Auburn, California

At last, I’ve taken my Carnegie-quest to California, where a bounty of 87 await me.  If it weren’t for the wrecker’s ball, it would be 144, the most of any state other than Indiana with 167. The 57 it has lost are more than were built in all but eleven states, but not the highest percentage of loss.  That ignominy goes to Texas, where only thirteen of its thirty-three remain.

It will be the first winter in a while that I won’t be touring in some distant land—Senegal and Madagascar the past two winters, and Taiwan and the Philippines, the previous two.  I had planned to stick to this hemisphere this winter,  flying into Uruguay, then biking through Brasil to the Guyanas for the lone Carnegie in South America in Georgetown, while knocking off the four countries I’d yet to bike in South American—the three Guyanas and Uruguay—but I would have had to have left by November to avoid the brutal summer heat of Brasil and couldn’t get the visas in time.

California and it’s Carnegies have beckoned for a long time, so they made for an excellent, though far less exotic, second choice.  California in a way is like another country with an economy even larger than Brasil’s, so I know I will have an enriching ride and without having to flash my passport.   I’d have been here a month already, nearly completing my mission and moving on to the four Carnegies in Arizona, but Janina had an exhibition of her water colors in Bloomington, Indiana, where she received her MFA, that opened February 1.  No way could I  miss that.  It was a most productive delay allowing me to track down six books on Carnegie libraries, three at Indiana University’s library, that I just had enough time to read during the three days Janina hung her work.  One was on the Carnegies of Indiana and another on those of Ohio, each written by a fanatic with photos and brief descriptions of each.   The other was on 71 of the Carnegies in the states of Utah, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, Nevada, Washington, Oregon, California and Idaho, written by an academic. 

Back in Chicago I took advantage of my Northwestern library privileges to read its copy of a book on the Carnegies of Ireland and to have it acquire for me the University of Illinois’ copy of a book on the Carnegies of Kansas.  I had the option of the University of Chicago or National Louis University in downtown Chicago for a book on the Carnegies of Ontario.  The latter, across the street from the Art Institute, was a little easier to access, so I availed myself of it, denying myself the pleasure of reading in the hallowed stacks of the U of C. I have yet to determine if there is a book on the Carnegies of California.  The only other states I know that have a book written on their Carnegies are Illinois, Wisconsin and Nebraska.  Only Nebraska awaits me.

This deep Carnegie immersion had me plenty eager to be witnessing Carnegies in the flesh, or brick.  It was a fifty-three hour train trip, three hours longer than scheduled, to Sacramento for my first.   The train was less than half full, so I could comfortably sprawl on the floor at the back of my car on my sleeping pad both nights, arriving in Sacramento plenty refreshed.  Unfortunately the train arrived with less than an hour of daylight left, so I only had time for a quick look at Sacramento’s Carnegie before pushing to get out of the city to find a place to camp.  And I only had a few minutes to talk with Tim, my long-time occasional traveling buddy and fellow nomad (or yes-sane) who happened to be hanging out in California for the winter tending to Maria’s sister, who is undergoing chemotherapy in San Jose.  She presently is between sessions and can get along on her own, so he was able to meet me at the train with his bike, adorned in a day-glow jacket, and will tag along with me for a while in his car as we did several years ago on one of my  rides to the vigil at the School of the Americas in South Carolina.  Time with Tim is as alluring as Carnegies.

We biked over to the Carnegie, just a few blocks away.  It had a huge glassy addition to its side along a main thoroughfare in the heart of the city, but the three-story original continued to radiate a century’s worthy of majesty.  The new entrance with automatic doors and with no steps to navigate might be more user-friendly, but the original through a pair of columns and up a set of steps was far more soul-satisfying. 

After a quick peak inside, we had to get down to the business of finding a place for the night.  Tim returned to his car.  He had several possible sites where he could park and sleep, including a Walmart.  I had seen a handful of hobo encampments from the train on the route I’d be taking north out of the city, that I might intrude upon if I found nothing better. I passed a couple of very uninviting clusters of tents along the road surrounded by clutter. I didn’t have to resort to any of them as I came upon a golf course just before the airport as pitch dark settled in that offered a thick cluster of trees between fairways far enough from the road for some quiet.  It  made for a fine first night in the tent in 2019.


