Trip Trans America — Part Four
Not long after crossing out of Nevada, I arrived at a border checkpoint. Not a United States border checkpoint, but rather a California Republic checkpoint. “Any plants or produce in the vehicle?” “Um, no” “Ok good to go”
My first impression upon reaching California was that I couldn’t believe the sea is so close. Imagine being one of the first explorers to cross the continent, traversing the desert into places like Death Valley, unsure of what’s on the other side. The last thing I’d imagine to meet is the water of life, the largest body of water known to man.
A crow welcomed me to the biggest supercharger I’ve seen: 40 stalls in Baker CA.
Leading up to this trip I’d had many visions of what the open road would look like. Most frequently, the image of Hotel California came to mind. On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair. I’d expected much of the middle-of-nowhere road to look and feel like this image. Over the first three weeks it did not happen once — and then I hit Lost Hills. Lost Hills, Hotel California, Cali Lyle — all felt a mirage. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave!
I’d passed Caesar Chavez signs, an army convoy, and many golden hills by the time I hit Steinbeck Country.
Steinbeck is the reason I’d planned to visit Monterey. While I’d been to San Francisco, I’d never been to that land a hundred miles south — though I’d read about it much in his books, read about the lives of the Trasks and Hamiltons.
Golden hills, and more golden hills. And crops for good measure, workers toiling by the score. The warm warm sun overhead, remnant from the desert. And then out of nowhere it got misty, hilly and misty and not so warm, and I knew I’d reached
The Bay Area
From a hill on high in Pacific Grove I saw the ocean for the first time, just below the mist. Minutes later I arrived at my airbnb. Felt so damn tired from the long days and short nights, but here as with other places I had a friend to meet me, and it didn’t feel right to just collapse into bed. There are things to be done! What things? I don’t know. But I’d made it! All the way coast to coast!
As Jamie showed me around the 17-mile drive, I reflected that I’d gone from a strip of casinos to a strip of golf courses.
Here I could really smell the sea for the first time, smell the seaweed and the salt. A group of birds posted on a rock — or are those seals? — no they’re birds. Deer wandered around the fairways, sniffing the ground, the grass and sand.
After stopping at the Lone Cypress we parked at Pebble Beach proper. We found a nice spot to sit in the lodge lounge area and ordered chowder & Lagunitas. Man I was staaaaarving. Though less starving than some of the seagulls.
We explored the clubhouse, saw the 18th green, and then passed Jamie’s morning surf spot on our way into town for dinner. Town being Carmel-by-the-Sea. His friend had recommended the Flying Fish Grill, for whose underground entrance we headed below deck. They being out of crispy spring rolls, we started with calamari and tuna tartare and finished with the almond sea bass and the rare peppered ahi, splitting everything.
We found an open ice cream place in Monterey, but I was too tired to wait in line and repaired to the car. Fell asleep the moment I hit my bed.
The next morning I got a grande redeye while I charged, and then headed up Route 1. Seeing the water rush by my window, I felt the pull to consummate my coast-to-coast rip, and pulled over near Santa Cruz. From where I parked you could see the water but not the beach, so I followed those carrying surfboards. Our path wound back and forth through the brush, then down a hill, and all of a sudden I gasped as the shore sprung out of grass and rock.
Salt water on my feet and in my hair, I resumed Route 1, weaving in and out of fog. At one point I saw a lighthouse standing alone amidst the mist, reminding me of the time we journeyed to the lighthouse of Sankaty Head, a family as sundered and whole as the Ramsays.
I met back up with Jamie at his sister’s apartment, from which she and her boyfriend drove us to a taco place in the mission. I got one fish, one chicken milanese, one mexican steak. The San Franciscans then gave us a little driving tour, stopping along the way for greek yogurt topped with cherry sauce. We finished by paying a house call to their dog Nutty, who had lived with them in Chicago back when we were all still Fremont Street Kids.
Jamie returned south to LA and I pressed on north to meet friends for dinner in Petaluma. But I had a little time before, and so walked the batteries to bluffs trail near the golden gate bridge, passing other solitaries feeling their own way down.
Crossing the bridge north into wine country I felt a new phase of my journey had begun.
Met my friends at a brewery in town. Still full from the tacos, I accompanied my hazy IPA with no more than brussel sprouts. The brisket looked really good, but seriously I think I’m still bbq’d out from Texas.
The morning sun brought breakfast, and I swear the bacon egg avocado sandwich saved my life. Sometimes food makes you sleepy and other times it revitalizes, the fuel of the furnace turning seamlessly to fire, you know?
