California, or how taxidermy got the dog fed

The following morning Deb and I broke a wishbone out on the verandah that she had been saving. We pulled on our respective ends, sending the apex into the air like a champagne cork, leaving us each with nearly identical shards of bone.

I took this to be a good omen as I packed the truck. I had been very much enjoying Willa Cather, and her depiction of Jean Marie Latour’s happiness as he found the valley of I can’t remember, but some lush lost oasis off the beaten desert track. The land abuzz with undiluted mythology, faintly ominous winds, and limpid colors. Santa Fe seemed to function more of a portent than anything else – a significant arrow pointed in a certain direction, rather than an invitation to stay.

Cal was enjoying his new buddies – he didn’t want to take off.

Cal took his co-pilot spot, we made our goodbyes to Deb, Nina and Sully – Nina actually appeared remotely sad to see us leave – and off we went, bathed in the afterglow of such a loving welcome and goodbye from my godmother.

I was hoping to make it across New Mexico, Arizona, and Southern California in a day. I had contacted my stepsister in San Juan Capistrano, the plan being to ball it through and crash there that evening.

For the third time I got the hookup from a biker. I couldn’t figure it out at first – these hardcore bike dragging their middle and index finger through the air, not unlike the Harley folks do. Then it occurred to me – despite being no great biker, indeed having no great interest in boking, I had this used LeMonde on top of my truck. Nevermind that I used it for going to the Seven-Eleven and back.

The country turned into dry rolling ranchland, not unlike southern Wyoming. Cal drank generously from a bowl. Atwood’s « Blind Assasin » finally wrapped itself up – at the end, I mean, in the last paragraph, it got really, really good. I very much enjoyed that last paragraph. Oh and the reader –  she had this one character, Winifred, down cold, and I found myself looking forward to Winifred’s comings and goings. Atwood in my mind a member of that loquacious tribe including Philip Roth, John Irving, Joyce Carol Oates, even Updike. Okay, you’re good. You can write. How about editing ?

Well – geez. One look at this entry, who am I really to talk.

We stopped for gas in a hardscrabble town that felt like the real Santa Fe. At Flagstaff I considered going down to Sedona – I had heard from many folks that it was a special, special place. But no time. Instead I amused myself trying to get the reflection perfect in the polished aluminum of a truck, or checking out sweet Airstreams, and regretting buying a tug instead of one of those rigs. But it is kinda trite – tried and true, don’t get me wrong – and I say this with all due respect to my Airstream-loving friends.

We crossed into California at Needles, and began our ascent up the pass. I thought of Hemingway’s « Moveable Feast », or was it « The Sun Also Rises » – in any case someone annoying interrupts him as he’s sitting at a cafe with an eau de vie watching the light change on the sidewalk as the sun sets on Boulevard Saint Michel, as I recall it.This man interrupts Hemingways observation of the sun on the sidewalk – and he’s damn pissed.

And so there in the desert the light went through transformations innumerable, as if a series of different filters were being placed over the windshields and windows. I’m sure it’s old hat to those in California but for us on the east coast these past five years – it is a sight to behold.

I took a photo of a helicopter being shipped – largely because I had just heard on NPR about a book written about Area 51 in Roswell New Mexico – the theory being that it was Stalin sending a bunch of Russian mutants into the Southwest, with the idea that fear would ripple across the country, much as it did in an H.G. Wells story. This helicopter seemed alien to me, perhaps it was the light. Also – this was the type of helicopter String in Airwolf, my favorite show as a kid, along with MacGyver, spent considerable time shooting down.

By now it was dark, around 930. I stopped in Barstow, not far I imagined from where Sheryl Crow would shack up in some dirty motel with her crossroad truckers, getting them to demonstrate their might. I hadn’t eaten all day, and ordered ceviche and the house burrito. Perhaps it was the Ibus and bears and blacktail deer but my appetite hid, and Cal benefitted strangely enough from extensive taxidermy, to his great pleasure.

I came into LA on I-10, debating briefly whether my temporary plates really needed to pull over every ten miles to pay 60 cents in tolls. We all know the result of that argument. I thought of Christopher McCandless, his disorientation in Los Angeles, that proliferation of lights after months of the midwest, and dark desert, and had a moment of understanding.

Feeling lucky I swung onto a toll road that was quite possibly the most beautiful six-lane highway I had ever experienced. It reminded me of Ethan Canin’s novel Blue River, and the description the narrarator gives of, late at night, going on the freeway, where it dips and flows through the mountains. He closes his eyes, and lets the rocking car steer him at seventy along those curves.

Which was more or less what I was doing – except unintentionally, after 16 hours of being on the road. But boy – so clean that black, the fog coming in off the hills, the smell of eucalyptus trees, perfect white fluorscent markers embedded in the asphalt, and not another headlight.

Finally, around midnight, pulling in to Megan and Gary’s in San Juan Capistrano, the sweet house smelling of banana bread. Dog moving especially slowly due to half a burrito sloshing around in his stomach, making his slow way up the stairs to the study where we both passed out.

The next morning we dropped Rosie, my niece at school, and I followed Megan to her yoga class. An Orange County policeman followed me briefly – but my registration was good for two more days. I would really need to figure this one out.

Yoga felt good after three weeks of being truck-bound.

I then got a class in Ayurvedic cooking – and Megan made an absolutely incredible dish, which both Gary and I enjoyed. Cal and I piled in the truck, and reflected briefly on the « Guest » parking spot near the house. It was at this point, this very point, when I realized, despite the hospitality of all, that I was ready to stop being one.