One Last Traffic Violation for Old Times' Sake

Alas, the day came when I had to leave my cozy Piedmont dwellings and finish the journey. On a rainy Tuesday morning, I packed up the car, pointed it North and hit the gas.

Wanting to milk my National Park pass for all its worth, I intended to visit the Redwood National Park in Northern Cali on my way back to Oregon. I made the mistake of driving up Highway 1 thinking it would be a more scenic drive along the coast. I call it a mistake because I barely saw any of the coast on that windy road and it took so much time to navigate that the sun set long before I reached the park. No bother—I figured I’d spend the night just before the Redwoods and drive through them in the morning, so I drove straight through to Crescent City before looking at a map to see how much further I had to go. That’s when I realized that Crescent City was actually north of the Redwoods and that I basically drove through it in the dark.

Damn.

Not wanting to retrace, I decided to forge ahead and put off that park for another trip. So I folded up the map and pulled back onto the highway. Not thirty seconds later, I was hit with a flash of red and blue lights by a highway patrolman pulling me over.

Damn damn.

For those of you keeping tally of how many times I’ve been pulled over since I left Oregon, I’m sorry to say that I’ve simply lost count (see the September 30 entry for more info—there have been a couple more since then). And if we’re counting the whole year, including before this trip started… well, then we’re into double digits.

So far, I still hadn’t received any actual tickets on this trip, only mundane warnings and a lot of interrogations as to whether or not I have any weed in the car. This has come from coppers in the plains states who, I assume, rarely see guys with long hair and Oregon plates cruise through their small towns. As long as they don’t fine me, then I have no problem with them satisfying their curiosity about the funny looking guy in the old Infiniti. This time, however, it was a California cop. I doubt I looked like an oddity to him, and I knew I was speeding, so I wasn’t optimistic. Lo and behold, my luck pulled through yet again.

It turns out the cop just asked me if I knew I had a burned-out headlight. I told him I had no idea, especially because I just replaced that entire headlight assembly after hitting a deer a few weeks ago. He said, “Really? Well, let’s try something.” He then tapped the light with his flashlight, had me flicker the high beams and even checked the cables to see if any were loose or crossed. I almost wanted to ask him to check the air in my tires while he was at it (THAT’S what I call a public servant). In the end, we concluded that the bulb that came with the used assembly had just reached the end of its life.

He then went on to ask me about me trip, where I was coming from and headed to, how I liked the drive, etc. It wasn’t the usual cop conversation, in which they just seem to be testing me to see if I’m drunk or on drugs. I really felt that this guy just want to chat, and he told some stories himself. Eventually, he wished me well and advised me to get a new bulb soon since it was a foggy and rainy night. Didn’t even check my registration. I have to say, that was the nicest cop that every pulled me over. Kudos to Cali.

The closest I got to the Redwoods

I spent that night in the back seat of my car at a rest area in Brooking, just over the Oregon border. At some point, I realized it would be the last time on this journey that I would sleep in that comfy but crammed seat (and I’m sorry to say it wasn’t as comfortable after the king size bed spoiled me). Bright and early the next morning, I cruised along the beautiful and familiar Oregon coast. I’ll admit that I slowed down before reaching the turnoff that led to my parents’ town. After five months, I didn’t see any reason to rush it. I think I spent a good hour walking around Otter Rock, my old favorite surf spot.

Oregon coast rocks (that can be a noun or a verb)

When I ran out of reasons to delay, I filled up my gas tank one more time (got yelled at by the attendant when I tried to pump it myself—forgot what state I was in for a moment), said sayounara to the coast and cut east toward the folks. Less than an hour later I pulled into their driveway for the first time in over five months.

Mom and Dad were, of course, tickled to death to see me—as I was them. Although I called often, we still had a lot of catching up to do. Before I left, I made them promise to keep our old 14-year-old dog alive at least until I returned. They kept that promise, and the poor dog, totally deaf and almost blind, was terrified of me until she sniffed my hand. Then I couldn’t keep her down.

14 years and still tickin'!