A lovely Saturday after a long and very busy week had me itchin' to hit the road. Although that's an old, overused expression, I tend to hit the road more than in a cliche sense. Saturday was not an exception - at 8 AM I had not picked a compass heading, tending this time of year to head north or east. I was open to suggestions, and Gina had a good one.
"Why don't you make a run to The Olive Pit?" It was more an invitation - The Olive Pit is a small specialty store in Corning, CA, just a few miles south of Red Bluff on Interstate 5. We make a semi - annual pilgrimage there for olives of all descriptions - cheese stuffed, garlic stuffed, rutabage stuffed (OK, I wanted to see if you were paying attention)....olives, trail mix, olive oil, some of the best peanut brittle, which is a particular weakness; each visit I roll through the doors as a warrior, taking no prisoners as I fill a cart with goodies. Our young houseguest and I are both savage olive fiends, and she has found and neutralized my stash. This is a drive that had to be made.
Off I went by 9:30 or so. It's not a difficult drive - I 80 to I 505 in Vacaville and onto I 5 at the metropolis of Dunnigan, home of Bill & Kathy's restaurant. Highway Five is an easy drive, and one can be entertained by looking west at the mountain ranges of Mendocino County or the many wildlife refuges just east of the freeway. Traffic is light, especially on a Saturday. I made it to The Olive Pit by noon. By 12:30 the shelves had been plundered, and $120 later I had enough olives to satisfy even the most insatiable olivephile (is that a word?).
But I wasn't happy. Yes, I got a chance to get out and clear the work week from my consciousness. But I detest out - and - back drives, strolls, trips of any kind. This seemed a good day to make a long, convoluted loop of a drive. As I packed everything into the car, I knew it was early enough to drive almost everywhere and still get home before dark. Knowing the neighborhood as I do, I realized the short drive north to Red Bluff would hook me up to Highway 36 and east to Lassen Volcanic National Park, then return through the little burgs of Chester, Greenville and Belden. These are places I knew intimately, where I feel as if I were home. I spent many a summer vacation in these parts. So what a way to create a nice drive! I didn't ponder the negatives - there were none as my time was concerned, and Gina knew I wanted to get away for a long drive. I called to let her know that I'd be awhile and got a resounding "go for it!" from her. I peered into the clouds surrounding the place in the sky where 10,300 foot Mt. Lassen would be, and the clouds enveloping her summit would lead me into her arms.
Only minutes after turning onto 36 in Red Bluff, the rain started. That was good, as the birds in my neighborhood had made a statement on the hood, trunk and roof of my Corolla. The rain was light but steady. I passed the elevation markers - 1000 feet, 2000 feet....tiny former stage stops which were now sleepy places if one needed gas or something to drink - Payne's Creek and Mineral for example. Like many small settlements, these had begun life as stops for stagecoaches and, later on, buses. These days only the occasional passerby stops for anything, especially on a cool, wet spring day. As I made it past 4000 feet, the tiny drops of water drifted more randomly through the air - snow! Tiny, non - sticking flakes pattered on my windshield. Nothing stuck, as they melted off as quickly as it hit the car. The temp had dropped to 35 degrees (from 70 at Red Bluff) and I plowed on, intrgued by this spate of good luck in bad weather.
Lassen Park was only open to the Visitor Center on the south, so I motored on and into Chester a short piece later. I felt great, which doesn't always happen on my long drives. Cruising into Chester in the rain was uneventful. There was little traffic, as the summer vacationers were still months away. Businesses were closed for the season or just closed - I tried to find coffee, but as I also found in Greenville coffee was a scarce commodity in Plumas County, CA this damp Saturday.
After a drive south through Greenville (now featuring the Plumas County Charter School) I put my mind into "relax" and dropped into the wonderful Feather River Canyon (Hwys 89 & 70). The Canyon is a special place, waterfalls spilling from every crevice and crack in the sheer walls. The East Branch and North Fork of the Feather River were high and stunniing in their collective power. Although far from the highest I've seen the river run, it was not a day to launch a kayak or raft. I stopped at some of my favorite places - Twain, Belden, Tobin, Pulga - to watch a train go by or marvel at a 200 foot high waterfall. The wildflowers had started blooming in The Canyon, cementing images that I hope will carry into the work week. Driving up the hill from Pulga and into Jarbo Gap and Yankee Hill I realized I had relaxed thoroughly. Traffic was light, so there was no pressure to keep up a speed at which I didn't want to motor. I pulled off where I wanted to pull off, waited until I was ready to move on and traveled once more. This pattern was repeated all the way into Oroville.
From Oroville the trip was familiar and not nearly as enticing as The Canyon, but fertile orchards leafing out and readying for peach, nectarine and apricot season got me excited about driving back soon. Into Marysville, I followed Highway 70 to 99 where I turned south until it crossed I 5 again. This time, I took 5 through the Valley and into Sacramento, Stockton, Manteca then west to Tracy and home.
Usually, once I'm home from a 532 mile day I'm weary and just want to rest. But I enjoy sponteneity; I was excited to see The Pit, Plumas County, The Canyon...all among my favorite places, all in one day, all at 44 MPG (thanks, Toyota!) and all without incident. The amount of planning and forethought put into the journey consisted of filling the gas tank. Everyone should take a day like this once in a while - make a circle, see your state, country, world. With each loop, each new exploration, each addition to your self confidence and knowledge base comes a desire to see even more. And as anyone who knows me well will tell you, the road can be an educational, entertaining, wonderful place to be. All it takes is a tank full of gas and the freedom to leave convention for a few hours. Hey, meet you in Mt Shasta? Oh, HECK yes!
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
The Case For Trail Running
It's not the best kept secret that I'm a competitive sort. I don't like losing, or worse, not finishing. and although I'm slower than cold lava and older than dirt, the fire still burns to get out as often as I can and try to prove to myself that I can still do it - maybe faster than ever.
Over the past couple of years, I've done a bit of volunteer work for Brazen Racing, a trail running race organizer and friend of trail runners everywhere. The events are more than enjoyable - people of all shapes and sizes are finding that there is no standard for a trail runner other than the will to start and finish no matter the conditions.
Therein lies the appeal. Anyone can do this. Running is cheap, fills the "vigorous exercise" model perfectly and will boost confidence with each race. And after volunteering or rolling in so many of Brazen's events, I can conclude that trail runners are unique among athletes in their acceptance of participants of all ability levels. Many of the runs are on East Bay Regional Park District properties, and fit neatly with the District's "Healthy Parks, Healthy People" initiative.
Sure, elite runners as well as weekenders run their events. And as I sit off the trail at an aid station or turnaround point I find refreshing and a little fascinating that even the fastest runners will say "hi" as they pass, or at least return a wave. Even after running through mud, water, dust or heat the finish line overflows with smiles and satisfaction. All finishers are part of the clan; handshakes and kudos are there for Top 5 closers as well as those who bring up the rear. I pack up after each volunteer opportunity and feel as if I just hung out with 800 of my closest friends for a few hours.
Part of the cameraderie comes from a group mindset, especially as runs take place in drenching rain, through slippery muck or bitter cold. You look around as 500 runners line up for a start and decide that, dang, if these folks can all do it, I can do it. The satisfaction gained from each finish cannot be dismissed. This is a cool bunch.
In case you missed the subtlety, this is my pitch for you who don't get out and exercise much to go to Brazen's website, http://brazenracing.com/ , sign up for a 5K and lose any self consciousness or doubt and run. You'll usually see me at some point on the trail at most events, and you won't regret that you'll feel better after each run.
I'm looking right now for the next race. I intend on being there, whether course marker or participant, and having a heck of a time. I hope those of you who want to begin an exercise program will join us. Don't be shy! You won't regret it, and I promise to wave you past my station as you thoroughly enjoy a day as a trail runner.
