| August 6, 2005 No, I didn't fall off the face of the earth. It's just that my daughter started summer vacation and we've been traveling. First off, Cindy was anxious to spend a week and Gramma and Grampa's house, without Mom and Dad. That's always the condition that means "fun," when her dad or I drop her off and leave her there to wrap her grandparents around her little finger with no parental intervention. I hate to just go home when the kid is out of town, so I always make arrangements to go do something with my friends while Cindy is vacationing in the mountains. On this particular outing,, Kim and I decided to hit Mt. Shasta. I love Mt. Shasta, one of the most beautiful places in the world in my opinion. Cute little village, good shopping, yummy food, and no matter where you are, Mt. Shasta is looming over you like a protective overseer. She reminds me of my mountain friend I had growing up in Damascus, Oregon (near Boring if you're not up on your obscure geography.) Mt. Hood sat steadily in the distance out our big livingroom window. If you have a child-like imagination (as I did when I was a child), Mt. Hood appears to have a face on its western side. I always felt like he was my big buddy watching out for me and sometimes I would talk to him. Mt. Shasta gives me much the same feeling although, now that I'm a mature adult, I leave the conversations to a minimum. Being that planning ruins the road trip for me, I made Kim a little nuts. She secretly made reservations at a hotel in nearby Dunsmuir and printed out maps. We were a little bummed to find out that Panther Meadow, here in the middle of July, was unreachable by car as it was under four feet of snow. As a consolation prize we drove to Bunny Flats (a sick name, who wants to think of a flat bunny?) and ambled around a bit. I found the bins where hikers are supposed deposit the bags of their own poo they are expected to carry with them when visiting the mountain trails, and decided not to stray too far from the car, considering I had no bags on hand and I don't even like cleaning up after my chihuahua. Without being able to visit our final destination, Panther Meadow, Kim and I came up with a new plan. We thought that visiting Klamath Falls, Oregon would be a good idea, so we could see the water fall. Doesn't that sound fun? We stopped at the Head Springs on the way out of Mt. Shasta, located in a lovely park that has a sign labeling the flowers. No, it doesn't tell you what kind of flowers they are, the sign just says "Flowers." We drank from the spring and bottled some up for the trip and once again went north on the 5. When we got to Klamath Falls we found out that there aren't actually any waterfalls there. Shut up. We drove back to California and went straight to the Lava Beds National Monument and some prehistoric petroglyphs. Absolutely amazing. I was so relieved to find out that Kim was not the kind of sadistic freak who would try to talk me into entering the underground lava caves. When I initially read about the "caves," I was picturing a wide open cavern on the side of a mountain. No. These are minisculre holes in the ground with ladders and signs warning you of bats. I got some good pictures of the holes though. Also at the lava beds we walked through Captain Jack's Stronghold, where a small amount of Modoc Indians held off a large amount of members of the American armed forces for quite a long time. I was never good at remembering dates, if you want more information you can find it on Google. Mt. Shasta was on the way home, and we couldn't quite give up on Panther Meadows, so we went back. We stayed in a really lovely craphole that had giant bugs, Cheerios scattered around the carpet, and a layer of grime on the bathroom floor. For a hundred dollars. And here I thought the big statue of Bigfoot out front was cool, but not enough to offset wondering if the sheets had been changed anytime in the last month. It was kind of cool being in room 42, though, for the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy fan in me. The next day we were assured that yes, the road to Panther Meadows was still closed but we were welcome to hike up there from Bunny Flats. We kicked the idea around a bit but sanity got the better of us. I mean, man, we would have to put on shoes and everything, and what if Kim lost her inhaler? Could I walk back down the mountain carrying her body over my shoulders? Could I live with the guilt of causing my friend to have an asthma attack? Could I find the keys to her brand-new Camry in her purse? We tried to visit more petroglyphs at Castle Crag but were told that they are on private property and are really hard to find. The "hard to find" part probably put off my road partner more than it did me. Who wants to go hiking with a woman in flip-flops who thinks getting lost is "neat?" We did find a deer standing next to the road eating sweet peas behind a rustic wooden fence with picturesque trees in the background, but we had both put our cameras away, only able to snap a few quick pix with our phones. So much for the shot of a lifetime. All