Chapter 5. 9.7.05, Yosemite, CA

I was very happy to hear that the bears have been active, breaking into unsuspecting peoples vehicles and stealing their Butterfingers and Coors Light. The idea of them breaking into the idiots’ tent next door makes me happy, except their loud television probably keeps the bears scared away. Maybe there is nobody there, just the tv as a ploy to keep the bears from their beer. The idea of a bear can-opening my rv also pleases me: would she/he be disappointed? There is only vegan cookies, soy products, and vegetables. Would the bear think, “Hey, is this some kind of joke? Where the @$#%! is the hamburger and Coors Light?” But I do have Butte Creek India Pale Ale…maybe the bears would also be disappointed by that, after all, it is organic.

I also wish their bears could be hired to wreak out vengeance on the inept, aged drivers of large Class A motor homes. The start of school season signals the end of family camp season and ushers in the season of the retired folks. I am happy for them, enjoying their golden years on the road, I just think they should have their own lane on the freeway and their own entrance to Yosemite. Those of you that know me, know that I am NOT a speed demon, but, as my unretired-yet-the-age-of-retired-mother says, “Jeff, you drive like a grandma!” Yet, somehow I find the wherewithal to maintain the varying speed limits of 45-65 mph heading up the 120, even as the precipices invite those who fear heights, such as myself, to swerve in a mad panic plunging over into the river below…yet, somehow, I maintain the speed limit…

After being sorely disillusioned by the lack of bats in the Siskiyous, I am on my way to being disappointed at not seeing bears here (let alone bats) BUT, I am happy to say, there are rats. In fact, Yosemite seems to be infested with them. Funny furry-tailed rats. I seem to be assigned two of them. I think they are included in your registration fees.

There is a pic of number 1, I call him “Ratty.” After the infamous drummer Billy Mintz introduced me to his domesticated field rat also know as Ratty.

There is also a pic of Ratty playing with number 2. I call this one…ummm…”Ratty.” That way if I get them mixed up, they are not offended.

Anyway, I’m going to go now, I must sweep my astro-turf carpet. I always use the broom, after all, nature abhors a vacuum. (Thank you, Gary Larson.)