Ashland Branch Library, Ashland, Oregon (BONUS: Plague in Galt, the summary)

I had all sorts of plans for California. I was going to see my friend Amanda and visit the main library in San Francisco. I was going to drive up the coast and see the Pacific. I was going to see General Sherman, the massive sequoia, and drive through Yosemite National Park, seeing the sights and soaking up the nature. I was going to drive through the Redwood National and State Parks and spend quality time around my very favorite flora on this green and bountiful earth.

Instead I got the plague and had to take a five day side trip to Galt, California. More on that in the Epilogue.

Once mostly mended, I paid my bill (broken trumpet sounds) and headed north toward Sacramento and the Oregon border. My eventual stopping point for the night was Manzanita Rest Area, just north of Grants Pass, Oregon, about six hours from my starting point. Before Manzanita, however, was one destination I could not pass by, even if I was feeling a bit knocked out by all that driving: the Ashland Branch Library in Ashland, Oregon.

Don't think I didn't notice my illness was also bookended by Dragons.

First, let me tell you about this town. It is exactly where you want to live. It is in a mountainous region surrounded by thick, green trees, some turning to fall colors, blasting yellow, red, and glorious in the sun. The town itself is as Cute as a Goddamned Button, with main drags down the center where the walkways are plentiful and the rustic, charming shops and restaurants are overflowing with hearty, be-sweatered Americans with cash to burn, smiling and jolly and full of chowder. There are also plenty of kids with black and blue hair skateboarding all about, exuding not only teenaged ennui, but with manners to boot which is, let me tell you, beyond kitten adorable.

I saw a lot of Cape Cods and Victorians, with a scattering of minimalls away from the twee-est part of town, and one old-fashioned Wendy's like a festering pimple on an otherwise inscrutable but lovely face, pale with dark eyes, framed in a sheath of glowing brown curls. Oh Ashland, Ashland. I love you.

Ashland is the home of the Southern Oregon University. If the signs hadn't given it away, the clutches of college kids walking about nearby would have. I drove up and down the main roads several times, and at each pass saw groups going to and fro, which was a weird sight since there were always at least ten of them, sometimes upwards of twenty. Safety in numbers? Cult regulations? University rules? Who can say.

I just loved Ashland--even the theater in the minimall (CINEMA eeeee) made me perversely happy. I considered finally watching It there, but still felt too punkish to commit to it. Instead I visited the library, drove around, and finally booked it to Manzanita to sleep for eleven hours.

But the library, the library, oh man, what a dream. It felt fitting that two of the loveliest little libraries I've visited on this trip would bookend the horrorshow of the 5 sickly days in between. It is as though the Plague Gods said look here, you. We're going to punch you in the face for five days, but before and after you get to see some truly inspiring libraries so shut up and take your medicine.

The first floor of the library doesn't give away its most stunning architectural secret (you have to go up to the second floor to view that) but it has its own beguiling charms to compete for patrons' interests and attention. If the beautiful views out the windows aren't enough, Ashland also has art displays, some concepts familiar, one in particular completely new to me.

I loved the re-purposed books, pulled out of the recycling bin and turned into something more. It's an art project I've seen done before, but I was happy to see it in Ashland, too. Any bibliophile will tell you there is so much more to books than the words within. That's where the deep and unbending love begins, of course, but it spreads farther, out to the ends of the infinite tactile pull--the feel of the rough, cloth casing, the sticky binding, the satin bookmark, the tight, hard endpapers, the pressed fabric of the head and footbands, and of course the main stock paper, smooth, thick, and whispering against your fingers, telling you the stories and lives and kinescoping worlds whirling within. How can you not be enchanted by the rich smell of the leaves, the casing, the binding, the toxic and intoxicating black print therein. It's beyond magic. And by far one of our best inventions as a species. A totem. A saving grace.

I especially loved the butterfly book, etched out of wood (what else), and set free and flying above the stacks. Only a true bibliophile (and gifted artist) would come up with that. I called up the library to learn more and was informed that the piece, unnamed, was created by local artist Tom Hopkins and was donated by The Friends of the Library in memory of Virginia Fowler.

The second floor is breathtaking, with beautiful, exposed wood framing all along the ceiling that casts a rich glow across the entire area. Oh how I wanted to stay. Unfortunately, the library closed at five that day, and I'd only arrived at 4:30. Bad time management, I know, but blame the plague still jamming up my sinuses and skewing my perspective ever so slightly into the twilight zone.