Over the past couple of years, I've done a bit of volunteer work for Brazen Racing, a trail running race organizer and friend of trail runners everywhere. The events are more than enjoyable - people of all shapes and sizes are finding that there is no standard for a trail runner other than the will to start and finish no matter the conditions.
Therein lies the appeal. Anyone can do this. Running is cheap, fills the "vigorous exercise" model perfectly and will boost confidence with each race. And after volunteering or rolling in so many of Brazen's events, I can conclude that trail runners are unique among athletes in their acceptance of participants of all ability levels. Many of the runs are on East Bay Regional Park District properties, and fit neatly with the District's "Healthy Parks, Healthy People" initiative.
Sure, elite runners as well as weekenders run their events. And as I sit off the trail at an aid station or turnaround point I find refreshing and a little fascinating that even the fastest runners will say "hi" as they pass, or at least return a wave. Even after running through mud, water, dust or heat the finish line overflows with smiles and satisfaction. All finishers are part of the clan; handshakes and kudos are there for Top 5 closers as well as those who bring up the rear. I pack up after each volunteer opportunity and feel as if I just hung out with 800 of my closest friends for a few hours.
Part of the cameraderie comes from a group mindset, especially as runs take place in drenching rain, through slippery muck or bitter cold. You look around as 500 runners line up for a start and decide that, dang, if these folks can all do it, I can do it. The satisfaction gained from each finish cannot be dismissed. This is a cool bunch.
In case you missed the subtlety, this is my pitch for you who don't get out and exercise much to go to Brazen's website, http://brazenracing.com/ , sign up for a 5K and lose any self consciousness or doubt and run. You'll usually see me at some point on the trail at most events, and you won't regret that you'll feel better after each run.
I'm looking right now for the next race. I intend on being there, whether course marker or participant, and having a heck of a time. I hope those of you who want to begin an exercise program will join us. Don't be shy! You won't regret it, and I promise to wave you past my station as you thoroughly enjoy a day as a trail runner.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Impressions On A Spring Afternoon
Mines Road, 17 miles south of Livermore. a short decompression drive. To "The Turnout" next to Big Meadow, stopped and put the chair together. Up the road, pushing slowly...wind sounds like cars driving on the road a half mile away...wind gets louder blowing through the grey pines and blue oaks, a Civil War of trees in elevated ranchland...noise finally becomes alive when gust makes it through the forest to be at my side...goldfields in full bloom, can hardly see the green for the gold, birds announcing "we're here!" - quail by the hundreds, red winged blackbirds, hummers and kites...a flock of squawk as grounded birds take flight, one was too slow as Kite vs Red Winged Blackbird ends quickly and poorly for the smaller of the two...up the road, pushing hard and moving quickly, horses in meadow take note....one walks to fence, I meet him there, he nuzzles looking for an apple or carrot, none found he wanders back to the rest of his equine bridge club... Kites flying, no strings attached but sporting long white tails, riding the breeze into dead oaks, calling kite calls as she leaves her perch; squirrels yell, and as a lower mammal might not realize their shriek is simply a hawk magnet, "Prey Made Easy", right from the infomercial, all the raptors are flying in 'n buying in...past the meadow, the ringing noise of phones, computer generated complication and the workplace left in a field, now 18 miles south of Livermore on Mines...blue oaks going green, leafing out in a sporty blaze of magnificence...back past the horses, met once more at the fence for a few strokes of a large snout...stopping at an overlook, creek below, bullfrogs leap in when I rustle the gravel...."Bob!" the passing bike rider yells, "climb any mountains lately?"....on toward the car but not getting in...hills green and trying to imagine being the first to explore, where I'd go, how I'd manage, where the home would be set up...sun behind the western hills now, still warm, first loggerhead shrike of the season on the branch of a dead oak...time spent but hardly wasted; feeling sorry for all who place so much importance on technology and doodads of modern life, where THIS is where we have to learn our balance points....no, Herb, Three Dot Journalism will never die!...Happy Earth Day / Week - make your mark out there, take a raptor to lunch....these are the days that will shape our children's futures - use them wisely and to our collective benefit, please!
