Day 14: August 8, Russian Gulch to Point Reyes Adjacent (Olema) 136 miles (but more with 128 detour added) so 163 miles?
Robert at Olema Ranch, feeling his inner Utah Phillips
The morning was so wet, I woke to the drizzle dripping off the aspen leaves onto the tent of the Bus and getting up to make coffee I was reminded of why we usually pack a canopy; in fact, we bought our first canopy here in Russian Gulch because of the dripping. The creek was gurgling as I swaddled myself for morning coffee and journal writing, writing about events from days before while trying to make notes on this morning was a little surreal, the struggle I always have with blogs and trip books of trying to get it all down, to make the marks that will make me remember.
We had the bagels from Los Bagels in Arcata with the last of the lox, then cleansing showers, and I said goodbye to Landis, my fellow rubbertramp friend, wishing him the joys of the road, and telling him about the journey ahead of him, into Oregon and to the wonders of Crater Lake, one of my father’s favorite places.
We stopped in Mendocino to get supplies at Harvest and more postcards for my never-ending postcard quest, and then we decided to take the extra time and retrace the 128 through the Anderson Valley to go to Gowan’s Oak Tree, our beloved fruit stand near Philo, and to avoid the most treacherous parts of Highway 1 on the Sonoma Coast, especially the road between Fort Ross and Jenner. Yes, the 1 would have been faster, although about the 1 faster is always relative, but we had lost our 128 trip because of the clutch in Pacific Grove, and I wanted to revisit it, and, of course, get apples if possible at Gowan’s.
I first knew the 128 as the road to Mendocino where I went years ago with my then boyfriend Kelly, and while he hated the meandering road, I fell in love. Later I would ramble the 128 with my friend Bob on Sundays, making our way to Gowan’s for apples or a fall pumpkin, stopping in Mendocino to sit in the big chair on the bluffs and eat French bread, cheese, apples, and bewitching rosemary potatoes from a place in Mendo that now sells, I think, sushi? But the 128 is a highway of highways, a Blue Highway for fans of William Least Heat Moon, a highways that starts in the redwoods along the Navarro River (and, reminder to self, there was some good looking camping there at the Paul Dimmick campground). The last time we went through the Navarro was almost dry, and while it wasn’t the placid green river of my memory, it was somewhat better this time.
The highway winds along the Navarro, through redwoods, very similar if a bit more dry than the 199 in Oregon/California on the Smith River, but then suddenly after a hill or so, very mild, you are in scrub and approaching Philo. I have an old record, All Used Up, by U. Utah Phillips, the Golden Voice of the Great Southwest, that was recorded in a barn in Philo, and so I always think of Utah when I am here, and we certainly sing “All Used Up” (link at bottom) at many campfires, but today we were looking for Gowan’s, arguing about where it was, when we saw the signs for…Gowan’s Cider Tasting? We pulled off next to lovely tents in a field, a woman at a bar serving cider, and I looked around, bewildered, but she quickly reassured me that the old fruit stand was just ahead, and so on we went. I have been going to Gowan’s from my first trip with Kelly, for it was a family favorite of his, and I went there many, many times with Bob. It was, happily, unchanged, but sadly, there were no apples. We bought some peaches—I ate one dripping in the parking lot—and a nectarine and I went back to buy a T-shirt, the old farmer guy who likely owns Gowan’s helping his grandchildren find me the right size, and we had lunch there in the oak tree shade, used the ancient washroom I remember so well from my earlier trips, and then we headed on down the 128.
https://www.andersonvalleymuseum.org/boontling
If folks know this region at all it is because of beer, for the Anderson Valley Brewing Company is located in Anderson Valley, and they sell Boont beer, but in Boonville again I told Robert about how it had fascinated my father, this weird settlement in the middle of nowhere, a place where they spoke an invented language, Boont, and my father being impressed with me when I told him I knew all about Boonville, and that in Boont a “Horn of Zeese” was a cup of coffee, hence the name of their coffeeshop. I had even heard people speaking Boont at an old exhibit at the Exploratorium in San Francisco. But we were not stopping for a coffee this time, and so we passed through Boonville and into the windy road in the scrub pine an old orchards and wavering Russian fence with yet more serpentine outcrops, making our way towards Cloverdale once again, but from the other side this time.
