|
|
 |
 Here it is: One of the last few giant orange stands along Highway 99 in California. Can't you just taste that orange shake already? |
Heading for Yosemite
without chains in winter
By JOYCE KIEFER
of TheColumnists.com
|
As we turned south onto Highway 99, which runs along
the spine of the West coast, I spotted the last of the giant
orange stands. These “oranges” used to dot the stretch
of 99 that ran through California’s San Joaquin Valley.
When I was little, as soon as I spotted the first one I knew
my parents and I were on our way to the wonderland of Los Angeles. The last stand turned up on the opposite side of the road. Of course my husband and I would risk our lives to check it out. “You’ve got to turn around”, I yelled. Bill obliged, flipping a U-turn through a break in the center divider and plunging into the endless stream of trucks. We splashed to a stop in the puddles surrounding the stand and ordered an orange shake. Stopping at the Mammoth Orange was trip insurance- a guarantee that we would experience the glories of California if we were denied what we set out to see: giant trees draped with snow in Sequoia National Park and Yosemite Valley in winter white. Roads to snowy places in California require chains–either on your tires or packed in your car. We had lost our chains. |
|
So we took along trip
insurance. Not the kind you buy when you’ve booked a tour
to Europe and want to cut your losses if you’re forced to
cancel at the last minute. Our insurance was against disappointment.
The “policy” consisted of a magazine list of funky
things to see on Highway 99 and an observant state of mind. If
the park rangers turned us away from the wonders of nature, our
trip would not be a loss. We would still enrich ourselves with
sights far different from our surroundings in Silicon Valley,
such as the Mammoth Orange. The Orange was no Starbucks. We were joined by a couple that bounced out of an 18-wheeler. He and she looked a bit grizzled and both were 5 x 5. He wore several earrings and she had no front teeth. They ordered corn dogs and fries to go with their orange shakes. Two men wearing bright orange jump suits were already seated at the picnic tables under the corrugated shed that protected the peeling paint of the giant orange. They drove off in a pick up truck that carried two large drills. I asked the pony-tailed teenager behind the counter when the place was built. She smiled, showing virgin teeth untouched by an orthodontist. “Oh, 1942 or 1947,” she said vaguely. |
 |
streets of Chowchilla; at right, the giant "coffee pot" water tower in Kingsburg. |
 |
We drove on to the giant coffee pot.
Decorated with a floral design, the big pot is actually a water
tower that commands the skyline of Kingsburg, a town of 9,000
once settled by Swedes. We took the right turnoff but couldn’t
find it anywhere. The kid at the gas station looked at me funny
when I asked directions and sent us under the overpass and right
at the Chevron. We looked up and there it was. In front of us
stood a Swedish-style downtown as interpreted by the San Joaquin
Valley.
Swedish flags and painted horses hung from the streetlights.
Timbered design decorated some of the shops. A mural on the side
of the county library portrayed Swedish immigrants, along with
Olympic track star Rafer Johnson, a local boy. I stopped at the
Chamber of Commerce. “How big is the world’s biggest
box of raisins?” I wanted to know. My list placed it in
Kingsburg along with the big coffee pot. The list didn’t
mention the Swedish downtown and I wanted to stay focused. The
man at the desk waved toward the bookcase. “About that size”,
he said. Not worth going back two freeway exits, I decided.
He warned us not to take the back roads to Sequoia National Park.
“Lots of illegal immigrants around there.” We returned
to the freeway.
The road east to Sequoia National Park tantalized us with a view
of the snow-covered Sierras just beyond the orange groves on
either side of the road. But the sight I saw from my mind’s
eye was a grove of 300 foot sequoias with trunks 40 feet in diameter
rising out of the snow. The branches, eight feet in diameter,
were flocked with more snow like massive Christmas trees. What
pictures I could take!
 |
Church in Yettem. |
We settled down in the rocky hills at the edge of the park where our friends’ cabin was located. The big trees stood deep inside the park. Our friends would drive us in the next day.
That night a giant boulder rolled onto the road. The park service spent the next day blowing it up.
Trip insurance to the rescue: go shopping in the nearest town.
The other woman and I spent hours inspecting a candy shop. It was a wondrous sight to watch the owner, an elderly German immigrant, carefully arrange Brazil nuts in pairs inches before a belt passed them under a wheel dripping with chocolate. We moved on to a house where the front room was filled with Russian nesting dolls for sale. It would take days to open each one.
The next day Bill and I left for Yosemite, driving the back roads out of Sequoia. The illegal immigrants were there, busy picking oranges. Tienen cadenas para llantas? If so, we could take the turnoff to the General Grant Grove, our last chance to see the big trees. Chains were required to be in the car, not on the tires.
Instead, we turned away toward Highway 99. We left the emerald green foothills and the groves hung with oranges like Christmas ornaments. The land turned flat, studded with puddles. The orchards were pruned into grotesque shapes. One stand of fruit trees had died with its leaves on.
We slowed down at a town whose name was lettered on the map in faint, small type: Yettem. Armenian for Garden of Eden. The residential area of the town, Population 250, was a scattering of white stucco cabins, front yards hung with colorful wash. The school was a collection of faded trailers. But a magnificent Armenian church rose up next to the road, surrounded by palm trees and an iron fence. The churchyard was filled with cars. Although this Eden did not appear on the list, I had to take a closer look.
Inside the vestibule of St. Mary’s Armenian Apostolic Church, I found two men counting money. They told me the church was built around 1901. Although I was wearing jeans and no hat, they allowed me to take a look from the choir loft. The interior was awesome, but not as elaborate as an Orthodox church. The priest was gorgeously robed. A choir of women sat in a horseshoe of seats next to the altar. They wore white crowns and short veils. The church was was half-filled.
 |
at El Portal in the Yosemite Valley. |
We reached our Yosemite destination of El Portal by mid-afternoon. The weather was gorgeous. I didn’t dare ask the motel clerk if chains were required to enter the valley. I wanted to extend the feeling of hope. We followed the Merced River to the park entrance. As we gained altitude, snow began to cover the logs and boulders strewn through the rapids. We reached the gate. The park ranger waved us through. Chained or not, we were worthy to enter.
The canyon opened up and there it was–the Yosemite Valley I’ve known since childhood but never seen transformed by the magic of snow. Camp Curry was made of ice. El Capitan was a lump of gold in the alpenglow. Mist rose from the snow covered meadow. Paradise on earth.
On the way home across the San Joaquin Valley we spotted the endless row of impossibly tall palms that mark the town of Chowchilla--Population 11,000--including the women’s prison. How could we resist? We turned off the freeway and drove the palm-lined Robertson Boulevard.
Now we were following instinct.
A week later we found our chains, hunkered in a corner of the garage along with the hibachi, fire place screen, and other unused objects. We didn’t need them at all.
©2005 by Joyce Kiefer. The photos are the property of the author. All rights reserved. This column first posted Feb. 14, 2005.
You can comment on this column online. Please address your message to either "The Editors" or Joyce Kiefer. To send an email, click here: talkback@thecolumnists.com
|
|
|
Archives |
|
|