1,400 miles in: The smashed gooey body of an earwig a foot from my head, body parts on this pen. Writing this from Camp 4 in Yosemite National Park. There is no vacancy, but we found a spot next to a group from Colorado that didn't seem to mind. Outside my tent a group is singing and drinking, mostly Sublime and other sing-a-long types. The light from their fire flickers and dances against my tent. They are probably dancing. My body is too sore to dance.
We drove in from San Francisco yesterday, almost directly east, and made it to the valley in the early evening. San Francisco is nice, and we camped illegally on the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge. We found a secret beach with a lot of rusty scrap metal half buried in the sand. The view from the beach was great, and I climbed a big island rock that looked like a shark fin. I felt at ease. I do not think I could live in San Francisco, but there is no real reason, just an overall feeling. Maybe I am not hip enough or smooth enough. The trip to Yosemite was only supposed to take four hours but we got lost and made it in close to six. The last gas coming into the valley was $5.29 per gallon, the highest we have seen so far.
Our sunburns are falling off slowly, leaving behind milky white patches of skin in their place. I get a little dirtier everyday, and the memories of the gourmet BBQ in Arroyo Grande fade. I can still see that crystal dish planted next to my arm, an ornament on an elaborate dinner display. Complete with the tiniest of spoons to save the embarrassment of squeezing the brand name plastic bottle. How would a plastic bottle of BBQ sauce look against all this finery?
I have been cooking on the street since then, oatmeal in the morning in Monterey, Pasta at night in San Francisco. Sleeping in my own filth with permanent dirt under the fingernails. A week ago I was happily spooning BBQ from that crystal dish. I should have broken it and laughed.
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