PETROLIA, CALIFORNIA
The road down to the coast is steep and curvy. I drive slowly and try to conserve my brakes. Pastures, valleys, mountains, forests roll by as the Pacific draws closer.
Suddenly I smell something different. Are my brakes burning? Is the engine overheating?? I slow down even more and try to assess the situation.
Another turn and I see what’s going on. Big plastic-tarped greenhouses, row upon row on both sides of the road. The smell of pot is potent to the point of being arousing; it’s the aroma of money.
Past the marijuana farms is the town of Petrolia. Its tiny farmers market is in full swing and, like every Sunday, a band is playing. Locals buy and sell, and collect money for assumingly worthy causes. I get a coffee and sit down on an old stone wall to contemplate a fresh baked scone.
Fueled up on caffeine, I continue on to the campground where I will spend the night. It’s run by the Bureau of Land Management, $8 a day, first come first served. I manage to get the only spot that is out of the wind.
I walk down to the beach, look at the ferocious waves, read and nap. To the north is the estuary of the Mattole River, and beyond that the cape that is the westernmost point of California. The beach is empty except for huge logs of driftwood. The Lost Coast is windy, vast and wonderful.
Late afternoon, I head back into Petrolia. I’ve been told there will be tacos and margaritas at the food truck that is the town’s only restaurant.
Lubricated by the tequila, I soon find myself conversing with half a dozen locals. I learn that Peter is the guy that played the banjo earlier in the farmers market band. Will, a surfer-dude bro DNA-sequencer who’s clearly been day-drinking for a bit and assures me that I have a great accent and jawline, tells me about the water conflict that has developed between the pot growers and the cattle farmers. Linda, who’s family has lived here for five generations, knows that a certain farmhouse that I find very beautiful has been empty for forty years, but that the wealthy owners leaves the heat on to preserve the building. Suddenly, I know the whole town!
I get invited to play my first ever game of corn hole where I score a three-pointer with my last bag, and win the game for my team, 22 – 19! Feeling on top of the world, I bid everyone farewell and seriously wish I could come hang out here every Sunday.
Back at the campsite, I light a fire and listen to some podcasts. I decide to make many more days like this in my life. Because this – is beautiful.