Isn't it glorious? In addition to the wonderful art and architecture, I also had to capture the microfiche viewer sighting for posterity--isn't it fab? It looks brand new, but it can't be...can it? Maybe it is just very well preserved. I actually saw someone using a microfiche machine in the main Seattle library just a couple of days ago and my heart went a-pitter-patter because YAY, it's still useful, even today, in the futuristic future. Probably not forever, though.

I left just before the library closed, wistful but needing to blow my nose for the 400th time that day. I'd like to think I could find myself in Ashland again--it's worth the trip, and on the way to other more well-traveled places like Sacramento and Portland...never say never.

BONUS EPILOGUE: The Plague, Electric Boogaloo.

Best Western has become my Best Friend, it turns out, as I've had to rely on it (and my rewards membership) far more than I could have imagined as I was putting the plans together for this leg of my library tour.

When I was sitting in the parking lot of Incline Village's lovely library, all I wanted to do was curl into a sad ball and sleep. But I had to make a plan first, which let me tell you, sucks the big one. The biggest one. Being sick on the road means there are no home comforts. You can't just move from the couch full of blankets to the bed full of blankets, your pantry stocked with soups, your mom bringing you aspirins or maybe a hammer to end your suffering entirely. You're cold and alone and dripping and wheezing all by your lonesome. The suckage is intense.

I found the best prices in Galt, a town just south of Sacramento, and made my way there. I don't remember the rest of that drive or checking in, really. I don't remember much about the experience at all except for going through a box of Kleenex, taking Dayquil, taking supplements that were supposed to enhance my immune system, and watching an episode of Law & Order that lasted roughly 3 days. The Briscoe years, so it was awesome, but it was also one, long story where lots of people got murdered between commercials for life insurance.

I only went out once to the nearby and Very Sad™ pharmacy, a national chain I will not name because Boy Howdy was it freaking sad. I scored more Dayquil and too much chocolate because I was feeling sorry for myself and I can do whatever I want especially when I am sick so nyeh. I also picked up a Carl's Jr. burger which tasted vaguely of alleyway cardboard and onion farts.

How did I survive? Well, their name is Pizza Guys and they deliver. They had good salads and good enough pizza (better than Pizza Hut, better than Dominoes, and don't even talk to me about that hot garbage Papa John's pizza, which is criminally bad and should be illegal). I also ate the free breakfasts Best Western offers and, before you say HEY YOU HAD PLAGUE, two things:

* First, whatever, I was hungry and paid for it so suck it.
* Second, and more important, if you don't know me, then Hi, how are you, but also I am a germaphobe. It's true. I'll do just about anything not to have to touch things other people have touched. Panic attacks on the subway? Germs. Even if I touched nothing, the realization that I was breathing the same air as the other commuters was sometimes too much. Their lung germs were touching me, even going into my lungs. You know that whenever you smell something, that's because tiny particles of that something are traveling up your nostrils right? They're touching you. This includes poop. Let that marinate.

Shasta Lake-ish

Anyway, I had a process. I would get up, take my pills (because I can't eat for an hour after I take them--tummy traumas), put on pants (begrudgingly), tie up my hair extra tight, then would wash my hands as though I was about to perform an appendectomy on the Pope, okay? Scrub, scrub, scrub. I would then go out amongst the living and gather up my breakfast. I wasn't coughing much then, so would remain almost totally silent, gathering eggs and sausage, juice and coffee, and making my way back to my room, which was only two doors down from the breakfast area. No one was the wiser--and half the time, there was no one even there. The only person who knew for sure was Jessey, my Galt Best Western front desk attendant and floor manager, who offered me pizza one day and made sure to ask how I was doing whenever he saw me.

Mount Shasta

When I finally left the Galt Best Western five days later, I was still in a bit of a fog but 80% better at least. I got to see Lake Shasta, Mount Shasta, and the hopeful permanence of tree scarification along the way...a youthful endeavor I would think about differently a couple of days later, looking at the vast and still obvious blast zone of Mount St. Helens.

Two Days in Durango. Elevation 6,512.

The day cracked open, blistering cold and damp, and the camp began to unfurl from a restless night of cruel stars and bottomless dreams. The Traveler squinted at the murky day through the fogged up windows of the Rogue, then began unlayering from the sheets, blankets, and sleeping bags that brought little comfort the night before.

Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

The previous day was a bright, overexposed memory, as though it had happened years before, instead of hours. Great Sand Dunes National Park (8,278 elevation) was a destination sure to drive most sane people to hallucinations, but the Traveler had picked up some venomous passenger that was seeping hot tendrils of sickness through her weary core.

View of the mountains from the campsite.

But the park was a delight, and she reveled in the quick memory of the day before, standing at the base and scanning that strange desert scene, dunes soaring 700 feet in the air, shadows cupped in the sharp, undulating crests, frozen stark and unlikely in the Colorado mountains. The Traveler had long obsessed over images of the Sahara, always too small, captured in sparing magazines, television screens, all useless and blanched but still somehow sparking the imagination--those massive slopes, infinite waves of sand. And here in this improbable place it was as though some deity had sectioned off a part of that greater desert and set it unchanged in the middle of a green and fertile land. It was an astonishing thing.

View of the dunes from the campsite.

The Traveler slipped out of the back of the Rogue onto the coarse gravel of the campsite and looked at the beauty all around her. As off kilter as she felt, she could not help but smile at those dunes, now lit from the east, the warm glowing morning light creating an orange hue in the sand. The Traveler had a long drive ahead, so packed up, started the engine, and slowly drove through the still stirring camp.

Early morning view, Medano creek springs to life.

On Colorado Road 5, just outside the park, the Traveler saw something that only further solidified the hallucinatory aspect of the day: a long line of glistening cars approached from the south. And as they began to take shape, it became clear that they were all classic cars, not one made before 1950, all shining and clean and almost new, as though they'd rolled off the factory lot straight onto Colorado 5. Not another car in sight, just the classics gliding by, just as improbable and strange as the dunes they were destined for.

The Rio Grande National Forest (est. 10,300 elevation) was a beautiful, heavily wooded, mountainous route that should have set the Traveler onto a better path, but the swooping, winding roads only deepened her overall sense of disjointedness. There were sights to behold, cherish, and remember, but they blew by barely remarked by her ever more pallid face. Some three hours later, she pulled into Durango, green in the gills but with no real sense of exactly what was wrong. It wasn't a cold, the flu, a stomach bug...it was as though that venomous passenger rode along within, a vapor of ghost, smoky apparition, and had somehow dug in deeper, claws puncturing into the Traveler's back, and turning all the internal dials two notches past black midnight.

 The Traveler decided maybe it was a blood sugar problem and that she should eat something, so she made her way to the Durango Public Library to sit outside in the warm sun and crisp, early autumn air, and try to beat back the darkness with a pre-packed PB&J and Sun Chips.

At first everything seemed better. Once lunch was done, the Traveler took pictures of the exterior of the building and made her way into the main doors. As she explored the stacks, seating areas, computer bays, and study rooms, the cloak of sick began to snake its way around her middle, shoulders, neck. As she settled in to a primo study kiosk to try to write, the venomous passenger sucked the wind out of her, an oily blanket of nightsweats and hot, clanging brass smashing against her ribcage.

The Traveler bore the assault for about and hour before packing up and heading out to the Rogue. She sat in the driver's seat, looking up symptoms, walk in clinics, and altitudes of all the places she was supposed to go to next. The sun was too hot, the air was too cold. She didn't know what to do and felt terrible on top of it. So she cried. She sat in her car, her key to freedom and adventure, her gateway to an open road, open mind, fierce and fearless heart pushing ever forward and...she sobbed. Eventually it abated. With the valve opened and her stress pressure relieved, she made a plan.

View of the Animas River from primo library seating.

Based on the research the most likely ailment was altitude sickness, exacerbated by previous weakness from allergies and medication changes. The Traveler had tripped into a maelstrom of competing issues, and each was vying for the top spot of supervillainy, sitting on her neck and twisting her stomach and heart into a hard rod of deadwood. All medical websites advised to ride it out and take it easy--acute cases should go to lower altitudes. A quick scan of the map proved that there really were no lower altitudes, not unless the Traveler wanted to go back through the mountains to get to them. The Traveler, in her road rough and world weariness, made all the more stringent by her illness, decided emphatically to Fuck That, and made a reservation at the Best Western.

Animas River.

