Hello,
When last, we me Dan and I had just ascended the Donner Pass and were firmly in California. Our true destination lay a few hours ahead. Here in its entirety is the rest of our journey.
Thanks for reading.
TJ
Before I forget, here is a roadmap outlining the exact route Dan and I traveled back in the summer of 1970. Click the tab, the click the image to enlarge.
There it is! There it is! Yahoo. The Golden Gate Bridge. We’re here. We’re here. S-A-N- F-R-A-N-C-I-S-C-O. Wow. Fantastic. This city was and is jaw droppingly beautiful. Nothing like it. Focus. Focus. It’s ok to admire the view but we also had to find our exit. “Get the map”, we’re looking for Taraval Street. It was then that one of noticed that the bridge was more gray than red and did not resemble what we had seen in the movies or in countless photographs. We were, in fact, on the Bay Bridge. A slight disappointment but pretty formidable in its own right. 4 times the length, handling twice the number of vehicles as its better-known sister, each and every day. Notice the image of the Golden Gate Bridge. I gave it to my mother-in-law on the 50th Anniversary of that bridge’s completion. Why? Because she and her family were there for the Grand Opening (pedestrians only) on May 27, 1937. Eleanor was 10 years old and among 200,000 that walked the 1.7-mile span.
We managed to find Taraval Street located on the west side of town in the Sunset District, 2 blocks from the Pacific. A good friend of ours, Mike Morasco, Vinny’s brother, was in the Navy and stationed at the Alameda Naval Air Station in the East Bay near Oakland. He and two of his fellow sailors shared an apartment on Taraval. They must have been pretty lonely as they welcomed us with big smiles, open arms and invited us to stay for “as long as we wanted”.
We came bearing gifts, mostly “refreshments of the day”: Thunderbird, Blue Nun (Liebfraumilch), Mateus, Boons Farm, Red Mountain and of course Ripple. Yuk. Okay, okay, not all of them. But I could not resist the nostalgia. We also presented Mike with a 6 pack of Genesee Cream Ale. At the time available exclusively in Western New York.
We wasted no time settling in. Our sleeping bags and air mattresses from the van ensured us of many a good night’s sleep. But not tonight, or the next few. There was much to discuss and so little time. We kept Mike and his roommates up till 1 or 2 in the morning. Not a problem for Dan and me but these guys had to be on base at 0530. That’s 5:30 am. Yes, in the morning.
We packed it in beginning with the Fillmore West at its new location. Owner Billy Graham, who also owned the Fillmore East, relocated it in 1968. The original locale was too small and in a deteriorating neighborhood. This more or less ended the collaborative effort of some locals to keep it afloat. Namely; The Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Quicksilver Messenger Service, and Big Brother and the Holding Company. I can’t remember who Dan and I saw. But I’ll settle on Quicksilver and warm-up band, Mott the Hoople. $3 a ticket.
We divided our sightseeing into two categories:
*About a dozen years later, Deborah, our two-year-old daughter Natalie and myself returned to the Warf while visiting Dan. He was working with the Hotel & Restaurant Workers Union out of San Jose. Part of his California dream. Anyway, he inserted a quarter into an interactive arcade game we had never heard of. He said watch this. Grabbing a wooden mallet attached to a rope, Dan began whacking away at any rat/mole that poked its head out of any of the 5 holes positioned on the board in front. We laughed like never before. It was called Whac-A-Mole.
Dan and I were ignorant of the phrase “the coldest winter I ever spent was the summer I spent in San Francisco”. It was July and we enjoyed taking the trolley to the downtown area, The Embarcadero, Ghirardelli Square, you name it. We began each journey immersed in thick, dark fog. Rising out of its cold clutches about half way to our destination. It did not seem to matter where we were headed as half the city seemed to be permanently covered in this pea soup. Returning back home each day was the reverse experience. Descending into oblivion. Natures air conditioner. You get used to it. I came to know that most of coastal California deals with fog to varying degrees between May and July each and every year.
Fast Forward- (Nine years later Deborah and I were married, down in Southern California. However, my mother and sisters flew into San Francisco where we picked them up. Making the most of their first trip to California by driving the coast down to San Dimas. Here is a picture of us on Twin Peaks. Yes, it was windy. Isn’t it always?)
