stations and I took the opportunity to stop and refuel. This was to be a boondocking day with no utilities at the campsight so having a full tank of gas was important.
The directions to the farm were quite unclear. Google maps showed two locations to the address in question. The two locations weren’t far apart, but in distinctly different. Fortunately, I had chosen the site that appeared more remote and more likely to be an olive farm. Upon arriving at the turn off of the main road, the address displayed on a roadside fence line was clearly not the one for Dan Dan farm. I pulled over to check the maps and this appeared to be the right road though it was unnamed. As I sat there, a young woman in a pickup truck approached from the opposite direction. I tried to wave her down, but she waved back and cheerily went on her way.
While enjoying my last days with Scott and Peggy, I had ignored the messaging from Harvest Hosts for the most part. I had received an email that indicated that I should use the gate code and follow the directions provided on the day of arrival. While sitting in the van at the crossroads, I scanned the messages for directions to the farm. There was nothing to indicate how to get to the farm. I noted the gate code and blew off the rest of the messaging.
Well, I decided to forge ahead into the unknown. As I drove, I noticed that there were gated entrances with different farm names worked into wrought iron or a decorative placard. The drive was quite beautiful as I rolled through hills and vales of grapevines and groves of trees. I finally came upon a sign showing the correct address and farm name. Relieved, I turned into the lane and proceeded up the hill. The final approach led to huge iron gate with a key code entrance system. I punched the keys and the gate slowly swung open. I was finally at my destination.
This was a Harvest Host location and the first of which I had visited. Not sure what to expect I continued slowly in order to scope the place out. The layout and signage for camping was not very clear. Near the top of the hill stood a grand mansion. My best guess is that the house contained between 15,000 and 20,000 square feet under the roof. Shortly before reaching the house, I noticed a gravel parking lot carved out of the side the hill. A sign had the letters HH and an arrow pointing to the lot, as well as an arrow pointing up the hill along with the word barn.
The last message I had received indicated that there was a single site with electricity at the clubhouse/barn. Hopeful, I drove on in search of the barn. I passed the house noting the opulent surroundings and the herd of expensive cars in the driveway. My mind’s eye held a picture of swanky guest clubhouse with cushy furnishings in which guests could lounge and sip on a chilled glass of wine. Shortly after the lane passed the house, it turned from asphalt to gravel on a final steep rise to a small garage type structure that would have been better suited to East L A.
I stopped just short of the top of the rise to survey the situation. There was already a camper parked next to the “barn”. A pickup truck was parked on the slab directly below a canopy protruding from the front of the building. Seated comfortably in a camping chair underneath the canopy was a man sipping on a cool beverage next to a large black lab. I decided to pull up to the barn with no avail. The van was perched on a gravel road with an estimated 15% slope. As I slowly mashed the accelerator, it became quite clear that the inertia of my almost 9,000 pound van was winning as the tires spun freely in the gravel.
Rolling back down the lane a bit gave me the running start I needed to top the rise. I chatted up the gentlemen in the chair, who was quite friendly but also a guest as clueless as I was. The inside of the barn was a large open space with a couple of chairs, kitchen appliances, two bathrooms and a countertop sporting a display of overpriced items you were clearly supposed to buy. I made my required purchase of $40 for a bottle of olive oil and ignored the rest.
My fellow guest showed me a long extension cord curled on the floor and suggested that I could use it while parking in front of the “barn”. I surveyed the situation and decided that looking at the farm implements and listening to the fenced goats that surrounded the site weren’t quite the environment I wanted for a quiet evening. With a quick thanks to my camping comrade, I rolled easily back down the hill, past the mansion to the gravel Harvest Host parking lot.
Much to my chagrin, I found the Harvest Host camping area to be amateurishly built. It sloped in two directions and there was no indication of how the proprietor expected campers to park. To no avail, I searched for a semi-level spot and decide to setup in the center of the lot toward the rear. As I was headed up the hill to walk Benjamin, another van pulled in and parked. The van was an all black, four wheel drive with a lift kit, Sprinter based Winnebago that was outfitted in such a way that Mad Max would have proudly guided through a dystopian desert in search of Thunderdome. There was plenty of room in the gravel lot, but my hopes of solitude were whisked away in the hot California breeze. They ended up to be a nice younger couple.
The woman indicated that she had read a requirement to register at the barn and off she went up the hill. I decided to check it out, so I hiked back up the hill in the blazing heat of the sun to do my due diligence. In passing their van, the man was pulling out a White Claw which promptly fell to the ground and was punctured on a sharp piece of gravel. As he picked it up, it was spewing his much desired beverage from a small hole in the side, resembling a fountain cherub merrily peeing into a fountain. Upon returning from my hike up the hill, I crawled up in the bunk and took a much needed nap.
