Those Crazy Ideas That Pop Into Your Head…

Posted on January 19, 2012 by kai

My masters is halfway through, practically speaking. I have no idea where the time has gone.

But the time to be silly and a student and all that is wearing thin. Last night when having a hair cut I was thinking what sorts of things I could still do without being chalked up to being a complete nutcase.

I have, for example, never shaved my head. I have no idea how it’d look other than it would be ridiculous. I also have no idea how much of it would grow back given my genetically preordained thinning hair. But it would be one of those things I could do at the start of dissertation season and then just count time through follicle action.

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Feet and Commercialism

Posted on January 17, 2012 by kai

I bought a pair of trainers for the first time in ages. Years, certainly. I had two pairs of Tigers which while I loved, have come to the end of their road. The green pair have only been wearable on sunny days thanks to a hole I wore into the heel through the rubber. The blue pair, well, let’s say that taking them off after a day’s wearing isn’t pleasant. Then there’s the fact that London and assorted globetrotting have left their grimy marks. Those I’ve always thought to be in my responsibility to deal with. I got a suede brush and diligently tried to use an eraser on the white (now gray) rubber outsole. Not to much visible effect.

Which brings me to today. I was in an outlet store looking at trainers. Remainder stock, whatnot. A cute pair of trainers from a brand I’d never heard of seemed to fit what I was looking for. £20. I thought, why not? A quick google for the brand on my phone revealed that they include eco-consciousness in their tagline. Sold. I don’t care if it’s greenwashing. It most likely is, certainly to people who like to dig. But it worked for me as a marketing thing.

So I got a pair of Ipath trainers. How long would I want them to last me? It’s unreasonable (and sad) that they’re made disposable, but I’ll do my best to wear them out.

It’s silly with me. I tend to hesitate on large purchases for myself. Or any purchases for myself because come on, £20 is like $30 or whatever and not exactly tons to pay for something you keep your feet in multiple hours a week. And I drop that amount on a round of nice beer on a regular basis. Or a t-shirt at a gig I’ve enjoyed (but then I know the money goes largely to the band who just sold it to you). And you could argue that I had a need for them. Hell, I’ve been thinking about new leisure shoes for like a year. My need is obviously vastly contrived and inflated but in this society it’s there. Nothing cool about tatty trainers, and I’m a student and have no need to wear brogues on a daily basis.

Plus I like shoes. I’m like a girl in that way.

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Yeah, I’m Still Around

Posted on October 14, 2011 by kai

The fact that when I’m lying in bed with the window open and the cold night air streaming in smells of woodsmoke makes it seem like I’m somewhere far, far away from central London.

But I’m here. I’ll catch up. Lots is going on.

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Day 11: LA, Baby!

Posted on September 10, 2011 by kai

We had a lazy morning with amazing breakfast burritos cooked for us by our gracious host. I can not gush enough about how awesome it was to stay with Jessica, everything was just right, and her place is lovely. Suitcases packed, we were soon bundled into her still-dusty-from-the-desert car and driven to the BART station to journey to the airport.

We managed to avoid the morning rush on the train so that was all good. San Francisco Airport is really efficient too, and we were through security into the gate area in absolutely no time at all. They didn’t have much in the way of services or snacks to take on the plane, but on the other hand it was going to be a short flight.

I never thought I’d be that keen on Los Angeles. It’s big, it’s sprawling, it’s unecological, it’s get rich or die trying, it’s fake lips and tits and noses, it’s inequality. But when our plane started its descent over the sprawl of ruler-sharp streets and city blocks, rounding the downtown needled with a set of skyscrapers I’d seen in a thousand movies, I realized I was stoked to be there. We wouldn’t have long in LA, but I was glad I was going to get a taste of it.

It’s an expensive city, though. We took a taxi from the airport the two dozen miles into our hotel. It was at this point that the tipping culture prevalent in the US started to irk me a little. One is expected to not only tip the cabbie, but in this case the guy who opened the trunk and took our stuff out, as well as the guy who opened the door of the hotel for us – which he did by waving his hand at the automatic door sensor. Seriously.

