08 Coastal Betrayal

The Townhouse Motel experience made me feel like I'd just had a clumsy enema. Driving the coast wasn’t the same afterwards. Is this how prison newbies feel after their first male bonding experience?

I didn’t stop much. How many pictures of crashing waves can you take? Towns blended into a continuous memory, each with a biker bar, two gas stations and the obligatory McDonalds.

Stops for gas and restrooms became something to look forward to. San Francisco beckoned.

But then the sky turned to the color of cardboard and stayed that way. Was Seattle chasing me? By the time the odor of dead skunk started to smell good, something had to be done.

Over a few brews in another anonymous bar with good burgers and customers sporting creative facial hair, the decision made itself. San Francisco could wait – it was time to head for the desert. There’s been too much driving, sitting, eating and drinking. My boots were made for walking.

Abandoning the ocean at Navarro River next day felt like betrayal.

Compared to the glacial speed of Rt 1, traffic on Rt 128 flew. Scenery soon changed to fall colors and then vineyards – and blue sky.

Lunch in St Helena was a shot in the arm. Why did I stay so long hugging the coast? Betrayal, as an emotion, is overrated.

A day later, after an interesting Mexican meal where the waitress didn’t speak English and a surprising night in a Motel 6 that could easily pass for a Sheraton, I reached the Coachella Valley.

It was slightly after sunrise and the turbines standing on red-gold mountains spun their arms in welcome.

Time from leaving work to reaching Palm Springs: twelve days. Time from check-in to first steps on a hiking trail: 43 minutes.

These boots were made for walking…