Stickman On The Road

Falling Off The Floor

2006-12-11T19:12:00.000-08:00

Job - Eliminated. Vaporized. I'm now unemployed and seeking a job for the first time in 17 years.

Wife - recovering (slowly and painfully) from major surgery complicated by a kidney stone (her fifth or sixth in about five years).

Father - ended up in hospital after breaking (more like shattering) his leg from a fall in our driveway (on Halloween night, no less). My parents drove here from NC to help me take care of my wife. He's now on a walker for several months and going through physical therapy.

Mother- after visiting my father in the hospital, suffered a "potent and aggressive" viral infection (the kind you get while visiting the hospital these days) and - care to guess? - ended up in the hospital. At one point, I had one parent in the hospital and another next door in physical therapy rehab center.

Step-father-in-law - died in mid-November after a long, painful, frightening illness.

Cat - died while I was in New York City. I felt particularly bad because my wife had to face that alone. She didn't deserve that. He has a prominent gravesite overlooking the pasture watching the sunsets each night. You're deeply missed, Blizzard. Poppy has the run of the house, now, and is terrorizing us all.

On the bright side...

Friends - priceless. Comfort, encouragement, support...enough to bring tears to my eyes (several times). My advice, don't allow yourself to have to go through a life crisis to figure out who your friends are. Know them, love them, and appreciate them in good times, too.

Family - Parents have been there when I needed them (except when they, too, were struck down). Cousins, aunts, uncles...family I haven't heard from in years have come out of the woodwork to send their love, encouragement, support. I've learned a great deal from this experience.

Last, but certainly not least...

My Wife - beyond priceless. An angel. She's stood by me, propped me up when I was falling down (from her hospital bed, at some points). I am a very, very lucky man. She has accepted me and is helping me back into the saddle. Like the VISA ad says, some things money can't buy.

OK, God. You have my attention. I think you kind of overdid it, but I'm certainly in no place to criticize, now, am I?

Stick Out

Temporarily Out of Order

2006-10-14T19:18:00.000-07:00

Upon my return from these two wonderful journeys, my life descended into professional and personal turmoil.

I'm facing unemployment, at worst, and - at best - rather frightening (at least at this juncture) changes in my life that were unfathomable just three weeks ago. My wife is facing major surgery this week as well, so no part of my once stable life is intact.

Beyond that, it's best that I not go into details. If you've read any of this blog, you know how uncharacteristic of me that is. It's THAT serious.

All I can say is, I'm stunned and as Don Henley sang in In A New York Minute, "The wolf is always at the door."

Until better times.

Stick out

Apologies

2006-09-22T17:39:00.000-07:00

To those thousands of you breathlessly awaiting and anticipating my next update, I apologize. The return to my "normal" life, along with a side trip to the "other coast" (NYC), has complicated my schedule more than I'd expected and delayed me finishing my travelblog.

I WILL, however, finish and address the outcome of the quest(s) and objectives I stated in the first entry. I may even toss in a little about my trip to the Big Apple.

For those of you who have read the blog - either as an invitee or through a complete accident - I appreciate your interest and tolerance.

Stick out

You've Been Served (gasoline, that is) & Other Roguish Behavior

2006-09-04T07:52:00.000-07:00

9/1, 1820, Bastrop County, TX – The original plan was to drive from Crescent City to the Port Orford area the morning of 8/16. For the first – and, as it turned out, last - time during the adventure, I altered my plan. There was method to my madness, though.

The Ship Mountain experience had left me a tad gun shy when it came to unpaved roads, especially when the road was in a wilderness area. The itinerary had me driving to either Humbug Mountain (just south of Port Orford) or Cape Blanco State Park (just north of there) for two nights of camping, with a side trip (on an unpaved road) to Agness, OR in the lower Rogue River valley, on my way to Ashland. I thought better of that while making my final plans the night of 8/15, and called them into Sundance at home base. The Oregon coast between Gold Beach and Port Orford (including the offshore rock formations near Port Orford known as “The Heads”) was going to have to be 86’d.

I did so reluctantly. So much – hell, everything! - had gone so well during the trip up to that point, even the death- (and logic-) defying ramble up Ship Mountain. But, in fact, the only road from Port Orford to Agness was unpaved and went through some pretty rugged territory. I knew that going in, but Ship Mountain changed my perception of things. I was not ready for a repeat performance (little did I know what awaited me a day or so later).

So, bid my farewell to the Curly Redwood Lodge (I spoke with the manager and praised them heavily) and headed north. Soon after crossing the Smith River, I crossed the border into Oregon.

The first two things I noticed about Oregon were A) the price of gas dropped about 20¢ a gallon and B) you couldn’t drive more than a mile along Hwy. 101 without seeing a sign pointing out a state recreation area with a scenic view. I must’ve stopped at four or five in quick succession. Click, click, click. I’m a sucker for big rocks in the Pacific’s pounding surf.

After passing Cape Sebastian, I arrived in Gold Beach and stopped at the local grocery for some fruit, a deli sandwich (peppered turkey, haven’t had that in years), and some juice packs. I asked for directions to a liquor store to replenish my bourbon (the Maker’s Mark bit the dust at Patrick’s Point) and followed them to yet another hideously ugly courthouse (Curry County…perhaps even uglier than the Mendocino County courthouse in Ukiah) which sat across the street from a small gift shop, knick-knack store, and distilled spirits emporium…all in one. The Gray Whale Gallery & Gifts and Village Liquor Store). It was literally a “mom and pop” store, with “mom” (Maggi) taking care of the gift shop/gallery and “pop”(Ed) taking care of the liquor store. These were really sweet people running a really strange, but workable mixture of retail outlets. Having watched the Chicago Cubs-Houston Astros game the night before at the Surfside Grill in Crescent City, I responded favorably to the Ed’s expression of delight that his beloved Cubbies had been victorious. I matched his enthusiasm by stating that, as a born and raised, diehard Cincinnati Reds fan, I rooted for the Reds and whoever was playing the Astros that day or night.

We discussed baseball (I was faking part of it, having not closely followed any contests beyond whomever was kicking Houston’s ass at any given time) and eventually we got to discussing what, among his admittedly small selection or liquors, would meet my needs. I mean, let’s face it, the Maker’s Mark is a hard act to follow and, judging from what I saw on the shelves, there wasn’t much in the way of a follow up. This was going to take some time and effort on my part. After all, life is short (getting shorter all the time, in my case) and one should not be subjecting oneself to bad wine, beer, or liquor. But, a compromise had to be made here, because a small bottle of acceptable whiskey was, well, not exactly present and accounted for here. This was not a fully stocked liquor store (and I believe it was the only liquor store in town), which either says something very, very good or very, very disturbing about Gold Beach, OR. I’ll err on the side of very, very good.

After some input from Maggi, I decided on a small flask of Black Velvet Canadian Whiskey, which – though not my first or second choice under normal circumstances – was the best fireside sippin’ whiskey for the price at the Village Liquor Store that day. I’d not had Black Velvet since college, so there was a bit of nostalgia involved.

By the way, the Gray Whale/Village Liquor store is – as of this writing –for sale. $650,000 and it’s yours. Maggi and Ed, if you’re retiring, best of luck and Godspeed to you both. I may have only spent 10 or 15 minutes with you, but you folks were damn nice to a stranger from Texas. Go Cubbies!

So, with foodstuffs and liquor in-hand, that left fuel. So, I cruised the main street (Hwy. 101) and located the best priced gas. I pulled in and here’s where the fun began.

As I pulled up to the pump, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a sign stating that self-service was illegal in the State of Oregon. No, I’d not started drinking the Black Velvet. I’m serious. Before I was able to open my car door, an “attendant” (just recalling this is weird enough) appeared at my door and asked how much fuel I wanted pumped and how I’d like to pay for it.

I stared at the guy in disbelief. Was he an apparition? He couldn’t be an acid-flashback. I never did acid! “You’re joking,” was all I could say to him. “No, sir,” he replied. “State law. You can’t pump your own gasoline in Oregon.”

So, for the first time in over 30 years, someone other than me pumped my gas. What a strange experience. On one hand, I was semi-embarrassed and afraid that someone I knew would pass by and my reputation in Texas would be ruined forever. “Elitist,” I could hear them saying. “He’s been pussified by those Northwesterners” (God forbid my Texas friends should see the Black Velvet!). On the other hand, I felt equally uncomfortable because…well…what the hell do you do while someone else is filling up your gas tank? I was so unaccustomed to this situation, I felt naked. Killing time in one’s car at a gas station is totally foreign to a Texan (or a former South Carolinian, New Yorker, and Ohioan, too). I felt self-conscious. What do I do with my hands? Play with the radio? Check my map? Sort the currency in my wallet? I was afraid to get out of the car for fear that such a provocative act might also be against state law!
I opted to sit still, act like this kind of thing happens every day, and move along. I also decided to look into this strange phenomenon at a later date. Oregon can’t be alone in this strange prohibition against self-service. What prompted it? Hmmm…file this one away for future reference.

Got food? Check. Got sippin’ whiskey? Check. Got fuel? Check. After a quick drive across the Rogue River bridge (a bit of a work of art in and of itself) and back to mail a postcard or two, I took in Gold Beach’s small-but-active harbor.

Based upon what I witnessed, fishing and boating are passions in this part of Oregon, pursued with enthusiasm and vigor bordering on a religious fervor (similar to Texans’ devotion to BBQ and executing convicted murderers). I saw more professional and recreational fisherman in boats in Gold Beach’s harbor and at the mouth of the Rogue River than I’d seen at any other point during my journey (and that observation held to the very end of the trip).

Supplementing the fishing trade is river rafting and “jetboat” trips up the Rogue, wherein boats able to handle 15-20 tourists are outfitted with massive engines able to overcome the Rogue’s current and deliver said tourists upriver for sightseeing (and, it turns out, mail deliveries to places like Agness, OR). It seem to be quite a successful business.

At the south end of the bridge, I turned east and headed up the road hugging the south shore of the Rogue to find a campsite. It didn’t take but a minute or two before I was again surrounded by mountains. Big, beautiful mountains, at that. The Rogue cuts a mean valley.

About 14-16 miles upriver, I turned into the National Forest Service’s Quosatana campground. Nice digs. New facilities, campground hosts, shaded campsites, and right on the river. I drove around both campground loops, noting several open sites, and returned to the host’s site. “Depends on what you’re looking for,” the host said in reply to my query about how this campground stacked up against two others further upriver. Illane had campsites, but the facilities weren’t as nice. Fosters Bar had fewer campsites, was more of a boat launch, but had new facilities, he said. I had the time – and curiosity – to check them out, so I said I’d return if I didn’t find anything.

I was back within the hour, picked out my site, paid my fee (NFS camping is the best deal going), and went to set up camp. I was met at my site by two deer casually munching wild blackberries (which seemed to be everywhere along my journey, by the way). I took that as a good sign, and established myself in site #36. I wasn’t directly on the Rogue, but right across the narrow campground road from the sites that were. Close enough, I thought, and I didn’t have a public walking path right behind my tent.

Five dollars bought a healthy-sized load of good, DRY, seasoned fire wood from the host (the campfire, in retrospect, was a luxury, as I sit here writing in drought-ravaged Central Texas where a burn-ban remains in effect). I hiked down to the river with my camp chair, picked spot next to the rapids, and sat. I wanted to hear what the Rogue had to say to me.

The Rogue spoke my language. I could’ve easily fallen asleep, lulled by the sound of the rapids, the occasional Osprey call, and the breeze that occasionally blew up the narrow valley from the ocean. Instead, I took a mental snapshot and realized what a fortunate human being I was. Here I was, virtually alone on a peaceful, scenic stretch of an ancient and wild river in the wilderness of southwest Oregon. I had time, tranquility, and was alone with the thoughts I’d come to sort out.

And that’s when I heard – off in the distance, at first – the jet boat.

As I mentioned earlier, Rogue River tourism is a mainstay of the region’s economy. It is a beautiful and fairly navigable river, especially the lower Rogue. So, the most efficient way for people (who aren’t into whitewater or semi-whitewater rafting, or want to be delivered upriver to start a rafting trip) to see it is in groups and the best way to deliver groups upriver is with the powerful “jet” boats.

The low roar of the jet boat reverberated around the canyon and made it to my ears about a mile before the boat arrived. Just the sound alone gives you some idea of just how powerful these boats are. They ply the waters (and I have seen them in both shallow and deep waters) with ease. So, I waved to the passengers as they went roaring by and they waved back. I figured if I was part of the scenery, I might as well be “pleasant” scenery.

Over the next hour, two more boats passed. The stretches of silence between them were more than adequate for contemplation. The rapids had their say and I listened intently. About 50-60 yards away, and older couple were also enjoying the mild temps and cool waters. The woman took a couple swims, which reassured me the conditions were right for a swim the next day. I looked forward to becoming – if only briefly – a part of the river.

I returned to the campsite refreshed and prepared the campfire. I gnoshed on beef jerky, cheese and crackers, and sipped whiskey until nightfall, satisfied that I’d finally invaded Oregon and that Oregon was gradually invading me.

Stick out

Onward Through The Fog in Crescent City, CA

2006-09-01T16:13:00.000-07:00

8/31/06, 1812, Bastrop County, TX - OK, picking up where I left off, 8/15 in Crescent City, CA…and-a one, and-a two….

My final day in Crescent City was somewhat of a “clean-up” day, revisiting areas and sites that had been obscured by fog during my drive up from Patrick’s Point two days before. My key objectives: the bridge over the Klamath River and the Klamath overlook (where the river empties into the Pacific). I awoke early and – damn! – fog again. Grrrrr…

There were two things to occupy my time, one of which was taking advantage of the WiFi service. So, I wrote a bit, ever watchful of the thick cloud cover overhead. Once I’d exhausted my creative juices on that task (I’m sure Marc in Anaheim is thinking, “After about 5 minutes, if that.”), I commenced to reorganizing my gear in preparation for the next day’s trip to Oregon and the associated camping. Upon completing that, there appeared out over the Pacific a streak of blue sky. In other words, hope.

I mobilized quickly and headed south on Hwy. 101 through the soupy fog (what most people would encounter on foggy mornings in many areas of the country) toward the Klamath. The turnoff to the overlook seemed to be one of those “Are you SURE about this?” routes, but the map said what the map said (you’d think after my Ship Mountain experience, I’d have been a little more dubious). This time, however, the map was correct and I climbed upward toward the edge of the cliff overlooking the alluvial fan of the Klamath (my wife came up with that one, I’m not nearly that creative). There were two other cars in the parking lot, one of which had two men seemingly intent on the same objective: photos. The other car – which was pulling in just ahead of me – was packed with a family. They’ll come into play in a moment.

The “blue streak” in the sky was still offshore, almost teasing me. So, I bundled up (it was a bit chilly) and hunkered down, parking my butt on a picnic table. The Klamath overlook was on my list and I’d be damned if I was going to let it slip through my fingers. Mother Nature and I had played other games along this journey. I was willing to have as stare down. I summoned my stubbornness streak and sat there.

In the meantime, a small-but-mildly-entertaining string of people – including the two carloads that preceded me – carried on behind me. The two men seemed as intent on waiting out the fog as me, though one was somewhat less patient than the other and attempted (with varying degrees of success) to find something to keep himself occupied. The other, like me, just sat there soaking up the subtleties of Nature’s display. Whether he was trying to listen to the silence or not, I’m not sure. For all I knew, he, too, knew my friend Brian and was on the same mission. We stoically stood our ground.

The family, however, was a constant stream of activity. While the mother and father unpacked a lunch upon another picnic table, their young son ran about happily distracting himself and worrying the father with every distraction he discovered. Their slightly older daughter – who appeared and sounded like a “’tweenager” – seemed bored, restless, and somewhat upset because her father encouraged her to take in the view and natural wonders instead of listening to her iPod. Eventually, “nature” did catch up with the young girl and she announced her intention to use the “bathroom,” which, for those of you familiar with state and national forests/parks, was a “pit” toilet.

You see this coming, don’t you?

The young girl entered, closed the door behind her, and about a half a second later I heard, ‘Oh…..my….God!” She exited, horrified. “I am NOT ‘going’ in there,” she emphatically stated.

The mother – either a veteran camper or concert-goer, in her not-too-distant past – replied, “Oh, don’t let it bother you. Just don’t look down into it!” I don’t think that soothed her daughter’s concerns, though. It turned out I wasn’t the only soul involved in an intense standoff with Mother Nature that day.

Mine was no less uncomfortable, though. While I have gained some weight over the years, little – if any – of it matriculated to my butt. “Bone on picnic table .” Think about it.

Eventually, the two men gave up and left (“Amateurs,” I thought to myself). The family also finished up and departed (no doubt for a destination with a clean restroom), though another family in an SUV pulled up and immediately started preparing for a hike. They were a disciplined group, led by a focused and disciplined father. With military-like precision, they geared up in near-silence, broken only by directions from the father. It was an impressive display. The only member not “suiting up” was the grandfather, who – it turned out – was the shuttle driver responsible for delivering the vehicle to the trail’s end. He quietly watched as the family hit the trailhead and disappeared for 10 or 15 minutes, then briefly reappeared quite a distance away. He kept an eye on them with field glasses, then eventually departed for the next stop. Quite an operation.

My patience – and pain – paid off eventually. I was convinced it would. The fog started drifting westward over the ocean while simultaneously burning off (from the still-hidden sun), revealing just enough visibility to warrant some pictures. It remained overcast, but the scene I was after – that ancient meeting of river and ocean among California’s coastal mountain range – was finally offered up. The parking lot overlook was 600 ft. above the ocean. I immediately began my descent down the path to the lower overlook – 400 ft. below – for a better shot. Along the way, I shed two layers of clothing adjusting to the temperature increase, which I gauged (unofficially and unscientifically) at roughly 10°.

