June 22-25, 2023

            I’d like to preface this by saying I really, really dislike “The Long and Winding Road” as a song. Not to get into a whole John/Paul Beatles debate, but I never want to hear that song, and I generally skip it, although not with the fanaticism I have for “Julia” and my need to not hear that song (as in I will get up off a couch to skip “Julia”), so hence the no John/Paul debate here.

That said, on this trip, I found myself on a long and winding road, and I had some thoughts about roads, camping, dogs, folks, so here they are:

Arrival and First Night

            The getting ready for the trip, no matter what trip, is always fraught. What am I forgetting? What will come? Why aren’t we ready yet? As Harold the dog stressed about being left behind and Robert used his Sherpa powers to pack all of our stuff into the bus, I was stressed, too. By the time we hit the highway I waited for the feeling that always comes, in the T-2 Bus, a Transporter, being transported, and then on Highway 1 in Malibu it came. We stopped at Trancas for supplies and the cookies, and Harold rejoiced under the sycamores with crows calling because he knew we were going camping. And then over the mountain in our old Bus, but this time, Robert felt confident driving and I had the time to look at the super bloom wildflowers on the sides of the road, then across the bridge, past the now defunct country store I always fantasize about buying and restoring, and then on down the ribbon of highway to our new campsite. Thanks to Bill, who wasn’t able to be on this trip due to an injury, we had a campsite. I had never camped in Fremont, but our usual campgrounds were closed because of the rains, I imagine, and it was a boon that Bill secured the campsite he would not end up camping in.

            So, Bill was not coming, and there we were, setting up the site and waiting for Bill’s kids to show up, Alicia and Ruby, and all I could think was we wouldn’t be doing it right, that we wouldn’t be the master camper as Bill so seamlessly always is. Harold was taking this time to pee on rocks and trees, and Robert was talking to the camp host’s friend about her VW Bug parked near the trailer. VW men talk about Volkswagens, a lot. As I struggled with the wind to get the picnic cover on the table, I realized that whatever was going to be with this trip was going to be, and then Alicia, Ruby, and Lily the dog showed up, and the shade tent when up, and the tent, and we set up the Bus, and then it was camping, again.

The Long Walk to Forever

            The campfire night was great, and then there was the morning, with some farm dog from across the road peeing everywhere and alerting Harold—Intruder! Intruder! —the dog even peed on the tent where Alicia and Ruby were sleeping—but then we all had breakfast and headed to town for errands. Robert wanted a hardware store for screws to repair the Bus interior and we needed food supplies, so it was pretty late when we got back to head out to the swimming pools. See, the thing is that Alicia and Ruby, (aka the kids) we have a connection to these pools. Way back when the kids were kids, we hiked back into them and had idyllic mermaid moments. Even later, we brought Robert and had rock breaking and mermaid and sea turtle moments. In later years, the road has been closed or we haven’t made it so far back with aging Chihuahuas and so forth, but we have collectively, remembered these swimming holes and the joy of water.

            We all remembered that Bill called the place we started the hike Red Rocks, and so we set forth for Red Rocks. We drove to the end of the road and then we parked, and then we set out on our trip to swim in the pools. Did we remember that the road used to be open much farther and was now closed at the first stop? We sort of did remember, but we were true of heart and brave, and so we went on. And on.  Harold freaked out when he saw the water—he is  a Lab—and emitted high screeching noises that worried the folks on the banks with the giant and calm Pit Bull. Once in the water, Harold rejoiced. I took my shoes and socks off for each water crossing, as did Ruby, but Alicia and Robert wore wet shoes. As it turned out, there were many crossings.

            Here’s how it went: long dusty road, water crossing, Harold rejoicing, me trying to remember the path, all of us imagining false memories of being there before, all the time the pools of Red Rock and beyond seeming just in sight. And so we walked. And walked. Wildflowers and Poison Oak to accompany us, and the long road, and we walked. At some point Ruby had the brilliant idea to check our location and destination, as the sky was getting darker, late afternoon, but only a mile more to Red Rocks, she said. Then we were there, Red Rocks the closed campground, and I realized that these miles we used to drive, to park past this…and then, finally we turned around. The sun had gone west in the sky, the only thing left was wanting to be home or in the campsite, and we admitted defeat.

            I felt like I had let the kids down, let Bill down, but it seemed crazy to continue, even though we had seen bikes going in, even though we had seen rangers in a truck that could navigate the high water going in that direction where we were heading in and hadn’t headed out.

            And so we returned, slowly, slowly. Harold the dog was so tired his feet were going plop-plop-plop, and poor Alicia’s feet were burning with blisters, and so the trudge home began. And it was a trudge. So many heavy steps, and so much not achieved, and let’s say it, tinged with regret. If Bill had been there, we wouldn’t have been on this long walk to nowhere. In my trudging steps, I felt this, and I only wanted to carry his children home.

