Yesterday afternoon, it was agreed that Oliver was dead, and that a new chariot would be despatched from LA and delivered to me in Bishop.

RIP Oliver.  We’ll always have Yosemite.

Mia arrived around 10.30pm by which point, I was knee deep in Hank having been waiting for her for a few hours and therefore unable to drink. I can’t lie, I was slightly surprised that they sent me an older model than Oliver with some 200,000 miles on the clock, but she has been driving really well today – so far, so good.

After she’d been dropped off, I considered going back to Rusty’s for karaoke night but I was really enjoying Californication and with a big day of driving ahead of me, I thought a night in with Hank and a couple of Budweisers was a sensible move.  Fast forward to 2.20am and I decided to grow up, stop binge watching and get to sleep.

 

Day 9:  Sunday 28th October

The Cielo hotel’s breakfast was annoyingly sweet for my tastes.  No crispy bacon which I really do think should be made available at all breakfast buffets worldwide (feeling a bit disloyal to normal bacon now but I can’t help it, it’s like crack).  I settled for something they were trying to pass as a sausage, but looked more like an anaemic, fleshy cigar and some scrambled eggs.  Tasty.

After breakfast, I headed to DJ’s to get my stuff from Oliver’s corpse.  It was quite sad to say goodbye to him there in the yard  – I’d become quite fond of him, and – having had a day with Mia, I’m not sure the bond is as strong but there’s time to forge it.

 

Manzanar.

Back on the road, and the first stop was Manzanar, a Japanese-American ‘relocation’ camp.  In 1942, the US government ordered that Japanese-American citizens and resident Japanese aliens were to be incarcerated for the remainder of WWII.  I for one had absolutely no idea that this stuff went down on the Allied side – and it all makes for a pretty grim read.

I didn’t stay for long, but long enough to feel saddened and disappointed with human beings – again.

 

Not so Lone(ly) Pine.

Having done precious little the previous day, I was keen to compensate for this and get down to Furnace Creek in Death Valley by tea time.  From Bishop, we were looking at some three hours of lonnnnnnng driving.

However, two unmissables en route were Lone Pines and Alabama Hills which are famed for their movie set history.  Lone Pine town is very 1960s – single storey blocks, wooden frontage with fancy fonts styling their proprietor’s names emblazoned across them.  I liked it very much.

Pretty quiet today (maybe because it’s Sunday and between high seasons).  As Route 395 hits Lone Pine, the road narrows and it could be any other American small town main street.

I only intended to stop to pick up some essential bits before my four days in DV – water, tins of tuna, Diet Coke. Going back to the car and offloading all the groceries, I decided that I’d grab an iced coffee from Lone Star Bistro, through who’s doors, I could purportedly find, DONUTS, T-SHIRTS, WIFI, DELI & GIFTS.  This sounded good to me, so in I went.

It was an excellent find. Whilst the main street outside was quiet, inside Lone Star was busy and buzzy.  Hikers with their maps out, locals hanging out for lunch, super friendly chatty staff, and the cwoffee was the best I’ve had in the past two weeks (coffee over here sucks badger balls on the whole.  Pass a pal a Kenco).

Everything about this place felt good and warm and nice.  I really, really wish I’d stayed longer, however I had places to go and miles to drive, so I buzzed off around the corner to Alabama Hills…

 

ALABAMA SLAMMER-ME-DOWN-WITH-A-FEATHER.

I can accept that I’m one for hyperbole and exaggeration a lot of the time, but I tell you NO LIES when I say that Alabama Hills was the geological highlight of the trip so far.  Fickle Bobby that I am, that there Half Dome is now in second place after this absolute corker.

Wow.  What a place.

I’d been told about Alabama Hills by one of my lovely clients with whom I was working in San Jose – red hot tip. Somehow, I hadn’t found it in my extensive research, but it’s a massive deal and an absolute DO NOT MISS if you’re ever in the area.

It was used as a set for shit loads of major country and western movies back in their golden era, and it’s fucking mental.  At the foot of the eastern Sierras lie clusters of boulders and all you can think is “how the fuck did this happen?”.

For varying reasons, this is a question I’ve asked quite a lot in my time, but over the past couple of weeks whilst in this epic Golden State, I feel like I’m asking it ALL THE TIME.  I knew I was going to see some stunning scenery whilst I was here, but I genuinely didn’t realise I’d be quite so taken aback by it’s scale and imposition, and here I am, not even scratching the surface.

I parked up next to one of the clusters and, after setting Mia up properly and decanting my luggage into the correct areas of the vehicle as I had previously assigned to Oliver, I got changed into some hiking stuff (OK, leggings and a tshirt), whacked on my boots and debated whether to take my as yet unused hiking poles with me. I ummed and ahhhed a bit, decided not to bother.  Then I made a turkey wrap in my “kitchen” and slapped it in a tupperware box before packing it in my backpack for a mid-hike pitstop.

I was good to go.

Strolling out, I soon realised that the hiking poles would have played an excellent role as future crutches.  It is not easy to navigate inconsiderately placed boulders without possible risk to life or limb.  Maybe I picked a tricky section, but wasn’t the “bounce up freely and slap a carefree photo on the ‘gram” kind of vibe, I had to pay attention to what I was doing which was a bit of a drag given I was in a bit of a lazy bitch mode, but still, the surroundings and the total seclusion compensated for it immensurably.

Needless to say, I wasn’t hiking for as long as I had anticipated.  In all honesty, I didn’t really need to – it was all just so perfect, all I needed was a stony perch located high enough to feel like I’d made a bit of an effort, and an unimpeded view of Mt Whitney and I was all set.

Sitting down cross-legged in my selected spot, it didn’t take long to realise that these boulders were not quite as rounded and polished as they appeared.  Let’s say, they were slightly prickly VERY SHARP, and the attention I had intended to give fully to this once in a lifetime vista was somewhat diverted to my poor buns.

I stuck it out for as long as it took to eat my turkey wrap, take some photos and wait out the pins and needles I’d got from the cross-leggedness. I could have stayed there a lot longer had I had a cushion, but today was not that day, so I meandered back to Mia and got back on the road.

Next stop: DEATH VALLEY.

 

I feel the need, the need for speed.

Another red hot tip from my lovely client was to make sure I entered Death Valley via Father Crowley Overlook, another one that slipped me by in the planning (what was I DOING?!).  When he said that this was where the military jets do their training and you often see them swoop through, my inner Maverick was ignited and I was totally sold.

Reaching Father Crowley Overlook was by no means a fun drive.  Naively / stupidly / however you want to call it, I hadn’t considered at any point that access into Death Valley was via anything other than straight, and importantly after the recent car episode, FLAT roads.

Now, logically, and with the benefit of hindsight, I can confirm that this presumption was utterly ridiculous.  I don’t think it takes a genius to see the clue in the name: Death “Valley”.  Cue miles and miles of wending and weaving up and up and up, feeling slightly sick, sweaty and breathless (the latter because I was holding my breath for most of the journey because closing my eyes wasn’t a viable option).  It was a shit ton scarier than Tioga Pass and not even listening to the full Take That anthology was making me think happy thoughts.

That said, reaching the vista point was pretty remarkable.  Much as with the view of Yosemite from Glacier Point, the scale and the silence married together to make it all feel like a painting, not remotely tangible.

What was different here was the hostility of the picture.  There was almost certainly a touch of Brontean romance to it, but the core of my stomach felt uneasy, and I had this looming feeling that something wasn’t quite right. I wanted to reject everything that was weighing heavily around me – ironically, something about the space and the vast lifelessness as far as the eye could see all felt uncomfortably claustrophobic.

 

Hello, Mordor calling.

If the drive to Father Crowley Point was bad, descending into the valley things were about to get a lot worse.  Not necessarily because of the roads (which might I add, were not for timid drivers), but more because I had started to have major palpitations and felt like I was being sucked into hell, or worse.

Visiting and exploring Death Valley has been pretty much top of my list for about five years, and a core driver for me doing this trip. I’d planned to spend four nights here – the longest chunk of my trip in any one point.

