As we made our way from Bakersfield toward Porterville the road was lined with oil derricks that looked like a herd of davening* mechanical dinosaurs. Through Visalia, Exeter, and Orange Cove, all the way up the valley, orange groves extended in every direction, and in the distance to the east the snow-laden Sierra Nevada mountains provided the backdrop.
That we were in the Central Valley at all was unexpected because until just two days earlier I had planned to drive up the Pacific Coast Highway through Big Sur and Monterey and then inland to Steinbeck’s hometown of Salinas. So much of Steinbeck’s work—Cannery Row, Of Mice and Men, Tortilla Flat, East of Eden—is set in these places. It’s a drive I’d made several times before, but never in a convertible, and it was to be the automotive highlight of the entire trip. California. The Pacific Ocean. Albie in the back and the wind blowing through what’s left of my hair.
A couple of years ago a landslide near Big Sur closed the Pacific Coast Highway, but I didn’t know that it had not yet reopened.† I only found out when my brother-in-law, Andy, with whom we planned to stay in the Bay Area, e-mailed to tell me. It was just as well, though still a little disappointing. In Travels with Charley, Steinbeck didn’t drive along the California coast, but through the Central Valley. Since we were hewing to Steinbeck’s route with some modifications, it was more fitting. It also meant we would be within shouting distance of Yosemite National Park, so we decided to head there, not a bad consolation prize. To my surprise, even in early May, every campsite in the park was booked, but that turned out to be a small blessing because we otherwise would never have met Jon and Lois Moroni.
I didn’t know what to expect when I booked a room for the two of us at the Restful Nest, a bed-and-breakfast in Mariposa, high in the Sierra foothills and about an hour from the western entrance to Yosemite. Well off the beaten path a few miles from town, Jon and Lois’s house sits on acres of splendid isolation with views of distant mountains. They’re both in their late seventies and diabetic, and Jon suffers from neuropathy in his feet that gives him an awkward gait. Yet, they tend to the house and the grounds, which include an in-ground pool, with loving determination. They have several guestrooms, but Albie and I were the only guests the first of our two nights there, and Jon and Lois invited us to have dinner with them. It had been weeks since we (or, rather, I) had had a home-cooked dinner so I was delighted by the invitation and the warmth it implied. Albie was welcome, too—they loved Albie from the moment they laid eyes on him—and he made me proud by lying quietly at my feet throughout.
There were only three of us, but enough food for ten: pasta puttanesca, fresh asparagus, and plenty of red wine. All thanks to the kindness of strangers who, within an hour, felt like family.
Jon and Lois, refugees from the fast pace and tumult of Los Angeles, had looked all over the west for a bed-and-breakfast to buy and had bought this place twenty-one years earlier. Jon spoke with an accent I couldn’t identify and was too polite to ask about, but he solved the mystery when he told me he’d been born in France to a very poor family and orphaned after the Second World War. At age thirteen he was adopted by a middle-class family in L.A. and came to the states speaking not a word of English. We spoke of family, of our kids, and, of course, about dogs; Jon and Lois showed me pictures of dogs they once had and told me their B&B is dog-friendly because dogs are much better behaved guests than young children. We touched only lightly on politics—Jon told me he was more “red than blue” though he decried the great concentration of wealth in this country. “It’s what leads to revolution,” he said. Just when I thought I’d had my fill (of dinner), Lois insisted the three of us finish a newly opened pint of Häagen-Dazs ice cream.
Everything about Jon and Lois spoke to the basic decency of most people everywhere and the simple but powerful effect of breaking bread with strangers. By the end of a single meal it felt like we’d come to stay with long-lost cousins, and our cozy room had the feel of staying at grandma’s. Indeed, Jon and Lois have thirteen grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Breakfast the next morning, again in Jon and Lois’s living quarters in the large house, was enough to sink a ship. After the fresh fruit and peach cobbler, I thought breakfast was over. Then came the frittata, sausage, bacon, and potatoes. Jon and Lois were intent on making sure not only that we felt at home, but that I should never go hungry again, which is why, as Albie and I were about to head up to Yosemite, Lois handed me a cooler bag packed with more peach cobbler, fruit, and a frozen bottle of spring water, to drink when the ice melted.
