Hwy 666

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Born: 1926
Died: Summer 2003

If you’re familiar with the old blacktop two-lane, you know that U.S. Highway 666 ‘ Triple 6 ‘ connected a pawn-shop town to a Superfund site, that it ran through some of the most unforgiving terrain in three states, that it was the site of some of the wildest summer lightning storms and steering-wheel-gripping black-ice blizzards in the winter, and that the outlaw image of the highway was all wrapped up in its name. Highway 666 was the Devil’s Highway, the perfect setting for the making of modern-day legends. Highway 666 has other stories, local legends of outlaws and saints so tied to the road that they’ll go with it as it’s slowly nomenclaturally replaced by Highway 491. Triple-6 was a great setting for a good story because it ran with the devil. Or, to be more accurate, it had a reputation for running with the devil, for the Bible may refer to 666 as the “number of the beast,” but this highway didn’t have much inherently evil about it. It acquired its name not because of the land it crossed or the people who lived there, but because it was the sixth spur off of Highway 66. Whether it actually attracted good stories or just gave them life is hard to say, but it provided the raw setting for a rough assortment of local legends that became part of Four Corners lore.

It wasn’t stories about outlaws that were the downfall of 666, though. It wasn’t the real-life characters that gave the highway an identity that was its doom. It was fear, pure and simple. Highway 666 was killed (or at least its Official Highway System Designation was killed) by people who were afraid of a number and of being associated with that number — afraid evil would rub off on them or that other people would think it had.

Whatever happened to rugged individualism and the free and the brave? This is the Wild West after all, a region with a reputation for accommodating nomads, warriors, pioneers and miscreants — people for whom independence, self-reliance and freedom are vital. For centuries Westerners have survived dust storms and drought, forced marches and disease, fires and floods, snake bites and sun stroke, only to have their modern-day offspring recoil at the sight of a number.

Summerland

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Summerland was founded in 1889 by rancher Harry L. Williams. The Big Yellow House, obvious to any traveler on State Highway 101, was built in 1884 as his personal residence. By 1896 with the boom in oil, Summerland was quickly turned into an eyesore as drilling operations and oil derricks populated this beachside community. As the oil played out, and operations moved offshore, Summerland has once again returned to it’s former standing as a quaint beachside town. Now better known for it antique shops than anything else, Summerland represents to me two things: a good party, and a great breakfast. Both of these residing in the same location, nearly 10 years apart.


The restaurant pictured below, originally known as the Summerland Omlette Parlor, now doing business as the Summerland Beach Cafe, was originally a private residence. My last visit there, pre-restaurant days, was when I was just out of high school and that house was jammed packed full of party goers. Standing room only, with a waiting line to get in for a refill from the keg. Today, the keg has been replaced by a stove and 3 egg omlettes are the reason one may be waiting in line outside. Night is now morning, the reward has become food as opposed to drink, standing room only is now seating room only, but my guess is I’m surrounded by some of the same people who remember the place way back when.

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Washoe House

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The Washoe House proclaims to be “the oldest roadhouse in the state.” This could possibly be disputed, but by whom? The place has been around since 1859, so by now it’s at least earned the right not to be argued with. I came across the place just after moving up north to Petaluma to attend Sonoma State. With a pony-tail that reached the middle of my back, I headed for the bar, never knowing what might happen next, expect the worst, prepare for trouble, but survey the odds before reacting…Page three in my ‘rules of engagement’ state – never back down, but don’t be stupid either, live to fight another day…

It was mid-afternoon and there were few inside. A couple truckers, and a couple old farmers at the bar rolling dice. I sat on a barstool next to the fat one wearing a Ford cap, old t-shirt, suspenders, slight stink, and ordered myself a draft. Fat Ray, apparently tired of losing at dice to his buddy Marshall, started talking to me, possibly in an attempt to break his bad streak. From this farmer’s view, the county was growing too fast. In particular, the city of Petaluma had sprouted up on the north side of the river faster than corn in August, and Santa Rosa was getting too big for Ray to drive into. Having heard that, I envisioned Ray driving his Catepillar with the backhoe up at about 10 mph, and wasn’t yet aware of that the State had cut a path 75 feet wide, filled it with cement and named it Highway 101. Ray passed me the cup and sure as shit passed me his bad luck as well. Marshall beat me five straight throws and to show good sportsmanship I bought beers for the two, before heading home.