We saw as much of San Francisco and the bay area as was humanly possible. Now, we needed time and some distance to process it all. Wide smiles returned to our sleep deprived hosts when we announced that we would be departing the next morning.
All Aboard-Going South
Our next destination was La La Land, 420 miles south’ish. (Did you know LA is further east than Reno, Nevada?) Even though Route 5 traversing the interior of California would have been faster, it was not the California we wanted to experience. No, sir. It would be the two coastal routes that would take us to all points south. US 101 retraces the Historic *El Camino Real (“The Royal Road”). A 700-mile route established by Spanish settlers that connected 21 Spanish Missions from San Diego to Sonoma between 1769 and 1823. When Spain colonized California beginning in 1769, modern cities did not exist. So the Spanish empire used a “three-pronged” approach to settle the wilderness, with missions serving as the primary economic and population hubs. Presidios, military forts, were erected to protect the Missions and the Franciscan Friars. Over time, major California cities naturally grew directly around these original mission sites.
*Silly me thought that the bells hanging from shepherd’s poles at various locations along the El Camino Real were actually erected by the Spanish back in 18th century as they slowly marched northward. The iconic 85 lb. cast iron bells were actually installed by women’s civic groups in 1906 to promote tourism and the history of this route. Naturally, due to theft and road construction, many of them disappeared over the years. I can only imagine how many frat houses thought it a good way to bond with the Conquistadors. However, a revitalization project led by the California Bell Company and Caltrans has restored hundreds of replicas along the highway. Not without controversy. Many Indigenous communities and historians have raised concerns that the bells glorify the mission system and erase the painful, forced labor and cultural devastation experienced by Native Americans during that era.
Side tracked again. Sorry. Yes, this is the same 101 taken by my friend Dan Collie and his girlfriend back in 1964 during their bike excursion from San Jose to Pasadena. The other coastal route we would use was Highway 1, The Pacific Coast Highway. It is a windy 2 lane road running directly along the Pacific Coastline for about 650 miles. PCH is known for its rugged cliffs and scenic beauty. It is not always for the faint of heart or for those with limited time. Patience is required.
We wanted to inhale every mile of this great state.
Skirting San Jose, Dan’s future home as mentioned, we were impressed by the surf at Santa Cruz, taken aback by the beauty of Monterey Bay/Carmel-By-The-Sea and stopped in our tracks by Big Sur. We decided to spend a few days in the area, exploring. Rested, we continued south knowing we would pass by Camp Cooke, near Vandenberg SFB. It was where my father trained along with the 5th Armored Division prior to deployment during WW2. Dozens of bright white barracks stood in the distance, abandoned but nicely preserved. Arriving in Santa Barbara just in time for dinner.
Given that I eventually settled in the Santa Barbara area for nearly 40 years, in part due to this, my very first encounter, you’d think I would have many memories. Nope. Only two:
Breaking our KOA-only rule, I remember waking on a bright Sunday morning to the sounds of people shuffling past our van on their way to church right next door. It was the First Congregational Church in the 2100 block of State Street about a half-mile from the historic Old Mission. (We would spend a decade (1988-1999) living in Mission Canyon waking nearly every morning to the sound of the mission bells.) Although the shades were drawn, I still felt uneasy rummaging around in my underwear attempting to quietly get dressed without a raising suspicion. We hightailed it out of there before either the parishioners became curious and began investigating, or worse, the cops showed up. About a dozen years later, right in this very same block of State Street, driving my Austin Healey to work around 1982, I got the first and only speeding ticket of my entire life. 35 in a 25. Knock on wood.
Old time Santa Barbarians would remember the 5 traffic signals positioned at the major intersections along Rt. 101, bisecting the beach and downtown. The last of these signals wasn’t removed until 1991. Completing a freeway conversion project begun in 1954. All Californians that passed through, often on weekend getaways, can attest to the inconvenience of the traffic delays that inevitably ensued. We were no exception. I will spare you my lecture on how poorly California manages its freeway reconstruction projects. Think Bullet Train for a glimpse into the chasm.
Los Angeles
Dan and I spent about a week in the Los Angeles area.