Later that evening, the couple and I watched the sun set behind the distant hills. The husband and I did the manly thing and showed off our vans to each other. We swapped camping stories for a while, as the wife scratched Benjamin’s head to his continuing pleasure. I made one comment about future campers and wondered if the next generation would be electrified. Well, that got quite a reaction and I quickly realized that I was in the company of a non-liberal persuasion. Finding a quick exit to that line of conversation, we passed the rest of the evening in pleasant conversation.
I finally begged off and climbed into the van. The evening brought much appreciated cool breezes. After straightening up the van, I crawled into bed and quickly drifted off to sleep. Benjamin woke me around 2:40 am for a mid-night pee run. Other than that, we spent a peaceful night. This had been a good day.
Sunday, August 4, 2024 thru August 6, 2024 Stillwater Cove
Following the completion of my normal morning routine, I decided to take a short walk. Dan Dan Farm is perched on the side of a steep hill and provided me with a short but energetic stroll. My primary mission was to get a decent picture of the mansion. The steep grade, landscaping and the position of the house made it tough to get a good shot. No biggy, I was totally under impressed by the place.
I fired up the WAyBAC mid-morning and headed down the hillside. The path was ringed with an eye-pleasing panorama of emerald green crops set within golden grasses of surrounding fields. Once on the main roads, the day’s route began by passing through predominantly agricultural lands just north of the Sonoma-Napa marshlands. It then wound through a low pass in the Sonoma Mountains on Stage Gulch Road. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I was retracing my earlier route to Petaluma. I was in familiar territory.
Once through Petaluma, urbanization was finally behind me. The road twisted its way through the low rolling hills of California’s North Coast Mountain Ranges. Lush green vegetation lined the path as it meandered through the Americano Creek valley. Approaching the coast, the hills became more prominent as they transformed into low mountains. The road passed through the 300 foot deep trough of Dry Gulch before the calm blue waters of Bodega Bay finally revealed themselves.
Hmm, Bodega Bay. That name on the map had been haunting me like a persistent itch that I couldn’t reach. Finally, I put two and two together. Bodega Bay was the setting for Alfred Hitchcock’s 1963 thriller, “The Birds”. For those too young to remember, this is the story of a troubled woman who ends up in a small coastal community marauded by massive flocks of peckish birds. To the backdrop of increasingly edgy musical tunes, the birds would amass one by one on power lines, rooftops and jungle gyms until they were jammed shoulder to shoulder like so many punk rockers in a mosh pit. Too bad for the poor unsuspecting soul that wandered by.
![Hitchcock, A. (Director). (1963). The Birds [Film]. Universal Pictures](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/bfca94_bdb088c4773b43be882b1266a212c286~mv2.jpg/v1/fill/w_980,h_183,al_c,q_80,usm_0.66_1.00_0.01,enc_avif,quality_auto/bfca94_bdb088c4773b43be882b1266a212c286~mv2.jpg)
Once I made the connection, there was absolutely no way that I was going to casually breeze through. Low and behold, I found the Tides Inn. This was one of the major settings for Hitchcock’s tense twisted tale of terror. I turned the WAyBAC into the parking lot and finally found a suitable parking spot. After a brief walk, Benjamin settled into his bed and snuggled down into his favorite cushy blanket. I grabbed my camera and set off in search of BIRDS and possibly a bite of lunch.
While displaying a modest exterior, The Tides Inn had a nicely apportioned interior. Most tables had a nice view of the bay through expansive windows. I treated myself to excellent meal of eggplant parmigiana, a side salad and a chilled glass of Pinot Grigio. As a I ate, images of the movie’s stars, Tippi Hedren, Suzanne Pleshette and Rod Taylor drifted through my mind like the whisps of ghosts just our of sight. Fortunately, I was able to suppress the memory that the avian assassins in Hitchcock’s tale relished people’s eyeballs as a tasty morsel.
After lunch, I spent a few minutes wandering around the premises. There was a pleasant breeze lightly perfumed with the unique tidal basin perfume of recently dead fish with just a hint of sea salt. While hanging out on the dock, I grabbed a few pictures of water birds. To my delight, I spied a flock of seagulls basking in the sun on the roof of an outbuilding. Unfortunately, they were about as menacing as a group of SPF 90 slathered little old ladies in floppy hats gathered on the Jersey shore. After a while, I got bored and decided it was about time I started cruising up the coast.
Following a quick nap, I wheeled the WAyBAC out of the parking lot and pointed her northbound on Highway 1. The white striped ebony ribbon hugged the coastline. It twisted along the precipices of shoreline crags that dropped sharply to narrow beaches bejeweled with Raven colored volcanic boulders and rare splashes of white sand. Stopping to drink in the sites and to grab a few photos stretched the 25 mile out over several hours.
