CAMP LASSEN – BLAST FROM THE PAST III

 episode 3 in a weekend with extended family

 As coincidence would have it, on the evening of that very distressing day when the final decree for divorce from my first marriage was issued, I had been roped into being ‘entertainment’ for a Methodist Church family camp up the hill from Chico. There, I regaled the assembled with my impressions of Jimmy Stewart [everyone can do impressions of Jimmy Stewart] and my strumming of the ukulele [anyone can strum a uke; most are smart enough not to.] I don’t imagine that I was particularly entertaining. At some point, the minister asked the typical how’s it goin’ question, and man of God that he was, I gave an honest answer. Probably unexpected.

 Fast forward a few years and I am marrying the good reverend’s daughter at that very camp.

 

 

Thirty-eight years later, almost to the day, said bride, my dear Candace, and I are returning from a Lake Almanor family weekend. We’d chosen to travel the scenic Deer Creek Highway and were doing so when she suggested we take a detour into Butte Meadows and then up the gravel road to the Boy Scout Camp where it all began.  

 

The place had aged and the spirit seemed muted as the parcel was dotted with No Trespassing signs nailed to yellow pines, cedars and fence posts. A stroll through romance and memories would be out of the question this day. We turned around at the gate, but after a couple of hundred yards, the urge was too great. Parking by the side of the road, we hiked back to the gate and entered the property. Just this side of the three flagpoles on the edge of the Chico Meadows greenery, I hailed a young man. “Permission to come aboard,” I hollered. 

 The fellow may not have understood the reference, but he did kindly shepherd us to the grand old lodge fashioned of huge logs and timbers where we were graciously welcomed and – there being no young campers on site yet – invited to explore around a bit.

 Camp Lassen was established in 1933. (I’d always thought the main building was a product of the WPA.)  Sometime during the 1950s, a young camper named Billy Bernard attended, paddled an aluminum canoe in the pond, sipped water from pipe at the far end of the meadow – that spring being the source of Chico Creek – and located arrowheads crafted from flint and obsidian. 

In 1986, thirty years later and now the Superintendent of the Jamestown (Tuolumne County) School District where I would enjoy my first administrative placement, ‘William’ Bernard took the children of those attending out to find arrowheads and splash in the pond.

 

Out back of the lodge stands the staff cabin, suited for those who’d be living in Chico Meadows for a summer rather than simply a week.  

 

There, some miscreant attending our nuptials found it entertaining to stuff the wedding bedstead with pinecones and needles and a grotesque sculpted clay fish head. Something about which is still laughable.

 

 

Candi is the individual within our coupling that always wants to see what’s around the next bend. Time after time, she’s encouraged us to travel just a bit farther or explore just a bit more or edge across a line I might otherwise turn from. This was the case at Camp Lassen this year: 38 years later.  

 

I’m so glad she did because we were informed that the Lassen Area Scouting Council is putting the property up for sale. With Scouting in 21^st century decline, one wonders where the future Billy Bernards of the world will find their first arrowheads.

 

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press

FIELD NOTES FROM FIVE DAYS ON THE MOTO GUZZI

 …back in the saddle again… 

It was the multi-day motorcycle tour I absolutely needed to have.  A trip to my favored old stompin’ grounds up north would rekindle my distance riding spirit but highballing on the I-5 freeway is not the best use of an Italian masterpiece such as the Guzzi.  Still, when one crests that hill on the four-lane some thirty-plus miles north of Redding and sees the welcoming arms of Mount Shasta – the Queen of the Southern Cascades – the breakneck pace of the interstate seems worth it.  A few moments off the bike to take in the view is in order.  

Shasta would be riding on my shoulder for much of the week’s adventure.  (Four days later, I would be gazing at her when my cell phone pinged to alert me about a highly anticipated jury verdict.  I’ll always know the answer to the question “Where were you when you heard about…” It’ll be Mount Shasta.)

 

 

Whenever possible, I overnight in McCloud at the historic McCloud Hotel.  Brother Randy from the Pacific Northwest and I meet up there for a stroll around the business district and the company town housing. 

