The California Red Woods

September 1st, 2010. A day that shall be known for the most terrifying driving of my year-long trip. That and the insanely large trees we saw.

Insanely, while not being an adjective I'd normally use, seemed perfectly rational when coupled with the lack of sleep these last few entries had been churned out under. Now, with a slightly more rested mind, I will begin once more the tale of this fate filled day of, you know, large tree things. Trees. Very. Large. Trees.

We left driving down the scenic By-way, Highway 36. This was a twisting turning road that lifted us up into the hills, looking down on the outstretched forests below. It was a lovely drive, a beautiful drive, but a slow drive. A very slow drive.

The shortest route between two points is not a straight line when topography enters the mix. I would say mistakes were made, but really – the journey was a beautiful, and halfway to the Redwoods we ended up passing a ranger station.

Mad River Ranger Station lies in the middle of the 36. We had passed a few of these already, but never pulled in to see just what they were. In my mind the ranger station is that thing you passed five miles back, just before your car over heated. Hiking towards it one member of your party disappears, only to be found dead a mile later. When night falls the rangers turn out to be the true killers, and in the end there is not a sole survivor to be found – all killed in a forest fire started to end the madness. The only winner? The forest which will grow back newer and stronger under the somewhat controlled blaze.

As life would have it, this is not quite what a ranger station is. Not to my knowledge – we never broke down, or stayed past dark, so I can't speak to those ends, but in my experience a ranger station is this:

A place where you can get free comics and colouring books about Smokey the Bear. Ohh! His origin issue! What a snag! So many exclamation marks can only point to the fantastic experience that was had here.

There were also pamphlets about snakes, and bears, and other things that want to eat you from the inside out. Like ticks. For the most part a Ranger Station is a rest stop way out in the bush. And there are helpful people there who love the outdoors – have made it their life. They know all the tips and tricks.

In fact they might tell you to take one road out to the 101 to see the Redwoods, and even though that road ends north of where you want to be, you should probably listen and then backtrack later. You may think since you're going to be going north on the 101, it's best to take the road that leaves you south of the forest. But in this assumption you would be wrong.

Listen to the rangers, otherwise you end up travelling far more terrifying roads that wind higher through the hills, and place you seventy miles from the nearest service station. This may not seem bad, as you're well fueled – driving through the desert having taught you to fill up at every chance, not wait until you're near dry – but the roads... they'll become full of potholes, they'll rock you from one side to the other. There will be no railing. There will be nothing but absolute terror for the next hour (twenty miles, one hour.) You will pass no one, except on the few moments where a one lane squeeze meets a blind curve. Then a truck will barrel towards you.

I have not been this nervous in a vehicle – for years. Not since 2006 when I travelled similar roads in British Columbia, Canada (actually those were far worse, but I summoned the fear for this journey.) Katherine drove, stoic, calm, and in control. Good for her. Because as for me? I was thinking of all the worst case scenarios.

A pot could dislodge our oil pan. But would that be all that bad, I mean we hadn't changed our oil in 17 000 KM. We probably didn't have any left, as it was. Wait – we hadn't changed our oil in that long? What's that smell? Burning. Katherine noticed it. Just tell her it's the tires – no sense worrying her when we're still 45 minutes from the nearest service station. She bought it. Now only I needed to worry, and check the engine temp meter, and hope that we did not die out here.

A terrifying hour past – we still weren't out. Thirty more minutes to go. No matter how much Johnny Cash we played, I still worried. Then we were out. Then I told Katherine the smell was the oil, thinking we could change it straight away in town. But no – this town had one auto shop which was booked until next week. Unacceptable!

For the next few miles Katherine was worried, until we reached the first mile of Avenue of the Giants. Right at that moment, she would later say, she forgot all about the oil. This was excellent for me. I let it go too – there was nothing to be one until 60 miles north on the highway.

Avenue of the Giants. That's when we could relax. We had made it to the Red Woods state park. And what a place it was:

Our first stop put us on a one mile hike through the woods where sound shut off from all around us. Outside the forest it was blazing hot, inside – nice and cool. The sunlight never lingers long in this spot.

Trees grew, reaching up over three hundred feet into the air. That's a thirty storey building. All around you. This is a very big tree. And there are hundreds of them all growing clumped together. The root system of the fallen giants dwarf even the tallest person. These are things of beauty.

I thought I would be jaded, after all I had just seen big trees yesterday, but then these ones weren't just big – they were tall as well.

After finishing the trail we hit the car and moved on to the next station where road signs told us to stop. More forest, more trees, more beauty. I envied the people who would hike eight miles in to set up camp, alone in the wilderness. But at this stage, an eight mile hike, even over flat land – that seemed like far too much, just to see some trees. Some trees I was seeing here.

Now if I had a week to camp, rather than just one night that would be different.

There were trees to climb on, trees to crawl inside and make a club house within, trees to simply crane your neck back and look at. Trees, trees, trees. And there were even hidden gems.

A free auto-tour pamphlet is available from boxes at the side of the road, but it wasn't until stop three – the visitor centre – that I overheard a ranger give out secret advice. He drew new lines on the map, and added stops. I had him modify my light blue pamphlet the same way. We now had opened up the Giant Tree achievement, and Founders Tree – which included an informational booklet.

Founders tree stood 346 feet tall, and was on the cover of the book. On the cover was a cartoon man looking up. Clearly we had to re-create this image for pictures.

While 345 may seem tall, it was still but a baby after seeing Giant Tree – accessible by a quick hike after taking a seven mile road which diverged from Avenue of the Giants. Giant Tree was 363 feet tall. A thirty six storey building. If this tree fell in the forest and no one was around to hear it, it wouldn't matter – shocks would be felt all the way to Portland. Maybe. Probably not. It wouldn't make a sound. Final answer.

These are the roads of car commercials, twisting and turning through blind curves, walled by the behemoths. It was hard to think that this was still California. It seems as if we'd seen almost everything in this state. There's been the deserts of Death Valley, the art of Salvation Mountain, the beaches of Los Angeles, the cliffs of Yosemite, and now these trees. We'd spent a week and a half here, and it was barely enough.

Just after five we rolled into town to get our oil changed – the car not smelling all that hot. The oil change had closed minutes before. Great. But ten miles up the road we hit on another quick change place which still had room for us. We were lucky, as it turned out the oil had nearly run dry. After our complementary hot drinks, and a few times telling the staff that – no – we didn't want the extra products, we were good to go. Back on the road, sans terrible burning smell.

Now we just had to find a place to sleep for the night. This would come in the form of Crescent City – a northern town on the ocean. A beautiful sunset was presented to us – the last we would see in this state. And as if saying good bye, the gentle beeping of the light house would lull us to sleep.

And by lull us to sleep, I mean imagine you had left your phone off the hook on the bedside table. Yeah, it was like that, but rather than just you hearing it – it's a blessing for the whole town.

Good night California; it's been real.

The Grizzled Giant and Sleepy Time Roads

This morning the line for camp sites was growing well before seven thirty. As we packed up to leave, more joined the line. I imagined a silent cheer each time people like us left the park. It would mean one more space open for camping.

Adding two hours to our journey, we headed south to see the large trees that lived there – that had lived there for thousands of years. You know, it's interesting. We don't know much about trees from their early days. The oldest in the world if four to five thousand years old. What about the ones from dinosaur times, hundreds of millions of years back? How did they grow? What defenses did they have? We know so little – and it's nearly impossible to learn a thing. You'd think 1600 years is old (the age of some of the trees around here) but really – just a drop in the bucket.

On our way to the grove, we passed a look out stop full of German tourists. The French go to the Grand Canyon, the German's come here. This seems to be the way of things. Why the divide? I'm not sure – but just as most of the people at the Grand Canyon were French, so too are most of those in this park German.

You can tell them, at times, from the Americans. They're the ones who look like they're about to go clubbing, rather than climb a mountain. It's strange, it's surreal, it's really quite wonderful. What are they thinking? Clearly in their mind it all makes some sort of sense.

We passed through a tunnel that transported us from one section of the park to the next. Gravel roads, and tight turns took us from place to place. Here we were not surrounded by tourists, but for the most part, on our own. Until we neared the southern part of the park. The area with, “the trees.”

We pulled into the visitors centre and I asked, rather foolishly, if this was the place with the big trees. (It wasn't as bad as yesterday when I asked if stop ten was next – boarding the bus at stop nine. “Oh, very good counting,” the driver said to me. I didn't realize the same stop going the other way was stop four.)

We were told that we could drive down, and then hike the grove, or take a tram for twenty five dollars a person. Twenty five dollars a person to take a tram a few miles? No thanks. Getting to the lot we started out.

Our legs had not forgiven us our hike the day before. Thighs and calves still hurt. But we could not not see the trees. The trees! Only two and a half miles, round trip. That would be nothing – right?

I seem to recall it being more than nothing, but my memories are what last – and those are the memories of the Grizzled Giant, and the California Tunnel.

The Grizzled Giant is nearly one hundred feet around at the base. Standing one hundred and ninety feet tall, this tree was a monster. A monster with a fence around it.

It seems that the park service didn't want people walking around the tree. Standing on the roots could hurt it. For a tree nearly three thousand years old, and having suffered fire damage, I figured it would do just fine – but that's not my call. No – this tree was out of bounds for touching. You could stand back and take pictures, though.

There's only one problem – from a distance there's no sense of scale. There's no way to appreciate its size. Not without someone next to it. And so I did what anyone in my situation would do (the situation being one who thinks protecting something can end up destroying the true beauty of it.) I set my tripod up, hopped the fence, and got my shot of me standing beside the tree. I have two shots – one with me, one without. In the one without, you just see a tree. It could be any size. But the other? It's in the other that the true monstrous size is seen.

I'd always regretted not seeing the big trees out in British Columbia back in two thousand and six, but now – standing beside this giant, everything was right in the world once more.

The California Tunnel Tree is a tree which had a hole cut in it, large enough for carriages to go under. Why chop down a tree when you can cut it up and allow it to live even still? Of course i walked under it, and looked around – but little compared to standing beside the truly awe inspiring giant.

Once we'd left the forest, it was back on the road – heading towards Red Bluff. We would spend the night there, and press on to the Red Wood forest in the morning. I thought of all the things I'd have time to do – catch up on email, blogging, tv watching – but as soon as we got there (after hours of near exhaustion driving where I had to take over for Kath who couldn't even keep her eyes open) food was our priority – ice cream and Domino's pizza. Never again. Tasty – but, doing terrible things.

With food done, just before nine I was ready to do all those things I'd thought about earlier. I was ready – but my body? It protested. Eight fifty something. That was the last time I saw before the world slipped into dark.

Hiking Yosemite

Waking up, I was relatively sure I had gone unmolested by bears during the night. I checked my arms, my legs, my torso. All seemed where it should be. Putting on my clothes, I woke Katherine and headed outside.

I shouldn't say I woke her, as she woke up at six to check on the line of people waiting for tent sites, and then fell back asleep – but at seven, I re-woke her, and headed out to take pictures of the new day.

More about the tent sites. We only put our name in for one night, we'd have to pay and then try to get on the list for tonight's site as well. A line formed early morning, as these Valley spots normally go quick. It was only because we arrived on a Sunday, change over day, that spots were available yesterday. Today the site would be full up.

The line had yet to form.

Back to the pictures.

Just outside my tent, the rock walls towered over me. Only five hundred feet shy of those cliffs at the Grand Canyon the grey granite shined in the morning sun, a guardian for all that once fell under its shadows. Yosemite was looking to be one of the most beautiful national parks I'd ever seen – and I'd only just stepped out of my tent.

The moon was still out, above the rocks, and the light was perfect. I may have snapped a few more pictures than I'd meant to. I thought the 16 gig card I bough a while back would last until the end of the trip. We'll see. If I can keep to one hundred frames a day, I'll be fine – but that's not so easy a task. Who knew.

If I visit some boring places for a while, well maybe that will let me stick to my rationing, but I'm thinking that's not going to happen either. It's amazing to think that four rolls of film a day, in 1999 standards, isn't nearly enough.

By eight o'clock a line was forming to get a tent site for the night, as we joined it. Early in the morning, some people were extending, like us – others were trying to secure one, driving up near day break.

It was in this line that a crazy person appeared. I try to stand back and let crazy hippies be crazy hippies, but when one started to pester a guy for studying his accounting text book, I took umbridge. “Hey man, you'll remember the time this bearded guy said – don't do it! Don't go into accounting. And you'll regret it.”

In honour of bearded men everywhere, I stepped up and claimed, “let me counter balance, you can remember the time a bearded man encouraged your choice of action.”

The future accountant was studying to get a job, and get money. The hippy protested money, claiming it as all things evil. How he got his five bucks for the night, I'll not know. But, there he was talking about how it does not good. I stepped up again, “money got my butt to Antarctica. It let me walk on all seven continents of the world in a year. I'm thinking you need money for this.” And I do. I don't think you can do that without money – not on so short a time frame, anyway. And the love of money? I don't think there's anything wrong with it.

Soon the hippy turned his back to me, and talked loudly about how lost I was to whoever would listen. And then it took a turn for the wacky. A father was talking about how his son was afraid of bears. The crazy guy said not to worry – bears are more afraid of you (not true) and they won't bother anyone (where was he last night when the ranger was chasing them away?) claiming that he used to run after bears an whack them when he was younger (should we be listening to this man?)

Then the father asked about the eighteen mile day hike – the hippy said the eight year old was never too young for something like this (this is a hard hike for an experienced hiker) and I just prayed the guy wouldn't listen.

In one sentence, though, all credibility was undermined and order was restored once more:
Animals are smarter than us man, you know – they're like smart, and all; the bear, right, well unlike us it hasn't even lost its power of telepathy yet.

And there it was. Thank you very much. Please come again. Moving on.

At just this moment, the line started to move, we got our tent sites, and all went our own ways. Good for that. We were also told that shampoo, and toothpaste were “food” which needed to be removed from our car. We had got a warning on our windshield. Bears enjoy these things and will break your door down to get at them. Into the bear locker just about everything went.

Now nine in the morning we were finally ready to start our day. First we checked out the morning program where a Native American took us through a recreated Indian village. For hundreds of years the Indians lived in the Yosemite valley, until the government kicked them on out. Now only two true-bloods remain, one being her husband. When he and his aunt dies, that will be the end of the Yosemite natives.

She was from the ocean people, full blood from her tribe, now joined with his. And she told us of the acorns, the staple food. She told us how women stay away from men's plants (those used for making weapons). She told us a story of creation – diving frog, mud slinging coyote. She allowed us entrance, to the right, counter clockwise, into the round house, and then she bid us good day.

It was an hour of interest, and education. And – our hippy was there. Now that he saw my interest in this way of life, and this culture he was confused. He knew not what to think of me – and I believe we parted on good terms. To be honest, I would have liked to have heard of his life, and everything he has done and seen... It's just when people start to push their views against what another so clearly wants that I find myself upset. Just let the guy be an accountant. The world needs them, and there are people who do enjoy that line of work. Hard to believe, but there are people who hate camping too. To each their own.

After a sandwich at the deli we headed up to Vernal Falls.

I hated myself every step of the way.

No more hiking. Why do I never listen to myself when I say this? How hard would it be to just see a sign that says, “hike,” and think – nope, I don't think we'll be doing this, thank you very much?

It wouldn't be hard... except I really wanted to know what was at the top. Who comes to a park to sit in a tent all day?

Off we went, Katherine leading the charge. Over the first half mile we rose 400 feet in elevation. My legs were not happy with this. From the mid point, we were on a foot bridge. Some people turn back here – but I was not in pain, just irritated. An the falls looked so beautiful. I'd have to climb to the top to feel as if I'd accomplished anything at all.

Onwards we went. Another half mile, this time over 600 feet of elevation. This time my legs were screaming at me, but Katherine's hurt more. Unsure if she could finish, I told her she could wait and I'd come back. A glare of pure anger. In all fairness, she was carrying the pack. She had every right to be more worn out.

As we climbed, we passed others, and were passed by some. Mid way from the mid way, a rainbow appeared where the falling water hit the pool below. It was a thing of beauty, and more than one picture may have been snapped. Still, we could not wait long. Every moment paused, was another moment to realize the burning in the upper thighs. We pushed on, and on – not in the best of shape, seemingly. Then, we hit the top.

And like always, when finished every hike is worth while. You never thought you'd have to turn back. It was always possible. There in front of us was a clear cold pool of water, surrounded by large slabs heated by the sun. I may have been annoyed by the three guys fishing across, ruining an otherwise perfect picture, but at the same time were they not there, I would have simply taken a few shots, and left – rather than reclining for a brief and comfortable nap.

Lying on the rocks, in the sun, across from a still glass lake – well it was the type of thing that made you wish you had the whole day to waste. Unfortunately we're always on the move, Katherine and I. We never have the time to stop and sell the proverbial roses. No – we press on, and after an hour of relaxing it was back down the hill, and down to the shuttle bus which would take us to our next trail head.

Mirror Lake: There's not much to say, except that the lake was dry – not much to see during California's drought. We were passed by a number of people on horse back. Five used the sand in front of us to relieve themselves. The horses, not the riders. That would have been weird. More weird.

A quick miles around, and we were headed back to the camp village trying to make a ranger led hike. We failed. To console ourselves we ate, and then checked out the museum. As luck would have it just as we got there it was announced that the final showing of the Yosemite Spirit movie would be played – we grabbed seats and watched, learning how the park came to be. As beautiful in winter as it is in summer, we were shown images of the valley and also the grove of Sequoia.

I'd not known it, but in this park were some of the world's biggest trees. We would have to look into seeing these tomorrow. I was no longer disappointed about missing the ranger hike as had I been on it, I would never have learned about these trees.

All that was left was the evening program – about how bears will try and eat you, but don't worry about these black bears, it's the Grizzlies that are the real monsters (you know, the ones the live in the parks where we'll be next week.) Not sure I should have watched that film, I wandered back to the tent, sure a bear would appear at any moment, and got into bed, still dressed – determined to get out and see any bear that came around tonight.

Of course, on this night, there was not a bear to be heard of.

The Winchester House to Yosemite

San Jose was no random stop to break up a drive. No, there was a purpose to be here. A monument to all those interested in the paranormal, the strange, the weird – the mysterious.

San Jose is home to the Winchester Mystery House.

I did not know the name of this place before reaching California, but I had heard of the House many times over the years. It is the house that was never finished – could never be finished. And because of this strange things exist:

Doors lead to walls, closets lead to open rooms. Windows are in the floor. Staircases lead straight into the ceilings. There are strange things afoot at The Winchester, and even stranger reasons why.

Mrs. Winchester, wife of he who made the well known gun, was plagued with questions after her family died close together. She did what all rational people would do in this case – turn to a fortune teller. What could possibly go wrong?

The medium told Mrs. Winchester that the deaths were caused by spirits hurt by her husbands brand of rifles. There was only one thing she could do to appease the spirits – build a house, and keep building it. Never stop. Only then would the spirits leave her alone.

Of course, being a sane and rational woman she... listened to the advice. Yes, she bought up one hundred acres of property and got to work building a giant house that could never be finished. Ironically though her ghost, and the builders ghosts have been 'seen' here, those of the rifled dead, for whom the house was built, have gone unnoticed.

Some people will say that cameras do not work in the house because Mrs. Winchester never allowed photos within before her death. These people just don't understand how long shutter speeds on automatic settings blur images. But never mind that, as no photography is allowed inside the house.

I will tell yo something, when I pay thirty dollars for a tour of a mystery house, I am not leaving without pictures. And shots of the outside may be fine and well, but if some crazy person built a staircase into the ceiling, I want to record that.

Hanging around when the guide moves on, is a great way to make this happen. Same with the window in the floor. And the damage caused by the 1906 earthquake.

I'm all for respecting some photography rights – but when it's just to sell more books in the gift shop? Nope, I'll take my own, thank you very much. Keep guiding with your practiced voice, and your perfect timing for jokes which are, at best, hit and miss.

The easy riser stairs cover the house. In some areas seven turns and fifty steps need to be walked, instead of five normal ones. There are grand ball rooms, lesser ball rooms, and rooms, rooms, rooms. The fourth and fifth floor were knocked down in quake damage, but the three still exist. At the end of the tour I had walked a mile, and seen many interesting things. And a few types of early elevators.

Due to the house being built in stages with multiple foundations, it is one of the safest places to be in a quake. There is also a large well of fresh water under the property. If trouble brews, this is where to head.

Now in reality the mysterious isn't all that mysterious. The door to nowhere, on the second storey, could have been prep work for an unfinished alternate section, and the window in the floor is actually just a skylight allowing light from outside to light the lower floor as well. They'll not tell you this, but pay attention and you'll figure it out. The staircase into the ceiling? Alright – that's somewhat mad.

After the inside, we walked the outside. There is a lot of see here, and it wasn't until three or four hours had past (some time spent playing The Simpson's Arcade Game – my favourite arcade box – just outside the gift shop.) that we drove on.

About to leave San Jose, we noticed a coupon for two free t-shirts if we visited the Flea Market. The Flea claimed to be the largest open air market in America. I've heard that before. Still, free t-shirts. And I like markets. Heading out there, we grabbed our new shirts, a twenty dollar value (what a random coupon to give out) and checked the aisles. It was mostly the same less than wonderful stuff, until a row we saw just before leaving.

This is where people sell their own stuff. This led to piles of broken electronics, and video games. I saw a few copies of Pokemon Snap for N64. If I could be assured it worked, I would gladly have paid the ten dollars. I was not in a gambling mood. Instead, when I saw He-Man's mount, Battle Cat, I had to buy it. Five bucks? Fine, whatever, now He-man can ride his cat, instead of Skeletor's, on my shelf back home.

I may need to wash, and de-stick-ify it first.

Finally we were ready to push on out of San Jose and head cross-state to Yosemite National Park. Someone should have let us know how long this would take. When we got there the three camp sites in the valley were closed. But, there was a forth site down in the valley. Camp 4. This was a place for rock climbers, and poor people, to hang. Five bucks a person to throw down your tent, in a site of six random folks. Like hosteling, but on a plot of dirt.

Not wanting to drive an hour north of the valley, we took it. To be honest, this is what we were looking for. There was just one warning: be careful of the bears.

I'd heard this bear scare before, and was ready to set up camp and sleep for the night. With the tent up, we climbed inside, but just then the cries started:

Go away bear! Go away!

Rangers, and campers were clapping and shouting at the bear which would wander our site for the rest of the night. Did I ever see it? No – the tent provided me with safety. And sure, I may have regretted not seeing the big black bear, but it was also really cold, and I was really tired. Getting dressed and sticking my head out to see a monster? Not my idea of fun. With a millimeter of fabric between me and outside I was safe.

For hours these calls continued, and I wondered what the ranger must feel like. When she applied for the parks service did she know it would be as a bear chaser?

The closest the bear came was at two in the morning when the ranger ran into our tent, as she clapped and cried for the bear to, “go away [(bear)], go away.”

I wanted to see it. I did. But I also wanted to be alive to explore Yosemite tomorrow. Warm in my tent I stayed. That bear could eat the drunks outside instead.

Car Shows, Elephant Seals, and Zebras - Oh My!

The day started simply enough – drive to San Jose. That's it. Nothing to see, nothing to do – just get to San Jose. Simple enough, yeah?

Well – it wasn't quite so easy. First we had to decide if we wanted to run the highway straight up the centre of the state, or if we wanted to drive Highway 1. Highway 1 is the coastal road. And tour books will tell you that no trip to California is complete without taking the windy road which travels all along the rocky outcroppings up and down through the hills and against the water. The down side? It would add about two hours to our journey.

When will we be back? That's the attitude I try to hold each and every day – and while it may be setting us further and further behind, none can say we aren't seeing some fantastic things. Onwards to highway 1.

Good bye straight shot up the gently sloping centre, hello who knows what. There are all number of towns along the way, but one that we pulled off in went by the name of Slovang. This town was said to feel like Denmark in the heart of California. Believe it or not, that description is pretty accurate. All the buildings are stylized, and the people have mostly immigrated from the part of the world. There are even big ol' windmills just for fun. They don't do all that much, aside from attract you to the associated restaurant, which may or may not serve sub-par sausage.

Now this should have been a quick in and out look getting us back on track with time to spare. But no, because things were happening today in Solvang. Some very exciting things for the people – there was a classic car show. Three roads were filled with gawkers, and cars. Don't forget the cars. Old cars, less old cars, shiny cars, and matte ones too. I don't know anything about cars. I know, blue car, red car, pretty car, ugly car. But still, no less than an hour did we spent wandering, looking under hoods at things which, to my knowledge, work magic and make things go. I have a number of friends who would have loved this – and don't get me wrong, I dug it quite a lot but they would have understood a thing or two.

Leaving Solvang we hit the One once more, and continued along beautiful coastline, traveling over historic bridges built seven decades past. Just when I was back in the swing of carrying on, I saw a large number of cars stopped at the side of the road. People were gazing into the field, snapping pictures and pointing. Clearly I had to see what was going on.

As I started to slow Katherine protested – we had wasted so much time already, no more stopping. But I had to know what was up there. Making my way up the ridge to see what they were seeing I tried to guess at what might await me, prepared for disappointment.

What I saw? There was no way I could have ever guessed. I had no way of even knowing such a thing might have existed. Over the hump, across the dry grass, was a herd of zebra. Of zebra! I had not seen animals running free like this since Africa, and certainly did not expect to see them here.

It was like coming across a dragon – or at least a – no, it was like coming across Zebra in the middle of California.

Apparently they once belonged to Hearst Castle – of which we drove on by, having already seen the most impressive thing, thank you very much. But now, they live on their own and make do. Zebra. In California. Next time, I need to be told about these things ahead of time – it was, simply put, amazing.

Only one stop remained before our eventual reaching of San Jose. Elephant Seal point. We go there, parked, and joined the rest of the visitors looking down on the closed beach at all the seals. They were small blobs against the sand. Far from us, and nearly too far for the telephoto lens, I quickly grew bored. I'd seen an elephant seal before, on a nearly empty beach – only a few meters away. I had looked into the eye of a leopard seal, in the pouring rain, two or three feet in front of my face. I had seen seals – and these ones? You could hardly tell what they were.

Thanks but no thanks. I'm glad I saw them, but they weren't all that special. I feel these darkened thoughts may somewhat be from the fact that, over shadowing these creatures, was the fact that I just saw a herd of Zebra(!) but never mind that. From then on, it was just sit back, enjoy the coastal views, and get to where we were going.

Without much fanfare we rolled into San Jose, too late to do anything. The friend I stayed with back in March lived around here – but not being prepared I was without a phone number. In stead we found an over priced motel, settled in, and fell asleep.

Zebra. I mean, really? Come one.

The Getty

The Getty – a fabulous world class museum: free! Well kind of free. Getting in is free. Parking? That's fifteen bucks. But never mind. This really is a world class museum, and one that Katherine had wanted to see. Apparently she learned about it in her museum studies class.

The Getty has some fancy architecture that makes it a beautiful complex standing out, sparkling white, high about the freeway below. Everything about it is steeped in art. Whether you think that's good or bad is up to you.

We parked our car, and took the elevator up to the tram station. We were informed the tram would not be running for another half hour. We were early. There was, however, a sculpture garden that we could make our way through. It was in a sculpture garden, just outside Winnipeg, I believe, back in 2006 that I first decided I did not hate art.

This one? It evoked a different feeling. The only thing this had going for it was the unique set up. While still outdoors, there were 'corridors' of paved stone, connecting 'rooms' of grass, on which the statues stood. The unique layout was far more impressive than any of the pieces collected.

The tram is supposed to make one feel as if they are being whisked up, up, and away from their daily life to this other realm. Apparently the wheels which moved us were to the side, rather than below. The guide claimed that we were being whisked away on a cushion of air. If that's the case, we must have hit some heavy turbulence.

Once arrived, we were still too early for the museum, but comforted ourselves with some breakfast at the outdoors cafe. The man working the counter must not have expected any eager tourists quite so early, and as such we were rewarded with the 30% off employee discount. It's like getting a whole breakfast burrito for free! I do recommend the breakfast burritos at The Getty, as well. It was delicious and filling.

Eventually we got in, and watched the ten minute introductory video. Then we hung around the gift shop for a half an hour, waiting for the gallery highlights tour to begin. The one object that stood out, and which I'll probably regret not having bought as time wears on? A stuffed Van Gogh. He had an ear which, through the magic of Velcro, could be removed – to be given to a cherished friend.

As we wandered the gallery in our group, connected with wireless head sets which allowed for our guide to talk at a reasonable volume, we stopped at statues, and tapestries, and paintings. None of the pieces really made much of an impact to me, though one of the first flower paintings stood out.

Our guide reminded me of Buffy The Vampire Slayer's Cordelia Chase. Her look, mannerisms, the way she talked, and her curt nods after every point. What was most distressing was the way the head set changed the guides voice, making it an octave higher. For the most part I tried to keep it turned off. The jarring disconnect was slightly uneasing.

Our tour ended at a great big bed. It was all original, we were told, except for the fabric. Never you mind that the fabric is eighty percent of the bed. It's best not to question that.

After the tour we explored the photograph gallery where one exhibit detailed the Vietnam war, with captions describing the pictures. One of the most striking was a photo of a mother and baby seemingly hanging out with a solider. This shot was snapped only minutes before the two were killed by the same unit.

In another room was a gallery dedicated to the photographer behind Fast Forward and Girl Culture: Lauren Greenfield. These images are as striking now as they were when I considered buying the book years ago. Signed copies were available. The one thing that upset me was that the framing went over any signing and numbering on the print. I would like to have known how many were made, and if they were scarce. Perhaps photographers print up a new batch for the museum? I don't know.

Other wanderings took us past a picture of lilies by Van Gogh (I now regret not having visited his museum when I was in Amsterdam, although I doubt it would have meant as much as Doctor Who was yet to tell me why I should love him.) and out into the courtyard where the desert garden, and the central garden (mischievously placed off to the side, rather than in a central location) could be viewed.

We made our way to another tour – this time of the Jean-Leon Gerome gallery where his art was on display for the first time in thirty years. At the time, I was told, his work was considered pornographic. How this claim could be made when just about every painting every made with humans in it is a desperate attempt to hide the pornographic behind the veil of mythology is beyond me. But there it was. Critics hated his work because people liked it, and wanted prints. That sounds about right. The fact that it was so in demand must have made it terrible (though I should watch myself, normally mass appeal is a sure sign a novel isn't going to be good – I'm looking at you Dan Brown, Mr. Clancey.)

Some of the work? I dug. Others – m'eh. By this point my feet were hurting, and I was tired. Five hours in a gallery is far too long. We just had one more stop to make before heading back down to the real world on our cushion of air machine. The illuminated manuscripts.

These manuscripts were books for the fourteenth century and later. Each was hand written with illustrations complementing the text. Each tome must have been a life's work. There was great beauty, and understanding they were not simply mass produced made each quite the collection of ideas.

Though tired, and potentially cranky, these stood out to me. One was an instructional text teaching how to properly write the calligraphic characters. A reproduction could be found in the gift shop. Katherine quickly snatched it up.

Leaving I felt there was more to appreciate, but said appreciation would require more time that we did not have. Not without food. Fearing we would no longer be met as employees by the wait staff we headed out, grabbed a quick meal, and tried to find parking in Santa Monica. Easier said than done. Instead we just headed home, and watched terrible amounts of television. Star Wars: The Clone Wars (3-d cartoon.) It wasn't as awful as I thought it might be. I don't remember children shows dealing with the concept of war deserters when I was young.

Then there was Back to the Future – always a pleasure. Finally we threw in the DVD Clue. Why was I not informed of this movie earlier? Tim Curry looking younger, while looking younger, than when he was in Rocky Horror. made this a film to remember.

There are three endings to the film, a different one shown in each theater back in 1985. Now all three are played back to back. Just as I was ready to gush about how wonderful and fantastic this movie was I read a remake will soon be coming out. Lord why? Do these things ever work out (Dawn of the Dead? I'll give you that I actually did like the remake more, but that's because the first had pacing issues. Clue? It's damn near perfect.)

But we shall see. If they can pull off Monopoly: The movie, an Battleship The movie, well anything might be possible.

Twenty Miles to Santa Monica

Woke up in a haze. Groggy. Don't want to go anywhere. Exhausted.

Somehow that 'cold' that overtook me days ago is still present. Not yet defeated. So maybe it's not a cold – or maybe your mother was right, and the best way to deal with a cold is to relax and do absolutely nothing. Good luck finding a day where that's possible. Even getting some hot lemon tea seems an impossibility on the road.

So there I was, awake – but just barely – looking around our alcove. Couches had been turned to make the living room our room with a mattress in the middle, drapes blocking off the rest of the world all around as walls, and a spread of water bottles, green teas, and light snacks to rival any four star hotel.

Maybe it wasn't so much that I didn't want to leave because I was sick, as much as it was I didn't want to leave because this was the most amazing place I'd stayed in ages! We were with a host who went that one step beyond. Something to open my eyes; something which I'll have to strive for when people start shooting on up my way looking for a place to crash for a few nights.

I made my way to the shower, and then when all clean and squeaky started to pack up. Getting to and from the shower requires navigating the obsticle course that is the dogs. There's one small fuzzy weiner puppy, but then there are the two beasts. One, the mastiff/lab mix I called The Beast, from the Sandlot, the first moment I saw him. The other, nearly as big, is a mastiff/pit mix. Now you'd think these would be terrifying creatures, and in the beginning they were. But after a few moments, your brain registering that they're safe, and them wanting nothing more than attention, all was well. Now after a few days, I'd be sad to see them go.

My resolve to never have my own dog was weakening. Still – there's the fact that these monsters must cost thousands of dollars a year to feed. A great ferocious beast like the two big ones can't keep the scary people away without good full doggy tummies. Although, you wouldn't really know they were all that spooky had you seen the biggest in his “Top Gun” aviator costume, or dressed as Darth Vader.

Then there's the small one. This one, from the moment I saw him, looked like an alligator. I was reminded of Sparky from the old Sesame Street clip. More laid back than the others, this one was not free of the costuming. No, I'd seen him as a monkey, and a dragon/alligator, and a piggy.

Saying goodbye to these dogs before making my way out, packing the car, and locking the door behind me was a tragic moment.

Then we were off to the Flooring company to visit Jen and drop her keys off. Normal people have to work – it's what they do. So off we went. The second I stepped through the door the receptionist said, “you're for Jen – this way.” How was she described my looks, so as she knew right away, I wondered.

We said good-bye to Jen and her room mate, while I marveled at the size of their industrial sized printer which must have been six feet wide. If I worked there, I may have tried to sneak a few posters – or giant life sized picture of myself, specifically the one of me on the sand dune in Africa. But there are probably safe guards to prevent such misuse of company property. Probably.

With keys left behind, it was back to the car, and down the road to Santa Monica. All twenty miles of it. The transition didn't take long, and soon we were at another friend's place, grabbing keys from a mailbox, struggling to open a gate, and getting inside. A note and a cell phone I could use were waiting. We quickly dropped our bags then headed back out into L.A.

The last time I was here I went to the laundromat where Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog was filmed. I wanted to buy mini-Tide's for people, but the machine was busted. Katherine, also a fan of the musical, came this time. The machine? Still broken. But – there was, at least, a quarter machine which we fed bill after bill into trying to get the last few state quarters we need: Colorado, Texas, Iowa, and there's another that defeats my grasp. We ended up one closer to completion when I pulled Vermont out of the beast, but then as Katherine fed all her money the machine stopped. We had emptied all the change from it. Oops. Time to make a quick escape, and leave the locals with their clothes, probably wondering why we were taking a video of ourselves singing. Strange that, I'll admit.

Mission failed, and succeeded, more or less we headed out to the last stop. I wanted to find Echo Lake. I spent a day wandering last time, not finding it. Instead I climbed a hill, ended up on a police shooting range, and seeing Dodger's Stadium. This time I was prepared. The GPS showed me the location, right beside the laundromat, but the opposite way I'd walked last time. We drove down, parked, and then wandered around the lake – more of a small pond really.

Families were picnicking, other couples seemed to be mid-stride in the process of creating families, while others were just running around the path – what a crazy fad, this running is. It was here that Captain Hammer took his solo paddle boat ride. The paddle boats were locked away in the boat house today, but the pond was still a good excursion. A secret centre bird-island was padlocked away from public access, and no swimming signs cut off the only other entrance. What privileged lives these fowl must live.

Dinner was a french dip sandwich, potato salad, chili, and macaroni salad at a place called Phillppe's 1001 N Alameda St. (the N Alameda St. in LA, not the one in Compton. It's probably best not to make that mistake.) Delicious, delicious, delicious.

And then back, once more, to Santa Monica.

When our host got in, she told us about a meet up down on the beach. There was a Beatles cover band playing, and a bunch of people were headed out. When we got there, a basket of goodies in hand, and blanket to throw down, a number of her friends had arrived – and thousands of people filled the sandy space, not for the band (they were playing on the pier) but just to be out together on a Thursday night.

There is no analogous event like this where I'm from. No large coming together just because. The closest I could think was Cherry Blossom festival in Japan.

The night stretched on with conversation, cupcakes, bricks of cheese, and of course bands. When the beach cleared, and we started to head back home I was shocked that it was only ten thirty. I'm getting old. I was ready for bed. I don't remember there being a time when I was sleepy at such a foolish hour. But there I was, unable to keep my eyes open as we laid down on the pull out couch. Darkness first, then sleep.

Laguna Beach

Today we were supposed to head down to The Getty and see what that was all about. A museum, or gallery, or – some building of great culture – however this was not to be. The Getty is claimed to be an all day event. We no longer had all day, on account of waking late, and getting ready to leave even later. But that was alright. It was near Santa Monica, and that's where we'd be off to tomorrow -

Today we set our giant pirate X on the city of Laguna Beach. Off we drove. I'm told there's a tv show about this place. Now that I think about it, I think it was a spin off from The Hills. But I can't be sure. I have not ever watched either of them. Stepping out of our car onto the streets of Laguna beach, I figured I might look up an episode or two when I get the chance and see what it's all about.

I will tell you this much - aw no rich people, and no fancy anythings. What I did see was mile after mile of art gallery. If I was an artist and I wanted to see my terrible pieces I would go where the money is, and the intellect is not. This seemed to make sense – some of the work wasn't bad, but one gallery just made me feel like I really do need to create my “How to Make Art.” spoof site. The entire gallery was just pictures of women terribly out of focus with high contrast. Clearly that is art worth spending hundreds of dollars on.

We started our experience at an outdoor restaurant where older, cosmetically enhanced, women gossiped three tables over from unwashed, deadlocked teenagers lost to their own deep thoughts and heavy concentration. The ruben sandwich? Put sauerkraut on anything and I'll be happy. Serve it with some bottomless, and well supplied root beer and it's golden.

After eating we left the main roads and headed, predictably enough, to the beach. This was not the beach the locals go to – of that I'm pretty sure. Everyone seemed to be travelling through, like we were. The beach itself was marked as a “no fun” zone. “Absolutely no shell collecting,” was signed everywhere. There was no body boarding, or surfing either. Those who attempted to break this rule were met with red swimsuit wearing baywatchers running – always running – to stop them an let them know what's wrong wth their current behaviour. Once modifications were made, the life guards ran back to their towers. Return jogs would be made by those who refused to learn.

Katherine found her fun by flipping over rocks with young children on a grand adventure to find tiny little crabs scuttling around in tidal pools. This, of course, would have been cracked down on – as there is no disturbing the rocks or bothering the local critters. This area was, as luck would have it, around the cliff edge, free from the red suited guardians of despair.

Despite only allowing sunbathing and reading, the beach was a beautiful sight. Still – it was one that couldn't entertain forever. After walking Laguna Beach we headed off for the mall at Laguna Hills hoping to find fancy stores. Once more we failed. The locals of Laguna Beach do not hang at the Main Beach, nor shop at the local mall. Stores were disappearing, the food court was nearly empty. The only thing of note was the Disney Store stocked with ever helpful staff giving us a complete breakdown of the Beauty and the Beast script, explaining the reason the teacup, Chip, had a chip in it (reason: he was once a little boy before being cursed, and this wee little boy had a chipped tooth.) What type of jerk curses a little child into a cup because they're mad at a prince – or whatever that monster was.

From the mall we headed back into the city, and made our way to Knott's Farm. Now don't be fooled into thinking this is where your groceries are grown, oh no – this place claims to be America's first theme park. But that's not why we were there. Roller coasters are a dime a dozen. What is far more rare is a good tube steak. The perfect hot dog. That's something that I've been on the lookout for – shall we say, all my life? As I've travelled the world I've eaten one hot dog after the next. Iceland had a good one, but few other countries measured up to what I had thought of as the best hot dog in the world: Toronto street meat. Here was the last challenger – Pink's Hot dogs.

Pink's is said to be the best dog in America, which isn't that large a hill to clamor up, but still. I've been told that if you're at the Hollywood location it takes over an hour in line to get in the door. Here, far away from the masses, we were able to grab a Pink's dog without any lines.

My choice? The twelve inch monster dog – sour cream, cheese, chili. The dog itself had bits of jalapeños stuffed right into the casing. The hot dog? Well, I was terrified to bite into it, for if anything was going to topple my hometown treat, it would be this one. With the first bite my fears were confirmed. This was the greatest dog of all time. The greatest hot dog in the, yes – I'll say it – world, nay universe. My lord – how could anything sold from the streets compete with something that has jalapeños built right into the casing? It wasn't a fair fight – and to be truthful, it was three and a half times the price of what I'd get back home – but good tasting is good tasting. The crown has been passed.

Slightly delighted by the nom, an slightly upset that I'll have to modify my term claiming Toronto has the best “street dog” rather than hot dog, I headed back home.

I crashed, we finished watching Penn and Teller's Bullshit, and were almost out when the floodgates (front door) opened, ushering in a flock of people. No longer was the night for kicking back to an early sleep. This night was one spent staying up taking for hours, about – whatever you'll have. Four hours in, I was met with a very American experience.

One of the guys collected guns, and was talking about how he had a pump action, 8 in the something 1 in the something, flash light fixed, laser sighted shot gun. I don't know much about guns – I don't know anything about guns – but I do know abount nonsense. And a laser sighted shotgun? Really? At some point I decide to say something that could have turned terribly bad, were we not dealing with professionals. “It's easy to make up any sort of gun if you don't have to prove it.”

And that's when the gun collection came out. A smaller automatic piece, and then the laser sighted shot gun which was straight out of Terminator. All unloaded of course, I was shocked by how light they were. And the feel? They ha the same texture and colour of a video game controller. It was easy to understand how some people can view them as toys. I've held toy guns that felt more, “real,” than these did.

I don't want to say they were 'cool' because that would be, I don't know, wrong? Being a Canadian the word gun rings as an evil to me. In the great white north we demonize guns more than we do drugs. Ohh Bobby was caught with an eight ball of coke? That crazy kid, always pushing. That we can shrug about. Bobby being caught with a shotgun? There is no hope for him! How could he have such a thing?!

To an American this is ridiculous. To me, well it should be ridiculous too, but it's hard to push aside all those years of forced thought.

As a final note? Guns- terrifying and creepy... and kind of cool.

BUT – you should probably always leave them locked up, and not on the kitchen table. Even if they are unloaded, and thus less harmful than a kitchen knife. You see, that Canadian thinking: guns are bad, wrong, wrong, bad, wrong, bad, bad, wrong, bad. I do believe that second amendment allows you to store them wherever you want, even in the umbrella holder near your front door – though not a good idea, as these are for home defense only. You'd need faster access.

And with those confusing thoughts, I slipped off to bed.

Chicken N Waffles and Aquatic Life

Chicken N' Waffles. Chicken and waffles. Together. No some people may scoff at this combination, but not Roscoe. No sir. Roscoe (Herb) worked to perfect the coming together of both these food items, and in so doing created a haven for a certain section of the California populars.

That section is the section of people whom also enjoy both chicken and waffles together, at the same time. Count me in.

Breakfast is a thing of beauty when it includes two plate-sized waffles with enough syrup to drown in and heaping scoops of butter. Now in many cases, the best waffles you've ever taste in your life would be enough – but no, on plate number two you get a quarter chicken smothered (literally, you can't see the plate, or the meat at this point) in thick wonderful gravy. The chicken, of course, is fried.

Yes, eating at Roscoe's House of Chicken n Waffles is a wonderful treat – and a LA cultural experience to be sure, but it's not all syrup and gravy there. First, you may stand out a little. I'm not going to say that Kath and I were the only white folks in there – because that wouldn't be true. Nope, one more came in an hour later, as we were preparing to leave. Now this wouldn't be so much of a thing, if not for the fact that being white is detrimental to your pocket book in this restaurant, in my experience.

Everyone around us was being offered free refills of drinks which “free re-fills don't really come with.” Everyone but us. Now I'm not saying it was because we were the only white people, but I paid attention – the last twenty minute, I'll get to that in a second, all we had to do was look around. We were the only white folks, we were the only folks not getting refills. Maybe they just missed us? Could be. I'll keep an open mind; mind you, I've heard some people say that they will not go there because of the colour of their skin – which is sad, because they really are missing out on some fantastic soul food.