I arrived at the campground late and tired. The layout of the small regional park was a bit of maze and I had some trouble locating my campsite. Finally, I happened upon the camp host and was cheerily shown where I was supposed to set up camp. The site turned out to be quite challenging as it was simply a wide spot in the asphalt drive on a very steep slope. Numerous attempts to level the front end of the van using my Lynx blocks ended in utter failure.
I decided to abandon both my efforts and this campground. I sought out the camp hostess and told her that I was going try for an additional 2 nights at my next stop up the coast. She consulted her husband and they moved me to very nice level site adjacent to theirs. It struck me a bit odd that they were using such a good site as overflow. Of course it did make sense when I realized that they were using it their own personal vehicle.
Finally situated in our campsite, Benjamin and I relaxed a bit. Despite, a heavy tree canopy, I was able to find a small patch of blue. The Starlink dish was soon happily chatting away with its stellar companions. After dinner, I streamed a couple of shows on my laptop. As the dark of the evening enveloped us, we went for a short walk and then turned in for the night.
I awoke the next day feeling refreshed. This was to be a leisurely day spent writing and walking about. The park touted both a cove beach and a private redwood canyon. Early in the afternoon, Mr. Buttons and I decide to hike down into the canyon to head to the cove. Unfortunately, my encounters with fellow wanderers once again reinforced my jaded sense of the egocentricity of the native California hiker.
Shortly after beginning our descent among the towering peaceful redwoods, a couple approached us on the trail from below. Flailing his arms wildly like one of those air clowns at a used car dealership, the man began shooing us away. His grim-faced female companion had a two-handed death grip on one end of a leash occupied by a large white dog on the business end. This particular canine was dancing around on the end of its tether like a whirling dervish as the owner leaned back with all of her weight and strained straightened arms. It might have been humorous if I hadn’t been forced to pick up Benjamin and carry him back up to the top of the trail.
Following this encounter, I once again set my mind at peace, again hoping to drink in the joys of sylvan tranquility along the trail. We made an incident free descent and headed for the cove. The trail ends abruptly at the edge of the highway and continues 50 to 100 yards north on the opposite side of the roadway. In this particular section, Highway 1 descends rapidly from both directions through a hairpin curve. Needless to say, many of the motorists are in full Mario Andretti mode as they conquer this challenge. This road crossing is quite stimulating.
Within a few yards, the trail entered the cove. The vista is absolutely stunning with a ivory sandy beach nestled between two ebony cliffs. Sharp outcroppings of black volcanic rock protruded into the deep blue water. White tipped waves crashed into the rocks and rolled gently up the beach. Peace and tranquility enveloped me like a warm blanket. Unfortunately, that moment of communing with nature was fleeting and brought to an abrupt end by the insensitivity of more fellow travelers.
A young family was frolicking about in the surf at the base of the southern cliff of the cove. Young children were clambering over the lava boulders that protruded into the cove. The parents watched calmly without regard for the dangers of surf crashing against boulders or the possibility of riptides. I guess that was their prerogative and really none of my business. On the other hand, they had tied two large German Shepherds to a piece of driftwood in the middle of the beach.
Upon sighting Benjamin and I, the dynamic dog duo began barking loudly and lunging in our direction. Straining at their tethers, they would have made proud any musher preparing for the Iditarod. Charging in harmony the canine couple were able to advance in our direction despite being secured to the weathered remains of a tree trunk. I stood calmly with a watchful eye while shifting the grip on my walking stick to shillelagh mode. Ultimately, the father heard the barking and rambled up the beach to retrieve the dogs. Without a word, he begrudgingly accompanied the terrible twosome down the beach to rejoin his family.
Benjamin and I found a spot to sit while we enjoyed our surroundings. The warm afternoon sun was a pleasant juxtaposition to the cool breezes. The sight, sounds, smell and feel of the ocean had a calming peaceful effect. After a few quiet moments we sauntered back up the trail and crossed the road frogger stye in order to reenter the small canyon. I stopped from time to time along the way to capture a few images. While taking a picture just at the base of the path that led out of the canyon, I noticed a woman hiker waiting in ambuscade at the fork in the trail. Her lurking didn’t feel nefarious, but rather refreshingly courteous as she waited for me to finish my task. I said hello and then wandered back to the campsite.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Mr. Buttons and I followed our normal afternoon and evening rituals. After supper, I stowed everything in preparation for breaking camp the next day.
Tuesday, August 6, 2024 thru Friday, August 9, 2024 Manchester KOA
It was a short drive from Stillwater Cove to Manchester. We arrived without incident and the campground staff was kind enough to let me setup camp early. By design, this was to be a respite stay of several days. I had found it difficult for me to maintain the nomadic life without stopping periodically to catch up on life. KOA campgrounds offer the amenities of fenced dog parks and laundromats which make them ideal for these stays.