Always a delight to see what some folks have done to dress up some of the vintage company town homes of eighty to hundred years back.  Dinner is usually at the Sage Restaurant at the hotel and sleep is comfortable, relaxing as the old place fills dreams with the sounds of the creaking floor joists and the musty aroma of history.

 Sadly, the Sage Restaurant was unable to open for dinner dining this year for lack of staffing.  We were looking forward to a nice bottle of wine and a perfectly cooked filet.  Breakfast, however, was nicely turned out, setting up a pleasant second day on the road.

 

The Volcanic Legacy highway crosses Lake Britton near the train trestle from that frightening scene in the movie “Stand by Me” and leads us to Burney Falls State Park. 

The entrance station ranger offered to let me in for free if I’d allow him to take a spin on the Guzzi. He’d recently given up riding his Gold Wing.  I handed him my key but, ultimately, he shrugged and soon I was out nine bucks.  I couldn’t help but admire his giddy appreciation for the Guzzi.

 

 There’s a glorious rest stop / scenic overlook just off State Route 44 east of Old Station.  Situated halfway between Shasta and Lassen, it is always a go to.  Both summits seem close almost enough to touch.

This day, two sojourners from Austria were making their way from Mexico to Canada on the Pacific Crest Trail. Brother Randy engaged with them as they shared details of their thus-far adventure.  

My pal talked about his daughter’s semester in Austria and asked the kids to please feel free to call when they made Snoqualmie or Stevens Pass in Washington – still months away for them – tempting the hikers with hot showers, comfortable accommodations, and good food and wine.  I’ve bedded down many a night at Randy’s hostelry when riding up that way and can attest to the quality of the goods and services there offered.  Ahhh… The people you meet on the road.  Hopefully the couple will take advantage.

 

 Our route to Quincy took us along the east shore of Lake Almanor, where I lived for a couple of years when serving at the principal of the local elementary school.  Here, a favorite turnout with a view of Lassen in the distance…

An hour further south we took a side trip to visit the old Paxton Hotel.  That waystop is recounted in a previous post.  https://thechurchoftheopenroad.blogspot.com/2024/06/old-haunt.html

 

 The cozy and rustic VRBO cabin selected outside of Quincy would serve as a good layover spot.  A robust creek serenaded all day and all night.

 

The layover day allowed a trip to Bucks Lake passing the cabin (well, grand chalet) of a childhood chum.  The place looks just as I remember from back in the early 60s.  Well preserved.  Nice work!  Down the road a piece is the dam ~ a spot worthy of a portrait of the bike ~ but what caught my eye was the proliferation of Dogwood blossoms.   

Harbingers of lovely mountain summers and always among my favorites!

 

Afternoon would find me riding solo up the Quincy/LaPorte Highway into snow country with the road only plowed the day before.

Geographers tell us that there is a distinct difference in the geomorphology of Sierra Nevada and the Cascades. That granitic uplift to basaltic outflow shift is somewhere in the Feather River watershed.   

Sucker for a picture of an old steel bridge that I am, this one span crosses the Middle Fork of the Feather.  This might be that place.  If not, there's a nice swimming hole below.

 

Heading north the following day, we pass through the historic northern mine town of Greenville, devastated by the horrendous Dixie Fire of 2021.   

That visit is also shared in a previous post. 

  https://thechurchoftheopenroad.blogspot.com/2024/06/lessons-from-fire-footprint.html

 

 Retracing our steps back to McCloud and beyond, we are reminded that any road taken in the other direction is, essentially, a different ride.  The mountains, the meadows, the forests – all stunning and fresh, leading us to our final night in Dunsmuir.  The little berg nestled along the upper reaches of the Sacramento River is an historic whistle stop on the old California Northern (later Southern Pacific; currently Union Pacific) route. 

Café Maddalena is a favored restaurant there.  I stumbled in several years back to sit at the only seat available and enjoy perhaps the best meal on the road I’d ever had.  The café has become a must-stop treat anytime I’m in that neck of the woods.  

Unfortunately, the economics in this itty-bitty mountain town could not support the business.  Apparently, we were only a week or so late as its doors had closed permanently though the website was still up.  Such a disappointment.  Hopefully Café Maddalena will rise again.  We’ll keep checking back.

