Yesterday, I drove by La Conchita for the first time since the big slide. It was all I could do, driving slowly by on 101, not to cry. The gash in the mountain is so violent and frames the graveyard created below. All those lives -- those crazy little hippies and surfers and stoners who lived so simply and so richly with no money -- snuffed out with no notice, no goodbyes. And the living, now walking around as half-selves in grief.

It is palatable.

I cannot believe that it was only January 10 that I was caught on the wrong side of that slide, and that circumstances in the birth I was attending (her placenta just wouldn't come unstuck, so postbaby stitching and cleaning up took over an hour longer than usual) kept me safe from being on that road during the slide. Lucky, lucky.

It was a surreal day, gorgeous sun, almost too bright, creating hyperreal colors along the coast. Everything had been pounded and washed and rewashed and soaked over the last two weeks, and it was time, said the sun, to dry out. Glow, baby, glow.

I was beyond exhausted, having only slept lightly about an hour over the past 30 or so. I had heard at the hospital that there had been some road closures, but that 101 was supposed to be ok. Little did we know that not long before we were having that convo, the slide was happening.

I wasn't too suprised when the freeway slowed in Carpinteria, but as I saw ahead that everyone was pulled over on the side of the road, I made a hasty exit off the freeway. Last train out! However, that transition road housed just as many cars, and truckers and every other sort of vehicle you could imagine, including huge mud movers. I pulled over and parked, and a little hipster couple came walking my way. Oddly, he had an old camera, complete with strap, hanging over his neck. They gave me the scoop as far as they knew it -- mudslide onto 101 both ways, cars were trapped, no one killed.

My elegant response? "Aw, fuck."

They giggled and said they were playing hooky from work to do some photography, play south of home. C'est la vie. We wished each other luck.

I called Nathan, hoping he could find me an alternative route -- the 150 through Ojai, or the 33 through the same, or something I'd never heard of. No luck. He searched and searched, and asked around to no avail. Everything was shut down. I got out of my car, reeling a bit. Everything is off-kilter when sleep deprived. I wandered up to a trucker's window, knowing that he, if no one else would be able to divine my best course of action. Friendly and helpful, he told me I was screwed. Freeway would not be opening up for two days at least, but he reckoned closer to *Friday*. He also gave me the best advice I could have at that very moment, "Better get back to Carpinteria and get a hotel room now, before everyone else figures out that is what they're going to need to do."

Coulda kissed him -- anonymous bed and quiet and sleep. I hightailed it back down that transition road, which ended up being Carpenteria Ave. and called my dad for hotel advice in the area. He often worked undercover jobs, tailing workman's comp folks who are cheating the system, so he's pretty familiar with inexpensive lodging up and down Cali. The problem is, he cannot remember the names of anything anymore, including streets and hotels. Landmarks a'plenty, but no names. You cannot imagine how frustrating this is, when you are pushing delirium. "Well, where are you? Okay, you'll need to get off the freeway and head toward the coast, and then drive on that road. Oh, you're *on* that road. You're sure? Ok. Carpinteria Ave.--yes! Well, you'll curve around and then they'll be an old downtown, and over to the right, I think, maybe a mile down...Okay, there are hotels there, you'll find them. But get a GOOD rate, tell them a corporate rate. Tell them you work for my company. A GOOD rate, remember!"

On and on.

I explored one exceedingly skeegy option -- Something Del Sol -- which, though a bargain at $35/night, was sure to land me with both bedbugs and no sleep and threat of robbery. One cruise through the parking lot was enough for me. By this time, Nathan's called me back (both men in my life are on high-fret settings at this point) and he gave the two thumbs up to my next choice -- Holiday Inn Express. They were hugely kind to me in my bedraggled state and gave me what I thought was an excellent rate for Carp; $80/night. There goes my doula payment, but whatddya gonna do? Write it off, is what.

I was lucky, because they had a cancellation -- a guy on the other side of the slide who couldn't get through. Again, this struck me oddly -- we were just taking each other's places in some sort of messed up game of the gods. Leetle pawns, we are.

Desk lady told me I could park to the side and I could take my things (what things?!) in a certain door and find my room right there. Once I parked, I discovered, to my delight, that I had not one, but TWO bags of clothes for charity in the back-back of my car. Huzzah! I could then shed my disgusting doula togs, wash them, and move on. Would have to buy underwear and socks, but a small price to pay.

