Down John's Road: The End |
| John R. Olson | Friday, 30 September, 2011 | ||||||
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Our final excerpts from Down John’s Road finds John R. Olson traveling the South, through New Orleans’ French Quarter, into Winslow, Arizona, winding through Salinas, and up Fremont Peak. ... ...
Down John’s Road: The End “It’s the only job I’ve ever had I don’t hate.”
Above: Gene Matthis, told me what Steinbeck missed bypassing Abingdon, Virginia - Matthis died five months later.
In the deep south, my trip was beginning the hum of its homeward conclusion. On his 1960 trip, Steinbeck admitted giving up in Abingdon, Virginia. I vowed not to give up. I visited Abingdon just to see what he missed. Turns out, he missed a lot. Then I ventured further south.
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Above: Gabilan at a high-end RV park in downtown New Orleans near the French Quarter. New Orleans’ skyline rose on the horizon – a skyline made familiar to Americans during Hurricane Katrina. Research revealed a fairly swanky RV park at the edge of the French Quarter. I pulled in, arranged for a guided Hurricane Katrina bus tour and walked ten blocks to the Mississippi River waterfront. The French Quarter attacks the senses. The temperature was rising to eighty degrees, and the aromas, sights and sounds of the Quarter wafted into the warm Louisiana morning. The morning after the bus tour, I decided to call a taxi as John Steinbeck had done in his 1960 visit. I would have a cab driver find the school where Steinbeck witnessed the pungent racism of the “Cheerleaders” so sadly described in Travels with Charley. To kill time in the cab, I began giving the driver my quick spiel on GMC truck, Wolverine Camper, John Steinbeck, 1960, etc. About halfway through, his face lighted up in recognition. “Oh yah, yah, yah. Travels with Charley, right?” “Correct. There was this school and this little girl. I forgot her last name. It was Ruby Phillips or Ruby Billups, or …” “Ruby Bridges," the hack said. “So you’re familiar with the incident and the (white women) spewing at the black girl?” “I remember my Dad talking about it. I used to think, what barbarians these suckers are. How could they be so hateful? I used to take a dollar from my allowance and give it to the Civil Rights Club. It was only later that I came down here and saw for myself.” “How long have you worked as a cabbie in New Orleans?” “Let’s see – twenty-nine years.” “It’s the only job I’ve ever had I don’t hate. I mean truly hate.”
Above: In November 2009, at William Frantz Public School – a pivotal spot in Travels With Charley.
Soon, we pulled up to William Frantz Public School. It was closed and under renovation. We walked around the grounds, his meter running at the curb. Later, as we drove back to downtown New Orleans, the taxi driver explained why he had not moved elsewhere. “The other thing about New Orleans is that it actually has a center. I guess that’s a Spanish or French legacy, a town with a center. So many places in the Midwest, it’s just a bundle of commercial activity. There are sidewalks, but cars come whizzing by so fast. It’s alienating, demoralizing, and very anti-social.” We pulled into the RV park with my pipsqueak truck camper next to fifty-foot, $500,000 RV buses. “There it is,” I said, proud of shiny black Gabilan. “It’s not that old. I guess I was expecting to see one identical to the one Steinbeck drove.” “You kidding me? A fifty-year-old truck and camper capable of going around the country? That would be hard to find.” “I suppose so.” We squared up the bill. Only at the very end did he give me his name. “Bob.” “That’s it?” “Well, Robert. Robert M.” He wheeled Cab 763 into a brilliant fall morning in New Orleans as I drove my GMC pickup camper due west.
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Above: A Texas sunset – on the entire trip, sunsets in The Lone Star state were most spectacular. Outrageous things are claimed on the American Road. Texas towns added to my growing ludicrous list of claims to fame. Floydada, Texas: Pumpkin Capital of America. Sweetwater, Texas: The Wind Turbine Capital of America. Says who? How do we know Floydada is pumpkin capital? What if Grand Rapids, Michigan has more pumpkins? Or Sioux City, Iowa bigger pumpkins? What about Sweetwater and its wind turbine bragging? What if Enid, Oklahoma has taller wind turbines? Or Visalia, California has more powerful turbines? If you can name it, evidently you claim it.
