[A note from Buck: For all the readers, I apologize. This is the worst piece of bad dad humor this guy’s ever written, and you would be wise to stop reading right now, end any subscription you have and burn your device.  This author is disowned by me, the Fiddletown Preservation Society, the Sierra Club, the John Muir Association, National and State Local Parks,…., well, you get the idea. So, please, do NOT encourage him any further.]

Yes, we’re on our 24^th trip to Northern California. Our first stop was in Fiddletown, California, where we were visiting my cousin for a surprise birthday party (her reaction when she saw me was surprised, and not in a good way. Who can blame her?)

What this means for you, deer reader, is this….. Travel Guide Time!!!!  If you thought my guide to South Carolina was bad, just wait – I can do worse (See Your-Handy-Travel-Guide-To-North-Myrtle-Beach if you dare).

For those that do not know (face it, that is everyone that does not live in the gold country), Fiddletown is located in Amador County. It is in the Fiddle-Sticks, such as it were.  When we hear Johnny Cash sing “I’m going to Jackson” around here, we mean the local market 30 minutes away. We know, because we did that to retrieve a bag of ice and a mylar balloon shaped like the number 6 (but not 7 – that is simply unacceptable now). Yep, it’s that kind of remote. Fortunately, for excitement Folsom Prison is not far away (Johnny Cash is absolutely rolling in his grave for this one.)

You see, Fiddletown boasts a huge population of 187 as of 2023 (thanks, Siri).  We’re not talking about a major metropolis here. The same can be said of the gold country; we passed dozens of towns we never herd of (no, that is not a misspelling), all with populations of 1000 or less.

So, why stay in Fiddletown?  Well, the town has the world’s largest fiddle. I kid you not. It is located on top of the Fiddletown Community Center. To play this instrument you must quite literally be the Fiddler On The Roof (yes, they are not playing around; they play second fiddle to no one).

Did I say wildlife?  Yep, we were warned about Lions and Country Bears, but no tigers, squirrels, skunks or other equally vicious wildlife. We never saw any of these creatures (except Zeb Zoober; we shared some honey at the local brewery), which is good. But we did have a meet and greet with local wildlife ambassador Buck, who was kind enough to visit our home.

Buck looked fit as a fiddle. We saw him in our front yard one morning, and he was not fiddling around.  Turns out he was a real deer, so we invited him in for coffee and donuts.  We had a nice chat:

We certainly couldn’t pass the buck. “My deer, why don’t you come on in for some coffee?  Cream? Sugar?” we asked.

“Don’t mind if I do. Cream’s fine” Buck responded.

“Well, that’s great.  We’re so glad that the Buck stopped here,” I said.

“Like I’ve never heard THAT one before,” he responded doe-lefully. Buck shot a glance at my wife, who, automatically and without thinking, rolled her eyes. It’s a Pavlovian reaction now, and who can blame her?

Quickly she changed the subject. “What do you think of our house?” she asked. 

“It’s nice, but I use antlers in all of my decorating,” he responded. Leaning back, he asked “So what brings you here?”

“We’re here for my cousin’s birthday party in Somerset.  The family just bought a big spread out that way. Lots of grass, and they dug a big hole for their pool.”

Buck ruminated on this for a while. “Did they use a big Cat to dig?”

“No, just a little BobCat.”

“That figures.  Listen, if they need to graze the field I know a guy.”

“Great, what’s his name?”

“John Deere,” Buck said. “Just a friend up there. I herd he was really good though.  Listen, I hate to run, but I gotta go meet up. Anything I can do?”

“Well, we’re almost out of coffee – where can we get some more?”

“Oh, down near Jackson there’s a place called the Bottomless Cup. Best coffee up here, but I gotta warn you they are all wearing bikinis. They call it the B-Cup for short. Just ask for Bambi – she’s sort-of the black sheep in our family.”  [Sidenote – yes, Disney will sue me over that one.]

He rambled off into the mountains, not to be seen again. That’s when I realized he played us like a fiddle – Bambi never worked there. We actually saw her in Sebastopol.

OK, I’ll admit that, like a deer grazing, I rambled on a bit with that one. BUT – you read it, so it’s on you.

The other major takeaway from our trip was how popular I am. There is a first time for everything after all. We passed “Larrys Tree Service”, “Larry’s Crane Service” (no, I won’t make fowl jokes about cranes), and, of all things “Larry the Goat”.

No, not the Greatest. You all know better than that. But an actual Meat Goat that I hope someday to meet.

One of my cousin’s local friends (who told us about the B-Cup), apparently keeps “meat goats”.  She said the actual breed, but all I am capable of remembering is “Meat Goat”.  She raises them and apparently became very fond of one that she named Larry.  Apparently, he will follow her around.  My wife nodded in agreement.  She has trained me well and knows it.

One actually useful travel tip (again, a first for me), Amador County is becoming a very big wine region. That meant that we went to Amador Brewing. You will be driving country roads for a long time, but then you get to see stuff like:

• Drytown: Population 96, all of whom work at Drytown Cellars.  A wine shop in a dry town seems like they might be a little confused.
• Sutter Creek – Yes, there is a creek. It is a very nice creek. And there is a winery. With a lot of antique shops for the wine tourists, all with very nice stuff. And a local beat cop (probably Larry the Beat Cop) that smiles and says hello to everyone.  Try finding THAT in LA.
• Plymouth – Another “large” town, but I’d guess there is a Buick somewhere nearby.

So, a great trip. A short and sweet trip to Gold Country. Not a bad way to spend a buck fiddling around.