Most of the clothes were Nathan's cast off work-on-the-house clothes, but I had a pair of my flannel jammies in there -- HEAVEN! When I discovered one of my favorite pairs of Nathan's flannel lounge pants, I knew I had been taken care of. I showered (Heaven, squared) and watched TV. This is when I discovered the full extent of the disaster in La Conchita and surrounding areas. Man, I couldn't believe how slammed we had been. I fell asleep to the looping sounds of the weather channel. The rest of the day slid by; I roused myself around 5ish to do a food run (was freaking STARVING) and to pick up a well-deserved beer. Mexican food and beer; truly the dinner of champions. An unexpected issue cropped up, though, based on what I thought was a good assumption --every hotel room has a bottle opener. Right on the wall or the sink of the bathroom, right?

Um, apparently, no. I had to pad up to the front desk, in socks and flannel and tee (with beer tucked in one side of shirt) to beg one off the clerk. Two businessmen were checking in, dressed in nice suits and looking all official. I hung back, not really wanting to be seen. However, the gal who helped me earlier caught my eye, and I saw my in, and asked for the implement. I could see the regret before she opened her mouth, "Someone borrowed it, and, well, didn't bring it..."

She was interrupted by the other clerk, a young dude, "Here, give it to me!" he said, reaching out. Before I knew it, he'd whipped out his keychain, and bam! beer at last, beer at last.

The businessman in front of me turned around with a grin of cameraderie and said, "Whew! That would have been a damn shame, wouldn't have it?"

In that moment, the hotel became home. The night ended in a blur of TV and sleep.

The next day, my friendly dude clerk gave me the CHP number to call to check out route openings, and warned me that the closest opening was far north; the 41 freeway. This calculated to over an 8-hour drive home, and I was still wiped out from the birth. I made some phonecalls -- work, another doula, my honey -- and decided to get me some undies and socks, at the lowest cost possible.

Mission accomplished up in Santa Barbara at some lovely chain stores, I had time to wander the empty streets. Was so strange to be there during a weekday, a schoolday, a workday. State St. was deserted. I wandered into a book store, discovered some excellent gay manga involving wherewolves and vampires, picked up the second Phillip Pullman book in the "His Dark Materials" series and headed out.

Had a couple convos with work via cell -- nothing I could do to really help, and it all ended up being a tempest in a teapot anyhow, so pushed that hanging over me from my mind.

Again, starving, now also tired and in the middle of sun turning to cold wind with a hint of more rain, I began to feel sad and desolate. Cast adrift. Unknowing. So weird, how when one bonks, the whole world falls apart.

Kept it together enough to get to an ATM (took way too long to do this), to my car, and back down to Carp, to a wonderful diner on Linden Ave.

I knew I was in just the spot I needed when I walked in and found all their booths were covered in bright orange vinyly fabric. Oh yeah. Happy. In addition, they served breakfast all day -- a true mark of excellence.

I hung there for a couple hours, savoring reading, eating and the most perfect pot of Earl Grey I've had to fortune to sip.

Done for the day, headed back to my safe little nest. Did laundry and called the CHP again. Closed, closed, closed. And closed! More newshounding, and hoping for survivors in La Conchita. Flip, flip, flip...I have no idea how people actually watch one show at a time. My attention span for many things like gardening and cooking and crocheting and hiking and and and is quite long. Not so for the TV. Weird.

Started to plot out my escape on Wednesday. Make the trip over and around? Wait one more day for the offchance that 101 would open up? Hm. No answer, so I went to sleep.

Miracle of miracles, a small road closer to Carp opened up the next morning. The 166. Would bring me across to the 5 freeway just north of the Grapevine, into more landslide issues at Gorman, but was promised that the road was open in one lane. Would have to take 118 across back to the coast, as 126, the faster route, was also awash. Eh, looked like four hours, max, so I headed out at 10 am.

Four hours, my ass.

Blah, blah, blah. Eight hours later, I made it home. On the way there were gorgeous panoramic views, many cows, much water and damage, some snow and an excellent sunset.

Grateful on so many accounts.

May those lost and those found in La Conchita find their peace.