Downtown Eureka hugs the harbor with quaint stores and attractive, friendly coffee houses. We ate breakfast at Bon Boniere... apple fritters so big they didn't fit into the waxed bags. Customers popped in and out of the open front door or meandered into an adjoining room to use WiFi at any one of the small rough-hewn tables. Sea gulls, pigeons and sparrows paraded past on the sidewalk and in the street, pecking crumbs from between the cobbles.

"It's early Sunday morning, and I am by your side. We'll jump into the wagon, and we'll all take a ride." The words repeated over and over in my mind as we bounced along the 100-mile loop of The Lost Coast.

"They say people take this road and are never seen again," joked Andy.

I held on to the door brace as Little Red jolted up and down, this way and that. Even though it is paved, the nerve-jangling, teeth-jarring road faced all four directions as it wound up and down from sea level or ten feet above the breaking surf to more than 2,500 feet in the air. All Around Humboldt County said, "See the Lost Coast. The 100-mile tour is an extraordinary drive. It is also known as the Tour of the Unknown Coast, one of the most grueling bicycle races in the country." Steep grades, hairpin turns, shoulderless sides, graveled washouts, pitted pavement and one-lane stretches challenge even the most astute driver. I can't imagine bicycling the route!

North of Petrolia, a town with one general store gas station that opened at 11 a.m., we saw cattle ranches. A few turns beyond town, a black calf stood on the road by the fence. Lucky for him we had good brakes. South of the village, sheered sheep grazed on the hillsides.

"This area has some of the worst weather in California," said Andy. Clouds moved in and out, but if what he read is true, we chose a very good day for a drive. In Honeydew, where we crossed a plank bridge over the Mattole River, we bought gas for $3.98.9 a gallon. The locals looked twice at Little Red, an oddity, I'm sure, in this country of heavy duty trucks.
"I've taken difficult roads in my time," said Andy, "but this ranks right up there with the number one most challenging." And lonely beauty... one house facing the water, maybe 20 feet above the surf, had only mountains for three miles on three sides.

Efforts to save Rockefeller Forest started in 1917, when the Pacific Lumber Company broke a promise to stop cutting redwoods on Dyerville Flats. The Humboldt County Women's League earned the attention and support of John D. Rockefeller, Jr. by 1919. Here, redwoods may not be the very tallest in the world, but because the undergrowth is more cleared, the grove is even more impressive. It's a beautiful walk on pine needles. Andy guessed this part had been prescribed burned eight or ten years ago. In Avenue of the Giants, more lush and green with ferns, water puddled on the road and along the shoulders.

Coastal redwoods have been called "eternal" and "immortal." Most live 500 years; some, more than 2,000 years. Even the scientific name, sempervirens, means "everlasting."

It's like John Steinbeck wrote. "The redwoods once seen, leave a mark or create a vision that stays with you always... from them comes silence and awe. The most irreverent of men, in the presence of redwoods, goes under a spell of wonder and respect."

When we passed people on the trails, it was always in silence.

Then we headed for the Coast.

Ants Among Giants

South of the harbor at Crescent City, people watch for gray whales as they migrate the 11,000 miles back and forth from the cold Arctic waters to breeding grounds around Baja, California. Our day started at Crescent Beach Overlook, but without binoculars we could only marvel at the rugged beauty of the cliffs. We didn't see any whales.

"There's no way they will ever widen Route #101," said Andy, as we drove south. He was right. Redwoods lined the road on both sides.

At Wilson Creek pullout, a young couple walked two dogs on the beach. "Oh look, Sarah," said the man, "Connecticut!" They were playing Collect License Plates, she explained, and after driving from Washington D.C. were only missing Connecticut, Rhode Island and Kentucky.

We hiked the one-mile Yurok Trail Loop through swamp oaks and along spruce-covered ledges. Everywhere ferns and blackberries grew in abundance. At one turn a deer stepped out of the underbrush. A sign on the picnic table at the entrance warned against feeding the wildlife, particularly bears. We didn't see any, but any self-respecting bear wouldn't need to come all the way to the coast for blackberries... not with so many dogs on the beaches.

Trees of Mystery, a tourist attraction on the grandest scale, featured an incredible Indian Museum free at the back of the store. I could have browsed for hours.

