Contributing writer
It’s been five years since I’ve driven to California. Most often, I’ve been flying from Wichita to San Francisco, been met by my kids at the airport, and driven around like a celebrity in a limo.
This time, we decided to drive.
“How long is this trip, anyway?” asked my sister, Jess, the reluctant traveler. “Loooong,” I answered, not wanting to discourage her with the facts.
Through the 10 years since we moved to Ramona, TTT (Tim Steinborn) was our driving buddy on quite a few long-distance treks to California. He liked having his own wheels on foreign soil and between the three of us, driving was not that big of a chore.
I remember the first time Tim came with us to California. We flew and then rented a car.
“Don’t they have any straight roads in California?” Tooltime Tim wanted to know.
After all, he was born and bred in Kansas, the land of straight lines and square miles. In California, the roads dipped and curved, almost meeting themselves on the uptake.
“You drive,” he said.
The scenery through the mountains of Colorado and into Utah was spectacular. We took side trips and pictures galore, so we could remember.
“How many more times do you think we’ll make this drive?” I asked Jess.
The longer we drove, the less likely for it to be any time soon.
You can imagine how thrilled we were to start up the mountains dividing Nevada from California. I kept thinking of the Donner Party crossing the Sierras in their covered wagons.
“How did they have the nerve to try this?” I wondered.
Here I was in my lovely air- conditioned, smooth sailing, posh, Grandma Car, sailing along and still managing to look over the edge of the road and beyond. In my mind, I’m imagining this long line of weary pilgrims in covered wagons. I was feeling like a weary pilgrim myself, after only three days of driving. Right about now I was wishing for some plodding company on the road.
Instead, I was three lanes deep with a bunch of speeding vehicles all going way over the speed limit in almost bumper-to-bumper formation.
“What’s with these drivers?” I wondered.
As I’m attempting to get out of someone’s way who is riding my bumper and blinking their lights at me — going downhill, around curves at 75 to 80 mph in a 65 mph speed zone, I’m cut off on the right by a bus with a 55 mph limit supposedly.
“Does anyone in this pack follow the speed limit sign?”
Whew, I’m coming from Ramona where you are usually a single driver on a two-lane road.
Within minutes of my downhill slalom run, I’m stuck in another traffic jam like a school of fish dipping and bobbing over the hills toward Sacramento. We’re 20 miles from any known city and look at these cars!
I count the lanes: five going each direction plus two turn lanes — we’re talking seven lanes across. All full, bumper-to-bumper at 2 o’clock in the afternoon on a weekday. Culture shock!
Where are they all going in such a hurry? When we arrive in Sacramento, we stop at a traffic light and look around. There are cars, cars, cars, as far as we can see. There are cars crossing in front of us, cars behind us, cars parked on the side of the road, and huge lots full of cars for sale beyond the curb on the right and left.
There is also traffic noise. We get out of the car and notice the background of city life is noise. In the country, our background is quiet, unless the neighbor’s dogs are barking. In the city, all we hear is the sound of motorized movement. Quickly, we headed out of town toward what I used to call country in the Napa Valley.
Back in Kansas, spring was on the doorstep as we headed west. In California, spring was in full bloom with green hills, blue skies, purple Lupines, and orange California poppies sweeping the hillsides and running along ditches at every turn. The Napa Valley vineyards were just beginning to show fresh, young leaves.
Jess was driving. I was taking pictures out the window of the car.
“I’ve forgotten how beautiful it is here,” I said. “What the heck are we doing in Kansas?”
Spring in Ramona seems to be a rough season with a lot of wind and tornado threats in the weather and similar upheaval in the town.
I guess it’s all part of what it means to spend another day in the country.