“How’s your heart man?”

I’m standing in Grassroots Coffee in Thomasville, Georgia, my old high school hometown haunt. The person asking me is Brent, their longest serving barista who has known me since my junior year of high school. The last time he saw me was in December of last year, nursing a freshly broken heart from a breakup and seeking sanctuary with my family. After a long sleepless month I had returned to Kentucky and spent the spring there, slowly healing up and trying to decide what my next move would be and just what the hell I was doing with my life anymore.

“It’s aight man. I’m feeling way better nowadays.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah. Funny timing though, I gotta fly out to California to get my car from her next week. I feel pretty good but I’m worried heading out there is going to dig up a lot of feelings again.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. But I got a plan. I’m gonna fly there, I’m gonna get my stuff, and then I’m gonna do a little road trip up the 1 to the Lost Coast. There’s this spot called ‘Cape Mendocino’ which is the farthest most west point in the lower 48.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah. It’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been. I’m gonna go there and spend a couple days and eat some mushrooms and think about my life.”

Brent’s eyes narrow. “Have you ever tripped before, man?”

I laugh. “No, but my friend gave me a little pill that should be a bit over a micro dose I’m gonna take.”

Brent explains to me why he feels that would be a bad idea. He explains to me his experiences with mushrooms, why I should have someone else there for my first time and not in such a remote place, and why he feels it’s a better communal drug.

“What if I just ate a fuck ton of edibles instead?” I interject.

He pauses. “That would probably be fine.”

A week later, I fly out of Louisville with a cheap Spirit ticket at 6am on a Wednesday. After breakfast with a friend in Vegas during a long layover, I land in San Francisco with nothing but a small backpack and a rolled up sleeping bag. After taking the ferry to Marin county, I link up with my ex-girlfriend in Fairfax. We get some ice cream at the local downtown parlor and walk to the baseball field, and sit in the grass and have the kind of talks that old lovers have. After shedding a few tears, we get up to head to her place to take stock of my car.

While the car at least cranks, it is in rougher shape then I expected. The front right headlight is out, the ’90s style automatic seatbelts are not moving when the door opens, the tires are low, there is a rattling sound coming from the suspension, and the entire interior cabin has mold on almost every surface. When I left the car here back in December, I didn’t know that the car had a couple leaks. I also didn’t know that California was also about to experience the rainiest winter on record. My plan was to live out of this car for the next week and a half, sleeping on the bouldering crash pad in the back, and in the meantime I do not have a place to work on it. As I pack the car with my things my mind quickly turns as I try to come up with some sort of hasty plan to salvage it while on the go.

Finally, everything is packed. I close the rear hatch, and turn around to say goodbye. We stand there awkwardly, taking stock of the scene.

“Sorry about the mess.” she says.

I sigh. “It’s okay, I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

We embrace, say our goodbyes, and I drive away.

The first order of operations, more pressing than anything else on my mind, is to fix the mold situation in the car. As I drive up the 101 I am keeping the windows down, desperately trying to air it out as much as I can. In the current state, I do not feel like I would come out of a night sleeping in the car healthy and well. Thinking quickly, I decide to find a laundromat with a large parking lot to disassemble the front passenger area of the car and get the carpet out to attempt to wash it. A quick Apple Maps search reveals one on the outskirts of Santa Rosa, and I make haste for it.

I park the car in the corner of the parking lot behind the strip mall, unload my things, and pull my tool bag out. Slowly but surely I disassemble the entire front of the car as the local California homeless scene watches me. Seats, seatbelts, center console, trim, anything that would keep me from my objective. As I begin slowly working the carpet out of the cabin it becomes quickly apparent that it’s in far worse shape than I thought. Being in the car since the ’90s, it has already seen better days. Now it has had standing water in it since December. It fills my nose with the most hideous smells. I decide that it’s not worth saving and toss it in the dumpster behind the grocery store. The car already had no interior panels, and now the entire interior is a giant tin can. Between that and the muffler being half off, it looks like I’m going to be wearing ear plugs whenever I drive this trip.

The next order of operations, is to get my ass to the coast. I connect with Highway 1 where the Russian River empties into the Pacific Ocean at Jenner. Euphoria. The Pacific ocean lies before me and I take it in. I tear along the Highway 1, leaving the windows down, listening to the new War on Drugs album, hoping that the ocean air will clear out more of the remaining mold in the car.

Euphoria, followed by an ever growing sense of sadness. This is the first time I’ve been back in this zone since my relationship dissolved. As I drive north along the coast, I realize that the Pacific coast and my grief are not so different. Much like the meeting in the park earlier in the day, intersecting with the Pacific feels like meeting up with an old lover once again.

