Portapalooza

 

Word to the wise: Don’t break down in Piercy at 10:30 p.m. on Reggae weekend.

All told, I spent several hours on the side of the road last Friday night, driving a couple of miles then pulling over on the side of the road for an hour to let the engine cool. The best stop was at the Patriot gas station there at the entrance to Richardson Grove, right across from the festival. The heads offered me beer and mechanical advice, even though I couldn’t help them with contraband tickets. Eventually I made it back to Garberville, where I slept in the car. The streets were empty, as if the entire town had decamped to hear UB40 play the banks of the Eel. It came to me that I have only spent the night in Garberville twice in my life, both times because I had been stranded there.

When I woke in the morning I set about securing the essentials: coffee and a mechanic. The first was no problem; the second, I found, was impossible. There were a few places open, but they all told me that I would have to make an appointment three weeks in advance. And no, I couldn’t leave my car there in the meanwhile. It was a sympathetic tow truck driver who eventually sorted me out in time-honored SoHum fashion — he figured a way for me to scam AAA out of a free tow back to my mechanics in Eureka. It worked beautifully, but it turned out to be all for naught. Blown head gasket.

So it wasn’t really worth it in strict financial terms, but I have to say that this little trip back in time to my 20s had its sweet side. I stood on the side of the highway for an hour on a warm moonless night, all alone except for the last strands of a bass line worming their way up the canyon. Since the ATMs and shops were all closed at Avenue of the Giants, I had to spange for quarters to work the air and water machine. Once in town, I had to scope out quiet spots to park my rig for the night. I’ve all but resolved to do this once a year, every August — to take off somewhere with no money or prospects, to fight my way there and back and see what I can make of it. Only thing is, I can’t tell whether I’m motivated by nostalgia for America’s high times or fear of its future collapse.

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