Under the Baobab Tree

Lost and Found

This morning was so foggy in SF that I could not see Grace
Cathedral from my room at the Mark Hopkins. I could not even see
the Fairmont, which is right across the street.

I ate a breakfast of smoked salmon, strawberries, figs, brie, and
pistachios (and coffee) at the Nob Hill Restaurant, and then went
out to the doorman to get my rental car, a disappointing
beige-colored Hyundai Elantra. It's nowhere near as photogenic as
the white SUV was. I inched down the incredibly steep driveway of
the Mark Hopkins, turned immediately UP and over Nob Hill, and set
off for the Golden Gate. I no longer need directions on how to
get to it. You take any road west to Van Ness Street, turn right
and go to Lombard Street, turn left, go through the Marina and
past Mel's Diner (of American Graffiti fame), past the Presidio
and up and over the Bridge. I even know what lanes to be in now. I
left the hotel at 9:07. I spotted my first cow sitting under a
live oak tree at 9:36, by which time I was already north of San
Rafael. Incidentally, it was so foggy that I could not see the
top of the Golden Gate Bridge even while I was driving over it.

I drove on the fast road to Santa Rosa, and turned left to go
through Sebastopol and along the Russian River. I stopped in
Guerneville for provisions. Careful readers will recall that on
my last jaunt north, Guerneville was the end of my two day odyssey
-- it's the town where the Armstrong Redwood Grove it. Today, I
got there by 11 a.m. (shows you how much faster the fast road it).
I bought some more pistachios, some peanuts, and a disposable
camera. I kept going to Jenner, where the Russian River meets the
Pacific, turned north, and pushed on to Fort Ross, that wonderful
old Russian stockade. I got to Fort Ross by noon.

Now I was in uncharted territory. The coast road north of Fort
Ross is very wild and rugged and covered in Monterey cypresses
(not Monterey pines -- these are different), eucalyptus, and old
overgrown sheep ranches. The towns are infinitesimal. This part
of the state was originally Miwok Indian, and was then settled by
Russians, Finns, and Scandinavians. The coast is so rugged that
19th century schooners had to load provisions by sailing near a
long chute that stuck off shore. Someone on shore would send the
provisions down the chute to the boat. Boats were launched by
poles and log runs, but it was too dangerous to try to land them.
It was a one-way operation in most places. Many of the towns are
still called "dog holes," which means they are barely big enough
for a dog to turn around in.

I pulled off the road California Route 1 at Stewarts Point and
went down to the beach. This was the only sunny part of the trip.
When I had finished taking pictures and absorbing salt spray, I
hiked back up to my Elantra. Turns out the beach was a Sonoma
County Regional Beach -- not a State Beach -- which meant I had
to play $3.00 and put it in a yellow envelope and stuff the
envelope in a little box. A park ranger had nicely left the
envelope on my windshield -- which also indicated that she had
record my license plate number in case I didn't pay. The problem
was I didn't have $3.00. I had $20, or $2.40 in change. I was
not about to pay $20 for a 20 minute walk on the beach, so I
stuffed all my coins in this little yellow envelope and then tried
to stuff the bulging envelope in the little box. It was
difficult, but eventually I succeeded. So I owe Sonoma County
sixty cents. I wonder if I'll get arrested.

In the town of Gualala I pulled off again and went grocery
shopping at the Gualala Supermarket. I bought swiss cheese,
bananas, apples, water, and another camera. The next town up is
the smallest dog hole on the road, according to my book, but today
it was PACKED. There was an Elk Festival or something going on...
There was actually a traffic jam. This is strange considering Elk
consists of about 4 buildings on one side of the road and 3
buildings on the other side of the road, and the road is way up
high on an exposed bluff. Next town was Point Arena, which has a
nifty lighthouse. I saw a great sign in point Arena -- it said,
"Italian Specialites -- Cocktails." I took the long wind-swept
detour out to the lighthouse. I think I've been to every
California lighthouse now between San Luis Obispo and Mendocino --
Morro Bay, Point Ano Nueva, Pigeon Point, Point Bonita, Point
Reyes, and now Point Arena. I ate some of my swiss cheese and an
apple in my car -- windows rolled up against the howling wind and
salt spray. The car was shaking. My only other stop before
pulling into the Albion River Inn was the Navarro Point State
Beach, where I took some great pictures of redwood driftwood.
Then I checked in (I''ll tell you about this place later), and
quickly drove the last 6 miles up to the town of Mendocino.
Here's where the story really gets interesting.

Mendocino is the town where Murder She Wrote was shot -- it is the
imaginary town of Cabot Cove. It looks like it's in Maine. It's
got a very East Coast feel. I bought a Pocket Naturalist pamphlet
about California birds at the wonderful independent bookstore on
main street, and also some fudge at the chocolate shop down the
street. The town was completely shrouded in mist and fog. The
place most people stay in town is the old Victorian Mendocino
Hotel, which is one of America's Historic Hotels. Across the
street from it is a National Park -- the Mendocino Headlands Park
-- which is all sand dunes and cliffs and lagoons. The park
benches are all made of redwood. I sat on one and ate my fudge.
I walked all over the dunes, and climbed all over the cliffs and
rocks. I sat on the very end of a promontory amid a pretty
flowering plant with peapod-looking thinks on it, which decided
must be the Giant Sea Pea plant (which made me giggle). From the
promontory I could look straight down into a lagoon, with seagulls
(which my Pocket Naturalist thing told me were California gulls),
and watch the waves crash on the cliffs. The water was covered
with bizarre seaweed -- it had a long stem and a huge balloon-like
bubble on the end. It was kind of gross. It looked like aquatic
version of a medieval torture weapon. I decided I should go back
to the bookstore and by a Pocket Naturalist book about seaweed.