It had been decades since I’d been to Yosemite and even now, in early May, it was overrun by visitors, many of whom, especially those from China and India, seemed more interested in Albie than the impossibly beautiful valley before them.
Yosemite’s magnificent waterfalls can dry up in late summer, but the snow melt of spring makes them especially prolific. After driving to the classic viewpoints—Tunnel View and Washburn Point high up above the valley—we settled into a spot in the valley by the river across from El Capitan, the massive, sheer granite rock face that is a Holy Grail for rock climbers.
I was unaware that the previous June a climber named Alex Honnold became the first person to scale El Capitan without ropes, safety equipment, or assistance—free solo—and he did it in just under four hours, an astonishing feat that would become the subject of an Oscar-winning documentary by that name: Free Solo. But when I saw the film a few months after our visit to Yosemite I had a far better sense of just what a mind-boggling accomplishment it was, for the scale of the thing is hard to comprehend.
The top of El Capitan is 3,600 feet above the valley floor and it’s so massive that it’s nearly impossible to spot a rock climber with the naked eye. Albie, as is his wont, lay down briefly in the river, shook himself off, and then settled down by my side as I scanned the rock for signs of a climber. It took a few minutes, but I eventually spotted a tiny bright orange dot about three-quarters of the way up. With the aid of binoculars, I located the orange dot again and saw that it was a caddy of some kind for conveying rock-climbing equipment. A little farther up the wall I spotted him (or her): a climber painstakingly making his way up and across the rock face toward the summit.
There are people my age still capable of a climb like that, but even as a young man the thought of clinging to a sheer rock wall thousands of feet above a valley floor was far beyond my risk tolerance, though the view, if one had the time or presence of mind to enjoy it in such circumstances, must be amazing. There are many things I will never do in my life: jumping from an airplane is one and climbing El Capitan is another.
Scaling El Capitan is more than a test of physical strength and endurance; it requires an unimaginable Zen-like focus and mental toughness, as anyone who has seen Free Solo can attest. The drama of watching this tiny speck of a human being thousands of feet above the valley floor was almost too much to bear. It had, no doubt, taken many hours to get within shouting distance of the summit, but at the rate he was progressing there were many hours yet to go. We had all day and settled in hoping to share, at a distance, his moment of triumph.
To keep track of the climber when I momentarily put the binoculars down to tend to Albie or to take in the extraordinary beauty all around us, I chose natural shapes and lines in the rock face to keep me oriented to the climber’s position. After forty-five minutes or so, the climber seemed to be reversing course and was making his way back down toward the orange shuttle he was hoisting up behind him. I assumed he was getting crampons or other equipment needed to progress, and for a few moments I put the binoculars on the ground to make some notes. When I resumed my vigil, the climber was gone. Simply gone. I knew from a distinctive line in the rock exactly where he’d been. I scanned up and down and across. Nothing. My heart skipped a beat and I assumed the worst. At any moment I expected to hear the sirens of emergency vehicles, but there were none. He must have abandoned his quest and belayed quickly down the face of El Capitan until he was be
low the line where trees obscured the view. Lest this seem alarmist, less than a month later two experienced climbers fell to their deaths on El Capitan.
After we returned from our full day in the park, Jon and Lois invited us into their living room where Albie feel asleep at Lois’s feet. Jon brought forth a bottle of sherry.
Later that evening, Albie and I walked the ten-acre property just as the setting sun was illuminating distant peaks to the east. It was dead silent save for the sounds of the birds. We sat for a bit at the pond at the edge of the property as the evening deepened. Six years earlier Albie had been lying in a small chain-link enclosure with a concrete floor for most of five months. Now we stared miles and miles off in the distance with nothing to keep us hemmed in. The world seemed infinitely large and tranquil and full of promise. He may not have been able to appreciate the physical beauty of these places we were visiting in the same way I was, but I like to think that somewhere, somehow, he knew he was as free as the birds, unseen, singing in the trees around us.
