Falling Off The Floor

Job - Eliminated. Vaporized. I'm now unemployed and seeking a job for the first time in 17 years.

Wife - recovering (slowly and painfully) from major surgery complicated by a kidney stone (her fifth or sixth in about five years).

Father - ended up in hospital after breaking (more like shattering) his leg from a fall in our driveway (on Halloween night, no less). My parents drove here from NC to help me take care of my wife. He's now on a walker for several months and going through physical therapy.

Mother- after visiting my father in the hospital, suffered a "potent and aggressive" viral infection (the kind you get while visiting the hospital these days) and - care to guess? - ended up in the hospital. At one point, I had one parent in the hospital and another next door in physical therapy rehab center.

Step-father-in-law - died in mid-November after a long, painful, frightening illness.

Cat - died while I was in New York City. I felt particularly bad because my wife had to face that alone. She didn't deserve that. He has a prominent gravesite overlooking the pasture watching the sunsets each night. You're deeply missed, Blizzard. Poppy has the run of the house, now, and is terrorizing us all.

On the bright side...

Friends - priceless. Comfort, encouragement, support...enough to bring tears to my eyes (several times). My advice, don't allow yourself to have to go through a life crisis to figure out who your friends are. Know them, love them, and appreciate them in good times, too.

Family - Parents have been there when I needed them (except when they, too, were struck down). Cousins, aunts, uncles...family I haven't heard from in years have come out of the woodwork to send their love, encouragement, support. I've learned a great deal from this experience.

Last, but certainly not least...

My Wife - beyond priceless. An angel. She's stood by me, propped me up when I was falling down (from her hospital bed, at some points). I am a very, very lucky man. She has accepted me and is helping me back into the saddle. Like the VISA ad says, some things money can't buy.

OK, God. You have my attention. I think you kind of overdid it, but I'm certainly in no place to criticize, now, am I?

Stick Out

Temporarily Out of Order

Upon my return from these two wonderful journeys, my life descended into professional and personal turmoil.

I'm facing unemployment, at worst, and - at best - rather frightening (at least at this juncture) changes in my life that were unfathomable just three weeks ago. My wife is facing major surgery this week as well, so no part of my once stable life is intact.

Beyond that, it's best that I not go into details. If you've read any of this blog, you know how uncharacteristic of me that is. It's THAT serious.

All I can say is, I'm stunned and as Don Henley sang in In A New York Minute, "The wolf is always at the door."

Until better times.

Stick out

Apologies

To those thousands of you breathlessly awaiting and anticipating my next update, I apologize. The return to my "normal" life, along with a side trip to the "other coast" (NYC), has complicated my schedule more than I'd expected and delayed me finishing my travelblog.

I WILL, however, finish and address the outcome of the quest(s) and objectives I stated in the first entry. I may even toss in a little about my trip to the Big Apple.

For those of you who have read the blog - either as an invitee or through a complete accident - I appreciate your interest and tolerance.

Stick out

You've Been Served (gasoline, that is) & Other Roguish Behavior

9/1, 1820, Bastrop County, TX – The original plan was to drive from Crescent City to the Port Orford area the morning of 8/16. For the first – and, as it turned out, last - time during the adventure, I altered my plan. There was method to my madness, though.

The Ship Mountain experience had left me a tad gun shy when it came to unpaved roads, especially when the road was in a wilderness area. The itinerary had me driving to either Humbug Mountain (just south of Port Orford) or Cape Blanco State Park (just north of there) for two nights of camping, with a side trip (on an unpaved road) to Agness, OR in the lower Rogue River valley, on my way to Ashland. I thought better of that while making my final plans the night of 8/15, and called them into Sundance at home base. The Oregon coast between Gold Beach and Port Orford (including the offshore rock formations near Port Orford known as “The Heads”) was going to have to be 86’d.

I did so reluctantly. So much – hell, everything! - had gone so well during the trip up to that point, even the death- (and logic-) defying ramble up Ship Mountain. But, in fact, the only road from Port Orford to Agness was unpaved and went through some pretty rugged territory. I knew that going in, but Ship Mountain changed my perception of things. I was not ready for a repeat performance (little did I know what awaited me a day or so later).

So, bid my farewell to the Curly Redwood Lodge (I spoke with the manager and praised them heavily) and headed north. Soon after crossing the Smith River, I crossed the border into Oregon.

The first two things I noticed about Oregon were A) the price of gas dropped about 20¢ a gallon and B) you couldn’t drive more than a mile along Hwy. 101 without seeing a sign pointing out a state recreation area with a scenic view. I must’ve stopped at four or five in quick succession. Click, click, click. I’m a sucker for big rocks in the Pacific’s pounding surf.

After passing Cape Sebastian, I arrived in Gold Beach and stopped at the local grocery for some fruit, a deli sandwich (peppered turkey, haven’t had that in years), and some juice packs. I asked for directions to a liquor store to replenish my bourbon (the Maker’s Mark bit the dust at Patrick’s Point) and followed them to yet another hideously ugly courthouse (Curry County…perhaps even uglier than the Mendocino County courthouse in Ukiah) which sat across the street from a small gift shop, knick-knack store, and distilled spirits emporium…all in one. The Gray Whale Gallery & Gifts and Village Liquor Store). It was literally a “mom and pop” store, with “mom” (Maggi) taking care of the gift shop/gallery and “pop”(Ed) taking care of the liquor store. These were really sweet people running a really strange, but workable mixture of retail outlets. Having watched the Chicago Cubs-Houston Astros game the night before at the Surfside Grill in Crescent City, I responded favorably to the Ed’s expression of delight that his beloved Cubbies had been victorious. I matched his enthusiasm by stating that, as a born and raised, diehard Cincinnati Reds fan, I rooted for the Reds and whoever was playing the Astros that day or night.

