Thompson owns the place.
He has three big, rangy shepherd mixes, two roosters, and a hen. The matriarch, Tika, mother of the other two other shepherds, didn’t like me much. The bike or the phone or the gas smell tipped her off, and she almost ripped my head off. She brought me her ball, by way of apology but only one throw.
I didn’t get Thompson’s picture. Not that he wouldn’t have posed. He moved up from San Francisco in 2021. He doesn’t like it. “Too boring.” He was ready to talk, but let me go after a bit.
It’s beautiful though, Royal Tree Villas, in South Legget. The remains of a holiday makers motel at the foot of the redwoods, with a stunning sequoia in the yard, it’s now all overgrown with the chickens, and the dogs, and the whatnot that either came with the place or piled up.
Besides the dogs and the chickens and Thompson, there are three families. One mom has a foul mouth and a raucous laugh that travels. It’s good set up for a horror movie. Just close enough to hear the highway, but—separated by two rivers—too far to run.
I got out before seven, turned right onto 120, and by seven thirty was cutting through a canyon moonscape of mountainous domed rocks, surrounding lakes of crystalline blue on Tioga Pass. The wind whipped after me, leaning me over and caking me with grit.
It was cold and fresh and glorious. “That’s a game-changer, fer sure,” said the Dude-Ranger at the station entrance to Yosemite when I showed him the heated grips. “Did you really come all the way from Colorado? I lived in Crested Butte.” I could tell by the cut of his goatee.
The park road continued for seventy miles, bobbing and weaving through cathedrals of pines, then sequoias, then climbing to vistas of green and blue.
A furry back-faced water mammal with a stylish blonde coat cut across the road in front of me. I easily dodged him, and we locked eyes for a moment. Getting the milk and donuts for the family on a Monday morning, no doubt. I was glad he was no worse for our encounter.
The entire ride on 120 all the way to Oakdale was gorgeous and satisfying. After that, it was hand-to-hand combat to Alameda.
I had a date in Alameda with an old friend from Mississippi, Justin. Justin owned Hattiesburg’s comic store when I moved there in 1998. Justin is an amazing artist and storyteller and we’ve done two or three comics together, one on Katrina which was published in a creative writing journal just after the storm, and another two or three in association with my online classes.
Mississippi has about as strong a gravitational pull on people as any place I know. People just don’t leave. If they do, they usually return quickly enough.
Justin moved out to California two years ago. His trip on the Sunset Limited to LA, and then the Coastal Starlight is chronicled on this very blog! Just scroll down the “Moto Blog to find it (Part 1 and Part 2).
Justin has really flourished in California. He published his first graphic novel, Into the Pines pretty soon after hitting the ground here, and has since been hired as Visiting Artist at St. George Spirits. His first label has just been unboxed, and it looks great.
I’m so proud to know Justin and to see what he’s doing. As with the best of friends, the conversation picked up right where we left it, and it is to be continued in the future.
The entire day was punctuated by a string of really lousy gas stops. The California pumps are horrible for motorcycles, and at every stop I ended up splashing gas all over my gorgeous tank and running looking for non-existing paper towels. All four stops were a jigsaw puzzle of cars angling in from every direction. Three of them were downright sleazy. I kept it as quick as I could. Hence, my few postings.
But the day began beautifully and, after Tika and I reached an understanding, ended beautifully as well. I’m showered, watered, and relaxed, watching a trio of chickens peck their way across the lawn. What could be better?
Onwards! 