The nervous energy of the a day of preparation carried over. Was I eager to get going? I really must have been.
I was up at 5:00 a.m. Made two pots of coffee: one for Becky and me and the other to fill a thermos.
Grass Valley is far enough away from home that we were going to spend the night. Avoid fog. Icy roads. Tired driving. Et cetera . . . et cetera . . . et cetera. So bright and early in the morning I pulled together my clothes and toiletries for the trip. They were folded and stuffed into my back pack before 6:00.
Glenn was going to arrive at 7:45 to help me load the borrowed SUV. Not necessary. It was packed by 7:00. Becky was going to pick up trays of meats, cheeses, and vegetables at the super market. Not Necessary. I had the time to do that. I also had time to walk Darby -- the original Lava Pup.
All preparations for leaving were done, but I still had time to pace around the house waiting for Becky to get ready and for Jean and Glenn to arrive. No guitar to strum. It was packed in the SUV . . . along with snow chains.
I paced and paced. As everybody who knows me knows, patience is not one of my virtues.
Glenn and Jean finally arrived. Finally? They actually were a bit early. We packed our overnight stuff in Glenn’s car.
Then he said, “I left sticks at home. Did you pack any?” Did I pack sticks? Did I pack sticks! Of course. I packed two pair! “Are 7As ok?” “Sure.” Paul said to bring Glenn, the drums, and my guitar. He never said anything about sticks. I am just too obsessive not to grab a couple of pair.
We headed off at 8:15. My text message to Paul was: “Leaving.” We were on our way to meet him and Don in Auburn and “caravan” to Flying Whale Recording Studio. Paul’s response was, “Cool. Watch the fog.”
Quick aside: Before you report me to the cash-hungry CHP, I was NOT texting and driving.
Fog, huh? Sacramento was clear. In fact, that was the first morning that we had seen blue sky in two weeks. I thought we would get out of the dreary Valley fog by going to Grass Valley. Instead, the valley was clear, and fog set in just below Auburn.
Don and Paul had the Pyro-Van loaded. Glenn, Paul, Don, Cheri, and I stood out in front of Paul’s house in the cold and the fog. Each of guys had adrenalin flowing and was less chilled than Cheri. After a shivering welcome, she wished us well and -- quite accurately -- said, “It’s way too cold to be out here.” She left the rest of us to our business and went back to the warmth -- I am sure -- of the house.
Paul told us that we would go through Colfax rather than Grass Valley. Our “caravan” then was on its way. We escaped the fog at Weimar. We left the freeway at Colfax and headed towards Grass Valley. Counter-intuitively, going to Grass Valley from Colfax started by heading east -- away from Grass Valley. Then a couple of left turns later and we were going west.
The sun felt good as we wound our way on Highway 174’s two lanes. The sun, however, did not provide much warmth. The outside temperature according to our borrowed SUV was 33 degrees. I could look at the rearview mirror and know outside temperature and direction. The SUV was too old for GPS but not for a compass.
Besides GPS or a navigation system would be useless as we did not have an address for Flying Whale Recording Studio. That was why we were in a “caravan.”
Highway 174 is rural and often wooded. Winding. A couple of hair-pin turns. We passed a hand-lettered sign. “E-Waste Disposal at Chicago Park School on 1/21.” We then drove through Chicago Park. Not much of anything other than the school and a couple of houses.
Just how far are we going? Where are we going? Are we ever going to get there? How did Paul find this place?
We turned onto “You Bet Road.” It was two-lanes and narrower than Highway 174. More wooded. More rural. We passed the “You Bet” town limits sign -- population 489. We saw a road sign for “Side Bet Road.” Somebody had a sense of humor. But we never reached downtown You Bet -- assuming that a downtown You Bet exists. Instead, we turned off onto a single lane paved road. That turn was followed by an immediate left onto a gravel road.
We drove by a rusted ore cart and a small house built into the hillside. The property sloped down into a small hollow with a creek.
Paul pulled the Pyro-Van alongside a corrugated metal building which looked like a cross between a barn and a tool shed. Over to the right was another corrugated metal building perched on a hillside and over the hollow. Narrow-gage tracks -- for ore carts back in the day -- led into that building. Flying Whale Recording Studio occupied property which once was part of a mine.
I parked the SUV next to the Pyro-Van. Glenn’s Prius was right behind and then beside us. Our “caravan” had arrived.
I checked my cell phone -- no bars. Jean got out of the Prius and said, “This is Deliverance country."
