Cahl-ee-fohrn-ya Wine Country, Santa Rosa

Did you know there is yet a place in California where you can drive for hours through rolling goldent hills gilded with live oak trees, where you can drive so close to sparkling lakes you can see fish jump? I didn't.

We drove from east to west through Lake and Mendocino Counties, headed for Santa Rosa and my sister's house in wine country. Two amazing things happened: we didn't meet any truly aggressive drivers (maybe it was the soothing scenery) and we found a Foster's Freeze in a tiny little lakeside town. Foster's Freeze is the most excellent establishment for soft serve ice cream in the world. I didn't even know how much I'd missed it until I licked my first Foster Freeze cone in about 20 years. Any idea of other soft serve ice creams disappeared from my brain. This was it--soft serve heaven! Frances became an instant convert.

We made it to Santa Rosa where I saw my sister's home for the first time. Her husband just retired, and they searched for two years to find the perfect place. It was built in 2004, just like my little home in the desert. It has a red tile roof, just like mine. The walls are painted pale mocha and doors and trim are white (just like mine). The interior of our houses are--improbably and amazingly--like sisters. Except that my whole house could fit in their basement.

My nephew and his wife and the Cutest Baby in the World came up from San Francisco for a picnic with us at Brother-in-law's favorite winery. He loves the view. He loves the wine. He is a member of their wine club, so he gets free tasting and great discounts--which he was able to share with us. Now we love the view and wine, too. Frances and I were good--we only tasted a few, ones we really thought we might like to buy. I bought my mom a nice red called "Poizin", which has a skull and crossbones on the bottle. Brother-in-law joked that nothing better happen to Mom, or the police would be all over me for bringing her Poizin. But mom is still just fine.

Back on Interstate 5, we made it to Mom's house--the house where I grew up. Women live in fear of becoming their mothers, but sometimes there's just no getting around the truth. For example, when someone takes a picture of you and your mother, and you find out you've got the same sun glasses!

Klamath Falls to Shasta and Cottonwood,. Cahl-ee-fornya!

The two-woman, 1-dog traveling troupe drove through what appeared to be high desert after leaving Klamath Falls. Trees were sparser, mountains smaller and more brown. We stopped at a rest stop called "Grass Lake." Odd name, I thought. Frances, of course, investigated the historical sign overlooking a prairie-like meadow while Oliver and I puttered around the pet area. She reported that there used to be a lake at that site, with a hotel and fishing dock. Until someone decided to fish with dynamite.

They probably didn't realize they were sitting on top of lava tubes until the dynamite broke through the floor of the lake. When the lake disappeared, they figured it out. Too late. It did become a fine wetland, now home to hundreds of species of animals--none of which built a hotel or a dock.

Approaching Shasta from the north made me realize that the scenic photos are mostly taken from the south. It took us a while to recognize it, but since it was the only large mountain around, we cleverly deduced that we were looking at Mt. Shasta. I think it was at this point that Frances' camera battery died. Rest stops would be shorter from here on out.

Traveling with a dog in hot weather means you don't get to eat inside in cool, air-conditioned establishments. We found a nice sandwich/pizza place,"The Pizza Factory," at about the same time we found I-5. Oliver and friend shared a seat. The beer, of course, was Oliver's.

My friend, Susan H., lives in Cottonwood, California, along the Sacramento River (or a tributary, or subsidiary, or some other river-like term.) I've been to her house a number of times, but with my lack of a sense of direction and because of the winding, twisting backroads to get there, Susan graciously offered to meet us at the Shasta Oulet Mall in Anderson. Frances and I managed to eschew this outlet mall ("It's HOT!" "I'm tired!") and instead visited the gloriously air-conditioned California Welcome Center.

Oliver was welcomed to California. Doesn't he look excited?

Umpqua

There is a part of Oregon that is so beautiful, so serene, and so sparsely populated that it can bring peace to the most jangled soul. I know, because I am that soul, and that's what it did for me today.

The Umpqua River flows, fat and shiny, through mountains and hills, through farms and elk preserves. You can see it from the road as you drive Highway 138 between Roseburg and Crater Lake. Oliver needed a doggie rest stop, so we stopped alongside the road in this sweet little nature area. Those of us who live in densely populated areas expect to see at least 20 other people in every little park, so having this space to ourselves for ten minutes was a little miracle.

Frances counted the number of sightings of different types of animals--domestic and wild--that we saw. Her final count was 10--just from our car window. We were most excited by the bald eagle that swooped so low over our car we could see every detail on its giant claws. We were most enchanted by the tiny calves trying to keep up with their mothers.

Crater Lake is the jewel at the end of this shiny, flowing necklace. It stunned me with its deep blue, satin-like surface. The literature says it's 2,000 feet deep, 6 miles long, 4 miles wide, and is the result of 12,000-foot Mt. Mazama blowing its top 7,000 years ago. My first thought was, how did they know it was named Mt. Mazama? But that was just to distract myself from the awesome scale of the event that created this caldera. Connecting with a prehistoric volcanic event can be a humbling experience for a 21st Century city girl.


