Deep in the trappings of the happy myth of potential perfection was where I sat writing from the day I planned my road trip from Los Angeles to Portland until two weeks later when I was boarding the plane.

In my mind the clarity was glowing: I would reach Los Angeles from Philadelphia by plane bright as day, make my way swiftly past customs to car rentals, hop into a fully functioning Chevrolet Malibu and hit Beverly Hills for a short stay before proceeding to cover more than 2,000 kilometres of land in just under two weeks.

In Los Angeles there would not be much sleep. On my first day I would sip coconut water and eat raw food on the terraces of Silver Lake. Day two would be for soaking up the sun among the cacti of the Botanical Gardens of San Marino. Finally day three would be dedicated to browsing music shops and catching the Dodgers in Pasadena.

There were plans for the evenings too. Perhaps an Actor’s Gang production in Culver City for the first evening and a film premier on Hollywood Boulevard on the second one. For the third evening, an artsy launch at the Getty Centre would do. There would also be time to lay out long breakfasts with my host Ahuva, help with her flower stand at the farmers’ market, check maps and routes with her husband Bob and stock up for the road.

Almost all of this I achieve severely jetlagged, and on the verge of minor despair. On my first actual morning, on the way to San Marino, I crash the back of the car against a motorcycle and lose licence, registration and visa. The rest of the afternoon I spend not with Ahuva’s flowers but with officers Otis and Marco from South Traffic Division going over formalities. What is less boring is that these two come with nachos and salsa and even ask to share biscuits and soda from my backpack if I have any, which I do not. They take hours to finish their job and find it fit to squeeze in a few words about better planning to avoid reckless driving. It would also help, they both agree, to stand less by programmes and let my days on the road fill in slowly as they please.

This is all too good and these people are nice. Only let us not forget that the pressing myth of the perfect voyage is hard to ditch. California and Oregon are too vast and tempting for an instant cure from the constant fear of missing out which plagues my days and which a heavy itinerary is there to minimise in the first place. In the two weeks that follow I sidestep the kind morals imparted by Otis and Marco and take a conscious decision to overachieve.

This is the spirit in which I drive my Malibu past sharp drops and steep canyons, through the foggy mornings of June gloom against afternoon backdrops of California blue and gold and rugged green ranges stretching all the way up to the coastal plains of Oregon. Along the way small pockets of rest come in the form of black bean tortilla chips in Santa Barbara, leg rest in the queer town of Los Olivos, lattes on Morro Bay, selfies with sand-flipping seals on the old pier of San Simeon, hot vegetable chowder and saltines to make up for overcast skies on the Big Sur, sky glider rides over the boardwalk of Santa Cruz, sacks of Bukowski from City Lights in San Francisco, baby bear spotting in Yachats and an afternoon with one of Portland’s resident celebrities.

He is a contact I land in a music festival in Belgium. I liked his band once so I thought why not when he suggests meeting up in the city a few months later. So after a solitary Saturday morning spent snoozing among the bushes of one of the city’s many rose gardens, we drive to his studios in the financial district of Portland for a visit. This encounter verges slowly towards the comically sad. The guy is not in the right mood and soon enough he goes on a painful ramble in all directions, from rants against reckless European drivers to curses hurled at the well-dressed yuppies of Portland. He is all for the good old days of Converse and Kurt Cobain. Yet my intentions are to safeguard happy and carefully accumulated impressions of this place, so I get out as quickly as possible and put in more time tripping on coffee and comics in the eco zones.

It is however at Janet’s, in the desert region of Southern Oregon, that I almost forget I am running high on myths and agendas and wish to stay for good. Janet and her retriever Toby give me a room in their house overlooking the blue mountains and cowboy planes of the tiny village of Forth Klamath. We have French toast and warm apples in the mornings and savoury pies at night. In between I sit on the deck with pots of tea and a field guide and I birdwatch. By sunset of my last day I take note of a red winged blackbird, a grosbeak and an American goldfinch. In no way am I ready to leave behind me this corner of ranch heaven, but I drive on.