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Trout Club

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I had no idea where we were going, everyday with this family was an adventure for me. They’d introduced me to my first rock concert, a number of other firsts that I’ll take the fifth on if asked, and now six of us were packed into a station wagon heading up the Pass to the Trout Club. A short hike back up the creek to a large swimming hole and another first on the list…the girls looked stunning as they shed all clothes and sunbathed on the rocks…well, two of the three did at any rate. I’ve never been back up to find the swimming hole, may not exist anymore, but will always remember that day. Thank you; Lydia, Collette, Debbie, and Curtis.

San Marcos Pass has been a part of more countries in its relatively short history. It’s been a part of the Chumash nation, Spain, Mexico, the California Republic, and the United States of America. Located about two miles below the summit of San Marcos Pass the Trout Club became a popular private resort stocking two large concrete catch basins on 120 acres with 30 cabins.

years pass…
I recently came across news on Curtis and Collette, bad news, however in the form of a memorial to Curtis’ nephew-in-law and Collette’s son-in-law. A Fallen Hero of the war in Iraq, Marine Cpl. Christopher Gibson, 23, died on April 17th, 2004. I never knew Cpl. Gibson, but I knew Curtis and Collette. My memories of the times spent with them bring only smiles. I am saddened for the loss of their loved one.

Red Rock

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The trail to Red Rock is at the end of Paradise Road on the Santa Ynez River. Jumping off he 40 ft. cliffs led to only two accidents in my days visiting Red Rock. One friend dove and his head could have used an extra 5 ft. or so of water. Maybe if it had been February or March there might have been, if had been a wet winter. But this was July and the rainfall had been normal, which meant his head hit rock bottom, or I should say bottom rock. For a brief moment it truly was “red rock”, but being below the surface, the blood quickly dissipated.

Due to the amount of drinking, this area is now routinely patroled, especially on summer weekends. Not that the amount of drinking has increased in this area over the years, but the patrols have.

postscript:

It just dawned on me that the same friend went on to join the Hare Krishnas. After not seeing or hearing from or about him for a couple years, he suddenly appeared at my parents home asking to live in a trailer in the back of their property. He had left the Hare Krishnas, not because of the limited attire of saffron colored robes worn Monday thru Friday, and then saffron colored robes worn Saturday and Sunday as the others hung on the line to dry. It wasn’t because of the vow to abstain from eating meat, fish, and eggs or to abstain from gambling, sexual relations outside of marriage, and/or recreational drugs and intoxicants including caffeine. No, those things were apparently okay. He had apparently had a “vision” and had seen Christ, who, in a way only he could understand, told him to leave the Krishnas. My mother should have followed suit by telling Karl to leave, but instead invited him to dinner, upon where he produced a package of soy burgers. Looks like a hamburger, but is soy. I guess some things about the Krishna-life just don’t go away that easily. The answer to living out back was that it probably wasn’t a good idea and after dinner he left. I haven’t seen or heard from or about him since. I now wonder had I dived off the rock first, maybe I’d be wearing yellow-orange bedsheets, signing “Hare Krishna Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna Hare Hare, Hey Buddy, got any spare change?”

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Bluebird Cafe

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The Bluebird Cafe is long gone. To be more specific the Bluebird Cafe in Santa Barbara is gone, there is a Bluebird Cafe in Wakefield, Rhode Island, one at 4104 Hillsboro Road, Nashville, Tennessee, another in Hopland, California, one in Athens, Georgia, another on Prytania Street in New Orleans – which is actually the predessor to the Rhode Island cafe. Owned by Bart Shumaker who originally with partner Sally opened up the location on Prytania Street, New Orleans. So, when you’re in Rhode Island with a craving for Huevos Rancheros, Southwestern, Cajun, or a Creole dish – drive to Wakefield… But Bluebirds abound, the one to focus on here is the one that we”ll never see again. Lasting from 1971-1976, the Bluebird wasn’t just a cafe but a part of music history, located in Santa Barbara, California, the vision of Peter Feldmann.

Peter founded the Bluebird Cafe in 1971 (hamburgers were 80 cents, beer was a quarter), seeing it as a solution to the problem of staying in the music business while not being able to do as much traveling as previously. The Bluebird was a cafe; it served great, home-style food and a variety of beverages. But that, in a way, was its “cover”, for the Bluebird’s real mission was to form a center and school for acoustic music of all types on the central coast.

