A foothill holiday
Sunday, July 13, 2008




Susan and I just returned from a five-day foothill vacation full of good times and great food. We drove to one of our most favorite destinations in California – Nevada City, the most exciting, vibrant, lively, well-organized little village in the Sierras. As usual we took a room at the expansive Northern Queen Inn.
Downtown Nevada City is small. It’s only a few blocks long, easy to walk, and tourist friendly. Nearly every store is either a restaurant, bar, nightclub, boutique, antique shop, bookstore, or novelty shop. Our walks through town resembled a sewing machine needle – into a store, out, down, into the next store, out, down, into the next store, and so on.
Nevada City has been a vacation destination of ours since the 1980s. We’ve either taken a room at the Northern Queen, or pitched a tent six miles north of town at the Yuba River Recreation Area.
Even when camping, we would generally drive into town for dinner. The food is that good. I thought we had visited all of the 19 restaurants in town, but this trip, on our first night, July 3rd, we were sitting at Cooper’s Ale Works (Leon Russell will be there on 14th) and met George and Christine Foster. George is the city treasurer; Christine was vice-mayor and is now a realtor. We asked their opinion of the best restaurant. They said, “The New Moon.” I confessed that I’d never heard of it. They pointed up the street. “It’s two blocks from here.”
“Up there?” I asked, pointing beyond the intersection where we usually turn when walking. He nodded. “Ha. I’ve never been up there. I thought it was residential.”
“Well,” George smiled. “It’s called Commercial Street, Steve. There are several restaurants up there.”
“Duh.” It was a 20-year blind spot. We walked up there and found three restaurants, Ike’s Corner Café, Sopa Thai, and the New Moon, where I ate the best rib-eye steak in my life.
Early on the 4th we carried folding chairs to Broad Street for the big parade. The town was packed. The 20-piece Nevada County Concert Band set up across from us and opened with ABBA. The parade ran for several hours with firemen, marching bands, and business floats from Nevada City, Grass Valley, and Washington. George and Christine were 7th in the parade, riding by in a horse-drawn white carriage. They waved at us in the crowd and asked how we enjoyed our meal. I rubbed my belly and smiled in response.
That night we went dancing with the 20-somethings at the Chief Crazy Horse Inn and lasted until 1 a.m. One day I may dedicate a whole column to an unusual young man we met there that evening. He danced alone and with everyone, cycling through a series of gestures, pantomimes, and facial contortions. Susan called him a “Jim Carrey.” I confessed a fear that I would not be able to describe him clearly, that his personality and quirky behavior exceeded my talents. I’ll say no more.
On July 5th, our 23rd anniversary, our kids and grandkids drove up from Sacramento and we spent 8 hours swimming and sunning on the Yuba River. That was the highlight of the trip. The Yuba hosts at least 30 miles of great swimming holes, the remnants of gold miners’ dredging efforts. We chose a secret spot frequented by locals that took me 10 years to discover. It’s perfect for children with many shallows and climbing rocks.
They spent the night with us. Some things to know about the marvelous Northern Queen Inn. They have 86 rooms, eight cabins, eight chalets, and own 33 acres. They run a narrow-gauge train on a 90-minute ride that visits historic mining country and a Chinese cemetery called Village in the Clouds. They have a special weekly run where the train gets robbed by costumed outlaws who kidnap everyone and take them to dinner in the forest. In the winter they have a Santa run.
We left on Sunday and drove Highway 49 south for many miles. We had no plans except to explore and find a room at sundown. We discovered Sierra Knolls Winery, isolated on a mountain top, powered by solar panels. We drove through Plymouth, Drytown, and Amador City. At sunset we arrived in Sutter Creek, the Jewel of the Mother Lode. We took a room at a quaint Bed and Breakfast owned by an 87-year-old woman and Iris, her deaf, black cat. Our bed hung from the ceiling on chains.
We ate late-night apple cobblers at the Ice Cream Emporium. We were the only customers. The animated proprietor, Stevens Price, wore a rumpled, red and white Seuss top hat and a tie. While we ate, he put a roll of “Ain’t She Sweet” into his player piano and sang us a song, dancing about with his broom. I joined in. Susan sat flushed and happy while we pointed to her during the motif. “Ain’t she nice.”