The Road Trip Chronicles: Volume II, Episode 1

In Brentwood, CA (East San Francisco Bay). 2:30pm

Road trips seem to abound with plenty of interesting people and experiences. For example, when Colin and I went to see Radiohead in Berkeley, his truck broke down in Gilroy, where we were rescued by Michael the Redneck Mechanic, Jesus the Tow Truck Driver, and Kelly Hogan the Minivan Wrangler. Fascinating.

The first volume of the Road Trip Chronicles was written a few years ago when Tyler Wohlford, Tim “Nailgun” Davies, and I drove to the coast of North Carolina and back in Tyler’s ’68 VW Bus. For that trip, I sent out journal updates via mass email. In honor of Tim’s upcoming wedding, I’ll probably start posting those entries on this blog. But for now, I’ll write here in an attempt to show you what I’m seeing as Ben and I drive to Seattle and back.

The Journey Begins at Youth Group

Ben is the junior high pastor at our church. He invited me to their Christmas party before leaving on our trip. While there, I talked to some kids about music and smiled painfully as they told me how much they like Kid Rock and Van Halen.

Later that night, a 6th grader approached me and asked me who I was going to vote for in the upcoming primary elections. When I told him who I was thinking about voting for, he quickly scolded me and made me wonder if I hadn’t done enough research. After he gave me a brief rundown of some of the candidates’ platforms, I asked him, “Who are you going to vote for?”

We Start Our Journey Early
We planned on going duck hunting in northern California, so after youth group, we went straight to Ben’s house to sleep for a few hours. We woke up at 2:15 in the morning and left at 2:30am. As I was backing out of Ben’s driveway, I spilled a cup of coffee (the second full one I’ve ever drank) all over the floor in my car. As I was trying to sop it up, I almost backed into Ben’s house.

After dealing with (most) of the coffee, we were on the road. As we stopped in Paso Robles for gas at about 3am, Ben and I went into the store. The store attendant was a pasty chap of about 18 years old and looked like he was probably really into Nine Inch Nails and Marilyn Manson. As he sullenly manned the counter, he said, “I have just one question for you. Why the f--- are you up so early?” Ben curtly told him, “We’re going duck hunting.”

We Drive Towards Fresno

We drove for a few hours through the very early morning. As I drove (we were in separate cars), I did the following things:
1. Morbidly reflected on James Dean’s high speed death on the “James Dean Memorial Highway” as I drove by it.

2. Wondered what exactly a “Kettleman” is as I saw a sign directing me to Kettleman’s City.

3. Watched the stars break through the clouds as tiny towns on the horizon eerily lit up the fog in an orangeish glow.

We Arrive In Mendota

We finally got to Mendota, which is about 30 miles west of Fresno, at about 4:30am. After going through the checkpoint and parking our vehicles, we began hiking out to Ben’s favorite hunting pond. As we walked through the pond, a couple of other hunters shined their flashlights on us to warn us from getting too close to them. We approached them because Ben wanted to get their advice about where to post up.

One of the young hunters greeted us with a long draw on his cigarette and a forceful spit. This was my first time out duck hunting, but I was quickly lost amid all of the hunting slang and drawl. What I did pick up on, though, was that our Marlboro man was not too happy about “ some nancy [he used a much more colorful word for a homosexual] who came here on Saturday in his Geo Metro and shot up the entire pond and scared all the ducks away.” He politely pointed out a good spot for us to hide as we waited for the ducks to come in at dawn.

We Go Duck-Hunting

I don’t have a hunting license, so I was relegated to the role of cameraman/duck retriever (like a dog). Mostly, though, I sat/stood in the reeds with Ben watching for ducks flying in at his back.

Because duck hunting involves a lot of standing in and walking through water, we had to wear “waders”: waterproof pants that are connected to boots. Normal hunters wear waders made of neoprene (what wetsuits are made of) to keep their feet and legs warm and dry. Before we left, Ben had me buy some “one-time use” waders from Big 5 for about $10. Unlike Ben’s waders, these we made out of thin vinyl and were made to be worn underneath tennis shoes.

Within about 10 minutes of walking through knee-deep water, my cheap waders had a foot-long split in the crotch. At this point, it didn’t matter much because the water wasn’t ever higher than my midthigh, but throughout the morning, the tear got larger and larger until water was rushing into my socks and pants when standing in only 8 inches of water. After two hours of standing in icy-cold water with wet feet, I was ready to be done duck hunting. (Sidenote: I got one break from standing still when Ben had me retrieve a crippled duck he shot. It was the highlight of my morning.)

At about 9:30, we collected our decoys and began hiking out through the water. The merciless mud tried to steal my shoes all morning, but finally succeeded right as we were leaving. I couldn’t get the shoes back on because the bottom of the waders (imagine footsie pajamas, like you had as a little kid) were filled with water. Frustrated, I decided to walk the rest of the 100 yards through the water in my socks and wader-footsies.

We finally made it to the shore and I punched holes in the feet of the waders to drain all the water out of them, so that I could get my shoes back on. As I carried the four ducks slain that morning, Ben said, “Well, at least you look like a man.”

We’re now at Ben’s house in the east bay area. We’re planning on waking up early tomorrow to drive to Portland. I’ll try to write again from there.