At the lower overlook, the view opened up considerably. Rock formations not visible from above came into view, as were several sea lions darting among the rocks, the thin beach that jutted out from the south shore of the coast as though it hoped to shut off the Klamath’s flow, and at least two small whales feeding in the waters just off the Klamath’s mouth. Mother Nature rewarded my patience again. Thanks, Ma.

Click, click, click.

After that, I just leaned on the railing of the wood fence and took it all in. Here was yet another scene I’d studied at length on the Internet come to life before my eyes. Bruce Springsteen’s line from Spirits In The Night came to mind: “Stand back and let it shoot through you.” Beautiful. The Pacific’s endless waves lapped at the beach south of the river while the sputtering motorboat sounds of the sea lions mixed with the slapping of the sea against the rocks below me. The overcast skies didn’t detract. In fact, it almost seemed more natural than a clear blue sky (which continued to tease me from off-shore). This was, after all, Northern California. And, oh, was it.

Ah, but the bears awaited me. No, not those Lazy Bears from Guerneville, but the Golden Bears silently and steadfastly standing guard at each end of the Klamath River Bridge. So, I hoofed it back up to the parking lot – 400 ft. of elevation and two returned layers of clothing – and was passed by a couple of young Asian women heading for the lower overlook. I tipped them off on the whales (the mere possibility of seeing whales excites most humans, and these two women were among them) and wished them a good hike. The trip back down to “sea level” was quick, and soon I was crossing the Klamath. At the south end of the bridge, a young hitchhiker marred my shot of the new bridge’s bears, so I opted to shoot the old bridge and its bears.

The old bridge, the Douglas Memorial Bridge – located just west of its new replacement –was built in the 1920’s and had stood for nearly 40 years until a freak rainstorm dumped 24 inches of warm rain (the heaviest rainfall ever recorded in the area) on the mountains during Christmas week of 1964. Snow packs melted, flooding resulted, and hundreds of trees – many of them redwoods – were swept away and into the raging Klamath. As a commemorative plaque states, “ Logs and debris swept away roads, livestock, and structures, including the town of Klamath and the Douglas Memorial Bridge.” A quote from the Del Norte Triplicate news read: “The 420 foot center section of the span broke apart under hundreds of tons of pressure as the giant raft of redwoods smashed its way west toward the sea.” Eventually, both the town and the bridge were rebuilt upstream.

The bridge entrance on the south shore, however, remains. Flanking it are two gray concrete bears, silently holding their ground and faithfully guarding what remains of the Douglas Memorial Bridge.

Click, click, click.

I returned to the new bridge relieved to see that the hitchhiker had successfully flagged a ride and the new Golden Bears were ready their portraits. Click, click, click.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in Crescent City, a locale I “misunderestimated” (if I may use a Bush-ism) on its tourism points. Sundance – my lovely and wise wife – informed me that CC also had an agate beach. So, with directions in-hand, I sought out the location and spent a couple hours sifting through a mixture of sand and stones seeking the translucent beauties. That blue streak that had teased me all afternoon near Klamath was a clear sky in Crescent City, so caught a little sun with my agates. About 20-30 feet away, a young woman with an adorable 4 year-old daughter also combed through the stones. The mother was seeking agates. The daughter was focused on finding shark’s teeth and – I was told by the mother – squealed with delight whenever she found one. Naturally, I “donated” both shark’s teeth I found and received shy-but-heartfelt “thank yous” from the little girl in return. No squeals, though. I was, after all, a stranger. Still, what a cutie!

For those of you wondering, head west on 9th until it dead ends into Pebble Beach. Turn north on Pebble Beach and drive about a mile. On your left will be a small parking lot with steps to the beach.

By the time I departed, the sun was starting to make its descent toward the Pacific horizon and the mid-to-late afternoon light was just right for photographs. I caught several shots of the Crescent City lighthouse (c. 1850’s) – built upon Battery Point, a rock island (well, it’s an island at high tide, at least) located in the harbor.

On the way back to my room, lo and behold, I spied the Surfside Grill & BREWERY (!!) on Front St. Though dirty and sweaty, I quickly turned into their parking lot and entered. Nice place! Nice bar! Nice menu! Sadly, the “brewery” portion of the operation had been shut down. It wasn’t a money-maker, I was told, so the owner ditched it in favor of the restaurant operation.

I told the hostess that I would return once I’d made myself more presentable and returned to my room. After a quick shower, a check of e-mail, and a call home, I returned to Surfside Grill for dinner.

Again, the Austin connection came into play. Sitting beside me at the bar was a man who was in the process of relocating to Austin. He’d moved to Buda (just south of Austin) temporarily while scoping out a place to buy. “I have to be near water,” he told me. “I’m looking at this place called Lakeway. Ever heard of it?”

O, to be in that income bracket!

We chatted about Austin and what he should expect (lots of construction and new toll roads, for example…charming, eh?) and how housing prices have shot through the roof (not a problem for this fellow, though). BBQ, music, swimming holes, etc.

My fish and chips was (were?) tasty, as was the Alaskan Amber Ale. A fine culinary ending to a fine day. Scenery, some quiet contemplation, photo ops, agates, sun, food, and an amber ale to polish it off.

Crescent City, you surprised me. It was a wild time, perhaps bordering on too wild at one point. From the heights of Ship Mountain to the gravely beach along Pebble Beach Ave. and a stay at the Curly Redwood Lodge. It wasn’t just a “place to stay” while visiting other sites.

Stick out

Smoke Gets In My Eyes

2006-08-24T20:45:00.000-07:00

(Note: I'm uploading this from Oroville, CA, after an astounding day at Lassen Volcanic National Park and drive down the canyon of the North Fork of the Feather River. Speaking of which, there isn't s**t to do in Oroville. The hottest place in town is the Shakey's Pizza Parlor.)

8/23, 1558, Junction City, CA (along the banks of the Trinity River) – I’m going to break ranks here and post one from “the present,” even though I’m woefully behind in reporting about northern-most CA and Oregon. Things have gotten kind of “interesting” here in JC. As I post this on Thursday (8/24) morning, I’ll be departing the area. Just in time, it seems…

Several forest fires just west and northwest of here, along with a change in the prevailing winds, have sullied the air with pretty heavy amounts of smoke (the worst I’ve even encountered) and caused some alarm among those in the know here in the Trinity Alps. Here’s what I’ve noted.

First, as I arrived Monday night – already somewhat unglued from the delays I encountered trying to get from Burney Falls to Junction City – I took note of the encampment of fire jumpers just west of Weaverville. It was sizable, with lots of support systems (food, shelter, medical, etc.) to keep up with the demands of these brave souls. I’d not heard of any fires in the area (I’ve pretty much kept my attention elsewhere these days) until I was just departing Ashland, so I was somewhat surprised and more than a little concerned. There’s a local HQ here in Junction City as well. The CA highway patrol has slowed down area traffic to 35 mph to accommodate the heavy trucks and increased traffic.

But, the skies were clear, the air nice and fresh, and the temps – though pretty warm (mid-90s at times) – were more than escapable by tossing myself in the Trinity or the campground’s small (but mildly bracing) pool (yeah, Marc, I know…I’m really roughing it up here). There was also the hike I took yesterday (a ten-miler, which I’ll address more fully in a future blog) which – depending on which microclimate I was in – occasionally cooled me off (but, mostly soaked me with sweat and about sent my poor feet into rebellion). On my trip yesterday up to the trailhead, I passed the Weaverville airport, which had pretty much been taken over by the fire crews. Lots of helicopters for both shuttling crews and huge amounts of water from area lakes and the Trinity River. It looked like a military encampment.

Today (Wed), though, is different. I noticed first thing this morning that the skies were starting to get a little hazy and they gradually – and somewhat quickly – got worse throughout the morning. As I typed my blogs at a picnic table in an unused RV spot, I noticed that the once pristine view of the surrounding Trinity Alps was rapidly disappearing and the undulating layers of mountains I’d marveled at the day before were pretty much completely obscured by smoke. Things looked grim.

I drove into Weaverville to upload blogs, catch up on messaging my dear wife, subject myself to more abuse from Marc (What? A 10-mile hike isn’t good enough?), have some lunch, coffee (my first of the day!), and catch my last beer (a Sierra Nevada draft ale, for which I’m quickly developing a deep, abiding respect) at The Diggin, an ancient saloon on Weaverville’s main street. By the way, I HIGHLY recommend this fine drinking establishment if you want to A) get the lay of the land in Weaverville, B) get honest reviews of area restaurants, attractions, or hiking trails, or C) laugh your ass off at or with the “regulars,” all of whom were as friendly, opinionated (in a good way), and willing as they could be to chat with a traveling Texan. Again, more on that later.

People in Weaverville and Junction City have reason to be a little on edge. The significant fire damage on the mountains between the two towns is still very fresh in these folks’ minds. It’s from just earlier this year and devastated not only the mountains, but the economy. It’s not been a good year for this area. Between the late snow melt, brutal rains, then drought, recent heat wave, the early fires, now the late summer fires…the local economy (which is based, to a great deal, on tourism) has taken a pretty significant hit, as have the residents. One of the reasons I like to sit in local bars along my travels is you get the unvarnished truth about a region’s woes, and the folks at The Diggin were very upfront and informative about what this year, in particular, has been like. One bar patron said the only people who were doing well this year were the pot growers (this area is one corner of California’s “green triangle,” an area well-known for its high quality marijuana…Guerneville is apparently another of the triangle’s “corners”).

The campground is damn near empty. The two or three other encampments (I’m the only tent camper, which has had its advantages) are either sticking it out because of long-term commitments or cutting and running tonight. One guy is about to cancel his Trinity River fishing trip, pack up his RV after dinner, and head to clearer skies. On the way back from Weaverville a little while ago, I stopped at the National Forest office and asked about the fires. Things are not looking good. “If you have respiratory problems, I’d get out. If not, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. The fire is not going to come roaring into Junction City, if that’s what you’re worried about.” They were expecting a late afternoon temperature inversion, which may help clear out some of the smoke, but it’s not expected to last long.

I’ve struck up a good relationship with the woman who owns the campground and presides over the camp store operations. She’s pretty battle-hardened – a veteran of many, many years as a campground host - but a real sweetheart. She told me what it was like here earlier this summer when the mountains nearby were ablaze. Even through today’s haze, I can still see the charred hillsides and barren, blackened trees. It was obviously a close call. To them, this year is one to be forgotten. When I told her I was going to hang tough tonight and ride out the smoky skies, she thanked me. At this point, I’m sure any income they have is appreciated.

Two guys at The Diggin laid it out pretty plainly. If you don’t work for the forest service, phone company, transportation department, or schools, this year has sucked and there’s no work. “Our young people graduate from high school and get the hell out of here,” one told me. “There’s nothing here for them.”

I was somewhat curious as to why the lumber industry didn’t make that list. What little traffic up and down Rt. 299 that’s not fire fighting-related is trucks full of fresh-cut lumber. But, I was more intent on getting back here to the campground (for a swim, some writing, and a shower) than pursuing that line of questioning.

Tonight will be another “slim pickings” dinner, which is OK by me. I had a wonderful meal last night at The Sawmill (which scored high reviews from those holding down barstools at The Diggin) of steak and fried prawns. Not only was it a decent meal, it came at one of the most reasonable prices I’ve encountered along my California/OR journey. A NY strip, three nice-size breaded, fried prawns, potatoes, a salad, and cole slaw (too boot) for only $18? And, despite the bar being full of local patrons, I was able to commandeer the channel selection of the large screen TV and – mercifully – change from world championship poker (a phenomenon I’ve yet to understand) – to the WNBA playoffs. I’ll probably take some abuse about this, but even poorly played basketball (this was NOT the WNBA’s finest TV moment, folks) beats watching poker on TV.

The inexplicable success of “championship” poker on TV is another of the many signs that American culture is sliding into the abyss.

So, I’ll depart tomorrow morning for what I believe will be Lassen Volcanic National Park, unless fires in that area – there are fires east of here as well - also make it undesirable. I may have to play it by ear – or by eye and lung, in this case – and see where the Malibu (which I’ve christened “The Golden Bear”) takes me. I may end up in Oroville a day early. In addition to Feather Falls, O’ville boasts a Chinese Temple, which may add to the peace and serenity I’ve been seeking.

Speaking of which, one other way God has been speaking to me is with water. The relentless pounding of the waves along the Pacific coast; the vast Pacific itself; the experience of paddling down the Rogue; seeing the canyons carved out by the Rogue; sitting, watching, and listening to the beauty and ceaseless roar of several waterfalls, and – here in the Trinity Alps – sitting beside a mountain stream along side Stuart’s Fork Trail and camping beside the nearly silent, but nonetheless strong current of the Trinity River. The constant ebb and flow, or stream. I’ve spent all too many years fighting the flow, resisting the current. I’ll never be one to just mindlessly “go with the flow,” but there’s a sweet spot somewhere between where I’ve been (all too often fighting the current and demanding the current follow me) and just giving up or total passivity. As my friend Brian suggested, “Don’t fight the river. Don’t allow it to carry you away. Become the river.”

Yet, it’s the lack of water that speaks to the people of Weaverville and Junction City, among others. Yet, in almost complete contrast to the circumstances that surround it, the Trinity River silently, obliviously, yet doggedly pursues its path to the Pacific.

The winds have picked up a little, so the expected temperature inversion must’ve kicked in. Things are still smoky and hazy, but I can see peaks now I wasn’t able to see a couple hours ago. Needless to say, there’ll be no campfire this evening. This entire vacation has been rain-free. For the first time, I feel somewhat guilty for that run of luck. Those heroes occupying the fire camps up the road, being shuttled via helicopter into and out of the areas ablaze, and risking their lives to contain the fires two or three ridges west of here need a break. So does the economy here in the Trinity Alps region.

Stick out

Crescent City Arrival & Silliness on Ship Mountain

2006-08-23T13:37:00.000-07:00

8/23, 1005, Bigfoot Campground (along the banks of the Trinity River), Junction City, CA – Well, a lot has happened since I last wrote. I apologize for not updating as regularly, but my friend Marc in Anaheim has been unceasing in his verbal abuse at me for not spending more time “on vacation” as opposed to sitting in coffee shops writing about it.

So, Marc. Congratulations. You win.

As a result, what follows is a bit condensed and based on a horrible short-term memory and - when I was on the ball enough – written notes. I should also point out that forest fires west of my location (and this morning’s prevailing winds) are making things a little smoky out here in Junction City.

Redwood to Crescent City (8/14) – I was up and out of the park by 8am. I bid farewell to my favorite park ranger and complimented her on her classic 1960’s Mustang. She beamed with pride.

It was very foggy that morning and there was lots of roadwork along the highway. I opted to take the Newton Drury Parkway as an alternative route through the Redwoods Park. Turned out to be a great decision. It was a slow, leisurely pace through the middle of the Redwood forest. According to the gentlemen I met the previous day in the Tall Trees Grove, the Redwood forest at one time stretched for 400 miles and was at some points 30 miles wide. This trip has given me some perspective on just how much destruction was inflicted upon the area by early (and, sadly, later) Americans. The price we’ve paid is high. Have we learned anything? Not much, from my vantage point.

It was still too foggy for coastal views (I later returned for pictures), but did visit the site of the old bridge across the Klamath River (destroyed in a mid-60’s flood) before crossing the new bridge. Both bridges have sizable sculptures of bears “guarding” each end of the bridge.

Another unique feature of this area was the occasional lagoon (a couple anchored state parks) and extensive coastal wetlands. On the north shore of the Klamath River, the Klamath River overlook looms high above the river and ocean. Fog prevented me from taking advantage of it this time, but I had a feeling I’d be back.

I arrived in Crescent City WAY early and commenced to seeking a restaurant with free WiFi and the potential for a good breakfast. Found one. I parked there and caught up on e-mail and contact with both work and friends. My waitress had on a shirt with “Two Boys Are Better Than One” on it. I had to ask her about it. Turns out what at first seemed like a rather suggestive boast was actually an expression of pleasure by the mother of two sons. “I do get a lot of odd looks and rude comments when I wear this,” she told me.

All (well, most) things can be explained.

I checked into the Curly Redwood Lodge early. They were very accommodating (no pun intended) of my request and I was soon moved into my first hotel in 7 days. Ahhhhh…..
The Lodge was far from new (kind of late 50’s/early 60’s era), but very nice with large rooms and –lo and behold – they’d added WiFi since I’d made my reservations weeks before. Sweet! I was soon loaded in, had uploaded a blog, and now awaited the lifting of the fog from the area.

So began an adventure that was wondrous, scary, and a little weird.

Fear and Loathing on Ship Mountain – I recalled that the Lodge desk clerk had said, “If you want to see anything during the early part of the day around here, you’re going to have to go inland.” So, I focused on two things: Jed Smith Redwood State Park and what appeared on the map to be a route through the coastal mountains just east of Crescent City. The park was small, but featured some short, quiet trails through Redwood forests and a trail along the Smith River as it flowed through the wilderness. During my hike along the rocky shore of the Smith, I almost stepped on two snakes. When I asked the park rangers about them later, I was told they were probably garter snakes. Well, let me tell you folks, these “weren’t no garter snakes.” I’m not sure of their species, but I know they weren’t garters. I didn’t feel like arguing with park rangers, though, and wasn’t too keen on returning to the scene of the crime for a more formal ID.

The encounter with the snakes should’ve been a warning about what was to come. If only I’d known…

I asked the state park rangers about the route I’d picked out and whether or not it was 4-wheel drive territory. They referred me to the National Park Ranger station across the highway. So, across the highway I went. The encounter there was notable for at least a couple reasons, including the tongue-in-cheek response of the ranger when I pulled out my maps (“You’re in California.”) and that I met two other Austinites (one of whom worked at AMD) in the station. After some discussion, they concluded that A) the road was not paved but B) was not necessarily 4-wheel drive only. “…I think,” he added. “It’s been a number of years since I’ve been up there,” he cautioned.

