It was a Bloody Sunday. But, then again, so was Friday and Saturday.

                                                                   

Our mission was a car camping outing to Eagle Lake in northeast California.  The target area was the great basin rangeland, high desert north shore (compared to the timbered south shore) of the second largest natural lake entirely in California.

I promised a mission report. From what I can recall of the weekend, here is my account of the good time had by all.

First, I must report we are missing a gallon of Absolut vodka and a case of Tabasco-brand Blood Mary mix.

But then again, it was a pretty large crowd of aging hippies and their adult-aged kids along with their friends and a few good dogs. (The friends hit the BM’s pretty hard, but I never did see the dogs imbibe.)

The car camping trip went well, the only casualty being the aforementioned vodka and mix, along with multiple cases of Pacifico beer; a half dozen bottles of wine and; of course, a good portion of my Bombay Sapphire Blue Bottle.

Any other mood altering enhancements cannot be confirmed or denied.

But the story doesn’t start with the lakeside hydration activities.

Car camping–or in today’s era–sports utility vehicle camping begins a few days before pulling out on to the highways of northern California. There are lists to be written; stuff–lots of stuff–to be organized and packed; shopping to be done; gas to be purchased (forgoing next months rent); and then it’s time to hit the road.

Our plan, as always, was to leave at the crack of dawn.  We were successful, but only if you consider that it was the crack of dawn in Beijing (rather than the late morning hour of the actual local time zone).

I have a question about the other drivers out on the open road, specifically on the typical state highway with two lanes going each direction.

Exactly how is it that my left turn signal is somehow directly connected to the accelerator pedal of the car a half a mile behind me?

It is my observation that often when I signal a move from the right, or slow, lane and into the left, or fast lane to safely pass a slower driving vehicle, that car back there in the fast lane unmistakably and noticeably speeds up to close the gap.

Hmmm, must be a malfunction of that new fangled “drive by wire” digital electronic engine control system. I mean, what else could it be?!?

Must be time to pull off the interstate highway (I-5) for lunch. 

While I don’t profess to be a health food fanatic, I generally eat good stuff from fresh, local ingredients (one benefit from living in the central valley of California). 

But why is it my diet goes out the car window on a road trip?

We stopped in Red Bluff at a nondescript local restaurant–which seemed to have many diners who spent more time at the body art shop and making babies than at the dentist.

True to form, I ordered a chicken fried steak laden with thick, creamy country gravy (and how that differs from city gravy, I have no idea).

I don’t know what is worse: that accumulation of calories, cholesterol, and grease or the fact that for much of my adult life I thought that was really chicken under that pool of brown, congealed liquid.

My wife sampled a small bite and exclaimed,

“Totally nasty…I love it!”

These iconic eating establishments–where waitresses still call their customers “hon”–connect much of this country and have not changed considerably for most of my traveling life.

The typical clientele consists of families taking a break from the miles of concrete, working men–many who feel it necessary to share Nextel phone conversations with everyone within earshot, and older couples taking advantage of the senior citizen discount.

I wondered if one couple sitting near us was providing a perspective into our future with the wife dutifully cutting up her husbands waffle into bite-sized pieces while the old guy was literally drooling down his chin and onto his lap.

Enough of that glimpse at Americana and my likely not-too-distant future.

After about six hours we made it to Windsurfer Beach, along the north shore of Eagle Lake. Other than a bigger beach (due to a lower lake level) the place has not changed much in over two decades.

One of my first tasks was to crack open a microbrew. My younger daughter gave me these really cool Reef sandals with a bottle opener on the bottom.  My older daughter, always the observant one, questioned the intelligence of opening a beer with a shoe sole that has shared the ground with an occasional cow-poop patty, by stating,

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”

Well-put, older daughter.  The beer tasted fine to me, as did the second, as did the third.

Come nightfall, with no moon visible, the number and clarity of the stars was beyond spectacular.  The Milky Way looked like white strands of cotton candy stretched across the evening sky.

And after what is nowadays a typical night with one or more trips outside the tent to rid myself of those beers and then up in the morning to meet my obligation to have coffee brewed and ready for the wife-person when she rises, I understood the inescapable truth that I may be getting close to being too old to crawl in and out of a tent and sleep on a rock hard ground covered with sticks and stones (which apparently really do hurt my body).

But standing alone by the camp table firing up the Coleman stove gave me a private showing of a dozen massive white pelicans as they effortlessly glided along the edge of the lake, barely off the water, tinted pink with the slowly rising sun.

The second night, under the same brightly lit dark sky, provided the perfect setting for our mini-drum circle, consisting of one small, homemade conga drum and a yellow, plastic 5-gallon paint bucket (my instrument of choice for the evening).

I neglected to mention one additional liquid refreshment that was enjoyed by only a few.  Based on a call to arms by the eminent Mt. Shasta-area expert of beer battles (oh yeah, he apparently knows a fair bit about fly fishing, too) I requested our friends from that area to please purchase and deliver a six-pack of a particular good porter produced by a brewery under fire from the federal government (yes, ours) over a little name issue.

While I may not be the political activist of some of my brethren from the 70’s at Cal Berkeley, there are some battles worth fighting. 

This beer is THAT good.

Stay tuned for my upcoming list on the top ten best inventions for car camping.

That is if I don’t end up falling asleep in the recliner–again–drooling over myself and forgetting.