At Klamath River Overlook we met three Yurok Indians who lived on the reservation. "The problem here is no jobs," said the older man. The girl told me she had returned here for the peace and beauty. She and her mother collected fern stems and spruce tree roots that stay black as they dry out for the reservation women to weave baskets. I had marveled at the tiny weave of the Yurok baskets at the museum. She also said the government allowed the tribe to spread fishing nets a hundred yards out from the mouth of the Klamath River to catch the salmon for food. Otherwise, there isn't much future for these friendly people.

Later we found two male elk grazing at Elk Prairie Visitor Center, heads down, ignoring all the photographers poised for special shots. When a dachshund in a car from Saskatchewan yapped, the grazing elk lifted their heads, alert for danger. Cameras snapped madly for ten seconds before the animals went back to their meal.

We hiked into the Merriman Grove of Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park along the Ah-Pah Trail and another mile or so at Big Tree Wayside. The Big Tree is an awesome sight--at least 1,500 years old, 287 feet tall and 63 feet in circumference. An early settler before the 1920's wanted to cut it down and make a dance floor on top of the stump. Luckily, some locals objected and the move to preserve the giants began.
We followed one-lane dirt trails along a forest road to Gold Bluffs Beach, twisting among the giants, and to Lady Bird Johnson Grove, created in 1968 and dedicated in 1969. I felt like an ant in the bottom of a box of giant fireplace matches. There was tremendous controversy when these areas were set aside, but thank goodness for the foresight and wisdom of someone like the First Lady, who championed a cause to respect and protect that which is irreplaceable.

"See it for yourself," Andy asked me to include in the blog records. "No picture does it justice. How could anyone damage such marvels of nature!"

Back Where We Started

As we headed toward the coast and dipped into valleys between the coastal mountains, we traveled through blankets of fog. "That's a summer pattern," explained Andy. "The air over the water is colder than the air over the land. We're a long way from the coast, but the temperatures did reach into the 70's yesterday."
We followed the Trinity River along California #299 through the canyons of the Coastal Range. Here and there whole hillsides blackened by fire exposed jagged granite cliffs. Once a couple of oncoming vehicles flashed headlights. Just beyond, a rock slide covered part of our inside lane. The cliff had given way overnight and slid into the road.

Through the Humboldt Mountains we caught patches of blue sky, but by the time we reached U.S. #101 near the coast, clouds layered thick and heavy. Fog obliterated the line between water and land; mist dampened the windshield. "It's not much better than when we left last week, but at least this time we can see the water," said Andy.

But 30 miles north of Crescent City, we came out of the clouds into blue sky. As we drove north along #101, intermittent fingers of fog clawed their way inland up the hillsides, but we had enough sun to enjoy the overlooks, walk beaches and digitally photograph scenery. We even watched a black oystercatcher bathing in a puddle on the sand at Sam Boardman Curry County Arch Rock. It's like one fisherman told us, "Just wait five minutes and things here can change."

On the Road Again

"On the road again..." The lyrical phrase kept running through my mind as we crossed back into California, heading north, but I couldn't remember all the words to the song. This is day #52, and we are getting pretty good at nomadic lifestyle in a little red peanut shell.

Cows grazed peacefully all the way from Reno through Susanville. Then the windshield fogged. Temperatures had dropped dramatically: higher elevation, more moisture in the air, grey snow clouds overhead. We stopped 30 miles south of snow-covered Lassen in Chester, CA, for pictures. Brrrrr! Twenty-five degrees colder than Reno!

"You'll want a jacket over your sweatshirt," suggested Andy. He knows me well.

"Major deer area." I read the sign. We didn't see any. "Someone forgot to tell the deer," I told Andy. We watched for bears too. "I've seen more of both in New England this year than I've seen out here."

We turned into Lassen Volcanic National Park at 5,775 feet. A new solar-powered Kohm Yah-mah-nee Visitor Center welcomed the few brave tourists to the self-described "remote outpost."

"You may only drive in 1.3 miles," warned the ranger. "Geothermal activity, not snow."

At the turn-around, a geothermal mudpot boiled three inches from the curb. Steam billowed from the vent across the road.

"You will see more from the North Entrance," the ranger had suggested. He gave us directions, a 40-mile detour for about ten miles of park road on the north face at Manzanita Lake. We shed our jackets and went for it, hoping to beat out clouds streaming in from the southwest.

