I manage to get all of my stuff in the car first. Then sit in the drivers seat sulking while her engine warms. An odd trio loads up into the truck beside me. Heavy set older lady faded from the desert Sun and two unbelievably rotund men. One dusty black one sun pinked white. Bellies peeking beneath t-shirts. They seem well rested and are chattering to each other with thick accents. Seems they had a big win last night in some casino. They make it sound like a good haul but nothing special. Pit bulldog running in circles in the flat bed. Chasing his tail and laughing. Reno was good to someone last night. Trevor and Jim finally clamber in and we make a hasty departure. Quick get gas first.

There was a customer at the gas station who was all a smiling at me. He had a green and silver type military jacket. I pegged him for an astronaut. Getting his morning coffee he would be headed to the Moon by lunch. Curious fellow. In retrospect like an Angel sent to throw a smile into the otherwise machinery of morning. As if to say "don't you fret now." Ok. Buy a complex map of California. We will be losing the highway presently and taking back roads to the coast. With any luck we will make it to Kathryn's tonight. Trevor's cousin who we are really on a pilgrimage to find.

Back in the car and up on the highway. Tension in the car is thick. I am exhausted and tired of rushing. Jim is in a world of his own. Trevor senses my tension and is silent. The clearest Sky and warm dry summer air and I am no fun this morning. It gets worse.

A great blue and gold sign ahead to the right says Welcome To California. What we have waited and suffered for. But so agitated are we three that we hardly notice it. Nobody speaks. I am thinking to myself that this is absolutely not the way to start off in California. The car agrees.

The volt meter which should read about twelve or thirteen is suddenly at eight. I can hear the drag in the engine.

"Um, Houston?" I ask, the astronaut Angel speaking through me, "we have a problem."

All eyes front. We are about to break down. Oh my God. I have traveled across America thrice now and never a breakdown. But here it is. And it is no wonder to me because the car can't be any less aggravated than we. No Further she says. There is nothing behind us but Sage and blue Sky and hills. Nothing ahead. I will pull over just beyond this rise. In the middle of nowhere. We are even Steven with fear us three. Look just over the hill what looks like a toll booth.

The car pleads with me to pull off. So I do. Not fifty feet from a small building and two drive through stops. Official khaki uniforms on what look like police officers. What the hell?

The booth is a fruit and vegetable inspection stop. Must check bananas for spiders. Do you have any fruit I can hear the man ask. They smile in our direction.

What to do?

Us three under the hood find nothing. Try it again. Nothing. A white haired man stops his car and comes over to help. Tan old retired fellar. His moustache is oiled and coiled in loops above his mouth. "Try an scratch yer contacts" he advises. We do. No luck. "When I get home from the garage those boys always put so much darn grease on my battery. I always clean it off." There is no grease on our battery but I joke all summer about this. It's all that damn grease on my contacts. He is nice but of no real assistance. Loses interest in us.

Ok. So here's the deal.

"I feel like we are rushing to get there. We rush to bed and rush out and I need some rest for this kind of driving you know and I know you guys are sick of being in the car but me too. Ok? And you two need to start talking to each other. Jimmy you've been sort of in a world of your own since the get go. You don't even notice that Trevor hasn't said boo to you since Colorado. And Trevor you need to talk to Jim. Cept to bum cigs. I can't be the go between. Listen, I know that I can be a jerk. I can be no fun and I'm sorry. But we gotta break the tension here or Julia (my car) won't play nice. This is why we broke down, you know." They know. Both glad that I admit to being a jerk. They nod and we all feel a little better. Even in the face of car-lessness. This is as bad as it will ever get. Not that bad. So Ok. I'm going to make a few calls.

The Inspection Station man is six foot four. Big teeth and head to match he has deep smile lines and uses them in my direction.

"Broke down?" smiling.

I am nice back but frightened. So close to our destination.

"Sure, there's a phone in the station there. You calling Triple A?" he leads me to the little building. "I got a bunch of numbers here." He really wants to help. Let him.

The guy sets me up and leaves me with the phone. First call I make is to my mechanic at home. What the hell is wrong with my car?

"Can't be the alternator" he says. "doesn't sound like it anyway."

But he doesn't know for sure. Call a tow truck. And how about this curious little bit.