Most of the time here was spent performing mundane activities. Most of my time was spent writing my journal. I did some minor repairs and upfits to the van, as well as doing laundry. In the afternoons Benjamin and I would spend some time in the dog park. He would sniff about endlessly while I sipped on a cold beer. Of course, during idle times, it is easy to let one’s mind wander.
One of the curiosities I noted was of an attractive middle aged lady staying in a rental RV. It was apparent to me that she was a newbie to the whole camping thing. At first, I thought that she was alone and just naturally a bit stand-offish. Most inhabitants of RV parks are friendly and quite chatty. Not this young lady. It was quite clear that she had no interest in communicating with me or any of the other surrounding campers. I guess it was my second day at the KOA when I noticed her in the company of a swarthy youngish man wearing a knit cap.
An odd thing about the mysterious duo was that they kept changing campsites. This happened two or three times before they ended up in the back corner of the campground about 5 sites down from mine. Of course my mind had to take the most lascivious route. I became convinced that I was witnessing a modern day Mrs. Robinson deep in a clandestine affair with one of her students. It was probably just a mother enjoying a getaway with her son. Speculating about some juicy torrid affair was a lot more entertaining for me. On the other hand, Benjamin could have cared less.
Friday, August 9, 2024 thru Monday, August 12, 2024 Shelter Cove
It was a glorious cool morning under azure skies dotted with cotton ball clouds. Light ocean breezes and the bright sunlight were energizing. Following breakfast, a short walk and a cup of coffee, I was ready to continue my journey north. Today’s planned destination’s name gave it a most mysterious aura. The Lost Coast conjured up notions of foul smelling pirates, shipwrecked schooners and ghostly figures skulking about almost unseen in a heavy bank of fog. On the other hand, Shelter Cove had the ring of a peaceful safe refuge within that shadowy Neverland.
The WAyBAC’s engine hummed steadily as we wound our way north. Spectacular ocean and coastline views greeted us at almost every turn. Emerald and golden rolling hills drifted by on our right with the mighty Pacific Ocean on our left. Long straight stretches of roadway would abruptly end in a tight dive through hairpin turns as it crossed the occasional stream or river. The steady pace was broken from time to time with slowdowns to accommodate road repairs. Overall, all was well, or so I thought.
As I topped a rise, a long line of stopped vehicles choked the road in front of me. I reluctantly rolled to a halt and took my place in the queue. This had the look of a long wait as people had abandoned their vehicles and were milling about searching for answers to the question at hand, WTF. A black and white police pickup truck with its red and blue light bar flashing was positioned perpendicular to the road, block the way. Over an agonizing period of time, the line became shorter as people turned their vehicles around on the narrow stretch of highway and headed back south.
One of the departing souls informed me that a tractor trailer hauling a modular home had become stuck in a curve. Another heavy truck had been dispatched from somewhere south and was some time away from arriving. As the young family ahead of me detached their trailer to make a manual U-turn, I whipped out my handy dandy road atlas in search of an alternate route. I was quite proud of myself for being smart enough to have some paper maps in this GPS guided travel world. Gleefully, I found a different path to my destination.
With some masterful three point Y turn maneuvering, I got the van turned around and began motoring south. A few miles south of Manchester, Mountain View Road headed east toward Boonville. From there Route 129 would take me back to Highway 1 just north of the choke point. Upon reaching my alternate route, I pulled into the first drive to take inventory of the situation. To my surprise, I had entered into a small cemetery sheltered in a grove of trees. Next to one of the weathered gray headstones was a rusting, sun faded rose colored motorcycle squatting on two flat tires. I pondered this briefly and shrugged it off. After several minutes of study, I decided that I was on the right route and pointed the WAyBAC east toward Boonville.
A mile or two up Mountain View Road, I was disheartened by a large orange sign stating “Road Closed 8 am to 12 am, 12:30 pm to 5 pm”. Now that was absolutely unfair. I continued on hoping that I could get through during the short noon-time window. As I started to wind my way up the mountain side, I met a woman in a gray sedan approaching from the other direction. We both rolled to a stop to chat. She was clearly frustrated in the fact that she couldn’t get to Boonville. Mountain View Road was closed and totally impassible. To her dismay, I told her about the blockage on Highway 1 and the uncertainty of that route. We said our goodbyes and I once again reversed course. My only real option was to wait for my original route to be cleared.
