So I left Benicia, where John Barleycorn had nearly got me, and
ranged wider afield in pursuit of the whisper from the back of
life to come and find. And wherever I ranged, the way lay along
alcohol-drenched roads. Men still congregated in saloons. They
were the poor-man's clubs, and they were the only clubs to which I
had access. I could get acquainted in saloons. I could go into a
saloon and talk with any man. In the strange towns and cities I
wandered through, the only place for me to go was the saloon. I
was no longer a stranger in any town the moment I had entered a
saloon.

And right here let me break in with experiences no later than last
year. I harnessed four horses to a light trap, took Charmian
along, and drove for three months and a half over the wildest
mountain parts of California and Oregon. Each morning I did my
regular day's work of writing fiction. That completed, I drove on
through the middle of the day and the afternoon to the next stop.
But the irregularity of occurrence of stopping-places, coupled
with widely varying road conditions, made it necessary to plan,
the day before, each day's drive and my work. I must know when I
was to start driving in order to start writing in time to finish
my day's output. Thus, on occasion, when the drive was to be
long, I would be up and at my writing by five in the morning. On
easier driving days I might not start writing till nine o'clock.

But how to plan? As soon as I arrived in a town, and put the
horses up, on the way from the stable to the hotel I dropped into
the saloons. First thing, a drink--oh, I wanted the drink, but
also it must not be forgotten that, because of wanting to know
things, it was in this very way I had learned to want a drink.