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From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan 7 17:19:29 1991
To: wordy@Corp
Subject: chapter-13
Arrival in the Promised Land
#13 in the second online CAA series
by
Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)
Klamath, CA; 961 miles.
November 19, 1986
The anticipation began building as it always does before a state line --
but more so, given the fact that we were approaching California. California!
This is it! Arbitrary and political or not, the state line took on grand
proportions in my imagination: I squinted into the distance for the portals of
exotica, the gateway to erotica, the entrance to the promised land. Of course,
I had learned the lesson on my first bicycle trip: approaching the land of
bikinis and hot tubs via the Mojave Desert was a sobering lesson in shattered
expectations. But this was the COAST, by golly, and the last hundred miles of
rugged Oregon seashore bespoke pure magic ahead.
The first change, however, involved not so much culture as lack of same:
California has no bottle bill. I have been spoiled by Oregon roads -- smooth,
glass-free, hardly littered at all. Highway 101 is somewhat less perfect than
the rest of the state, but still, Oregon is a clean place: not only do glass
and aluminum containers have significant cash value, but twice a year the
citizens organize a statewide clean-up. Impressive.
But after the state line, things changed abruptly. The land was still
exquisite, of course -- waves crashing against rugged sea stacks, scattered
bleached driftwood edging windswept beaches, the neck-cricking beginnings of
redwood country -- but the roadside distractions appeared with a vengeance.
Broken glass, beer cans, dirty diapers, food wrappers, cigarette butts, milk
cartons, baby shoes, tangled audio cassettes, suitcase parts, magazines,
mufflers, even a plastic-wrapped dead dog... all this and more attests to the
amazing number of people who have no respect at all for some of the most
beautiful land in the world. How can someone toss a Blitz Beer can into a
redwood grove? Is Earth their private dumpster?
Steering carefully through the glass and inventing creative punishments
for clods caught littering, we headed south -- our memories of Oregon cast into
even warmer perspective. It had been a good ride, Oregon. We had good luck
with the weather after the Smith River fever escapade, prompting many a local
to comment on unseasonal warmth. In Port Orford we stayed with a fly-fishing,
wood-carving family -- swapping tales till midnight and leaving with warm hugs
and promises. In Bandon we stayed in the eccentric hostel for two days,
pedaling off amid a chorus of Australian-accented best wishes. In Brookings we
found a flawlessly maintained state park, met another southbound cycling
couple, and drank a toast to Samuel Boardman -- the man who protected so much
of Oregon's coast from commercial exploitation. But now we were in
California...
Crescent City, to be exact. No contacts there, dusk descending, rain
likely, the local state park closed for winter. With our new pedaling friends
(John and Karen), we cruised the RV parks and settled at last on the NACO WEST
Shoreline Campground.
"Hi!" I brightly told the booth lady. "We're traveling the country by
bicycle and writing about it. How much for a tent site?"
She eyed the four of us and smiled, guarded but friendly. "How many
tents?"
"Two."
"That's seven dollars apiece, or fourteen total."
"What if we all sleep in one tent and use the other for supplies?" I
asked, only half-joking.
This was not a standard question, and she had to call the manager. A long
discussion ensued, with many a furtive glance our way. "Well, he says you can
do it for seven dollars, but if anyone sleeps in the other tent it will be
another seven."
We said that would be fine with us, paid her, accepted the long list of
rules and regulations (no moving the picnic tables, no fish cleaning, no fires
at the campsite, no booze or pets in the bathroom, no nuisances of any sort,
no, No, NO!!), and entered the mostly- deserted campground -- cruising until
dark in search of the perfect site and making bed-check jokes about
management's closing threat: "We have a guard who makes regular rounds... he'll
be keeping an eye on you all night, and he BETTER not find anyone in that other
tent."
It wasn't a bad evening, all things considered. Perfect driftwood fire on
the beach, Maggie's linguini with garlic clam sauce, a good bottle of wine.
The four of us poked the fire and ate smores until drowsy, then crawled
giggling into our porta-condo and got cozy -- drifting away to the incessant
hooting of an offshore foghorn with its asynchronous counterpoint of clanging
and moaning bouys. The rain didn't get serious till dawn.
