I've got a serious, horrible case of cabin fever. In order to keep the illness from spreading, I left Saturday morning to see how the spring wildflowers were coming along. Although only a hardy few species had begun blooming, the greening of the East Bay Regional Parks is moving relentlessly over hill and dale (what the hell is a "dale"? Anyone?).....and the unshorn locks of native clump grasses are asserting themselves over everything. Here's the forecast, again - it's going to be an awesome year for wildflowers.
But my attention was quickly diverted as I crossed the bridge over Alameda Creek in Sunol Regional Wilderness - the ever present red shouldered hawks started it. Then, as if tuning up for a symphonic statement, bird after bird after bird chimed in - from hawks to woodpeckers, kinglets to flickers; something was in the cold air this weekend, and I wasn't going to miss out on it for a second.
After being invited to attend St. Mary's College's clinching of the WCC title (I had a seat just behind the west basket), I went home a happy camper Saturday night, feeling as if the game were an omen and pleased in the knowledge that tomorrow would be spectacular.
Sunday didn't let me down. It was cloudless and clear enough to pick out the snowy mountaintops 200 miles away along the Sierra Crest. After a breakfast at the old Byron Inn, we drove across the street and around the back side of the Byron Airport. Red Tail Hawks, Egrets, beautiful, nesting - colored Western Bluebirds, even a Sharp Shinned Hawk, rare in that we were in grassland, not forest where they are usually found. We drove home smiling at the bounty of beauty, and after a short while at home I decided to try out a brand new section of trail that would connect me all the way from the house to Sycamore Grove Park.
The trail was a creation of the City of Livermore, whom I thank for providing the means to enable me to leave the car parked while I wheeled the 4 and a half miles to the park. Along the way were songbirds, mockingbirds, birds of prey, wild turkeys with small turklets - very curious they were, so much so that mom & dad turkey had to herd them away from me as I approached them. A kite flew over, circling, circling until something caught its eye and it went into hover mode - the quick, silent flapping that lets it lie stealthily in the air over whatever it is about to kill. It hovered for several minutes, then flew off, circling higher, effortlessly catching the breeze and gaining altitude...
The new trail was nice. I felt good, but it had been a long time since I'd taken to our civic trails. The rolling of the trail over short, paved hills did nothing but give my winter - dormant psyche a lift. I coasted through Holdener Park, then down the hill toward Sycamore Grove, passing thousands of acres of our fabled Livermore Valley grapevines while maintaining a controllable speed. Small songbirds danced alongside puddles that lined the road. They seemed to be cheering me as I passed, and I reveled in the attention.
Sycamore Grove was beautiful, just weeks before Spring springs forth. I chatted for a minute with Ranger Amy, a member of the wonderful ranger / interpretive staff at The Grove. She offered some fresh highlights of the park, and I took note to get back soon. But I felt a little ragged, even after such a short cruise. I knew I had a lot of "up" to deal with on the trail home, so Ol' Paint and I saddled and "up" we went.
The long haul back up the trail wasn't as bad as I'd anticipated. Sometimes, a trail seems easier if you talk yourself into thinking it'll be much harder than it is. I cruised up toward Arroyo Road, keeping pace with my idle thoughts; soon I had climbed enough to cross the road and enter the trail to Holdener Park again....it was on this stretch that the trek became grueling...
No, it wasn't because I was fatigued, even though somewhat out of shape. The trail was delightful; the problem was much worse - the splendor of this marvelously sunny day had allowed a longstanding block in my brain to soften. That block had held in forebearance thoughts of a song I'd hoped never to hear again, one that causes me to cringe in fear when driving, forcing me to pull over and look for one of my live Grateful Dead CD's. Here it was, though, making an unwelcome return from the 70's:
That song was none other than "Knock Three Times" by Tony Orlando and Dawn. And I was humming it! The song matched my cadence perfectly. I tried slowing, then speeding up just to throw it off and send it back to Big Hair Purgatory. Nothing worked, until, as if sent by a divine, forgiving force, a Northern Harrier flew just a few feet over my head, looking for a crow to harass. It was so close to me that I could see its beautiful eyes searching for its next lunch. As the bird flew over a rise., I heard the squak of alarm from 3 crows, flying at this moment much faster than crows should fly, with harrier in pursuit. Had I been in Vegas, I'd have known where to put my money.
The song eked its way out of my head as the breeze cooled and with it, my arms. I sped up to try to keep warm as the sun was an hour from setting, by my awkward calculation. I flew up and down, up and down over rolling trail until I reached the Marina Road section. It was now flat, and I was 2.5 miles from home. That was good.
Cruising at a modest pace, modest because by now I had realized how low my endurance level had become during a sedentary week or two, I noted the same kite I'd passed on the way out was still hunting. Kites are a favorite, hunting constantly, appearing to drift and float with the wind once in a while so we'll know they're cool. I watched as she settled over a soon - to - be unfortunate gopher or mole...eventually, the inevitable dive happened, and she flew home with her take out meal. Watching a kite hunt is a celebration of efficiency.
By now, I'd reached Concannon Drive. I was cooling rapidly as well as tiring. Caught up to Mocho Creek, around the school, across South Livermore Ave. and on the home stretch. The last 300 yards were the fastest - although I had a jacket in my pack, I decided to get home as fast as I could to get out of the breeze. Dusk had arrived, the sun was down and I was pleased to be inside. Had I been camping, I'd have cuddled in my warm down bag inside a nice, tautly erected tent and settled off to sleep.
The lesson of the weekend was simple. I need to get in shape again. That starts tomorrow night, as I'll be off to the gym. Summer and mountains will be sending me postcards soon, and I want to be ready. So here's to a weekend of flowers, birds and all the beautiful living things, people included, whose paths crossed mine. My best to all, and I'll be out there to do it again just as soon as I can. Join me, OK? We'll meet again in a few days, just you and me.
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