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CALIFORNIA<br />
digit speeds for the first few kilometres.<br />
Urban rush hour aside, the US is<br />
built for these beasts, and once we<br />
get across the Golden Gate and out of<br />
the metropolis my confidence swells.<br />
The gears are automatic, the roads<br />
broad and the locals forgiving.<br />
We’d chosen the state for our<br />
Airstream adventure partly because<br />
this is where Wally Byam founded the<br />
company in 1931, partly because nowhere<br />
else in America says, ‘Go west, young<br />
man... Head out on the highway... This<br />
land is your land... Wherever you lay<br />
your hat, that’s your home...’ and all<br />
the rest of it quite like California.<br />
And then there’s the variety. California<br />
comes with a range of terrain that<br />
makes it a road-trip dream: temperate<br />
rainforests, alpine mountains and vast<br />
tracts of desert, as well as the more<br />
clement Pacific coast stretching south<br />
from Los Angeles. We haven’t made too<br />
much of a plan — the whole point of an<br />
RV is that you’re not tied to a schedule or<br />
itinerary, so you can pull over and stay any<br />
place that calls to you — but we do decide<br />
at the outset to reject the iconic Route<br />
101 in favour of a loop heading north to<br />
the Redwoods and the wilderness that<br />
we could experience in our Airstream in<br />
a way we never could staying in a hotel.<br />
It’s pretty civilised to start with. Vivid<br />
red Budweiser and Coca-Cola trucks<br />
coast past, the commercial lifeblood of<br />
America flowing along the country’s<br />
vast asphalt arteries. We lumber by<br />
hilly vineyards and quaint country<br />
towns — Philo, Boonville, Cloverdale<br />
— full of wholesome homemade-pie<br />
shops and hand- painted signs. Streets<br />
bristle with wooden porches, hanging<br />
flowers and palpable civic pride, and<br />
we pass scores of eccentric emporia:<br />
the Here’s Hair Salon, Independence<br />
Guns and Ammo, the Love In It Co-op<br />
(a medical herb dispensary). We snack<br />
‘<br />
THE SMITH<br />
RIVER RASPS<br />
PAST, AND<br />
SMALL STREAMS<br />
CHUCKLE AWAY<br />
UNDER FALLEN<br />
TRUNKS<br />
’<br />
on punnets of two-dollar honestybox<br />
cherries from local farms.<br />
Keen to plug in for our first night<br />
while it’s still light, we’ve reserved a<br />
spot in an almost empty campground in<br />
Manchester, Mendocino County. Early<br />
<strong>May</strong> is the perfect time to travel here:<br />
the parks are quiet and we’re pretty<br />
much alone. At reception we’re issued<br />
with a camp map and allotted a site<br />
number. These places are seamlessly<br />
managed, and navigation is easy — we<br />
circle Sunshine Drive and turn off<br />
Happy Kamping Way — but still with<br />
a proper dose of nature: the narrow<br />
gravel track peters out at our parking<br />
spot between towering tinselly firs.<br />
While I build a fire and crack open<br />
some Californian red, Sergio hooks<br />
us up to the mains. The campground<br />
is well catered for, with electricity,<br />
water, pump-out, shower block and a<br />
bear box to protect food supplies. The<br />
cleverly conceived Airstream interior<br />
we’d so carefully packed, however, has<br />
rearranged itself into a Jackson Pollock<br />
of ketchup and socks. It takes time to<br />
get used to living in such a small space,<br />
but as the trip progresses we learn<br />
how best to seal, wedge and stuff our<br />
possessions to minimise the carnage.<br />
Every day we devise new ways to make<br />
do with our resources: I discover that<br />
black pants make a passable eye mask for<br />
sleeping through those early sunrises.<br />
The next morning, however, we hit<br />
serious trouble, with our 4WD’s engine<br />
emitting a sulky grunt followed by<br />
silence. Our neighbours convene around<br />
the stubbornly unresponsive motor<br />
and various theories are advanced. I’m<br />
worried we forgot to flip a connection and<br />
drained the batteries, but our advisory<br />
panel kindly demurs. ‘You know what’s<br />
wrong?’ says Glen, a wry glint flickering.<br />
‘It’s a Ford.’ (All-round mirth.) Twenty<br />
minutes and a squirt of something<br />
homemade later, we are on our way —<br />
with a glovebox full of numbers to call<br />
should we have any more problems.<br />
It’s clear from the affectionate, slightly<br />
covetous glances we receive on leaving,<br />
that the Airstream has successfully<br />
initiated us into the RV fraternity.<br />
We push on up the coast through Fort<br />
Bragg, Garberville and Eureka, as all<br />
the while the Pacific hurls itself angrily<br />
ashore in dark grey arcs on our left. We’re<br />
keen to get some distance covered, and<br />
still apprehensive of any manoeuvre<br />
more complicated than straight driving,<br />
so we barely stop on the first day, lapsing<br />
into a cruise-control trance. Gradually<br />
we relax, and life resolves itself into a set<br />
of simple priorities: where to sleep and<br />
find firewood, fill up and empty tanks.<br />
One of California’s main draws for us is<br />
that it has more national parks than any<br />
other state — not to mention hundreds<br />
more state parks, many of which you can<br />
stay in — and our next night is spent<br />
at the Redwood State Park RV Resort.<br />
We quickly ditch the trailer and head<br />
to nearby Stout Grove, which doesn’t<br />
have the biggest trees in the region, but<br />
is staggeringly, serenely beautiful.<br />
We wander by belt-high sword ferns,<br />
bright-yellow banana slugs and outsized<br />
sorrel. The wind builds a gentle<br />
snare-drum-roll high up in the canopy,<br />
animating the leaves then swishing<br />
away. The Smith river rasps past, and<br />
Credit: Jenni Doggett/The Sunday Times Travel Magazine/News licensing<br />
38 worldtravellermagazine.com