The Most Likely Cafe

Early morning at Blue Lake Campground finds Art using one of Sev's cool lanterns to adjust the fan. We love these, Sev, and use them for everything from reading outside in the dark to lighting the path to the loo. Thank you!

You know you're camping when...

this is all you have in the larder

(eagle-eyed readers will spot the beets)

And yes, they're on the raw menu for snacktime in the truck today. Beets: people either love 'em or hate 'em.

 

Heading out of Blue Lake Campground on a beautiful Sunday morning. I promised Art I'd buy him breakfast if the cafe in Likely is open.  I'm crossing my fingers it is.

This is the type of cafe we dream about, says Art.

 

Hooray, it's open at 9 am Sunday morning. It's quiet and at any moment I expect Rod Serling to step out with a ciggie dangling from his fingers: this is no ordinary cafe. Cue the music.

There's a smattering of locals joining us. How could a town of 99 people support this place? Our waitress tells us it's been here for 60 years. Her mother's cooking in back.

The Most Likely Cafe has provocative arrangements of things scattered about.

And cozy tables for two near the window.

But the proof's in the eggs over easy, bacon/ham, hashbrowns and burnt rye for me...

 ...and biscuits and gravy plus homemade sausage for Art.

Whatta meal! Next door is a saloon and yes I believe it's operational.

This fake door is adjacent to the saloon entrance.

Happily full, we hit the road to Oregon.

Unlikely Likely, CA, and Blue Lake Camprgound

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It is perfectly still. Not a whisper of wind, 75 degrees, dry cool air. A heron screams, a chipmunk makes a 40 yard dash across my field of vision. I'm reading at 6000 feet in California's Modoc National Forest at Blue Lake campground.

With a senior pass, peel off a total of $14 for two nights--half price, though we’d be happy to pay several times that to stay. here  We decided pretty quickly we’ll settle in for two nights, with a full luxurious day to enjoy making campfires and walking.

Like many journeys in a six-week camping excursion, this one didn’t unfold smoothly. In haste before leaving Washoe State Park in Nevada, we’d checked the road ahead for potential campsites. Not many to be found on the desolate sretch of 395 we’d be driving. But Blue Lake, just east of tiny Likely, CA, seemed like a possibility. I quickly jotted down the directions off the national forest website. Right turn on Jess Valley Road, go 3.2 miles and take a right, then drive 8.2 miles.

Washoe State Park, NV

The drive out of Washoe to Blue Lake began on a clear cool day. We gassed up in Reno, Nancy and Frank’s beloved destination just east of Lake Tahoe. The Shell station attendant was a sweetheart, the bathrooms were clean, and we plucked some junky food off the shelves like naughty children. There was even a tiny lizard on our wheel riser saying goodbye as we left Washoe.

And the drive through the high desert was eye-opening in its starkness. We crossed back into far-eastern California, regularly passing through towns whose signs indicate fewer than 200 occupants.

Miles from nowhere, guess I'll take my time

oh, yeah, to reach there

Cat Stevens

Coming into the miniscule burg of Likely, the high desert didn’t seem hospitable to a campground with a blue lake. Clearly marked, we made the right-hand turn and noted the number on the odometer. A while later I asked Art how far we’d gone. The twisty roads following a twisty stream made it hard to tell.

Him: 5 miles

Me:  Honey, that’s too far. We must have missed it. Shouldn’t we turn back?

Him: But there was no sign and this seems like the national forest we want.

Pause here, while faithful readers nod in recognition of this most classic relationship challenge.

Several miles later, me: aren't you letting your ego get in the way—we have gone too far.

Him: are you sure we turned the right way off 395?

Me: starting to doubt my transcribing of the directions hours ago….

Finally, we turn around, backtracking about 10 miles to Likely, a town of 99 souls, three of them sitting on the porch of the general store (though only hat man shown here).

We park across the street. In the Ford, the mood is testy. Some of us wanted to already be where we were going. Comforted by the fact that there was only one way we could turn on Jess road, I climb out and approach the trio. They don’t exactly look friendly. I have my little notebook with directions I’m looking at. The guy in the hat sees it and says: whatever you’re selling we don’t want any of it here (did he think I was a Jehova’s Witness?). I scrape and bow a little and say I think we’re lost, telling them we were looking for Blue Lake Campground.

Oh, that, says the woman. See that road there (the very one we’d just returned on)? You go 13 miles and the road splits. Bear right for another 5 and you’ll find it. The suspicious guy warms up and smiles at me. I’m deeply regretting not bringing my camera to this encounter, because the photo would have been priceless, but Art nabbed this one of me returning.

We head out on the same road and, just as she said, it’s all there: the turn-off (three miles more and we would have had it!, Art says, still defending his position to drive on) and the camp.

Perfectly still, in the tall pines, with just a handful of campers and copious amounts of firewood—actually split and stacked at each site (sadly, due to a forest fire).

We're overdue for real food and here's the fastest meal in camp: canned salmon salad with herbs, olives, pickle relish, and sour cream over organic greens from a plastic box. Plus bloodies, and we needed those bloodies.

Flip is a search and rescue guy from Washington State, here for a week’s reprieve: kayak fishing and time alone. His wife prefers to stay behind but he hopes once he buys an RV she'll join him. Flip’s another generous friendly camper. He’s been coming here for 10 years, he says, because it never rains and the fishing’s good. He heads into town for ice and Art asks him to get us a bag please. When he delivers it, he won’t take a cent. Campers are generally beautiful people.

