The All-consuming Road (4 Dec 06)

We left very early in the afternoon, after a morning of camp clearing, food sorting, packing and general moseying of the loins, groins and coins. Our plan was to drive south to Kings/Sequoia National Parks and camp for the night, and our late departure meant we probably wouldn't see much of the Parks before nightfall.

But we couldn't leave without a shot of 'El Capitan and El Capitan, Bunglers in Crime'.

On the drive out we able to admire a new part of the park, and some nice views. We also drove past a bunch of blokes burning neatly piled logs of premium firewood, filling the air with a misty smoke that was less than conducive to driving. We stopped and asked one the pyro's if we could rescue some sweet, sweet free firewood from their fiery clutches, and save them some work.


"Sorry mate, since it's a national park, it's illegal to take wood out."
Even if you're just going to burn it?
"Even if we're just going to burn it. Last year a guy asked the same question while we had a Parks officer and the answer was clear: It's illegal."
Spewing.
"Personally, I don't care. I don't work for the Parks, we just get contracted out to do the burn job. If you drove past an unsupervised pile and picked off a bit, nobody would even notice."
I... see.
"Just don't get seen by anyone."
No... of course not.

Unfortunately, all the piles from that point on had either someone standing over them, or were in some way ablaze. DAMN YOU MURPHY !! YOU KILLED MY SON !!!

On the highway, we saw a lot of support for the United States, whether it was US or Confederate flags flying from flagpoles, houses, businesses, out of car windows, or mounted on the roofs, or bonnets of cars, trucks and campervans, or various different stickers or signs that gave the general idea that the person or persons who had erected the aforementioned stickers or signs was or were actively engaged in some kind of degree or method of support for the men and women soldiers of their country's military.

One thing of note is the drastic change of scenery and temperature on the US road. Our trusty Pontiac had an outside temperature gauge that we watched with keen interest, as the temp would jump or drop 10 to 20 degrees (F) just like that, only to change again a few miles later.

We made it to King/Sequoia NPs after nightfall, to find the gift shop and the restaurant open and serving. The restaurant served us Kids Meals and beers, a winning combination on all accounts. Kings/Sequoia is often overlooked by people who consider a small and less impressive version of Yosemite; although it does get steady visits from people who want to see big trees - Sequoias are the largest trees in the world (by volume), with General Sherman the largest tree in the world. We were here to see big trees, and our options lay in pitching a tent in the dark, staying the night and seeing General Sherman, and a hike if time permits, and have a long drive the next day; or, telling Kings/Sequoia to have intimate relations with themselves with their big trees, taking on the road in a mad drive tonight, and getting a jump start on each subsequent day.

Naturally, madness won out in the end. After all - big trees? Pah! Also, there were Mountain Lions in the area. While B was convinced that they were small enough to "fight" if they attacked, P was a tad more cautious. After all, she'd seen them and hadn't confused them with Bobcats.

The drive out of K/S was long, windy and slow, and forged the beginning of what was a long night of driving. And since the road was lined with the Sequoias, we got to see those big trees after all.

Once we hit the highway, the night becomes one long blur of high speeds, brief stops and too much talk back radio. Places and palatial mansions passing for cars were passed in a frenzy of curses and lane changes as we left great chunks of the night in our wake. People on the radio kept talking and talking and talking shit and some chick can't get off and some guy's gone septic and we don't think this guy's a doctor but he has a great voice and what's with their obsession with fucking (not the verb) burritos (though fucking burritos would be pretty funny). All we can do is shake our fists and demand that these voices return us to the music but to no avail. Shit shit shit. More trucks, more lanes, more roads, more towns. It's midnight and we're passing through some built up shit hole by the name of Bakersfield as though we're passing kidney stones. We pick up another cup of coffee and asked the drive-through staff if they knew of a hostel. All we can hear is the murmuring and gurgling of a group of three to four class-A fuckholes who direct us to hospitals and hotels and keep asking what a hostel is.
Newsflash dipshits: Motel 6 is not a hostel.
The night is taking its toll and we are as angry and delirious as we are tired and tenacious. The need for a cheap hostel is replaced by the need for a cheapish motel, but we have neither. We do have the road and music and the night and the combination keeps us strong with momentum. Gas stops are a relief for tired limbs and a chance to moisturise tired eyes. Our eyes are on the full-watch and a sign for Boron does not pass by unnoticed. It's a sign, a clear signal of our destiny. How could we find no respite in Boron. Nobody doesn't like Molten Boron! We're saved.
Boron, Boron, you magnificent bastard, Boron we love you, Boron I love you, make love to me Boron and bear me twenty beautiful, demented children. Oh Boron, what madness is this, where is your magnificence? Where is your golden tresses and bosomy embrace; how can there be nothing but dust and inbreeding and rabbits...

We held out as far as San Bernadino - where the madness truly took over and we could do nothing but sing and shout and get lost on the twisting highway system that sits over the city like an alien spider-demon. P found us a mission house on our map and we made a bee-line for it, though not necessarily walking the line. When the mission house started appearing on road signs in the shade of brown the denotes a historical landmark, we became suspicious that P had inadvertently lead us astray and into a strange part of town. Our brains were not functioning as they should have been and the world had become a cold and harsh place to live. B was rambling bad at this time, and his knee and buttocks were searing but this wasn't the part of town to stop and stretch for more than twenty seconds.

Cursing the name of S Bo we headed east, our alertness for motel signs on an extreme high. By 4:30am, and with more than fifteen hours of driving under our belt, we collapsed into a moderately-priced motel bed for a brief 5 hour sleep.

We weren't too tired to spot this in the carpark though...