Travels Up the Pacific Coast, 1993 page three
Northeast Section
Lombard Motor Inn
Bedtime
First daytime in San Francisco; so much was seen and felt, experienced. It is a night worthy of sleep and shutdown.
Christel and I have been recuperating for most of the darker hours of the day in this motel. An extravagance for our trip this room is, but I find myself valuing security and shelter from the everyday much more in this city.
Never have I needed to be so attentive and yet so removed in a setting as I feel I must now. San Francisco is a place of extremes and paradoxes. People walk down the street as if with invisible feelers; shutting out potentially malevolent or uncomfortable people (everyone unknown) and at the same time walking down the street with purpose, letting the elemental senses of navigation do all the work.
Everywhere I see pedestrians running or racing against the light and oncoming traffic; a quick glance down the road for what to expect and if only to walk. One could almost tell tourist from natives solely by habits of crossing. I've preferred to wait a few seconds longer for the light to change.
But to retrace: Christel and I left Monterey midday after a little time at a park with the gulls on the shore. I admired the windswept trees and the jutting of rock and land out further into the water which comprised the park.
We stopped by the post office to drop some cards in the mail, and from there, up the coast with San Francisco in mind.
Santa Cruz meant nothing to me really; just a bunch of changing, switching roads to stay on Highway 1. Short stretches of sandy beach as we made our way to Half Moon Bay, the decided stopping point for camping.
Almost an hour to Downtown San Francisco, but we did find a place for our tent at Half Moon Bay State Beach.
Straight-through winds from the beach, cool and distinct as the sound of the waves; I enjoyed the feel as we setup camp then walked along the beach northward and back for an hour. I was able to finally get my feet wet and chase up a deluge of gulls from the sand as Christel snapshot me and often held my hand.
We had decided to go in to the city for the evening. The sun was hidden behind to horizon fog and clouds by the time we came to the first suburban signs of San Francisco.
With Chinatown set in mind, we spent a horrendously tense and exhilarating time finding entrance and parking. The frustration of one-way streets and oncoming California traffic made all the scenery and people much more fleeting and dangerous to me.
I remember choosing a street, which when turned upon to travel, dumbfounded me in how excruciatingly steep it was. We took it up anyway as I expected some disaster like tumbling down backward or losing our gear in the back of the truck.
We made it and circled back to one of many hard to reach parking garages and stored the truck.
We walked the streets of Chinatown for a good Chinese restaurant, and after much passive wandering, we went back to one called Far East. It was very good, food and service how I had in someway learned to expect. Each table in the restaurant was partioned off by three finewood walls and a pull curtain. As I remarked to Christel, it seemed to have the feel and mystique of the Orient Express, how I imagined.
We traveled on from Chinatown to a main district street, holding hands among raised buildings and fast food and clothing stores in unlikely places.
Two incidents were very close together that disturbed me, and particularly Christel very much.
We walked to the direction of our garage, coming back the same route we had left off. I remember the young, heavy built Mexican pushing toward us in his wheelchair. He had been smoldering next to a sitting woman asking money to buy gas for her car. Well, as we were coming nearer to this man again and I looked toward him a second time, he drew up a face so mixed with emotion, at first it was almost humorous. He mumbled and then shouted and raised his fist, "Stupid tourists!" He wheeled closer to Christel who was on the inside, shouting again and raising his fist in her face, "stupid tourists!".
It was such a strange experience, I was able to shake it off somewhat as we kept walking, mocking him to Christel.
But only a minute later we neared a black woman, who, for some odd reason, I thought was just singing and talking to herself. I was still some to myself about the last incident; so I didn't realize the projected hatred and vehemence until I looked into this woman's eyes as they caught me and tried to prove something to me.
Even at that point I didn't open to what she was actually saying, though Christel did, and much calming patience was necessary as we got back to camp. So much subjected to in one evening, we commended ourselves for having survived it intact.
Late Morning came and we slowly woke to bright heat in the tent. Cigarettes and washup, we packed all and spent time on the beach near the shallow pound of the waves.
I teased the coming rushes from the waves and was knocked into it when I least expected, drenching to my chest in the gasping water. So I became more aggressive and hopped the waves and laid into it and enjoyed even as the sand rushed up my shorts.
Back to San Francisco in the afternoon to Fisherman's Wharf for Taco Bell and cigarettes for Christel and short walk down Jefferson near the Bay. Then to our lodge where I began.