We discussed baseball (I was faking part of it, having not closely followed any contests beyond whomever was kicking Houston’s ass at any given time) and eventually we got to discussing what, among his admittedly small selection or liquors, would meet my needs. I mean, let’s face it, the Maker’s Mark is a hard act to follow and, judging from what I saw on the shelves, there wasn’t much in the way of a follow up. This was going to take some time and effort on my part. After all, life is short (getting shorter all the time, in my case) and one should not be subjecting oneself to bad wine, beer, or liquor. But, a compromise had to be made here, because a small bottle of acceptable whiskey was, well, not exactly present and accounted for here. This was not a fully stocked liquor store (and I believe it was the only liquor store in town), which either says something very, very good or very, very disturbing about Gold Beach, OR. I’ll err on the side of very, very good.

After some input from Maggi, I decided on a small flask of Black Velvet Canadian Whiskey, which – though not my first or second choice under normal circumstances – was the best fireside sippin’ whiskey for the price at the Village Liquor Store that day. I’d not had Black Velvet since college, so there was a bit of nostalgia involved.

By the way, the Gray Whale/Village Liquor store is – as of this writing –for sale. $650,000 and it’s yours. Maggi and Ed, if you’re retiring, best of luck and Godspeed to you both. I may have only spent 10 or 15 minutes with you, but you folks were damn nice to a stranger from Texas. Go Cubbies!

So, with foodstuffs and liquor in-hand, that left fuel. So, I cruised the main street (Hwy. 101) and located the best priced gas. I pulled in and here’s where the fun began.

As I pulled up to the pump, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a sign stating that self-service was illegal in the State of Oregon. No, I’d not started drinking the Black Velvet. I’m serious. Before I was able to open my car door, an “attendant” (just recalling this is weird enough) appeared at my door and asked how much fuel I wanted pumped and how I’d like to pay for it.

I stared at the guy in disbelief. Was he an apparition? He couldn’t be an acid-flashback. I never did acid! “You’re joking,” was all I could say to him. “No, sir,” he replied. “State law. You can’t pump your own gasoline in Oregon.”

So, for the first time in over 30 years, someone other than me pumped my gas. What a strange experience. On one hand, I was semi-embarrassed and afraid that someone I knew would pass by and my reputation in Texas would be ruined forever. “Elitist,” I could hear them saying. “He’s been pussified by those Northwesterners” (God forbid my Texas friends should see the Black Velvet!). On the other hand, I felt equally uncomfortable because…well…what the hell do you do while someone else is filling up your gas tank? I was so unaccustomed to this situation, I felt naked. Killing time in one’s car at a gas station is totally foreign to a Texan (or a former South Carolinian, New Yorker, and Ohioan, too). I felt self-conscious. What do I do with my hands? Play with the radio? Check my map? Sort the currency in my wallet? I was afraid to get out of the car for fear that such a provocative act might also be against state law!
I opted to sit still, act like this kind of thing happens every day, and move along. I also decided to look into this strange phenomenon at a later date. Oregon can’t be alone in this strange prohibition against self-service. What prompted it? Hmmm…file this one away for future reference.

Got food? Check. Got sippin’ whiskey? Check. Got fuel? Check. After a quick drive across the Rogue River bridge (a bit of a work of art in and of itself) and back to mail a postcard or two, I took in Gold Beach’s small-but-active harbor.

Based upon what I witnessed, fishing and boating are passions in this part of Oregon, pursued with enthusiasm and vigor bordering on a religious fervor (similar to Texans’ devotion to BBQ and executing convicted murderers). I saw more professional and recreational fisherman in boats in Gold Beach’s harbor and at the mouth of the Rogue River than I’d seen at any other point during my journey (and that observation held to the very end of the trip).

Supplementing the fishing trade is river rafting and “jetboat” trips up the Rogue, wherein boats able to handle 15-20 tourists are outfitted with massive engines able to overcome the Rogue’s current and deliver said tourists upriver for sightseeing (and, it turns out, mail deliveries to places like Agness, OR). It seem to be quite a successful business.

At the south end of the bridge, I turned east and headed up the road hugging the south shore of the Rogue to find a campsite. It didn’t take but a minute or two before I was again surrounded by mountains. Big, beautiful mountains, at that. The Rogue cuts a mean valley.

About 14-16 miles upriver, I turned into the National Forest Service’s Quosatana campground. Nice digs. New facilities, campground hosts, shaded campsites, and right on the river. I drove around both campground loops, noting several open sites, and returned to the host’s site. “Depends on what you’re looking for,” the host said in reply to my query about how this campground stacked up against two others further upriver. Illane had campsites, but the facilities weren’t as nice. Fosters Bar had fewer campsites, was more of a boat launch, but had new facilities, he said. I had the time – and curiosity – to check them out, so I said I’d return if I didn’t find anything.

I was back within the hour, picked out my site, paid my fee (NFS camping is the best deal going), and went to set up camp. I was met at my site by two deer casually munching wild blackberries (which seemed to be everywhere along my journey, by the way). I took that as a good sign, and established myself in site #36. I wasn’t directly on the Rogue, but right across the narrow campground road from the sites that were. Close enough, I thought, and I didn’t have a public walking path right behind my tent.

Five dollars bought a healthy-sized load of good, DRY, seasoned fire wood from the host (the campfire, in retrospect, was a luxury, as I sit here writing in drought-ravaged Central Texas where a burn-ban remains in effect). I hiked down to the river with my camp chair, picked spot next to the rapids, and sat. I wanted to hear what the Rogue had to say to me.

