We left Las Vegas after gorging on a brilliantly mediocre breakfast buffet, hitting the road for Yosemite and looking to leave the desert behind us. As per usual we had looked up a few spots to camp but by the third one that didn’t look any good we were beginning to get annoyed. Night was falling, and night even fell before a couple more attempts at hot springs (that evidently sprung invisible hot air, as they were nowhere to be found) and parklands (at which we were oddly unable to park) we began to worry some more. I could however see signs to ski places and villages were going from ramshackle wild west toward down home alpine. We couldn’t see them, but we knew the snowy mountain tops were nearby. As we started to climb the mountain towards Mammoth Lakes we spotted a layby, containing another camper van, but big enough for us both. The cold of the night paled away into insignificance as the morning sun brought with it the sight of the snow topped mountains right in front of us, an as such warmed us from within and without. The theme continued, as we headed to Mammoth Lakes, a little resort town, but not the flashiness of those poncy European Alp resorts, pretty down to earth rugged awesomeness. We stopped at a bakery (Schatz) and headed on towards the park and lakes from which the town took it’s name. A stunning pine forest amongst the mountains, we got to the waterside and the bracing wind, not weak in its force but refreshing all the same, the smell of the pine on the air and the stunning lakes as birds played and fished was truly stunning. Conny said it was exactly the tonic she needed after desert and Vegas. I’m pretty sure she shed a tear as we sat there for a while taking it all in!

The ride over to Yosemite was again a marvel. The mountain domes surrounded by pines and crisp air, the frost on the meadows with brooks meandering through never fail to bring that viola driven hook back into my head and images of Daniel Day Lewis shouting to Madeleine that he will find her. I love that shit.

The views coming down the pass are incredible and finally we arrive at Yosemite. A little village nestled at the base of the steep walls, a hub of trails and where we will call home for the next few days.

Full of deer, everywhere was bear proofed, we prayed for luck. We spent the days walking, stunning paths to the awesome waterfalls, where you would see the water working under the frozen top layer, with icicles galore standing sentry… an oddly satisfying sight. We hiked up the largest set of falls beyond where the majority of the lightweights stop and as such got into conversation with a couple of Americans en route. It was also quite refreshing that given the political events of late, and that clearly the guy I was chatting to had very different ideas on what is good and right, that we could have a genuine discourse and even agree on some things. We also made Tarzan noises. Which is pretty neat too.

One of the days saw the most magnificent combination of light and weather I have ever experienced. The day was sunny and bright, warm even, but a foreboding dark loomed over the mountain, as it crept up to the precipice it spewed forth a biting shower of hail and then stopped, hanging there letting the still shining sun over the valley keep it’s place. Providing the most wonderful backlight to the falling hail you could think of. Better still was the hail once it was grounded. The warmth from the sun almost instantly turned each single hailstone on the floor into perfect miniature globes of water, the tiniest single drops you could imagine sat perfect, pure and clean on the leaves and pathways. Truly awesome. After the sun set behind the hills, the hail cloud decided to pop it’s self over the hill and throw some almighty wind and hail at us, now that it knew it was stealing none of the sun’s thunder. It was a shame because I was eagerly looking for bears with a hot chocolate in my hand, and between the hail and the condensation in the car my search was foiled yet again.

The evenings we parked just outside the park to avoid fees, a great little spot just across from the National Park’s maintenance hub. It was here we met a couple of folk. First up were India and Nick, a couple who were living in their homemade Jucy style camper (no tent on the roof but a kitchen in the back) having given up their jobs and were climbing their way around the US looking for the next place to settle.

Next up was the Germans: Max, Max and Patricia. One of the Max’s and Patricia were brother and sister, the other max was a friend of the other Max. I shall call them 1 and 2 to save hassle. 1 had popped out of his camper (they went big and posh and got a full scale El Monte RV) and as well as sparking a cigarette, he sparked up a conversation with Conny. Firstly in English, trying to find out if we needed to pay where we were to sleep. There was a sign that said yes, but there was also no one that had bothered any one for weeks. Then Conny bust out the German to give him a real surprise. 1 and 2 it transpires had just been for a month in Alaska. Something of which I am very envious. They saw bears, proper style grizzly beasts and they spent a month hanging around in one of the places I most want to go, but knew was too much for this trip.