Sept. 17, 1993
Downtown San Fran
Hotel Sutter Larkin
In my room
Today Christel and I went our separate ways. We woke up slowly together and wandered around the room a little until time to pack up and get out.
I managed to stuff my framepack with more than everything I needed. It's heavy on the hips and tight on the shoulders. Christel and I went toward Golden Gate park after unsuccessfully finding accommodations at the Fort Mason Hostel. About 150 beds this one has and they're booked up until Wednesday.
At the park, we put the truck by a windmill and tulip garden near the ocean shore, then went to Safeway for lunch to bring back with us.
After our little picnic, Christel drove us down to her departing Avenue and I said goodbye and walked down the street.
Since then, I found this downtown room I'm at now, and have been making little trips into the streets. It's a nice little room with only the necessities; sink in the room and bathroom down the hall. I enjoy it and its corner view of Larkin & Sutter from above.
Right now it is very loud at near midnight, horns and racing by engines with often shouts below. I've picked a grand, cultured neighborhood where I am a minority in every regard.
All this and too much pinball in a video arcade have led to my tiredness and yucky headache. Soon I'll go to bed and wake up some time tomorrow to see what I must do.
Sunday, Sept. 19, 93
Hotel Sutter-Larkin
Corner room
On my way
OUT
of San Fran
Here I am once again, on my way through to another destination. Surprisingly, things are going as I loosely planned; to be up early and on the bus out of town before noon.
My time in San Francisco has been quite interesting, I am glad I had the chance to be here. But so much money spent and the stagnation of thought and inspiration make it a place I could never live inside.
Yesterday I woke around 10:00 and walked Market Street down to East Bay, Embarcadero. I called Michael on a phone near a pier, told him of me as he prepared for another tattoo. He and Woody would like to come up to Portland, and I do hope that works out. Michelle mentioned she wanted to also, but I will still be content if I have Portland to myself.
I walked up the street and found myself at Fisherman's Wharf again. It was much more interesting this time around as I had nothing to preoccupy me except my view and thoughtful perceptions. I bought a double cappuccino and stared at Alcatraz, the sea lions and Golden Gate Bridge.
Walked down the road, found Ghiradelli's, so I bought some chocolate. Went to Sharper Image and found some wonderful gelsoles for my boots, which I am wearing now.
Walked back home to my room. I swear I've walked incredibly this weekend, half the peninsula. After lying around and reading the book I chose for the trip, Sphere, by Michael Crichton, I decided I would check out Berkeley.
I rode the Bart system, which is Bay Area Rapid Transit. It was a new experience I enjoyed, a monorail underground transit (actually bi-rail) which pops up occasionally to street level for urban views of surrounding suburbs and cities.
For some retrospectively moronic reason, I chose to get off at North Berkeley and walk to Berkeley, thinking I would be starting at North Campus and working down to South. WRONG!
I didn't have the foresight to bring a map either, so after 2 hours of walking Project America (Oakland Industrial), and pointings by a few locals, I found the wrong BART terminal, but decided to take it home anyway, as I was very tired and my feet were hellacious.
Home again; spent a few hours reading and planning vaguely for the Journey up.
Abruptly went to sleep amongst drunken shouts and battling, squealing traffic.
Sept. 20, 93
Monday
Eureka, CA
Downtown
On the Road
Yes. On the Road. Such a beautiful thing; and now I'm spiced up on coffee and Jack Kerouac.
Sitting here at a bus stop in Eureka, been here for an hour on and off, but I don't really mind; I have everything inside. Yeah, my feet are still aching, the balls of my feet from all the forward down motion, but they're adjusting, my body knows what it's about.
I can't get over it. I've saved Kerouac for the genuine experience, when I'm not sucked to one place and have all the time in the world; and this man is in it!
I read on and feel the journey and chuckle at his perceptions and frustrations, dig into his visions and hopes; there are so many key, kindred vibes with the 'to the road' traveler.
He talks of Denver as his first hope and sojourn, back among friends and meeting for the ready. San Francisco, his final westward calling, city of light and vision and freakhood; I can see it. It's called me for different reasons, yet the same: Light, confirmation, experience, symbol.
I will keep traveling, and Jack comes, too. We both have something to give the world. Different Eras, same time. It is Time to Journey.