"Sir, what town are you calling from?" drones the uninterested tow truck dispatcher.

I don't know. Lean out the booth and hey where are we anyway?

The big booth attendant looks as though it had never occurred to him. Turns about to look at the hill. "Well," he yells across the street to me "there isn't no name for where we are. First legal town is just up ahead. Nevada line is two miles back." He grins. "Your pretty much nowhere fella."

Perfect. We have broken down literally in the middle of nowhere. I am amused but the dispatcher is not. She finally figures it out. Produce Inspection Station. They will be here in about an hour. This is all I can do.

While chatting on the phone I see Jim and Trevor talking beside the car. They are smiling. I am glad of it. Glad of the breakdown because the tension turned into fear and was diffused by Sunlight. Fuck it. Have fun. "Ok, tow will be here in a few." I announce. Nods.

A grey and beat looking Volkswagen pulls up. New Hampshire plates. Farther than us. Two real scruffy looking dudes with too much package grumble up to the inspection point and then beyond. So jealous though I shouldn't be. Who knows what they suffered in Kansas?

Jim spots a snake. "Lookit." It is gold with black markings and huge. Slides away soundlessly beneath the Sage. Real Sage. The kind that smells. And all around us. We give each other the eye. Snake hunt. Ooh to see a Rattler.

So we creep around in the sand and Sage for a while in the hot noon Sun. Trevor reads and watches cars go by. The fella with the oiled mustache yells to us "you shouldn't be out there. Snakes." We know. That's why we're over here. We're just stupid Yankees though and ignore his warning. The tow truck arrives.

Much shorter but with the same glean in his eye as the inspection man, Adam is our tow truck driver. One of the five friendliest men I have ever met. Huge blue eyes and what else but blonde Calirornia hair. He looks at the engine, shrugs and tells me that there are garages in Reno. So let's load up.

It's good to see the car move if only onto the tow truck. Small cabin for four.

"Hey ah, can I ride in back? In the car?" asks Jim.

Sure says Adam. So he climbs in. Julia at a forty five degree angle like she is climbing another mountain. Close those doors. Trev and I in the front. Adam turns it around and we are going back the way we came.

I have had phenomenal luck in this lifetime with tow trucks. Always glad to see their lumbering shape approach. Like the ambulance for a sick friend and please hurry. My magic card allows me four free tows per year. This has been the case for over ten years. Ever year I use all four.

"You know any Subaru garages in Reno?" Adam asks me with direct eye contact. What an honest soul. How the hell would I know a garage in Reno?

"Nope." I say. "Probably plenty though, it's a popular used import." I don't know what I am talking about. Reno scares me. I don't want to get robbed by some desert mechanic only too happy to rip me of. Try to be optimistic.

"You know", Adam thinks aloud "I know a guy just down the road here in Bordertown. Might be able to help." My God I hope so.

Bordertown is so small we never saw it. Aptly named. Really a truck stop and them some. The Welcome To California sign passes us by on the left. Clicking it's tounge at us.

Not minutes later he pulls in to a big gas station in the Sun. Adam hops out to approach the mechanic. Jim Dove climbs out of the car.

"Wow" he says. "Once we got rolling it occurred to me – no power – no power windows no air. Gets pretty warm in there." He smiles. Good thing for him we only went about six miles. Oh to have seen the look on his face when it went from how cool is this to Oh No. Click click no windows.

Dane is the man's name. Fifty plus years and great posture. Sun browned skin and short white hair. Glasses. Under the hood not three minutes and shaking his head now.

"Your alternator" he says.

For sure? Yes for sure. He hooks some equipment to the battery to prove it. My poor mechanic back home. Trying to fix my car from three thousand miles. Now what? "Let me just make a phone call," says Dane. "Only take a minute."

Adam the tow truck driver is ready to go. "You folks all set?" he is filing out paperwork. I guess we are all set. I mean why not. Reno is still thirty miles away. Best never to go there again.

The tow was free. One left on my card. Adam earned his wings that day.

"Well", Dane regrets to tell us "I can fix it, only two things."

Oh no. What two things?

"Well, I won't have the part for another hour and a half and it's going to cost. . ." drumroll as we hold our wallets. "About a hundred and sixty." We explode with a sigh. That's nothing. We thought it would be like four hundred. Estupido's. Trevor offers to foot this bill. We are suddenly joyous.