We left the south side of Crater Lake on Hwy 62, avoiding the highest altitude on its east side. The countryside was drier, and mountains give way to hills. No more Umpqua River shining in the sun. I kind of missed it. Still, we delighted in driving for miles along the Upper Klamath Lake. Almost as much as actually arriving in Klamath Falls and finding our Motel 6 so we could get out of the car and flop down on our beds. What a day! What a beautiful, wondrous, eye-opening day! I really DO need to get out of the city more!

The Plight of the Roadtrip Dog

Oliver has his own plush-lined foam seat in the back seat of the car. He loves it. It's a good thing, because not only does it keep him safe (it's belted in, and he's harnessed and attached to it), but he spent a lot of time in it today

Frances scoped out a Sambo's restaurant in Lincoln City that apparently has been there for fifty years. We discussed the ramifications of its name during the civil rights movement of the 1960s; we both remembered restaurants of that chain that didn't make it through those times. The inside of the restaurant is decorated cute-with-gift shop, and the food was outstanding. (I think Frances will be out food scout from here on out.) Oliver waited in the car.

After checking out of the Lincoln City Motel 6, we headed south; our destination being Roseburg. We didn't make it very far. You may know that Lincoln City has an outlet mall, and the state of Oregon has no sales tax. Besides, it was raining, and how much sightseeing can you do when all you survey is uniformly silver-gray and damp? We both made a couple of purchases that made us so happy we almost did the Happy Dance right there. Oliver waited in the car.

Then the sightseeing commenced. We were on the Central Oregon Coast. Sightseeing is mandatory, even (or maybe especially) in the rain. We stopped at Cape Foulweather, so named by Captain James Cook because the weather was so foul when he arrived there. Nothing in today's weather belied that name, and the sign by the giftshop (of course there is a gift shop!) said 100-mile-an-hour winds are fairly common. Not today, thank goodness.We stopped at the Devils Punchbowl, where ocean waves are practically sucked into a hole in the rocks and swirled around in a large depression. Frances took pictures. Oliver had a little walk. Other ocean oddities required stops. Oliver walked with us.

We headed inland at Reedsport on Highway 38, which has some of the quietest, least-inhabited and most beautiful scenery I've ever seen. The Umpqua River flowed fat and silver through lush hills and forests with only an occasional farm. Four miles of the highway is an elk-crossing area, with pull-outs for elk viewing. We hoped to see some. They did not disappoint us. We saw a fine, muscled bull with his harem, holding his head high and looking proud. I didn't really know elk were so big. Oliver stayed in the car.

We took Highway 138 off of 38 to get to I-5 and Roseburg. I did't know there was this much uninhabited land left in the United States. When I get jangled fromt he crush in Southern California, I now know where I will run for peace and quiet. This tree-covered section of 138 filled me with serenity, even just passing through. It was not, however, a great time to need a bathroom. We found a porta-potty next to a dirt road leading to the Yellow Creek boat ramp (thank you, boaters!). Oliver had nice walk and enjoyed the always-available dog facilities.

We made it into Roseburg just in time to watch the finals of America's Got Talent. We were both stunned that the brooding country singer--who until very recently was an unemployed chicken catcher--beat out the gorgeous, cancer-surviving Latina opera singer. Oliver was unimpressed. He tossed his little toy in the air, growled and shook it, and was generally happy to be out of his car seat.

Tomorrow--Crater Lake. Neither of us has seen it. Both of us seem to have some sort of adverser reaction to altitude. It should be an interesting day.

Road Trip to New Life Begins

Stayed up too late Monday night, getting things done before leaving Tuesday morning for my new life in Indio. I kept starting to think, "Why didn't you get this done sooner?" in those disparaging tones that play in the bad tapes in our heads. Then I remembered: "Oh yeah. Just had surgery. Didn't really have enough energy to stay upright for a whole day until last Thursday." OK. Well, then. (Patting self on back) "Good job getting everything done in four days!"

I still had lots of stuff at the Bothell house that I never moved when I went to the Renton condo. Fifteen years of stuff. Next Saturday, Bill is going to ship seven boxes I packed--a big favor, because this way they will arrive shortly after I do, instead of sitting in a warehouse in the desert for a week. I don't remember what all is in those boxes, but I'm fairly certain that being cooked (it's still over 100 there) won't improve their appearance and usability.

Felt sad and heavy as I left. How can I be leaving 20 years of beloved friends behind? Some friends had a going away potluck for me Sunday. Some of us cried. I didn't have time to process it and feel my feelings, because there was still much to be done. Driving to meet Frances for the first leg of the trip, the sorrow set in. Fortunately, the day was sunny and Frances is an upbeat person who finds adventure in everything, so I didn't beome too maudlin. Frances is also a good listener.