Monday, Sept. 20, 93
Eureka, CA
Bus Stop DT
On the Road
San Francisco is long behind me. I made it out alone and alive! Took the Golden Gate Transit, traveled the city one last time through on it and out on the Golden Gate Bridge, over the Bay with Alcatraz brooding on the right.
Sausalito, home once and again to John Steinbeck, went on through; took the bus to its limit in Santa Rosa to begin the bare walk.
My first ride, only fitting, was by a freak who hadn't lost it yet. He dealt with music: buy, sell, trade, and I piled my pack on top in the back. Windy, unwashed long hair he had and a beard to match; wild, considerate eyes, he dropped me off in Ukiah, thinking of the easiest place for me to do Food.
Ate at McDonald's and walked to a further Exit near out of town. Competition with two other hitchers, one a preoccupied, angry man and another with big, gray hair and beard and a solemn chuckley look to him. The old man beat me to Willits as I chugged up the hill with a man and his dog, 'Little Dorothy'.
My last ride of the evening was with a subtly jovial chubby whose name I never asked, but he shared his Bon Bons and told me some of the area. He set me off at the Avenue of the Giants where I tiredly pushed through trees, shrubs and sticks to a river sandbar that he had mentioned.
With some night Paranoia I wandered the sand for a little while and found a rocky, indifferent place to lay my sleeping bag beside a big shrub. Mummied up inside to wake up only a few times through the night and finally sit up as the barest trace of morning shared the sky.
I tried out the water with one of my pills that decontaminates; it was horrible and I couldn't figure out if it was the water or the pill, so I just didn't drink it.
On the bus now, another side story of my life. Off to Arcata I go, recommended to me by my Dad, where the redwoods stand among the college. In a quirky way, I'll be happy to be in a college town again. I've become accustomed to peers of coffee talk and aspiring experience.
But on with my story. It tried to get back up to the ledge above the river and found it was much harder than getting down. I took a route up with many deadbranched trees, and with my pack on my back and the tent sticking out on both sides for a wide load; I quickly became frustrated and pissed off at everything.
I could see the humor as I looked back on my path of devastation. The rangers would come by to see this wide, heavyfooted track and say, "A very large, dumb animal passed through here."
So I had to give up my objective and stubborness to find another way. I made it up, though marvelling at my own tediousness, thinking, I need some wilderness training.
Walked a short way along the Avenue of the Giants to find a road into Founder's Grove. I sat down the way at another announcing sign and put my stuff together, listened to Enya and cranked up the songs, Afer Ventus and Smaointe as I padded heavily through the gorgeous grove; Fern and rich, living deadwood covered the ground, trees fallen all throughout as though in thoughtful remark. High Above, the trees, the redwoods, they covered the sky and grew to the ground. Beautiful it all was; a monumental, spiritual affirmation. Life! Live! Breathe! BECOME.
I walked on to the restrooms as a train sighed behind me. Washed up all I could and headed out on the highway to finish the novel 'Sphere' and shortly thereafter gained a wild ride in the back of a little red truck to Eureka. Whew, jowee!
There I walked to the Commerce, Tourist Building; spoke to the Info. woman of Hitchhiking, of the road, then coffee and split pea soup with Ham and a cheese Danish at a nice coffee-house. I was given two dollars over in change, and so I had the coffeeman fix it, being thanked for my honesty. Honesty is good, ALWAYS. It is a part of Honor. And Integrity. Character; A life of experience with Applied wisdom, humility, honesty; This is what I aspire to. Now off I go to wander Arcata.
Tuesday
Sept. 21, 93
Trinidad, CA
Lunch and Rest
Postcard Poem
B e n d
Imagine me;
standing on this shouldered road,
I wear my pack and extend my thumb
Into the Heavens even where the Redwoods
seem to go.
Can you see me now?
I wear a smile for you and all of creation;
as rain subsides and I sing and
wiggle my toes among fogshroud and memories.
I was here,
I plodded and brushed through ferns
to take this Bend,
that I may one day come home to you.
Trinidad
Sept. 21, 93
The picnic grove
Postcard Poetry
Solace Stands
Two alone uphold the sky and dream
within dense melody.
I beheld them even as they
stood their ground
and humbled in upon me.
With reverent voice and thoughtful voice I ask,
"May I lay here down beneath
your treasure trunks?"
With peace I did among the ferns,
to dream heavens holding.
Wednesday
Sept. 22, 93
Lithia Park
Ashland, OR
I'm sitting now in the tremendous, beautiful Lithia Park in Ashland, Oregon. A wonderful town that gradually becomes from the hills and less remarkable geography into a lush, eccentric place of its own self.
