A couple of days ago, I gave you just a hint of our recent road trip in our quest to squeeze out the last pleasures of these fine fall, halcyon days in Northern California, as winter approaches.
It is coming, isn’t it?
It’s the first week of November and I am still running around in shorts and a t-shirt, and we really, really need the water.
If you’ll stick with me a few moments, I will get to The Saga of Poor Joe and his run-in with wily creatures of the woods.
But first, what would a good travel trek be without a foodie feature?
While tooling around Lake Almanor, we stopped in at the rustic Cedar Chalet Bakery, a couple miles south of Chester.
When I say rustic, I mean, if you did not know what sugar-laced delights awaited you within, you would drive by and think,
“What a sad, old, dilapidated place. I wonder how long it has been abandoned.”
But, best not to tell a book by its cover, nor an old bakery building by its faded, rusted sign.
Not only were the sweet treats worth a stop, but I am pretty sure the old guy telling tall tales at the counter may have been the uncle of The Stranger (Sam Elliott) from The Big Lebowski.
After a few miles of hiking along the scenic, wooded Lake Almanor Recreation Trail, it was time for some serious boating on the lake, and by serious, I mean once we three guys got out maybe 100 feet from shore, we killed the engine—which at one point we were pretty sure was on fire—and quaffed a good number of beers.
This was followed shortly thereafter back on terra firma, once we rejoined the good women in our group, and we went on to imbibe a number of bottles of good wine.
So, yes, you could say a good time was had by all—once we ascertained that the boat was NOT really on fire.
The next day had us, and by us I mean me, making a serous tactical navigation error of a gargantuan degree, when I decided to return back to Sacramento via Yuba City.
I certainly could have been suffering a dulled sense of sound judgment—which I am sure had everything to do with the liquids consumed the previous day and evening—since I had heard of a great gathering that was taking place in Yuba City, yet chose that path home, anyway.
While I did hear something on the news about some gathering of the Sikh’s (an entho-religious group, if you are unfamiliar), I am pretty sure I did not know that would be 75,000 of them gathering.
I can’t say that all 75,000 of them were heading south with me on Highway 99, but let’s just say, this was not the place to be for anyone with any anxiety around headscarves. Based on the occupants of the nearby cars—the many, many nearby cars, all traveling at maybe 5 miles per hour, or less—this was clearly a fine family event for all ages.
We finally got home and decided that the weather was just too nice to unload the kayaks, so it was up to Lake Natoma—after a slight detour up to Apple Hill for yet more sugar-laced bakery goodies.
This brings us back to The Saga of Poor Joe.
Joe was with us on The Great Lake Almanor Boat Adventure, which consisted primarily of a few moments of concern as we ascertained the source of the smoke billowing out of the engine compartment of Steve’s ski boat, which was followed by a great deal more time spent on congratulating ourselves for the alert action that was taken (opening the engine cover) and subsequent swift and well planned emergency response (turning off the engine).
And what would self-congratulations be without the consumption of alcoholic beverages.
During all this self-congratulating time, Joe regaled us with an encounter he had earlier that day, which left Poor Joe in a somewhat debilitated physical state.
Now, you have to understand that Joe is truly a Man’s Man. That was clear the moment he drove up in his massive four-wheel drive Ford pick-up with a burly, knobby-tired dirt bike motorcycle lashed in the truck bed.
Joe’s a physically fit, good looking guy with medium-length, light-brown hair that falls nicely above his masculine-featured face, someone that you might expect in an ad for some adventurous outdoor activity, which in Joe’s case, would not be a reach.
Joe is into numerous extreme outdoor sports, including kiteboarding and skydiving.
(Beware the kiteboarding models on that link—Tab 3…not that I looked at them.)
And apparently, Joe also likes guns. And that is where his story got interesting.
Joe had gone out to the woods with a woman that morning, who, like Joe, gets a kick out of things that go bang.
These things are typically identified by a descriptive number, rather than by name, so when you mention 12 gauge, 30-06 (read as thirty-odd-six), or 9 mm to someone who is into recreational shooting, there is no confusion.
(For full disclosure, I should mention that I was not present at the morning’s outing, so I did not exactly witness what transpired or how the vicious, diabolical creatures of the deep, dark forest conspired against Poor Joe, but the information contained herein are the absolute facts—at least based on my over-active and vivid imagination.)
As Joe was fondling his gun—in this case, a 9 mm pistol—a wild animal running by caught Joe’s attention.
An animal that is feared throughout the untamed, sometimes dangerous wild forest.
Feared, but only if you happen to be an acorn, that is.
The animal was one of those tiny, cute-as-a-button chipmunks.
Doing what any manly-man with his weapon in hand and in the company of a woman in the woods would do, Joe took off running, hell-bent, after the beast, all-the-while running and gunning, spraying and praying.
Here was Joe, rapidly clamoring through the forest, fleetly navigating the hazard-strewn woods, jumping over down logs with great aplomb, dropping empty clips and reloading while at a full-on-run, all with perfect poise.
Just until the he was taken down in one fell swoop by the wild.
And it was just that, he fell under the excruciating pain of a severe foot-owie.
(No, it was not by self-inflicted gunplay.)
While the cute little critter was last seen trotting off into the woods, huffing and puffing, grateful to be still breathing at all, Joe was left to crawl back to his manly-man, super-sized, four-wheel drive Ford pickup truck, collecting his empty clips and spent cartridges, and trying to dream up a manly-man story of survival against nature’s wrath that left him barely being able to return with his life—if not his ego—still in tact.
After chronicling his near-death experience at the hands (tiny little claws?) of the wild forest inhabitant, Joe must have noticed that Steve and I were only able to quell a guffaw by quaffing yet another cold brew, to which Joe exclaimed with great bravado,
“Hey, it was a really big chipmunk!”
And apparently, a really fast one, too.
Im so jealous, you’re stories are amazing and written with great style. Poor Joe
Johnny,
With such a nice comment I only wished I could have treated you to tapas and tintos at Bodega Santa Cruz when we was in Sevilla, just a few weeks ago. What a beautiful town in an amazing country…it is I who is jealous.
Great post I enjoyed reading it.