Ferocity Mill

Sometimes if I’m in one place for too long, I get an itch. I’m not talking about the kind of itch you get from sitting on a toilet seat in a bar or slutting yourself around too much (that would be crabs, in case you are ignorant or twelve years old), but the kind that makes me want to go on a long road trip. And not just any long road trip – I’m referring to the kind of road trip that leaves you broke, homeless and really, really tan.

I used to get the itch while I was in the military. I’d wake up one morning, drive down the highway to Fort Stewpid, and wish I could just keep driving. Unfortunately, the military has this crazy policy where you can’t call in sick unless you have a serious problem, like a broken clavicle or something, so unless I was due for leave or a four-day pass, I was stuck where I was. I might as well have been in a cage.

When I got out of the Army last May (almost a year ago! Can you even fathom it?), I plucked my freedom back out of Uncle Sam’s bony fingers and hit the road. My best friend suggested we drive the Pan-American highway from Alaska to Argentina (“It’ll be great! All we need is guns and money!”), and I would have done it if she hadn’t gone and gotten a job before I got back from Iraq. Since I’m one of those who likes to have a partner in crime for international adventures, I opted not to go it alone, and instead decided to traverse the United States.

From June to December 2008, my car was my home. I drove tens of thousands of miles, from sea to shining sea and back. I took the blue highways or no highways, stopping for gas, food, hitchhikers, sunsets and exceptionally tall trees. In the middle of Idaho I got a dog, and together we drove, walked and/or peed in every national forest we came across. I had no obligations, no bills and a steady paycheck, thanks to my ninety-seven days of paid leave and Iraq savings, and my future was unknown – just the way I liked it.

In January, I came to Oakland and got an apartment. I’ve continued taking one- to two-week excursions, either on my own or with anyone else who was interested, and doing more exploring locally than your average unemployed person. Still, it’s difficult to travel with reckless abandon when you know you’ll have to pay rent upon your return, so I can’t venture out as far or as frequently as I’d like to.

I explained all of this on the phone to Eric a few weeks ago. He was off playing music for people in Colorado that week, and I was getting frustrated with my neighborhood.

“It’s so blah,” I told him in my best non-whiny voice. “There is nothing I can walk to, and I hate driving in the city. You know what I need? Wilderness.“

Since I am just the slightest bit impatient and Eric is probably the most agreeable person on the planet (seriously, I could ask him if he wanted to do anything from going to a museum to learning how to play Cliff-Jumping Fire Darts and he’d be all, “Sounds like fun!”), he and I began planning our next wilderness road trip that very night. Two weeks later, we were packed and driving down Highway 1 to Big Sur.

The California coastline, in case you’ve never driven it, is ridiculously goddamn gorgeous, and that’s on a hazy day. When the sun is shining and the ocean is blue, you might as well forget about doing anything other than staring at it all day, from as many angles as possible. We drove down on one of those sunny, clear days that makes every RV-owner from San Francisco to San Diego decide to fill up the tank and drive 30 miles per hour down steep, winding roads, and the trip was so amazing that I only cursed out one other driver. We finally decided on a place to pull over and camp, but it’s difficult when all your options look equally perfect.

There was a sketchy-looking trail that led from our campground down to a deserted beach. We realized before long that the beach was probably deserted due to the path being 1) at a forty-five-degree angle and 2) heavily infested with poison oak. Of course, since a deserted beach is pretty difficult to come by these days, we had to take advantage of it by stripping and running into the ocean. The experience invoked countless feelings for me, but the only one I can remember clearly was a feeling of being too cold to breathe both in and out.

Our campsite was fairly secluded, as nobody else was interested in camping near the tree line due to a “raccoon problem.” Our closest neighbor warned us that the local scavengers were shameless enough to attempt to break into campers’ cars, but we decided the food would be fine in a locked Subaru. Surprisingly, the raccoon story ends there, rather than with “and then the raccoons smashed my windshield, ate all our food, set the tent on fire, etc.”

No, it wasn’t the nocturnal creatures that concerned me. One morning as I blearily boiled water for tea, Eric called my attention to the vehicle that had just pulled up beside the camp’s somewhat primitive toilet facilities.

“Look!” he whispered excitedly. “Does that say ‘got poop?’”

We spent most of our time exploring the area, as most sane people do when they are in a place that could be a visual definition of the word “Wow.” After hitting a couple touristy spots, like McWay Falls and its neighboring coastline, it was time to head into the woods so the dog could get poison oak and ticks more efficiently.

What? Did you think I was kidding? My dog has few priorities greater than Eat, Run Around and Snuggle.

Have you ever wanted to look up at a tree and hear your neck crack before you’ve craned it far enough backward to see the top? If so, I highly suggest walking through a forest of redwoods.

The back half of this tree was burnt during the wildfires here last summer. Its front half, weirdly, looked untouched.

We walked uphill and downhill through forests and meadows, pausing every fifteenth of a second to look around and repeat some variation of “Holy fuck, this is beautiful,” and at the end of the day, we reached this view. (I KNOW.)

After about four days of gleefully neglecting showers, we reluctantly dragged ourselves back to the East Bay and Responsibility. There are more road trips ahead, but my wanderlust has been sated momentarily. For now, I’ll just blame that little itch on poison oak.

:::

Today’s Moment of Zen

I’m sorry, Salamander. We didn’t mean to scare you shitless.