In the morning, after another impossibly generous breakfast, shared with a couple from Wales who had checked in the night before, we said goodbye to Lois, who gave me a big hug, and Jon, who handed me another package of fresh fruit and water for our drive to the Bay Area. We’re not likely to ever see Jon and Lois again, but for two days they treated us as family and reminded us of the power of kindness.
We drove back down the foothills and into the Central Valley and stopped for gas in Los Banos. As we pulled out onto the main drag about two dozen bikers clad in leather and denim jackets bearing the name of their motorcycle club in Oakland roared up beside us at a traffic light. We had the top up and the windows closed because it was hot and the air conditioning was on. A couple of the bikers started gesticulating at me and yelling. Oh, good Lord, I thought, what do they want? We don’t want any trouble. I stared straight ahead, pretending not to notice and hoping they’d just move on, but they persisted. I reluctantly lowered the window and one of the bikers lifted the visor on his helmet. I braced for the worst.
“Your gas cap!” he yelled. “You forgot to close your gas cap!” The gas cap was dangling by the plastic tether attached to the car. I waved my appreciation and, relieved, realized that once again my stereotypes, this time about bikers, had gotten the best of me. As the first few riders blew past when the light turned green, several more, unaware I’d already been tipped off, pointed and shouted, “Your gas cap!” all trying to be helpful. There are many exceptions to be sure, but most people, given the chance, just want to be helpful to others.
As we made our way west toward Mountain View, where we would spend a few days with my brother-in-law Andy and sister-in-law Ceci and their adopted terrier mix Ollie, a worry that had been with me all along intensified. Albie doesn’t always get along with other dogs, and if he didn’t take a liking to Ollie, or at least tolerate him, it was really going to throw a wrench in our plans. Ollie’s a little fellow, too, and no match for Albie were Albie to get ornery.
Andy was actually at our house in Boston visiting Judy when Albie and I arrived in Mountain View, and Ceci and Ollie were just coming back from a walk as we pulled up. Though Albie and Ollie didn’t exactly play together during our stay, they got on fine and I was deeply relieved that Albie rose to the occasion. He proved to be a perfect houseguest, possibly even better than me.
Being off the road for five days was welcome. We were with people not only familiar, but family, in a house I’ve known for nearly thirty years. Both Andy and Ceci are great cooks, too. We were home away from home and it felt good.
The day after we arrived, Ceci and I took the dogs to Half Moon Bay and sat on the beach. Seeing the Pacific Ocean, dipping our toes in it, made tangible the reality that we really had driven our little car clear across the continent. The country can seem impossibly big, but if you put your mind to it, and had another driver, you could make it from coast-to-coast by car in a few days; we’d been gone just three weeks, but it seemed longer; much longer.
It was a breezy day on the coast; the sky was a faultless, cloudless blue. Albie waded into the Pacific and lay down at the water’s edge. A few hundred yards off shore a gray whale spouted.
Albie has always been very attached to me, but with all his familiar reference points three thousand miles away and having been alone together now for all this time, he had become even more so. I take his happiness and well-being seriously and, somehow, I think he knows that. But for me, too, Albie had been my constant these past three weeks. As we posed together for Ceci to take a picture with the Pacific as a backdrop, I put my arms around his ruff and gave him a hug that I hoped would convey all my gratitude and happiness for his being in my life.
Midweek, we made the overnight trip to see my friend Bill Monning, majority leader of the California State Senate, in Sacramento. The legislature was in session, which is why we met him in Sacramento instead of Carmel, where he and his wife Dana make their home. Bill and I first met in 1987 when he was hired as the executive director of a nonprofit I was working for, International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War (IPPNW).‡ At that time, Bill and Dana, who’d been accepted to Harvard Medical School, had moved East from California with their two young daughters for work and school, respectively. Bill’s devotion to public service, the public interest, and the pursuit of social justice is deep and formidable.