So, I head to my car with map and shaky advice in-hand. Confidence is not high. But, I have the afternoon open and it’s still foggy on the coast. What the hell? I’ll give it a shot. Besides, if I turn up missing, I’ve established my identity and my intended destination at the Ranger Station. It shouldn’t take too long to find my wrecked car and remains.

Oh, my mother is going to make me pay for that last comment…

What followed was a 28-mile, death-defying, mind-roasting, solo journey into the coastal mountain wilderness along narrow, one-lane dirt roads cut (literally) into the sides of mountains among thousand foot drops off non-existent shoulders and almost constant falling rock zones. If you’ve ever seen a cartoon that has a car chase up or down mountains where the rear axle and wheels of the cars extend off the sides of the mountains on each sharp turn, that was similar – all too similar – to my drive up Ship Mountain. And with each harrowing mile, the hair on the back of my neck and temperature gauge on my rental car were climbing higher and higher. What had I gotten myself into? The drive up seemed endless, as well as scaryt. I have to admit I was starting to wonder if I’d finally taken one chance too many and the snide comment above about my car’s wreckage and my broken body may have been more of a premonition than joke.

But, I was actively proving that a 4-wheel drive vehicle was not necessary for the drive. General Motors, take note. Your 2006 Malibu Maxx V6 was up to the task at hand.

I did not see another human being for the entire 28 mile journey. Apparently, on that particular day, at least, I was the only human being stupid enough to pull such a stunt.

But, eventually, I reached the summit, parked, and took in a spectacular view of the coastal range looking East. Layer upon layer of green mountains stretched as far as the eye could see (and the eye could see VERY far). What a view. What majesty! What a moment of total isolation and opportunity to commune with nature! And, once again, my ears were met with total silence. No wind. No birds. Obviously, no other humans. Dead silence.

So, as my friend Brian suggested, I sat atop Ship Mountain for a good long while and listened for the voice of God. Indeed, it did take a while. But, eventually, God spoke to me. In a firm voice, as real and all-encompassing as the quiet around me, God said to me, “Get the hell out of here, butthead!”

So, after taking a photo or two, I high-tailed it out and – caressing the Malibu’s dashboard and urging it on saying, “Just get us out of here and I’ll never do anything like this to you again” – drove down the other side of the mountain and eventually (and gratefully) popped out along a state highway that snaked along the Smith River (great views and photo ops) and returned me to Crescent City.

After a good laugh at myself and my exploits, I rewarded my escape from my own stupidity by having a salmon dinner (with basil cream sauce) across the street from the Lodge and returning to my room to tell my tale to my lovely wife via phone. For all I know, she’ll kick me in the ass for being so stupid when I get home, but she was very understanding and accepting on the phone. I was safe – for now – and that was all that mattered.

Well, I have to tell you, the smoke from the fires west of here is getting to be somewhat of a concern. The mountains surrounding my little hideaway along the Trinity River are semi-shrouded in smoke and the distinct smell of burning woodlands is growing increasingly difficult to ignore. I think I’ll pack it up, go have lunch in Weaverville, then upload a couple blogs at my local purveyor of caffeinated beverages.

Stick out

Foggy Redwoods & Getting "Stoned" On Agate Beach

2006-08-23T13:32:00.000-07:00

8/16, 1931, Rogue River near Agness, OR – I awoke early (you’re shocked, of course) Sunday morning with one thing on my mind. No, wait. Two things. I forgot coffee. My goal was to snag one of the “limited number” of passes that granted the bearer to enter Redwood National Park’s “Tall Trees Grove” (and understated name if there ever was one) from a trailhead a little over a mile away instead of the eight mile hike most others have to endure. I arrived at the park office at 0730, expecting it to open at a reasonable hour, say….0800. Nope. Didn’t open until 0900.

What to do? Well, since I wasn’t able to address need #2, then revert to need #1: coffee. I drove into Orick – a really, really small tow…well, you can’t really call it a town. Even “village” would be a stretch. Let’s just call it a “collection of buildings” (some of which were businesses) huddled together just south of the entrance to RNP. For my purposes, Orick was the home of the Palm Café (no explanation of the business name), where I secured breakfast (scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns) and an endless cup of coffee. Along with that, I scored a free Sunday paper (local edition, quite a hoot), and a waitress who knew – like family - everyone who came in (save me) and, like most waitresses I’ve encountered on this trip, was pretty feisty and armed with a sharp tongue. This one, though, was pretty possessive of her spoons. She was telling the guy next to me (a confirmed bachelor in his early 50’s for whom the waitress was convinced she would someday find the right woman) that a customer of questionable morals stole one of her best spoons. Then, when confronted, the customer lied about it, claiming she didn’t take the spoon. Eventually, the waitress’s evidence (and imposing presence) prevailed and the spoon was produced, no apology, no acknowledgement, nothing. “So, I’m checking everyone here for spoons as you leave,“ she warned. “Full cavity check, if necessary!”

This was not a woman to be trifled with, I decided. I kept my spoon in clear sight during the entire meal. Perhaps I’d score a spoon on my next journey through Redwood country. But, not this spoon. Not this day. Not this journey.

The cook, as good as she was at producing fine, greasy café cuisine, glared menacingly at the customers – all of them, locals and strangers – from behind the counter. Indeed, her way with grease was tasty, but I can’t recall the last time I looked at a “clean” plate (i.e., the food having been eaten) covered with so much grease. I took notice and predicted (accurately, it turns out) my digestive system would have a thing or two to say about that later.

Later, at around 8:45, the Park Service crew showed up, opened early, and I left soon afterward with the sought after pass in-hand. I was ready to rock.

My first stop in Redwoods was the Lady Bird Johnson Grove, dedicated in 1969 by then-President Richard Nixon to the ex-First Lady, in recognition of her efforts to “beautify” America and to bring more attention to the nation’s park system. The only other early visitors were two middle-aged Asian women doing their morning jog, so to say the grove was peaceful is an understatement. An almost cathedral-like silence permeated the area. Actually, the tall, straight redwoods reminded me of pillars in a cathedral, so the comparison was not just sonic.
After completing the Lady Bird grove, I moved to the Redwood Creek Overlook. Here, I ran into one of the few (though mildly) unpleasant encounters I’ve witnessed on this trip. Taking up about 70% of the small parking lot (and not in a particularly convenient way, mind you) was a monstrous RV. To make matters worse, it was running its generator, which didn’t exactly add to the otherwise pristine natural wonders surrounding the area. Inside, with windows closed (God forbid they should actually breathe fresh air) was a family eating breakfast. Their total isolation from this world-renowned monument of Mother Nature was too ironic for me, as was the noise from their generator. I must admit I entertained dark thoughts about how stupid Americans have become.

I quickly ascertained from the map at the Overlook where the Tall Trees Grove was and put a mental “You Will Be There” sticker on it.

Tall Trees Grove. Interesting name for a grove of Redwoods in Redwoods National Park, eh? Someone was a master of understatement. Well, duh! I was the second party in, based on my observations of the parking lot. The 1.5 mile trail into the grove was almost all downhill, so I knew it’d be brutal coming out. It turned out to be worth it, though (no surprise). Along the trail, there was a fairly “fresh” fallen tree blocking the trail. Normally, that would’ve been no problem. However, when a Redwood falls across your trail, you practically have to be pole vaulter to get over it. But, with some effort and the judicious choosing of what I would and would not have slung over my shoulders when I attempted the climb, I made it over. The grove itself was lush, quiet (again, a cathedral comes to mind) and inviting. The tallest trees in the park were there. I’d been tipped off by the Forest Service folks at the Center to leave the grove and walk along Redwood Creek. Not only would this allow for some great photographs, but it’d also provide some perspective of just how tall the trees were. Right they were!

While in the grove, I met an x-ray technician from Washington State and we compared notes about our professional lives and the value of regular vacations (gee, ya’ think?). He had a Labrador that seemed to be about as much into the trip as his master was. I’m sure the short walk to Redwood Creek was probably on his mind.

I spent a long time in the Grove. The peace and serenity were just what I needed, and I had more than enough opportunities both there and sitting along the creek to turns things over. It was a healthy place. On the other hand, perhaps it was the knowledge that the trail out (and, perhaps, more importantly, UP) was awaiting me. Either way, I lingered. What got sacrificed was Lost Man Trail, which subconsciously may have been a tip of hat to my mother’s intense worries – expressed before (to me) and throughout my trip (to my dear wife) – that I’d meet with some horrible fate and never come back alive.

Instead, I opted to do the coastal drive portion of the Redwoods Park, which is in the portion of the park run by the state of California. I learned quickly that meant a fee needed to be paid. A quick cost-benefit analysis resulted in the overlooked being 86’d. I’ve seen a lot of the California coast for free. Why pay for more?

That left Agate Beach. There’s a little 5 year-old girl back home who has – much to my benefit – befriended me and in her own innocent, sometimes naïve/sometimes surprisingly “wise-beyond-her-years” way has allowed the child inside me to come out and play every so often. She has a thing for agates and pretty stones. The thought of being able to bring home a bag of raw agates for her (and being treated as thought I’d brought her a bag of diamonds) was too much to overcome. So, I returned to camp, changed clothes, drove to Agate Beach and spent two hours crawling around on the beach digging up beautiful, colorful stones for my “girlfriend.” I concentrated on the colorful stones instead of the “true” translucent agates and walked away with a plastic storage bag full. I can’t wait to see the smile on her face and the look in her eyes. It was a picture perfect day on Agate Beach, so even if I’ve not been digging away in the sand and gravel, I’d have enjoyed it.

And, yeah, the Pacific is cold. REAL cold.

Afterward, I gassed up in Trinidad and bought some cheese and crackers for my
“fine dining experience” beside the fire. Thankfully, the previous night’s wood had dried up and I ended up having a great fire to complete my last day at Patrick’s Point.

Stick out

Patrick's Point State Park & Trinidad (Pre-Redwoods)

2006-08-19T07:11:00.000-07:00

8/15, 0826, Fisherman Restaurant, Crescent City, CA – It’s been a wild ride since I last wrote. And since there’s a misty fog and overcast skies here in Crescent City, it looks like I’ll have some time to write today. So, here goes…

8/16, 1553, Along the banks of the Rogue River near Agness, OR – OK, take two….I hate playing catch up, but I’ve left myself no choice.

Not long after hitting the road Saturday morning (8/12), I bid farewell to Hwy. 1 (a fond one, too, for it was a gorgeous drive) and started up Hwy. 101, which turned inland and headed into the foothills of the Coast Ranges. Almost immediately, I was in Redwood country, with groves of the giants appearing like giant ghosts in the mixture of coastal fog and increasing sunlight through which I drove. A little while later, I crossed into Humbolt County and followed the Eel River northward toward Eureka. I made very good time, between the early start and relatively light traffic, and after catching only feint glimpses of the Pacific in the distance, I started seeing more and more during a gradual descent into the Eureka/Arcata/McKinleyville area. Eureka struck me as relatively non-descript. It was a town along the way to Redwoods country and, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t really pay that much attention other than to note it’d been a convenient place to stay had I not been camping.

Trinidad, on the other hand, was memorable, but only because of two later visits during my three-day state at PPSP (just up the road). Because I had reservations, I checked in early to Patrick’s Point State Park and, upon doing a quick drive through around the Abalone campground, concluded that the campsite reservation website’s description was accurate and it was, for the most part, one of the less-desirable sites in the campground. That’s not to say it was “undesireable,” though. Just “less-desirable.” It was small, slightly sloped, and seemed all the more cramped by being enclosed on three sides by thick bushes, some of which were blackberries. In reality, the slope was not a problem and gave me a chance to test out sleeping with my head on the low end to see if my back responded better (no clear cut results to report on that burning question). I set up camp and decided to explore the park.

What an adventure THAT was! Each of the park’s coastal vistas was eye popping. If memory serves, there were about five coastal rock formations, all of which were well worthy of photographs and hiking/climbing (most prominent was Wedding Rock, a humongous rock outcropping with a trail cut into it that led all the way to the top). Patrick’s Point itself was also pleasing to the eye. The least “publicized” in the park guide was the southernmost vista, which seemed to be hidden away but was unquestionably the most beautiful of the scenic views. I must’ve spend 45 minutes just sitting there taking in nature’s artwork.

Perhaps the park’s most “famous” feature is Agate Beach, a long stretch of coastline with a first class beach (overlooked by high cliffs, no less) stretching northward. Agate Beach isn’t call that for “just nuthin’,” though. The beach was strewn with two particularly prominent features. First, beautiful (and surprisingly numerous) agates and stones the likes of which you see polished in gift shops and at arts and crafts shows. The second prominent feature was dozens of people on their hands and knees, laying down, or walking around looking intently at the stones that surrounded their feet. Now, at that point, to me the scenery was stunning enough. I’d later learn just how strong the power of the agate would become.

After some short hikes through the park and along the trails connecting all the coastal scenery, I decided to explore Trinidad. What a treat! It doesn’t have the Victorian charm or touristy attraction of Mendocino, but it is a quaint little village with tiny, informal shops, an active harbor/fishing fleet, and gorgeous scenery surrounding the harbor. I found a semi-reasonably priced patio restaurant and had their special, a snapper with Cajun sauce over rice with a salad. A cold Anchor Steam helped in the endeavor. I wrote a post card or two (one, of course, to my lovely wife) while eating and became involved in a discussion with another table about whether or not there was a difference between a raven and a crow. Ironically enough, during the discussion, one of the offending (and, it turns out, offensive) winged, black monsters (they ARE huge up here) made off with the top bun of a woman’s sandwich! I commented that the offending bird had to have been a crow because a raven – which Edgar Allen Poe (and the Simpsons, too!) so effectively put to literary use – would have too much class to do such a thing.

“They may say ‘Nevermore,’” I declared, “but they wouldn’t steal a bun top from a person’s sandwich.” Thank God my Poe reference was recognized. I literate audience is always appreciated.

(Note: As I write this on 8/16, the folks across from me are decamping – at 5pm? – and vacating their site. Damn! They possessed an infinitely nicer spot, too…with a river view. O, fate! Cruel, cruel fate!)

8/16, 1917, Same place – I also ascertained that there was, indeed, a coffee shop in Trinidad with WiFi. That was the good news. The bad news was they probably weren’t going to be open on Sunday morning until “9:30-ish, or perhaps after…whenever they decide to show up.” Well, who needs coffee at that hour? Besides, I was planning on being long gone by then.

So, with a load of what turned out to be “young” firewood (a bit of a pisser at first, but it turned out alright in the end), I returned to camp, watched a beautiful sunset from a precipice about a 45 sec. walk from my campsite, and commenced contemplation in front of the fire. Again, the results are still a “work in progress,” but we’ll eventually get to them.

I knew I was in for a treat, though, just based upon the state park. Next up, I invade the Redwood Nation.

Stick out

The Great Mendocino County Romp

2006-08-19T07:03:00.000-07:00

(This post was uploaded 8/19 from Ashland, OR. It's been several days since I've had either internet access and/or time to write and upload. So, I'll try to catch up a little bit. Stick)

8/12, 1920, Patrick’s Point State Park, Trinidad, CA – No electricity. No cell service (on either cell phone). I suppose this is the isolation I wanted.

I awoke early Friday morning (8/11) and made a beeline for Headlands Coffee House to check route info and locations for my long-awaited Ukiah venture. After taking care of business and getting the right waitress (who knew what a sourdough bagel was), I was coffee’d up and on the road. At the south end of Ft. Bragg, Rt. 20 turns east and heads into the mountains.

For the next 30-45 minutes, I was encased not only in my car, but also inside either a corridor of tall trees or deep inside a canopied woods. For brief milliseconds, I saw scenes that rivaled the Smoky Mountains in eastern Tennessee or western North Carolina. Beautiful, thickly carpeted mountains of redwoods, pines, firs, and spruce. But, for the most part, such scenery was hidden from me as I drove through hairpin curve after hairpin curve, up and down, down and up, around and around. What a drive! My arms definitely got one hell of a workout.

I finally emerged at Willits and turned south on Hwy. 101 headed for Ukiah.

OK, why Ukiah? Blame the Doobie Brothers. On their second album, The Captain & Me, they included a song by that title that spoke of Ukiah as a paradise of “green trees and timberlands, people working with their hands, for sure, a different way to live.” Since it was one of my favorite cuts on the album, both the tune and the concept behind it were driven into noggin’. Someday, somehow, I was going to visit this heaven on Earth called Ukiah.

Well, Ukiah proper may not be heaven, but the area around it seemed pretty holy to me. With the exception of having one of the most hideous county courthouses I’ve ever seen (this is what it replaced….I’m sad to say: http://www.pacificsites.com/~rparker/ch2.jpg) , downtown Ukiah was pretty normal, though it did seem to have two main streets, which was kind of novel. A little bit of old and a little bit of relatively new. I appears Ukiah wasn’t quite sure what to make of itself during the mid-to-late 20th century. But, the town seems to be waking up and taking advantage of the recent success of the Mendocino wineries. Good for them! I like this town and hope it recovers and flourishes.

I almost immediately located the Ukiah Brewing Company and a coffee shop/bakery with free WiFi. I was in business. I ingested more coffee and a blueberry bran muffin while I updated myself on the world’s situation (still bad…groan), then commenced my little walking tour of Ukiah. Nothing exciting. A small city working itself through a Friday. For the most part, there was relatively little to explain the Doobie Brothers’ fascination with the place, though I do have to take into consideration that was over 30 years ago. But, one feature did stand out, and it really had nothing to do with the town’s “reputation.”

On a corner of the main street, about a block from the hideous courthouse, stood a large, graceful, red brick building that’d, well, “seen better days.” Built in the late 1800’s, the Palace Hotel must’ve been one hell of a lady in her day. These days, however, she sits abandoned, neglected, and rotting. And it’s sad, too. She’s a beauty even in the condition she’s in. I can only imagine the stories she could tell of better days, wild times, high falutin’ guests, luxurious rooms, what I’m told is a classic old bar, and a beautiful, ornate lobby.