We settled into the Omni Hotel and noticed that they would not only offer us free internet access (seriously, who would dare to charge these days?) but also two free items laundered and pressed if one of us joined their mailing list. My suit was definitely showing signs of having been packed into a suitcase and hung up every night so a quick phone-up to ask if they could press it resulted in a lot of money and worry saved.

I thought it’d be nice to take a bus down to Santa Monica, as neither of us fancied staying in downtown LA for an evening, and save some money in the process. Not to mention seeing some local flavor. Too bad our taxi driver who drove us to the bus station (yes, I am aware of the irony) had no clue where he was going and because of a detour to the Greyhound station before we found the correct place it ended up costing us $20. Luckily the bus was only a few bucks each so we kind of made it back on that.

The bus had air conditioning, which was great. Driving down a seemingly endless Venice Boulevard we saw turnoff signs for places I knew from music, movies and the general backdrop of culture America, and specifically southern California, seems to have embedded in all of us. Inglewood, Compton, all those places. Taqueria after taqueria. I imagined driving in my own car, with the windows down, stuck in traffic but not in a hurry.

It was approaching evening when we arrived at the seaside. Santa Monica beach was gorgeous, every bit of the Baywatch image it deserves. From the pristine sand to the kickass waves and lifeguard huts, everything was like I imagined it. Topping it off was the sun setting in front of us. People around us were cuddling in the sunset, having ice cream and jogging. I imagined the teenagers who had come to the beach to hang out after one of the first days of school having to head back home once night fell. At least some of the joggers must have lived locally, in some of the nice houses and apartment buildings in teh town.

Santa Monica’s pedestrianised Third Street is its star attraction aside from the sea. I could see that, but not come to terms with the artificiality. We’d spotted a bar further down on Main Street from the bus window, one that looked pleasant and like the kind we’d rather spend an evening in over the cookie cutter ripoff touristy places of the center. We were studying one of the maps dotted around when an older gentleman approached and asked us where we be lookin’ to go. As we were confused, he explained that he was a Santa Monica visitor guide and fully accredited, so not a panhandler.

Main Street, we said, we’re looking for a place to eat and have a drink. Somewhere nice.

“Yeah, I guess there’s places to eat down Main Street…” he said hesitantly, clearly more comfortable giving people directions in the immediate promenade area. We would just have to go down several blocks, through a shopping mall and then across a few more streets.

Turns out he was right to be a bit hesitant, as the way after the shopping “experience” ended was a bit dark and this being essentially Los Angeles we were a bit hesitant to walk past the several loonies yowling in front of us. So we hailed a cab for a few-block ride until we eventually found the Library Alehouse which was an immediate hit. Clearly busy even on a weeknight, they had a half-hour queue to seat us. They happened to be doing a Dogfish Head night and had most of their beers on, some as special variants. I wasn’t brave enough to try the 120 minute IPA which had between 15-20% ABV. Their peach beer was a nice fruity-and-sour mix and I had a few others from local-ish (the term being flexible for me in a country this size) such as the Firestone Walker Double Barrel which was delicious and went fantastically with my plate of ribs. I am glad the server mentioned the half rack was “pretty big” as we both ended up taking food in boxes back to the hotel!

It was pretty awesome to end the night with a night-time drive on the Santa Monica expressway back toward LA. We arrived at the hotel at just around midnight, clutching our take-along boxes and “absolutely bloody final” beers. No, I didn’t tip the door staff.

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Day 10: California Wine Country Tour

Posted on September 10, 2011 by kai

Partying takes its toll. Rising on the morning we were due to take a wine tour was not the most pleasant experience I’d had, but a cup of coffee on the go cured that. We were to be picked up from near Union Square by Terrific Tours with whom we had booked a drive through Sonoma County, and arrived with enough time to just about catch breakfast at an overprised tourist cafe. Should have known better, but there you go. At least we got to see the craziness that was cable car operators turning a one around by literally pushing it round on a turntable.

