All the Way to Jackson

Thursday, November 18

The view out my front window first thing this morning:

How inconsiderate, entitled and/or clueless, and it happens constantly. I know, I know: what do I expect when I live in a city? And what’s the big deal anyway? Who cares?

Well, I do. I’ve encountered three types of parking violator in my driveway:

1. Those who nose into it just enough so I can barely see past them when backing out into the traffic. 
2. Those who, like this individual, are far enough across it to make my exit challenging, if not impossible.
3. Those who block it entirely.

I’ve been known to ask the Albany cops to show up and ticket a Type #2 or Type #3, but far more often, I do nothing about it—maybe because I never know if the offending car will be there for ten more minutes (no biggie) or hours (biggie). And of course I’ve never loved involving the authorities in matters in the first place, or ruining someone’s day with a fine.

It occurs to me just now how differently I’d think about calling the police if I were a person of color. As it is, I have little reason to fear what might happen when they show up at my door. My access to such public services is something I take for granted. I’ve never understood how anyone could deny the existence of “white privilege.”

Anyhow, in the case of today’s Lexus SUV, I figured it would be gone within minutes—someone would never leave it like that for long—and opted not to summon the fuzz. Could I have navigated around it if I had to? Tricky, but maybe. Could I do it safely? Definitely not.

Six hours later the Lexus butthead had not reappeared so I changed my mind and made the call. A heap of hours after that, after dark fell, it was still there, though now with a citation on its windshield.

Friday, November 19

Today it’s the start of Lulu’s and my weekend getaway to an AirBnB in the country outside of Jackson—and my driveway is clear! I can’t get this wonderful Lucinda Williams song off my mind.

Though check-in wasn’t till 4:00, I figured it was better to leave the Bay Area early and find some stuff to do at my destination rather than sit in Friday rush-hour traffic. So I was on the road at 11:00. First stop: Ione, on TJ’s suggestion, to see the Preston School of Industry, a now-defunct reform school whose youthful inmates once included Merle Haggard, a talented creep. Here’s his famous take on events of the late 60s–early 70s:

We don’t burn our draft cards down on Main Street.
We like livin’ right, and bein’ free…
We don’t let our hair grow long and shaggy
Like the hippies out in San Francisco do.

His incarceration groomed him for bigger and better things.

And I turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole
No one could steer me right, but Mama tried, Mama tried.

(Well, he didn’t get “life without parole”—I guess that bit’s there for effect and rhythm—but he did turn 21 in San Quentin.

Next stop: Jackson, to visit Kennedy Tailing Wheels Park (which I couldn’t find for ages because you can’t believe everything you read on the Internet). Have you ever heard tell of a “tailing wheel”? Me neither, but now I’m an expert. The park features two honkin’ ones, over fifty feet in diameter.

Here’s the story: In 1914 the government (much belatedly) imposed some pollution-abatement requirements on gold mining operations because the tailings (waste products) were poisoning waterways and causing flood danger to the valleys below. In response, the Kennedy Mine built four of these giants, of which only two remain. Fitted with redwood buckets, they hoisted the tailings up and sent them via flumes from one wheel to the next and then over the adjacent hill, dumping them safely half a mile away behind a dam at Indian Gulch.

While I was lost, seeking the wheels, I passed a small road that piqued my curiosity: China Graveyard Road. During the gold rush a lot of Chinese people immigrated to California where they were treated despicably, and some gold rush towns had separate cemeteries for them. Ever hopeful, I took that route but discovered no justification for the street’s name. Oh well.

Oh, interesting: I just read that along that route there was indeed a Chinese graveyard (now it’s private land), but in 1928 all the bodies were disinterred and taken back to China by family and friends.

The town of Jackson itself features a large “Impeach Biden” banner, plenty of American flags, cutesy shops, and nary a mask-wearer. I blasted out of there as quickly as I could and went for an uninspiring 2.5-mile walk around the dammed Lake Tabeaud twenty minutes away.

In late afternoon, still with an hour to kill, I set off in search of the Mokelumne River and found the funky little Electra Road that winds along it for three miles before the dead-end.

Encountering a car coming from the opposite direction presented challenges. Here’s why:

At last it was time to go to the B+B.

I hung out until Molly arrived in pitch dark a little after 6:00. Because I copy her in so many ways, we have matching ultralight toiletries bags.

We built a fire and yacked till midnight.

Who knows what tomorrow may bring. A hike, possibly?