Redwoods: Psycho Hillbilly Inbreds

"I hate California. I hate California. I hate California."

That's been our constant mantra through this entire state. Where Chicago was an intense burning disdain for Britt, California is more of a smoldering deep-seeded loathing for both of us. I'm getting ahead of myself. Too bad, I'm not so far ahead as to be out of this state entirely. Although I hope to be by the time this is posted. If we crash off the side of a mountain and someone finds this, please don't let me be buried here. I've done a lot of shitty things in my life, but surely none of them deserved this.

We entered California a little after sunset, then started looking for a campsite at the top of the redwoods so we could see them first thing in the light of day. Our first encounter with the locals was horrifying. We stopped into a convenience store for some snacks and a campground recommendation. Right behind us entered three backwoods hicks pretending to be all gangsta and shiiiit, son. They made us look classy. Think about that for a minute. Us. Looking classy in comparison. Then there's the convenience store owner himself:

Britt: Do you know of any campgrounds around here?
Clerk: Sure, there's plenty of them around.
Britt: Do you know if any of them will let us in this late at night?
Clerk: Oh, they'll all let you in... as long as you give them money.
Britt: Can you tell me which one you think is best?
Clerk: Yeah, uh, there's one five miles down the road. Um, Prairie Creek. You can park on the beach or in the woods.
Britt: ... Well, can you tell me which side is the best?
Clerk: Um, the beach if you like beaches. Or maybe the woods if you don't.
Britt: . . . Which. One. Would. You. Recommend?
Clerk: The beach, I guess.
Britt: Thank. You.

Oh sweet Jesus, if this is a sign of things to come, I want to turn around and bypass this state entirely. I looked at the map and asked Britt if we could go back into Oregon, down across Idaho, through all of Utah, and dip into Nevada from the other side instead. She refused. I won't remind her that I told her so. I think being here in this hell with me is punishment enough.

Prairie Creek was full. Of course.

There were wooden signs hanging from trees with "Tent Camping" handwritten on them. No, thank you, Sketchville. Especially not after our convenience store encounter with the yo-mamas of backwater California. We proceeded to drive down the coast, turning into campground after campground.

Full.
Full.
Full.
$35. Really??
Full.
Oooo, this one looks nice- No tent camping after hours.

WTF.

We drove around for THREE hours looking for a campsite in the redwoods, and ended up sleeping at a rest area instead. Worse? Britt's stank up the car over and over with her Redfish Chowder farts.

***

When we woke the next morning, both of us decided to be adults and give this state another chance. We repacked the car, decided the hand print in the back window was not, in fact, from a bear, and got on our way.

I keep hoping to bring the rental back with claw marks on the trunk.

This lasted for less than half an hour until we entered Trinidad. I'd picked this as a town to visit because there's a song I know that says "Greetings from Trinidad!" and really wanted a few postcards saying as much. First thing we see? Trinidad Bay Trailer Court. Shit you not. It's even on Google Maps like some kinda of hillbilly tourist attraction. We grabbed gas, breakfast and a map of the Redwood Highway, then wandered around a couple of souvenir stores. One was run by a lady who sat on her stool and stared at us the entire time. The other was run by a lady who was actually decent and helpful. Kudos, California.

The map/pamphlet I'd picked up mentioned a lighthouse in this town. "Contains a lantern extinguished in a 1914 storm when a wave struck the 196 foot lighthouse." Oooo! A lighthouse! We love lighthouses!

Oh. I guess they meant ten feet tall and 186 feet up.

Eh... we've seen better.

There was a couple taking pictures of each other in front of the stubby, disappointment of a lighthouse. They were actually smiling and joked with us when we skittered away so we wouldn't be caught in their shots, so I offered to take their picture together. We chatted for a bit, assuming they weren't from this state AND WERE TOTALLY RIGHT. BECAUSE CALIFORNIANS ARE AWFUL, ANGSTY, SOUR, SPITEFUL PEOPLE.

The harbor view was pretty, at least.

*** Avenue of the Giants ***

There were big trees. And bigger trees. And OH MY GOD THAT'S BIGGER THAN THE CAR trees.

Tree-hugging, dirty hippie

My take on Avenue of the Giants: Trees. Big Trees. Trailer. Trees. HOLY SHIT TREEEEE! Trees. Trash. Big trees. Trailer. Trees. Trailer trash. MOAR trees.

