Chapter 13: Arrival in the Promised Land
© 1986 by Steven K. Roberts
Nomadic Research Labs
Klamath, California (961 miles)
November 19, 1986
The anticipation began building as it always does before a state
line—but more so, given the fact that we were approaching California.
California! This is it! Arbitrary and political or not, the state line
took on grand proportions in my imagination: I squinted into the
distance for the portals of exotica, the gateway to erotica, the
entrance to the promised land. Of course, I had learned the lesson on
my first bicycle trip: approaching the land of bikinis and hot tubs via
the Mojave Desert was a sobering lesson in shattered expectations. But
this was the coast, by golly, and the last hundred miles of rugged
Oregon seashore bespoke pure magic ahead.
The first change, however, involved not so much culture as lack of
same: California has no bottle bill. I have been spoiled by Oregon
roads—smooth, glass-free, hardly littered at all. Highway 101 is
somewhat less perfect than the rest of the state, but still, Oregon is
a clean place: not only do glass and aluminum containers have
significant cash value, but twice a year the citizens organize a
statewide clean-up. Impressive.
But after the state line, things changed abruptly. The land was still
exquisite, of course—waves crashing against rugged sea stacks,
scattered bleached driftwood edging windswept beaches, the
neck-cricking beginnings of redwood country—but the roadside
distractions appeared with a vengeance. Broken glass, beer cans, dirty
diapers, food wrappers, cigarette butts, milk cartons, baby shoes,
tangled audio cassettes, suitcase parts, magazines, mufflers, even a
plastic-wrapped dead dog...
all this and more attests to the amazing number of people who have no
respect at all for some of the most beautiful land in the world. How
can someone toss a Blitz Beer can into a redwood grove? Is Earth their
private dumpster?
Steering carefully through the glass and inventing creative punishments
for clods caught littering, we headed south—our memories of Oregon cast
into even warmer perspective. It had been a good ride, Oregon. We had
good luck with the weather after the Smith River fever escapade,
prompting many a local to comment on unseasonal warmth. In Port Orford
we stayed with a fly-fishing, wood-carving family—swapping tales till
midnight and leaving with warm hugs and promises. In Bandon we stayed
in the eccentric hostel for two days, pedaling off amid a chorus of
Australian-accented best wishes. In Brookings we found a flawlessly
maintained state park, met another southbound cycling couple, and drank
a toast to Samuel Boardman—the man who protected so much of Oregon’s
coast from commercial exploitation. But now we were in California...
Crescent City, to be exact. No contacts there, dusk descending, rain
likely, the local state park closed for winter. With our new pedaling
friends (John and Karen), we cruised the RV parks and settled at last
on the NACO WEST Shoreline Campground.
“Hi!” I brightly told the booth lady. “We’re traveling the country by
bicycle and writing about it. How much for a tent site?”
She eyed the four of us and smiled, guarded but friendly. “How many
tents?”
“Two.”
“That’s seven dollars apiece, or fourteen total.”
“What if we all sleep in one tent and use the other for supplies?” I
asked, only half-joking.
This was not a standard question, and she had to call the manager. A
long discussion ensued, with many a furtive glance our way. “Well, he
says you can do it for seven dollars, but if anyone sleeps in the other
tent it will be another seven.”
We said that would be fine with us, paid her, accepted the long list of
rules and regulations (no moving the picnic tables, no fish cleaning,
no fires at the campsite, no booze or pets in the bathroom, no
nuisances of any sort, no, No, NO!!), and entered the mostly-deserted
campground—cruising until dark in search of the perfect site and making
bed-check jokes about management’s closing threat: “We have a guard who
makes regular rounds... he’ll be keeping an eye on you all night, and
he better not find anyone in
that other tent.”
It wasn’t a bad evening, all things considered. Perfect driftwood fire
on the beach, Maggie’s linguini with garlic clam sauce, a good bottle
of wine. The four of us poked the fire and ate smores until drowsy,
then crawled giggling into our porta-condo and got cozy—drifting away
to the incessant hooting of an offshore foghorn with its asynchronous
counterpoint of clanging and moaning buoys. The rain didn’t get serious
till dawn.
Soggy gray, 50-knot wind, small craft warnings, cold salt spray. I
donned three layers and staggered off to the showers, noting the large
nightgown-clad woman in an upstairs window staring at our site through
binoculars. Camp Gestapo. There was no TV camera in the bathroom, but a
crudely painted Yosemite Sam was captioned: “Now hold on there, varmit!
[sic] Didja flush it?”
Back at the tent, in heavy winds and coastal rain, Maggie and Karen
told the story. Seems the manager had driven to our site (after us
menfolk went to the showers) and accosted the women: “You slept in both
those tents. You owe us seven dollars!”
“No, that one just has gear in it--” Maggie told him, pointing.
“You owe us seven dollars!”
We packed our wet gear quickly, conscious of the binoculars, acutely
aware of being unwelcome. It was an unfamiliar feeling—and time for the
power of raw ink. “Never piss off a writer if you have an image to
protect,” I always say, so en route to breakfast I called the Triplicate—Crescent City’s local
paper. By the time we spent a rainy day in the newspaper office
catching up on work, did an interview, and slept in the home of the
managing editor, they had their story... and they were even moved to
call the Chamber of Commerce and tell them about it. Heh.
Now, the other end of the campground spectrum. Parting company with
John and Karen, we climbed over the first 1200-foot obstacle in Redwood
country and found ourselves in Klamath—a strangely spread-out town, at
once dependent upon passers-by and forbidding. Jack’s Motel was closed
for the season: “If you gave me a thousand dollars, I couldn’t give you
one of those rooms.” Again, no contacts; and little chance of cruise
mode yielding an invitation. We gave up and crunched onto the gravel of
the Chinook RV Resort.
Twelve bucks a night, but what the hell—they take plastic. We added a
dollop of Kahlua and a few other essentials to the bill and eyed the
darkening sky... all the while chatting with friendly Nanette who had
left her Oklahoma travel agency to buy this campground. Could we find a
place to work indoors? Oh, there’s a clubhouse? With a woodstove?
Gee... could we bring the bikes inside? Well hey, if we’re doing all
that, can we sleep in there too? No problem. She smiled. We spent the
evening on the Klamath River shoreline, playing with a dog named RV and
watching a sunset symphony of subtle pastels, then moved in—comfortable
and welcome. And here I am, tapping away on the HP by an old potbellied
stove while Maggie whips up Kahlua treats and our camping gear slowly
dries. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Sometimes, life on the road is a quiet succession of unspectacular
events like this—hardly newsworthy in themselves, but deeply revealing
in concert. In the last week we have played with 1 and 2.5-year olds,
learned about the zenlike attitudes of fly fishing, talked with a
myrtlewood gatherer, fended off the advances of a cloying airhead,
overheard the urgent intrigue of small-town newspaper operation,
learned how to slice bananas with bicycle spokes, eaten cranberry
candy, gawked back at tourists, gamboled nude in the sand, played the
shining flute in C while gazing at the shining sea, and eaten dinner
out of a frisbee. Those are the headlines.
And I’ll see you next week, from somewhere in Humboldt County.