Hwy. 120, Black Ice

They don't call them the Sierras for nothing. At first, the road was dry, and the sun provided a bit of warmth.

Before long, however, the sun, and with it, all sensation in my fingers, began to disappear...

My loyal beastie was kind enough to warn me of the possibility of ice. Her temperature reading, however, proved
overly optimistic.

Every ten miles or so, I'd pull to the side of the road and warm my hands on the idling tailpipes.

And snap a photo or two...

The manifest treachery of black ice, set in a stunning, snow-flocked landscape. When I finally reached the park entrance,
I was refused entry by two snotty female rangers due to snow chain requirements. They looked at me as if I had the plague,
then forbid me the last twenty miles into Yosemite Valley. Very pissed off, very cold, and very tired, I was forced to slog
back to Big Oak Flat, where I luckily found the Berkshire Inn.

The Innkeeper, Kevin, took his time coming to the front desk, but there was a fire going, and the 49er's game
was on. I put my boots by the fire and cozied up to the stove. Heavenly!

At last, Kevin appeared. I had him order me a pizza and a bottle of wine, which I polished off in no time. Warm and
well fed, I barely made halftime before crawling off to bed.