DAY 46: Into the green hills of California

SAN RAFAEL, CALIF. | Saturday, April 24, 2010 | Motel 6, Room 108

We'd hoped to go to Yosemite. To end our trip camping. Camping. Affordable and also beautiful, verging on romantic. El Capitan and all. Bathrooms just a short sprint through other campsites, once you've found the flashlight, then the door to the tent, and then the zipper.

Or, to be clear, we wanted to end Leg Two of the trip camping. There is still one more leg apparently, as Adrienne pointed out yesterday, as we drove along, somewhere, probably along the Sacramento River. 

Leg One was from Maine to Florida, largely undocumented expedition at this point. Leg Two apparently was from Florida to San Francisco. Leg Three is time building stair in San Francisco thru to return to Seattle. Three legs, four corners. Leg Two almost complete, to be completed later this afternoon, when we arrive at my sister Margaret's place. 

So we wanted to end on a good note yesterday. Nothing more than that. We talked about it as transition, as decompression, like when a deep sea diver comes up for air. There is that brief time in the interstitial space, the wet dripping room, echo chamber, for the lungs and other vital organs to adjust to the change in atmosphere.

We'd planned to go to Yosemite. We'd looked at the maps. But apparently not very closely. Rt 120, the one we wanted, for the craggy arrival, said very clearly, in all caps, CLOSED IN WINTER. There was nothing south of 120, not for miles, not until Death Valley. The next couple roads north, also CLOSED IN WINTER. So yesterday, in the morning, we called a 1-800 number supplied by our cheery host at Redwood Inn, and found that with only a slight detour of maybe 30 miles back north, we could pick up Rt 89 and then Rt 88, and make our way across the rest of the Sierras. I'd called about Rt. 89 the night before, and it had been closed for snow. So it was a small miracle that 89 was open again, saving us a handful of miles. Maybe things were looking good. Maybe we should have felt blessed.

It was sunny yesterday. I remember Adrienne saying that. "At least it's sunny." Which means I was complaining no doubt, despite the strange beautiful birds in the birch trees outside our motel door, black birds with yellow throats that I'd never seen.


It was sunny. A thin layer of snow from the night before on Yellow Truck's cab and camper shell. But not on the hood. Already melted. Still, Yellow was cold. Started then stalled out. Then started again, shuttering to life, slowly catching, slowly finding that I'd pulled the choke out a bit for him, was giving him more air, thinning the mixture of fuel and air, upping the rpms. So he came to, a bit rough. He's been like this in the cold, up in the mountains. But after a minute, all is good, smooth, like a dry marble bouncing around in his cylinders, that diesel sound in miniature, and I back down the choke again and off we go.


We climbed two or three passes, up in the snows. There was the Sage Hen Pass. Monitor Pass. Kit Carson Pass. I don't remember the order really. They were slow affairs, all about 8,000 feet up, with a Modest Mouse soundtrack, a couple of times down into second gear, which means carrying on at about 15 mph, plenty of time to take in the view, the delicious alpine air. At some point we became friendly with an old flat-faced tractor-trailer carrying two sleds of strapped green hay. His truck was just slightly faster than Yellow. We'd first been noticing him just before the turn-off to Lake Tahoe, and then not seen him for awhile, so thought we'd outrun a truck finally, or that he'd turned off. But he hadn't. He started gaining on us. Showing up in the rear view mirror just before we'd turn a corner out of sight. We tried to outrun him, chuckled at the idea of that, as if we had any volition of our own, any options, and we watched him gaining on us in the rear view mirrors. Adrienne had seen some Steven King movie, Full Max Overdrive or something, about trucks like this, very scary and all, bearing down on a poor dear. So he passed us eventually, narrow stretch, dramatic and all, loud engine in our ears, and then he was slower than us on the downhill, having to work his brakes with the load, we wouldn't have thought hay was so heavy, but maybe when so green or that it had to be carried over mountain passes maybe grow it on the same side. While we were mulling these deep things, he managed to get ahead of us, and then he pulled over quick to the side of the road, not sure why. As we came up on him, the driver was already climbing down his ladder, in sunglasses, a tight t-shirt in the breeze, no hat, and he waved to us, big smile. We were friends. 

