Hat's Off

Recounted November 28, 2012

Petaluma, California

As we headed out of Capo Blanco, with some interesting advice from a friendly ranger, I stopped for a drink at a convenience store. And I thought I was from a county overrun with unreconstructed hippies!

There was the requisite Grateful Dead sticker on the prow of a van, the one with wings on the skull, not dissimilar to a pilot’s association sticker I have seen. The Florida plates belied my premise, as a fellow of much hair explained to the dreadlocked, dank Floridians that he had taken a job on a fishing boat, being from Maine, and did anybody have any smoke?

I muttered something about thinking along similar lines as I got out of the truck, knowing this is not the question to ask, got my tea, and by the time I returned from the store, had established some suspicions.  Half of the guy’s conversation was hand gestures, and it was just a bit too slick for me.

We meandered through Brookings, across the Chetco River and through serious sawmill country down to the California border. Some of the sawmill operations were of a scale that I can only communicate to East Coasters as, “bigger than the biggest sprawl mall you can think of.”

There were tremendous resources of lumber, unsawn logs washed up on the beaches, that I began immediately incorporating into mental designs for rustic beach house architecture. The vastness of the stores of lumber, whether in the mill yards, washed up on the beach, or standing in ineffable glory was breathtaking. I have since discussed the notion of an enterprising seaside lumber harvester, replete with sawmill, on a barge cum derrick, with a like-minded friend who found somebody who actually does it.

I stopped briefly in Crescent City, in heavy winds and horizontal rain. My aunt had recommended I look it over, and filming North over the cliffs, I was relieved of The Hat That Could Not Lose.  It first went skyward, then tumbled as though shot down, down, into the cliffs and crashing waves. This pink hat had survived another twenty hats and traveled to Assateague Island and Vermont last Summer, on Greg and Kaya’s last Big Adventure.

I decided to stop for cigarettes, fearful of the cost, in the small crossroads of Klamath. There was a bit of point of sale confusion, when I declined a bag for the beer, and was told it was The Law. I asked what law forbids beer without a bag and provides slot machines in convenience stores. The clerk said, “Welcome to the reservation.” As I left, I realized the “town” was circumnavigated with fences.

Down into the Redwood forests, moss dangling from the mothlike bunches of evergreen needles, ferns of prehistoric proportions dripping water, condensation, life….We were listening to NPR, which was underwritten by the Northern California Growers Association, and I was pleased to say to my loyal companion, “Kaya, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

Tremendously enjoying the open vistas among the hills of Humboldt County, we explored into several Virgin stands of the majestic Redwoods, avoiding the places advertising Drive-Through Trees. The sun began to arc towards its ultimate rays as we came into the small community of Orick, and decided to patronize the only open lodging, the Green Valley Motel.

Entering the office, which was empty, I saw signs forbidding dogs and alcohol. Having picked up beer to buffer the experience of watching the third presidential debate, I inquired if we had the pedigree to stay. The nice lady responded, “If you’re only staying one night, I won’t charge you.” She said the beer was fine, though she was going to watch the game instead of the debates.  It was soon revealed that she was talking about not charging me a doggie fee, but expected me to pay for the room.

I stopped by the only other open business, across the bridge, Mama’s for an excellent dinner of fish and chips. On the stool next to me was a guy, Javier, who was touring from North to South on the coast via mountain bike. He was about to interrupt his sojourn to jet home to New York for Halloween, then return. He seemed to have been in the area for a few days, and knew everyone.

Somehow, as I drove back to the room and debate, I found myself considering one of the first landmarks I had seen in California, the notorious Pelican Bay Prison.

The debate was disappointing, and I probably went surfing for the innocence of Indiana Jones when sleep crept into the plan and I was awakened by a knock on the door.

“Hey man. Could you turn that stuff down? It’s blaring into my room, I can’t sleep.”

The poor guy.  I had taken a turn toward the unconscious with the TV blaring some vapid drivel, and the way the motel was built (I avoid the word designed here), my TV was in an alcove in my room, which jutted into his room, the one next door. It reminded me of the scene from Brazil where the workers share a desk through a wall.

In the morning I heard him playing acoustic guitar, and apologized. He said he appreciated my turning off the noise and mused that he couldn’t understand how someone could sleep through such high volume.  I explained that I was an electric guitarist.