I left S.F. with a broken fender and a flat pocket book.  They aren't fucking around about money there.  So there was some relief to be heading for free lodging with my friends in Yosemite Valley.  My buddy suggested taking a different route than I usually take.  It runs along the Merced River, he said.  It had been years since I went that way, so I thought. . . O.K.

But It was not scenic and there were more highway connections to make than taking Cal 120.  And, of course, I did the wrong thing.  I had no map and only Google Map directions which were wrong from the start.  They left out a connection early on and I went wrong for about twenty confused miles and had to turn around.  After that, I was never certain.  But I followed old instincts and signs for towns I would not go to but which were in the same direction.  And then the directions seemed right.  And finally, I made the last connection, the last highway.  I drove like the wind.

It had been many years since I'd come this way, and things change.  I didn't remember this or remember that, but the road ran through a town.  I remembered that, though this did not seem right.  And then I was through town and off again.  I saw a sign.  It had my last name on it.  It was My Last Name Rd.  My last name is not a common one.  The Doubt began to take hold.

Within a few miles, the road took a hair bend turn and narrowed considerably.  Two cars would have a difficult time passing one another.  But this didn't last long.  With another turning, it turned to dirt.  O.K.  Something was wrong.

And so I turned back to town.  The wrong town.  The wrong place.  Gaustine.  A long way from where I should have been.