"Ok then. Do it." I say. He is glad. A project for Dane. Meanwhile what do we do?

"Hey," I say to him "those hills back there. Does anyone own them – I mean is there any reason we shouldn't go walking around back there?"

"Rattlesnakes" he says.

"I mean legally is someone going to come throw us out or arrest us?"

"No. Go ahead." He waves his hand. "If you want, you can sleep under that tree over there, nice shady spot." He motions to a flawless green patch of grass beside the gas station. Solemn young oak stands alone with his shadow. I am specifically thrilled over this. You see, in Kerouac's On The Road he sleeps beneath a tree at a gas station in Denver. The attendant suggests it. And that always stuck in my head because I dare you to try that these days. You will get arrested for vagrancy or thrown out by the owner or bit by his dog. And just to prove me wrong, Dane suggests we nap beneath his oakling. Thank you.

But the word Rattlesnakes had too much effect. We want to walk in the Sage while we can. A few hours he says. We are suddenly fourteen years old. Whip off my shirt and tie it around my waist. Sun is hot like pressure.

Behind the station there is a stretch of Sage for about three miles. Beyond that a mountain rises up dark and green. A small dirt road leads off into the mountain's belly. Wooden sign post above the road. Train tracks at our feet running North South. White puffs of cloud like smoke signals. Best to go straight into the thicket. Follow me. Where are those rattlesnakes?

I have never seen a rattlesnake in the wild. Crossing America I told Trevor that I wanted to catch one and kiss it on it's meaty head. Then fling it away. Ha ha you won't bite me. Or maybe it would bite me. In which case I tell Trevor, I will bite it back. Then fling it away. Never Kill A Snake.

We cross the tracks and down the road a bit and then straight into the Sage. Breast high in some places. It's that kind of hiking with fear that we did in Colorado. Like I once did in Idaho in similar Sage. Your mind shuts off and you are twice as alert as usual. Fear does this. A wild pig or sleeping coyote could be waiting just behind that bush. Or a scorpion or rattlesnake. Maybe though I doubt it my Bear. Critters than can kill a man. Not like New England all squirrels and opossums and occasional foxes.

We are silent in our walk out of wonder. Like a side mission we were thrown into. One minute we are sulking by the paralyzed car the next we are hunting rattlers. No snakes yet. Ahead a creek makes a small canyon for us to climb down into.

I am always alert to flowers. They catch my eye I cannot help it. Long green skinned stems and small yellow clusters atop. Or silvery triangles spreading flat to the earth. Decadant white blossoms. Lizards race away from us into black holes. Little creek almost gone dry. Bird nests in the canyon walls. Turn about. Down the stream and climb up the soft dirt sides. Back toward the road we find a mess of old railroad ties. Brown and faded posts rotting in a heap. We slowly lift them one side at a time. Sure to be rattlers. Dust and the quick flash of a sleeping lizard. Oops we destroyed his home. Mary would be mad. Shame on us but no rattlesnakes.

Back to the tracks. Here the precious Sage which smells so lovely is boasting purple flowers up their spines. Too beautiful on the eyes and nose. Look back down that dirt road into the mountain. One lone tumbleweed breaks from the crowd and dances down the road for us. It is a scene from a movie.

Dane is almost finished. Now what. A quick bite to eat in the greasy spoon next door.

When thinking of the road during cold winter months I think of dinners. I imagine a red and silver stool that swivels. Gold and white flecked formica bar. Dust clouds outside in the hot afternoon Sun as the Trucks shudder to a stop. Truckers with one hand on their coffee and the other holding a bent newspaper. Crumpled cowboy hats and greasy baseball caps. Tall hair on the waitress behind the counter. Jeans and Sunshine and the highway just outside. And the same menu since nineteen fifty two. Like a part of America preserved in amber forever. Images that leap to my minds eye in cold winter when the Snow falls to silence.

The little dinner next door is part diner part casino. A requisite for Nevada. Nickel slots and a bar. Tan desert townies nursing their medicine at one o'clock in the afternoon. Across the room an actual restaurant. Please wait here to be seated.

