Redding, Tahoe, Yosemite

Dec. 5 - Redding, CA
We set off after church for Lassen Volcano National Park (near Medford). We drive 40 miles to Lassen NP only to learn that it’s closed due to snow. The ranger suggest visiting McArthur Burney Falls, 45 miles away. It’s a pretty drive, calling to mind Northern Arizona – a combination of scrub oak (I think) and pine trees. We reach the falls, park, and hike down the trail to the overlook. There’s a “serious” photographer unpacking his equipment there (you can tell he’s serious; he has a tripod!). I snap photos with my little Sony 4mp digital; it simulates the shutter click of a “real” camera and I’m almost embarrassed to be using it in sight of this professional.
The falls are spectacular – a thunderous emptying of 100 million gallons a day over a 100 yard-long cliff into a rocky pool below. The pond and the creek that flows into it is filled with trout (or so the sign says – we don’t see any; but why would any fish want to go out for a leisurely swim on this 35 degree day?
We follow the trail through the forest, crunching the soft volcanic rock underfoot. On our right, there’s a steep 100-foot rise covered with basalt rocks. They are coated with bright green moss and when we look straight up the rock-strewn cliff, the sight is alien – a sea of green down-covered rocks rising before us.
On returning to Redding, we stop at Buz’s Crab Stand for a late lunch-early dinner. It’s a longtime local hangout. I want to sample fresh northwest Dungeness crab before we leave Oregon. But it’s disappointing here – skinny, waterlogged and reheated to barely tepid temperature. I wish we’d gotten the really fresh stuff before we left the Oregon coast.
The previous evening – Saturday – we went to the movies in Redding to see Ray, the movie about Ray Charles. When we came out of the theatre it was 7:30 p.m. – prime movie-going, date-night time in Scottsdale. All of the malls and theatres would be jammed. Here, there’s a handful of people in the lobby and at the refreshment counter. At Mt. Shasta Mall a few days ago, it was the same – a scattering of mostly window shoppers, not buyers (just weeks before Christmas!). I was getting a haircut and Steve asked the receptionist, “Where are all your customers?” Oh, it’s the end of the month, we were told. Redding, it seems, is a welfare economy and until the checks come at the beginning of the month, retail stores and service shops suffer. But on Saturday, it was the beginning of the month – so where are all the shoppers? I notice signs of a depressed economy on the local TV stations – even during prime time around top-rated network programs, the commercials are PSAs, not paid advertising. I watch one PSA after another, dumbfounded – what’s keeping this area running?

Dec. 6
We leave Redding at 11 a.m., bound for South Lake Tahoe. After several conversations during the past few days about where to go next, we settle on Tahoe because we have a coupon for Tahoe Valley RV Resort, there is snow in South Lake Tahoe and we’re eager to ski. It’s a grey and overcast day as we head south on I-5. We pass fast food billboards, casinos and farms. Many of the farms seem to accumulate old vehicles and trailers as if they will someday be worth money - or perhaps because owner inertia has allowed them to remain.
South on US 50 toward Tahoe, through the Sierra Nevadas. The temperature has dropped considerably; evidence is outside in icicles dripping from the mountains and white “puddles” of ice formed around the rocks in the creek below. The road twists and turns; Steve is driving like a pro, and once again I’m thankful he’s at the wheel. With a less practiced driver, I’d be nervous on roads like this.
Snow – dirty and abused from several days of traffic exhalations – is piled on the shoulder, and patches of it gleam through the trees. Signs every 500 yards or so remind us about snow tires and chains – an ominous warning, but what did we expect, driving into ski country – balmy breezes and sunny 80 degree skies?
We pass a burned-out section of forest, with blackened tree skeletons pointing skyward. The aftermath of forest fire is stunningly barren. It looks like permanent winter without the benevolent glaze of ice and snow to obliterate the painful landscape.

