Plenty of Poppies

Richard made us his "guy-gourmet" breakfast - pour a can of peaches in a baking pan, douse with a box of cake mix and throw it in the oven. It was pretty good. Then he headed off to do someone else a favour and we got on the road to Antelope Valley. That required a jog east and into the Mohave desert, where the Joshua Trees dominate the landscape. It's not quite the wasteland you'd expect when you hear the word desert, but this is spring.

Then we turned back towards the foothills to the west and a carpet of orange surrounded us. From a distance, it looks like someone had spilled orange paint on the valley. We were headed for the Antelope Valley Poppy Reserve, where the deer and the antelope used to play. The fact the flowers were abundant long before we reached the 1800 acre reserve is evidence the carpet of orange used to be a rite of spring through much of southern California.

It was a mild spring day, meaning the temperatures were under 80. With the light wind, it was thoroughly enjoyable. Especially as I later learned that Alberta was enduring yet another snowfall. The reserve is more than poppies. The purple lupin grows abundantly here, too. And some yellow flowers known as Bigelow Coreopsis (that plant needs an agent) The tourists began to fill the walkways as the day grew warmer - all armed with cameras and all looking as puzzled as I was about where NOT to aim their lenses. It was overwhelming.

Family and Friends

We retrace our winding journey to the southwest entrance of Kings Canyon National Park. It seems faster - and steeper - on the way out. Gradually, the colours come back. Wildflowers and a flowering bush known as red bud crowd the narrow and often bumpy road. We make our way to Three Rivers for the night, then head for Bakersfield. That's where Debra did much of her growing up. That's where her family lives. George and Shirley Ashby open the door to their well-kept bungalow and invite us in. They're in their 70s now, and smiling in spite of health issues that are mostly connected with breathing. We settle into the living room and they begin sharing stories of their travels in the mountains when Debra was young. And their travels in Europe. George tells the story of a conversation in Ireland, where he divulged that Bakersfield gets about four inches of rain a year. In Ireland, his fellow travellers say, we get that in a day.
George and Shirley also share their encyclopedic knowledge of plants. Any meagre description can prompt a name. And when they get stumped, Shirley gets up to consult a guidebook. She takes us for a tour through a backyard that's green and remarkably cool, given that it's 90 degrees. In early April. Debra tells me it doesn't just get hot in Bakersfield, it gets @#$@! hot. We harvest snow peas that, like me, will wither once the real summer arrives. I'll be glad to be on the coast. Just before we leave, George hands me a five-dollar bill - Canadian, from their trip to Vancouver a few years back - that's occupied a place of honour (I assume) in his wallet ever since.

Then, it's up to Richard's place in the mountains. Richard and Debra have been friends forever. The kind of friends who always have a gentle verbal jab for each other. They've traveled together and the memories sustain them during the many months when they don't see each other at all. Richard is a judge - supposedly retired but busier than ever - who specializes in finding cheap flights and then figuring out what he'll do when he arrives wherever. His home sits on a bluff hundreds of feet (this IS America) above the highway into Bakersfield, 20 miles to the west. The view is astounding.


We spend the night, then head for the poppies of Antelope Valley the next morning. We're fortified by Richard's newest easy-bake breakfast. A can of peaches - syrup and all - doused with a box of cake mix and baked. Betty Crocker would be proud.

To the Mountains

There's a lot of geography squeezed into California. We headed out for Kings Canyon National Park, about half-way up the state, on Thursday morning. By Thursday evening we had almost made it out of Los Angeles. Or maybe it just felt like that. Anyway, onto Highway 5 and up the valley through the fields that feed most of Canada, in terms of produce like oranges and almonds. It's spring, so the temperature moved up into the 80s (that's the high 20s for the metric crowd) We pulled off the road for a taste of spring flowers. California does THEM the same way it does movies - over the top. But we wouldn't discover the full extent of that for a few days.

The road into King's Canyon loops back on itself as it climbs the mountains. You start in a zone of wildflowers and budding bushes and rushing streams and wind your way up into a rocky world in shades of green, then white, as the snow appeared. There was a lot of snow in the Sierras this winter and rolling blankets of it hugged the road as we made our way to the Montecito Sequoia lodge. It was getting late, so we passed by General Sherman's tree - the most massive tree on the planet - with a promise to get back the next day. For a while, the road is shadowed by Giant Grove, home to thousands of massive trees, some thousands of years old. We had dinner on our minds. We arrived at the lodge and cabins in shorts and sandals and slipped over the snow to check in. Our cabin - number seven - was half hidden behind a snow bank. It would have slept ten in comfort - as long as heat doesn't figure into your definition of comfort. There was a cast iron fireplace at one end of the cabin, beside a cupboard filled with wood. That night, I discovered the average burning time for a chunk of California pine is about an hour - enough time to fall asleep toasty and wake up chilly.

The Montecito was definitely grassroots (under the snow) but the food was great, and the lodge was always filled with families and educational groups. The highlight was a moonlight snowshoe to admire constellations that I haven't seen for years. During the day, we headed out to have our breath taken away by the waterfalls and giant trees the area is famous for. It's staggering to stand beside a tree that was a seedling at the time of the Roman Empire and now has the mass of a pod of blue whales. The trees, like the General Sherman in the photo below, really give the term "staying power" a whole new perspective.

An LA State of Mind

Early the next morning, fortified with McDonald's coffee and granola bars, I'm back on the road. It's supposed to be two and a bit hours. I've got just enough experience of California travel to be suspicious. Highway 5 loops back over a range of mountains before it drops into the many cities that together are known to the world as Los Angeles. There's another improbably high range of mountains to the west, where your mind tells you a seacoast should be. There's a bucket of off-white mist - he said optimistically - in the urban bowl. There are five lanes now, so I pick one and stay there. There's at least another hour and two more highways before Newport Beach. The traffic slows, the traffic stops - for a very short time. And I marvel at the idea that so many cars and trucks and buses have apparently important places to go on a Saturday morning.

I pull in to Debra's complex just before noon.
She's off getting her hair done, which I presume is a coincidence. I let myself in, say hello to the dachshund Gherkin and make one more trip to the car before Gherkin convinces me it's time for a walk. The sun is shining, it's 20 degrees (70 US) and it feels good to be here.

The Orange Basket of the USA

Debra and I arrange some social contact on my way south. From Weaverville, it's 50 curve-filled miles to Highway 5. Another 200 flat and straight to Tracy, California, where Debra's friends Barry, Patricia and Julia live. I push the pedal to the floor, try to keep up with traffic that's never seen a bumper it didn't want to climb, and keep the camera in its bag. It's 2:30 before I get to the golf course where Barry has just won 36 bucks. I tell myself his big smile is mostly for me. He's bearded and warm and it's time to pick up his daughter at school. The whole family is just back from a music exchange to China and Barry confides it's the only reason Julia joined the music program again. There are more pressing concerns in Grade ten - which is NOT what they call it down here. Julia is fresh-faced and sharp and not intimidated in the least with talking to the stranger in the front seat. She makes a brief and not terribly heart-felt complaint about her homework and the three of us spend the next hour talking. It's a good break after 30 or so hours of solitary travel. Then, back on the road.

Highway 5 is not known for its beauty. But it does run through impressive farmland, with rows of flat-topped orange groves running into the distance and up against scrubby green hills. For a newbie, it's interesting. And this IS the fastest route to LA. Unless there's road work. Which there is. It amazes me that drivers who seem upset if you're not doing well over the posted limit are apparently endlessly patient when a highway turns into a parking lot. It's more than an hour before we slide past a collection of work crews chipping the concrete from the right lane under bright floodlights. The sun has set. My plans for making LA tonight, so confidently expressed to Debra, are fading.

By the time I get to Buttonwillow (there should be a song) the streaks of taillights on the windshield convince me to get a night's sleep. At the Motel 6, with a view of not only Highway 5, but the fast food joints and gas stations along Highway 5, I check in. The clerk admonishes me that Friday nights usually require reservations, what with the races and all. I don't ask. For 34 bucks you shouldn't expect much.

California, Here I Come

The coast of southern Oregon is a marvel that demands to be shared. That's why I stop only occasionally as I head south and into California. There's little to betray the move into the new state. A sign and a landscape that's oblivious. This California is practically empty. And times appear tough. I pass warehouses that are for lease, homes that need repair. Still, there's an attractive quality to it all, a sense that the highway my parents drove our family down in the 60s on our way to Disneyland hasn't really changed that much.

Just north of Eureka, I turn inland again. California is a basket, bounded on the west and the east by mountains. So it's back to the curvy roads and steep inclines as I make my way back to the fruitful centre. I push the seek button on my radio, looking for company on the ride. The airwaves are dense. Lots of hurtin' country, lots of Christian talk and music, lots of Spanish-language programming. I miss CBC.

Around five, I pull into Weaverville. It's a town of 1200 with a collection of Wild West buildings in the downtown and a swath of commercial development along the highway. I pull in to the 49er Gold Country Inn, a small motel complex with decorative brick half way up the walls and the promise of high-speed internet. I need to connect.

The Road to the Coast

There are two ways to the Oregon coast around the midpoint of the state. Highway 20 looks like a straight run west from Highway 5. Highway 34 looks like a 45 degree angle southwest. Sounds like the best bet, right? I’m sure there’s a more convoluted highway somewhere. But I’ve never found it. The narrow road sweeps through the hills that separate the coast from the interior valley, bending back on itself endlessly. Fortunately, the scenery is striking. Old trees draped with lichen and moss backlit by the setting sun in the west. Fields of crops and cattle and christmas trees interrupted by open areas of clearcut. All the while my hands are glued to the wheel, following the contours of the road and racing the rivers to the sea. Eventually, I made the coast and realized the drive was worth the effort.
I pulled in to the Silver Surf Motel right on the water just as the sun was going down. The sound of the surf put me to sleep and woke me the next morning. Now, I can watch the breakers as the sun hits them and the morning mist burns off. Should be a good day.