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Took this last night with my new digicam.

It’s been awhile since I posted a bunch’ pix here, so what the heck. Haven’t
done any notable hikes in awhile, but I do have a new camera I’m getting used
to.

It’s in the owner’s manual: the first subject of all photography must be one’s
cat. Or dog. Or child. Well, we have only one of the three in our household,
so Floyd gets to be Camera Subject A, whether he likes it or not. From the look
on his face I’m guessing, not.

I’m posting this one to prove that Floyd does come out of his hiding
place in the closet. But this is as close as he’ll let me get to him. Oddly
enough, though Floyd would sooner gouge his eyes out than allow me to touch
him, he gets very jumpy and irritable if I’m out of the house for too long.
When I go camping he keeps Melissa up all night, running out to the front door
and back, whining and making noises to the effect of "all my things are
not in place here, and this must stop NOW."

Now, for something completely different. A couple weeks back I sent my mom
a link to an ad for a boat somebody
is trying to sell. It’s 49-foot yacht built in 1951 for a grocery store
chain magnate. Sometime in the early ’90s it came into the possession of a documentary
filmmaker who restored and remodeled it to gorgeous condition. She forwarded
the link to Ed, my stepdad, who immediately called up the guy and told him he’d
be out to the coast the next weekend to take a look at it. Ed has owned dozens
of boats in his life so I knew he’d appreciate this one.

Ed in his element, with boats on all sides.

Mom and Melissa wait for the boat’s owner to show it to us.

The guy takes us through the boat, showing us its every detail, lovingly restored
by hand, by him. Shoulda seen the guy’s eyes light up, it’s like he was explaining
how his son was the quarterback of the local high school team that had just
won the state championship. I almost grabbed him by the shoulders and said "look,
mister, you must not sell this boat. Would you sell your own child?" We
were tempted to put in an offer on it, fantasizing that we could own the boat
and live on it, but there are all sorts of regulations regarding people living
on boats, and the cost of the boat plus the cost of keeping it berthed, insured
and afloat would’ve been quite a bit more than we’re paying in rent. Ed was
even more sorely tempted — there was no part of this boat in any condition
less than immaculate — but the notion of trucking it back to Illinois, where
the water in the river isn’t really deep enough for it anyway, eventually returned
him to his senses.

Bottom line: You can see how easy it is for people to lose all sense of proportion
and rationality in the presence of the right boat.

Seals rest on a chunk of lumber in the Sausalito harbor.

We had dinner in a restaurant at the waterfront. Nice view of San Francisco
through the window; I’m glad it’s not my job to wash it.

Lots of boats were in the bay to watch the Navy Blue Angels perform.

A rock-balancing artist performs for the folks walking past on the sidewalk.

We took a quick jaunt up to the Headlands to gape at the coastline. This is
one of my favorite spots in the Bay Area.

You can’t take a bad picture of the Golden Gate Bridge, especially when it’s
not fogged in.

We spent the night in a hotel in San Francisco. The red blur is a a very cool
early ’60s Chevy convertible.

Something completely different, Part 2.

My longtime online pal Gerald from Germany
is visiting family in the Bay Area this month. We got together Sunday and took
a nice walk around Lake Chabot.

The lake has a marina where people rent boats, canoes and other vessels. We
opted for staying on the ground.

It’s quite a scenic little lake, with campgrounds, trails, etc.

Here’ s an intriguing characteristic of my new camera: when the battery runs
down, the lens cover doesn’t open all the way.

Gerald noticed this rattlesnake before the rest of us. It was perhaps 10 feet
away when we saw it. As we stopped to watch it slither away, it would shake
its rattle at us every few seconds. Suddenly it struck me that for all the rattler’s
notorious reputation, it’s actually a rather polite little beastie. If you get
too close it turns on the rattle, as if to say "please take note of the
venomous snake in your vicinity, and step away with caution." Vastly superior
to the bite-first-and-ask-questions-later variety of wildlife.

Gerald and Annette, his lovely wife.

After walking ’round the lake we retired to a slurpee shop in Castro Valley.

There were many shops nearby, including a crafts shop full of Halloween decorations.
"In Germany we call this kitsch," Gerald said. "That’s what we
call it here, too," I replied.

The rainy season arrived last week, which turned the trails nearby to mush…
I resorted to walking the road down the hill to Ed Levin County Park — about
five miles each way, so it was a nice workout. I see the same sights every morning
on the way to work and back so it’s not exactly the most exciting walk, except
when the cars zip past too fast and too close.

I took the camera along so we’d have fresh pix, but before we go outdoors,
we have to share a moment with Floyd.

This is about as relaxed as I’ve seen him lately. Usually he runs away when
I get too close to him.

OK, back down the road.

Horses hang out next to a retired utiltiy truck. There’s zillion-dollar homes
way back in the distance but around these parts we still have the charm of old
broken stuff decorating property along the roadside. You just don’t get that
in the suburbs.

Horse to farmer: "You want me to pull what?"

A gazebo and flowers at Ed Levin County Park, which was mostly empty when I
dropped by.

Well, there were some deer hanging out.

I’ve walked up those hills a couple times, but had no such inclinations yesterday,
having walked five miles already to get to this point and facing another five
uphill to get back home.

Here’s an old cemetery whose headstones have all been vandalized. Children
are such fun sometimes.

Nice clouds.

The storm that blew through last week knocked this tree across one lane of
the road.

That’s it for this week, see y’all next time.

