The Journey Part 33

Yesterday, Bev and tramily arrived at Kennedy Meadow South, which is the unofficial gateway to the Sierra.  Approximately twenty trail miles from that “oasis” is the beginning of serious snow, raging rivers, washed out bridges, more blowdowns than you can probably count, and some ledges which are better saved for mountain goats.  After Kennedy Meadows, this no longer is a backpacking trip; it becomes a mountain-climbing trip, and special skills are needed for those willing to take it on.

Bev is not one of those people. The decision was made, today, to pull the plug, return to Washington, wait four to six weeks, and then return to southern Oregon and hike Oregon and Washington northbound.

It is the only logical decision, and it is a wise one.

We leave in two days.

I don’t know how many miles Bev has hiked so far. If I had to guess, I would say 500, in that neighborhood. One hell of an accomplishment, and she in no way is alone in this decision to skip the Sierra. Dozens of hikers, weekly, are now looking for alternate routes, or other hikes, or simply going home.

It’s that dangerous!

So, we shall see. We are going to take a leisurely drive back to Olympia, regroup, do some conversion things to the bus, and then in mid-June decide the next step.  If Bev decides not to continue, I will begin my road trip, alone, at that time. If she does continue, I will most likely continue to resupply her, from Puddle Walker, at that time.

Whatever we decide, it’s been one hell of an adventure so far, and for me, at least, it has only just begun.  My new series, “An Old Man, A Dog, and a Bus,” will debut on YouTube next week, so you can follow my solo trip if you like.

I would love to have the company.

THE BOOB TUBE

Sitting in a motel in Tehachapi, while the bus gets new brakes. Woke up at six, as is my norm.  The room directly behind me, connected to mine by a thin piece of plywood, has a permanent resident living there.  At 6:30 the woman’s television came on. It is still on at 8:30. The sun is out. The day promises to be beautiful, with temps finally in the 70’s, and the television is on, as it was last night for four hours prior to bedtime.

I am not judging. I am simply stating what is happening.

I have absolutely no doubt that this particular scene is playing out in tens-of-millions of households across this country.  I know, at one time, that scene played out in homes I lived in. The television was my pacifier, when alcohol was no longer trusted, background noise, braindead entertainment, a substitute, for me, for actually living life.

Again, no judgement. I’m not a hypocrite, at least I try not to be. I was there. I partook in the boob tube for countless hours. It’s a pacifier, pure and simple, and an entertaining pacifier at that, a pacifier I have not used now for three months, and I tell you truly that I have not missed it at all. I have found a much more fulfilling way to spend my time, on the road, looking at nature, talking to real people . . . you know, living life!

I know some people who think I’m running away from something. Truth is, I’m running towards something . . . life!

I’ve been given a gift. I have excellent health. I am not infirmed. I am sound of mind. And I am financially secure enough to be able to follow my whimsy.  And it would be a crying shame, to my way of thinking, if I squandered that gift for even one more day.

Anyway, it’s a beautiful day, and I have things to do. I will leave that woman to watch her television. The dogs and I have an appointment with the Great Outdoors, and it’s not nice to keep Mother Nature waiting.

ON THE ROAD AGAIN, A PROPORTIONAL RESPONSE

Wrap your brain around this fact, which I looked up after driving through California’s Central Valley today.

The Central Valley is approximately 18,000 square miles in size, say about forty-to-sixty miles wide and some four-hundred-and-fifty miles long. It is larger, in area, than nine states.  Let that sink it, because I think that is absolutely mind-blowing. Larger than nine states!

You can talk about America’s breadbasket all you want, feeling an allegiance to Iowa and Nebraska and a couple other fly-over states, but by far the largest producer of produce, that’s a mouthful, pun intended, is the Central Valley of California. In fact, the four largest produce-producing (another mouthful, I’m getting good at this) counties in the United States are within the Central Valley.

So, and I say this in hopes of not sounding all preachy, when the news comes on and tells you about a drought in California, or talks about redirecting waters from distant rivers to produce the crops in the Valley, you really (not any particular “you”) can’t be shocked when the price of tomatoes rises, or there is a sudden shortage of almonds.

The realities of being a global economy are being felt more acutely these days. Shortages directly affect supply and demand.  Droughts affect us all.  The problems facing farmers in California will, at some point in time, affect you.

Why am I on that particular soapbox?  Because of empathy, my friends, and that rhymes with p and that stands for pool, or something like that. It sickens me to see thousands of acres unplanted because of a lack of water. These are proud people who live here. There are tens-of-thousands of people involved in delivering that lettuce to your dinner table, and most of them are feeling the crunch; no matter how hard they work, the crunch does not go away.

Maybe I feel a bit more than would seem logical because my grandparents worked their tails off on Iowa farms during the Great Depression, and it broke their collective hearts to lose those farms because of circumstances out of their control and yes, we could be all logical and black and white, say “well that’s just the luck of the draw for farmers, they know the risks going in,” but that kind of comment is beneath us all.

Anyway, the Central Valley is one large mother of valleys!

This is Steinbeck Country, so named for the famous author and his love for this area, The Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, Cannery Row, all touching upon this little portion of Americana, and I can see his attraction to it. Where we are now, King City, part of the inland portion of Steinbeck’s Garden of Eden; to the coast we are talking about Monterrey, Carmel, Pacific Grove, and thousands of other nooks and crannies which make up the central coast of California.

Leaving Tehachapi today, I was struck by the remarkable, and yet subtle, changes which occur in a just a few miles.

Tehachapi is considered high desert, four-thousand feet in elevation, what some would consider barren, but in fact home to some fairly-impressive apple orchards and grape orchards.

Literally twenty miles to the west is the aforementioned Central Valley, basically sea level, and twenty miles to the east, the Mohave Desert.  It is fascinating to drive those twenty miles west, dropping in elevation as you go, with shrubs changing to incredibly brown grasslands, the grasses hard and brittle, oak trees clinging to the sides of hills, and then to the valley floor, and I am not exaggerating, mile after mile of green, crops of all sizes and shapes, enough food to feed, not too close to an exaggeration, the entire world.

The secret ingredient to that particular twenty-mile magic act . . . water!

What’s my point? I’m not sure I have one . . . wait, maybe I do.

I know some vegetarians who believe, no joke, that meat-eaters should be forced to go to slaughter houses and watch the process of hamburger preparation, from start to finish., or force meat-eaters to kill what they eat, perhaps then they would not be so eager to stick a fork in a steak.

That’s the way I’m leaning regarding the produce and fruit grown in this country. I think and yes, I’m being a bit facetious, every American should have to work on a lettuce farm one summer or pick almonds in the Fall. Maybe then they would appreciate what went into that salad, how much hard work it took to deliver it to your Safeway, and how dependent, we all are, on lady luck and the whims of the global economy.

I’m just spitballin’ right now, so don’t pay me much attention.

Anyway, it’s a big valley, and that reminds me of Linda Evans, and now I’m aging myself, so we will shut it down for the night.