We had arrived.
I was up at 5:00 a.m. Made two pots of coffee: one for Becky and me and the other to fill a thermos.
Grass Valley is far enough away from home that we were going to spend the night. Avoid fog. Icy roads. Tired driving. Et cetera . . . et cetera . . . et cetera. So bright and early in the morning I pulled together my clothes and toiletries for the trip. They were folded and stuffed into my back pack before 6:00.
Glenn was going to arrive at 7:45 to help me load the borrowed SUV. Not necessary. It was packed by 7:00. Becky was going to pick up trays of meats, cheeses, and vegetables at the super market. Not Necessary. I had the time to do that. I also had time to walk Darby -- the original Lava Pup.
All preparations for leaving were done, but I still had time to pace around the house waiting for Becky to get ready and for Jean and Glenn to arrive. No guitar to strum. It was packed in the SUV . . . along with snow chains.
I paced and paced. As everybody who knows me knows, patience is not one of my virtues.
Glenn and Jean finally arrived. Finally? They actually were a bit early. We packed our overnight stuff in Glenn’s car.
Then he said, “I left sticks at home. Did you pack any?” Did I pack sticks? Did I pack sticks! Of course. I packed two pair! “Are 7As ok?” “Sure.” Paul said to bring Glenn, the drums, and my guitar. He never said anything about sticks. I am just too obsessive not to grab a couple of pair.
We headed off at 8:15. My text message to Paul was: “Leaving.” We were on our way to meet him and Don in Auburn and “caravan” to Flying Whale Recording Studio. Paul’s response was, “Cool. Watch the fog.”
Quick aside: Before you report me to the cash-hungry CHP, I was NOT texting and driving.
Fog, huh? Sacramento was clear. In fact, that was the first morning that we had seen blue sky in two weeks. I thought we would get out of the dreary Valley fog by going to Grass Valley. Instead, the valley was clear, and fog set in just below Auburn.
Don and Paul had the Pyro-Van loaded. Glenn, Paul, Don, Cheri, and I stood out in front of Paul’s house in the cold and the fog. Each of guys had adrenalin flowing and was less chilled than Cheri. After a shivering welcome, she wished us well and -- quite accurately -- said, “It’s way too cold to be out here.” She left the rest of us to our business and went back to the warmth -- I am sure -- of the house.
Paul told us that we would go through Colfax rather than Grass Valley. Our “caravan” then was on its way. We escaped the fog at Weimar. We left the freeway at Colfax and headed towards Grass Valley. Counter-intuitively, going to Grass Valley from Colfax started by heading east -- away from Grass Valley. Then a couple of left turns later and we were going west.
The sun felt good as we wound our way on Highway 174’s two lanes. The sun, however, did not provide much warmth. The outside temperature according to our borrowed SUV was 33 degrees. I could look at the rearview mirror and know outside temperature and direction. The SUV was too old for GPS but not for a compass.
Besides GPS or a navigation system would be useless as we did not have an address for Flying Whale Recording Studio. That was why we were in a “caravan.”
Highway 174 is rural and often wooded. Winding. A couple of hair-pin turns. We passed a hand-lettered sign. “E-Waste Disposal at Chicago Park School on 1/21.” We then drove through Chicago Park. Not much of anything other than the school and a couple of houses.
Just how far are we going? Where are we going? Are we ever going to get there? How did Paul find this place?
We turned onto “You Bet Road.” It was two-lanes and narrower than Highway 174. More wooded. More rural. We passed the “You Bet” town limits sign -- population 489. We saw a road sign for “Side Bet Road.” Somebody had a sense of humor. But we never reached downtown You Bet -- assuming that a downtown You Bet exists. Instead, we turned off onto a single lane paved road. That turn was followed by an immediate left onto a gravel road.
We drove by a rusted ore cart and a small house built into the hillside. The property sloped down into a small hollow with a creek.
Paul pulled the Pyro-Van alongside a corrugated metal building which looked like a cross between a barn and a tool shed. Over to the right was another corrugated metal building perched on a hillside and over the hollow. Narrow-gage tracks -- for ore carts back in the day -- led into that building. Flying Whale Recording Studio occupied property which once was part of a mine.
I parked the SUV next to the Pyro-Van. Glenn’s Prius was right behind and then beside us. Our “caravan” had arrived.
I checked my cell phone -- no bars. Jean got out of the Prius and said, “This is Deliverance country."
We had arrived.