We were eventually picked up and introduced ourselves to our driver, Hampton, and the other passengers, a couple who lived in Georgia. Our route would take us through central San Francisco, over the Golden Gate Bridge and then into Sonoma. The morning was beautiful and sunny even in the city, and things were looking interesting and exciting.  Once we reached the bridge, it was perfect to stop for a photo, as patches of fog clung to the tops of the structure like clumps of cotton.

Our first stop was a biodynamic winery, Benziger. It was a great one to start with, as we were given a tour of the facilities and a lecture on the processes involved in making wine by a man who really knew his stuff and how to keep an audience entertained. The history of the estate is pretty nifty, having once been inhabited by a commune of hippies from San Francisco who cultivated another crop entirely, one nicknamed “Sonoma Coma”. The intensity and seriousness one can apply to winemaking was demonstrated well when our guide said that the winery plants specific grape varieties only on very defined patches of land, which they have analyzed for their mineral content to improve the quality of the fruit. Serious wine geekery.

We tasted a couple of Benziger wines, and I have to say that I wasn’t blown away by them. It may be that my palate is not developed for the kind of stuff they served (bottles starting at $40) and I was more used to cheaper wine. I don’t know. Hampton, our driver, mentioned that we would like the next place, and he was not kidding.

VJB Vineyards is a small family affair. They don’t distribute, and produce only a few thousand cases a year. I hate to say it, but I think that made them all the better. The lovely lady helping us through the tasting had us go through the entire list of mostly Italian varietals. I wasn’t keeping track (too busy tasting!) but apparently it ended up being a total of a dozen wines. I got to taste wines that I hadn’t known much about before, namely Primitivo and Barbera. I especially liked the Barbera at VJB, and their port was something else. At the end I was persuaded to try a white port, which I had never had before. That ended up being far too sweet especially with the growing heat outside.

Terrific Tours had provided us with crackers, and I had tried to drink water along the tasting, but lunch and a bit of a break from the booze was very welcome after VJB. The tour was already proving its worth, as you definitely need a designated driver when doing a wine tour, and clearly the picks were of a high standard. The cafe adjacent to VJB’s tasting room was brilliant. They did simple Italian cooking with fresh ingredients which suited the climate and viticulturally-enhanced mentality perfectly. If you do go here, grab a bite at the cafe. The guy taking our order at the restaurant noticed my t-shirt and called it “sick”. In a good way. That’s awesome.

After lunch it was time to pile back into the van and keep driving. The next place we stopped at, Imagery, was related to the Benziger family in that a younger brother made special wines at the place. Their wines have artwork on the labels and are very small batches. Having had the Barbera and Primitivo over at VJB I was excited to make a comparison. Turn out these were flatter, not as flavorsome on the nose. Still, a nice place and the guy serving us had an interesting history encompassing most of the “Left Coast“.

I had no idea, but the Jacuzzi family, famous for their pools and water jets these days, settled in California in the early years of the 20th Century. As Italian-Americans, one branch of the family ended up quite logically in the wine business. The winery is an opulent Italian-style villa in beautiful grounds. Inside it was wonderfully cool, and I was glad to be there as the valley sunshine beat down on us on the short hop from the car. This winery was the first one where we got ID’d as the person giving us our “flight” was German and no doubt wanted to do things by the book. Interestingly, the only sparkling wine we had had on the tour was to be found at Jacuzzi. While it was drinkable, it didn’t blow me away. In other words, I’ve had 5€ prosecco from a supermarket in France that beat it hands down.

That’s not to say that Jacuzzi wines were bad. In fact, I was glad to discover that they have a UK distributor (something the others uniformly lacked). I may well grab one of their varietal wines if I encounter it in a shop on the misty isle.

Terrific Tours end their trips from San Francisco with a ferry ride from Sausalito back to the city. It’s a cute and touristic way to end it and avoids being stuck in the afternoon traffic. Hampton gave us each a Clipper Card with enough money for the trip, as well as a $2 bill for the cable car back to Union Square. A bit silly, and a bit sweet. We didn’t end up needing the cable car, though it would have been nice to ride one, as we had a dinner date a train ride away, and the station was very near the ferry’s landing point.

If you go to San Francisco, do some research on the type of wine tour that would suit you the best. But definitely go on one. The prices seem high at first but with all that ours included it wasn’t bad at all.

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Day 9: San Francisco Day 1

Posted on September 9, 2011 by kai

My friend Jessica wasn’t due in from Burning Man until the evening, so it was a perfect day to explore San Francisco a bit.

I had to return our car to the airport, since it wasn’t much use to us anymore. I was going to be driving it alone, so took a bit of cash, my sunglasses and strapped the sat nav unit to the windshield. I had little idea of the direction I was headed to, so went with the flow. The morning was cool and the constant chatter of rush hour radio was comforting.

Turns out I made a good move with taking cash, as I found myself at the toll plaza for the Bay Bridge. The booth worker asked if I was from Europe and, hearing the affirmative, exclaimed that he liked Cameron, the English Prime Minister. Sure thing. The bridge itself was pretty amazing, curving round the Bay. Not a bad route to round off the overland portion of our trip.

Once the car was returned, I caught the BART train back East. It’s not a quick mode of transport, nor very cheap, the trip to Lafayette costing me $13 and 90 minutes. By the time I was back, I was starving as I’d left without breakfast. It was time to go in search of In-n-Out, the famed California burger chain.

They conveniently have a location on Fisherman’s Wharf, so we could combine that with other sightseeing. The walk from Embarcadero took us through streets quiet on the Sunday, until we hit the area of the Wharf and the massed multitudes of tourists. It wasn’t comfortable but I wasn’t leaving without my burger. Or, as it happens, two burgers. They were that good and I was that famished.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t feeling disgusted after pigging out, which could easily happen with a lesser burger chain. Must be the freshness of the ingredients they use, as the burgers were nothing short of hefty. Revitalised, I was more ready to face the crowds and noise of the area.

We wanted to see a bit of Haight-Ashbury before we had to be back in Lafayette, so opted for a cab to speed us up. Lucky, really, as the hills in San Francisco are more impressive than photos or stories can really convey. On a map, the distance was only a few miles, but in reality it encompassed a whole load of hill. You could certainly keep fit easily living there; they say San Francisco girls have amazing calves. I would not doubt it.

Toronado was a bar that sold Russian River Brewing beers. Remember those? We’d not managed to fit into their brewpub so had to try them elsewhere. They were worth it. Their IPA was delicious and strongly, but not overpoweringly hopped. Their other beer we tried tasted like a strong Belgian ale, but was paler in color and character. Interesting but also incredibly strong at around 11% abv.

The bar was loud with people, and dark, and I’d have loved to come back on a night out. For a quick daytime pint the place wasn’t entirely ideal. Still a nice place and not overly expensive, even with the $1 tip per drink I gave the typically hippie-dishevelled barman when ordering.

A friend I knew in London who had since moved to the Bay Area joined us for beers and dinner in Lafayette. Jessica had threatened to cook once back from the festival but in several text messages I had insisted she stop with the nonsense and that I would pay for dinner and drinks as thanks for her hospitality. Luckily, she obliged.

We all got along fabulously. So much so that we barely made it to the restaurant before they closed. Luckily the night didn’t have to end after that as the supermarket was open much later. It was a fabulous evening, and I feel lucky to know cool people around the world that I get to (re)connect with.

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Day 8: San Francisco Bound

Posted on September 9, 2011 by kai

California was, I have to say, proving to be pretty awesome. The climate is agreeable, the food is good, the variety of nature is vast. What more could I ask for?

Yes, my next meal after the previous night’s nachos was a burrito. Yes, it was good. And yes, it was my first California burrito. If you have committed the foolish act of following me on Twitter you may be aware that I like burritos a lot. There was no way I was missing out on the little taqueria in an unexpected location that was full even at 11am. The staff at Los Gallitos greeted us warmly, slapped tortilla chips and absolutely delicious salsa in front of us and asked us for our orders. I had a view to the kitchen and saw stuff being heaped onto the tortilla that was to be my burrito. Good stuff.