My goal is to make it to Humboldt county by the end of the day. There is a nice parking lot overlooking the ocean near Ferndale, on the northern headlands of the Lost Coast. It’s ambiguous if overnight parking is allowed, but based on prior experience, I know that if I roll in late enough it is doubtful that anybody will pass by to check. However, it is far earlier than I was hoping it would be. It’s now April, and it is finally getting dark at 8, but that is still earlier than I would like to be there. I make the executive decision to go see John Wick 4 in Eureka to pass the time to bedtime before heading to camp.

The next morning I crawl out of the back of my car and decide to do some more car work before heading to Arcata. I open up the hood to check the oil and fix the busted headlight. As I pop the hood, a mouse greets me on my engine block. They scurry away into the grass. This explains why I found my toilet paper in my glove box in tatters. I wonder to myself if the mouse made it all the way from Marin county or if they’re a recent guest from the evening. Either way, I wouldn’t be opposed to them having a bit of shelter, but there’s a good chance they might chew my cables and really ground me.

I arrive in Arcata Friday afternoon. I travel a lot, which has left me with a plethora of connections around the country that I am deeply grateful for. The northern Pacific coast is one of the few zones of the country I do not know many people in. The only vague connection I have in Arcata is a girl named Valen that I briefly chatted with at a friendsgiving near Paso Robles back in the fall. I hit her up on Instagram and she offers to let me crash on the couch at the house for a few days.

I spend a couple days bumming around Arcata: going to the climbing gym, eating In and Out, and cooking dinner for the housemates. My extroverted heart is grateful for the company. The farther north I’ve traveled, the more the sadness has caught up with me. The trip has proven to be more emotionally charged than I anticipated. I flew out west excited to return to a land that in some ways used to feel like a second home, but I am already looking forward to returning to Kentucky. I know that I need to finish my vision quest before I can leave. The cape awaits me.

I wake up late on Wednesday morning to the sound of rain. It’s a dreary and rainy day outside. The best kind of day in Humboldt county, as far as I am concerned. I decide that it is as good of a day as any to finish my quest. After spending too long drinking coffee on the porch and watching the fog roll across the hills, I say goodbye to the housemates and begin heading down the 101 towards Ferndale. I stop at the In and Out Burger on the south side of Eureka, and get my usual order of a couple “Animal Style” cheese burgers. While sitting there, I ponder if now or later would be a good time to go ahead and eat my edibles. I decide to go ahead and get a head start on it, and eat a couple in the parking lot.

I pull up in Ferndale around early afternoon. The long, potholed, improbable road that leads to Cape Mendocino begins at a crossroads at the edge of the downtown. It goes up and over the mountains through a tiny settlement called Capetown and then ultimately descends a steep grade onto the cape. It more or less represents the northern entrance to the “Lost Coast,” the last large stretch of the California coast that is sparsely developed and populated. A large metal sign pointing the way hovers ominously above me. I sit in the car at the crossroads, listening to the unmuffled engine putter as I ponder my options. The edible is beginning to kick in. There is no service out there, and if I find myself lonely and needing to call a friend I will not be able to do so. If I hesitate I will take the safe route. I need to finish my quest. I put the car into drive and start the climb over the hill.

As I drive up and over the mountains my vision becomes tinged by the THC. Getting from Ferndale to Cape Mendocino can take almost an hour, and as usual I underestimate the drive. The redwoods pass by me as I weave back and forth on the switchbacks. Finally, I make it to the steep decline that leads to the cape just as I am approaching the border of inoperable. I descend the final improbable stretch of the road to sea level and pull my car up at an old familiar pull off, and sink back into the seat and surrender myself to the sensation.

My mind races and wanders as I sit in the driver’s seat and stare at the raindrops on the windshield. I think about my life, my failed relationship, and my lack of direction. I eat a Safeway breakfast burrito, think about how good the new John Wick movie was, and listen to the last track of the new War of Drugs album on repeat. I listen to old birthday recordings between me and my ex lover, reminisce on all the wild and varied memories I have along the Northern California coast, and the sheer beauty the state. I think of how much I love this place, and how I have felt like a stranger returning to it, finally separated from my only real connection to the area.

Finally after a couple hours the I am able to begin moving my body again. I manage to pull my jacket on and get out of the car to take in the scene. The rain has finally subsided, and the sun is beginning to emerge from under the clouds to make the most glorious sunset, illuminating the hill behind me and manifesting the iconic California golden hour. I fish a half finished bottle of red wine from my food bin in the back of the car and stroll down to the beach, taking in the enormity of the cape and all that is before me. As I stand there and bask in the place, the grief hits me. It engulfs me, and I am brought to my knees. I sink into the black sand and watch the sun set, sobbing harder than I’ve ever sobbed before, and watch the sun slowly sink beneath the horizon.

Darkness begins to grow, and I realize I need to gather myself. Petrolia is right around the bend at the end of the cape, and I decide to head into town to search for some wi-fi before bed. I make my way back to my car and climb in and begin driving as the golden hour gives away to darkness.

