Between the Sunrise, the Smog and the I-5

By Danny Mac

“Nothing’s open on the weekend in Crescent City,” the mechanic grumbled.

“It’s just a fucking smog check. It will take 10 minutes!”

“Got nobody in right now and cursing won’t change that. Check back Monday and even then, we probably won’t be able to fit you in till Tuesday.”

The mechanic began to shuffle away before curtly throwing over his shoulder, “Have a nice weekend young man.”

“Yeah, you too,” came a shallow response.

As the mechanic walked away, his ponytail swayed with every step and loose strands began to stick to the beads of sweat on his neck. The young man, as the mechanic had referred to Conor, spit on the ground in displeasure.

In the county of Los Angeles, a vehicle 8 years or older is required to pass an emissions test at a licensed smog test facility within the borders of California to renew vehicle registration. But Conor wasn’t in Los Angeles. He was in Crescent City, the last California city before the Oregon border and his 2013 Toyota Sienna was registered in Los Angeles. Thus, Crescent City was the last opportunity to receive a smog test, lest he retrace his steps by traveling south.

Unfortunately for the young man, it was 6 o’clock on a Friday, and as the saying goes, nothing is open on the weekend in Crescent City. Conor had some time to kill. 32 hours to be exact and the only way to keep track of time in a town like this was by the rise of the tides.

Crescent City, named after its crescent-shaped beach, was first inhabited by the Yurok Tribe and Tolowa Dee-ni' Nation. Jedediah Smith is the accredited “first” American European man to reach the crescent shores by foot. To Smith, the northern coast was “Land’s End” and the rabid, untamed maw of the Pacific Ocean bore its teeth early in the town’s history when an influx of boats carrying immigrants in search of California gold were smashed against the end of land.

Now, almost 200 years later, as the combustion engine is the primary mode of transportation, the 101 highway runs straight through Crescent City carrying an influx of tourists who seek the shade of the nearby Redwood National and State Parks. These tourists are what have helped keep the economy of Crescent City afloat during the COVID-19 pandemic.

All Conor could do to stop from screaming in frustration was watch the tourists drive by. If he had drove a few more miles North, Conor would have passed Pelican Bay State Prison, the only supermax prison in the state of California. Perhaps there, Conor would have found solace knowing that he was not the first, nor the last, to be trapped on the town’s lunar shaped shores. But cursed with adolescent hindsight and the boiling blood of his Irish ancestors, Conor felt the butt of a sick cosmic joke as the foghorn of Battery Point Lighthouse blew.

Two weeks ago, Conor had begun to fulfill his usual routine in his parent’s house in Burbank, California, a few miles north of downtown Los Angeles. He awoke at 5AM, listened to the squirt of the Keurig at 5:15AM, ate the everything bagel at 5:30AM, forgot to apply the deodorant at 5:40AM, brushed the teeth at 5:45AM, and entered the car by 6AM. He then drove to his usual spot on the I-5 South, right between the onramp and the yield lane, and began his morning metamorphosis.

As the rays of the rising sun split and fractured through the morning smog of L.A., Conor’s eyes turned to glass, his fingers to wood, his stomach to sand and his spine would curl like the tips of a leaf in autumn. He would then proceed to hold his breath for 2 and a half hours and his brain would begin to send the same two electrical signals to his right foot over and over again.

Push, pull, push, pull.

There was no reason for Conor to enter this state of comatose on the highway. He did not have a job, a friend to meet, or an errand to run. He did it because everyone around him did it. Throughout the city of Los Angeles, every interstate and freeway were packed, bumper to bumper with millions of people holding their breath. Conor’s life was just a response to his surrounding landscape and as his car sat, unable to move in any direction, so did he.

On this particular day, the buildup of carbon dioxide proved to be too much for Conor’s bloodstream and his soul began to leave his body. Between his ears and just behind his eyes, a coin of infinite shadow took shape. Suddenly, as if flicked by invisible fingers, the coin began to spin and spin, creating a vacuum at its center.

Somewhere there, between the sunrise, the smog and the I-5, came the universe.

With a sudden deep sigh, the note of B-flat escaped Conor’s lips and the vibration jerked him free of his comatose. His brain began to send only one signal to his right foot.

Push.

This moment of Conor’s life was buried so deep in his subconscious that he barely registered it as the driving force to why he was in Crescent City in the first place. Before his grand sigh had even completed, Conor had pulled off the highway and began to drive north. There is no way of knowing just how far he would have gone if it weren’t for the email he received from the California DMV alerting him that he required a smog test to complete his renewed registration.

“A goddamn smog check? Really?” Conor huffed to himself as he climbed the looping trail of Jedidiah Smith Redwoods State Park.

Earlier, as the neon “CLOSED” sign flicked on in the mechanic’s window and Conor silently raged, he decided to follow the line of tourists as they drove through town. Down U.S. Route 199 he raced, ignoring the towering red giants he passed, until he arrived at a trail head, tucked away behind the flowing Smith River. There, he got out of his car, threw on his backpack and listened to the pulsing signal his brain had been sending his right foot since that fateful day on the I-5.

Push.