I have researched and researched and researched this place – lusted for time beneath the stars, hikes across Zabriskie Point and the Mesquite Flats, so descending from Panamint Springs into the valley really was THE moment that my wanderlust was due to come true and yet as soon as I saw the long straight of the 190 disappear into Mordor ahead of me, instinctively, all I wanted to do was get out.

I came to a mental (and, fortuitously a) literal crossroad.  Do I continue against my instinct because I this is something I have told myself I want to do, or do I listen to the dickhead within and get the fuck out.

The dickhead won.  Maybe because I’ve lost my edge since the car incident stuff, but in any case, who cares?  The decision was made, and I was on a one way ticket out of hell.

Luckily, there was a way out that didn’t involve scaling the bitch of a mountain I had just come over.  It also meant going via Trona and their associated Pinnacles which was high on the to do list, too.  This was the good news.

The bad news was that it was a long ass road and would mean I was way off track for going to Mojave or nipping into Nevada.

Despite the negative, the feeling of relief I had once I’d made my decision to leave was total.  The palps chilled out.  Take That turned riiiiiight up.

 

Purgatorio.

Escaping the jaws of hell, I was now in full on purgatory.  It was the supposed escape route, but the roads went on. And on. And on. When you’ve got just one long road ahead of you and no discernible destination on the horizon, your mind begins to conjure all kinds of fantasy.

Was this trip the worst idea ever? 

Pick a killer:  climate or coyotes.

Am I actually dead and this is it? 

Have I gone through a portal into another realm?  

My joie de vivre was waning, and much as the silky tones of Barlow et al were sending pulse signals to remind me to hang on in there, I needed something more to keep me believing.

CUE MAVERICK & GOOSE!

Holy shit, it was AMAZING!!!!!!  A military jet came soaring over me – it felt like metres away but it obviously wasn’t – and then proceeded to dance and flip and glide and soar and all the loveliest things.  It was dwarfed by the environment we shared and once the heart igniting roar it had left in it’s wake had bellowed out, it almost looked delicate, like a puppeteered origami aeroplane.

I got such a rush from this – so much so I couldn’t help myself screaming “Go on, lad!!” as it flew by.  The exhilaration was extraordinary.

 

Not the Pinnacle of the trip.

I was much more settled, but about an hour later, the road took us through some very, very dark places.  Soulless, desolate, despairing, industrial places.  Weird shit goes down here places.

Luckily, I didn’t need to stop at any of them, so I carried on through but it had brought back the fear.  I’m not sure what it is about this entire area, but there are seriously bad vibes here for me.  It’s like my nervous system is actively repelling it.

Sadly, the same applied for Trona Pinnacles.  The Pinnacles have featured as a backdrop in films like Star Trek and Planet of the Apes, so you get the gist – it’s all meant to be very other wordly and surreal.  What attracted me, however was that you can camp there overnight and with zero light pollution, you’re kind of guaranteed a bit of a wonderful show.

Unfortunately, again, fear won out.  Partially the bad vibes I was feeling in the area, but also the fact that to get to the Pinnacles, you need to traverse five miles of a dirt path which I wasn’t convinced Old Mia could handle.

I believe that not making it over there and camping out will be my biggest regret of the trip, but I will make it there one day – albeit I will need a volunteer to come with me.

 

E quindi, uscimmo a riveder le stelle.  Kind of.

“And thence we came forth to see again the stars” – my favourite piece of any and all literature – is the beautiful finale of Dante’s Inferno. Contextually coming from a place of despair and finality, the words are piece of hope, of love, of positive vibes.

Whilst my path is again diverted for the second time in three days of a meticulously planned trip, I have hope, love and positive vibes, albeit in Motel 6 in Ridgecrest which is shady AF (at $28 a night though, who cares?).

Today has been another trial, and bugger it, I’m going to round it off as another victory.  No, Motel 6 is not the Paradiso sotto le stelle that I thought I’d find myself in today as morning broke.  However, being here is testament that I am listening to myself, which means that the inner HK is gaining strength and momentum, and therefore, the intent to recalibrate and decompress is working.

Tomorrow, Christ knows what I’m going to do.  I had planned to hatch an, err…. plan this evening, but I’ve been concurrently writing this and drifting away with my thoughts for about four hours now and I just want to snuggle up with Hank for an hour or two.

In other, I’ve just found out that Vegas is only 3.5hrs away….

 

 

 

 

Day 8: Saturday 27th October

It’s 4pm, and I’ve been sat in the Looney Bean for the past three hours watching traffic and time go by, as well as doing a bit of work, catching up on my finances and downloading Spotify playlists galore which have kindly been shared with me over the past twelve hours.

No, Looney Bean is not a typo, it’s a cafe on Main Street, Bishop.  It’s a contemporary set up, which is a little out of kilter around here: the rest of this curious little town feels like it’s a collection of buildings that have haphazardly risen from commercial progress of modern America between the 50s and 80s.

Yesterday was a very long day.  I left Yosemite around 8.30am and eventually got to bed at 1.30am. During that time, I experienced the full spectrum of emotion, ranging from wonder and awe, to despair and terror and everything in between.  In spite of the despair and terror, the overall conclusion as my head hit the pillows was that it had been a red letter day, and vehicular challenges notwithstanding, I was glad, grateful and content.  Everything I had experienced and everyone I had encountered along the way had slipped into my life for a reason.

Needless to say, this morning, I was exhausted.  Having slept in relative luxury in a small hotel called Cielo at the north of Main Street, Bishop, I awoke feeling disorientated with a looming sense of fear. It may have been partially attributed to a hangover, but the full impact of the trip and yesterday’s experiences hit me like a ton of bricks and my all too familiar old friend, Anxiety, appeared to have crept into my head and cuddled up whilst I was sleeping.

Anxiety comes and goes in waves these days, and I’ve come to understand it well enough to know that I just need to ride it out and ignore it instead of trying to analyse or suppress it.  It will always pass.  In any case, it has kind of dictated a gentle, slow day of reflection.  As unsettling as Anxiety feels, giving myself the time and space to breathe and just be has been welcomed, and I believe also incredibly valuable.

Until today, I have been go, go, go – scheduled up to my eyeballs, hungry to see and do everything.  With Oliver still in the car hospital and by default having the option taken away from me keep on rolling, I’ve had no option but to drift with the day and indulge myself by wrapping my head up in a restorative cloak of goodness.

The finer details of yesterday’s car incident(s) will be more enjoyable to write and read when I’ve got the fun hat back on; nobody wants Anxious Annie recounting what has the opportunity to be the defining anecdote of my next twelve months, least of all me.

 

Surrender.

In the meantime, whilst I’m feeling all wistful, it feels like a good time to talk about how my aspirations for this trip, along with my mindset, have changed in light of the breakdown and crash yesterday.

All of a sudden, my clearly defined, asphalt path diverted.

Fastidious planning went out of the window.  Sights and hikes I had been planning to see and do were no longer an option.  As a solo traveller and therefore very much on my own, I was absolutely still responsible for trying to get out of the situation I found myself in, but fast realised that here – thousands of miles away from home – I was wholly reliant on the good will and actions of other people; also, that their will and actions didn’t necessarily perfectly slot in with my own set of timescales and expectations.

In short, I was not in control.

So, I stopped trying to be.

The last time this happened to me was in India in March when I was in a taxi which by western standards would have been classified as a death trap on wheels and a well-paired driver.  We were speeding around mountain bends like Billy Whizz and for a while, I thought I was going to die.  I couldn’t get out and walk, nor could I summon a replacement Uber to collect me with the click of a button. More frustratingly, I couldn’t even complain as there was a significant language barrier.

Then, the thought hit me that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. And as soon as I surrendered to this fact, my whole India experience changed for the better.  I let things happen around me and to me and gave up the need to control, and with that, I opened myself up to possibility and adventure.

I recently saw a piece of work by Es Devlin, “The Order of Time”, which I thought was absolutely beautiful and resonated with something I’ve put a lot of thought into.  In our hectic worlds of work, life, family and friends, we’re constantly putting pressure on ourselves to honour commitments and “fit everything in”.  Everything becomes about time: filling time, scheduling time, needing more time, wasting time.  By focussing on time itself, we lose sight the fact that time is just a measure, and chopping up life into portions of time isn’t living – it’s just ‘functioning’.