Dec. 8, S. Lake Tahoe
We’re at Tahoe Valley RV Resort (every RV park calls itself a resort, even if each space consists only of a concrete slab and a lonely Charlie Brown tree . . . Fortunately this place is in the pines; it’s a rustic park-like setting.). The snow is knee-deep, much of it having fallen in the past 2 days. Princess frolics in it as if she’s at a sandy beach. She surprises us, since she hates being wet and hates being cold even more.
We went skiing yesterday at Sierra, and on my first run, I fall down before I’ve skied 300 yards. As I land in the snow, I know immediately it isn’t a simple fall – I feel pain in my knee. I get up and ski down the hill, an easy beginner slope, but the fall makes me realize that at 56, my muscles, joints and bones don’t have the resilience they did 20 or 30 years ago (or even 10 years ago). I decide there’s nothing wrong with being kind to my limbs and body – perhaps giving myself a chance to ski again another day through this act of personal kindness. So that’s what I do – I’m the old lady skiing down easy runs – no moguls, no bumps, no challenge – and no broken bones, torn ligaments, or sprained or strained muscles. (Although a week later, my knee is still painful, especially at night when I roll over. . . . I’m guessing it’s torn cartilage or something that apparently isn’t going to repair itself.)
. . . . Riding the lift up to the top of the mountain, we look down on the trees. There’s an inch-thick layer of snow on the branches, making a perfect fishbone pattern – a pareto diagram, in multiples! I am wishing I had my camera to record this simple but intricate example of nature’s architecture.

Dec. 9
I get up this morning and shovel snow to clear a path for the jeep. It’s hard work but I’m having fun – I don’t think I’ve ever shoveled snow before, and if it weren’t wet, damp snow I would stay outside and tramp around in it.
Later, we go into town just for something to do. After a couple of errands, we go to Harrah’s. We sit at the California Bar and drink martinis. I squander $2 on the video poker machine at the bar, and then we leave. As we’re walking out, we pass a young couple at a 25-cent slot machine. As it rings and rings continuously, the numbers on the screen rise, finally stopping at $1,385, the payoff on a 75-cent bet, the young couple tell the crowd that has gathered.

On Friday night, we drive to Truckee to get together with Luis and Sol Gimenez at their winter cabin. Luis is a Thunderbird classmate; he and his wife are easygoing, unassuming and welcoming. Tab Tsukuda, another T-bird classmate, joins us at 9 p.m. Luis proudly carves slice after slice of his homemade prosciutto, which resembles in taste the famous (and very expensive) Parma ham, a specialty of Parma, Italy. We spend the evening eating, drinking wine and talking about politics, family, business, movies, the environment, our Thunderbird classes, professors and friends . . . It’s a typical Thunderbird evening, and I realize how much I’ve missed this. Shortly after midnight, Steve and I finally wear out. We get ready to go to bed, and Tab gets ready to drive back to Walnut Creek. It’s a long drive, but he wants to be there for his kids in the morning.

We spend the week in Tahoe, 3 days of it skiing. I finally took a much-needed lesson to erase all the bad habits I’ve been hardening over the years. The one-hour lesson does a world of good – I feel much more confident as I ski downhill – confident, though certainly not graceful yet.
On Thursday, on the way to Kirkwood Ski Resort, we hit a patch of ice and spin out – once, twice, three times the Jeep spins like a Tilt-a-Whirl. It’s terrifying – there’s a dropoff on our right, and I’m convinced we are going over the edge. All I can do is grip the door and mutter “Oh shit!” as we spin. We finally come to a stop, facing in the same direction we were heading, with no damage to the car or ourselves. But on the way home that night, I’m studying the road for patches of ice, and monitoring the speedometer – and Steve, I notice is driving extra-slowly and extra-carefully, pulling over a couple of times to let more daring drivers pass us.