Ashland creek borders and crosses over into this lengthwise running park; the trees and vitality of sense it allows gives such a vibrant peace to me.
Here it is, 9 o'clock in the evening, I have this portion to myself, the swings sitting temptaciously in front of me.
My thought, as I walked the quaint and artfilled main street, is that I wish I had more time here. I would love to have a full sunny day to walk along and meet the people, enjoy the mood and park, to cap it off with a Shakespearean play and ponderance and smoke as I walked home to the hostel.
Unfortunately this cannot happen with the agenda I have set for myself, but I'll be back another time and invite myself to all of that and more.
It was only two hours ago I finally rid myself of my back pack at the hostel. I'm not able to stay at the hostel tonight on account of a group of high school kids have infested it for their field trip. This disappointed me; My one true night I wanted to enjoy hostel life, and communion with kindred travellers, and here the school reserves the whole building. I will have to camp down the end of the street at artificial camp grounds for exorbitant amounts.
But there is always the side of the road in the ditch scene I could do, as I've done for the past three nights. It was wonderful to rid myself of the odours as a result of all that, no showers since I left San Francisco on Sunday. So I payed the two dollars for use of shower and kitchen at the hostel. I also did my long overdue laundry; I Am Renewed!
Clam Beach was my night after Eureka; free camping on a narrow strip of land bordered by the highway fence and an access road to the beach. I was told of this space by several drivers along my way, so I avoided an $8 fee by just stepping to the other side of the road. Much paranoia, though.
Last night I slept in a ditch beside highway 101 on the north side of Crescent City. Fended my way through much thorny stems and trees and just laid down my bag to sleep. Ah, the blessing of a warm, enclosing sleepbag! My body was alert to every sound, jittery for fear of being caught; but I made it through the night and hopped up on the road as the sun rose above the redwoods.
Stopped after first ride in Gasquett next to Smith River. A beautiful area as the river winds along the road and the redwoods gradually fade to make way for Oak and other trees of the bank.
After and hour beside the road, caught a ride with an ex-Phoenix man originally from West Virginia who moved to Medford, Oregon. We threw ideas and philosophies at each other, spurning some channel digging of my own perceptions, but then he slid gun control into the conversation (he had been hinting it in for some time) and soloed for a half hour on the illogic and emotional resolution of people for gun control. Needless to say, I lost him there and started to drift into my own sphere for awhile, though he made factual points.
A good day of travel, I'd say, but too much on my feet with my pack in town. My feet aren't recovering as fast anymore, and so I'll soon limp to bed and on up I-5 in the morn.
Sept. 25, 93
20th Birthday
Denny's
NE Portland
Saturday
And so here I am; Portland, Oregon, sitting at the Grand Master Poobah booth at Denny's. My two simple birthday wishes have come true.
Oh, what a long and arduous journey, though! I arrived in uptown Portland around noon yesterday by way of an affable, easy-going man heading home to inland British Columbia. I thanked Dennis, the driver, and went on my way toward the cloned and varied structures of the main city sprawl.
I walked over the Steel Bridge that crosses the Willamette River. My pack on my back, I walked the coporate streets on a Friday afternoon and kept toward South and East, knowing Michelle, who I had hoped to visit, lived there.
Well, much walking and deliberating and I arrived at 2435 SE 24th Street, the supposed home of Michelle Goldfeder. After waiting and wondering, I realized the house was vacant. She had moved out and I had no information! This was after over 5 miles of walking, and it was difficult to accept it was all in vain, but I took that chance from the beginning, and so I began plotting another city plan.
I spent part of the evening in front of a regional convenience store called Plaid Pantry. (So far I've seen only a few examples of specific, regional chains; otherwise so...American, bland and national.) At the store I tried calling the house of Scott Provensha. (Scott I met hitchhiking in Colorado and stayed with for a couple of days in Taos, New Mexico. He later came to Flagstaff to visit me.) Scott is off in Hawaii right now, but when I called from Ashland, his mother said I may stay at their place, if need be, in SW Portland near Willamette. But no one was home
My last possible contact for Portland, Ben Mackaness (met him with Scott) was not there. He is currently 'in transit', I was told, meaning who knows where he is.
I was a little dumbstruck. Everything shot down, but I would not let that ruin my Portland Experience.