I don't know if my storytelling skills are up to the task of relating my last week to you. I'm going to try, but probably I won't do it justice.

It all started with a camping trip. My roommate, her boyfriend, another friend and I decided to celebrate the end of the semester with a visit to the beach. So it was we left the somewhat dubious haunt of Las Vegas and traveled over the great mountains to the west. It became quickly apparent, however, that it wasn't going to be an easy trip. A storm had rolled in--some might call it the storm of a century, I simply referred to it as an inconvenience. The rain slickened the roads and as we traveled up the mountains traffic was slowed and frustrating. It didn't put me off, though; what's a little rain and snow after all? After lunch, however, I realized just what a little rain and snow could mean when one is traveling over the mountains. The El Cajon pass was open, but you were only allowed to travel with a police escort; thus it was that we waited dutifully in line for our turn to go. We made it to the campsite and our four hour trip was only extended by maybe an hour and a half--not bad.

The campsite was all sand and dirt--it had been raining all day. Sand and dirt plus water makes mud. A lake had formed around our fire pit, but, this not being a big camping week, we were able to switch sites. All seemed to be falling into place. Our camp set up I set up my bed for the night and was pleasantly surprised to discover how warm I stayed. Dinner was tough, the wind howled and it started to rain again, but once I was bedded down I thought it all quite nice. Sometimes my naiveté is astounding.

When I awoke in the morning having slept off and on (rain is surprisingly loud in a tent and our poor little covering shook us as much as it protected us) I touched my pillow and felt moisture. No big deal, the walls of the tent were a little moist, but probably the pillow was just pressed up against it. Then I looked at the floor of the tent. My tent mate had already exited for the morning and I realized the jeans and sweatshirt by my head were soaked as was the other sweatshirt by my feet. The edges of my blankets were all also wet. Resigning myself to the knowledge that we were camping and sometimes these things happen, I dutifully hung everything up to dry. As I uncovered my air mattress I realized that the plastic had gratefully kept me dry, but my bed had been floating atop a small body of water. The day was bright and shining, though, so what did it matter? Everything would dry and be ready for the night.

Tuesday was glorious. I walked on the beach, read a book on the beach, and we had hot dogs and smores. Everything camping is supposed to be. That night I crawled into my newly dried bedding and settled in for the evening. I woke a few hours later to the sounds of rain gently pattering on the tent. I went back to sleep. I woke again when my head was lifted up--by the tent that was blowing in the wind. The rain was no longer gently pattering, it was pounding down like a vengeful street fighter. Our tent was held down only by the weight of our bodies inside it. The edges would blow up in the storm, lifting whatever part of the body was closest, in this case my head, before slamming back to the ground as the gust of wind passed. If Monday had been a storm of the century, Tuesday night was a storm of the millennia.

Wednesday did not dawn bright and sunny. Our tent was flooded. Everything in it was wet, including me. I was done. Vacation is no supposed to make you miserable. It had been a fun trip. I was glad I went. Now it was time to go home.

I lit off for the shower, but all the showers were locked. No big deal, I would shower when I returned to Las Vegas. My fellow campers and I ate breakfast and returned to pack myself and my tent mate into my car. We packed up in the very cold rain, shoved as much in my trunk as we could and he and I took off for fairer skies. It was 11:05 am.

I don't believe I could have anticipated what awaited us.

El Cajon was closed. My navigator quickly plotted an alternate course and while going around would doubtless take extra time, we were resigned to the necessity. We headed south and attempted another pass. No signs indicated that said pass was closed, until we were halfway up the mountain then suddenly, with nothing more than a small sign on the side of the road, we were told to find an "alternate route." It was now 1:30 pm.

Turning around I headed back to a major freeway and we headed east, planning to follow the Colorado river valley north. We were now driving the legs of the triangle instead of the hypotenuse, but these things couldn't be helped. I was dead set on making home. At 5:30 I took the jog to begin the final stretch and the lo and behold--a policeman sat on the exit ramp, blocking it. This seemed untenable.

I rolled my window down and he curtly informed me that all ways into Las Vegas were closed. All ways. How can you quarantine a major metropolitan area? I mean, I suppose if the zombies do attack it's good to know the small town police staff of Nevada, California, and Arizona will keep them from escaping, but I was trying to get in. The policeman turned me away and my navigator and I bunked down in a small town in California for the evening. The Black Gates were closed and there was no sneaking into Mordor that evening.

We awoke this morning and headed out. The roads were open and I hoped, knowing that it would be a slow trip, that it would still be a painless trip. We had 90 miles to travel and it was 9:05 am. 45 miles out from Las Vegas we approached a little town called Searchlight. Traffic slowed, then stopped. I sat in the car for as long as I was able before the coffee I drank for breakfast insisted on being relieved. There were no bathrooms. There was no privacy. I couldn't countenance the idea of urinating on myself in my car. Surely no one deserved a day that bad. The fog lifted for a second and a Terrible's gas station/McDonald's shined at me over the horizon. It took very little debate before the only possible solution presented itself. I left my car in the hands of my navigator and took off up the road. It was probably only a half mile, maybe 3/4 of a mile, but the Rocky theme song was playing in the mountains. I could hear the trumpets echoing off the rocks as I slipped and slid my way across the snowy icey parking lot to a giant sign that pronounced "CLEAN RESTROOMS."

This was, perhaps, the most dangerous part of my trip. Dangerous, because if I slipped on the ice and went down, there would be no more restraining the coffee that insisted on leaving my system.

I made it, though, and walked back to the car. The "town" of Searchlight was removing ice and so traffic was still stopped. We sat for over two hours before they let us through and the trip through Searchlight was less than exciting. This "town" is all of two blocks long. That breaks down to approximately an hour of ice removal per block. I don't get it either.

So it was that 500 miles and 26 1/2 hours later my tent mate/navigator/friend and I rolled back into Las Vegas from Los Angeles. Google maps places the trip at 4 hours 16 minutes and 279 miles.

Best camping trip EVER.