The Length of the Road

Sometimes, I wander.

Often as not, it's for no reason. I don't need one, usually. The redwoods are welcoming enough in their own right to not need a purpose. Sometimes the sunlight just beckons, whether or not there's a chill in the air, and sometimes the crashing surf is less like a pounding froth and more like a waving hand. Sometimes the hill looks just inviting enough to climb to the top, the curiosity strong enough to see... exactly what's over there, anyway?

But this time - as occasionally does happen - it was with a purpose.

I have worn many mantles; of late, I have found myself very comfortably wearing the moniker Vagabond like a well-worn coat. It keeps the weather out, though it may be shabby, and it certainly has a few stories to tell. This time, the Vagabond had a mission. No other sane person would undertake it - leastways, nobody I know - for surely there were better, more efficient ways of accomplishing what I had my mind set on. Truth is, I had plenty of reasons to do it the way I chose... but nobody else would understand.

So with plans that only reached so far - and got more than slightly tentative as the map reached its mark - at least two places to stay set as waypoints, and a fast-and-loose schedule, I packed my bags, emptied my trunk, and got enough money to get me there and back again, plus a little extra. Just in case.

A Vagabond ALWAYS plans for Just In Case. Hell, that's why I packed enough fluid and food to sustain me a week (not happily, nor nutritionally, but enough), as well as a warm blanket and a pillow. You never know. Point in fact, you come to count on it. The unexpected - while nebulous - is a certainty. Something inevitably comes up. Nothing ever goes perfectly to plan (if plans were ever perfect in the first place). A true Vagabond comes to count on it, almost rely on it. Countless unknowns and variables become just a matter of what's on today's menu, what kind of condition the road's in, who you meet in the supermarket. Pretty soon, roadwork, delays, traffic, the occasional attempted robbery, roadkill, flat tire, or random screaming guy down the block become as familiar as faces in a local supermarket. A trip isn't complete without a Wrong Turn, at least one Douchebag Driver, and a Forgotten Item. They become markers. Road signs. Little stones on the path.

I went about the start of it in a most peculiar manner. I had directions printed, a few contingencies planned, and an extra set of clothes. Just in case. But I bid goodbye to my cat that morning not as I hit the road, but rather as I left for work. I wouldn't depart 'till late afternoon, during what this town calls "rush hour". I always half-smile when I even think on it, because "rush hour" here is considered a smooth weekend where I had been living the past several years. But with several hours left of daylight to burn, I aimed to be out of the mountains by dark. Set my teeth, turned on my music... and the journey began as the wee sleepy town I call my residence slipped from view, and the 101 became my new home.

The familiarity of the drive was ever-present. Hills gave way to views of the bay, and those were swept aside by curtains of forest. Shades upon shades of greens and browns - pastures dotted with cattle, rickety houses standing lonesome by the stands of berry vines. Soon even the pasture land faded, and the Mountains began. I know the turns, I could do them in my sleep, but I dare not take them lightly. Especially as I passed Confusion Hill.

There are ghosts that never die. Echoes that never fade. One of those lives on the 101, near that place. It's a little slip of a curve, so slight you might not even notice it with the beauty of the river beside you. But you see, that's the terror of it. My brother and his wife were very nearly killed there. And whether or not I was there made no difference: that curve carries with it a gray image of high-impact twisted metal, screaming tires and wet asphalt and broken glass. Into the curve... and out of it. When one wanders, one must be prepared to face the ghosts of the places they wander through.

I still love the smell of the California Redwoods in the summer...

Even in the dead of winter, even in the rain, I roll down my windows through Richardson Grove to inhale the scent of the loamy earth, the damp redwood bark, the sweet leaves of the giant sequoias. Massive, imposing, sturdy guardians so close to the road you could reach out and touch them.

And then the deep, rocky descent of the Mountains. Into the region they call Wine Country. Vineyards as far as the eye can see, nestled in valleys and cresting hills, broken by stands of oak and dry golden grasses. Just outside of my first stop for gas and I catch a glimpse of Old Uncle Yellowsides. He and his harem are grazing in the same place as always. He's in no danger this out in the open... yet. Not 'till autumn. For now he gets fat on the rancher's lands. Perhaps in the fall his rack will adorn someone's hearth. But not this day.

