“Fort Ross proved as good a spot as any for the Russians, way before the first coastal road came in,” I explained. “To reach the fort in those days, the only way in and out that rough and rocky terrain was by boat, by ship, by trail and later, by wagon.”
I pointed out a large patch of poison oak attempting to hide itself amidst a bank of Scotch broom. “The natives who worked the land around Fort Ross as day laborers and domestics were known to have eaten poison oak to grow their immunity. Can you imagine? Many of the Russian sailors married native women, so my guess is they tried it out too.”
Maggie had bit my collarbone lightly, the previous night. I moved my hand inside of my shirt. No break to the skin, no swelling.
Birdsong broke out from high above, the soft yapping of the Marbled Murrelet, preparing for flight, a small seabird that feeds on the ocean by day and wings his way back home into the redwood canopy come nightfall.
“You know,” I said, “not all of the Russians and the natives got along so well together within the fort’s compound. It was not the hunky-dory cohabitation of cultures we’re led to believe.”
Though the Russians were reportedly better behaved than the Spanish missionaries who came next. “When they finally did push on up the coast, the Spanish alienated the Russians and all but wiped out the natives,” I said. “Those who were left were rounded up and used and abused like slaves in the early Spanish missions. Most of them died.”
And, after they’d come close to wiping out the whole damn sea otter population in the region’s waters, the Russians in turn, moved inland in order to launch their pillaging campaign on the redwoods.
“I guess they jumped at it being super lucrative, all this lumber, free for the picking,” Maggie said, looking up into the canopy of the groaning giant beanstalks that towered above us. “Would’ve made more sense to them than farming the fort’s blustery bluff,” she added.
I’ve crossed paths in my line of work with conservationists and scientists who are setting up electronic monitoring in the more remote parts of the redwood forests. “It breaks my heart to think of the flora and fauna destroyed by the mass felling of an ancient ecosystem such as this,” I admitted. “It’s a crime against nature, that’s what it is — the lumber that was stripped out of these forests over the past century and a half.”
The key to the survival of the redwoods, I’ve come to accept, is to understand them, their function in controlling the movement of water in the forest, the sustaining role of the fog and the redwood burls.
“It’s crazy to say it out loud,” I said, as we sat there, dwarfed by giant redwoods as high as our eyes could see. “But the truth of it is, Maggie, all that’s left of it is a tiny slice, a puny four percent of Northern California’s early redwood forests are still in existence.”
“So hard for me to imagine how magnificent a forest it must have been,” Maggie sighed. “There’s no end to man’s greed, I guess.” And, then: “What did happen to the Russians?” she asked.
I explained how, after Mexico and its rebel forces fought and won independence from Spain, land grants were drawn up to target the Russians, prevent them from staking claim.
“It was the more prominent Mexican families in California who took over the vast tracts of land,” I said, taking pride of the knowledge I’ve gained in my years of working in the park system. “It would take another twenty years, but by the early 1840s, the Russians were gone.” Not long after that, the U.S. wrestled the state from the Mexicans and the Gold Rush began, single worst thing that could’ve happened to the redwood forests of Northern California if you want my humble opinion.
Maggie inspected her boots, fancy footwear ill designed if you ask me for as rough an outdoor terrain as this. She picked at the dried mud that caked her heels with a stick. “Well, they’re all gone now, the Russians, with the exception of Tanya,” she said. The dog from the porch had followed us down to the creek. She nestled in a damp bed of crushed sorrel and sword fern, curled like a sleeping fox at Maggie’s feet.
“What’s your name, little honey momma?” Maggie asked.
“Little Honey, sounds about right,” I said. “Look at her.”
“Well then, Little Honey Momma it is. You’d best come along with us.”
The dog appeared to grasp the randomness of the invitation that had come her way. She uncurled her heavy girth, stood to her feet and shook out her damp coat as a thousand droplets of mud and water sprayed our pant legs. Little Honey Momma stuck to Maggie like molasses, closely shadowing her as we made our way uphill.
