Road Trip! The Left Coast of America

California: "Got Crabs? We Do"

Derry and I began our trip, as I mentioned, to the tune of Highway to Hell by AC/DC, leaving Palo Alto in the heat of the noonday sun, and soon found ourselves driving through the chilly western part of San Francisco through the typical summer fog that often envelopes the city during the summers. But it wasn't long before we were back into the heat typical of the rest of California.

As hunger gnawed at us, we decided to pull off in Hopland to have lunch at the oldest brewpub in California, and the second oldest in the country, the Mendocino Brewing Company. Surprisingly, it's opening in 1983 was preceded only by a year by Yakima, Washington's Grant's Brewery Pub. The long arm of the prohibition years yielded decades of piss-water beer, but twenty-five years ago, the revolution in American brewing began, and now, the West coast of the United States has become a micro-brew mecca (although perhaps Mecca, being the mecca for those whose religion forbids the consumption of alcohol, is perhaps not the most appropriate reference). So we stopped at this historic landmark, and I put away my week-long dry-out for the course of this road trip. Tipping down a pint of smooth stout and a boar burger, we hopped back into the car and down the road.

The road, however, turned out to be a momentarily dangerous place, as we were nearly attacked by a winabego with a penchant for destruction. It unleashed the fury of its ninja hubcap, which we saw disengage from its proper place, roll at high speed into the oncoming lane, and... "Oh my...do you see...look out!" and at that point it bounced and hit the car coming at it. Reflexively I ducked, but it was in vain, the hub cap bounced into the shoulder. I whipped around in my seat to see what if any fallout was to come, but it seemed as if both parties were oblivious to the attack.

The rest of the drive saw itself pass relatively uneventfully until we reached our destination at the hippie town of Arcada in Humboldt County. We walked, in my case hobbled, around Derry's old stomping grounds; this is where he went to college. Everything was closed, but we noticed that there was a baseball game going. So we went and watched the Crabs, a minor league team, play. This woman there had a great shirt. It read, "Got crabs? We do." It's a shame the picture didn't turn out. It was fun for a couple of innings, but my attention span, and fortunately for me Derry's as well, is limited when it comes to baseball. So beer, hot dog, and five innings meant it was time to go. So we headed off to check into the Motel 6, the ceapest hotels around. There's a reason for that though, several in fact.

Reason 1: Not super clean
Reason 2: Smells bad
Reason 3: No soap, usually
Reason 4: Shower stains that look like poo shards if you're not wearing your contacts
Reason 5: Broken air conditioning

Need I continue? So we didn't linger in the morning. Instead we made our way to this cool hippie bagel shop called Los Bagels and had an excellent couple of bagels and coffee before walking around the now alive town. The stores were cool, and the bookshops filled with good books and great lefty magazines. But we couldn't hang out forever, so we pushed on to the Redwoods where we would, in our own way, say goodbye to Lady Bird Johnson, the wife of late President Johnson, who gave credence to environmentalism in the United States (though she hated that word because that was something hippies did. She was beautifying). We grabbed our sandwiches and ate them in Lady Bird Johnson Redwood Grove north of Arcada.

As we moved toward the Oregon border I forced Derry to stop at the Trees of Mystery roadside stop where there stood a giant Paul Bunyan and his Blue Ox, Babe. It was hokey, but fun. There was some guy who talked through this giant to the kids below; it was fun to watch there reactions, and there was actually a really cool Native American exhibit there. We did not, however, pay to see the trees of mystery, which we didn't actually care much to find out about.

Oregon: Rim Jobs and Folding Bikes

As we drove into Oregon, the geography changed as quickly as did the legal jurisdiction. It was really quite stunning. We hadn't spent a good deal of time in the state by time we arrived at Derry's friend's place. I had met Kathy once before, and found her husband, Rene, also quite amiable. They live in this tiny little town of Williams, but it is a cool little place, where they live more-or-less off the grid, with a creek running through the back of their property, solar shower, a self-built home, these sorts of things. We spent the evening talking and walking around the property, and planned our trip up to Crater Lake for the morning.

Kathy, unfortunately could not join us, with a family reunion looming and much to do to prepare for it, she had to stay, so we moved out in the morning at a leisurely pace and a good visit with her. Derry and I stopped for lunch in a the small town of Jacksonville at a little place called the Mustard Seed, which had excellent cheap food, but the slowest service I've had in a long time. It was two hours that our lunch took, which cut into our day somewhat noticeably. So we wasted no more time, and headed out of town as soon as was possible. I noticed on the way to the car, however, that what I had thought was a fart, might indeed not be, and I rushed to the public bathroom to discover I was correct...disaster averted...thankfully.