 

 Three or four years ago, I thought I’d tired of multi-day tours on the motorcycle.  I gave up a substantial model to downsize, but the urge never fully went away.  Does it ever?  A year ago, I upgraded to this 850cc Moto Guzzi V85tt touring model.  Distinctive and good looking.  Powerful enough.  Light.  And it eats both sweeping curves and twisting ones.  This past week’s ride makes me happy I’ve gotten back in the saddle.

See you on the road. 

 

Footnote

 

Around lunch time on the first day, I rolled into Willows.  In a bit of a rush, I fell back on a habit I’d developed long ago when my between-teaching summers were spent delivering local freight. In fact, that first summer, I earned nearly as much driving truck as I did as a teacher for the year.  Almost made me turn my back on a career in education.  Then one of the old-timers (52 years old) didn’t make it to the dock on Monday.  Died the Saturday before on the sixth green.  Heart failure.

     I was reminded of this as I parked the Moto Guzzi next to a bobtail like the one I’d driven.  Upon receiving my order (two Burrito Supremes and a small soft drink, speaking of asking for heart failure), I spied the driver: a lanky young red headed man with a full beard.  Probably weighed in at about 135 pounds.  As he stuffed his face, I thought, My God!  That was me fifty years ago!

     I ate my lunch and didn’t talk to the kid but about five miles up the freeway it occurred to me that I might have suggested: “The money is good right now, but the lifespan is short. Go for big dreams.”  But I didn’t.  

     The least I could have done was offer to pay for his taco.

 

 

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press

LESSONS FROM A FIRE FOOTPRINT

 …second in a series from a long-put-off road trip

 

Northern California has always been my home.  For seventy-plus years my favorite places on earth always seem to be here.  The Covered Bridge on Butte Creek near Chico [page 81*], an out of town spot I’d pedaled to as a kid; Simpson Camp [page 186], a sheep herder’s outpost up toward Mendocino Pass; Mount Harkness [page 101], the Lassen Park promontory once staffed by Ed Abby: all hold memories of cool temperatures, fresh air, terrific views and get-away-from-it-all peacefulness.  And all places now visited by fire.  

 

I know this because I often hop on my motorcycle to visit some favored place and rekindle some memories.  Now, each time I straddle the thing, I find myself motoring into mile after mile of burn scar.  There’s no escaping it.

 

 

My riding buddy from Seattle and I met up in McCloud (Siskiyou County) to tour places of remembrance – expecting and enjoying views of Mounts Shasta and Lassen, Lakes Britton and Almanor and bergs Chester, Greenville and Quincy (Plumas County).  Except, Greenville ~ the Greenville I once knew ~ wasn’t there any longer.  The mostly wooden structures of its historic downtown must have gone up like a dried tinder match during 2021’s monstrous Dixie Fire.  I stood inside the foundation of  my once favorite café to snap a picture of the burned out hulk of the old Indian Valley Bank.

 

The Dixie Fire originated more than forty miles away in the depths of the Feather River Canyon. Pushed by gale-force winds, it spread east and north through forest and meadow and summer home tract and town consuming everything but memories. Up the road from Greenville, we stopped to stroll though some Plumas Forest acreage two-plus years removed from the inferno.  Blackened ponderosa pine trees spired toward an azure sky, likely awaiting salvage harvest.  But beneath the skeletons grew grasses, lupine, mule’s ears, even ferns. Life was returning.

 

 

This was reassuring because one can’t drive too far from wherever they live in almost any direction and not drive through burn scar.  Evidence is plentiful and bigger than ever.

 

Climate is naturally dynamic and ever-changing, but the boost mankind has provided over the last century-and-a-half is not a positive thing.  This I give passing thought to as I motor around Northern California on my fossil fuel powered, internal combustion motivated Moto Guzzi motorbike – and having a fine time – putting off until another day the uncomfortable conversation we all must eventually have with ourselves.

--- 

* Not to oversell the yet-to-be New York Times best seller Eden, Indeed: Tales, Truths and Fabrications of a Small Town Boy, but the page numbers noted above refer to specific tales from the collection.

