April 14, 2004
We just got back from a fast, four-day trip to Reno. Our excuse to go was to see a friend, but actually we just like getting away, taking off, hittin' the road. It is about a 12 hour drive from Salem to Reno, and we try to leave in the early afternoon so that we can have dinner in the quaint Shakespearean town of Ashland, then drive on for another hour to sleep in the mountain towns of either Mt. Shasta or Dunsmuir.

This time we left on Thursday afternoon and we were in Ashland for dinner by 5:30. Ashland is world famous for hosting its annual Shakespearean Festival every summer. The tiny town swells to thousands as people pour in to see and hear the bard's famous works. The entire town is oriented towards theater and driving down its streets you see shops with masks and clothing of other times and places. An open back truck rumbles down the street with some strange and unidentified prop being balanced by a young boy.

Both Mt. Shasta and Dunsmuir are old mountain railroad towns. Mt. Shasta has made the transition into more of a resort town, appealing to the skiers and other sport enthusiasts that are drawn to this incredibly majestic mountain. Dunsmuir is still quite sleepy. Although the railroad no longer plays much of a part in the local inhabitant's daily life, the oldest and most interesting buildings are still on the backside of town, oriented towards the tracks the way we would orient a commercial building towards Main Street.

The drive from Dunsmuir to Reno takes us first through a mountain pass that is heavily wooded with Ponderosa and Sugar Pines. We had stopped at a market before we left Mt. Shasta, and although in shady areas there was still a bit of snow on the ground , the day was warm, so when we found an interesting spot in the woods we made a quick, mid morning picnic snack of it before continuing on.

It is a beautiful drive from the mountain towns, across the pass and then into the desert. The terrain changes abruptly as soon as we hit Susanville. When I was a child my family used to go through Susanville on our way to see my grandparents during summer vacation. My sisters and I always dreaded stopping there because everywhere we went in the town there were crickets. Crickets on the café wall, dead crickets squashed on the road, crickets on the streetlights, casting bizarre shadows, crickets on the motel room walls. It was creepy, kind of like the Hitchcock movie "The Birds", but with bugs instead. I had to call my sister from a pay phone when we hit Susanville to check on some other matters and when I told her where we were her first question was "Oh no, are there crickets everywhere?" But no, not a one in sight. I guess we must have always hit the town at the same time of year, when these things were breeding or migrating or something.

Since this trip, no crickets, we stopped at a café in town that is virtually unchanged since its first days in the early 20's or 30's. A soda counter and tall, old time booths line their respective walls and a dozen or so mounted elk heads gaze accusingly down on us as we order lunch.

From Susanville on to Reno it is desert, sometimes with a few trees, but mainly desert. As a child I hated the two or three long days that we drove through sagebrush covered vistas, but now I find it fascinating. Although it is only a few hours drive or so between the towns, we stop so many times to check out whatever is alongside the road that it takes us most of the day to finally reach Reno in the late afternoon.

This was to be a quick trip. Just visit with our friends, then spend the rest of the next day running around to all the nurseries that we can find. Whenever we are in a totally different climatic area than our own we always try to visit some of the nurseries, and if we are driving, like this time, we will end up bring back a car full of plants. Even when we fly I usually have a shopping bag stuffed in the overhead bin or tucked beneath my feet, tiny green arms and legs sticking out in protest.

The trip home is when it really gets fun. With no real deadline except to get back we can meander off on those dirt backroads that seem to lead nowhere. Who makes these things and why? We will take one and follow it for maybe two or three miles back into the wilderness, where it eventually just peters out. It's like it starts off wide and well defined, as though it had a real goal and destination in mind, but as you progress further back into the sagebrush and sand it seems to begin to lose some of its initial enthusiasm, eventually giving up all hope altogether as it just fades away to nothing.

Then sometimes numerous small piles of discarded worldly possessions would indicate that these roads only exist for folks to sneak out of view of others and dump what they no longer want - strange. Anyway, there is frequently something unexpected and "just can't leave here" treasure, and as Art was driving back out to the main road from one of these digressions, he suddenly stopped, backed up and, leaping out of the car came back with this metal door from who knows what. Of course we couldn't "just leave it here", but the trunk was so full of potted plants that we had to unload everything, fit the metal door in, then start tucking the plants all back in. Tight fit, but we did it.

Once the car is truly full, meaning that not another stick of wood, interesting rock, or discarded goodie can be fit it, we know that for all practical purposes, the trip is over. Nothing left now but to simply finish the drive home where Jiminey, "fat cat" impatiently is waiting for us, eager to complain of the indignity of sleeping in the garage while we were gone.