California Dreamin'

Last weekend, M. and I decided to act upon a moment of strong wanderlust. We took a day trip down to Redwood Country.




The topography of the region is such that we had to go northwest in order to go south. If you're not staring straight into the stone-and-evergreen face of the mountain range that blocks a more direct path, our route probably seems counter-intuitive. After a look at the map afterward, I realized we could have driven a more direct, southwest route; it just would have taken triple the time and probably would have required an all-terrain vehicle.  In any case, we got to see the sleepy hippie towns between Medford and the coast, and it was a pleasant drive into California and the Redwood State and National Parks.

M. and me in front of the "Welcome to California" sign along Rt. 199.  We assure you, there are real human faces under those smileys.

My amazement set in almost immediately: These trees, people, are enormous! I caught myself personalizing them, the same way I do my houseplants: "Look at that big fella! Oh, wow, that guy is enormous!" When I thoughtlessly referred to one tree as a "big fatty," it occurred to me that perhaps I should use a different term -- after all, recreational marijuana will be legal in Oregon next month, and I wouldn't want my reference to an incredibly large redwood tree to be mistaken for something very, very different.

We spent most of our day, though, out from underneath the dark forest canopy, on the beach in Crescent City. For those of you unfamiliar with northern West Coast beaches, they resemble Maine more than Daytona Beach: rocky, cold, and a little foreboding, but breathtakingly beautiful. The weather on the coast was windy, overcast, and nearly thirty degrees cooler than back home in the Rogue Valley, and it made for a calming, if somewhat eerie, afternoon.

M. walking along the craggy coastline in Crescent City, CA

The beaches were nearly deserted, and M. and I spent some time exploring.  M. is never one to turn down a good view, and before I knew it, he had scrambled up a large rock that jagged out over the shore.

M. climbing a large rock that protruded up about 30 feet over the beach

Me, well -- I was intent on dipping my toes in the Pacific, something I had only done once before, and only for a few minutes. I knew from talking to coworkers that the water would likely be quite cold, as it typically doesn't reach a comfortable swimming temperature until late in the summer, but I wasn't worried. We had just experienced a week of temperatures in the high 90s and low 100s, and I figured wading into frigid water up to my ankles could be quite refreshing.

Me, tentatively walking into the Pacific Ocean

The verdict: It was f--king freezing. It was so cold, it warranted the strong language, so I cursed. I leaped in a way reminiscent of Wild Westerners "dancing" between bullets fired at their feet. I ran up to the tide, then away, then up to it again. I rolled the hem of my jeans up to my calves, but not far up enough, and the water soaked me up to the knee. As M. and I walked up a staircase to where our car was parked, we passed a sixty-something gentleman who looked like a local. He gave a brief but meaningful glance to the Converse hanging in my hand, the wet sand stuck to my bare feet, and my damp jeans, and said, "Uh, good afternoon, folks." I wanted to joke, "I clearly know how to avoid hypothermia," but I figured I'd just say hello and leave it at that.

We didn't stay long on the coast, but I was happy with the little time we visited. I have been stuck in a post-move rut for weeks now (perhaps more on that in a different post), and I celebrate the days when I am excited and wide-eyed at all the new adventures that lie ahead. As I remarked to M. on our way home, before this trip, I hadn't realized how my heart ached for water. Sure, the Rogue Valley has rivers and mountain lakes, but there is no body of water so large that the opposite coast--so far away, no one's eyes can see it--snuggles against another country. In Cleveland, Lake Erie* was so omnipresent, it was a family member: Some days I barely acknowledged its existence, but it nonetheless played an irreplaceable role in my life.

I imagine that our trip to Crescent City was the first of what will be many trips to the ocean, up and down the west coast, as often as they can happen. Being by the ocean roused some part of me that had been lying dormant for months, and I was grateful for it.


*Note: I initially wrote "the lake," rather than "Lake Erie," without the thought occurring to me that you might have not even a twinkling of an idea to which lake I was referring. I suppose that proves my point, though: Lake Erie is so just there that it doesn't even need a name. It's just "the lake," and everyone just knows.