The Lost Sierras Drive.

I missed last year’s drive, but headed out early for this one, meeting at the Rocktane Gas Station/Smokeshop/Lesser Den of Iniquity at the Hard Rock casino in scenic Wheatland, redeemed becuase you could pay for your purchases, rather than spin a wheel, pull a slot handle or otherwise make the mundane a game of chance.

I arrived at the meet point twenty minutes early and a touch hungry. While fueling my car, I saw a blue BRZ backed into a stall, its driver wiping clean the inside of the windshield. I figured that he was a participant because this area favors older American cars and giant modern pickups. Farming community.

Joining him while I fueled were a couple of Porsche Boxsters. I sealed my tank and found a stall, backing in as well and went inside to survey the offerings.

I’ve a weakness for crappy convenience store/gas station food, the hyperprocessed kind that will shorten lifespans simply by gazing upon it. It’s a habit and I will admit, a preference. Hot dogs are a particular fondness, the longitudinal protein product nestled in a sponge roll ideal for a mobile nosh.

Disappointment. No dogs on the rollers, just those dreadful Tornados rolling merrily along, getting neither warmer nor crispier, just maintaining meh. A Tornado is what I’ll eat when my self-esteem has taken a beating, usually from myself over some trivial thing that’s already been forgotten by my imaginary aggrieved party, the meh reminding me that things will get better.

Tornados, with the exception of the pancake and sausage variety, all taste the same; the differentiation is in the burn that the daily sodium requirement packaged in just one will deliver.

Anyway, over to the plexiglass box O’warmth that displayed jalapeno corn dogs and a new, friendly looking pillow of doom called a puff. I’ve just begun seeing these in warmers in California, but they’re well established in the Chicagoland area and the greater Midwest.

I grabbed the corn dog, sausage and egg puff, water and a can of nitro coffee. Saw someone who looked familiar who was having a problem with his pump. We both did a double-take, then I paid and headed out to the car.

At a pump, was the organizer of this event, Marronweber.

I called out to him and walked over, shaking his hand after rearranging my haul. He parked, and introductions were made among those that were there. The person driving the Toyobaru is Patrick Linkous, who up to this point I’d known only through the assembly of car fans called weirdcarbs- weird car Bluesky. The guys driving the Porsches are Patrick’s brother and father, Christopher and Ray, respectively. The guy I recognized in the store is Stu, short for Stupidasoh, his web name.

“We’re waiting on Tamarlane”, Marronweber said, using the web name for the last person to join us. Tamarlane was coming from the Bay Area, so yeah, a bit of a schlep.

A transmission input/output error sent Stu and the Jag home early on the first run. He was happy that it was a relatively minor problem as far as Jaaags are concerned, and he wasn’t expecting any issues today.

The Jag ran flawlessly, despite the invocation of the unmentionable law.

Anyway, our party’s last member arrived, fueled and our organizer ran into the only problem of the entire day: No batteries for the handhelds. After a bit of brainstorming, It was determined that our first stop would be at an Ace Hardware, Foothill Ace, about thirty minutes from the gas station. Marron’s little Fiesta ST lead the way, with Patrick following, then the remaining five cars falling in.

Detouring around the burned out Hotel Marysville, We joined Highway 20 and hustled to the hardware store where batteries were had and radios passed amongst us. Our arrival caused a minor stir at the Ace, all of these demographically incorrect cars pulling in at once.

I took the opportunity to grab some gum and a package of caramels and mention to Tamarlane, who is a fan of sketchy food as well, that Taco Bell was putting giant Cheez-its into a crunchwrap– Ray was passing around cheezy goodness, and who am I to say no?

Corporate knows about this? Tamarlane asked, somewhat incredulously, nibbling on a Dorito. “They started it.” I said.

T. went on to tell Stu and me about his BMW’s unscheduled consumption of coolant and how the car has not one, but two reservoirs for the stuff, and that BMW service said that the car does that. Eh, it’s leased.

Off to the next waypoint, La Porte, Ca. I took the last position, T and Stu were ahead of me, finding a comfortable speed for the cars on the secondary mountain road. We arrived in the village a few minutes after the two-door bunch, where we stretched our legs and looked around at a very quiet mountain settlement.

The group was parked close to a flagstone ruin with a brick plinth bearing a plaque before it.

From there, we moved to the nearest potty house a touch up the road, in the same lot where Cal Trans keeps its road clearing media during the winter.

I cannot describe how horrorstruck I was by the deplorable condition of the right-hand unit; I may need to bring a gas mask next time. Patrick was gleefully describing to me in detail how bad it truly was after my stumble from the pissoir of death. “Thermite.” was what I think I answered. Vault toilets can be brutal.

Marron briefed us on the next leg, the narrowest, twistiest portion. The briefing went thusly: “We pause at the bridge after the pass to catch our breath.”

La Porte Road runs from La Porte to HWY 70. A tertiary road at best, it’s narrow and without guardrails. You’re already above 5000 feet when leaving the town. The road moves up through another 1400 feet along the ridge dropping you to a low of 4000 feet at the Nelson Creek bridge, built in 1890 and now a footbridge.

We met at Redbridge, near the campground of the same name, splendidly isolated from everything and a perfect setting for a bear to visit the campfire, if not other megafauna, both quad and bipedal.

As usual, the sports cars beat us there. I know that M.Weber was definitely putting the Fiesta to the spur, he vibrating with excitement at the bridge, coming down from the adrenaline rush that a fast pelt over a treacherous mountain pass gives one. The rest of the sporting group were doing same, each in their own way. Stu was not pleased with the pass and all of the twists. I missed having an Alfa at that moment. The Nissan helped. (I loathe saying Infiniti. It’s a Nissan, FFS.)

Off to Graeagle and the Mountain Frostee, where lunch was had.

The 1/3rd Lb combo was the favorite amongst the group. I surprised myself and ordered one as well, all the trimmings, and a coke. Instead of hollering out of the pickup window when an order is ready, an old stereo speaker is stood in another window to serve as a P.A. system. I was reminded of this while I was standing in line and Carl’s order was announced, propelling me into low orbit. After reentry, I ordered and went to a table to wait. There may be a small dining room in the Frostee; I’ve never checked.

With an expression of delight, Marron grabbed a copy of Wheels and Deals from a box next to the condiments table, where I swiped two mayo packs and a mustard and a plastic ramekin to assemble a dipping sauce for my fries.

Nibbling fries and going through slightly sketchy ads featuring cars seldom seen in our part of California at a reasonable price is a glorious way to spend an afternoon. Hell, there was even an Alfa GTV for a scandalously low price.

After lunch and the obligatory potty break it was the final leg of the drive, our final destination being Bullard’s bar and the scenic overlook, which in this case was simply a gravel pullout that provided the party with a mild case of vertigo.

Radios were handed back, farewells made, and a plan to do it again next year.