From Eureka, we headed north to Crescent City, then bid adieu to the coast for a while, turning inland to cross into Oregon.
The people changed with the scenery.
Eureka and Humboldt County were a flash point of the environmental battles over northwest redwoods. This is where Julia "Butterfly" Hill sat immovable in a tree for two years. And I still remember the howls of environmentalists when police rubbed pepper mace in their eyes during a sit-in back in 1997 (and they were stupid enough to videotape it, for insurance purposes supposedly).
As I remember it, the trouble started when the family-owned Pacific Lumber Company was bought by some junk bond king (or some other fine contributor to society and humankind), and he promptly set out to level the old growth forests, to take the money ($100,000 for a large tree) and run. We drove by Pacific Lumber on the 101; the mill buildings were enormous, reminding me of Boeing's factory hangars in Seattle, and the compound stretched for a couple miles, it seemed. We saw a "Support Your Lumber Company" sign on someone's house, and you can imagine the tension between idealistic tree-huggers and the workers increasingly hit by the decline of the timber industry. We certainly saw our share of scary, alcoholic lumberjacks, or so they looked.
Up the coast in Crescent City, things seemed more mellow, with more of a fishing economy (another traditional industry heading for trouble). A lot more of a friendly air. People offering up historical tidbits when you took a picture. So it was a nice last stop in California.
And on into Oregon. At least down here in Southern Oregon, I'd use one word to describe the people: ornery. The proliferation of odd signs telling us what we could and couldn't do was the first item of notice, along with the "Get the U.S. out of the U.N." placards (we tried to figure out something the U.N. had done that could have possiby crossed these people, but couldn't). And they like beards up here, too. I notice, since I normally stand out a bit with my beard. Well, I still stand out here, but only because my beard isn't nearly long enough. And bushy.
Southern Oregon likes the word "rogue", too. Rogue River. Valley of the Rogue. Rogue this, rogue that. Which makes me wonder, if a land is founded by near and full-on criminals, then what does it do in constructing that land's legends, folk heroes, and value system? You tell me. Maybe a couple signs from the area will help.
On a city limit sign:
"Gold Hill
A Quiet City
No Unnecessary Loud Noise Tolerated"
On the side of an old, junked bus:
"She was a fat, ugly c*** ..."
Enough said.