 

Signs of beaver activity on our walk around the lake.

 

During the night, I heard an owl hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-ing. Saturday was 75 degrees and sunny. 

The trees speak quietly.

 

To The High Sierras

We break camp Sunday and hit the road, descending from our 7000-foot aerie where it was 52 degrees F this morning into the desert, where it's in the mid-90s. The landscape here rolls past in harsh relief.

 Happy Trails Highway intersects with Dale Evans Parkway at the giant Starbucks in a giant mall. Up there, air was pure and sweet. Down here, it's dry and stuffy and hot. Vast stretches of desert are broken up by miles-long shopping malls.

Art and I spent several days making the decision not to go east, toward Flagstaff, given the 100+ degree temps along the way. Neither of us is interested in hot camping and t'would be a brutal drive in the un-air conditioned Ford. We both long for trees, so we decide to head north in eastern California. A stop at Atsro Burger is looking pretty good right about now.

 What could be better than photographed onion rings?

 We order large waters, large iced teas, shakes, and a pork taco each. Mmm, with cilantro and lime, just like in Mexico.

Back in the hot Ford, it occurs to me that most everyone else driving this highway is sealed into an air-conditioned capsule. Also, what is this weird desert structure? Radar? NSA spying device?

The Eastern Sierras come into view. Magnificent.

 Mount Whitney, the highest point in California, is coming up, its peak at 14,494 feet.

We stop at a highway rest stop and I glimpse this faded poster.  Why do I think I want a wild burro? I could be heat stroke.

Finally we arrive in Lone Pine, home of the Dow Villa Motel/Hotel, which looks good to us, mainly because of the strange message on its sign. Turns out the rooms are impeccable, and there's a laundromat and moccasin shop across the street.

 

The hotel has a curious film history:

The Dow Hotel was built in the early 1920s. Even then Hollywood was looking for movie locations where there was a variety of scenery. Where better than the Owens Valley, with its snow-capped Sierra, its ancient Alabama Hills, its deserts and mountain lakes and streams. And when they came on location, they needed lodging. Mr. Walter Dow, a Lone Pine resident, could see ahead and knew what it could mean to the valley to have the big movie business, so he built the Dow Hotel.
Originally the Hotel had 55 rooms and one apartment for the manager. The front porch gave a magnificent view of the Sierra with Mt. Whitney the central attraction. The Dow Hotel hosted countless producers, directors and stars. To name a few of the stars, John Wayne, William Boyd, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Pat Buttrum, Stewart Granger, Errol Flynn, Robert Mitchum and Clayton Moore. 

A rainbow emerges behind our leg of the hotel, as rain threatens (it never appeared).

We watch the ever-changing beauty of the mountains on trips to and from the laundromat. All cleaned up and ready to head north 120 miles, to Yosemite, Monday morning. We long for trees and the cool that comes with higher elevations. It's clear that certain portions of the park remain closed because of the fire, but the eastern side is open for entry. 

On every trip there are people who appear seemingly out of nowhere to bring us messages, which, if we choose to listen, always pan out in good ways. Heading for Yosemite is the result of one of those messages. More about that down the road...

Hanna Flat Campground, San Bernardino Forest, CA

First, how greatly we've enjoyed your comments. They keep us feeling connected.

On our way Friday to a couple of days off the grid--no electricity and no cell phone connection/internet access. Hanna Flat Campground is just a few miles up the road from our last camp on Big Bear Lake, and the last 2.5 miles are unpaved washboard.

This national forest service campground is hosted by the friendly Mac, shown here repairing a leaf blower and writing us up.

Just $13 a night with Art's national parks senior pass. Mac hands us a map of available sites and we drive the loop to choose one. He says government cutbacks have reduced the number of workers here from four to one.

This site looks good. Much of the camp has been reserved--this high-mountain site is just 100 miles northeast of LA, where it's sweltering. Here it's in the low 80s with cool breezes. It's Friday early afternoon and deserted, the winds making the only audible sound, broken by the occasional scream of a bird of prey.

View to the rear.

And a peek from across the campground--see our tiny camper?

Hey, priorities. Vodka and soda with lime for me while Art slaves away installing three new deep-cycle batteries (meaning you can drain and recharge them) for the Avion camper. The batteries, in combination with the solar panels atop the camper, allow us to function easily without plugging in to electricity. Batteries provide both water pressure and lights inside the camper at night. (Propane powers our range for cooking and also the water heater.)

My smart boyfriend made an ipad photo of the battery layout so he could follow it in installing the new trifecta.

Off-grid--also called boondocking--is our favorite place to be, since the big rigs tend to avoid these spots and nice tent campers populate the area (making us the big rig, I guess).

We liked the tent/rock combo.

This flowering plant--sage, I think--was luminous, with intensely purple flowers dotted with blue insect-like secondary blooms. The bees and hummingbirds flocked to them.

It's a large plant that grows on woody stems like our culinary sage at home.

Next day, we had a nice hike through the high desert.

Followed by a lunch of chicken, cheese, and raw vegetables.

The trees are massive and this is the most culturally diverse campground I've ever spent time in, a stunning cross-section of humanity, from the Asian extended family to black, white, and Latino families, singles, couples, and children. College kids play harmonica and strum guitar and in the evening campfires dot the landscape.  Everyone's relaxed and happy, and nobody's looking at a phone.

Midday meal: grassfed ground beef with onion, garlic, ginger, and fresh herbs from our window boxes back home. Plus sauteed mushrooms and steamed beets.

A good day.