The Rogue spoke my language. I could’ve easily fallen asleep, lulled by the sound of the rapids, the occasional Osprey call, and the breeze that occasionally blew up the narrow valley from the ocean. Instead, I took a mental snapshot and realized what a fortunate human being I was. Here I was, virtually alone on a peaceful, scenic stretch of an ancient and wild river in the wilderness of southwest Oregon. I had time, tranquility, and was alone with the thoughts I’d come to sort out.

And that’s when I heard – off in the distance, at first – the jet boat.

As I mentioned earlier, Rogue River tourism is a mainstay of the region’s economy. It is a beautiful and fairly navigable river, especially the lower Rogue. So, the most efficient way for people (who aren’t into whitewater or semi-whitewater rafting, or want to be delivered upriver to start a rafting trip) to see it is in groups and the best way to deliver groups upriver is with the powerful “jet” boats.

The low roar of the jet boat reverberated around the canyon and made it to my ears about a mile before the boat arrived. Just the sound alone gives you some idea of just how powerful these boats are. They ply the waters (and I have seen them in both shallow and deep waters) with ease. So, I waved to the passengers as they went roaring by and they waved back. I figured if I was part of the scenery, I might as well be “pleasant” scenery.

Over the next hour, two more boats passed. The stretches of silence between them were more than adequate for contemplation. The rapids had their say and I listened intently. About 50-60 yards away, and older couple were also enjoying the mild temps and cool waters. The woman took a couple swims, which reassured me the conditions were right for a swim the next day. I looked forward to becoming – if only briefly – a part of the river.

I returned to the campsite refreshed and prepared the campfire. I gnoshed on beef jerky, cheese and crackers, and sipped whiskey until nightfall, satisfied that I’d finally invaded Oregon and that Oregon was gradually invading me.

Stick out

Onward Through The Fog in Crescent City, CA

8/31/06, 1812, Bastrop County, TX - OK, picking up where I left off, 8/15 in Crescent City, CA…and-a one, and-a two….

My final day in Crescent City was somewhat of a “clean-up” day, revisiting areas and sites that had been obscured by fog during my drive up from Patrick’s Point two days before. My key objectives: the bridge over the Klamath River and the Klamath overlook (where the river empties into the Pacific). I awoke early and – damn! – fog again. Grrrrr…

There were two things to occupy my time, one of which was taking advantage of the WiFi service. So, I wrote a bit, ever watchful of the thick cloud cover overhead. Once I’d exhausted my creative juices on that task (I’m sure Marc in Anaheim is thinking, “After about 5 minutes, if that.”), I commenced to reorganizing my gear in preparation for the next day’s trip to Oregon and the associated camping. Upon completing that, there appeared out over the Pacific a streak of blue sky. In other words, hope.

I mobilized quickly and headed south on Hwy. 101 through the soupy fog (what most people would encounter on foggy mornings in many areas of the country) toward the Klamath. The turnoff to the overlook seemed to be one of those “Are you SURE about this?” routes, but the map said what the map said (you’d think after my Ship Mountain experience, I’d have been a little more dubious). This time, however, the map was correct and I climbed upward toward the edge of the cliff overlooking the alluvial fan of the Klamath (my wife came up with that one, I’m not nearly that creative). There were two other cars in the parking lot, one of which had two men seemingly intent on the same objective: photos. The other car – which was pulling in just ahead of me – was packed with a family. They’ll come into play in a moment.

The “blue streak” in the sky was still offshore, almost teasing me. So, I bundled up (it was a bit chilly) and hunkered down, parking my butt on a picnic table. The Klamath overlook was on my list and I’d be damned if I was going to let it slip through my fingers. Mother Nature and I had played other games along this journey. I was willing to have as stare down. I summoned my stubbornness streak and sat there.

In the meantime, a small-but-mildly-entertaining string of people – including the two carloads that preceded me – carried on behind me. The two men seemed as intent on waiting out the fog as me, though one was somewhat less patient than the other and attempted (with varying degrees of success) to find something to keep himself occupied. The other, like me, just sat there soaking up the subtleties of Nature’s display. Whether he was trying to listen to the silence or not, I’m not sure. For all I knew, he, too, knew my friend Brian and was on the same mission. We stoically stood our ground.

The family, however, was a constant stream of activity. While the mother and father unpacked a lunch upon another picnic table, their young son ran about happily distracting himself and worrying the father with every distraction he discovered. Their slightly older daughter – who appeared and sounded like a “’tweenager” – seemed bored, restless, and somewhat upset because her father encouraged her to take in the view and natural wonders instead of listening to her iPod. Eventually, “nature” did catch up with the young girl and she announced her intention to use the “bathroom,” which, for those of you familiar with state and national forests/parks, was a “pit” toilet.

You see this coming, don’t you?

The young girl entered, closed the door behind her, and about a half a second later I heard, ‘Oh…..my….God!” She exited, horrified. “I am NOT ‘going’ in there,” she emphatically stated.

The mother – either a veteran camper or concert-goer, in her not-too-distant past – replied, “Oh, don’t let it bother you. Just don’t look down into it!” I don’t think that soothed her daughter’s concerns, though. It turned out I wasn’t the only soul involved in an intense standoff with Mother Nature that day.

Mine was no less uncomfortable, though. While I have gained some weight over the years, little – if any – of it matriculated to my butt. “Bone on picnic table .” Think about it.

Eventually, the two men gave up and left (“Amateurs,” I thought to myself). The family also finished up and departed (no doubt for a destination with a clean restroom), though another family in an SUV pulled up and immediately started preparing for a hike. They were a disciplined group, led by a focused and disciplined father. With military-like precision, they geared up in near-silence, broken only by directions from the father. It was an impressive display. The only member not “suiting up” was the grandfather, who – it turned out – was the shuttle driver responsible for delivering the vehicle to the trail’s end. He quietly watched as the family hit the trailhead and disappeared for 10 or 15 minutes, then briefly reappeared quite a distance away. He kept an eye on them with field glasses, then eventually departed for the next stop. Quite an operation.

