99 Bottles of Boone's Farm on the Wall

Our enchanting stroll through the Sequoias left us in desperate need of something to eat. After an exhausting, yet unsuccessful, search through the dumpster behind the ranger station we settled on going back to the car for snacks. On our way to the car we had a run in with two park rangers. They were cleverly disguised as UPS drivers, but we knew better. We had been warned of this common ruse the night before by the local bartender. In an attempt to evade them, we quick jumped in the car and sped out of the parking lot heading south. About an hour later we suddenly realized that we had been driving with no known destination and had actually intended to stay another night in the national park. Although at this point our drug induced paranoia had subsided, we had gone too far to turn back. This was a real crossroads in our adventure. A very limited internet search narrowed down the possibilities to two feasible options: East to a KOA on the beach at Lake Isabella or South to a campground located a mile outside of Bakersfield. As with all important decisions we looked to the moon beads to give us direction. We asked the moon beads “Should we go to Lake Isabella?” Spencer drew the first stone, and the answer was NO. We accepted the decision and headed on towards Bakersfield.

After a few miles, for some unknown reason, we decided that it would be a good idea to take logic and our own preference into consideration on this decision. According to its website the Lake Isabella KOA was home to a bar, a pool and a lakeside view. The Bakersfield campsite, on the other hand, had bathrooms. We chose Lake Isabella. Around two hundred miles later we arrived at our destination at about 11 p.m. We went to bed almost immediately where, like every night we’ve camped so far, I froze my ass off. I will give you a little piece of advice when buying a sleeping bag; avoid the Slumberjack brand at all costs. When I was looking to make my sleeping bag purchase the fine people at HomelessCamper.com assured me the Slumberjack was fit for as low as 30 degrees above zero. I didn’t think we would be doing any sub-artic camping and it was considerably cheaper than other less comical brands, so I bought it. This would prove to be one of my poorest decisions.

The following morning we woke up early (11:30) and surveyed our surroundings. We immediately promised to never disobey the moon beads again. This was without a doubt the most horrible place I have ever been in my life. The campsite was set up in the middle of a dirt parking lot and was in no way even in the proximity of a lake. Worst of all they had the nerve to charge us 25 fucking dollars (5 times more than our daily road tripper budget).



The next morning we made another terrible decision in the form of a desert marathon. We ran for approximately 25 minutes and covered nearly ¾ of mile and it almost killed us. It turns out smoking pot and sitting in a car all day doesn’t really keep the ol’ body in primo shape. After the run we showered up in the treacherously hot KOA shower and hit the road. We still had no idea where to go, so we headed to the sole local attraction, the Silver City Ghost Town. We would soon learn that “Ghost Town” is an abundantly used term for shitty towns that very few people choose to live in anymore for good reason. During our visit to Silver City we met the ghost town museum owner who turned out to be pretty cool. He told us all about the exciting world of ghost town museum ownership. Ten years ago when he “lost his mind” and purchased the museum he had no idea that he was in store for jampacked days of nearly 3 calls (almost exclusively prank calls) and an annual income of around $487. When we told him that we were on a road trip with no real plans he offered to draw us a map of all the most “bitchin” attractions in South Eastern California. We have realized we are horrible at planning out what to do so we decided to just blindly follow his map out for the next few days. The first stop on the map was the Trona Pinnacles, which he assured us were especially “bitchin”. Now that we had a place to go and a very poorly constructed map to guide us we were free to relax for the day. We went to a local coffee shop where we worked on the website for a bit. It was a pretty peaceful place until the old crazy town drunk walked in. His initial request for whiskey was turned down so he went with their suggestion of iced green tea despite his obvious distaste for the fact that it was “good for you.” He then spent the next 2 hours staring blankly at the wall while mumbling what we deciphered to be anti-Semitic rants. He was quite an enjoyable character. After ordering our 13th round of free waters they kindly asked us to either buy something or leave so we headed off for Trona.

Once we got on the road we realized that our map was completely useless. It turned out to simply be the museum owner’s sad attempt to lead us right back to the Silver City Ghost Town. We decided to rely only on our AAA map of California and our own navigational skills to find the pinnacles. Surprisingly, this ended in failure so we stopped off to ask directions at a small gas station. From the outside the store sort of looked like any shitty small town gas station. Inside, however, I was treated to the most concentrated dose of white thrashness I’ve ever experienced. The store was completely filled with hillbilly merchandise including an aisle consisting entirely with AirSoft guns and accessories and another aisle stocked with only bottles of Boones Farm. Loitering around inside was your standard cast of Podunk characters, none of which appeared to work at the gas station, or any other place for that matter. Perusing the Cheetos selection was a blonde woman that appeared to be about 23 months pregnant. She was wearing sweat pants and a wife beater that were completely soiled in what appeared to be either BBQ sauce, blood or a mixture of the two (most likely the result of a recent backcountry abortion/cookout gone wrong). In front of the counter stood an old female logger sporting cut off jean shorts, red flannel shirt and single brown tooth. Jittering away next to the logger was your everyday meth-addicted African-American AirSoft enthusiast trying to scrounge up enough money for a new target. As I attempted to formulate a question that they might understand the pregnant woman walked up to the counter and paid for a 3-pack of Donkey Dicks** and a carton of smokes with a pile of dimes and nickels. I was rendered speechless and immediately walked out. Spencer had a hard time believing my story so he went inside to find out for himself. After the initial shock wore off he was somehow able to ask for directions but despite the fact that the pinnacles were located less than ten miles away, these Foxworthy punch-lines waiting to happen had no idea what he was referring to. He didn’t press them anymore and got the fuck out of there.

We ended up finding the park on our own via a small wooden sign on the side of the highway. After thirty minutes of driving through the dessert in pitch black darkness, we pulled over and set up camp. The next morning when we woke up we realized that we had illegally set up camp right in the middle of the actual Trona pinnacles*. We had originally planned on doing mushroom and fully enjoying the Pinnacles but luckily we made our first good decision in days and decided against it. Though the site was amazing, our water supply had run out the night before and we were in the middle of a sweltering desert. I assume the mushroom experience would have been something pretty similar to what it feels like to be in hell. After we hiked around Trona for a while we decided we would head up north and check out Death Valley National Park.

(Trona Pinnacles)

Everyone we had talked to so far had said it pretty much sucked, but boy were they wrong. We spent the rest of the day eyefucking the shit out of the natural beauty of Death Valley. Aside from the scenery we reached 2 person milestones at the park: standing in the lowest point in the Western Hemisphere (the only hemisphere that matters) at 270 ft below sea level, and confirmation that Mr. and Mrs. Garcia were not just shroom-based hallucinations (we saw them once again at the gift shop and once again failed to get their picture). Oh also besides that it was 109 fucking degrees in the middle of fucking March.

After leaving the park we were again at a crossroads. It was once again time to ask the moon beads for direction. We narrowed down the possibilities to either Las Vegas or The Coast. The moon beads said Coast, and this time we obeyed. We were planning on just camping on some random beach, but I called my Uncle who lives in Laguna Beach and he said we were not that far from his house so we just headed there. Then Spencer paid me a dollar***. I’m sure some other funny stuff happened, but I got some mushrooms that are burning a hole in my pocket so you are going to have to use your imagination.

*The Trona Pinnacles are these really cool rock towers that are in the middle of the desert. You might know them from such blockbusters as Planet of the Apes, Star Trek V, Eddie and Trona Pinnacles: The Movie.

**A rural idiom**** to describe a 24-ounce can of beer.

***In his own farts

****Euphemism*****

*****Word

-Corey