California was freezing. Or we were just shocked after a month in the desert.
We had started the day in Minden, NV (elevation 4,724 feet, temperatures high as 81°F), crossed the border, and climbed 19 miles to the Kit Carson Campground at nearly 7,000 feet. Massive clouds drifted northeast at astonishing speeds — as they do at higher altitudes — driven by 20 MPH gusts winding through the pine trees and aspen leaves. After the campground host took our fee, he informed us that we’d be receiving a “light dusting” of snow overnight. No kidding — my fingers froze even before sunset.
Still, we had finally reached our home state. With San Francisco only 200 miles away, we already felt home. California! Land of mountains, land of valleys. Land of snow, land of sun. Land of coked out tweakers treating you to coffee. Land of cute, tatted baristas. Land of the ancients, land of the vagrants. Land of migrants, land of the rich and famous. May we all burn in the wildfires and/or drown in Arizona Bay!
I may be a bit too patriotic about California, but it is my Ithaca. Soil does have power, not just on a poetic level but on a material-earthen-substantial level too. The land is me, and I am the land. Californ-I-Am.
summoning a poetic thought at 7000 feet —
how novel, how divine! to sleep next to a boulder,
to return to California in autumn
greeted by gusty winds, grey skies,
oceanic rhythms, dreams
of the Pacific — but my body sits
in the Sierra mountains still.
The next morning, we returned to the cafe across the highway for a big, hearty breakfast. Then we walked another 19 miles over Carson Pass, where it snowed a slight flurry — magical to see after Nevada’s seemingly interminable desert. It also felt appropriate, for the walk’s end to hint at the way it began, when frost was our daily companion.
I didn’t feel well, and I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was something of a cold, or maybe it was the rapid elevation and temperature changes. For the second night in a row, we huddled in our tent in the early evening, hiding from the cold and rain.
And yet the significance of crossing Carson Pass wasn’t lost on me. In the western Rockies, much of the rain that falls pools and evaporates in the Great Basin Desert. But having reached the western Sierra, we now shared our travel plans with the raindrops striking my tent: West, to the Pacific.
The next day was warmer — no clouds, no wind — and after 18 miles we’d dipped below 6,500 feet. I felt better too, though still a little queasy.
Overall I felt optimistic because we were walking down to the Central Valley with a planned rest stop at my friend Mark’s family’s cabin in Pioneer. We’d been looking forward to this chill weekend with friends, but the plan had been in limbo after the Butte Fire ignited and raged, forcing evacuation orders for all of Amador County. (Aside from calling into question our party plans, I also feared this and other California fires could interrupt the end of our journey home.) Thankfully, however, firefighters managed to get the Butte Fire 50% contained, lifting evacuation orders and restoring power to Pioneer.
So the long weekend of relaxation was on, and then a little over a week of walking. Then home. Then what?
Then I hoped I would internalize lessons learned. Live simply. Live mindfully. Cherish time, spend it wisely. Be thankful for what you got. Love the one you’re with. Know death is coming. Love life. Practice hospitality — it is the most ancient human gift. Listen to Jesus, Gandhi, and Kendrick’s grandma: “Shit don’t change til you get up and wipe your ass.” That is, don’t worry too much about the world until you’ve focused on yourself.
From our campsite at the Lumberyard Campground, we walked 19 miles through redwoods and sunshine to the cabin, where Mark’s short and feisty mother welcomed us while, in the same breath, practically commanding us to shower before fouling the place up. She was a hearty, honest soul, and a hearty, honest drinker. Her husband was matter-of-fact and knowledgeable about everything, or at least opinionated about everything. Also a heavy drinker. His sister spoke loudly in a high-pitched voice and laughed with great spirit. Also a heavy drinker. And her husband, yes, was also a heavy drinker — traffic to the cabin had driven him so mad that he chugged Jameson on arrival. Finally, there was Mark’s weird punk goth girlfriend, a Mustang-driving yogi working in tech HR who simply adored Harper Lee. Completing this alcoholic crew was yours truly and his lady, the weirdest of the weird, who had walked 3,225 miles to enjoy a bottle of wine and easy conversation.
When you’ve walked so far, and find yourself in a friendly cabin for a couple full days of rest with friends, what do you do?
You drink beer.
You drink whiskey.
You drink champagne.
You drink orange juice.
And you drink water.