But, it wasn’t the building that at first drew my attention. It was what had wrapped itself around the building. Offset by the aging, dusty red bricks was what appeared to be a massive growth of ivy nearly completely enveloping the east and north sides of the building. It seemed to grip the sides of the building like an octopus, its tentacles slowly wrapping itself around its prey as it attempts to engulf and digest it.

I walked around the two exposed sides of the original building amazed that a historic landmark (yeah, it’s registered) could be allowed to go to hell like this. It was during my closer inspection that I realized…are those GRAPES hanging from the building????? Sure enough, much to my amazement, that was not ivy, it was one massive grapevine, anchored on the north side of the building. The main stem – growing out of a surprisingly tiny patch of earth enclosed by sidewalk and the brick wall – was larger than most mens’ thighs. I can only imagine how old it was. But, it was still producing fruit. Luscious green grapes hung from its vines all over the building.

From chatting with the bartender at UBC and a county employee standing outside the hideous county building having a smoke (who also gave me directions for a scenic drive back to Ft. Bragg), I learned that, indeed, the Palace had been the grande dame of Mendocino County society with a reputation known far and wide. But, time, shaky economies, changing ideas, and – as you’ll see – bureaucracy and regulation – doomed the Palace. First, it went out of business. Then, abandoned. Then, taken over by a well-meaning-but-not-well-enough-financed gentlemen who temporarily returned the bar to it’s old splendor (the bar itself now resides in the restaurant of the UBC, a block or so away). Then abandoned again, it became a shelter for the homeless, then was basically taken over by homeless squatters. So, structurally unsound, infested with rodents, the county shuttered and locked the Palace and it’s been sitting ever since in the midst of town like a 600 lb. polka dotted gorilla no one wants to acknowledge.

Why is it still there? It’s a national historic landmark, thank God. And from what I’m told (don’t quote me here), a person could walk away with the deed to the building property for $160,000…which seems like a steal, to me. But, here’s the killer. The agreement to purchase (and it IS for sale, for anyone out there who’s interested) would have to include at least three to four million in improvements, for the building does not meet state specs for earthquake worthiness. In addition, “Do you see any parking,” asked the county employee. He had a point. In addition to time, age, changing ideas of what a hotel should be, neglect, abandonment, vermin, and the realities of building in California, the Palace had no way to accommodate one of Mankind’s greatest inventions and, increasingly, the key to his undoing…the automobile.

And if that’s not a indictment of modern society, I don’t know what is. Heartbreaking. Absolutely heartbreaking.

See http://www.bestofukiah.com/palace.html for pictures and more.

The route back to Ft. Bragg – given to me by the county employee – was a godsend for a number of reasons. First, it was one of those, “No, no, no…you don’t want to go back THAT way! You’d rather go THIS way,” type of direction-giving that, given from anyone else, would’ve been off-putting. But, this guy was so damn friendly and knowledgeable (he filled me in on a great deal of the Palace Hotel history) that I felt honored to have been given such firm direction.

As he predicted, once I’d driven slightly south of town on Hwy. 101, I turned west on Rt. 253 and almost immediately started climbing back into the coastal range. Now, this route had a few more opportunities for photography, but there were more “distractions” along the way back to Ft. Bragg than on the way to Willits. Wineries, for instance, including Roederer Cellars, which makes some of America’s best champag…I mean, “sparkling wine.” The Mendocino wine industry is growing, I’m pleased to see. A number of familiar labels were in evidence on this trip.

The public radio station to which I’d been listening on and off over the last few days, located in Philo, was also on the way back. I practically flipped the car (just kidding, Mom!) stopping and turning around to have a look-see at their facilities, but managed to do so. I talked oh-so-briefly with the young GM there and complimented her on the station’s programming and mission. Well, SOME of their programming, that is. Now, anyone who knows me knows I’m a moderate in search for leadership capable of making progress through compromise and common sense. The Philo station is the epitome of what the Right Wing thinks of when it bashes public broadcasting for liberal – if not Leftist – programming. They do run NPR News programming and BBC, but they also run Democracy Now! (which is, in my opinion, as slanted to the Left as FOX News i slanted to the Right) and some local programming which makes no bones about its political leanings. Are they reflecting their listenership? Quite possibly. Are they providing a balanced view of the world? To my ear, no. But, on the other hand, the station’s community services (they were announcing lost and found pets, for God’s sake) warmed my heart and gave me hope for the future of public broadcasting in general and public radio in particular. It’s good to know real, live, community broadcasters are still out there.

But, the highlight of the journey back to Ft. Bragg had to be Boonville. Why? Well, it should come as no surprise to anyone reading this blog that if there’s one thing that’s going to attract my attention, it’s a microbrewery. Sure enough, Boonville hosts the Anderson Valley Brewing Company, home of the “legendary” Boonville hand-crafted brews and what AVBC calls “Solar Powered Beer.” While I was pressed for time (I wanted to get back to Ft. Bragg at a decent hour), I stopped by, perused their shop, sampled a 5oz. taster of their pale ale (not bad, not the worst I’ve had, but not the best), somehow (and for some reason) resisted the 1:30 tour, purchased a couple items for presents, and zipped away.

8/16, 1544, Along the Rogue River near Agness, OR – I returned to camp knowing that as much as I wanted to return to the North Coast Brewery, I was departing for Patrick’s Point State Park the next day and preparation had to be done. I built a nice fire that night and sipped whiskey and contemplated my journey and the opportunities I’d had to turn over some of the issues about which I spoke at the beginning of this blog. Without jumping ahead too much (It is, after all, four days since I started this entry), I can tell you that Oregon will no doubt be where I take some time to address in print some – if not all – those issues.

But, this entry has stretched on long enough, and there’s more to tell. So, I’ll start another.

Stick out

It ain't (Ft.) Bragg-in' if it's true

2006-08-12T08:07:00.000-07:00

As I post this, I'm sipping my last cup of coffee in the Headlands Coffee House in Ft. Bragg. I depart for Eureka in a few minutes and have no idea how much access to the Internet I'll have. So, please bear with me if I drop off for a few days.

Ft. Bragg and Mendocino County have been wonderful to me. Onward to the north!

Read on...
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8/10, 1906, Cleone Campground, Cleone, CA – I’m getting behind, but as my lovely and very wise wife said earlier today, “You’re on vacation. Don’t spend it all blogging.” She’s right, as always.

As I stated, the drive from G’ville to Ft. Bragg was one beautiful coastal scene after another. I stopped here and there taking pictures, but knew the estimated travel time vs. the actual one was way off. Within just a few minutes of returning to Hwy. 1, I saw a turnoff for “Vista Point” or something similar and turned off with photos in mind. It was still somewhat foggy, but I had faith. A walk through a meadow teeming with flying insects (too bush to notice me) resulted in arriving at a ridge overlooking a view of the coast to the South, starting with the mouth of the Russian River emptying into the Pacific and stretching scenic point by scenic point all the way back to Point Reyes, which, though semi-shrouded in fog, was still visible off in the distance. I squeezed off a few shots and started back to the car. In the time it took me to take photos and start my walk back, a flock of birds had discovered the insects in the meadow and had descended, swooping and diving, through the buffet of bugs. It was like seeing bats at work at night. A feast!

I hate to trivialize the trip to Ft. Bragg, but honest to God, it was just one stunning view after another, which is becoming commonplace (though I still stop and shoot photos because “commonplace” up here is “eye-popping” back home). One does have to be discerning, though, otherwise I’d be blowing through film and the developing costs would be brutal. I learned that the hard way back in ’98 with the Colorado vacation.

Two notable items, though…Sonoma County seems to enjoy providing coastal access. The southern reached of Mendocino County, though, was not only privately-owned, but views were blocked with countless privacy fences. Very disappointing. I know there were some luscious views to behold, but there was no way to get to them. The other thing was there was a huge development in southern Mendocino County that featured neighborhood after neighborhood of 70’s-style coastal homes in what appeared to be “planned communities” on both sides of Hwy. 1. The enclaves were scattered for miles and miles along the coast. I couldn’t tell how old the houses were because there were new ones being built that mimicked the same 70’s style as the older ones. No question it was run by the same developer, though.

Well, the sun is going down and I’ve yet to see a sunset into the ocean on this trip. So, if y’all don’t mind, I’m going to drive next door to the State Park and go catch the sunset.

Be right back!

2083 – Beautiful sunset. Lots of people out to watch, fortunately out of camera shot.

Stopped in Point Arena to photograph the lighthouse, then continued on to Mendocino. Quaint little spot, far smaller than I expected. Decided to breeze through quickly, then return during my Ft. Bragg stay (it’s about 10 miles from FB). Soon after departing Mendocino, I noted I was closing in on Russian Gulch State Park, which features – among other things – a unique bridge on Hwy. 1 that crosses where the creek empties into the Pacific. Within a minute or two, I was crossing it and “living” a scene I’d seen repeatedly while planning the vacation. Again, I noted its location and added it to the list of places to visit.

8/11, 1142, Ukiah Brewing Co. & Restaurant, Ukiah, CA – The brewpub tour of Northern California continues…

I’m getting so far behind in my blogging. I apologize to the few of you who’re actually reading…

Ft. Bragg has turned out to be the highlight, so far. The town is just large enough, just small enough, just old enough, and just new enough. Friendly people, nice weather, a free state park/beach, lovely scenery, a port (fresh seafood!), and the North Coast Brewing Company right downtown. I set up camp in Cleone (just a few miles north of town, right next to the state park) in “The Meadow,” one of the campgrounds nicest sites and THE nicest site for tent camping. The “retired” couple that runs the camp has a nice thing going here. They have strict rules, none of which I have the least bit of objection to. The wife runs the business, the husband chops wood and does maintenance and cleaning. And there’s a small grocery/campstore out front. Couldn’t be more convenient. Nicely wooded and quiet campground, the only exception to the quiet being the distant roar of the ocean.

(Just took my first sip of a pint of Sunhouse Amber Ale. Not as sweet as some ambers I’ve had around here. A bit drier, too. Not bad. Not bad.)

So, once I have my tent sent and my bearings straight, I head back into town to find the coffee shop with WiFi. Didn’t take long. Parked on the street, opened my door and was just about knocked to the ground by the smell of hops. Wow! What a welcome! A great advertisement for the North Coast Brewery, too. “We’re here. We’re beer. Deal with it.”
I commenced the “walking tour” and quickly fell under the town’s spell. Lots of galleries, but not too upscale. It’s got the California progressive attitude, but with a Mendocino spin (i.e., not too high fallutin’). Just enough alternative living to be California, but enough normal people to still be Earthbound. I’m impressed. With all due respect to Guerneville, this is a marked improvement.

I have since used the Headlands Coffee House at least once, and sometimes twice a day since then. Great selection of coffee. Strong WiFi signal and great sourdough bagels. I’m not the least bit embarrassed to admit that I’ve eaten dinner BOTH nights I’ve been in Ft. Bragg at the North Coast Brewery’s taproom/grille. The prices are right, the beers are fresh and cold, the atmosphere is inviting, and it’s on the north side of downtown, making it a short drive home (fear not, I’ve not had more than one pint per night).

(Oh, this is weird…one of the young men working here at Ukiah Brewing is named “Austin” and his twin brother is named “Travis.” I told him where I was from and he said “Cool!”)

So, Wednesday evening, after dinner and a pint, I checked out the state park, returned to camp, built a fire, and - as I pointed out in an earlier post – sipped some Maker’s Mark. It was, all in all, a wonderful introduction to Ft. Bragg.

Next morning, I did my “bidness” at the coffee shop, then headed south to Russian Gulch State Park, near Mendocino. I undertook a 4-1/2 mile hike through the thickly-forested, fern-floored woods to a small waterfall and “communed” with nature and my inner self for a while. I was the first on the trail – by far – and watched (and felt) myself move from microclimate to microclimate as I climbed up and up the creek canyon and into and out of small spots where the run barely broke through. The woods was quiet, apparently home to mountain lions (!!!), except for my nearly constant whistling and jingle-jangle of the compass and whistle around my neck (which, I learned during my first Colorado hiking vacation, comes in handy for letting wildlife know I’m in the area). If I recall correctly, Led Zepplin, Genesis, and Stevie Ray Vaughan were my whistling selections. Thank God I learned that little talent!

I was all the way to the waterfall and about 1/3 of the way back before I ran into anyone else coming up the trail. The early bird gets the privacy, as I always say. I continued a shorter hike into the park’s headland area overlooking the raging, but still fog-bound Pacific. One of the park’s features is a inverted arch-shaped bridge (Rt. 1) I mentioned above. It spans where the Russian Gulch Creek meets the Pacific at the park’s headlands. A very beautiful sight, worthy of photographs when cars aren’t parked under the bridge. I compromised and used a tree to try to block the cars and shot a photo anyway.

Then, it was onward to Mendocino. Well, lunch is over. Time to move along myself. I’ll pick up with Mendocino at my next stop.

8/11 – 1820, Cleone Campground – The car is gassed up, I’ve had my “big meal” for the day (a tasty fish sandwich at Ukiah Brewing Co.), the car is cleaned and organized for travel, the cell phones are charging up, the campfire is burning…I’m in for the night.

Yes, well, Mendocino…much smaller than I anticipated, considering how much I’ve heard about it and the fact that Doug Sahm wrote a classic song about it. It is a quaint little village on a bluff overlooking the Pacific, featuring Victorian cottages and businesses catering to tourists. Since it’s just a short little drive to the much larger and more developed Ft. Bragg, it seems to be perfectly happy just as it is, thank you very much. And it works, too. There’s everything from the usual beach gift shop merchandise to inns/B & Bs to high-end fashion wear to even a well-stocked (for it’s size, which was not much larger than a closet) CD store (and they were playing Delbert McClinton, had CDs from Los Lonely Boys, and - most surprising – even a CD by Austin’s Del Castillo. Made an Austinite feel right at home). I also noted that this past June’s Mendocino Music Festival had, as one of it’s featured artists, the Austin Lounge Lizards. Lots of Putamayo CDs available, too. My sense it’s either a well coordinated marketing plan by Putamayo or the record store is catering to the world music tastes fed by the local public radio station operating out of Philo.

In addition to coffee and a piece of organic pumpkin bread, I paid for much needed internet service and sat along the sidewalk tables and caught up with “things” and chatted with my lovely wife.

Have I mentioned how much I love my wife? She is a wonderful lady. I miss her greatly and count the mintues until our next cellphone conversation or instant messaging session. Sigh…

Anyway, I walked through the business district, took some ocean pictures from the edge of the bluff and some pictures of the gardens. Ah! The gardens! Mendocino seems to excel at growing flowers, developing courtyards, and backyard flower gardens. There was flower color EVERYWHERE! The whole place just reminded me of a small, quaint English coastal village full of retired gardeners. Most of the houses were small “cottage”
style buildings, the vast majority had obviously been around for a while, and they were – for the most part – immaculately kept up. The place was charming.

I noticed that the time was coming in, so I quickly returned to Russian Gulch and took “the picture” of the inverted arch bridge I mentioned earlier.

After marveling at Mendocino’s gardens, it only made sense that my next stop was the Mendocino Coast Botanical Gardens, 57 acres of meticulously maintained gardens and one of the better ocean views along Hwy. 1. A non-profit group runs the gardens, so I didn’t put up too much of a fuss with the $7.50 entrance fee. Turns out it was well worth the price of admission. Now, there was a time not that long ago when I wouldn’t have given a botanical garden a first, let along second, thought while planning a vacation. That was before I married Sundance, who has not only developed my appreciation of plants in general – and flowering plants specifically – but done so to the extent where I can’t walk by a rose bush without inspecting it and, as the saying goes, “taking time to smell the roses.” Since Sundance is not along with me (except in spirit), I shot many photos using both the Nikon and the digital camera. I’ve been shooting flowers right and left since arriving in San Jose. Sundance deserves no less.

Ahhh…the sun is starting to wane, the campfire is going well, it’s getting chilly. The sweatshirt is on. With a little more “brought along” food in me, there’ll have to be some liquid refreshments considered…for warmth and medicinal purposes only, of course.

For those of you who know me well, you know that Thursdays hold a special place in my heart. Being away from Austin, I’ve not been able to enjoy my weekly Oaxacan mole with friends and colleagues. Fortunately, here in Ft. Bragg, Thursdays are also special. It’s Pint Night at North Coast Brewery. So, having scrimped on food throughout the day, it was time to “splurge” on another dinner at NCB. But, first, I had to perform an important test of NCB’s product. Does it taste good in a bar other than that run by the brewery? I know, you beer snobs are with me on this one. These things are important! So, having not yet visited Ft. Bragg’s wharf district, I drove to North Harbor Ave. and down into the dock area, where an inlet from the Pacific meets either a small river or creek. Quite a number of fresh seafood processors, deep sea fishing outfitters, and restaurants line the docks, so Silver’s Restaurant & Bar was where I wanted to test the integrity of NCB’s Red Seal Ale. I’d considered having dinner there, but something about enjoying another Red Seal with dinner at NCB’s taproom & grill appealed to me. So, I sat at Silver’s bar overlooking the docks and soaked up the scenery, the ambience, and a Red Seal. And, to be honest, the prices of food around here are pretty high. I knew there was a particular dish I wanted try at NCB, so that’s where I headed. Besides, it was PINT NIGHT!!!!

The bar was far more crowded than the night before (gee, I wonder why), but I found an open stool at the end of the bar and set anchor. Pint Night at NCB involves them choosing one of their hand-crafted brews, discounting it (and refills even more) AND you get a pint glass (to keep, no less) with the label of the featured brew silk-screened on it. Sweet! It just so happened that Red Seal Ale was the chosen brew, so that’s what I ordered. Along with it, the Carolina BBQ Pork.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with Carolina BBQ’ing, or for those of you steeped in the traditions of Texas, Kansas City, or Memphis style BBQ, brace yourselves. Carolina barbecue sauce is vinegar and mustard-based. Whoa! Yeah, I know…that concept takes some getting used to. Well, let me tell you, so does the taste! Tangy, vinegary, sometimes sweet, often not-so-sweet. Some of it as yellow as a No. 2 pencil. But, after some time eating this regional delicacy in South Carolina, it grew on me and I have to tell you, I miss it sometimes.