My patience – and pain – paid off eventually. I was convinced it would. The fog started drifting westward over the ocean while simultaneously burning off (from the still-hidden sun), revealing just enough visibility to warrant some pictures. It remained overcast, but the scene I was after – that ancient meeting of river and ocean among California’s coastal mountain range – was finally offered up. The parking lot overlook was 600 ft. above the ocean. I immediately began my descent down the path to the lower overlook – 400 ft. below – for a better shot. Along the way, I shed two layers of clothing adjusting to the temperature increase, which I gauged (unofficially and unscientifically) at roughly 10°.

At the lower overlook, the view opened up considerably. Rock formations not visible from above came into view, as were several sea lions darting among the rocks, the thin beach that jutted out from the south shore of the coast as though it hoped to shut off the Klamath’s flow, and at least two small whales feeding in the waters just off the Klamath’s mouth. Mother Nature rewarded my patience again. Thanks, Ma.

Click, click, click.

After that, I just leaned on the railing of the wood fence and took it all in. Here was yet another scene I’d studied at length on the Internet come to life before my eyes. Bruce Springsteen’s line from Spirits In The Night came to mind: “Stand back and let it shoot through you.” Beautiful. The Pacific’s endless waves lapped at the beach south of the river while the sputtering motorboat sounds of the sea lions mixed with the slapping of the sea against the rocks below me. The overcast skies didn’t detract. In fact, it almost seemed more natural than a clear blue sky (which continued to tease me from off-shore). This was, after all, Northern California. And, oh, was it.

Ah, but the bears awaited me. No, not those Lazy Bears from Guerneville, but the Golden Bears silently and steadfastly standing guard at each end of the Klamath River Bridge. So, I hoofed it back up to the parking lot – 400 ft. of elevation and two returned layers of clothing – and was passed by a couple of young Asian women heading for the lower overlook. I tipped them off on the whales (the mere possibility of seeing whales excites most humans, and these two women were among them) and wished them a good hike. The trip back down to “sea level” was quick, and soon I was crossing the Klamath. At the south end of the bridge, a young hitchhiker marred my shot of the new bridge’s bears, so I opted to shoot the old bridge and its bears.

The old bridge, the Douglas Memorial Bridge – located just west of its new replacement –was built in the 1920’s and had stood for nearly 40 years until a freak rainstorm dumped 24 inches of warm rain (the heaviest rainfall ever recorded in the area) on the mountains during Christmas week of 1964. Snow packs melted, flooding resulted, and hundreds of trees – many of them redwoods – were swept away and into the raging Klamath. As a commemorative plaque states, “ Logs and debris swept away roads, livestock, and structures, including the town of Klamath and the Douglas Memorial Bridge.” A quote from the Del Norte Triplicate news read: “The 420 foot center section of the span broke apart under hundreds of tons of pressure as the giant raft of redwoods smashed its way west toward the sea.” Eventually, both the town and the bridge were rebuilt upstream.

The bridge entrance on the south shore, however, remains. Flanking it are two gray concrete bears, silently holding their ground and faithfully guarding what remains of the Douglas Memorial Bridge.

Click, click, click.

I returned to the new bridge relieved to see that the hitchhiker had successfully flagged a ride and the new Golden Bears were ready their portraits. Click, click, click.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in Crescent City, a locale I “misunderestimated” (if I may use a Bush-ism) on its tourism points. Sundance – my lovely and wise wife – informed me that CC also had an agate beach. So, with directions in-hand, I sought out the location and spent a couple hours sifting through a mixture of sand and stones seeking the translucent beauties. That blue streak that had teased me all afternoon near Klamath was a clear sky in Crescent City, so caught a little sun with my agates. About 20-30 feet away, a young woman with an adorable 4 year-old daughter also combed through the stones. The mother was seeking agates. The daughter was focused on finding shark’s teeth and – I was told by the mother – squealed with delight whenever she found one. Naturally, I “donated” both shark’s teeth I found and received shy-but-heartfelt “thank yous” from the little girl in return. No squeals, though. I was, after all, a stranger. Still, what a cutie!

For those of you wondering, head west on 9th until it dead ends into Pebble Beach. Turn north on Pebble Beach and drive about a mile. On your left will be a small parking lot with steps to the beach.

By the time I departed, the sun was starting to make its descent toward the Pacific horizon and the mid-to-late afternoon light was just right for photographs. I caught several shots of the Crescent City lighthouse (c. 1850’s) – built upon Battery Point, a rock island (well, it’s an island at high tide, at least) located in the harbor.

On the way back to my room, lo and behold, I spied the Surfside Grill & BREWERY (!!) on Front St. Though dirty and sweaty, I quickly turned into their parking lot and entered. Nice place! Nice bar! Nice menu! Sadly, the “brewery” portion of the operation had been shut down. It wasn’t a money-maker, I was told, so the owner ditched it in favor of the restaurant operation.

I told the hostess that I would return once I’d made myself more presentable and returned to my room. After a quick shower, a check of e-mail, and a call home, I returned to Surfside Grill for dinner.

Again, the Austin connection came into play. Sitting beside me at the bar was a man who was in the process of relocating to Austin. He’d moved to Buda (just south of Austin) temporarily while scoping out a place to buy. “I have to be near water,” he told me. “I’m looking at this place called Lakeway. Ever heard of it?”

O, to be in that income bracket!

We chatted about Austin and what he should expect (lots of construction and new toll roads, for example…charming, eh?) and how housing prices have shot through the roof (not a problem for this fellow, though). BBQ, music, swimming holes, etc.

My fish and chips was (were?) tasty, as was the Alaskan Amber Ale. A fine culinary ending to a fine day. Scenery, some quiet contemplation, photo ops, agates, sun, food, and an amber ale to polish it off.

