Our 15th Anniversary in California

Tomorrow marks the day I arrived in California fifteen years ago. In honor of this event, I shall tell the story.

We packed the moving van during a cold snap (-20 degrees) and light snow. Although it was breaking my heart to leave a job that I had dreamed of since I was a kid, I was very excited about a new opportunity somewhere exotic. All the travel arrangements were made. I was driving the moving van with my bestest childhood friend, Jeff, to California. Later, my family would arrive via some cheap airline along with our basset hound, Humphrey.

This was before cell phones so I met Jeff along a long stretch of road in St. Cloud. I was running very late because of a mix up at camp so I was hoping to find him without much difficulty. We did find each other and Jeff said his goodbyes to his wife, Kelly. Jeff was applying for a job in Redding so this trip was something he was very interested in taking.

We left below zero temps in Minnesota and headed south to I-80. We spent the first night in Lincoln, Nebraska. The plan was to drive until dinnertime and find a hotel with a place to eat within walking distance. We didn’t have any problems with that. I remember nothing about Lincoln other than it was off the freeway and I was exhausted.

Our plan was to drive all day, not stopping for lunch. We’d eat a big breakfast and a big dinner. For lunch, Kelly gave us a giant bucket of custom-made GORP, a.k.a. trail mix. As we made our way toward the Rockies we became familiar with how big and heavy the moving van really was. The van was 27 feet long. We also towed our car that sat on a trailer. This made us close to 50 feet long. It was also really slow, which was basically the entire trip.

Nebraska has a flat beauty all it’s own. You see a lot of sky and empty cornfields. To pass the time we kept talking about how remarkable it was we were driving a moving van along basically the same route the wagon trains to Oregon had taken. Did I mention iPods or GPS’s had not yet been invented? We were on our own for entertainment. Driving into Wyoming was slow going. It’s a gradual climb with very few mountains. We entered something called the Great Divide Basin. Google it because it’s too boring to write about. And it was boring to drive. I expected more.

There are a lot of big rigs on I-80 and some very rough looking and acting truckers. And most of the hotels along the way cater to the grunge crowd. So we began looking for signs for somewhere nice to stay in Wyoming. We start seeing signs for something called “Little America.” The billboards showed happy families and pools. The people on those signs seemed to value clean laundry and groomed pets. It looked like a clean place so we drive extra long that day until we made it to Green River, Wyoming.

The place turned out to be a dive. We checked into the hotel and found ourselves to be suspect. Two guys wearing clean shirts traveling together? We felt like we were going to get beat up. That feeling got worse when we went into the restaurant. I’ve never been stared down so much. We snarfed down our meal then hid out in our room for the rest of the night.

We woke up early and drove somewhere else for a big breakfast. Then we hit the road awaiting the adventure of crossing the Wasatch Mountains. As a Minnesotan I was very impressed. The peaks were rugged and snow covered. But the van could only make 25 mph, tops. It was very frustrating traveling so slowly. But at least the scenery was better. We munched on our GORP and enjoyed the trip as much as we could. We changed drivers every couple of hours to break the monotony.

As we started downhill, we had to keep the van in low gear to keep it from running away from us. Then Jeff looked in his side mirror and he said, “Look behind us. Look what we just drove out of.” I couldn’t believe my eyes. To look back at the Wasatch was just stunning.

We decided to stop at the Great Salt Lake. We pulled into a little park barren of all trees. We got out of the van and were overpowered with the smell of fart. It was a giant fart lake filled with fart water and swarming fart flies. It was beautiful but the stench was too much for us. But we both felt compelled to stick a hand in the water. That was a mistake. Every tiny imperfection on our hands was now exposed to the caustic pain of brine. And it left our hands sticky. So we had to hunt down some fresh water to get the ick off our hands.

We could see the salt flats ahead of us. Signs warned us to make sure the tanks were filled because there were no services for 80 miles. So we filled the tanks at a real rundown joint and headed across the Bonneville Salt Flat. You could see the mountains in the distance but the drive took forever. How did they do it in covered wagons (sorry, I was being a nerd, again)?

We made a quick stop on the salt flats just to say we did and found they were covered with about 2 inches of water. I didn’t expect that. We were making good time because of the GORP idea. But then halfway through Nevada Jeff needed to stop, urgently. I knew something was wrong but let him keep his dignity and didn’t ask. But my guess was gastrointestinal related. I was feeling it as well. We stopped in a little town and Jeff bolted from the van and disappeared. I had no idea which way he went but I wasn’t too concerned because the town only had a couple of streets.

