[pct-l] OC Weekly Columnist calls us dirty hippies!

[Dust]

I liked the last line best.  

My boy and I had gone to the Sierra Nevada, up and down and all around, for camping and fishing and such-like American pastimes. (It turns out—and who knew?—I love fishing! Although it may have helped that I didn’t actually catch anything but a deep, dark tan.) We’d started at Edison Lake, which is down 20 miles of barely paved one-lane road with blind curves on a cliff. No, please, Mr. SUV Guy, allow me to back down the mountain and off the cliff! No, no, really! Let me! There we met Ernie, the world’s greatest camp host, a retired Fresno firefighter who took us fishing and showed me how to use my little propane cooker and explained to my son and his grandson (Ernie’s grandson, that is) about the dastardly dealings of the Bush Administration in regards to Valerie Plame. We also met hippies, as Edison Lake is an outpost on the Pacific Crest Trail, so they were hippies hiking from Mexico to Canada, and if you called them “dirty,” you would be utterly
 justified. I didn’t mind the dirt (or the smell), but the fact that they had “trail names” just killed me. “I’m Solar,” they would say, because when you’re building your own society at the top of a mountain, you’re not bound by the strictures of the society in the outside world! Nice to meet you. I’m Pretentious Twit. 

Still, they probably had really good dope, and I’d take twits over twats in a hot minute. 




 		
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