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.

Down from the Mountains

The sun is shining on the icicles hanging from the roof as I make my way out of Gary's cabin in snowy Rossland. The icicles are also hanging from the back wheel of my bike, souvenirs of a slushy journey. I grab a coffee and directions at the bakery then hit the road.

One more high, snow-covered pass after Rossland, then down to the river valleys of the southern BC interior. This is Highway 3, the forgotten highway, and the road conditions show it. Lots of potholes and broken road, but not too much traffic and a very folksy charm to the surroundings. Like Coral's Cabins, the size of half a one-car garage and painted a bright lemon yellow, likely by Coral herself. My favourite real estate ad: "Spouses with Houses" a husband-and-wife realty team. My first thought was, too bad they don't get along well enough to live in the SAME house. The weather got quickly warmer, the roads dryer. Moving into cattle country with pines at the heights of the low mountains. As the hills got lower, the gas prices got higher. Must be some kind of connection.

I drove into Surrey around 5:30 p.m. and couldn't find a place to park around June and Dave's place. My family has an almost religious connection to their cars. What a warm welcoming. And the twins are here, too. Now about triple the weight they were are Christmas and babbling away. They can really hold a room.

Time for some family visits and maybe that historic interview with Mom that I always tell OTHER people they must find the time for.

A Surfeit of Weather

There’s a saying in Alberta. If you don’t like the weather, wait half an hour. It will change. On this day of travel, I have to amend that saying. If you don’t like the weather, drive for another half hour. Sunshine, rain, flurries, deep snow, then sun again. It certainly holds your attention. As does the landscape changing from flat sepia prairie to cold green mountains then white. Renee and Tristan made me a good breakfast, then saw me off at nine. They’ve got dreams and yet a very practical nature. I wish them well.

I stopped in Nanton for a hot chocolate and a phone call. It’s 70 degrees in Newport Beach. Minus six outside the café. I’m travelling the right direction. Just outside Pincher Creek, I stopped for gas at a Mohawk station and met Fiona. Same name as the princess in Shrek, but she’s more reminiscent of the after-dark version. Quick smile and big heart, too. She told me of meeting a trucker from Virginia who saw the beauty inside, I suppose. Now, she’s looking at real estate in the American south online and looking younger than her fifty-plus years any time she mentions Mr. Virginia. Told me of a surprise visit he paid to her cabin in February. Just walked in one night as she was in bed reading a book. Her first thought, she said, was that the gun was in the kitchen and she’d be fighting someone off with a paperback. Not much of a weapon.



Then it was into the mountains and the snow. My poor bike will never forgive me. The back wheel sticks out beside the truck and quickly became encrusted with ice and snow. I tried wrapping it with a garbage bag, but then it becomes a sail that seems determined to take the bike on a different journey.
It’s a long drive to Rossland from Calgary. I don’t envy Gary making the trip all the way from Winnipeg. But here in his cozy cabin, I can understand the appeal. Snow everywhere, so the ski runs that are half a kilometre uphill from here must be wonderful. No time to check them out, however. June has a big dinner planned for me tomorrow night. So, a quiet night ahead in a cabin with no phone and no internet. Then a good sleep and a drive to the coast. Hope I’m through the worst of the snow.

On the Road

Oh, wait, someone already used that title. But here's the thing. I'm about to climb into the room that's left inside my little Tracker and hit the road. So it's official, kind of. The sabbatical has begun. And soon my brain will accept that. It's a blustery day in Edmonton, so that's a good omen, I suspect. Though I'm hearing stuff about the road to Calgary - my first stop - that's not reassuring. I will travel carefully. Renee and her partner Tristan have promised me a meal and a bed this evening and a chance to catch up on a niece I've not communicated with for far too long. So it's the kind of warm start that seems most appropriate.

The First Lesson

A six-month sabbatical is kind of like a vacation on steroids. Which may explain why I was expending so much energy this morning to get things done so I could get on the road so I could relax. But a sane voice that I barely recognized intervened to say: "You've got six months. WHY are you rushing around? Doesn't this time belong to YOU?" At which point, I called my niece in Calgary to ask if dinner tomorrow night would be okay instead. She laughed. The wisdom of youth. But it does point out how responsible I feel not just to my job, but to a clock and a timetable. That's the first thing I have to discard. And I know it won't be easy. In any case, I geared down, read for a bit, sipped on a beer and made plans to get out of here tomorrow with a cool head and all the stuff I might have forgotten had I started my journey today. This gets easier, right?