The waitress is in her forties. Her hair is jet black and drawn into perfect braids down her back. Almost to her waistline. Her skin is taught and brown. Red cheeks like an old advertisement. She looks exactly half cowboy half Indian. Her age shows but you can see the girl of fifteen in her eyes. Magic dry air. She is just as sweet as you please seats us in the back. I as you know will have eggs over easy and homefries and toast. Wheat or white or sourdough? Sourdough of course. With butter. My God. And grits. Gravy with that? Sure. Coffee right away and more to come. Jimmy has a roast beef sandwich and cole slaw and inhales it. Trevor has a thick turkey sandwich on a roll. Half way through he is stuffed. The waitress asks him if he is almost done with that sweetie. He blushes and says yes. We all shine inside. Those were the best eggs I ever had. The day has changed dramatically.

Jim and I hit the nickel slots and surprisingly make a few dollars. The cheery clamber of nickels in the bin is a fine cap to our visit in Bordertown. Trevor comes in to say that Dane is finished.

The new alternator is gold and shiny. Like a Sacred Organ. The car revs to life with zeal. Dane smiles. Sorry to take our money though. Not really. Trevor slips me the cash and I pay the man inside. Dane's partner behind the counter is silent. Greasy black hair and glasses. Mid forties and hefty. Pink burn from this morning's razor. Looks on lifelessly. Dane gives me a card. "If anything should go wrong," he instructs "call me. Numbers right here." Yes sir I smile though I hope I never have to. Tuck the card away. The boys are in the car.

We are in a parallel universe. A different world from this morning. I have never been so glad to be rolling in my car. Ahead the blue and gold sign smiles at us. Welcome it says to California. We all scream like an Apache war party. Finally here. Just two miles ahead we return to the scene of the crime. Produce Inspection Station. The Sun has changed and a Woman now. Big guy has gone home. Do we have any grapes? No. Bannanas? Nope. The afternoon is hot as she glances at our belongings suspiciously and finally waves us through into the otherworld. Also known as California.

I had never as far as I can recall had a specific desire to go to California. One of those Yankees who believed it would simply fall into the sea the minute I got there. Los Angeles no appeal. We have New York if ever I suffer to drown in Metropolis. Though there were moments as a kid when I thought about stepping off of a bus in Hollywood and becoming an instant movie star. How else to be on Johnny Carson? The only thing that ever really appealed to me about the West coast of our country were the giant trees called Redwoods. And I considered a Pilgrimage to see them to be excessive and romantic. But wouldn't it be something? I can not imagine.

Heading North and the road we are on is a glad one. Hills and small mountains to the left. Between us and them meadows of bright green grasses and flowers swaying. Sky is blue and white swirled. Simply beautiful afternoon in June. And two lanes. This always makes me nervous after a few thousand miles of highway. Afraid I will ease head on into oncoming traffic to pass an old couple. Don't let me drift. We are in fine spirits with Susanville up ahead. There we will turn West again on route 36. Not a highway, this will drop us out on Route 101 just beneath Eureka. Legendary Route 101. Fifty miles from our destination. Hopefully by dark. The colors of summer blur in my mind here. Next thing I knew we were aimed West one last time. Pointed at the little mountains ahead.

A bit about sight.

We tend to think of our eyes as looking out. But in fact they are simply receivers. Atoms and molecules in motion are constantly throwing off waves of vibration. Our eye balls catch these waves and tell our brain what is making them. A green stone over there. A brown dog. A Star. Roses.

So our eyes are constantly soaking up vibrations. See your Ninth grade Science boOk. And with regard to this, by the time this long day finally came to an end, my eyes were full of mountains. And heavy.

Route thirty six. A magical stretch. Two lane and immaculate. Yellow lines that never falter. Pavement smooth and new looking. It winds about a hundred and twenty miles from Susanville to Route 101. Smack dab in the middle of it is a town called Red Bluff. A scant sixty or so miles from where we are. Should be a cinch. Should be.

First thing we did once in the hills was pull off to stretch. The trees beside the road are beginning to swell. Bigger pines than I have ever seen. And the fauna between them reminds me of an old postcard: picture perfect. Like the woods were groomed for our viewing pleasure. Just off the road and up another. Then up a dirt driveway or maybe a road. Just a quarter of a mile up for vista. Stop the car. Below and across the street a marsh is yellow green with soft grasses. A thick black blue stream cuts softly through it. Dark pines. Moose land.