One of the coolest things about the California coastline is all the animals
migrating along it. Seals migrate. Whales migrate. Monarch butterflies migrate.
The monarchs come up from Mexico and spread out across North America. Every
October, thousands of them stop by (well, flutter by) at Natural Bridges State
Park in Santa Cruz. It’s one of the most amazing things you’ll every see: the
sky filled with butterflies like an old Disney cartoon come to life.

Melissa and I went last year, and this year we took Melissa’s mom, Mary, to
monitor the monarchs.

Uh, ladies, the trail’s over that way.

This wooden foot bridge goes down into a valley that shelters the butterflies
from the strong Pacific breezes. The bridge also keeps the humanoids confined
to small area least likely to annoy the monarchs.

This isn’t really where they rest. They prefer tree limbs way up in the forest
canopy.

Mary and Melissa making initial Monarch sightings.

Pictures of the humans are often far more entertaining than the butterflies.

Butterflies fill the sky — people with expensive cameras and high-power zoom
lenses could see the butterflies packed together on tree branches; they actually
entertwine their legs to hold on against strong breezes.

This is about as close as one came within range of my digicam, whose manufacturers
obviously neglected to take butterfly viewings into account.

Another one rests on a branch nearby … this picture looks vaguely artsy but
it wasn’t intentional; just too much backlighting.

A volunteer at the park explains how around 9,000 butterflies came last year
but only 2,000 have arrived thus far. The monarchs come from Mexican mountains
that are rapidly being deforested, and it doesn’t help that theri sole food
source — milkweeds — often gets killed off by herbicides. If you’re thinking,
"yeah, there sure used to be a lot more monarchs around when I was a kid,"
you’re right. It’s us doing them in.

Back up at the park’s headquarters, an exhibit shows a monarch caterpillar.
It wasn’t moving, so I suspect it’s been freeze-dried or something.

You can’t go to Natural Bridges Stage Park without going down to the beach
and checking out what’s left of those bridges. There’s a hole in that chunk
of rock, carved out by millions of years of saltwater pounding against it. Those
are pelicans up on top of the rock, which is white from their poop. Which makes
walking down to the beach an aromatic experience that compares favorably to
a field trip at a wastewater treatement plant.

Having adapted to the smell, Mary and Melissa admire the crashing surf.

Does this jacket make me look fat?

Melissa’s million-dollar smile (the cast is from the surgery she had to fix
her carpal-tunnel difficulties.)

These two chunks of rock used to be connected by natural stone arch, but I
suspect one of the recent earthquakes knocked it down.

We left the beach and headed up California Highway 1. Pigeon Point Lighthouse
is one of our favorite stops. A couple years back, Melissa bought her mom’s
twin sister, Marie, a shelf-size replica of this lighthouse, so it made sense
to take her sister over to get a look at the place.

Mary approves of the decision.

There’s a little hamlet called Pescadero up the road a ways. We stopped in
to check out the local arts and crafts, many of which are made locally.

A house converted into a curio shop.

Turning off the flash produces warm hues you might not expect from a digital
camera.

Art deco doll in cabinet. Cool.

A shop called "Made in Pescadero" sells furniture handmade by local
folks. Slobber-inducing to people who are into such things.

Pretty glasses on a table.

This is a local landmark called Duarte’s Tavern. They make wonderful soups
and pies, and there’s always a waiting list to get a table. Tasty meals, reasonably
priced; a rarity in these parts.

Another curio shop up the street a ways.

A stained-glass angel keeps an eye on the place.

You can’t miss in a shop that sells Buddha cats.

Every year for the past four, this millionaire from San Francisco has been
bringing the world’s greatest bluegrass performers to town and inviting everybody to come
see them — and the admission’s free. Just bop over to Golden Gate Park, pull
up a patch of grass and listen to two days of amazing picking and fiddling.

Originally it was called the Strictly Bluegrass festival but it evolved into
the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival — which is where I spent most of Saturday
and Sunday. One nice side benefit of this free festival is that you can walk
right up to the front of the stage and take pictures of the performers. Two
days of this gave me a fresh appreciation of what concert photographers go through
– it takes exact timing to anticipate when an interesting expression will appear
on a musician’s face, then you have to hope there’s no microphone in the way
and reconcile yourself to the fact that the minute you set the camera down,
something really cool will happen. The highlights:

Saturday:

Imagewise, the day got off to an auspicious start when I took the BART train
to San Francisco on Saturday and noticed this little baby peeking his head behind
his carrier and making impossibly cute faces at me.

OK, enough of full-cuteness mode. Back to the main topic:

The festival is on four stages, and as I approach the first one, I hear this
guy named A.J. Roach singing — I kid you not — about dying of black-lung disease.

His band seems pretty cheerful, considering the subject matter. Maybe they
think "if he keeps this up I’ll have no choice but to launch my solo career."
A.J was a capable mountain wailer but I had to see who else was mixing things
up elsewhere.

These jumbo hula hoops are always popular.

Here’s the Hot Club of Cowtown, a really swinging Austin, Texas, string band.
I had to leave before I developed a crush on the blonde fiddle player.

It was a day for Emmylou Harris sightings. That’s her in the black cowboy hat.
She closed the show Sunday.

I was wondering what it is about bluegrass that ignites an irresistible urge
to dance. Best I can figure is that the rapid-fire plucking of guitar, mandolin
and banjo strings becomes a kind of percussion, which just seems to set toes
tapping, legs twisting, hips shaking. (OK, so I’m asking you to accept the premise
that percussion makes music danceworthy … it’s just a thought, but I’ll stuck
with this theory till a better one comes along).