The morning sun may have reached Petaluma, but not Point Reyes. Fog cloaking the landscape, we drove through a majestic world.
It felt as if we’d been transported to Scotland, me looking around expecting to see a fin of Loch Ness surface in the bay. Instead we saw seaside deer emerge from the fog. Birds took flight, brush blew in the wind, and cows milled around. My friend described what the view would have looked like on a clear day.
A mural in Point Reyes Station posited that love, like unicorns, lives only in the imagination. We found sparkling water in a cute little barn store and then headed back to Petaluma. One second we were in the hills and the next we were in the town.
For lunch we had our hearts set on the Lagunitas Brewery. But it’s closed on Mondays! Felt like Kanye singing about chick-fil-a. No matter, we found another beer place.
After strolling through town we figured that being in olive oil country, we might as well pick some up. So we drove to BR Cohn, but all we ended up consuming was their chardonnay.
Our dinner reservation in downtown Sonoma wasn’t for another few hours, so we walked around that town for a bit. Not far from a valley of the moon mural we found a cute courtyard tucked away.
Wine country is a great place to do nothing.
In time our table was ready at the girl and the fig. We pretty much shared everything we could eat. Or drink. The fig manhattan, the fig kiss, the blood orange margarita. The fig & arugula salad, the grilled peach salad, the corn sformato, steak tartare. Pan-seared scallops, wild flounder meunière, duck confit.
The sunset powered our way back. “You liking California so far? Get used to it.”
We nightcapped back at the apartment with Wild Turkey Rare Breed bourbon, a gift from the tasting back in Austin.
The next morning I re-upped with the same breakfast sandwich & coffee as the day prior, and then hit the road for
Oregon
I passed a spot where the map and the land disagreed: the former marked a body of water but the latter featured naught but dirt. Guess the drought is legit, as legit as the heat wave. That day in Oregon it reached over 110 degrees.
Then I got a message from my airbnb host: “Don’t know where you are traveling today but there’s a big lava fire near Weed CA — part of Hwy 97 is closed. Also Tennant Fire north of Lava Fire.” Fortunately my map took me up Interstate 5 the whole way, though I did see smoke clouds, which ended up spreading into cross-country haze over the following weeks.
I slept in Medford as a waystation for Crater Lake. Desperate for a quick bite and long rest, I hit a Panda Express before admiring the nuclear sunset, even more powerful than the prior night’s though featuring a strip mall in the foreground.
Decorating my hosts’ place were a small cross and a couple pictures of wolves.
In the morning I stopped outside a Target to charge for my drive up to Crater Lake. As it’s not technically a crater, but rather is the mouth of a volcano, I was to gain nearly 5k feet on my way up. Waiting for my car I had time for a brief conversation with the barista in the Target’s Starbucks:
“What brings you to Oregon?” “Crater Lake” “Oh so beautiful. Where are you from?” “I’m on a roadtrip right now but am moving to California.” “Oh I’m from California!” “Whereabouts?” “Petaluma, it’s like 30 minutes north of San Francisco.” “Oh I was just there yesterday!” “Wow, no one ever knows what I mean when I mention that place haha. Go to any local spots?” “Yeah a brewery in town.” “Lagunitas?” “Nah it was closed.” “Ugggh well I used to work at a local coffee supplier.” “We did go get coffee at, lemme see, Acre.” “Oh Acre sucks! They got in trouble a while back and had to change some of their cafes to pizzerias.” “We were wondering why we saw Acre pizzerias on google maps…”
During the remainder of my charge I browsed apps, including Goodreads, which brought inspiration from Edith Wharton:
Life is always a tightrope or a feather bed. Give me the tightrope.
As long as I don’t have to sleep on it!
Back on the road I, as ever, noticed many signs, some unique and some not:
“Congestion”
“Welcome to Cougar Country” — Wonder if the cougar logo in the center represents a school mascot or a real cougar. Or both?
“Avalanche Zone”
“Fallen Rocks” — Not ‘falling’, mind you.
One sign for “Elk” followed immediately by another for “Rocks” — Well hopefully not at the same time! Those poor elk.
As we got close to Crater Lake the terrain started to feel Cambrian. Though a man’s comment at the visitor center ripped me right back into the 21st century: “it was so different here a year ago, masks everywhere”
I parked in the rim village right on the edge of the lake. And wow, it’s so blue. Rather than waste my battery on a driving tour, I decided to take a closeby hike to Garfield Peak.