With all of this comes in the principle of control as well.  Self-enforced structuring of each and every day, and continually committing to doing things because we think it will please others just ends up as a cycle of wasted energy, and also means that we’re passing up the privilege we have to experience the many beautiful things that are ready and willing to come into our lives if we make the space for them.

My schedule is now wide open.

I have surrendered once again.

Day 7: Friday 26th October

There’s not a chance I can contemplate writing up today yet, and I don’t know how I ever will.

In swift illustrative summary:

• Left Yosemite
• Tioga Pass broke my heart
• Mono Lake blew my mind
• BODIE ❤️ killed me
• Headed to June Lake Loop to try to find a pitch for the night
• Car started to tremble
• Oliver decided to die at top of long hill on Route 395
• Oliver started rolling back into freeway traffic
• Assisted by some top lads, get onto hard shoulder
• Tow Truck Chuck saved the day
• Tow Truck Chuck and I had a crash
• Police, camera, action
• DJ the mechanic comes into my life and he is a living legend
• Checked into hotel and have basically decided to give the Great Outdoor life a small break and a massive Fuck You for a couple of nights
• Now in a proper saloon which has a Hallowe’en fancy dress party going on and all the Sol Viva / [insert equivalent name of local town nightclub that offers two for one alcopops and played 50cent and Missy Elliott kind of vibes in 2001]
• Just been creeped out by a local lad but saved by the barmaid who told him to stop being a creep and got the bounce to throw him out ‘on his ass’.
• Johnny Cash ‘Walk the Line’ now playing and I couldn’t feel more In The America if I tried.

Day 8 needs to be so fucking dull or I’ll never catch up.

Today’s highlights:

• Don’t even go there.
• Where’s Hank when you need him?
• Hank, Hank, where for art thou Hank?

Day 6: Thursday 25th October

After totalling my legs yesterday and being up half the night with shin pain, I thought today would be a great opportunity for a drive up to Glacier Point to get THE view of the valley and of course, Half Dome, my new one true love.

Whilst my road confidence has been building at a rate of knots, I didn’t quite feel up to driving this one, so – sucking up the $52 tour fee for the luxury of a coach driven return trip – I signed up to the 1.30pm tour departing in one hour, and quickly nipped over to Deglan’s Deli (possibly not what it’s actually called) as it’s the only place onsite that has WiFi and I had days 3 and 4 blog posts ready to post.

There’s been a theft.

Logged on and day 3 post has gone missing. Four hours of work – vanished. Four hours of time – stolen. I’m upset about this because day 3 was a big day and documented a lot for me personally – big drives, big tunes, big feels.

I think it says a lot how calming this trip has been for me because whereas normally my instinctive reaction would be to lose my shit and let this unfortunate situation ruin the rest of my day, I remained surprisingly nonplussed. Disappointed, yes. Annoyed, absolutely. But it’s not the end of the world, is it? I’m lucky enough to be here experiencing All Of This – documenting it is a nice to have.

Of all the joints in all the world.

Sipping the $2 coffee I bought in exchange for WiFi, I felt the presence of someone sitting down at my bench. It loomed closer and closer, and I glanced up when I heard a familiar Mancunian voice saying “Hello Helen” – it was only Howard bloody Harrison on his honeymoon. Howard is one of my brother’s best mates and someone I’ve known for over 20 years.

Genuinely couldn’t believe my eyes. I didn’t even know he was going to be in Yosemite – and even if I had, it’s a pretty massive place: the deli alone is a bloody labyrinth and the chances of being in there at the same time and seeing each other are so minute, I was amazed, and after six days of not seeing anyone I knew, it threw me a bit off track.

We FaceTimed my brother and my dad, and after a lovely little chat about our respective travels, we said our goodbyes and I headed off to meet the tour bus.

It’s lovely bumping into someone you know abroad, but I’ve often wondered what the protocol would be if you bumped into someone you didn’t like or had fallen out with when thousands of miles away from home. It’d be pretty weird to ignore them, right? Do you go to ceasefire mode and exchange pleasantries? I think I would, but that said, I don’t think I actually dislike anyone enough that I’d ignore them. Hmm, maybe I do… must remember this one as a good party question, like my recent favourite “If you could hire a private detective to follow anyone in this room, who would it be and why?” Try it some time.

The most annoying woman in the universe.

No, I’m not talking about myself, I’m talking about today’s Glacier Point tour guide who is a combination of a Blue Peter presenter, jumped up teenager, cheesy am dram student and idealist “go get ’em!” kind of gal.

Nobhead comes complete with cap, shorts, high pitched and relentless voice, as well as a very clearly defined set of passive aggressive rules. In short, the epitome of everything I Do Not Like in Other People.

Her one redeeming feature is that she looks like the legend that is Nicola Willett – a fact that has amused me all day long.

On the edge.

Glacier Point did not disappoint and was definitely worth the mental anguish inflicted by both our illustrious tour guide and the hair-raising cliff bends we were hugging onto for dear life all the way up.

We passengers (or “caterpillars” as Nobhead is annoyingly calling us) were given an hour to roam free and get some peace and quiet in the surroundings of this elevated paradise.

Access to Glacier Point is an easy ten minute stroll away from the car park, and gives sweeping panoramic views of the valley floor plus a string of Yosemite’s peaks and to the north-east, the Sierras. Far and away the money shot, however, is of Half Dome (of course) and the principal motivation for my shelling out for this excursion.

Upon arrival, together with the rest of the caterpillars and other tourists who’d braved the ascent either in their own vehicles or, commendably, on foot, yet again my jaw dropped in awe of the majesty of the mountains and the regal valley carpet.

The granite vista was vast and bright, drenched in the mid-afternoon light, yet somehow, because the shadows picking out the mountain and valley contours became imperceptible, the whole scene rendered almost two dimensional. Despite the perfect blue skies and crisp clarity in the air, the reflection of the sun’s rays bouncing from the mountain fascia somehow managed to obscure visibility: the suspended air hanging in the midst a privileged infinity of particles awaiting an audience with the monolithic kings who sat like giants effortlessly defining their court.

It was all a bit humbling, dwarfing and yet, somehow, in that moment, it all belonged to me.

I stepped over the defined viewing platform onto a series of boulders where others had set up tripods, easels and lunch, and nested myself in a cradle of rock which was safe (ie, if I’d clumsily stumbled and tumbled down a few metres, I would have still been alive), quiet (there was no way parents were letting their kids out to this point) and provided the lower back support I needed to stretch my legs right out and breathe it all in.

Photos definitely will follow for this one.

Return to base.

Nobhead decided to do a Fun Quiz on the return trip.

I didn’t realise when I’d handed over my dollar this morning that it was a guided tour, so when I found out, I was quite pleased… until Nobhead opened her mouth. Jesus Christ, what I said about being calm and zen like – stuff it. (I do not feel zen. I’m writing this on the return journey back and all I keep wanting to do is tell her to FUCKING SHUT UP!, much like I did with the mosquitoes yesterday).

She’s a fount of Yosemite knowledge, I’ll give her that, but I can’t handle her noise any longer and on balance of Learning Stuff vs drowning her out with Joy Division (I couldn’t find anything more antithetical to her chipperness), I opted for the latter.

Nearing the end of the journey, the coach drew to a stop and given I’d been knee deep in Atmosphere for the pervious five minutes, I had no idea why.

I followed my fellow caterpillars out of the coach to walk over to a meadow sat in the shadow of El Capitan. I thought it was because it was a part of the tour and Nobhead was going to tell us some more fun facts, which – sans bus microphone I thought I could cope with. It was NOT a fun facts stop. It was her evangelising over how much she cares about the meadows and how we all had a task to do when we get home which is to tell everyone about how we need to protect the wildlife and in years to come, she and we would be Just Like John Muir. (Google him).

