I tossed a canvas bag of fruit from the Costa Mesa farmers market behind the driver’s seat and took off with my oldest son Skyler for our first one-on-one road trip. My car was packed with sleeping bags, a tent, water and clothes; and we headed north for a drive along the California coast to Oregon. Skyler chose this destination so he could see “where the trees grow next to the sea.”
He would turn 13 in six weeks and I wanted to bond with my kid before the turbulent teen years struck with full force. Already arguments were upon us – both of us with fiery temperaments and still licking our wounds from the recent divorce.
As we traversed the Orange County, then Los Angeles traffic, I told him as my co-pilot he would be in charge of the radio or changing the book on CD, cleaning the car and washing the windows at each gas stop, keeping my water bottle filled and snacks nearby, reading the map and charting our course. He grinned and sat taller in his seat. I breathed a sigh of relief.
The first night we stayed at my friend’s in West Lake Village. Skye engaged in adult conversations with maturity and clever wit, revealing a relaxed confidence I had never seen before. Then he fell asleep in a made up bed in the living room while my friend and I drank wine and talked. Occasionally I looked over at my sleeping son in amazement. Typically he was uptight in unfamiliar situations and rarely could self soothe.
The next morning we hit Highway 101 and Skye pointed out kite surfers skimming the Pacific Ocean with the Channel Islands in the background as we neared Santa Barbara. The highway turned inland and on a whim we pulled over to pick blueberries at Restoration Ranch Oaks. Munching the tart sweetness of the berries under the warm sun, I took pictures of my kid. The camera showed his smile becoming more relaxed as he sunk into the spontaneity of our journey. I felt the happiest I had felt in years.
We found the Black Sheep Bar and Grill in San Luis Obispo via the GPS and squeezed through the crowd at the start of the second half of the U.S. playing England in the World Cup. Ten minutes later, our cousin, who lived 300 miles away, unexpectedly walked into the pub. It seemed the perfect opportunity to tell Skye that on any journey, with an open mind and little trust, you can run into family, friends or strangers that bring a little bit of home wherever you go. That evening we enjoyed bean tacos with our family and friends in a wonderfully overgrown backyard garden across the street from the redwood forest.
We left at dawn the next day for our longest and most scenic drive. As the road wound northbound, Skye saw his first lighthouse at Pigeon Point, took pictures of the Golden Gate Bridge as we passed underneath, and stared in awe as we passed by the rolling green landscape of the wine country. We filled a bag of goodies from Powell’s Candy Shop in Healdsburg and dined on cheeseburgers and shakes at Highway 1010, a mom and pop joint in Willets – “Better than In ‘N Out,” he said.
We entered Humboldt County, flanked by towering redwoods, evergreens, and a wandering clear river carving its centuries-old path. We turned right at the end of the off ramp and after 500 yards pulled into the parking lot in front of the general store where I was to meet my friend. Coming from a sprawling metropolis of endless suburbs, I was dubious that it could be this easy to meet someone at an unnamed store. But, minutes later, my friend breezed in the shop, waved to everyone she saw, then led us to the Avenue of the Giants, a forest full of thick, enormously tall redwoods.
Skye ran up and over fallen redwoods with an unfettered enthusiasm I hadn’t seen since puberty began. We swam in the Elk River, allowing the current to carry us and let the afternoon sun dry us off while resting on the rocky beach.
We tumbled back into the car around three and drove up the coast, getting out for a short walk in Trinidad. We stood on a cliff and in amazement looked at trees growing right up to the ocean. Through the bright sunlight, we could see clean whitish sand, rocky promontories, tide pools, short caves, a natural arch and several small islands.
“Thank you, mama, for bringing me here,” he said, as the salty ocean breeze ruffled his hair. “I’ve always wanted to see this.” Feeling sentimental, I let the tears fill my eyes.
We left the main highway after Orrick to see the elk and took a walk on a pine needle-littered dirt path alongside a bubbling stream as the sky grew purple with twilight. My blood sugar level dropped a little and apparently I got a little woozy, because after I inhaled the first pizza slice in Crescent City just south of the Oregon border, Skye looked at me tenuously and asked, “Are you back?” I laughed and told him I thought so.
We reached our campsite at Panther Flats on the Smith River around ten. Though we were both tired, Skye helped set up the tent – sharing the responsibilities. We were a true team now.
The next morning I arose early and took a walk through the campsite, finding a place to sit at the edge of Smith River. I realized that in addition to some mother son bonding, I really wanted Skyler to understand and maybe appreciate my gypsy wanderings to places and situations unknown and unfamiliar.
For years I had wanted to take him and his brother on a road trip for the sake of adventure, ramblings that made me feel truly alive. But they didn’t want to leave their father behind. So I created a separate life for myself, traveling to festivals at least eight hours away to sell my books, until the divide was too painful to hold together and I left the family home. Finally, my son was on an adventure with me. I didn’t have to choose between his needs or mine, we had woven our needs together, and were having a blast doing it.
Blessed with unusual sunshine we meandered up the Oregon coast to have lunch with a friend in Langlois and in the town’s one market/café: another small community where literally everyone knows your name and has your back too. We traveled south for the first time and visited friends in Ashland.
Again Skyler stepped out of the box I had put him in and could be self-assured and comfortable in his own skin. The next day we blasted home along Highway 5, eleven hours of straight driving, talking and laughing – accepting each other as people not merely the roles we play. It’s not as if we will never argue again, but now there is a little forgiveness for imperfection, a dose of humor and a bucket full of acceptance.
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