The most readily apparent evidence you’ve arrived in civilization is the diversity of beverages available. So many goddamn beverages.
In the morning, my head hurt. And yet I had to work. So close to home, but the question remained the same: Where the hell were we gonna sleep?
I knew highly populated, uber-regulated California would make it difficult. Everything’s so expensive and tents aren’t allowed anywhere. But I tried not to fret too much because we only had to wrangle with the issue for 150 miles. If we just walked straight to San Francisco without stopping to sleep, eat, shit, or piss — I mused — we’d be there in 48 hours. But Natalie frowned at me when I even joked about walking through the night, so it was back to the drawing board.
Where to camp? California’s two things when you’re a wayfarer — hella cars and cement. Parks, closed sunset to sunrise. No overnight camping. Absolutely NO hobos allowed.
Oh well, our momentum was unstoppable. What’s 150 miles? A week and some. We’d be home before the end of the month. In fact, we were already home. Every moment from now until eternity is simply another joyous arrival.
Overall, how was two full days of rest in the cabin? Not fully restful. Feverish. Too much alcohol, too much meat, too much noise pollution… but still strangely refreshing. It was good to eat my first Mission burrito in months, kindly by my friend all the way from the city. It was good to not think much. It was good to be with friends and kick their asses at Hearts and Set, and then to get my ass kicked at Scrabble.
Still, I missed the simplicity of the walk. The minimalist life. I hoped I could honor that minimalism once I returned to “normal” life. A simple meal of egg and toast for breakfast. Quiet conversations, free of judgment and hyperbole. Stillness. The walk would end soon, so stillness did indeed await me — but would it be of the right shape, color, texture, quantity?
From the cabin, we walked 27 miles over more than 11 hours to Lake Amador. The last time we’d walked exactly 27 miles far had been four months earlier, all the way back in Missouri. But the last time we’d walked at least 27 miles was in early July, when we walked a record 34 miles through eastern Colorado. In other words, it had been awhile. Put another way: we were tired.
That wasn’t the only big milestone. It was also the first time since St. Louis (2,000 miles ago!) that our elevation dipped below 500 feet. If only we could have some of those Midwestern thunderstorms.
Poor, dry California. We camped near a deep lake with water level so low that the banks were all wide dirt ramps. Steinbeck wrote that people in California just forget that drought always comes and goes, but scientists say that tree rings reveal it’s worse than ever. I suppose they’re all right in their ways— John, the scientists, the rings.
From one lake to another: The next day we walked seven short miles to Lake Camanche. It was a relatively easy day, but my woman and I still felt strangely. It could have been exhaustion from the day before or too much sleeping in the late morning or just stress from all the logistics of finding routes and shelters, so life definitely wasn’t all cupcakes. But, again and again, it didn’t matter, because home was so close!
Couchsurfing one night, some more camping a couple nights, one night maybe with a family friend, hopefully some more Couchsurfing here and there, staying with friends in Oakland, and then the great ferry crossing into SF, followed by a walk to Ocean Beach. I just knew it was going to be epically simple, sublimely uneventful, monstrously mundane.
The next day we braved 23 miles in 90-degree heat. From the lake, winding roads through hilly, rural country reminded us of Kentucky and Missouri. But then it got less and less green, and straighter and straighter — like Kansas with vineyards. In fact, it seemed to me that California represented a microcosm of the rest of the country, containing the snow of the east, the mountains of Appalachia and Colorado, the winding hills of the Midwest, the long stretches of large-scale agriculture like the Great Plains, the heat of the desert, and so on.
At last, we arrived at our Couchsurfing hosts’ sprawling house and property in Acampo, a small town just north of Lodi. They were beautiful hosts, Burner types all three of em: lady, mama, and man. The last of these whisked us away to the Corto Olive Oil plant where he worked, and gave us a private tour, demonstrating not only how olive oil is made but also how superior olive oil is made — very different from that “lampante” (lamp oil) most people use. He even gifted us a book called Extra Virginity: The Sublime and Scandalous World of Olive Oil to help us with our oil education.
One shouldn’t be surprised that someone who takes pride in their olive oil also delights in everything else to do with food. Aside from healthy helpings of oil, these were the contents of my body later that night: fine French brandy, Four Roses, pumpkin pie and heavy (unwhipped) cream), water, mushroom, squash, eggplant, egg noodles, chicken, soy sauce, peanut sauce, sriracha, watermelon, and happiness.