It was somewhat frustrating to pass by the entrance to the Manchester KOA. I knew that I was starting this part of the trip all over again. A few miles up the road, I was greeted by a very welcome site. The truck hauling errant modular house was parked in a highway pull off surrounded by a myriad of police vehicles. There appeared to be some very serious conversations taking place. The little devil sitting on my left shoulder was quite pleased to see the driver get his comeuppance. My spirits were on the rebound.
I reached Mendicino well after noon. My stomach was telling me it was lunch time. Being a Frank Zappa fan, the name Mendicino was permanently wedged between the gyri of my brain. I had no clue as to the meaning of the lyrics, but it was there none the less. “She had that Camarillo brillo, Flaming out along her head, I mean her Mendocino beano, By where some bugs had made it red.” So there it is, I simply had to stop.
Wandering around a bit, I found Mendicino to be quaint seaside town. Main Street was lined by shops and a old false front hotel on one side and the Pacific Ocean on the other. The sidewalks were filled with tourists leisurely ambling about and peering into shop windows. One block back from Main Street, I was able to find a spot big enough to park the WAyBAC. It was only a short walk to a main throughfare and a couple of restaurants I had spotted on the way into town. The Fog Eater was closed, so I opted for the Trillium. While the food was good, it was a bit pricey.
Unfortunately, the modular home fiasco from earlier In the day had played havoc with my schedule. I still had about a 100 mile drive ahead of me and needed to stock up on groceries. After a quick nap and a short stroll to let Benjamin ensure that he left his mark in Mendicino, we were back on the road. I found a convenient grocery store in Ft Bragg where I made quick work of refiling the larder with all of the essentials. After driving another 70 miles or so, I reached the turnoff to the Lost Coast at Redway.
One might wonder how the Lost Coast got such an intriguing name. The mountains of the King Range occupy more than 68,000 square acres of coastal territory in Humboldt County. This terrain is rugged enough to have made construction of major highways prohibitively expensive. As a result, Highway 1 veers sharply away from the coast just north of Rockport to merge with Highway 101. After snaking through magnificent groves of giant redwoods, the major highway returns to the coast around 100 miles further north.
Shelter Cove is a small community located about a third of the way up the Lost Coast from Rockport. You can get there by sea, private plane or a single road originating in Redway. This road is a tortuous twisting trail of switch backs and steep grades. The pathway begins at about 1,400 feet in elevation and peaks around 2,700 feet before returning to sea level at the end of its 20 mile journey. This was perhaps the most challenging drive of my quest. Though she lumbered through curves like a drunken elephant and growled like a menacing Mastiff on hills, the WAyBAC met the challenge and came through victorious.
Descending the last hill, my eyes were drawn to what appeared to be the Shelter Cove RV Resort. It appeared to be a long line of campers parked in a field which was somewhat disconcerting. It was about 6:30 pm when I pulled up to the “resort” office and deli only to find everything locked up tight for the night. A sign on the door pointed me to an information board at the campground entrance, where I found a self check in packet containing my site number. I rolled down the line of parked RVs only to find a pickup with a boat trailer blocking my site. Within a few minutes, I located the owner and he moved it without incident.
Setup was a bit challenging as all of the sites were sloped from front to back. After a bit of maneuvering, I got the van tolerably level using a few Lynx blocks. Once again, I encountered the wonder of California campsite engineering which includes sewer connections placed on the uphill side. With minimal mumbling and grumbling, the familiar tasks of setting up camp were accomplished in short order. That left a bit of time to relax and enjoy the view. Despite my initial trepidation about the campground, this was a wonderful spot. All of the sites had an unobstructed view of the ocean. As the evening wore on, the sun slipped slowly from a cloudless sky leaving a fading coral glow in the ocean mist. It was time for bed.
Saturday, August 10
Somewhere around 2 am, Benjamin let me know that he needed to go out for a walk. Over the course of the summer, the condition of his kidneys had declined, requiring nightly walks. I fumbled about, got dressed and turned on the step light. It was pitch black that night and we wandered about for a bit. Mr. Buttons loved to sniff about and take as much time as possible on these nocturnal jaunts. He was quite uninterested in the fact that I wanted to be snuggled in my warm bed rather than stumbling around in the dark. Once Benjamin had completed his mission we headed back using the step light as a beacon. The moon had set somewhere around 11 o’clock and I was happy to have the guide home.
I awoke reasonably refreshed considering my back. My morning ritual of bending and stretching gave me enough relief to start the day. Following coffee, breakfast and Benjamin’s first walk of the day, I decided to spend time writing. It was a pleasant morning playing with words and occasionally gazing through the screen door to the peaceful Pacific. We would reserve any adventuring for after lunch and a nap.
