Keeping my eyes on the empty 101, I retrieved my iPhone from my camera bag and tapped the top button, illuminating the screen. 10:13.
Waking from a doze, Trevor spoke over the syncro's highway noise, "How far are we from Crescent City?"
"Hhmm, maybe four hours? We just passed Garbville, the pot capital of the world, and we're still a few hours from the coast."
"Yah, lets call it," Jeremy agreed.
"Cool, I'll look for a place. We are in National Forrest now, gods country." I turned down the heater, in attempt to keep me from nodding off at the wheel.
A few miles a head, I spotted a gravel road heading off the highway on the right. Down shifting, I breaked and prepared to take the gravel road at speed.
"Shit..Is everything okay?" Startled, Jeremy moaned from the backseat.
"Don't worry, this is not my first rodeo," I laughed as we bounced up the steep grade, coasting down from 60 to 35mph.
"You sure this is Kosher? What kind of road is this?"
"Ehh it looks like a logging road. It's in really good condition," I surmised looking at the well worn tire tracks. For a mile or two, we rumbled up the steep grade in second. Along the way, we passed a few drive ways with gates and "No trespassing" signs. This raised some redflags, but I kept my mouth shut. In northern California, these signs, when coupled with large gates on dead end access roads, often indicated a thriving local economy. Marijuana cultivation. They proprietors are notoriously paranoid and often chase people away from their property with friendly serving of rocksalt courteous a 12 gage shotgun. I wanted none of this but after a full day of surfing Ocean Beach in San Francisco, I could have fallen asleep at an Insane Clown Possie concert.
Spotting a large shoulder out on the right, I pulled over.
"This should be good," I told Trevor and Jeremy as well as myself. Rocking between first and reverse, I found a level spot and turned off the van.
Crawling over camer bags, surfboards and food for three for a week, I cleared space for three on the folding bed.
"It's going to be real cozzie tonight," Jeremy laughed.
"Sure is, either that or one of us sets up a tent, and it sure as fuck wont be me."
No one volunteered and within a few moments, the three of us were laying down. Pillow talk was scarce and in a few minutes all over us were snoring.
Trevor on the six string early one morning.
Equipped to rip!
Trevor and Joe Curren checking waves on the Northern California Coast.
Joe searching for steelhead in Oregon.
Kanoa Zimmerman removing a stick from his truck at Ocean Beach.
Laying it out plain and simple.
Howling off shore somewhere on the southern Oregon Coast.
Unmuffled engine breaking started down the logging road before sunrise. Rapping a fleece around my head like bandana, I prolonged the inevitable separation from my sleeping bag.
"Rise and shine, its buttwhipping time!" I announced to Trevor and Jeremy.
Grumbling, we emerged from our sleeping bags and set t he van up for transport. Firing up engine, we headed down the gravel road towards the 101.
"We'll be in Arcata by lunch."
Here are some links,