And then I realized I no longer had my wallet. AAAAGHHH! Panic.
I tore around the sand dunes, retracing my steps, looking for it.
I figured I last had it when I sat on the redwood stump eating
fudge. Stupid fudge. It wasn't there. I nice gray-haired man in
spectacles was there -- he hadn't seen it. I retraced all my
steps again -- I went back to the Gian Sea Pea grove. No wallet.
I decided to remain calm -- surely a park ranger had found it. I
went back to the bookstore. "Is there a lost and found?" I asked.
"I've lost my wallet." The crunchy-chewy proprietress told me to
do down to the ranger station. She said it was closed but that I
should bank on all the windows. I ran down there and banged on
all the windows. A gray-haired lady came out and said no-one had
turned it in -- that she'd been closed since before I'd bought my
fudge. She looked sadly at me. I asked here where the police
station was. She said she had no idea, that she was just in
Mendocino for the summer, and that she really lived in Seattle. I
decided to go back to the dunes and try one more time to find it.
No luck. I began to think what not having my wallet meant. No
money. No credit card. No ATM card. No checkbook. No driver's
license. How would I get back to SF? I had half a tank of gas in
the Elantra, which might be enough.... And once I did that, how
would I get back on the plane to get back to DC? I couldn't even
get a temporary government issued ID because how would I prove who
I was? I began to feel VERY FAR AWAY FROM HOME. I began to feel
like those Russian settlers at Fort Ross must have felt. I began
to feel that being six hours north of SF was six hours too
many....

In desperation I went to the Mendocino Hotel. I figured maybe
someone found my wallet and turned it in there, since it was kind
of centrally located, or if not, at least the hotel might let me
call the police station. Mendocino is so small that it doesn't
have a police station, as it turns out -- neither does the town
I'm staying in -- Albion. The nearest police station is two towns
north, in Fort Bragg. The Mendocino Hotel did not have my wallet,
but the desk attendant kindly called the sheriff --as he called
him -- and then transferred the sheriff to the House Phone for me
to talk to him. The House Phone was hanging on the wall and at
first I thought it was an ornament -- it was an ancient Victorian
phone somehow engineered for modern use. The person on the other
end of the House Phone was Laurie in the sheriff's office, who
took my name and asked how I could be reached. Der. Good
question. I dunno. Mendocino has no cell phone service because
it's TOO REMOTE. So I said I guess I could be reached at the
Albion River Inn, so I hung up and drove back there. Before I got
off the phone, I asked Laurie if she knew how I could get an
airplane without my driver's license. She said she thought a
police report would be sufficient, and that this happens all the
time, and that she had never heard of a police report not working
before. I decided that Laurie was my favorite person on the
planet. Once I got back to the Albion River Inn, I stopped at the
check in desk and told them my tale of woe and asked if they could
give me cash off my credit card number, since they had the imprint
already for the hotel charge. They said they'd have to find out.
I go to my room -- I called Laurie and give her my number -- she
says a sheriff's deputy will call me shortly. She calls back a
few moments later and says that it turns out that because the
Mendocino Headlands Park is a National Park, it's outside of the
sheriff's jurisdiction but she's referred it to the rangers, etc.
Laurie and I are by now on a first name basis. "Kim? Hi, it's
Laurie from the sheriff's department...?" She said a ranger will
call me shortly. I sit and open the Navarro Vineyards chardonnay
that is fortuitously waiting for me in my room. I began to think
wild thoughts. For example, I thought about calling my
ex-boyfriend Joe, who lives in San Luis Obispo and who happens to
own his own plane. I could ask him to fly to Albion (there's a
landing strip a mile away) and to bring me money. He did say he
wanted to see me again.... I'm sure he'd do it....

The phone rings again, but it's not the park rangers, it's Laurie.
"Kim? Hi, it's Laurie from the sheriff's department? Listen, the
Mendocino Hotel just called and someone turned in your wallet.
They have it in the safe there behind the front desk."

Can you believe that? That someone found it and took it to the
Mendocino Hotel? The same place I had gone, even though neither
the people who found it nor me were staying there? And that the
Mendocino Hotel knew that the sheriff knew how to reach me, even
though the whole thing was in federal jurisdiction and even though
I was staying in a different town and the sheriff himself was in
still a third town? Amazing.

And even more amazing, the whole ordeal took just under an hour.
I think the moral is don't lose your wallet, but if you do, let
everyone in town know about it so that you have some hope of
getting it back. Also, if you have to lose your wallet, lose it
in a tourist town. Tourist understand the horror, and will make
sure it gets back to you....

The Mendocino Hotel gave me the phone number of the couple who
turned in my wallet, so I'm going to call them and thank them
profusely. And tomorrow I'll tell you what the Giant Sea Pea bush
is really called -- I've since looked it up in my Wildflowers of
California book.

posted by Anonymous @ 8:34 PM