Dec. 12
We are in the motorhome, heading toward Yosemite from South Lake Tahoe. Once again, the road winds through rolling green hills like a drunken snake, and intermittently we pass through quaint little towns – Jackson, Amador, Angels Camp. Each town is decorated for Christmas and looks like pop-up cutouts from a child’s picture book. Our route takes us right through Main Street in several of these towns – and we are a sight to behold, on a Sunday afternoon, maneuvering our bulky vehicle through the narrow streets lined with cars and holiday shoppers and tourists. We merit plenty of gawking (and smirking, I’m sure) from onlookers as we inch down the street, with me standing in the doorway of the RV, looking out the window to make sure we don’t sideswipe any parked cars
Later . . . we are driving through Gold Rush country – Placerville and Frogtown, Columbia and Sonora. The route is picturesque, pastoral and peaceful – and very green after Tahoe’s snow-covered mountain terrain. It’s also treacherous – for me, anyway, with one hairpin turn after another. Curves like this are bad enough on a divided highway, but on this narrow 2-lane road it feels like we should be hogging the whole width rather than the stingy half we are allotted.
As we near Columbia, our destination, huge lumpen white and grey boulders burp out of the ground. It’s an odd sight, as if the earth has some terrible skin disease. Later I read that these fields of boulders are human-caused. During the Gold Rush, after all the gold was extracted by panning or sluicing, dredgers as big as battleships shot out high-pressure water to loosen the rich earth, leaving behind acres of boulders.

We drive up a steep mountain road and then through pine forests to reach Yosemite National Park. I am realizing how much natural terrain – forests, rivers, mountains, streams – remains in our country. It is not all logged, paved or build over – yet!
In Groveland, California, a little village outside of Yosemite, all of the stores and businesses have wrapped the upright support beams and poles along their walkway or entrances with aluminum foil, then spiraled red ribbon up the foil-covered beams. It’s charming and sweet – especially because every business has participated in this homespun holiday décor – and there’s no sign of one-upmanship or “I’ve spent more on lights and tinsel and ribbon than you have.”
When we arrive at Yosemite, the sheer walls rise magnificently before us almost instantly as we round a corner. Everything that can be said about this incredible place has been written and said, and no one’s words can give it its due – certainly not mine, so I will not attempt to use any sickly adjectives to describe it. I am awed and breathless from the wonder and beauty.
Coming home, dark arrives early, and with it comes fog. The first 5 miles of our trip home is on a treacherous, narrow switchback mountain road that climbs up, then down. We can see only about 10 yards ahead, so we creep along at 15 or 20 miles an hour, following the glowing red taillights of a truck in front of us. Once again, I’m glad Steve is driving, and I heave a sigh of relief when the road flattens and the curves soften. It’s still foggy, but not so frightening – at least we know there’s not a mountain or a dropoff lying ahead in the murky dark.

Redwood Forest 

Mt. Ranier on a rare sunny fall day 

Steve and Princess at Cape Outlook 

Oregon beach: sand and stones

Cape Outlook, Oregon 

Nov. 7- Dec. 4, 2004 - Bellingham to Redding,and points in between

Finally, after more than a month in Bellingham, we leave on our year-long journey.

Our plan was to head for Oregon, hitting the Columbia Gorge and then the Oregon coast. But about an hour into our journey, I realized we had left our RV park guide behind. Without it we had no idea where we could find overnight facilities. So we made an unscheduled stop in Tacoma to find a bookstore. With a late start and wrong turns (our 38 foot “big rig” doesn’t allow U turns or even the typical right or left turn very easily, so if you miss your turn, it may take 15 to 30 minutes to get back to where you want to be) there was no way we would make Oregon by sunset.
Looking at the roadmap, I noticed that Mt. Ranier was enroute to the Columbia Gorge if we went by way of The Dalles rather than via Portland. We decided to stop for the night at Mt. Ranier National Park, and headed off I-5 to Hway 7. What a beautiful drive through peaceful forested countryside, dotted with the occasional small town - many of them little more than a small market and a gas station. They are sheltered by mountains of forest green, with splashesof yellow or gold – the diehard trees that have yet to drop their leaves. Some are ribboned with white drifts of snow.
We drive through Elbe, a quaint little town that looks like a Normal Rockwell painting, complete with old-fashioned 2-pump gas station. On the edge of Mt. Ranier National Park, and on the dark edge of sunset, we pull into Mounthaven RV Resort, 19 RV sites and cabins on 6 acres of land in the middle of the forest. The park is owned by a couple in their mid-40s – former banking and sales professionals who chucked it all to buy the site about 5 years ago. The husband, Craig,tells me where our site is offers to direct us into our space with his powerful flashlight, but I confidently brush off the offer, telling him, “Oh, I can do it.”