Wait a second, I am pausing right here to address the elephant in the room. Not yours, but mine. There is no one California. No one version anyway. Perhaps the sheer size of the state geographically and population wise demands we divvy it up into more manageable pieces. Then again maybe it’s just the outsiders, as I once, was attempting to attach labels to what we saw or thought we knew.
Broadly speaking California was two different worlds at the minimum. San Francisco and Los Angeles each represented their own version of what California was to many within the state as well as across the nation. Culturally, socially, politically.
San Francisco was perhaps the spiritual center. Smaller, denser, more communal, openly experimental. The city on the bay that once carried the glow of the Summer of Love, Haight-Ashbury, Golden Gate Park, the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Janis Joplin, Fillmore West, anti-war politics, street people, communes, posters, light shows, and psychedelic rock was beginning to fade by 1970. The innocence had worn off. The Haight was no longer pure magic. There was more burnout, harder drugs, panhandling, runaways, and a sense that the dream had peaked a few years earlier.
Los Angeles was something different. 10x the size, it felt like the capitalist wing of the counterculture movement. The place where rebellion could be broadcast to the world through movies, music by those wanting to promote a cause or idea and make a few bucks in the process. By 1970, L.A. had Joni Mitchell, David Crosby, Stephen Stills, Graham Nash, Neil Young, Linda Ronstadt, Jackson Browne, the Doors, Frank Zappa, the Byrds/Buffalo Springfield legacy, and the beginnings of the Eagles orbit. Vanity Fair describes Laurel Canyon as a place where musicians wrote together, jammed in houses, formed bands, broke up bands, and created music that blended folk, rock, country, jazz, psychedelia, and blues. But you might drive right through it and not “see” the scene unless you knew where to go. Dan and I discovered this first hand navigating the steep, windy roads up in Laurel Canyon. We were looking but never finding the magic taking place behind those closed doors.
LA was not really my kind of town. Too big, too loud and not very pedestrian friendly. LA was a lot. But Southern California was definitely for me. Ideal weather, sandy beaches and a leisurely laid-back pace. Please don’t call it SoCal. That is as offensive as Frisco is to a native San Franciscan. Okay?
Because this was a scouting trip of sorts for me, I had to keep an open mind about what I saw, thought, and felt about the two separate Californias. So, comparing and contrasting the two was natural and unavoidable. It was also essential.
Just shut up, TJ. Be a tourist. Okay. How’s this:
We visited Universal Studios, Venice Beach, Muscle Beach, The Hollywood Bowl, Grauman’s Chinese Theater, Westwood, Rodeo Drive, The Coliseum. Also, the Sunset Strip, Griffith Park Observatory, Malibu, Santa Monica, Long Beach. We even made it to Pasadena to check out the Rose Bowl Parade route. We swam in the Pacific, probably in cut-off blue jeans that no surfer would be caught dead wearing.
We saved the best for last…Disneyland. I had waited nearly a year for this. Dan and I arrived early and purchased two ticket booklets ($3.50 each). Yes, they included two iconic E-tickets each. If you do not know what an E-Ticket is, I cannot help you. Ask one of your parents. Okay that’s harsh. They got you into Premium venues or the best rides. Like it’s a “Small World”. No, yuck, torture. Make that the Matterhorn or Space Mountain.
In addition to enjoying my very first Disneyland experience, my main goal this day was to find a Mickey Mouse T shirt. Not just any one but the one worn by the Credence Clearwater Revival drummer during their performance at Woodstock. If you recall, Dan and I were there the previous summer, close enough to the stage to get a close look at the top hat and cane Mickey sported on the t-shirt. First stop Main Street. We looked and looked, hit every store, repeating the process again on the way out. They had a lot of Mickey Mouse T-shirts, but not this one. Nuts. I looked for years afterward. Now, of course, I can simply have one made. Perhaps I will do just that. I’ve waited long enough. I’ll let you know how I make out.