Even though it was a bright sunny late summer day, it was chilly. Benjamin and I began to prepare for a walk about 1:00 pm when the temperature finally reached 60 degrees. The climate in California is quite interesting. While temperatures along the coastline were averaging in the 50s and 60s, it was in the 90s and 100s over in the central valley. The California Current in the Pacific Ocean is fed by the frigid waters of the North Pacific Current. The cold water currents moderate the inland air temperatures. How far this natural air conditioning reaches depends greatly on the coastal terrain.
Donning blue jeans and a hoodie, I hooked up Benjamin and we headed for the beach. It was an easy gentle slope until we were past the lighthouse. Like a greater part of the northern California coastline, the terrain dropped off abruptly close to the waters edge. Here the cliff face was only about 15 feet which was traversed by a short stair case and a scramble over small boulders to a gravel beach.
I stopped for a few minutes on the stairs to survey the surroundings. Two broken promontories of volcanic rock formed a shallow cove. Each of these pyroclastic peninsulas were populated by pods of pinnipeds. While drinking in the view, a young man wearing a crushed canvas hiking hat bounded up the stair case. I asked him if he know what inhabitants of the two seal rocks were. He indicated that one was home to a rookery of harbor seals while the other was the basking place for a colony of sea lions.
After a few minutes, Benjamin and I made our way down the staircase and over the boulders to the gravel beach. I hobbled around as best I could on the rocky beach, taking pictures all the while. We spent a couple of hours on the beach before finally scrambling back over the rocks to the staircase. Benjamin couldn’t figure out how to maneuver the way, so I had to pick him up and plop him on the boulder ahead. Once on the stairs, I picked him up and carried him to the top.
Back at the van, we spent a pleasant, relaxing afternoon lounging around the campsite. At some point, our neighboring camper dropped in briefly. I recognized him as the friendly young man who had told me about the local flippered denizens of the beach. He stood back near the front of the van and mumbled in a soft tone. I really couldn’t understand a word he was saying, so I nodded with a smile until he was finished and left.
Later that afternoon, the camp hostess dropped by to check in. She was a striking young woman accompanied by large white dog. Jennifer was enveloped in the calm air of someone at peace with the world around her. As we chatted, I learned that she was living the dream in a van at this secluded beach. With only a few hours of work per day, she had plenty of time to hike and otherwise enjoy this bit of paradise. I spent the rest of that cooking and performing other mundane activities, happy to be surrounded by friendly people. The day ended with a beautiful sunset
It was still dark when I woke up that morning. Normally, I rolled out of bed between 5 am and 6 am. The first order of business was fixing and enjoying a cup of coffee. After breakfast, I spent some time writing and working on the Blog. Some time over the past few days, I had received an email requesting my help sending out information to classmates regarding my high school class’s 55th reunion. Once completing that task, I spent the rest of the morning working on my itinerary for the next several days. Even in this remote haven, ye olde Starlink kept me in touch with the rest of the world..
Benjamin and I spent the afternoon enjoying the sun and fresh ocean breezes while exploring the area along the shoreline. Sitting within a sparsely populated beach house community was camper that was clearly a permanent fixture. Interestingly enough it was one of those small units that slip into the bed of a pickup truck. Sans the truck, it was mounted on short pylons and had been wrapped in wooden siding. Adorned with an owl plaque, figurines and a garish fake flower, it reminded me of a free standing Hobbit-hole.
Earlier in the day, we had met the denizen of this modern day smial. She was clearly a free spirit locked firmly in a hippie’s life with a maritime flare. She had been dressed in a colorful long flowing dress as she made her way home from the camp store carrying a plastic bag filled with goodies. The small aluminum boat and crab cages near her tiny abode were evidence of her link to the sea. While friendly, our brief encounter made it clear that she was quite satisfied living a solitary existence.
Upon returning to the van, I tethered Benjamin and sat out enjoying the view of the ocean. It was another day of cool breezes, warm sunshine and a deep blue sky filled with cotton ball clouds. After a bit, our neighbor dropped by for a chat. At first, I was quite pleased to be engaged with what I perceived to be an open and friendly individual. He opened up about his life’s journey. I don’t remember exactly what it was, but he became dissatisfied with his mundane job and quit work about 20 years ago. He had become interested in yoga and Hinduism. About ten years ago, he learned massage therapy and that was how he earned his living.
The longer we talked, the more I felt like I had chased a rabbit down a hole and ended up in wonderland. I was interested to hear about his annual trip to India. He talked about how impressed he was by the accomplishments of young people today. I agreed with him and relayed to him the dedication to our world of the young conservationist Kim that I had met at Yosemite. I also told him of my deep respect for other young people such as Greta Thornberg. My yogi camping neighbor quickly brushed that aside and I began to realize that he and I existed on very different celestial planes.
