Sarah and Josh will be traveling down the west coast over the course of 19 days. From Seattle to San Diego, their thoughts, experiences, and photos will be recorded here. The journey is the destination.
It's amazing what a little perspective can do. Looking back at these photos, 3 weeks since we ended our journey, and I am more in awe of the beauty of nature, the amazing experience we got to share, and the thankfulness I feel about it all. Thank you west coast, you were beyond good to us.
According to Google Maps, the drive down the coast from Seattle to San Diego is a straight shot of roughly 1,300 miles. Luckily, our rental car came with no limit on mileage, because we managed to do the whole trip in over 3,000. The journey is the destination; so what happens when you run out of road... run out of country for that matter?
I suppose that means it's time to go home.
We completed the last leg of our tour on the afternoon of Saturday, July 10:
We had embarked from Seattle on Friday, June 25, so at this point, we had been on the road for over two weeks. Here is the list of all the places we stayed, including our last two nights in San Diego:
Wed. and Thu. June 23 and 24: Molly and David's house in Seattle, WA
Fri. June 25: Ohanapecosh Campground in Mt. Rainier National Park, WA
Sat. June 26: Sea Ranch RV Camp in Cannon Beach, OR
Sun. June 27: Rachel's (boy)friend's place in Portland, OR
Mon. June 28: Metzler Park in Clackamas County, OR
Tue. June 29: Honeyman State Park in Florence, OR
Wed. June 30: Florence Keller County Park in Del Norte County, CA (Redwoods)
Thu. July 1: KOA Kampground in Eureka, CA
Fri. July 2: Bothe-Napa Valley State Park in Calistoga, CA
Sat. July 3: Guzzi's sister in San Francisco, CA
Sun. July 4: KOA Kampground in Mariposa, CA
Mon. July 5: Camp 4 in Yosemite National Park
Tue. July 6: Monterey Veterans Memorial State Park in Monterey, CA
Wed. July 7: Lee and Danni's place outside of Santa Barbara, CA
Thu. July 8: Lucas and Katia's place in North Hollywood, CA
Fri. July 9: Black Rock Campground in Joshua Tree National Park, CA
Sat. and Sun. July 10 and 11: Dan Collins' house in Lakeside, CA
We had camped in our tent a total of 11 nights, and not once did we have to stay in a crappy Motel 6. Many of these nights, we didn't have any idea where we'd be staying until just moments before showing up on the doorstep, willing the universe to yield us a vacant campsite. On at least one occasion, we were prepared to, literally, walk up to a reasonable-looking group of campers and ask if we could pay them to pitch our tent on their square of rented space. Somehow, it never came down to that.
We pulled up to my Uncle Mike's house at around 5 on Saturday. It was a fantastic feeling to know that our days of uncertainty were over and that we'd have an actual bed to stay in for two nights in a row, at my cousin Dan's house (about a mile down the road from Mike's). It's always great to see the California contingent of Collinses. We hadn't seen them in nearly two years, and for the last fifteen years, it's always been them flying back east. In fact, the last time I'd been to their house was when I was in 6th grade.
As a joke (...kind of), Tom had spent the past few weeks perfecting a sign to commemorate the occasion, and we rounded up anyone with a Collins surname we could find. As you can see, Tom's preferred medium is aerosol on particle board: very contemporary, yet somehow, still classic.
From left to right: Josh, Sarah, Amanda, Tom, Dan, and Uncle Mike. Tom and Dan's sister, Genevieve, had already left to go rock climbing. Also not visible in this photo is the newest addition, Jack Collins, son-to-be of Tom and Amanda. He's got another month inside Amanda before he'll be available for photo ops. We kept joking with Amanda that Mike was 11 lb. when he was born and that maybe Jack would be even bigger. I'll have to ask Grandma to verify, but apparently, Mike was so big, they thought he couldn't possibly be just one baby. As Tom puts it, everyone expected Baby Mike to come out with two other smaller babies in holding both of them in headlocks. Amanda laughed along with us, but somewhat nervously since Jack is already 6 lb. with a ways to go yet.