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press

OLD HAUNT

 …first in a series of stories from a recent road trip

My pal and I powered up the roughly paved road to the Paxton Hotel about mid-afternoon.  It would be my first real visit in about 65 years.  Or would it be a visit at all?

         As we set our Moto Guzzis on their side stands, a furious looking someone steamed in our direction from a nearby cabin.  

         “Just the man I was lookin’ for,” I said before he could utter a word.

         “Huh?”

         “Yeah.  You run this place?” I asked.

         “Security and stuff,” he said.  “Who wants to know?”

         I’d unzipped my bike’s tail pack and slipped out a copy Eden, Indeed: Tales, Truths and Fabrications of a Small Town Boy.  [Available by special order through your neighborhood independent bookseller – or through that online company that starts with an A.]  “Here,” I said.

         Whatever steam he had boiled up began to dissipate.  “What’s this?

         “A book I wrote about growing up in Chico. There’s a story in there [starting on page 48] about the time Dad stopped in here for a beer ‘cause he was tired of hearin’ me and my brother squabble in the back seat of the car.”  

         Security and Stuff crimped an eye and began thumbing through pages.

         “The barkeep served up Dad’s beer and then scared the crap out of me with a story about a ghost woman who sat in a rocking chair all night.”

         The man grinned.  “That rocker’s right there on the porch.” He pointed.  “Go take a look.”  

         I climbed up the stairs and snapped a picture or two.  Frankly, the chair didn’t look exactly like or old enough to be the one in question, but I’d been seven at the time of my other visit and memories can be fuzzy.  

         “Would you like to see what they’ve done to the place?”  I wondered who ‘they’ was and how many ‘theys’ there’d been in the past six decades.

         The entrance was not as I remembered.  No shaft of light illuminated a tired wooden floor or tattered rug when he opened the door.  I didn’t see the upright piano or the moth-eaten American flag.  The filmy curtains were gone and the windows seemed to close, which they didn’t do before.  It seems a lot of work had been done and redone to freshen things up.  The bar was polished and clean – no cigarette butts filled ashtrays – and the kitchen looked commercial and modern.  

         “If you’ve got a minute, I’ll show you the widow’s watch.  You wanna see it?”

         “Sure!”  

         I was expecting to head upstairs, but instead squeezed through a narrow portal and clumped down a darkened set of stairs.  The walls had no interior plaster or sheathing, just rough two-by-fours with light slipping through cracks in the exterior planking.  The air smelled of dust and mildew aged a century or more.  

         As we clambered down, he explained: “Sorry to be so gruff up there.  This is private property and I just ran off five guys and a gal who seemed pretty high on something.  Didn’t understand the term private.  Got into quite an argument.  Made me kinda edgy.  Sheriff can’t respond too quickly in this neck of the canyon.  Distance and all.”

         We pushed through a narrow passage with a grubby, littered floor with poor footing.  Opening a door that he must have located by feel alone he said, “Here’s where they found that rocking chair.”  Then he pointed at a pair of windows that didn’t quite close.  “That’s where she was lookin’ out.”

         I stepped around a weary settee that might have survived a trip around the horn and peered through the dusty, wrinkled glass.  “You can’t see the tracks from here.  Aren’t they up the hill?”

         “Yeah. It doesn’t make sense, does it?  But this is where they say they found what they think was the old gal’s chair.”  I again wondered about ‘they.’  

         He opened a door and now sunlight flooded in.  We stepped outside finding ourselves at the basement of the grand old building.  The Feather River rushed by in the ravine a hundred or so feet below us, its current offering an age-old whisper.  Although we could see Highway 70, the old Western Pacific Line was nowhere in sight.

         He thumbed through the book.  “So you grew up in Chico?”

         “Yep.”

         “So did I.  Chico High.  Class of ’79.”  He offered a bit more bio.  Father was a lawyer.  He, himself, flew fixed wing transport until he retired a few years back and moved home.  Came to do this for lack of anything better.  Enjoyed the place and the job; not so much having to run folks off.

 

The Paxton Hotel is now used for special occasions like weddings and such.  Rooms aren’t available to passers-through, but we were told we could stop by any time.

