Don't Eat the Yellow Snow

Short Version:
We rip off Amerika, see some natural and unnatural history, ignore our responsibilities as responsible road users, and get trapped in a small town with a little old lady for company. Then we leave, but not fast enough for some people.

Long Version:
Most of the ex-Vegas traffic stayed on the Interstate, bound for LA. We had less than no interest in going back to that horribly enormous shitty pit of a city, so turned north, up Scenic Highway 395. Once again, the scale of Amerika caught us napping, and as the sun set behind the freshly snow-dusted Sierra Nevada mountains we had no idea where on earth we were going to find a place to park up for the night. The full moon rose bulbous and yellow over the China Lake Naval Weapons-Testing Area, and illuminated an unlooked-for bonus: signage for a dirtbag campground! Really it was a fee campground, but three days in Vegas had eroded our morals to the point where we didn't pay the $6 despite filling our solitary remaining water canister from the manual pump and hiking the trail to the now-dry Fossil Falls, where ten to twenty thousand years ago Indian bands lived on the banks of the then-rushing river. The effects of both river and people on the landscape can still be seen: the jagged edges of the area's volcanic rocks are smooth where the water once flowed, and human-made flakes of obsidian still lie where tools were made in ages past.

The wind that had kept us pinned in the Reaper near Boulder City was the warm desert fringe of the first big winter storm for the year, which had dumped a bunch of snow on both the Sierra Nevada and Coso mountains, so we were driving in a green valley between two snow-covered ranges as we worked our way north. Unfortunately, the storm had also heralded the closure of the eastern entrances to Yosemite National Park, but we had enough on our plate just trying to get over the comparatively low passes along our route without trying to get up even higher. Warnings and admonitions about chains and snow tyres abounded, and the wisdom of a backroad run in the face of imminent winter started to seem more and more suspect as the amount of snow and ice on the road increased. Near Reno the highway was closed to trucks and other large vehicles due to wind gusts, and the looming ominosity of the weather became even more pronounced at the Kalifornia border inspection station ("Do you have any fruit in the vehicle?"), where the inspector lady told us there was another snowstorm coming in overnight. Joy.

We had just left Susanville when the snow began to fall. Half an hour later the road was barely visible beneath a chilly white blanket and the world was disappearing into dark grey. We figured enough was enough and turned back, to the Susanville River Inn, which had the world's most stereotypical Sweet Little Old Lady manning the reception desk. When we arose late the morning the Reaper was covered in snow, and it was still falling when we left town after a quick stop to ogle the stuffed bobcat swiping the stuffed bird out of the air in the shop run by the woman in the motorised wheelchair. By the time we reached the previous night's turning point the road was no longer visible beneath several inches of snow. Not having the foggiest idea what might constitute good snow-driving practise, we were driving pretty slowly, but then so was everyone else... except the logging trucks, which had the hammer well and truly down; we were averaging around 40mph, they were doing at least twice that, fully loaded with enormous frozen logs. Still, we made it to Weed without mishap, although anyone planning to eat snow near Hat Creek should avoid gobbling the yellow patches.