The first annual writing camp at Poso Cabin was a raging success.
Tuesday, July 22
Damian and I set out about 1 p.m. We crossed the Central Valley and stocked up with food in Porterville, before heading up to the cabin. Porterville, which has surprisingly hard to locate grocery stores, proclaims itself an All America City on every street sign, with banners proclaiming “100 Years of the Good Life.” Despite the charms of the All America City, we soldiered on toward the cabin, which is in Sequoia National Forest in the Sierra foothills about an hour southeast of Porterville.
As we climbed in elevation, the valley shifts to rolling grassland dotted with live oaks, a terrain very reminiscent of the train ride from Madrid to Escorial and Avila. Damian and I decided it would be perfect for raising Iberian pigs (the best jamón ibérico is raised on an exclusive diet of acorns, as you no doubt know). The road wound, and I found myself getting motion sick for the first time in years; hard to tell whether it was because I wasn’t driving, or because Damian was. As we transitioned from live oak to evergreens, a black tarantula crossed the road in front of us. An omen?
We arrived at the cabin at 7 p.m. We met up with Kent and had the first of four nightly campfires.
Wednesday, July 23
Reveille at 6:15, which we ignored. The cabin has two beds in the bedroom and a sofa bed in the main room. I took the sofa bed the first night, and it felt like I was sleeping on jagged rocks. None of us had slept well that first night, and it seemed that a little laziness was in order. We were up by 7, showered, breakfasted and working by 8 a.m.
The plan was to work for a couple hours, take a break, work some more, have lunch, work some more, then be done by 2 or 2:30, with the rest of the day for fishing.
Damian and I set out about 1 p.m. We crossed the Central Valley and stocked up with food in Porterville, before heading up to the cabin. Porterville, which has surprisingly hard to locate grocery stores, proclaims itself an All America City on every street sign, with banners proclaiming “100 Years of the Good Life.” Despite the charms of the All America City, we soldiered on toward the cabin, which is in Sequoia National Forest in the Sierra foothills about an hour southeast of Porterville.
As we climbed in elevation, the valley shifts to rolling grassland dotted with live oaks, a terrain very reminiscent of the train ride from Madrid to Escorial and Avila. Damian and I decided it would be perfect for raising Iberian pigs (the best jamón ibérico is raised on an exclusive diet of acorns, as you no doubt know). The road wound, and I found myself getting motion sick for the first time in years; hard to tell whether it was because I wasn’t driving, or because Damian was. As we transitioned from live oak to evergreens, a black tarantula crossed the road in front of us. An omen?
We arrived at the cabin at 7 p.m. We met up with Kent and had the first of four nightly campfires.
Wednesday, July 23
Reveille at 6:15, which we ignored. The cabin has two beds in the bedroom and a sofa bed in the main room. I took the sofa bed the first night, and it felt like I was sleeping on jagged rocks. None of us had slept well that first night, and it seemed that a little laziness was in order. We were up by 7, showered, breakfasted and working by 8 a.m.
The plan was to work for a couple hours, take a break, work some more, have lunch, work some more, then be done by 2 or 2:30, with the rest of the day for fishing.
It was a good plan; usually it’s hard to sustain writing for more than a few hours. I had two papers I was attempting to finish, though, and was convinced I could finish one of them if I just kept working, so when it came time to knock off for the day, I decided to keep going. As it got closer to evening, though, Kent was getting antsy about doing some fishing, so we walked down to the nearby creek to look around. Kent tried fishing the creek with his fly rod, declared himself disgusted and decided to drive to a spot up the road about 16 miles which he had seen on the map.
I finished the draft of my paper at about 7 p.m. that first day, then decided I had had enough. Kent returned, disappointed in the fishing up the road. We shooed some cattle away from the cabin, and stoked up the fire. I cooked dinner that night: pork chops and a sort of ersatz pisto manchego.
The Rest of the Trip
More work. We were all in a groove by this time, working heavily. Kent was absorbed in his work, and Damian was charging through the translation he’s working on at a rate of about 20 pages a day.
On the fishing front, I discovered that trout like sharp cheddar better than dry flies. We grilled the trout outdoors, and ate it with chorizo.
Good work, good food, good friends, roaring fire. What more could we ask for? We're definitely doing it again next year.
I finished the draft of my paper at about 7 p.m. that first day, then decided I had had enough. Kent returned, disappointed in the fishing up the road. We shooed some cattle away from the cabin, and stoked up the fire. I cooked dinner that night: pork chops and a sort of ersatz pisto manchego.
The Rest of the Trip
More work. We were all in a groove by this time, working heavily. Kent was absorbed in his work, and Damian was charging through the translation he’s working on at a rate of about 20 pages a day.
On the fishing front, I discovered that trout like sharp cheddar better than dry flies. We grilled the trout outdoors, and ate it with chorizo.
Good work, good food, good friends, roaring fire. What more could we ask for? We're definitely doing it again next year.
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