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Living the Unlimited Weekend
Working a whole bunch of hours each week can make for a pent up, trail deprived wheelchair hiker. Since there's little time off, I make a point of trundling around most of California's 58 counties every Saturday and Sunday.
With gas prices once again bordering on the absurd, the responsible adult hidden deep within my carefree exterior is surfacing - now, when I get in the car and go, I'd better have a pretty good idea where I'm going and what I'll be doing. That's not always the case with me. Sometimes a good, long drive helps keep me balanced; at other times I'm looking for new adventures on the fly - as in "I'll know I found it when I get there."
This weekend was a combination. Saturday had a lot less focus, as I simply wanted to get as far away, reasonable boundaries considered, from the office. It's been hectic lately, with scattered directives and shallow considerations given new initiatives. A good drive, I told myself, might be just the ticket.
Off I went, east toward my beloved Sierra Nevada, knowing that my favorite passes would be closed for at least another 6 weeks. although an avalanche would have felt wonderful in comparison to my work week, I chose an old favorite, California's Highway 49, the Big Deal through the gold rush country of the Sierra foothills. I was going to make it north to Jackson, then east to Volcano and around the old byways into Fiddletown, Somerset and Sutter Creek.
But as I drove up CA 88 to Jackson, I let the wind gather me in. Southbound from 49 it would be, at least for awhile. I took a brief intermission to see how the tiny burg of Jenny Lind had survived the winter - Jenny was a Swedish songstress, a miner's favorite who never actually made it out to the mines; contemporaries such as Lotta Crabtree and Lola Montez each left their mark at opposite ends of the behavior spectrum, but little Jenny never made it to Jenny Lind. It's just a short side trip outside of Clements, CA, but every time I see the sign I make that turn and stop for a minute.
Jenny Lind has little of historic value besides the name, though. And I wasn't interested in stopping to look around. This day would be for driving, seeing the plush green carpet covering the hills with spots of color everywhere. Maybe the day was meant for smaller places.
Into Jackson, I barely slowed. Jackson was just too big; I sought quiet and a chance to listen to my own thoughts, undisturbed by office politics. Passing Mokelumne Hill, another favorite, I turned on Campo Seco Turnpike for a few miles before taking a cutoff toward Lake Pardee. I found a nice turnout and stopped to gather in the sounds of Spring. Meadowlarks, Scrub Jays, Red Winged Blackbirds...all were advertising their positions loudly and with great precision. I wasn't sure which direction I was heading, so I drove on to Valley Springs and CA 12, which took me into San Andreas, Calaveras County's seat.
Not a lot was happening in San Andreas, and my restlessness just wouldn't let up. I drove south this time, staying on 49 toward the Home of the Jumping Frog, Angels Camp. I drove through the old part of town, preferring to head east on CA 4 to Murphys, but via the old Hwy 4, not the new, faster bypass.
Eastof Angels Camp came Douglas Flat, a few small wineries (a staple of the foothills these days) and into Murphys. There's a small coffee dispensary which makes a really good house brew, so I grabbed the largest they had and cruised back down the hill to Parrott's Ferry Road, which would take me the quiet way into Columbia and Sonora. I stopped to see New Melones Reservoir, or as we used to call it the Stanislaus River, quickly filling with fresh snowmelt. Sure miss the days 40 years ago when the Upper Stan was one of the finest whitewater rides in America. Sad to recall those days when staring at rented houseboats full of people who are clueless of the history of this canyon cruise quietly past.
From Sonora, I had finally had enough for one day. Down CA 108 from 49, into Jamestown, Oakdale, Escalon...all the Central Valley pass throughs that were once bustling with stage traffic en route to / from the Mother Lode. As I arrived home, I wasn't quite sure that I had accomplished anything except opened my eyes to opportunities, as if I could quit and write full time. The sad reality is simply a sad reality. But I saw meadowlarks, so this had been a day of value.
