skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Burgers and beer at a Ska themed diner in Oakland with Rusty, then breakfast in one of those small-town yuppie diners in Cotati with Chris. Then it was redwoods. I quite liked all that. It was full of darkened, winding roads, moss, and strange little gift shops. In a perfect world I could own one of these and just hang out, never having to do anything ever again. In this world, I'm sure my parents are happy I don't find being the bum cashier at one of these places gratifying.
The cities of Eureka and Crescent City took on larger than life aspects in my brain as I went on. Turns out they aren't beach-spanning paradises, but kinda shitty drive-through towns. In fact, a lot of the northernmost northern California has sort of a con-artist thing going. Some of these cons are charming, like the Yorok tribe's perplexing tourist trap "Trees of Mystery". 
What are these trees? It is, indeed, a mystery. I imagine they're trees that fight the oppression of their people. By day, they take on the guise of a nobleman tree, but by night, they don masks and battle the tree tyrants than no doubt about. They are masters of disguise, these trees. The sheriff tree, called in to keep the trees of mystery in line plots and schemes with his henchmen. "What are we to do with these trees of mystery!?" he fumes. Then, KABOOM! the trees of mystery were there the whole time, disguised as the henchmen! Then a pine-scented duel ensues. In truth, it looked like a gondola ride.
Less charming was the way Crescent City conned me with gas prices. How much is gas in Oregon? I wondered. I had no clue. I knew, at some point, all of Oregon was full service only. That must mean higher gas prices, right? So, in Crescent City, $2.75 a gallon. Right over the border in Brookings...$2.18. Also, since when is an RV Park a campground? Thank God I finally found the Florence Keller campground, home of the outhouse with piped in Poison. That, my friends, is service.
To strain to reach a point, Mission Accomplished.
Ideally, if I were writing this as a narrative, I'd be contrasting the dryness of my usual domain with the moisture of my destination. So imagine my surprise when I got to the Salt Flats, and found the sight to the right. I don't know if the Salt Flats are normally flooded this time of year, but they are now.
My plan for reaching California by the evening had one fault--it would take me through Nevada during the day. This meant catching sight of East Wendover while the sun was up, and there is only one question that comes to mind after catching that image: "Who runs Barter Town?"
Some have asked if I'm doing this to get away from the snow. Nope, I like my mountains snow-capped, and I'll accept modest hills like these snow-capped too. I kid, naturally. This is some ski-lift visible from the rest area at the top of Donner Pass, in the Sierra-Nevadas. I'm going to assume it's named Donner Party, it's easier that way. Traveling their path nearly 200 years later in an SUV that may as well have been a space-ship to them, bearing a bevy of electronic devices, and the finest freeze-dried foods science had created to be cooked with a stove smaller than the palm of my hand, carried along upon an interstate highway system, guided by maps refined through aerial photography, all I can say of that ill-fated Party is this: What a bunch of pussies. There was plenty of bark to eat, wasn't there? Yeesh.
After being bombarded with literally three intimations that this might be a sorta cool to see,
I'm going to try to give infrequent updates from the road, whenever I can find access to the internet. I'm told they are able to access this system of tubes in the wild hinterlands of The Bay Area, and Seattle. In between, though? I'm not entirely sure.
So, my plan, such as it is, is to head down to the San Francisco/Oakland area, and start driving north along the coast. How far will I get? I'm not sure, but I know I need to be back by May 3rd, so that's what I intend to do.
So stop by every couple of days, and see if I've found anything worth saying. I'll apologize in advance if that never happens, and I'll leave you all with the view from my street.
Ideally, if I were writing this as a narrative, I'd be contrasting the dryness of my usual domain with the moisture of my destination. So imagine my surprise when I got to the Salt Flats, and found the sight to the right. I don't know if the Salt Flats are normally flooded this time of year, but they are now.
Some have asked if I'm doing this to get away from the snow. Nope, I like my mountains snow-capped, and I'll accept modest hills like these snow-capped too. I kid, naturally. This is some ski-lift visible from the rest area at the top of Donner Pass, in the Sierra-Nevadas. I'm going to assume it's named Donner Party, it's easier that way. Traveling their path nearly 200 years later in an SUV that may as well have been a space-ship to them, bearing a bevy of electronic devices, and the finest freeze-dried foods science had created to be cooked with a stove smaller than the palm of my hand, carried along upon an interstate highway system, guided by maps refined through aerial photography, all I can say of that ill-fated Party is this: What a bunch of pussies. There was plenty of bark to eat, wasn't there? Yeesh.
