day 1: auburn, ca

Today! First day on the road! Where do I even begin?

First, as a disclaimer, I must tell you that I am very, very tired. Just like any smart person preparing for a trip, I spent my last forty-eight hours in Eugene trying to cram in everything I needed to do over the last two months, and subsequently leaving very little time for sleep (and I spent much of that mentally reviewing my to-do list)! Oh yeah, and then I drove 500 miles.

I rose early this morning to toss a last few necessities into the adventure-mobile, puzzle over new window signage, and bid goodbye to everyone. I got gas one last time at the Shell station on Prairie Road and wriggled my way out of Eugene morning traffic. I headed south on I-5, and was finally on the road again.

I am still in utter awe (an awe which borders on fear) of these mountains. Mountains are so huge. Foothills of mountains are huge too, towering and ominous. The interstate winds through these mountains, most of which are still packed with evergreens. You know how people accuse "cow towns" of smelling of livestock? Well, I swear that Roseburg, which has historically been a logging town, smelled of freshly milled pine.

It rained on and off today as I pushed south into the Siskiyous. I detoured through Ashland, about fifteen miles north of the border with California. The rain cleared for a half-hour so I could wend my way through their lively though small downtown. I always tell people Ashland is on my radar of places in Oregon I'd be interested in living, so I thought I'd check it out. We also spent the better part of a week there on tour in 2005, so I smiled fondly as I passed the laundromat we all had done our laundry.

One of the things about the mountains that is the most breathtaking are the clouds. Clouds and fog. Cottony wisps just rest on the mountain sides, shreds of gray brushing up against green. The fog hugged the interstate today as I crossed into California, windshield wipers humming as I mounted the summit. Mercifully, rain and fog cleared as I reached the first grand vista of the state, and under a cerulean sky with dreamlike clouds the whole valley seemed to stretch before me. I have never seen clouds so detailed, so dramatically outlined. They hung above a valley rich with greens, browns, blues. Mountains, hills, fields, orchards, all stretched before me for untold miles.

I rode on, thunderstruck by the enormous mountains that rose all around me: Mt. Shasta, elevation 14,179, the second-highest peak in California, was tremendous to behold. Yes, read that again: fourteen thousand feet high. It's a behemoth; I felt like I had never seen anything so huge.

I left the interstate at Red Bluff and took old Highway 99 into Chico, through the central valley. Farm stands sold walnuts, mandarins, kiwifruit. In the central valley, orchards spread under the shadows of the mountains. Row after row of browns and reds extend their bushy arms skyward under the ever-watchful mountains and clouds. I followed California highway 70 south from Chico, and again the weather smiled upon me. The rain eased, and as the day wore on, the sky turned a delightful medley of pastels. Light blue and light grey warmed me as a pinkish salmon stretched out from under the clouds, buoyed by yellow sunlight. I breathed it in deeply; it calmed me.

At Marysville, the weather still cooperating and daylight still on my side, I took CA-65, which led me southeast toward Auburn, my final destination for the night. The last thirteen miles of my drive I traversed on Route 193 (yes, Dad, I did it, and no, I did not crash). Auburn lies in the Sierra Nevada foothills, and 193 was a spectacular drive, challenging though it was as I wound around tight curves, driving ever-further into said foothills. I jumped on an old part of I-80 for the final two miles into Auburn.

My aunt and cousins live in the house my dad grew up in, and after exiting the freeway I followed my instinct, making a few turns and pulling up in front. I have countless fond memories of this house in Auburn, as we would spend long stretches of time here when I was a child. My cousins and I would write plays and act them out. I remember staying with my grandparents when my mom went to help my uncle after the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake. I remember being here for weeks when my grandfather and, later, my grandmother were terminally ill. I hadn't been here since 1997, though, and it's surreal, invigorating, and calming all at once.

I know where all the rooms in this house are. I can picture the furniture as my grandparents had it, feel the vinyl of the green couch downstairs, the hard metal of my grandmother's car in the carport. I remember how the sunlight glinted off blue bottles in the front window, the minute details of the toys we played with in the bedroom. My grandfather in his favorite chair against one wall, my grandmother perched on the velveteen yellow couch along the wall where now I rest.

Tomorrow I will explore more in the daylight, and tonight I will sleep.

Day 1 mileage: 504.