Today I took it on the road, but only as far as Sunol Regional Wilderness just a few miles from home. The sun and bearable temps had encouraged half of the East Bay to get out. I set off on the Camp Ohlone Road, a wide trail and service road frequented by many during the "nice" months. I knew everything about this trail, yet understood that each day would be different from another. The "wilderness" feel wasn't there for the hordes of people, but folks on a trail bring the joys of conversation, of people enjoying their pursuits chatting with one another. That doesn't make for a lotof solitude, but I knew where to find that.
Up to Backpack Trail and it was just me and the vultures. I sat at a familiar flat with my eyes closed, in the shade of a large Valley Oak just beginning to green up.It was quiet enough that I could hear everything from birds to crickets to lizards running on a fallen tree. The serpentine rock was warm; the shade was an exquisite place to nap for a few minutes, letting the natural symphony proceed, movement by movement to a crescendo punctuated by ground squirrels and red shouldered hawks. While the band played on, I turned back toward the parking lot and my car, just 3 miles away.
I had a chance to talk to people, dawgs and horses today. Not an unpleasant vibe was felt, as we all took in this day, this spectacle of beauty slowly bringing a gorgeous weekend to an inglorious end. I sat in the shade a few more times heading off the hills, hoping to catch a bobcat or coyote in the distance. I did hear a Great Horned Owl hooting beneathe a dark canaopy of oaks. That made the trek perfect. A perfect day. We can hope for one of these every now and then, I tohught...maybe it's my own expanded view of perfection that brings magic to today. Am I expecting too much of work week people?
I think the answer is pretty simple. I'm not a really demanding sort, but I get annoyed when people fail by refusing to make an effort in this life. Life is not a spectator sport; all the people out there with me today were participants. Maybe that's why I enjoy them so much. They were out there, as Teddy Roosevelt might have said, making demands of themselves, sometimes succeeding, sometimes not. But they know the pain of failure as well as the great motivator that is success. The weekend ended with that thought - that achievement, marvel, success or failure are accomplished only by those who choose to be in the game. How sad I am for those whose ultimate victory is to watch another's successes and failures...
With gas prices once again bordering on the absurd, the responsible adult hidden deep within my carefree exterior is surfacing - now, when I get in the car and go, I'd better have a pretty good idea where I'm going and what I'll be doing. That's not always the case with me. Sometimes a good, long drive helps keep me balanced; at other times I'm looking for new adventures on the fly - as in "I'll know I found it when I get there."
This weekend was a combination. Saturday had a lot less focus, as I simply wanted to get as far away, reasonable boundaries considered, from the office. It's been hectic lately, with scattered directives and shallow considerations given new initiatives. A good drive, I told myself, might be just the ticket.
Off I went, east toward my beloved Sierra Nevada, knowing that my favorite passes would be closed for at least another 6 weeks. although an avalanche would have felt wonderful in comparison to my work week, I chose an old favorite, California's Highway 49, the Big Deal through the gold rush country of the Sierra foothills. I was going to make it north to Jackson, then east to Volcano and around the old byways into Fiddletown, Somerset and Sutter Creek.
But as I drove up CA 88 to Jackson, I let the wind gather me in. Southbound from 49 it would be, at least for awhile. I took a brief intermission to see how the tiny burg of Jenny Lind had survived the winter - Jenny was a Swedish songstress, a miner's favorite who never actually made it out to the mines; contemporaries such as Lotta Crabtree and Lola Montez each left their mark at opposite ends of the behavior spectrum, but little Jenny never made it to Jenny Lind. It's just a short side trip outside of Clements, CA, but every time I see the sign I make that turn and stop for a minute.
Jenny Lind has little of historic value besides the name, though. And I wasn't interested in stopping to look around. This day would be for driving, seeing the plush green carpet covering the hills with spots of color everywhere. Maybe the day was meant for smaller places.