We had a great time visiting and catching each other up on what's been going on in our lives since we last spoke, one of the major things being, of course, Jack. We sat for hours, enjoying some salsa and fresh guac from the avocados growing on Mike's property.
They also have lemons, oranges, grapefruits, and plums, of which Sarah and I were jealous. Somehow, I don't think that would work too well in Q-town.
Mike had also gotten a new cat, which he called Gato, but whose proper name is Captain Hook, though he's not missing any appendages. Round these parts, there's no such thing as an indoor cat, so Captain Hook spends much of his time on the roof, which he accesses from the barn next to the house. This enables him to stay safe from coyotes, which have snatched away many a young cat or puppy over the years. The only problems is, once he would get up on the roof, he seemed to forget how he got up. He kept coming over to the edge and whining for us to give him a hand.
I should probably point out that this is definitely not downtown San Diego. Mike's property is located maybe 20 miles from the city, but it's really very rural. And the whole family lives on one stretch of road, on a series of connected properties, making up 30 or so acres of land. There is a line of mountains literally butting up against the property.
So it is a very different place and a very different way of life than in town or in the suburbs. There are numerous cats, dogs, chickens, peacocks, turkeys, and other fauna wandering around at any given time. It's certainly not what Sarah and I are used to (our three little feline maniacs wouldn't make it 48 hours out of doors), but you get used to it pretty quick, even with the peacocks hooting and the roosters crowing every couple of minutes.
Here are a couple other examples of the animal life at the ranch:
This last one is Tom and Amanda's cat, Chuck Norris, who at the moment didn't seem to want to be bothered. We were very wary of his Karate skills, so we left him be.
On Sunday morning, Sarah and I took a trip into San Diego, and checked out an awesome farmer's market. The place was absolutely huge, and it was pretty cool to see so much tropical organic produce all grown within southern California. We wandered around, accepting free samples of everything we could get our hands on. There was at least one fruit that even Sarah hadn't heard of, so I knew it must be exotic.
After a half hour of careful deliberation, we settled on getting lunch at a crêpe stand. The guy behind the counter was making each one by hand, to order, which took some time. And let me tell you, this was the most disgruntled crêpe guy in the world. When I think of all the high stress jobs that might cause an employee to just lose it and blow apart some civilians with a shotgun, let's just say crêpe maker is pretty low on the list: somewhere towards the bottom, probably between puppy groomer and milk man. But as more customers queued up, he kept muttering curses under his breath, his face taking on a deeper hue of red as sweat dripped from his brow. At one point, he advised everyone in line to check out the Middle Eastern place next stand over. When an elderly couple stopped to check the place out and watch him make a couple crêpes, he looked up and demanded, "What are you looking at?" And when he asked me the time and I timidly obliged, he was absolutely infuriated that it could only be 1:00. As my Uncle Mike pointed out later, the dude obviously must have slept through career day. I think it's safe to say, he was probably not the owner of the business. It would have been great to snap a picture of him pouring every last drop his secret ingredient (i.e. loathing) into a strawberry-banana crêpe, but I feared he would reach over the counter, smash our camera onto the ground, hold my face down on the griddle and smear Nutella in my eyes.
So we played it safe, anxiously paying for our crêpes, and moved on.
Back at the homestead, we met up with my youngest cousin, Genevieve, who is 22 and lives in a sweet yurt on her dad's property. We walked from her brother's place up to her mom's, just up the driveway. There, my Aunt Candy gave us the tour of her property, including the coolest Tiki bar I've ever seen. In fact, the entire back yard and pool area are surrounded by little huts, rope walkways, hammock nooks, tiered succulent and bamboo gardens, and an outdoor stone fireplace. Sarah and I felt like we could totally hang out for a week-long vacation right there, getting up only occasionally for a drink or to use the bathroom. To give you an idea:
It was awesome. After camping and being dirty hippies for two weeks, it was about time to just chill by the pool. Here's Sarah, Gen, and Mike doing just that:
As Mike said, it's a tough life, but someone's gotta do it.
