textfiles/fun/CAA/gecaa-13

From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan  7 17:19:29 1991
To: wordy@Corp
Subject: chapter-13

Arrival in the Promised Land



#13 in the second online CAA series



by



Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)



Klamath, CA; 961 miles.



November 19, 1986



     The anticipation began building as it always does before a state line --

but more so, given the fact that we were approaching California.  California!

This is it!  Arbitrary and political or not, the state line took on grand

proportions in my imagination:  I squinted into the distance for the portals of

exotica, the gateway to erotica, the entrance to the promised land.  Of course,

I had learned the lesson on my first bicycle trip:  approaching the land of

bikinis and hot tubs via the Mojave Desert was a sobering lesson in shattered

expectations.  But this was the COAST, by golly, and the last hundred miles of

rugged Oregon seashore bespoke pure magic ahead.



     The first change, however, involved not so much culture as lack of same:

California has no bottle bill.  I have been spoiled by Oregon roads -- smooth,

glass-free, hardly littered at all.  Highway 101 is somewhat less perfect than

the rest of the state, but still, Oregon is a clean place:  not only do glass

and aluminum containers have significant cash value, but twice a year the

citizens organize a statewide clean-up.  Impressive.



     But after the state line, things changed abruptly.  The land was still

exquisite, of course -- waves crashing against rugged sea stacks, scattered

bleached driftwood edging windswept beaches, the neck-cricking beginnings of

redwood country -- but the roadside distractions appeared with a vengeance.

Broken glass, beer cans, dirty diapers, food wrappers, cigarette butts, milk

cartons, baby shoes, tangled audio cassettes, suitcase parts, magazines,

mufflers, even a plastic-wrapped dead dog... all this and more attests to the

amazing number of people who have no respect at all for some of the most

beautiful land in the world.  How can someone toss a Blitz Beer can into a

redwood grove?  Is Earth their private dumpster?



     Steering carefully through the glass and inventing creative punishments

for clods caught littering, we headed south -- our memories of Oregon cast into

even warmer perspective.  It had been a good ride, Oregon.  We had good luck

with the weather after the Smith River fever escapade, prompting many a local

to comment on unseasonal warmth.  In Port Orford we stayed with a fly-fishing,

wood-carving family -- swapping tales till midnight and leaving with warm hugs

and promises.  In Bandon we stayed in the eccentric hostel for two days,

pedaling off amid a chorus of Australian-accented best wishes.  In Brookings we

found a flawlessly maintained state park, met another southbound cycling

couple, and drank a toast to Samuel Boardman -- the man who protected so much

of Oregon's coast from commercial exploitation.  But now we were in

California...



     Crescent City, to be exact.  No contacts there, dusk descending, rain

likely, the local state park closed for winter.  With our new pedaling friends

(John and Karen), we cruised the RV parks and settled at last on the NACO WEST

Shoreline Campground.



     "Hi!" I brightly told the booth lady.  "We're traveling the country by

bicycle and writing about it.  How much for a tent site?"



     She eyed the four of us and smiled, guarded but friendly.  "How many

tents?"



     "Two."



     "That's seven dollars apiece, or fourteen total."



     "What if we all sleep in one tent and use the other for supplies?" I

asked, only half-joking.



     This was not a standard question, and she had to call the manager.  A long

discussion ensued, with many a furtive glance our way.  "Well, he says you can

do it for seven dollars, but if anyone sleeps in the other tent it will be

another seven."



     We said that would be fine with us, paid her, accepted the long list of

rules and regulations (no moving the picnic tables, no fish cleaning, no fires

at the campsite, no booze or pets in the bathroom, no nuisances of any sort,

no, No, NO!!), and entered the mostly- deserted campground -- cruising until

dark in search of the perfect site and making bed-check jokes about

management's closing threat: "We have a guard who makes regular rounds... he'll

be keeping an eye on you all night, and he BETTER not find anyone in that other

tent."



     It wasn't a bad evening, all things considered.  Perfect driftwood fire on

the beach, Maggie's linguini with garlic clam sauce, a good bottle of wine.

The four of us poked the fire and ate smores until drowsy, then crawled

giggling into our porta-condo and got cozy -- drifting away to the incessant

hooting of an offshore foghorn with its asynchronous counterpoint of clanging

and moaning bouys.  The rain didn't get serious till dawn.



