‘It’s difficult to know what circumstances led to the emergence of California’s ‘Angry Rabbit Tree,’ both because nature has always been willing to churn out monsters when humanity is least prepared, and because a lot of paperwork handled by ‘The URT’ staff has gone missing under mysterious circumstances.

Catching glimpses of ‘The ART’ remains somewhat difficult as of this entry. It is cordoned off and sporadically patrolled by Rangers who don’t know what to do with the thing. Past that ‘The ART’ is admittedly kind of dangerous. The sort of place this publication can’t recommend visiting in its current state without risking an amount of liability. Readers beware.

First: Rabbits inhabit the area. Their holes are a hassle in and of themselves. They twist ankles and cause the ground to collapse at odd times, the earth there being honeycombed and unstable. Then: the rabbits themselves are mean. Territorial. Smart. And organized as though by a single mind. Reports suggest that all rabbits on the premises are simply roots and branches of ‘The ART,’ a single rabbit budding multiple fruits. They haven’t killed, yet. But not for lack of trying.

The tree itself has gone dark and leathery. More like flesh than wood. It shivers in the cold and sags in the heat and twitches when the odd insect lands here or there. For all that it’s angry at those who approach it, Rangers insist it rests into contentment when left alone. They ask for room while they attempt to make peace with the thing. Donations of rabbit food are received gratefully at this time.

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

There are fewer and fewer sacred places on this earth- fewer places unworn by the feet of travelers. Some of the roughest edges of the Wayside have been smoothed by the great stampede of people like myself, who look for an escape here and, finding that here is much the same as everywhere, attempt to squeeze in through or into the dirty seams and cracks of places that seem unbroken. Those places do exist, but they’re growing thinner and dirtier and the internet has made travelers lazy.

I’ve grown lazy.

‘The Universal Receiving Tree’ in California is a marvel for the mainstream. It is a massive redwood that, over many, many years, has been grafted with the branches of nearly a hundred fruiting and flowering trees. It sustains these branches, requiring little maintenance beyond the initial grafting supports. It blooms in the spring, summer, and fall and creaks like an old skeleton in the winter, a hodgepodge monster among its neighbors, none of which have boasted the same flexibility.

I’m starting to sound like the book, I know, but the book says something else entirely.

‘Oh, a pretty apple. Oh, a juicy orange. And both? Amazing!

That’s what you sound like when you visit ‘The URT.’ You sound like someone who has never been to a grocery store. The sad truth of the matter is that ‘The URT’ isn’t doing anything particularly interesting on the surface. Tree grafting is an old, if not tedious, technique and ‘The URT’ is just a prize pug at the dog show: dolled up and wheezing for the masses. Did you know ‘The URT’ draws a diverse population of butterflies the likes of which can be found nowhere else on earth? Did you know that the tree’s seeds are collected and burned to keep its secret proprietary?

Did you notice there aren’t any squirrels in that tree? No insects around its base?

The Wayside is the metaphorical shoulder of the highway- the place that exists between road and ‘other.’ But metaphors are limiting. Sometimes the Wayside is as much the places above and below the highway. Take, for instance, ‘The URT.’ Why does nobody collect the fruit that falls until after closing? And why does the parking lot never clear?’

It’s difficult for me to see ‘The URT’s’ park and its structures as anything but shady, having first read the guide’s entry. The rest of the forest is entirely open to the public, with the usual restrictions regarding hunting and camping. ‘The URT’ stands alone, fenced off at a distance one expects from a tiger’s enclosure. The site is overstaffed and manned by people who take their job way too seriously if you believe their job is to simply guard a tree. And life does avoid ‘The URT’ at ground level. It’s difficult to tell for sure from the raised platform, but nothing obvious moves down there. No bugs. No rodents. Birds stick to the branches. Bees stick to the air.

When I look too long a man pulls me back and tells me I was leaning too far out.

He’s the man I ask about closing procedure.

“The thing is,” I tell him, “I’ve got a friend that’s got a friend that did the underground tour, you know. Off the menu. And he said for money, for like, $500, it can be arranged.”

I don’t have friends, as you must well know, and I don’t always have money. The man asks for more but I stand firm. I’m not good at haggling- I just don’t have any more money than that to give. He accepts when I offer the money upfront, and he tells me to meet him in the parking lot an hour after closing.