It was the perfect end to our trip, and it reminded us how much we appreciate our family. And while we could have been content to stay another week (which would have allowed us to see my Uncle Paul and my bro, Jesse, who are both coming out later in the week), we were glad to know we'd soon be back in our own home.
So we definitely consider ourselves lucky. Aside from a few nervous evenings scrambling to find a place to stay, and some minor issues with the car battery and/or gas tank, we managed to make it all the way to San Diego just as we had planned. Thanks so much to all of those who provided good advice and recommendations for all the must-see spots in Washington, Oregon, and California. And thanks even more to the friends and family who honored the spirit of the West Coast in putting us up on short notice, and for making us feel at home. We couldn't have done it without you! (Or at least it wouldn't have been as fun.)
Oh... and Cate Blanchett: without your calming, British accent, constantly guiding us from one stretch of freeway to the next, through all of life's twists and turns, and your patient tolerance for our missteps, we might still be wandering aimlessly among the redwoods. You may have spent a significant portion of the trip "recalculating", but we appreciate you never giving up on us.
It may have taken us an entire day of travel on Monday, including a delayed, 5-hour layover in Chicago, but we're safely back at home in PA. We've seen and done a lot of things that are like nothing we've known before, and Sarah and I feel pretty content (I do especially, since I still have most of the summer left before the new school year). It just goes to show you: having a good plan can take you a long way, but sometimes, you need to just go off and drive to see what comes your way. So, west coasters: You're rid of us for now, but don't get too comfortable; this won't be the last you've seen of us.
On Friday afternoon, we said our goodbyes to Katia and Lucas and got back on the freeway to brave the traffic out of LA. During our brief stay, I had been pleasantly surprised by the lack of smog in the city. As we moved into more open spaces, however, I soon realized that the appearance of clear air was mainly due to the fact that we were looking at buildings mainly within a maximum radius of a couple hundred yards or so. Once on the road, I couldn’t believe how flat the land seemed as I drove off towards the horizon; until I realized that there were actually mountains off in the distance, just barely visible against the grey sky.
It kind of freaked me out not to be able to see objects that looked like they couldn’t be more than half a mile away. It made me think of a dust storm, except without the storm. Just as forbidding was the distance we had to travel until the skyline became plainly visible again. I’d say a good fifty miles? At least the people in southern California don’t (and can’t) deny the reality and the scientific implications of air pollution. Now, if only there were some way to produce usable energy without having to burn fossil fuels! Oh yeah, that’s right:
We drove by this wind farm as we passed Palm Springs on our way to Joshua Tree. It was actually the second wind farm we’d seen on our trip. Apparently, 1.5% of California’s electricity comes from wind power, which sounds pathetically low, but is actually the highest percentage of any state in the US (not bad for a state which also happens to accommodate the greatest population as well). And these turbines are also completely privately owned, so apparently… get this… you can actually make money producing renewable energy! Well, at least someone is.
One note about the wind farms, though, which a photo cannot really convey: When there are a hundred of them or so, layered row upon row, all rotating in sync, they are quite mesmerizing. This wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing if they weren’t located along a major highway, an optical siren song, inducing less-resolved drivers into a glazed over expression, veering off into the hypnotic vortex of whirling blades. Just like Odysseus, we managed to make it through unscathed, but only by focusing all my cognitive strength on mentally reciting the illustrated tone scale I had learned from this Scientology poster in the window at the Dyanetics studio in Santa Barbara:
Thank you L. Ron Hubbard!
