It is so rare in life that you get the opportunity to knowingly
appreciate a pleasant experience for the last time; humans are good at thinking
the good stuff is just going to keep on coming.
Recognizing the last of a bad experience is much easier, “I will never
taste Campari again.” You can reasonably
be sure that, if you don’t like something, then you will recognize when you are
experiencing it for the last time. But
the delightful experiences? Not so easy
to see when those are coming to an end. Over the last two weeks I was determined to
focus on this being the last Beagle trip and found such attention helped me to
appreciate the small comforts she affords as well as occasionally providing a much-needed
shift in perception. Of course, there
was a great deal of Kitness evident as well.
I believe I last wrote to you from Cachuma Lake, where
the Noses and I had hunkered down through four days of epic rainfall. All told, over six inches of rain fell on the
pass where we were located; roads were blocked due to mud slides and a few
areas even had mandatory evacuations. Consequently,
it was with some trepidation that I decided, at the last minute and without any
Googling, to take the long, back-road way to Ojai.
This was my kind of camping! Back to driving 100 miles or less, getting
into camp early enough for a long walk with the Noses before a hot shower and an iced cocktail. The few hours it took me to
get through Ojai and into the KOA outside of Venture were delightful; I enjoyed
the blue sky meeting the top of the rolling, green hills and the tourist-packed
Ojai village. I could see where the mud
had blocked many of the roads, the signs of scraping still evident. But thankfully I had no problem reaching my
destination. And, after four days of quick
sponge baths, I thoroughly enjoyed the clean, hot, token free KOA shower.
I am not a fan of RV parks or KOA’s but this is a nice
one; well organized, not too big, helpful staff. When I pulled into my assigned pitch there
was a giant mud puddle through which the dogs would have to cross in order to
enter Beagle. That would not do. As Kitness would have it, a roving KOA ranger
was checking out Beagle and I asked him if I could change pitches. He immediately radioed the office and
determined that I could move a few pitches down—the current occupants were leaving
unexpectedly. And it was ideal: Beagle
sat on a hill with her door opening toward the edge, overlooking the much more
crowded area below.
Two nights there and we were ready to move on. Forgetting that it was a holiday weekend, I
headed to Emma Woods State Beach, where I had camped in early December. I knew it was a popular campground on the weekends
but figured I would be fine as it was Sunday.
I pulled in and greeted the
ranger who remembered me from before (another joy of Beagle); it was crowded,
he wasn’t sure there was room for me as two-thirds of the campground was
missing now (due to the storms eating away at the coastline) but he assured me
that I would have enough room to turn around if I couldn’t find a spot. I took
a breath and headed in.
The campground is just one long, narrow road along the
ocean. To the left is a hill and then
train tracks and to your right are the few remaining pitches, just a few feet
from the crashing waves.
I decided to pull into the first spot I saw, got Beagle
backed in, hopped out to check level and realized that I was crammed between two
giant fifth-wheels with all their bump-outs bumped out; one with a generator
running. I looked longingly down the road. And then I saw someone pulling out of my
original pitch from months ago. Number
17! The last one on the edge so that, instead
of Beagle’s front door opening into someone’s bump-out, it would open to a view
south along the shore-line. Kitness
prevails once again.
It was a loud two nights with the waves crashing on the rocks
just behind us, occasionally sending ocean spray against Beagle’s rear
door. Not even the Noses wanted to be
outside despite the warm sunshine, so after our long morning walks, we hopped
inside Beagle, left the screen doors open and enjoyed the cave-like comfort as
the sun streamed through the windows and I caught up on my reading. (The picture above was taken from there.)
I finally started Homo
Deus - A Brief History of Tomorrow, the book I purchased following Sam
Harris’s interview with the author, Yuval Noah Harari; you may remember it was
the interview that ended most of my dairy digestion. What a phenomenal book: Not only due to what he has to say which is
well-written, entertaining and provocative, but also the book itself. The pages are thick and slightly glossy,
making it a joy to highlight and leave notes in the margins. The whole experience makes me happy to be
human.
My original plan was to stop next in Mugu State Park,
just an hour or so south of Emma Woods. After
a brief stop in Oxnard to wash the salt spray off of Beagle, I jumped on
Highway 1. Much like its northern cousin, this portion of
Highway 1 winds along a cliff but we eventually dropped down to sea level. Coming around a curve, I could see the
campground ahead; it too had been ransacked by the storms, mounds of sand were
competing with the RV’s lined up next to the ocean. I didn’t even stop, all three of us were tired
of the crashing surf and Beagle was free of salt. Plus, it was early in the day and I knew I
could make it to Laguna Beach by three; I only needed a bit more Kitness as I
was showing up two days early for my reservation at what is always a busy
campground.
Not only could they fit me in, but I was able to spend
two nights in the same pitch as my reservation, so I didn’t have to move Beagle
for five nights. The weather was sunny
and warm, I knew where the dog park was, the dog wash, the best huevos
rancheros and all cotton t-shirts. There is a lot about Laguna that still feels
like home but I appreciate it much more now that I only pay $45 per night.
Alas, the weekend came and the campground, like all
southern California campgrounds I have been in, became Party Central. One night I was sitting outside enjoying a
cocktail at sunset when a couple pulled in below me. (The campground sits on a hill so each row of
pitches has a beautiful ocean view.)
They proceeded to set up not just the ordinary things like camp chairs
and coolers, but also gas fired heat lamps. Plural. Then they did the unthinkable: They fired up their generator (at sunset!)
and drove off in their truck. Drove off,
leaving the rest of us to listen to that horrible sound.
After five minutes I walked down to their pitch. I wasn’t sure if both people had left, so I
knocked on their door. No response. I stood for a moment looking at the generator
then I leaned down and turned it off.
There was a short applause from my fellow purists.
I had just made it back to my gin when the couple
returned, looked a bit puzzled, shrugged, and fired up their generator
again. Ahh well.
Once the sun went down the partying began. I was sandwiched between two large groups, one
had three tents and three cars crammed into a one-tent spot and the other had
two tents and an Airstream. Both sets
proceeded to get high and drunk and, around nine, the pure tent group began to
sing.
Rather than get frustrated (you can’t really get mad, quiet
hours aren’t until ten and then are rarely enforced) I reminded myself how good
a Friday night could feel when you had been working all week. Remember that feeling? That ahhh, like the last day of school. I miss that about working; how well it
defined Not Working. I gave up trying to
read and decided to watch some Mrs. Maisel while I enjoyed the sounds of
happiness.
My last day in Laguna was supposed to be spent with my
brother and girlfriend but my Kitness was in short supply; while driving out of
camp a terrible metal on metal grating noise began emanating from my right
front wheel. I stopped on the campground
road, looked under the car, into the wheel well, couldn’t see anything. Tried to go again. Even worse.
The sound so bad people were coming out of their sites to see what was
going on.
A man came up to see if he could be of any help. We discussed the issue and decided it would be
better to leave Wurzig where it was and call a tow truck. He had AAA and would call them from his
RV. Once he left I realized that I had
Porsche Roadside Assistance, so I set off to find him, Noses in tow. After knocking on the wrong RV door, I found
him already talking to Porsche. He realized,
given the year of Wurzig, that it must be covered and he was right.
Eventually the tow truck showed up. A male chauvinist like I have not seen in
years. Some kind of eastern European
giant with cold blue eyes and a thick accent.
I explained the sound.
“I
think maybe you drive with parking brake on.”
You can imagine how well that went over.
“No.” Was my short reply; my green eyes now equally
cold.
He set about hooking up Wurzig’s rear to the tow line and
began to pull it up the ramp. There was
no grating sound. I asked him to stop,
unhook the car and let me drive it forward a bit.
No grating sound.
“I
think maybe you had rock stuck on rotor.”
“Yes.”
And so my last day in Laguna was spent dealing with
Wurzig; I opted to drive it over to Porsche and get their opinion. They agreed it was no longer a problem.
But what was a problem all of a sudden was living on the
road. When something goes wrong with
your tow vehicle you are stuck and it is a terrible feeling, particularly for
someone like me. I have had enough.
The next day we made it all the way back to Morro Bay,
complete with a stop at Bob’s Well Bread Bakery (again!) where, after standing in
line for twenty minutes, I snagged the last lemon curd tart (Kitness returned!),
a pain au chocolat and a loaf of fig, raisin and walnut bread. I also had a nice chat with Bob who agreed
with me that Thursdays in the bakery are much more fun than crowded Sundays but he hoped it
would get better now that he was opening a store in Ballard.
“Ballard?! As in Seattle’s Ballard?” Talk about Kitness!
“No, Ballard, California.”
Ahh well.
So here we are, in the Morro Bay State Park Campground, a
few nights away from sleeping in Kismit.
If you have enjoyed this blog, take note—you are experiencing this for
the last time. It is time to settle in
for a while, get to work on the house and back to work on my book. (It is still my intention to camp with Beagle
while going to and from Seattle but the first of those trips won’t be until
May.)
Thank you for reading and for the kind comments.
-K
PS: Some of you know
my love of the Ciak journals, I have made my way through at least three of them
now. On my last trip up to Seattle (the
only place I can find them for sale in person), I purchased two more, one for
myself and one for a friend. They only
had two colors left, orange and yellow. I
chose the lesser of two evils for myself and enjoyed a private joke in sending
the orange one to its owner. I would
never have thought I would own a yellow journal. Or a house.
Welcome to 2019.
