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.