I believe adventures should start early in the day, about 4 AM, like a fishing expedition.  But since my LA host wasn’t going to be on station before evening, there was no press out the gate.

As this was a weekday, a jaunt south on 1 through the Big Sur seemed appropriate, figured for less traffic.  And it was so.

Daylight clear like ringing crystal and once past Carmel Highlands I lost most of the traffic, although I did have to stop half a dozen times to let the conga line get miles ahead.  In this way I had no one in my Head’s Up Display for most of the 70 miles of this highway that Wouldn’t Be Built Today.

But something reminiscent of the impressive undertaking of building 1 across The Sur is rising above the sea at Rocky Creek.  It’s a viaduct that will move the often destroyed highway entirely off the face of the cliff.  Looking at it (and driving under it, I though Caltrans was erecting a tunnel, like a snow shed except for rocks.  No.  It’s a flying highway.

I fly south, clear The Sur and enjoy the ever-increasing strength of the sun, I’ve had a jacket on and the floor heater hot.

Gas in SLO and off comes the jacket.

Figured for lunch at Spike’s, but I missed seeing it on Higuera.  Better this way, I would have had copious delicious beverages and might never have left.

Left  the 101 at Pismo Beach, figured to take 1 south and in the back way to Los Alamos.

Oceano is a service community for the RV parks on the Pismo dunes.  South is the agradump of Guadalupe, the surroundings, on the flood plane of the Santa Maria River, are intensively cultivated.  Stopped both in Oceano and Guadalupe at local markets looking for a sandwich.  Probably could have had one made, but nothing pre-fab existed.

Onward.  At Orcutt the two-lane farm road transforms into a four-lane freeway.  For six miles to the cut-off where 1 zims southwest toward Vandenberg AFB and Lompoc.  I stayed to the east and so found Los Alamos.

And another market without a sandwich.  Had to resort to a Chevron with an attached Subway.

Parked just south of Gaviota for a nosh and a beer where I’m looking across the channel to the northern thr

Santa Barbara used to have traffic problems. It still does.

ee islands: San Miguel, Santa Rosa, and Santa Cruz.

Traffic is clogged south of Santa Barbara all the way to Carpentaria, but this but a mere prelude.

South of Ventura boodled inland to find the 118.  The drive between Saticoy to Moorpark is a return to, if you can mentally morph the Honda’s, Toyota’s and Lexii into Studebakers, Ramblers and Hudson’s, 1960.  Berry farms, orchards, small flower sellers, and surprising for this time of year, the intoxicating aroma of citrus blossoms.

Abruptly at Moorpark, this tranquil, spread-out, out-of-time scene changes to burbclaves, shopping malls and happily a 76 gas station car wash deli destination.

Thus fueled, was ready for the final 50 mile push into the northern edge of the LA Basin and Glendale.

It’s 5ish and the 118, which is from Moorpark into the San Fernando Valley a freeway, was soul-numbingly thought-crushingly stove down in stop-and-go gridlock that almost out 405’s the 405 – one of the country’s most notoriously choked freeways.

30 miles of agony ensure.  Suddenly, at the 118/5 interchange all is clear.  Zooming resumes.

Open door policy at The Slackman’s, but you have to know the Doorman.

I make the Risa Place address of Slackman about 6, just in time to not interfere with a Mandarin lesson being give by Lao Shur and to take in the sunset over the Verdugo Mountains.

Shortly we are joined by Slackman and O’boom is unconfined.

JOBDAY –

I like jobs.  Don’t feel I can properly slack until I’ve earned it, and today, we need to repair his fence.  It’s a fence we’ve worked on before as it was originally tossed together at no-to-low costs from whatever rubbish was on the landscaping truck three years ago when he bought the manse.

But before the job comes the rike – I’d been anticipating this walk for nearly 2 years.  For two years ago we three walked over their hilly prospect and I had trouble mounting the 300 feet to the rumpled hills just east of the 2 freeway.

I vowed today would be different and it was.  And it started with the warm-up and in part, my face pressed down into the 1962 era concrete of his drive.

As children, we spent much more time acquainted with the ground, we were closer to it then than now when we wish NOT to be so close, or more acquainted with the ground into which our bones will be received, more like.  And I found I liked his concrete, paid attention to the pill bugs and ants, enjoyed the tiny textures.

City of Angles from the demi-demon’s perch.

Up the hills, and lovely, challenging hills they are.  Powered up the long haul to the Glendale Athletic Center and beyond into the naked chaparral.  Hills unchanged for a thousand thousand years, except for the incessant roar of the adjacent 2 freeway.  Fine views of downtown from a gap in the Verdugo’s.

Today’s objective is to remediate the sagging top rails.  They are pressure treated 2×4’s spanning 8 feet and all droop.  Slackman’s nascent plan is just to remove the 2×4’s and replace them with something of a thicker cross-section.  I suggest another approach: Deploy 1 x 3’s edge to the underside of the sagging top rails, we use clamps to urge the saggers into true, then screw to the top rail and posts.

Sag, unlike slack, is unacceptable.

A test program of one prototype 1 x 3 put in place, clamped shows the promise of this idea.

Now, we need 20 more underbolsters, 18 8 footers and 2 12 foot jobs.  Nothing for it but Homely Depot, the one just under the 5 in Cypress Park: Gang Gunfire Central.  But as it’s 11 in the morning, we figure all the feral shits are still sleeping off last nights capers and so we can duck in and out before the hail of bullets commences for the day.  And, we’re capable of firing back.

It was the most easy, effective, short and satisfying penetration into a HD either of us have ever experienced.

Back to Risa we commence to measure out the cuts for the bolsters, make the cuts, then pre-drill for the deck screws.  I had no illusions about finishing this day and as the heat of the afternoon caused us to sag as limp as the rails I made stupid mistakes and called an end to today’s effort.

We jumped into his pool and Maker’s Mark.

Probably later I grilled meats on his excellent grill.  Probably we all ate them.  Probably it was light’s out ever before the gunfire echoed up the canyon from Cypress Park.

SDAY –

We’d put the hurt on the fence project  the day before and fortunately, rework on the extant bolsters was limited to about an hour.  We braved the morning sun, which even for LA was debilitating to finally install all 22 under-supports.  All but three of the rails are near-level.  We had enough leftovers so that I could double up one of the bolsters; two more need it.  I leave that to the homeowner.

Next, we changed out some sprinkler heads, lubed the garage door track and then tackled the Main Effort – clean the pool filters.

Gak happens.

Easier than it looked, but since these four paper canisters are three years old, probably it’s time for new ones.

As there were no other pressing tasks, we soaked it in the pool where only mild third-degree sunburns were engaged.

Lao Shur had a 4 PM lesson, so Slack and I retired to the billiards hall to watch some rugby and an episode of Lovejoy.

It was another early light’s out evening.

HOMEDAY –

The now of morning was too early.  Coffee was bathed in, goodbye’s were said and I’m north on the 5 – taking the expedient route home.  West on the 46 and now that ¾’s of the route has been upgraded to 4-lane, the anxiety peril hatred stuck behind a boat-towing RV at 45 mph for 50 miles has nearly evaporated.

Gas in Paso Robles, then the enjoyable slog north on 101 to off at Spreckles and I’m nearly home.

And home it good at which to be.

The day as clear as my intentions, as blue as my mood, as lit as any new idea, and then at dusk, when men’s inclinations turn toward themselves, the seafog cloaked the world, so far as I could see into a mist darker than any sadness.