Last weekend, Plumas-Eureka State Park and Empire Mine were the destinations my "adopted daughters" and I set out to explore. This is the first time I've been camping since I was about 8 and all I remember about that experience was the porta-potties. Needless to say, camping has been upgraded since 1996. Nowadays, instead of just a tent and a couple of forks, the backs of vans look like this:
We stopped in Auburn at
Bootlegger's for some lunch, and it was there that this turkey-panini connoisseur had the best turkey panini she's ever experienced. Apparently Greg dropped half of it on the floor though, so he gave me free cheesecake (in addition to a new sandwich), but I like to think he was just flirting with me. The cheesecake was drool-worthy, too. So far? The trip gets 5 stars.
Soon enough we pull into Donner Memorial State Park and Emigrant Trail Museum. The entrance greets you with a giant statue, where I immediately tell the girls that there's no way there was 20 feet of snow the winter of 1846 and there's no way the statue commemorates where the snow once was...
Apparently my wintry Iowa upbringing just wasn't harsh enough.
After the girls
somehow accept that California history isn't a thing that's taught in every state (freakin' Californians), we move onto the Emigrant Trail, where 18-year-old boys once built cabins by themselves and where 18-year-old girls now trod on their iPhones and take photos for Instagram.
All jests aside, it really was beautiful. I can't imagine coming to this land after crossing the Midwest. It must've been breathtaking – in the good way – not the oh-god-I-just-ate-my-sister way. After a few moments reflecting on how painfully simply our struggles are and a very informative documentary at the visitor's center, we load back up into the van and make our way to Plumas Eureka.
Not too much later, the tent gets pitched with ease (surprisingly), we set up for the night, ward off the bears, and settle in for hours of s'mores and Chloe's guitar skills. The trip is still at 5 stars, if you're counting.
Whereas my version of camping, again, is a sleeping bag, a loaf of white bread, a jar of peanut butter, and the printed out version of my masterpiece
How to Defecate in a Cup, Haley had other plans for the morning. Those plans included pancakes and bacon. Not once did I complain.
Bacon on left; pancakes on right.
Having loaded up on Americana, we start our hike to the nearest lake. This is the one bit of the trip that wasn't practically perfect: it's like whoever made the trail to the lake went to a rock dealership and said, "
Hmm. What size rocks can I use on my trail that would be too small to hop between and too big to crumble underneath the weight of a human? I require a solid 15% sprained-ankle rate. Do you have anything like that?" Turns out that rock dealership did have exactly that size of rock and gave that person a deal because they bought in bulk. After a mile or two of hating our lives, we emerge to this:
Worth it. Hundreds of bright blue dragonflies everywhere, too. With a ham and cheese sandwich in this spot, nothing in life can be that wrong.
Returned, showered and ready to go, we hit the road for Grass Valley's "Gold Rush Days" and
Empire Mine (you should visit the website to watch their 10-pixel donkey walk back and forth in their header). The girls promised me I would get to pan for gold, but a hoard of 6-year-olds kept me from living the dream. Though I didn't get to make the grill I wanted to make, I did get to realize that A) at least I'm not a miner for a living and B) California's history really is fascinating. I envy children who grew up here and the wealth of knowledge at their feet. The mine was a great look into history and the work men are capable of, even in such terrible conditions.
One of the major mine shafts once used on left; the repair shop on right.
I still haven't made it to Yellowstone...or to Capitola, or Carmel, or Santa Barbara – but next week is Solvang, which means it's Danish time, in both the carbophile sense and in the Europhile sense. Let's sign off with a view of where the Bourn family lived, on the grounds of the mine. Their backyard, the mine, is where the two halves of society once met, if you will.
No. Wait a second. That's a terrible idea. On second thought, it's July 4th, so let's not end this post about the widening economic gap between America's wealthy and impoverished. Instead, let's do it the right way:
There it is.
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