Having turned away from the traffic jam on 20, we drove back the few miles to I5. We’d intended to skip this highway since we’d driven it before and wanted to take new roads. Well, we figured, we’d still take a new road.
Just up 5 is the town of Red Bluff. Heading west from there is highway 36, which goes through the mountains. Or over, depending on your point of view. We looked at a map, thought “sure, we can stop atPlatina for the night and cross over in the early morning.”
Heh.
We should probably have stopped in Red Bluff, which seemed to be a charming little place with hotels, restaurants, local color, all on display as we cut through it and boldly set out on 36.
It was just too early to check in, there was plenty of sunlight, and our final destination on this leg was supposed to be Eureka. So we rolled along the two-lane, which began winding. And winding.
And winding past some terrific scenery, which at the beginning we gleefully stopped often to photograph.
We rolled into Platina, though, only to find a general store, a gas station, and one visible blacktop lined with houses. Stopping for cold drinks, we asked about accommodations. The woman behind the counter looked at us in a combination of amazement and pity.
“Nothing here. But up the road about eight miles or so is Bridgeville, they got a motel. But really, you got plenty of daylight, you might make it all the way over before dark.”
With those encouraging words, we drove on. Bridgeville was a bit further than eight miles. We almost missed it. We drove over a bridge, yes, but aside from the sign for the town all we saw were three people out walking their dogs and pushing a strolled.
“No, the hotel closed down last year some time,” one of them told us. “Best bet is to head for Fortuna.”
Fortuna lay on the other side of the range. We stopped to assess.
The entire winding drive on highway 36 had been an exercise in frustration. Speed limit signs told us we could go 55, but twenty feet on was a warning to take the next set of curves at 25. On top of which, instead of the Corolla which we’d requested, we’d gotten a Mazda 3. (I know, rental agencies cannot guarantee a specific model, and they use car type as a rough guide, assuming all cars of a certain size and engine capacity are the same. They’re not.) Donna wasn’t familiar enough with the Mazda to ignore the warnings, so a two hour drive turned into three-plus, and by the time we descended into Fortuna we were both a bit weary and eager for a straight road.
We tanked up and asked for directions to a motel. Vague handwaving took us down a road that led to a motel in the classic sense—a long row of rooms attached to a glass-fronted check-in. As we pulled in, though, I note a number of semis and several doors open, the guests socializing, beers in hand, and music playing from either a truck or one of the rooms. When I was told the price for the night, I spun around and went back to the car.
“We keep going.”
Road-toasted as she was, Donna continued on. We ended up on highway 101, where we’d originally intended to be at the start of the day. “Let’s just head for Eureka,” said.
She nodded. At least the road was straight.
As we pulled into Eureka, we found ourselves on motel row. A buffet of options.
“That one!” Donna said suddenly. “The Best Western.”
“Okay. Why?”
“There’s a Marie Callendar restaurant next to it.”
We’d found Marie Callendar on our first trip to California in 2001. In the midwest we know nothing of this. Here, Marie Callendar is no more than a selection of frozen dinners at the supermarket. Out here, though, there’s a chain of restaurants. And pretty good ones for a chain.
The Best Western room cost more, but it didn’t matter. Clean room, comfortable bed, and by quarter of ten we were sitting in a booth in the restaurant for basically our first meal of the day since breakfast.
After that, bed. Just…bed.
