30 Years in a Housetruck

Page Nine: Getting Close

The trip to the north continued in a thrust of several days of driving.

For some reason, we didn't cross the Golden Gate Bridge, opting instead to take the San Rafael Bridge across the bay.

Our usual pattern was that I drove in front with Woodley following in his step van. This was probably because the Housetruck was the slower of the two.

During one drive near Capella, California, I lost sight of Woodley in the mirrors. He continued to be not there for a short while, then I came onto a long, straight stretch of road where I could see behind me for at least a mile. Still no Woodley.

I managed to find a turnaround and got headed south again, just in time to see him coming over the horizon. We pulled over to find out what was going on (two-way radios would have been a great thing on this trip).

Woodley was way into stopping to pick up hitch hikers, having all that room in the step van for them to ride, and he had been stopping frequently since we left San Francisco. Too often it seemed, as he had about 15 people in the truck. All the additional weight, along with the cargo he was carrying had made his truck even slower than mine. Of course, stopping to pick up and let off passengers made the bus routine even slower.

As I mentioned, Highway 101 was a lot of two-lane roads then, much of that original pavement is now designated "Scenic Byways", as the main road has been blasted through hill and valley and paved four lanes wide through most of the length of the state.

One night's stay, we simply found a small spur road to the side of the Highway, and pulled out to set up camp. I do remember that we still had one hitch hiker with us who had been riding in the cab with me, as I set up a tarp for him to sleep under. Just before dark, the owner of the property pulled up to find out what was going on. We explained that we were just travelers passing through, and thought that this would be a safe place to spend the night. The owner agreed, and welcomed us to stay on the condition that we light no fires and leave no trash. Things were different back then, I guess. No fences or "No Trespassing" signs, and a property owner who respects the concept of the "Commons" for honest travelers.

The final stopover on this trip is certain in my mind. Our first night in Oregon was spent in a rustic campground a mile or two from Brookings. This was the most remote location we had stayed during the trip, being in a forested location near a creek or small river, and completely away from the city and traffic noise.

In the morning, we were preparing to get back on the road and met up with some other young people who had stayed in the campground. As they were leaving in their pickup truck, we told them that this was our first morning in Oregon, and that we were moving up from L.A. to live in the state. We made some jocular comment about probably not telling them that because Oregonians hate people from out of state, and they turned kind of nasty and said "Why don't you turn around and go back". I don't think they were joking.

In the 1970's, you didn't tell people where you moved into the state from. There was a very strong anti-non-native sentiment. The former governor, Tom McCall had made it pretty clear that tourists were welcome to come visit, spend their money and then go home. "Don't Californicate Oregon" was a popular bumper sticker, and you would frequently see "SNOB" stickers (Society of Native Oregon Born). There was also the small simulated Oregon license plate sticker with the letters "NATIVE" and an open space for stick-on numbers that proclaimed "Since ____", where you could post your birth year, in simulation of the real license plates expiration sticker.

It didn't take long before you found out that keeping quiet about your place of origin was a very good idea. Some people would press you for the information, and on more than one occasion, I would either tell them that I, too was a "native", or else out-snob them by telling them I was from Alaska.

The whole thing was a load of BS in my opinion. I would ask people who claimed to be "natives" what tribe they belonged to. They would get confused, "What'dya mean?". Hey you claim to be a "native", but all that means is that your ancestors came from somewhere else, possibly displacing real native Oregonians in the process, so put up or shut up, are you Nez-Peirce? Siletz tribe? Calapooya band? Alsea family? Clatsop clan?

These days, most of the white "natives" have either died off, moved away, or gotten over it.

Anyhow, back to the trip. We drove north on Highway 101, and after passing through one of the larger coastal cities (not saying which one), I looked in the mirror to see a County Sheriff following. After a short time he turned on his lights and pulled us (me, really) over. I was presented with my "Welcome-to-Oregon" traffic citation for impeding traffic.

As I mentioned, the Housetruck would only do 40 MPH. This meant that I frequently had to pull over and let traffic pass, which I had been doing since leaving LA. In this particular instance, there was nowhere to pull off the road to let traffic pass. The cop told me that it's a violation to have four or more cars following a slow vehicle. I tried to tell him that the first vehicle was Woodley, and that he had been behind me for the last 800 miles. The car behind him was an old granny-lady who refused to pass even on long straight stretches with a dotted center line. The car behind her had only been there for a couple of miles, then his cop car made four, and he had only pulled into line a half-mile back. No dice, I got ticketed anyway. Got to keep the roads safe from all those too-slow hippy trucks. Actually, I don't think he ever registered that the Housetruck was anything more than a moving van, as there were no windows, grilles or appliances visible on the road side to make it look like an RV-type vehicle.

After getting settled, I received a letter at my old LA address from the county directing me to pay the $17 fine for this ticket, or face certain penalty by the justice system. I wrote them a letter back respectfully telling them that they could stuff it. Of course, by that time, I had turned in my California drivers license by sending it back. When I applied for an Oregon license, they asked me if I had my old license, and I told them that I had returned it as a "symbolic protest against air pollution". Whatever, the Oregon DMV didn't care, and issued me a shiny, new license with no citations attached. I still drive straight through that county non-stop just in case there's still a warrant out for me....

The day of the week was Sunday, and we arrived in Eugene at the Franklin Boulevard exit of I-5, having taken Highway 38 from Reedsport to the valley and the Interstate. We stopped at the Shell gas station just across from the Joe Romania Chevrolet dealership and used the pay phone to call Kim and let him know we had arrived. Kim's father, Lyle (known hereon as "Jeep") came to meet us and to lead us through the basically deserted Sunday afternoon streets of Eugene to our new home in the south hills of the city.