I have to show of it is a little postage-stamp sized photo. "See that brown blur here? That's the deer. The green stuff is trees, and the purple things are flowers." Ansel Adams never had to explain. My next trip started brewing in my mind several months ago when Cindy noted that she had never been to Oregon, the state where her mom was born. I was flattered that she wanted to see where I lived as a child and immediately promised to take her to Oregon at some point this summer. That point came about a week after I got back from Mt. Shasta with Kim. It occured to me that I might have a hard time actually finding the houses where I lived 20-34 years ago, but thankfully my parents agreed to come along. Once we were about 200 miles from my parents house I remembered, "Crap, we forgot Gramma!" My parents exclaimed their regret, wishing they had thought of her as well. We had left her in the hall closet in the box marked "Mother." She's been in there since 1987, what's it going to hurt if she has to wait a little longer to have her ashes spread at Silver Falls? Our first night we stayed in, yes, the town of Mt. Shasta. Not at the hotel with Bigfoot out front though, we stayed at a place that gave us brown paper bags, each with a Svenhard's pastry and a bottle of Sunny D inside. "Here are your continental breakfasts," the clerk said with a big smile. I'm not complaining, they had a pool and a hot tub, and the bathroom floor didn't turn the bottom of my feet black. After breakfast at the (original) Black Bear Diner and blowing money in the shops, we stopped at the Head Springs, filled our water bottles, and headed on. Our first desintation in Oregon was Bend, where my parents moved after I got married but before we started producing grandchildren back in California. Also, my friend Jennie lives there, Jennie my former business partner, also known as Reverend Jennie who got ordained for the specific purpose of performing my second wedding, the one at La Brea Tar Pits where Dave played the Darth Vader theme on the kazoo as I walked down the "aisle" on the arm of my nine-year-old nephew. After a brief but awe-inspiring stopover at Crater Lake, we pulled into Bend all perky and chipper, aside from the fact that we realized far too late that the only CD we had in the car was a Best of Merle Haggard my brother had tossed to my dad before we left. Cindy and I stayed with Jennie but my parents got a hotel so my dad would be free to engage in one of his favorite activities, running around in his undies. The next morning Cindy, Jennie, and I decided to go horseback riding through the woods around her house. We walked to the stables where she lives, along with Kristie, who got volunteered to take pictures. After we arrived at the stables and took care of the paperwork, we couldn't help but notice this huge gray plow horse vigorously attacking a bucket. He kept picking it up in his teeth and shaking it around like he was trying to kill it. I had never seen a grass-eating animal with such a killer instinct. He reminded me of my dog, Snake, attacking a warm sock. Guess who was assigned to ride him. "Watch out for Jagermeister," I was told, thinking the crazy horse's name suited him well. He did, in fact, have the personality of a drunken German with a loaded gun. I remembered an afternoon back in Sweden, lighting dishes of Jager with my brother after we got tired of drinking it. "He'll go nuts on you. Do you know how to neck rein? Good. Well, he doesn't, you're going to have to use a plow rein and be sure, whatever you do, don't let him start eating." By the time I was in the saddle and waiting for the others to mount up, I was wishing I hadn't signed the waiver, turning down the opportunity to wear a helmet. It worked out fine in the end however, I was able to catch Jagermeister each time he tried to turn around and bite my leg. That afternoon we headed over the Cascades to Salem, where I was born. Now the real history lesson for my daughter was going to kick in. First we took a tour of Turner, the town where my parents lived when they met. By this time I had the idea firmly planted in my mind that I was going to find a blue spruce seedling at a nursery and take it home with me. Finding out that you can't buy them in California made me obsessed, and hearing a friend talk about her son's bonsai methods made me want one more. I love bonsai trees, and if I take an extra spruce to this guy maybe he would teach me how to cut them properly. Just as my mom was showing us the spot in the street where her little sister was killed (fun family vacation, I know) I spotted a small nursery in the front yard of the house up the street. I ran up to the front door, only to find a sign saying "Please go to back door." After Jagermeister's beating and hours of sitting in the car, I staggered out back with my sore, rubbery legs and ass-on-fire. I was delighted to see the colorful plants and flowers and shrubbery growing in this beautiful, idyllic setting and thought, wow, this must be what it's like to have a nursery in your yard, when from out of nowhere, a big red wasp flew down from the heights, stung the living shit out of my arm, and flew off again. I was in complete shock. I had never been stung before and it hurts like hell. I thought of my brother who swells up like Roger Ebert whenever he got stung. Was that going to happen to me? Was I going to die in the street where my mom's sister had been hit by a car over thirty years ago? I could tell you one thing, my mom wouldn't be going back to Turner anytime soon. I started to hyperventilate a little, waving my arm around, trying to shake off the pain. I looked at the little bubble that was growing bigger and spreading over my skin. Crap, this is it. I'm going to die. Just then, a man walked out the back door of his house to see me standing there, gasping and shaking in his back yard. "Are you all right?" I nodded, blinking really fast so that I wouldn't start crying. "Can I do anything for you?" "Stung. Real stung. Got real stung. Bad." My aching hips gave out, I lost my balance, and staggered sideways a few feet. "Do you need anything?" He looked like he could have been Mr. Roger's lumberjack grandfather. "Tiny blue trees," I was rubbing my arm furiously now, giving myself an unintended Indian burn."You have tiny blue trees?" "No, sorry, we don't have anything like that. Would you like a glass of water or something?" As I ran back to the car, I hoped against hope that he wouldn't look out his front window and see me getting into the car with the California license plates. Californians have a bad enough reputation as it is. Crazy red-haired junkies showing up in people's back yards raving about tiny blue trees. Up the street at the shoebox where my mom said her family did all their grocery shopping, my dad bought a Coke and a box of baking soda and fixed my arm up and assured me that no, I'm not going to die. And would I please take the cold bottle off my arm and give him his Coke back, he would like to drink it. After that I was suspicious of Oregon. I wasn't on a grandious adventure inside my childhood with my own young daughter, I was in this land that lulled you into a false sense of security with its wide-open blue skies and fluffy green trees and then zapped you when you weren't looking. Although it seemed to make sense somehow, I was a little dismayed to find the house where we lived when I was born was gone and replaced by the electric company. My house in Damascus, the last house on Foster road before you reach the 212, is now gone and the whole lot is overgrown with blackberry vines. Even our purple plum trees were gone. I saw some heavy equipment in the field next to our old garden and I thought of Duke, Puddles, and the millions of other pets we had that we buried out there. I could have warned them of the Pet Semetary, but why ruin the surprise? They would find out on their own once the ghosts showed up. I got pictures of the asylum where they shot exteriors for One Flew Over the Cuckoos nest, the same place where my uncle liked to meet chicks, drove by various landmarks from my childhood, and got my heart broken when I saw that there was no longer a Rock at Rock Park. A week later, when we were all back home, my mom got stung by a bee in her back yard. It was her first time too. "Boy, Candie," she said, "If I had known it hurt so bad I would have given you a little more sympathy." I was barely recovering from the Oregon trip when it was my nephew, River's, turn to go stay with Gramma and Grampa for a week. Steve and I volunteered to go along with Kat to drop River off. We started getting that antsy feeling again, and once Riv was settled we got back in the car and headed for the freeway. On the way to Squaw Valley I had mentioned that, although I had lived in the San Joaquin Valley for a collective ten or so years, I had never been to Yosemite. That needed to be remedied immediately, Kat insisted. Yosemite was awesome, although next time I'll be careful about the curves and not heat my brakes up, but the place ousted Bend for my idea of the most ridiculously beautiful views. We've all seen one beautiful, majestic, snow-capped mountain hovering over a town, but Bend has seven. Count 'em, seven such sentinels watching over the city. Yosemite struck me much the same way. As one friend put it, "LOOK! A gorgeous waterfall! NO WAIT, LOOK, there are towering monolithic cliffs, NO WAIT, LOOK, there are beautiful meadows, deer, trees, NO WAIT, LOOK, there are alpine lakes above the tree line, pristine creeks," and so on. We drove home on the coast and visited James Dean's memorial on the way, near the intersection where he was killed. I liked how visitors left cigarettes for him in a hollow of the tree. We stopped in Solvang to get some location shots of Sideways for Steve's website and ate dinner at Pea Soup Andersens. They won the prize for tackiest gift shop, but you might like to eat there unless you are used to food that tastes good. A normal person might be tired of road trips by now, but I'm hankering for more. Kat mentioned some vacation time coming up in a few weeks and all I can think is, how far can we drive in a week? |