[This is not a retro, just a late write-up, I promise. It occurred the Thursday after my Level Zero candidacy task. Pics may come later, if I get them]

The Oneida County Welsh Festival.

My father had been planning this trip for AGES, and was absolutely stoked that I wanted to go along with him; a number of years ago I got my family re-interesting in our culture when I had to do a school project and immediately found out that I had the awesomest heritage ever: I'm Welsh. Not "My family was part of the Briton invasion after the establishment of Londonium and we became Welsh", no I can trace most of my bloodline back before recorded record, and they were Welsh.

"Why is it so awesome?", I presume you're asking, along with "What the hell does this have to do with a pilgrimage?". I'll answer the first now, and the second shortly. I'm not racist, I love everyone equally - which is to say that I generally can't stand them, but each group has a handful to ante up that I find awesome - but there's something kind of cool about being from the land of dragons and bards, where the Arthur myth established itself, and where the relay was invented (naturally it was a kinetic relay, but still).

Second answer: To celebrate our heritage, and to get closer to my dad and my little sister, we decided that trekking from our lovely berg of Citrus Heights, CA to Malad, ID (where the Annual Oneida County Welsh Festival is held) was in order. Taken as a whole, it was a fun trip; I'd just gotten my new job the DAY BEFORE we left, so the entire time we were out and tripping, I was nervous about that, but like I said: fun.

Day One: We leave Citrus Heights later in the morning than planned. Lee (My sister) got out of cheerleading practice late and hadn't packed the night before. I ought to have been hungover, but as you read above, I'm Welsh, which means my liver is essentially carbon-fiber, so the drinks I'd had with my new boss were nothing. [Note: I don't drink much, but when your future boss challenges your fortitude and ability to keep down your drinks, you can't step down]. I finish packing while waiting, then sit in my front yard, under my favorite tree. After hopping in the car with them, we snag a variety of ales from the local BevMo, pack them in the trunk with a fairly expensive bottle of scotch, and head out. Nothing happens for the rest of the day, except that we range across Nevada, then jaunt into Utah, where they name all streets based on a seemingly arbitrary number system. We spend an hour in Ogden searching for my counsin's house to crash.

Day Two: Made it to Shawn's (the cousin) just after midnight, we get in and he's watching some chick-flick by himself. I've screamed at SO MANY passing cars about the damn numbering system (1900 st, 1145 st, 1950 st, then 2000 st), which is their fault because THEY HAVEN'T HUNTED DOWN AND KILLED THE IDIOT WHO INVENTED IT. My current arch-nemesis at this this point in the trip is the City Planner of Ogden, Utah. His head, I vowed, would be mine before the trip was out (I failed at this vow, but I did have my uncle pass him an angry note I scribbled down). We pass out at Sean's, me grumbling angrily in my sleep, my dad snoring like a herd of rhythmically stampeding buffalo, and my sister throwing a fit because her phone died (as happens when you text on it every 3 seconds - not exaggerating).

I wake up the next morning to the sound of a diesel engine being started (slept in the car, as I've got a thing about sleeping in strange places) and staggered into the house, glaring at the neighbor and their big effing truck, still sad that I lacked the power cord to my beloved laptop, but having forgotten momentarily about the street numbering thing. I walk into the house as Shawn is giving my dad directions to the proper highway for the skip up to Malad, as he's uttering the phrase "go up to 2100, past 2350, but not to 2200, and get on the freeway north". I nearly screamed.

We ventured up to Malad (which took a pleasant 2 hours compared to the day before's 13 hour trip), where I was abruptly reminded that they have both the highest number of Welsh descendants per capita, and one of the highest percent Mormons per capita - love'm to death (have a whole family of them), but they kill a party right fast. A welsh festival, my friends, is supposed to be a grand celebration with drinking and song and large chunks of meat being roasted over an open flame by men who have been awake for days, and are painted with the blood of romans. NOT a small potluck outside of a church, resembling the worlds lamest Ren-Faire and lacking even the slightest drop of something alcoholic (once again, don't drink much, but it's the principle of the matter). I'm sure the first aid kit even had non-alcoholic alcohol pads.

After attending a lecture on King Arthur, given by an old lady with no grasp on cymreau syllables, eating questionable meat and mashed potatoes (both of which tasted vaguely lemony) and exploring the booths selling tie clips and bird houses, we decided it was time to leave the travesty that was the Oneida County Welsh Festival.

The rest of the trip: We spent the rest of the 5 days ranging around Idaho, with a short return to Ogden, UT to visit my grandmother's grave and pass off aforementioned note (shortly: "Learn to count sequentiall; I'm amazed that you managed to get a job on city council with your mathematical prowess, much less something more in your realm, like working a grill at McDonalds. Though maybe you did and kept burning the hamburgers as you turned the grill up to 375 from 400."), then back up to Idaho for more ranging, making of fruit salads, and playing with all sorts of nifty guns (incl. an M-4 with silencer, custom '30-06, old .45 ACP revolers and a lever-action black powder rifle). Didn't get to shoot anything (like the Ogden City Planner), but the whole thing taken together was fun.

In the end: Made it home, through 4 sandstorms, gained an incurable hatred for non-ordinal numbers, and was sorely disappointed. Have a standing invite for a free stay for a summer in Idaho, if I'll do all the cooking at my aunt's house, which isn't disagreeable, but I don't know if I'll take her up on it.