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In Winslow, Arizona, I fulfilled a vow. I had wanted to chat with long-distance truckers. At Winslow’s Flying J Truck Stop, scores of trucks idled loudly. I approached three trucks and all of the drivers consented to long, taped interviews. The lonely miles loosen lips I guess. These men and women appreciated someone to talk to. Scrubbing his massive truck tires was a young driver painted with tattoos. He was Asian and answered questions with, "sir". I asked him why. “Because that’s what you gotta do in the big house. My name is Anthony, I live in Orange County, California.” “How long you been a truck driver?” “Five years, sir. I own my own truck, sir.” “How many miles you put on in an average year?” “Let’s put it this way – 5,000 a week.” “What are you hauling today?” “Wood flooring. I’m headed back to California from Tennessee.” “What year is your truck?” “It is an ’03, sir. A Freightliner.” “Did you buy it new?” “No sir. I can’t afford that. I bought it used for $45,000.” “What made you decide to get into trucking five years ago?” “Well I always loved to drive. It calms your soul.” “How much longer are you going to do it?” “I have a ten-year plan. With this economy, my ten-year plan might take a little longer.” “Where you from originally?” “I was born in Vietnam. I came to this country when I was ten years old.” “What’s the main thing someone needs to know about Anthony?” “I was a pretty bad kid. I got misdirected in life, but I was a smart kid. I learned ways to make money when I was a young man. Got into trouble. Did some time. I saw what was happening to my friends. Once I served time, that was pretty much it. I didn’t want to do that again.” “What’s the weirdest load you ever had?” “I once brought a single wood chipper back from Georgia. That was the only thing I had. A doctor wanted one. It probably cost him $5,000 to ship the thing. It didn’t bother me. A load’s a load.” Anthony polished furiously. “I try to look good. It might keep me from getting stopped. Because I am a minority and I have California plates, I might be stopped more often than the next guy.” Our interview ended abruptly when Anthony blurted: “I have to go, have to make money.”
**** In Barstow, California, around 8:00 p.m., I was cruising Walmart looking for a level parking spot. A security guard halted that. “I hope you’re not planning on staying.” “Actually, I was.” “Gov. Schwarzenegger won’t let you. State law says no overnight parking by RVs in parking lots.” “You’re kidding me.” “Look around, you see any other campers? You can park if you want, but police will be around about midnight or so, and you’ll be on your way.” Instead I parked at a grocery – smack in the middle of town – bothered by no one. The next morning I drove Barstow-Bakersfield-Gilroy. Route 58 meandered straight and true through the Mojave Desert. After leaving Mojave, California, Route 58 begins a long, slow grind up Tehachapi Pass. From previous trips through, I knew it could be windy. I put two hands on Gabilan’s wheel for the gradual descent into Bakersfield. I calculated the distance to Salinas and bolted for Steinbeck’s birthplace arriving near midnight. In Salinas came the same move-out-mister mentality from attendants chasing shopping carts. So I parked street side in a grimy part of town. Men inside a taqueria were yelling in Spanish playing cards until 2:00 a.m. I did not feel safe in my first night in John Steinbeck’s hometown. On a bright Sunday morning in Salinas, I drove up tall, winding Fremont Peak. In 1960, John Steinbeck visited it on his last day. It was an hour drive from Salinas, the last ten miles straight up a narrow mountain road. Water had run over the pavement in recent days, creating gravelly washes. Ascending, my tires slipped on sand and pebbles. For the first and only time on my trip, I activated four-wheel drive on my GMC three-quarter ton truck. Trees were draped in mossy aprons and fall leaves nestled in ditches. Roadside sat several horse ranches and a Mormon Church camp. Woodpeckers tapped noisily. From on high, I clearly saw why Steinbeck chose it for his Salinas farewell. The panorama was breathtaking a full 360 degrees. Still, speculation exists he never returned to Salinas after leaving in fall 1960.
Above: Sitting on the porch of Steinbeck’s boyhood home in Salinas, California. He was born in room at front left.
Above: A rather treacherous, steep and curving drive down Fremont Peak outside Salinas, California.
Descending Steinbeck’s peak proved even more treacherous. Guardrails were skinny or nonexistent. I cursed at Steinbeck mightily (the first and only time) for his not describing how unnerving the drive is for a full-sized pickup with 3,000 pound camper aboard.
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Above: Standing outside the original 1960 GMC truck and Wolverine Camper in a Salinas, California museum.
Above: Salinas, California is a town of murals – this tribute to John Steinbeck included Travels With Charley.