Ha! Even with the 2-way radio Steve insists I use, I’m not the pro I think I am. Steve wants to know which way to turn the front of the RV and I can only think and direct in terms of the back end. In the darkness, I’m trying to slot us into a 20 foot space between huge tall trees and a picnic bench while also avoiding the sewer and electric connections – and as I’m yelling directions – “Watch out for that tree! Don’t hit the bench!” -- I continually forget to push the Talk button so Steve doesn’t hear my instructions – which probably wouldn’t have helped him anyway. Despite my navigation, we finally get parked and we (or, to be honest, Steve) get hooked up and settled in.
On Monday we drive in the Jeep to Mt. Ranier National Park. The park is huge and covers all sorts of terrain, from meadows to forests, plateaus to craggy mountains, with Mt. Ranier, dominating the landscape. We drive through a deeply wooded road with trees so tall and dense that very little daylight shone through even on this very rare sunny day (for this time of year). The drive is like an Elliot Porter photograph brought to life. We park at an area of the park called Longmire and begin hiking on the Wonderland trail (which we later discover is a 94- mile trail and takes 2 weeks to complete!) The trail winds through the forest, following a river much of the way. We can hear the water rushing over the rocks – at times a dull roaring, at times a quiet murmur in the background. I marvel at how green can have such depth and breadth of hue. I admire the lacy beauty of the ferns, undergrowth and bushes that line the path, the lichen and richly textured moss that creeps up the trees, and especially, the variety of colors and types of mushrooms sprouting from the ground and on the trees. Steve laughs as I snap photo after photo of the mushrooms, from snow white caps to fluorescent orange and delicate coral-like gold. I captured pictures of about 10 different varieties, none of which I’ve ever seen before.

We hike for a couple of hours and then continue our drive through the park, awestruck at our surroundings, continually pointing out the scenery to each other - “Look at that!” – “Isn’t that gorgeous!” It is impossible to describe such beauty without giving it less than it deserves – the richness and depth of color and texture and shading, the range and subtlety of color and tone, the majesty of the mountains and trees that have been growing for eons. I am a writer and I don’t know how to write about what such magnificence - so I won’t try for fear of demeaning the lush palette we have seen.

November 9: On to Oregon - Almost!

We leave Mt. Ranier around 11:30 a.m., with advice from Craig and his wife about where to go and what to see. He recommends stopping in Goldendale, Wash., where there is a world-renowned observatory – and the chance to see the aurora borealis, which is currently at peak viewing – and a renowned art museum as well as several wineries – and it is not far from the Columbia Gorge.We take the state highway – the back route – rather than the interstate because Craig promises it is far more scenic. He’s absolutely right – at one point, we drive along a narrow winding mountain roadway cut through tree- studded mountains that drop precipitously on the right side of the road to valleys blanketed with tall slender evergreens hundreds of feet tall. Some are tipped with gold and look like matches for giants – but the golden needles, unfortunately, are due to some blight that creates beauty even as it kills.