Crescent City, you surprised me. It was a wild time, perhaps bordering on too wild at one point. From the heights of Ship Mountain to the gravely beach along Pebble Beach Ave. and a stay at the Curly Redwood Lodge. It wasn’t just a “place to stay” while visiting other sites.

Stick out

Smoke Gets In My Eyes

(Note: I'm uploading this from Oroville, CA, after an astounding day at Lassen Volcanic National Park and drive down the canyon of the North Fork of the Feather River. Speaking of which, there isn't s**t to do in Oroville. The hottest place in town is the Shakey's Pizza Parlor.)

8/23, 1558, Junction City, CA (along the banks of the Trinity River) – I’m going to break ranks here and post one from “the present,” even though I’m woefully behind in reporting about northern-most CA and Oregon. Things have gotten kind of “interesting” here in JC. As I post this on Thursday (8/24) morning, I’ll be departing the area. Just in time, it seems…

Several forest fires just west and northwest of here, along with a change in the prevailing winds, have sullied the air with pretty heavy amounts of smoke (the worst I’ve even encountered) and caused some alarm among those in the know here in the Trinity Alps. Here’s what I’ve noted.

First, as I arrived Monday night – already somewhat unglued from the delays I encountered trying to get from Burney Falls to Junction City – I took note of the encampment of fire jumpers just west of Weaverville. It was sizable, with lots of support systems (food, shelter, medical, etc.) to keep up with the demands of these brave souls. I’d not heard of any fires in the area (I’ve pretty much kept my attention elsewhere these days) until I was just departing Ashland, so I was somewhat surprised and more than a little concerned. There’s a local HQ here in Junction City as well. The CA highway patrol has slowed down area traffic to 35 mph to accommodate the heavy trucks and increased traffic.

But, the skies were clear, the air nice and fresh, and the temps – though pretty warm (mid-90s at times) – were more than escapable by tossing myself in the Trinity or the campground’s small (but mildly bracing) pool (yeah, Marc, I know…I’m really roughing it up here). There was also the hike I took yesterday (a ten-miler, which I’ll address more fully in a future blog) which – depending on which microclimate I was in – occasionally cooled me off (but, mostly soaked me with sweat and about sent my poor feet into rebellion). On my trip yesterday up to the trailhead, I passed the Weaverville airport, which had pretty much been taken over by the fire crews. Lots of helicopters for both shuttling crews and huge amounts of water from area lakes and the Trinity River. It looked like a military encampment.

Today (Wed), though, is different. I noticed first thing this morning that the skies were starting to get a little hazy and they gradually – and somewhat quickly – got worse throughout the morning. As I typed my blogs at a picnic table in an unused RV spot, I noticed that the once pristine view of the surrounding Trinity Alps was rapidly disappearing and the undulating layers of mountains I’d marveled at the day before were pretty much completely obscured by smoke. Things looked grim.

I drove into Weaverville to upload blogs, catch up on messaging my dear wife, subject myself to more abuse from Marc (What? A 10-mile hike isn’t good enough?), have some lunch, coffee (my first of the day!), and catch my last beer (a Sierra Nevada draft ale, for which I’m quickly developing a deep, abiding respect) at The Diggin, an ancient saloon on Weaverville’s main street. By the way, I HIGHLY recommend this fine drinking establishment if you want to A) get the lay of the land in Weaverville, B) get honest reviews of area restaurants, attractions, or hiking trails, or C) laugh your ass off at or with the “regulars,” all of whom were as friendly, opinionated (in a good way), and willing as they could be to chat with a traveling Texan. Again, more on that later.

People in Weaverville and Junction City have reason to be a little on edge. The significant fire damage on the mountains between the two towns is still very fresh in these folks’ minds. It’s from just earlier this year and devastated not only the mountains, but the economy. It’s not been a good year for this area. Between the late snow melt, brutal rains, then drought, recent heat wave, the early fires, now the late summer fires…the local economy (which is based, to a great deal, on tourism) has taken a pretty significant hit, as have the residents. One of the reasons I like to sit in local bars along my travels is you get the unvarnished truth about a region’s woes, and the folks at The Diggin were very upfront and informative about what this year, in particular, has been like. One bar patron said the only people who were doing well this year were the pot growers (this area is one corner of California’s “green triangle,” an area well-known for its high quality marijuana…Guerneville is apparently another of the triangle’s “corners”).

The campground is damn near empty. The two or three other encampments (I’m the only tent camper, which has had its advantages) are either sticking it out because of long-term commitments or cutting and running tonight. One guy is about to cancel his Trinity River fishing trip, pack up his RV after dinner, and head to clearer skies. On the way back from Weaverville a little while ago, I stopped at the National Forest office and asked about the fires. Things are not looking good. “If you have respiratory problems, I’d get out. If not, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. The fire is not going to come roaring into Junction City, if that’s what you’re worried about.” They were expecting a late afternoon temperature inversion, which may help clear out some of the smoke, but it’s not expected to last long.

I’ve struck up a good relationship with the woman who owns the campground and presides over the camp store operations. She’s pretty battle-hardened – a veteran of many, many years as a campground host - but a real sweetheart. She told me what it was like here earlier this summer when the mountains nearby were ablaze. Even through today’s haze, I can still see the charred hillsides and barren, blackened trees. It was obviously a close call. To them, this year is one to be forgotten. When I told her I was going to hang tough tonight and ride out the smoky skies, she thanked me. At this point, I’m sure any income they have is appreciated.

Two guys at The Diggin laid it out pretty plainly. If you don’t work for the forest service, phone company, transportation department, or schools, this year has sucked and there’s no work. “Our young people graduate from high school and get the hell out of here,” one told me. “There’s nothing here for them.”

