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.

Incline Village Library, Incline Village, Nevada

Up and up and up I drove. Of all the winding roads, this was the most flippy dippy of them since the trip up to Estes Park in Colorado. Incline Village is at 6350 feet, and I watched the ever increasing elevation posts with grim patience. I knew I had to get over this part to get to California, so I white knuckled my way through it.

There were respites, like when I finally saw Lake Tahoe through breaks in the thick trees. You can't really stop except in a few places, and I was dead set on reaching the library. I can see why this is a destination for the region and why it is a place I've heard of and not some random, anonymous lake on the map. It is gob-smacking gorgeous, a real head turner, and if you're not careful, you can head turn your ass off a cliff should you look too long.

Once in the higher elevations, the whole route is riddled with tourist resources, from ye olde log cabin restaurants, to ye old log cabin motels, to ye olde log cabin jet ski rentals. It's fabulous.

Incline Village has tourist trappings as well, but it is more of a real town than a tourist town, with many homes built up and down the precarious mountainsides all the way down to the water. It's an affluent, woodsy area, well grown in and insulated from the oogy old world. It's lovely, but I felt a bit out of place there, like I would need a 24k gold shoehorn to fit in to its tight, tidy borders.

As sick as I felt at that point, nothing could stop me from adoring the Incline Village Library. It was exactly what I'd expected when I researched it months ago. More log cabin meets modern marvels, but with homey touches in between and an eye toward the arts and culture moneyed peoples so admire.

I knew I wasn't going to stay for long--I'd already decided that my next move would be to find a decently priced hotel and ride out whatever bacterial/viral storm was currently knocking my head into a virtual snotwall until the bitter end. I took pictures as I strolled through, wistful that I couldn't set up shop since there were so many places (with so many fantastic views) to do so.

I made one trip around, then headed back out to the parking lot to figure out what next. I touched as little as possible, knowing full well that whatever was riding my immune system was likely picked up in a public space like this one...tony as it might have been, you can't outclass a good, solid bug.

Salt Lake City to Reno, Nevada (518 miles)

I spent my last day in Salt Lake City at my favorite branch, Marmalade, that perfect little honey of a library just minutes from Temple Square and downtown proper. I was there from open to close, writing my face off, and feeling both productive and exhausted at the end of a full day. The library closed at six, so I killed some time driving around, got dinner, and finally headed out to the Bonneville Salt Flats, which are about an hour and a half west of Salt Lake City.

A rainy day ended with sudden sunshine, and I got to experience one of those wonderful double rainbows on my way out of town. Instead of "the awe of nature" or Kermit the Frog or a million other things I could have associated with the sight, I instead thought of my old peeps--one of the may different crews I worked with over the years--who brought the silly Double Rainbow Across the Skyyyy guy (and remix) to my attention back in the day (ye olde 2010). So instead of quiet solitude in the soft light of sundown, in my head I heard dance music and that poor, highly emotional stoner screaming at rainbows as I headed west. Thanks forever, Richard. (I maniacally laugh-cried while listening to "Family Affair" so I'm one to talk, remix 2014, one month sober and feeling all the feelings.)

Highway 80 passes right by the Great Salt Lake, so I got to see it in the most magical light, with the sun setting and the clouds streaming across the reflection. By the time I got to the Bonneville Salt Flats Rest Area, it was full dark. I went to bed (i.e. launched my body into the back of the car) around 8 pm and slept for something like ten hours.

When I woke up the next morning, I was bummed to see that I'd managed to visit the area during one the "flooded" periods. I had wanted to view the flats when they were dry, reflecting the sun and creating that strange flat water appearance like a vast and improbable mirror, so at first I felt a bit grouchy about the whole thing. I brushed my teeth and washed my face and went back out to reassess my surroundings. As you can see, I was being a twerp. It was beautiful...and the sky was giving vivid and winsome cloud formations. Honestly, what more could I have asked for?

On my way to Reno, I stopped in Elko because a sign promised I would find Starbucks there. As it turned out, the Starbucks is located in the Red Lion Casino, which you have to pass through to get to the venti pleasures. It was 8-something in the morning, which is a very weird time to be in a casino in Elko, Nevada. There weren't many people there to begin with--most were in the adjacent cafe eating breakfast--the rest were at the slots, but the majority of the banks and banks of machines stood completely empty, still flashing and hooting their clanging come ons. Card dealers stood at their stations, passing the time with small talk, hands behind their backs--I guess it was too early in the morning for blackjack.

Near Elko, Nevada

What struck me more than anything was that strong, lingering stench of cigarette smoke. I saw no one smoking at that hour, but I'm guessing it is allowed--the law in Nevada is clear on the matter: smoking is banned in businesses except for gaming establishments, specifically casinos. Having distinct memories of blowing smoke in other patrons faces at the local Taco Grande back during high school lunch period, far be it from me to get super hypocritical about smoking now, but I knew it was a trigger for me, so decided to complete my business at the Red Lion with haste.

Not that this stopped me from betting 5 dollars at the few slot machines that had the old fashioned pull handles. I couldn't help myself. Somehow I won the $5 back, which sums up my relationship to gambling in general. Breaking even to a large, yawning Meh.