Maggie’s cell pinged back into service just as we reached the top. It was the sheriff’s department calling back, giving us the green light to head on back along a cleared portion of River Road in order for me to retrieve my truck.
Tanya was visibly relieved to hear the news that we were taking the dog with us, her big face softened into a smile. “Don’t suppose anybody’s gonna come looking for her in truth,” she said, reaching down to pet Little Honey Momma on the back of her head. “Better you guys than the shelter.”
She offered to drive us the handful of miles to the spot where we’d left the truck. “Except for the shitload of mud and crap left behind, it’s hard to believe this whole darn road was underwater, less than forty-eight hours ago,” she said, hauling the rig of a dusty old Volvo wagon into gear, Diamonds and Rust blasting from a crackly cassette player. “I’ve seen it go under this way during many a rainy season,” she said. I recognized the Joan Baez song from Bridget’s playing Joan Baez at her place.
“Did you know that she wrote this song about Dylan?” Tanya asked, humming along loudly and way out of key. “King and Queen of folk there for a while, the pair of ‘em. You’d be hardpressed to sing me a better love ballad,” she said. “A complete novel in one short song, that’s what they say.” She cut Joan off toward the end of her hit as she pulled to a stop at a general store in the riverfront town of Guerneville.
The faded resort town enjoys what locals call a revival during the summer months. If you drive through anytime in July and August, a rainbow of colored plastic tubes and water wings hangs from hooks outside of the general store. Modest first and second homes line the riverbank, raised on stilts if the owners are smart enough and have the cash on hand to protect their properties against the onslaught of almost yearly winter floods.
Come storm season, the storefront, its neighboring small cafes and bars and all of the year-round residents of the town and other Russian River communities hunker down and brace themselves for the rising river water and, worst-case scenario, a flash flood such as the deadly one that we had the bad fortune to have been caught up in.
Maggie picked out a leash, a good, strong brush and a bottle of medicated dog shampoo. I pushed the cart and she tossed in two metal dog bowls, a gallon of drinking water and a bag of dried dog food.
Tanya handed us a pile of worn bath towels she’d pulled out of the trunk of her mudencrusted wagon as we said our goodbyes. It was the ill-fated spot where we’d abandoned the truck.
“Make her a comfy bed in the back,” Tanya suggested. “And let’s hope for your sakes she holds on to those pups ‘til you get to where you’re going.” Maggie fairly beamed as she petted the dog behind her ears, a small gesture of compassion in an unstable world.
Lucky for me and Little Honey Momma Maggie has a thing for waifs and strays. Who was I to say no to taking the darn dog along for the ride?
Chapter 19
Maggie
Little Honey Momma, Little Honey for short, perched in the back of the truck for no more than ten minutes before the little sneak squeezed through and squirrelled her big barrel of a tummy between the two of us.
I surfed through a bunch of fuzzy radio stations for several minutes, settling instead on a Bob Marley album from a CD with a cracked cover I mined from an alphabetized stack of assorted Rocksteady, Reggae and Ska in the glove compartment.
“Cool, man,” I said, teasingly. “I never pegge
d you for a Rasta dude.” “Believe me, it was all country music growing up,” Marcus replied, play-slapping my thigh with the back of his hand. “Never did care for it.”
Marcus was an easy and natural convert of the Jamaican rhythm guitar, his body in tune with the strong drum beat of the music, his left hand pulsating on the steering wheel on drum beats two and four. Andres had been into Reggae when I’d first gotten together with him.
“I met myself a bunch of dreadlocked Rasta dudes the summer I was camped out in the woods,” Marcus explained. “They were headed to the Reggae on the River festival up in Humboldt.” It had been his first serious introduction to the sound of the Kingston slums.
He’d joined them, working a stint on the festival’s security team, a bunch of guys in charge of the various duties involved in handling a large, unruly festival crowd. His military background was just what they’d been looking for. “No papers or nothing,” he said. “Took me on my word.”
