Driving down the 101. Again. That familiar tinge of tobacco and marijuana hugs my chest, then lets it go as my foot pushes pedal. Around San Luis Obispo we're greeted by some unwelcome news. There's a mudslide blocking the 1 (aka the 101) in Santa Barbara and we gots to make a game-time decision. Thanks to Grant's tech savvy, we take it down to the wire and turning off the 101 and onto Highway 166 driving on a half tank of gas and a whim. It's a single lane highway. Single lane highways are the best when there's no traffic and your view turns from coast to countryside between spliff puffs just like it happened to be that day. Grant and I look at each other before sneaking a peak at the backseats. Throughout these turn of events, with all the decisions being made, with all the electronic music being played, the entire rest of the car had somehow found sufficient comfort to fall asleep, which is astounding considering the fact that all four of them had been packed into the back of my late model Ford Explorer Sport like a can of sardines.
What's more astounding is that through that most callous and inhibited sleep, they so happened to miss a beauty that I had never before laid eyes on in California. It's not many times you find yourself driving along the 166, and it did not disappoint. We drove up and around and between and over the most vibrant amber hills and lush green countryside with not another soul in sight for half-hours at a time. It was much like driving down the 101 past Salinas and everything turns into a shadow of some arbitrary John Steinbeck novel or Ansel Adams print. It was much like that except more and closer and isolated. Until we fly through LA, that is.
(continued)
The time is nearing 11 o'clock in the evening, when we reach a line of tail-lights on the outskirts of Indio, near the polo fields. Anticipation for the coming weekend heightens, and we power down the rest of our 24 bottled "Beers of Mexico" from Costco (there was no glass allowed on the premises, who'd have thought). After inching forward for about an hour of dancing and steady cervezas, not to mention an oh-so-thorough sweep of the car, we were cordially escorted to our 10 x 30 ft. plot of dirt and grass that we would be calling home for the next three days. To our left were Callan and company and to our right, the Alaskans.
The Alaskans were trekkers to say the least. The four of them had just driven four days straight in a Honda CR-V. And they had come infinitely more prepared than us. As Callan set up her hippie-hut complete with doormat, potted plants, and a dreamcather, and we laid our blankets and pillows out on the ground, to the right of us was what can be most closely described as a clown car of pale-faced northies and camping equipment falling out and setting up with giddy expectance. They had pulled out all the stops, unpacking tents, chairs, coolers, tablers, and of course a monstrous speaker system with kareokee mikes (yeah, kareokee mikes). And they were rad so now we're friends.
Sleep didn't come easy that night. Here's why:
