The bus leaving L.A. was about an hour late and so I rolled into the Visalia Greyhound station at about 5:30 AM, still groggy from the fitfull half-sleep so common on such nocturnal journeys. It was still pitch dark outside, and colder than I had expected, and what's more the bus station wasn't even open yet. At least there were a few other scragglers about. I knew that if I had any hope of making this journey happen it would have to be with the help of people around me, so I did my best to make chit chat with these folks, dropping a hint or detail here and there concerning my present mission.
My first lead came from one young local woman who told me that I might find some understanding ears at a nearby restaurant called Cat's Corner Cafe, popular with the locals - perhaps someone there might offer a ride up the hill? Shortly thereafter the bus station opened, and I decided to have a talk with the counter-staff to kill some time until 7 AM or so, when I figured there'd be a better chance the cafe would be open. There was little they could offer me other than encouragement however, since, as I mentioned, virtually all transit out of Visalia was out of service. All they could do was to print me out several open tickets so that I'd have a variety of options available to me depending on when I made it back down the hill. I thanked them and made my way down Noble Avenue in search of the cafe as the sun began to rise and burn off some of the chill of morning.
I managed to waste a few precious moments getting lost on the way, but after asking directions from a gaggle of rubbies, got back on track and soon spotted the cafe, just off the 198 freeway. It was bustling, which was encouraging, and I walked in - all smiles - determined to win the good graces of some local who hopefully lived near Sequoia National Park. There was a line-up so I sat and waited a moment by the front desk, where strangely enough there sat an old Magic 8-ball. I more or less instinctively - if uncharacteristically - picked it up, thinking silently:
"Will I make it to the General?"
"You may rely on it." came the fuzzy blue answer.
I smiled to myself and took a seat on an old diner-style swivel-stool at the low breakfast bar in between two chipper looking Californians. I perused the menu and remarked to my neighbours that I'd better have the chicken-fried steak, because we didn't have that kind of thing in Canada - the bait was laid.
"Oh, you're from Canada, are you? What brings you all the way down here?"
"Well! Let me tell you..." I smiled, and before long I had my two neighbors immersed in a lovely conversation about all manner of topics (including, incidentally, the pros and cons of a 100% carnivorous diet, which one of these men espoused, claiming that the government only encouraged the regular consumption of fruits and vegetables as part of their sinister plot against the populace) but most importantly to me at that moment, about my present troubles. How was I, the car-less Canadian going to make my way up to the giant forest? Well, as it happened, neither of these fine men lived out toward the park, and so no ride was offered, although the one man made a phonecall to a ranger friend on my behalf to inquire about road conditions - snow, as it turned out, and lots of it - and the other (the carnivore) generously bought my breakfast (despite its containing vegetables).
So, still rideless, and my head now swirling with thoughts of trudging uphill through the snow, I headed down to a little place up the road called Lover's Lane, where my breakfast mates told me I'd have the best shot at nabbing a ride. The rain had come on now, and so I quickened my pace, but I knew it wouldn't be long before I was good and wet. Soon enough I had found the spot, and with a sigh and a laugh, stuck out my thumb for the very first time in my life. It wasn't long however, before I realized that I must have looked a rather dubious character standing there in the rain with my beard and my dark glasses (mandatory after my recent surgery, you'll recall, even in grey skies). What I needed was a sign. So, off I walked to the nearest gas station, and after rifling through the garbage a minute, found a suitable piece of card across which I scrawled my best Canadian-flag, and the words: "EAST THANKS!"
No word of a lie, I had a ride within fifteen minutes. A soft-spoken older gentleman of Spanish descent picked me up, and told me that although he was actually headed in the other direction, he'd be happy to take me up the road some twenty mintues. I obviously accepted and we talked the whole way, about the various sadnesses he had endured in his life - the loss of many friends and loved ones to cancer, and his wife's present battle therewith, as well as his own injury, a broken back some years - and seven surgeries - ago. Despite the grim subject matter, our chat was pleasant enough, and I gave him a hearty thanks as I stepped back onto the road, one ride closer to the trees, in somewhat wilder country now, and with new encouragement about my journey. Again I threw up my sign, and sure enough, within minutes, was picked up by another kindly Spanish man, this one with less English, who offered to drive me all the way to Three Rivers, where he lived. Terrific! On this longer ride, we did our best to tutor each other in our respective languages, and shared a few laughs. He let me off in front of a little general store in Three Rivers and wished me luck.
By this time it was only around noon and I was quite pleased at how things had gone so far! At this rate, it looked like I might even make it to the General afterall! Excited, I put my sign out and set to waiting, still in the rain. After a few minutes however, as I began to grow quite wet, I decided to pop in to the general store to use the washroom. Inside, I saw a sign advertising riverside cabins for rent which I discovered could be had for $50/night. A bit steep to be sure, but I realized that even if I did make it to the General that day, I'd likely still have to sleep in Three Rivers that evening. And so, to make a long story short, after walking a quarter-mile up the road, in the pouring rain to scope out prices at nearby places, all of which were higher, I decided to take a cabin. Unfortunately, this cabin was also located some few miles up the road, and so off I went again, still in the rain, to find the place. At this point in the day, it was beginning to grow darker, and the idea of a hot shower and a bit of rest was sounding better and better, (recall, I had hardly slept since two nights prior) and so by the time I found my little cabin, I quickly yielded thereto, and wound up calling it a day. But I was close, and I could feel it.
Tomorrow I would march on the General.
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