Now – I get it. Conservation is important. Not just important. Critical to the survival of our ecosystem and food chains and the preservation of our earth for millennia to come. But I really don’t appreciate being lectured like a child, especially not by someone who was so fucking annoying and grammatically inept.

I desperately wanted to get a video of Nobhead in full flow though so I contained my eye rolling and concealed a smirk of contempt under my scarf whilst capturing a snippet of her on my phone.

After an horrifically cringey ten minutes, we got back on the bus and whilst we were waiting for a few of our fellow caterpillars to return, Nobhead decided to ask everyone where they hailed from. Aside from myself and a Korean couple, everyone was American and she seemed to have some kind of family or friend connection in quite literally every single small town that was named. When she found out I was from England, she said “Oh I love England!” to which I asked if she’d ever been. She had not. “Oh”, said I. She moved on.

I think she knew I wasn’t a fan. I did, however, tip her. Much as I really couldn’t abide her, you couldn’t argue that she knew her shit and put a lot of effort into her work. Plus, I really respected the way she handled that mountain in a coach whilst simultaneously failing to draw breath for over an hour straight each way.

That said, if you had shown me a video of her before I booked my ticket, there’s not a McDonald’s chance in Yosemite that I’d have signed up. I really wish I’d hiked up or down or both.

Next time.

Leadeth me not into temptation.

I hit up the village store straight after the tour to get my firewood and a fresh bottle of Chianti for the evening ahead. Chili was on the menu again this evening (I’d had a Tupperware box of it in my rock cradle up at Glacier Point as well) which suited me fine because – as with every chili known to man, it tasted soooo much better the next day (today), and also because it meant I didn’t have to do any stove set up or washing up.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m definitely enjoying the cooking side of things but everything else is a bit of a faff and tonight, I quite fancied doing sweet FA. I was even contemplating cosying down in Oliver with my copy of the Puzzler early doors.

ANYWAY, given I was in the vicinity, and also now banking on coming back in he not too distant future, I thought I’d check out the Majestic Yosemite Hotel.

BIG mistake. Big. Huge!

I appreciate I sound cheap and easy when I say this, but I’ve fallen in love AGAIN.

As I walked in, I was ready to abandon Oliver, Upper Pines and even the next leg of the trip but at $511 excluding all the taxes for a basic room for one night only, it wasn’t going to be feasible.

I had a wander around and found myself in the great hall which was so premium, I wanted to do a forward roll and a few backflips through all the tables and ultimately spring up into and across the numerous chandeliers in a gold sequinned catsuit.

There was also a pianist providing a musical backdrop. This’ll sound a bit wanky but a pianist in a restaurant is one of my favourite things. I remember one of my favourite dates when I was in my mid-twenties was in this gorgeous place with a pianist. We were steadily putting away the white wine and I thought the piano music sounded familiar and kept harping on, “what is this beautiful music?” Thinking I was cool and had a great knowledge of piano scores. It was only three weeks later when I was in the car with my mum that I realised the guy had been playing the whole Take That album “The Circus”. Not a bad little album actually, but I definitely didn’t feel as cool afterwards.

Anyway. I decided that, after heading back to camp and decanting Oliver’s fragrant contents into the bear bin and tucking him into site 60, I was going to come back here on the shuttle bus. Lordy – I was even going to MAKE AN EFFORT and put some jeans, a chunky knit and EVEN some make-up on.

Red rain.

Funniest part of the trip so far.

In prep, just in case I missed the last shuttle back from the Majestic, I filled up my water bottle (which has an inbuilt straw) with my Chianti.

Got on the shuttle bus and thought I’d have a little sip.

Flipped the straw and a fountain of red wine sprayed out and hit the back of an unsuspecting Korean chap’s neck, at which point he started looking at the bus ceiling whilst his fingers swiped the scene of the crimson crime.

Snigger.

The poor bugger looked so utterly perplexed and upset, like he’d just participated in some miracle of life which had unfortunately soiled his sweater and flesh.

It took literally every fibre of my being and focus not to full on piss myself, which considering I was also trying to stem the relentless spurting of vin rouge was really rather difficult. I had also got in mind that Warb was there crying laughing and that in turn was making me laugh even harder.

I couldn’t come clean. These were wholesome folk, and a couple a few rows ahead were telling fellow passengers how they’d just got engaged that day (FYI: she looked so miserably doomed, it was tragic but also comforting for a single 34 yo). So I pretended that I had also been hit by the red rain and tried to pretend that I was equally put out.

I appreciate that this was a ‘had to be there’ moment.

Majestic by name, majestic by price.

I’ve had a lovely evening drinking fine red wine whilst sat at the bar on a ridiculously comfortable chair. So I can’t complain. But two glasses of wine and a bowl of chips (aka French Fries) has cost $60.70. Including tip this time. I’m not sorry I came here, but I am sorry everything is so fucking expensive in The America.

Now about to depart to get my shuttle bus back home, and hopefully won’t get accosted by a bear between the bus stop and site 60.

Nighty night campers. Tomorrow it’s Tioga Pass day and I currently have no fixed abode for the next three nights!

ANYTHING COULD HAPPEN.

Today’s highlights:

• Living in a small world and crashing Howard Harrison’s honeymoon.
• Getting one over on Nobhead by putting my headphones in and ignoring the second part of the tour.
• Lying in until 10am!
• Going to bed feeling like my legs aren’t on fire.

Day 5: Wednesday 24 October

Timing is everything.

(Continued from previous post)

Until… I awoke to a 6.45am Skype pinging through from a highly esteemed colleague. I’ve still got bits to do for work, so it was a friendly check-in to see when I was likely to be available to action them.

I also had a suite of Whatsapps from various people asking me various things about my availability for X, Y or Z. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy and lucky to be invited and included but I’m looking forward to getting to the desert and having quite literally nil contact with the outer world.

I’m scraping all the tiny particles of 3G available intermittently here to write these posts and upload photos, but this is going to dry up soon so I’m milking it for what I can get.

Service interruption.

My legs are on fire / feel like they’re decomposing and my Nurofen Express are erroneously in the fucking bear bin.

Service resumed.

I wrestled with getting up for as long as was acceptable by normal adult humans staying in one of the most beautiful places in the world. I was wide awake from 6.45am but the prospect of getting up and fannying around going to another campsite for a shower and having to make breakfast and move to my next site was all too much to take, so I rode out the inertia with guilty pleasure and finally decided to surface at 8am, and only then because my bladder couldn’t wait any longer.

Upon egress of Oliver, I was pleasantly surprised that the world was not as cold as I had envisaged it would be. Definitely the warmest morning so far.

In the bathroom, I bumped into my new pal Kelly who asked if I’d heard the gossip (“no Kelly, no I have not heard the gossip. I have quite literally nobody to talk to.”)

There was a bear onsite last night!

She and Eric had told me that it’s rare that they ever come onsite, and rarer still at this time of year. Plus, they all have tracking devices so that the rangers can monitor their movements and intervene if necessary.

Now, call me crazy, but the ranger can’t have been doing a good job for the bear to actually make it to the campsite. Nevertheless, given I’ve been joking about the bears coming to get me to my mum who has in turn been shitting it, this news absolutely thrilled me.

Until this evening when, at my new site, I find myself at the very periphery of the campsite and likely to be one of the first in the bear’s path. Good job I made a nice chili. Hopefully he can figure out how to get into the bear bin a bit easier than I could and chow down on that instead of on my substantial human carcass.

So fresh and so clean.

Five days camping, and five hot showers in a row. Today’s was the most painful in that I had to clear up my site, put all the stuff I’d decanted into the bear bin back into the car and then drive to another site to have it, but it was a good one. Powerful shower head, central heating in the bathroom, towels, lockers, hairdryers and all free of charge! I’d read somewhere that you had to pay for them, but this was not the case this morning. What a Brucie!

Breaking the not so fast breakfast.

I’ve been a bit greedy for food for most of my life but definitely on this trip and each morning so far, I’ve prepared a full cooked breakfast banquet together with Gaston. Not today however! I’m turning a new leaf, and trying to remember I need to be beach body ready for Mauritius in a few weeks, as I should really be for every other day in my life but ever so conveniently just forget to care about.