Speaking of pickin’, here’s a couple guys from Hot Rize attempting to warm
things up. They were a pretty hot combo, but no match for what the weather gods
sent us this weekend: Cold, windy, damp — hell on any exposed extremities,
and hard on wooden musical instruments that kept expanding and contracting and
getting out of tune.

The Banjo Stage draws a nice crowd.

Kevin Welch, center, Kieran Kane, left, and their fiddler, whom they called
Fats (because he’s the skinniest guy in six counties, I suspect). Their set
was better suited to a small, smoky room in a bar rather than the expanse of
the outdoors. If you’re into singer-songwriters who don’t suck, check these
guys out. Excellent lyricists who harmonize well. One of the funniest moments
from the weekend happened during their set: Between their songs, one of the
bands at the next stage over receives a thundering ovation, and Welch says in
this droll twang of his, "sounds like they’re having more fun over there
than we are." Yeah, you had to be there.

After these guys finished, Nick Lowe, who had some hits in the ’80s, came on
the same stage — his name alone attracted twice the audience and triple the
applause but he didn’t seem nearly as good as Welch & company. Could be
an example of fame distorting reality, or merely me identifying with the unfamous.

These kids in front of us were a hoot: constantly raising hell to their mom’s
chagrin.

Shay, a guy I work with who knows more about bluegrass than anybody else I
know. He used to work for Rounder Records, which handles tons of folk/roots
bands. He’s always seeing former clients of his at these concerts.

John Prine, who dusted off an anti-war song of his from the Vietnam Era. It
goes like this

"But your flag decal won’t get you into heaven anymore,
they’re already overcrowded from your dirty little war,
Now Jesus don’t like killin’,
No matter what the reason’s for,
And your flag decal won’t get you
into heaven any… more"

Prine’s voice sounds like a gravel road but he’s still got a lot of singing
left in him. He played a fabulous set — lively, sarcastic, well paced, covering
a 30-year career. He’s the real deal … catch him if you get the chance.

Emmylou, center, guest stars with Buddy and Julie Miller. Buddy’s a fabulous
guitar player and Julie’s a bit of a space cadet but she’s got fine pipes. I
caught a few of their songs and wished I’d have seen more. With four stages
and dozens of bands there were lots of tough choices: I had to miss Steve Earle
to see Prine, and I never even made it over to one of the four stages. But nobody’s
complaining at these prices.

Saturday’s headliner, the living legend and godfather of bluegrass, Ralph Stanley
– center, holding his hands to keep ‘em warm. He did the a capella version
of "Oh, Death" from "O Brother" that was a bit too haunting.
The lyric goes, "Oh, death, won’t you spare me over for another year,"
and I got the feeling that Ralph — who’s been at this for half a century –
was hoping his song might ward off the Reaper.

Sunday:

Lest you worry that all his music distracted me from my hiking, rest easy:
I walked four miles from City Hall the park site both days. I invited the folks
at Walk South Bay to come along for Sunday’s walk.

That’s the San Francisco city hall up ahead. It’s uphill most of the way to
the park from here, but the hills are mild compared to what I’m used to. Only
two of the Walk South Bay folks took me up on my invitation: Gilad, an immunology
researcher at the University of San Francisco (he’s one of the mosaic of scientists
searching for a cure for AIDS) and Angelika, a research assistant at the university.
She’s from Germany, he’s from Israel — a true international couple and wonderful
company for a walk through the city.

We stopped at the botanical gardens in Golden Gate Park — they are truly stunning.

Gilad and Angelika stopped by the bluegrass fest for awhile, but they found
they weren’t dressed warmly enough to stand still and watch music, so they kept
on walking another couple miles down to Ocean Beach. I’m hoping I’ll see ‘em
on another hike.

OK, back to the festival:

Here’s the Texas singer-songwriter Jimmie Dale Gilmore, who played an extremely
polished set. He sings in a high register that reminds me a lot of Willie Nelson,
except Jimmie Dale has a smoother voice — the pitch without the crackle. This
guy proves why you have to peel past the layers of fame to find to the really
interesting musicians. Willie Nelson is an icon for sure, but the key to his
appeal is not his fame or his hit records: it’s his distinctive musical style.
Willie can make anybody’s songs sound good, and the same is true of countless
indie musicians like Jimmie Dale Gilmore who barely scratch out a living playing
music. It takes a lot more patience to sit through songs you’ve never heard
before but the payoff is hearing something amazing for the first time.

Steve Earle sits in on a songwriters session. He’s singing a song about a 19th
century juvenile delinquent; earlier he sang that song of his written from the
perspective of a guy about to be executed by lethal injection. Amazingly powerful
song, really gave me the chills. (When Steve trots out his causes at every show
the audience is silently saying, "Shut up and sing, dammit" — and
it’s like he reads our minds and knows it’s going to take some kick-ass performing
to melt that annoyance away. Then he does it.)

Ricky Skaggs, center, and Kentucky Thunder. They play fast and furious, tight
as a snare drum.

Del McCoury, right, and his band. The best bluegrass combo I’ve ever heard.

A dancer nearby swings to the twang.

The Gourds, another good-time Austin band. I stayed for a couple of their songs,
then headed home.

Yeah, it was cold, windy, and all-around terrible weather for an outdoor music
festival. But the only regret I have is a kind of buyer’s remorse that happens
when you’re grooving along to one band and hear a huge round of cheers for a
different band closing its set at a nearby stage. Even then you realize somebody
else is having a good time over there so it’s hard to feel too terrible about
missing their fun, especially when you know they’re missing yours.

Downtown San Jose, typically the squarest place in 50 miles, became a tad cooler
yesterday with the arrival of ArtcarFest 2004.

