My right hand, the one used in a former life for breaking boards, begins to hurt after a week of seaside proximity. So, in spite of the perfect weather, we headed inland. It was dark when we dropped into 4WD low, crawled up the hill to settle on the ridge.
In the morning we hiked down and found the plaque telling about how the resort, a going concern in 1915, catered, unlike the other, plebian places that served truckers, to the motor stage.
Is there correlation between discarded Bud Light (Rednecks counting calories!) cans and the defacement of signs?