Day 13

Starting/Ending Point: Sonoma, CA

Miles Driven: 0

The last time I visited Patrick was five years ago. At that point he was living in Oakland, sharing a large, ancient house with 10 roommates and paying an extortionate rent for the privilege. His current environs in Sonoma, only a few dozen miles as the crow flies, seems a universe away.

The Bay Area has a way of doing this; its unusual coastal geography generates numerous microclimates (the temperature rose a good 10 degrees in the 30 minutes it took from me to get from San Francisco to the North Bay), and of course there’s stark diversity in terms of culture, communities, and economies.

I’ve been to San Francisco and Oakland a few times, and while those cities are wonderfully impressive in their own right they are also incredibly expensive, crowded, and sadly beset by problems of homelessness and addiction that the powerful seem uninterested in solving. I much prefer the vibe of Patrick’s humble, semi-rural house in Sonoma.

Sonoma and nearby Napa are dominated by wineries. They cut up the soft, rolling hills like corn rows and I must admit that in the golden sunlight of early morning or late afternoon it’s quite a sight. Part of me was tempted to try and book some silly tasting event, but I’d merely be paying way too much money for something that would only barely interest me (not to mention my disheveled, road-weary ass would stick out like a sore thumb). I’d rather hang back, drink some good local beers and listen to Patrick rip on the obnoxious wine moms that come to the region by the busload to make fools of themselves.

Patrick was kind enough to act as my de facto tour guide, taking me to the downtown plaza where a few of Sonoma’s historic sites are well preserved. There’s also a history museum which is remarkable not just for its content but for just how understated and un-pretentious it is (“the museum itself is a historical relic” Patrick quipped).

The history of California is one of conquest; by one native tribe against another, by one colonial power against another, by the forces of industry and big agriculture against a rough and ungovernable environment. Of course this is true of the United States as a whole, but somehow in California the legacy feels so much more recent. There are still plenty of surviving Spanish missions and dedications to John C. Fremont (the military governor who took control of California during the Mexican-American War) to give one a sense of connection to the past (this is also true of the South, which is hyper-aware of the past for its own twisted reasons).

We also visited the Jack London State Historic Park, which contains the gravesite of one of America’s great authors along with a museum and the remains of the Wolf House – an opulent stone mansion that took two years to build but burned down before London and his wife could ever move in.

One of my big takeaways from the London museum was just how dedicated the man was to both hard work and relentless adventure. In addition to writing more than 1,000 words a day (I feel good about myself if I can shit out one of these posts every 2 or 3) he was a dedicated athlete, sailor, farmer, activist, war correspondent, and just about everything else you could think of. He even introduced the Hawaiian sport of surfing to California!

Jack London’s life was badass but tragically cut short by various health ailments, including alcoholism (at least we have that in common). I honestly wonder if it’s even possible to live a life like that today. People often complain that modern generations are “soft” and while usually that analysis is reductive and wrapped in all sorts of toxic reactionary bullshit, there is still a grain of truth to it. It’s not that we can’t be as bold or risk-taking as Jack was, it’s just that there’s no need to. We have GPS, we have insurance, we have Social Security. Most of us have something to lose if things go wrong and the good probability of a better future ahead if they don’t. People in Jack London’s time weren’t so lucky, and a few of them took the implications of this to its logical conclusion.

As London himself said,

I would rather be ashes than dust!
I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.
I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.

Not me though. I’m going to keep being a dusty piece of shit, eating store-bought granola from a 2016 Camry and sharing my middlebrow thoughts from the comfort of a Motel 6.