I was somewhat curious as to why the lumber industry didn’t make that list. What little traffic up and down Rt. 299 that’s not fire fighting-related is trucks full of fresh-cut lumber. But, I was more intent on getting back here to the campground (for a swim, some writing, and a shower) than pursuing that line of questioning.

Tonight will be another “slim pickings” dinner, which is OK by me. I had a wonderful meal last night at The Sawmill (which scored high reviews from those holding down barstools at The Diggin) of steak and fried prawns. Not only was it a decent meal, it came at one of the most reasonable prices I’ve encountered along my California/OR journey. A NY strip, three nice-size breaded, fried prawns, potatoes, a salad, and cole slaw (too boot) for only $18? And, despite the bar being full of local patrons, I was able to commandeer the channel selection of the large screen TV and – mercifully – change from world championship poker (a phenomenon I’ve yet to understand) – to the WNBA playoffs. I’ll probably take some abuse about this, but even poorly played basketball (this was NOT the WNBA’s finest TV moment, folks) beats watching poker on TV.

The inexplicable success of “championship” poker on TV is another of the many signs that American culture is sliding into the abyss.

So, I’ll depart tomorrow morning for what I believe will be Lassen Volcanic National Park, unless fires in that area – there are fires east of here as well - also make it undesirable. I may have to play it by ear – or by eye and lung, in this case – and see where the Malibu (which I’ve christened “The Golden Bear”) takes me. I may end up in Oroville a day early. In addition to Feather Falls, O’ville boasts a Chinese Temple, which may add to the peace and serenity I’ve been seeking.

Speaking of which, one other way God has been speaking to me is with water. The relentless pounding of the waves along the Pacific coast; the vast Pacific itself; the experience of paddling down the Rogue; seeing the canyons carved out by the Rogue; sitting, watching, and listening to the beauty and ceaseless roar of several waterfalls, and – here in the Trinity Alps – sitting beside a mountain stream along side Stuart’s Fork Trail and camping beside the nearly silent, but nonetheless strong current of the Trinity River. The constant ebb and flow, or stream. I’ve spent all too many years fighting the flow, resisting the current. I’ll never be one to just mindlessly “go with the flow,” but there’s a sweet spot somewhere between where I’ve been (all too often fighting the current and demanding the current follow me) and just giving up or total passivity. As my friend Brian suggested, “Don’t fight the river. Don’t allow it to carry you away. Become the river.”

Yet, it’s the lack of water that speaks to the people of Weaverville and Junction City, among others. Yet, in almost complete contrast to the circumstances that surround it, the Trinity River silently, obliviously, yet doggedly pursues its path to the Pacific.

The winds have picked up a little, so the expected temperature inversion must’ve kicked in. Things are still smoky and hazy, but I can see peaks now I wasn’t able to see a couple hours ago. Needless to say, there’ll be no campfire this evening. This entire vacation has been rain-free. For the first time, I feel somewhat guilty for that run of luck. Those heroes occupying the fire camps up the road, being shuttled via helicopter into and out of the areas ablaze, and risking their lives to contain the fires two or three ridges west of here need a break. So does the economy here in the Trinity Alps region.


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Crescent City Arrival & Silliness on Ship Mountain

8/23, 1005, Bigfoot Campground (along the banks of the Trinity River), Junction City, CA – Well, a lot has happened since I last wrote. I apologize for not updating as regularly, but my friend Marc in Anaheim has been unceasing in his verbal abuse at me for not spending more time “on vacation” as opposed to sitting in coffee shops writing about it.

So, Marc. Congratulations. You win.

As a result, what follows is a bit condensed and based on a horrible short-term memory and - when I was on the ball enough – written notes. I should also point out that forest fires west of my location (and this morning’s prevailing winds) are making things a little smoky out here in Junction City.

Redwood to Crescent City (8/14) – I was up and out of the park by 8am. I bid farewell to my favorite park ranger and complimented her on her classic 1960’s Mustang. She beamed with pride.

It was very foggy that morning and there was lots of roadwork along the highway. I opted to take the Newton Drury Parkway as an alternative route through the Redwoods Park. Turned out to be a great decision. It was a slow, leisurely pace through the middle of the Redwood forest. According to the gentlemen I met the previous day in the Tall Trees Grove, the Redwood forest at one time stretched for 400 miles and was at some points 30 miles wide. This trip has given me some perspective on just how much destruction was inflicted upon the area by early (and, sadly, later) Americans. The price we’ve paid is high. Have we learned anything? Not much, from my vantage point.

It was still too foggy for coastal views (I later returned for pictures), but did visit the site of the old bridge across the Klamath River (destroyed in a mid-60’s flood) before crossing the new bridge. Both bridges have sizable sculptures of bears “guarding” each end of the bridge.

Another unique feature of this area was the occasional lagoon (a couple anchored state parks) and extensive coastal wetlands. On the north shore of the Klamath River, the Klamath River overlook looms high above the river and ocean. Fog prevented me from taking advantage of it this time, but I had a feeling I’d be back.

I arrived in Crescent City WAY early and commenced to seeking a restaurant with free WiFi and the potential for a good breakfast. Found one. I parked there and caught up on e-mail and contact with both work and friends. My waitress had on a shirt with “Two Boys Are Better Than One” on it. I had to ask her about it. Turns out what at first seemed like a rather suggestive boast was actually an expression of pleasure by the mother of two sons. “I do get a lot of odd looks and rude comments when I wear this,” she told me.

All (well, most) things can be explained.

I checked into the Curly Redwood Lodge early. They were very accommodating (no pun intended) of my request and I was soon moved into my first hotel in 7 days. Ahhhhh…..
The Lodge was far from new (kind of late 50’s/early 60’s era), but very nice with large rooms and –lo and behold – they’d added WiFi since I’d made my reservations weeks before. Sweet! I was soon loaded in, had uploaded a blog, and now awaited the lifting of the fog from the area.

