What Might Have Been

Last weekend, Darling Wife and I went up to southern Oregon to visit an old friend of mine. When we moved to the west coast, my friend and I thought we would get to see each other more. With him in northern OR at the time and me in northern CA, there was still some distance to contend with. So we knew it wouldn't be often, but we both like to travel, and at least we were in the same general area. But you know what they say about best laid plans and good intentions. During the four years DW and I have lived in CA, we've seen my friend maybe three times, and only once for any significant length of time. What's more, my friend has also gotten married during that time, and I only met his new wife for about five minutes during their wedding reception last year. So it was with great enthusiasm that I planned our visit.

Oregon is an absolutely beautiful state. It has mountains and coastline to rival that of its more famous southern neighbor, although the former are not quite as high and the latter is somewhat colder and wetter. But there are also snow-capped volcanoes, which I have to say, are slightly scary but awesome at the same time. And what about the Columbia River with its gorge and spectacular water falls the likes of which CA cannot rival. It is true that it rains a bit much in the northern part of the state, but that only means lush green valleys and an abundance of flora and fauna that appeals very much to the outdoorsman in me. And southern OR is much drier. Not as dry as this burnt-out hell DW and I live in, but dry enough to lower the humidity and require irrigation for farming.

We spent the weekend hiking in the mountains, where we saw a black bear in a closer encounter than I've ever had when I wasn't in a car, exploring caves (on a tour at the Oregon Caves Nat'l Monument), and wine tasting. It was so pleasant. DW and I both wonder how our lives might have been different if I'd gotten into the University of Oregon in Eugene instead of UC Davis. What would it have been like if we had friends close by and a landscape we prefer so much more than this one?

What, indeed?

Around and around I go...

I have several things I'd like to blog about but no time in which to blog. I really thought I'd have more time once I finished with classes. Funny how it never works out that way, isn't it?

Don't Be Hasty

Due to the exterminator's visit, I needed to be out of the house during the time in the morning I normally clean up from my bike ride and get ready for work. So I had to skip my morning ride. By the time I got off of work this afternoon, it was getting too warm and I had too much to do for me to take my regular ride, so I settled for a quick trip along a marked bike route through a neighborhood near my house. I didn't even go home to change clothes; I just went straight from work.

As I neared one of the turns, I saw that it was pretty sharp, and I was going pretty fast. In a split second, I had to decide to either slow down enough to make the turn, or cut the corner, as I could tell many others had done. I could clearly see the tire marks in a sunken arch in the dirt between the two concrete paths. So I opted to cut the corner.

If I'd had a dirt or mountain bike with knobbly wheels for traction, I would probably have been OK, but the thin, smooth wheels of my street bike aren't designed for that type of maneuver on that type of terrain. The dry dirt offered no resistance, and my bike slid out of my control.

I ended up on the ground with almost half the palm of my left hand skinned and bleeding. So much for rash decisions and cutting corners. Next time I'll just slow down.

Chasing Rainbows

As I rode along the bike path early yesterday morning, I spotted a series of brightly colored balls hovering above the horizon before me. They looked like rainbows, condensed into something less ephemeral, less transparent. Or maybe they were enormous lollipops, held aloft on sticks the size of skyscrapers.

Of course, I knew they were hot air balloons. I often see them, especially on morning rides. But they are usually a considerable distance away. I think they are launched from Napa Valley, which lies over the ridge I ride toward. The wind was in my face, traveling east from San Francisco Bay, and I concluded it must blown the balloons off course. Later, I saw several white vans with the logo of a balloon tour company sitting alongside the road, apparently tracking the balloons and trying to determine where they would land.

But as I continued on my ride, the balloons passed right over my head, perhaps a hundred feet up or less, and I saw the glint of sunlight off glass from what must have been binoculars. I wondered what I looked like to the occupants of the balloons' baskets. Did they admire my dedication, out riding through miles of open farmland so early on a weekday. Or did they think, as they leisurely floated along, that my industry was ill-spent. Or perhaps they silently prayed that I would send help, as they moved farther off course, at the mercy of the breezes.

I guess I'll never know.

In the Steps of John Muir

DW and I had a lovely time in Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks. We didn't get to spend much time in Kings, but my impression was that it was not altogether different from Yosemite valley, which, of course, is beautiful beyond words, despite the crowds that always stuff it to brimming in their capitalist frenzy for tacky gift shop merchandise. We would have liked to do some hiking there, but we didn't have time. We couldn't leave the dogs in the car, anyway, so we reluctantly left it after only a cursory glimpse of its rushing streams and towering granite structures.

We did pass an entire day in Sequoia, treasuring our brief contact with the largest trees in the world. In fact one of them, the Sherman Tree, is the largest living thing on the planet. Think about that for a moment. Larger than whales, larger even than the dinosaurs. AND it's about 2,200 years old. In this tree's incredible span of years, our fleeting visit would not even register on its timeline. To it, we were truly insignificant. We've been in Giant Sequoia groves before, but certainly none of this magnitude. Everywhere we looked, massive living pillars held the sky aloft and held me enthralled.