That is how he found himself. His head down, putting one foot in front of the other, over and over again, climbing altitude at a speed only a young man’s lungs could sustain, zig zagging through the depths of the Redwood Forest.

If he had stopped his breakneck pace only for a moment, he would have sensed that he was being watched.

Hundreds of feet above Conor’s head, ancient ambassadors with eyes made of ruddy bark and lashes of sharp, narrow needles watched Conor march at his dizzying pace. With a mystery of life that disappeared millions of years ago, these unquestioned sovereigns began to raise a fog from the soft forest floor that nipped at the heels of the furious traveler.

Connor did not notice the ancient magic at his feet for he was still unraveling the knot in his head placed there by a ponytailed mechanic and the California bureaucracy. Not realizing he was the bearer of his own chains, he mused over the tragedy of being trapped by the very thing he was running from until the sun disappeared over the horizon.

He stopped. The towering red woods swallowed the dying light of dusk as night fell upon the forest. Conor quickly turned to retrace his steps but instead of trail, he found a cloud of fog that seemed to stare right back at him.

CRACK.

T he sound of dried wood snapped directly behind Conor’s head. He sucked in a breath and the fog raced towards his open mouth. His eyes bulged as he slammed his mouth shut and took a quick step back, but where there was once clear forest floor, there was now knotted roots. He tripped and fell, disappearing in a pool of mist before resurfacing in a glade of tall grass that had not been there before.

Encircling the glade, the red giants that had stood for a thousand years grew so close together they seemed to be jostling for position for best view of the once furious, now frightened traveler. The only source of light was the moon and the stars that twinkled with glee over Conor’s head. In the center of the glade, sat a jagged slab of redwood creek schist that looked as if it had shattered through the Earth’s crust in a futile attempt to reach the stars that now sparkled above its coarse-grained skin.

Conor stared, fear and adrenaline brewing a cruel concoction that locked his bones in place, keeping him standing rigid a few feet from the rock.

CRICK, CRACK, GROOOOWP, GROOOOWP.

The sound of branches snapping seemed to come from all directions of the forest, followed by a sound that could only be described as a hollow log running down the ribs of a giant Western Toad.

Conor’s muscles released him, and he scampered to the top of the schist, praying that the rock’s peak would shelter him from the horrors that were making those terrible sounds. The trees creaked and branches swayed as if applauding the lead actor who just took center stage.

Conor gripped the side of the rock for dear life. He buried his head in the crook of his arm, as if blocking his vision would make the terrible nightmare disappear. The forest was not satisfied with Conor’s cowardice and the terrible hollow, rubbing sound returned.

GROOOWP, GROOOWP.

The pitch of the forest grew louder until it seemed as if the trees had collapsed, slithered through the glade, up the shist and curled around the folds of Conor’s ear.

CRACK.

This time the snap did not come from the forest, but somewhere inside Conor’s chest. He shot to his feet and his spine locked in place. The forest fell silent, and the only sound was Conor’s ragged breath as the forest awaited their hero’s next move.

“What do you want me to do?” Conor whispered.

Silence.

“What am I supposed to do?” Conor begged the red wood.

Silence.

“You have to show me what to do!” Conor dropped from his perch on the rock and began to walk along the edge of the glade, looking up at the red giants. “Give me a sign! Point me in a direction! What do you want ?”

CRACK.

A tree branch dropped from the canopy above and landed only a foot away from the young man. A few paces quicker and Conor would have walked right under its descent and surely broken his neck.

“Is that it ? Do you want me dead ?” Conor was practically screaming.

He picked up the branch and began to swing at the trunk of the tree that had dropped it but inches before impact, his arm locked and he stood, frozen in time.

As his grip twisted and crumbled the dry bark from the wood of the branch, the ridges of his fingers fit perfectly into the beetle gallery carved into the wood’s phloem, and between his ears and right behind his eyes, a coin began to spin.

Bright, molten colors spewed from the coin as it spun faster and faster. The colors bled together to form a beautiful image as a great warmth swept over Conor.

Teleported in time, he was a kid once again. Rays of light streamed from a low, summer sun and he was playing knights and princesses with his little sisters, fighting invisible forces of evil, defending his keep and the honor of his name. His weapon was a fine blade made of pine that had fallen from the towering tree in his backyard and his sisters squealed with delight as he spun it in a tight arc with the flick of his wrist.

Conor was strapped to a moment, hurtling through space. There was no grand destination, thesis statement, or board of curators to tell him what he should or should not do. He was strapped to a Ferris wheel alongside his sisters, as they screamed at the peak of their imagination and plummeted into the world of their own creation. Only the limits of their energy dictated the bottom of their cycle as they collapsed with exhaustion under the stars of a thousand possibilities, whispering amongst themselves, nurturing, and growing an ember until it burned so bright until they would be carried to the peak again.

As the coin spun, the young man’s body began to glide through the glade. The branch became an extension of himself, and he swung it without fear. The Redwoods raised their fog from the forest floor. The ancient magic crept up the young man’s body, into his mouth and nose, filled his lungs, pumped through his heart, and coursed through his blood.

As Conor danced before giants, the forest shifted and the note of B-flat could be heard blowing through the trees.