We played UNO together in their RV and when we all left the next morning, we did so in convoy to the redwood groves. We braved the freezing cold (well Conny did) to make pancakes on our little outdoor stove, whilst Ze Germans cooked up some bagels and stuff so we could smash down a mighty breakfast in the RV before heading out to stroll around the behemoth sequoias. Those things are a wonder. The sheer age of their life and what they have lived through. We all know they aren’t sentient but the fact they are alive inspires a gleeful feeling and awe that if only they could share the wisdom and the things they have (figuratively speaking) seen. Thousands of years of change and life and the pest of humankind near bringing them to extinction. We even fucked them up when trying to help them, so brazen are we and our lofty opinions of our own import.

It was nice wandering around these things with our new friends, chatting about everything from travel to work and photography, music and cars and anything in between. I even managed to discuss thoughts on religion with a Christian and come to the agreement that we were kind of on the same page, only our terminology was different. Thoroughly decent people with a zest for life and the enjoyment of living it and meeting like-minded (or otherwise) folk. Max 1, Max 2 and Patricia are very awesome peoples. I do hope that when we get back to the Germanic lands to see them all again!

Next up, wine. For Conny at least. Sonoma was a short drive away, but it turns out, Sonoma isn’t known for its camping spots. Again we had to settle for the quasi-legal and hope that nobody minded our parking in a little dog park for the night as there were no campsites to be found. Unlike the last dog park however, no one showed up, not even in the morning. Turned out that despite the signs saying day use only etc, we had found a perfect spot.

We headed into Sonoma proper the next morning, a dank and drizzly affair, our intent was to perhaps get a shower by going to a local pool or something. Problem is, pools in Sonoma are called Spas, and the joy of a brief swim and a shower would cost the fortune of a day pass to one of these very spas. Even on the budget tour(the lady in the tourist office gave it an appropriately condescending title, but I can’t exactly remember it’s name, something along the lines of ‘economy’ like it was a terrible idea for someone to come to such a place and not be wealthy, anyway, she was otherwise very lovely and helpful). Not exactly what Conny and I had in mind though. We decided to cross the road and head to the local cafe/bakery Basque Boulangerie. The intent was to scour the internet for further option, but Basque being as delightfully Old School as it is, no internet. This however was a positive thing. Conny got talking to the old chap next to her, Art Douglas, he seemed a real cool dude, to be honest I would have really liked to have been more involved in that conversation, but I had my own to negotiate with our neighbour from the next side, Maureen. Maureen was, and probably still is, great. An Irish lady, from Dublin I believe, came over at 18 and got married months later. She was still very much in love to the man decades later when he passed on. He had done well for himself too by the sounds of it, not that Maureen was in it for the money, she was very much in it for the love and all that material stuff was just unnecessary. If she didn’t need it, she didn’t have it. I could have listened to Maureen talk for days. I real sparkle of a lady. We disagreed on many things, although I gently suggested my difference in opinion or didn’t bother at all, for we are from different generations and streams of thought, but really her heart is firmly in the right place. She regaled us the tales of her in the dance halls on her first dates and the lives her adoptive brothers and sisters have gone on to lead from the orphanage in Ireland. We were gossiping about the love-lives of the older daters amongst the community and the unfortunate circumstances that had befallen her friend at the whim of an apparently perfect older gentleman who turned out to be a cad and a bounder. Talk of one lady here who belonged to the “airport set” (Maureen and others liked to go and lunch at the local airport, where a mixture of arrivals both private and commercial would spur on the local gossip) or talk of another lady who was from some other set doing this that and the other. The details are irrelevant, she was just funny as fuck.

The bakery itself, by the way, is a veritable wonder. Masses of delicious looking breads, pastries and cakes all of them looking as scrumptious as the next, I could have spent many a morning and that place. As in fact many people do. I remember thinking to myself that this place either has a serious set of plums or it has some serious turnover with the amounts it puts out on display. It was clearly the latter if not both. It had been there for decades, Maureen explained, had been owned by a couple of families but they all did very well. They not only did the shop, but baked for the local hotels and businesses. It really was fantastic, the coffee was pretty damn tasty too. If ever there was a place to stop in Sonoma, that was it. If you pass by in the evenings you may even, as we were be given a free voucher for bread, as they give their leftovers away. Incidentally the voucher was given to us by a kindly gentleman, whose name I forget but whose gift for the gab in many languages was unforgettable.

