Rain and a Redwood Motel

Route

Monday, November 9th. The rain came right on schedule. The whole coast was supposed to get drenched all day, with thunder and lightning throughout, so we got up early, packed up the tent, and were ready to roll just as it started coming down. I snuck in a quick shower at the campground first. The night before was a warm one, warm enough that I peeled off my long johns and slept in just the sleeping bag. A high surf advisory was in effect again, and since the campground sits right above the ocean, we fell asleep to big waves breaking below us. A few big trucks rumbled by on 101 in the early morning hours, but those waves made up for it.

Just over the state line, California stopped us at an agriculture checkpoint to ask if we had any fruit or firewood to declare. The firewood I get, since nobody wants to move invasive bugs from one forest to the next. The fruit seemed a little strange for a state line in the same country. But California has been inspecting cars at its borders since the early 1920s, and with nearly half of the country's vegetables and over three-quarters of its fruits and nuts grown here, one hitchhiking pest could do real damage. When I rolled down the window, Rhea stuck her head out, and the inspector lit right up and asked if she wanted a cookie. I’m convinced you can get away with anything with a cute dog. Not that I was smuggling anything.

We rolled into Crescent City, our first town in California, and worked from the truck most of the morning while it poured. Rhea slept in the back seat the whole time, which she needed. I’d made it very comfortable for her back there, but it desperately needs a cleaning; it's covered in her hair. The town sits right on its harbor, and its tide gauge has recorded more than 30 tsunamis since the 1930s. An underwater ridge running west from Cape Mendocino bends tsunami energy from across the Pacific toward Crescent City, and the small harbor traps the waves so they keep sloshing back and forth, sometimes for a day and a half. The 1964 Good Friday tsunami from Alaska killed 11 people here and wrecked 29 city blocks.

After a call, I booked us a room at an old motel on the main road through town, and with nobody else there, they let us check in around 1:30. It's another one of those older motels where you back the truck right into your own carport. It must be a thing out here, and I'm a fan. Inside, it's all wood paneling, with carpet to match the era, a little desk nook for work, and an old-school mini fridge with a latch handle and its own freezer, in that turquoise blue you only see from the '60s and '70s. It's two-star, but it's authentic, and the shower had great hot water. That paneling has a story, too. In 1952, a man named Tom Wyllie cut down a single curly redwood near the Klamath River, about 18 feet across at the base, and it yielded 57,000 board feet of lumber, enough to build the entire 36-room motel.

I parked the truck just outside the carport so Starlink could run all night, because motel Wi-Fi never cuts it, and the battery bank kept up no problem. The owners are a husband and wife who came here from India, and they live right upstairs from the front desk, with their windows lit and their place nicely decorated. They bought this place and made it their own, and they couldn't have been nicer to us. It's the American Dream, alive and well in Crescent City.

I took a nap, made some soup, and got some good work done while it poured. Not much else was open on a rainy Monday, so dinner was takeout from Perlita's, a tiny hole-in-the-wall Mexican spot with folding tables and chairs and over a thousand reviews. It's clearly the spot in town. We also grabbed a slice of churro cheesecake to try, because why not. In hindsight, that was a mistake. My stomach gurgled all night, and I tossed and turned until my alarm went off for a 6:30 call.

Rhea

Rhea was so snuggly in the tent by the ocean, which was really sweet. She slept through the entire wet morning in the back seat while I worked, and she made a new fan at the checkpoint.

We finally burned through the last of her cans, so a little of my enchilada went into her bowl. That night, she got up and down off the motel bed a bunch of times, and I think she was hot. Rain days suit her just fine.