This War of the Hornworms couldn't come at a worse time. Although frankly any quality time spent with hornworms is probably going to suck, if my recent experience can offer us any useful lessons. I'm not exactly losing, if you want to know, but I'm not convinced that I'm winning either. Twenty-six and hopefully some eggs removed and dropped into the trash bin in the front, so far. Take that, General Hornworm. You bastard.
In any case, for the next few days, it will be up to my neighbors to further the war efforts, as I plan to cease caring come Saturday morning around, oh, seven-thirty at which point I will drop my herb-snippers to the ground, pump my fist in the air, and shove the dog into the truck with all her gear.
We're going to California, that's why. We're packing up the truck, offloading the dog with friends, and putting thoughts of hornworms and desert heat as far behind us as possible.
After we pass L.A., those cold and foggy west coast winds can take us wherever they want. We've got an air mattress, a tent, and a Coleman two-burner propane stove, so we can go just about anywhere. We're like a self-contained flying carpet. We'll be like genies sitting smugly on that carpet as it flies around, debating which Sonoma winery to pop by next and if the redwoods aren't just a marketing device after all. We might not even use the tent. (It's probably hard to set a tent up on a flying carpet.) We'll probably just bunk in the back of the truck. We've done it before. It only doesn't work when the dog, with her inexplicable and debilitating fear of bunking in (or being anywhere in the vicinity of) the truck is traveling with us. And she's not this time, so we're gold.
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