Dawn doesn't seem so early, when you sleep outside. The sun eases over the mountains ringing Crater Lake, sending a sliver of light down onto the sleeping bag Matt and Bernie are snuggled in. The fire has long since reduced itself to ash and coals, so Matt is understandably reluctant to leave the warmth and comfort of Bernie's embrace. Still, there's lots to see, out there. He unzips a little ways, reaching for his rucksack.

Bernie, slowly waking with the growing light, seems reluctant about that as well, not immediately letting go, and emitting a soft, half-asleep whimper of protest as extrication begins. She slides an arm from across him to stifle a yawn, and lifts her head slightly to give her surroundings a bleary survey. "...mmph. Hi." Feeling the chill of the morning air, she burrows back down into the bag's warmth a bit.

Matt smiles, kissing her hair. "Mornin'." He pulls the mapcase out of the ruck, looking at the route for the day. He measures with his thumb. "Hmm. nine hours or so. We could be in San Francisco tonight."

Bernie snuggles in close, both for warmth and to get a look at the map herself. "Mm..." she starts as she squints at it, glasses safely aside with her jacket, leaving her half-blind, "...I'll take your word for it, f'r now. Sounds good. I found a couple places there we c'n spend th' night or two, since we wan'ed t' look 'round an' all, so 'f we get in there afternoon, evenin' t'day, that oughta work out..." Another yawn, this one muffled against Matt's shoulder. "First things first though. I'm famished. Whatcha gonna do about it?" she teases.

Matt raises an eyebrow. "Well, Oi could slap ye inta lupus and send ye out fer a squirrel...."

Bernie mock-pouts, pushing her bottom lip out for a second or two before dissolving into tired giggles. "Bastard," she accuses without rancor, and leans in to less than gracefully give his neck a light kiss before she pushes up to sitting, and stretches. "Mmph. Well, I brought Pop-Tarts, at least."

Matt tickles. "Oi'll 'bastard' ye. Probably ought to spend more time in th' wolf, anyway." He sits up as well, pulling himself half out of the bag. "We may want ta stop outside San Francisco, then, unless you know somewhere in town ta sleep. It'll be after sundown before we get there."

Bernie squeaks and squirms away from the tickling, laughing again. "Prolly," she grants, running a hand through her seriously tousled curls as she glances with apparent difficulty toward her things, which appear to still be there. A hand searches out her glasses. "An' I found some places in th' city, but we could do outta it, too. Either'd work."

Matt shrugs and pulls himself all the way out of the bag, pulling a fresh pair of socks out of the ruck and pulling on his boots. "Oi'd rather stay in an uncle tonight, an' it's all the same."

Slipping out as well, Bernie eyes the lake with a mixture of consideration and dread. "There's like five diff'rent hostels," she replies, "more, act'ly, but I cut out all th' ones with ratings like 'if you're looking for a few social diseases, this place's good, an' if you're not, hey, you prolly won't survive to experience 'em anyhow.' Couple with act'ly private rooms at 'bout twenny a night, which's less'n th' many people rooms, for two people, so that's a thought." She rubs her eyes, then puts her glasses back on, still regarding the lake. "Ponderin' a bath."

Matt quickly packs the sleeping bag away, looking up at Bernie. "Want me ta decide for you?"

"Not if it means throwin' me in clothed," the Ragabash replies promptly, "I do have brothers, y'know." A quick look around showing a lack of audience, she seems to decide herself, as the shirt comes off to join the jacket, followed by her jeans.

Matt returns, all packed, to find Bernie's clothes on the bank. He ponders stealing them for a moment, but decides instead to have a smoke. Pulling out his cigarettes and lighter, he perches on a rock and watches Bernie swim.

The water can't possibly be much warmer than the night before, but Bernie manages to withstand it for quite a few minutes before making her way back up and out, and scurrying wetly toward a suitably secluded spot in the trees and bushes by the banks to dry off. That done, and therefore warmer, she emerges and heads a bit less hurriedly toward her clothes.

Matt waits until she's dressed, then offers a pop tart from the scooter. "Breakfast?"

"Yes please," she replies, accepting it, and begins nibbling at the edges while she finds a suitable perch near the Fianna. "So, anywhere in partic'lar we want stop on th' way, t'day?"