In the state Senate, Bill has championed the state’s death with dignity law, a soda tax to help fight childhood obesity, and, most recently, efforts to guarantee that all Californians have access to clean drinking water. It may seem surprising, but close to one million people in the state, mainly poor and marginalized people in farming and rural communities, lack consistent access to clean water. Pesticides, fertilizer run-off, and animal waste combine to pollute local drinking supplies. In some ways, this last passion brings Bill’s work decades ago with the United Farm Workers full circle.
Dogs aren’t permitted inside the majestic state Capitol building, but after dinner, when everyone but the janitorial staff had gone home, Bill used his key card so we could go inside and see his spacious office, one befitting the powerful position he holds in state government. What I so admire about Bill is that for him power’s only purpose is to make life better for the people of his state, especially those who have little power themselves. The business of government is detailed, often tedious, and relentlessly demanding for those who take it seriously, as Bill does. He is the same deeply dedicated guy I knew back in 1987. Despite all the trappings of power evident in his office, Bill is all about the little guy. It was clear in the warm way he greeted the janitors we passed who were sweeping and polishing the floors.
We took a few selfies in Bill’s office, Albie beaming happily, and then a few of Albie and me in front of the statue of a California grizzly bear, the state symbol, directly outside the governor’s office.
In addition to his relentless work ethic, Bill has always been a relentless optimist. But as we talked about the current state of national politics, for the first time in memory I heard a note of pessimism in Bill’s outlook. Everything we both believe in—social and economic justice, civility, environmental protection, health care for all—had been under assault for over a year. I half-joked that the country seemed like it might be headed for another civil war.
“Yes, and they have all the guns and we only have the pot!” he said jokingly, but with some seriousness. “The future of the country and our planet are at stake,” he added. “We're so divided but the need to work together has never been greater. Climate change should be uniting everyone, but we have a president who claims it’s a hoax. Mass shooting are commonplace, yet we can’t even get sensible gun control. The list goes on."
Bill’s morning starts very early so the next day we had a bagel together at a nearby café before Albie and I took off to return to the Bay Area. While Bill went in to order I took Albie for a quick walk. Sacramento has a serious homeless problem and we came upon a man w
ith his knees drawn under his chest lying face down in some bushes. It was impossible to tell if he was just asleep, had overdosed, was inebriated, or all of the above and I wondered if we should call 911. I can’t tell you why I didn’t, but I have wondered ever since if that was a mistake. We live in a rich country, but our social problems run deep, and it was evident, in different ways, wherever we went.
It’s hardly news that San Francisco is perhaps the most beautifully situated city in the continental United States. So, on our way back to Mountain View, after battling midday traffic across the Bay Bridge, we drove out to Lands End, the network of parks and trails on the city’s northwest corner. The views of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Marin headlands, and the ocean hundreds of feet below the cliffs are almost too beautiful to comprehend, even more so for the fact that they lie within the limits of a major metropolis.
But as beautiful as it was, the way I’ve long felt about the Bay Area during dozens of visits over many years was shifting. It used to seem like an intoxicating paradise—the glorious hills, the moderate, sunny climate, the to-die-for views of bay and ocean. But this time it seemed like a restless, relentless, frenetic place, dense with cars that, when free of the frequent traffic, moved at a whiplash-inducing pace. It all seemed more harried and more congested than I remembered, with the area’s three major cities—San Francisco, Oakland, and San José—blending into one giant megalopolis. Not that we could afford to live there even if we wanted to. Gainfully employed people are living in their cars because even a modest home on a small lot in and around Silicon Valley can cost millions. For the first time in all my visits to this part of the country, I didn’t entertain fantasies of living here. New England, winter aside, seemed more and more pleasing the more we drove around the country.
The Dog Went Over the Mountain Page 19
