In 2003 I drove solo 5,139 miles over a period of thirteen days, from LA to Seattle and then to Boston. I kept an audio journal, which I later transcribed. What you’re reading is an edited version, mostly for clarity, but also to make me sound cooler than I really am. I hope you enjoy it.

Day One

I’m zooming down the 110 south at 11:15 am after filling my tank for $30.50.  Less than an hour to noon is not when you want to start a road trip, but I couldn’t sleep last night and couldn’t wake-up this morning. C’est la vie.

“It is what it is.
You are what you it.
There are no mistakes.”
-Tom Robbins, “Villa Incognito”

It’s an overcast day with some sprinkles, and moderate traffic.  Pretty soon I’ll be on the 5 North, the road I’ll traverse until reaching Seattle.

I haven’t had any music in my car since my CD player was stolen more than a year ago, but knowing I’d be driving this long by myself, I needed something.  Yesterday I went to K-Mart and bought a portable CD/cassette player on the cheap, and we’ll see how it does.

Do I have any last words for L.A.?  I quit my job at California Pizza Kitchen and basically torched my life for this trip. There must be something clever to say about leaving . . . but I don’t have it right now.

As I pass Olive Avenue and the Holliday Inn tower, I can’t help but think of that June afternoon almost exactly five years ago when I rolled into Burbank with the notion that anything was possible.  I had just completed a wonderful cross-country journey from Boston, with stops that included D.C., Atlanta, New Orleans, San Antonio, The Grand Canyon, and Las Vegas. I was going to be a successful screenwriter.

This is what I wrote in my Burbank apartment that first night after arriving in June 1998:

“The ceiling fan whirs above me as I lay on my new bed (delivered today, courtesy of Mom).  No music, just me and my excited thoughts.  California, the clichéd land of promise, but I honestly feel like anything is possible.  I had no choice but to come here.  It was RIGHT.  I have one feature length romantic comedy, three TV spec scripts, and a million ideas.  Whether I’m successful or not doesn’t matter.  The important thing is that I’m not hiding away in some dreary office building, living a fearful existence of conformity.”

That youthful optimism seems like maybe I was ten years younger.  The older version is far less positive, especially contending with the convoy of trucks which are causing this traffic.  Big rigs and super-sized rigs, all lumbering up the hill and obscuring my vision.  I wish I could be like Robert Pirsig and William Least Heat-Moon and take the Blue Roads.

But my goal is Seattle sometime tomorrow, and this is the fastest way.  Hell, this must be the only way unless I traveled some Byzantine route or took the coastal highway that would add days to my schedule I don’t have.  This first leg of the trip is going to be just concrete and asshole drivers, but I’ll try to make the best of it.

The sky is still slate gray, and you can somewhat see the outline of the mountains.  I shouldn’t look at this as one long 5,000-mile journey, but instead a bunch of day drives. Today I’m going to try and get 10 hours behind the wheel, maybe to Oregon or somewhere northern CA that doesn’t give me a bad ride to Seattle.

The 13-year-old Passat wagon does well on the gradual hills, but she struggles up the steep inclines.  Heading into Antelope Valley Freeway, it’s cloudy, overcast, and it kind of looks like smog up ahead . . . all very ugly.    

I’m now passing Magic Mountain and I think back to when I visited there a few weeks after September 11th.  It was hot, no shade anywhere, and hundreds of people everywhere.  Back then there was still some worry theme parks would be a target for terrorism.  Thankfully all I dealt with that day were long lines and the heat.  Turns out nobody wanted to bomb the Funnel Cake shack.

Stephanie, who used to be a regular at CPK for lunch in 2001, lives close to here.  She was studying fashion back then and was tall, thin, beautiful, and had long dark hair and a great smile.  We had wonderful conversations about books and films, and she recommended I read “The Alchemist” by Paulo Coelho.

I thought it was an interesting book and enjoyed the parable, and for a time I sought some meaning in why this captivating woman had recommended it to me.  She had a boyfriend and our relationship only stayed within the confines of 735 South Figueroa Street.  But for close to a year, she was somebody I really looked forward to seeing. 

There were a couple other regulars at CPK I formed friendships with in 2000-’01 that made an impression on me.  One named Heather who was from San Francisco, and the other was Jenna, originally from St. Louis, an actress who worked in an office who invited me to see her in a play (it was called Nosferatu, and she was excellent). Both of these ladies were married, to my severe disappointment, but I greatly enjoyed spending time with them. (2023 note: A few years later Jenna would become famous playing Pam on The Office).

A note on my packing for this adventure.  It was a frantic, procrastination fueled exit out of the house I rented in Silverlake with my former roommates Fozzie and Alison. I pretty much just shoved some clothes in a bag the night before while highly intoxicated.  I didn’t take any inventory I can’t remember what I brought. Hopefully sufficient underwear….