Observing the rim, I saw patches of white amidst the grey and brown and red rock above the water line. Is that snow?? I got closer and yes, wow, it’s just hanging on the side all by itself! In the middle of summer, no less. How does it do that?
Similarly as during my hike in New Mexico, I reflected on nature and time:
It’s crazy that the period between (active) volcano eruptions is so long that the volcanoes themselves can turn into lakes, grow life, support communities. And for Crater Lake it wasn’t just one eruption but two, the second creating Wizard Island. A Russian Doll of volcanoes!
In a sense the land, as we think of arable land, survives the lava. Though it is the lava itself. And this is far from being the only crater of its kind. Imagine if Taupo were to blow again. Or Ngorongoro — it too is called a crater despite being a volcanic caldera. Perhaps to the human mind it’s more comforting to conceive of the former.
Hiking up I felt like one tiny pebble on the crater rim. Not so tiny perhaps as the chipmunk that ran across my path. Or as another that started to scurry down an incline before making an abrupt about-face, triggering a single-rock slide.
White butterflies, yellow butterflies, and orange butterflies floated about.
On my way down I moved to the right of the trail to make way for those coming up, then switched to the left, the cliff side, upon realizing it would give them a clearer path. “Thank you. How’d you know I’m afraid of heights?”
Three kids led their father off trail, the oldest sister in front. “We’ll get lost thanks to you Kayla!” “No we won’t!” …. “See, a dead end! I told you it wasn’t that way!”
While in line for food back in the village, a husband and wife walked by, she wearing a Dark Star Orchestra shirt, he an Arches National Park. I overheard others chatting: “Last night we stayed in Fort Klamath — there was a huge fire! The sky all covered!”
Driving out I felt highly aware I was moving down the side of a volcano. At first it’s switchbacks, the grade being too steep. Then it relaxes to a still-notable decline, and finally to a very slight one. But even with the slight one I could tell we’re going down — not because of my spatial awareness but because the Tesla battery had barely decreased if at all. At the top of Crater Lake I had 188 miles left in battery life, with 180 miles left to travel till the charging station in Eugene. I arrived at Eugene not with 8 miles left but with 58.
I passed lakes, barely visible through the thick trees, the glint of sun off the water reminding me of the water between lines of crops reflecting the Mississippi sun. Lookout Point Lake in particular made me recall Lake Como.
Traffic slowed down on our one-lane road because of a state trooper ahead, driving about the speed limit. Eventually the guy in front of me let the trooper drift ahead, and forgetting the presence of the latter I passed the former. Just as I’d nearly reached the trooper, a car behind suddenly hopscotched me at high speed, and then slammed on the brakes as he pseudo-tailgated the trooper. Once a passing lane opened up the trooper pulled over to the right lane, turned his siren lights on, waited for the hopscotcher to pass, and promptly pulled him over.
A bird hit my window! Or rather glanced it. Was looping down at street level. Hope it’s ok!!
I didn’t do much in Eugene. Basically carried on resting as I had the prior night. Did walk to get food though, at Laughing Planet. On the way, I heard a guy in a wheelchair exclaim to a car speeding past: “woo woo too fast too fast.” A redheaded dude with two long braids rode his bike down the street, nonchalantly balancing on his back wheel, the front wheel higher than his head.
The next morning I strolled around the UO campus. Sipping coffee nearby, I read a passage on the shop’s wall describing “the story of how rock and roll helped save America from Nixonian fascism.” Eugene had a lotta comic stores and comic vibes, for instance themed sweatshirts and burrito places. After circling the football field, I hit the road again for a short and cloudy drive to
My hotel room wouldn’t be ready till the after noon so I parked by the Rose Garden. Others strolling the Int’l Test Garden surprised me by actually touching the roses in order to smell. In the Japanese Garden I stood in silence amongst the koi, sat in silence amongst the rocks. One group of boulders looked as if they’d been dropped from the sky, creating ripples frozen in time.
The Daisuke Nakano tapestries made me feel as if I’d never left Lake Bluff.
I continued to bide my time at the art museum near my hotel. Encountered the black box, the red cityscape, the power of time, and the falsity of fiction.
Since arriving in Portland I’d been feeling wave upon wave of anxiety. No different really from what I’d felt at other new places — simply that you’re out of place, don’t belong, are unwanted. Once I got to my room and laid down though, it quickly passed.