Findie the Angie

Weoooww!

We careened into the nearest tourist trap to satisfy our souvenir needs. Except everything was actually pretty cool. Oops. The lady behind the counter was actually rather nice! At least until she got sick of us. Ah well, better than nothing, I guess. I'd already wandered over to the store across the street (which sold almost the same exact stuff), while Britt was finishing up her purchase but she overheard another person ask the woman at the register about getting an RV site. The woman said she'd get someone right away, then leaned over and yelled into the intercom, "Mama! Someone's at the gate! They want a site!"

That was the first indication that this cluster of shopkeepers were all related. The second came after we had sat down to some coffee and blackberry cobbler (yum!). The waitress took forever, which wouldn't be a big deal because I figured there was probably only for the whole shop and working her ass off. But then I realized we were the only ones in the place. On top of that, she peered around the corner and unmistakably glared at us for still being there. I reduced her tip, finished our burnt and watery coffee and brought the bill up to the cashier's drawer. Instead of the waitress, her derpy, inbred twin took our payment. I asked if I could keep the bill for my receipt, but she said - Office Space stapler style - "I'm sorry. I have to keep the receipt. I'm sorry. I have to. I have to keep the receipt. I'm sorry." She also said that the other girl would have to print out another receipt if I wanted one. I assume this is because she's not allowed to handle any machinery as complicated as pen and paper and they only take her off her chain for lingering customers like us.

Even the trees are drooling, inbred, one-eyed hillbillies. How else could they get so freakishly tall?

Trees.

Trees.

Stump

More trees.

NO WILDLIFE.

*** Spirit Art Glass ***

There! To the left! Glassblowing! Turn! TURN NOW!

Hmm... There's a sign that says "World Peace and Understanding" on the roof... And it's called "Spirit Art Glass"... Uh-oh feeling, anyone? We wandered in, but the place was empty. I was just about to call out hello, when Britt let out the biggest sneeze ever instead. Whatever works.

Then he appeared.

::As we browse the glass hermit crabs and necklaces::
Guy: Oh, hi. Yeah, yep, yeah, you like that? Right? Yeah. Yeah, yup, uh-huuuh. Where are you girls from? Oh, you're a looong way from home.
::Mentally screaming::
Guy: Yeah, yup, those are necklaces and stuff. Yeaaah, want me to wrap that up for you? Huh?
::He is breathing down our necks now::
Guy: Oh, so sorry you couldn't stay longer!

OH. MY. GOD. We booked it out the door like a tranny to a shoe sale, threw the car into gear and sped away. We stopped the car around the corner, screamed with each other for a little while, and wrote ourselves a High Five note on not getting raped.

[Pic forthcoming. Sorry.]

***

We came across the Shrine Drive-Thru Tree. I totally sideswiped it coming out. To be fair, I never actually took driving lessons. Also? The whole right interior of the tree was pretty scraped up from other people who did take driving lessons doing the exact same thing.

Loss-Damage-Waiver Five!

Guess what? ANOTHER TREE.

*** Random California quotes ***

Britt: Did you see the name of that place?
Me: No, what?
Britt: "Sand Spirit Art"
Me: Oh, fuck, I hate California.

Me: I hate the whiggers and the whatnot. I hate the hillbillies. I hate the people who zipped up beside me at Taco Bell so I couldn't see the road. Their "creeks" suck, gas is expensive, and everyone is ugly! You know what?! I'm fucking glad it's gonna fall into the ocean.

Me: I HATE California. I HATE California. I. HATE. CALIFORNIA. ::pointing to random people on the road:: I hate you, I hate you, I hate you and you and you, and youandyouandyouandyou. I hate all of you. Because you're all from California. Oh God, maybe not wheelchair girl with the puppy. I'm going to hell. Nevermind. We're in California. We're already there. I HATE California. I HATE California...

Me: I hate how they can't just have speed limit signs. Every single one has to have an annotation. Like this one, "65 - Radar Enforced". Look! There's another. What's it say? Is it just a speed limit sign? Nope. "3 axles or more - 55". Oh, wait! What about this one? Waaait for it... "55 - All vehicles when towing". SEE? Fuck, I hate California.

Derp.