On the road

Load the sleeping bag. An extra pillow. Water. Road snacks. Gas up the car. Grab the dog. Well, maybe an extra blanket. Flashlight. So much for traveling light.

This overnighter is looking like a weeklong trek into the wilderness. Backpack. More snacks. Camera.

A tent cabin awaits tonight. We just have to get there. Another pillow. Oh yeah, dog food. Dog snacks. Dog pillow. Leash.

We get up early, coffee up and shower. Mosquito wipes. Water bottles. Hat. Towel.

 Nothing else will fit in this Suburu wagon. Hold it. We squeeze in a book, extra pair of shoes, more socks.

A fourth pillow is requested but it’s left bravely behind. Water the plants. Lock the doors. Set the alarm.

Less than five minutes away, we stop for a coffee refill. Let the dog out. Pile back in.

Something is left behind. U-turn.

There's one more person to pick up along the way.

This will be a long trip. We’ll be back tomorrow night.

Armchair travel

Last minute trips are fun, but sometimes I like the anticipation of a trip in the making. As I scour the internet looking for possibilities, my imagination expands.

Over the course of an hour, I’m on a riverbank, in the old growth forest, on a mountain. I’m sipping wine in Amador County, on a cable car in San Francisco, cruising up Highway 1 toward Bodega Bay. The choices tumble in and I consider them carefully, thinking of season and distance.

There’s the pure deep blue of Tahoe’s Emerald Bay, a carpet of spring blooms at Daffodil Hill, and -- always, always -- the constant tug toward the Pacific. The surfeit of choices overwhelms and calms me.

This is the land of Twain, Steinbeck and Muir. But it isn't. This is a place of tremendous and rapid change. Physical and cultural earthquakes are always at work here, remaking California for each generation. It doesn’t matter how it shakes out.

Nature doesn’t stand still for an instant. Preserve it? Hah. It’s on the move, regardless of efforts to lock it into place. All we can do it step back and watch. I’m stunned anew at its beauty.

I arrive at the end of the hour with a plan. I map it. Check the weather. Make a reservation.

South by southwest we’ll go.

To the jungle

One of the little considered benefits of moving to California is how easy it is to leave it. As in traveling to other places via airports here.

Direct flights are abundant and they go to all the good places. Choices are good, flights are many so we hopped aboard and took off to an island. It never felt so good to leave.

Our island is hot and humid – for the moment, just perfect. Being an island, there are 360 degrees of beaches to wander. Plumeria in white, pink and yellow. Sticky-footed geckos. A lascivious red flower with its tongue hanging out.

We dash about like tourists, trying to see everything, do everything.

A sudden downpour, then sun. Our shoes turn red from muddy trails and our necks a lighter shade from sunburn. By day five, we are weary and beach time lengthens. There’s an afternoon nap, an early pina colada. It’s a happy week.

We’ve been here before but travel time was twice as long. This wasn’t due to flight time but the fact we lived in a “fly-over” state.

I’ve always hated that term, which basically means the state isn’t important enough for planes, or its passengers, to stop. There’s the political implications that its people are not worth time and effort of candidates. It’s just a place that is only good enough to “fly-over.”

Along with all of that, since fewer planes stop, there are fewer flights out. That ends up meaning fewer direct flights anywhere. A flight to Hawaii from Idaho, for instance, means stopping in Seattle or San Francisco or L.A. first with a long layover. Mexico? Most flights require an overnight stay somewhere, making this a two –day trip.

Travel is expensive, complicated, trying. Airport connections are a common complaint, restricting business and tourism.

Back to California. 70 degree days and sunshine. Why did we leave? But the worst thing is to have to run away from something. It’s always better when you’re running toward something. We look forward to leaving again.

Weird and wonderful

An impromptu stroll after an afternoon coffee conjured up some interesting sights and a startling encounter with a ghost.

The wonderful:

Then, under the watchful gaze of a Victorian home’s owner, I snapped this photo. 

Here comes the weird:

The lady hadn’t moved and I realized I had come face to face with one of Sacramento’s notorious ghosts: Dorothy Puente.

She's the infamous landlady who killed her older tenants, buried them in her backyard and collected their Social Security checks.

She's a ghost, too, these days.

The current owner of the property has a creepy sense of humor, thus the dead-ringer mannequin and these signs: