In
the aftermath of the mystical Joshua Tree National Monument experience, Barbara
and I continued our journey into the mystic.
Before
us lay Anza-Borrego State Park, the San Diego Zoo, and that same city’s Ocean
Park. The area included a couple of
minor challenges for us, the first a pebble that kicked up from the road and
cracked our windshield, the other our first and only break-in of the van at any
time on the road. The robber took our
Coleman stove and propane heater.
We
did not have absolute need for the heater, which had afforded welcome warmth in
the Great Smokey Mountain National Park but otherwise had seen minimal use due
to the geographic planning of our trip;
a good number of hours in Glacier National Park in the mountains of Washington
State did lie ahead of us, but we would conduct that viewing entirely during
the daylight hours and descend from the heights to make our camp for the night.
The
greatest loss was the Coleman stove; I
decided, though, not to replace the device of utility for preparation of the
hot meal at dinner: Barbara was passing
on supper most evenings anyway, and I determined that with just five weeks left
on the road by that point in early May 1976 that I could go with peanut butter sandwiches
and other such fare at suppertime.
As
to the cracked windshield, we visited our local insurance company affiliate and
quickly got the van into the shop. We
had pulled over at the toney San Diego suburb of La Jolla, convenient then
after the shield was healed for a foray to that area’s coastal overlooks with splendid
views of the ocean. The suburban locale
also afforded us another contrasting view of life in the ‘burbs by comparison
with the more challenged areas at the urban core, serving as inducement for
some Coleman stove snatcher to requisition goods for resale.
We
departed San Diego for a ride northward on Highway 1, past the estate of William
Randolph Hearst, with best regards to Siamese Patti, and on to a magnificent
beachside camping location for the evening.
On we went to observe the Carmel take on human bliss, thence to the Los
Angeles area for a ride around Beverly Hills, Hollywood with stop at MGM
Studios, and my first trip to Disneyland (Barbara reveled in a return visit,
the joy of which was magnified against a backdrop of delightful childhood memories
of a familial jaunt when she was ten years old). We did take a moment to remember that this
now iconic world playground in time had generated astonishing wealth for a
chain-smoking lecher of fascist inclinations.
As ever, we contrasted the wealth of toney neighborhoods and images of
one kind of America with the scenes along Sunset Strip and in blighted neighborhoods
that spawned gangs whose rage emanated from multiple ethnic sources.
Moving
on up the coast to Bay Area, we hit San Francisco for a ride on the trolley
cars, a look at Haight-Ashbury, and sublime moments in the Fisherman’s Wharf
area, complete with street entertainers and some of the world’s best chocolate
at Ghirardelli confectionary. We
crossed the Golden Gate Bridge as in my imagination Willie Mays ran down a fly
ball in Candlestick Park, cap flying over joy in days spent on a diamond found not
on manual digits. Across the Bay, we
roamed Berkeley and Oakland, replete with sites reminding us of the area’s alternative
lifestyles, higher education striving to reconcile the elite and the
unconventional, and the glory days of the Black Panthers that had hit so
recently and ferociously and dimmed just as quickly.
Up
the coast we sojourned, through the wine country and the Redwoods to Portland,
Oregon, and nearby Crater Lake National Monument; the Seattle coast with its
fishing boats, sails afloat, and Spindle-Top Tower bequeathed by the World’s Fair. The beauty in ice and green at Glacier
National Park remained in our visions as we were graced in our descent
southward with the scenes afforded by rural Idaho, Yellowstone, Grand Tetons, the mountains
and plains of Montana and Wyoming, and yet another cognitively dissonant experience
in the classic city of the Old and New West:
the Wyoming capital of Cheyenne.
Barbara
and I had several weeks earlier decided to crown our trip with a foray back to
Denver for attendance at the concert of Paul McCartney and Wings, part of the
band’s wildly successful Wings Over America Tour, staged at McNichols Arena.
As
we reflected on the manifold sites and experiences bestowed on us during the Big
Trip, we derived new meaning from the melodic declaration:
Maybe I’m Amazed
No comments:
Post a Comment