You can read part one of this story here.
The further out of town we go, the calmer the driving gets and the less erratic it feels. I follow my daughter’s car as we finally make it back onto Highway 4, the same highway we were on only a few hours ago when leaving Frog Legs Restaurant and Bar. Once we hit I-5, all of this will be well behind us. I sigh and feel myself start to let down.
And then the least expected thing happens: a car trying to pass a slow vehicle is in our lane, coming straight at my daughter. In a flash, it tries to pull back into its own lane and can’t, overcorrects, and veers back into ours. It loses control, and all I see is a cloud of black and gray smoke, cars darting everywhere, and the out-of-control car sliding past my daughter. She crosses almost completely over the yellow line to avoid a collision; the careening vehicle hits the curb on the side of the highway and is thrust in the air before sliding along an embankment and finally coming to a precarious stop, its left rear tire hanging over the edge of a 60- to 70-foot drop.
My body and mind go into autopilot. My daughter and I simultaneously pull to the side of the road, only a few yards away from the now-still, leaning heavily downhill car. I turn on my hazard lights, kill the engine, and bolt to the car. My hand bangs, bangs, bangs on the passenger window. “Roll down your window!” I yell. The window drops a third of the way down, and young, scared eyes meet my face.
“Are you ok?” I ask with a slightly softer voice now.
“Yeah, I’m ok.” She puts her phone down and looks directly at me.
“Listen to me, you have to get out of your car. I need you to unlock your passenger door for me so I can help you.”
She is still in shock and very confused. So I reach for her door lock, find it’s old school, manually unlock it, open it, and glance in the passenger seat. “Are you alone?” I ask. “Is anyone with you?”
“I’m alone,” she replies, and my eyes scan the back to confirm it.
“You have to get out of the car now!” I repeat. The sternness in my voice has returned stronger than ever.
“But how can I? If I open my door, I’ll fall down this cliff,” she implores.
“DO NOT OPEN YOUR DOOR,” I instruct. “Listen to me, you have to unbuckle your seat belt and climb up and over the passenger seat to me.” I hear the gravel slipping under her tires, and I wonder if she feels the lurch beneath her as she no longer hesitates to scramble up and over her seat to me and my reaching arms. The car, now empty of people, stops sliding off the cliff.
Safe at last. I exhale, looking her over from head to toe. “Are you hurt?” I ask one more time.
“No,” her shaky voice replies before she resumes calling her dad, explaining that she tried to pass a car and shouldn’t have and so on and so on.
My daughter and I wait with her on the side of the road until the CHP arrives and affirms he will stay with her until a tow truck comes.
“You know, Emma, I think I am done driving and adventuring for the day,” I say to my daughter while walking back to my car, its hazard lights still blinking. “Let’s find a room in the nearest town and not drive all the way home to Lake County tonight. “
I think that’s a good idea,” she sighs.
“So, hypothetically speaking, of course, if you were to say, oh, have to evacuate because of a fire, what would be the most comforting food you would want to eat?” I smile.
She laughs out loud, and my smile broadens more. It feels good to have a moment of levity. “I guess pho,” she says after some careful consideration.
Next destination: Oakdale, California, here we come!
Now here are my thoughts on Oakdale, CA. It is cowboy and farming country, and rightly so, considering it is located in California’s great San Joaquin Valley. And all the while driving there, I am learning something new about myself as I pass the hundredth corn field.
I have heard the word agoraphobia, the fear of large open spaces, and I never qualified myself for that. Some of my fondest memories looking back on my life involve the few times I saw sunsets on the open prairies of Montana and other similar places. That felt like freedom. But this blasted cornfield feels like a living, breathing death trap where, at any moment, zombies will walk out of it in the hundreds, surround me, pound on my windows while others climb on top of my car, peering down on me through my sunroof, reaching for me to pull me out of my car. Yeah, whatever phobia that is, I have it.
None too soon for me, buildings start to appear, and we reach the outskirts of Oakdale. Turns out cowboys like pho too, because there are several of them picking up takeout from Pho 38.