Through cattle lands, and the cities are getting bigger, coming on faster, the traffic getting thicker. By Marin it becomes a race -

... packed like lemmings into shiney metal boxes...

- and I veer left to take the Richmond Bridge. MY thoughts wander off to my left, and I send out love to my family nearby. I cannot stop, not yet. Many miles to go before I sleep. Night is falling fast and hard. Through Oakland, past the blinding lights of the Stadium where the Raiders rule, and the blur of cities after. I've already broken into my granola bars, the Doritos, and a Poweraide besides. I have plenty to last me through the trip; I've no need to conserve too stingily. I drive through cities better at night.

I find that techno makes cities zip by, where only Alice in Chains makes the forests fly...

Familiar territory. Good thing, too, I'm about out of energy. I arrive at the first waypoint, check in with loved ones, and sleep. The next day brings a drive twice as long.

I wake early, and my host sends me off with breakfast. It is by the kindness of strangers and grace of friends that a Vagabond thrives. Rested enough, I snake my way through the morning drive, managing to somehow miraculously NOT be going the same direction as the commuter traffic.

I love mornings. I wish they weren't so early.

I know the way. The 85 to the 101 to the 152. Into the valley where the air is thick with the scent of garlic. Here, too, I roll down the windows to revel in the smell, and I salivate unashamed. But my enjoyment here does not last. Past the little city known as Gilroy, there is a terrifying road known to the old locals as Blood Alley.

It's still a good idea to drive carefully through Blood Alley.

Next stop: Casa de Fruta. Midmorning, I'm in no hurry. I'll be in the car all day anyway - why rush? Take a moment to savor the kitschy little novelty place, and cock my head at the echoes of memory, how the road that runs along side used to be the actual freeway until they decided entirely too many truckers were being killed trying to cross the road. With two bottles of wine, I ride on to meet the Pass, and weep at the shallow San Luis. Truly, never before have I seen it this bad. In all my time as a little girl, I would cheer the deep waters, hoping somehow it would fill more if I loved it. Perhaps, in my absence, the lack of love caused it to wither and dry up... for now there are stands of trees where even the shallowest water marks once were.

I reach the true beast of the expedition - I5. It's a cool day, only 84 degrees. But alas, I spoke too soon. By midday it's 98. The long, flat, bland expanse of the Valley shimmers in the heat, and I pass the time by singing constantly and counting the dead coyotes. So many. Raccoons, also, and skunks. But mostly Coyote's children. I guess their luck really is running out after all.

Hours bleed onward. A stop in Lost Hills, and I find that the old Arco I knew so well is gone. I shrug. Times change. Places change. Many things stay the same, but not everything. It can't. A little further, and the Grapevine swells into view. A last stop before I head up, and I casually mention my mission to the cashier. She's shocked. I smile. Nobody understands.

All fires heal with time. All snows melt.

The scars of old fires I once knew are faded and gone. The grass has regrown. There are no traces left. Up and over the wild race, and I descend into flatlands again. But here my hackles rise, for I'm approaching L.A., a place as much an antithesis to myself as ever a place could be. Here they maddened herd bumps and shoves and curses, falling upon itself like a rabid pack. But fortune favors me: I have hit the narrowest of windows and manage to miss both the lunch-rush and the afternoon traffic. By early afternoon, I catch my breath just south of San Onofre. I'm there before dark: a place I once called home.

... inside - you'll never hurt me...

My mission accomplished, mostly. It takes a bit of wrestling. Apparently I'm more of a packrat than I remember. But at last, all of my possessions are my own again.

... we're hidden by the moonlight - we shift between the shadows...

I KNOW THIS PLACE.

It's muggy, and overcast. I might as well be back at the house, for all the sky shines gray. But there at least I can step out of the shower and not feel sticky. It's awkward to be in a place where I'm no longer welcome, that so very obviously did not fit me, no matter how hard I tried to force it. I didn't belong in the first place. I feel like an interloper, a thief.