         As my pal and I puttered down the road back to the highway, I wasn’t sure I’d seen the actual chair – at least it wasn’t the one I remembered – or visited the actual window where the ghost lady would rock at midnight “Waitin’, just waitin’ for her true love to return.”  

         But I was sure I’d visited an old haunt.

 

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press

THE LOANER

 Think peanut M&Ms

 Well, nuts!  A manufacturing defect in the gas tank of my wonderful Moto Guzzi V85tt has placed the machine in sick bay for “four to six weeks” while a replacement is shipped from Piaggio’s historic plant in Mandello del Lario, Italy.  Sounds as if it’ll be coming on a slow boat.  

     My local Guzzi dealer, Sonoma EuroCycle had suffered from a rather checkered past of poor customer orientation, but recently experienced a near 100% overhaul in staff.  The new folks seem to be enthusiasts rather than place holders. That’s good.  Because Guzzi needs good dealers and the Guzzi product line is not the only brand Euro carries.  Flagship for them is BMW.  Elegant and pricy, but with a reputation for solid engineering, Beemers may be the marque that draws most folks to the shop.  But they also carry the Aprilia line of racing hot rod bikes; the gorgeous new line of Moto Morini, an Italian brand now built in the Far East; Zero, a tantalizing electric lineup; Vespa, (think ‘Roman Holiday’) another Piaggio brand just acquired when the long time Santa Rosa dealer retired; and a make called Royal Enfield.  

Royal Enfield is among the oldest continuously manufactured motorcycle brands on the planet.  Established in 1901 in England, long about the mid-fifties the manufacturing moved to India where, for decades, they produced small displacement scoots for the low-wage populous. In the recent past, with the vision of some Brits, the company has upped its game.  Intent on becoming a world player in the mid-displacement motorcycle market, they began producing bikes that mimicked their WWII line-up, improving build quality, and creating a reputation for durability. Not long ago, Enfields were re-introduced to the USA market.  Starting with 350 cc singles and a dual sport with a bit larger mill, they recently added some 650 twins quite reminiscent of the glory days of British motorcycles (think Triumph, BSA, Norton). The new Royal Enfield 650s are lookers.

     The 411cc Himalayan is not. Built to tackle India’s least forgiving roads, the thing is about as attractive as a stray cat that’s been on the losing end of a few dark alley encounters.  That said, five years ago, I rented a ‘Himi’ and drove it over the vaunted Bear Tooth Pass between Wyoming and Montana ~ the back door to Yellowstone.  I recalled it not being fast but full of character.  In forty years of riding, the experience that day climbing the twisting curves to summit among legions of Harleys and Gold Wings and pocket rockets still ranks as one of the best ever.  What a hoot! They had nuttin’ on me!  

That adventure is recounted here:  

 https://thechurchoftheopenroad.blogspot.com/2019/08/summiting-beartooth-pass-on-royal.html  

 

Backed into the curb in front of the dealership was a lineup of perhaps two dozen new and slightly used motorbikes. In that lineup were a couple of year-old but brand new Royal Enfield Himalayans.  As I waited for the diagnosis on mine, I spotted the red and black machine. I even sat on it. Big mistake! Immediately, I was again crossing Bear Tooth Pass on that perfect day.

     “Anything else?” the service guy asked as he tapped me on the shoulder and delivered the bad news about my gas tank.

     “Yeah,” I said, “How much is this one?”

     Immediately the sales guy appeared.

     The Himi came out the door for much less than its retail price of a year ago.  Riding home on it, I thought about those times when you’re at the checkout counter at the grocery store and, at the last minute, you pick up a bag of peanut M&Ms.  This was sorta like that.

 

I must admit that I misspelled “Loaner” at the top of this piece. Motorcycle dealers don’t offer long term loaners to their customer.  Sheesh! Everybody knows that! It should read “Loner” for the guy who will soon be sleeping in the garage with his two motorcycles once the Guzzi is back.  

     That said, I can’t wait to find several local examples of Bear Tooth Pass here in my Sonoma County – Northern California back yard.

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press

BAITED BY A BUZZARD

 Sorry, No Photo of the Incident…

 

A good day’s ride on a motorcycle should include at least one breath-taking moment or heart stopping view.  (Note to reader: According to my doctor, I’m ‘spozed to be consistently wearing a heart monitor for thirty days, but I knew I’d be off the grid for a spell.)

