An Interlude: Twin Peaks, CA

November found us holed up in a cabin in the mountains of Southern California: quiet and dark, and surprisingly cold. Our time in Portland had been followed by a dense few weeks, and we were glad to head back to solitude. Here, between coast and desert, we’d wait out the two weeks between host farms.

We sat cradling our laptops in bed, still such rookies at working on the road that we hadn’t thought to ask for a table. We worked on the game. I tried my hand at writing a novel and, in typical fashion, found that my story wanted to be shorter. We even tried cooking in the fireplace, which didn’t bear repeating. One day, it snowed, and we crowded to the window and then out to marvel at it. Snow in Southern California! We’d lived here once, and all was heat and sunshine in memory.

The next day, we walked up the hill to climb the fire lookout tower, still in use. The volunteers welcomed us into the tiny round room with its neat bed and wide inland views and told us about their role here at the top of everything. Only one of the men was stationed here that week, but the other came often to visit. “Can’t get rid of ’im,” grinned the one on duty, with that hint of cheerful competitiveness heard only in very old friends. As they talked, I watched birds flit between feeders outside. I’d imagined their job to be a lonely one, and maybe at times it was. But on that sunny day with the birds and the chatty old men, we wanted badly to sign up as volunteers ourselves. Hadn’t Jack Kerouac done it? It seemed like the proper sort of thing to do as free traveling artists.

But we weren’t free: not entirely. There was still the other half of the room-and-board equation to fill, as enticing as that tower seemed. It was time to move on to our next farm.