And that one is OUTTA HERE!

With all cares behind me and the promise of vehicular manslaughter ahead, I zoomed off for my date in the Sierra Foothills. All traffic reports indicated trouble on the usual routes out of town, which is always good news for me. I was heading into the Sierras, where my sainted mother once lived, and where my doughty and true sister still does live. This means I've driven the 'usual' route to (essentially) Reno, 8-million times and I'm always glad to experiment. So I headed towards the Benicia bridge, but cut off towards Antioch, up highway 12, right on highway 113, a quick cut over to Pedrick Road, and the a slice up to Highway 80 at right about Dixon. This only left the traffic jam entering Sactown and the inevitable one just around Rocklin, which I avoided by cutting over to Roseville Road and cruising by the train tracks. Then, a stop at the store to purchase firewood and victuals, and it was up to Colfax and the campground. The lovely BAG was already there and, predictably, sitting reading a trashy novel she had purchased the day before. The campsite, at Bear River Campgrounds, is very nice, and the only thing that worried me was the family in the two campsites to the right of us. They were of a nationality that has many children (and don't you disrespect their culture by denying it, you pig) and all the kids were there. So were the two pickup trucks, the two dogs, and the consumptive grandfather. The consumptive grandfather sat just across the border between our campsites, speculatively staring at the dirt, pulling off of bottles of Corona, and in small and sequential steps, hacking up about half a lung.

As soon as I arrived, everyone in the family but Grandpa Tuber Bucolosis packed into the two pickups and headed off. The BAG and I sat around and waited for the heat to subside. It did, and we eventually had a lovely dinner. In memory of our trip to Italy I had purchased the bits and pieces necessary to make a crude approximation of Prosciutto y Melone and we slurped this down. I had also purchased some pork and potoes, but eating the appetizer and French Bread filled us up, so we hopped immediately to making a fire and watching it. Always the highlight of a camping trip.

The "people of a fecund race" returned in full brood and began to set up their evening. The did this in the furthest away of their two campsites, and were just the best behaved fellow campers imaginable. I cursed myself for being such a racist pig (actually I had another beer) and at about 10 that evening the BAG and I fell asleep in the calmest campground in America. It was beautiful.

Grandpa TB, strangely, continued to spend almost all of his time on our side of their campgrounds, separated from the rest of his family by 30 yards and two pickup trucks.

This is also where the dogs were chained at night, but I refuse to believe this actually has any comparison value.