san francisco

rewind to the big cross country road trip home, june 2014, portland, oregon to atlanta, georgia, days four and five (out of twelve!), one last road trip through san francisco. and it's not that we won't be back (we will, we will) but there won't be another road trip down to san francisco from portland, no more races down the I-5, no more meandering down the 101. we drove our car over the golden gate bridge one the last time, said our goodbyes and headed south on I-5.

p.s. that toast in the second photograph, it's the toast. the artisanal toast I talked about yesterday. the artisanal toast I said would make you cry.

p.p.s. that first photograph of ava and ward. it gets me every time.

backwards, forwards

(last look at portland for a little while, maybe a long while)

(crater lake before me, state of oregon behind me)

(northern california magic hour from the magic highway 101)

(majestic, magnificent avenue of the giants, smallest feeling self)

(fiery miraculous sky, outskirts of san francisco)

(southern california haze from an endless I-5)

(cloudy, cloudy monument valley, great state of utah)

(sunset over navajo nation, somewhere in arizona)

(sunset over route 66, somewhere in new mexico)

(and finally, the city of atlanta) (home)

across this great country of ours, as told by one humble rearview mirror. who knew it'd have so much to say?

down the 101 we went

on day two and three (of the big cross country road trip), we hit the 101. highway of all coastal highways, charmer of road trip takers everywhere. there were trees, lots of trees, some of them, fallen. nothing to do but climb up inside and peek out. we wondered, is there anything better than a magnificent, monolithic root system? it was decided, there is not. somewhere outside crescent city, we said our goodbyes to the pacific ocean. breathed in that dense, salty pacific air one last time, promised to return. elk meadows were stumbled onto and the spectacular avenue of the giants traversed, both experiences that only confirmed my sincere belief in the existence of a brilliant, loving God. experiences that left me feeling infinitely humble, endlessly small. and well, wholly alive.

other things: a few large trees were driven through and the boots of paul bunyan climbed up on. he talks to people, you know. there's proof, should you need it. initials were carved into gargantuan tree trunks (thus, souvenir pocket knife collections put to good use). houses made from one log were visited, as were places claiming to defy gravity, as were eternal treehouses, as were many, many gift shops. urges to buy large wooden clocks were miraculously resisted. children were made to pose in abnormally large wooden shoes. a night was spent at the endlessly charming madrona motor court. well, charming til around midnight, when the toilet overflowed and we found ourselves wading through the kind of water you never want to find yourself wading through. lesson learned: pretty much everything about a 1940s roadside motor inn is charming except for the plumbing. still, I loved that little place, loved it to pieces, midnight raw sewage and all. I wouldn't trade our night there for anything.

by the time we drove through our third (and final) tree, we were all off schedule. this will not come as a surprise to those who know us well and would be a running theme throughout the trip. but early on, we decided we didn't care. and as we drove out of the last of the redwoods and down that last stretch of the 101, further away from our beloved portland, oregon, I loosened my grip on the schedule. I felt my resolve soften. about an hour outside of san francisco, the sky turned a fiery, incandescent pink. as it turned out, we were right on time.

the curly redwood lodge

after crater lake and the last of oregon and the first of california and the weaving and winding down roads that snaked through the beginning of the redwoods, this. the spectacular curly redwood lodge in crescent city, california. it could not have been more perfect, not even if it tried. when I say it was a little like stepping back in time, I am not kidding around. people say that sometimes but I don't know if they really know what they're talking about. anyway. the second my dear friend shana recommended it, I knew that's where we'd spend our first real night on the road.

and when I read that it had first opened in 1957 and had been built from a single (presumably enormous) curly redwood tree I thought, yes. yes, this is our place. and it was, for the sixteen hours we occupied it. oh, I don't think the kids really cared one way or the other (okay maybe ava did a little) but it was really as if we'd stumbled back into something like june of 1963. the chairs, the lamps, the giant rooms (built to accommodate luggage from a different era, no doubt), everything: perfect. and when we turned on the tv and flipped through the channels, the only really watchable thing we could find was an old cary grant movie which is when I thought, hey. maybe we just blow off the rest of this crazy trip and move in here at the curly redwood. the ocean is just across the street, what more do we need? maybe this is how it plays out for us.

but then around midnight, there was projectile vomiting (ezra+winding roads+ spicy cheetos) and the fatigue of the day had officially set in. and exhausted as I was, the thought of long, glorious stretches of the 101, a few days in san francisco and palm springs, days and days along route 66, the very thought had me swimming in giddy. sixteen hours at the curly redwood lodge would have to do. sixteen hours would have to suffice.