We were due to meet up with a girl who was housesitting and looking after the pets in the house we would be staying at in San Francisco while the owner was at Burning Man. Luckily, she was very accommodating and chilled out and didn’t mind us taking most of the day to drive the 200 or so miles down to the Bay. I was excited to head down to San Francisco even though it would mean the end of the main part of our road trip. I have some great friends who grew up there, and keep hearing good things about the place.

We took it at a leisurely place, enjoying the little detours that our GPS suggested when we searched for “brew”. Turns out that Brewed Awakening was not a brewery but a cafe chain, and that Healdsburg in Sonoma county is well-known for the well-heeled and wine, but Bear Republic (California represent!) brews there and turns a brisk trade, including some bottles to go for us. I’ve always had a bit of an issue with the American tipping culture, and while I don’t mind tipping for service I did leave out the tip when asking the girl behind the bar to grab a couple of bottles from the fridge behind her. Should I have tipped her? Who knows.

We still managed a stop in Santa Rosa to visit the Russian River Brewing Company. Turns out it was just as popular as it deserves to be. Even to buy beers to go would have required a wait in line of about an half hour. It seemed that a bunch of metal heads had converged on the place, too, as there were a lot of beards and black t-shirts in evidence in the line to the bar. I think in that sense I prefer the European bar culture where you’re not made to wait in line for a table, and can (usually) take a drink out to the street if the place is too full to fit you inside.

So, we had to turn around and get back onto the US101 south with the determination to gun it until San Francisco. I noticed grapevines all around us. This was wine country. The fact that we had come all the way from cool and humid seaside mountains in the Northwest to the warm, drier hills perfect for growing grapes struck me. We had done well over a thousand miles.

I hadn’t done much research on which bridges I’d need to take or what route to follow to reach our destination, which was away from San Francisco proper. I relied fully on our satellite navigator, which was all right if a little slow to catch up on the numerous exits that appeared both on the right as well as the left of the freeway we were on. We eventually crossed the Bay using the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge which must have been the longest (if not the prettiest) bridge I’ve ever taken. It’s weird seeing your odometer actually rack up several miles on a stretch of metal spanning some sea.

The house we were staying was in the East Bay, in Lafayette. I had to stifle a laugh when I saw that the main street running through the town is called Mt Diablo Boulevard. It seemed like a nice neighborhood as we slid up to the driveway, night falling around us. We met up with Michelle, who was housesitting, and she introduced us to the cats and dog, before we headed out for a wander to the local area in search of supper.

The night sounded and felt exactly like it does in movies.

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Day 7: Shelter Cove to Fort Bragg, CA

Posted on September 6, 2011 by kai

I don’t think Shelter Cove was for us, or at least not suited for the kind of trip we were on. We tend to wake up early, and this morning was no exception. The mist that had rolled in the previous night still lay over the land. Everywhere was quiet. We discovered why our room had a full kitchen: there seemed to be no place open to get breakfast. I drove around curving residential street after street, finding a couple of places that would be open for lunch. A few scattered golfers appeared, evidently engaged in a pre-lunch couple of holes. The town seemed to have little save for its airport (more like a stretch of tarmac), its golf and its admittedly beautiful desolate vistas.

We decided not to stay and paid up at the office. Packing up the car, starving by now, we strained the car up that same hill I’d nearly burned the brakes out on the previous night. Outside the town limits, the general store was open and we got something to placate our hunger. The mist had been burned away by the sun at higher elevations in a funny reversal of the conditions on Rainier where the fog increased with altitude.

We had a late breakfast at Garberville. Using the sat nav unit to locate amusingly-named places led us to the Branding Iron saloon, but coasting by it it didn’t look massively inviting. Just up the road, at the edge of this tiny town was the Water Wheel, where I parked the car. The food wasn’t brilliant but did its job. In hindsight I laughed at this review that describes the place as being BFE California.

Switching drivers, I was now sat in the passenger seat as we once again hit the Redwood Highway south. There seemed to be a lot of little breweries here in Mendocino county, including North Coast brewing over at a nearby town, Fort Bragg. That’s where we headed, determined to find a place that was more happening than Shelter Cove.

