For the better part of a month, I had been traveling, starting in Bishop, where I stayed for about ten days. The plan had been to drive through the pass on Lee Vining Road in the Sierras to Yosemite–which was only about an hour away. As it turns out, the road was closed until June. I took my time in Bishop, within a stone’s throw from some incredible views and a German bakery.
My eight months on the road without being robbed ended at the beginning of April. I went into town, leaving my camp outside Bishop as I had become accustomed to doing, with a folding chair and a few other items to mark that the spot was taken while I took my bus into town for supplies and fresh water. When I got back I discovered a pair of camouflage pants, worn through and covered in drips of dried paint of various colors, slung across my camp chair. Missing were my Chaco sandals with the strap Penny chewed through on the right foot when she was a puppy, and my floor mat. Somehow I felt like the strange pair of pants had been left as some sort of trade. Until now I had gone six thousand miles without having anything stolen.
Welcome to California.
This wouldn’t be the first theft. From $4 per gallon in Nevada, the price of gasoline jumped up to $5 and it just kept climbing. I made a point to not drive very much. Money was already tight. Bishop was a beautiful town, and with the exception of pants-leaving shoe thieves, a hiker’s hostel had hot showers for $5. The first hot shower I had taken in a month. It felt strange after nothing but cold water showers in the bus. The hot water gave me a sense of euphoria, like being drunk. My skin reacted with histamines, like I had just gotten an hour-long massage.
After ten days in Bishop, I decided to take the southern route to Yosemite, through Lone Pine and then over to Lake Isabella. I would cut over to Modesto and then back north to Sequoia National Park and then Yosemite. It was okay to take my time, since Yosemite had been recording -18 below. Further north, Donner Pass was closed with several feet of snow, and as low as my provisions had been getting, I wasn’t keen on repeating the mistakes of history.
Lake Isabella was only supposed to be a day or two stopover, but it turned out to be another week. The site was beautiful, with a view of rolling hills and a decent level spot to camp with good internet signal. It hit all three of the requirements for a good campsite, just outside of town. In just a few days, I drove into the Central Valley, cutting through straight-as-an-arrow highways flanked by miles of orange orchards and wineries.
“Get in!” I said.
Sequoia National Park took me up a winding road where I stopped to take photos a few times. I parked behind a black Tesla and took photos of the valley and a waterfall before continuing the climb to the big trees. About five miles up, a group of people were walking on the side of the road. Three men and two women. They flagged me down and before I could ask if they were okay, one of them said, “Will you take us to the top? We will pay you!” She stuffed a handful of cash in my face.
They piled into the bus, with Penny growling from her spot on the bunk. As we drove up the winding road, climbing in elevation, I found out that they were the ones who had been driving the black Tesla. The battery warning had told them they didn’t have enough power to get to the top. They were here to work at the resort at the top of the pass. They were from Mexico and had rented the Tesla. As the big redwoods and sugar pines turned into massive giant sequoias, we kept climbing. We chatted about trivial things like legalized marijuana and the privatization of the US prison system and how it had been gamed to foster a higher rate of incarceration to make money off minorities and the lower class since the 1980s.
Chit-chat.
I dropped them off at the resort and headed back down towards the Giants. Penny whined and wanted to go with them, since they had pet her the whole drive and fed her dog biscuits. General Sherman and the Congress of giant sequoias that rose up from the snow were waiting on the drive back down the mountainside. The size of these trees was nearly unfathomable. Photographs make them look just like normal trees until you see the tiny people standing nearby.
A night in a Target parking lot in Modesto took me to my next leg of the trip. Yosemite was finally within reach. What had only been an hour away in Bishop had turned into a 350 mile detour around the Sierra Nevadas and up through the heart of the Central Valley.
Like Sequoia, Yosemite gave me that same WOW moment when you are driving and suddenly realize exactly what sets this place apart from others to become a National Park. For me, it was emerging from the tunnel and seeing the Yosemite Valley open up before us. El Capitan, Bridal Veil Falls, Half-Dome, and Yosemite Falls. I took dozens of photos for myself and even went to different tourists, offering to take their pictures as they stood on the observation point.
Penny and I hiked up to Bridal Veil Falls and drove the valley loop, taking pics from thousands of feet below Half Dome and El Capitan. By the time we left the park, I felt like I had seen something truly incredible, only disappointed in my own failings, since my feet hurt so bad I knew I wouldn’t be able to hike very far. Also, my new lens gave out on my camera.
We stopped between the Park and Groveland, not far from the Hetch-Hetchy dam, the place that killed John Muir. According to the librarian in Groveland, Muir had advocated against damming the river, which was to be used for drinking water for San Francisco. When they built the dam, it broke his heart and he died of pneumonia not long after. I can attest to the librarian’s claim that it really is some of the best drinking water in the world, however, since she let us fill our supplies from the library breakroom.
We were snowed in a few nights at this campsite and eventually made our way towards Red Bluff, where we experienced another strange night of camping. A car decided to do donuts and burnouts at 4am outside the bus, with the passengers serenading us with the Star Spangled Banner and creepy laughter before driving off. I would have thought it was bored local kids, except the next day I found their car at another camp spot. Oregon plates and the heavy waft of cannabis smoke still lingering. I thought about leaving a note on their windshield that said, “AND THE HOME OF THE BRAVE!!!” but I didn’t.
On the drive to Redding, I found a water turtle on the road and carried him off the blacktop. The flowers were blooming. Cranes were flying and landing in the ponds. Penny got to have a decent swim. Redding gave us cheaper gas, Best Buy for a lens warranty job, and Dutch Bros. About forty miles west of Redding, we camped at St. Helena, a ghost town on the Trinity River. Best Buy said it would take about two weeks to get my lens back. The site was remote, and we had to walk or drive about half a mile just to get an internet signal.
I invoiced my clients and decided to hunker down for a couple weeks, bathing in the river, working, and trying to fight internet/tiktok withdrawals. Food started getting sparse, but I would be paid in a few days. Until then, I would make due with dried lentils and whatever I had in the bus.
At the end of 14 days, I needed to move, but I heard no word from my clients. No check had arrived. Due to my remoteness and sporadic internet connection, the invoice hadn’t sent. As far as money went, I was screwed. I made a few calls, and it would be another two weeks before I got paid. Unfortunately I had to ask my folks for help. I was out of food, gasoline, and had some important bills due. The high price of gasoline meant that travel would be extremely limited, but a part of me was getting desperate. A few more days near Redding was all I needed before my lens arrived.
As it turned out, my lens was delayed. It might be another two weeks. I decided I needed to get the hell out of California. The secluded spot on the Trinity River with the wild poppies growing on the banks and the hollowed out ghost town with the wild lilacs that flooded the air with their perfume on hot days had lost its charm. The old gold rush town and Chinese temple of Weaverville weren’t enough to temper me need to get out. All I could feel with the constriction of high food and fuel prices in California, strangling me. I needed to escape.
A day of driving took me to Mt. Shasta and with a night on a country road alongside the headwaters of the Upper Sacramento River took me to Yreka. My grandma and her father are buried in the Catholic Cemetery there, but I couldn’t find their markers. I kept driving. When I crossed the Oregon border, I felt such a relief. I stopped at a rest area just outside Ashland. They gave me free maps and guides. I chatted with the volunteer and drank some of the best free coffee I’ve ever had. California was behind me and with it, the further I got from the shadow of Mt. Shasta, the feeling of oppression began to dwindle. Redding was truly a beautiful place, but somehow everyone seemed to be on edge. The cost of everything. The uncertainty of what each new day would bring was palpable.
At the beginning of May, 2024, I finally escaped California.