I pull up at the Mattole Community Center, the sole source of public wifi for miles, and sit on the porch and flip open my phone. As I sit there, a 6-foot-6 aging hippy named Carl appears on the porch with his dog and we strike up a conversation. He tells me tales about the town, losing his Marijuana crop to Operation Green Sweep in 90′, his various UFO sightings in the area, and tales of lost love from his youth. Sincerity can feel hard to find in California sometimes, and my lonely heart is grateful for his presence. We shoot the shit for a couple hours, and I throw the stick for his dog. After some time, he bids me goodnight and leaves. I decide to go ahead and camp in front of the community center, and bed down for the night.

The next morning I wake up and crawl out of the back of my car. I collect some quarters from the ash tray and stroll down to the general store for a cup of coffee. I warm myself in the sun on a bench on the front porch of the shop with the store owner’s Chihuahua and watch the denizens of Petrolia start their day as I sip my coffee. I still feel raw from the night before. Tears are at the edge of my eyes, and threaten to pour out with the slightest provocation. The townspeople make eye contact with me occasionally, and I smile the best I can and nod. I am almost certainly not the first person who has drifted through this town and sat on this bench, seeking answers for questions that are hard to answer.

After one more cup of coffee, I decide that it is time to get a move on and start heading back to Arcata. I say goodbye to my canine friend, walk back to my car, and begin the drive back through the hills to the cape. It’s a sunny day, absolutely breathtaking and beautiful, and a totally different tone from the moody and dreary day prior. As I round the bend of the cape and the ocean fills my view I decide I might as well enjoy it one last time. I park my car at one of the various pull offs and hike down to the beach. I navigate the piles of driftwood, climb up on a rock, and enjoy the scene.

Within ten minutes I see a rusty Toyota Tacoma pull up and park next to my car at the pull off. The door opens, and a couple dogs jump out. A tall figure emerges, and I realize that it is Carl. He takes off his ragged Carhartt jacket and hangs it up on a nearby fencepost, and walks down the trail towards the beach. I hop off the rock, glad to see him again, and walk down the beach to greet him.

“I thought that was you there!” I laugh. “I saw the dogs hop out and I knew.”

He smiles back. “Yeah, I decided to take them out and throw the stick a bit.” He stares at the horizon. “I just ate a bit of mushrooms. I was going to head into town and get groceries and then thought no, I’m going to go to the beach instead.”

“That’s a good plan. I almost did that the other day.”

“Yeah, I haven’t been here in a bit. I live just a few miles away and I never make it down here.”

“Yeah man. I’ve only been here four or five times but I think this is the prettiest spot in the entire country.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I can’t explain it but whenever I leave I always think about it. In the entire country this is the most beautiful place I’ve been. I’m pretty stoked to be here one last time.”

We shoot the shit for a bit, and I throw the stick for his dogs. Finally, I decide that I need to return to my introversion.

“Well, it was really good meeting you man. Good talking to you.”

“You too man, what was your name again?”

“Alex.”

“Alex. Nice to meet you.” We shake hands. “Safe travels man, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Thanks man.” I look around one last time. “Man, this is a beautiful day.”

“Right? The only thing that would make this spot better is a bunch of girls in bikinis, eh?” We both laugh.

I slowly walk down the beach away from Carl. Him and his dogs turn into tiny figures in the distance. After some time, I look over and see him make his way back up the trail towards his car. I feel a brief moment of sentimentality hit me. I’ve only met Carl, but he’s made quite the impression on my lonely heart. Maybe I should ask him for his number in case one day I return and need a couch to crash on, or a friend to shoot the shit with? The more I think about it, the more find myself resigning to the fact that I will probably never see Carl again. He will be just another strange figure I have met during my travels, reminding me of the constant lesson I have been learning lately: that it is okay for things to have been a meaningful part of my life, but no longer be a part of it. I realize that this strange and haphazard trip to Northern California has taught me the same lesson.

Carl gets in his truck and drives south down the road above the beach. As he passes me I wave to him, and I see his hand emerge from the cab and wave back to me. He goes around the bend back towards Petrolia and I do not see him any longer. I stand on the beach for a little longer, looking at the mountains, looking at Sugarloaf Island, looking at the rough Pacific in front of me, thinking about my love for this land that I will always be a stranger in. At last, I finally accept this, and realize that I have found the answer I traveled out to California for after all. I turn around and make my way back to my own car to depart. It is time to start the journey back to Kentucky.

As I start driving back towards Ferndale, the grief lingers in my heart. I think about how this is the biggest, meanest sadness I have felt in my entire life. I feel whole and yet feel like I may never be whole again. As I drive up the hill away from the cape my mind races and I wonder if there is ever a way I will heal from this pain. As I round the last bend in the road I turn my head around to get one last view and watch the cape disappear behind me. I look back towards the potholed road ahead of me, and realize that the only way I will ever heal from this hurt is to go back to Kentucky and write about it.

So I do.