Driving along, we reach a straight, flat section of road, and Steve pulls the RV over and says, “Your turn to drive. This is a good place for you to practice.” I’m leary, but agree – I do need to practice driving, and this seems to be a safe stretch of road. Steve explains the push-button gears and the air brakes, and after adjusting the seat and mirror, I put our 48 feet of vehicles (including our Jeep Wrangler in tow) in Drive and set off timidly down the road. Steve has to tell me multiple times to “move left!”; I want to hug the right side of the road (where it feels safe!), but I’m gradually beginning to feel a little more confidence when I see a sign: Moutain Pass Ahead. Sure enough – the road narrows and starts to wind like a snake with vertigo.At least that’s what it feels like to me, and I decide this is not the kind of road to practice on. I announce that I’m not ready to drive mountain passes yet and pull over to relinquish the driver’s seat. I think Steve’s ready to take over – even though I’ve probably driven less than half a mile.

But – typical of our journey – our late start and stops along the way mean we are still too far from Goldendale by late afternoon, and not wanting hook up after dark (which it is by 5 p.m. here) we stop in Toppenish, an hour south of Yakima. After pulling into our space, Steve discovers the cover to the water heater is missing – apparently it was not fully latched and blew off enroute after he removed it the previous day to check the water heater. Without the cover the water heater is fully exposed to rain and other elements, so we’ll need to find a dealer or call Newmar to order a replacement. We are only 2 days into our trip and each day seems to bring some new (if small) problem – all self-inflicted. But we hope that as we become more expert and/or knowledgeable RV’ers, the number of dumb mistakes we make will diminish.

November 10

We drive in the Jeep to Goldendale – after Steve calls an RV repair place in Yakima and arranges to get a new water heater cover the following day. The highway winds through rolling hills covered in grasses and brush dried to a soft gold; from afar, it looks like a velvet covering. There are occasional clumps of trees in hues of yellow, gold and buttery beige, with an occasional splash of brilliant russet. We can’t stop looking and remarking on the landscape - “Look at that!” "Isn't that gorgeous!" We finally agree that we can appreciate the view without constant reminders from each other.

It is a gloomy overcast day in Goldendale. We stop at the Chamber of Commerce – a one-room building barely bigger than a storage shed – and hear an incredible story from Tom, the volunteer staffer. He and his wife moved to Goldendale a few years ago – after walking across the United States. He tells us that at age 39, he was diagnosed with diabetes. A smoker who weighed 300 pounds at the time, he lost 3 family members to diabetes. “I had a choice – keep on living the way I was and die within a few years, or change my life.” He chose the latter, quit smoking and lost the excess weight. He began jogging and eventually was able to outrun his sons. That's when he decided to walk across the U.S. to prove that diabetes is not a death sentence. He trained for months, and in 2000, walked from California to Washington, D.C. in 4 ½ months, averaging 30-35 miles a day, wearing out 10 pairs of New Balance shoes along the way. His wife drove ahead of him, contacting newspapers and media in towns along the way to publicize his trek. Tom has written a book about his journey and is now working with his editor to find a publisher. And he still walks 6-8 miles a day and thrives on his new healthy lifestyle.

We drive through Goldendale, stopping at the Maryhill Winery tasting room to sample (and buy) – a crisp Sauvignon blanc and wonderful cabernet (and a huge berry luscious zinfandel which we don’t buy. Dumb. I can still taste it!). Then on to The Dalles, a town of about 9,000, where we stop for lunch. At 5 p.m. we’re heading back to Toppanish. It’s nearly dark, but we decide to check out an RV park at Maryhill State Park right on the Columbia river. The park gate is closed so we turn around and head up the hill and down the highway toward home (the RV). Thirty minutes later when we see the sign welcoming us to Roosevelt, we both know we’ve taken a wrong turn – we’ve been driving east instead of north. We turn around and drive 32 miles back to where we missed our turn. We arrive “home” at 7:30 p.m. and decide to order a handheld GPS system tomorrow.

