Doug got home from work a little late, but we were in the driveway ready to go. He had warned me he might be tired and would want me to drive maybe as far as Barstow. (Um, I suppose it would be bad form for me to go into the number of hours I had to work and the sleep I didn’t get in order to be able to go on this trip, and that while I wasn’t sleeping, some other adult in this house was sleeping? Yes, that would be bad form.) So although tired, I drove as far as Barstow. But first, we ate fast food. Yes, we ate fast food. In the car. While driving. Frank was in heaven.
The traffic wasn’t bad and we got to Highway 15 pretty quickly it seemed. Then, although there wasn’t any traffic, the drive got really, really long. Anyone reading this who has driven 395 to Bishop knows exactly what I’m talking about. I drove until the turnoff for Barstow, and then Doug took over. Fortunately CJ stayed awake (although in the back seat), because I fell asleep. I could hear them talking and think every so often I added something incoherent to the conversation, and then Doug woke me up when we got to Bishop. He got two rooms at the Outdoorsman Motor Lodge, and Frank stayed with CJ. Beckett slept with me, of course, in one of the two queen beds in our room. I should say Beckett eventually slept with me. First he tossed, and turned, and then tossed and turned some more, and tried for at least a couple of hours to find a position he was comfortable in. Just when we both drifted off (it seemed like only seconds later), Beck fell out of bed. Bad mom, fell asleep, Beck not secured. This drifting in and out, readjusting Beck away from the edge of the bed, turning him around so his head rather than feet were on the pillow, or on my shoulder, went on all the short night long.
Finally day dawned and I could put an end to the maddening quest for real sleep, and just get up. Doug went to wake CJ and Frank. He came back a few minutes later to report that Frank had the stomach flu, had been vomiting all night, and was resting in the bath trying to feel better. Oh great, the stomach flu. We’re on our way to a campground. To camp in tents. Starting off superbly.
We rally and decide to walk a couple of doors down to Schat’s (bakery), for some breakfast. They don’t have breakfast, they just have baked goods. And orange juice. We choose some items from the bakery, and some orange juice and a couple of coffees. $25.98. Yep, that’s right, three items from the bakery, three plastic containers of orange juice (the single serving kind), and two cups of coffee. Small cups. $25.98. Turns out the orange juice is spun from gold or something. $4.50 each. Each. Oh. Doug pays, we leave and the million dollar OJ becomes one of the jokes for the week.
All the boys play in the park while I check out, of the motel. We pile in the car to head to Twin Lakes. Frank throws up on the way. First two changes of clothing now covered in million dollar orange juice, in trash bags, to be washed in SIX DAYS when we get home. Yippee!
We take the turnoff to Mammoth Lakes and then a few miles later, the turnoff to Twin Lakes.
We drive around the campground and find a site we like and it just so happens the people inhabiting it are packing up and heading home. We fill out our little white slip, put it on top of their orange slip, pay the campground host, and then wait as the previous tenants vacate.
The spot is perfect. We have a beautiful view of the lake, but it isn’t close enough that we have to be concerned about Beckett running and jumping in; the bathrooms are close, but not too close, and neither are the neighbors. We unpack and start setting up. Doug and I eventually realize that CJ is having trouble getting his tent up. So we join him, in having trouble getting his tent up. I would be willing to bet good money that all around that campground people were having a whole lot of fun watching the three of us trying to figure out how to get this tent up. There may even have been wagers as to how long it would take us. One woman did walk by and offer a couple of suggestions. I listened, but didn’t really care for the shit-eating grin she had on her face (really I think she was trying really, really hard not to burst out laughing). Bitch.
So we stop and call CJ’s dad. The cell phone coverage is spotty. It takes three or four phone calls to get a hint as to how to set this tent up. Three hours later (or so it seemed), we had an erect tent.
To be continued . . .
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