Back on March 15, I'd been hovering over my keyboard at 7 a.m. As immortalized on Sunset.com, I was signed in on Recreation.gov, waiting for Yosemite campsite reservations to open up.
I barely grabbed one and they were all gone for July 15-Aug 15 within a minute. I couldn't even get the same one for two consecutive nights, so I took a site for Saturday and reserved a still rare but less competitive single room with shared bath at a park entrance lodge for Friday night.
"That actually works out better," I thought. "In case I get held up in traffic out of LA and arrive late."
And here I was, five months later, cursing the slow traffic out of Los Angeles County. I'd meant to leave work at one, which is the earliest we can leave on summer Fridays, and I'd managed to get out just ten minutes late. But then I had to stop by my place to grab my blue IKEA bag of tent, sleeping bag, travel pillow, towel, and 19-year-old Thermarest. I shoved a few clothes in a knapsack, grabbed a water bottle, the old phone I use as an iPod, and was finally on the road by 2.
Traffic crawled from Burbank to Bakersfield, giving me plenty of time to alternate between being annoyed and contemplating my journey. My old car had been to Yosemite without me back in 2002. On the great cross-country trek with Turbo the Aussie, Henry the 1990 Ford Taurus had been driven to Yosemite after Turbo put me on a Greyhound back to LA. I was to be in a wedding, and while I can't remember which city Turbo and I had parted in, I remember being pissed when he'd locked the keys in the trunk right before I'd had to catch my bus. He'd been eating a sandwich out of our picnic gear in the trunk, and he had a habit of tossing the keys down inside the trunk while he made his sandwich.
"You're going to lock the keys in the trunk that way," I'd said a few days before.
I hadn't said "I told you so" at that point. The moment was humiliating enough. At least AAA covered the locksmith.
Turbo and I had carried a National Parks pass back in 2002 and we'd used the heck out of it. I had one tonight too. Exhausted, I finally arrived at the southernmost entrance gate into the park at 8:30 p.m. I pulled out my pass.
"Pay on way out," read the sign.
I drove through the dark the last six miles to my accommodation, a sprawling Victorian compound called Wawona Lodge. I was glad to not have to set up my tent in the dark.
Wouldn't be the first time, of course.
I parked my rental Nissan at 8:30 and pulled out my knapsack and overnight bag, being careful not to leave anything smelling of food in the car here in bear country. I walked into Wawona's reception area just after 8:30.
"What time does the dining room close?" I asked the desk clerk.
"Nine."
I didn't take my bags up to my room first. I went straight in and ordered dinner, sitting down to eat at 8:45.
That was close.
I barely grabbed one and they were all gone for July 15-Aug 15 within a minute. I couldn't even get the same one for two consecutive nights, so I took a site for Saturday and reserved a still rare but less competitive single room with shared bath at a park entrance lodge for Friday night.
"That actually works out better," I thought. "In case I get held up in traffic out of LA and arrive late."
And here I was, five months later, cursing the slow traffic out of Los Angeles County. I'd meant to leave work at one, which is the earliest we can leave on summer Fridays, and I'd managed to get out just ten minutes late. But then I had to stop by my place to grab my blue IKEA bag of tent, sleeping bag, travel pillow, towel, and 19-year-old Thermarest. I shoved a few clothes in a knapsack, grabbed a water bottle, the old phone I use as an iPod, and was finally on the road by 2.
Traffic crawled from Burbank to Bakersfield, giving me plenty of time to alternate between being annoyed and contemplating my journey. My old car had been to Yosemite without me back in 2002. On the great cross-country trek with Turbo the Aussie, Henry the 1990 Ford Taurus had been driven to Yosemite after Turbo put me on a Greyhound back to LA. I was to be in a wedding, and while I can't remember which city Turbo and I had parted in, I remember being pissed when he'd locked the keys in the trunk right before I'd had to catch my bus. He'd been eating a sandwich out of our picnic gear in the trunk, and he had a habit of tossing the keys down inside the trunk while he made his sandwich.
"You're going to lock the keys in the trunk that way," I'd said a few days before.
I hadn't said "I told you so" at that point. The moment was humiliating enough. At least AAA covered the locksmith.
Turbo and I had carried a National Parks pass back in 2002 and we'd used the heck out of it. I had one tonight too. Exhausted, I finally arrived at the southernmost entrance gate into the park at 8:30 p.m. I pulled out my pass."Pay on way out," read the sign.
I drove through the dark the last six miles to my accommodation, a sprawling Victorian compound called Wawona Lodge. I was glad to not have to set up my tent in the dark.
Wouldn't be the first time, of course.
I parked my rental Nissan at 8:30 and pulled out my knapsack and overnight bag, being careful not to leave anything smelling of food in the car here in bear country. I walked into Wawona's reception area just after 8:30.
"What time does the dining room close?" I asked the desk clerk.
"Nine."
I didn't take my bags up to my room first. I went straight in and ordered dinner, sitting down to eat at 8:45.
That was close.
2 comments:
Looks like a pleasant place.
That lodge is a beauty!
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