The afternoon saw us tasting some wine, some bigger wineries, a couple smaller ones. The wine was all so so. I tasted a little, Conny tasted a little more. The overwhelming thought was California, or at least Sonoma wines tended to be heavy on the alcohol, but a little watery on the taste. Anyway, the most surprising thing was we got an invite to a thanksgiving dinner, in a real family household. BJ, one of the hosts at a tasting, heard of our travels and within 5 minutes had invited us to their celebration. How awesome is that? I cant put into words how much I would have loved to have gone. Sadly between our already booked hotel in San Francisco and our odd schedule change on our flights we couldn’t go. The offer alone warmed my heart fantastically though. The flight change, I have to admit was an odd one. Air New Zealand, called us up. No. Wait. They didn’t even do that, they sent us an email, saying Conny had to call them, upon which, after an arm achingly long time of muzac and travel officers, we got through to some poor dude who had the joy of telling us that our flight out to Rarotonga had been moved to a day earlier. Yes, a whole day. Not an hour or so. A day. I wasn’t sure this was possible and we had plans involving car rentals and such, what about later, he said they can do a day later, but we would be going via Auckland. Somewhat defeating the point. They did offer us our first nights’ accommodation and I was able to reorganise the rental, so apart from a shortening of our pacific coast Highway One trip, it wasn’t too bad. All I then did was check that my flights were earmarked vegetarian and we were grand.

We had decided that tonight we would stop at a local state park, called Sugarloaf Mountain. The ride up the mountain was deliciously dark and mossy, mists falling off the clouds sent a tumbling down the mountainside and along the creek. The rain was relentless, and the mists sat thick on the campsite, but the eyes of the deer still lit up with the lights of the car as we found our spot. Better still there were hot, clean showers and even the threat of a wifi signal, but alas, it was an empty one.

The morning saw a clearer day and a breakfast before we

Our last night in the van was not quite the luxury camp or wilderness beauty we had hoped for. We ended up parking upon a race track car park. We needed a spot no more than an hour or so from the Jucy HQ, and as mentioned, campsites around here were few and far between. We tried a trail head, but the trail head we tried was not even there. Still it was quiet, we had the chance to pack our shit together in peace and nobody gave us any shit whatsoever. All in all, a win I reckon! The next morning we moved on to San Francisco. We dropped the car off at Jucy HQ. No problems all good. Pleased to know we were not the kind of people dishing out the kind of nobbery that the customer that followed us let tumble from his mouth. Somehow, upon turning up late, he expected Jucy to wave the fuel refil fee because he hadn’t been bothered to fill it. He was adamant he deserved it as he had rented for a whole week, and that he had passed a station not far back. Jucy quite rightly said that if he left it, they would charge him, but they would let him go and do it to save the fee. He then aghast that they asked him to do it Ms Jucy pointed out that he is already late and that they were in fact being quite nice to let him go and do it to save himself the money, and that if he thought they would not only go and do it because he couldn’t be arsed, but also do it for free, he was in fact mistaken. I very much enjoyed that. I really do hate proper fuckers being proper fuckers, thinking that the world owes them their proper fuckerdom.

Anyway, we both got the piss bus and headed into San Francisco to transfer towards our home for the next few nights. The Inn at the Golden Gate. What we didn’t know though, was that the bus system in SF has several differently named but identically numbered bus companies. Luckily, when we got on the wrong bus that went the right way, and we didn’t have the change the guy was super nice and waived the charge(which should have in fact been double the usual fare). In fact for the most part we were the only people on the bus and he acted as our personal tourist information guy and guide to San Francisco.

Arriving at our stop, the driver practically dropped us at the door, here we were, home The Inn at the Golden Gate. Exactly the kind of drive up motel room like the ones in the movies that I had craved since landing in the US.