Pop quiz: How long does it take to travel 60 miles if you’re driving at 12 miles per hour? Extra credit: Is capital punishment appropriate for drivers who use exit-only lanes to pass on the right during traffic jams and wedge their way back in at the end? Discuss.

I left San Francisco on a rainy Saturday morning two weeks ago, and decided to follow the winding Pacific Coast Highway all the way down to Los Angeles, even if it took me all weekend.

It did.

The steady rain and low visibility blocked most of the ocean views and turned the 25 mph curves into 10 mph ones. An interminable time later, the craggy coast flattened out and the road sped up. I spent Saturday night in the scenic college town of San Luis Obispo, and headed out early on Sunday. Highway 1 doesn’t hug the ocean through this whole area, and inland southern California is dusty and mountainous and dry.

I drove through small farming communities with roadside stands advertising cherries and garlic, the combination of which would make an interesting pie. It was sunny and warm. The road wound through the mountains and I wondered again at the point of “Rock Slide Area” signs. It doesn’t change my driving, and if I see a Frank Caliendo-sized boulder hurtling down the mountain towards my open window, I don’t need a road sign to tell me to get out of its way.

^ I also saw my first “Wild Boar Crossing” sign, which at 75 mph looks like a Triceratops taking a poop.

^ Santa Barbara, I think

I’ve been in San Pedro, a waterfront community of Los Angeles, since November 2nd. You may have seen it in about a billion movies, and it’s also home to the impressively large Port of Los Angeles. I’ll be here until November 24th, which is a huge relief after only spending a week in each city since Seattle and traveling on the weekends. It feels great to be able to relax on a Saturday and watch college football instead of having to jot down highway directions from Google Maps and fill up my gas tank.

So, yesterday, I jotted down highway directions from Google Maps and filled up my gas tank. I decided to drive up to Big Bear and do some hiking. The Los Angeles area has been battling heavy wildfires since mid-week, leading to evacuations, road closures, and a state of emergency declared for the area. My route out, Highway 91, took me through some of it.

I drove up into the mountains, entering San Bernandino National Forest.

^ You can see a plume of smoke from L.A. in the center.

I chose a relatively uneventful seven mile round-trip hike with a decent view of Big Bear Lake from the top.

Solo hikers move faster than groups, so I’ve become accustomed to the etiquette of passing people on the trails. I’ll try to make some noise as I come up behind them, coughing or kicking a rock or two, so they can notice me and move to the side. Near the end of my long walk on Saturday, I neared a family of five chattering and moving slowly in front of me. Bringing up the rear was the bearded, heavyset dad with Robin Williams arms and a red baseball cap. His three grade-school kids noticed me and moved to the right, but he drifted to the left of the trail as I neared him. I walked up behind his left side and said “Excuse me”, which came out lower and gruffer than I’d intended.

The phrase “he jumped out of his skin” had never made sense to me, until now.

He yelled “WHOOOOAAAAAAA!!!” and actually left the ground, moving to his right and very nearly toppling the little girl in the pink blouse who was affixed to his right hand. His reaction was so over the top that I at first thought he’d heard me coming and was hamming it up for his kids, but it quickly became apparent that wasn’t the case. The family stopped. The children stood agape. “You don’t sound like my kids,” he muttered sheepishly (if ever the term “sheepishly” should be used, it is here). “I should hope not”, I replied, hands instinctively raised and palms out in the universal “calm down, I won’t hurt you” signal. His kids were already giggling but I managed to make it around the next turn before I burst out laughing. For a while.

I actually had a similar experience in Eureka. I was in my hotel room one mid-morning, working by the glow of my laptop - with the lights off, like programmers do - when the cleaning lady knocked on my door. “Come in.” She didn’t hear me and knocked again. I got up and had almost reached the door when she let herself in.

From her point of view, she walked into a darkened and ostensibly uninhabited room and immediately ran into a motionless guy in a black T-shirt. She was very vocal in her surprise. The humorous part was how she immediately recovered, as though it didn’t happen. “AYYYYE-YIP! Do you need clean towels?” For the remainder of my stay, she was extremely careful before entering my room.

Back in Big Bear, after three tiring hours of hiking, I climbed in my truck and left the trailhead at 3:45. The radio informed me of road closures due to the fires, including Highway 91 - my route. The only road open towards L.A. was I-10 West. In between Taylor Swift and Kenny Chesney, the radio admonished, “If you are at home thinking about going somewhere tonight, please reconsider. Every open road is at a standstill.” The drive back was 120 miles, 60 of it on I-10. I got home at 9:15.

When I walked outside this morning, my eyes watered from the acrid air and a cloud of brown smoke covered a quarter of the sky. My truck was covered in a thin layer of ash. Southern California during fire season.

Side note: yes, this website has been up and down this week. Don’t ever use Zone.net.