Fast forward. (I hope you’re not too annoyed by my memories of future events related to a place I’m currently talking about. That’s how my mind works.) Fifteen months after our return from California, while taking a sabbatical from college, Dan and I spent about 3-4 months in Daytona Beach, Florida, two hours from Orlando. Dan’s meds were working just fine. For some reason, Dan and I ended up at Disney World’s grand opening, October 1, 1971. I remember little of our stroll through the New Disney theme park. (Yes, I continued my search for the correct Mickey Mouse t-shirt.) I do, however, remember the afterhours party at the apartment complex where most of the Disney employees seemed to be living. Early on, we were approached by Tinkerbell and Minnie Mouse. The real ones. How could this be, we all knew the real ones lived in Disneyland. Correct. These were the humans that wore their costumes. Two girls. They remembered seeing us earlier that day in the main square. Wow. Thousands of people and they remember us. Two chunky kids from the boonies with beetle haircuts. What an ego boost. Perhaps it was my blue jean jacket. And they knew I had worn it at Woodstock. Either way, they’re noticing us made our day.
Laguna Beach
At some point Dan and I decided to head down to Mexico. It was only 140 miles south of LA, and San Diego was on the way. An added bonus. The San Diego Zoo, naval ships, and Sea World. At that time the Golden State Freeway (Rt. 5), between LA and San Diego was not yet completed. So, we took the coastal route. The Pacific Coast Highway (PCH), aka Route 1. We began our trip in Santa Monica, winding our way through Marina Del Ray and Manhattan Beach. * My wife Deborah’s home town. She grew up 4 blocks from the beach. On to the industrial city of Long Beach and through Huntington Beach, where Deborah ended up spending her high school years. We skirted Newport Beach and Balboa Island, then found ourselves at a traffic light on the main street of Laguna Beach. If you’ve ever been to Laguna, you know this scenic coastal city lives up to its reputation. An acclaimed artist colony with spectacular light and a memorable landscape. We had only been on the road a few hours but we could not resist its calling.
When we were there, the population of Laguna Beach was 20,500. Today it is only 22,200. An increase of only 7.5% over 56 years. Speaking no doubt to the high cost of living.
We decided to stay the night after locating a campground on the edge of town.
Around 9 that evening we became a bit restless and drove over to Heisler Park. An ocean front park with walking trails, gardens, picnic tables, and parking. It is situated on the bluffs above the sand. We parked at the far end of the parking lot and decided to…. In order to continue, I must reopen our discussion of the alleged yellow Blue Bonnet container. That may or may not have been hidden in the driver side door panel of our van.
By declassifying this mystery, I can speak to its contents. Done. I am no longer contractually obligated to keep it a secret. Surprise. It held a quantity of what in the day was known as Acapulco Gold. Its sole purpose was medicinal, for the most part. It took the edge off long distance travel some evenings while **camping. Tonight was one of them. Feeling lighter, we set off to descend the steps leading to the beach. Suddenly, out of nowhere, we noticed two policemen hurriedly walking past cars in the parking lot, shining their flashlights into each one as they passed. One matter-of-factly stated, “You’ve been smoking pot”. They were young, well groomed, and right out of central casting. More like Starsky and Hutch then Tootie & Muldoon. Shaken by his comments and more than a little defensive, I shot back: “But officer, were just tourists passing through town and…”. “Get out of here”. No need to ask twice. They were gone before we reached the van. We dodged a bullet. Why? How? Perhaps they were called away on more important business? Or, being not much older than us, imbibed themselves when off duty or on the weekends? Who knows? We did, however, have good reason to be concerned about what had just happened.
Note: In 1970, possessing or smoking marijuana in California was a felony, in 95-99% of cases. With potential sentences of 1-10 years in state prison. Similar to New York law. Yikes. Uh, Mom, Dad, we’re not coming home.
Texas was widely considered the harshest for cannabis possession. Any amount was a felony. Prison sentences ranged from two years to life in prison. Life. Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
We walked to the edge of the cliff and tossed the remaining contents of the yellow Blue Bonnet container into the darkness below. Granted there was little left, but in that moment our gesture was liberating…cleansing and a big relief.
*When quizzing Deborah about her whereabouts in 1970 we determined that she and her family were in the process of moving from Manhattan Beach to Huntington Harbor. There is some likelihood that we were both on the highway, perhaps following one another the day Dan and I passed through on our way south.