And yet, I couldn't help but be put off by the masses of humanity, crowding around, snapping pictures, rabidly purchasing souvenir t-shirts, as if this thing of natural majesty, this awesome work of God, were only another in a series of life's spectacles, the next intangible commodity to consume while muttering perfunctory lip-service to "life-changing experiences" and moving on in a desperate attempt to quicken a vacuous existence. How pathetically small it all is.

Returning to our home in the Central Valley, however, was completely unfulfilling. It has grown hot here, and the dry summer has set in. Everything seemed dusty and cramped. The sweeping grandeur of mountain landscapes with their space and cool air had forced an unflattering comparison to the flat little huddle of stucco homes that make up my community.

Yes, it is time to go home.

And Be One Traveler

Darling Wife and I recently watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, and I found it to be an amusing little story. It did not have the profound affect on me that it seems to have on others, perhaps because the concept was not new to me. Nonetheless, I was affected by the story's setting.

We have decided to alter our cross-country route to cover Texas and some of the South, including Louisiana and New Orleans. New Orleans was also where DW and I spent our honeymoon. So as the trip and our anniversary nears, my longing to touch that landscape is almost physical. I find myself preparing Southern meals and seeking out other movies set in the South. These things call to me in the voice of Home.

And yet, even as I think I will begin to write about the things I look forward to rather than the things I will miss, I am again confronted by the splendors of my present life. This weekend DW and I are camping in the Sierras and communing with the Giant Sequoias. In a few short weeks, we'll be deep in the coastal redwood forest, my favorite place in California.

How can I leave this place? Certainly I have been brought to tears repeatedly by my desire to get out of here and return to all the things I love in the east, but like it or not, I have acclimated. I no longer view things here as abnormal, something I actually thought would never occur.

It's funny, when I moved to Boston, I melted into it from the first day and embraced it like an old friend. It was only time that made me need to leave it. As much as its crooked streets and layers of history will always reside in my soul, I needed more space, less competition. When I moved here, the effect was the complete opposite; I held it at arm's length as something distant and alien from myself. Time has endeared it to me.

Now I wish I could return and stay. Frost wrote, "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, / And sorry I could not travel both / And be one traveler, long I stood / And looked down one as far as I could." I suppose that is what I am doing, standing and looking. If only the distance, that distance which is the primary reason for our relocation, were not so prohibitively great. If only...

Family Outing

He strutted, proud but wary, at the head of the group. His dark eye at the top of his long, black, snake-like neck following me cautiously as I biked past, but he was not to be completely distracted by my presence; his attention darted back and forth from the bike path on his left to the field on his right. Puffing up for an instant, he made himself larger, more menacing, and hissed softly, just to be absolutely sure I knew he would not be taken easily or allow his family to be approached. Determining I was not a threat, he calmed himself down with a rapid shutter and ruffle of gray and white feathers and continued on his course. He would make certain the way was safe before leading his loved ones farther along it. That was his job, and he was good at it.

She followed behind, clicking and honking, guiding her precious babes with her large breast and slightly spread wings. Her head flicked momentarily in my direction, but she trusted her mate to keep protective watch. Her task was to make sure no one strayed from the group. She knew from experience that there is always a curious or dawdling one in every brood, and she was determined not to lose him or her this time.

Between them, small green-gold balls of fuzz scurried around unsteadily on tiny webbed feet. I can hear them excitedly beeping, eager to explore this new world, but not entirely convinced it is their own. It will be some months before these frightened and anxious goslings will resemble their powerful parents.

Perhaps not all of them will survive to make the transition. But that is not for us, or them, to say. Today, there is the creek waiting, and it's time for a swimming lesson.

Ruining Everything!

And then, God sends me a not-so-gentle reminder why we have to Get... Out... of... Here. Today, it's supposed to be around 90 degrees, and tomorrow, 100! You say, "But it's a dry heat, which isn't that bad, right?" Yeah, right. While it's true that dry heat is not as bad as humid heat in some ways, 100 degrees is still f-ing HOT!

Dry heat feels cooler on the skin when there is a breeze. It also allows the temps to drop dramatically at night. Neither of those things is helpful in the middle of a sweltering afternoon. What's more, our house, which stays pretty cool for most of the morning, almost chilly even, builds up heat in the attic when it's so hot, and then radiates that heat into the house for most of the cool nighttime hours... while we are trying to sleep. Nice, eh?

And the sun... that wonderful California sun that people rave about and come here to experience, it will burn you to a cinder if you are exposed to it. I've never felt anything like it. I know that those of you back east have been suffering through constant rain for some time, so this may sound like a blessing from heaven, so allow me to enlighten you a bit. In more humid climates, the atmosphere filters some of the heat from the sun's rays, so while the air itself may be hot and sticky, the sun is not unfriendly. So as long as it's not raining, you can be outside, enjoying the summer, except for those few weeks in late July and August when it just gets too hot to move. Without the atmospheric filtering provided by moisture in the air, the direct beams of the sun are scorching hot. I mean, even if the temperature is only in the 60s or 70s, your skin will burn in the sun. And I'm not talking about getting overly tanned; I'm talking about growing hot, as if you were holding it up to a heater or a fire. You can feel the direct heat almost melting or searing away your flesh. Lovely image, isn't it?

