I just realized that you are all probably hanging onto the very edges of your seats waiting for me to tell you about the exciting Thanksgiving I had. I'm sorry to have taken so long to provide a recap. I've been traveling a little more again, which is nice for me, and I also have been forgetting things more often, which is probably not due to my steadily increasing age but rather to my what was I talking about again?

As many of you know, when we moved to the west coast, we started a new tradition of visiting places here that are named after places back there. The first year was a trip to Washington. Last year was a trip to Alleghany. This year, the Brunette is in Africa, so I let myself drive a little farther away to find a properly named place. I drove all the way to El Dorado County. (Yes, I was humming the Eagles song the entire time.)

El Dorado isn't an eastern name of course. But I've spent many nights in a place called this:

An interesting thing about going to a small town on Thanksgiving is that it means the place is usually deserted. It's like going to some ghost town that has only very recently been abandoned.

I don't know why, but I find the parking scheme in Georgetown to be fascinating. Of course I've seen parking in the center before, but usually with a raised median, never just against a double line like this. I guess it means that neither side gets the advantage of the parking.

Apparently, Georgetown was the site of a Civil War morgue. I didn't realize there was any fighting out this way back then.

I really liked some of the old machinery sitting around, too.

I saw a sign for a place just outside Georgetown.

How could I not check that out? I followed Volcanoville Road for a long, long time until it just sort of petered out. There wasn't much in the way of volcanic activity. There were a lot of signs showing concern about littering. And finally, there was this lonely desk:

Very-long-time readers from Maryland will understand that when I saw that I was driving on this road, I had to keep going to see where it went:

Not only have I lived in several places along Maryland's 193, but my paternal grandparents lived just off of it as well, though in a different county. Granddad built that big church at the intersection of 193 and 29. So, this Thanksgiving got a double-dip of nostalgia.

This year's trip completed the weather trifecta: first year was sunny, last year was snowy, and this year was full of rain and fog.

I wound up doing a big loop back down to Route 49 and came back through a place I like to call Steve McQueen:

And I stopped for a quick hike under the Foresthill Bridge, California's tallest.

Next time, I'll have to bring along my bike. There seem to be nice paths on both sides of the river. When it's not so foggy, getting under the bridge might give a pretty good view.

So, there you have it, my 2011 American Thanksgiving adventure on the other side of the American River. How was your Thanksgiving?

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