**We never opened the container while on the open road.
Hussong’s- Ensenada…Post Laguna Beach Pot Tossing
Ever watch two dogs passing within fifty feet of one another, anxiously struggling to get closer, each owner frantically pulling on their leash to avoid contact. Meanwhile, the dogs are jumping, whining, and barking cries of desperation at what must feel like a once in a lifetime opportunity to embrace what could be the love of their life. Dogs easily recognize one of their own. This phenomenon is not unlike the behavior of teenagers and young adults. Seeking out “their kind” in a crowd nearly oblivious to the elders that mar their landscape. The ones that don’t understand them or appreciate their needs and wants. In short, just more parents. It may not be as obvious as watching dogs, but notice how young people seek each other out. Their mutual smiles, head nodding acknowledgments, and rapid-fire banter give them away. Without anyone tugging their leashes, total strangers are able to exchange information, trade ideas, or introduce outsiders to what’s cool hip or happening in the hood.
Many of the places we visited and the things we did were not the result of careful planning, but rather after random encounters with strangers. People our age. People who looked like us. People we thought we could trust. All based on little more than our instincts.
This is how Dan and I ended up at Hussong’s Mexican Cantina. Reputedly the home of the Original Margarita. It is located in Ensenada, Mexico, 75 miles south of Tijuana and has been selling Spirits since 1890. How else would we have discovered this popular hangout for California’s youth if not for our helpful, thoughtful hosts.
Then again it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to do the math. In New York the drinking age was then 18. In California, it was 21. In Mexico, it was 18. Dan and I were nineteen and twenty respectively. No wonder Hussong’s was jam-packed with American kids, each and every weekend. Perhaps Dan and I merely intuited it.
No trip to Mexico would be complete without a little, excitement. You’re no doubt familiar with the infamous Federales, the highly feared Federal Police Force (now disbanded), known to establish arbitrary highway checkpoints in order to extort money from unsuspecting tourists. Dan and I, were oblivious to their existence. Never heard of them. We did witness an encounter of a truckload of Federales with a car full of kids, no doubt from Southern California. Given our recent encounter with the Laguna Beach police and the sight of about a dozen soldiers armed with semi-automatic weapons made us a tad… uncomfortable. Let’s get out of here.
Baby Boomers & Social Media
Hold on a second. Let me rewind back to my earlier comment about relying on strangers to help guide us on our journeys. The more I think about it, personal contact with others, be it random or planned, was at the core of how baby boomers communicated. We learned about what was happening, major events, cool places to go, new musical releases, important stuff, face to face. Either at school, at work, on the playing field, in our neighborhoods, and especially over the telephone. This was in addition to what we gleaned from the radio, our daily newspapers, and the televised evening news. Combined, the network we helped put together in the 1960’s and 70’s for learning, exchanging ideas, and promoting, well, just about everything was the essence of what social media should be. Don’t you think? Today’s use of the term is a misnomer. An unsuitable designation for what couldn’t be further from genuine social interaction. Damn. We invented actual, true to the concept, social media and must claim it as our own. Spread the word.
Okay. Back to business and… I am sorry about all these “fits and stops” but you try piecing together a 5 week journey from over 50 years ago without notes, receipts or anything else other than distant memories. Sheesh.
Back to the USA- Time to head home.
Soon after returning from Mexico, hugging the outskirts of San Diego while attempting to navigate a hodgepodge of different freeways (Rt. 15 did not yet exist) that would get us to our next destination, Las Vegas, we noticed that the engine sounded a bit “robust”. Throaty, if you will. Within an hour, it became a real concern. The volume of the engine noise only increased. And now there was a distinct odor filling the cabin. Clearly associated with what was going on below. We pulled over to evaluate our situation and discovered that there was clearly a hole in the muffler. Naturally we thought it would fix itself and tried to ignore it for a few more hours. Eventually, since we needed gas anyway, we pulled into a full-service station. Luckily, even though I didn’t know it existed, they had muffler repair tape. It is actually designed for small holes in the tailpipe. Our hole was mostly in the muffler itself. We paid the dollar for three feet of tape. We wrapped the hole with about two thirds of it, using the sticky black tar that came with the kit. It seemed to work pretty well for a few hours, although it still stunk a bit. Then Kabluey! We stopped, squashed one of our Coke cans and wrapped it around the hole using our remaining twelve inches of tape and deemed it good enough. There’s a reason I’m spending so much time detailing our muffler story. You’ll find out later. We knew the air quality inside the van was probably not all that good. But remember the era in which we lived. Cars ran on leaded gas without catalytic converters. You couldn’t see the mountains from downtown Los Angeles or Denver on a good day due to smog. Smoking was allowed everywhere, including airplanes and restaurants. We, therefore, soldiered on. Incorporating the noise and smell into our “adventure”.