So, how could I pass up the opportunity to try NCB’s version? On the opposite coast, too! And who’d have thought I’d find it in Ft. Bragg, CA?

It turns out that the waitresses have been instructed by the head chef to warn people who order it about the vinegar/mustard-based sauce. “Of all the items on our menu,” the bartender told me, “this one gets sent back the most. A lot of people aren’t aware of what they’re ordering and don’t like it. We warn people now.”

I assured her that nearly five years in Charleston, SC prepared me adequately. The result? Well, the Red Seal was excellent (and it was at Silver’s too, by the way). The Carolina BBQ pork was just a tad sweeter than more Carolina pork, but it was tangy, vinegary, and tender. For California, it was pretty good Carolina pork. It was served with some very good cole slaw and jalapeno corn cakes. “Some mighty fine eatin’” would be the way a Carolinian would term it.

There was only one way to top off a day like this, my first Pacific sunset. So, with camera’s loaded and ready, I headed to the nearby state park/beach, called Sundance from my seaside location, and watched (and shot) as the Pacific slowly engulfed the sun. The ocean was pretty rough last night, so there were some great pics to be had.

I called Sundance upon my return to camp, wished her “good night,” secured everything, and crawled into my awaiting sleeping bag. Quite a day!

Stick out

Guerneville to Ft. Bragg - Back to the Coast

2006-08-12T08:03:00.000-07:00

8/9, 1816, Cleone Campground, Cleone, CA (just north of Ft. Bragg) – What a day! I’m so pumped about today that I’m having to “make myself” document the last two days in Guerneville.

Patience, Dana. Patience. Guerneville deserves coverage…

The thing about driving on Rt. 1 is that every corner, almost every mile contains such mind-roasting scenic beauty that you have to remind yourself to pay attention to A) the road (at many points, you’re just a few feet from plunging off some precipice into either the Pacific or some river canyon, a fact that will no doubt make my mother worry even more) or B) a key turnoff to an important destination. Guerneville was the latter. In fact, I made such good time heading north from Point Reyes that the Russian River snuck up on me. My reflexes caught it, though, and I was soon driving up River Rd. surrounded (again) by a lush canopy of tall redwoods, spruce, and pine trees.

Guerneville is, well, for lack of a better phrase, a “center of alternative lifestyles.” Old hippies, back-to-the-landers, winemakers disgusted with Napa Valley’s bombast, and a significant gay community rule the roost there. Now, I’m sure you’re thinking, “Well, duh! It’s northern California, Dana!” Well, Guerneville has an edge on many other California centers of progressive thinking and lifestyles.

That “edge” is Lazy Bear Weekend. I think this URL – and the links off it – should suffice in explaining about LBW.

http://www.castrobear.com/LazyBearWeekend/

It turns out that I made my camping reservations for the last day of LBW at one of it’s main lodging centers. By the time I arrived, most of the Lazy Bears had departed, and as a gay friend of mine in Austin told me, “They’ll leave a path of destruction in their wake.” Sure enough, the campground – or what was left of it – looked like a disaster area. And no wonder! A view of the campground from the back deck of the main house revealed a massive patchwork of various shapes of dead or dying grass from 180 tents and the leftover trash and discarded camping gear and other possessions of around 400 Lazy Bears.

The few Bears who remained looked hung over, exhausted, and shell shocked. As Stevie Ray Vaughan sang, “What a time did they have!” It must’ve been pandemonium for the four or five days prior. The staff of the inn/campground had just a few days to recover before an ironman competition hit town and the grounds would again be filled (though I suspect by a far less rowdy crowd).

One of the leftover Bears (a veteran of many LBWs) helped me choose a shady spot for my tent. I tackled the setup myself knowing that I had to re-master the process later this week and had the tent up in relatively short order. My site was on a slight embankment overlooking the beautifully sedate Russian River and a riverbank lined with tall redwoods, spruce, and pines. It was, in a word, idyllic.
My new neighbor told me tales of the four previous days of drunken debauchery and the pitfalls and pratfalls of – and these are his words – “a campground filled with 400 queens doing what gay men do and telling each other the best way to set up tents.” Personally, I couldn’t imagine 400 of ANY group of humans and 180 tents stuffed into such a small space. Based on the tiny amount of space between each square and rectangle of dead grass, and also taking into consideration many of the tents had guy wires holding them up, it must’ve been an obstacle course just trying to negotiate a path from tent to tent or anywhere else for that matter. It made my head hurt just trying to think about the chaos.

To make a long story short, the staff at Inn at the Willows were outstanding, even though they, too, had been pushed beyond the point of exhaustion by the invasion of the Bears. The place had the air of a huge frat house. The mood was relaxed, accommodating, and anyone who was registered pretty much had the run of the house. About the only danger was in trying to negotiate a path from the campsite to the house without getting soaked by the sprinklers that were in use as the groundskeeper desperately tried to recover some growth before the ironmen started arriving on Wednesday.

Sadly, the owner of Inn at the Willows recently announced he was putting the inn/campground/spa up for sale. This was, it seems, a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Interested investors, contact me.

My visited to G’ville included two Mexican dinners, one each at the two Mexican restaurants in town. If I was to base my opinion of California-style Mexican food on those two establishments, my review would not be kind. It’d consist of one word used over and over and over again ad nauseum. BLAND! Granted, it was being compared to Tex-Mex and the fine interior Mexican cuisine in Austin and San Antonio, but honest to God, California…you people are wimps when it comes to Mexican food. At the second restaurant, I tried not one, but TWO sauces that had warnings on them about being “HOT!” Neither one raised even an eyebrow. No heat whatsoever. Severely disappointing. Not surprising, but disappointing nonetheless.

(At this point, I paused to build a campfire)

I took a brief sidetrip to Bishop just to gas up with less-expensive fuel, Bishop being on Hwy. 101, a more mainstream thoroughfare, and therefore offering better deals. On the way, I noted quite a number of campgrounds along the Russian River and a good number of wineries as well. The Russian River is an “up and coming” wine region, though it also features such “established” wineries as Korbel (champagne or, as it’s usually referred to here in the States, “sparkling wine”) and DeLoach, among others.

But, as I stated earlier, I’m pretty wine-toured out after my time in Wine Country. There really IS too much of a good thing.

On the way to Bishop, I was visually reminded of the existence of the Stumptown Brewery and Smokehouse in Stumptown, just east of G’ville. It was on my list of local breweries to test out and I’d completely forgotten it. So, after injesting tasteless Mexican food in town, I drove out to Stumptown and both enjoyed a Rat Bastard Pale Ale (outstanding) and reminded myself what it was like to be in the presence of women again (until just last night, the entire population at the Inn was made up of men). So, based on my experience, the most outstanding culinary experience in that area is a pint of Rat Bastard at Stumptown Brewery. Unfortunately, the restaurant portion of the establishment wasn’t serving that night, so I mean that literally. That pint really was the best tasting thing I had in G’ville.

My departure from G’ville this morning started out on schedule, but quickly bogged down due to the one thing I’d neglected to include in my equation. Morning dew. A wet tent fly and as-yet-unexplained wet ground slowed me down and “dirtied up” the process, causing me to accept yet another offer of a free breakfast from the Inn (damn!). While enjoying some a bagel and some of the groundskeeper’s fine coffee, I chatted with the Inn’s owner, a really brilliant, highly-successful business man (a business turnaround specialist who got burned out on big business and competition and decided to take some time off). Apparently, “time off “ running an inn in G’ville, while succeeding ahead of his five-year plan, was taking a lot of his time so he was opting out. Fascinating guy. I wish him well.

I departed G’ville around 8am this morning (Wed) and, upon returning to Hwy. 1, was almost immediately back into the “OH….MY…GOD” scenery mode. The drive up Hwy. 1 from G’Ville to Mendocino, then Ft. Bragg was one eye-scorching Pacific view after another, punctuated occasionally by a sudden twist, turn, and dive into a thickly-forested river or creek valley. Seeing these mountain rivers empty into the Pacific is a completely different scene than the East coast, most of which is flat. In some cases, the areas surrounding the rivers are the only green spots around, since so much of the West coast was over-logged in the 1800’s and early 1900’s. Speaking of which, that should explain the origin of the name “Stumptown.”

Well, the sun is setting and it’s getting a bit cool out here. I think I’ll put the laptop to rest and sit back with my campfire and sip a little Maker’s Mark that somehow slipped into my baggage. I’ll pick up the story of the road to Ft. Bragg tomorrow morning over coffee.

Stick out

Cowlifornia, One Whale of a State

2006-08-08T13:34:00.000-07:00

8/7, 1923, Inn of the Willows (along the banks of the Russian River), Guerneville, CA
I had three goals for today. Tour Point Reyes National Seashore, make it to Guerneville before dark, get my tent and camp space set up. Mission accomplished on all three (and that’s not a George W. Bush “Mission Accomplished,” that’s a real one). I departed Vallejo early this morning, and to be honest with you, I couldn’t wait to leave. Not sure what it was about that town, but it didn’t leave a good impression on me. I’m glad my experience in Wine Country went so well. It more than overcame returning to Vallejo each night. Once I was west of 101 and out of Navato, I began a slow, but steady climb back into the Marin Headlands. After that, I descended into the valley between the headlands (wetlands…some of which reminded me of South Carolina) and Point Reyes. Once I was in the Point Reyes National Seashore area, it was up again.

2025, sitting along the Russian River, Guerneville, CA – As I was saying…Driving up into Reyes, one thing – and a very surprising thing, at that – became clear. This was dairy farm land. And in a very big way, too. There was even a cheese factory (daily tours!) on the way. For the most part, the mountains were grasslands, covered with the straw-colored grasses I noticed in the Wine Country. Not lush by any means, though I heard one woman giving her parents the Point Reyes tour mention that in the spring, “All this grass is green and it’s covered with wildflowers.” It took some imagination to visualize that, but I managed. My first stop was Limantour beach.

“A beach is the place where a man can feel, he’s the only soul in the world that’s real.”
Pete Townsend
Quadraphenia

Pete pretty much summed up the experience I had on there. It was like something out of a movie. Here I was, early morning, alone on a jaw-droppingly picturesque, deserted beach with the Pacific’s waves rolling in and crashing against the coast around me – with more power and a louder roar than I ever recall the Atlantic being able to muster – and nobody, I mean NOBODY else showed up the entire 30 minutes or so that I was there.

A fine time to contemplate. So I did. I decided a while back that one source of guilt, one resentment, one source of anger, one source of pain at a time, I’d present to my Higher Power along a beach, along a trail, deep in the mountains, along a lake or rushing creek or river…recall it, feel it, consider it, look back on it, ask for or grant forgiveness and/or release it. I wrote this one in the sand with my ever present cane and let the surf take it from there.

I still can’t believe I was alone for that long. Whomever or whatever was responsible for that, thanks.

From there. I again climbed upward, this time on Sir Francis Drake Blvd., which eventually wound up and down through the meadows and historic dairy farms (most of which had been around since the mid-1850’s, according to the Park Service signs) and brought me to the cliff jutting out into the Pacific upon which the Point Reyes lighthouse is perched. Naturally, there were stunning views to be had both on and off the road leading there, and the 15+ mile stretch of beach just north of the lighthouse (Point Reyes Beach South, for those of you keeping track) and the rocks just south (Sea Lion overlook and Chimney Rock) were spectacular to behold. The road to the lighthouse was “walking only” and was just under a ½ mile, which – at this point in my trip – is chump change, even if it was an incline. Again, the views were mind-blowing, but the real treat was descending the 308 steps to the precipice upon which the lighthouse is located. The lighthouse has been there forever, and is both operational, from what I witnessed, and kept immaculate by the Park Service. There is a more modern light – and effective foghorn, which was in use and echoed into the distance with each blast – which appears to supplement the original light.

While I was sighting up a picture, a seabird biologist with the Park Service asked, “Want to see a whale?” Sure enough, surfacing about every minute or so was a Minki whale heading north. The two whale watching boats in the area quickly rushed to its proximity and, while keep a respectful distance, monitored its progress. I tried my best to “spread the wealth” and point out the whale to those coming down the 308 steps as I climbed back up. I heard “ooohs” and “aaahs” in my wake. So, I saw a whale. Not a blue or a grey, but a whale nonetheless, so I can check that off the list.

One last lighthouse comment…one of the exhibits quoted a lighthouse keeper who’d been suffering alone through multiple days of raging storms: “O solitude, where are the charms sages have such in they face.” Personally, I like my choice of professions just fine, thank you.

The sea lions at Chimney Rock sounded like someone starting a motorboat. Despite the distance between us, their calls reverberated around the walls and were considerably more than just “audible.”

8/8, 1328, In the library of the Inn at the Willows, Guerneville, CA - The remainder of my Point Reyes visit was a drive up to Pierce Point Ranch and McClure’s beach where, again, I was along and presented with astounding scenery (Elephant Rock was the most prominent feature). I decided against the rather long hike to Tomales Point – the very northern-most tip of the peninsula – as I was unsure how long it would take me to get to Guerneville and didn’t want to attempt my first “real world” deployment of the tent in the dark. As it turned out, that probably would not have been a problem, but I don’t regret that call. It’d have been a long haul and I’d already expended enough energy walking in the sand and climbing hills.

The main entry/exit point to the peninsula is Point Reyes Station, a really neat little burg that looked relatively untouched by tourism despite its location. Had I not been unsure of the time I’d spend getting to Guerneville, I’d have stopped for lunch. I have to mentioned the name of a little town on the east coast of the peninsula, along Tomales Bay (which separates most of Point Reyes from the mainland): Inverness. Now, tell me the parallel between Point Reyes and the British Isles (in this case, Scotland) wasn’t held by someone else.

The drive to Guerneville was slow at first – I was behind a horse trailer – but once they pulled off, it was smooth sailing along the Bay, then along the coast. Not that many towns – Bodega Bay was probably the most prominent – but lots of surfers and more dairy farms.

I’ll pick up with Guerneville at another time. It’s a story worth telling, though I’ll have to leave out some names and details to protect the guilty. Suffice to say, it’s been an interesting visit. Weird, but I wasn't expecting anything less.

Stick out

Raymond Trumps All and Farewell to Wine Country

2006-08-06T16:11:00.000-07:00

8/6, 1002, Raymond Winery, St. Helena, CA – First one here again. I swear, people are missing some of the most precious moments at these wineries by not being here in the morning. Granted, drinking wine this early has its drawbacks. Of course, the fact no one else is around, and the solitude that results, may have something to do with the tranquility that I’ve discovered. Ya’ think?

I drove up Silverado Trail to get here. It, too, is less known and, therefore, less utilized. I do believe I may have figured out where the population of Napa are on Sunday mornings. Riding bikes on Silverado Trail. I think there were almost as many bike riders on Silverado Trail at this hour as there are cars on Hwy. 29.

Why does Raymond hold such a special place in my wine interests? I have enjoyed a number of their wines over the years, mostly Cabernets, and they have been not only been consistent, but consistently great wines. Almost as important is that my wife’s first son, my older stepson, is named Raymond and I’ve watched Raymond “age” and mature like a bottle of wine for the last 7 years. It’s been an adventure for us both and I think we’ve reached that point where we’re enjoying each other’s existence in our lives and have developed a healthy respect for one another. So, the name “Raymond” has a number of special meanings to me. Needless to say, if the winery store has caps and shirts, I’ll be buying a few.

The winery is located on Zinfandel Rd. just outside St. Helena between Hwy. 29 and Silverado Trail. The grounds are tastefully manicured – not opulent, but beautiful nonetheless – and the dark stone entrance is classy, yet understated. Raymond Vineyards isn’t one that does all kinds of marketing or glitzy advertising to get your attention. Their wines speak for them and their wines have had a lot to say to me. The buildings are not architectural wonders either. They do not draw attention to themselves. Tasteful, not gawdy, and simple. The first thing that struck me when I got out of the car was the aroma in the air. A mixture of lavender and the flowering trees that flank the parking lot. Sweet, soothing…most pleasant. A large, round stone planter anchors a sitting area around which benches with umbrellas and smaller planters with evergreens and flowers are placed. More lavender is in the center of the planter, so the scent is inescapable. Ahhhhh….

I was also first and, for the longest time, the only person at Downtown Joe’s for breakfast. I chose to eat in the bar, near the WiFi and an all-important power outlet (otherwise I probably wouldn’t have the battery power to be writing now). The chorizo scramble was good, though Texas chorizo has far more taste than the sausage used at DJ’s. Nonetheless, it was a tasty and filling (and, like most things in California, expensive) breakfast and should fuel me for the day and give me a “base” in my digestive system upon which to pour tastes of wine this morning and early this afternoon. On the way up Silverado Trail, I saw several wineries I’d like to visit on my way back south.

It is interesting to see all these wineries I’ve heard and read so much about in Wine Spectator for all these years “in the flesh.” I can certainly see how a wine snob’s visit to Wine Country would “personalize” their hobby and influence the perception of their enjoyment of these wines in the future. For the first time, I have real “visuals” to which to refer when I’m enjoying a particular wine.

Whoa….another blast of lavender…..ooooooo.

Well, 30 minutes until the tour begins. The winery is officially open and I suspect the wine/gift shop is open as well. I might as well take advantage of being the only one here and go in. More later.

1411, back at Downtown Joe’s, Napa, CA – I promised the bartender I’d be back. I’m back. So, with an ice water on one side and a Tail Waggin’ Amber Ale on the other, I submit my afternoon report.