So, this morning, I had something that was kind of like Special K, although not Special K. It looked like Special K, was made by Kellogg’s, had all this fancy nutrition chat on the front of the box but was so saccharin, it made the milk taste like it was a sugary milk flavoured milkshake. I appreciate that doesn’t seem like it makes much sense, and believe me, milk flavoured milkshake is not how I’d like to go down in flames, but I can assure you that this is the only way to describe it.

Take a hike. And then add more miles onto it BECAUSE YOU’RE A DICK.

Yosemite offers her visitors a spectacular array of trails, tracks, climbs and even theatrical productions. So many beautiful things to see, hear, do. Oh the splendour that awaits the Yosemite visitor!

I knew that today, I’d want to do either one big hike or two smaller ones. There are so many to choose from, most of which range somewhere between 2-6 miles and 1-3hrs. They range in level from easy to strenuous, and being the top athlete I am, I thought I’d start with a “moderate” hike and build up to a strenuous hike up Vernal Falls tomorrow.

Valley Floor Loop Trail is penned as a magnificent route with minimal gradation, that takes in so much of Yosemite’s famed beauty. At 13.5miles long, it was certainly one of the longest routes available, but the promise of gentle inclines, top sightseeing and a gloriously sunshiny day made it the no brain option.

No brain is definitely how I’d describe myself in the dying phases of this hike. It seems a shame to ‘ramble’ past all the beautiful sights I took I’m, but as with the Half Dome view earlier on in this post, I wouldn’t be able to articulate them if I tried so I’ll put some photos up. Probably the ones I’ve already posted on instagram.

It also seems a bit of a shame to bypass a recount of so many reflections made during the walk. I’ve been on my own for the best part of five days now, and somehow, I’ve not managed to spin myself into some black hole of anxiety and despair, nor have I been neurotic about – well, anything. Nor have I felt that I’ve been counting down the hours. My days, and my mind, have been pleasantly full – how and of what, I can’t quite narrow down. Tonight by the campfire for example, I was sat there for a total of five hours. I cooked dinner, I made a fire, I started writing this page, I listened to my full “Moody” Spotify playlist plus the Lost in Translation soundtrack, and I can’t tell you one instance where I wondered what time it was or how long I’d been there. I only came to bed because the fire died.

Anyway, I digress. The hike.

It all went wrong after Bridalveil Falls.

For the most part, it was pleasant. Exactly what it said on the tin. I took in the splendour of El Capitan, felt sick seeing climbers dangling from his vertical stone chest, caught a couple in their mid-fifties in a raunchy embrace, and got up to Bridalveil Falls (precisely half way around the Valley Floor Loop) where I found a waterfall that featured actual falling water.

I had left over pasta for lunch whilst gawping at the dickheads who had scrambled up the wet rocks under the waterfall, kind of hoping they’d slip which would teach them a lesson for being daft buggers but clearly hoping they only sustained minor to moderate injuries, not total death.

When lunch was safely housed in my stomach, I set off again for the second half of the loop. Fall is in full flow now, and the pathways are blanketed with gorgeous mustard coloured leaves. I really, really enjoyed he next two miles. I encountered nobody, and spent time wistfully evaluating a number of things that have been in my head lately.

Then, I hit a crossroad.

Simply put, the crossroad offered too many directional choices (two instead of one). Neither direction particularly screamed as the one I needed to take to get back to Oliver who was parked up by Camp 4 (traditionally the base camp for the mad bastards who think it’s a good idea to scale the face of El Capitan (again, you’ll need a visual reference for this – available at kershytenbags).

I did, however, know I needed to get back down to the river, and as long as I could find a path that ran alongside it, I would meet a bridge which would take me back to Oliver who was parked up like a good boy over near Yosemite Lodge.

I did not make a good choice.

The route I took sent me down every false path in the bloody park. It felt like the last few miles were some kind of hiker’s purgatory and I wanted to shoot myself. Not least because there were fucking mozzies all over my person and they wouldn’t fuck off no matter how many times I told them to. What had been a mostly enjoyable trek was becoming the ruin of my mental and physical well-being and I needed to get out.

I’ll skip through the volume expletives and fury, but it was all reminiscent of when I did a marathon a few years back and the mile markers told me three times, at theee separate miles that I was only three miles away from the end. They did not see the best side of me.

Oliver!

Eventually, I made it back. And I have never been quite as pleased to see any animate or inanimate thing. Clapping eyes on my beautiful Oliver, I knew that a bond had been forged. He had been waiting for me, mentally willing me back to him.

We were in this together.

As my sorry carcass depended upon him as a support whilst I stretched out the day that I thought would never end, I realised that he was a part of this trip too, not just a vessel to get me from A to B.

A new flame.

I spanked a small fortune ($65) in the supermarche, mostly on mozzie repellant and firefighting items. Kelly and Eric weren’t my neighbours tonight but having had the sweet taste of a roaring campfire, there was no way I was going to take anything to chance, so I bought all the fire lube and kindling I could find.

This, married with my new skills and knowledge of How Fires Work produced a roaring beauty that kept going for 4.5hrs. I was very proud of myself.

Whilst the fire was picking up, Gaston and I decided it was a chili night. Given this is The America, I could only find a massive slab of mince so ended up cooking four vats of the stuff. Not my finest work – not enough onion or garlic and missing the bacon. But definitely a gastronomic win, all things considered.

I’ve just accidentally deleted the last eight paragraphs of this post and after realising I lost all of Day 3’s post earlier today, I’m going to cut my losses and call it a night. There wasn’t much more to tell anyway, just some whinging about washing up and quick wins when disposing of dirty dish water. Sexy stuff.

 

Today’s highlights

• Bonding with Oliver
• Realising that there are in fact some things in life I am very happy not to do (climb vertical granite cliff faces)
• Blitzing 25,000 steps
• Unexpected hot and free (!) showers
• Sustaining a fire all by myself

Day 4: Tuesday 23 October

Prior to planning this trip, I can’t say in all truthfulness that Yosemite National Park had registered high on the bucket list. I guess I didn’t know all that much about it outside of it being one of the great American parks.

When I started researching Californ-I-A though, it was perched pretty high on every Google search as one of the must do things. From friends, every recommendation without fail said it was worth slapping in at least a few days, which as someone who’s whole idea of a California road trip centred around desert, more desert and Venice Beach, mountains and valleys weren’t something I had in the frame.

With three weeks to play with though, quite obviously I couldn’t bypass the big hitters in favour of solely eating beef jerky and dehydrating in barren plains, so the first thing I booked was Yosemite. Three nights no less.

Booking Yosemite was the first thing I did after booking the campercar and sweet Jesus, figuring out how to camp, where to stay and what the hell the deal was was almost enough for me to can the whole bloody affair. It was so stressful. Most of the planning was done between the hours of 10pm – 1am over the course of September and was so bloody painful. Google midnight spinouts pinning Costco, Mojave aircraft boneyards and ghost towns galore on my tour map, juggling logistics of having enough time to do what I wanted and not feeling like I was running from pillar to post was utterly exhausting and enough effort to warrant a holiday in itself.

Anyway. I finally cracked the camping code and three nights in Upper Pines Campground on Yosemite Valley Floor we’re LOCKED DOWN. Given I booked in September, I can’t emphasise just how lucky I was to get a spot. To get my three concurrent nights, I have to switch spot each day which isn’t the end of the world but IS a slight faff as you need to decant any stuff that has a scent into a bear locker.

This is principally food or toiletries, and upon arrival yesterday, I realised just how much of both categories I had, spread across Oliver’s length and breadth (ok, he’s a car, but there are a lot of uncategorised bags in there. Rogue Melon flavoured vape fluid nestled deep in one of my handbags in one of the suitcases COULD KILL or at best, attract either a bear’s warm nocturnal embrace or a $5,000 fine from YO!semite).

Bypassing the overpass.

I’ve not mentioned the drive into Yosemite from Tuolumne, and the reason for this is simple: I couldn’t describe it if I tried, photos do it better, and aside from the usual descriptors “phenomenal”, “majestic”, “a tour de force”, or my new favourite, “breathtaking!”, I just don’t know what else I can tell you.

