Finally, I was going to put all of my planning and expectations on the line. This was the week I had been waiting for. My first Amtrak USA Rail Pass was purchased and my bag was packed.
I finished cleaning my room and left a little note for the subletter, Kate. We had met a couple of times so I could show her the room and discuss the conditions of the sublease. Although our meetings were strictly business, there was something about Kate that intrigued me. In the brief note I told her that I hoped to see her when I returned, in September.
I hopped on my bicycle and headed towards downtown Portland. I made a stop at the hardware to get a wrench. I would carry the tool with me and use it to take my pedals on and off every time I had to put the Jamis in a box, essentially every time I boarded a train. It was a beautiful, warm sunny day and I hoped that it would be this way for the whole trip. I wasn’t sure yet what I was really getting myself into, but at that point it seemed like it wouldn’t rain the entire time. Little did I know that later on I’d see three straight weeks of precipitation, a hurricane, a tropical storm, an earthquake, and wouldn’t even have my bike with me by the midway point.
People:
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| Kate and I at the starting line |
Kate E. - There's a good chance this trip wouldn't be possible if it wasn't for Kate. She is the supercool San Franciscan subletting my space, saving me substantial summertime stress. She's an avid reader and aspiring writer; and because of these things I'm hoping she enjoys alliteration.
A fun thing happened at the crossroads of our summers: we crossed each other's road. Here's a picture of Kate and I at Portland's Union Station. She was getting off. I was getting on.
Have a fun summer in North Portland, Kate, and enjoy the comforts of the gold chair.
A fun thing happened at the crossroads of our summers: we crossed each other's road. Here's a picture of Kate and I at Portland's Union Station. She was getting off. I was getting on.
Have a fun summer in North Portland, Kate, and enjoy the comforts of the gold chair.
Train:
July 8-9: Coast Starlight -- Portland to L.A. (31 hours, 1190 miles, O stadiums)
Between Portland and Eugene I was looking out the window and saw a field of tall grass run up against an evergreen forest. Hedging the field and woods was a dirt road with some well-worn tracks. "Who goes down that road?" I asked a lot of questions like that as I click-clack, click-clack, click-clacked my way down the Pacific coast.
South of Eugene we roamed up 4800 feet to a pass in the Cascade Mountains. It was during this stretch that the conductor chimed in, "Two years ago... right here... landslide took out the whole side…if the train was running on time that would've been gone too." But it was exciting to look out the window in July and see snow. It's been awhile since I've done that. This section from Eugene to Klamath Falls was gorgeous/stunning/breathtaking (take your pick). If I were a better writer I might take a shot at a description.
Night fell and the hours stretched themselves like upside-down yawns from upside-down animals in upside-down trees.
Between Portland and Eugene I was looking out the window and saw a field of tall grass run up against an evergreen forest. Hedging the field and woods was a dirt road with some well-worn tracks. "Who goes down that road?" I asked a lot of questions like that as I click-clack, click-clack, click-clacked my way down the Pacific coast.
South of Eugene we roamed up 4800 feet to a pass in the Cascade Mountains. It was during this stretch that the conductor chimed in, "Two years ago... right here... landslide took out the whole side…if the train was running on time that would've been gone too." But it was exciting to look out the window in July and see snow. It's been awhile since I've done that. This section from Eugene to Klamath Falls was gorgeous/stunning/breathtaking (take your pick). If I were a better writer I might take a shot at a description.
Night fell and the hours stretched themselves like upside-down yawns from upside-down animals in upside-down trees.
Sacramento at dawn and I said goodbye to my friend Forrest, who I had just met in Portland. I slept intermittently, wondering when the time would come that I'd be refreshed enough to be curious again. The intriguing backdoors of Oregon had given way to the "who gives a shit" cul-de-sacs of California. Gone were the romantically shaded orchards of apples, peaches, and cherries; replaced by laboriously rowed acres of strawberries and lettuces with their hunchbacked harvesters. I slept. I read. I slept. I slept. I had sardines and triscuits for breakfast. I slept. I brushed my teeth.