I spoke with my wife by phone about 45 minutes ago and told her, “We’ll be buying a lot of Raymond wine from now on.” Here’s the background…

I arrived at Raymond at opening time, but was under the impression my appointment was at 11am (all my notes say 11:00). Apparently, they were expecting me at 10:00. So, for the first ½ hour or so of my “tour,” I sat writing the above blog marveling at their courtyard and ambience of their winery. As it turned out, it didn’t matter because when I went in around 10:30 or so, I was still the first and only person to have arrived at the winery. So began a winery tour to rival – if not exceed - the Rubicon experience.

“Exceed,” you snort? “Exceed Rubicon?” Read on, friends.

Cathy of Raymond’s hospitality staff was expecting me. She graciously welcomed me and we were soon sitting at a table in the tasting room. Because of the one-on-one nature of our tour, and the fact she knew I’d been to quite a number of tours over the last few days, she quickly assessed what I did and didn’t know and on the fly created a tour for me.

I briefly explained how much Raymond’s wines meant to me and how I so enjoyed my Raymond Cabs and kept the last of my ‘97s Cabs squirreled away in my coolers awaiting “just that right moment.” We also discussed the family connection of the “Raymond” name to our family.

Cathy recounted the history of the Raymond family (see http://www.raymondvineyards.com/ourstory/ ) and I learned right off the back that the winery’s “pedigree” grew out of the Beringer Winery, not a bad set of roots to begin with in Napa Valley! As the Beringer operation grew and morphed into the monster it now is, the Raymond “wing” chose to take their inheritance at what turned out to be an opportune moment and start their own winery on a piece of property that snuggled the border of the Rutherford and St. Helena districts (St. Helena starts quite literally “across the street”). Totally, there are five Raymond generations involved in Napa Valley winemaking, three of which are involved directly or indirectly with the Raymond label.

No wonder I like their wines! A Beringer pedigree! Wow!

Cathy then led me on a tour of the facility that included the crushing, processing, fermenting, blending, labs, aging, and distribution facilities. She was a extraordinary guide, knew her stuff quite well…she educational, entertaining, and a delight with whom to chat (we went on at least couple “tangents” outside the formal tour material). The smell of the wine and oak in the storage building was as intoxicating as the wine. I love that smell!

Once back at the tasting room, Cathy commenced a sampling Raymond’s “wares.” I received what can only be described as an extraordinarily generous “Tour de Raymond.” I can’t even begin – seriously, I’m not kidding - to express my appreciation and gratitude to her for both her wonderful personal tour of Raymond’s facilities and wines, as well as the time, effort, and attention she paid to me during my visit. I felt like a visiting prince. I raise my glass – and will continue raising glasses for years to come – of Raymond wine to their wonderful wines.

I concentrated on cabs, fully. Cathy poured Raymond’s Napa Valley Reserve (the very fine “standard” – and I use “standard” in the best sense - cabs that inhabit my collection), the relatively new Rutherford and St. Helena “District” cabs (the Rutherford was my favorite between the two, though both were beautifully made), and the real surprise, their Generations series 100% Cabernet. I’d never had a 100% cabernet. Cabernets are almost always blended with Merlot, Cabernet Franc, or some other red to mellow the “in your face” nature of the Cabernet. Needless to say, I was a little intimidated. Rightfully so, in some ways. Not so in others. It was a blockbuster. A stunning, powerful Red that – while it knocked you back a step or two – did so with finesse, class, and refinement. Cathy explained that Raymond’s longtime winemaker – Walter Raymond – obsessively chooses the grapes that go into the Generations cab, and rightfully so since – for the most part – the releases have been 100% cabernet sauvignon. It showed. The 2002 Generations was amazing. Not many wineries would have the intestinal fortitude to release a 100% cab. Raymond did. It’s outstanding.

She also poured Raymond’s Napa Valley Reserve Merlot, which was also quite tasty and could easily make a believer out of those who are now “poo-pooing” Merlot (damn that “Sideways” movie!).

The weird part of my visit is Cathy practically quoted parts of what I wrote above (before I even went into the winery) about my impressions of Raymond Vineyards and their wines. I mentioned that Raymond is rather subtle with their marketing and lets their wines “do the talking.” She mentioned the say thing at the beginning of our chat. She also mentioned that because of the long family tradition and the fact that one family member has been involved in the blending of Raymond’s cabernets all these years, the consistency is extraordinarily high. Did I not cite their high quality and consistency earlier while sitting in their courtyard? It was eerie! I really DO have a connection with their wines!

Another surprise was that the the Raymond family entered into a partnership with the company that brews the Japanese beer Kirin. The relationship is rather unique in that Kirin doesn’t really stick it’s nose into Raymond’s business that deeply and overwhelm the family operation like so many other corporate partnerships. My sense is Kirin treats Raymond like Oakland Raiders owner Al Davis treats his coaches and teams: “Just win, baby.” Raymond Vineyards – and Cathy Chase – are both winners in my book. What a way to start my last day in Napa Valley!

As promised, shirts, tops, and hats were purchased. Stepson Raymond may not fully understand the significance of the Raymond name on his shirt – other than it’s his name – but the folks at Raymond and I know why I like Raymond wines and I know why their wines are so polished, classy, consistent, and a cornerstone my my cellar collection.

You have to pity Silverado and Pine Ridge wineries, both of which I visited on my return trip to Napa via Silverado Trail. I’d had the best winery visit and the best tastings of the day – if not the entire visit to Wine Country – earlier that morning at Raymond. I gave Silverado a chance with a tasting. Their Sangiovese was pretty good, their Merlot was tasty, but a bit too dry for my taste. Their Cabernet – much to my surprise, considering their location (Stag’s Leap District, known for Cabs) was unimpressive and, well, “green.” Impressive winery (as was Pine Ridge, which I chose not to taste), but the wines didn’t meet the standard that’d been set by Raymond. Bad timing, guys…I apologize.

So, I retuned to Downtown Joe’s (there were homemade brews to try) and have ended up trying a pint of their Tail Waggin’ Amber and – after ordering their chicken/portbella/sun-dried tomato fettucine alfredo – a special, limited edition Honey Tail Waggin’ Amber Ale. Good food, good brews, fine view of Napa on a beautiful summer day…and free WiFi. All I need to do is get some more sun and it’ll be a perfect way to spend my last day in Wine Country.

So, what did I learn from my trip to Wine Country? Don’t come on a weekend. It’s a madhouse. Silverado Trail, St. Helena, and Calistoga are currently the REAL stars of a Napa Valley visit, Vallejo is NOT where to stay, unless you can’t afford otherwise (which I decided – and still feel – I couldn’t), and Downtown Joe’s makes a decent amber ale, but an even better honey amber ale (they should make it all the time).

The tours at Rubicon and Raymond were the winners in the “outstanding winery tour” competition, though both had the advantage of me showing up early and there being practically (and, in Raymond’s case, literally) no one else on the tour. Rubicon raise the bar, Raymond set up their own high jump and leaped over everyone else.

Remember, actually mileage may very. I was probably WAY more fortunate than most other visitors to Wine Country. No, I was definitely more fortunate. My thanks to all the wineries I visited and to Napa Valley and Sonoma Valley both (especially to Cathy at Raymond and the young man who was my guide at Rubicon). What a region. What an industry. What a visit.

If you thought I was snob before this vacation, you don't want to be around me now!

So, now, I head back to the hotel to gather together my gear and prepare for seven days of camping along the California Pacific coast. My postings will probably not be as numerous, but I have a lot to see, a lot to experience, a lot of contemplating and reflecting to do, and a lot of “roughing it” (by my standards, at least) to do. If I see a “free WiFi” in someones window, I’ll stop in and upload what I can.

Until then, my best to you all. Thanks for following my journey. I’ll be back in touch as soon as circumstances allow.

And with that, I’m off to the Pacific coast.

Stick out

Saturday Leftovers & Sunday Morning Observations

2006-08-06T08:40:00.000-07:00

0737, 8/6 Downtown Joe’s American Grille & Brewery, Napa, CA – No, I haven’t started drinking this early. While strolling by late yesterday afternoon, I noticed that Downtown Joe’s had an enticing Sunday morning breakfast offering and decided this was the place to be.

Oh, yeah…free wireless Internet access, too. Big point in their favor.

Napa is a pretty quiet place at 0730 on a Sunday. The downtown is virtually silent. I expected a tad more activity at this hour. But, the last 10 minutes or so has shown some life. Joggers, of course. I’ve noticed this awaiting DJ’s doors to open.

As for yesterday afternoon and evening…

I departed St. Helena and headed south to Robert Mondavi. There was a good crowd there, but not overrun. I strolled the grounds and tasting rooms and took some pics. The tasting rooms were pretty packed, so I opted against. And as I may have mentioned, seeing yet another tour is somewhat overkill (though I do have reservations this morning for Raymond Vineyards, but that’s special). Mondavi, like Sterling, has a Spanish mission design to it, but the Mondavi property is a huge, sprawling vineyard. It’s also a stone’s throw from Rubicon, and there’s a story there. When Francis Ford Copppla first purchased the Neibaum estate, he wasn’t all that interested in making wine. I’m sure there was a minor desire there, but it wasn’t a driving force. The story goes that Mondavi visited and, while showing Coppola the inner workings of the property, came upon the then-deserted family wine cellar. There, they found a bottle of Inglenook from the 1800’s. Though Coppola at first had some hesitation about opening it, Mondavi insisted. Now, wine with a pedigree that good has one heck lifespan. But, when it’s opened, it deteriorates quickly. So, Coppola and Mondavi opened it and tasted it.

To make a long story short, Coppola left the cellar that fateful day dedicated to reopening the winery and restoring Neibaum/Inglenook’s reputation as a first class winery.

That’s just one of the numerous ways Robert Mondavi has had a positive effect on the establishment and growth of Napa Valley as the epicenter of American winemaking. So, as pointed out by my frend Marc in LA, visiting Napa Valley without visiting Mondavi is just plain wrong.

Across the street from Mondavi is yet another piece of evidence of Mondavi’s influence. Opus One Winery is a collaboration between Mondavi and Baron Phillipe Rothschild, a pillar of French Bordeaux winemaking. The building’s highly unique, modern architectural design (which brilliantly conceals the inner workings of the winery itself ) created quite a stir in Napa several years ago, but the wine the property produces astounding Cabernets that fetch top dollar (and, usually, top scores). It sits on sacred ground for cabernet grapes and the views from Opus One were impressive. Pictures were taken.

Ah, but did I do a tasting? Well, I may end up kicking myself years down the road, but no…I did not. First of all, I’m still trying to budget myself. Bang for buck, I didn’t think it was worth the fee. Second, if I’m going to try an Opus One, I want to taste a vintage that is outstanding…something that stands out. I’m not sure the current vintage is something that’d be considered classic. Third…well, Opus One is – in my opinion – so overblown and overpriced that I couldn’t bring myself to be “a part of the problem” by paying money to them to taste their wine. Call me silly, call me an idealist…call me whatever you want (and if I know Marc, he’s calling me a lot worse). But, I simply couldn’t do it. I strolled the grounds, took pictures (the building really is that impressive), and left it at that. This was also the first winery that required visitors to sign in and note the time they arrived, which struck me as somewhat odd. Homeland Security measures in Napa?

After that, I drove to Napa to again give it a chance to impress me. It may a little better impression the second time, but Napa still strikes me as a city that pioneered the California wine industry/tourism explosion, but hasn’t kept up. St. Helena and Calistoga not only picked up the wave and are riding it, they’ve maintained the character of their town and Napa, well…, sold out. Granted, Napa is a larger city, but the downtown area’s character seems to have been hijacked by soulless business entities who built downtown malls with tourist shops and glitz. That may attract some, but not me.

Now, to its credit, Napa seems to be trying to develop itself back into an attractive place to be. There’s construction on the riverfront and some old buildings that may have at one time been leveled for newer construction are being renovated and turned into shops, restaurants, and wine bars. Napa may yet set itself straight.

I slept well, but was awakened by a group of teenagers making a commotion outside, then inside the room next door…at 2:45AM. Not appreciated. Thankfully, it didn’t go on forever and I was able to return to sleep without involving myself.

I realized last night that after tonight, I’ll be camping for the next week. Access to electricity and WiFi may not be as readily available as it has been lately. My lovely and truly wise wife pointed out during our phone call last night that this may not be a bad thing, considering my desire to “get away from it all.” Good point. I’ll keep telling myself that as I go through withdraw.

I just ordered the Downtown Joe’s Chorizo Scramble and the coffee and fresh orange juice just arrived. More later.

Stick out

Calistoga Dreamin'

2006-08-05T15:01:00.000-07:00

8/5, 0810, Calistoga Roastery, Calistoga, CA – The longer I’m in Wine Country, the more I appreciate its (at first) subtle beauty. Routes that were at first mundane and mildly commercialized have started to reveal themselves as scenic drives of impressive beauty. It could be that I’m growing more familiar with the area, or becoming more discerning in what I chose to pay attention to, but the bottom line is Wine Country (and Napa Valley, in which I’ve spent the most time) is growing on me (pun intended).

As I stated earlier, St. Helena made quite an impression. This morning, Calistoga made an even bigger one. Perhaps it was because I once again got up ridiculously early and hit the road hoping to avoid the crowds. I achieved that. The drive from Vallejo to Calistoga was wide open and uncrowded. The rising sun illuminated the western valley slopes, separating them from the misty eastern slopes, and highlighted features I’d not seen – or at least noticed – during my previous drives. It was refreshing and fulfilling. There are benefits to being a morning person.

As I headed north on Hwy. 29 out of St. Helena, I was in unexplored territory. What an eye-opener! The valley narrows, the mountains seem higher (perhaps because of their proximity), and the greenery more lush. Far more pines appeared than in the south valley.

Then, Calistoga. A long main (Lincoln Ave.) street filled with old buildings - shops, restaurants, galleries, etc. – reminding me of Telluride, CO…but flatter. For a more local comparison, like St. Helena…but longer and with more businesses. It’s every bit as quaint, intimate (if not more so), and inviting. The main street is book-ended by the northern valley’s mountains and the storied Silverado Trail ends just outside town.

Just within the 45 minutes or so that I’ve been in town, I’ve watched it come to life outside the window of this coffee shop. Traffic starting to build up, more people arriving and strolling up and down the sidewalks. It appears the weekend Napa Valley crowds are starting to arrive.

Sterling Vineyards is first on my list, a mountain-top winery accessible by tram. Then, I head back south (if I can somehow tear myself from Calistoga).

0920, Sterling Vineyards, Calistoga, CA – Yeah, Calistoga is the best kept secret in Napa Valley. This place is nice. I walked Lincoln Ave. from stem to stern, then returned to my car. I departed – somewhat unwillingly – eastward and turned south on Silverado Trail. Within about a quarter mile, I had to stop to take a picture of the eastern slopes. This is beautiful country, indeed. A short drive and here I am at Sterling. You may think it crazy to arrive an hour before opening, but so far the peaceful, sleepy nature of Napa Valley as it awakens is a beautiful thing. In addition, many of the wineries have beautifully landscaped and manicured gardens worthy of exploration while awaiting opening time.

Sterling is no exception. I’m surrounded by rose gardens, which – I should point out – actually serve a purpose here in Wine Country. Roses are EVERYWHERE. I learned during the Sebastiani tour that roses show evidence of mildew ever-so-slightly before mildew starts to build up on grape clusters. So, the roses are the canary in the mineshaft, so to speak. If the field workers or property managers notice mildew on the roses, it’s time to take evasive action on the grapevines.

So, this gives me another opportunity to shoot some photos for my beloved wife – the rose in my life – to be sent along with my next e-mail to her.

1436, Ana’s Cantina, St. Helena, CA – The Sterling tour was excellent. Outstanding, in fact. The wine, as expected, was first class. The tour, though…well, the facility AND the tour… were incredible. The winery sits upon a mountain-top overlooking the Calistoga portion of Napa Valley and views are spectacular. The winery is, as most are these days, quite modern. The tasting room and store are both beautiful. The winery is designed to resemble a Spanish mission similar to those that helped settle this area. The tram ride alone was exciting and full of beautiful vistas. Once you got to the patio tasting area (there were three total tastings) the views were spectacular. I recommend Sterling to anyone who is touring Napa.

I returned to Silverado Trail stopping briefly at Duckhorn Winery, then a quick detour up into Deer Park to see Burgess Winery. Burgess is appointment only – and I didn’t have one – but the view from the winery was even more spectacular than Sterling’s.

Beringer had been on my list for days, and despite being told the day’s tours were sold out, I went anyway. I’m glad I did. The 1:30 tour had an opening. After a tasting of three Beringer reds (did I mention I was partial to reds?)…Pinot Noir, Merlot, and Cabernet Sauvignon…I did the tour which included their caves. I’d not been in a winery’s caves since 1976 in Reims, France. What a treat.

So, that leaves Mondavi, which is on the way back to Vallejo. The only real “appointment” I have tomorrow is at Raymond Vineyards – a long-anticipated visit, since I’ve had so many great Raymond wines over the years. The rest of the day is “open,” though I do have to spend some time prepping for Point Reyes and Guerneville.

This will be the last time I have Internet access today, so I’ll submit this now. It’s a beautiful day and I don’t want to waste it sitting in a bar…even if that bar IS in St. Helena in Napa Valley and the beer is cold and inviting.

Southward I’m headed.

An Offer I Couldn't Refuse

2006-08-04T16:17:00.000-07:00

4/06, 0916, Parking Lot of Rubicon Winery, Rutherford, CA – I sit awaiting the opening of Francis Ford Coppola’s winery, which has gone through many names in its existence, including Inglenook, Neibaum-Coppola, and now Rubicon. It sits in what is probably the Garden of Eden for Cabernet fans with Beaulieu Vineyards across the street, Opus, Robert Mondavi, Groth, and numerous other wineries famous for their Cabs. This is sacred ground.