Matt scratches the rat's nest that is his hair in the morning, thinking. "Um... anythin' partic'lar ye want ta see in Sacramento?"

Bernie considers, polishing off the toaster pastry before pulling back her still slightly damp hair and pulling it forcefully into a pair of quite thick, acceptably neat braids. Ponytail holders emerge from her pocket to keep the plaits in place. "There's s'posta be a kina fort there... an' 'course there's th' state capitol, if we're feelin' touristy. Otherwise, nah, nothin' in particular I've been dyin' t' see or anythin'."

Matt nods. "Me nievver. Finkin' o' drivin' straight fer San Francisco." He glances in her direction. "Wif appropriate leg-stretchin' stops."

Bernie nods back, braids swinging slightly. "Sounds a'ight. An' if we pass anythin' int'restin', we'll jus' stop an' stretch our legs there a li'l, yeah?" A small escaped curl, one of the incorrigible ones, gets pushed fruitlessly behind her ear as it refuses to remain in the plait.

Matt nods. They finish packing quickly, and are on the road out of the park an hour or so after dawn. A couple hours later, they stop for breakfast in Weed, California, because the name of the place makes Matt laugh uncontrollably. After that, more highway.

Bernie finds the name rather funny herself, and muses on the source through much of the meal. She manages to amuse the surprisingly good-natured waitress, considering how early it is to be waiting on silly kids laughing at your town's name, by giving the parsley that comes on the side of her plate considerable scrutiny, then wrapping it in a napkin and stashing it in her pocket with her lighter with an exaggerated lack of subtlety. As they continue down the road, she leans as close a possible quite frequently to attempt comment on towns or other items of interest they pass, among other utterly random things.

Matt pulls over and stops fairly frequently, finding a huge flea market around lunchtime, near Redding. There is some cool Stuff here, and Bernie manages to talk Matt into spending about $20. Toward dusk, Matt comments "We probably won't make San Francisco, but we're close ta Napa. Wine country, if I understand roight."

"Yup," Bernie confirms, "...not that they're gonna let us drink any of it. Bein' unnerage an' all." Not, of course, that that's likely to present an immense obstacle if they decide to really put their minds to it. "'sposta be really pretty, too."

Matt shrugs, more felt than seen on the speeding (relative to walking) scooter. "Sounds good ta me. If there's not a hostel, we can do what we did last night. Find a park, whotever."

Bernie nods, felt only because her head's tilted in to talk better. "Works for me," she declares, and starts watching the scenery more closely, for promising places to stay the night. "Hey, wait, there!" she exclaims, as they pass through a small stretch of almost unpopulated land, and gestures toward a small road off labeled simply "Campground," "...that might do? Prolly no beds though."

Matt pulls off, following the signs to an old K.O.A. campground, battered and weathered, but still going since the late fifties. An elderly attendant, probably here from the beginning, takes Matt's seven dollars and lets them in to park beside a fairly nice prepared camp area. Matt gets off the bike and unfolds a big pice of tarp and a coil of rope. Soon they have a lean-to to spread the sleeping bag under. "Thanks, Da." Matt mutters to himself, moving their bags under the shelter.

Bernie helps as best she can, despite that meaning, for a reasonable portion of the time, just staying out of the way. She disappears for ten minutes or so of that to round up some suitable firewood, and returns with an acceptable load, which she sets aside to help with the bags. "Looks lovely," she remarks, grinning, "reg'lar Taj Mahal."

Matt snorts. "Keeps th' rain off. That it'll do. Oh, good. Ye found some wood." A fire is prepared, and with the exception of the skinny dipping, things proceed much like the night before. The fire for warmth, and snuggling in the sleeping bag.

Since she's less tired from the day's journey than the one before, Bernie's snuggling starts out rather more energetic tonight before weariness sets in and brings it back to the usual sleep-appropriate level. Burying a yawn against his chest, she edges in, murmuring a good night.

Matt isn't averse to making out for a while (this is his vacation, after all), but the roadweariness that's been building up all day eventually gets to him. Drawing Bernie into him, he too mutters a good night, zips up the sleeping bag, and closes his eyes.