I playfully throw an enormous pine cone at Jim. It's sharp edge rips my finger open to a little drop of blood. Yeowch. Take nothing for granted in this other world. Smoke a little and gentle catch with that pine cone. Sun will set soon.

Somewhere just after this. There is no picture of the following. Snow on either side of the road almost a foot deep. Trevor is beside himself. He is the Chairman of cool. Secretly I have wondered if he hadn't brought this cold with him Somehow. Frosty wind in Colorado. And in the Nevada night. The great dark pines are like marble columns in the impossible Summer Snow. Sunbeams looking in. We quickly pull off and Trevor runs up barefoot with shorts on. We want to snap a photo of him astride a great stump in all of this. Fifty yards away now he climbs up. His throne the King of Cold.

"Ready?" I shout.

He smiles yes.

Click. No more film. Last photo is of Colorado and the mountain meadow. Damn.

Carefully he picks his way back through the glade to the car. Blue glad feet but no proof. Oh well.

The valley that comprises the bulk of upper California is called the San Walkeen Valley. Our ride to Red Bluff would take us down into it. I insist that this stretch of road is magical. No human crew could have laid such a sweet and swooping path over these hills. Tall grasses golden like Africa to me. Stout trees far apart. A natural wonderland like nothing I have ever seen. The road curls like it was designed by children. No margin for error and no daydreaming. No worry. We are in a daydream. Tall grasses golden like Africa to me. Stout trees far apart. A natural wonderland like nothing I have ever seen. Afternoon breeze is cooled. Roll down the windows. The road curls like it was designed by children. No margin for error and no daydreaming. No worry. We are in a daydream.

The Sunset is just over the horizon and taunting in our eyes. Trying to poach us like deer. Or eggs. Time is difficult to make on this road. These sixty miles have taken almost three hours. Up ahead the road rises and as if it were dropped from the Moon the little town of Red Bluff waits for us.

Looking somewhat deserted to me, Red Bluff is mostly closed. It is after five for sure. Bleak storefronts and gentle traffic. Watercolor stripes of yellow and red Sunset to the West. A kid on a skateboard chucks by. His hair is Sun browned and dirty. Torn jean shorts. He smiles at me. California kid. And as much as I want to keep moving I want to check out the town. So I walk a few blocks alone to find coffee. My long lost friend in any town.

Run down shop still open the freckled girl sells me a large cup and an old pastry. I walk slowly (as though I live here) back to the car where the guys await. Pastry is sickly sweet and the coffee is old. A soda for Jim and thirty cents worth of Boston Baked Beans for Trevor thanks. Let's roll. Are we forgetting something? Oh you'll see.

The second side of the San Walkeen looks just like the first. Impossible corners and smooth black pavement. Gentle grass says sleep here. Sun graciously over the hill, we are in cool shade. Then the road makes a gentle rise and we are climbing again. Pink and green valleys to either side. Houses and maybe full ranches hidden within these hills. You could get lost here with your whole family for generations. I am sure that some people have. A secret town of Sinkyone Indians living comfortably for three hundred years. I want a home here to hide out at with a gang of desperadoes. Or maybe to entertain foreign dignitaries. Raise unicorns and young dragons. What a well kept secret this place.

Just as the Sun is setting and the pink turns somehow to purple we are at the crest of the hill. Did I mention that the only other occupants of these roads are of course Trucks. Big ones hauling ass. Drivers who use this road because they can speed without fear of the law. No cops here whatsoever. One more reason to two fist the wheel.

The trees are bigger and bigger and their blue dusty shadows cross the road. Darkness will be on us soon and I am trying to hurry to get off of route thirty six. Here's where I finally glance down at my gas gauge. Just about empty. Oops. I know we have hours to go before route 101. There is no chance in hell that we have enough gas to make it. And no chance to make it back to Red Bluff. Jesus Christ. Major oversight on my part. I really needed that pastry.

We are in a group panic and looking at the map.

"Ah," says Trevor "there's a town up ahead about thirty miles. Wildwood."