I arrived in Wine Country yesterday (Thursday) after a relatively quick drive up 101 from San Francisco. I decided to deviate from my original schedule since I arrived so early, and chose to drive to Sonoma first, instead of Napa. Sonoma’s town square is neat and inviting, very “small townish” and friendly. It was easy to get around and I quickly stumbled upon a coffee shop with free WiFi. The atmosphere was very comfy, the coffee acceptable, but the Internet access was a godsend. I cranked through some e-mail and cranked up my caffeine level.

The Sebastiani Winery was just a short distance away, so I decided to “go with the flow” and drove the few blocks to their new facilities. Sebastiani is Sonoma’s oldest continuously operating family winery, a distinction owed primarily to an early family member’s quick thinking and decisive action which landed the area’s only permit to make sacramental wine for the Catholic Churches during Prohibition.

Sebastiani’s staff was very welcoming, friendly, attentive, and the tour (which lasted just under an hour and was the first of that morning) was both entertaining and educational. I chose to forego the initial offering of a taste of wine upon arrival, which turned out to be a great move on my part. Our tour guide ended up being my tasting server and by that time, we’d chatted and he was much more generous with the number of wines offered. He was also very talkative (in a good way) and I learned a lot from our brief chat. One of the tastes I had was of Sebastiani’s new Port, which – while it did taste like prune juice (what port doesn’t?), was smooth and not nearly as repulsively powerful as other ports I’ve tasted. Not bad.

Despite collecting wine for going on 14 years now, I was unaware of the viticultural history of American wine grape cultivation and learned that for quite a while, American attempts to grow wine grapes (Thomas Jefferson being on of the first) met with less-than- stellar success. Attempt after attempt met with initial success, then failure. Eventually, it was discovered that a disease in American soil was killing the vines, a disease from which European vines were immune. After a disastrous experiment with American vines in Europe (it nearly wiped out the European industry), it was discovered that American’s could cultivate wine grapes by grafting their vines on European roots. The roots were immune.

The rest is history.

After the Sebastiani tour, I returned to “downtown” Sonoma for lunch, stopped by the coffee shop for another “hit” on their WiFi, then headed north on Rt. 12. I visited Imagery Winery (recommended by my tour guide at Sebastiani), as well as Kenwood Winery (their 1986 Artist Series helped to establish my respect for California Cabernets).

Then, I stopped at Chateau St. Jean. Interesting experience. Beautiful winery. Immaculately landscaped and manicured grounds. But, the pretension level was high and there were a number of stereotypical “California-types” (self-absorbed, cell phones attached to their heads, silicone-injected) strutting about the place. It was like something out of a movie…and a bad one at that. It scoped the tasting room, the winery store, then departed. Weirdness level was simply too high for me.

The hotel is passable, but only barely. Motel 6 has been advertising their “new rooms” for roughly 7 years now. Make a note: They’re not new anymore. Staff is not exactly “user-friendly” either. But, the location works, the price is right…

(Later, that afternoon, 8/4,1506, Ada’s Cantina, St. Helena, CA) – I started out this morning driving to a “not-quite-awake” Napa, and drove around trying to get my bearings straight. Not an easy thing to do. Napa is not exactly “logically set up” and is somewhat confusing to navigate. I eventually found The Butter Cream Bakery and had breakfast there. The place has evidently been around forever. Bakery on one side, diner on the other. The food was just fine, but the atmosphere was even better. A head cook who looked into her early 60’s whose life was centered around that kitchen. She was mouthy, cantankerous, and hilarious to watch and listen to. Everyone working there was “honey” to her, but you also knew not to cross her. A few of the signs on the wall:

- “Harassing the cook will DEFINITELY result in smaller portions.”
- “No whining zone”
- Price. Quality. Service. Pick any two.”

I left Napa and drove up Hwy. 29 to Rutherford. I had plenty of time on my hands, so I located the wineries I wanted to visit, then headed up to St. Helena for a walkabout. So far, St. Helena is my favorite Napa Valley town, though as I write this (4PM) the traffic outside Ana’s window can be described as “stupid.” (And I’m about to head out into it!)

The Rubicon tour was outstanding, and not just because there were only three of us on the first tour of the day. The attention was very personal, the knowledge base was very deep, and the ancient-but-still-in-use winery was an incredible thing to see. Coppola’s Oscars, a Tucker car, the desk from Godfather Don Corleone’s private office, costumes from Bram Stoker’s Dracula…that was all “gravy.” The restored winery, tasting room, grounds…not to mention the story of Inglenook/Neibaum-Coppola/Rubicon…it was pricey ($25) but well worth it. Not sure folks who pay that amount and have a crowd of 30 people taking the tour with them would have the same experience or level of satisfaction. What a place. First class.

Our tour guide was a professional photographer who is having an opening in Napa tomorrow. Since two our of three of us “tourees” were carrying nice Nikon cameras, we had a lot to chat about.

The wines we tasted were excellent, and the flagship – Rubicon (a Bordeaux-style red) – was striking even though it hadn’t aged that long. Francis knows his wine and has done a great deal to redeem the Inglenook heritage from the jug wine reputation it developed when the family had to sell out to major corporations. He has not only restored the reputation, but also the property. Coppola has purchased back all of the 2000 acres Capt. Neibaum at one time possessed.

So, where to go after that? Across the street to Beaulieu Vineyards (BV), of course. I was hoping they have a tour – I mean, they ARE one of the “anchors” of Rutherford’s success as a wine region – but, alas, only a tasting. I opted against it since I’d just had one across the street. So, I checked the map and realized Mumm Champagne was a short drive away.

Now, there’s a bit of a history here, because I visited Mumm’s facility and caves in Reims, France 30 years ago this summer during a 6-week trip to Europe. The Napa facility was FAR more modern of course – in both its construction and techniques – but it was worth stopping by. The property was beautiful, the view of the Rutherford area from their facility was picture-worthy, and the tour was led by a young woman who is scheduled to visit the Reims facility in a couple weeks (now THAT’s professional development!). So, we had a thing or two in common.

A family that was along for the tour lived in Sunnyvale, but was from the Ukraine, and had their mother (visiting from the homeland) with them. It was interesting to hear the the running translation. God forbid they should somehow find this blog, but I have to say I’ve never seen a sadder face than I saw on the wife. Perhaps it was her mother-in-law who was visiting. It was striking.

I didn’t have a tasting at Mumm. As much as I love champagne, it tends to give me headaches. This is my damn vacation. I left headaches behind. Still, if I DID get a headache from the champagne, at least I couldn’t blame the headache on someone else.

After leaving Mumm, I drove to Rutherford Hill for a quick look around and more pictures. It overlooks Napa Valley from an even higher vantage point than Mumm. Again, worth the stop. Looked like a nice facility, but the tour schedule didn’t meet with my schedule, so I looked around and departed. I’d “spied” Ana’s Cantina during an earlier drive through St. Helena and wanted to take advantage of the WiFi (an all-too rare commodity around here, believe it or not).

So, I sipped on a pint of Sierra Nevada and tapped out this blog entry.

I have no idea what to expect tomorrow. I’m making it up as I go at this point. It’s working so far. I know the weekends are a madhouse in Wine Country. I may lay back and take it easy. The only “for sure” appointment I have is at Groth Vineyards in Oakville on Sunday.

Well, time to head south.

Stick out

From the ridiculous to the sublime (and back)

2006-08-02T20:48:00.000-07:00

8/2/06, 1710, Hotel (Lombard St.), San Francisco, CA – I’m on a roll. I might as well continue.

I awoke rested, despite having numerous dreams throughout the night. None bad., though I seem to recall some where pretty weird and featured a cast of strange characters.

Though I discovered Muir Woods just before departing and received encouragement to visit from my brother, I was not entirely certain I’d find time to make it a part of the journey. But, today’s visit is a direct result of my “overachieving” on Monday. The time was there.

After a light breakfast, I departed for Marin County via car and crossed the Golden Gate Bridge – shrouded in fog this morning - heading north, the opposite direction of rush hour traffic. The symbolism was not lost on me. I returned to Rt. 1 at Tamalais Valley, and began my twisting, turning climb back into the Marin Headlands. After crossing the summit of the mountains, I made a spontaneous decision to stop by Muir Beach before heading to the Woods. The drive down the mountain to the Pacific was every bit as twisty-turny as the drive up Tamalpais.

Muir Beach is small, but it was deserted and the surf was pounding away. I walked and paused on the beach and had time to reflect upon what brought me here. The pace of sightseeing, hiking, and keeping in touch with the home front had allowed me to forget that one major goal was solitude and soul searching. I sat on a rock and pondered the surf. Mother Earth’s constant metronome. It was a good opportunity to take stock of the stress, sadness, pain, rage, and confusion that prompted me to undertake this sojourn. Yeah, they’re all still there (though I have at least temporarily stopped biting my fingernails, a good sign). This will be a day to work with them some, I know.

After some time in thought, I continued to the rocks at the south end of the beach and took a photo (this one warranted the old Nikon to be put into use) before traversing to the north end, then slowly returning to my car. I suppose there’s some irony in the fact that a beach named after John Muir, who came to believe that humans and Mother Nature had equal stature in the wild, would be preserved in a pristine state, but be bounded on one side by a hillside liberally peppered with expensive homes clinging to the side of it.

I departed Muir Beach and quickly found myself at the entrance to Muir Woods. “Myself,” it turns out, is damn near literal. I must’ve been the second car to arrive at the park. I quickly changed into my hiking boots, slipped my backpack on, and took a look at the park map on a sign in the parking lot. Two major trails were available to me. One was a short “up-and-back” that didn’t stray beyond Muir’s Redwood Grove. The other, which incorporated the first trail, but branched off (way off, as I eventually discovered), looked like the challenge I was seeking, for, you see, I had to know if my feet and legs were up to back-to-back-to-back days of extensive hiking. This was the time, and that was the trail.

I paid my $3 entrance fee, and was immediately enveloped into what turned out to be a vast grove of coastal Redwoods. Now, this meeting between me and these Redwoods goes all the way back to elementary school, where I first learned of these astounding giants and marveled at them in the textbook and in my imagination. That memory struck me the moment I entered the grove and stayed with me throughout. The adult had reverted to being an eight or nine year-old and my sense of adventure was that much more keen. The Redwoods towered as high as you can imagine – and even higher than the child inside me imagined – and I was soon struck by how quiet things had become. Muir Woods is a National Monument, but it might as well have been named a National Cathedral. The deeper I hiked into the woods, the quieter it became. Not even the sound of birds chirping! It was both eerie and exhilarating, I stopped and “listened” several times and was amazed each time by the dead silence I encountered.

After a while, I came to the point where the two trails diverged and I…(sincere apologies to Robert Frost)…I took the one less traveled (the Hillside Trail), and that, indeed, has made all the difference. The Hillside Trail immediately began what turned out to be a long, grueling, and strenuous ascent through the Muir Redwood grove, up into part of the Tamalpais Peaks (there are three), and onto the Ben Johnson Trail, part of a vast Bay Area trail network. I went up, and up, and up, and up, and kept going up for what seemed forever, and never really perceived much in the way of sky. The canopy the Redwoods created, as well as the fact that - despite this relentless climb – the Redwoods just kept coming (even at the higher altitudes) made sunlight a rare commodity. Soon, I realized I’d far surpassed the tops of the first Redwoods I’d encountered in the grove (approximately 370 ft) and was STILL climbing. And I kept climbing! At some point, I met up with the Ben Johnson trail and, wouldn’t you know it, starting climbing again!

By this time, I was entering the fog bank that had covered the Bay Area all morning, but began to see occasional breaks and blue sky above. At last, after a number of switchbacks that gave me hope an end to the ascent was near, I reached the summit, popped out of the grove into an open meadow, and intersected with the Dipsea Trail. I’d hiked 2.5 miles, a good portion of which was straight up.

The Dipsea threaded through a vast meadow at the top of the Tamalpais Peaks. There, I saw striking blue Steller’s Jay, stood silent while a young white-tail buck fed off some succulent leaves about 50 yards from the trail, and heard the cry of a red-tailed hawk that sounded strikingly similar to the one that was sampled and used repeatedly on TV for way too many years (I KNOW you’ve all heard it at one time or another). Eventually, Dipsea broke off the main trail system, entered a Redwood-less forest, and began a long descent back into the Redwood Creek valley. I crossed Redwood Creek and emerged from the woods pretty exhausted into the overflow parking lot from which I’d begun.

Total mileage: 4.1 miles. If I have the time, I want to find out what kind of vertical ascent I made. It had to have been substantial. I kid you not. It was starting to feel as though I was in an Escher painting or that I’d eventually pop out of the fog bank and come face to face with St. Peter.

I must’ve looked pretty authentic, because two young couples asked my advice on how to proceed on the trails. I told them that if they wanted to do the whole shooting match, following my route would be preferred, otherwise their endless climb would be in a relatively mundane forest instead of a vast grove of Redwoods.

After changing back into sneakers (ahhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!), I departed for Stinson Beach (another twisty-turny stretch of Rt. 1), an isolated Marin County community on the Pacific. Quaint, arrogantly shabby (a South Carolina-ism), but still a pretty cool place, I walked the beach (must’ve been 150-200 others out) just as the fog started to get sucked back out to see and blue skies appeared. After finding some small, but brilliantly blue shells on the beach and visiting the huge rocks at Stinson’s south end, I dropped two post cards into the mail, packed it in, and drove back to San Francisco. The bridge was still shrouded in fog, but the city was partly sunny and bright.

What day! The complete opposite of yesterday’s stomp through the urban jungle and tourista Hell. For the good part of two hours, I was completely alone with Mother Nature and my thoughts. After yesterday’s walking tour of San Francisco, it was just what the doctor ordered.

So, tonight, I’m probably going to walk (oh, no…not MORE walking!) down Lombard to Mel’s Diner (no kidding) and then return to the hotel to begin the repacking process, prep for tomorrow’s move to Vallejo, and make final plans for my four-day siege of Napa Valley.

I left my feet in San Francisco

2006-08-02T20:45:00.000-07:00

8/2/06, 1530, Hotel (Lombard St.), San Francisco, CA – Yesterday’s “practice session” hiking up Hyde St. paid off during Tuesday’s AAA Walking (well, there was a little riding, too) Tour of San Francisco.

I departed the hotel at 7AM and walked to the Hyde St. Pier to catch a cable car to Union Square (downtown), where the walking tour begins. As it was early and the touristas hadn’t stirred, I enjoyed being one of the only people on the car and had a good chat with the operator as we went up and down the hills. The man likes his work and had plenty of stories to tell. The cable car creaked and moaned throughout the journey, but the system still works and from what I witnessed, San Franciscans still hop on for transportation to and fro. So, that says something about them. The “ding ding” of the bell made me hungry for Rice-a-Roni. Whoever came up with that marketing concept was a genius. After all these years…

Once at Union Square, I did a quick walkabout to get my bearings, then headed for the Museum of Modern Art (free admission on the first Tuesday of the month!). Once I’d established where it was, I strolled semi-aimlessly through downtown to get my legs ready.

I grabbed breakfast at Lori’s on Powell St. while sitting at the bar and chatting with a 60-ish woman from NJ who’d been left to her own devices by her husband, who was attending a conference. She planned on doing some serious shopping damage to his charge card and lamented being married to someone who didn’t know the meaning of retirement and planned on working until he dropped dead. She cautioned me against being that way and I assured her I was not that type, and explained to her what prompted this monumental vacation and where it was going to take me. We wished each other well and I departed for SFMOMA.

OK…to make a long story short, SFMOMA had a lot of really weird stuff, much of which didn’t connect with me. But, it also had some fine works by Diego Rivera, Frieda Kalo, Picasso, Andy Warhol, and a large exhibit of works by a mid 20th century Japanese photographer which chronicled everything from atomic bomb artifacts and victims to how Japan adapted to defeat and adopted so very much American culture soon after occupation. Along with the building itself, which is a beauty, those were the highlights for me.

Having “done” SFMOMA, I returned to Union Square and commenced the long-anticipated walking tour.

Now, first, I should mention to those of you who have never been to SF, it is built on a series of hills. And we’re not talking anthills, here. These are serious hills. Serious enough for you to wonder who in their right mind designed this burg. They either had a really twisted sense of humor or were a sadist. Anywho, you can’t go anywhere without climbing or descending hills. And, let’s face it, San Francisco is one of the world’s major cities and there are a LOT of people here. With only a couple of exceptions, the walking tour was accomplished among a sea of humanity and traffic rushing and running about like someone had stirred up a fire ant hill.

Union Square was surrounded by the captains of American retail. All the biggies. Nordstrom, Macy’s, Sak’s, Neiman-Marcus (which, though it’d not opened when I was there, allowed outsiders to spy the 1909 domed, stained glass ceiling of its entrance) and all the top designer shops as well. The lobby of the Westin St. Francis Hotel the very definition of “class” from an age gone by. On Maiden Lane, formerly a Barbary Coast center for brothels, was a building designed by a young Frank Lloyd Wright. So young, in fact, that one could’ve easily passed by without noticing. However, if you took a moment to look at it, yep…those windows give it away. It’s his.

A quick stroll through the canyons of the Wall Street of the West financial district (including the pyramid-shaped TransAmerica building) followed by a stop at Old St. Mary’s Church (noontime concert by a classical pianist in-progress) left me at the entrance to Chinatown. The transition into Chinatown could not be more striking, with the exception of Chinatown’s exit into North Beach (Italian/Greek neighborhood). Chinatown was narrow streets filled with merchandise, food, tearooms, restaurants, and countless stores filled to overflowing with Asian merchandise. The aromas were strange and enticing, as were the people who inhabited the area. It’s both historic storybook images and several stereotypes come to life.

I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t stop to have lunch in Chinatown. In retrospect, I should’ve. My bad. After some minor shopping, I hoofed it further and crossed the line – as I stated, a very distinct line – between Chinatown and North Beach. Everything Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Korean, and otherwise Asian on one side of the street was just as Italian and – to a lesser extent – Greek on the other side. I suspect the Chambers of Commerce for both districts drew a line and said “We are here, you are there.” It’s that distinct. Nothing gradual about it.

