I can hear the Pacific roaring outside my window. I am in Brookings, Oregon, home of (apparently) the only place in the continental United States to have been bombed by the Japanese during World War II. I've been on the road for five days, heading out of San Francisco, up through the ultra-twisty Route 1, and ending up in Brookings, where I arrived in time to skip stones across the ocean as the sun sank into the water. Funny thing about Brookings: It's a mountain town on the coast, with nothing on the radio dial but Quiet Riot and Jesus talk./
I've been able to shake the webs from my head and think clearly for the first time in a long time. I should have done this long ago. This trip has had its share of pluses and minuses, including a speeding ticket (going 71 in a 55 mph zone), for which I still have no clue how much it will cost me in terms of dollars and/or points. But I am glad I came here, for numerous reasons.
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Last time I was in San Francisco was 2004. I honestly remembered it being cleaner. The area surrounding the storied City Lights bookshop seems to have nosedived a bit. But the weather has been glorious and will be uncharacteristically pleasant for the rest of the week: 65 to 70 degrees and sunny. After San Francisco and a trip across the Golden Gate Bridge, I find myself at Muir Woods, where I complete one of the best hikes I've done in some time. It's wild here, in California. It feels familiar to me, and I never want to go home -- back to my apparent "life sentence" in Pennsylvania. At the top of a small mountain I find a clearing with nothing but treetops, open space and a perfect view of the Pacific Ocean. An oil freighter lingers out there, listing atop miles of open water.
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After the hike, I make a right and head inland. Napa Valley is next. I arrive here, expecting to be wowed, but it is underwhelming. I want to like it but don't get the full experience. This place is to be enjoyed with fellow wine drinkers. I refrain from spending even $1 on a bottle of wine here (other than the $4.99 bottle I got at a dinky wine shop by the Napa Best Western) and move on. I head westward, toward the coast, and find myself back on Route 1./
For the next six hours, well into the night, I maneuver this demonic roadway. I take time to laugh at the impossible twists and turns. It's a roller coaster of a road, and it's easy to see how people die on it. The first 20 miles are a blast, but into mile 30 I merely want to be back on a normal road and find a hotel where I can crash, eat crappy food and zone out to mindless TV. Toward the end of the road I pull over, turn off the headlights and look up. The view alone is worth the trip. I have never seen more stars in my life. There are thousands, millions if I bothered to count. This, I figure, is what I will remember most when I recall this trip. An odd feeling comes over me. I get back in the car out of fear that a wandering bear or werewolf will tear out my throat. Out here, right now, this seems to be a completely rational thought.
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Within an hour I find myself at the entrance to another Best Western in Humboldt County, California. After so many hours on the road, there is nothing better than eating a veggie burrito in a heated room and watching "Seinfeld" reruns in a comfortable bed. For the next three days I will discover mile after magnificent mile, but for now I am content watching the so-called idiot box and reading chapters of another Bukowski novel -- his last, "Pulp." In the next couple of days, I will take time for hikes, including one in Redwood National Forest, and other assorted stop-offs, such as the "Legend of Bigfoot" store (another bust) south of Eureka.
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My trip north ends on a Thursday night in Brookings. I spend my last wandering night in a hotel on the beach, quite literally. I buy a bottle of malbec at a local supermarket and pick up a "baked" pizza from the joint next door. It's not great, the pizza, but it's food. In the morning I consume a breakfast of eggs and oatmeal in a greasy spoon worthy of inclusion on the cable hit known as "Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives." It's 11 a.m. by the time I have scoured the beach once more and am ready to leave. I have 300 miles to cover, give or take, till I can settle in for the night -- back in San Francisco.
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Eight hours later I find myself at another less than deluxe hotel, setting the alarm to wake me at 4 a.m. so I can make a dash for the airport -- back to Philadelphia by way of Las Vegas. As I fade into restless sleep I decide I will take what I learned from this trip and apply it to whatever happens next. Further, I decide I will begin to make things happen in a life that has come to a grinding standstill.
