"We've been through worse, right?"

Highs and lows in a land of struggles, and what Mama said

In Ukiah¹, high peaks and deep valleys represent more than just the scenic landscape. The land is fertile and bears much fruit—particularly fruit of the vine. But the wealth of the vineyards and hops harvests can’t alleviate the chill of the sidewalk for those huddled in sleeping bags. The compact downtown is charming and bustles with optimism on a sunny and crisp December morning. But ill and under-the-influence residents occasionally stagger and shout from street corners.

The region around Ukiah is truly lovely, but the city is complicated. Like most of us, it struggles more than it would like to admit.

History’s roots run deep here, with an artistically rich and culturally complex human civilization dating back at least 6,000 years. But the city’s tourism website refers to the more recent European arrivals as the “earliest settlers” of the region. The only mention I could find of the local Pomo people’s indigenous heritage is a single reference to a museum containing a white woman’s paintings. They portrayed with compassion the last vestiges of the proud native people’s dwindling population. Having been first decimated nearly to extinction by disease and forced slavery by the Spanish colonizers, the Pomo were later squashed culturally, linguistically, and territorially by their American conquerors. Sadly, Ukiah’s story involves a violent and tragic past for the original inhabitants. Whether the website’s egregious oversight of the other 95% of the valley’s human history is due to ignorance or willful exclusion is hard to say.

As Walter, our big yellow adventure truck, rolled into Ukiah at dusk, all Andy and I sought was a hot shower and a place to sleep. We found both at the Anytime Fitness on the edge of town. A few unhoused people roamed the area, but no posted signs warned us we couldn’t park outside the 24-hour gym overnight, so we decided to risk it. We knew we might get the dreaded knock at some point in the night, but it had been a long day of driving the narrow and winding mountain roads of Northern California’s Hwy 101 and we were tired.

We didn’t deploy the steps, climbing inside the Snuggery on Walter’s back via the little flip-down footholds; and we drew our blackout shades, both for privacy and insulation. We heard a wandering band of young people approach the vehicle in the night and make comments:

“Bruh, that truck is f-ing dope!”

“Check this out—they got a QR code! They’re YouTubers! That’s sick.”

But fortunately, no one bothered us or knocked and told us we had to move along.

Because our truck’s alternator is mysteriously refusing to charge our new house batteries while we drive and the sun had hidden either behind the clouds or beyond the dense forest canopy for the past few days, we knew we were at risk of running out of electricity that night. We plugged in the little space heater for a few minutes to take the chill off our living space, then climbed into bed and burrowed beneath several blankets.

The forecast had called for a cold night, predicted to drop below freezing, but we know the Snuggery’s walls are insulated enough to keep us from the worst of it. We did wake several times to find ourselves tangled into a complicated cuddle puddle, but as long as we remained in bed, we stayed warm enough. When morning came, the house batteries were dead, as anticipated. The outside temperature at 7 AM was 30 degrees Fahrenheit (-1 Celsius), but the inside was a manageable 49F (9C). I was glad I’d thought to pull the day’s clothes into bed with me. That helped some.

By the time we’d pulled on our somewhat clean clothes and brushed our teeth, we were thoroughly chilled. Recognizing the place of privilege that allows for such options, we decided to forego making our regular breakfast of high-protein fruit smoothies and instead scanned online for recommended breakfast spots in the quaint downtown nearby. We secured everything in the Snuggery for travel, hopped down out of the habitat and climbed up into the cab, then buckled in and pointed Walter away from the Anytime Fitness parking lot and toward Mama’s Cafe & Bakery.

Mama’s did not disappoint. From the moment the friendly staff greeted us, we felt enveloped by the undeniable coziness of smalltown charm. Between the heavenly smell of baking bread; the wooden furniture’s well-worn patina; the warm paint colors of teal, coral, and mustard; the kitschy Christmas decor; and a local artist’s work adorning one original brick wall like a gallery; time suddenly came to a full and complete stop

The art wall at Mama’s Cafe & Bakery, Ukiah, California

Mama’s Cafe & Bakery

Wrapping our cold hands around our steaming mugs, we sighed and let the warmth of the scene slowly seep into our weary souls. We hadn’t realized we needed it so much.

