I had no particular agenda, and I really had little idea where I would be stopping for each night. My credit card limit was nearly astronomical, and Marsha was going to keep my bills paid while I was gone. It was in Santa Fe, I think, that I traded in my old SUV and bought a brand Ford Mustang convertible, and that was definitely a whole lot more fun to drive. I tried very hard to avoid thinking about much of anything and was largely successful. I drove into California and decided quickly that there was nothing whatsoever I liked about LA so I headed up north. I ended up spending nearly a month at a bed and breakfast hotel that I adored in Half Moon Bay, between Santa Cruz and San Francisco, and I spent the days taking very long walks along the coast or in the nearby redwood forests. Some days I would cruise through Silicon Valley and I secretly did the visitor tours of all of the famous computer tech companies. On other days I'd head into San Francisco or even Marin or Napa counties and play tourist there.
One day, just for fun, I stopped into a big local computer gaming shop in San Mateo and found the place in a total uproar. Apparently it was the launch day for "Blackwood" and the store sold out of its initial two hundred copies of the game in less than an hour. The store was crowded with kids and even adults my age and older raving about the game and its unique game play elements. This gave me the chance to secretly talk to my fans a little bit incognito to find what they liked and, more importantly, what they felt the game still lacked and they wanted to see in the future. My questions probably got too probing, and after awhile I heard someone say, "They, Isn't that Warren Black?" followed by a, "Holy Shit, I think it is." It was time to run, and I left in a hurry, pealing out of the parking lot burning rubber.
A new chapter in the bizarre mythology of Warren Black had begun. Internet sightings of me, like Elvis or Bigfoot, started appearing all over the place as the word got out and it was confirmed in all of the major computer gaming magazines that the crazed and eccentric genius was 'on a sabbatical road tour of the country'. I definitely didn't dare set foot in any more computer stores; it was once again just like I was just a small kid trying to wearing my dads oversized clothes.
Summer came and went, and so did most of the fall. I was still driving around the country pretty much aimlessly, and was just bouncing now among the three coasts, but trying to avoid Texas as much as possible. I visited St. Louis, New Orleans, Atlanta and all the cities of the east coast up to the very tip of Maine. Now I was meandering westwards again, crossing over the cascades and I had stopped for the night in Medford, Oregon.
I had been calling Marsha about once a week to check up on things, and her hints that she'd like to see me back home 'yesterday' were beginning to tell on me. I was rested, leaner and trim, and even tanned a bit, but I seemingly hadn't resolved any of my personal issues yet. I still wasn't in the mood just yet to go back to work, and I was beginning to wonder if I really ever would be.
My map showed that the most direct way to the coast was a road that hit Hwy 101 near Gold Beach, and not knowing any better, I took it, probably not ten minutes before the local Grants Pass Sheriff's department closed off the road for the winter. The road was bad as it wound through the Coastal Mountains of Southern Oregon, and soon became worse. Now I wished I had my old 4WD SUV back. Pretty soon I realized that this was really just a seasonal logging road through the mountains, unpaved and probably utterly impassable in bad weather, which looked like it was soon on the way.
If the road was bad dry, it became a nightmare when wet. There were no guardrails and I soon didn't do much more than a crawl down parts of the road for fear that I would slip and skid right straight over the edge, sometimes 1000' or more down. When it got dark I didn't dare drive at all, and just stopped there in the middle of the road and slept in the car until the next soggy morning. Suddenly my adventure was a whole lot less fun, and going home was starting to sound pretty good. The rain continued nonstop and there were even hints that ice and maybe next snow would soon follow. I somehow managed to make it about halfway though the Coastal Range when I came into a small town in a central river valley.
My arrival was a wonder and a miracle to everyone, because they had heard that the road had been already closed for the winter, and not one of them on a bet would have driven it even in summer in a two-wheel-drive convertible! I think I became something of a local legend, but I was told repeatedly that I was probably insane for even taking this road in the first place. For one night though, my money was no good in the local tavern, and nearly everyone in the town of about two hundred folks showed up at one time or another to see 'the lucky idiot' that survived the winter drive from Grant's Pass. Apparently most unprepared drivers don't.
By morning I realized I was stuck here for the duration of winter. It was now snowing, and the road would be utterly impassable until at least March, possibly even April. My Mustang was put up on blocks near the tavern, and as far as I know it is still sitting there today.
The sleeping arrangements were simple. There were a lot of summer cabins in the area for folks who came up for the excellent hunting and fishing, and most of these were now empty, and would remain so throughout the winter. I had no problem renting one of these vacant cabins a few minutes walk from town and was delighted to meet its caretaker, Gloria.
Gloria was a bit younger than me, maybe about 30 or so, and lived in the next cabin up the hill trail from mine. She was an outdoorsy sort of gal, a hunting guide in season and in the winter earned a good living tending after the vacant cabins of the 'summer people', and in her spare time, was a writer working on a novel. She was probably getting a good split of my rent money as well. She was not a classic beauty, or at least didn't give much of a hoot if she had dirt on her hands and she never ever wore any makeup. She did look good in flannel, with a comfortable sized butt and large sized breasts that didn't seem to be encumbered by any bra but still were winning the fight against gravity.
She showed me around the cabin, which was a good sized one that had a huge master bedroom, a big kitchen that one could cook an entire deer in, fireplaces in every room and even a big hot tub on an outdoors fenced patio outside the master bedroom. Gloria joked that she usually spent most winters in this hot tub, as it was the largest one she knew of in the valley. Being neighborly, I told her she was welcome to use it any time she wanted.
Last, she showed me the underground wine cellar, that I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it. There must have been 10,000 bottles inside, at least. The owner, she said with some amusement, was a hot shot Hollywood producer with an unhealthy fondness for underaged girls. He now spent most of his time nowadays in Europe where he could better indulge his tastes, and I was invited to feel no guilt in drinking up 'the 'bastards stock'. I wasn't much of a drinker, but I gave it a good shot that winter and did get an excellent education in appreciating good wines.
I invited Gloria to dinner and she accepted. There was some stuff in the freezer and a few boxes and cans in the pantry, but not a lot, and I made two trips to the local shop to buy whatever looked good and some staples that I would use all winter. Venison and fish, I was told, should be constantly available all winter, but for anything fresh I was encouraged to buy it now because no further groceries would be coming in until spring, and so I did. I was also encouraged to make all of my necessary phone calls now, because sooner or later a storm was going to knock down some of the phone wires up in the mountain passes and they might not get fixed again until spring.
