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| Clam Chowder, anyone? |
Packed up and loaded just before a dark, drizzly rain descended on Santa Rosa, we eased ourselves southeast through the back road farms of sugar beets, the exquisite hillsides of Napa Valley, along a five wide freeway north of Vallejo, winding through the industrial section of Stockton, ignoring the squawking of Ginny the GPS and hoping the orange detour signs were correct. They were. Ginny recalculated and led us out into the arid plains near Lake Tulloch to finally climb an insanely steep grade (Old Priest Road-Named, I assume, because the old priest became old climbing the grade) to settle into the very funky mountain town of Groveland, California-gateway to Yosemite. Thanks again, Lord, for traveling mercies, and thanks again cribbage gods for seeing it my way. The Wily Cager had whittled my lead to $78 dollars with some "Was she really a math teacher arithmetic?" and had me on the ropes like Mohammed Ali suckering George Foreman when suddenly the fates unleashed a dash of unprecedented fortune my way. First, all four fours came out during play: four-she played, eight for two-I said, twelve for six-she grinned, sixteen for twelve-I chortled. To quote my buddy, Ed, "It was great!" But then she came up with a hand plus a crib of thirty-two points, and I was about to call for a respirator. I was eight pegs shy of the skunk l line. The Cager was eleven pegs from winning. It was my deal. She could have skunked me, but she out thought herself and instead of keeping two pair of face cards, she kept one pair and a deuce. I was dealt the 4456 dozilito and a five turned up making my hand worth the venerable Viente-Cuatro. During play I pegged enough to cross the skunk line. She counted but fell short three pegs like Eveil Knieval aborting his rocket launch across the Snake River. Miraculously, I danced in on the power of twenty-four plus eight. Never was a win of eight dollars so satisfying. Better yet, after a rain storm tonight, we're supposed to enjoy warm weather all next week as we explore Yosemite National Park. Groveland is about twenty miles from the entrance, and this RV resort has water, power, hot showers, cable TV, and WiFi. One thing we've decided in our travels so far: We like power. Everything else is a bonus. Tonight, as a homage to the soggy skies, we're going to enjoy Judy's superb homemade clam chowder along with some fresh baked corn muffins. I'mpretty sure life is good, especially today.
So long central coastline, hello Sierra high line.
We bought some candy from these two not so scary witches who were raising money for the Groveland pre-school.
Photo of the photo.
Like us, these Coreoposis still believe in summer.
Zimmers? Google says it's like a room upgrade, sort of like a B&B.
If my blood sugar was lower, I'd have swilled a few with the stuffed animal heads and the local heads, but again there is that slippery slope thing.
I'm sure the owner of this peace bug was swilling at least one PBR in the Iron Door Saloon.
Downtown Groveland, California
Hey honey, do you think that guy is wearing a hunter costume?
All hail to the Red, White, and Blue.
Fric and Frac snuggled in to site #19. (Just us and the owner's cats so far.)
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