Last Thursday I told Rick about the surprise trip I had been planning for us this coming weekend. I wouldn’t tell the destination, or any other details, so it was fun to see him try to get the answer out of me. I went to sleep that night early, but when he climbed into bed a few hours later, I halfway woke up, and he asked me again, “Where are we going?” Well, I wasn’t that asleep, so the surprise still held.
So when I came home early Friday because of these drat nabbed allergies (which I am suffering from for the first time in my life), Rick looked crestfallen thinking that I was going to cancel the trip. I had to tell him that getting out of town would be a good thing for my nose.
After a brief nap, scan of the email, and packing of the car, we headed North. Rick still didn’t have any idea where we were going. It wasn’t until about an hour into the drive that I told him we were going to Crater Lake in Southern Oregon. He seemed excited about the trip, so I was pleased.
When we were in the upper reaches of the valley, the thunderstorm started. Gorgeous clouds illuminated by strobing jags of lightning presented themselves to our eager gaze. For the next couple of hours we were entertained by the entralling sight, while wondering where the rain was.
We passed Black Butte when the rain started. It was a sudden deluge of rain and hail and the visibility was suddenly down to around 50 feet. All cars on the highway came to a crawl, and we wondered where the road was. We limped along for a ways until we came to the Dunsmuir exit. I was conscious of the fact that my eyes were starting to tire, and my body wanted rest, but Rick didn’t want to stay in that one-road town, so we ploughed our way back to the interstate, seeking shelter.
Around 11pm we found ourselves in the town of Weed, California. Founded in 1910 by Abner Weed, Weedians must have to put up with drug jokes galore, I suppose. But really, there is so nothing to do in this town late at night, except the local tweekers seem to be having a good time. At our motel, there seemed to be several “party-n-play” events going on. I was invited to a couple, but egads, it would have been like partying with lepers. Anyway, I just wanted some sleep.
It’s funny, but we ended up in a full-size (double) bed. You’ve just got to imagine my big frame and Rick sharing this tiny bed. It was pretty kooky, but we ended doing the synchronized swimming finals for a good chunk of the night. As soon as either of us started to move, the other would, too. We kept in the spoon, reverse-spoon, and knife-and-spoon positions. For such a tiny bed, it was pretty cozy.
Next morning, we broke our fast at a local cafe, and hit the road. I was deciding between continuing up I-5 to Medford or US-97 to Klamath Falls. They offer completely different travelling experiences. I-5 offers the more populous and travelled route up the Western half of the state, while 97 hugs the base of Mt. Shasta, then moves through the High Desert of Oregon’s Eastern valleys. I chose 97, and was glad I did. In one of Rick’s former lives, he used to deliver vending machines on an I-5 route, so he hadn’t been up 97 before, so I got to show him some scenery not unlike the Sonoran Desert outside of Tucson. It’s a bit more lush, but beautifully similar.
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