It was 43 in my tent at daybreak, so I didn’t anticipate any golfers.  It was two miles to the Walmart.  There were RVs in its lot, but no Tim.  I went inside for some chocolate milk and a phone card to revive the phone I had last used four years ago on that trip to South Carolina with Tim, to better enable us to advise each other of our whereabouts between rendezvousing at Carnegies.  After two hours and failing to activate three different cards, the kindly, well-intentioned young man helping me, told me I would find a more knowledgeable person at the Walmart Superstore in Roseville, fifteen miles north where the next Carnegie awaited me.  The guy there was knowledgeable enough to tell me my Virgin Mobil phone was too old to be reestablished and that his store could not give me a refund on the $20 card I had bought at the other store.  The loss of three hours on this ordeal was worse than the loss of $20.  The phone was just going to be a luxury anyway, as Tim and I have done fine without it on other occasions.

When I showed up at the Roseville Carnegie a couple of hours later than expected, Tim’s car with his bike mounted on top awaited me.  The handsome building was now the town museum. When I entered the attendant warmly greeted me and told me my friend was downstairs.  Tim was coming up the stairs accompanied by a docent who had spent the past hour giving him a thorough tour of all the museum had to offer.  One of the highlights was a train set that filled one of the rooms.  Tim pointed out a billowing cloud that represented a huge explosion that had taken place in the local train yard of a train that was transporting ordinance in the ‘70s for the Vietnam War.  The docent said she was 12 years old at the time and heard it in Sacramento twenty miles away.  It caused massive damage but miraculously resulted in no fatalities.  

The next Carnegie was ten miles to the north in Lincoln.  The traffic remained thick and so did the homes and businesses along the road.  At least there were periodic bike lanes or wide shoulders.  This was a flat valley floor with the Sierras within sight to the east. With the temperature in the 50s I was wearing tights, but this was almost tropical compared to the polar vortex that had hit Chicago plunging temperatures to near record lows of 50 below zero with the wind chill the week before I left.  I escaped the brunt of it in Bloomington, 200 miles south of Chicago, but was still out riding in minus ten degree temperatures, including a five-mile ride to and from Dwight’s farm outside of town. 

Once again Tim welcomed me to the Carnegie in Lincoln.  As with Roseville’s, it was by far the most distinguished building in town.  Likewise, it hadn’t been adorned with an addition and had a plaque announcing it was on the National Register of Historic Places.  It had recently been replaced and presently was looking for a new inhabitant.  

The fifteen-mile ride over to Auburn gained over a thousand feet and at last had a rural flavor, though not much.  This was on old highway 40, the Lincoln Highway, the first coast-to-coast road.  It was completed in 1913 to promote automobile use.  It intersected with Interstate 80 just before Auburn.  Bikes were allowed to ride on 80 for half a mile, with no other alternative in the rugged terrain just before Auburn, an old gold-mining town with a statue of the town’s gold-miner founder at its entrance.

It’s Carnegie was up a steep road and once again Tim was there to welcome me and give me a synopsis on what he had scouted out in the vicinity.  He had stopped to see an old Finnish miners hall recommended by the docent at the Roseville Carnegie and also a pyramid an artist had constructed on his property.  He had no report on the contents of this Carnegie, now an Art Gallery, as it was closed. 

The only art we saw were some sculptures of stacks of books on pikes behind the library in an enclosed garden with a few chairs that looked like a nice space for warmer-weather gatherings.  The plaque on this library said it had been replaced by a larger library in 1968, fifty years after it had been built.  It described it’s style as Greek Revival.  It had been designated a significant California building, but had yet to be given NRHP status.  It was the first of the four Carnegies so far to have “Free To All” on its front facade.

Despite the Walmart run-around, it had been a fine first day of biking.  I knew I had the favor of the gods as I had gathered two neckerchiefs along the way, both nicely-faded reds.  I can never have enough.  I can imagine a thousand and one and more uses for them.  I am most eager though to find a few license plates to add to my wall in one of Dwight’s out-buildings. At present my most westerly state is Colorado.  North Dakota is the furtherest north and Alabama the furthest south.