Into Jackson, I barely slowed. Jackson was just too big; I sought quiet and a chance to listen to my own thoughts, undisturbed by office politics. Passing Mokelumne Hill, another favorite, I turned on Campo Seco Turnpike for a few miles before taking a cutoff toward Lake Pardee. I found a nice turnout and stopped to gather in the sounds of Spring. Meadowlarks, Scrub Jays, Red Winged Blackbirds...all were advertising their positions loudly and with great precision. I wasn't sure which direction I was heading, so I drove on to Valley Springs and CA 12, which took me into San Andreas, Calaveras County's seat.
Not a lot was happening in San Andreas, and my restlessness just wouldn't let up. I drove south this time, staying on 49 toward the Home of the Jumping Frog, Angels Camp. I drove through the old part of town, preferring to head east on CA 4 to Murphys, but via the old Hwy 4, not the new, faster bypass.
Eastof Angels Camp came Douglas Flat, a few small wineries (a staple of the foothills these days) and into Murphys. There's a small coffee dispensary which makes a really good house brew, so I grabbed the largest they had and cruised back down the hill to Parrott's Ferry Road, which would take me the quiet way into Columbia and Sonora. I stopped to see New Melones Reservoir, or as we used to call it the Stanislaus River, quickly filling with fresh snowmelt. Sure miss the days 40 years ago when the Upper Stan was one of the finest whitewater rides in America. Sad to recall those days when staring at rented houseboats full of people who are clueless of the history of this canyon cruise quietly past.
From Sonora, I had finally had enough for one day. Down CA 108 from 49, into Jamestown, Oakdale, Escalon...all the Central Valley pass throughs that were once bustling with stage traffic en route to / from the Mother Lode. As I arrived home, I wasn't quite sure that I had accomplished anything except opened my eyes to opportunities, as if I could quit and write full time. The sad reality is simply a sad reality. But I saw meadowlarks, so this had been a day of value.
Today I took it on the road, but only as far as Sunol Regional Wilderness just a few miles from home. The sun and bearable temps had encouraged half of the East Bay to get out. I set off on the Camp Ohlone Road, a wide trail and service road frequented by many during the "nice" months. I knew everything about this trail, yet understood that each day would be different from another. The "wilderness" feel wasn't there for the hordes of people, but folks on a trail bring the joys of conversation, of people enjoying their pursuits chatting with one another. That doesn't make for a lotof solitude, but I knew where to find that.
Up to Backpack Trail and it was just me and the vultures. I sat at a familiar flat with my eyes closed, in the shade of a large Valley Oak just beginning to green up.It was quiet enough that I could hear everything from birds to crickets to lizards running on a fallen tree. The serpentine rock was warm; the shade was an exquisite place to nap for a few minutes, letting the natural symphony proceed, movement by movement to a crescendo punctuated by ground squirrels and red shouldered hawks. While the band played on, I turned back toward the parking lot and my car, just 3 miles away.
I had a chance to talk to people, dawgs and horses today. Not an unpleasant vibe was felt, as we all took in this day, this spectacle of beauty slowly bringing a gorgeous weekend to an inglorious end. I sat in the shade a few more times heading off the hills, hoping to catch a bobcat or coyote in the distance. I did hear a Great Horned Owl hooting beneathe a dark canaopy of oaks. That made the trek perfect. A perfect day. We can hope for one of these every now and then, I tohught...maybe it's my own expanded view of perfection that brings magic to today. Am I expecting too much of work week people?
I think the answer is pretty simple. I'm not a really demanding sort, but I get annoyed when people fail by refusing to make an effort in this life. Life is not a spectator sport; all the people out there with me today were participants. Maybe that's why I enjoy them so much. They were out there, as Teddy Roosevelt might have said, making demands of themselves, sometimes succeeding, sometimes not. But they know the pain of failure as well as the great motivator that is success. The weekend ended with that thought - that achievement, marvel, success or failure are accomplished only by those who choose to be in the game. How sad I am for those whose ultimate victory is to watch another's successes and failures...
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