I rolled down the window and breathed in the fresh, moist, inland air with its own distinctive aroma of bay laurel and wet rain on oaks. Microclimates in coastal Northern California change dramatically according to the specific geographic terrain: quality of sunlight; fog; wind; rain; heat and cold.
I hadn’t given a lot of thought to the soundtrack of my life. I’d had little choice but to conform to my older sister’s musical tastes as a teen. Bridget pretty much dominated the theme tunes of my high school years. Her yard sales and thrift store buys in hippie West Marin built her a pretty impressive throwback collection any American rock music lover would be proud of — The Grateful Dead, Jimi Hendrix, Frank Zappa, Jefferson Airplane, you name it. As for me, I was happy to segue into the world of clubs and college parties in the pre-grunge era of the Los Angeles music scene. Michael and Janet Jackson, Madonna, Whitney Houston, Phil Collins, George Michael — the 80s’ for me proved a far cry from the dulcet tones of the rock and folk music Bridget had spoon-fed me on.
Losing myself in the music, my mind drifted back to the night before, our impulsive and awkwardly timed coming together. I reprimanded myself for about half a second, but I had to admit, it had felt so natural, it always has. I raised a hand to the flush of my cheek as I replayed the conjoining of our naked bodies with all our imperfections. Simple truth is I was comfortable around him, above him, beneath him, beside him. I couldn’t bring myself to feel bad about it. No more regrets, I told myself.
Marcus squeezed my hand, pressing on as we put the crazy events of the past couple of days behind us for as long as the music lasted. The truck’s wheels whirred past green hills studded with red barns, 500-year-old oak trees and, fairly soon, mile after mile of pear orchards lining the freeway along the edge of the small Mendocino County seat of Ukiah.
Snowy-white tree blossoms looked like they were on the brink of blooming into buds despite all of the constant rain.
Ukiah is home to the ancient basket makers of the Northern Pomo, the last semiurban center before the modern day traveler crosses into the realm of the Redwood Curtain.
“Most of these businesses around here deal entirely in cash these days,” Marcus said, looking out at the fringe of a Victorian farming community-cum-cannabis industrial center. “Forget the credit-heavy culture of the rest of this country, it’s a cash pot crop that keeps this community afloat,” he said.
“Well, hey, hasn’t this been hunter/farmer country, in one form or another from the start?” I asked. I learned about the Pomo Tribe, in school, how they built their homes like beehives with sunken floors and willow walls along trails to the coast. “We could learn a lot from the first people.”
“There were treaties that were set in place intended to preserve this land for its rightful owners, only they were never upheld,” Marcus replied. “The brutal truth of it is that Pomo villagers were rounded up and moved to camps in less fertile reservations. The Bloody Run they called it.” He continued on with his knowledge of this grave injustice. “The river waters ran red with native blood. A crime against humanity, that’s what is was.”
Rugged, wooded canyons came into view as we cleared the flatter lands. Marcus took his hand from my thigh to change gears as we made our way uphill, winding northward toward the one-time major logging hub of Willits, population nowadays around 5,500 according to the freeway sign.
The occasional lumbering RV, a brave motorcyclist dressed for the elements and a steady flow of larger trucks and vehicles passed us on the southbound lane. The driver’s faces were a blur depending on their speed and motion in their downhill descent from the higher elevation of Mendocino and Humboldt counties.
Tempting though it was to put foot to metal on this clear stretch of open road, the storms had wreaked havoc on road conditions and, after our nightmare start to the journey two days before, Marcus was justifiably wary.
“Keep an eye out for repairs to the asphalt from here on out, Maggie,” he said. “Heavy rainfall leaves a quick fix in the asphalt a gooey mess. It’s a danger to the tires.”
It was a relief to me that he was as in tune with the road and the vehicle as he was with the music that lightened our mood. Bumpy, scarred and potholed portions of the road surface reverberated at random through the core of our bodies.