Around sixish, we arrived at a campground called Black Rock, on the northwestern corner of Joshua Tree National Park:
We quickly learned that summer is the off-season in the Mojave Desert. Out of 99 campsites, about five were occupied. So having spent most of our trip surrounded by lots of other people, it was a pleasant surprise to be at such a beautiful and isolated spot towards the end of our trip. Up until that point, I didn’t even know what a Joshua Tree was. Here’s one:
Before long, the sun was already settling in close to the tops of the rocky hills in the west, and we took a lovely stroll along a sandy trail just beyond our site as the temperature dropped into the balmy mid-80s, moderated further by a nice mild breeze. It felt pretty amazing to be so alone in such a calm, wild, desolate yet very beautiful land. And each time the wind died down, the silence was tangible.
Back at camp, we just enough wood leftover for one last campfire of our own:
We settled comfortably in for the night with a clear view above our heads of stars that normally lie much lower in the sky, just tired enough to ignore the furtive rustling sounds of desert critters scampering around our tent.
Come morning, Sarah was treated to a close-up encounter with one of these critters when she stopped down to the restroom to brush her teeth. I took this with the telephoto, so we weren’t close enough to set off his rattle:
We then set off on the road through the park to check out some of the rock formations Joshua Tree is famous for. These boulders of feldspar-rich rock, called monzogranite, are the remains of igneous intrusions formed millions of years ago by magma pushing its way up through cracks in the much older (as in 1.7 billion years old) black and white swirled metamorphic rock above, which in these photos has long been stripped away.
For most people, though, I suppose they’re just some really cool, big rocks to climb around on. And I’m totally OK with that.
Further and further south we drove, hopping out of the car at random intervals to snap a couple shots of these strange trees.
The higher elevation terrain gradually gave way to the lower, drier Arizona Desert, which is actually its own distinct ecosystem, with flora and fauna different than those of the Mojave. The southern portion of the park doesn’t have any Joshua Trees whatsoever, due to the severity of the hot, arid climate. From a lookout point above, it looks something like this:
Off in the distance, midway across the expanse of the valley, the San Andreas Fault is just barely visible, marked by a hilly ridge, where the North American plate grinds across the Pacific plate at a rate of inches per year. I was dismayed to learn that we had already driven right across the famous transform fault without even realizing it! As a geology teacher, I was very disappointed in myself! Those damn windmills!
But it is in the austere, barren landscape in the above photo that we found ourselves on our way out the south exit of the park. It certainly was beautiful to look at through the windows of our air-conditioned Kia Spectra, but we decided we had taken in enough of Joshua Tree that stopping for a hike through the afternoon heat would have been a little superfluous. True to form, however, the possibility of an extended desert trek seemed to become more and more likely as we realized (yet again) that our gas tank had a less-than-desirable volume of fuel remaining. Having passed through several small towns on our way into the park from the north, I expected to see a gas station or two as soon as we exited from the south. But as the miles continued to pass, it became evident that the bare desert stretched on miles past the park borders.
Sarah was driving, and I put on a mask of serene confidence, assuring her that we’d make it no problem, even when the gaslight lit up and the needle came close to bottoming out. We asked Cate Blanchett for some help locating the nearest gas station, which she gloatingly revealed was 25 miles hence, in a town along the Salton Sea called, oddly enough, “Mecca”. Our pilgrimage through the desert, however, was involuntary, and we were seeking something a little more carbon-based (and more flammable) than submission to the will of Allah.
Continuing to feign assurance that we had nothing to worry about, I silently watched Cate Blanchett’s mileage countdown, continuously doubling the number to calculate how many miles I’d have to walk to get to the station and tote a gas can back to the car. A (very very long) half-hour later, the gas needle weighing as heavily as seemed possible, we had pulled up to the ironically-named “Beacon” gas station in Mecca. We let out a collective sigh and marveled at the benevolent will of the oil gods, who had forgiven our oversight and come to our aid once more in our time of need. I’m sorry, fossil fuels, for anything bad I’ve ever said about you. Drill, Baby, Drill!
