A boysenberry shake for the road, and it was onto Modesto, where I hooked a right and headed eastward and up the 49, along the old Gold Rush trail, into the Sierra foothills. In Coulterville, the combination antiques shop/bed & breakfast across from the Hotel Jeffrey, which boasts the oldest operating saloon in California (est. 1851), advertised "cold sarsaparilla," but I found the proprietress fast asleep in her chair and was loathe to wake her up. Instead, me and my little white Ford wound ourselves up the scruffy high dessert bends into golden waves of ranch land, cattle lazing in the arroyos, and on up into more shaggy high bends, lakes and reservoirs here and there, pine trees closing in on us. In Jackson, the temperature was 101 degrees Fahrenheit. In Pine Grove, California, I caught a late lunch at the pint-sized 88 Giant Burgers To Go. The name was not a case of false advertising. A half-pounder, squashed and then charred on the flat-top, was laid on a discus-sized bun with two, maybe three, slices of American cheese, raw onions, lettuce, tomato, mayo, and mustard. I could have swum in the bag containing the "small" order of fries.