Day 33: I’m “Going Back to Cali, to Cali, to Cali”
Ashland was a lovely, short stay. The inland detour brought a welcome change—swapping the cool, misty coast for the heat of southern Oregon—but today marked the beginning of my return home. I backtracked from Ashland to Grant’s Pass, then pointed my car toward Crescent City, ready to greet the redwoods and the cooler coastal air again.
I woke up thoroughly rested in the comfort of a Holiday Inn Express bed, a little giddy at the thought of heading home, yet still savoring the tail end of this road trip. Before leaving town, I stopped at the Medford/Rogue Valley Costco I’d spotted the day before. Gas filled, I couldn’t help but notice the nearby airport. Could this be a place to consider moving to someday? A regional airport with direct flights to California, a Costco, signs of infrastructure—it had promise. But then again, the heat pressed in on me, and I remembered my intention when imagining a future home: to escape heat, not chase it.
Back on the road, the drive south teased me with roadside curiosities I didn’t have time for—a wild safari park, a tiger sanctuary, a Bigfoot attraction, a handful of quirky museums. Likely not dog-friendly anyway, but still the sort of stops that give a highway its character. Alongside the novelty, there were sobering reminders of wildfire: charred trees, scorched brush, the fragility of this land.
The contrast between inland heat and coastal chill kept tugging at me. The coast’s fog and mist can wear thin, true, but the relentless sun inland dulled my mood. Neither extreme felt ideal. Maybe that’s the secret of Southern California’s allure—the balance of mild winters, despite the blazing summers I’d once dreaded.
My last Oregon stop was in Grant’s Pass, where a quick run into TJ Maxx for toothpaste and facial soap somehow ballooned into a $100 spree of “road trip essentials.” Then came the highlight: Highway 199 on the California side of the border. The road twisted and turned like Disneyland’s Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride—a childhood favorite long since replaced by something less magical. Yellow signs warning 30 mph turns made me grin, knowing I was in for the kind of drive that wakes you up. The California landscape unfolded in front of me—towering trees, jagged mountains, glimmers of creeks—and with each mile the air cooled.
By the time I reached Crescent City, redwoods were thick around me, and parked cars hinted at nearby trailheads I didn’t have the energy to explore. Hunger won. I drove straight to my Airbnb, tucked deep among the redwoods at the end of an almost-hidden road. Stepping out of the car into the crisp, 20-degree-cooler air, I felt an almost visceral sense of relief.
The listing hadn’t captured its charm—it was a massive suite, larger than my own apartment. After weeks of modest stays, the space felt like a gift. The kitchen was outfitted for a baker’s dream, complete with a KitchenAid stand mixer, and the spa-like bathroom with its rain shower and stone floor could have belonged to a boutique resort.
I realized then that the “tiny home” phase I once flirted with is behind me. Space—room to move, to breathe, to play—that’s what makes me happy now.
This was the best stay of my Pacific Northwest trip, maybe even better than any hotel along the way. Fitting, somehow, that I’d find it back in California. In a way, I was already home.