A sign on the road confirms this. It says Next Services Forty Miles. So Ok. Only thirty more miles. I am guessing at the gauge. I think we can make it that far. Ice cold sweat of familiar fear returns. Try and enjoy the music. Almost there. Twenty to go. But the sheer wilderness to either side of the road defy the possibility of a town. Unless of course it would be called Wildwood. Ten more miles. Gage is on empty. Wildwood just ahead.

As near as I can tell from the next few nerve racking moments, the town of Wildwood consists of exactly four houses and no businesses. One house had sharpened birch trees lined around it in a vicious fence. Vines had over taken it. We could not see through. Not a place you want to break down. Come a knockin' with a gas can and get yer balls shot off. Spooky. And a sign beside the Wildwood, CA sign has the audacity to read Next Services Thirty Miles. Righto.

We are doomed to run out of gas. It takes about five minutes for this to sink into my skull. And I am suddenly resolved to it. So are the guys. We don't stand a chance of getting gas today. In fact, how in the hell we will find it tomorrow is equally a mystery. Blue California night has set and passing Trucks don't care. Look out little car. The fear has faded or blurred. We are so tired.

"Screw it. Let's just find a good place to run out of gas. We'll pitch the tent and crash and worry about it tomorrow."

Agreed.

So we are looking for a nice road or field or meadow that wants us. Sudden sign says Ruth Lake Nine Miles. Why not. Quick left onto an old road.

Sweet woods and curvy pavement but potholes and grooves. Faded grey tar speaks of years of vacationers headed to the lake. Eight miles to the water. About three minutes from now I have an odd moment of uncertainty and turn the car around. I don't know why I did this. Delirium. But then turned about again and back toward the lake. Gas gage is buried. Engine clunks. I really don't even care now. Just want a soft field or wide turn out spot to park her.

Look an orange sodium light ahead and to the left.

A trailer truck is idling across a dirt parking lot. Tumbly driver in green walking to the truck with a sandwich in his hand. And a drink in the other. Behind him a little country store is softly lit. Closed but Open. What the hell? We pull in beside the rumbling rig and the Truck Driver from God says this: "Yep. Lady was asleep but when we pulled in she said she'd open up for us." And just beside his truck one lone gas pump. Oh My God. Run to the store and she says yes, I'll sell you twenty dollars worth of eighty nine octane. We laugh at the stars. Can you believe it? Only when we gave up did a solution appear. Like a door overlooked in a dream which suddenly pops open for you.

I watch the black white numbers roll and click in the pump. One dollar then two. Then fifteen and almost full. Unbelievable. A gas pump in the middle of nowhere. I think this chapter should be called The Middle Of Nowhere.

Strange afterthought. Trevor and I had considered (much later on) that perhaps we were Secretly destined to keep on that road to the Lake. Which we didn't do. We sped away and back to thirty six like kids who had too much chocolate. Punching each other and giggling. If we had kept on down toward the lake we would have maybe met a Great Spirit. Like a Burning Blue Deva above the Shining Waters who had been beckoning to us all day in feelings and gestures. Turn here. Don't get gas. Turn there. Keep on, just ahead. And as a gift She gave us a tank full to sleep on. Almost there. Our Real Destiny was to have taken that tank full and camped at the Lake. A mere mile away. We would then have had that Magical Visitation that Poets and Warriors wait their whole lives for. But not us. We sped away and back to thirty six like kids who had too much chocolate.

Back on thirty six and West toward 101. We will make it for sure tonight barring any other acts of God. The darkness accentuates the yellow stripes under our wheels. We are giddy with exhaustion. Victorious. Moving down hill now. The Pacific Ocean is somewhere up ahead if still far away. I start rambling to Trevor about a man that I had recently worked with. Dan Kopp.

Dan is in his early thirties. Six three with short black hair he owns office buildings. Rich as you please. And does all his own work. He has a small cellular phone surgically implanted to his ear. He used to give me expensive ties. This man is the epitome of motivational speaking. "You a belt guy?" he would ask. I wasn't but am now. Was then anyway.

