Summer Road Trip

by Dolores Carney

After 23 years of single motherhood, I had a rare opportunity last year: my 23-year-old son offered to take my 13-year-old son for a significant part of the summer. This was incredible! I had been the kind of single mother who had her children all the time, except for the rare occasion that I hired a babysitter or another member of my family took them. So, the offer of a month or two of freedom was something I couldn’t resist, and I wasn’t going to just stay at home and work. I was going on a vacation—a road trip. By myself!

Originally, my plan was simple: I was going meet my sister and her four-year-old daughter at Long Beach, and spend the weekend camping and attending the sandcastle competition. I’d been meaning to go for years, but there was always something else I wanted or needed to do that weekend. After the competition, I was going to leave them and drive down the Oregon coast. I didn’t make any reservations—I was just going to wing it. It was my idea of heaven.

Before I left, I mentioned my plans to a young woman where I worked, and joked that I should drive down to San Francisco. She thought that was a great idea, and said that I go even farther, to Santa Cruz, because the beach was so beautiful. It sounded great, but I didn’t think I was going to go that far.

So, I packed my camping gear, food, and clothes and headed off. The weather was perfect—hot and sunny. And, as I got to the coast, it stayed that way. There were none of the usual clouds.

We had a blast at Long Beach. My niece had never been to the ocean before, and the beach at the campground was an exciting new world to her. We played in the water, and then my sister and I relaxed on the beach while my niece ran around happily with the other kids. And, since I didn’t have any kids of my own there, I had no responsibilities. It was so relaxing!

The sandcastle competition was great. Some people built castles and landscapes, while others built mermaids and animals. There was even an elaborate scene with pirates that were rats.

After three days, it was time for me to head out on my own. Travelling along the coast was wonderful. Around every bend was new scenery, and I was free to enjoy it at my own pace. I could stop when I wanted, eat when and what I wanted, and get back on the road whenever I chose. I stopped a lot to enjoy the ocean and all of the different views. I checked out the dunes and watched the four-wheelers heading off on the trails.

My planned destination was a campground by Brookings, on the Southern Oregon coast, almost to California. The guidebook said that this campground had better weather than the rest of Oregon. When I got there, though, it was raining. Not hard, but enough to discourage me from wanting to camp (I’m definitely a fair-weather camper). So, I kept going. After all, it would be a shame to get so close to California, and not actually go there! I had lived in the San Francisco area for a few months in fourth grade, and had great memories from that time, but I hadn’t been back. It was about time to return.

So, I drove to Crescent City and spent the night in a hotel. (The weather was still crummy, and now it was really late). The next day, I went through the Redwood forest, taking the scenic route, of course! I did all the tourist stuff—visited the tree that was a house, the oldest tree, and the tree you could drive through (kind of scary, because that one was mostly dead and was propped up with lots of bracing). I camped that night in the forest park, enjoying the unique energy of the very old forest. That campground was quieter than the others I stayed in, perhaps out of reverence for the spiritual old trees.

The next morning, it was on to the old coastal highway, Highway 1. Driving this route was a real adventure! I didn’t know that it started with about 20 or 30 miles of narrow, twisting roads through the mountains. It was fun driving, but I really had to pay attention. Then, I got to the coast. What a treat!

Usually, I’m a speed demon. I keep myself to 10 mph over the legal limit, because I don’t want to pay any bigger tickets than that, but I like to drive fast. Driving Highway 1 was a completely different experience for me. Instead of being in a hurry, I was the one slowing down and pulling aside to let everyone else pass. I didn’t want to miss a minute of the scenery!

And the beaches were incredible. Every few miles, there was a new one, and each one was different. Most of them had great rock formations: big, incredible boulders that had been carved for years by the surf. Most of them also had great sandy beaches. I stopped often and walked on them, soaking in the salt air.

By late afternoon, I had crossed the Golden Gate Bridge into San Francisco, and driven about 30 miles south to a campground in the mountains. Exhausted, but thrilled to have gone that far, I set up my tent, ate some salmon that I had smoked over the fire back in Long Beach, and went to sleep.

The next day, it was time to explore San Francisco. Driving into the city, I decided to follow the Scenic Drive. The drive started in an interesting, run-down looking part of town, past an abandoned building that had been decorated with furniture. There were dressers, chairs, and armoires hanging from the sides!

From there, I went to the waterfront, where I got out and explored. There was a farmers' market going on, so I bought some baby artichokes and some great fresh melons, and enjoyed the view. Back in the car, I followed the route to Chinatown. I really wanted to stop and tour the area on foot, but I could not find a parking spot anywhere. That never happens to me!

Giving up, I went on to Fisherman’s Wharf and had a blast! As I walked from one end to the other, I saw a steel drum band playing, a mother/daughter acrobatic team, a group of men doing incredibly detailed paintings with spray paint, street performers with metallic makeup dancing, and "The Bush Man."

The Bush Man was in some ways the best entertainment on the whole Wharf. He sat on a milk crate with his back to a garbage can, holding up a bundle of leafy branches to conceal himself. From a distance, he looked like a shrub. When unsuspecting people would walk by, the Bush Man would whip the branches aside and yell "Aaaahhhhhh." Loudly.

And then he would laugh. Sometimes, he would seriously crack up. There were people up and down the block, including me, standing around watching him and laughing with him. People’s reactions were hilarious. Some screamed, some just gasped, and a few got angry. Most, however, were very good sports, and many (especially the men) gave him donations. I imagine the Bush Man occasionally suffered physical repercussions from his art. But he was making good money, and obviously having a lot of fun doing it.

After the Bush Man, I went to watch the sea lions. Fisherman’s Wharf has become a home for several hundred of them and it was fascinating to get such a close-up look at them. They were lying on several dock platforms, and there were so many that they were walking over each other to get on and off the dock. There was one big bull who was obviously the dominant male and he let everyone know it. He held his head high, barking his commands.

The next day, I headed south, to Santa Cruz and the boardwalk. It was really nice to go somewhere like that without children. No one was bugging me to go on any rides or play any arcade games. When I walked through the shops, no one asked me to buy them anything. Everyone I was with was happy with the food I’d brought, and no one whined for anything different. I sat on the beach and watched the surfers. Then I sat on a different part of the beach, read my book, and watched the kids playing. Then I sat on another part of the beach and listened to Herman’s Hermits, who were playing a free concert that evening. And no one whined about the music, or complained that they were bored and they wanted to go home. Paradise.

The next day, it was time to go home, but before I left I wanted to go to the Haight-Ashbury district. I’d been there a lot back in 1968 (I was 10) and loved the area. I was really curious to see what it was like now.

It was very different. There was no one in Pandhandle Park. There was a Ben & Jerry’s at the corner of Haight and Ashbury, with a head shop across the street one way and an upscale clothing store the other way. The neighborhood was an odd mixture of upscale San Francisco and the old hippie culture.

Soon, I had to leave. I’d stretched my vacation out to the limit, and I had the rest of the day, and all of the next, to make it home.

The ride home was extremely hot: 104, 105, 107 degrees, and I don’t have an air conditioner in my car. I travelled home with all of the windows open, squirting myself with ice water (which evaporated almost instantly), and looking longingly at the exit signs saying "Ocean Beaches." But I had to do the grown-up thing, and get back to work, so I avoided temptation and went home. It was worth every hot second of the ride back. And I look forward to the not-so-distant future, when my 14-year-old son is on his own, and solitary trips become a regular part of my life.

Dolores Carney is currently playing as a tutor and mother who writes on the side.