 

 

The road from State Route 20 to Leesville and Lodoga is rarely taken by civilized man.  Civilized ranchers, yes, but few others.  The route traces the eastern edge of the Coast Range in Colusa County, winding through expansive pastures and past elegant aging barns from a century or so back. (Jerry Brown, I’m told, now lives out this way.)  I’d last taken this crusty road in a nearly new 1991 Jeep Wrangler so how many years ago might that have been?

       

Straddling the Moto Guzzi, I motored and bounced up a steep section of roadway – more pothole than pavement – twisting up the north end of a lovely rangeland valley.  Around each turn the view became more magnificent in either direction.  To the south, that springtime green valley on the cusp of turning golden.  To the north and west, the still white-encrusted peaks of the Snow Mountain wilderness area. Narrow, with blind turn after blind turn, there was no place to stop for a “Shot of the Day.” 

         

I reached the summit where the road turned from what they called pavement to a graded dirt and gravel affair that was much easier to negotiate on the motorcycle.  I relaxed my grip on the grips just a bit.  Just as the prior miles were upward twisting, these corkscrewed downward.  To my right, the hillside was steep, covered with tight thickets of chamise and scrub oak.  To the left, the hill was equally precipitous.  I’m sure there was a seasonal creek at the bottom, but it was too far down to see, if I’d hazarded to take a glance off the road.

         

Rounding a bend, something stirred to my right.  Something big.  I gently touched the brakes when that something burst out of the underbrush.  A buzzard.  A turkey vulture.  Perhaps the grandpappy of all turkey vultures, undoubtedly annoyed about my interruption of his lunch.  Liftoff for this winged behemoth would prove to be a struggle. The massive scavenger slipped below the level of my windshield.  Wings pumping, it couldn’t seem to rise above the brush on either side.  His route was the same as mine.  Dirt road conditions as they were, my speed was cautious. The buzzard’s?  Slower.  

I was gaining on him.  From about three feet behind I could see the gray undersides of his wings, count the feathers that looked like disjointed fingers at the end of those wings and I could even make out the needle-like talons on his red-stockinged feet.  I may have followed him for fifty yards on that pebbly route at one point thinking, if I just goose the throttle a bit, I bet I can probably grab that fella and… But ‘goosing the throttle’ would likely send me off the edge, plummeting into the abyss to come a cropper where my cell phone wouldn’t connect. And there I would lie, squashed beneath the Guzzi, waiting to become the big guy’s next meal.  

Of this, I think the vulture was aware.

 

In perhaps fifteen seconds, the big bird rose out of reach, tipped his wings slightly to catch the updraft out over the canyon and drifted away.  

 

 

I’m not sure what that heart monitor might have recorded, but it woulda been something interesting to explain to the doc.

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press

"Are You Okay?"

a Saturday morning chat

 

“Are you okay?”  Those were the first words I uttered as I approached the ragtag tent erected next to the creek in our old folks’ community green space.

         “Yes.”  The voice was that of a woman.

         All I could see of the person was the Vibram sole of a boot and a portion of her pantleg.  There were some dishes or something clustered next to where she sat.  “Do you need anything?”

         “No.”

         “You sure?”

         “I’m sure."

         I had been alerted to the presence of this camper while engaged in my daily forty-minute exercise route on my bicycle.  Seems I need to strengthen a game knee and riding the stationary bike in the community gym lacks both fresh air and scenery.  Pedaling, a woman I know had just been walking her pup on the paved trail that traces the creek.  “You know the little park down the way?”

         I nodded.

         “Well, just across the path, next to the creek,” she began whispering, “there’s a homeless person in a tent.  What should we do?”

         “I’ll check it out.”

         It was a lovely spring Saturday morning.  First time in weeks warm enough to wear shorts while riding the bicycle.  I pushed it down the path ~ No Bicycles on the Walking Path! ~ and, sure enough, came across the tent, draped with a brown plastic tarp, tucked behind some bushes next to the whispering waterway.  A perfect place to camp, I thought, except it was on privately held property, and some in the ‘hood can be pretty grumpy about homeless people setting up camp in our greenspace.  This, I felt, I needed to share.

