 |
| Mount Shasta, probably named by Russian immigrants |
Ron prepared his standard breakfast of cottage cheese, canned peaches and black coffee as Wayne and I loaded the truck for our return trip. We had accomplished our purpose, Ron was cheered up, and it was time to get back on the road. I gave the brothers some room because parting was not easy for either of them. They had no idea when, or even if, they would get back together.
We headed south on I-5, toward California. Both Wayne and I were excited. We were back on the road, spreading a bit of Texas cheer to the multitudes in the far west and leaving tracks in the furrows of our minds. As we approached Ashland, Oregon, I asked Wayne to pull off when he saw a good place to pee. He immediately pulled into the next convenience store. Wayne learns fast.
“Let the record show that you made it eleven point four miles before you had to stop. That beats Ann’s record by almost six miles.” Wayne keeps a lot of statistics in his head.
In the distance, as we entered California, we could see a large mountain off to the southeast. Mt. Shasta is surrounded by relatively low country which allows it to dominate the entire landscape. At 14,179 feet, it is the fifth highest peak in California, but, because of its location, all by itself out on the prairie, it is easily one of the most prominent. The origin of the word Shasta is vague, but it may have come from a Russian word which means “white, clean or pure.” If so, it is aptly named. The mountain is absolutely beautiful.
Mt. Shasta is a dormant, but still active, volcano. (That describes some people I know---dormant, but still active) The last eruption here was in 1786, before any Europeans visited this area. The local Indians may have witnessed something---there are references in some of their oral history, but nothing conclusive. Geologists say these eruptions will take place every four hundred to six hundred years, so, theoretically, we’re safe.
We stopped at a roadside viewing station to take pictures. I stood on a low wall for a better view and glanced down at the area behind the wall. Two used hypodermic syringes were discarded there, evidence of the confused times in which we live. Why anyone would need a jolt to get a chemical high in a place like this is beyond me, but I’m old and, truth is, I never was very hip.
Sacramento soon flashed past on the left and we continued south in the central valley of California. The agriculture of the area fascinated us. We both grew up in Lubbock and farms were nothing new to us, but we had never seen farms like these. We knew about West Texas cotton fields, but not fields with mile after mile of every type of fruit, nut, berry, or vegetable that can be imagined. The orderly, well-tended fields were interspersed with gigantic processing plants, whose quarter-mile-long loading docks were lined with semi-trailers.
 |
| Now, where exactly do you think this is? |
Manteca, Spanish for lard, is a strange name for a town, if you ask me. We got off the freeway there and turned left on the road to Yosemite National Park, one of our “must-sees.” Our plan was to go thru the park and out the east side at Tioga Pass. We would then see Mono Lake and cross into the badlands of central Nevada. Unfortunately, Tioga Pass was still buried under several feet of snow and was closed for at least another three weeks. No problem. We’ll take the scenic southern route.
Yosemite lived up to its billing, and then some. We hiked up to the base of Bridal Veil Falls and got soaked. (Duh! We’re standing under a water fall) Wayne and I took some pictures, entertained some fellow travelers, and looked at the magnificent country. Tunnel-View was on our list—the lady with the enhanced equipment at the Hearst Castle insisted we not miss it---if anything, she understated its grandeur.
By my reckoning, almost half of our fellow tourists were foreign. Oh, not Yankees, but real foreigners from another country. What we used to call from “across the waters.” We met people from Germany, England, Switzerland and Australia at the Tunnel View lookout. There were others who spoke little English so we could not place them. I can only hope that when Americans travel abroad, we are as courteous and thoughtful as these people.
After a visit to Mariposa Grove to see the gigantic Sequoia trees and take more pictures, we made our way to Fresno. We spent some time in two different supermarkets, a drug store, and a Costco Warehouse, searching for California olive oil. We had passed thousands of olive trees and were determined to find some local oil to take back to Texas. We didn’t find it in Fresno.
Our motel had no restaurant, but the concierge did provide us with a phone number for Domino’s Pizza. We sat by the pool and ate pepperoni pizza and admired a young blond who waved at us from the balcony upstairs. She had on a black tee shirt, tiny white short-shorts and tanned, shapely legs that seemed to go on forever. She enjoyed being the only show in town. I doubt if either of us will ever forget her. Her name was Suzanne.
I hesitated to mention the beautiful young Suzanne because I felt that some people who read this could get the idea that all old men do is ogle young women and fantasize and remember when they were young. I thought about that a lot and finally, I decided, …..so?
 |
| Just right out there beside the road--You won't see anything like this in Lubbock |
No comments:
Post a Comment