I drove generally west at first, leaving the foothills of the Sierras. After a time, I entered the wide valley where agriculture was everywhere. As I turned north, I looked back towards the east, and took what may have been my last glimpse of the lovely mountain range where I had spent the last two weeks. On smaller roads at first I soon entered the flow toward Interstate 5, the heavily traveled artery that traverses central California north to south, and continues north through Oregon and Washington.
I had been repeatedly told of the wonderful experience in store for me, as I drove farther north in California, where I would cross Shasta Lake and see what had been described as the imposing Mount Shasta. The first thing I was aware of as I approached Shasta Lake, was a chain of mountains before me, seeming to run from the northeast to the southwest. Soon I was crossing Shasta Lake, where I was able to pull off at a rest stop and appreciate a small part of the lake ringed by evergreen covered mountains. I found myself wondering which of the local peaks was Shasta, as none seemed more prepossessing than another. I resolved to look things up when I was next in the vicinity of an internet connection.
I then began to see signs for Shasta City, and as I continued north, out of the haze loomed a monolith that dominated the northern horizon. It was to the mountains surrounding the lake as a tall redwood is to a table-top Christmas tree, and I wryly smiled at my previous innocent misconception. And yet Shasta still lay many miles distant.
As I approached, the peak loomed larger and larger above me, filling a large proportion of my windshield’s view area. Snow-covered down at least a third of its height, it was a single sharp crag, widening into a complex of anglularity below. The road continued winding through the mountains that I had been traversing since the lake, and my concentration was demanded by the curves and the inclines and declines, and the traffic; but still I stole glance after glance at the mountain. I have no idea how it compared in size to the various peaks of the Rockies I had seen and driven through, but in its singular isolation, free of any other object of competing scale, it seemed much more magnificent than any peak I have yet experienced.
And as I drew near, it continued to become larger and larger. Soon, as I passed the city bearing its name, Shasta dominated a complete quadrant of my visual field. No photograph could have begun to convey the awesome sensation of approaching and perceiving that upthrust portion of the planet. But I have to include something, so here is an attractive photo I have taken from the internet.
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| Mt Shasta from a road that is not the road I was on. |
The rest of the drive into Oregon was through hills gradually decreasing in height, and then as I neared the border, once again through rising hills leading to Mt Siskiyou, which appeared to straddle the border. The drive was steep and thrilling with many curves and lots of truck and car traffic on two lanes on each side, and required continual attention, due primarily to the high speed everyone was maintaining.
Ashland was the first town of any size I came to, and from there I began to leave the mountains behind as I entered into a flatter area where Medford, a larger town, was located in a valley between two small lines of foothills. Central Point, where Diego’s home is located, is a small town just to the northwest of Medford, far enough up the western line of mountains to afford a great view. As I drove up the long driveway that serves his house and several others, I wondered how I would know which belonged to whom. But as I neared the first, there was Diego, out front waiting for me. After he guided me into a parking space, and I exited the car and we shared a long hug. It had been fifteen years or more, but our last meeting could have been yesterday. I was home once again.
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