We ended up paying over the odds for a walk-in rate motel room, probably because it was Labor Day weekend and there was a lot going on in town. I always feel a bit weird asking staff “hey, what’s there to do in this here town?” but luckily I had someone braver with me.

The middle-aged motel manager immediately said that the fire department was holding a kind of water fight at 3pm, in about 10 minutes’ time. I decided on watching professionals getting soaked over the other option she suggested: the ugliest dog competition. Besides, that would have involved more travel.

The water fight proved to be popular indeed. It was actually hard to see what was going on with everyone crowding the sidewalks around where the teams from the local fire service along with the coast guard and other California fire services were preparing. Before they explained the rules, the firemen in charge of the event asked for a moment of silence for Jere Melo, whom they described as “a good friend to many here”. I assumed he had been a colleague of theirs, but as it turns out, it wasn’t quite like that. Regardless, after a solemn moment of silence for the murder victim Melo, the game got underway. Using their fire hoses, the opposing teams had to force a steel beer barrel to the opposing team’s side and keep it there until a two-minute time limit was reached. So kind of like a reverse tug-of-war with fire hoses. The organizer’s warnings of everyone anywhere near to the street getting wet as a result were absolutely true.

We stayed for a few rounds but had to get back to take care of some business. And eat. It seems on this trip we did nothing but drive, eat and drink beer. I swear there were other activities too!

We had both packed really light, and were running out of clothes. On a casual wander up Main Street, I had noticed a coin-op launderette on a side street, so headed over there with a week’s worth of two peoples’ laundry. I had never been to an American launderette so was thankful for the experienced help of my traveling companion. Turns out everything is bigger in America, even the washing machines. Our big bag of laundry filled just a hair over half of a “double loader” machine. I stuck around to write a blog update while the machine spun. I’d asked the laundry manager, whose name I didn’t get but it could not have been anything other than Frank going by how he looked, how long I would be waiting. That kind of got us talking, not that he was talking to anyone in particular when he ranted about this, that and the other.

When I’d pumped the dryer full of quarters, I asked about the Wanted poster on the wall of the place. It had a picture of Aaron Bassler who was wanted for the murder of Jere Melo, and I’d seen the poster at pretty much every commercial operation in town. In the laundry, though, the poster was accompanied by the text “placed by request of FBPD” as if whoever had accepted to put it up hadn’t done it entirely wholeheartedly. I didn’t ask exactly about that but did want to know about the circumstances of the killing and about whether the victim was a fireman as he had been praised over at the water event.

“Nah, he was a councilman. Used to be mayor. Used to be. But you know how these rich guys are,” he replied.

Who was Bassler, then? A local boy?

“He’s just a screwed-up kid. Yeah, I knew him. I mean, I knew his parents. My second son used to beat the crap out of him.”

So was this thing pre-meditated then? Did Bassler have a vendetta against Melo?

“Yeah, well,” Frank said around his chewing gum. “It was about as pre-meditated as waiting for the guy to get in position and shooting him in the back of the head.”

Chilling. But surely he would have skipped town by now, knowing that he would be connected to the murder?

“Oh yeah, Aaron is long-gone. That kid knows all the woods around here. There’s no way he woulda stayed after that. He’s gone, somewhere far up North. They’ll have one hell of a time tracking him down.”

I could sense that the manager really didn’t see much point in having the poster up. He then looked past me and waved outside. A woman was getting out of a car outside the launderette and waved her cigarette toward the neighboring property mouthing “going to eat over there” as she passed the door.

“That’s my daughter! Won’t even tell her old man hi! Some daughter! What do I get? That!” the manager started exclaiming in mock shock.

About a dollar and a half in quarters later, the load was pretty much dry. I thanked the manager and waved to the little girl that had been running back and forth bothering all the customers throughout my time in the launderette. On my way out I looked at the place where the manager’s daughter had gone for a meal. A taqueria, with a blackboard menu written in Spanish only, and absolutely heaving with people too! I decided that we should go there, only not tonight as we had a date with the brewpub. But first I got to relax in front of the TV for a bit. National Geographic TV was showing back-to-back Border Wars, which quickly became my favorite. On last year’s trip I enjoyed watching Gangland and What Would You Do, so getting into a show not available in Europe is pretty typical fun for me.