The premise of ArtcarFest is that people who have made a canvas of their cars
gather all their zaniness into a single zipcode. There’s a strong aroma of hippiedom
– lots of peace symbols, feminist agitprop, antiwar statements, etc — but
the tone is light, frivolous, antic, occasionally silly. ArtcarFest presumes
to be the exact opposite of the typical classic-car show, but the people who
put 90 coats of paint on a 1950 Mercury have a lot in common with the people
who glue 90 Disney figurines on the roof of their 1969 Beetle. The classic car
buff wants to celebrate the automobile; the carart buff wants to subvert it.
Either way, cars provoke a creative obsession that produces more photo ops than
you can shake a hubcap at. Just what I need on a cool, cloudy Saturday.

An early ’60s Caddie covered with costume jewelry. Because the car was so tired
of its owners getting to wear all the fake pearls.

The couple kicking back in Snorky’s back end are having a high old time.

A Bug, with wings. Somebody had to, right?

Sometimes an artcar is a concept. The frame rail says "Guitars not guns"
but from this angle those axes look remarkably similar to firearms.

I’m pretty sure I saw this car built in some Discovery Channel show. Note how
unromantic cigarette smoke is from this angle.

No, bud, it’s a lot longer than that.

This creation was absurdly over-chromed.

It looks much cooler from the rear — suddenly "Rudolph the Red-Assed
Reindeer" springs to mind.

Who profits from your self-loathing, this car with curlers on the roof asks.
One of those "message" cars that’s about as subtle as a blown engine.

… because we all should tremble before the Creator, right?

Look, it’s interactive: people write their suggestions for Scooby doings on
the paper.

Some people you just know were hippies back in the day.

Two guys having a deep geographical discussion — good thing somebody left
that globe there. (this is weird: every time I try to write globe, it
comes out blog.)

For those lacking a globe: a pickup truck coated with maps.

File under: What’s the wackiest thing you could do to four-door Ford Maverick?
You start with tailfins, naturally….

… but you keep adding stuff like this compass and all these mechanical-looking
contrivances.

Some carartists just stick as much junk as they can find on the roof.

Others stick to a theme. Note the cat ears up there on the roof.

One car was covered with snow globes: I wanted to shake it real hard and see
what happened, but I figured it might shake the globes off the roof (which,
come to think of it, might not have been a bad idea. I love the "Rosebud"
moment of a snowglobe exploding.)

I took this only to get the downtown fountains in the background.

This guy took the "cover it with junk" ethic to extremes. Fortunately
he eventually ran out of car.

Here’s a little girl checking out the famed Carthedral — an old hearse done
up in Gothic fashion.

The guy next to the Carthedral had this little black dog that attracted a very
large dog to stop by and sniff.

A carartist with her art, her dogs and her lunch. All that matters in the world.

Another quickie hiking report. Last month I joined a group called Walk South
Bay for a sweltering, challenging hike in Rancho San Antonio Park near Mountain
View. Sweated a lot, drank lots of water, got sore feet. Thought: Next time
there’s an easy hike with cool weather, I’m there.

A member of the club named Debbie had a nice little five-miler planned for
this weekend. The forecast said high of 72 — 25 degrees cooler than the last
Rancho hike — so I hopped in the car and sped over there Saturday morning.
Turned out Debbie and I were the only ones who showed up; I’m sure she’ll show
up in future hike reports .. .this time I was skittish about taking pictures
of one person and saying "this is half my hiking group."

Spotting this deer made Debbie’s day.

This guy was doing the little freeze that all the "prey" species
do just before they flee. The old "Maybe if I stand real still, the mountain
lion won’t notice me." It never works. Good thing they can run so fast.

We also passed through a section of the park called Deer Hollow Farm, which
gives city kids a chance to gape at farm animals and squeal loudly when amusing/amazing
things happen. I need no provocation to take pictures of livestock.

Goats are about the most relaxed farm animals you’ll ever see. Maybe it’s because
we don’t eat goats.

Chickens are, understandably, a bit more tense. This rooster was making all
kinds of crowing sounds, though the hens were no doubt thinking to themselves,
"for God’s sake, buddy, it’s past lunchtime. Give it a rest."

Pull open the door and it says…

I like cows because they seem so resigned to their fate as meat-, milk- and
leather-bearing servants of human appetites.

Really needs some people in there with a sign saying "Earthlings, in their
19th Century Habitat." (A great Twilight Zone episode has an ending like
this.)

So there I was in downtown San Jose, hoping to see how the free wireless Internet access works.
Before I got sat down to fire up my laptop, I heard this drumming coming from
down the street. I notice a bunch of people lined up along the street and I
realize, "hey, a parade. How cool is that?"

The event is Fiestas Patrias, which means a celebration of the fatherland.
An announcer tells us the Aztec Dancers are heading our way.

The outfits are pretty ornate. They dance in formation, pound drums and look
outlandish.

One of the dancers walks right past me. He seems a bit pale for an Aztec, but
a few more hours in the sun’ll take care of that.

The home country is Mexico, if you haven’t figured that out already.

There were lots of people on horseback. This guy had quite a way with a rope.

Here’s a car I saw in the parade. It’s about a half-hour after it’s over, and
some of the participants are heading home.

This is one of my favorite sights in downtown San Jose: People on horseback
waiting in the turn lane for the arrow to give them permission to execute a
legal left turn. It would’ve been even better to see this without having seen
the parade — the surprise/incongrousness factor would’ve been at least double.

Next week the annual Art Car Fest returns, and I hope to blog it live. Should
be lots o’ fun.

