I grew up in Northern California, but I’ve never before visited Yosemite. What can I say? – my parents are not the camping type. Like, at all. The one time we went camping as a family (I must have been 11 or 12) it was because my dad was officiating this couple’s wedding, which was a camping wedding in the Santa Monica mountains. A medieval-themed camping wedding. I remember they made my dad wear this purple velvet robe costume and one of those huge white starched frilly collars, even though it was like 90 degrees out. People and their weddings, I tell you.
Anyway, everybody slept in tents overnight, and by morning two things had happened pertaining to the Loncke-Spitz crew. One, my dad’s deafening snoring earned him the nickname “Judge Dredd” among all the wedding guests. Two, at about 5 a.m. my mom freaked out because she heard ‘coyotes,’ which turned out to be roosters.
Like I said, I do not come from outdoorsy stock.
However, through some genetic mutation of preferences, which continues to baffle my folks, I actually enjoy sleeping out in Nature. I’m not, like, super-skilled at it, but when the opportunity arises, like an invitation to a Yosemite weekend with an experienced and fun-loving SF crowd, I’m into it.
So wish me luck, and pray that no coyote devours me.
See you Monday, friends!