So began an adventure that was wondrous, scary, and a little weird.

Fear and Loathing on Ship Mountain – I recalled that the Lodge desk clerk had said, “If you want to see anything during the early part of the day around here, you’re going to have to go inland.” So, I focused on two things: Jed Smith Redwood State Park and what appeared on the map to be a route through the coastal mountains just east of Crescent City. The park was small, but featured some short, quiet trails through Redwood forests and a trail along the Smith River as it flowed through the wilderness. During my hike along the rocky shore of the Smith, I almost stepped on two snakes. When I asked the park rangers about them later, I was told they were probably garter snakes. Well, let me tell you folks, these “weren’t no garter snakes.” I’m not sure of their species, but I know they weren’t garters. I didn’t feel like arguing with park rangers, though, and wasn’t too keen on returning to the scene of the crime for a more formal ID.

The encounter with the snakes should’ve been a warning about what was to come. If only I’d known…

I asked the state park rangers about the route I’d picked out and whether or not it was 4-wheel drive territory. They referred me to the National Park Ranger station across the highway. So, across the highway I went. The encounter there was notable for at least a couple reasons, including the tongue-in-cheek response of the ranger when I pulled out my maps (“You’re in California.”) and that I met two other Austinites (one of whom worked at AMD) in the station. After some discussion, they concluded that A) the road was not paved but B) was not necessarily 4-wheel drive only. “…I think,” he added. “It’s been a number of years since I’ve been up there,” he cautioned.

So, I head to my car with map and shaky advice in-hand. Confidence is not high. But, I have the afternoon open and it’s still foggy on the coast. What the hell? I’ll give it a shot. Besides, if I turn up missing, I’ve established my identity and my intended destination at the Ranger Station. It shouldn’t take too long to find my wrecked car and remains.

Oh, my mother is going to make me pay for that last comment…

What followed was a 28-mile, death-defying, mind-roasting, solo journey into the coastal mountain wilderness along narrow, one-lane dirt roads cut (literally) into the sides of mountains among thousand foot drops off non-existent shoulders and almost constant falling rock zones. If you’ve ever seen a cartoon that has a car chase up or down mountains where the rear axle and wheels of the cars extend off the sides of the mountains on each sharp turn, that was similar – all too similar – to my drive up Ship Mountain. And with each harrowing mile, the hair on the back of my neck and temperature gauge on my rental car were climbing higher and higher. What had I gotten myself into? The drive up seemed endless, as well as scaryt. I have to admit I was starting to wonder if I’d finally taken one chance too many and the snide comment above about my car’s wreckage and my broken body may have been more of a premonition than joke.

But, I was actively proving that a 4-wheel drive vehicle was not necessary for the drive. General Motors, take note. Your 2006 Malibu Maxx V6 was up to the task at hand.

I did not see another human being for the entire 28 mile journey. Apparently, on that particular day, at least, I was the only human being stupid enough to pull such a stunt.

But, eventually, I reached the summit, parked, and took in a spectacular view of the coastal range looking East. Layer upon layer of green mountains stretched as far as the eye could see (and the eye could see VERY far). What a view. What majesty! What a moment of total isolation and opportunity to commune with nature! And, once again, my ears were met with total silence. No wind. No birds. Obviously, no other humans. Dead silence.

So, as my friend Brian suggested, I sat atop Ship Mountain for a good long while and listened for the voice of God. Indeed, it did take a while. But, eventually, God spoke to me. In a firm voice, as real and all-encompassing as the quiet around me, God said to me, “Get the hell out of here, butthead!”

So, after taking a photo or two, I high-tailed it out and – caressing the Malibu’s dashboard and urging it on saying, “Just get us out of here and I’ll never do anything like this to you again” – drove down the other side of the mountain and eventually (and gratefully) popped out along a state highway that snaked along the Smith River (great views and photo ops) and returned me to Crescent City.

After a good laugh at myself and my exploits, I rewarded my escape from my own stupidity by having a salmon dinner (with basil cream sauce) across the street from the Lodge and returning to my room to tell my tale to my lovely wife via phone. For all I know, she’ll kick me in the ass for being so stupid when I get home, but she was very understanding and accepting on the phone. I was safe – for now – and that was all that mattered.

Well, I have to tell you, the smoke from the fires west of here is getting to be somewhat of a concern. The mountains surrounding my little hideaway along the Trinity River are semi-shrouded in smoke and the distinct smell of burning woodlands is growing increasingly difficult to ignore. I think I’ll pack it up, go have lunch in Weaverville, then upload a couple blogs at my local purveyor of caffeinated beverages.

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Foggy Redwoods & Getting "Stoned" On Agate Beach

8/16, 1931, Rogue River near Agness, OR – I awoke early (you’re shocked, of course) Sunday morning with one thing on my mind. No, wait. Two things. I forgot coffee. My goal was to snag one of the “limited number” of passes that granted the bearer to enter Redwood National Park’s “Tall Trees Grove” (and understated name if there ever was one) from a trailhead a little over a mile away instead of the eight mile hike most others have to endure. I arrived at the park office at 0730, expecting it to open at a reasonable hour, say….0800. Nope. Didn’t open until 0900.

