Driving to Wayne: My Plumas county Story

​​I’ve been back & forth
for almost 3 years now
from the Haight
surrounded by millions
to Quincy,
far away.
 
…
 
Downhill to Oak Street
on past NOPA
lower Haight
Hayes Valley
the ramp to the 80
stop and go to the Bridge
wedged in.
 
Yerba Buena tunnel opens into light
water sky white pillars Oakland cranes
then the Berkeley slowdown.
I stay left to
Richmond, San Pablo,
Pinole, Hercules
Chevron’s hillside tanks
Rodeo and Crockett and the old C&H factory
over the blue Carquinez Strait
Vallejo.
Then up, over and down to
Fairfield
with its slowdown
which I never understand.
and eventually there is
Vacaville.
 
Fifty years ago
our station wagon stopped here
on trips south from Oregon.
The Nut Tree was something.
Actual nut trees
the shade they gave
the toy train
sweet nut bread
a respite from the freeway.
This was California.
Now it’s a fading outlet mall
every fast food joint
all the retail hangers on
how long will they hang on?
 
The nut trees are gone.
 
I stay alert not to miss
the 505 thank God finally
now there is space. 
Winters, an oasis.
I sometimes stop for gas
or a chai that’s too sweet
or just to get into a little town
far enough off the freeway
but not too far.
 
505 to I-5 with all the trucks
75 miles per hour
to Haines Road
where I found the best apricots last July.
Now I always exit there
parallel I-5 on Lone Star Road
pass a sign for pecans
just like Texas.
 
East on 20.
The Sacramento Valley has grown on me. 
It is so beautiful in winter.
Green and lush with birds
watery rice fields shine with sky.
 
The Sutter Buttes appear
now we are talking serious magic
Middle Mountains
remnants of an ancient volcano.
I watch them as I approach Colusa
Sacramento river town that could be sweet
but was settled by southerners
who cheered when Lincoln was killed.
I pick up the local paper sometimes.
It seems like those confederate sympathizers
are still around.
There’s a city park with a bathroom
where I just about always stop
lie on a picnic table
look up at the palms
stretch my arms my shoulders my back
feel my breath move my ribs
feel like I’m a long way from San Francisco.

​Highway 45
north through orchards
past the casino with a lot full of cars.
Leonard Cohen sang to me on this road
after he died
I still can’t believe he died
in that last dark winter
all these birds witnessing us,
Leonard and me,
as we went by at 60
precisely 5 miles over the speed limit.
 
Steer your way through the ruins
of the Altar and the Mall
Steer your way through the fables
of Creation and The Fall
Steer your way past the Palaces
that rise above the rot
Year by year
Month by month
Day by day
Thought by thought
 
I see the Egrets standing sentry
sometimes herons
hawks overhead
floating coots, flocks of ducks, geese,
hordes of little birds flooding the sky in front of me.
Leonard, are you really gone?
Then Princeton and up onto the levee
past the oxbow lakes
across the big brown Sacramento
to Butte City.
 
East again on 162
through more rice fields that make sense to me
only for the birds.
Doerings at 99 for mandarins
and nice people and,
if you are very lucky,
Eureka walnuts
from their single tree.
 
Finally Highway 70.
Foothills at Oroville signal the start of the canyon.
a glimpse of houseboats
floating high or low on the reservoir
my spirits lifting
or a sense of dread,
depending.
That tree that someone decorates
Yankee Hill Scooters Grand View
the double bridge at Pulga
stop lights and workers still working
in the canyon
a year after the floods.
 
At the rest stop on the river
I feel like I’ve made it out.
I lie on the picnic table and look up
at the live oaks
and a solitary cedar
stretch my arms my shoulders my back
listen to the water
listen to my breath
close my eyes
feel my body begin to adjust
to a different place.
 
Now the Canyon.
There’s that tunnel through sheer rock
long trains carrying what?
lumber? coal? grain?
I would like to ride that train someday.
more tunnels
bridges
so many waterfalls in the winter
great grey granite boulders
in the river
The Feather River
in water that should always rush
and pool
and rush again.
rock walls
sometimes looking like the Sierra
sometimes the Cascades.
 
I note the busy business of PG&E
its series of dams holding back the river
and the creeks
defeating the fish.

​Storrie, Tobin,
Belden, Caribou,
Twain, Paxton,
Keddie
The fishing train from Oakland
how perfect that must have been.
 
I read the CHP reports
in the Feather River Bulletin
I know the danger
cars go out of control
roll down the ravine
into the river
People might be belted in
they might be OK
but people die
they come around a corner
there is a huge rock
or a fallen tree
or there is ice…
 
No phone signal now
I listen to my podcast
Stay Alert
let the ones who want to go faster
go on by.
 
The canyon gets darker
tall pines close in.
 
Over the last rise
an opening into light
the nursery
the College
Spanish Creek
the little league field
the airport runway
American Valley.
A few motels
a couple of gas stations
the big solid Courthouse
steep dark mountains.
 
I turn right on Main Street
and I’m there.
 
…
 
I’ve been back & forth
to Quincy
far away
for almost 3 years now.
At first I went only for Wayne.
but gradually
this place has begun
to sing to me.
 
I’ve learned that people love this place.
I see beauty here
I also see signs of despair.
But I come from beauty and despair.
In San Francisco
with its hills and light and views
there are thousands of people
sleeping on the sidewalk
in the middle
of the great new economy gold rush.
 
It took a while,
But I’m starting to get it.
Wayne’s home is becoming our home.
I stay longer and longer.
I’m adjusting.
little by little
thought by thought.

 
Susan Allen, San Francisco / Quincy