This was a cafe built around and for the requirements of musicians, with a great built-in sound system, stage and a ready welcome for the wandering minstrel. Peter’s thought was “..make the musicians happy; they’ll play great music, and the audience will come…” There was music of some sort almost every night, from open mics to singer-songwriters, jazz, blues, and bluegrass bands, old time music, Indian classical music, and even a little light opera, drama, and experimental sounds. Musicians not only performed there, they comprised a large part of the staff. It was a place to exchange musical ideas and try out new acts. performers included Hazel Dickens, The Scragg Family, Lamar Grier, Mance Lipscomb, John DuBois, Aunt Dinah’s Quilting Party, Pat Cloud, Amya Das Gupta, Flash In The Pan, Alice Gerrard, Jon Lazelle, Jess and Leonard Sutton, Jerry Higby, Furry Lewis, Johnny Shines, Earl Collins, L.C. “Good Rockin'” Robinson, Byron Berline & The LA Fiddle Band, Mike Seeger, and many, many others. The Soho is probably the closest restaurant-music venue that is open in Santa Barbara. Don’t expect to get a beer for a quarter, and you won’t find a hamburger for 80 cents, the music on the other hand is well worth the prices.

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Country Porn

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With no intention of “life in a dorm” on the Sonoma State campus. A room-4-rent advertisement led to an exciting introduction to Sonoma county. The room was in a house at the border where old Petaluma meets country, up Sunnyslope Road, just off D Street. Eggs for sale a couple doors down, but two blocks away, Sunnyslope Road intersected with ‘D’ Street, a tree lined street of older, beautiful homes that represented the old Petaluma. ‘D’ Street to the right headed down to Petaluma Blvd., the main street in town, or left and out to the coast crossing the Sonoma-Marin County line and to Point Reyes, Inverness, and Drake’s Beach.

Bob, who owned the house with his wife Pamela, worked for Safeway to pay the mortgage, but dedicated most of his time to music. An accomplished bass player, he also played banjo, harmonica, and seemed to easily learn most any instrument he picked up. Bob was the bass player for the band ‘Country Porn‘, a talented country band that substituted the standard country lyrics with X-Rated verses. As a blues guitarist, I jammed with Bob often and occasionally joined him playing with local musicians across Marin County. A chance to see Country Porn play was one experience that words can’t easily describe. The band would warm up with a couple country standards before introducing Nick ‘Chinga’ Chavin, and then in between his repertoire came the paradies of country favorites. Most folks sitting at a table or along the bar were caught in their unawares … ‘Truck Driving Man’ chorus wasn’t ‘another cup of coffee’ but was ‘benies and beer’, and ‘Okie from Muskogee’ changed to ‘Asshole from El Paso’. But other songs were more graphic, they were, as the name described, ‘Country Porn’. A San Fransisco poll listed them as number #202 in a poll of most favorite bands, ahead of ‘Mumblin’ Jim’ listed at #204.

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Kinky Friedman, probably a better known name than Nick Chavin, ‘Beaver’ Bob, Country Porn, or maybe even Petaluma for that matter. Possibly the next Governor of Texas, as he is in the running at the time of this writing. Kinky actually got his nickname in college from buddy Nick Chavin. ‘Kinky’, yes I know what you’re probably thinking, crossed my mind at first too. But nope, the nickname was associated to his hair – it was kinky according to Chavin. Friends since college, there was however one feud over who actually penned the lyrics to the Merle Haggard parody; ‘Asshole from El Paso’, at least each wanted credit until Haggard sued Friedman, and Chavin kept quiet. Good luck on the campaign trail…at least his platform slogan of “Why the hell not?” is more honest than most.

Coldspring Tavern

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Stagecoach Road is one of Santa Barbara County’s most famous roads. It is part of the original Stagecoach Route when the coach’s ruled the terrain from 1861 to 1910. In 1910 the first automobile drove across the San Marcos Pass, effectively ending the stage coach era. However, Stagecoach Rd. remained the only means of traversing the Cold Springs portion of the San Marcos Pass until 1963, when the construction of the Cold Springs Arc Bridge (and modern day Hwy 154) was completed and motorists could finally pass over Cold Springs and the winding Stagecoach Rd.

Established in 1865, Coldspring Tavern is by far my favorite place for beer and blues. Sit outside the bar on a warm day and listen to the blues sounds of Tom Ball and Kenny Sultan, or on a cold winter day in front of the large stone fireplace. Pictured above is the restaurant, serving breakfast, lunch and dinner, New York steak and eggs to New Zealand rack of venison.