Driving up the Coast Highway from Monterey to the San Francisco suburbs is
one of my favorite ways to kill a day off. Melissa and I hadn’t done it since
last summer so we decided to go for it again yesterday, for old time’s sake.
On Tuesday I hiked for four hours through Sunol Wilderness, which I
had been to a few weeks back and meant to explore in more detail. The place
rocks. But first, the road trip.

Melissa in the co-pilot’s seat, parked on Skyline Drive overlooking Silicon
Valley. This is near the end of the drive, about mile 220 in a 280-mile loop
that went south to Monterey and north to Pacifica, then back down California
Route 35 atop the Santa Cruz Mountains, then down to Saratoga and back home.

To get things back in order, let’s get down to the Monterey Bay.

This is actually near Pacific Grove, the next town south of Monterey. We clambered
down on the rocks, hoping to see some starfish or octopi in the tidal pools.
The coast was still clouded in, so no brilliant sky for a backdrop. Still, not
bad scenery for a Monday.

No luck on exotic aquatic species, but Melissa found these fine little empty
shells, possibly the former homes of hermit crabs.

Remember the Chicken Heart That Ate Cleveland? This appears to be one of the chicken’s eggs.

Monterey has turned Steinbeck’s Cannery Row into an appalling tourist trap,
which we skipped. Instead we headed over to Fisherman’s Wharf for a taste of
what’s left of the Monterey that matters. You know, where people take boats
out into the ocean, scrape the bottom with nets, bring back seafood, sell it
to a distributor and hope to have enough left over after their boat payments
to buy a Filet o’ Fish at McDonald’s.

One of those big fishing vessels is right over Melissa’s shoulder in the marina.

The coolest thing about the wharf is this little greasy-spoon called LouLou’s.
It’s got room for about 12 people inside, not counting the four or so who work
there.

Our first-ever meal in Monterey was served at this very spot, though it was
under different management, I believe. In any case, the fish is fresh and tasty.
Service is quick, and the staff is way cool.

I had the fried calamari. Salty and tasty — who’d a thunk those little O’s
were squid tentacles? Melissa had the broiled white fish. Loved it.

Remnants of the lunch crowd … everybody knew everybody else by name. Regulars.
Somebody left a box of Hostess HoHo’s on the counter. The proprietress vowed
she’d pop a couple in the deep-fryer — and she kept her word.

We must’ve exuded that an of people who are game for an experiment, because
the waitress handed us this deep-fried HoHo with our check. It was a bit rich
for my palate but Melissa loved it.

From there, it was on to Santa Cruz. Surf City.

The Surfer Statue along the Santa Cruz coastline. This little spot gets the
best waves, and the best surfers.

The waves were breaking close to the cliffs; this guy was wearing a helmet
to avoid breaking his skull in a wipeout.

A tribute to a beloved local surfer who died recently. It was a guy in his
50s. Surfing draws people of every generation; it’s not unusual to see gray-haired
guys out there next to teen-agers.

After that we headed north again. We stopped at one of the public beaches and
waded into the ocean. Ankle-deep is plenty in this water, which isn’t exactly
ice cold but is chilly enough to wake up the road weary. I was feeling a bit
sleepy till my toes got a taste of that chill.

Waves doing what they do at the beach.

Those are the highlights of our little Highway One drive, though these few
pictures barely convey the splendor. A coast like this is worth a thousand pictures.

Next up: Sunol Regional Wilderness.

I brought my digi-cam to the park Tuesday feeling fully sick and tired of
the same old stately trees and majestic hillsides. Well, not tired of seeing them, just tired
of taking pictures of them. Turns out Sunol was just where I needed to be, because
it has two of my favorite things: water and rocks.

I started my hike along the Alameda Creek, which is barely deep enough to carry
a current at this time of the year, but can turn into a raging river when the
rains come. I noticed a rain gauge in a dry riverbed that went up to 12 feet.

If, like me, your mind is in the gutter you will fully understand the need
to take and post this picture.

I was looking for an area of the park called Little Yosemite. When I got there
I did see some wild rock formations, though comparing it to Yosemite is a bit
ambitious. But even 10 percent of Yosemite is plenty amazing.

Rocks, many of them broken in half. This one looks like a Godzilla gave it
a good karate chop.

I saw a couple of these, apparently split by earthquake forces.

Another rock jutting up out of the ground — it goes up about 15 feet or so.
Wants to be El Capitan when it grows up.

The hillside had these big bluish rocks jutting out of it. And a privy tucked
back in there for those who insist on privacy when they run back behind the
rock.

I had to huff and puff to get up here. It’s about 2000 feet up, and about four
miles into the hike. That’s the peak of the ridge in the background.

On the way down I came across this huge pile of huge rocks. I’m guessing it’s
crawling with climbers on weekends. I had it all to myself … but fortunately
I neglected to bring any climbing gear (on account of not owning any), so I
was free to walk on past. I have a hard enough time keeping my footing on level
ground … seeking out ways to lose traction and fall embarrassingly doesn’t
suit my style.

Sunol Wilderness is full of surprises .. great trails, stunning rocks, and
I covered perhaps a quarter of it. It’s on my return list, for sure.

Not that this is becoming an obsession or anything, but I’ve been waiting for
a full moon to see what kind of shot I could get … little did I realize that
the moon takes this position in the western sky only at absurdly early hours
of the morning. This morning I got up about 4:10 a.m. and the first thing I
wondered was: how’s that moon gonna look? So far I haven’t quite figured out
how to get the best settings on my camera; this is a 10-second time exposure.
The moon had set before I finished fiddling with all the settings. But it’ll
do till the next full moon.

