Good gravy, am I sick of driving Interstate 5 between Washington and California. In four years on the road I have driven it more times than I care to count, and of course I traversed it many times before my nomadic lifestyle.

In Fall 2018 I tried driving Nellie south along Highway 101, from Southern Oregon down to Salinas, and I had an epiphany. You can be bored to death on I-5; or, at 52 feet long, navigating treacherous S curves on the northern portions of 101, tailgated and honked at by angry sport cars – scared to death. Take your pick.

On The Road Again – March 1, 2019

Wrapping up the winter in Palm Springs, I began my slow migration back to Seattle for healthcare and tax season (Oh! Joy!). I intended to wing off toward Bakersfield, taking I-5 from there. As luck and fate would have it, I telephoned friends in LaVerne, minutes from the 210, and they were home. We visited for a couple of hours, putting my departure squarely within bone-crushing, soul-sucking Rush Hour.

I thought seriously about spending the night, but parking in their cul-de-sac required a permit from the city. Another time. I hopped back on the 210, but approaching the interchange for I-5, the gridlock stretched for miles.

About that time I also saw the sign for Highway 101 North – a DNA-imprinted, familiar stretch of asphault between L.A. and Santa Barbara.

Dissolve: 1986, California 

I graduated high school in Monrovia, California, near Pasadena, then attended college at UC Santa Barbara, a couple of hours up the coast. I had few worldly possessions when I arrived at UCSB, unlike my classmates, who were deposited by chauffeurs with stacks of uniform, crisp boxes. What I did have was a 1968 Plymouth Fury, primered, lowered, no shocks, no headliner. I had no money to register it, or insure it. My boyfriend bought it for me for $250 when I lamented I had no way to get myself to college.

In the trunk I deposited a 10-speed bicycle, full-sized ironing board, and two boxes of who-knows-what, and the lid closed, no problem. As there was no headliner, I hung clothes on the ledge around the interior of the car, giving it that little special something.

The 318 V-8 engine, powerful enough to pull Camarillo Hill (AKA the 7% Conejo Grade) at 90 mph, was missing a motor mount, so if you gunned it, it bucked like a bronco trying to burst through the hood (actually, fall out the bottom). All four tires were bald; two were losing air. Every other day it took 30 minutes to reinflate each tire with a bicycle pump.

When I arrived in Isla Vista, there was rarely a place to park that massive land yacht on the street, and I couldn’t afford parking permits. The tickets started to pile up. To defray costs, I started a door-to-door ride service between UCSB and Los Angeles, $20 per head. I could fit seven passengers in the car, plus me, and all their weekend luggage fit nicely in the trunk.

Yeah, I know that stretch of 101 very well. And unlike Northern California along the coastline, I could drive it in Nellie without being scared to death.

Those Crazy Elks

Putting my Elks membership to good use, I phoned the lodge in Santa Barbara, and they had space (they are one of the few Elks Lodges that take RV reservations). I arrived on Friday night, just in time for steak dinner. Well cocktails were $3.50. There was live music and dancing.

The lodge is just off Calle Real in Goleta, an easy drive to Santa Barbara. All this joy for $30 per night. Did I mention I’m loving my Elks membership?

The Persistence Of Memory

Since graduating in 1990 I’ve been back to Santa Boo-Boo a couple of times, but not for 15 years or so. There is a certain smell to Santa Barbara that immediately takes me back to being 18 years old. It is a mixture of eucalyptus, ocean, and citrus.

Places also reminded me of the old days – the bar where I worked as a cocktail waitress, now closed; the first place I ate sushi; my boyfriend’s house; the county jail on the hill where I spent the night (oops).

I revisited some of my favorite food hangouts, like Tri Tip at the Santa Barbara Chicken Ranch,

and oysters at the unrivaled Brophy’s at the harbor.

I planned to stay for two days and ended up staying for 10. It was fun to see some of the old landmarks again,

and the dogs enjoyed Hendry’s Beach; we visited every day it didn’t rain.

I also fit in a couple of new day trips, driving to Ojai

and Sunday live music at Cold Spring Tavern, an old stagecoach stop up in the Santa Barbara hills.

Do You Know The Way To San Jose?

With plans to meet a friend in Napa, I needed a good stopping point between there and Santa Barbara. I decided to check out San Jose. There is an Elks Lodge there, and it is home to the Winchester Mystery House.

(Whenever there is a cheesy purchased photo opportunity at a tourist trap, I always avail myself, as long as I can do something silly.)

Sarah Winchester, heir to the Winchester Rifle fortune, moved to San Jose after her husband died prematurely of tuberculosis. Whether she was nuts, a lover of architecture and ahead of her time, haunted by the ghosts of those killed by Winchester Rifle, or a little of everything, she spent over 30 years building and rebuilding, decorating and re-decorating the rooms of the home. What started as an eight-room farmhouse has over 160 rooms. If you count the rooms she dismantled and built again, it numbers over 300.

Spiderweb motifs and the number 13 permeate the house. There are stairs leading to brick walls,

doors to nowhere,

and windows in the floors.

The San Jose Elks club was a far cry from Santa Barbara’s digs, with no dump station, next to the freeway, and many full-time residents with junked up sites, but the $20 price tag fit the bill.

“Wine Is Sunlight, Held Together By Water.” ― Gaileleo

As soon as I pulled in to the Elks Lodge in Napa, I wished I could stay longer. $35 per night gets you full hookups and a lovely view of the grounds. I arrived on a Wednesday, which assisted in snagging a first come, first served spot. A trail runs along the Napa River at the rear of the property, great for walking the dogs.

Downtown Napa is about a mile and a half away. Without the Elks, the closest RV bargain is at the fairgrounds in Calistoga, clear at the other end of the valley, for $60 per night.

Alas, I could stay only for three nights, as there were still two days of driving ahead to get to an RV repair appointment in Coburg, Oregon by March 18.

In Napa I met up with Michelle. We went to UCSB together, and she lives in Sacramento. The last time I saw her was when she visited me in Austin in 2016, so we were due for a visit.

We ate and drink our way through the Oxbow Market,

Visited the American Center for Wine, Food, and the Arts,

(That’s a giant fork made of forks!)

and tasted some wonderful wines.

Most wineries in Napa require reservations for a tasting, but on weekdays in mid-March there was space available for walk-ins.

Thanks to Michelle‘s Zinfandel Advocates and Producers membership and a coupon we obtained at the Visitor’s Center, we avoided paying tasting fees, in the $30 range, usually waived if you buy wine.

What a wonderful two weeks in California! I did not get to tour Yosemite as planned; my reservations were canceled due to winter weather. Next time, I hope to visit both Yosemite and Pinnacles National Parks, and stay longer in the Napa Valley.