In the previous seven days, we’d driven from Bellingham, Washington—just below the Canadian border—to Ukiah, nestled halfway between Northern California’s redwood region and the San Francisco Bay area. In addition to the Anytime Fitness parking lot, we’d camped each of the other nights in a different place:

• Andy’s sister’s house

• a golf course parking lot

• a remote wooded road on Washington’s Rock Candy Mountain (the scene of last week’s bizarre story)

• a working crabbing dock next to a Coast Guard outpost on the northern Oregon coast

• a highway turnout on the southern Oregon coast

The short daylight hours leading up to the winter solstice hadn’t allowed much time for activities. Other than a couple of hours spent admiring coastal sunsets, a little scrambling across some rocky outcroppings to admire tidepools, and a brief detour to hike among the towering redwoods, we had driven, eaten, and slept; driven, eaten, and slept; driven, eaten, and slept.

Tide pools on the Oregon Coast

Walter in the Redwoods

Neither we nor Walter were designed to press forward at the pace we’d kept for the past solid week—and we would need to continue that pace for the following week, as well.

Mama’s Cafe and Bakery suddenly felt a little like the eye of the storm. We savored our absolutely scrumptious meals slowly, taking it all in.

Mama herself is a slender and graying woman—perhaps my own age or a few years older. She clearly isn’t skilled at sitting still, alternating between adjusting crooked pictures on the wall, chatting with customers and refilling their coffee, issuing level-headed instructions to the several twenty-somethings scurrying about with Santa hats and Christmas aprons and “I’m a Mama’s Girl” t-shirts, and sitting briefly at the table closest to the kitchen to scratch notes into a three-ring binder. Her baggy fleece pullover was dusted with flour and her faded blue jeans showed a few stains, as did her cushioned running shoes. Her short, wild, salt-and-pepper hair was haphazardly pushed back with a wide crocheted headband. She pushed her glasses back up onto her nose with the back of her hand, a seemingly well-practiced move by hands that are often messy. Taken as a whole, it was obvious Mama is a woman who rises early and gets the job done—whatever it takes.

At one point, I watched as one of the young women—with deep lines creasing the still flawless skin of her forehead—approached Mama, who was sitting for a moment at her little workstation. With her back to me, the young woman said something I couldn’t make out. Mama’s audible reply was steady and clear:

“If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. We’ve been through worse, right?”

The young woman nodded, shrugged, and turned back to the tasks at hand. Her worry lines had disappeared.

I was struck by the calm and simple, yet profound answer to the young woman’s pressing concern.

And then, the reminder to look back at the worries of the past.

Whatever it was, they’ve been through worse. Together. And they’ve come out the other side. Together. And life went on. Together.

Eventually, after we’d lost count of our coffee and tea refills, and our plates had long since been cleared away, we realized we were overstaying. The restaurant was busy, and we needed to make progress on the day’s agenda—exploring the Golden Gate Bridge, meeting up with a friend in San Jose we’d met at a gas station in Montana 18 months prior, finding a safe place to camp, and troubleshooting why our composting toilet was suddenly stinky.

Mama’s Cafe and Bakery in little Ukiah, California had provided the respite we didn’t know we needed. The warmth and the friendliness, the art and the flavors, the relaxing and the sipping and the casual observing—the crisp edges on those perfectly seasoned potatoes—everything was just right. We both felt strengthened for the next phase of the journey.

Later that same day, at San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge

This crazy, weird little life of ours has its ups and downs. Even regular life can often be tedious or unpredictably stressful. Family relationships are complicated. Friendships wax and wane as dramatically as the moon. Sometimes the toilet stinks and the alternator won’t charge the house batteries. We don’t ever know if things are going to turn out as we’d hoped. But what I overheard while eavesdropping at Mama’s will stay with me a long time.

“If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. We’ve been through worse, right?”

Until next week,

Sherry

P.S. If you’re in need of any last-minute gift ideas that won’t require a hectic shopping trip excursion and won’t add more clutter to a person’s already cluttered life, check out:

1. The name Ukiah is an anglicized version of Yokaya, which the Spanish colonizers adapted from the ancient Pomo name for the region. Translated from the original language, it means “deep valley.”