The camper is not inconspicuous in the near-empty lot and I make it more conspicuous by peering through the shades every few minutes, thinking that a rogue leaf is someone coming to tell me where I should and shouldn’t be. When someone does come to the door, I don’t hear approach at all.

One tentative knock. Two louder knocks after that. The knock of someone second guessing what they’re doing, someone nervous, I think, which puts us on even ground.

I open the door and find a woman. She’s younger than me, dressed in unbuttoned flannel and unlaced boots. I recognize another traveler and she must have recognized the same in me.

“Are you waiting for the tour?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“You want company?”

“I have company,” I tell her, and I gesture to Hector, wheezing on his bed in the corner.

“What’s wrong with him?”

The wheezing started a couple weeks ago. Then he got sluggish. The couple vets I’ve seen tell me it could be anything. The rabbit’s old and he’s got more miles on him than most. They all agree that it doesn’t look good. Lately he’s taken to chewing a hole in his back, a habit that’s landed him in a cone.

“I don’t know.”

“I’ve got a coffee pot in my car if you’ve got electricity in this thing.”

“Sure,” I tell her, “I could use coffee.”

The man is late coming to retrieve us, but he makes good on his promise. He doesn’t blink when I haul along a sick rabbit. Eve, the woman, side-eyes me.

Through a back room and down a series of cement stairs, we find ourselves in the hollow chamber that allows for access to ‘The URT’s’ roots. They emerge from the ceiling and reenter the soil through the floor and walls. A number of people in lab coats mill about the exposed roots, examining the illicit grafts. It’s mostly animals and pieces of people. There’s something that looks like a robot across the way, but when I stare too long one of the uniforms gestures at our guide and he pulls me away.

The tour is wordless until we reach an alcove in the far wall. The earth is exposed, there, and the grafts go mostly unobserved the employees. Our guide points with his chin:

“Deposits.”

I take off Hector’s cone and stroke his head. Then I set him close enough to the roots that the ragged flesh around his chew-wound touches the wood. He doesn’t move from the spot.

“This keeps things alive, right?” I ask.

“It sustains them,” the man says. It’s a practiced deflection, but sustaining is enough for now.

I look over at the woman and she shrugs: “More coffee?”

We camp there, in the lot, until someone finally arrives to tell us we have to go.

-traveler

I hate public bathrooms, so you can imagine the hell this trip has been. I figured, early on, that I would get used to it but the Wayside has made it worse. Popular destinations have reason to keep their toilets clean and mystery free. Places on the Wayside don’t share this motivation. Their restrooms are dirty, that is without question, but they’re often also assertively weird. They emit strange sounds. They invite strange company. Like anything that’s been used too hard and for too long, they are embittered.

I waited to visit ‘Ansville’s Haunted Toilet’ until I had a toilet of my own. The restroom in the camper in cramped and not without a distinct smell, but it’s clean and boring the way a toilet should be. With some months of that stability, I finally make the stop.

‘There’s no proof that the toilet in Ansville is haunted. It’s warm, that’s all. Warm like somebody got off it minutes before, but always warm, even if they didn’t. That sort of trick can be pulled with an electric seat. It could probably be accomplished wirelessly. It could probably be accomplished with targeted heat emission.

Could just be a warm bathroom.

The kicker, though, it that ‘Ansville Bites,’ the restaurant in which the haunted toilet can be found, doesn’t charge for admission. They don’t advertise. They even chafe a little at being asked which stall it is. If nothing else, this seals the deal.

Mishandled denial has a funny way of indicating the truth.’

On a crisp autumn night, all I can say about ‘Ansville’s Haunted Toilet’ is: pretty cozy. Maybe my first five-star visit in all these years. Once I get past the weirdness of the warmth, by reminding myself that I’m not sharing the germy butt-heat of another living human, and once I get past the subsequent there-may-be-a-ghost-here-now, weirdness, there is just the warmth and my own bare skin. And that’s not something I’ve felt for quite some time.

-traveler

‘Aging, but still beautiful, ‘The Model of Crook’s Pass’ is a mainstay for hikers and reasonably adventurous road-tourists alike. Friendly for a man trapped by his own vanity, Darren Meek claims to have visited Crook’s Pass before the concept of ‘the golden hour’ entered into the mainstream and, finding himself so well-lit at nearly every hour of the day (for the magic of Crook’s Pass works even in the moonlight) he has thus far refused to move from the spot even for an afternoon.