Cashing out took longer than $5 is worth, and the gristled lady behind the counter seemed drearily annoyed that I didn't know how gambling or pay windows worked. I got my coffee and fled, feeling relieved that this particular addiction was never going to get its hooks in me. I do understand the appeal--I've certainly bought at least 5 lotto tickets in my lifetime whoop whoop--but not the hunger for it, the drive to blow every last dime at the chance, the chance, the chance...it seems more like torture than fun. But then plenty of people think that about alcoholism, too. Like, why can't you just dabble in alcohol? Why does it have to be A Thing? My friend, my girl, my buddyboy, how I wish that could be the case for all of us. But for some of us, the problem is simple. There will never be enough alcohol. It's never enough. If you're not drinking it, you're in fear of not having it, not being able to get it, running out. Even with a full case in the cabinet, there's always an empty glass at the end of it. It's never, ever enough.

I'm sure addicted gamblers feel the same way. Even when they win a jackpot, they have to keep gambling. It is never going to be enough. Insatiable hunger...isn't that one of the circles of hell?

I'm guessing the BM stands for Battle Mountains.
In case you wondered what you were looking at!

Anyway, the rest of the trip was uneventful. I passed through the Battle mountain ranges and found great comfort in all those rolling, soft hills. After the craggy, toothy Rocky Mountains, with their icy, hard peaks and black rock, those calm, smooth hills were a balm on the brain.

As I neared Reno, something started to happen. an unwelcome, though not as yet alarming change in my overall demeanor. For one, my nose started running. For two, I started to feel tired. For three, my stomach shriveled into a cranky raisin. Having started the trip with an unknown ailment (demon possession prob), and only just recovered from the ugliness of altitude sickness, I refused to believe that this was anything more than allergies and road ravages. Driving for 6 hours sounds like a breeze, but you do have to be at attention for the duration--it does wear on a person--and as I approached Reno the flora changed to a greener setting, so maybe, maybe...it was allergies. Had to be.

I checked into my Air BNB (meeting two shy golden retrievers who gave me soft warning boofs before breaking down and coming closer, sniffing my hand, and licking me hello) then headed out for a quick dinner. Nothing sounded good. I ended up getting a sandwich made of Thanksgiving stuff (the Bobbie) at Capriotti's--it was fine. I'm pretty sure I would have loved it if I hadn't felt...off. I went to bed that night with my nose running and running, but hopeful, ever hopeful, that it was just allergies.

I was up early the next day, checking out of the Reno Air BNB and heading off to get coffee and breakfast before driving up into the mountains to check out one of the premier libraries on my main list, Incline Village, which was located in one of the many little towns encircling Lake Tahoe. My head felt stuffed, my lungs felt thick, and still my mind insisted it had to be allergies. As I pulled through the drive through, I turned on CNN. My sense of surreality plunged into the horror house realm...57 dead, 500 wounded in Las Vegas??? An accident? What happened?

One of my first thoughts was of those hotels with high decks and other insane attractions (rollercoaster on a roof, anyone?)--but it turned out to be a mass shooting. Again. I listened to the news as I made my way up the mountain, head filled with smoking straw. After Sandy Hook, what more could there be? There is no level of horror beyond that. I speak only for myself here--and do not mean that there is no horror in all subsequent mass shootings. Of course they are horrifying, But Sandy Hook took a piece of me. I'll never forget watching Laurie Stokes and Ken Rosato on WABC 7 in New York, then the morning and noon anchors, breaking in to report what had happened. How the victims were so little, and how the numbers kept going up and up. There were so many, and they were only six years old.

It's a similar emotion to how I feel about 9/11. A mind can hurdle some pretty terrible things, challenging things, seemingly impossible things. But some things are just too big.

I feel for those that are tormented by this latest atrocity. I wish them peace. I left everything behind at Sandy Hook. I'm sorry these things keep happening, but if hearts, minds, and policies didn't change after of Sandy Hook, they never will.

Sandy Library, Sandy, Utah

I feel bad that I do not have more to say about the Sandy Public Library, a place I visited and spent a good amount of time in during my stay in the Salt Lake City area. This was the library closest to my Air BNB digs, and so serviced my most tired and lazy needs when I needed a place to set up shop without much fanfare or intent. It was not on my original list of places to visit, but I am very glad that I ended up there, nonetheless.

The Insane View from the Damn Parking Lot (Wasatch Mountains)

Being that it was not "on the list," I have very few photos to share. It must be noted that the library's parking lot has a view that far surpasses your average public library parking lot (or even library proper, to be honest).

View of the mountains
from under the main awning.

As with all mountain-oriented architecture, the library itself has that modern-lodge feel, with warm wood paneling and bright, large windows, specifically at the front and back, with a massive paneled skylight running down the length of the library.

The reason I do not remember much about this library is simple--I was working. I spent long stretches of quiet, productive collating, photo editing, research, and writing at work tables near the back of the library. Almost every patron I encountered there was equally enthralled in study, reading, or just plain silence. It was a perfect place to get things done.

Sometimes the least memorable libraries are the very best.

Oh Heavenly Skylights!