But I am a Vagabond. A wanderer that means no harm. I help a little old lady with her cell phone, and we chat about knitting. Strangers have the most interesting stories, even in the heart of a hot-tempered and cold-mannered city. I am tolerated at best, and sent on my way.

I like this city better at night. It hides the ugly parts...

Left in my rear-view mirror, with memories and gifts that cannot be measured nor bought, there is a tiny part of my that is sad to see it go, but the greater part of me rejoices that I am that much closer now to Home.

... I've been searching the planet to find Sacred Love...

The city melts and I am over the Grapevine before I know it. I have eaten all my pudding (hard to eat pudding in a moving car, while driving; applesauce too, for that matter), drank half my Poweraide, and three of my six pack of Coke. Most of the Doritos are gone, the granola too. But I still have plenty. I burst into the Valley, confident, bored, and wishing I was Home.

I can still tell how long something has been dead by the smell...

The slaughter is on. I can smell it passing Coalinga. The wet smell of warm raw meat, like hamburger left out too long. It isn't pleasant, it's too warm to be right. The roadkill, too. It's the blood, that makes the scent. Blood makes the cadavers smell.

I see the wing catch the air, and I'm pulling over before I'm even thinking. Part of me feels sick, like I'm wrong to do this. But part of me realizes I am right, for one cannot take pleasure in death. Even so, in death, a thing can be useful. I feel like I am in violation of respect, that I will be seen as grave-robber. I am repelled. But even so, what I am doing is for Sacred Work. It is Wakan. I wait until there are the fewest to see, and I apologize to the hawk as I harvest its wings. Would that I could give it a sky-burial, but that would likely set the Valley ablaze, as dry as it is. So I give the poor animal - headless from its demise, shamefully left on the scorching pavement, killed for no reason and left dead in vain - a proper respectful burial. I take no pleasure in the work, but it is not an Evil. Better for his wings to serve Wakan Tanka in death than to be left to dry shamefully on the asphalt, killed to no purpose or end.

I despise grave-robbing, but am apparently not above corpse mutilation.

The difference between the Valley and the Coast is immediate and drastic. Buffeted by the winds, I make my way back to the Bay, where the Mist Dragons still live on the ridgeline between the San Andreas fault and Half Moon Bay, and take my last repose before the last journey home. Grey follows me; the only sun I have seen has been in the sun-baked Valley. I wind my way up the gloomy coast over Devil's Slide,  into the heart of the fog-laden city, but I still manage to catch my breath when the sun catches the Golden Gate. Over the bridge, through the tunnel, and I speed my way through Marin as quickly as possible.

... haunted... by the hallways in this dining room, the echo there of me and you - the voices that are carrying this tune...

I know California.

... pretty pretty please, don't you ever ever feel like you're less than fucking perfect...

And California knows me.

... what if everything around you isn't quite as is seems...

In Willits I helped a little old lady figure out how to put cash in the little gas-station kiosk. She blessed me for my troubles. I sharpened a pencil with my skinning knife and poured the last Poweraide into my water bottle. My supplies weren't even close to spent, but I wasn't hungry. My metabolism changes when I travel that much, and I find myself needing less food but more sleep. I'd written my thoughts with a broken pencil on the directions I'd printed out, the little things that changed, the unexpected obstacles, the delightful surprises, the strange and eerie moments. I couldn't help but lament that many were lost, despite my notations, and wished that I could have shared them more vividly.

That's where the true sadness comes from. Being a Vagabond has its perks, sure. Taken in as a wastrel, being high-fived by a gas-station attendant for declaring that nothing of my old life now remained to collect, the random conversations that lead me to believe someone had tried to rob my hotel room. But there is a deep abiding sadness, a loneliness that eats away in the quiet moments between songs -

... look closer and see... see into the trees - find the girl, while you can...

- and makes sleep seem uninviting.

The redwood curtain parted without much to say, no welcoming embrace from the land, no sigh of relief. But I am glad of the journey, and the things I learned, and the things I gave away, and the things I took. I would do it again if I had to.

Why?

You wouldn't understand.