Onward into the Eastern Sierras!

Captain Hughes was ready to go— “Do you need to eat? I don’t need to eat.” — and we rolled out of Snag Lake by 8:45. Driving Day: new shirts, new shorts, a new excitement to see things we haven’t before.

We stopped at Sierraville for their version of an egg McMuffin (next to the Barber of Sierraville shop— no kidding. They are funny here), past Truckee, a quarter of the way around the east side of a sparkling Lake Tahoe, and hung a left until we hit 395 and headed south into the scrub desert of the Eastern Sierras. 

We drove until Bridgeport. We knew we needed a campsite and we had no reservations.  We hung a right at the Shell station & drove down Twin Lakes Road, inspecting the campgrounds as we went. We were disappointed but possibly resigned: they are all flat, with no trees, the weather app says it’s 106 degrees, and Dudley’s fair skin lips are sunburned and swollen like Mick Jagger’s.  We make a u-turn at the end of the long road and head for the first campground: it’s up a 4 mile dirt, washboard road, pots and pans rattling in the back of the van. Buckeye Campground is our people:  it’s dry (so no water), but a creek runs through it.  The sites have lovely pine trees and it’s flat enough and we have no neighbors. We are at 6800 feet. It is one of the best sites we have ever had in our years of hoofing it around the Northern Hemisphere. We are staying.

We head back into Bridgeport, with hopes of heading to their new brewery. Closed.  We went to a deli/bakery and they closed the door in our faces: We’re closed, they say.  The sports bar with the black mirrored windows and a PABST neon sign got a hearty and terse, NO from Laura. Bridgepoint was  turning into  a 3 block drag of disappointment.  We popped into the market / deli and got 2 sandwiches (the sandwich maker wrote “Enjoy!” + smiley face on the wrapper!)  Nowhere to eat the sandwiches but we made our way to the steps of the Mono County Courthouse, a shady respite. We eat our sandwiches and, slightly forlorn, head back to the campsite. 

While unpacking, we meet Jim, the camphost, when he rolls up in his golf cart. He’s a retired cabinetmaker from Ceres (near Modesto). He tells us about some trails: “If you give me 10 bucks, I’d tell you that you just need to go through the gate that says No Trespassing, then another gate that says Go Back, No Trespassing, and there’s a real nice trail.”  And the hot springs, which is a mile down the road and, according to Jim, “The later you go, the more commando it is.”

Dudley got unexplained, sudden-onset old man back pain on the drive and so we head to the hot springs. There are at least 5 pools, with varying temperatures, all fairly small, dug out of the hillside, lined with stones with stunning views of the canyon. We sat in a warm pool, Dudley and his old man back against the hot trickle. Hippies and nudists were in the lower pools; we stayed in the upper pools. Apparently, the commandos come out early on Father’s Day.

We return to our campsite, back feeling better, and relaxed.  We have the same dinner we have had for last 4 days, but in a different dining room.  

PS. We found wifi that will support photos… if the tech works, feel free to look back at previous posts for photos. 

PPS. No mosquitos so far!

Relaxing in the Buckeye Hot Springs