6/18/14, Wednesday
A Eucalyptus Tree
The scent of the tree outdoors is sweet and distinct. No wonder the leaves are an ingredient in potpourri.
I think I would never get tired of the high hills, golden grasslands, ranches, dairies, and vineyards of central California just inland from the coast. On this morning we were traveling, as we have fairly often on this trip, with the windows down–an air party our family calls it. As if the scents of grasses and warming earth weren’t pleasant enough, we caught a whiff of an additional aroma. “What is that smell, Thomas?” We looked around, and saw a row of immense, shaggy-barked trees–eucalyptus! In the 19th century they were introduced to California from Australia in hopes that the logs produced by these fast-growing trees would make good railroad ties. Those hopes were dashed when the ties cut from them twisted and hardened into unusable, impenetrable shapes.
We went inland and got a fill-up in Larkfield-Wikiup at a Valero. The store sold Indian grocery items, liquor, and a good deal of the usual salt-, fat-, and carb-rich American fare in plastic wrappers. A box of methi khari puffed pastries and a bag of sesame brickle were a perfect combination of road snacks. We followed CA-29, which lived up to its designation on the Michelin map as a “scenic byway:” Robert Louis Stephenson State Park memorializes the authors brief travels in California, and farms and vineyards envelope this winding, up-and-down section of highway.
A billboard said, “Puzzled? God has answers. Call 1-800-GODWORD.” In almost every state on our journey we have seen analogous signs. Contrary to prevailing stereotypes, Alabama has no monopoly on public admonitions to repentance. And in every locale where we listened to the radio the lower-frequency FM stations were dominated with preaching, Biblical interpretation, and advice on right living.
Near Williams, California we stopped at the Charter Family Fruit Stand, which purveys produce from the Central Valley. We bought a big bag of brown rice, a bottle of olive oil, a jar of olives, tomatoes, and a cantaloup–all produced in the area. The last two were for lunch, and the others for gifts.
An Entry Point for the PCT
Heading north of Reading into more pine-forested mountains we caught a glimpse of white above the green. Snow-topped Mount Shasta, one of the tallest peaks in California, was coming into view, and we figured we would go by it in a few more miles. It turned out to be many more miles before we got close to it and its nearby companion Shastina. Still farther north we stopped in
The Cougar Cafe in the Weed Mercantile Mall
Weed, CA for gas and decided to look for coffee. We stumbled upon Weed Mercantile Mall in what was originally the town’s general store, walked the creaky wooden floors to the café inside, and split a burger and fries. On the wall hung tee shirts giving a nod to the inevitable jokes about the town’s name. The town’s motto: “Weed like to welcome you.”
Thomas was particularly excited to see and set foot on the Pacific Crest Trail, and we stopped where it crosses I-5 north of Redding. Though we saw no hikers in these few minutes, we were both thrilled at this first encounter with the west coast analog of the AT. One of our hopes on this trip was to hike at least a few miles of the PCT, but doing it here was not in the itinerary.
Cattle Grazing in South Central Oregon
On into Oregon, we were on mile-high, well-watered agricultural land surrounded by remnants of volcanoes. The same blue sky that has followed us nearly the entire trip continued to illuminate our surroundings.
A Note-worthy Rest Area
Oregon’s welcome center made our pit stop a pleasure.
Over the years my siblings and I have laughed about a exasperated comment our father once made when we were children at a stop along an interstate highway. “North Carolina is not noted for its rest areas,” he proclaimed after emerging from a dirty restroom somewhere on I-40 in the Piedmont. At the entry to Oregon on US-97—another ultra-scenic stretch of highway by Michelin’s reckoning (and they haven’t been wrong yet)—Thomas and I stopped at a welcome center. It was late afternoon so the staff had left for the day. Traffic was light, and no one was there. The building was a spacious and attractive heavy frame structure with a metal roof and inside, the restrooms were immaculate, cavernous, illuminated by skylights, and furnished with brushed-steel urinals and sinks. Thomas commented first, and we both agreed it was impressive. So if this sample of one is any indication, then I have to turn my dad’s remark on its head: “Oregon should be noted for its rest areas.”
Not that Oregon should be noted only for its rest areas…. More breathtaking scenery came our way as we passed Klamath Falls, Upper Klamath Lake, farms and ranches, and then pine forests on the way toward Crater Lake National Park. Within the park boundary, at some six thousand feet in elevation, we began to see twenty-foot tall wooden poles lining the road, and we determined they marked where the road is when snow is many feet deep in winter. At the park we were happy to learn that the campground was not full but a bit dismayed that the mosquitoes lighting on us would not go away until snowmelt was complete. We built our first campfire of the trip.
Our First Campfire
It was chilly at Crater Lake campground and mosquitoes were out, so the heat and smoke were both welcome.
Here everything was green and moist, and sawed fire logs were stacked at every campsite, cut from trees downed by the winter’s snow. It felt strange to build a fire, as almost everywhere else to this point had been a tinderbox. We stood in the smoke to keep the insects off. As we wrapped up and shivered in our sleeping bags, the only worry was the white-lettered red signs along the road warning of
There Be Bears
Despite the sign, the woman who sold us our camp permit assured us that bears stay out in the back country.
bears…
Son and Dad Road Trip 