Roadtripping 101, part II: This part alone felt like an entire day.
The coastal road during the day is supposedly very slow going, full of travelers who are all about the views. And the views are allegedly amazing, because the road really does hug the coast very tightly.
But in the dead of night, when your highbeams are the brightest light around, the view is fairly nonexistent. After a few hours of catching up about a thousand things, Liz fell asleep and it was just me and many, many miles of dark, open road.
There was the occasional small town. There was the occasional eighteen-wheeler. There was the occasional cigarette through the cracked window, and the intoxicating sound of the crashing Pacific ocean mixed with the rush of wind. But mostly it was the strangely alert mental automation of a long, uneventful, silent, unlit midnight drive. And my thoughts. Which were loud, and consuming, and roamed freely in the suddenly expansive paddock of my reduced sensory inputs. All there was to do was drive, and that was taking almost nothing. The rest of my brain churned in the blackness and silence.
For 8 hours.
Somewhere around hour 5 or 6, the road began winding around trees, remarkably thick ones. And then around one corner, with the invisible crashing ocean on the left and the rockfall cliffs on the right, I saw this and pulled over. We don't know why there was a floodlight on the embankment. It didn't really matter. It was breathtaking. We took pictures, stretched, checked the oil and coolant, let the engine take ten, and were on our way.
At hour 8, in the very beginnings of false dawn, I saw a sign for Redwood National Forest, and pulled off onto a rocky shoulder with a small parking lot and a wooden building. We'd wait for an hour or two until "the park opened," whatever that would end up meaning. Liz roused to give me a pillow and blanket for a nap, but I couldn't miss this opportunity to be on the darkened beach.
So I took a walk. We'd parked basically on the beach, on the other size of the driftwood and grasses, and the tide was coming in. The driftwood was bleached and tangled, entire tree trunks at times. The false dawn cast everything gray. It was 35 degrees, with a strong salty wind, and it was so deeply peaceful it was almost meditative, just to watch the breakers crash.
I don't know how long I was out there, but it probably wasn't long enough. I scattered those churning thoughts onto the water, and went back to the car for a nap.
Sebrings, by the way, are pretty damn comfortable to sleep in. Just in case you ever need to pick a car based on its motel potential. Sebrings should be up there.
An hour later, I woke up and watched the sun rise behind us, over the redwoods. Liz begrudgingly resumed consciousness and we washed our faces and hands at the wooden building, which turned out to be some of the most well-kept latrines I've ever seen, with running water sinks outside. It also turned out to be some of the coldest water I've ever felt in my life, which I suppose helped wake us up. I still think my hands could have done without the zero-to-numb-in-three-seconds experience. But Liz didn't whine, so neither did I. Probably the first time in history my pride has made me less annoying.
We went in search of life, and didn't have to go far before the side of the road dipped slightly and a squat little diner appeared, so close to the pavement that parking in front of it felt discomforting. Inside were a few aging locals, a strange assortment of flags (Republic of California, ok. Oregon, ok. Georgia and the Stars and Bars? Um...) and more collectible plates and kitsch on the walls than I've ever seen in one place. But inside was also coffee, and a selection of diner food that turned out to be pretty ok.
It was a good morning. It was cold and gray, we were both achy and exhausted, and we were sure we were already starting to smell pretty badly. We were sitting on plastic elementary school chairs in a single-roomed log-cabin-turned-diner. And yet, all was right. We looked blearily at each other and smiled, groaning a little and not talking too much, stretching and blinking into the occasional shafts of morning light that hit us in the face from the windows. We'd made it that far. I was peaceful with the sense of accomplishment and the centering effect of the miles and miles of road; Liz, with at least four times as much road behind her already, was positively glowing. Yeah. Good morning.
Our matronly waitress gave us a map of the park and helped us plot a scenic drive route through the forest, told us where "the big tree" was and how to hike there, and where we could head back to the highway when we were done. I was intrigued by the talk of "the big tree," because, well, they're redwoods. What kind of giant does one have to be to get a name like that for itself? But we weren't in a hiking frame of mind, more like a "let's take some pictures and get a move-on" frame of mind. I talked Liz into trying their pie with me before we left, which is worth doing in any real diner. We settled on raspberry, and the plate came to us with one slice of raspberry and one slice of cherry, heated up with a dollop of soft-serve. We cleaned the plate, and if I'm ever back there, I'll do it again. Yum.
We'd only made it 20 yards down the street before slowed to a halt, a little impressed, and a little bewildered. Apparently, the Pacific Northwest really, really loves their large wooden carvings. Moose, bears, Native American representations circa 1920, pirates, totem poles, and in the occasional burst of originality, trees. They love them so much that little storefronts like this outnumbered the people we saw all day. Northern California and pretty much every inch of Oregon that we drove through supports these woodcarvers with the sort of economic gusto that Manhattan supports Starbucks. You can't have too many, apparently, and having five within the same square half-mile is just dandy. We had to pass about 15 before the Twilight Zone factor wore off for me. Luckily that didn't take long at all.