“To think,” I said, my imagination slipping back into the unpopulated past, nudged by the scenery, I suppose, “in the old days, the only way up here was by horse and carriage. Rainy season such as this would have made for a rough old ride.”
I’d never before set foot in Willits prior to the fortuitous pit stop I made with Marcus. I’d describe it as a more of an on-the-way-to-somewhere town than a notable destination though the folk who live here appear to have a genuine fondness for its strong sense of community and its intrinsic, rural charm.
We drove through a welcome to Willits arch with its testimonial to the fact we had officially entered into the heart of Mendocino County — gateway to the redwoods.
Marcus pulled over into the busy parking lot of a small, independent market, promoting itself loudly and proudly as organic in large, cheerful hand carved letters on a freshly painted, wooden rainbow-shaped sign.
“This is most likely our last chance for any decent food for miles,” he announced. In contrast to the gloomy outdoors, the store inside was bright and inviting under its LED lighting. It possessed the peculiar, comforting aroma of a green, organic grocery store, a small market, the sort my folks would have referred to before the foodie revolution took hold as one of those “new fangled health food stores.”
Together, we browsed the aisles of freshly baked breads, inhaling the smell of the brown paper wrapped sourdough, olive, jalapeño and round wheat loaves, the yeasty, oatscented lure of the bulk bins. We passed by the fragrant shelves of incense, peppermintscented natural soaps and essential oils in the heath and beauty department. Marcus stopped and picked out a small bar of soap, misshaped, unwrapped and rosemary-scented. “I’m a convert,” he joked, causing me to blush again at the thought of our previous night’s compact and erotic lathering. I emptied the contents of our basket onto the conveyor belt, the bar of soap, two bottles of ginger and hibiscus tea mushroom, probiotic kombucha (Marcus’ choice), a share-size, turkey and sprouts sub sandwich, one large bag of black pepper Kettle Chips and a small bunch of bananas. A woman in a voluminous multicolored patchwork-knitted poncho with a matching bobble hat looked like she’d been standing in line since the 70s. I played with the bar of soap, inhaling its scent while I mused on her outlandish outfit and waited our turn at the checkout.
Expeditions to the grocery store with Andres had been notoriously longwinded and nearly always painful. We had never been on the same page, even on the smallest of things.
Over the air The Mamas and The Papas belted out their billionth rendition of California Dreamin’. I smiled again, for here I was indeed, on such a winter’s day, buying groceries for God’s sake with a guy I barely knew, a guy I’d had sex with three times in less than 24 hours. Even though I’ve been ine
xplicably connected to Marcus since the get-go, I couldn’t help but feel at that moment that he had sprung out of nowhere, as in a dream. A really great dream, could he be for real? I took a good, long look at his profile in line and figured on the spot to take my own advice, there was no sense in questioning such rare good fortune.
My eyes hovered over his shoulder, drawn to the deals at the entrance to the wine aisle, a large stack of cases filled with attractive and enticingly labeled Mendocino and Sonoma County wines on special that week. If I’d been in the store by myself, I would’ve made a beeline for a bargain case. Instead, I reminded myself that kombucha is fermented. It had taken me several attempts to come around to this fizzy, vinegary drink that’s supposedly good for the guts. I’ve since found it a surprisingly semi-decent way to half-fool my cravings for wine with its tiny trace amount of alcohol. I forced my eyes away from the cases of wine and focused instead on the counter stand, grabbing the next thing I saw, a pocket-sized handbook with a charming, hand illustrated cover on the history of Willits and surrounding area.
Our fresh-faced, patchouli-scented cashier with long, tousled, undone hair looked to be Mia’s age, or thereabouts. She flashed us an endearing, lopsided lower lip-pierced smile as I flipped through the handbook. “It’s worth a read,” she half yelled over the din of the relentless Mamas and Papas and the noisy banter between the neighboring cashiers and customers.
“Make the author’s day and buy one, go on,” she urged. “And better still, pick up one of his favorite black bean and veggie wraps while you’re at it and he’ll love you forever. He’ll even sign his book for you.”
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