Driving to the National Steinbeck Center in Salinas, I had an appointment with Herb Behrens, the chief volunteer archivist. He made the arrangements for me to sit inside Rocinante – the camper – for five minutes. Sadly, Steinbeck's green GMC truck was off limits because too many protective panels surrounded it. I had preferred to sit behind the same steering wheel Steinbeck did. It was not to be. My curiosity was endless. What were the cab’s ergonomics? What view did the mirrors give? Did the radio have knobs or push buttons? How would he have held a cup of coffee? How tight was the fit for his dog Charley? You can look through the truck’s window and see a plaster replica of Charley on the front seat. The cab interior is plain, almost spartan. There are perhaps ten controls inside the truck: headlights, wipers, gear shift, speedometer, heater, emergency brake and radio are the complete ensemble. By contrast, inside my 2008 GMC Sierra truck, I once counted ninety-four different switches, knobs, or controls within driver’s reach. Five decades after Steinbeck and Charley galloped around America, Rocinante still sags. The truck’s chassis comes scant inches from the oversized tires. John Steinbeck paid around $2,000 for his GMC three-quarter ton pickup truck. What about the camper price, I once asked Howard Smith of Wolverine. “I would guess a new Wolverine Camper in 1959 was about $760,” he said. According to an article in the June 2003 edition of Vintage Truck magazine, Rocinante is insured for one million dollars. Steinbeck sold the truck at auction, just after his 1960 trip ended. The entire rig was purchased by Mr. William Plate, who used it for light duty on a spread he owned in Maryland called Maiden Point Farm. After climbing out of Rocinante and saying goodbye, I sped out of Salinas near sunset. Hell-bent for Napa Valley, my route would be up Highway 101 for one final crack at Walmart. As I neared the Golden Gate, eucalyptus aroma filled my cab. I glided across America’s most famous bridge. An hour later I arrived in American Canyon. The Walmart looked brand new. I parked in a corner and tried to blend in. Blending didn’t work. At 1:30 a.m., the parking Gestapo hammered me. Crash, clunk, thump, whack, crunch at my door. “Hey bud, gotta move it. California Code says no overnight parking.” I ended the night sleeping at a truck stop near Davis, California.
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Above: Standing in the majestic shadow of a California redwood – self-measured at 84 feet around.
Above: This towering redwood, just an average size, was as wide as my 2008 GMC truck and camper. My trip’s penultimate day began in sunny, cool, Arcata, California driving to Redwoods National Forest. They did not disappoint. Steinbeck wrote of the Redwoods thus: "The vainest, most slap-happy and irreverent of men, in the presence of redwoods, goes under a spell of wonder and respect. Respect – that’s the word. One feels the need to bow to unquestioned sovereigns." Walking The Circle Trail, trees were dripping from rain that had fallen the day before. The Big Tree was at the end of Circle Trail. I paced it at eighty-four feet around at the base. Mesmerized, it seemed primordial, imprinted from before time began. It was a forest of deity and aptly named The Cathedral of Trees.
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Above: Near the end of my trip, I ponder the meaning of it all in the sea spray outside Arcata, California.
Above: The last of forty Walmarts I parked overnight from September 1 to November 19, 2009. This was Woodburn, Oregon.
The last day. Waking as I had on many days in a Walmart parking lot, I drove to the front of the store in Woodburn, Oregon and had a retired schoolteacher take my photo with my flashers blinking. In many ways you are home from a long trip long before you cross your own state line. Roads are familiar. Regional brands of gas and familiar restaurants add comfort. You can turn off your GPS 500 miles from home – the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh. I created a microcosm of America in my final thirty-six hours. I had: Embedded in those final miles lurked an undeniable fact. The United States is what it has always been – the greatest ethnic melting pot the world has ever known. Finally, at 3:30 p.m., November 19, 2009 with 12,673 miles logged on the odometer in eighty days, I maneuvered into my driveway. I had burned exactly one quart of oil. There had been eighty journeys within the whole. Each was its own daily, emotional capsule. Each segment had rhythm, rhyme, beauty, ugliness, purpose and banality all its own. As for John Steinbeck, in 1960 he took guns and fishing poles to blend in. He regaled his Maine guests in his camper Rocinante with whiskey and Cognac. My homeless guests, inside my camper Gabilan in Montana, were treated to Egg McMuffins and orange juice. For comfort, he stayed at the swanky Ambassador East Hotel in Chicago with his perky wife Elaine. After twenty-nine straight days on the road, I luxuriated, alone, in a Motel 6 in Arcata, California. Still, we had one thing in common as we drove down John’s road. On his trip, John Steinbeck claimed he was never recognized – not once. Imagine that. Neither was I.
Epilogue: When John Steinbeck returned from traveling an invitation was waiting to John F. Kennedy’s Presidential Inauguration. When I returned, no White House invitation was waiting. Barack Obama had long been inaugurated. Within weeks, I sold Gabilan to my brother who has two young boys. The big black GMC truck and Wolverine Camper will give years of pleasure. John Steinbeck sold Rocinante soon after his trip as well. It was auctioned and driven in Maryland before donation to the National Steinbeck Center in 1990 where it rests in regal, restored glory. Steinbeck’s dog, Charley, had many medical maladies on the 1960 trip which presaged his death in 1963. He is reportedly buried on Bluff Point in Sag Harbor, Long Island. Steinbeck’s writing output trailed off after the 1960 road trip. He lived another eight years, dying December 20, 1968 of heart failure. He is buried in Salinas in a simple family plot.
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