When we first came up the hill to our new place, we were fascinated and amused
by these signs saying "Marsh Rd. Closed" because some enterprising
delinquents had painted "Dead Bodies Found!" across them.

Some enterprising do-gooders tried to clean up the signs but you can still
see the "ND!" at the end of this one.

I asked the landlord what was up with those signs, and he said, "oh, some
murder 20 years ago — a body got dumped back there."

Lately I’ve been passing the sign on my morning walks, and going about a mile
and a half down Marsh Road.

The road is quiet and scenic, with hardly any traffic. Hard to believe anything
ontoward could’ve happened out here.

That’s the Calaveras Reservoir off in the distance. I’m basically down at
valley floor level here.

By now you’re thinking, "get to the good stuff, what about the murder?"

OK, if you’ve seen the movie "River’s Edge" you already know about
it: Crispin Glover playing this spooky, twisted teenager who flips out, raping
and killing a teen-age girl and dumping her body out in the countryside. What
made the movie really disturbing is what happened next: Glover’s character goes
back to his school and brags to all his friends about how he killed this girl,
and he takes his friends out to view the corpse in the woods somewhere.

All this really happened, except it wan’t in the Pacific Northwest — it was
in Milpitas, the town right down the road from us. Some guy at the local high
school raped and killed a teen-aged girl and dumped her body in a ravine on
Marsh Road.

Here’s one of the ravines I walk past. There are lots of ravines out here so
I doubt it’s anywhere near the fatal spot. .

The guy who killed her really did go back to school and brag to his pals that
he had done the deed, and had brought some of them out here to look at the body.
It lay there for several days before it occurred to somebody to call the cops,
who stopped a carload of local high school students on their way up to view
the body. I suspect the perp will remain incarcerated for a very long time.

As for Marsh Road, it became a notorious party hangout for local teenagers.
Sometimes things got out of hand and the locals complained.

My understanding is that a car fire — here’s the burnt spot — was the final
straw: county authorities declared the road closed to the public and put in
this gate so that only authorized vehicles can pass.

So that’s the story of the Marsh Road murder.

Melissa asked me to take some pictures of her flowerbed for the folks back
home, so I popped off a few shots Sunday afternoon.

Lately I’ve been trying to show more discipline in choosing which photos to
post. I get a few notes saying "please post more!" and I’m grateful
for the encouragement and indulgence. Nevertheless, every minute here is a minute
away from your favorite "Everybody Loves Raymond" reruns. That’s a
lot to ask of anyone. And besides, the pros take dozens of rolls of film and
distill them to a single shot for publication. I don’t need to be that brutal,
but the least I could do is emulate people who know what they’re doing.

Anyway, these are the pics I winnowed from the dozen I shot.

Looking straight down from our porch on Melissa’s flowerbed. I like to try
shooting at odd angles, but most of my results are too wacked-out.

Something I learned early after moving here: getting the hills in the background
almost always makes the picture prettier.

A box of marigolds.

Another wacky-angle attempt.

Green tomatoes. Soon we’ll be swimming in fat, juicy red ones. Melissa put
these in planters because months of sun and wind (and no rain) have made the
soil nearby impervious just about anything this side of a laser-guided bomb.
Shovel blades just ricochet off this dirt.

So, those are today’s pics. Now get back in front of your television where
you belong.

OK, a sunset is a photographic cliché, I admit it. But all I had to
do was step out on the porch and click. This is one of the better ones we’ve
had so far.

Oh, and I have progress to report: 15 pounds burned off since I made up my
mind to get off my ass.

It started about six months ago, after I got back from the ACES conference.
I’d been blogging like a fiend for about eight months at that point, and the
workouts had become as scarce as cool breezes in Baghdad. It got to the point
where I was either buying all new Levi’s or getting on the Stairmaster and working
my way back into the ones I own already.

I burned off the first 10 over the spring, and figured I’d burn some more on
the hills in the neighborhood in our new place. Things weren’t going too well
for the first month or so — lots of walking for distance (nine miles one day!);
lots of sunburn and sore feet, but not much feel-the-burn. Then I started really
working the hills a few weeks ago (I actively hated the concept of gravity for
a while there) and the change was astounding: I lost five pounds in two weeks.

I wrote about climbing Mission Peak, which I climbed from its base in Fremont
the Saturday before last. You also can hike to from a park down the road from
us. Here’s a picture I took on that trail last Saturday.

That’s the southern limit of the San Francisco Bay just above the center of
the picture. This is about three quarters of the way up, if I recall it right.
I didn’t make it back over to Mission Peak — it was still a mile or so up the
trail when I turned back after a two-hour hike.

This week I’ve been walking down the hill from our place a little bit further
every day. We’re near the top of the ridge and it’s about five miles down to
civilization and flatness, so when I’m in really good shape I hope to be able
to walk to the bottom and back, a 10 mile round-trip with half of it uphill.
Check back next summer for that one.

Here’s a shot from this morning’s walk; we had sunshine (vs. peasoup fog) for
the first time in over a week, which provoked my inner shutterbug.

Last Saturday’s walk got me almost o the top of that hill over there. I turned
back because I was dead tired and there was a guy coming the other way, so I
figured it’d be nice to have somebody to chat with on the way back down. It
was. (People are always cool on the trial.)

So this morning I’m ambling down the hill and what do I see but this long-legged
waterbird next to a little pond: Just after I noticed the bird and squeezed
off a shot, the dogs on the property noticed me; their barking alarmed the bird,
who flew off.

A good day is when the birds do something interesting when your finger’s on
the camera shutter release.

