Driving to Wayne: My Plumas county Story
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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 |
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