First stop, Portland. Frances' brother and his wife live on the Riverwalk where you (and your dog) can dine at an outdoor table under a tree next to the river at McCormick and Schminks, dabbing your lips with cloth napkins. Oliver sat at my feet, next to his own tree. The waitress brought him a stainless steel doggie bowl of water. It just doesn't get any better than this. My mood was definitely improving.

We made it to Lincoln City for the night. We're Motel 6'ing it for reasons of economy and because they accept pets. This Motel 6 was brand new, three stories, free wi-fi. Pretty darned nice for the price. But I "hit the wall" about an hour before we got there and just couldn't make it to the beach with Frances to watch the sunset. She brought us some great photos on her cell phone. I was sorry I missed it, but so grateful for that Motel 6 bed!

Police Shoot Fire Chief...

I knew the recession was loosening its grip when I saw the paper last Friday. I saw it in the headlines. They didn't say "Recession Over;" in fact, they said "Police Shoot Fire Chief after Ticketing" and "Part of Man's Finger Bitten Off at Health Rally." But I knew. I knew things were getting better, because I haven't seen any headlines that tickled my twisted sense of humor in a long time. The papers have been too busy telling us the sky is falling to pay any attention to these weird little stories.

In the first story, the Fire Chief for the town of Jericho,Arkansas, went to court to complain that he'd received two speeding tickets the same day in the speed trap outside of town. It seems this town has 174 residents, no businesses left, and 7 police officers who prey on residents (and, I suppose, unsuspecting strangers.) After the Fire Chief complained to the judge, the police shot him. Right there in the courtroom. He was hit in the hip, is going to be OK, and because he lives in this screwball good ol' boy bad-movie-plot southern town, no one is being charged. Doncha love it?

The second story involves a 65-year-old man who swears he was just driving by about 100 people rallying in favor of health care reform in Thousand Oaks, California. He joined the people on the counter-protest side of the street (just curious, he says). Then those awful people from the other side of the street rushed over, threw punches, and bit off the tip of his left pinky. Doncha think maybe he left out just a wee little bit of the story? Good thing it wasn't his index finger; he wouldn't have been able to do the Scout salute while saying "That's what happened, officer, Scout's honor!"

Tonight, this little headline validated my tremendous powers of observation: "Worst recession since 1930s appears over" It seems the Federal Reserve surveyed businesses and found economic activity stabilizing or improving in most regions.

However, it won't last unless we SPEND MORE MONEY. (Wait, didn't they tell us that when we were sliding into the Pit of Recession and Despair?) It seems our recovery is dependent on new car sales, now that "Cash for Clunkers" (which they deemed a success) is over. Then the report talked about the high unemployment rate, which is expected to keep climbing.

I suspect we the unemployed will not be buying new cars any time soon. So, it's up to the rest of you. Been wanting a new car? Think of it: that great new car smell AND saving the economy. Get something you want AND be a hero! It's so seductive I don't know how anyone can resist.

While you're doing that, I'll do my part. I'll keep scanning the newspapers for these odd little stories. As long as they keep popping up, I think we're doing OK.

Deja Doggie Vous

Little "Scruffdog" Oliver was diagnosed with colitis, and the medication the vet gave him made him sicker. I can't believe this. I've been dealing with a similar affliction--Crohn's Disease--for 24 years, and almost everything the doctors give me exacerbates the condition. I am fortunate in that I am largley able control it through diet. My recent surgery stunned me by actually being successful.

Doctors like to prescribe medications, and they hate it when they don't work. In fact, many of them (who seem to think "M.D." stands for "Minor Diety") try to tell me I'm wrong about my adverse reaction, because "no one ever has a reaction to this." (They haven't met my five sisters, daughter, three nieces and two nephews who also have hypersensitive systems and multiple drug allergies.) What they really mean is that only one or two per cent of the people who take the drug have bad reactions. If you live near me, you are in statistical good luck, because I am the one per cent. So, you might have a better chance of being in the golden 99%.

It's taken me 24 years to get over any reticence about telling doctors they're wrong. I try to be polite, but if being "nice" means allowing them to keep making me sicker because they can't believe statistics could be wrong, I'll be as recalcitrant as I have to be.

It never occurred to me I'd have to do the same thing for a dog. I can't decide out if it's irony or serendipity that my dog has my same weird medical problems. Irony for me, I suppose, and serendipity for him. When I told the vet that the medication made him so sick all he could do was lie around, not eating or drinking, the vet questioned my powers of observation. "This medication is very well tolerated," he said, sounding baffled, and intimating that something else had affected Oliver this way.

The deja vous was so thick I probably shook my head like I'd bumped it on something. I wanted to be nice, really I did. But I know how this dance goes. So I didn't even let it get started. "Well, it's not well tolerated by this dog," I said, unapologetically. "Let's explore other options." And we did.

Oliver got a big dose of the new medication this afternoon. He ate a big dinner and spent his evening rolling on his back, asking for tummy rubs, and tossing his little toy duck around. He looked to me like he was feeling pretty good. But then, who knows if my powers of observation can be trusted?