So the last twenty minutes – we were one eating, and wanted to leave. There is no way to make this happen. No, you will leave when the staff are good and ready for you to leave, and who knows when this could be. Let me see if I can clean this up a bit... we were told they worked on, “island time.” Yes that sweet carefree time where things happen when they will. No one else looked like they were in a hurry to go – although this could have been because of all their free lemonaid, while we just peered at empty glasses of ice.

At one point we looked over, and there was our waitress chowing down on her own piece of gravy smothered chicken. For the next fifteen minutes she devoured it, catching my eye now and then. When she was done, good, and ready, she slowly ambled over to deliver us our check and our escape. During this time of nothing, we also noticed Toronto Blue Jays caps being worn. Though, I don't know how much the gentlemen actually care about my home town ball-team. Curious, that. When paying a good tip was still left – the food, it was just too delicious. Never has the combination of waffle, butter, and syrup been so good. And the chicken? Well – if you're in the area you must experience it.

Pulling ourselves, or rather being allowed escape from, the House of Chicken N Waffles we headed a street over to the Longbeach Aquarium.

There is nothing better than free tickets to something, and that's what one of Jen's friends hooked us up with. Free aquarium tickets. Sure we still had to pay the eight dollars for parking, but we saved 24.95 each getting in. A small price to pay.

The first thing we did was head to the gift shop and buy a little stuffed turtle to add to Jen's ever growing collection of the shelled beasts. Then we headed in to see what we could see. Oh the fish that there were – red fish, blue fish, one fish, two fish... and sea lions too.

We didn't learn a thing. For four hours we wandered the aquarium just looking at things and being amazed by the foreign worlds which normally exist under water, made accessible through sheets of glass.

No this wasn't like in New Zealand where you get to walk the stairs down below the surface and view the ocean proper, but there you could never be guaranteed such sightings.

There were giant sea bass, and Nemos, as well as Dorys. And there were jellies. Some of them looked like they should have been harassing Farpoint Station. Oh the jelly fish that there were. The white moon jellies, set against the field of black, made brilliant through their lighting were unbelievable. Some of the pictures are frameable as abstract art.

Outside there were sea lions doing their things, and otters which seamed to shoot through the tank right next to the window, waving to us as they crossed. Katherine is now determined to own one of these tool using non-primates.

I don't want to talk about the puffins I saw. It made me too emotional.

The aquarium continues with tropical fish of all colours, as well as local favourites. Then there is the touch pool. Reach in and grab a shark. What could go wrong? With skin like sand paper, they were too small to do much harm – I still feel that they were looking at all the wee fingers sizing up a good meal when they saw it.

Rays were there to be pet as well, but I'd done enough touching of these crocodile hunting monsters when I was in the grand cayman, using Kath as a shield for protection.

Larger sharks were in a nearby tank, and were amazing to watch. There's something impressive about those few things which are inherently better than us. We love to watch lions, tigers, and other big cats. Wolves are impressive. Sharks have their own much-celebrated week. If we know they can kill us, then we love them by default – we just want at least an inch of protective glass separating.

The hammer head sharks were quite the sight – though small, their unique shape was peachy keen.

We watched sea horses propel themselves along with their speedy back fins, clinging for stability with tails. Then the sea dragons – a favourite of mine – took centre stage. Looking at all these things, so different and unique, I understand how evolution can be brought into question – how do these things manage to diverge and form? It's an incredible separation, yet here we are surrounded by so... much.

There was a movie about otters, and then a $4.00 4-D movie about cartoon sea turltles. After saving so much getting in, how could I resist this film? The answer? I could not. It was a joyful adventure of sea turtles travelling the world in nonsensical ways. At one point he questions our existence as men, “I was confused. On one hand, then men cutting down the tree saved my life – on the other, why would they want to destroy a beautiful forest?” right before questioning existence as a new baby being born looks around and asks, “what do I do now?” to be answered only with the, “just put one flipper in front of the other and everything else will fall into place.” These are big questions for such a small movie – but with the 4D splash of water from above, and wacky paper 3D glasses, I was sold.

Who knew the aquarium would be so much fun?

Quirky Califonia: Salvation Mountain

As lovely as Barstow was, we quickly hit the road once more, putting distance between it and us. There was a lot of ground to cover, and not much time to cover it in – not if I wanted the sun to be in the right spot for all the potential photographic opportunities.

Once more I wondered just what life would be like, free of the photographic addiction. Probably a lot more fun in the moment, and a lot more depressing, “for the rest of your life.” I'll take the forever good over the momentary, thank you very much.

We would make five stops today: Pioneertown, Dinosaurs, Palm Springs, Salvation Mountain, and San Diego. I can tell you in order of awesome to not Salvation Mountain squeaks just in front of the Dinosaurs. Pioneertown is way ahead of Palm Springs, and San Diego can just go screw itself (It's a lovely city, more time needed – but our experience was one of anger and rage – rage and anger.)

Pioneertown.

This is a city – a real city, not some wacky re-creationists dream, where people live out their lives, and do their thing. They just all happen to look like they live in a place built one hundred years ago.

The city was constructed by the good ol' movie people who are always willing to do what it takes to cut costs. Why build sets for Westerns, they thought, when you can just build a town and reuse it?

The bank here looks like an old bank, the bar is a Saloon, and the Sheriff's office is just what you'd expect. There's a general store, and a livery. This is a town you'd expect to see gunfights in (and for the fans, one day a month you will.) But it is a real town. With real people. The outsides may deceive, for there are real buildings inside. A modern post office exists behind a wooden exterior. Even the people who live here have houses for the time – their insides, I can't speak to, but I would expect them to keep with the theme. After all, it must take a certain type of person to move to Pioneertown, California.

Looking down Mane Street (cute) you see the OK Corral. You may also notice the hitching posts for horses, bullet holes in signs, and their unique stop signs. Rather than red with four letters on them, they're brown with the sentence, “It's your choice.” I chose to stop.

There are art pieces here – circles of rocks where passers by leave items, statues, trinkets behind. A number of old typewriters stand resting on old desks, turning to rust. Perhaps a commentary on the western itself? So many machines – once greatly used, now nothing but dust in the waiting. Ignored, unloved.


Cabazon Dinosaurs.

“Calllllli-foooooooornia.” This one word has cycled through my mind for decades, since seeing what is arguably the longest commercial for a video game of all times, The Wizard. In this movie an autistic boy is on a quest to put a lunch pail in a dinosaur for his dead twin. Along the way he plays Mario 3, and becomes the greatest video gamer of them all. Also it tells us all that we should, “Love the power glove.” Why you ask? Because, “it's so bad.” Thanks Lucas.

When I was in Drumheller I pretended the T-Rex there was the real deal, but I knew it wasn't. Now though, the beasts were before me. Much photography ensued, and the repeating of the droned out name of the state we were currently in.

There is just difference between then, in the movie, and now – in real life. The statues have changed hands. Up inside the brontosaurus it's obvious what has happened.

The dinosaurs have been bought by a ultra religious group, and they're here to save your souls through the wisdom of the bible. Look – if you love your Jesus, very well. Continue to do so just don't go and kill in his name, or abuse your kids, or make them fear for their lives or anything like that and we'll be cool. But – if you're one of those The World is 6000 years old folks – you'll probably want to stop reading now. I'll try to stay polite, but it's a little tricky to not laugh, you know – a lot – when dealing with this sort of absurdity.

So these folks have signs that want to explain to you how the world is, obviously, only six thousand years old and that dinosaurs hung out with man. They're even mentioned in the bible. Now they died out because Noah ran out of room – of course he did, one of the dinosaurs would be bigger than his whole boat. Good job on the specifications God.