We chose what the ranger called "the better of the two ten-mile stretches of road" into the North Entrance. Three one-lane bridges spanned creeks as Lanes Valley Road, Wildcat Road and Black Butte Road twisted and turned through the canyon. Ironically, as we headed north and up, the temperatures climbed into the 70's.

Mount Lassen blew out the side like Mount St. Helens did in 1980. A group of local businessmen, led by Benjamin F. Loomis, came out to see the devastation from May 19, 1915. The mountain blew a second time on May 22, right after they left the valley. Loomis had climbed the crater six or seven times in 1914, and his legacy to Lassen includes a seismographic station, a visitor center and many photographs.

We walked about four miles on the Devastation, Lily Pad Pond, Manzanita Lake and Reflection Lake trails. A brilliant sun burned off all but puffy clouds, and sun-capped Lassen rose majestic above the pines. When we returned to the parking lot at the North Visitor Center around 4:30 p.m., everyone had left. Smoke drifted up from eight or ten prescribed burns we had passed along the trail, creating a filmy haze in the setting sun in a place of awesome power, breath-taking beauty and incredible loneliness.

Reno's Recession

It's sad to see a city in decline. Twenty-five years ago or maybe a few more than that, we stayed at Circus Circus with our two kids. Then crowds crushed against the railing to watch acrobats somersault overhead and trained poodles side-step through hula hoops... younger children on tip toes in the front, little ones on the shoulders of daddies, and everyone craning necks to see.
Monday night Andy and I went to the circus. One minute before showtime, the audience of four lolled near the railing.
"Come to the greatest show on earth!" blared the public address. "Incredibly talented performers straight from the People's Republic of China here for your entertainment!"
Four young girls stepped from behind a velvet curtain to balance and toss plastic drums with their feet for seven minutes. The lights flared once, the girls bowed, and it was over. An hour later the same four rode unicycles and tossed plastic hats. This time the show was six minutes for an audience of ten. I must admit, the performances of Russian comedy acrobats and American dog routines on Tuesday and Wednesday were more entertaining, but the longest one lasted five minutes. And they were spaced 50 minutes apart, a clever ploy to keep parents spending money on arcade games in between circus acts. We watched it all and played nothing.
"Even the football game from years ago that I played to win stuffed animals for the kids is gone. How things change!" Andy said.

We strolled through the Eldorado Casino on Monday night. "Adults hang out here," said Andy. One middle-aged man in jeans and a lumber shirt sat at a Wheel of Fortune slot machine in the non-smoking section, mindlessly pushing the "spin reels" button. Lights twinkled red and gold in the empty VIP poker room. A few more disinterested players sat at machines on the smoking floor, silent save for the boop, boop, boop of Texas Tea and Wild Taxi slots. Game table after table sat empty. Granted, lots more people gathered on Wednesday. But years ago I had marveled at all the bells and whistles, sucked in my stomach to squeeze down crowded aisles between slot machine rows and scanned the floor for stray quarters.

"The most fun then was the clink of coins dropping down as winnings," said Andy. "Now half of the casinos have gone belly-up and the coin machines are gone."

"How times change!" I told him.

But we noticed the biggest difference of all outside. Streets alive with cars and pedestrians now harbored shadowy characters in black hoodies and grizzled, homeless derelicts, male and female, begging for quarters. Time had not been good to Reno; gambling downtown was dying.

Andy teased me about tensing when we were outdoors at night. "Why are you clutching your fanny pack?" he asked, knowing full well I expected to be mugged at any minute.

We walked the entire new River Walk along the Truckee twice during the day, admiring the art, the Italian Renaissance mansions and gardens clinging to one bank and the neatly crafted rock walkways and bridges, but we veered away from the graffiti-ridden skateboard park with at least 30 teenage boys and the boarded-up motels and casinos. Even Fitzgeralds flashed "closed for renovation," on the marquee, but we were told it has been closed for nearly three years. "Reno has really changed," said Andy.

Instead of "the biggest little city in the world," it's a sad turn on poverty row.