But 45 minutes went by and I thought something might be horribly wrong. Perhaps he fainted on the toilet. Or maybe he passed his entire colon. Another half hour went by and I became concerned enough to start looking for him. Besides, now I had to poop. So I found a bathroom, did my thing and started my search. I found him walking out of a tiny drugstore. I think it was a drugstore. And I could tell my guess about the sudden stop was right. Although the GORP was delicious, we decided to leave the lid on, for both our sakes.

As we talked about poop (always funny) we walked back toward the van. We turned the corner and there, on the mountainside, in giant white letters were the initials of the town, Battle Mountain. I couldn’t believe it. After what Jeff just experienced we were now looking at a 50 foot tall BM on the side of a mountain. To prove it, enter these coordinates into Google Earth or Google Maps and you’ll see the giant BM about two miles southwest of town (+40° 36' 10.39", -116° 58' 19.64").

We made it to Reno that night. We stayed at a nice hotel and had a great meal. The next day we’d climb the east side of the Sierra and hope for great weather. It was snowing on the pass that evening and we were hoping we would not have to rent chains for that giant truck. We weren’t even sure how to do that. So we hoped for the best.

After crossing the border we were stopped at a department of agriculture checkpoint. We had no fruits or veggies but the nice inspector man still made me open the van. He was convinced I had houseplants. I tried to convince him that houseplants in -20 degree weather would not have survived. We left all our plants back in Minnesota. He would not believe me and I was very irritated by this Californian’s lack of severe cold weather knowledge. Then, to spite me for my impatience, he made me take out our disassembled swing set and scrape out all the dirt off the bottoms of the poles with my pocketknife. It took a good 20 minutes before he was satisfied that all Minnesota bacteria were gone and the orange and almond crop would be safe from my swing set. The funny thing was I sold the swing set the minute we settled in because there was no room for it in our new backyard.

The next morning was sunny and a bit warm. It was in the 30’s and felt balmy compared to what we left two days earlier. We ate a big breakfast and hid the GORP. We drove up into the Sierra and decided to make an historical stop. We would be crossing the Sierra at Donner Pass, the site of American style cannibalism. We decided to stop at the park and pay our respects. Inside the Donner museum was a giant oil painting depicting the hardships of the Donner party. In a moment of irreverence I placed a small piece of beef jerky behind the picture on the inside of the back of the frame on the lower left corner. Believe it or not, it’s still there.

As we left we (Jeff) took a wrong turn and ended up in a dead end. I would have done the same thing if I were driving because it looked like the way to the freeway. It was decided that since we were 50 feet long we needed to back out for quite a ways. Since I was a farm boy used to backing up trailers I was chosen to drive and Jeff guided me by walking down the street telling cars I was drunk.

We made it out of Donner Pass after our own little incident and headed down toward California’s Central valley. The temperature started to climb. By the time we hit Sacramento it was 80 degrees. We were roasting because we were still dressed for Minnesota winter.

We decided to stop for lunch before we reached Santa Rosa and avoid the GORP difficulties. So, we went to Taco Bell. Using a paper map (they did use them back then) we found our way to the church I would be working at. Once at the church they directed us to our new home. But I remember while still in the parking lot I opened the moving van and tried to find a pair of shorts. It was about 85 degrees. Amazing.

The troops were called in to empty the van and we were moved in rather quickly. I started work the next day. I spent the evenings getting unpacked and ready for my family to arrive.

Still in Minnesota, my brother took my wife, girls and dog to Minneapolis International very early in the morning. Humphrey was in a carrier. They let him out to walk one last time just before checking him in. While in the check in line Humphrey barfed copious amounts of cat food he had stealthily stolen that morning. The large pile of puke was picked up by my brother, Tim. I cannot tell you how thankful Sheri was to have Tim there, helping to get them on the plane.

The girls quickly made friends in the neighborhood and we settled into our new lives as immigrants from Minnesota. They made fun of our accents for quite some time. Those accents have now faded and folks can only tell when I say things like, “about, pop, hot dish, boat, ish or uffda” before catching myself. When we travel back to Minnesota or Michigan, people say we talk funny now.

Our girls were 5 when we moved. They are now 21. They remember only those things we have pictures or video of. They have vague recollections of our friends and places we lived. They have strong Californian accents and don’t remember what really cold temperatures are like. They have never shoveled snow or eaten tater tot hot dish. They say ‘soda’ instead of ‘pop.’ And when it rains, it feels like Christmas it them.

We thought we would be here 3 years at the most. But Northern California has grown on us. And it took forever but it now feels like home. We miss our friends and family and wish we could see more of them. So we cherish our visits to the homeland more and more. So here’s to fifteen years of living in Northern California.