North Coast Brewing was a really positive experience, a short walk from our motel on Main Street. Because of our late lunch we weren’t really hungry so ended up going only at about 10pm. Turns out they were just about to stop serving food so we quickly opted for a plate of nachos and ordered our first beers. The range was pretty typical for an American micro, with a bunch of pales and IPAs. Their Rasputin Imperial Stout was exceptional, though, and I was a fan of the Red Seal too. I think we must have tasted most of their regular beers. One thing I find awesome about the brewpubs in the US is how they sell you bottles of their beers to go. That was more gifts for our host in San Francisco sorted, then!

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Day 6: California Crossing

Posted on September 6, 2011 by kai

The morning at Whispering Pines was freezing. Panes in our motel room windows were steamed up and stepping out from under the covers to take a shower was the least appealing thought possible. But we had to, it was time to get back on the road and cross into yet another state. California was calling. The sound of something a lot bigger than a
mouse (those I’m used to) rustling in the doublewide’s kitchen
cupboards sped us up too.

Once we rounded Crater Lake again, though this time at a lower altitude, we stopped in the middle of the giant woods for breakfast at Beckie’s. The cafe had clearly designed their dishes to actually be too big to finish. My omelette was so massive that even with my appetite I could only manage half. The server brought something, possibly pancakes, to the booth behind ours and said “now listen to this sound it’ll make as I put the plate down. It’s heavy.” The clunk of laden porcelain hitting the wood spoke as much. We got complimented for “doing a good job” on our portions when we conceded and called for our
check.

The cafe had been in the same location since the 1920s. Nearby was the site of a Civilian Conservation Corps camp. I hadn’t heard much about this New Deal program, but can totally see how important its existence was for the opening of roadways and the reforestation in the Pacific Northwest.

Our drive was scheduled to be a good seven hours even without stops. This was to be the longest leg on the road, and prior to actually hitting the road I had been a bit apprehensive of cramming a lot in.

Crossing into California was undramatic, though the scenery at that point was nothing but. We had stopped for gas and a toilet break just on the Oregon border, where they had a note on the shop counter that they would only accept bottle returns up to $2 in value (as I suspect Oregon bottles are not accepted in California) and that they would no longer be able to take food stamps as payment for energy drinks. Interesting place.

The only hiccup was being stopped at the border and being asked if we were carrying any fresh produce. Luckily, we were not. I suppose California takes its food production seriously and protectively.

The coast, now that we hit it, was gorgeous. The sun was shining but the breeze in Trinidad, where I pulled over at a residential area overlooking the Pacific was stiff. We dipped our toes in the sea after quickly changing into shorts and sandals in the car, but it was really cold! Still, I was glad to be by the sea again.

After lunch we resumed driving, taking in the vistas (Californians call them that on road signs) on our drive southward, toward Humboldt Redwoods State Park. The Redwoods were for me the thing I had been most excited about prior to the trip, so it was great to start to drive through alternating sunny coastal cliffs and darkened groves of
immense trees.

There aren’t really any good ways to verbally express the majesty and immensity of the California coastal redwoods. They were a manifestation of a recurring feature on the trip, namely the biggest things I had ever seen. I’d been on the biggest mountain I had yet seen, seen the immensity of a volcano and a lake in its ruins, walked into the largest body of water in the world and ate some of the biggest portions I’d seen. These trees were the biggest living things I had ever encountered.

I’m not ashamed (much) to say that being dwarfed by the grove towering around and above me almost made me cry. It was awesome.

For that reason I didn’t see the need to pay $6 to drive our car through a tree or see most of the inventive uses for the sheer volume of wood produced by them. I was happy seeing, smelling and walking through them.

