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Devil’s Bumpass |
Boiling Lake |
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Fumarole |
Wildflowers |
I was awakened by the voice of the Park Ranger, demanding my campsite fee at 7 in the morning. Why it couldn’t wait until I had pants on, I’ll never know. I paid the man my $14, and departed poste-haste. Driving North on I-5, I reached Lassen fairly quickly: up and up and up the mountains, past fields strewn with lava rocks. I took one quick hike into the Devil’s Bumpass, joining countless German and Indian tourists on the boardwalks, safe above the sulfuric gases. The boiling ponds and churning fumaroles partly sated my need to see Yellowstone.
Leaving Lassen, I stopped at a neighborhood (read: empty) Pizza Joint in some mountain town. The teenaged pizza girl shyly took my order, and I waited for the pie. In my haste to go to the bathroom, I neglected to lock the door, leading to an exceedingly awkward encounter, with a now even more shy girl. I tried to make light of the situation, but she just blushed and handed me my food, never to speak of it again.
Further north on I-5, I passed by the staggering mass of Mt. Shasta. I stopped in the rest area in Weed, CA, but wasn’t brave enough to ask a fellow tourist to take my picture in front of the sign. I thought they’d infer that I’m the immature college student that I am.
On to Portland, where I met James at the Mexican wedding he was bartending. I had expected a certain level of stereotypes at this event, but nowhere near the level of the truth. All James was dispensing was a keg of Coors Light. The men all wore polyester pants, gigantic belt buckles, and cowboy hats-cum-sombreros. The dancing seemed to consist of the women whirling and the men whooping. I resolved to serve only cheap beer at my wedding, to ensure the appropriate level of enthusiasm displayed by this crowd.
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