Finding Paradise

We drove to Lake Tahoe through Mount Rose pass at 8,900 feet. The snow-capped peaks of both Mount Rose (10,776 feet) and Slide Mountain (9,698 feet) glistened in the sun. Snow started at about the 8,000-foot elevation. At the Rose Summit Trailhead, the sandy path twisted upward. We followed it uphill at least 600 feet, snapping pictures of spruce and fir on the rocky slopes, with the Sierras in the distance. "Do you realize we are stepping on pulverized granite?" asked Andy. "It's sand on top of a mountain."

One more bend, through the pass, and there, sculpted in front of us between the trees, was Lake Tahoe, a blue sapphire gem in a sea of dark green trees.

As we walked the public beach in Lake Forest, Andy reminisced, "When I came here years ago the day in March before the conference in San Francisco, I had never been anywhere with so much snow. Some houses had drifts to the second floor window. I can't believe we are out in shirt sleeves on November 1st."

Washoe Indians came here to hunt, fish and rejuvenate their spirits long before Tahoe City developed in the mid-1800's. On a day like today, I understand how they felt.

Many of the state park areas closed for the season, but we had no difficulty identifying open trails for walks along the beach and through the fir and cedar forests.

By 3 p.m. shadows stretched long at Tallac Historic Site, which included the foundation of the old Tallac Casino, illegal in 1911, but located far from California law; the estates of the Pope, McGonagle and Heller families; and Valhalla, the summer resort of the rich and famous of the early 1920's. Walking through the groves and among the old buildings, I could picture couples attending the Tallac Great Gatsby festival in August, just like they did at Gatsby's parties on Long Island. ("In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars." from F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby)

"We can't miss the circus tonight," said Andy as we headed back to Circus Circus. "We've already missed the 7:00 p.m. "Umbrellas," but we can catch the 7:30 p.m. "Aerial Triangle" and the 8:00 p.m. "Diablo" performances. Just as we stepped into the arcade area, a little girl approached me, sobbing hysterically. "I can't find my mmmother and and I don't know... and my father... I don't know where... and and my little sister. I don't know... where where they are."

A couple hugs, some "don't worries," and a quick search for the casino office solved the problem. The casino employees found her parents, and we were the stars of the circus without even performing.

Driving the Distance

A piggy-back trailer loomed behind us to the left, casting a shadow over Little Red. Andy signaled right, but a car swerved to pass on the wrong side and cut in front as we aimed for the exit on Virginia Avenue. Andy maneuvered to the exit, everyone around us zooming past at 70 m.p.h. He let out a sigh. "I-80 between Sparks and Reno is NOT a fun drive," he said. "And what bothers me most is the speed. Maybe it's old age setting in, but at 70 m.p.h., any accident is deadly. Even the school bus is going to pass me, and I'm doing the speed limit. It's the extreme tail-gating at such high speeds that is most dangerous. It would take me a long time to get used to such road manners if I lived here."
Fort Churchill, nestled among yellow-leafed cottonwoods, stood in ruins at the State Historic Site. From the moment we turned off I-95 ALT, we smelled the sage in bloom. We rode past Old Town Dayton, the site of Nevada's first gold discovery.
Part way up the hill into the mountains the remains of Silver City lay in ruins, with mining equipment and houses of fortune hunters in total disrepair.

Virginia City at 6,200 feet, now a National Historic Landmark, was once called "the richest place on earth." Maybe as the price of gold goes up it will be again. People still mine the area and others might be making a living off tourists, but today many shops were closed for the season. A few tourists meandered along the raised wooden boardwalk. "Here, have a piece of root beer candy," called out a young man in front of the Mercantile. "Come in our store and relive the days gone by. We have lots of wonderful items for sale."

Inside, Andy and I saw everything from John F. Kennedy election posters to Betty Boop mugs and shot glasses to old glass bottles of Coca Cola.

Although there was discrepancy, historians declared Genoa as Nevada's first settlement in 1851. The town, on the back side of the mountains that form Lake Tahoe, ultimately fulfilled the definition of the historical term "settlement": at least 25 people, regular if infrequent mail delivery, and at least one commercial enterprise. Settled by Mormons, Genoa was one of 30 Pony Express stops across Nevada in the mid-1800's. "I could live here," I told Andy. "With the trees, spectacular views of the Sierras in the distance and huge homes, this is the life. It doesn't hurt that the thermometer hit 76 degrees on November 1, either."