Of course we made it up the mountain without running out of gas, and the next day could roll back down all the way to the gas station the fuel bars having vanished 1 mile to the finish line. It wasn’t the first time we have encountered a mountain on an empty fuel tank, and hopefully escaping the jerrycan for a second time won’t make us cocky.

The night before we made the sinuous trek into the campsite. It seemed a magical, silent place. Rolling green hills covered in wildflowers, forest below and deers out for their evening meal, curious but not tame. Will had told us it was a blood moon that night and it was already hung low and swollen in the sky as we approached the site, empty except for a Mexican family with all the trimmings. We sat on the hill watching the sunset the city of Palo Alto and distant San Francisco to the east and the blood moon to the west eating leftover cold pizza and waffles, so content. Bed was snug, rest required for the long day of driving ahead on route to Yosemite National Park.