            We did have one stop at the fossil rocks so Harold and Alicia could immerse themselves, and I took a much -needed break, but the sun was moving lower in the sky, and so we walked on.

            It was a long and winding road back to the car—when we were close Ruby said, “The car is my swimming hole!” which I understood. The thing you had thought you were seeking suddenly supplanted by the reality of need.  We had a brief moment of rejoicing when we found a previously deposited poop bag which led so shouts of “Poop! Poop!” The sundowner wind came up and blew grit and dust into my eyes, and even seeing Harold rejoicing when we did stop for a swim, and finding the fossil rocks, well, there were more miles to go, and it was a rough time—Rough in the rocks and the hills and on our feet.

            All of that is true, and then we were in the car with Lily of the dirt bath and Harold ofRiver were headed home to Campsite, and we had a lovely Mexican dinner that couldn’t be beat, and a campfire, and then on to sleep.

Rattlesnake and Festival

Rattlesnake!

Puppers (Harold) had a good night’s sleep, and when I awoke, he was all nuzzles and puppy kisses, not the urgency of the day before. I woke later than usual to the call of the crows, and even Robert remarked on his sleep when he emerged from the Bus. “I think we should walk H around,” I said, for I know the dog likes to poop and pee first thing, and so it was peeing on the trees and rocks of the perimeter of our campsite, while Robert and I stood in the cloudy morning, not quite awake, thinking of more coffee and food. Harold took what I would call a prodigious dump and then started smelling a stick, only then in one of those moments that come in life, we realized the stick was not a stick because it had a head and rattles. It was a rattlesnake.

We moved Harold away and alerted everyone, so we got to see the snake stretch out in the luminous sun and then retreat to the hole under the log.

We were so pleased that while Harold had almost pooped on a rattler, he was fine. This means more to me now as he in the emergency vet overnight due to a bee sting. The Bigger Picture: love who and what you love now and let them know.

Celebrate Good Times C’Mon ON

            So, we survived the long walk and I decreed that we should have a day of rest, but then there was the Solstice celebration in Santa Barbara that Bill had wanted to attend, so we set forth. If you have ever seen the TV show “Portlandia,” you will know it begins with a song about how the 90’s never ended in Portland, but I am here to confirm that the 70’s never ended in Santa Barbara, and the Solstice Festival provides abundant evidence for this conclusion. We found parking easily and knew we were in the right place because of the profusion of brightly dressed folks walking around. I saw a man in glitter platforms with a sharp suit, and innumerable ladies in feathers and tie dye. We had missed the parade but had time to peruse the floats, so much more homemade and appealing than Rose Parade floats, and we could see the wonderful kid’s playground and the giant structures built to celebrate the summer solstice. There were face painting booths and children’s activities and a giant inflatable something, and I found myself wishing I was still a child, as I was in the actual seventies, to enjoy the bounty of the fair. Everywhere I looked I saw people of all ages wearing more 70’s crochet than I have seen in years, in all the colors of the rainbow, and with lots and lots of skin: young, taut tanned skin and older sun-marked skin, and yes, lots of old lady skin. It felt like a celebration, and it was.

            Harold the dog/puppy did better than I anticipated, taking things in stride, until a man and his girl set down beside us on the grass and tried to kiss Harold, which was I suspect a bridge too far. While Ruby and Robert foraged for food, Harold and I reclined on the lawn until a man walked by carrying an open bag of tortilla chips and Harold moved in for a sniff, and the man yelled at him, so Harold began to be uncomfortable. The final straw for Harold was a young girl wearing ruby slipper tennis shoes trying to run up a tree next to him, which sent Harold into barking mode, but thankfully we had eaten our passable pupusas and tacos for lunch and it was time to go.

            We had another dinner that couldn’t be beat, although I have no idea now what it was, and then we sat by the fire with the color changing packets to amuse us, talking of the things that fires inspire: old stories, new stories, and some laughter.

In the morning we got up and made breakfast then packed up after checking on the rattlesnake—still there—and then we headed home. Ruby traveled down the coast with us and Harold, and we had a lovely lunch at Sycamore Grove and Harold got to bark at the ocean as is his wont.

Before we knew it we were home again, home again, checking on Lollie the tadpole and Ferdinanda the desert tortoise, and Harold was sacked out on the bed.

            In the end, it was a good trip, although I would not take that walk again soon, and I was so thankful to have the time with Alicia, Ruby, Robert, and, of course, the Bus—not to mention Lily the fierce and Harold.

Fremont Campground, Site 7

Other sites: 3 (near the highway but giant)

Also: it looks like there are a bunch of sites 13 + more that are sort of park in hike in but the map sucks.

Water from spigots=good

Porta potties=bad

Rattlesnakes= only one we saw one! But it was a big one.