As soon as you step in the shade, you experience relief, but who wants to live their life in the shade? Not me. I'm an active kinda guy, and I like to get out and do things in the summer.

So, this weekend, we'll have to abandon the sweltering cauldron of the Valley and seek the cooler climes of the mountains or the coast. That will provide some temporary respite from the fury of Helios, but we don't always have the freedom to do that. Besides, once the heat sets in and the rain stops, this land will become baked and burned like a terracotta pot. All that is beautiful and green will wither away, leaving dust and misery.

Yep, our departure for the east can't come too soon.

Miss-cellaneous cont. cont...

Have you ever had fresh avocado? I mean, really fresh, like picked on the farm that morning? It's unlikely. See, they spoil quickly, so fresh ones aren't even available in most grocery stores outside of the southwest, and the "avocado dip" you get may not be real avocado, or it may be loaded with so many preservatives that it bears little resemblance to the real thing. Check the label. You'll see.

And this is the case with most of our grocery store produce, even here. Produce in grocery stores is usually picked while it's still green so it can survive the journey to the market and sitting on the shelf for days. That prevents the fruits and veggies from storing the sugars, vitamins, and minerals that will give them their fullest flavors. Grocery stores also generally stock produce that LOOKS good, regardless of it's taste. I, for one, think that peaches should be soft and sweet instead of perfectly plump and colorful but tasting like plastic.

Fortunately, I have alternatives to the grocers, easy alternatives that don't require a drive across town or to another town. I know I've already mentioned this in my first post, but I have to rave a little more. Yesterday afternoon on my way home from running an errand, I stopped by the farmer's market to pick up a tomato for a salad for dinner. I ended up getting a tomato, two avocados, and a half-flat of strawberries for $15! Then I dropped into the food co-op for an $8.99 bottle of terrific local zinfandel... mmmm... and a delicious organic dressing.

As Darling Wife and I ate dinner on our back patio, I reveled in these tasty treasures and mourned the loss of them we will suffer when we return east.

Have you ever had fresh dates? What about asparagus? Persimmons, mushrooms, olive oil, figs? I've had all of these things before, but I don't think I'd ever really known how marvelous they could be until I bought them fresh on the day they were picked, ripe and luscious, from the farmers who grew them.

Oh, trespass sweetly urged! Give me my zin again.

Darling Wife's brother (and possibly her sister) are coming to visit this weekend. They would like to visit some wineries, which begs the question, which ones?

California has over 100 American Viticulture Areas (AVAs), as many as all other US states combined. Some of them are quite small and located near each other. For example, the Napa, Sonoma, and Suisun valleys run parallel to each other; each valley is its own AVA; the north and southern parts of each valley are also separate AVAs, as are the ridges between them and many of the spur valleys that branch off of them. It has to do with the climate and the soil. Because of altitude, ocean breezes, etc., each type of terrain is appropriate for different types of grapes or produces different and distinct flavors in the same grapes, so each area gets its own AVA, even though they are within a few miles of each other.

Obviously, we aren't going to go down to San Diego county to visit that region's wineries because it's much too far, although I hope to drop into some of them on our way out of the state next month. It's the same with Santa Barbara and most of the central coast. We don't want to travel more than an hour or two, I think. But there are several wine regions near us, each with its set of distinct AVAs.

We could easily visit Napa and Sonoma, which are only about 45 minutes south west of where we live. The wineries there are beautiful, and many of them are famous. And they make some excellent pinot noirs, a grape that doesn't grow anywhere else close to us. But their popularity makes them expensive and incredibly touristy. Some of the wineries there charge you just to visit the grounds, let alone taste the wines.

There is also Lodi in the Central Valley just south of us. Darling Wife and I have never been wine tasting there, and I'd like to do so before we leave CA. However, Lodi is having a big Zin Fest this weekend, which means the normally less-crowded wineries will be packed, and many of them will not be conducting regular tastings because they will have booths at the Fest. Plus, it's supposed to be over 90 degrees in the valley this weekend. Mmmm, no. I don't think so.

Which leaves the wineries in the Sierra foothills. They're a little harder to get to, taking a little over an hour each way, and we did take DW's sister there once before. But they are hardly ever crowded, are inexpensive, and produce some of the finest old vine zinfandel I've ever tasted. The spicy flavors stimulated by growing on granite for 100 years or so are incredible. And there are 27 wineries in the same 10-mile area.

I guess it will depend on what types of wines my brother-in-law favors, rich French wines like those produced on the coast, or fiery Italian and Spanish wines like those made in the foothills.