Pet Cobra

The Long and Winding Road

Seems like I've spent most of this month behind the wheel. This past weekend was spent in Vegas - Beth and I, sans Lucas, with her parents celebrating her mom's 60th. A high-speed dash up the 15, and a splendid time was had by all - a room at Mandalay Bay, dinner here (oh, Lawd, what a filet), great seats at Cirque de Soleil's "The Beatles: Love" (I am a Beatles Man - those of you put the Stones over them, know this: Lennon/McCartney/Uncle George - really, people, who among us can say that they hung out with George Harrison? - could've written "Satisfaction" in their sleep. Jagger/Richards coming up with "Sgt. Pepper"? Nawp.), and a winning streak at the blackjack table.

Of course, there was my earlier excursion up the coast. And next, we load up the Xterra and head east, through the highlands of northern Arizona and over the Rockies, bound for Omaha, there to spend a week with the folks.

Lots of mileage. But I'm excited. As a kid, that's how we traveled, the four of us strapped into the green and faux-woodie Oldsmobile wagon (which, and I'm sure this is not a coincidence, bore a striking resemblance to the Griswold's Family Truckster). We listened to the Beatles and Creedence and Manilow (Mom is a Fanilow), played the license plate game, and stopped at every tourist trap along the way. Yes - we saw The Thing ("Ancient Mystery! A Riddle From Beyond! Famous Cherry Shakes!" - those of you who drove across the Arizona desert in the 70's, you know exactly what I'm talking about, and I bet a part of you is jealous that I know what The Thing is and you don't). The horizons were constantly scanned for signs of a HoJo's or, even better, Stuckey's, or better still, a Bob's Big Boy. And the country seemed so huge.

I'm a bit apprehensive - the snowstorms that buried Denver are a concern - but for the most part I'm thrilled. Hitting the road, feeling the ground move beneath you, taking it all in...good times.

'Tis The Season

We put up the tree last night. Christmas is WAY cool.

Up The Lost Coast, Part II

Noon found me in Gualala. The towns were starting to look the same - a couple of inns, a gas station or two, a small grocery store. This one had a deli, and I pulled off to grab a sandwich. Across the street, the local church was holding a swap meet; there was quite a crowd, and more little kids than one might expect. What would it be like, I wondered, to raise Lucas in a place like this? How much slower the world moved up here; more time, perhaps, to be a kid.

I drove about a half a mile up the road, and found a turnout; a short walk to the seacliffs. I walked over to the edge, sat down, ate my sandwich, and watched the world go by. Easy enough to do, and after four hours of driving that day, I gave myself a break. I was ahead of schedule. I'd be at my destination shortly, and there was time to ease up and soak it in.

Up The Lost Coast, Part One

I hit the road before dawn on Friday. The Xterra was loaded - dufflebag with clothes, cooler with waters and Cokes, sleeping bag, air mattress, tent, wetsuit, booties, Hogfish inside, longboard strapped to the roof. My goal was to get to San Francisco that day, then push on past Marin and Mendocino, up to the Fort Bragg area. I'd take the 101up to Morro Bay, stop and have lunch with my grandmother (she was being released from the hospital, after a bout with pneumonia), then take the PCH proper - Highway 1 - across the Golden Gate and into the big empty of true Northern California. The Lost Coast. Seacliffs hundreds of feet high. Sharks. Cold, raging water. Isolation. I was giddy - this was going to be an adventure.