This part of Highway 128, from Boonville to Cloverdale, is the part I know best, and I was excited to revisit the places, the abandoned orchards where Bob thrilled to see the wild turkeys, the hanging moss from oak trees, the golden hills of California, ribbon of highway swooping up and down. There was the farm I remembered but with a bright new red tin roof, and there were the hanging wild grapes, not ready to harvest now, but which I remembered gathering with Bob and making a wild and sweet grape jelly. There too the landslides the road folks have labored so long to tame, and when we heard the twang of the spring in the Bus, I thought, “oh, Dad, you could have helped them with this!” But after the hairpin turns and past a particularly nice house I have always imagined living in, we made our way back into Cloverdale, travelers returned, and joking at the misleading signs to camping on the street corners—and there may be camping out that way, but we never found it—and then we were on the 101 south again.
Robert on the road
Because of the Reservation Nightmare, we were a bit in the wind for the night’s lodging, but Robert had called down to Olema Ranch Campground, and they had room, but the guy Robert talked to was crusty and wanted to put us in an RV site (more expensive), so we decided to try our luck at Wright’s Beach, the Sonoma Coast, recommended by a Bus guy back in Russian Gulch. We also took the River Road off the 101 because I love it so, winding out through the vineyards to the redwoods and the little towns like Guerneville and Monte Rio and near the Bohemian Grove, and we were so excited to see a fruit stand offering Gravenstein’s—the apple of those parts—that we pulled off and bought a bag, and yet another chocolate chip cookie.
The River Road takes you to the old Russian River land, the land of summer vacations, and past the Bohemian Grove (Google it if you don’t know), but the folks on the highway were assholes, passing the Bus precariously and tailgating, and then we found ourselves trying to find a place to stay back on Highway 1. There was no room at Wright’s Beach, so we decided to check out Bodega Bay (fans of Hitchcock, home to The Birds) because I had to pee, so there was a long sojourn out on the banks of the bay, and some excitement when we found a county campground mostly used by fisherfolk, but again, no room at the inn, so we climbed out of Bodega Bay’s harbor and onto the 1, passing through obscure places like Valley Ford, Tomales, and Marshall, then finally following the sinuous and oyster shell strewn parts of the Tomales Bay.
The Tomales Bay from Highway 1, approaching Point Reyes
Like the 128, I know this stretch of the road well, so I pointed out the cabins and farmhouses I loved, and Robert nodded, having heard this before, and also annoyed with the assholes on the road who think driving on Highway 1 is some kind of way to show off and pass in your convertible. We hadn’t wanted to stay in Olema again, for it is basically a field, and last time it was full of odd Germans, but we were headed to Olema nonetheless. We stopped with lingering Gas-a-noia in the lovely town of Point Reyes Station,
and then we headed to Olema. The folks who run the place were not in evidence, and there was some confusion about how to calculate the taxes when paying, but then we found ourselves bumping out the campground road into the farthest field. I saw what I thought were a large group of dogs, but they turned out to be sheep, and then we found a campsite far, far from anyone, out on the edge of the field, and we also realized we had no wood.
Point Reyes Station random picture, notice the No Barking sign (good thing Harold wasn’t there)
It was getting colder, the eternal sun/fog battle of the coast ongoing, so we headed back to town to buy wood, because although Olema Campground, a private campground, has a post office and laundry, they do not have anyone willing to sell folks wood after 6 PM. Thus began my fantasies of buying this space and selling wood. And although we have trash talked Olema before, and although I prefer Samuel P. Taylor in the redwoods, this was a good site because we were far from everyone (except sheep), the portapotties were sparkling clean, and we set up with a sense of joy. Robert made us some awesome nectarine, onion, and cheese grilled sandwiches, we played with the Bus lights and took some cool photos,
and we sat at the campfire singing old Utah songs, recorded in a barn in Philo, which we had just passed through.
Utah Phillips song lyrics to sing by a fire:
- “All Used Up”
I spent my whole life making somebody rich
I busted my ass for that son of a bitch
He left me to die like a dog in a ditch
And told me I’m all used up
He used up my labor, he used up my time
He plundered my body and squandered my mind
Then he gave me a pension, some handouts and wine
And told me I’m all used up
- “Feather Ben”
**Lyrics not online**
Do you know any Hank Williams or old Cowboy songs?
Do you know anything worth listening to?
Hey, I’m just an old drunk, don’t pay me no mind
You’ve been much too good for me to talk that way to
But it sure tasted good, yeah, that’s what I said, and I’ll have another as long as you’re buying
I’d like to live on whiskey and chocolate ice cream
And I’d move someplace where it’s warm in December
And pretend there’s more time than I’ve got
Links:
Gowan’s Oak Tree:
Anderson Valley Brewing:
Olema Ranch
https://www.olemacampground.net/
Utah Phillips “All Used Up”
This Bus Could Be Our Life 