We made it to Las Vegas where one lasting memory was created. I was driving when a policeman pulled us over and asked a few questions. He then reached past me, picking up a bota bag on the seat next to me. He squeezed it once or twice, put it down, and left. Dan insisted the officer could determine the bags contents merely by feel. The difference between wine, liquor, and its actual contents, water. It’s strange the things we remember.
The Grand Canyon
It was an eight-to-ten-hour trip from Las Vegas to the south rim of the Grand Canyon through mostly desert. Dan spent nearly all that time asleep in the back. Upon arrival I wandered over to the edge of the canyon alone. Gradually succumbing to its overwhelming majestic powers. An emotional experience like no other. I could only observe, silently, along with the others who had made the trek. My second and third encounters were no different. Perhaps stronger. I could not convince Dan to have a look himself. Man, he must be pretty sick. I chalked it up to the fumes from the muffler.
We headed over to Albuquerque and from a hilltop high above the city witnessed a spectacular sunrise. One that energized us for our trip north to Denver. Dan seemed to be feeling a little better, eating and talking a bit. Able to occupy the copilot seat and help navigate.
Denver-Boulder
In about a month or so, after our visit, the Denver Broncos would play their 1st season following the AFL-NFL merger. Denver’s professional basketball team were the Rockets, not the Nuggets. Today’s Colorado Rockies were the Denver Bears. Three months prior to our arrival, Denver was selected to host the 1976 Winter Olympics. Two years later, following a statewide referendum, Denver became the only city in history to formerly reject and return the Olympics after winning the bid. The citizens of Colorado voted it down primarily for concerns over the environmental impact and the ever-escalating costs involved.
Denver was nice but it was Boulder we wanted to explore.
As you can imagine, spending multiple weeks cooped up in a van takes its toll. Even on the best of friends. Add the toxic smell of a leaking exhaust system, a dwindling food supply, and a sore fanny. We arrived in Boulder after what felt like an obligatory drive through Denver one late afternoon. It was early August and hot as hades. Did I mention we did not have an air conditioner? We went to Boulder because of its reputation.
A small college town of 66,000 nearly 1/3 of whom were students at the University of Colorado. A premier counterculture (there’s that term again) hub. A hippie mecca with a vibrant, youthful, alternative scene. Whatever. Celebrated for its thriving music venues and 3.2 beer. Although the legal drinking age in Colorado was 21, you could purchase low-alcohol content (3.2%) beer at 18. Regular beer was 4.5-5.5%. Seems to me that any college student worth their salt could easily make up the difference. The powers that insisted one could not become intoxicated on 3.2 beer prevailed and over 2 dozen 3.2 bars quickly sprung up in the late 60’s.
I was driving and had no idea where to go, what to see or where to park. The Pearl Street Mall did not yet exist. Several blocks of Pearl were still dirt roads. Dan was not himself. I pulled over and we argued over one thing or another. All of a sudden Dan abruptly got out of the van, grabbed his bag and left. Okaaay.
I sat for a while somewhat stunned and naturally concerned given his recent condition. After waiting for close to an hour, I drove off and spend a restless night somewhere. Returning the next morning to find Dan right where we had parted ways. Much to my delight. Given the mood we decided to curtail our sightseeing and left Boulder behind. Besides, we were dangerously low on money.
St. Louis, Missouri
Unlike many pioneers, explorers, settlers, gold seekers, or land grabbers, our journey to California did not begin in Saint Louis… “Gateway to the West”. Just as well, perhaps, since historically Saint Joseph, Missouri was renowned as the gateway to the West. Headquarters for the Pony Express. Interestingly, Independence, Missouri and Kansas City also laid claims to this designation. Any of these towns were more or less the final supply stop for those embarking on the Oregon or California trails. Apparently, Saint Louis had more resources ($) and beat the others to the punch when in 1965 they erected a 630 ft. tall stainless-steel monument commemorating the Western expansion of the United States- The Gateway Arch. It is our tallest monument and the world’s tallest arch. Nearly triple the height of the never-to-see-the-light-of-day Trump arch. Dan and I were well aware of its existence and oohed and awed as we pass by.