My daughter orders the beef pho, her chosen comfort food in times of crisis, I now have learned. I taste the broth, delicate, not overly salty – heaven on earth. I am surprised how much it reminds me of the homemade chicken pho I make at home. This beef broth is every bit as balanced. I taste cardamom, clove, and just a hint of fennel. With every bite, I see the day’s stress fade away while she replenishes her body not only with food, but the love and care that made this exceptional soup. I choose Bún vermicelli noodles, or noodle salad for those less familiar with Vietnamese food. It is wonderfully balanced with rice noodles, greens, carrots, sliced cucumber, chicken, and diced peanuts, with the traditional sweet, citrus dressing, with just the right hint of fish sauce blending all the flavors together. It also refreshes my mind, body, and spirit.
When passing through town again in the future, I will remember this lovely spot and feel just a little envious that Lake County doesn’t have such fresh Vietnamese food as these locals do.
Next stop, a hotel room. The Holiday Inn is a welcome sight to any weary traveler, being freshly remodeled not only in every room but also in the lobby, with gray tiled floors, streamlined furnishings, and large open spaces both in the rooms and through the hotel. The rooms themselves have new mattresses, the concierge at the front desk tells me with a smile, as if offering me a treat. In truth, I won’t appreciate her words probably until the next morning after a restful night’s sleep. And she didn’t mention the freshly remodeled bathrooms in each room, which I found on my own.
I feel blessed to find a place to sleep at all. Moments before we booked our room, a tourist bus, also evacuated from Sonora, took nearly all the rooms in the hotel. Turns out, they were going to stay at the same hotel in Sonora as I was. I do find the irony in this, before the day’s adventures fade away and I pass into a deep slumber.
The next morning is brightly filled with all new things and possibilities. And more surprises find me at the Holiday Inn in Oakdale, CA, with a hot breakfast and freshly ground beans for my coffee, brewed to order. I make myself an egg white sausage muffin sandwich, which pairs nicely with my coffee. I dare say, McDonald’s has nothing on the Holiday Inn in Oakdale, and once again, I am filled with gratitude that two weary travelers such as us found such a place.
I am determined to end this trip on a high note and suggest we stop in Old Town Sacramento on our way home to Lake County. My daughter heartily agrees with my suggestion, and suddenly our adventure is back on!
It feels good to be normal again while glancing in the shops, noticing Thomas the Tank Engine driving his loops on a track in a toy store. And then there is the candy store at the end of town filled with chocolate, taffy, and every other kind of hard and soft candy you can imagine. We breathe in deeply the joys and delight of being a regular tourist and electing to grab a bite to eat at The Old Spaghetti Factory near the capital before starting our final journey home to Lake County and safety, knock on wood!
After a bit of pondering and wondering why I am telling you this story, I realize this isn’t truly just my story; it’s merely one of thousands. Many of you reading this have your own fire evacuation story, or more than one. Some of you aren’t as lucky as my daughter, whose home survived a fire. Some of you have even lost loved ones, whether they be pets or humans, to a fire or car accident, for that matter.
I have no moral to this story I am sharing with you, only observations. Some could call it God’s grace that my daughter didn’t lose her home to a fire or her life to a head-on collision. And some might call it dumb luck. I suppose at the end of this story, I feel a little bit of both is true. I have no doubt that God can choose to intervene. After all, God is God for those of us who believe. And yet, I have lost those very dear to me, taken too soon despite my prayers and pleading with the Almighty. And then there is that dumb luck, like winning the lottery, because some lucky person is going to win it, right?
So, as I write these words, I will focus on gratitude while not understanding the whys. I am grateful I was with my daughter when she had to evacuate. I am grateful we were not involved in a car accident. I am grateful for some nourishing meals that seemed to be more than just good food, but more like healing and renewal from the hands of those who prepared it, possibly not knowing that their care for what they do and how they serve others can be transformative in ways they will never see.
And maybe there is more to this story than these simple observations. One thing is certain: at the end of it all, the one thing on my mind that I want most, when the dust settles, and I reach home safe and sound, is a good stiff drink! And make it a double, hahahah!!!!
