I’ve always believed the best trips start with a half‑baked plan, a full tank of gas, and at least one vehicle that probably shouldn’t be trusted on mountain roads. For this one, it was my friend’s old Isuzu Rodeo—faded paint, stubborn windows, and the kind of suspension that makes you feel every pebble on Highway 4. But that SUV carried us for eight days from San Diego to Murphys, CA and back again, loaded with REI tents, a couple of 12‑gauge shotguns, and a group of friends who thrive on questionable decisions and good stories.
The Drive North: Windows Down, Dust Everywhere
We left San Diego before sunrise, the Rodeo humming like it was clearing its throat after years of silence. I rode in the backseat surrounded by coolers, sleeping bags, and a Yeti stuffed with enough frozen steaks to survive a minor apocalypse. The air smelled like desert sage as we climbed north, and by the time we reached the foothills near Murphys, the SUV looked like it had been dipped in a layer of Sierra dust.
Murphys is one of those Gold Country towns that feels like it’s been waiting for you—pine‑lined roads, cold creeks, and campgrounds tucked between granite and oak. We set up our tents under a canopy of stars so bright they felt close enough to touch.
Campfire Chili… Straight Into the Fire
On our second night, Lupe decided she was going to “elevate” our camp dinner with a big pot of chili. She’d been bragging about this recipe since we left San Diego, so we were all hovering around the fire pit like hungry raccoons.
She lifted the pot to give it a stir, misjudged the angle, and in one dramatic, slow‑motion moment, the entire pot slipped from her hands and dumped straight into the flames. Honestly, it just one of those campfire mistakes that don’t happen when your in a cabin, but outdoors — you never know.
The fire hissed, sputtered, and then—honestly—smelled incredible. Smoky chili steam drifted through the campsite like some kind of accidental gourmet incense.
We all froze. Lupe looked horrified. Then someone said, “Well… good thing we brought steaks,” and the whole group dissolved into laughter.
We fished the pot out with a stick, mourned the loss, and threw ribeyes on the grate. The chili‑scented campfire became the running joke of the trip.
Skeet Shooting in the Sierra Foothills
The next morning we headed out to a clearing just outside town for skeet shooting. I love being outdoors, and I love trying new things, but I’ll be the first to admit: my clay game was embarrassingly off.
Even on singles, I could barely nick them. Everyone else was calling hits left and right, and there I was, sending birdshot into the ether like I was trying to scare clouds.
“Pull!”
Miss.
“Pull!”
Miss.
“Pull!”
…“Sara, are you even aiming?”
I was. I swear I was. My shoulder was sore, my pride was bruised, and the only thing I successfully hit was a patch of dirt that never saw it coming. But honestly? I loved every second of it. There’s something grounding about being outside with friends, laughing at yourself, and letting the echo of a shotgun roll across the hills.
The Long Ride Back & A Much‑Needed Cleanup
By the time we packed up camp and pointed the Rodeo south again, the SUV looked like it had survived a dust storm, a food fight, and possibly a minor explosion. The floor mats were coated in red dirt, the backseat smelled like campfire and gun oil, and someone had spilled trail mix into every crevice known to man.
Back in San Diego, my friend booked Pacific Detail Service, a mobile auto detailer, and I swear they performed a miracle. They showed up on time, worked faster than I expected, and somehow restored that old Isuzu to a spotless shine. I still don’t understand how they got the dust out of the vents. Or the glitter. (We still don’t know where the glitter came from.)
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Eight Days, Countless Laughs, and a Trip I’d Do Again Tomorrow
When I think back on that trip, it’s not the miles or the mishaps that stand out—it’s the feeling of being fully alive. The kind of adventure where you fall asleep smelling like pine smoke and wake up to cold mountain air. Where spilled chili becomes a legend. Where missed clays turn into inside jokes. Where an old SUV becomes the heart of the story.
And honestly?
I’d pack up that dusty Rodeo again in a heartbeat.
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