I must have slept enough because I became revitalized and my curiosity returned. It came back just in time for us to enter Steinbeck country - although, I'll add that I am regarding the two facts as coincidence like I regard most television programming as harmless. Watsonville (setting for East of Eden) and Salinas approached and rolled slowly past. But as hard as I tried I could not picture myself in the Pastures of Heaven. I could only imagine better what it was like, and in doing so, remembered why I loved John Steinbeck: because he is better than real.
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| Steinbeck Country |
The coastline from San Luis Obispo to Los Angeles was a fitting ending. It was like a reward for finishing such a long journey. I was happy staring out the window at the surfers and the beaches and I was content calling my mom to tell her what I was looking at. This section rivaled the southern Cascades in its beauty. But it was softer, mellower, more relaxed. Or that might have just been me.
People:
Forrest P. - I liked Forrest from the start. Full of jokes, energy, and the analogies of a lifelong boy scout; he was the first person I met after boarding my first train. He sat down next to me and we started a conversation where I discovered he was headed to CA to see his family and a Giants' game. I also learned that at 22 he has already spent time in Europe, Mexico, and biked down the Pacific Coast from Vancouver, BC to Mendocino County CA. Now he lives in Olympia, WA with his girlfriend Ariana. Forrest told me a great story about how they met.
Forrest's friend Ed was moving to Washington and he decided to help his buddy move while also taking a good old-fashioned road trip. On their first day in Olympia Forrest met Ariana at a potluck type dinner. The thing is that neither of them were supposed to be there. Ariana had plans to go to another dinner, but was talked into changing her mind by a friend. Forrest was arriving in Olympia eight days behind schedule due to a problem with his '87 Volkswagen Fox. Needless to say they were smitten immediately, spending the rest of Forrest's eight day vacation together. Three months later he was living in Olympia.
I caught him on his way back down to California to see his family, including his identical triplet sisters. His brother was on leave from Afghanistan where he is a medicine man with the Navy/Marines and Forrest was excited to see him. We both hoped that all of those guys get to come home for good soon.
During the 16 hours we spent on the train together we had many conversations that often included one of Forrest's signature analogies or jokes. Here's one: A guy and a dog walk into a bar. The bartender says, "Hey man, you can't have that dog in here." The patron says, "Well, he's a talking dog. What if I get him to say something? Can we stay?" "I guess." So the guy says to his dog, "What's on top of a house?" "Roof." The bartender begrudgingly slides the man a beer and says, "One beer and that's it." The man finishes his beer and asks, "What if I get him to say another word?" "Okay." So the patron turns to his dog and asks him, "How does sandpaper feel?" "Rough." Now clearly irritated, the bartender gives the man his second beer and says, "Finish and please leave." Remonstrating one last time the dog owner faces the bartender, "C'mon, just one more. It's hot outside. Do you like baseball? You've got to let me stay if my dog talks some baseball, yeah?" "That dog ain't talking no baseball." "Yes he can. Watch." He turns to the dog and asks, "Who's the greatest baseball player of all time?" Sure enough, the dog responds with, "Ruth." At this point the bartender forces the two out and tells them never to come back. Standing in the street the dog quizzically turns to his owner and asks him, "DiMaggio?"
Forrest's friend Ed was moving to Washington and he decided to help his buddy move while also taking a good old-fashioned road trip. On their first day in Olympia Forrest met Ariana at a potluck type dinner. The thing is that neither of them were supposed to be there. Ariana had plans to go to another dinner, but was talked into changing her mind by a friend. Forrest was arriving in Olympia eight days behind schedule due to a problem with his '87 Volkswagen Fox. Needless to say they were smitten immediately, spending the rest of Forrest's eight day vacation together. Three months later he was living in Olympia.
I caught him on his way back down to California to see his family, including his identical triplet sisters. His brother was on leave from Afghanistan where he is a medicine man with the Navy/Marines and Forrest was excited to see him. We both hoped that all of those guys get to come home for good soon.
