Monday, 24th September
50 MPG
Fatigue the night before had misguided my assumption that the
Oceanview Inn & Suites was merely shabby, not dirty. In the morning
light I discovered the detritus of past guests piled up all around the base of
the bed. As I checked Mother’s room for forgotten items, I found a Mini
Oreo residing under the wall furnace. For all I know it could have been
years old---its preservatives protecting unknowing guests much like a mothball.
As I wrote and got ready for the day, my husband went for a
walk---returning with a beautiful Brugmansia sanguinea blossom he found on a
very large bush. He promised to show me where he found it, but after we
took an extensive motor tour of the side streets he could not relocate
it. I told him in ten more years he’ll call me from one of his
wanderings, hoping I can find him. The blossom resided all day on
the dashboard, hardly showing any fatigue from the drive---amusing, since the
plant itself is rather insistent on having cool, moist temperatures.
It was a pretty morning---misty sunlight playing over the fields and
coves. We stopped a couple of times to take in the view around Westport
before turning inland and twisting our way up to US 101. The mileage sign
mentioned Rockport being ten miles away---and then another soon mentioned NO
SERVICES IN ROCKPORT. Upon arrival one finds nothing but trees, so it
seems a case of CalTrans not keeping up with the times.
Shortly after the site of Rockport the back entrance to The Lost
Coast appears. Usal Road looks like somebody’s dirt driveway save for a
plethora of warning signs that would alarm most suburban drivers. It’s
also the back entrance to Redwoods Monastery, a group of nuns related to the
boys at New Clairvaux in Vina---some forty miles north northwest of Rancho
Notorious. We’ve toyed with the idea of visiting the nuns sometime,
taking the more conventional route from Garberville towards Shelter Cove, and
then south on Whitethorn Road, which is paved before eventually petering out
into Usal Road. Not that Patsy hasn’t forged over the Lost Coast’s dirt
roads before---as recently as the 2nd of January of this year.
The Lost Coast earned its name from the fact that the rugged terrain
defied the highway engineers back in the 1920s, and so Shoreline Highway (Hwy
1) must give up and join US 101 some hundred miles south of its logical end in
Eureka. On some old maps you’ll even find the section of Hwy 1 from
Rockport to Leggett designated as T1---as in Temporary.
Up on US 101 engineers are at standoff with Nature at Richardson Grove.
This is one of the very few sections of the original Redwood Highway that is
still in primary use---and there is talk of knocking down a couple of huge
redwoods to bring the road more into compliance with modern road widths.
Usually there is a rerouting to avoid the most obvious destruction, but it
doesn’t appear to be feasible here. Manufacturers in the Eureka area want
this widening so the largest of semi truck trailers can come to town and take
their potential products away---the railroad being but a faded memory.
Now there’s a mode of transportation that needs to be nationalized and
revitalized….
We stopped in Garberville for a late breakfast at The House of
Burgess on Main Street---a rather oddly named restaurant in conjunction with
The Blue Room lounge next door. It appears the name has stuck ever since
the nondescript cinder brick building was put up circa 1955, judging by the
neon sign. The interior is modernized and warmly paneled---enriching the
natural light from the large windows. The food and service was
excellent. I had a grilled vegetable omelet and I swear the tomatoes were
locally grown. The sausage gravy I had served on the side for my biscuits
was good and light enough to serve as chowder---I ended up using it all by
spooning it over the omelet and hash browns, too.
The clientele at The House of Burgess was a slice of the eclectic
population that makes up the area: Lumber men and women, retirees and a counter
culture girl---who spent the whole time working on her laptop to the tap of her
nervous foot. Two young men came in after we were seated, one leaving a
trail of sand from his work boots. I never saw his face, only noted he
was olive complected. The other could have been a handsome brother---he
was ivory, with dark eyes and a long nose, short upper lip and wide, well
formed mouth. Until he opened it:
“Fuck, I almost lost my ass yesterday. I had the truck hitting
80 coming down that hill on the freeway.”
He continued on, using fuck as a modifier in every way
possible through their whole meal. I considered duct taping his mouth
using the other end.
We continued north on The Avenue of the Giants---the original
Redwood Highway. We had it mostly to ourselves. The somber redwoods
rained brown needles down onto us, and there was an air of impatience---the
wanting of rain.
The sun was out in Eureka, and the natives were out as if awakened
from a long hibernation. We stopped at WinCo to resupply our snacks in
their bulk section. After picking up a two pound block of Bandon Cheddar
for $3.49, we wandered towards the milk---passing a handsome little golden
blond man rummaging through a frozen foods chest. By all appearances he
was with a huge lug of a Native American, who seemed 18 inches taller and at
least a hundred pounds heavier. Apparently they set off both my husband’s
and my own gaydar, as we both made a simultaneous sounding.
“My God, why isn’t the blond crushed to death?” I murmured.
“Nah,” my husband replied. “He just goes along for the ride: Bouncy
bouncy bouncy.”
We lunged north on the four lane divided, the type of road that
always make me feel a bit catatonic. A forest wall on either side only
adds to the effect. Fortunately there’s an alternative for the latest
extension of monotony north of Orick: The Newton B. Drury Scenic Parkway. This is
another section of the original Redwood Hwy which is actually shorter and
without the grades of the bypass. Being close to the shore and the
nurturing fogs, the redwoods here did not shower us with needles. It’s
actually a more dramatic drive than Avenue of the Giants, the forest being more
open and thus showing the largest specimens to greater effect.
Towards Crescent City the character of the light changed. At
first I blamed it on being tired of driving, but as we approached Brookings I
realized a high layer of smoke was drifting in from the Eastern Washington
fires, giving everything a displeasing raw umber cast. Brookings was also
experiencing their microclimate: a downslope wind was pushing the temperature
up to 77 degrees. A few miles later it was back down to the low to mid
60s.
We stopped for the day at Gold Beach at Motel 6---one of the ones
bought out from some other concern and thus features large rooms with a king
size platform bed and bamboo floors. No place for a Mini Oreo to hide
here---and I highly recommend staying there if you like a big spare room
adjacent to the beach at a decent price. The view out the window isn’t
bad, either: the Rouge River Bridge---beyond a mess of utility wires.
Our door cards featured The Porthole---Where the Locals Eat.
Roland and I have ate there before and found it very good, so we went
again. Mother raved about her big fried shrimps, which she compared to a
much reviewed story about the first time she ate shrimp as a little
girl. I wish I had got them, too---although my fried clams were
very good, too.
We walked out into the harbor, which is largely empty. A huge
flock of terns had settled onto the docks, prattling like parakeets. The
raw umber cast to the sky came to a halt over the blue Pacific, and the weather
girl promised that the pall would disappear tomorrow.
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