Apple Cider Time

I am beginning to wonder if every ascent of Highway 9 will be memorable.

Late on this Sunday morning, I was passed by a posse of sporty Nissans and a souped-up Miata (bedecked with a truly hideous spoiler). The speed limit is 30 mph and they were behaving nicely ... paced by a pickup truck, as it were.

Evidently they did not behave so nicely once they took the lead.

There are some lovely curves on the way from Saratoga to Skyline, including an enticing pair of 180-degree hairpins. The final hairpin, however, is a bit different. It is sharp and short and marked with a sign that recommends a speed of 20 mph.

When I rounded that bend, the posse was lined up on the opposite side of the road, facing downhill. [Odd.] Six or more young men were standing alongside one car, off the road with its hood up.

Why did the Nissan cross the road?

The punchline would be supplied by the cyclists I met at the top. They heard the screeching tires. They saw the car off the road, in the dirt, after it spun out. Fortuitously, no one was in the reckless driver's path.

We continued along Skyline to attend to some pressing business.

Club members and friends pitch in each fall: apples are picked, washed, trimmed and quartered, crushed, and pressed into fresh cider. With picking and washing well-tended, I tried my hand at the remaining tasks. [With the exception of the pressing, upper-body-weakling that I am.]

That watery stuff you can buy in cartons each fall? Bah! Nothing like the real thing. Not even close.