And now, a few more Great Trees of California entries.

This must be where the phrase "get bent" originated from.

Or maybe from here.

More like a shrub, but the colors are nice.

Finally, more local mildlife.

Mama and baby. A year from now the little guy’s luck is going to change dramatically,
I expect. Those Quarter Pounders with Cheese gotta come from somewhere.

These goats look like they’re all from the same tribe. Whatever the horse thinks
of this, he isn’t saying.

I need an excuse to post something but nothing particularly interesting happened
in the past week, though I can share a few more pictures.

Last Sunday I drove down the road to Ed Levin County Park, which is one of
the top hang-gliding sites in the Bay Area. Some mornings I’m going into work
and I see pickup trucks with long narrow bundles bound to their roof racks heading
up to the park — they’re going gliding. I think: wow, how visual is the sight
of a lone pilot floating on the breeze? A photo op for sure. One problem: The
fliers are too far away to get really good images. These are the best I came
up with.

This guy was flying right over my head on his way in for a landing. He’s shouting
a greeting to his buddies down below, one of those things that can happen because
these manmade birds have no motors.

Here’s the guy’s flying partner getting ready to park his glider.

A close-up of his glider. They can cost up to $3,000, he told me. Lessons can
cost another grand. They won’t let you fly at this park without certification
from the U.S. Hang-Gliding Association, which trains people to fly gliders.
Makes sense to take their lessons, because the real experts on soaring — hawks,
eagles, buzzards, etc. — aren’t sharing their trade secrets. I mean, sure,
you could hire a falcon to teach you to fly; just hide the hamsters when he
comes to collect the bill.

OK, next up are pictures I took on my morning walk the other day. Our hill’s
been fogged in every morning, which creates some interesting scenes as the sun
burns off the mist.

This is right outside the front gate. Looked up, thought, "cool,"
took a picture. I like the easy ones.

One of our neighbors is a peacock. If you ever visit this neighborhood and
wonder who’s whipping their child to within an inch of his life, don’t worry:
it’s just this one (or maybe a pal) wailing at the top of his lungs. Looks like this one’s tail
feathers have been trimmed, but even so, a peacock is a wonder to behold. We
just wish they’d quiet down a bit.

Saw these deer in front of this old wrecked house on a nearby hill. I see deer
every morning, so it hardly seems newsworthy anymore. But they are pretty doggone
cute.

Another for my Cool Trees of California file. It’s all uphill to the house
from here, which means I’m a sweaty mess by the time I get home.

I walked 8.5 miles yesterday. Afterward, my feet persuaded me they much prefer
the 5-mile variety of nature walk.

It takes almost three hours to go that far … about 3 miles an hour with
a few small rest breaks. Plenty of time to think about things, like how before
the advent of steam engines and railroads, no human had ever gone faster than a horse
or strong wind could carry him. On foot with no assistance beyond a tailwind,
I can relate to the notion of people walking from Jefferson, Missouri, to Oregon
in the 1840s. The trip Melissa and I took in four days in the summer of ‘99
took six months two centuries ago.

Of course, there must be pictures of the sights along the way.

California has great trees. Giant sequoia redwoods get all the press, but a
big fat shadetree like this one on top of a hill has its moments. Seems like
there oughta be a philosopher sitting under it, imagining the solution to world
peace or something. (Of course the bird droppings might provide an insight of
their own; makes me wonder what really hit Isaac Newton: say you’ve discovered
gravity and you want to tell the world: do you tell ‘em the most likely possibility
– sparrow doo-doo — or clean it up and invent an apple encounter?)

This is about three miles into my walk — the halfway point if I’ve got a lick
of sense. Nothing like the rumble of a Harley to wake up everything for a half-mile.
I’ve always bought into the Harley mythology — man, machine and the freedom
of the open road — but I’m changed by the experience of having one pass within
10 feet of me, the V-twin engine replacing the sound of breeze and songbirds.
Everybody should experience the thrill of acceleration that only a motorcycle
can provide, the sensation of bending into a curve and hitting the gas. I recommend
they do it in New Mexico. (This rider, to his credit, was trying to keep the
beast as quiet as possible, which is to say, buffalo-stampede level.).

San Jose is off in the distance. Too bad they don’t have camera filters that
can see though smog.

We get about two cars an hour along this road — it’s refreshing to see that
one of them is a mail truck. Not exactly the gloom of night up here, but at
least somebody’s taking care of business rather than taking in the view.

More trees. These hills are dotted with little springs, which aren’t all that
hard to find. All you have to do is go looking for some trees.

Wish I could get more pictures of the birds up here. They all fly away long
before I get a chance to get ‘em in the frame. This one forgot its caution long
enough for me to squeeze off one shot. If only I’d have waited another second:
when it flew away it revealed amazing blue-and-white plumage. Some days I see
vultures … one morning I swear they were stalking me. You know, large mammal
walking alone, a carrion eater assumes its a straggler from the herd left to
fend for itself. I look up in a tree and see three or four birds with huge wingspans
fly onto the top branches, then take off and start circling. Glad I had a strong
heartbeat and a water supply.

Hawks and other raptors are constantly floating on the thermals — casting
these big shadows that move across the ground at uncanny speed. Sometimes the
shadow will darken the kitchen floor if the window’s open and the angle’s just
right. Takes a little getting used to.

So I’m walking along and hear this buzzing noise … no bees or hornets nearby,
then I realize: powerlines. You sorta need something like this amid so much
beauty to remind what makes it possible to live in places like this without
the elements and predators killing us off.