At the nearest whiskey bar I could find, I enjoyed an old fashioned, roasted spiced nuts, and some pickled haricots verts. Game Five of the NBA Eastern Conference Finals played on the TVs above, a bit of a bummer game given the two superstars were out.
Heading in search of livelier vibes, I drifted north, passing a mama and baby elephant.
The waitstaff at Deschutes featured two Adam Drivers and one Matthew McConaughey. They kept all patrons safe, down to Chinatown Cat and Jerry G.
I wonder if Crater Lake Vodka uses water from the lake itself. Otherwise would be poor branding, no?
For drinks I had the Fresh Haze IPA, the Black Butte Porter, and the Nitro Obsidian Stout. Or rather, I was still eating my burger, minutes from ordering the third beer, when I started chatting with the patrons seated to my left. “How long have you been here?” “Just today.” “Oh I woulda thought you were here a month!” … “You absolutely have to see Bend Oregon.. And also the Columbia River Gorge.” “Sure, if I have time!” ….. “We’re gonna get outta here and go to Paymaster Lounge.. You wanna come?”
On the way, they gave me a quick walking tour of Pearl District. “Lots of people go to that place *points across the street* but I hate it.” “Ok ya, it’s kinda cool, though not that popping.” “Well it’s not New York. And Oregon only just opened up two days ago.” “Good timing if you’re me.”
At Paymaster Lounge we drank some beers, chatted, and played some pool. Sadly their funky vending machine featured the king rather than the jack of hearts, else I would have snagged.
Mother’s Bistro the following morning recalled me to life. With Euro 2020 in the background, Spain up 1-0 on Switzerland, I ate salmon hash.
Tried to get donuts at Voodoo but nooope, line waaay to long.
Walking past the river I could only think wow, so many bridges.
I took a pretty chill day. Wrote, read, studied.
In the afternoon I visited Powell’s, the largest independent bookstore in the world. Indeed it took up a whole city block, and inside it was a veritable labyrinth. I asked for a map and sure enough they had one. I felt as if, had I described a completely made-up book to one of the employees there, they’d be able to find it for me. For instance if I’d asked “What do you have on unicorns voyaging through space?” they’d likely reply “Ohhh do we have the thing for you.”
Sadly I didn’t think of that till later, and so missed my opportunity to learn of space unicorns. I did buy five books however, exercising ungodly restraint in not buying more. Afterwards, a pastrami shop piqued my interest and I wolfed down the most scrumptious sandwich, paying the price of fifteen bucks plus a scorched upper mouth.
I’d been planning to explore other parts of the city that evening. Go across the river and try some of my friend’s restaurant recommendations. But I just didn’t have the juice. For that night at least, I’d reached exploration fatigue. Why get in a car when there are two places within walking distance that have already caught your eye?
The first was Jake’s. I’d seen it on the way to the bookstore, and just knew they’d have the right ambiance for a martini. Plus, they’re my age! Rather than my traditional Hendricks, I took inspiration from Vegas and tried their local-to-portland Aria gin. With Wimbledon on in the background, I reflected how far I’d come since seeing the French Open on TV at Buckley’s Tavern in Delaware.
The second was Luc Lac. I’d walked past it on my way to breakfast, loving their coloring, and ever since had had a craving for Vietnamese.
Put myself on their waiting list and then passed time at an old Irish Bar across the street. They seemed to be the Powell’s Library of Booze.
Sitting in front of that wondrous display, I felt like entertainment to the tourists. “A solo guy at the bar? He must be a regular” they possibly thought. I could feel their eyes on me, gazing like gazelle from their booths — each drink order, each interaction with the bartender nothing more than a discussion point for them.
Luc Lac enforced fully-mobile ordering. Basically you place all orders on your phone and pick them up at the window when the buzzer chained to your table vibrates. Which made you flinch a bit, sure, and meant you had to close out the bill every time you wanted one more beer, yeah, but at least they get to cut on waiter costs and present themselves as covid careful!
I got the sausage spring rolls and the chicken rice plate; the sprouts on the latter made me feel most healthy.
The next morning, the hotel valet wheeled out my fully-charged Tesla; apparently they had their own charger, compliments of the chef. I drove out, my path taking me right through the Columbia River Gorge. Beautiful as advertised, I made a note to come back and hike some day. The sun looked to first be stretching the clouds’ cover, and then bursting through.
After a healthy stretch I encountered a sign that read “You are now leaving the National Scenic Gorge Area.” Guess that’s it, no more scenic!
In Part Five I’ll travel into the mountains of Idaho and Montana!