Heading up a pretty good incline, a steep grade to these roundish hills to my left.  Everything around here has that yellow-green mustard look.  I’m really climbing here, and the Passat is struggling.

My first big road adventure was eleven years ago with Rich Curley in that little 1992 Geo Metro, from Denver to LA and then back.  Going up some of those hills in Colorado, Arizona, and California, we couldn’t even top 35 mph.   But that’s another tale for another time.

We’ve crested another hill and we’re now going down.  Rolling hills ahead, the first decent scenery in a long time.  There’s some green ahead, green without that shitty mustard color.  

I can see a boisterous cloud on my left that hangs so low it seems like you can almost reach out and grab it.  I’m really enjoying this drive now, but naturally a hideous truck must drive right up my ass, even though I’m going more than 70.

The sun is out, and the temperature seems a bit warmer now. Another hill to navigate, so that truck is lagging far behind me now struggling up the incline.  Fuck him.  The mountains have taken on an almost sandy white look about them.  The yellow has dissipated and there’s a gray-green look.  A “For Sale” sign on my right. 

I don’t know why the hell you’d want to buy land here, but I see a sign for a Sizzler eight miles ahead. I guess with that land you could tempt weary travelers with a McDonalds or some other insidious fast-food franchise.  Just saw a sign that said elevation 3,000 ft and we’re climbing again.

The scenery up ahead is taking on a smoother texture.  The green shrubbery, trees, and the white sandy soil is smoothing out into flat looking prairie.  We’re coming up to the 130 Freeway- Lancaster/Palmdale.  Quail Lake Rd 1 mile.  The radio is off and I’m just taking everything in. 

I’ve gone so long without a radio, and this portable one is of poor quality with a tinny sound, so I’m enjoying the silence.  Besides, the tape ended, and I don’t want to jackknife into a ravine so I can listen to the Allman Brothers. I love them … but not that much.

I don’t have any air-conditioning, and it’s getting warmer.  I probably should have worn shorts instead of jeans. Sacramento is 323 miles away, Bakersfield 48. 

The mountains have that smooth, suede sort of look to them, a little yellowish, some green dotted here and there.  We’re coming up to Hungry Valley, elevation 4,000 feet.  Looks like we’re starting a decent here in Tejon Pass, 4,144 feet above sea level.

 At some point I’ll pull the car over and give it a rest.  I have a sandwich in the cooler and my stomach grumbles, but I feel the need to keep plowing forward.  Thank God I don’t have any poultry, because apparently poultry (according to the sign I’m reading) is prohibited in Kern County.  A little lake rests on the right, looking like an oasis, and the blue casts a nice shadow.  A sign proclaims that it’s a gusty, windy area for the next 27 miles.

After heading down a hill, I’m passing a whole bunch of flat farmland and my contact lenses are drying up on this dusty two lane highway.  A woman with a “World Peace, Keep Peace” bumper sticker just drove directly up my ass and cut over to the left lane.  It’s hot and I’d like to roll down my window, but the steamy wind and dirt-soaked air won’t be a relief. 

What’s up with these black billboards with quotes attributed to God?  “Have you read my number one bestseller?  There will be a test- God”.  I saw one in Eagle Rock a few weeks ago that said “What part of ‘thou shalt not’ did you not understand”. 

Maybe they are here to distract you from the shitty roads in Kings County.  And there’s some roadwork ahead, with a lot of orange cones.  But I’ve been driving for miles here, miles of cones, and I haven’t seen one worker!  I just passed a couple of guys in a truck, but they looked as if they were sleeping. Good work, if you can get it.

Well, that $30 I spent on that tape deck/radio just ate my Eagles cassette.  The Dude must be smiling somewhere.  I hate the fucking Eagles!  Maybe I should of had some Creedence.

Pleasant Valley State Prison ahead.  Quite pleasant, I’m sure.  Man, these combines, or whatever you call them, are kicking up a major dust storm in the fields. I wonder how much pesticide is in the air out here.

Cows! 

There are just cows and cows for miles, densely packed together.  Low yellow hills on my left and right are hiding the cattle now, but the stench penetrates the vehicle, making me wonder if one of those animals took a dump in my back seat. 

And now traffic has picked up and I can see many cars behind me and a bunch in front.  So you basically have a row of cars, all traveling about 80 mph, all within about 7 feet of each other.  And of course, you must have one All-Star, with his car dented to hell, driving fast in the right-hand lane, boxed into that truck, and he must cut somebody off even though it’s a fifty-fifty shot he’ll end his life and that driver’s one too.   