         “I’m not a grumpy person, but you may find there are some pretty grumpy old folks living in the neighborhood here and I really don’t want you to get busted.”

         “I’m getting ready to leave.”

         “Okay.  You sure you don’t need anything?”

         Muted: “I’m sure.”

         I finished my exercise ride and upon returning home, emailed the neighbor who’d expressed the concern, relating my interaction.  Adding, “…there but for the grace of God…” perhaps unnecessarily.  But it was my thought.

 

 

About three years ago, I volunteered to help with my little town’s homeless census. That’s an annual event where someone like me is teamed up with an unhoused individual – an individual who knows where the best camping places are.  We volunteers were given explicit instructions about how to do the count and asked not to interact with those living in tents, cars or busted down motorhomes.  

         My guide had been homeless for quite a period of time.  As we visited, he explained: “I had a pickup truck and two lawn mowers and an edger.  I did yard work, trimming and mowing and stuff for about 20 clients a week.  I even paid a guy to help me out in the summer.”  We drove up a winding road toward the lake past a large house on acreage.  “That was one of my places,” he said, his voice emoting a degree of pride.  “When the drought hit, I lost some customers and I had to let my helper go.  Then, my landlord raised the rent.  I don’t blame him though.  It’s his place and I could make ends meet pretty good.”  There was a pause.  Then, as if it were a lyric from a country-western song, he continued: “Then my truck broke down and I couldn’t pay to get it fixed and cover the rent.  The wife figured she could take my boy and move down to Monterey and crash with her folks for a while, save me some money on groceries.  But with my truck broke, I couldn’t get out to my clients, and well…”

         I recalled that a long-time city council person said in the midst of a heated debate about the unhoused: “You know, we’re all just four flat tires from bein’ homeless ourselves.”

 

 

I let an hour-and-a-half elapse and then drove over to the trail to check on the campers.  The tent was down, folded and tied onto a bicycle trailer hooked to a decrepit mountain bike.  The woman was seated, backed into the bushes.  A man was standing next to the bike.

         “Hi ho,” I said.  “I came by earlier and I thought I’d check back to see if you needed anything.”

         She looked at me and kind of tipped her head. “No,” she said.  “Thank you.”  Then she commented on the t-shirt I was wearing.  Printed on it were Adam Schiff’s final words during the House of Representatives first impeachment hearings of a former President:  Right Matters.  Truth Matters.  Decency Matters.  “I like your shirt.”

         “Yeah, well,” I said, “Some days it seems like we don’t have enough of that, doesn’t it?”

         This spawned a conversation about kindness, values, fairness, economics ~ economics! ~ and what a lovely place this was to camp.

         The man chimed in: “Sonoma County is just absolutely beautiful.  I don’t think there are any bad places in Sonoma County.”

         “ ‘The chosen place on all the earth’,” she said.  “Wasn’t that Luther Burbank?”

         “Yep,” I said, “but I think folks’ll get pretty grumpy about you all camping here.”  I pointed to a neat pile of wrappers and cans in the footprint of where the tent had been.  “You need help with that?” 

         “I don’t have a paper bag…”

         The man pulled a dirty t-shirt from his pack and fixed to wrapping the detritus in it.

         The lady and I continued to visit, agreeing that the world was a wonderful place but that it was full of problems and issues.  “Growing up in Berkeley, my Dad often griped about how the world was going to pieces, and it wasn’t like it is now.”

         I nodded. “You know, my Dad said the same thing.  I’ll bet my kids will tell their kids about me having the same thoughts as my old man.”

         We laughed together, ultimately wishing each a fine spring day.

         Heading back to the car, I realized that I’d seen this woman before, at the town plaza, hanging out with a few others.  I vowed that the next time I saw her, I’d sit down for a bit and extend our visit ~ our understanding of one another.

 

 

A dusk approached that evening, I packed some gloves and a paper bag and traipsed back over to the campsite.  The tiny pile of litter was gone.

 

Related Resource:  Poverty, By America, Matthew Desmond, Crown Publishing 2023. $20. [Wow!  The problem's us!]

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press