According to web medical experts, altitude sickness is very similar to a hangover. Headache and nausea compete for which symptom will make the patient hurl or implode first. The Traveler was no stranger to hangovers, but had not experienced anything like one in over three years. Almost exactly three years and two weeks, the date of her last hangover, when she checked into rehab after spending one last night smoking too many Marlborough's and drinking a magnum of cabernet sauvignon. The similarity of the ailments set the Traveler's mood from distressed to pitch black as she settled in at the motel, brittle, furious, and deeply, immovably sad. It was too much.

"Guardians," Chamberlain of Letters, Minister
of Words, Book Warden, Melissa Zink,
Bronze, 2008.

She was certain a good night's rest and a Complimentary Breakfast of Hearty Foodstuffs would make all the difference in the world. Upon waking the next day, the Traveler felt a bit balloon-headed but attributed this to the early hour and last strains of ugly sickness. She decided pants would be required to attend breakfast, so in her jammy shorts she went out into the 40 degree early morning air to retrieve them from the Rogue. And locked herself out of the hotel room. The Traveler looked to the overcast heavens for deliverance but heard only echoing laughter. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a classic car parked next to the pool. They were following her. It was a sign.

She retrieved the jeans and unceremoniously dressed half in and half out of the Rogue, caring not one, tiny whit whether some other traveler saw the display. She had it up to Here, and could feel the dizziness, fatigue, and thick weight already starting to pull her down into the abyss. The web had said it could take one to three days to acclimate to the higher altitudes. She was not going to be one of the lucky ones, it seemed.

The Traveler made her way to the front desk of the Best Western and introduced herself to the kind faced man on duty, "Hello, I am an idiot. Good Morning." He appeared to have heard this speech before, and after some diligent checks to ensure the Traveler was not also A Liar, he set about creating a permanent memory of himself in her mind. His name, while Brian, is also and forever, Hero. The valiant kind, the legendary kind. He wielded not a blade but a Best Western pen. He was, in short, The Very Best of the Best Western.

The Traveler asked to stay another night, and was shocked to discover only three rooms were left, two of which were smoking rooms, a sign of times gone by, an ancient relic of bad will and dirty odors. She knew it well, after all. The only room useful to her was bigger, and more expensive, and she would have to move from the room she was already occupying, but she could not bear the thought of traveling (and had already canceled her AirBNB for that night in Cedar City, elevation 5,876). The Hero booked the expensive room but said he would watch for changes and keep her in mind. The Traveler did not believe him.

She went to the breakfast room and found she was hungry despite the fact that she felt like hot, flyblown garbage, and imagined this was what Hell was going to feel like except no one ever eats except maybe terrible, unspeakable things for which they were both grateful and hateful. The Best Western breakfast was far better than that, with eggs, sausage, cereals, and the ever present waffle bar, where guests were trusted to make their own waffles and not burn the whole works down in the process. A magical place.

The Traveler made a waffle and ate some eggs. The waffle was light and airy, so much so that it started to dissolve to a sugarmush under the weight of the syrup. The coffee was not too fancy, but strong, hot, and good. After breakfast, the Traveler set about getting two cups of coffee to take back to her room. The Hero approached, his sweet, angel face alight with good news. There was a cancellation, she could keep her room. And. The rate would be lower than the night before, even. The Traveler suppressed the galvanic desire to jump into the Hero's arms and plant one directly on his lips. The Traveler was briefly in love with the Hero. The Hero pretended not to be alarmed by the squeaky noises and fluttering hands. He was a consummate customer service professional.

The Traveler spent the rest of the day watching Law and Order and relaxing. She even got to see the Julia Roberts episode, once so elusive on the rerun circuit. She wandered out once more for a burger and salad at Wendy's (whose salads are, without reservation or purpose evasion, the Epic Salad BOMB) and was struck by Durango's strange geographic placement, just inside soaring, winged, peaks, lovely and frightening all at once. She was sad she could not appreciate Durango more, and hoped memory would wash away the poisoned coat of despair to a clean, unburdened image of what Durango really was, a glittering jewel of a town nestled in the crook of a stunning, mountainous setting.

The next morning, the Traveler awoke, still tired, but feeling good enough to set out once again. She packed the car, double checked the room, and brought the key cards back to the main desk, where the Hero still stood, steadfast, on duty, all smiles. She surrendered the cards and thanked him once again, saddled up, and headed northwesterly...toward the Arches, toward Salt Lake, not one dark harbinger of a classic car in sight.