Soggy gray, 50-knot wind, small craft warnings, cold salt spray. I donned
three layers and staggered off to the showers, noting the large nightgown-clad
woman in an upstairs window staring at our site through binoculars. Camp
Gestapo. There was no TV camera in the bathroom, but a crudely painted
Yosemite Sam was captioned: "Now hold on there, varmit! Didja flush it?"
Back at the tent, in heavy winds and coastal rain, Maggie and Karen told
the story. Seems the manager had driven to our site (after us menfolk went to
the showers) and accosted the women: "You slept in both those tents. You owe
us seven dollars!"
"No, that one just has gear in it--" Maggie told him, pointing.
"You owe us seven dollars!"
We packed our wet gear quickly, conscious of the binoculars, acutely aware
of being unwelcome. It was an unfamiliar feeling -- and time for the power of
raw ink. "Never piss off a writer if you have an image to protect," I always
say, so enroute to breakfast I called the Triplicate -- Crescent City's local
paper. By the time we spent a rainy day in the newspaper office catching up on
work, did an interview, and slept in the home of the managing editor, they had
their story... and they were even moved to call the Chamber of Commerce and
tell them about it. Heh.
Now, the other end of the campground spectrum. Parting company with John
and Karen, we climbed over the first 1200-foot obstacle in Redwood country and
found ourselves in Klamath -- a strangely spread- out town, at once dependent
upon passers-by and forbidding. Jack's Motel was closed for the season: "If
you gave me a thousand dollars, I couldn't give you one of those rooms."
Again, no contacts; and little chance of cruise mode yielding an invitation.
We gave up and crunched onto the gravel of the Chinook RV Resort.
Twelve bucks a night, but what the hell -- they take plastic. We added a
dollop of Kahlua and a few other essentials to the bill and eyed the darkening
sky... all the while chatting with friendly Nanette who had left her Oklahoma
travel agency to buy this campground. Could we find a place to work indoors?
Oh, there's a clubhouse? With a woodstove? Gee... could we bring the bikes
inside? Well hey, if we're doing all that, can we sleep in there too? No
problem. She smiled. We spent the evening on the Klamath River shoreline,
playing with a dog named RV and watching a sunset symphony of subtle pastels,
then moved in -- comfortable and welcome. And here I am, tapping away on the
HP by an old potbellied stove while Maggie whips up Kahlua treats and our
camping gear slowly dries. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Sometimes, life on the road is a quiet succession of unspectacular events
like this -- hardly newsworthy in themselves, but deeply revealing in concert.
In the last week we have played with 1 and 2.5-year olds, learned about the
zenlike attitudes of fly fishing, talked with a myrtlewood gatherer, fended off
the advances of a cloying airhead, overheard the urgent intrigue of small-town
newspaper operation, learned how to slice bananas with bicycle spokes, eaten
cranberry candy, gawked back at tourists, gamboled nude in the sand, played the
shining flute in C while gazing at the shining sea, and eaten dinner out of a
frisbee. Those are the headlines.
And I'll see you next week, from somewhere in Humboldt County.
* * *
NEWS FLASH: The PM MAGAZINE story about our high-tech loony adventure goes
national on November 24 -- which doesn't guarantee that it will air in your
area on that date, but it might. If you're interested in seeing the machine
through some medium other than words, call your local PM or EVENING MAGAZINE
station and ask about the air date of the computerized bicycle story.
ANOTHER NEWS FLASH: The high-tech nomads are getting hungry. Now that the
"Computing Across America" book has gone into typesetting at Learned
Information, we feel secure in accepting advance orders for autographed copies.
When the book is released (in February, they say), I will stop wherever I am,
receive a shipment, sign them, and ship copies to everyone who ordered in
advance. After that, the logistics of nomadics will prevent all but the
occasional autographing. If you'd like to order one, send $10 to:
Kelly Monroe
COMPUTING ACROSS AMERICA
5448 Kenneylane Boulevard
Columbus, OH 43220
This book is the tale of my first 10,000-mile journey around the US, and deals
with everything from hot online romance to ice caves. Hope to hear from you!
-- Steve