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...
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