It looks brown and dead but these hillsides are very much alive. Little ground
squirrels are constantly darting about — too quickly for my slow reflexes to
get one in the picture. Also lots of little lizards, and of course many more
birds.

One of these wildflowers has a bee crawling around on it, I promise.

I post cow pictures at the slightest provocation. I liked this old gal because
she had horns — at least with this species you can see the darn things.

This immense Angus bull didn’t care much for me taking his picture. First he
snorted at me, then bellowed at me, then started scraping his left rear hoof
along the ground, just like bulls do just before they charge — at least in
all the bullfight movies I’ve seen. I moved along at that point, sensing trouble
if he’d seen the same movies.

This is how you can tell you’re in the country: if the trees form a tunnel
over the road.

Passing bicyclists always make me wonder if I should get me some wheels. Riding
a bike is fine if you have the scenery memorized, I suppose, but every walk
I take is a little different. I saw a coyote the other day that I’d have never
seen on a bike. On foot I can hear cars coming from a half-mile away so there’s
plenty of time to switch to the safest side of the road (I give cars all the
room I can because it seems idiotic not to). It’s true that you can can see
a lot more scenery because a bike is about three times faster than walking,
but you miss a lot at that speed.

The things you see along the road: This is the rubber exterior of a car’s bumper.
Right behind a guardrail, which is probably what separated it from the car it
was previously attached to.

This is one of the reservoirs that ensures people in San Francisco have drinking
water. One thing I learned from a book about the construction of the Transcontinental
Railroad was that the Sierra mountain passes to the northeast of us are some
of the snowiest places on earth — so snowy that the builders of the railroad
had to erect awnings over the rails through the mountains to keep the railway
clear. Otherwise the winter blizzards would make the railway impassable every
few days. It’s the same weather phenomenon that made life hell for the Donner
Party. When all that snow melts, it pours down into rivers and valleys on the
California side of the range, where clever engineers have built dams, aqueducts
and reservoirs to catch as much of it as possible. If not for that snow, nobody’d
be able to live here. Another reason to like snow, so long as it’s a hundred
miles away.

Even with my New Balance shoes, my socks made of synthetic fibers, my hat
built in a Malaysian sweatshop, I can’t help thinking that when I’m out there
walking I’m doing something humans have always done. People have not always
flown in airplanes or driven cars, but as long as they’ve been able to stand
up straight, they’ve been walking (and their feet have resented it). For some
reason that makes it seem worth doing.

Actually there’s probably a more accurate term for the hoods these horses are wearing … but the principle’s the same: they see through a screen.

These, however, are not designed to protect the females’ chastity or help the men avoid temptation. They just keep the flies out of their owners’ eyes.

Tonight I did some fiddling with my digicam’s settings, figured out how to do a time exposure and took this shot of Silicon Valley. It’s a three-second exposure using the cam’s shutter-priority setting. I let it rest on the handrail of the landing on our stairs outside, and used the delayed-release timer to get this effect.

I may fiddle some more to figure out how to get some of the grain out of it. But for now it’s pretty cool.

Just thought I’d post a pretty picture of this morning’s fog moving across the hillsides.

"It’s humbling."

That’s Tilly, summing up the immensity of the sights at Yosemite National Park.

Here’s Dad and Til in the Yosemite Valley.

Dad puts his chin back in place. The jaw-dropping splendor of the place can
be a bit mind-boggling at first. And second, and third. (It still boggles mine
after my fourth visit to the place.) That’s the famous Half Dome back behind
him. Used to be a whole dome till a combination of earthquakes and glaceriers
broke it in two. The idea of forces being powerful enough to break mountains
in half is another of the humbling things about Yosemite.

This is the first time I’ve been here early enough in the year to see the waterfalls
flowing powerfully. We’ve gone up three times in the fall, when the snowmelt
has nearly dried up so the waterfalls are more like waterstumbles.

Here’s an angle on El Capitan that I hadn’t seen before. Note the cloud bank
moving across the sky… it looked like a storm was brewing in the valley; turned
out we did see a few sprinkles, but nothing that’d cause Donner Partyesque difficulties.

Dad gaping in wonder again. You could strain your neck if you’re not careful.

Now we’re on a bus to see the Giant Sequoia Redwoods at Mariposa Grove.

Dad walked into the frame while I was shooting the base of this giant redwood,
creating a priceless image.

Dad and Til pass the roots of a fallen giant. It’s really bigger than you can
imagine.

This is about half of it.

There’s nothing small about a trip to Yosemite. It’s four hours over, four
hours back, and four hours in the park if you day-trip from Silicon Valley.
The park’s a hundred miles across and you end up spending half your day on the
road (but what a road!). Really takes three days to get a sense of the place,
and that’s before you step foot on a hiking trail.

Coming here provides a perspective the place of a single species — us — in
the grand scheme of things. Trees living here now were saplings before Jesus
was born. Lord knows how long those rock formations have been there … hundreds
of millions of years, probably. New brush is filling up hillsides burnt black
in fires a few years ago. In 50 years a whole new forest will be there.

This morning, the thought of humanity’s self-inflicted insanity makes me wanna
scream: people, chill out. Sit down on a rock, stare at a mountainside for an
hour and get over yourselves.

We have company calling from the flatlands. Today I’m taking ‘em up to Yosemite.

My dad, Larry Mangan, and stepmom, Tilly Mangan, stop by the ranch.

Tilly considers the local flora and fauna … that’s Melissa’s finger pointing
to some off in the distance.

Dad curries the favor of a neighborly hooved creature.

Tilly proves she can take a digital picture.

More to come as the week progresses.