Ninety-nine miles to San Francisco.  Took two trips there a couple years back and fell in love with the trolleys and North Beach and the bridges and Vesuvio’s.  When I got back to Los Angeles, a horrible depression overwhelmed me, and I wanted to move to San Francisco.  I saw no sane reason why I should be living where I was when such a cool city was less than 400 hundred miles north.  And although I remained in Hollywood, that trip was a catalyst, making me realize that the quality of my life had become a shit sandwich with extra rancid mayonnaise.

I stop in Dunnigan for gas, coffee, and to eat my sandwich.

Back on the road, and it’s 6:17 pm and I’ve traveled 425 miles so far today. The scenery is still flat farmland on either side, unremarkable.  The sun is beating on the left side of my face, and I should have put on some sun block.

The sun thankfully slips behind a giant cloud, over by the silhouetted mountains.  On the top where the light is brightest, it reminds of a biblical painting.  Open sky, open land, and Jimmy Buffett singing on the tape deck . . . I am happy.

It seems to have gotten a lot greener since I passed Red Bluff.  There’s the Sacramento River again, and it emits a very peaceful vibe from here.  When I reach Shasta County I pop in a Kris Kristofferson CD and wonder why The Australian Hat Outlet is only a few miles ahead.  A sign says Portland 430 miles.

Shasta Dam waits for anybody who cares at the next exit, and the bulbous mountains with the verdant trees lull off the road for my pleasure.  And what about the cumulus clouds rising over the mountains.  Stunning as my car climbs into these green mountains. 

Shasta Lake on my left kicks the beauty level up a few more notches and the sun is ready to set.  I think I smell some campfires, but maybe my mind is zapping back to tents and marshmallows and crackling wood of days past.  This bridge goes over Shasta Lake, and this is the best scenery I’ve seen today.  The road cuts in and curves to the left, with the lake still on my right. 

One more stop at a rest area by the lake to snap a few pictures and enjoy my surroundings.  It’s almost 9 pm and we’re still squeezing out the last rays of sunlight.  The mountains are now silhouetted and Jackson Browne sings “Running on Empty”.  The sign says 400 miles to Portland, but that means nothing to me now since I’ll never reach it tonight.  

Hopefully we’re close to the Oregon border.  Nobody in front, nobody in back of me . . . perfect driving.  It’s just a curvy road with mountains, and the setting sun with the purple dusk to my left. 

Just when I think the day can’t end any better, Mount Shasta, with its snow-capped mountains, rises before me. The Passat climbs to a summit elevation of 4,470 feet.  The air is so clean here and I stick my head out the window and inhale deeply.

I see a sign for the Pacific Crest Trail . . . ahhhh, that would be so cool to hike that someday.  I need to make that happen. Still have some light squeaking out of the clouds.  Mount Shasta looks like a pyramid from here, a serrated pyramid that is perfectly silhouetted.

Finally arrive in Weed, which is the next 3 exits.  And of course, in this beautiful wilderness, there must be a McDonalds and a Burger King.  Well, I guess that’s appropriate, being a town which would draw snickers from all stoned dudes and dudettes with the munchies.  Even though I know it’s childish, Weed elicits a couple of giggles from me. 

My ears are popping as we head down the mountain road. If I was hungry I’d be pulling into Porky Bob’s Café now.

It is now dark and anything of beauty is hidden in a void outside my car.  The Passat struggles up a steep mountain, crests at the border (an elevation of 4,310 feet at Siskiyou Summit) and I must use the brakes to navigate the curvy road on the way down.  I’m finally in Oregon, my first new state in five years, and I have a warm feeling inside. 

The speed limit signs look strange here, the numbers “55” elongated like something you might see from a Jasper Johns painting.  There are more cars and trucks than I anticipated, though not “traffic” in any way.  My brain, which has been so active since I left, knows that it reached the goal and is ready to shut down.  It is after 11 pm and I see a sign for Medford (like Medford, MA, not too far from where I grew up) and I’m going to take the exit to find a place to sleep for the night. 

“There’s one room left, and it’s a smoker,” says the white-haired desk clerk without any pretense of friendliness after I park and walk up to the front desk.

I don’t smoke, and hate the smell of tobacco on the curtains and rugs, but I’m done driving.  Twelve hours is too much, and I hand her my credit card.  The guy who pulled into the parking lot after me walks up to the counter as I make my way out to the door to my room.  I hear him yell “FUCK!” with such an exasperation that made me think he had probably been to multiple hotels in the area. 

I’ve had that feeling before and could very well again on this trip, but tonight I have a room.  It’s the 2nd floor, and I plan to eat the other half of the sandwich.  But when I fish it out of the cooler it’s soaking wet.  The ice had melted, and it wasn’t wrapped properly.  I munch some Cape Cod Firecracker BBQ chips instead, wishing I had a few beers to go along with it.

I try to go to sleep, but it’s a struggle.  When I finally do, the night will be filled with tossing and turning and seeing the road whenever I close my eyes.