20 minutes up the pass from Santa Barbara, 150 years back in time.

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Mad Dogs Saloon

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Mad Dogs and Englishmen may go out in the midday sun according to Noel Coward, but after the sun goes down they all seem to end up at Mad Dogs Saloon, San Antonio, Texas. For two nights in a row Mad Dogs was an experience keeping with its namesake. A family from Wisconsin had flown down to San Antonio for one night of Tequila and Mexican food. Daughter and sister-in-law danced together as if they were working at Big Al’s on Bourbon Street. Mother Wisconsin, watching them rub up together would just shake her head. Father and son Wisconsin were in a semi-heated discussion with my Aussie friend and I simply sat with beer in hand, eyes focused on the dancing duo and ears tuned into the discussion in the event that lines got drawn, sand got kicked, and I’d be needed to even up the sides. Father Wisconsin had met and passed his Tequila limit and his points-of-view on subjects, any subject, were influenced by el Patron. Son Wisconsin, wearing a stupid-looking, oversized [even for his big head] cowboy hat wasn’t aware that his mouth had broken all ties with his brain, and made his best and loudest attempt to step up when his father stumbled. Only by virtue of my friends patience, and a desire not to be kicked out or arrested, did Wisconsin Son not find himself kissing Mad Dogs floor. Meanwhile, the sister act was heating up, and that was were my attention was focused, if a fight did break out, I could always be called upon… ‘yeah, yeah, yeah, got your back, Wayne, just give me a minute, these two girls are very entertaining!’

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Night two, back again in Mad Dogs. Wisconsinners are back with the cows, but Mad Dogs isn’t short of replacements. With the convention center located at the far end of the Riverwalk, we shared the bar with three young ladies attending a marketing convention; Lisa from Dallas Texas, and the other two from the state of confusion. Had the bar been a mud ring, we’d have had better entertainment than the previous night. Lisa vs the tag team from wherever. I used to love it when the circus came to town. That night it had been replaced by the convention, not a whole lot of difference between the two.

History…Mad Dogs was founded in 1984 in what was the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong. The name comes from the title of a poem scripted by Noel Coward, a distinguished British playwright, director and thespian [sorry Lisa, that’s thespian].

“Mad Dogs’ and Englishmen [Noel Coward] In tropical climes there are certain times of day.
When all the citizens retire, to tear their clothes off and perspire.
It’s one of those rules that the biggest fools obey,
Because the sun is much too sultry and one must avoid its ultry-violet ray —
Papalaka-papalaka-papalaka-boo.
Digariga-digariga-digariga-doo.
The natives grieve when the white men leave their huts,
Because they’re obviously, absolutely nuts”
Mad Dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.
The Japanese don’t care to,
the Chinese wouldn’t dare to,
Hindus and Argentines sleep firmly from twelve to one,
But Englishmen detest a siesta,
In the Philippines there are lovely screens,
to protect you from the glare,
In the Malay states there are hats like plates,
which the Britishers won’t wear,
At twelve noon the natives swoon,
and no further work is done –
But Mad Dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun…

Econoline Adventures

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Not knowing where exactly to start, I’ll begin at the end. The last I heard from and about Dick was that he’d been arrested for selling dynamite to undercover FBI agents. Not surprised.

Dick needed a psychiatrist when he was in high school, probably much earlier, but by high school he was in position to do harm to himself and others, and maybe with some help things would have been different. My thought was that he never intended to hurt anyone, but he’d chosen a path of self destruction, and he was planning on following it wherever it was going to end, and it was just unfortunate if a bystander stood in his way.

We teamed up following the party and the closing of the house. He threw a party when his mother took a 2 month trip to Russia and through Eastern Europe. His dad, who years earlier had suffered a massive stroke and was confined to a wheelchair, was placed in a care facility across town. His dad was already in his 70’s when Dick was in high school and the stroke had left him both imobile and unable to recognize Dick. That is why I think he needed some professional help, and then of course, his serious abuse of drugs didn’t help matters any. The house was destroyed. Never in my day, had I’d ever seen anything like it. I don’t know who was responsible, but it all came to a stop when the police arrived. Long story short, no arrests were made, Dick was placed in the custody of an Aunt and Uncle, and the house was locked, officially closed. After numerous arguments with his relatives, Dick left and reopened the house [illegally], where the next two months were nothing but nightly parties, by invitation only, and a limited number of guests invited.