I will say, though, if we'd seen wooden carvings of pink garden flamingos, I just might've had to have them.
But in the dead of night, when your highbeams are the brightest light around, the view is fairly nonexistent. After a few hours of catching up about a thousand things, Liz fell asleep and it was just me and many, many miles of dark, open road.
There was the occasional small town. There was the occasional eighteen-wheeler. There was the occasional cigarette through the cracked window, and the intoxicating sound of the crashing Pacific ocean mixed with the rush of wind. But mostly it was the strangely alert mental automation of a long, uneventful, silent, unlit midnight drive. And my thoughts. Which were loud, and consuming, and roamed freely in the suddenly expansive paddock of my reduced sensory inputs. All there was to do was drive, and that was taking almost nothing. The rest of my brain churned in the blackness and silence.
For 8 hours.
Somewhere around hour 5 or 6, the road began winding around trees, remarkably thick ones. And then around one corner, with the invisible crashing ocean on the left and the rockfall cliffs on the right, I saw this and pulled over. We don't know why there was a floodlight on the embankment. It didn't really matter. It was breathtaking. We took pictures, stretched, checked the oil and coolant, let the engine take ten, and were on our way.
At hour 8, in the very beginnings of false dawn, I saw a sign for Redwood National Forest, and pulled off onto a rocky shoulder with a small parking lot and a wooden building. We'd wait for an hour or two until "the park opened," whatever that would end up meaning. Liz roused to give me a pillow and blanket for a nap, but I couldn't miss this opportunity to be on the darkened beach.
So I took a walk. We'd parked basically on the beach, on the other size of the driftwood and grasses, and the tide was coming in. The driftwood was bleached and tangled, entire tree trunks at times. The false dawn cast everything gray. It was 35 degrees, with a strong salty wind, and it was so deeply peaceful it was almost meditative, just to watch the breakers crash.
I don't know how long I was out there, but it probably wasn't long enough. I scattered those churning thoughts onto the water, and went back to the car for a nap.
Sebrings, by the way, are pretty damn comfortable to sleep in. Just in case you ever need to pick a car based on its motel potential. Sebrings should be up there.
An hour later, I woke up and watched the sun rise behind us, over the redwoods. Liz begrudgingly resumed consciousness and we washed our faces and hands at the wooden building, which turned out to be some of the most well-kept latrines I've ever seen, with running water sinks outside. It also turned out to be some of the coldest water I've ever felt in my life, which I suppose helped wake us up. I still think my hands could have done without the zero-to-numb-in-three-seconds experience. But Liz didn't whine, so neither did I. Probably the first time in history my pride has made me less annoying.
We went in search of life, and didn't have to go far before the side of the road dipped slightly and a squat little diner appeared, so close to the pavement that parking in front of it felt discomforting. Inside were a few aging locals, a strange assortment of flags (Republic of California, ok. Oregon, ok. Georgia and the Stars and Bars? Um...) and more collectible plates and kitsch on the walls than I've ever seen in one place. But inside was also coffee, and a selection of diner food that turned out to be pretty ok.
It was a good morning. It was cold and gray, we were both achy and exhausted, and we were sure we were already starting to smell pretty badly. We were sitting on plastic elementary school chairs in a single-roomed log-cabin-turned-diner. And yet, all was right. We looked blearily at each other and smiled, groaning a little and not talking too much, stretching and blinking into the occasional shafts of morning light that hit us in the face from the windows. We'd made it that far. I was peaceful with the sense of accomplishment and the centering effect of the miles and miles of road; Liz, with at least four times as much road behind her already, was positively glowing. Yeah. Good morning.
Our matronly waitress gave us a map of the park and helped us plot a scenic drive route through the forest, told us where "the big tree" was and how to hike there, and where we could head back to the highway when we were done. I was intrigued by the talk of "the big tree," because, well, they're redwoods. What kind of giant does one have to be to get a name like that for itself? But we weren't in a hiking frame of mind, more like a "let's take some pictures and get a move-on" frame of mind. I talked Liz into trying their pie with me before we left, which is worth doing in any real diner. We settled on raspberry, and the plate came to us with one slice of raspberry and one slice of cherry, heated up with a dollop of soft-serve. We cleaned the plate, and if I'm ever back there, I'll do it again. Yum.
We'd only made it 20 yards down the street before slowed to a halt, a little impressed, and a little bewildered. Apparently, the Pacific Northwest really, really loves their large wooden carvings. Moose, bears, Native American representations circa 1920, pirates, totem poles, and in the occasional burst of originality, trees. They love them so much that little storefronts like this outnumbered the people we saw all day. Northern California and pretty much every inch of Oregon that we drove through supports these woodcarvers with the sort of economic gusto that Manhattan supports Starbucks. You can't have too many, apparently, and having five within the same square half-mile is just dandy. We had to pass about 15 before the Twilight Zone factor wore off for me. Luckily that didn't take long at all.
I will say, though, if we'd seen wooden carvings of pink garden flamingos, I just might've had to have them.