Driving the Getaway Car

The Red Hot Chili Peppers are playing on my iPod when we cross the California border into the darkened redwood forest.  This is no accident.  I like my arrivals to have kitschy musical accompaniments.  Erin is maneuvering the top-heavy car down extremely winding roads with unpredictable curves.  Having grown up in the flatlands, curves are not her strong suit, but the course is admittedly the most difficult we’ve encountered yet.  After an alert bout of night-driving, we pull into state park campsite two miles off Highway 1 and find a vacant spot under the awning of the giant trees.

The Redwoods are not like most national parks I have visited.  They are scattered pockets of protected lands, both state and federal, throughout northern California.  There is no entry fee to use the coastal highway or to visit the park.  However, you do have to pay sixteen dollars a night for a campsite, but I cannot justify putting exact cash into an envelope inside a wooden collection box so that I can park my car overnight in the forest.

 

National parks are federal lands that citizens pay for with their taxes, and usually they pay additional fees to enter parks such as Yellowstone and the Grand Canyon.  On top of that, the parks charge you for camping, and some will even charge you two dollars for an individual shower lasting eight minutes.  I bought a park pass for eighty dollars that gets me into any park presided over by the National Park Service for a year, but I refuse to pay for campsites.  I drive into the campground after the workers have clocked out for the day and the toll is vacant.  I back into an inconspicuous spot far away from the camp host but close enough to the exit in case I need to flee.  This is exactly what I do in the Redwoods.

Before dawn, I divvy up my supply of quarters between Erin and me to activate the hot water.  The air inside the bathroom is chilly, and the concrete floor vacuums the heat from my body.  I shove the quarters through the slot, and they rattle inside a silver cage.  A weak stream falls from a puny nozzle.  I race through the procedure because the sun is rising soon, which means the rangers will take their posts.  Then I pack up the car while waiting for Erin to finish, and we soon hit the road.

 

I creep up to the gate slowly and peek inside the window without coming to a complete stop.  At first glance I see no one seated until I press the gas and see a female ranger leaning forward, staring so intently at her computer screen that she doesn’t notice me driving by.  I accelerate to get some distance between myself and the toll booth.  In my rearview mirror, I see the ranger run out of her office and wave her arms to signal for my attention.

“Should I stop?” I ask Erin.

“We can’t go back now,” she says.  “What are they going to do?”

My heart beats faster, the way it did when I knew shame was awaiting me in principal’s office in seventh grade.  I imagine the female ranger is radioing her partner on the highway, and he will be waiting to catch us, like a grizzly bear standing in the river before a salmon run.  I think it’s a minor possibility we will be caught before we reach the highway, and I am ready to plead ignorance.  At the same time I am thrilled to do something slap-on-the-wrist illegal.  Pretending to be an outlaw is as close as I will ever get to notoriety, and I can live with that.

We reach the highway and head south.  I feign paranoia that we are being followed and that a high-speed chase will ensue, but it seems we have made a clean get-away.