The drive to the Manteca supercharger was uneventful. Child was put in pajamas and slept in the car. Parents listened to Malcolm Gladwell. The Bass Pro Shop made Parents note yet again how closely the person of color known as Dad was watched at the Las Vegas location.
Any excitement Manteca robbed us of was made up for in Corning. The innocuous appearance of banks, hotels and various doctor's offices was offset by a big rig overnighting. We'd rather the truckers be sleeping than driving sleep-deprived, so we happily stopped. Everything seemed normal as Mom and Dad took turns trotting Dog around the parking lot while Child slept. The active sprinklers were a continuous annoyance, as it meant Dog's paws kept getting wet, necessitating yet more trotting. On one of Dad's deployments, Mom noticed a suspicious character in the strip mall across the street. Jerky motions and repeated peeks inside store windows combined to have Mom call Dad back to put Dog in without her safety restraint and diaper harness (Dog is elderly these days). The risks either of those prevented was less than the risk of a motivated zombie accosting us. Mom disconnected the car as Dad and Dog jogged back. Dad put Dog in, jumped in the driver's seat and a quick getaway was made, right onto a freeway another zombie had tried to claim for pedestrians. On to Mt Shasta.
The only noteworthy thing in Mt Shasta was Child's first visit to a Burger King. Some very unhealthy breakfast items turned out to be vegan and it was within walking distance. With sunrise came the beauty of Mt Shasta. Unfortunately, driving makes drinking in such splendor difficult. The decision was made to press on to Bend. Dad had felt the cycle of tired switch over to wakefulness. One more stop was required, Klamath Falls.
The way in to Klamath Falls was where our first sightings of Confederate flags were made. It's always impressive just how impoverished places that make such public displays are. Life decisions paved by desperation rarely lead up. The state of impoverishment was further confirmed at the supercharger, patrons of Fred Meyer inspiring only thoughts of EBT and not-yet-kicked habits. The Bend, OR supercharger was also in the lot of a Fred Meyer. While charging, we wandered this place, a store bigger than Costco and classier than Wal-Mart. Amazement at a decidedly different demographic than we were accustomed to ensued. Political stickers on cars were still battling nine months after the election.
Bend at large was a blend of white power symbols and granola that made the worst combination of rural and urban I've ever seen. Vegan restaurants inundated with people making camping plans around the latest gear bought from locally sourced ingredients who love getting out to nature in their gas-powered SUVs are served by Aryan brothers in pick-ups modified using their minimum wages to pump soot blacker than Wild West era trains into air they're convinced will only hurt colored people because their god will cause these inanimate particulates to distinguish between members of the master race and others. Though we did spend the night, eating at Next Level Burger twice, swimming in the hotel's integrated pool and stocking up on water, we felt a lot safer after we had departed.
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