Days 11-16 | Beach Boondocking | Trinidad CA
Well. Things have certainly taken a turn.
With several uncontained fires raging in all directions of us, the Wolfisaki’s have chosen to hunker down in a parking lot for the time being, right off the 101 near the California border, parked here next to Methy McGee in his broke down van - who seems pleasant enough as far as amphetamine enthusiasts go.
We’re in a bit of a holding pattern with some pretty toxic air quality. The ocean is only about 20 yards from my bed right now, yet I can just barely make out the second row of waves crashing to the shore. And even though what we’re breathing is only half as bad as Portland - currently boasting world victor for worst air - my lungs ache, and Oscar’s complaining that his throat is burning. Remmi’s eyes look like he’s been smoking spliffs in the basement all weekend while his parents were out of town, and I think P-noch might be dying. By way of murder. For keeping me up all night with his asthmatic wheezing.
Everyone we’ve shared this trip with so far has been impacted by wildfires. Matt and Ed Junior (Northern California) are preparing the farm for evacuation. Shannon and Maddy (Southern Oregon) have been without power or internet while their neighboring towns burn down, like, ALL THE WAY DOWN. Our Eastern Washington family who we started this trip with have all been evacuated from their home, including all their horses. My brother, nephew and JJ remain stationed back home where the air is thick with ominous smoke and the suburbs just to the south get systematically evacuated while fires continue to burn a direct path towards Portland.
Somehow, in my entire life’s career steeped in worry, I never expected an occasion to arise where I would need to consider my or my community and loved ones' homes burning down, in the Pacific Northwest, where, as the saying goes: “It only rains once a year… It just lasts for six months straight.”
I mean, sure, there was that whole episode of This Is Us that got me thinking a bit about it, but it wasn’t anything that a short trip to the Goodwill with my wayward crockpot riding shotgun couldn't settle. This is a new one for me, that’s saying something.
As a teenager I would bring myself to the point of tears simply worrying about my dad. Life was good, dad was healthy, but even the passing thought of him not being around anymore for whatever reason felt like something raw and insufferable lurching upwards from my gut with such force I imagined could leave a bruise.
When a life rigged with worry first begins stirring inside and taking hold, it might start with things along the more selfish variety, gateway worries if you will, like getting fired from a job, maybe a pregnancy scare or two.
As time goes by and worries begin to mature, they grow smarter, drawing from life experiences and mutating into what will become a good life coated in bursts of anxiety ridden meltdowns. Earthquakes, illness, loss, the list goes on. By the time you get to a particular age and stage of life you’ve discovered plenty of things to worry yourself about over the years, and might keep them neatly filed away in a mental Rolodex, waiting there to reference whenever the mood strikes.
But I’ve also learned that worry unto itself is highly suggestible. Sometimes, if you dangle a shiny thing in front of it, it will get distracted and let go of it’s grasp for a spell. Some people find that meditation and prayer help, some insist it’s all about proper diet and exercise. I happen to buy into all of these theories, and yet, still, when one finds themselves trapped inside a tin can on wheels with three dudes in the midst of a natural disaster, we might find our shiny things in the forms of a bottle of whiskey and binge watching Cobra Kai on Netflix all day.