During the 16 hours we spent on the train together we had many conversations that often included one of Forrest's signature analogies or jokes. Here's one: A guy and a dog walk into a bar. The bartender says, "Hey man, you can't have that dog in here." The patron says, "Well, he's a talking dog. What if I get him to say something? Can we stay?" "I guess." So the guy says to his dog, "What's on top of a house?" "Roof." The bartender begrudgingly slides the man a beer and says, "One beer and that's it." The man finishes his beer and asks, "What if I get him to say another word?" "Okay." So the patron turns to his dog and asks him, "How does sandpaper feel?" "Rough." Now clearly irritated, the bartender gives the man his second beer and says, "Finish and please leave." Remonstrating one last time the dog owner faces the bartender, "C'mon, just one more. It's hot outside. Do you like baseball? You've got to let me stay if my dog talks some baseball, yeah?" "That dog ain't talking no baseball." "Yes he can. Watch." He turns to the dog and asks, "Who's the greatest baseball player of all time?" Sure enough, the dog responds with, "Ruth." At this point the bartender forces the two out and tells them never to come back. Standing in the street the dog quizzically turns to his owner and asks him, "DiMaggio?"
Post:
Olvera Street
I spent the rest of the day on Olvera Street wandering, watching, and waiting for my next train. On the site where Los Angeles was founded I saw:
Beautiful young Hispanic women in Nirvana tank tops holding hands with boys in Dodger caps.
Lovely, older Mexican women wearing long velvet skirts with turquoise eyes standing four in a circle around a huge stone, kneading and pressing a large mound of dough into soft, white tortillas.
Young children held captive in the arms of a parent. Then, at last wiggling free and bolting, unrestrained, to their new friend selling ice cream.
A stunning young lady, helpless and confused, breaking into tears while standing in line for a taco; seeking an explanation from a knowledgeable friend. I could only wonder what uncompromising, apathetic, egotistic young punk could do such a thing. It's always that way in the eyes of a detached male. The other guys are all punks.
Austere ladies clutching open umbrellas, as colorful as their dresses, to block the midday sun.
Pale white tourists in floppy sunhats, draped with large-lensed digital cameras holding Fodor's U.S.A. books with their non-pointing hands.
A twenty-something redhead in pigtails and a bicycle helmet hustling across the bricks in search of who knows what.
Hardly any smokers. After 3 hours I saw my first two. Then, later I recognized another couple. It was the same two, they had just made a smoking lap.
A brother and sister fighting over control of the video camera. Sister won. They always do.
Beautiful young Hispanic women in Nirvana tank tops holding hands with boys in Dodger caps.
Lovely, older Mexican women wearing long velvet skirts with turquoise eyes standing four in a circle around a huge stone, kneading and pressing a large mound of dough into soft, white tortillas.
Young children held captive in the arms of a parent. Then, at last wiggling free and bolting, unrestrained, to their new friend selling ice cream.
A stunning young lady, helpless and confused, breaking into tears while standing in line for a taco; seeking an explanation from a knowledgeable friend. I could only wonder what uncompromising, apathetic, egotistic young punk could do such a thing. It's always that way in the eyes of a detached male. The other guys are all punks.
Austere ladies clutching open umbrellas, as colorful as their dresses, to block the midday sun.
Pale white tourists in floppy sunhats, draped with large-lensed digital cameras holding Fodor's U.S.A. books with their non-pointing hands.
A twenty-something redhead in pigtails and a bicycle helmet hustling across the bricks in search of who knows what.
Hardly any smokers. After 3 hours I saw my first two. Then, later I recognized another couple. It was the same two, they had just made a smoking lap.
A brother and sister fighting over control of the video camera. Sister won. They always do.
People:
Richard - What a guy! I met him at sundown on the Southwest Chief. We left from L.A. at 6pm and hung out until midnight just bullshitting and having a good time. This man has chased the sun a few times in his day and I loved hearing his stories. For 5 straight summers in the early 70's Richard hitchhiked from L.A. to New York and back. Then he took a job as a grip on sets of many movies and tv programs (Cheers, Friends, even a year at Seinfeld). After 21 years in the union Richard had enough (and when I say had enough, this man really had enough) of L.A. and moved to Lake Havasu, AZ.
I met him on his way back home from a golf tournament with his old buddies (he grew up in L.A.). It turns out one of those old buddies is Larry Yount who is the older brother of Hall Of Famer Robin Yount. Richard told me about being friends with those guys and how he went to Cooperstown in 1999 for Robin's H.O.F. induction.