While the tonal twanging of Ravi Shankar’s sitar swirled around in my head, I was being educated to the concept of Indigo Children. He relayed to me the existence of these youths wrapped in an Indigo aura that possessed almost supernatural empathic powers. My young neighbor leaned in and secretively said that it was Jesus stuff. While wondering slightly at the connection between Karma and Christianity, I continued to listen. It had been an interesting exchange until he finally revealed his real reason for his visit.
My concept of the friendly neighbor was shattered as he launched into a complaint about me turning on my van’s step light at night while walking Benjamin. It seems that he spent his nights sitting cross legged on a mat outside his camper meditating. He began reinforcing my unfortunate impression of the native Californian. This world is a wonderful place for ME, YOU can please go away. I felt like Donald Southerland’s Sergeant Oddball in the move Kelly's Heroes. "Why don't you knock it off with them negative waves?” I didn’t say anything, but I sat wondering why he would try to achieve Nirvana through solitude in a public campground? It was only a short walk to the secluded beach with endless solitude. So much for peace, love and tie dye.
Once the young man had aired his grievances, he wandered back to his own campsite. With the aid of a lovely glass of Pinot Grigio, I was able to return to my own state of peace and tranquility. The rest of the day and evening passed uneventfully. I dined on oven grilled shrimp and a salad. Later in the evening, I streamed an old movie on my computer before turning in.
Monday, August 12, 2024 Burlington Camp, Humboldt State Park
This morning was the usually flurry of activity in getting ready to hit the road. After coffee, breakfast and Benjamín's morning constitutional, I began to pack up the van. Our resident young yogi dropped by with a bit of advice. While meditating last night, he had been joined by a skunk. Talk about Karma, but I was able to keep my mouth zippered. He said that his encounter with nature had made him think of Benjamin Buttons and local raccoons or coyotes. Having him meet with such fierce wildlife would clearly not be good for Benjamin. My faint smile and nod hid the DUH that exploded in my head.
Nothing about my last encounter with this young Californian changed my impression of him. I asked him if he had seen the Perseid meteor shower, which had peaked last night. I was sure that he had a prime viewing seat from his yoga mat. Unfortunately, he seemed clueless about what should have been quite a spectacle. It made me sad to think about his dedication to absorbing himself in a world of mysticism, while dismissing what was happening in the world around him.
It felt good to be moving again. The drive today was only about 40 miles, but that was over very challenging roads. We crossed over the King Mountain Range without incident. I have always enjoyed the challenges of mountain driving. Both you and your machine can be pushed to the limit. In a sports care it is diving into the curves to straighten them out while alternately breaking and accelerating at the limits of your engine and tires. That is most exhilarating. In the WAyBAC Machine, the challenge was more liking coaxing an elephant to run up and down hills, while teetering precariously on kiss my ass turns.
Once across the mountains we were slowed down by two construction delays. Despite the obstacles, it was an awesome drive. About four or five miles from the turn on to 101, the highway becomes the Avenue of the Giants. This is the section of road that passes through the groves of old growth redwood trees in Humboldt Redwoods State Park. These magnificent trees are among the world’s tallest. Along the Avenue of Giants, the trees average about 300 feet tall and 10 to 15 feet in diameter. The roadway winds its way within inches of the behemoths, some of them showing the scars left by encounters with man’s metal mules steered by reckless gawking sightseers.
I had planned on arriving at Burlington Camp, deep in the redwoods by 1 pm. It was closer to 3 pm when I gently guided the van into its evening berth. The campsite was large, but on very uneven terrain. There was a gentle slope to the ground which had undulations created by the massive root systems of the surrounding redwoods. With a bit of maneuvering, I was able to get the WAyBAC level by turning sideways on the site. Once in place, I began to truly realize the grandeur of my surroundings. This place was cloaked in calm and peace. I felt like I was standing in a natural cathedral, surrounded by living things that were many hundreds of years old. Some of the trees in this forest began as saplings over 2,000 years ago. Being in this place gave me a different perspective on life.
Once settled into the campsite, I walked around the campground and took a few pictures. A brief visit to the Visitor Center gave me the change to chat up some folks. We all agreed that this was a spectacular place. It would be wonderful to spend more time here, but I felt that I had made the right decision to stay only one night. The pain in my leg and back were still significant enough to keep me from taking any extended hikes. Late in the evening, a group of cyclists silently rolled in and took up residence in the campsite next to mine. They were quite friendly and very respectful. I turned on my porch light in aid of a young lady performing her nightly maintenance on her bicycle. They asked if they could use the fire pit on my campsite for a bonfire and I happily obliged. I was at peace.
