Weather dictates
We aimed Marcel toward Mono Lake on what might be the most aggressively side-to-side rolling dirt road we’ve ever driven. Not the gentle up-and-down kind — this was full-body sway, the kind that makes a tall van question its life choices. Marcel was not a fan. Neither were our cabinets. We crept along anyway, hoping to get eyes on a rumored warm spring near the lake. Five miles later — and more than an hour of slow-motion rocking — we arrived at… nothing. No spring. Just dirt, wind, and the realization that sometimes the map lies. So we turned north.
Another half hour of involuntary core workouts brought us back to pavement. Tires still aired down, we crawled west at a blistering thirty miles per hour until, just two miles later, another dirt road peeled off toward Bodie Ghost Town. Sure, there was a faster, paved way. But dirt had been our theme, and we weren’t about to break character now.
By the time we reached the edge of the state park, it was nearing 3 p.m., and the sign politely reminded us that Bodie closes at 4. No rush. A clearing just outside the park boundary stepped in as our home for the night, perched on a hill with a wide view of the old wooden town as the sun slid down. Not a bad way to wait.
Bodie is a special place for us. Not because we met there — but because it’s where we almost didn’t. Back in 2014, Bodie was the subject of our first interaction online. Kerri posted photos. I commented. That comment turned into a mild argument. Then silence. We wouldn’t speak again until we met in person at the end of that year. Romance, clearly.
With those memories floating back up, we wandered through the ghost town together for the second time in our lives. Quiet. Windy. Nearly empty. We had the place to ourselves until the very end, when another couple appeared. A wave was exchanged, Marcel was boarded, and we promptly rolled out.
There was another dirt road heading north from Bodie, one that promised to drop us into Bridgeport about thirty miles later. Two miles in, the road devolved into thick mud and snow — and this was still the sunny side of the hill. The shaded side would have been worse. Practicality won. We turned around and took the main road instead. The boring way. The way that didn’t involve digging ourselves out of a snowbank before dinner.
Bridgeport came up quickly. We stopped for a solid lunch at a local diner, then crossed town to visit what would be our last hot spring of the season — Bridgeport Hot Springs. Camping near the springs was clearly off-limits, so the plan was soak, then find a place to camp nearby and maybe soak again the next day. After the soak, we skipped straight to moving on.
“Moving on” meant another dirt road. Far enough from anything to stay quiet, close enough to avoid airing down again. We only had a couple of days left before an incoming weather system threatened snow at the passes and rain everywhere else. As California natives (don’t tell anyone), we know what that means: roads closing for reasons ranging from “actual danger” to “someone sneezed near a culvert.” Not wanting to be stuck on the wrong side of the mountains for a week, we dropped into Gardnerville, topped off the fuel, and headed for the pass.
We still weren’t ready for civilization, though. Once safely over and on the west side, we found what looked like an abandoned scenic pullout just off the highway. Slightly hidden. Quiet. Cold. At over 7,000 feet, sleep came easily despite the chill. It wasn’t much — but it was enough.