Oh no, thats actually a minor lie. There was a pretty hairy moment about halfway over. Old Priest’s Road / Pass / Undercarriage… not sure exactly but never mind Old Priest, more like Last Rites Lane.

Gulp!

Vom!

Wince,

Hairpin bends anywhere between 35-50° gradient for around five miles. It was HORRIFIC.

I must say that on the whole, I’m a becoming a big fan of the automatic – it’s all a bit stop or go which keeps things nice and simple. But similar to the Escape from somewhere near to Alcatraz, the whole hill stuff without gears and handbrakes is nauseating and ironically, grinding my gears a bit.

AFTER this point, I swear I was in paradise. So much paradise. Finally, I understood the hype.

Why can’t your eyes take photos?

Detour from the post for a moment because the moon is in full wax mode and looking pretty gorgeous right now.

I need a good camera and photography lessons ASAP.

Shin-ay-aghhh Strain.

Another detour. My left shin is fucking killing me. Cockily, and erroneously thought I’d swerved any repercussions of today’s elongated hike. Fool.

Love at first sight.

I need to clock the coordinates of the moment I turned a corner and saw Half Dome for the first time. In terms of falling in love at first sight, I’d put it up there with locking eyes with James Boyle on Easter Sunday in Sol Viva when I was 17. Only taken another 17 years, a wealth of experience and a few thousand miles to get there, but hey, better late than never.

Really never seen anything like it before, or been so humbled by nature. Seeing that, you realise quite swiftly who’s in charge, and it sure as hell ain’t us.

Photos on insta, and will whack ’em in here when I can.

Pining for you.

Upper Pines (and it’s sisters Lower and North) sit cradled under the left armpit of Half Dome. As I drove in up to the ranger’s hut / checkpoint, I needed to pinch myself and also turn the music down. We were back on the Manchester classics and I’m sure the ranger wasn’t going to appreciate Sally Cinnamon quite as much as I.

Checked in, and bear safety disclaimer signed, my first night at Upper Pines was to be at site 162. On the site map online, it said it was next to the toilet block which I wasn’t thrilled about but when I got there, I saw that I wasn’t that close at all. Everything is spaced out: you’re close to your neighbours but have your privacy and lots of room to spread out. I had nothing to spread, but it was nice to have the option.

I felt like I’d made it. On that days journey, as a camping professional, in life. It was quite empowering to see gangs of people all over the place knowing that I’d done everything by myself. Unlike at Thousand Trails, I didn’t feel lonely: being alone here somehow didn’t feel like leprosy, it felt like an achievement.

It was about 4pm when I arrived and you could already smell campfires ablaze all over so after a few moments familiarisation, I drove straight back out of the site to the Village Store to pick up some bits. Bits – meaning FIRE STUFF.

The store was great. 40% of the place was a Yosemite tat paradise: every possible branded mug, shirt, hoodie, beer can holder, apron, tote bag bullshit you could dream of was there for purchase for many dollars plus tax.

I bought a few bits, including my firewood, and after a quick saunter around the village to see what was going on, I drove back to camp.

Cinderella.

I had wood. A big, hard, heavy box of wood. And I had a yearn to burn. Taper matches at the ready, logs in grate, I was fired up and ready to go.

Seemingly that night, campsite art was in the mood to imitate life, as no sooner had I lit my burning torch and wantonly tried to ignite some sparks but my flame died, the match – cindered; the promise of a roaring fire extinguished before anyone even had to call 999.

It was hopeless.

The course to flaming hot nights never did run smooth.

That’s when good neighbours become good friends.

My neighbours, as I was to learn, were a lovely young Californian family. The kid was called River, the dad had cool glasses like you’d see on someone from Hackney who rides a bespoke assembled BMX and wears Lumberjack shirts, and the mum, I was soon to learn, was A PRODUCER. Now, the hardest thing about my job is explaining to people what it is that I actually do. Even I don’t know that. No producer does. We just do stuff and get shit done. So to find myself ‘reaching out’ and finding Someone Who Knows was an improbable yet welcomed delight.

Kelly and I had chats whilst Eric – retired fireman – got to work on crafting me a fire of dreams. It was perfect. I learnt the following things which have meant that tonight, I was able to craft and sustain a fire of my own, all by myself:

• Big logs won’t just set fire, no matter how many taper matches and focus you expend.
• You need to start a baby fire with kindling to get the heat up so that it provides a bed of significant heat for the bigger logs.
• To sustain a fire, you need to make sure that oxygen can circulate, so it’s good to build a triangular structure, almost like a mini-bivvi, with all of the kindling and discarded paper you can gather.
• Wafting is paramount to success.

Not an eternal flame, but long enough for me.

The fire died down just around 10pm which rather conveniently was the time we all had to extinguish our fires anyway.

I was pretty exhausted and overwhelmed by the day so (can’t believe I’m saying this) I didn’t watch a single episode of Californication. I pushed out a very slow stream of photo uploads to kershytenbags and then passed out and slept until…

To be continued

Day 2: Sunday 21st October

Last week, I definitely had some work to do that I just couldn’t get around to, so I awoke on the morning of Day 2 with the looming feeling that I couldn’t let myself start to have fun before said work was complete, or I’d at least made a fair old dent in it.

Luckily, it was Tundra cold in the van when I woke up at around 7am, and I was also desperate for a wee (it feels like this is going to be a recurring theme), so I was up, showered and – after cheffing up a bacon, egg and low fat Philadelphia butty which was truly delicious if not nutritious – I was mentally and physically ready to face the day, and the work.

Film set 1

I’d arrived after dark the night before, and the park ranger had seemed pretty keen to check me in as quickly as possible and just dished out an info pack without taking me through any key details, such as the code for the loos. This didn’t bother me wildly as I’ve always been a fan of an info pack, probably originating from when we used to get bumper holiday packs from Eurosites when we went on our holidays to France as kids. Similarly, in my job as a producer, the highlight of going onsite is undoubtedly getting a crew pack through with every single piece of information you could possibly dream of.

Anyway, I studied said campsite info pack thoroughly and noted that, rather progressively, they had actual WiFi in the camp lodge. “Excellent!” thought I.

So off I popped, arriving at the 9am opening time on the nose to set up my digital camp for the morning.

I was not disappointed.

I’d walked into 1989, or more specifically, Murder, She Wrote in 1989. The rush of excitement was unbearable, and heightened further when the camp Hallowe’en committee descended en masse at about 9.30am and started dragging out plastic animal carcasses from wall panels concealed by a fetching array of textured pastel wallpapers from FADS or similar.

The quality of committee chat was so good, it’s my first regret of the trip that I didn’t secretly record it. It was effectively a board meeting to distinguish acceptable levels of terror to instil in children, determined and qualified only by their own (distant) memories of what was ‘spooky’ when they were kids.

It was also a flawless premise to an actual episode of Murder, She Wrote. My mind was in overdrive. Within five minutes, I’d cast myself in as a prime witness and by default, possible murderer.

Needless to say, I struggled to get any work done until the excitement had died down and didn’t end up wrapping things up until 1.30pm. By this point, I’d had a lovely little chat with some of the committee members, and had also elicited that not only did they have WiFi here, they also had Uber. My plans of driving out to Healdsburg that afternoon swiftly changed to ones of wineries and alcohol.

I swiftly returned to Oliver for a light lunch and to switch up the leggings and sports bra vibe for a floaty dress and lipstick.

Uber does not service Cloverdale on a Sunday afternoon.

Dolled up and ready to pounce all over Wine Country, I sauntered over to the lodge to book the Uber.

There were no cars in my area.

I returned to Oliver.

Change of plan and accidentally attempting to purchase a bong.

In my head, I was now going to a winery, so I didn’t let the small matter of not being able to drink at one stand in my way. One that had been recommended to me was the Francis Ford Coppola one in Geyserville which was about 15miles from Thousand Trails, plus there was a vape shop en route and I was fresh out of juice so it all worked out.

