THE SUBTERRANEAN HOMESICK NOOS

DAY 5 - SAN FRANCISCO

Note to self: Fog doesn’t so much as roll in, it moseys like a cowboy into a saloon lookin’ for a challenge.

Few survive.

This could be a phrase about life, except that’s a very fatalistic view. But heck, let’s face it. No one survives, baby. Not even kelp.

Speaking of kelp, we’re on a beach. The sand is black. Earlier, we’d been reading the local guide in the warmth of our Gualala hotel. It seriously was the best piece of writing I’d read in a long time. I wanted to congratulate the soul who wrote it, for this is how they expressed themselves:

“The ocean is mesmerizing and extraordinarily beautiful, almost hypnotic. But the ocean is also treacherous, bitterly cold, and has awesome power…. Even on the calmest days, a roller of extraordinary size will crash ashore and engulf anyone on the water’s edge.

Never turn your back on the ocean…

If a large wave hits you, drop everything and hang on tight.”

I wondered for a moment what exactly you were supposed to hang on tight to? Sand? From what I remember, sand has a tendency to dissolve through your fingers like a poorly thought out writing career. But onwards…

A few hours later and here we were. At a beach that exhibited this awesome power—the reason to ‘never turn your back on the ocean.’

And Matt ignored it all.

‘What would I do,’ I wondered. ‘If Matt were swept away right now? Would I drop my camera? Would I scream? Would I gesture wildly at the ocean and yell for someone else to save him? Or would I be working on my ‘yeah, I seen it’ speech for when the reporters arrived.’ Read the rest of this entry »

DAY 3 - EUREKA

Note to self: There is nothing more visually arresting than seeing a gentleman wearing blue pantaloons and sporting an axe.

The day’s going kind of cashew shaped. You know, meatily tasty but easily split. We’re standing next to a fish gutting platform looking at some fat slobs trying to flop themselves onto a long pontoon. These vile creatures seem to think they’re in some kind of aquatic curling tournament.

Matt is both mesmerized and enamored by them. He finds the honking of these fat sea lions fantastic. Sergey and I exchange a glance. We both know if we lived nearby, a shotgun would be in their future.

“You’d get sick of it soon enough,” says Sergey.

“No, I wouldn’t! I think they’re great!”

Matt is so earnest in his reply, I think briefly about buying him a CD of Sea Lion honks for Christmas as a joke. National Geographic probably has one. Right next to the Whale Song Operas and Cicada Symphonies, but I strike the thought. He’d probably love it and annoy his neighbors by playing it all the time. And face it; I’m notoriously tight fisted with my wallet. A card will do him just fine.

After what seems like an eternity of honking, we succeed in dragging him away from their torturous wailing and proceed down the coastline in an orderly manner.

We’re heading towards the Redwoods. I’ve been looking forward to this. Nothing gets me going more than a tree so girthy you can drive a bus through it.

We start seeing random, semi-fat trees on the side of the road. These are the Milli Vanillis of the redwood world. Sure, they dance well in spandex, but the lip sync is just a little off and not the real deal. They’re big. But not big enough to make it to the big leagues.

We wind on down the road for a while, occasionally glimpsing ocean, then back inland again for more trees. I’m looking for something in particular. I glance down at my claw. There, waded in my clammy hand is a brochure touting the glory of the Trees of Mystery. I fancy a good Nancy Drew. I jive with the Famous Five. Ask anyone. Read the rest of this entry »

DAY 1 - CONDON

Note to self: It’s bad karma to kill locals.

The victim never saw it coming. He met his fate on a deserted Oregon road in the late golden glow of a summer’s afternoon. Life extinguished. Gone. Snuffed out in a nanosecond. No Colonel Mustard on the scene. No candlestick. Don’t even ask about a library.

I tell you this because life ain’t no board game, kids. This proves it. Just a puff of feathers, a dull thud, and you’re gone. Feathers are optional of course, but will always add to the mystique.

“Umm…was that a duck?”

“Looked more like a quail,” I say. “But I did only see it for a split second.”

The murderer—let’s call him Matthias N. of Queanbeyan, NSW, Australia—turns towards me. I am nearly blinded by the guilt flashing in neon on his face.

“You swerved to hit it,” I say, thinking this will be a good bit to needle the boy with. But poor Matt, he wears his guilt like the Bayeux Tapestry. All stitched in, complete, and hung for all to see.

“Actually, maybe it was a grouse?” I say. I have no idea what grouse look like, but there’s a distinct possibility that I’ve just seen one.

The golden fields flash by and Killer Matt is quiet. I note for future reference that he is far too honest and pure. He’d be hopeless in a line up. Crack like a walnut. I rule out any future Bonnie and Clyde-type heists with him.

So you’re probably wondering where we are. Let me bring you up to speed. Read the rest of this entry »