     Soggy gray, 50-knot wind, small craft warnings, cold salt spray. I donned

three layers and staggered off to the showers, noting the large nightgown-clad

woman in an upstairs window staring at our site through binoculars.  Camp

Gestapo.  There was no TV camera in the bathroom, but a crudely painted

Yosemite Sam was captioned:  "Now hold on there, varmit!  Didja flush it?"



     Back at the tent, in heavy winds and coastal rain, Maggie and Karen told

the story.  Seems the manager had driven to our site (after us menfolk went to

the showers) and accosted the women:  "You slept in both those tents.  You owe

us seven dollars!"



     "No, that one just has gear in it--" Maggie told him, pointing.



     "You owe us seven dollars!"



     We packed our wet gear quickly, conscious of the binoculars, acutely aware

of being unwelcome.  It was an unfamiliar feeling -- and time for the power of

raw ink.  "Never piss off a writer if you have an image to protect," I always

say, so enroute to breakfast I called the Triplicate -- Crescent City's local

paper.  By the time we spent a rainy day in the newspaper office catching up on

work, did an interview, and slept in the home of the managing editor, they had

their story... and they were even moved to call the Chamber of Commerce and

tell them about it.  Heh.



     Now, the other end of the campground spectrum.  Parting company with John

and Karen, we climbed over the first 1200-foot obstacle in Redwood country and

found ourselves in Klamath -- a strangely spread- out town, at once dependent

upon passers-by and forbidding.  Jack's Motel was closed for the season:  "If

you gave me a thousand dollars, I couldn't give you one of those rooms."

Again, no contacts; and little chance of cruise mode yielding an invitation.

We gave up and crunched onto the gravel of the Chinook RV Resort.



     Twelve bucks a night, but what the hell -- they take plastic.  We added a

dollop of Kahlua and a few other essentials to the bill and eyed the darkening

sky... all the while chatting with friendly Nanette who had left her Oklahoma

travel agency to buy this campground.  Could we find a place to work indoors?

Oh, there's a clubhouse?  With a woodstove?  Gee... could we bring the bikes

inside?  Well hey, if we're doing all that, can we sleep in there too?  No

problem.  She smiled.  We spent the evening on the Klamath River shoreline,

playing with a dog named RV and watching a sunset symphony of subtle pastels,

then moved in -- comfortable and welcome.  And here I am, tapping away on the

HP by an old potbellied stove while Maggie whips up Kahlua treats and our

camping gear slowly dries.  Not bad.  Not bad at all.



     Sometimes, life on the road is a quiet succession of unspectacular events

like this -- hardly newsworthy in themselves, but deeply revealing in concert.

In the last week we have played with 1 and 2.5-year olds, learned about the

zenlike attitudes of fly fishing, talked with a myrtlewood gatherer, fended off

the advances of a cloying airhead, overheard the urgent intrigue of small-town

newspaper operation, learned how to slice bananas with bicycle spokes, eaten

cranberry candy, gawked back at tourists, gamboled nude in the sand, played the

shining flute in C while gazing at the shining sea, and eaten dinner out of a

frisbee.  Those are the headlines.



     And I'll see you next week, from somewhere in Humboldt County.



                                * * *



NEWS FLASH:  The PM MAGAZINE story about our high-tech loony adventure goes

national on November 24 -- which doesn't guarantee that it will air in your

area on that date, but it might.  If you're interested in seeing the machine

through some medium other than words, call your local PM or EVENING MAGAZINE

station and ask about the air date of the computerized bicycle story.



ANOTHER NEWS FLASH:  The high-tech nomads are getting hungry.  Now that the

"Computing Across America" book has gone into typesetting at Learned

Information, we feel secure in accepting advance orders for autographed copies.

 When the book is released (in February, they say), I will stop wherever I am,

receive a shipment, sign them, and ship copies to everyone who ordered in

advance.  After that, the logistics of nomadics will prevent all but the

occasional autographing.  If you'd like to order one, send $10 to:



         Kelly Monroe

         COMPUTING ACROSS AMERICA

         5448 Kenneylane Boulevard

         Columbus, OH 43220



This book is the tale of my first 10,000-mile journey around the US, and deals

with everything from hot online romance to ice caves.  Hope to hear from you!



          -- Steve