The road to crater lake is a mesmerizing one. Its straight tree-lined highway courses by as you drive in such a way as to almost hypnotize you. After about fifteen minutes of it. Derry had to stop and ask me to drive, which suited me, and we got out at what turned out to be a beautiful little scenic spot, where we got to stretch our legs and check out a waterfall. I was happy to drive. I was kind of bored, and Derry had decided that reading was out of the question for me and threatened to drive off the road if I continued. I thought it totally unreasonable and was a little irked at him for it, but thought I better not chance it. So I was happy to have my mind occupied with the driving of the car, and the assurance that I wasn't going to drive headlong off the soon to be winding road.

Crater Lake was cool. I had to laugh as we approached because everything was rim something. The rim-drive, the rim-village, apply for a rim-job. Okay, so there was no sign for rim-jobs, but the connection seems obvious, and it cracked me up. The view into the water-filled crater is gorgeous, and the views as your drive around it are no less photo worthy. At one point Derry asked to have his photo taken, so I took it and stood there pretending to line it up as other tourists looked on. I zoomed a little, turned the camera. Then after a while smiled and said:

I took the picture ages ago, I just wanted to see how long you'd stand there.

That joke just doesn't get old for me. He didn't appreciate it quite as much, and I think might have been getting a little tired of my picture happy approach to traveling. It's a sickness really.

We made it into Eugene that evening and had dinner at Denny's, which is where we also had breakfast the next morning. The motel 6 was much better here. We headed into town to check out the site of what had been Derry's Oregon pilgrimage: Bike Friday's where they make really amazing folding bikes. These really are awesome for travelers and commuters. I don't mean for this to sound like an advertisement, but I was super impressed with their product. You really should check it out if traveling by bike is something that interests you.

With that, we headed back onto the road toward the freeway. Derry needed caffeine, and in seeing a dispensary swerved across three lanes to get there. I have only ever seen more impressive, and scary, driving from my sister, Connie, once in the ever convoluted exit scheme in Seattle, Washington, which was our destination for this night. We got our coffees, made for us by a very chipper, and fine looking young woman who clearly liked me a great deal because she put a happy-face sticker on my coffee lid...I know, I know, I should refrain from putting such things in my blog so that you don't have to work so hard to keep your wild jealousy at bay. I will try harder next time.

Washington: Helen Blows and Jimi Rocks

After attempting unsuccessfully to get in touch with my friend Heather in Portland, we burned through the rest of Oregon and made our way up to Washington, where I spied with my little eye, something that once blew up thousands of acres of wilderness, spreading ash for thousands of kilometers. You guessed it, Mount St. Helens.

Derry was quite against the idea and I had to brook some complex negotiations before he would allow this minor side trip to the angry mount. She, St. Helens blew in 1980, when I was just a wee tot, but its mystique is one that has captivated me, and many others for a good long time. Everyone loves a little disaster action, now don't they. The views from the drive were really stunning, and the re-planted forests gave rather a hypnotic aura to the region...too many rows of the same trees.

What's more was the visitor's center was excellent, full of interesting exhibits and eye-bulging footage of the destruction wreaked by this little lady. The crater, which is still actively roiling with volcanic activity is no less interesting than the valley to look at. More poignantly, for us, given our route, Mt. St. Helens is exactly 1000 miles from Derry's place. How's that for random.

In the end, Derry was very much appreciative of my dragging him up there, and I made sure to remind him of that for the rest of the trip, whenever I had a spontaneous idea. We crashed that night in Seattle, where my friend Dave and his girlfriend live. They graciously took us in and Dave spent the next day showing us around Seattle. We went for breakfast at this great bagel shop called the Greatful Bread and then Dave drove us into the center of town trying to figure out what to show us. As we drove into downtown we saw before us the most strangely shaped building I think I've ever seen. Not the stangest building, mind you, but the most strangely shaped one for certain. We asked what it was and Dave told us that is was the Experience Music Project building. A lightbulb went off in Derry's head. "Oh! I want to go there."

He had forgotten he wanted to see it, but being a huge Jimi Hendrix fan, he was way into the idea. Jimi had played a somewhat prominent role in our trip up to then. It wasn't exactly Jimi Hendrix, but a jimmy of a different sort. We were watching the news a few nights earlier, when one of the features was a story on Restless Leg Syndrome, which cuts to a piece from Seinfeld where Kramer flips out saying he can't date this woman anymore because she's got "the Jimmy Legs." So periodically we'd burst out with a yelling of the "jimmy legs" This occasion was not an exception.

The EMP museum was an outstanding piece of work with excellent exhibits and really hands on experiential pieces. One could easily lose a day thoroughly absorbed in the oral history part of the museum. There was a great deal we did not get to see, as our two hours of parking time was up and over in a hurry. So we went and had lunch and some beers at this great pub and wandered around the funky neighborhood until Dave returned from the appointment he needed to go to.

I really disliked Seattle the first time I was there, but definitely enjoyed it this time. So I guess the city that brought us Jimi, Pearl Jam, and Nirvana, has redeemed itself...for now.

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