Images of Knight in the Redwoods taken by Gail.
I’ve said goodbye to Gold Beach and the Oregon coast. For now. The rain finally got to me. It wasn’t simply the rain; it was all that came with it. The constant vigilance against mold. The dark inside the trees. The torrential downpours and wind and hail that made it impossible to do anything other than hunker down. It is beautiful, to be sure, but it is also relentless. You know who is boss in these parts in the winter, and it isn’t you. The first month in Gold Beach was a joy. The rain wasn’t too much and there was ample opportunity for exploration. That all but disappeared the second month. Everyone was stir-crazy, including the cats. They were getting bored with the same view. Even the deer wandering through our camp no longer caused them to perk up and get excited. The cats, it seems, are also drawn to the movement this life affords. When we stop for too long, the space inside the rig shrinks. So, I said goodbye to Gold Beach on Sunday and drove through a pouring rain down to Fortuna, CA.
I was ready to go. But it was hard to leave. I didn’t imagine it would be as hard as it was. I made a final trip to the local Ace Hardware, where I’d been enough times that they knew me, and felt my first tug at leaving when saying goodbye to these jovial and kind folks. On the drive down the 101, I spoke my goodbyes aloud to those now-familiar and loved landmarks: Kissing Rock, Cape Sebastian, and Harris Beach. Yes, I got misty eyed, and promised I’d return. Next, we dove deep into the Redwoods, along winding, wet, white-knuckle-driving-in-a-30-ft-RV roads. More rain pounded the roof as we stopped for the night, but, in the morning, it was sunshine. Glorious sunshine. I entered new territory on the 101 the next day. A drive I hadn’t done before, and it was stunning. The giant Redwoods dwarfed Knight, but sunlight still filtered through. The Redwoods gave way to a drier climate as we turned east, going through three or four different ecosystems before landing in Yuba City for the night.
Along the way, we hit a lake. An enormous lake. The road hugged its shore for ages. It brought to mind an Italian lake: Lake Maggiori, located near the border of Switzerland. The lake, the views across the lake, the trees and hills—they all transported me across the ocean. I didn’t care that I couldn’t drive any faster than 35-40 mph. I didn’t want to leave that lake too quickly. When we finally did part ways, the road wound through a deep hill landscape with green grasses and decreasing numbers of trees. It looked like spring. It felt like spring. And all the while, the sun smiled upon us.
Movement. It is like breaking free. To be moving again makes my heart sing. To be moving again under a big, blue sky? My heart is singing in three-part harmony. The cats are loving it too. Not the driving, of course. Though, even with that, they slipped right back into the routine after the first day. I marvel at Bubba. He’s got a social anxiety disorder. Not kidding. And he’s not one to like change much at all. But, for some reason, he is the most chill guy on travel days. He dives under the covers on the bed in the back and makes himself comfortable. When we stop, I find him sprawled out under the covers, sawing logs. As long as the road isn’t too bumpy, he’s good to go. And Gatsby has gotten a new lease on life. Every new stop is yet another adventure. He bounds from his place on the bed to look out every window and then beg me to take him outside. He is joyful. Nola is almost as excited as Gatsby, and Arlo just wants to know that he’s still with his peeps, and then all is right in his world.
Today took us over the Sierra Nevadas and into a town 35 miles east of Reno. There had been a blizzard in the mountains on Sunday, hence the stop in Yuba City; I-80 was impassible without chains. By yesterday afternoon, all was clear on the roads. Oh, the winter wonderland of the Sierra Nevadas after a heavy snow. It was stunning. Fresh white against blue sky, with a few high thin clouds to accent the scenery. We drove over Donner peak. With the fresh-fallen, deep powder blanketing the peaks and valleys, adorning the trees in a heavy dressing, it wasn’t difficult to imagine how the tragedy befell the group of pioneers stranded in the mountains in the winter of 1846. In looking up details about the Donner party, I discovered they began their journey westwards on April 16th(my birthday is the 15th) from Springfield, Illinois (I am headed to my hometown of Champaign, Illinois, about 90 miles from Springfield) to make their way to the west coast after the head of the party read a book called The Emigrants’ Guide to Oregon and California. Seems I am essentially reversing their intended journey! Especially as I plan to stick around in Illinois until just after my birthday. I didn’t read all of this until I was safely encamped at my current location. It makes me even more grateful to have safely made my journey over that pass today, and glad I didn’t attempt it just two days prior.
Just 1,879 miles to go. I am heading back to Champaign for the next couple of months. Knight needs a bit of work done and stopping at my folks’ is the perfect spot to do it. It’s winter. Here and in Champaign. The drive home will be a race against the weather. So far, the forecast seems to mostly be in our favor. We had one delay because of the blizzard in the Sierra Nevadas, which worked out well because it is also delaying us from a very high wind day in Wyoming. But the next few days will be long drives (at least, for me, drives more than 6 hours in this rig constitute very long drives) through less scenic landscapes than the previous three days. Much of it will be flat. Normally not my favorite, but with the desire to make haste in the eastward sprint, I’ll be glad not to chug up too many more mountain passes, nor crawl down on the other side, weary of using my brakes any more than absolutely necessary. So, it’s goodbye to the west for now. A sad farewell, though I know I will return to these parts later this year. There is so much to see out here. I’ve barely scratched the surface. When I roll out in April, I’ll make my way somewhere. Gold Beach isn’t going anywhere. She’ll be waiting for me upon my return. Maybe next fall. Maybe some other time. But to the West I will return.
All but the first image taken by Gail.