This post dates to 12 November, 2003. I had just inaugurated the blog, and was using it to publish a travelogue of a post-college road trip with my grandmother. I had approximately no readers at this point, but I had lots of free time to write.
This incident started off a month-long odyssey of driving up and down the Western Seaboard crashing automobiles. This road trip, and its sequel, will occupy the first three 'Best Of' posts.
----
Today began early, in San Jose. We woke up. We pulled ourselves together, and we headed out, straight into Bay Area traffic. Bleah. Jams, merges, interchanges, and finally the freeway dumped us right in the middle of San Francisco itself. We had to make our way across SF surface streets to the magnificent Golden Gate Bridge. I would so love to wax on about its miraculous construction, its beauty and its significance as an icon, but it's been done to death by the Dicovery Channel. We hit the other side of the bridge just about 9:30. Matt Drudge was subbing for Rush and David Limbaugh had just announced his brother's triumphant return. We stopped for an excellent breakfast in Sausalito and mailed Katy's keys back to her via a remarkably flamboyant mail clerk. (Was that really this morning? It feels like last week.) We stopped next at Muir Woods NP. Muir Woods is unassociated with John Muir. It was just named for him in memory of his conservation work. Muir Woods NP is 400 acres of redwood stands in a little valley just a few miles from Sausalito. Damp, cool, dark, and very beautiful. Nothing to the redwoods we would see in the northern reaches of the Golden State.
You mean the redwoods we were supposed to be in the middle of? Yeah, but we'll come back to that. We trundled up the PCH as far as Fort Bragg, and got sidetracked, fortunately, onto a cross highway that took us to the 101. Took us there by way of a mountain range or four. It was winding, precipitous, and magnificent. We're lucky in that it's mid-November, and yet the weather is warm enough that I can ride with the window open much of the way. We went through charming little towns and dark canyons and dramatic coastline. Great dinner at a Chinese restaurant in Fortuna. &c. &c. Millions of travel writers can take more time to describe the scenery. It's beautiful. I highly recommend it. But what you want to hear about is the deer.
The deer? Yes, the deer.
About a mile beyond some town at the northern reaches of Eureka, a great Doobie Brother's song was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a deer. My reaction was admirably described by the tow truck driver, who had had similar experiences. It went like this, and took about 1/3 of a second.
"Deer. That's wrong."
(And I imagine that the deer had a similar thought process. "Dodge Grand Caravan. That's wrong." Though I don't know if the deer had time to get to "That's wrong" before the more immediate needs of accounting for body parts took over.)
And then it was inside the perimeter where the fender was supposed to have been, and then pieces of deer, pink and until very recently operating normally, went shooting in all directions. I don't know if the deer had time to properly account for body parts, but I am willing to testify that it did not hit the ground with a full complement of 4 legs and a head. I am pleased to report that my reflexes were dead on, and I did not foolishly try to swerve. Rolling the van would have been a negative outcome.
My mother, by reading to this point, is horrified. She is entirely uninterested in the disposition of Bambi's appendages. For her benefit, I wil assure my readers that we are 110% unharmed. The radiator was thoroughly killed. The left headlight will not be casting its yellow radiance over any more highways. But the windshield is intact, unharmed, and blissfully free of blood and pink bits. The airbags are undeployed.
We stopped quickly and pulled over, but there was no jerk on impact, no whiplash. A promise, Mom, we are utterly unharmed.
911. AAA. Officer [I am so bad with names! I spent an hour on the side of Highway 101 with him, and I can't remember his name!] of the California Highway Patrol was a very nice, pleasant fellow. He posed with Grandma Jan for a picture. He waited with us until the tow truck arrived. He gave recommendations on hotels and breakfast in Eureka.
The tow truck came and we were treated to a ride with a very unusual tow truck driver. A survivalist/BBC World Service listener. He had a vocabulary that I would not typically associate either with his occupation as a tow truck driver, or what he told us of his past activities in life.
Now, we're bunked at the Day's Inn, right next door to the Dodge dealership. In the morning, they'll go pry the remaining bits of Bambi out of the air intake, and see what they can tell us. We were looking forward to a restful night in the bosom of the Redwood forest. Instead, it's historic Eureka.
As always, this won't go up until I get a web connection. It's 2321 right now, so it's not gonna happen this night. And tomorrow?
Eureka!
Comments