Here again, the aromas were overpowering and everywhere you looked were stereotypes come to life. And accents. Italian and Greek accents coming out of people’s mouths you KNOW were born and raised in America. That’s how strong the ties to family, heritage, and the past in both Chinatown and North Beach are. Amazing places.

I had a passable, but not outstanding lunch at an Italian restaurant in North Beach. Appetizer of hard-crusted Italian bread, olive oil, and olives with garlic and peppers (drool) followed by an Italian sausage sandwich with peppers and onions with a Peroni beer to wash it all down. Sadly, the olives and the Peroni were the highlight of the lunch.

On a side note, while I was eating in the open air dining room, I watched a small group of young canvasers from the Democratic National Committee fan out at the intersection to get people signed up for support and a to distribute literature. The vast majority of people they approached blew them off, sad commentary, I suppose, on people’s disgust with politics in general and what the Democratic Party has to offer these days (“We’re not Bush!”). I encountered one on my way out of the restaurant and tried – unsuccessfully – to explain that while I was certainly NOT a Republican, I was certainly not represented by the Democratic National Committee’s views either. “Well, if you’re not a Republican,” the youthful volunteer said, “you’re one of us, then!” I realized at that point that I didn’t have time to explain the subtleties of my political thinking these days, so I wished her good luck and continued on my trek.

After walking through Washington Park, I began my ascent (a good workout by this time) up Telegraph Hill to Coit Tower, which sports at its base some fairly progressive and controversial (for their time) murals extolling American workers and poking early 20th century American business interests in the eye. I can see where the charges (at the time of the tower’s construction) of socialist leanings by Mrs. Coit came from, but in retrospect, they’re pretty mild compared to the political, cultural, and social mess we see around us today. The views of San Francisco Bay from Coit Tower were breathtaking.

Departing Telegraph Hill, I found myself on Lombard St. (mere blocks from where this journey started), but turned north onto Taylor St. and entered Tourista Hell, otherwise known as The Cannery, Fisherman’s Wharf, and Pier 39…the Embarcadero. The area was swarming with tourists from America and all over the world. Total madness. After helping a couple with a photograph in front of Alcatraz Island, I dived into the hordes of touristas and became one with the herd for a while. I suppose all this commercialization saved this historic from continued decay, ruin, and (most likely) “urbanization” (i.e., condos), but the area is proof positive that while American society, politics,and culture may be on the skids, capitalism and the American entrepreneurial spirit are both alive and kicking.

For all intents and purposes, the walking tour was complete. But, before walking several painful blocks home, and to counter the stress of finishing at Fisherman’s Wharf and the mass of humanity that had overrun it, I stopped at Jack’s Famous Cannery Bar, where 85 draught beers awaited me (I chose the Alaskan Amber) and I eased out of tourist mode.

My feet and lower legs ached, but I’d done it…and the SFMOMA as well. I arrived back at my hotel just after 5PM, ten hours after I’d departed. I was exhausted, but during a brief and unexplained availability of wireless Internet access, I downloaded e-mail, responded to one or two, and caught up with the news of the day. I suppose I haven’t mentioned that the free wireless Internet access at my hotel either doesn’t work, doesn’t work well, or is not Mac friendly. Whatever the reason, I’ve had to make due with what happens to pop up (which hasn’t once been the hotel’s system) and go with it. I’m hopeful that my next stop will provide more consistent (or should I say “existent?”) service.

San Jose to San Francisco

2006-08-01T17:58:00.000-07:00

7/31/06, 2100, Hotel (Lombard St.), San Francisco, CA – Stimulation overload! Stimulation overload!

What an incredible day! I packed about a day and a half or two days worth of travel/sightseeing into this one day, and a good deal of it was unplanned and completely spontaneous.

I departed San Jose at 0900 expecting to take the I-280 to State Rt. 92, which would take me to Half Moon Bay and Rt.1, the coastal highway. Instead of taking a highway into SF, I thought I’d do something a little different and come in via the coast. Well, in theory, it was a great idea and appeared to be working well until I headed north out of Half Moon Bay. “Road Closed Ahead” the sign said. What? No! I can’t be! This is my vacation! So, like the stubborn mule I can sometimes be, I ignored the signs and continued on. Sure enough, about 10 miles north of HMB, roadwork had closed Hwy. 1. That’s the bad news. The good news is the road stopped at Montara Beach, which had a stunning beach and mountain combo worthy of a photo or two (and if I ever figure out how to upload pics into this blog, I’ll do so).

So, I turned back somewhat dejected and drove back over the Santa Cruz mountains and back onto I-280. Ahhhh….but I was not to be outdone. There had to be another way into SF without taking highways. Sure enough, Skyline Blvd. broke off I-280 just south of South San Francisco and joined up with Rt. 1 for a more “off the beaten path” entrance.

From that point on, things started falling into place more than I could’ve imagined.

I’d not planned to visit Golden Gate Park until Wednesday. But, Rt. 1 goes right though it. So, what the heck, I parked along one of the park roads and started hiking. Three hours later, I’d walked through the botanical gardens, the Japanese Tea Garden, the Redwood Grove, the Rose Garden, Rainbow Falls, and Stow Lake.

And, harkening back to a previous posting, it would be very easy for someone to find peace, serenity, and perhaps even enlightenment in Golden Gate Park. It is an oasis of solemnity and natural wonders within an otherwise insane metropolitan area (and even larger than New York’s Central Park, after which it was designed).

So, I’m sitting in my car about to depart when I look at the map and realize Rt. also goes across the Golden Gate Bridge to the Golden Gate National Recreation Area and Marin Headlands. Well, who the heck am I to break my own momentum? So, a short drive later, I’d driving through the Presidio area and approaching the bridge.

It is an awesome site. Monstrous. Larger than life. Truly the engineering marvel it’s cooked up to be. Once across, I took pics from the Scenic Overlook, then considered making a quick visit to Sausalito, since I still had plenty of time before my hotel check-in window shut. But, as I was approaching the turnoff to Sausalito, I saw a sign for the Marin Headlands portion of the GGNRA and felt myself being pulled in that direction.

It was an excellent decision. The road to the headlands climbed an enormous mountain that flanked the north end of the bridge, overlooking the bridge itself, the entrance to SF bay, the coast south of SF that I’d missed because of the road block, and the entire Bay area.

Unknown to me, the top of this mountain had been designated by the US military as a defensive position during WWII and was partially built to host two massive artillery cannons intended to defend the entrance to SF Bay from a naval invasion. Obviously, the invasion never came, and the guns were never positioned. But, plenty of construction took place in preparation and the abandoned bunkers and several forts remain.

But, the views…holy mole! The views! Totally mind-roasting. The mountain is higher than the tower of the bridge, so as you climb to the summit, the pictures you take look down – literally – on the bridge.

I have to give credit to my brother for his comment last night (Sunday) that his trip yesterday to this same general area provided the clearest view of SF from the bridge he’d ever seen. Since today’s weather was similar to Sunday’s, I decided to go for it. Thank you, Bro! It paid off.

After settling into my hotel on Lombard St., I once again took to the streets to see how prepped I was for the upcoming hikes. I walked from my hotel to Ghirardelli Square and The Cannery, then turned south.

Now, for those of you who don’t spend a lot of time around me, you may not know of the Live Toad Rule which states, “Eat a live toad first thing in the morning and nothing worse will happen to you the rest of the day.” Having just hit town, and preparing for tomorrow’s walking tour of SF, I faced the infamous Hyde St. – as close to straight up as any street I’ve come across – and started walking. Now, four blocks may not see a lot to some. But four blocks straight up Russian Hill? Brutal. But, I persisted and achieved my goal without EMS having to be called.

Assisting me in my trek up the hill was a young Asian girl who ran up the hill (on the opposite side of Hyde St.), walked back down, then again ran up the hill while I was – at first - assessing the ascent, then accomplishing it. I figured if a young twentysomething girl could run up the hill – at least twice – I could somehow chug out enough steam to walk up the hill.

It seemed appropriate that after all this healthy waking and hiking, I would counter it by eating something completely unhealthy. So, I continued strolling down Lombard until I came across Jake’s Streaks on a side street (Buchanan) and ordered a Philly Cheesesteak with provolone and washed it down with a draft Anchor Steam. Well, the cheesesteak wasn’t quite as good as the one I had in Philly several years ago, but it hit the spot. And the Anchor Steam….well, it’s Anchor Steam! Of course it was good!

I picked up some supplies at a corner grocery (my room has a kitchenette), and hoofed it on “home.”

Tomorrow, the AAA walking tour of SF…”by the book.”

A serious tip o’ the hat to my brother and sister in law for their wonderful accommodations, entertainment, and culinary exploits (both at home and out on the town) during my stay in San Jose. Bravo!

Feets! Get movin!

Stick out

2006-07-30T11:42:00.000-07:00

7/30/06, 0652 (and later at 1028), Starbuck’s, Rose Garden District, San Jose, CA – I woke this morning to the smell of…is that garlic?

Indeed, as predicted by my brother and sister-in-law, the nearby Gilroy Garlic Festival filled the air with the aromatic stench of the “stinking rose.” To be honest, it was a wonderful sensation, and a unique way to start the day. It was, as is the case daily, offset by the sound of airliners taking off from nearby San Jose International Airport, but that’s to be expected.

I started out this morning by writing that “peace, serenity, and spiritual enlightenment are not going to be found in San Jose, Santa Cruz, Monterey, Carmel, or along 17 Mile Drive.” Since 0652, however, I strolled through the gardens of the Rosicrucian Egyptian Museum and the San Jose Municipal Rose Garden, both of which offered, if not serenity, an oasis from the nearby hustle and bustle of San Jose awaking from its Sunday morning slumber.

I returned via University Ave, where some of the more stately residences of “old San Jose” are located, including a Frank Lloyd Wright house (which are always worthy of study).

The only true distraction was the sound of what sounded like an angry hornet’s nest off in the distance. I quickly realized it was the sound of the San Jose Grand Prix, which is taking place downtown.

So, I must amend my earlier statement and establish that there are areas where relative peace and quiet are attainable in San Jose. It’s not the dead silence I sometimes experience in Cedar Creek, but then again I’m not surrounded by such splendor and beauty there either (except when my lovely wife is around, that is).

My hosts here in SJ have been gracious, generous, and willing to show me around and for that I am grateful. It’s been very pleasant catching up and spending time with family. The food – both home-cooked and from restaurants – has been worth mentioning. Between the grilled filet mignon and roasted red potatoes prepared and served on my hosts’ backyard patio, the seafood lunch (scallops and shrimp in a tomato-based cream sauce over pasta) and Anchor Steams on the wharf at Monterey, and the wine, Sam Adams Black Lager (!!), and appetizers at Santana Row
(see http://www.santanarow.com/dining/?id=152 and http://www.santanarow.com/dining/?id=143) , I’ve been living (or at least eating) “the good life” here.

To be honest, no one – least of all me – should expect the Bay Area to provide an environment for solitude. As I stated in my introduction, I wasn’t seeking solitude until after Napa Valley.

Central/Northern California has, thus far, fulfilled expectations, with the exception of the surprising amount of agriculture in the deserts southeast of the Bay Area and the barren mountains just east of San Jose. San Jose is bounded by mountains that are roughly on its east and west. The mountains east are brown and barren. The mountains on the west are green, lush, and for the most part have that ancient, untouched quality that I expect I’ll see as I head north into the coastal forests.

San Jose itself is a mixture of old California (canning was the mainstay industry here) and the explosive Silicon Valley businesses that have enriched the bank accounts and tax rolls of the area. My hosts live in the relatively peaceful (save their proximity to the airport) Rose District, which is a beautiful and, for the most part, very old part of town. My brief walk showed this part of San Jose to be quite idyllic, the very model of a peaceful, safe, “all-American” community. It’s comforting to know such communities still exist. No, it's not a gated community. That's the point.

The weather, which had so concerned my hosts and a good portion of this part of California (which had suffered historic and highly-unusual high temps recently), broke the day I arrived and has been most pleasing since. I experienced some significant climate changes yesterday during our trip to the coast. When we departed the Monterey Bay area, the temp was 60°. Upon arriving back in San Jose, it was 86°. Clouds and fog shrouded a good portion of the scenery yesterday, but it was striking nonetheless. Today is damn near perfect.

Some notes from yesterday’s drive: The surfer dude culture (mixed with a surprising east coast boardwalk/Myrtle Beach flavor) of Santa Cruz was in complete contrast to the thick forests, links style, ocean-side golf courses (including the super-exclusive Pebble Beach and super-duper exclusive Cypress Point), and stunning multi-million dollar homes along 17 Mile Drive, which winds (literally) through the peninsula that forms the southern border of Monterey Bay.

Carmel was somewhat of a surprise in that it was far more exclusive and, well, “hoity-toity” than I expected. I mean, a town that would elect Clint Eastwood as its mayor? Perhaps those rough and tumble days are in its past. It’s pretty upscale and cultured now, and for all I know, it always has been.

Even more contrast awaited me in the vast coastal agricultural area between Santa Cruz and Monterey. I saw the very fields that grow the strawberries I buy in Texas, along with numerous other crops. My brother mentioned that the area was so poor that they were forced to close a local library either established by or named for American icon-writer John Steinbeck. As the story goes, actor-comedian Bill Murray won $50,000 from a celebrity golf tournament and donated his winnings to reopen the library.

The surfers and volleyball players, barking sea lions, and relatively calm Pacific waters will be my memory of Santa Cruz. It’s unfortunate that I was not able to get to the aquarium at Monterey, otherwise I’d have had more to say about it than “nice bay” and “good lunch.” Time was slipping away from us, though. Perhaps the aquarium will be on the next journey (with my lovely wife, whom I miss terribly).

Upon our return to San Jose, we cleaned up and went to the previously mentioned Santana Row, which is a fascinating Disney-like faux “village” designed to look like a small European town full of shops, restaurants, hotels, and loft condos. It reminded me of some of the new casinos in Las Vegas that have vast “malls” inside, except this was outdoors (with a small amount of car traffic creeping through) and far more vibrant. We sipped wine outside and had appetizers and black lagers at the Mediterranean restaurant before returning home for the evening. As expected, there are way too many good-looking people here. The parade of people we watched was like something out of The OC or 90210. It's mildly disturbing, but you can't help but be slightly envious. Damn Californians...

Today, I begin packing the car (a Malibu, ironically enough) for tomorrow’s short-but-no-doubt-“worlds away” move to San Francisco.

Stick out

Why I'm Doing This

2006-07-22T06:13:00.000-07:00

In many ways, I am a very fortunate person.

I am married to an angel, a woman possessing such uncommon intelligence, beauty (both inner and outer), grace, depth, strength, and ability to love that my cup runneth over. She has taught me a whole other way of living, of viewing life, and helped me to discover a reservoir of inner strength I had no idea existed.

I am stepfather to two fine young men who have both, in their own ways, helped strengthen my patience, reshuffle my priorities (for the better), develop my humility, my senses of wonder, humor, trust, and adventure, and forever altered (again, for the better) my role in life. I suspect they have had a greater, more positive impact on my life - and my outlook on life - than I have had on theirs. Moving them from rural Ohio to metropolitan Central Texas at a highly critical age was pretty intense, in retrospect. How that will ultimately affect them is still a developing question. I hope, in the long run, it will be a positive thing for them both.

I was overdue for a life lesson and the boys were an integral part of this phase of my maturing.

I enjoy what I do for a living, though the circumstances under which I "do" it have caused a great deal of stress, anguish, and - for lack of a better word - "concern." Those concerns need to be addressed and I'm currently at a loss on how to proceed(see below reference to "acceptance").

I believe I possess an acceptable level of sanity, though - like a lot of people - I see around me a world seemingly gone insane and either unaware of the depth of its madness or unwilling to acknowledge it . This causes spiritual/ethical/moral reflection that, sadly, leads to conclusions that generate more questions than answers (and even more stress). At times, my brain can't hear my soul and vice versa, due to the conflicts I witness externally and feel internally, not to mention the extraneous noise that accompanies life in the early 21st century.

So, for an otherwise fortunate person, I feel an enormous amount of stress, conflict, and spiritual disconnect. At age 48, I expected to be on more solid ground as a human being than I am. I'm not teetering on the edge, nor can I see the edge from where I am (at least, I don't THINK I can...I may not be looking in the right direction). But, my "level of discomfort" with my inner workings (which directly affects my ability to deal with my outer workings) is in need of some maintenance, if not retooling.

A "reboot," if you will.

One of my oldest, closest friends and "advisors" once told me that "God speaks to us in silence." So, after a brief interlude visiting family in the Bay Area, and a few days in Wine Country (I am a wine snob), I'm seeking that silence, and with it, some eye-candy...in the form of stunning natural scenery. And while it may seem contradictory to establish and feed a blog during this journey, my primary intent is to listen...to the silence, to nature, to myself, to my body (I am pushing 50, after all), and to anyone with whom I happen to strike up a conversation along the way.

The entire northern California and SW Oregon coasts, Upper and Lower Rogue River valleys, Crater Lake/Ashland area, Whiskeytown/Trinity Alps/Shasta National Forest area, Lassen Volcanic National Park, and Feather Rivers area will be my sanctuary, my "fortress of solitude."

I hope to return the same person, but different. I don't expect to discover all the answers (though I suspect I'll settle on a few), but I hope to hone my questions and better understand what causes me to ask them (and discard a few that, because they are unanswerable, simply need to be retired). Perhaps most of all, I hope to regain a certain "mastery" I once possessed of the art of acceptance

If for no other reason, I do this because I am fortunate enough - no, BLESSED - to be married to an awe-inspiring woman and mother. She deserves better than I currently "am." I don't expect to be awe-inspiring when I return, but I hope to at least be inspired to be a better husband, friend, partner, and human being (and wine snob).

The stage is set. The reservations made. The bags are being packed. California, here I come.

Stick out.