Naturally I told him about my trip and we talked a lot of baseball. One of the more interesting topics we covered was Larry Yount's career in the majors. Evidently Larry was a pretty good pitcher and one day made his way to the majors for what is surely the quickest cup of coffee anybody's ever had. Poor Larry didn't even have time to stir in the cream because he injured himself warming up on the mound before ever taking on his first major league batter. So he was inserted into the game (and into the record books) and immediately taken out without throwing a pitch. Larry never made it back to the show.
Check it out: http://www.baseball-reference.com/players/y/yountla01.shtml
Train:
July 10-11: Southwest Chief -- L.A. to Flagstaff, AZ (10 hours, 566 miles)
I glided onto the Southwest Chief with a couple beers in muh belly. My wonderful day on Olvera Street had left my in a light and gregarious mood. I made a friend immediately. Richard and I purchased a couple of Sierra Mists and split a small bottle of Seagram's 7. So would that be a 7 and Sierra or a Sierra and 7? Does it depend on how much booze you add to the drink? "I don't know about you Steve, but I never drink a coke and rum or a tonic and gin." 7 and Sierra it is.
We sat in the observation car bullshitting and laughing. Later in the conversation Richard told me he thought President Obama was the worst president ever. I slowly talked him down from that ledge of irrationality before we focused our attention on the hundreds of FedEx trailers docked at their Southern California hub. "No shit, there's another one."
It was lively until midnight (apologies to Wilson Pickett and Eric Clapton). Then we retired to our seats and nodded off. Richard disembarked at Lake Havasu. I stayed on for four more hours, getting off at Flagstaff.
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| Richard in the observation car |
Games:
*July 12: Chase Field – Phoenix, AZ
American League 1
National League 5
What a great way to spend my 34th birthday. My father flew out to Phoenix to kick off my trip and we went to the all-star game together. This was special to me because neither of us had ever been to a midsummer classic before, but I grew up watching the game with him every year on television, over a bag of Munchos and mugs of root beer floats. I really had a lot of fun and so did Dad.
We took in the sights before the game at the FanFest held down the street. Then we went to lunch at Alice Cooper’s restaurant, appropriately named Cooperstown, where I ordered the Tony LaRussa ribs. Over a couple of beers we drafted our all-time best player/favorite player teams. Here are the rosters:
Dad Steve
C- Fisk Berra
1B- Gehrig Foxx
2B- Richardson Sandberg
3B- Matthews Brett
SS- Ripken, jr. Wagner
LF- Williams Yaz
CF- Mantle Mays
RF- Ruth Aaron
SP- Koufax Maddux
RP- Fingers Eckersley
After lunch we made our way, laughing and joking, towards the stadium. Under the 110 degree heat we browsed the stands of vendors for hats and t-shirts. The whole time we talked about baseball, often times bringing others near us into the conversation. I remember a funny exchange when my dad actually asked a Cubs fan why she supported a team that didn’t hire Ryne Sandberg to be their manager.
The atmosphere inside the stadium was really something to behold. Baseball fans were running this way and that, crowding the Arizona team store, and lining up near the field railings in search of autographs. On the field the media swarmed around players like Prince Fielder and Josh Hamilton who were either taking batting practice or watching others hit bombs into the stands.
What the game itself lacked in down-to-the-wire drama it compensated for with enthusiasm and tradition. I’ve heard announcers talk about the ‘buzz’ of a stadium, and now I know what they are referring to. Chase Field had a great energy to it as baseball lovers packed the stands to see the best players in each league display their talents.
Prince Fielder’s three-run shot in the fourth inning proved to be the difference maker, but what I’ll remember are two very different sliding plays. The first was Jose Bautista’s catch in the right field corner. It is too long ago now for me to remember the specific inning, but I know it was an early-game grab that brought the fans to their feet. Bautista, running full speed tracked down a fly ball deep in the corner. He slid to prevent himself from crashing into the wall and caught the ball mid-slide. The other play was Heath Bell, relief pitcher for the Padres, sprinting in from the bullpen. With two outs in the eighth inning National League manager, Bruce Boche beckoned Bell from the bullpen. The hefty reliever chugged all the way from the outfield fence to a few feet before the mound, where he hit the deck and slid in to take the ball from the manager. Everybody, including the players on the field, seemed to appreciate the show.