Now it's hard to imagine why all the underwater dinosaurs died, seeing as how the flood would have just increased their food supply, but never mind that – this is a place for faith, not for science. “It's easier to believe in God, the creator, then that we all came from a lightening bolt hitting a pool of mud,” it may be easier – but it's also easier for me to believe that if I stay home, don't work, and play video games all day, I'll have a fun-filled rewarding life. Odds are this is not going to happen.

So all the dinosaurs died, but six thousand years ago man was hanging out with them. Again – I'm not sure how this could have worked, because man still gets his butt handed to him by tigers and lions. Even when we have guns. A wooden spear, and some rocks against a dinosaur? That wouldn't end well. Not in my mind. Still, I loved the Sliders episode where they tried it out.

So up you go, learning about why you're stupid, and why Darwin is an idiot, “the simplest proof that there is no evolution is that no one has seen evolution.” Really? Do you think it works like Pokemon, you hit the level cap and there's an instant change? All of a sudden something morphs before your eyes? You don't think it's millions of years of chance (by the way, look in the red forest where nuclear radiation made a mess of things and you do see some instant change, but ignore that because it doesn't stay on message.) If you're taking your logical advice from Pokemon, you've got a few surprises coming. But go on, continue to use your splash attack in the face of science.

So we have trees that we can date back to five thousand years old by counting the rings. We know the earth is that old for sure. FOR SURE. Now you need to assume that there is nothing more existing a thousand years before that tree – you may think carbon dating would prove something, but no that's all a lie. Obviously. A hoax to keep you from god, your savior.

Don't listen to the devils C14 claims. Apparently a cowboy boot was found with a petrified human leg in it – this proves to the creationists that all fossils must be recent. It is interesting that a leg could petrify in fifty years – but personally I'd give the edge to this proving time travel is real, before allowing that it indicates God. Still – interesting. It's just unfortunate that people are willing to deny an entire science because of one aberration. An aberration which may have been caused by the awesomeness of time travel!

There was another thing they point at, though, which seemed interesting. Soft Tissue was recently found in a T-Rex bone. Therefore the world is only 6000 years old. Look – it's neat and all, but wouldn't this just indicate we don't know how fossilization works? Maybe it was just from Mokele-mbembe or Nessy, something like that. There you go – problem solved.

Now you may think my time travel and monster solutions are quick fixes with no basis in reality - but they're just as scientific as what goes on in this place – facts are for fools. Love your god, question nothing, Jesus is king. Good for Jesus.

I'm willing to hear out these theories – and willing to take their side, with Katherine screaming at me all the way, just to play with the possibilities - but none of it ever holds up. I really wanted to buy the Dinosaurs: By Design, not by Chance t-shirt and wear it everywhere. It was only 9.99 (two for 20 dollars! What value! Pay more for less – and thus I can no longer trust any of what I've read here today, if this is the logic they use) but did not fit. Katherine rejoices.

I had to take solace in the greatest children's book of all time. The Worlds Biggest Dinosaurs: By Design, not By Chance. In it, the two statues come to life and explain how god created them, and why scientists are stupid. It really is one of the best things I've seen all year.

As a final note – checking the name of the book on the website, I discovered that it's one of those pages that meets you with loud un-muteable sounds. You want to talk about Intelligent Design? Go ahead all you want – just try to put some of it into your HTML code next time, alright?


Palm Springs

Palm Springs. you always hear about it. maybe it's awesome, yeah? Nope. it's not. It's just a few streets. Nothing to get excited about. Move on.


Salvation Mountain

I may have seen pretty anti-religion back there, but it's not the case. I'm all for religion when it's not screwing with peoples heads, or making them want to kill others. Or making them want to wake me up to spread their love and knowledge with me early in the morning.

For years I have wanted to see Salvation Mountain. I first heard about it in some documentary. I never thought I would get the chance to see it in real life. It was almost forgotten until watching Into the Wild in Australia. There it came back to the forefront of my mind. And it hit me – I'm going to drive through America. I can see this place if I so choose. Salvation Mountain – I choose you!

Four hours out of our way we drove. And it was worth it. Even Katherine, who I feared may not be as stoked as myself, really enjoyed it. It's hard not to. It's Folk Art in the grandest way.

This is a testament to the love of god and Jesus. Leonard Knight, the creator, was not on hand, but visitors were all talking about him. Some hoped he'd be by to give tours, others wanted to see him work. No stayed for two hours, more or less, but there was no sign of him. Eventually we saw all we thought we could, and the heat as too much.

Kath returned to the air conditioned car far sooner than I – this was, after all, a place I' always wanted to see and I knew I would probably never again return.

When you drive up to Salvation Mountain, you're greeted with a large heart informing you that God loves everyone. Over the years people have tried to get Leonard to change his message by offering help, or money. He refuses. This is the type of Christian I can get behind.

More than 100 000 gallons of paint have been used here. But there is nary a souvenir shop to be found. This place is about spreading a message, not about getting rich. Leonard has turned the mountain into something more, as well. Bales of hay are used to form walls, and rooms, and an entire city. Rooms now surround the mountain, with new ones being formed all the time. The outline for another section has been laid out on the ground, but who knows when work on that area will be finished – if any work here can ever be finished.

Secret rooms offer glimpses of trophies, mirrors, books – my favourite section was a recliner situated beside a ladder.

There are places to sit, think, contemplate. Shirtless three lovers of faith find room in an alcove to contemplate their faith. Others climb to the top and pose near the cross.

Everyone is welcome here, an all are hoped to find comfort. Free water is placed for those to drink, and hammocks, chairs, and mattresses welcome people to rest for a while.

This is a place of beauty, a work of art. Even for those who care nothing for God whatsoever, there's something here to amaze.

Standing on top, looking off a quarter of a mile there are two concrete structures. They too are art, to a lesser degree. Both are covered in graffiti – one a modern kama sutra – the other, political in nature. Everything is art here – and it goes to show that each of us can be an artist if only we have a goal, and stick to it no matter what.

This will be Leonard's life work, and it may not long survive him. It is, after all, made only of paint and hay. There are also those who deem it a hazard, and for a while in 2002 it was feared it would be torn down. Today it is protected, and for that? I am glad.


San Diego
“It means Whales Vagina.” / “There's not way that's right.”

Look, it's a nice city – a good lookin' one, and the gaslamp area could be so much fun. But it was a long day, and we needed a place to stay. We had our room saver, but there was no joy. Place one listed at 34 bucks turned out to be 45, and was way too far from the city centre to be worth it. Not when there was a place in the city for that price. Of course that place was now 57 bucks – there was a “misprint” in the room saver. Yeah, one that has lasted the last three issues right? The next place was full due to a convention in town. The other fifty dollar place was full – but there were sister properties for only eighty bucks near by. Ugh – for an hour we circled the city in hopes of a place to sleep.

Finally we went back to the scamming hotel with the “wrong price in the book” and accepted that it would be fifty seven. I sent Katherine in as I'd been there before. She came out fuming that it was now seventy eight dollars. Forget that.

I grabbed the book, walked in, and asked for a room – wondering how it could have gone from forty five, to fifty seven to seventy eight.

I was told this was the two person price. Oh really? The coupon says one to two people. But that was a misprint I was told – see the reprint from months back that says the new price? Fine – give me the fifty seven dollars. Oh but that's just one person.

At this I had no more patience. I was either getting that price or we were flipping the bird at this city and moving on. I was ready to snap, and doing everything I could not to. I grabbed the sign with the BS three month old reprint, and pointed: “Look, even in your reprint it says one to two people. Just give me that price, and let us be done with it! Alright?”

Finally he stepped back, recomposed, and – as if doing me the worlds greatest favour – accepted. We had a place to sleep. Great. Good. Sorry San Diego, but I hate you... Hopefully I'll be back in the future and you can try and change my mind.

Good night, and god bless.