Terre Haute– Down & Out
Funny how you never forget certain things. Those events that challenge us or, perhaps embarrass us.
This is one of them. As it turned out, we did run out of money, completely in Terre Haute, Indiana. Three hours down the road from the arch and 600 miles from home. We were also low on gas, perhaps out of food. Long out of pizzelles. Why we waited until our wallets were empty is anybody’s guess. Anyway, we were too proud to call home and ask for help, but not too proud to do the all-American thing. We panhandled. Hitting the jackpot on our very first encounter. We asked the first person we saw if he had any spare change. He looked at us, reached into his pocket pulling out a handful of coins. I was astounded by the quantity. Had he raided his piggy bank? He placed it in our outstretched hands and said, “here you go. Get out of Terre Haute, it’s a drag”. I never forgot those words. For the record, Terra Haute didn’t seem that bad. Then again, I was only passing through.
We took his advice. Dan called home. While waiting several hours for Western Union to process the request, (what, no Venmo?) we used the stranger’s gift to get some gas, chow down, and take stock of our situation.
Home Again
We limped into Batavia in the early evening after what felt like a sprint from Terre Haute, now 600 miles behind us. You know how you feel after a really long car trip? That was us, compounded by 4-5 weeks of close quarter living and a smelly exhaust system. Dan and I parted ways. Bye, see ya. That was it. Our big adventure was over.
I don’t remember getting near the van for about a week. My father jumped in and got it ready to sell. He washed it and touched it up a bit using a paint brush to cover the rust spots. Tom Cahoon, a friend of ours, plopped down the asking price $65, no questions asked. Two weeks later I ran into Tom and he informed me that the van “blew up”. Thanks, TJ. I muttered something about “as is” condition. He smiled. Didn’t really seem to care. Wasn’t mad. Didn’t ask for his money back.
A few weeks after returning, Dan was hospitalized. His bouts with depression that I had witnessed during our return trip gave way to his becoming manic. Complicated by an obvious break from reality. I was able to spend some time with Dan the night before his hospitalization. It was unsettling, as it was for his parents, Carmen and Mary. How unfair I thought. He’s just a kid for Christ’s sake.
And there you have it. TJ’s & Dan’s Big Adventure. I hope some parts of our story were enjoyable, perhaps informative. Most of all I hope they triggered your own, early, on your own, away from home journeys through life.
TJ
P.S. If I had any doubts or misgivings about moving to California in the months following our trip, they evaporated with the release of “Going to California” in November of 1971. Not necessarily a Led Zeppelin fan. This is one of my favorites, the other being “Stairway to Heaven”. Boy, it appears that I have let music dictate my life. Or at least influence my decisions. Better yet, hopefully my choice of music reflects my true hopes and desires.
Afterward: Dan and I spent anywhere between four and five weeks traveling from Batavia, New York to California, and back, thanks to our 1964 VW van. We traveled a total of approximately 5900 miles. Click the tab below for a more detailed breakdown. Gas prices were surprisingly uniform in 1970 between states. All the states through which we traveled charged between .34 cents and .36 cents per gallon of gas, leaded, of course. Our van averaged 22 miles per gallon. Doing the math, we spent a grand total of $98 on gas for the entire journey.
I left my home in the small Western New York city of Batavia in March 1977 vowing never to shovel snow again. Never say never. Settling for 38 years in what was for me the "promised land" of Santa Barbara, California. I married, helped raise a family, started a business, traveled and live a wonderful life. We spent the last 10 years of our west coast journey in the small, quiet, picturesque town of Ojai. My oldest friends call me TJ.
My wife Deborah and I moved to Colorado in 2015 to be near our daughter, her husband and 2 growing grand-boys. Add 2 bulldogs (French & English) to the mix and our hands and hearts are full. We all reside in Niwot, a small quaint town 15 minutes north of Boulder. The mighty Rocky Mountains are at our doorstep.
I am a man, son, brother, cousin, friend, husband, father, uncle, grand father, in-law and mostly retired Coloradan. You can read more about me on the About Page. If you are curious about my professional life you can visit my Career at Venture Horizon.
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