And then gone, around the corner, like with so many of these friends we've made on the road. Very short, sweet relationships. No words necessary. All road code and honor and the company-of-strangers warmth, like Hemingway without the bluster.


Maybe the Sierras on the way down were harder, despite the familiar pain of the slow hike up. All the braking against gravity, flying around corners with just a guardrail, or no guard rail, between us and eternity. We were so happy when we saw grass again, when we were down in the 3,000s and then the flats, where the sun had more of an effect on the terrain again, growing tall leafy trees, gauzy in the hazy light, and all the buildings looked after, cared-for, even the ones that were empty for the time being. The cows were grazing under trees. So luxurious. And then of course, we were in California after all. I'd forgotten how green, how soft and undulating the hills of north central California are. Then the wind farms, all the slowly mechanically spinning props, catching energy. All the vineyards spread over the hills. The hazy light. Central California is magical. I've always felt that, could immediately understand that in the land, its advantage, its health and softness and richness, why it pulls people here, why everything is so expensive, even a tiny flat-roofed house on a cul-de-sac.

We picked up Rt 104 at some point. It was the smallest road on the map, off of Rt 88 by Jackson, south of Sacramento. It ran along the Sacramento River as it turned out. Amazing elevated narrow road above the river, alongside it, and below us on both sides, vineyards, cows, walnut groves. Crossing over the river, banging across metal bridges, Yellow Truck bouncing and recovering, then slower bridges, and then back over the river again and turning ninety degrees to run alongside it some more. Same hazy light. Just flying along with the other cars, at 55 mph, a speed Yellow can do no problem at all. And now, back in the flats, out of the hills, doing much better, stronger, almost detected some momentary zip.

Towards day's end, we figured we were headed for San Rafael. We would be close to San Francisco, but not too close. We could get biodiesel in the morning, more of the B99. Then maybe go to the coast. Maybe go to Pt. Reyes. Then shoot down. We were low on fuel. That created some undue excitement, a minor crisis. That we might run out. And it was strange, to be so close to landing at my sister's, and to be looking at staying in some dumpy anonymous motel. But she is busy. I wanted to respect her working life, to show up when we said we would. It is my autism, or Asbergers, wanting always to be on time. But to stay in Vallejo? By an amusement park? We kept driving, into the sunset along Rt 37 with the people headed home from work. The fuel was low. Then we were tired and hungry. So on and so on. We found straight diesel in San Rafael, left plenty of room for the biodiesel to come next day. We found our way downtown. It was like Christmas, on Fourth Ave, the main street. Every tree strung with yellow lights. Unexpected. Odd. Overly bright. Adrienne didn't want to spend money, wanted to conserve. Maybe we would make peanut butter and jelly. But it was our last night in a way. I wanted to eat something, a burger at least. Places were too expensive or too fluorescent. We were two grumpy bears, whining, nothing quite right, walking up and down another town we didn't know. We'd talked about Indian food for some reason. We hadn't had that in forever. I asked a guy but he only knew of a Thai place, very good, near by, he was just back in town after a long time away, he said, was why he didn't know. But what was the name of the Indian place? We didn't know, just Indian. But finally we did find an Indian place and we went in and it was the same price as a burger and a beer, just no beer, which was fine, and better food, so good, a buffet, North and South Indian both. So we ate. They didn't even charge extra for the basket of nan. It was delicious and quiet in the place and we didn't talk much. We accepted that we would just sleep in the overpriced but still relatively cheap Motel 6 we'd already checked out earlier, and not wanted to accept. We would just sleep and get up and we would be in San Francisco.

Ah, yes, soon! The shades still drawn, but the light bright at the shades' edges. Adrienne still asleep, she stays up late, reading. The dull thrum of cars passing by outside, somewhere, a highway nearby. Somewhere too, the boats, moored, and silent. Only the cars talking now. And Adrienne's breathing, sleeping. Me here, standing, laptop balanced on top of the television, battery down to eighteen percent. Yes, soon, out in the day again. Again, here we go.