Tuesday, August 13, 2024 Crescent City/Redwoods KOA Holiday
Benjamin and I spent a leisurely morning in reverence of our surroundings. There was no rush to leave since the planned drive was only about 2 hours. This was to be our last day in California and I needed to prepare for several days of dry camping. Eureka, California was about the half way point on the day’s journey and was a good target for a major shopping stop. A grocery run to Safeway and a quick swing by Walmart for camping supplies would get as easily prepared for the next several days.
My hopes had been that keeping to the coast would allow me to steer clear of the more evil spirits of Northern California. The Lizard People, Bigfoot and a civilization known as the Lemurians are all said to live in and around Mt. Shasta. Since I was a good 150 miles to the west, I was certain that even the UFOs that frequent that area wouldn’t seek me out. I don’t know what it was, but there was certainly some sort of malevolent influence at work that day. Either that or just bad planning on my part.
Part of the plan was to make a short side trip to the quaint little town of Ferndale, California. This little known spot boasts to be a well preserved and beautiful Victorian village. I was looking forward to the break since I was getting tired of curvy coast roads. After driving a bit, I decided to check on the best route to Ferndale. Fortunately, Highway 101 had some open straight runs and I was able to find a place to pull off. To my chagrin, I discovered another reason that this area was named the Lost Coast, no cell signal or GPS. Hummph, so much for visiting any quaint villages.
I continued on without GPS and all seemed to be going along swimmingly until the WAyBAC Machine rolled into Eureka. Blindly following Ms. Google’s directions to the Safeway, I began to realize that something had gone awry. Yeah, the store was a great pick for quality groceries, but it was on the opposite side of the city from the highway. Endless stoplights and urban traffic ensured that this became one of the more excruciating shopping trips ever. Once my shopping bags had been filled to the brim and all of the goods stored in there proper place. It was back across town toward Walmart.
I was particularly proud of myself for having shopped on line at the Eureka Walmart and that all of my goods would awaiting a quick pick up. One of activities of the previous evening had been to use my computer for a leisurely, stress free visit to the friendly local Walmart. All was good, I thought. As I approached the store, I whipped out my phone and genned up the app. As I accessed my order to indicate my arrival, I was dismayed to get the message, “ORDER CANCELLED”. WTF????
As is typical these days, the store’s “Customer Service Center” told me I had to call corporate. There was nothing they could do for me. As I sat in the parking lot fuming at a low simmer, I endured being placed on “Terminal Ignore” in the hold queue. Finally, the ringing stopped and the sexy voice of an AI bot asked me to describe my problem. I was then instructed to choose from a list of pre-programmed canned answers that had nothing to do with my problem. After shouting, “HUMAN”, “AGENT”, “PERSON”, and “REPRESENTATIVE” repeatedly for several minutes, I finally got the sweet reply, “Okay, I will get someone to help you”. That was quickly followed up by the stark warning that all calls were recorded for quality and training purposes. Bullshit. They just want to scare you into submission.
Well, all of my effort was for naught. I was informed that Walmart had cancelled my order to protect me. Huh? Somewhere along the line, a computer programmer had decided that it would be fraud if the same order was accessed from two different devices. It simply wouldn’t be normal behavior for someone to place an order from their laptop in leisure and then pick it up using their smartphone. There are evil people lurking on the dark web ready to snag my septic tank safe toilet paper at a moment’s notice. To quote the Grease Man, shock jock from days gone by, “Nggh geng gah gah, and they wonder why I drink?”.
I finally rolled into the Crescent City KOA around 4:30 pm. Since the next few days would be dry camping, I wanted to make sure I had full hookups. That would allow me to fill my fresh water tanks and empty the waste tanks. I checked in and made my way to my campsite only to find that they had put me in an electricity/water hookup only site. I strolled over to the office, hoping to rectify the situation. The young attendant didn’t know much but was friendly and helpful. She said that the manager was gone, but I could move to another spot for no extra charge. I walked over to the proposed site to check it out. All would be well and I wanted to move.
Confidently, I returned to the office to complete the swap. Somewhere along the line, “At no extra charge” had changed to $2.82. That was like rubbing salt in an open wound, but I was way too tired to bitch and moan. I accepted my fate and moved on. The people camped close to me were friendly and I was able to slip back into a more relaxed frame of mind. With a cold adult beverage in hand, Mr. Buttons and I walked over to the Kamp K9 so that he could run around a bit.
As I sat enjoying the cool evening and warm sunshine of my last day in California, the realization of what forces had been at work became crystal clear. It wasn’t the influence of some lizard worshiping people that lived under Mt. Shasta. It wasn’t aliens beaming a bad luck laser at me from darting UFOs. It wasn’t the fault of some lurking Big Foot, even though I could buy one at the camp store. Nor was it the influence of some mystic juvenile Californian emitting a black aura. Plain and simple, Friday the 13th had come on a Tuesday this month.
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