Driving the grapevine north of Los Angeles was always a crap shoot because of the large trucks which frequented the route. It was especially true at night, and especially true in 1971 when two narrow lanes snaked through the mountains, illuminated only by the occasional star. And, on that night, the star wasn’t in evidence.
Jerry was driving. It was my car, but, after driving from Sunnyvale, I was laying in the back seat, my head covered by a disintegrating brown and gray blanket and my mind exploding with scenes of bloody car wrecks, with bodies strewn around the asphalt, dirt, and whatever else was out there in the blackness.
The whole trip was inspired by Jerry who had a girlfriend in Indio, which Jerry assured me was just beyond Los Angeles. He was confident. And, why not? He had yet to see the horror that was swirling in my overactive imagination.
Fortunately, we arrived in Indio four hours later, in the dark of night, into a town simmering with a temperature in the low hundreds and, literally, 200 million cicadas. When you walked, a storm of cicadas swarmed around you. When the trees moved, a torrent of cicadas took flight, enshrouding the trees like a giant, whirring cloud.
Jerry met his girlfriend. I can still remember them under a cicada-covered tree sneaking a kiss. As I look back, I don’t think anything came of it . . the memory of a youthful crush and a thousand-mile, hair-raising journey is all that remains of that weekend, except for the occasional smile that comes from deep within and way-back-when.
Funny, forty eight years ago I was here, in the dead of night, under trees filled with cicadas and with a spirit filled with hope, wonder and the expectation of all the wonderful things yet to be.