Bike:
July 14: Phoenix to Maricopa (20 miles)
I was in a bit of a predicament. My train didn't depart Maricopa until 11:57pm. The route to Maricopa was along a four-lane highway and I didn't really want to chance it at night with drivers at or above 65 miles per hour. But I also didn't want to ride under the sun, with a heavy pack, in temperatures over 100 degrees (not to mention being stuck in Maricopa for the whole day).
So I decided to find myself a movie theater and relax before heading out at sundown. Consecutively I watched two of the worst movies I have seen this year: The Hangover II followed by Bad Teacher (Bad Teacher just happened to be starting right when Hangover II was letting out, so I slipped in for a double feature). But it was a good way to kill some time and stay cool during the Arizona summertime.
The ride was great. Under a full moon I found myself on a huge shoulder all the way to Maricopa. I hardly noticed the traffic speeding by as I belted out PJ Harvey and Stone Temple Pilots. The desert treated me well that night.
I was in a bit of a predicament. My train didn't depart Maricopa until 11:57pm. The route to Maricopa was along a four-lane highway and I didn't really want to chance it at night with drivers at or above 65 miles per hour. But I also didn't want to ride under the sun, with a heavy pack, in temperatures over 100 degrees (not to mention being stuck in Maricopa for the whole day).
So I decided to find myself a movie theater and relax before heading out at sundown. Consecutively I watched two of the worst movies I have seen this year: The Hangover II followed by Bad Teacher (Bad Teacher just happened to be starting right when Hangover II was letting out, so I slipped in for a double feature). But it was a good way to kill some time and stay cool during the Arizona summertime.
The ride was great. Under a full moon I found myself on a huge shoulder all the way to Maricopa. I hardly noticed the traffic speeding by as I belted out PJ Harvey and Stone Temple Pilots. The desert treated me well that night.
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| Desert Moon |
Train:
July 14-15: Texas Eagle -- Maricopa, AZ to L.A. (7 hours, 407 miles)
There's not a lot to say about this stretch of the trip. I boarded just before midnight and got off at 7am. I slept most of the time. I did manage to talk one of the many young whippersnappers aboard, a young Brazilian. In between winks he told me that he was part of a youth group composed of students from 14 different countries that was finishing a train tour of the U.S. I overheard two comments that, taken with no context, I found to be humorous. Girl to boy: "Your smile is too big. Please speak English." And another boy to another girl: "Swedish? Swiss?" Girl: "Nope. French." Boy: "Oui, je peux."
July 15: Pacific Surfliner -- L.A. to San Diego (3 hours, 86 miles)
This was a fun little jaunt down the coastline. The Pacific Surfliner has a different feel than other lines because it is a commuter train. It makes 7 or 8 trips up and down everyday. The seats are snatched up on a first come first served basis; beer is brought aboard and passed around between friends (even at 9am); many of the passengers are regular riders along the line; and the stops are much more frequent. I spent most of the time gazing out of the window at the surfers and beachgoers. Here's a clip:
There's not a lot to say about this stretch of the trip. I boarded just before midnight and got off at 7am. I slept most of the time. I did manage to talk one of the many young whippersnappers aboard, a young Brazilian. In between winks he told me that he was part of a youth group composed of students from 14 different countries that was finishing a train tour of the U.S. I overheard two comments that, taken with no context, I found to be humorous. Girl to boy: "Your smile is too big. Please speak English." And another boy to another girl: "Swedish? Swiss?" Girl: "Nope. French." Boy: "Oui, je peux."
July 15: Pacific Surfliner -- L.A. to San Diego (3 hours, 86 miles)
Bike:
July 15: Sante Fe Depot to Henry's House (5 miles)
This was an arduous uphill ride through San Diego. The Pacific Surfliner dropped me off downtown at the Sante Fe Depot and I had to make my way up to Henry's house. Henry is a friend of my housemate in Portland. I don't know Henry, but upon hearing of my trip he was kind enough to offer a night or two of lodging here in San Diego. Besides the geography of my particular route, the city and its roads were very hospitable to me. I'm excited to cruise back down when I go to the Padres game.
This was an arduous uphill ride through San Diego. The Pacific Surfliner dropped me off downtown at the Sante Fe Depot and I had to make my way up to Henry's house. Henry is a friend of my housemate in Portland. I don't know Henry, but upon hearing of my trip he was kind enough to offer a night or two of lodging here in San Diego. Besides the geography of my particular route, the city and its roads were very hospitable to me. I'm excited to cruise back down when I go to the Padres game.
People:
Henry F - I was talking with my housemate David, before my trip began and he was asking me about where I was going to stay along the way. I mentioned that I'd like to stay with friends or people I meet, not only to save on cost but also because it would be exciting. David asked me if I had a place to stay in San Diego and I responded that I didn't and was kind of concerned about what I was going to do for lodging there. Then David put me in touch with Henry.
Henry is incredible. In fact, from now on when I am referring to something that is "awesome" or "supercool" I'll frequently use some form of the root Henry. What exactly made Henry so Henrilicious? Many things: his trust, his brain, his love of hats, and his willingness to help others are forefront on the long list of reasons.
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| Henry's wall of hats |
I arrived on a Friday night. Henry was there, but not for long. He left for Sacramento in the morning and left me with full access to his place for three days, which was very Henrified of him. But before he took off we had a feast of fresh vegetable stir-fry, rice, beans, and some crispy kale chips (thanks for a great meal Henry). While we devoured our tasty dinner we found ourselves immersed in a rich and lively conversation that touched on baseball and it's varied levels of entertainment; the San Diegan sweet spots I should be sure not to miss; and a multi-layered discussion revolving around the human animal's physical capabilities, the evolution and modern application of these proficiencies, and the opportunities to access and use these intrinsic gifts in today's world. Some day Henry and I are going to chase down a gazelle together.
Games:
*July 17: PETCO Park – San Diego, CA
San Francisco 4
San Diego 3
What I remember from this game are only pleasant things: great weather, a very nice stadium with a friendly staff, a great extra-inning game decided by a suicide squeeze, and some good company.
I recall a very nice bike ride downtown to the stadium from Henry’s house and parking my bike in an area specifically designed for people to leave their bicycles. The guys manning the area were super nice and I enjoyed chatting with them about the Padres and their stadium before heading into the park.
The park itself was very welcoming and suited the perfect 80 degree weather nicely. Palm trees ringed the outside and a very soothing waterfall accompanied me up the steps to the main concourse. Once inside the main stadium I realized how open everything was. Not at all worried about rain, PETCO Park was designed for the comfortable San Diego climate. This made for a really nice pre-game lap of the stadium.
With the help of some friendly ushers I was able to sneak down into the lower right-field stands for the later innings. Here I took in the exciting finale with Mike, Dave, and their other buddies. While basking in the Southern California sunshine we watched the defending champion Giants defeat the hometown Padres on a perfectly executed suicide squeeze.
There aren’t many plays in baseball that are as exciting, especially when the game is on the line. As Emmanuel Burriss took off from third towards home and we all yelled “squeeze!” in unison. Giant catcher Chris Stewart squared around and softly laid down the sacrifice bunt allowing his teammate to cross home plate safely.
The Giant’s had the lead 4-3 and we watched as their loose-cannon-closer, Brian Wilson, walked three batters in the bottom of the 11th. Wilson, gunning for his 28th save of the season, was saved himself by a heads up play. Once again catcher Chris Stewart was involved in a sacrifice bunt play, but this time he fielded the ball and his throw initiated a fatal 2-5-4 double play.
People:
Mike and Dave - I took in the second half of the Padres and Giants game with these guys. Mike was down from San Jose and is a big Giants' fan. I'm not sure where Dave is from, but he was pulling for the hometown team and had spent some time living in many exotic locations, namely Hawaii and Pakistan. They knew their baseball and were fun to watch the game with. Mike wants to do a trip to all 30 parks with his wife one day. Do it Mike! And if your wife sees this, do it Mike's wife! Seriously, why the hell not?
