Caves to Cold Beer

At the county level, Kentucky has some Talibanesque laws around one's ability to purchase alcohol. This in a state that produces 97% of the world's bourbon.  The practical result of these laws are that the problem drinkers, rather than drunk walk to party store down the street, are drunk driving across the county to get to a place where they can buy their hooch.  There's actually research to support the idea that county specific prohibition reduces highway safety. 

Now, the Dharmaspoon Guy is not a heavy drinker by any means. But when he's on vacation, he wants to have a nice cold one at the end of the day. At this point in the trip, he was unable to do so...and after all of the ticks he removed from EVERYONE and EVERYTHING, he really needed one. 

Luckily, on the third day of our trip, we were leaving the place of no beer and plenty of ticks and caves and ponies and dinosaurs behind us as we headed to Georgia.

With Dharmaspoon Gal at the wheel, we took off in earnest to Cordele. She always drives. I always park. That's the division of labor we agreed to. Driving keeps her awake (and safer, for those who have driven with me) and the backing up the trailer is this inborn skill that I discovered I had when we got the thing.

The day was a long one. And not just because of mileage. We had to drive through Nashville at rush-hour, 

make a detour around a sinkhole that devoured a section of the Interstate, sit in construction at the Tennessee/Georgia border, and drive around Atlanta just to get at our destination, a former Pecan plantation next to an abandoned truck stop (which I assure you was much more peaceful and scenic than it sounds.)

We were ecstatic to discover that the campground store carried some very well-deserved ice cold beers, which we thoroughly enjoyed:

We settled down early in the evening, in preparation for the push into Florida the next day...