I spent a great deal of time there those two months and we’d be out on the town nightly, juggling time with three different sets of girls, and trying not to get our lines crossed. There was Janet and her friend , sisters Josie and Leslie, Colleen and her friend. And there was the van, the old Econoline van with a big peace symbol painted on the side, if that wasn’t like painting a target for law enforcement as we drove across town at three am. And there was the Tequilla…

We started backing into the spaces at the drive-in. [yes, drive-in – what has now become an outdoor swap meet until the sale price of the land is agreed upon and another strip mall is born. With the back doors open, whatever movie playing, whichever pair of ladies, a fifth of Tequilla, salt, limes, ice and a shaker, we started learning how to make the perfect margarita. A fifth led shortly to a quart, then a half gallon… where once again, bring in the law.

We’d been seeing, or trying to see as much as possible, a pair of sisters Josie and Leslie. I can’t recall how we’d met, but will never forget the last time we saw them. They lived with their mother and her boyfriend, a studio conga player that had recorded on Santana’s first album. We just knew him as Big Pete, and he was that, at least 250 pounds. Pete, mom, and the daughters were planning on leaving Santa Barbara soon and the day finally came when they headed north and soon thereafter on a Thanksgiving weekend Dick and I headed up to visit. I could list the miserable Thanksgivings that I’ve had over the years, the topper probably being the one when I fell through a storefront window. A plastic surgeon who lived nearby performed the surgery, and just to prove it wasn’t minor, the glass had sliced my face almost in half from just below my eye through my lip. I’d been cut across my neck just missing my juggler vein, a ten inch long gash across my shoulder, other cuts on my arms and elsewhere, but the big one was a piece of glass that cut into my lower back just missing my spinal cord. One might say the opposite and conclude it was a day of thanks, but it cost me years of scars and pain…a Thanksgiving to remember. But this one was just as sad as that one was bad. From Morro Bay north we’d hit a fog bank thicker than I’d ever seen. The Econoline steering wheel had so much play that you could turn it a quarter to either side before it was actually having any effect. Add that to dim headlights and we were in great shape. Actually, as usual, we were in great shape or rather ‘happy spirits’, but even in our state of joy we knew this drive was not a safe one. Whatever highway marker we’d been given had finally appeared. A right off Highway 1 up a dirt road took us to a spot where we could park, then up to a main house just further up the hill. Not wanting to intrude on this family(s) Thanksgiving, we had our own in the van; crackers, cheese, and a couple six packs of Miller Highlife. Josie and Leslie brought us some turkey, spent most of that night with us in the van, and brought the fog back tearfully telling us that their father was driving down from Monterey the following day to pick them up for the rest of the weekend. Sometime that next morning was the last time we ever saw them again. We watched them drive away, but never did have any way of contacting them, and either never thought one step ahead, or it just wasn’t ever meant to be. Their mom, Big Pete, other friends and the owners of the property did all they could to console us, actually put us to work in order to take our minds off the sadness of the mornings event. What better way to change your frame of mind is there then to dig an outhouse? I’d never dug an outhouse before, although there’s no real science to it. It’s just a big hole like others, but it’s the structure atop the hole that’s the key. As it turned out the property owners, residents of the house owned a few acres and were letting friends build structures on the property, Big Pete and mom would be building an A-frame and we could help starting this morning by digging what would be their toilet. We dug till noon, said our good-byes and headed south. I’ve driven up and down that section of Hwy. 1 between Morro Bay and Monterey a hundred times since. I’m pretty sure I have seen that turn off that leads up to where the house, an A-Frame, an outhouse might still be but don’t know if they too exist in memory only.

Dick got more daring and was busted on posession charges, but I can’t recall what he’d been caught with. He’d run the full gambit from shooting heroin, shooting reds, taking acid, orange sunshine, and any combination of pills and alcohol he could get his hands on. I hadn’t seen him but for a couple times and then got the news one afternoon. He’d been arrested atop San Marcos Pass selling dynamite to undercover FBI agents.

I remember he once told me he’d tried to hitchhike to New York in 1969 to attend Woodstock, but was arrested in Ohio. Ohio law states that it is illegal to stand on any part of a freeway, including the shoulder, unless in an emergency situation. Attending Woodstock is not or rather was not obviously considered an emergency situation to Ohio authorities, only to Dick. Maybe if he’d gotten to Woodstock, everything would have been different.

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