What to do? Well, since I wasn’t able to address need #2, then revert to need #1: coffee. I drove into Orick – a really, really small tow…well, you can’t really call it a town. Even “village” would be a stretch. Let’s just call it a “collection of buildings” (some of which were businesses) huddled together just south of the entrance to RNP. For my purposes, Orick was the home of the Palm Café (no explanation of the business name), where I secured breakfast (scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns) and an endless cup of coffee. Along with that, I scored a free Sunday paper (local edition, quite a hoot), and a waitress who knew – like family - everyone who came in (save me) and, like most waitresses I’ve encountered on this trip, was pretty feisty and armed with a sharp tongue. This one, though, was pretty possessive of her spoons. She was telling the guy next to me (a confirmed bachelor in his early 50’s for whom the waitress was convinced she would someday find the right woman) that a customer of questionable morals stole one of her best spoons. Then, when confronted, the customer lied about it, claiming she didn’t take the spoon. Eventually, the waitress’s evidence (and imposing presence) prevailed and the spoon was produced, no apology, no acknowledgement, nothing. “So, I’m checking everyone here for spoons as you leave,“ she warned. “Full cavity check, if necessary!”

This was not a woman to be trifled with, I decided. I kept my spoon in clear sight during the entire meal. Perhaps I’d score a spoon on my next journey through Redwood country. But, not this spoon. Not this day. Not this journey.

The cook, as good as she was at producing fine, greasy café cuisine, glared menacingly at the customers – all of them, locals and strangers – from behind the counter. Indeed, her way with grease was tasty, but I can’t recall the last time I looked at a “clean” plate (i.e., the food having been eaten) covered with so much grease. I took notice and predicted (accurately, it turns out) my digestive system would have a thing or two to say about that later.

Later, at around 8:45, the Park Service crew showed up, opened early, and I left soon afterward with the sought after pass in-hand. I was ready to rock.

My first stop in Redwoods was the Lady Bird Johnson Grove, dedicated in 1969 by then-President Richard Nixon to the ex-First Lady, in recognition of her efforts to “beautify” America and to bring more attention to the nation’s park system. The only other early visitors were two middle-aged Asian women doing their morning jog, so to say the grove was peaceful is an understatement. An almost cathedral-like silence permeated the area. Actually, the tall, straight redwoods reminded me of pillars in a cathedral, so the comparison was not just sonic.
After completing the Lady Bird grove, I moved to the Redwood Creek Overlook. Here, I ran into one of the few (though mildly) unpleasant encounters I’ve witnessed on this trip. Taking up about 70% of the small parking lot (and not in a particularly convenient way, mind you) was a monstrous RV. To make matters worse, it was running its generator, which didn’t exactly add to the otherwise pristine natural wonders surrounding the area. Inside, with windows closed (God forbid they should actually breathe fresh air) was a family eating breakfast. Their total isolation from this world-renowned monument of Mother Nature was too ironic for me, as was the noise from their generator. I must admit I entertained dark thoughts about how stupid Americans have become.

I quickly ascertained from the map at the Overlook where the Tall Trees Grove was and put a mental “You Will Be There” sticker on it.

Tall Trees Grove. Interesting name for a grove of Redwoods in Redwoods National Park, eh? Someone was a master of understatement. Well, duh! I was the second party in, based on my observations of the parking lot. The 1.5 mile trail into the grove was almost all downhill, so I knew it’d be brutal coming out. It turned out to be worth it, though (no surprise). Along the trail, there was a fairly “fresh” fallen tree blocking the trail. Normally, that would’ve been no problem. However, when a Redwood falls across your trail, you practically have to be pole vaulter to get over it. But, with some effort and the judicious choosing of what I would and would not have slung over my shoulders when I attempted the climb, I made it over. The grove itself was lush, quiet (again, a cathedral comes to mind) and inviting. The tallest trees in the park were there. I’d been tipped off by the Forest Service folks at the Center to leave the grove and walk along Redwood Creek. Not only would this allow for some great photographs, but it’d also provide some perspective of just how tall the trees were. Right they were!

While in the grove, I met an x-ray technician from Washington State and we compared notes about our professional lives and the value of regular vacations (gee, ya’ think?). He had a Labrador that seemed to be about as much into the trip as his master was. I’m sure the short walk to Redwood Creek was probably on his mind.

I spent a long time in the Grove. The peace and serenity were just what I needed, and I had more than enough opportunities both there and sitting along the creek to turns things over. It was a healthy place. On the other hand, perhaps it was the knowledge that the trail out (and, perhaps, more importantly, UP) was awaiting me. Either way, I lingered. What got sacrificed was Lost Man Trail, which subconsciously may have been a tip of hat to my mother’s intense worries – expressed before (to me) and throughout my trip (to my dear wife) – that I’d meet with some horrible fate and never come back alive.

Instead, I opted to do the coastal drive portion of the Redwoods Park, which is in the portion of the park run by the state of California. I learned quickly that meant a fee needed to be paid. A quick cost-benefit analysis resulted in the overlooked being 86’d. I’ve seen a lot of the California coast for free. Why pay for more?

That left Agate Beach. There’s a little 5 year-old girl back home who has – much to my benefit – befriended me and in her own innocent, sometimes naïve/sometimes surprisingly “wise-beyond-her-years” way has allowed the child inside me to come out and play every so often. She has a thing for agates and pretty stones. The thought of being able to bring home a bag of raw agates for her (and being treated as thought I’d brought her a bag of diamonds) was too much to overcome. So, I returned to camp, changed clothes, drove to Agate Beach and spent two hours crawling around on the beach digging up beautiful, colorful stones for my “girlfriend.” I concentrated on the colorful stones instead of the “true” translucent agates and walked away with a plastic storage bag full. I can’t wait to see the smile on her face and the look in her eyes. It was a picture perfect day on Agate Beach, so even if I’ve not been digging away in the sand and gravel, I’d have enjoyed it.

And, yeah, the Pacific is cold. REAL cold.

Afterward, I gassed up in Trinidad and bought some cheese and crackers for my
“fine dining experience” beside the fire. Thankfully, the previous night’s wood had dried up and I ended up having a great fire to complete my last day at Patrick’s Point.

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