We still had a ways to go and even once outside the trees the light was beginning to fade. We were going to spend the night in Shelter Cove, CA, on the Lost Coast. There was only one road leading down to that part of the coast, and it took a toll on the car. The mist hanging on lower ground closer to the sea made the quiet approach on the windy road full of hairpin turns even more eerie. By the time we had descended several hundred meters I could smell the brake pads overheating. That’s the thing with automatic drive cars, lack of engine braking. Sure, you can turn it to a lower gear but then the revs shoot up and I don’t know if that’s any better. In either case I was happy to be on relatively flat land when we came to the town itself, and hoped that by the morning the brakes had cooled off enough to actually stop me in time in case something did happen.

We stayed at the Beachcomber Inn, a collection of buildings managed by a family business right near the little airfield the town has. The air was full of mist and the smell of salt, and it was quiet in the night. I don’t even remember the sound of cicadas and crickets when I drifted off to sleep.

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Day 5: Bend, OR to Crater Lake, OR

Posted on September 5, 2011 by kai

Feeling decidedly tender from the previous night, our start on the drive South was a slow affair. Luckily the motel staff didn’t charge us for checking out late. Knowing the direction we needed to head, we drove South on the main drag of Bend. Spotting a chinese food place that would do more variety (and vegetables) than an Arby’s, we feasted to the best of our ability before hitting the road again toward Crater Lake.

The road was uneventful aside from a minor detour. Seeing a sign for a volcanic forest on the telltale orangey brown backing they use for sites of natural interest, I turned the car onto a narrow unpaved side road. That got narrower. And narrower. Herds of little chipmunks scurried out of our way. After about 4 miles I decided to turn the car around at a road that looked like only a tractor had ever used it, thinking we must have missed a turnoff sign or something.

Turns out I shouldn’t have, and that patience would have been a virtue. The road was the right one and would have revealed a site of strange geologic formations. Oh well, the day was wearing on, and we actually wanted to see Crater Lake.

Our housing was the interesting Whispering Pines motel, which was about as norman batesesque as the name suggests. In all seriousness it was absolutely fine and entirely comfortable, despite the creaky bed and burn stains on the kitchen counter and floor.

We dumped our bags and caught our breath before setting off on the drive toward crater lake. It was a glorious straight road for miles that were rapidly disappearing behind us. Pretty soon the road was climbing upward and trees getting thinner. Then they stopped entirely, as suddenly as if drawn with a ruler. The soil changed too, to a purple brown mottled with rocks and the occasional scrub. It pumice desert, a clear sign of recent volcano activity. The literature we’d received at the national park gate told us just how recent: less than 8000 years. Whatever had happened in the latest eruptions had been big, and scary for the population who probably lived in the area around the rumbling mountain.

Just how big was revealed when I decided to careen to a stop alongside a slew of other cars at an otherwise unremarkable pull-off. We got out of the car and the first thing I noticed was the chill in the air and its incredible stillness. The second thing was Crater Lake’s immensity. We had obviously seen an approaching big round splotch of blue on our sat nav unit on the drive over, but when you’re looking over a huge round lake completely hemmed by sheer cliffs on all sides, the opposite side almost too far to see, you realize the catastrophe of the eruption. It wiped a mile off the height of the existing mountain and scattered it all around. It left a gaping hole still high enough to keep snow year round, with enough melting to build up a perfectly clean lake over a few thousand years. It was, and I know I’m as guilty of overusing the word as anyone else, awesome.

In a funny way Crater Lake alone was worth the trip. Its serenity, beauty and harshness were not unrelated, though completely different, to those on Rainier, which of course is a volcano as well. Nothing short of awe-inspiring.

For dinner, we rounded the rim of the lake and descended to the visitor center to discover they were serving a buffet of home cooked food. I am not ashamed to say it was one of the best meals I’ve had on the trip so far. The food wasn’t oversalted, greasy or pretentious. Plus they served Rogue Brewery’s Dead Guy ale. Being a hiker and coming here after days in the wilderness surrounding the Lake must be heaven.

With night falling we had to make our way to meet our fate at the motel. It came near even before, as in the twilight deer and other animals come out to play. Lucky I wasn’t speeding too much, as I had to make a split-second braking swerve to avoid bambi wandering into the road. The guy tailing me must have been more frightened than me, but I guess it’ll teach you to keep a safe distance.

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