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After cereal and coffee I was on the road again by 9:30. I went into Kings Canyon and learned at the entrance that the National Park system was celebrating an anniversary so there was no entry fee that day. I needed gas so after a quick look at the roadside map, I headed down to Hume Lake, where they sell gas. Turns out Hume Lake is actually a big Christian Camp in the park; I felt a bit out of place in my riding gear amidst a gaggle of nervous parents and kids in their shorts & sandals all looking at me as if I might actually be Satan. Whatever. I gassed up and had an ice cream sandwich watching them watch me.
I toured around enjoying the beautiful park and eventually ended up at the visitor's center where I grabbed a burger, a deck of playing cards and a new pair of sunglasses (I had forgotten to pack mine... doh!). I wasn't too into the tourist thing so I decided not to stick around and headed south out of the park on the Generals Highway past all of the enormous redwoods. It turned out that they were repaving the Generals Highway from halfway through the park all the way down the mountain. I was in second gear on the rutted dirt road for at least an hour or so. Not so bad, but it was really hot and I was being coated with dust. Along the way I was forcefully reminded several times that a Harley is not a dirt bike.
Once past all of the construction I ended up on route 65 heading towards Wofford Heights. This was one of the best roads I've ever driven on. It was all sweeping curves and cliffs. A joy to ride as long as you watched out for the range cattle who had the disturbing habit of standing on the shoulder along the blind side of corners. At one point an SUV passed from the other direction braking hard, the grill covered with feathers. I slowed as I came around the corner and saw what had happened. There was a very confused flock of turkeys parading around the flattened carcass of their pal who had just met his maker. Great road if you're careful.
By nightfall I had set up camp at the Wofford Heights Lake National Campground. This being California in the summer, the lake was about a mile away. Wofford Heights is a pretty sorry little town and I was wondering where I was going to get something to eat. I ended up at the only diner in town where I ordered a chefs salad to go. They were just closing up the Southern Belle diner when I placed my order. After a couple of minutes the young waitress came out of the kitchen with one of those clamshell styrofoam containers upon which she had perched a large container of ranch dressing. At this point everything went slow motion... she kicked one heal with her other foot and stumbled, the clamshell yawned open and the salad went spilling down her front. The ranch dressing fell straight down and when it hit the floor, it erupted in a geyser of sticky goo. The poor girl looked as though someone had poured dressing onto her head from a great height. She was completely coated. I covered my laughter with a timely coughing fit and raced for the bathroom so as not to compound her humiliation.
When I emerged there were 5 people on their hands and knees swearing and scrubbing ranch dressing off the carpet while the waitress stood there looking like she was going to cry. She was pitifully mopping her head with inadequate diner napkins trying to sop the stuff off. All the while the matriarch of the place was on her knees berating the girl; it turns out it was her first day on the job. Man.
I finally got my dinner and headed back to the campsite where I ate salad with plenty of ranch dressing, drank a Fosters and watched 70 bazillion stars slowly rotate overhead. I realized two things that night:
1. It felt really good to be alive.
2. Food for many people is simply a delivery mechanism for ranch dressing.
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