I got to the vape shop pretty easily and whilst impressed by the range of products they had available to purchase, was slightly intimidated by both their prices, and the shapes and sizes of their pipes. A bottle of vape fluid at home costs around a fiver – here, in this House of Vape – we were looking at $25, albeit for a bigger bottle but even so. Another American bargain I thought (until I went into the 7/11 shop next door and saw my normal stuff for $3.99. Nice one.).

My current vaping unit has been through the wars and in desperate need of an upgrade so, with a full week ahead in which I’m not entirely sure where I’ll be able to buy food let alone anything else, I decided that I’d treat myself to a new one. There was a fancy silver one, sporting an ergonomic and discreet design so I asked the kind man behind the counter to wrap it up. It was only chance that I asked how the fluid thing worked with it, to which he said “oh nooo, ma’am… I think you’re mistaken. I’m so sorry, you ordered it with such confidence I assumed you realised that this is for cannabis cartridges.”

I have never felt so amateur.

Film set 2 / Being your own designated driver at a winery is shit.

Onwards, ho to the winery, or should I say, the wedding scene from The Godfather 2. Holy god(father), what a place.

At arrival, you’re greeted by a perfectly Corleone gateway: imposing, alluring and in my case, knowing what was beyond, highly dangerous.

The sweeping dusty driveway was drenched with early afternoon autumnal sunlight and lined with olive trees. Could have been in Italy for a moment. Then, you get to the monster sized Walmart-esque car and coach park and you remember you’re in The America.

This is not to detract from the beauty of the place – it really was stunning. After ascending a curved, white flight of stairs, you then face another set of big black and gold gates beyond which the Corleone mansion awaits.

To the right, there’s a pool and ‘cabine’ area which screams PREMIUM PEOPLE ONLY (I looked into a day pass and they were asking for somewhere in the region of $40 plus all the taxes and tips (so, about $8,000). On this day, it was sadly not for me.

I turned left into the tasting bar, and this is where it all became a little bit difficult. It was only $20 for a five glass tasting. I mean, that’s better than Manchester prices, and for the quality of the wine, it felt somewhat criminal that I was going to have to pass it all up.

Taking myself away from temptation as quickly as possible, my feet landed me in the gift shop. This was also a very difficult place to be. Mugs, aprons, magnets, tote bags galore. Items I never actually use, but still struggle to avoid purchasing when they’re put in temptation’s way.

So I removed myself from the gift shop as well, and ended up back in the bar and chatting to a lovely young bartender from whom I gained the all important knowledge that the 0.08 blood alcohol limit in California equates to approximately 2-3 glasses of wine.

I ordered a Pinot Noir, not before sniffing the shit out of every open bottle the bartender had available. He then escorted me and my heady glass to a terrace overlooking the vineyard – not in a romantic way, more in an American service way.

I’ve never made a glass of wine last so long. I faced the sun and closed my eyes and for the first time during the trip, gave myself permission to just stop and be. I can imagine that for the hot young things around me I must have looked a bit special, but I found myself unable to care. It was full on photosynthesis. The wine was a bit too young for my liking and the taste not as great as its scent, but it still felt medicinal.

I’m not sure how long I was there. Timekeeping is becoming a bit superfluous to requirement now I’m alone, and I quite like it that way. Anyway, after the single glass, I had a stroll around the kitchen garden and the vines immediately next to the terrace before returning to Oliver and making the journey ‘home’.

I can’t describe how much I’d wished I’d been there with top pals, drinking ALL the wine, but I can tell you I will never take a designated driver for granted ever again.

Back to base(ics).

Back to camp and back to reality. I’m fast running out of clean undergarments so tonight was Laundry Night. In aforementioned camp info pack, there was a note that you can pay for your laundry using an app (WiFi, talk of Uber and apps for laundry? You’d have thought we were in the land of technological advancement).

The feeling of being dismayed or disappointed is one that I’ve been steadily becoming accustomed to in most areas of life. The difference on this trip is that I have nobody to complain to and in the grand scheme of things, I really haven’t got anything to complain about. I’m in a beautiful country, with nobody to please but myself, so getting wound up about stuff seems pointless and bratlike.

That said, I really had counted on being able to wash my clothes before heading off to Tuolumne / Yosemite, so I was a bit pissed off that the ‘PayRange’ app was not available on the App Store. At least not to me last night.

Being the brave soldier I am, I then started to hand wash all my stuff in the sink next to the machines, mentally – and at one point verbally – re-enacting the whole “plunge, then scrub” scene performed superbly by Nicole Kidman in Far and Away (which after years of not even thinking about, I’m now desperate to watch). I was feeling a bit jaded and despondent, wondering why I’d decided this trip was a good idea.

I was plunging and scrubbing away and a lovely old gentleman approached with his weekly wash. He called me “Missy” which is a term I’m becoming increasingly fond of, and as he put his load in the machine, he told me how he’d just come into retirement and he and his wife were off to tour their homeland, although he’s recently been unwell and he’s not sure how long they can realistically travel for before he needs to start his treatment. We didn’t go into details; the melancholy in his face suggested we didn’t need to.

He said he hadn’t seen anyone hand washing their clothes since he last watched Far and Away (I made this up), and asked me why I wasn’t using the machine. I explained my predicament and that I hadn’t any quarters (ten days here and still haven’t made a cash withdrawal) and as we were wishing each other well, he slipped me enough quarters to wash a load.

A dollar and 75c is about £1.50 right? Not enough to do much over here. Certainly not enough to buy a drink or a packet of crisps in the 7/11. But it meant everything to me at that moment. A perfect stranger with who, I’d exchange but a few words. A simple deed that brought about the realisation that there’s so much magic out there and in people we know not of yet, and if we’re open to it, joy can be found in the most simplistic acts of kindness.

I feel like chicken tonight.

Laundry now on a cycle, it was time to get my Ainsley Harriott on. Tonight’s fajita was to include none other than chicken breast. No cold turkey round here! I’d even bought a special seasoning – tomato, garlic and basil salts. Not strictly what you’d call a Mexican mix but it had flavour so was going in the pan.

Tonight, I went wild card and pre-mixed the lettuce, tomato, guacamole and cheese so it was like a fajita pre-mix. I can wholeheartedly recommend this approach to fajita construction – no messing around with lettuce dropping all over the place. It was like a gastronomic glue, if you will. In sum, best meal prepared so far. Chicken was sliiiightly charcoaled but better that than salmonella.

Hanky panky.

I’d foolishly washed all my pyjamas which were now freshly laundered but piss wet through, so ended up wearing one of my ‘ethnic’ dresses* that I bought in India and had been planning to wear in the desert. Coupled with a H&M knit that’s getting a great run out so far, I was actually very cosy and retired into Oliver with a bottle of Stella Artois.

*writing this made me uncomfortable – is it inappropriate to say ‘ethnic dress’?

After writing up the day 1 post, it was time to get down to business with Hank. The binge watching is getting out of control now. Last night paced through four episodes which had me howling and lusting in equal measure. Why did I not realise how hot David Duchovny is until now? It feels like I’ve wasted years.

Today’s highlights:

• Film set paradises
• Kindness from a stranger
• Almost buying a bong and being secretly pretty chuffed about it
• Chicken fajita
• Fresh knickers
• Hank Hank Hank. Hank. Honk for Hank.

Tomorrow begins what They might call an “adventure of a lifetime”.

Contextual reference.

A couple of months back, I was having a bit of an emotional wobble over a guy and also feeling a bit overwhelmed by a lot of things going on – felt like I was spinning plates and dropping them all over the shop. Stop and reflect and decompress time DESPERATELY REQUIRED.

RATHER conveniently for me, it was around this time that a bloody marvellous opportunity came up to do a bit of work in San Jose for a bloody marvellous London creative agency I work a lot with.

An eight day gig for a client I love, with a team I love even more.  Return flights covered. Nothing scheduled with work after this job.

A window of opportunity.

The what.

And thus, The Great California-October-Campervan-Kershaw Tour (COCK Tour for short) came into being.  A small idea of doing some coach trips out here and there from a city base led to one of those professional Google oblivion spin outs we nocturnal types know so well, researching practically thousands of things I would quite fancy seeing and doing.

