Managing Expectations
It's still Winter in Northern California.
California in March can be a mixed bag. I learned this lesson the first time I toured here in 2016. I was playing a short string of shows starting in Eugene, Oregon and ending in the desert of Yuma, Arizona. I was new to the touring game, a game I would find out several years later I had no real business playing. I can remember the excitement of crossing into the Beaver State in Ontario and watching that initial elation dampen as the rain drove harder against my windshield while I wound my way across the state on I-84.
The show in Eugene was a fantastic start: a sold out the venue due to the popularity of the act I was opening up for. The rain couldn’t soak my spirits as I headed across rural byways to the coast and traveled down the fabled 101 for my very first time. My next show was in Pacifica, CA, then I would take route 1 through Big Sur, and on to Los Angeles. If I’d thought it had been raining before Big Sur, I was wrong.
I found myself caught in an atmospheric river event on that rocky and winding coast. After camping one night at Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, a place that would eventually burrow into the warmest reaches of my heart, I was to make the six hour drive to the venue I’d be playing in LA the following night. But the river in the sky had other ideas. It wasn’t long before I stopped at one of the few cafés along that trapped in road and emailed the venue telling them there was no way I was going to make it.
Rain took away my spirit and I decided to gun it to Joshua Tree, the desert, where surely it couldn’t follow, but follow it did. It wasn’t until two nights later, in Yuma, when my soul finally began to dry out. When I made it home to Albuquerque several days later, I couldn’t help but feel defeated. For some reason, this feeling never translated into knowledge, and I continued booking early Spring tours in the PNW and down the West Coast for several years, and here I am now, almost a decade later and doing what amounts to the same thing.
My current position is in a commons area at the Inn Town Campground in Nevada City. I started my day in Berkeley, where the sky was granite patched with blue, but I knew it wouldn’t last. Yesterday was a punk fest, Doll Fest, and I’d had a blast, but I knew it would be over by the time I’d made it north to Sacramento. Sure enough, the clouds turned into violent shades of granite ranging from benign gray to menacing charcoal, and a steady downpour created a thick mist of spray from the cars on I-80. One would think I’d learned from all my years on the road, but no. When I lived in the desert Southwest I could blame this on ignorance: what was early Spring for us translated to winter conditions in the upper latitudes. After living in coastal Oregon for five years, I don’t really have an excuse.
“Did you see the snow? It was beautiful!” I’m greeted by an affable middle aged man in readers playing a game on his iPad as I entered the dry commons area.
“I just got here,” I say and offer a weak smile. All I have are weak smiles, it seems.
“Maybe we’ll get some more,” he says, clearly excited about the prospect. I feel my smile twitch as I sit down and open my laptop to write what you’re currently reading. He goes back to the blips and bops of his game, much to my chagrin.
The plan is to go fishing with a certain punk rock singer on Wednesday and write an article about it for Trout Magazine. This leaves me three open days to ostensibly fish on my own. The Plan was to hit up the South Yuba River, which is now almost certainly blown out by all this rain. I’d followed the forecast carefully over the past few weeks and knew this was going to happen, but what was I supposed to do? The trip was planned, and this is my Big Year on the Fly, so I have been resolute. Besides, I have a deadline and an income to make. So, packed my raft under the sleeping platform and hopefully I’ll have the motivation to hit up a lake tomorrow or Tuesday. The rain is supposed to let up after today, but the temps will remain in the mid-40s, and the sky will remain an ashen slate. Wind forecasts have improved, but there may be gusts up to 15 mile per hour; this is not ideal rowing weather.
There must be something about the long winter that drives me to such ridiculous lengths. An urge to get out on the road and finally link up with a fish after a wet season of freezing toes in my local river, chasing non-existent steelhead. A driving sense of frustration from being cooped up in my house for the past 4 months. This winter has been my most difficult on record: the political situation is trying to erase me, and people like me. I stopped smoking cannabis resulting in epic withdrawal symptoms. I’ve dealt with depression and anxiety like never before, including the pandemic. As a result, I’ve been looking forward to this trip immensely. When I landed at my campsite in Livermore, I cried at how it felt to finally be outside and spending the night in my van. It was a relief.
I’m not questioning the decision to make this trip. Obviously I’m also here to make some money (although, I’ll probably just break even). Will I catch a fish? Probably not. In situations like this, we manage our expectations.
Doll Fest was queer femme punk rock magic and I’m still riding the high of seeing my favorite band, The Iron Roses last night (more on that in another post). Walking around Berkeley felt amazing; I’d never realized how much I get stared at in my small town until no one stared at me at all in that left-oriented city. There was a sense of relief and safety I desperately needed.
And now, the sun has peaked out. Breaking the slate. I’m going to stop writing and take a nice long walk.