He’s never looked better.

A winter’s beard fills out in the shadowy crags of the pass, making him something of a pretty-boy mountain man. Malnutrition chisels his jaw in the fall. His skin tans to a bronze by the end of summer. And in spring, well, everyone looks good in the spring.

Meek has put in the work, too. The state granted him permission to build a small cabin for himself at the pass which he did, shirtless all the while. Pictures from the process were collected for an advertising campaign that was ultimately deemed ‘too risqué’ for print. He hands out the discarded samples himself and personalizes them for $20.

Meek has recently become a somewhat frenetic spokesperson for climate change awareness. A little evidence and a great deal of speculation suggests the weather is changing the quality and duration of light at the pass and that Meek is looking a little worn in the new glow. Visitors are cautioned to proceed with care and to lead with compliments- advice that may become a mandate if ‘The Model of Crook’s Pass’ wins its quiet bid to become a national monument.

A note: ‘The Model of Crook’s Pass’ is not to be confused with ‘A Model of Crook’s Pass,’ the scale replica of Crook’s Pass on display 100 miles west of the actual site. Though this model now includes a tiny scale replica of Darren Meek, he has refused to acknowledge it, claiming that the artists have failed to properly capture him.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

‘Melanie Morkovich doesn’t want you to try to guess what puppet you’ve got a hand in when you visit Butte County’s ‘Inner Puppet Journey.’ She’s been quoted as saying the practice is “infuriating” and “in direct opposition to the spirit of the project,” though she fails to go on record as to what might better suit that “spirit.” Her insinuations, and demonstrations of her own technique, lead the author to believe that, like much of modern self-care, engaging with the ‘Inner Puppet Journey’ is a means of staying in the moment. Trying to guess what puppet your hand is not very ‘present.’’

I’d like to say that I’ve got a personal rule about sticking extremities into places I can’t see, but the Wayside stripped me of basic survival instincts years ago. This is how I find myself crouched in the lower half-floor of the ‘Inner Puppet Journey,’ able to reach up through a series of anonymous holes and into the dark anuses of mystery puppets. I suspect I have my hand in a turtle, though, it’s difficult to say which is the right direction for the puppet to be facing. It may be a figure with a hard plastic mask and, rather than working the turtle’s mouth, I may instead be squeezing the tip of a velvet top hat.

I move on to another puppet, one whose inside fits like a glove. I sense that something is sewn into the fingers- that something might be sewn across the fingers, actually. I wonder if it isn’t a spider web. It would make for a weird puppet, but I’ve seen worse.

The next is long enough that I can feel around on the floor above. A snake, maybe, because my point can just fill the thin fabric of something shaped like a tongue. I waggle the tongue this way, change direction, and waggle the tongue backward. I do this a few times so, later, when I dig through footage of the puppet floor I might figure out what I had been puppeting all along. My understanding, though, is that it’s nearly impossible. Morkovich doesn’t police the use of her puppets on site, but most people believe she mixes up past and present puppet floor footage to discourage the guessing. My hand will be lost in a sea of-

Something grazes my finger through the puppet and I freeze.

I’m not the only one on the half-floor. A teenage couple flirts near the exit. A father lifts his son to the puppet holes about ten feet away. Nobody is close enough to be touching me.

“Stop!” I hiss at the dad, “There something up there.”

He carries the kid several more puppets away in order to more efficiently ignore me. The thing that grazed my finger is still there, unmoving. I feel for it with the snake’s tongue: two eyes, a nose, and a gaping mouth. I pull back instinctively. The fabric is wet. When I reach for the face I find it still gaping. And closer.

I pull my arm back so quickly that the snake turns inside-out. The teens are looking at me now. The dad never really stopped.

I head for the exit when the kid says: “Daddy, look!”

The snake’s body is filling with an arm from above. It’s tongue pokes out and it turns its head to waggle at me. The teens think it’s a riot. The dad is bemused. The kid is freaked, and I side with him. I take the exit and wash my hands in the camper.

There are clips from the ‘Inner Puppet Journey,’ largely considered parody, of a nude figure slipping across the puppet floor. Bizarre, artsy stuff, I guess. And probably not parody.

-traveler