My last article that appeared in this space titled The Last Corner, purposely omitted many details of my California adventure for a couple of reasons; reader boredom was a factor of course but another reason was that there were a few memories of that trip I'd just as soon forget. However, I began to feel remorse and not a little guilt for my failure to pass on to you, my fellow photographers, some hard-earned lessons so that you may learn from my mistakes.

A few of my problems with motels were described in Motels From Hell, an article that was published by PhotoMigrations in September of 2003 but after my last road trip, it was clear that an update was in order. As I explained in The Last Corner, making reservations via the Internet for one's photo journey is simple, easy, and quite convenient. But there are some pitfalls to watch for.

Several websites offer a search and booking service for motels wherever your destination happens to be. Just enter the name of the city, your price range, the hotel name if you have a preference, and Shazaam! Magically, several hotels appear with location, amenities, and often, a traveler rating. Simply click on one that looks good, pick your days, and a big icon jumps up that says "Book It". Enter the number from your tattered credit card and you're in. What could be easier?

Well hold on there Mr. Road Warrior, that convenience has a cost. Each website invariably boasts as finding the lowest room price available. Here's your first tip of the day-they lie. In fact, I found that by calling the inn directly, I often got lower prices than any travel service could come up with. And here's your next tip-they debit your credit card immediately, long before you actually use the room. Of course, I can't say that all the agencies do this, but the one I used checked my credit rating, had my money, and knew my travel route before I could push away from the keyboard.

As some of you may know, and as the Mrs. will be glad to tell you, I don't usually book the most expensive motels when I'm on a photo shoot for the simple reason I don't spend a lot of time in the room. I'm out of there before first light and come back when the viewfinder turns black. A reasonably good bed, a shower, and maybe a TV to watch the last half of Monday Night Football is about all I need. However, I have noticed that my traveling companion (the Mrs.) sometimes tends to complain a bit after a few days in these fleabags...I mean economy motels. This was exactly what I had in mind when I searched for lodging somewhere near Yosemite National Park. Someplace slightly luxurious, just for her, a sort of reward, a thank-you, a balancing of the good and the bad.

I found what looked like the perfect place; a lodge, nestled in the pines, quiet, with wonderful views. Photos on the site showed happy guests sitting around a roaring fire, sipping wine, maybe singing old campground songs, others enjoying a magnificent sunset while relaxing on their private deck. An elegant looking restaurant (with tablecloths) suggesting mouth-watering gourmet meals was also displayed.

Hang the cost. The little woman deserved it. I called them up.

"We have both our original cabins and our new cabins available. Which would you prefer Sir?" said the pleasing female voice on the other end.

"How much?" She told me. I swallowed...hard. "You know, I think an original cabin would be fine for us. Go ahead and book it."

"That's great. Now sir, we will debit your card for half the amount 60 days before arrival and the full amount 30 days before arrival. There will be no refunds."

I swallowed again. "Uh, ok."

Our first day at Yosemite was breathtaking-standing in the footprints of Ansel Adams, seeing El Capitan and Half Dome for the first time, watching the last rays of light filter down through Yosemite Valley. What a day! But tiring. I was looking forward to that camp fire and something to cut the dust from my throat. Maybe they even had a hot tub.

Thanks to my Clark Griswold planning and several Google maps, we had no trouble finding the right turnoff and headed to the lodge. The road conditions began to deteriorate, going from blacktop to gravel to two tracks. It was about that same time we noticed large herds of free ranging cattle grazing among the trees, staring at us...as only cows can do.

After five or six miles of 4-wheel drive country, we spotted some lights in the distance. We found the office easy enough, a dimly lit building made of logs with a surly looking young man at the counter. I did not hear any sing-a-longs, see any roaring campfires, or anything that even resembled a hot tub. Was this the beautiful lodge I saw on the Internet? It was.

After signing the usual forms and subjecting the credit card to even more abuse, I asked where the ice machine was. After the journey through the forest of death, I needed something to calm the nerves.

"We have a general store right over there. Three dollars a bag. What do you need ice for anyway?" Clearly this young man had been living in the woods too long.

With key in hand, we hauled ourselves back to the rental car and eased our way through the ruts until the headlights illuminated a stake in the ground; #7 PARKING. Wait! There must be some mistake. Something had gone horribly wrong. It was small, very small. My dog has bigger quarters than this. For starters, the cabin had a tree, yes a tree, blocking half the stairway, making the simple task of getting to the door while carrying a couple suitcases into an exercise of skill and agility. One could not help but notice the yellow moss growing from the stair railing all the way up to a small porch. On opening the door and looking inside, the reason for the NO REFUND policy suddenly became crystal clear. The room (cubicle would be a better name) had no phone, no TV, no microwave, no ice bucket, no cups, a bed that swayed in the middle like an old horse, no reading lamp, no place to set a suitcase except beside the bed thereby blocking access to said bed, no radio, and no clock. The floor sagged almost as bad as the bed and squeaked as if termites had been living there since Ansel came through. There was a little mini-fridge that sat on the floor, blocking entrance to a tiny closet making both nearly impossible to use. The Mrs. was silent, immobile, seemingly in shock.

I LOVED IT!!! (Except the part about no free ice.)

It was cold that night, inside as well as out. And it remained so. That is until the Mrs. got to San Francisco where she booked a suite...in a high-rise...with a view...with room service.

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