Thursday – we drive to Yakima in the jeep to pick up the water heater cover, get batteries for my cameras, and shop for supplies in Costco. We’ve packed up the RV before we left, so when we get back to Toppanish, we’re ready to leave and we’re on the road within 30 minutes. We decide to stay at Maryhill State Park and pull in by midafternoon. But – another mishap – as we’re putting the leveling jacks down, the back jacks hit the cement parking blocks, and one of the jacks bends. When Steve crawls under the motorhome with a hammer and tries to fix it, it breaks – then it won’t retract. So we’re going nowhere (not with a jack cylinder hanging 6 inches above the ground!) until we get it repaired. Good thing the park we’re staying at is beautiful – we’re surrounded by gold-leafed trees, the river before us, mountain ridge behind us. There are worse places to be stuck. And we know –as RV newbies – we probably have plenty more mishaps ahead of us. And I'm envisioning a bill of several thousand dollars to repair the jacks, but the next day, we drive to an auto-RV repair shop Steve finds in the local phone book. The shop is a jungle of old cars in various states of disrepair; the owner wears grease-covered jeans that expose his butt when he bends over - but he knows exactly what the problem is. He crawls under the RV, hammers a few places, and Voila! it's fixed. He refuses to charge us, but Steve insists he take $20.

Nov. 16-19
We're at Cape Lookout State Park – a beautiful location at Pacific City, 40 miles from Tillamook (famous for cheese) in the forest, 10 yards from the beach, . No satellite TV or cell phone connection, though – trees and mountains are in the way. Instead of The Apprentice and Survivor, we watch old movies from the Dollar Store – The Hitchhiker (1953) with Edmund O'Brien about a bad guy who kidnaps 2 campers; he sleeps with one eye open).
The beach is long, rocky, windswept and beautiful. High tide and no sand beach in the early morning, low tide by noon. Walking on the beach, I encounter a group of three young kids (20-something) sitting on the rocks, drinking beer and eating oysters. They offer me fresh oysters, but it's the one shellfish I can't stomach, so I say no thanks.
Later - Walking through the forest on the trail, breathless from the beauty - layers of green, texture upon texture, the realization that nature wastes nothing, unlike humans. I detour from the trail – a no-no – to trek to the beach. Waves crashing, booming; lacy-edged surf – all the clichés fit. \

While at Cape Outlook, we v isit the Tillamook Cheese Factory (Watch cheese being packaged, eat curds.)We drive east to Willammette Valley wineries. Stop at Yamhill Valley Winery - tasting room is operated by 18 month old Amelia and her dad. Amelia was a 3 pound premie – still has the translucent skin (no fat layer) of a premie. Named after Amelia Earhart – mom is a pilot. Small winery specializing in pinot gris, pinot blanc, pinot noir. While we sample wines, Amelia plays with camera phone and calculator – making her “tickets” on the printout. Very precocious, adorable.

Nov. 20-23: Newport, OR - South Beach State Park:
No satellite again, even after moving to another site supposedly in a tree-free zone. More old movies – “The Last Time I Saw Paris,” a tear-jerker with a young and beautiful Elizabeth Taylor – who dies at the end after getting wet in the rain.

Nov. 26

Had set my alarm for 7:30 a.m., intending to get up “early” (early for us since we’ve been sleeping ‘till 8 every day.) Donald Trump, being interviewed by Larry King a few nights ago, commented about how little sleep he requires – 3-4 hours a night, and made a scathing comment about those who sleep “12 to 14 hours a night.” I think about us – sleeping 8 hours every night and feel like a lazy slob!

Anyway, I hear the alarm and turn it off without getting up. It was raining the night before and I assume it would be grey and wet this morning. So when I wake up at 8:10 a.m., I’m startled by sunshine pouring in the windows. I quickly make coffee, get dressed and Princess and I set out for a walk on the beach. Usually, she loves the beach and prances in the sand and tickles her toes in the surf as if she’s a puppy. But by the time we reach the water the biting wind has numbed my fingers and Princess shows little interest in frolicking – a few half-hearted leaps and she trudges up to the grassy area on the edge of the sand.

Head down the coast. Stop at Walmart to buy screws and Christmas decorations – a string of mini-lights and fake evergreens.

Nov. 27: Medford, OR - Holiday RV Park (2 nites)
November 28, 2004 – Saturday
We've left Gold Beach at the southern end of Oregon, and are driving down a winding forest road through Grants Pass to Medford – a road carved out of the mountains that follows the Smith River. We are surrounded by tall evergreens that tower over us – and in the canyon carved by the river on our right, we can look down on the tops of trees.
Our plan: skiing at Mt. Ashland – visit southern Oregon wineries - but we discover there's no snow on Mt. Ashland. Sunday, we set out to go to church, then visit wineries. But after driving around for 40 minutes looking for the church, we give up, go to the Dollar store, then to RoxyAnn and Pascal Wineries & Rogue Creamery Cheese. Great wines, great cheese (an international award winning blue cheese, and a buttery-smooth gorgonzola called Oregonzola.)
We are discovering what rural means. . . we pass through Jacksonville – one of those postcard-perfect villages, with clapboard houses, white picket fences, churches with steeples, beauty shops and doctor’s office (with a real “shingle” hanging out front) interspersed with doll-like homes with expansive leaf-covered lawns.
Entering the freeway, we see a white-bearded hitchhiker on the access road, duffle bag at his feet, in earnest conversation on his cell phone.

Nov. 29-Dec. 5 – Redding, CA
We head for Redding, where we’ll spend a few days to wait for our mail, go skiing (we think – turns out there’s no snow) on Mt. Shasta, and visit the redwoods. As we drive down I-5, Steve asks me (half jokingly, I suspect) if I wanted to drive the RV, as it was a wide, fairly straight 3-lane highway. I think about it for half a beat, then say, “not really.” His reply: “I’m still looking for that 6-lane, 1-way highway with no traffic so you can practice driving this thing.” Ha ha.
Wednesday, we decide to take Hwy 299 in the Jeep to Redwood forest on N. Calif. coast. On the map, it’s 135 miles – but what’s not apparent is that every mile is switchbacks and spiral, twisting road, like driving up a slinky.
As I drive, I’m thinking this mountain road that could have been used for one of those performance car commercials with the warning at the bottom of the screen: “Performance driver – don’t try this at home.” As if. I’m barely reaching the speed limit. This road defines the term “ribbon of highway” – you can see the road unfolding back and forth before you. Steve’s getting queasy – probably from my driving; he’s used to being in the driver’s seat, in control.
. . . We head north on the Redwood Coast Road, take the Newton Drury Scenic Parkway, a 10 mile drive through the heart of the redwood forest. We stop at one of the trailheads to hike. The forest is magical and quiet – there’s a reverential hush as if in deference to these ancient giants. As we walk past chest-high ferns and towering redwoods, I am both humbled and horrified, having read that 96% of the original old growth trees are gone – logged for homes and picnic tables.
We drive the Coastal road, a rutted one-lane gravel road with expansive views of the Pacific; we stop to see an old World War II radar station disguised as a farmhouse and barn, where the Army monitored the skies and ocean for enemy encroachment.
South on 101 from Eureka . . . nothing is “faux” along this route. We pass weathered old barns and houses with tin roofs that have a beautiful soft green patina. This is where shabby chic began, I suspect – where age has beauty and warmth, and it is a natural rather than artificially hastened process. What a paradox – and what a commentary on our society. On one hand, we adulate aging through artifice in our objects and possessions, using paint and other techniques to create instant antiques. But we abhor age in our bodies and ourselves, and resort to artifice to deny the very effects of aging we admire around us.
. . . I realize as we see more of America that in Scottsdale, we had no real awareness of how most Americans live. . . where a big evening out is dinner at Applebee’s or the local family-owned coffee shop. If we (I) were so out of touch and desensitized to real life, how unaware and out of touch must our political leaders be – from the President and Congress to all those who advise him/them. Their existence is rarified – it is life on a whole other level, in another world, where Wal-Mart has meaning only for its impact on the stock market, not for its “rollback prices.”