We spent three nights camping along the Pacific Coast Highway before arriving in San Francisco. Each night out there exposed us to new people and new environs and left us inspired to share them with you. Sometimes the tales have to do with food, sometimes they don't. Either way, expect one every Tuesday until we get to San Francisco. Read Parts I through V over here.
I couldn’t quite remember, but I was pretty sure Leroy was wearing the same thing that he had on the day before. Not entirely important, but it's important to know he’s that sort of fellow. He’s consistent. His pace never varies. Nor does his relaxed drawl or enthusiasm for stones, as I would find out. I stayed seated at the picnic table as Leroy waltzed over with the sun to his back. I rinsed the dishes from breakfast and put them away. There was room for Leroy to sit down, but he didn’t.
“How’d ya sleep?” he asked, standing by the fire I kept burning.
“Oh, fine. Except I woke up to what I just found out was a raccoon getting into Patrick and Carolyn’s cooler.”
“Oh yea, they’re clever critters when they’re hungry.”
He continued to stand as he went into greater detail about his life – which began in West Virgina. Florida and a bike accident happened. That forced surgery and a scar on his left forearm and left him unable to squeeze the front break on his bicycle. But it wasn’t enough to keep him from making the thirty-mile trip to San Simeon State Park a few times a year.
“I like it here," he said. "It’s quiet. There’s cell service and you can have campfires." When he said that the wind shifted and blew warm heat from my fire at us. “And there’s lots of neat stones.”
“Stones? How do you mean?”
He turned around and got ten steps closer to his campsite before he answered me. “I’ll show ya,” he said, without turning around.
He was carrying a small tin bowl when he started back towards my site. He held it steady as he walked and its clean silver edges reflected the sun’s early morning rays. When he put it down on the table in front me I saw two inches of water and a bounty of small rocks, each a different color. Some pink, others white, and a few the most peculiar of green.
“Those are jade,” he told me, "for my daughter."
Then he took one of the thinner, white stones and held it to the sun. "You can see through most stones," he told me, handing me the stone to see for myself. I did like he did and found light fighting it's way through the stone in three places. He gave me the stone and one other.
"Patrick told me there's some great trails around here," I said, all the rocks back in their bath. "Do you hike much?"
"No, not really. I like to ride."
I hiked alone; walking first over dry hills and then down a valley into deeply wooded forest. Something stung me in the nose at one point, otherwise I was alone with silence for the better part of the early afternoon.
I had two beers left from the night before and wanted to leave them with Leroy, who rather enjoyed the one I gave him before my hike.
He preferred to sit at his campsite, in a small chair with its back to the woods. With a few bits of bread laid out ten feet in front of him, chipmunks, birds, and squirrels took turns keeping Leroy company.
"I'm hittin the road," I told him, noticing all his gear (camping, cooking, cycling etc.) was neatly laid out on his picnic table. "Wanted to leave these beers with you. And thanks again for the stones."
"Oh awright, thank you."
I took three steps toward my car when he called out, "Here now," he said, holding a small black pot at the end of his right hand, "take this. I don't need it. I got two of em. Save yourself some money."
We shook hands.
I could see dust hanging in the reflection of my rearview mirror as I beeped my horn and waved goodbye to Leroy, Patrick, and Carolyn.
Friday, December 6, 2013 at 3:59PM 
Donde Dinner? aims to make your next dining experience an adventure. So every Friday we pick a restaurant and post its address for you. The catch is, that's all the information you get. No name, no type of cuisine, and no Googling. But first, here's last week's address:
