Mile upon monochromatic mile passes, as you leave Stockton in your rear-view mirror and head east on Highway 4.
Little distracts the eye from the bleached brown foothills studded with too few oak trees. The mind, lulled and dulled by such sameness, seeks any landscape alteration, any sensory stimulation. Barring that, how about at least better radio reception?
Ahead, about 40 miles down this lonesome road, there it is.
Rising in the heat like a mirage, up sprouts what looks to be a self-contained, newly formed town so shiny, so fresh scrubbed and well manicured that you do a double take. The car, seemingly of its own accord, takes the turnoff at the handsome cut-granite sign that reads "Copperopolis."
This simply cannot be Copperopolis, the old mining town named for the semiprecious mineral mined in the mid-1800s, with a brief reprise during World War II.
Where's the history? Where's the funky gold- country vibe – the rusting artifacts and colorful characters?
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