The Long March

They've left me. The truck was parked right here, and now it's gone.

It's almost summer in 1963, and Stumptown Days have had the town hoppin' and explain my presence in the first place. Admittedly, this a local celebration in a very small town, and I live almost 30 miles outside even this action, but I hunger for excitement and this is my big chance.

We brought the flat bed Chevy with the stake sides. Room for three in the cab, and the rest of us piled in back. How many? I don't know. Ten, twelve, maybe a few more. Enough so that a less than careful count wouldn't reveal a short load. Didn't reveal a short load.

The night had been filled with typical rural teenage pursuits, gawking at girls, playing eight-ball and walking around trying to look a lot tougher than we were, but the small towns roll up the carpet pretty early. I had gone to the can one last time, and when I came out, there was a big space where the truck had been. Crap! I had spent all my money, and cell phones wont be available for about twenty five years.

I said 30 miles. That's plus or minus. The terrain doesn't lend itself to measurement. It's about 11 miles to the Pacific Ocean following the River Road. A kid in a orange Chevy Pick-up truck sans bed stopped for my thumb. He was only going to the next little town, but decided to take me all the way to the coast anyway. Thanks, fella, whoever and where ever you are today.

The Russian River does its bit to fill the Pacific Ocean in Jenner, California. River Road dead ends at the infamous Highway 1. Highway 1 roughly follows the Pacific Coast from top to bottom of these United States, and the section north of the Russian River is as convoluted as it ever gets. If you have the chance to drive this road, you will be amazed that the road could have been built at all. Some sections in Southern California were actually built from barges on the ocean because there was no other way to get there. There are permanent gates to make closing the road easier when, not if, there is a landslide.

I am standing smack-dab in the middle of greater downtown Jenner, in the middle of the night, and all three buildings are completely dark. Nothing moves. Up River Road, my benefactors taillights dwindle then disappear. Oh, well. It's only seventeen miles, right? I can wait here and hope to catch a ride with the next car that goes by, but waiting isn't really my style in 1963, so I walk.

The first mile is flat to gently sloping, then a climb on a long switchback to begin tracking the coastal cliffs in earnest. The Coast Highway here begins close to sea level and between here and home hugs the side of the cliffs, climbing as high as 600 feet above the ocean, up and down, around and around, never straight. The land isn't really suitable for farming, so ranching or selling stuff to tourists and fishermen are about the only ways to make a living.

Along the cliffs, which are too steep for cattle, it's sheep, Their trails carve fishnet patterns on the steep hillsides. I soon learn something. At night the paved road holds heat longer than the surrounding ground. That's why the sheep are sleeping on the road, and they seem to be used to the idea...sleeping on the road that is. I've gone about five miles, seen nothing but sleeping sheep and heard nothing except the faint crashing of the surf on the rocks below. I get tired and take a break, laying on the road like a sheep. It is warmer.

Where ever the road jumps up to the top of the cliffs for a bit, flatter places where cattle can graze, a fence line will cross the road with a cattle guard. Ever seen one of those? Looks like railroad tracks placed about six inches apart for a distance of three feet or so straight across the road. The hoofed critters don't like 'em too much because their hoofs tend to slip off into the spaces between the rails. Then somebody figured out that cows aren't really all that smart and you could pretty much fool 'em by just painting lines across the road that looked like a cattle guard. I can almost hear it...."Hey! Hold up a minute Bessie. We can't go this way. They've gone and painted those damned lines across the road. We'll slip into the dark spaces! Moooove it!"

It's dark and a cool breeze chills a kid dressed for a night on the town, not a hike on the coast. Eight miles past the top of the switchback the worst of the cliff hugging road is behind me, and the road drops into Fort Ross, a State Historical Monument at the location of the first Russian settlement in California. It is now a State Park, complete with entrance fees and docents, but this is 1963 and the Coast Highway run straight through the middle of it. I walk through in darkness, past the house where my Spanish teacher lives. Her husband is the keeper of the Fort. The house is dark and I do not stop. I don't know exactly what time it is, and I don't want to let her know I walked back by myself.

Two miles and another switchback later, I come to Timber Cove. This was a shipping point for lumber cut from the Redwood forests that so richly smothered the coastal hills, and in 1963 there are still some remnants of the logging camp that gave the place a name. Another mile and to the left I see the Timber Cove Inn, where Bufano's obelisk 'Peace' stands 90' tall and proud. My dad was a huge Bufano fan. The obelisk today stands between the Inn and the ocean. My 1963 mind remembers it near the road? I dined there in 2005. Ordered the Steak and Lobster (market price). My waiter raised his eyebrows, "My, my! We're really treating ourselves, tonight, aren't we? Hmmmm?" Wait a minute. Just how well am I treating myself??? Turns out that 'market price' tonight is USD60. WTF? The ocean is right there! Are they bringing this crustacean up from The City in a limo? No we are not treating ourselves or the lobster. I hope they still have it there. They probably want USD120 for it now.

Anyway, I'm only 2 miles from home, and a mile past the Inn, I pass the old Russian Graveyard. It is unmarked, and hidden behind a row of coast Juniper. It local knowledge only, untended and overgrown. Close by, someone has been building a house in the most unusual place. A tall rocky outcrop, fifty feet above the ocean is in the process of being pinched off from the mainland by the action of the ocean making small coves on either side. The only access is across a very narrow (18" wide at the top) land bridge. They've built a wider foot bridge and hand carried the building materials to the top of the knob. This place will have the most fantastic view of the big Tsunami.

I can almost see home now. It is less than a mile away. There has been no traffic. Not a single car has passed me going in either direction since I left Jenner. I see the beams of the headlights in the sky above me as a car comes up from the south. Soon I can hear the engine, then see the lights. I'm almost home, and tired. And cold. I stick out my thumb and the young couple stop, let me in and give me a two minute ride to the front gate.

It's a short walk to the Bunkhouse. I undress in the darkness and gratefully climb into bed. No one ever knows, except me...and now you.