I was already awake.
The text at 5:35 a.m. Sunday morning read, in part, “maybe
you are looking at the moon equidistant between Jupiter and Saturn. I have my
surf boat on the car…. But my bike is looking lonely.”
Being that I’d surfed the day before, I took the bike
suggestion to heart. In just four miles, however, I was changing a flat near a
trolley station. A homeless man illegally parked in the trolley parking lot
working on his car came over to watch and offered to sell me a cold drink, and
if I didn’t have any money "we could work something out."
A man in a jeep waiting for the light to change watched this exchange for
a few moments before pulling over. The former Marine, an Ironman
competitor, got out to offer assistance, largely to dispel the homeless man, I
believe. Bless his heart.
The slightly shorter-than-planned ride cleared my head and recharged
my endorphin supply. Too much sitting, driving and long work hours; I felt like a banana slug. So I made my decision: I was leaving that very
night while the street fair raged outside my apartment. I’d beat the morning
rush hour and get a head start on my border to border journey. First stop: the land of actual banana slugs.
How slow is northbound Sunday night traffic? In two hours
I’m as far as…. Anaheim. Somehow my timing landed me squarely front and center
for the 9:30pm Disneyland fireworks. Great bursts of cascading white glitter exploding
to the west of the freeway practically in front of me. Hundreds of other cars
are crawling even slower now to watch. As I pass underneath it sounds like car
tires blowing. The afterglow of rockets bursting in air in my rearview mirror
are like police car lights approaching. I didn’t like fireworks much before;
now they’re pure bad news.
Traffic is flowing again, maybe hitting 35 mph, until it’s not.
I hold my breath, hoping the car speeding up behind me sees that our lane has
stopped, and that the impact doesn’t launch my kayak through the rear window of
the car ahead, splitting the space between two heads of glittering Mickey Mouse ears. He veers just in time
barely missing my bumper, leaving that metallic taste in my mouth.
About the time I’d hoped to be easing down the north side of
the Grapevine, I was in fact, in North Hollywood. My original dream of spending
the night in glorious Buttonwillow? Fantasy. Settling in at Frazier Park at
midnight, I am splurging on a bowl of cherries and the Sunday NY Times.
Maybe there would have been no rooms in Buttonwillow. I’m just sayin; looking on the bright side.
As always, the slog through a drought-stricken San Joaquin
Valley seems a relentless barrage of old country, new country and Christian
radio. I’d been here several months earlier to photograph these acres of cattle
and hopeless viaducts. Our story about the nation’s dwindling water resources showed
me just how bad things are, how little water there is to be shared above ground
from the rivers, and below in the aquifers.
Bypassing a welcome invitation from friends in lovely, I
headed across the Richmond Bridge. Stations like KSLUG and KMUD broadcast
Democracy Now. Local programs discussed concepts like indigeneity and
ethnobotany with experts. John Sebastian and The Byrds took over the playlist.
Diffused by fog the sun set on the Noyo River in Ft. Bragg as
I paddled behind a couple from Wisconsin and one of my best friends guiding our
flotilla downriver, pointing out double-crested cormorants on one side, ospreys
on the other; a boneyard of valiant former fishing vessels receding into the
foliage.
A calm morning on the coast isn’t always what the locals
want. Sure it’s a perfect summer day. But that means there’s no viable surf slamming
against the rocks for play. It’s a day designed for hiking and mountain biking
and … work.
Why can’t human families grow the way redwoods grow? A
circle of starters enmeshed at the roots, individual trunks shooting skyward
till they reach full growth. If you look up into a redwood canopy, a complex
embrace woven of green arms reach out, laughingly, sways in the sunlight. In these redwoods the sound of wind in the branches is
actually wind in the branches.
As many times as I’ve walked under the fragrant pride of a
pine or redwood forest, I will never tire of seeing clear streaks of
light
illuminate green needles against the chocolate-rich trunks. Nor the
casual
creeks with water so clean you only know it’s there when colorful leaves
land
spinning on the surface.There's no hate in the forest.
Residents of these rugged coastal environs have a mutual
understanding: surviving here gives you the joy of being part of all this
indescribable beauty.
But the rite of passage that is winter here means simply living
is believing in a world where humans submit to the overarching control by
Nature. Where else can you talk about the six-foot long octopus embracing your
crab cage as you pull it up, or the nests of birds half the size of a sedan or
the single rouge wave that put a fishing vessel on the rocks, and have everyone nodding in acknowledgement of the
story’s veracity?
An evening spin among the caves, small pour-overs and beds
of bull kelp was all I needed to validate the long drive and insure I’d be back
sooner than later.
One cannot look at the ocean here without wanting to be in
it. My friends Jeff and Cate at Liquid Fusion Kayaking have crafted a lifestyle
that allows them to not only be perpetually in kayaks along the coast or on
mountain bikes through the redwoods, but in which they can share all that with
anyone willing to try. Generous souls, they live what they preach: eating local,
using their graywater for organic gardening and advocating for environmental
protection.
Tracks to Kayaks lets people ride the famous Skunk Train to a bridge where they jump onto kayaks to return to the sea on the river.
The pain of leaving Ft. Bragg was mitigated by the
coast-hugging highway north. And by roadside attractions like tree-trunk sized
carvings of bears, salmon, more bears, and live elk grazing in the
appropriately named Elk Meadows.
My kayaks wouldn't fit through the tree at Leggett, CA, however.
Oregon was a blur.
Picking wild blackberries on the side of the Smith River was
the last cool fresh air. It was now evening so I made a promise to myself to
return to Wonder for the wild driftwood creatures. The neon blue peace sign glowing
in the darkness as I passed Calapooya made me smile. But from there on until
Creswell, it was only the rolling hills of Rogue River-Siskiyou National Forest
to the west, the Umpqua National Forest to the east were a sea of green: fir, pine,
redwood tree tops. A glimmer of hope for the planet’s few remaining forests
flashed through my brain. The sun was a hazy fireball on the horizon. I could smell
smoke from an unseen blaze being battled far away. Hope faded to anxiety.
Breakfast with the Blues on the radio seemed fitting for
Eugene, Ore. while weaving my way between logging trucks over bridges in the
morning fog. Gradually thickening traffic over an uneventful five hour drive
culminated in downtown Seattle, followed by the end goal of walking around
Greenlake where sun-starved Seattlites dotted the grass like bees on blossoms.