As a result, I’ve now fully committed to hiring some form of car from a company in San Francisco that has been converted into a home on wheels (including no less than a SINK and a SOLAR POWER SHOWER!), and I’ve also treated myself to a Costco membership and a card that universally unlocks all the Kirkland Signature delights I could possibly dream of during a three week traverse of what They call ‘The Golden State’.

Streamlining. 

And so, tomorrow, the adventure and the luggage carrying begins.  A month on the road with a precursory week of work where I need to look “profesh”, segueing into a road trip that takes me through a kaleidoscope of climates and terrains and leaves me with with quite literally No Fucking Clue what to expect has dictated A Wardrobe For All Seasons and informed an uncharacteristically streamlined attitude to packing.

TBF,  I’m a bit of a bag lady. Love a bag, love stuff. All the stuff.  In all the bags.

But bags weigh us down: if we want to move in the direction of travel freely and without pain, obstacle or challenge, or acquire value and worth and things from our journeys, we need to make sure there’s space for us to carry what we need, and discard what we don’t.

We need to streamline our baggage.

And when we do – when we realise how much better it feels to travel light – I think we realise that some baggage is very much better left behind.

It’s day 2 of the solo part of the trip. I wanted, and tried, to write something yesterday but the simple truth is that by the time I’d set up the campercar and made a fajita, I just couldn’t be arsed, so today I’ll try to muster up a recap of Day 1 that isn’t tediously dull, and doesn’t read as a list of ‘this is what I did yesterday’ which is boring for me and of absolutely no interest to you.

DAY 1 – Saturday 20th October

Frame of mind.

So, the reason I’m actually here is because of work. I can’t remember whether I noted that in the first post and – being new to this platform – I’m not sure how to go back and look at the post without losing what I’ve just written. In any case, I’ve been in San Jose with some stonkingly great people and laughing so hard since I arrived, and up until yesterday, it still didn’t feel like at any point I was going to be on my own. I mean, I of course knew that the key part of a solo trip is BEING BY ONESELF, but in spite of that, I definitely hadn’t really thought about being totally friendless.

Yesterday was kind of OK because I was with Sue and Rob (legend colleagues) until 2.30pm, then had to shake off a hangover from the abyss, get to the rental place to pick up the passion wagon and negotiate my way out of San Francisco in it, preferably alive. Kind of like a compulsory distraction. I think this is partly the reason I got so pissed on Friday night. Not the wisest thing I’ve ever done, and the consequence of which had me thinking I’d defer the pick up of the passion wagon until Monday. Grade A start to a road trip, yeah?

The passion wagon: first impressions.

Dodge. One noun: two equally valid descriptors.

Have just tried to insert a photo here but aforementioned challenge of not knowing how to use this thing are denying you the visual treat you deserve. I shall seek to rectify this at my earliest convenience.

It’s a decent enough size which will hold its own against its brothers and sisters of the road, but it’s a bit crime scene inside with sellotape affixed to areas of the ceiling that I suspect should have an official fixture or fitting, and it’s sadly lacking in the following:

– decent sound system

– a handbrake

– a key fob that actually works

The lady who checked me in was really nice though and the bed is super cosy and comfortable. I also like that the have given my trusty stead a name: Oliver. Not my choice for name, but Oliver it is, so we’re just going to have to roll with it.

Anyway, after a couple of twizzes around the ghetto car park, it was time to bounce and get the hell out of San Francisco up to Wine Country.

Escape from (the bit of land next to) Alcatraz.

First off the bat, all feeling pretty good! Cruising along like a Knight of the Road, Palmero’s Love Songs Spotify playlist on. Feeling pretty smug that I seemed to be doing JUST FINE in spite of not having driven for a few years and am a nervous driver anyway.

Then the bubble burst. Excuse the expletive, but I have never been so fucking terrified as when the GPS sent me up at 50° incline street behind a tram which then stopped at traffic lights for what felt like ten minutes. It’s safe to say that hill starts are not my forte at the best of times, but couple this with the gradient at which I was paused and the realisation that Oliver did not appear to have a handbrake (we’ll overlook the fact that I’d been driving for 45mins before noticing this), I can confirm that I was absolutely shitting myself. My foot was pushing down the brake so hard, it was either going to snap off or my foot was going to become numb and not be able to press down any longer. Either way, certain death from rolling backwards seemed imminent.

Luckily, the ordeal did not result in the death of me or anyone else, but the next task was getting across the bridge and onto Route 101. Again, not a pleasant experience. Undertaking, overtaking, lane merges coming from all angles. Definitely blind luck that nothing happened.

In sum, I have absolutely no interest in driving anywhere in, near or around San Francisco ever again after I return Oliver in three weeks’ time.

Fun fact: ‘Bargain’ actually means MASSIVE RIP OFF in The America.

My destination was Thousand Trails RV Park up in Cloverdale, just past Healdsburg. At about 25miles away from the end point, dusk was fast approaching, as was my appetite. I hadn’t really wanted to drive in the dark, but the prospect of getting to the campsite with nothing to eat was so utterly miserable, I made a stop and hit up ‘Joe’s Bargains’.

I got some key provisions including bacon, a black pepper grinder, tuna, chocolate milk etc… no more than twenty individual items which would have – at a stretch – come to about £25 in Aldi.

$101. Terrifying.

I’m going to Costco tomorrow and genuinely hope it offers the same excellent value we admire and respect back at home, otherwise I’m going to be even more financially ruined than this trip has thus far made me.

A campercar is not an RV!

Who knew!

Arriving at the lodge at Thousand Trails, the park ranger asked me where my RV was. I was confused and pointed at Oliver. The park ranger then said, “you know that’s not an RV, right? We don’t let people sleep in their cars here.”

I must have looked really upset and worried because she just let me through and told me to pick a spot, any spot.

As soon as I started driving around the campsite, I understood what an actual RV is. It was like I was some cocky toddler rolling up to fight night realising I had absolutely no chance of throwing a punch. Totally embarrassing. This site is exclusively occupied by what can only be described as Professional Tourers. Some of the monsters here have a larger square meterage than most three bed semi-detached houses.

I eventually found a spot and set about making Oliver feel like the home he’s going to be for the next few weeks.

Purchase of the trip so far.

Fairy lights. £4 from Amazon, take 3 x AA batteries and glow like a charm. They have EIGHT settings, although as my primary source of light after 6.30pm, I’m currently keeping them on steady (option 7 of 8).

They are making Oliver look and feel both practical and attractive, and this whole experience would be less good without them.

When nature calls.

After a swift supper of a cold turkey fajita and a tin mug of Oyster Bay Sauvignon Blanc, it was time to get under the duvet and start to write about the day, but as aforementioned, I really, really couldn’t be arsed so I watched two episodes of Californication which I’d pre-downloaded on Netflix and just as I was about to fall asleep, I needed a wee.

It was at this point that I remembered my least favourite thing about camping. Having to get up, put your shoes and a coat on and going to the loo in the cold and darkness is the absolute pits. Worse than a cold shower, or a drive out of San Francisco even. To my chagrin, the toilet block I’d used earlier that evening was now locked and I had one of one option to choose from – a sneaky squat and go. Not the end of the world, but I really had hoped and still hope to retain a certain level of decorum during the trip so a night one al fresco wee wasn’t dreamy.

Sweet dreams.

Back into bed, and fully awake again so I dissed myself up another episode of Californication. I’ve NO IDEA how this diamond of a show has passed me by but I can confirm three things: 1) Hank Moody is well sexy, 2) I love Hank Moody and 3) I want to be with Hank Moody.

As I drift off to sleep, I reflect on a successful day 1 in that it did not result in death or tears, but as all becomes still and the distractions drift away, there’s a definite tinge of loneliness beginning to creep in.

Today’s highlights

• 2pm late check-out

• Uber driver asking me what language they speak in England.
• Gary Palmer’s “Palmero’s Love Songs” Spotify playlist
• Hank Moody
• First glimpse of Sonoma wine country from Route 101