early summer travels, book tour, etc:
i almost did not make it to san franscico at all. an accident in the mountains above LA stalled traffic for three hours. at the roadblock i put the car in park, slouched low in the seat, ate dried peaches, snapped photos of the burned hills in the distance, tufts of yellowed grass. i arrived at green apple books thirty minutes late, chest heaving, face flushed after running up the sidewalk. after the reading, huge tacos loaded with guacamole, a dark bar walled with bodies. two malty beers, a cherry lambic. i woke the next morning at J & K’s apartment to puffy grey skies, a tail-less cat mewing up at me in the hall. we walked to breakfast. two cups of coffee and a plate of pancakes. i piled my bags into the backseat, set out towards the toll bridge, a jar of coins rattling between my legs.
i drove north to lassen, slowly winding up the mountain, road line with cedars, banks crusted with snow. most of the park was iced under save the thermal mud pots. all along the trail, the smell of sulfur, steam rising from fissures in the earth. i camped at a lower altitude, near a lake, in a clearing shaded by ponderosa pines. i read in the grass, ate warm cornbread on the shore, wefts of mosquitoes in the air. i fell asleep before the moon rose, on top my bag with all my clothes on.
up highway 86 in the predawn fog. burney falls was a gravel parking lot, a wide dirt path winding through douglas firs to the base of the 129 foot fall. girls in bikinis took selfies in front of the cascades, blew kisses, flashed peace signs. a man was holding a baby above his head, smiling with all his teeth exposed, instructing his wife how to frame the shot she was taking. i looped back to where i had begun. peanut butter sandwiches on a boulder overlooking a slow stretch of the river.
my camp spot was ringed with trees. foilage so thick i saw no sunset. i did not sleep. i vomited out the side of the car as the falls roared in the distance. i vomited then sweat in my sleeping bag then shivered as the post-vomit euphoria vibrated through my body. food poisoning, or so i assumed. spoiled peanut butter. i laid curled on my side. hours passed. i dry heaved. a trickle of green bile darkened the dirt below me. the sun rose. gold tipped conifers swayed in the wind. through the trees i could see the river, sashes of white water. i tried to stand, collapsed. i tried again. the sun high in the sky. i brushed the matted hair from my face, kicked pine needles over the still wet spots on the ground. the couple in the RV across the path stared me down. i could not muster a smile, much less a grimace. i slid my big black sunglasses up my nose, smoked just enough to snuff the nausea. i assembled myself behind the wheel, drove windows open towards I-5, the land of wifi, strong coffee, hot showers.
out of california, into southern oregon. i saw it all: crater lake encased in snow, clouds low, reflected on the surface of the bluest water; a road jammed with fallen logs, bearded men in yellow slickers wielding chainsaws; a campsite butted against the rogue river where i slept with the back hatch open, listening to the squalling wind, the crush of the cascades; a night on the shores of an ancient lake, its surface shredded by rain, shadowed by mt. thielsen, pines stacked upon pines.
on the final day of camping, i drove north to silver falls, windshield streaked. i drank weak tea and ate cold buttered biscuits, crumbs all over the seat. i turned off I-5 onto a road that cut through meadows and vineyards, plowed fields planted with strawberries. bright green tractors parked in a row, metal barns with corrugated roofs. specks of black cows along the horizon. horses bunched together at the fence. i had four hours to kill before i needed to drive back south to eugene for my reading. i chose a five-mile hike that passed by four waterfalls. the trees lining the trail muffled the sun. the crash of the falls grew as i descended. ancient ferns abounded. i rubbed a silky leaf between my fingers.
on the drive back to eugene, the rain washed the dead bugs from my dash. i sped through blurred farmland, flat and yellow. the city itself was small, blocks of leaf-strewn streets, sidewalks of men in baggy jeans, triangles of patchy hair on their chins; women in gauchos dancing to banjos played by skinny white dudes with squinty, bloodshot eyes. they begged for change, open fiddle case at their feet. i met E at a health food store. we wandered among big plastic bins of spiced nuts then walked to a lube factory with real live conveyor belts, a brightly lit room with couches and freshly painted walls. we didn’t read so much as eat hummus and talk about literature. i opened a stout no one drank but me. i drained half then poured the rest in the cooler, cruised out to portland where J was playing guitar in bed, waiting for me.
the last time i stayed at J’s apartment she cooked me eggs with mushrooms, garlic, and dark greens for breakfast every morning. we walked through the entire city. seven miles in macleay park, passing an apple back and forth, feet sore. we toured a rose garden rimmed with evergreens. we laughed, spilt wine, talked about family dramas, youtube ads, the joys of being older, and feeling at home, finally, in our own bodies.
this time i was too dazed from five days on the road to do anything but sleep late, watch tv in bed, eat cold pizza, air threaded with smoke. at six in the evening, i picked J up outside her work, and we walked in the drizzle to hare of the dog for beers before the reading. in an alley outside the venue, we split a preroll, mugged for the camera, stared up at the overcast sky, which looked nothing like any sky i’ve seen in LA. grey but still shining, fingerlets of light pushing through high, thin clouds. already i knew i would miss J, this city, this night. we lingered in the alley, cracking jokes, wind picking up.