"You should hear him." I tell Trev. "He's like a hundred miles an hour. He calls me Timmy tim tim. One word. Timmytimtim. He sounds like – like a clarinet you know?" I think we all sound like instruments. I am a trumpet. I think Trevor is a bit of french horn. Jim is an alto trumpet. Listen to yourself sometime. "And I always ask him how he's doin and he always says fan-tastic. I mean almost always. And you know what? He really is fan-tastic. When he's not I'll say 'Hey Dan how are ya? And he'll say 'You know I feel just al little less than fan-tastic. And he means it." Trevor is laughing.

"You know what else he says? He says I love it. About everything. One word. Eye-lovit. Like, Hey Don did you see it's gonna Rain tomorrow? 'I-lovit. Or, Don I had eggs for breakfast. 'I-lovit.'" My impression of him is perfect though who would know. "So I practiced saying Ilovit and now sometimes it comes out on it's own – which isn't a bad thing to say." This is true. Program your vocabulary. Pick a word and say it all day. Watch what happens.

We are flying down hill and laughing at Timmytimtim and there ahead in the darkness right beside the road is the biggest Tree of All Time. My God a Redwood.

As if we were shrunken in a flash we are surrounded by columns. I stop the car right in the middle of the road. Which incidentally has been lain in a sweet curve so as not to disturb the Great Tree. Headlamps in the darkness give the illusion of an exploratory space craft landing gingerly on another planet. We step from the car in slow motion with our heads skyward. It is at least fifty feet around. If it were hollow we could have parked and hidden inside. I climb like a lost Bear Cub up the mother trunk about five feet. Thick strips of bark to hold. Soft and sweet to touch and smell. Trevor and Jim Dove are monks glowing in the high beams below. I am breathless. No idea how much time passes. Somehow I get back in the car.

Rolling down our final stretch of thirty six. Same curvy child like road now winds around Redwood Trees like a game. What a magic garden is America. What a long day this has been. Music and food will have no effect. A delicious exhaustion is setting in. We could pitch that tent anywhere now. But look just ahead. Here's Route 101.

Our adventuresome mountain road comes to an end. The new and legendary path before us is lone and dark and wends right and left only. North or South. Behind us the forest is a great dark cloud. Our little grey road comes out of it like a ribbon. We three emerging like – well like bear cubs just out for the first time. An odd time at that well after midnight in June. Smell that salt air from The Pacific. Lights illustrate some town to the North. Eighty miles South to Kathryn's or twenty North to town. Which way might you have gone?

The lights from Eureka cast a faint pink glow across the damp night sky. I can't believe it the ocean is just off to the left. Trying to catch a glimpse of us through the fog. Ahead our dark highway is dotted with white electric light. Convenience stores and gas stations in numbers. Summer night traffic. Odd smell that I would later learn is a pulp mill. The sea in the air. And just for us Mom & Pop motels on both sides. Hold out for one with character. Why, loOk. It's The Pink Flamingo.

Until my mid twenties I could hardly sleep anywhere but my own bed. I would drive home at ridiculous hours for this comfort. When we were younger I used to joke that Jessie could sleep on stone. I had seen this once in the woods. He fell asleep on a giant chunk of granite while we were fastening a rope swing. I finally tied that fat knot and turned around. He was out like a light. Amazing. Ultimately I had to realize the value in persuing this art. So I practiced. Sleeping on the bus (coach) on the way home from work. Spending the why not night at a friends house. On the floor if possible. Napping like a cat across the back of the couch (this actually at the watch me suggestion of our cat Chinger). Finally spending an entire summer sleeping on a floor of an old New England farmhouse. Sun browned and drop dead tired from picking strawberries and corn I would plunk down and drift out seamlessly. The hard floor beneath shaping itself to me at the last waking moment like a Gift. Strawberry dreams. After all of this I became a master. The floor is just fine for sleeping if it is dry and somewhat flat. I have more than once slept on a motel floor by choice.

All concrete and sky blue paint our motel is Home. Fat red rug and air conditioning. Hang your hat. A quick shower for Trevor whilst I fidgit with the radio / television machine they have in all motels. Choose an F.M. station. Dial just off and a soft static. I turn it down and it's faint hiss is the same ocean you hear in a sea shell. Or the road beneath fast moving wheels. Two blankets on the soft rug between the beds. The floor for me please and pull those shades. Though it is early for us (before three a.m.) the soft electric wind from the television puts us out. In dreamless glory we sleep a whole hour past checkout time. It made up for Reno.

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