I wondered why there were so many birds flitting about. Lots of bluebirds, and a lone goldfinch tucked in a tangle of branches.
Aha! Someone has hung a nesting box in a tree and bluebirds have moved in. A little extra incentive for me to do the miles (29) and the climb (about 1,000 feet, give or take).
It was unseasonably warm; I wished I'd chosen a lighter-weight shirt. We followed the same route I'd enjoyed a few weeks ago. Ground squirrels were plentiful, but I was surprised when my hiking buddy spotted a bunny! Moments after it scampered into the brush, she spied a bobcat sauntering down an adjacent trail (away from us, and the lucky bunny).
Keep your eyes, ears, and mind open. Always!
Break out the road bike for some proper hill climbing! No problem holding my own with traffic on the way the start: 34+ mph on a downhill (just under the speed limit). This ... bike ... is ... fast.
I felt apprehensive about sharing the road with gravel trucks streaming in and out of the quarry on Stevens Canyon Road; my ride buddies were unfazed. Still, it's best not to linger on that stretch.
Twenty-five miles and more than 1,500 feet of elevation gain for me. No longer chasing club statistics, we descended Pierce to return to Saratoga for lunch. A proper sandwich was in order, but the cafe's lemon meringue tarts looked so luscious. Why not ... both?
Leaving the cafe, I wondered if I should have opted for a bottle of water that I could have carried with me ... but we weren't going for a real hike. [Were we?]
“Let's go up St. Joseph's Hill,” my companion suggested, seeking a real hike after all. [I should have known.]
The day was clear(ish). Certainly clearer than two days ago. By the time we finished, we'd covered more than eight miles. With hydration, I would have been happier.
Carry water. Always.
Climbing up toward Coyote Peak, we made good use of our trekking poles and were surprised to cross paths with a sure-footed couple using none—especially given that the dad was toting their baby.
Not that I'm complaining—hiking in a fleece vest over a lightweight woolen top. In January.
When we finished, I scraped off as much mud as I could. (And was grateful that I'd developed a habit of swapping boots for street shoes before and after my hikes.) My experienced companions assured me that it would be easier to clean my boots right away, at home; that it would, in fact, be a bigger challenge once the mud dried. [Though, lunch came first!]
As luck would have it, I needed to abbreviate today's route (20 miles, rather than the 27 I'd planned). But with little traffic on familiar roads, I could comfortably look here and there ... and up. I happened to be in the right spot at the right moment to capture a wee bit of iridescent cloud.
What I would have missed, had I chosen to skip this ride today!
Given the advertised duration for the event, I knew the “hike” would be a short one. With rain in the forecast, I thought I might be the only person who would show up—and the hosts might wish I'd stayed home, like everyone else.
Ha! More than 20 people turned out. The group met at the museum and chatted over coffee, tea, and pastries before setting out.
Rain didn't fall (nor did people fall) as we made our way along a sometimes-muddy, sometimes-uphill stretch of the Flume Trail before retracing our steps to the museum.
Our guide had suggested that we imagine the noise of the freeway as the sound of the ocean, instead; which, oddly enough, sort of works. He encouraged us to take in more of the world around us—advice that would certainly have benefited a certain grumpy old man. Our guide even shared a few magnifying glasses for getting a closer look at small things along the trail. Our group was clearly a mix of art lovers and nature lovers, and I was surprised at how engaged everyone was.
What I didn't expect from this event was to be culturally enriched. The artist focused on the techniques used to create the work, insisting that she doesn't work conceptually. But the people around me were adept at teasing out themes that had seemed hidden to the artist herself.
A poem by Wendell Berry (The Peace of Wild Things) was placed next to one of the works.
For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
Much to my surprise, the roads had largely dried by the time I woke up. It was also 34°F. [No excuses. Get dressed!]
Luckily I glanced down at the bag on my rear rack before we took off: There was a (rather sluggish) yellowjacket! Perhaps clinging to the dark surface for some warmth? I certainly didn't expect to see one of these out on cold winter morning.
When we reached our coffee stop, I decided that a chocolate croissant fit the bill. It was still warm, the chocolate gooey!
I must say, I'm liking this routine: 29 miles, good conversation, and an indulgent treat.
Our group was busy chatting when a ranger caught our attention. “Shhh,” she waved. “Bobcat!” she whispered.
We stopped in our tracks and saw the skulking feline pass through some scrub, and then were lucky enough to watch it after we rounded a bend.
The ranger had also alerted us to another creature we'd encounter: photographers were on the hunt, and she asked that we not share where we'd seen the cat. She was irritated with them for venturing off the trails. “Mum's the word,” I nodded.
We crossed paths with two small groups. “What are you photographing?“ I asked. “Bobcats!” they replied. “Oh, good luck!” I smiled.
One had the biggest camera lens I'd ever seen, covered with a camouflage pattern. “How much does that weigh?“ I inquired, thinking I would be loath to hike any distance with such a rig. Not understanding my question, he replied “Twenty thousand.” [As in, dollars. Not what I asked but ... whoa.]
We saw another bobcat before we completed our 4.6-mile trek; odds are that the photographers got the shots they sought (far superior to mine). It was a thrill to watch the cats in action, compared with the fleeting glimpses I've caught over the years.
We chose this hike because the trails are exposed, lots of sunshine (and little mud) on a chilly day. The bobcats were an unexpected bonus.
I explored a detour to avoid an underpass on the Los Gatos Creek Trail that always made me nervous; last time I rode there, two cyclists came barreling down the other side (around a blind corner), just as I'd always feared. Survey says: The detour is worth it.
Our intrepid leader meandered through some neighborhoods I'd never visited before now (and others that were all too familiar, part of my former bike-to-work route). Amazingly, there is a house that is still under construction on one of those streets—for more than 11 years. (Google's Streetview images show it was likely early 2011 when the previous structure burned, and construction was underway in 2013.)
After lingering over our coffees and tea at the end of the ride, I tried a different route home (suggested by one of our group). Too. Much. Traffic. Won't try that one again.
Thirty-one miles for the day, and my first camellia bloom of the season:
As for me, well, January 1st seemed like a splendid day for a bike ride—once it warmed up.
Circling back, my plan was to include a short stretch of trail alongside Almaden Lake.
Surprise! The park was closed and gated off, which explained why I'd noticed the trail was empty on my outbound pass. It seemed a shame for such a popular park to be off-limits on a beautiful day that surely would have drawn many visitors. Happy New Year (not) from the city of San Jose!
First road debris of 2024:
Looking for a bright spot, I extened my loop (29 miles) to Vasona Lake County Park, which was open for all to enjoy. The Fantasy of Lights fixtures are still in place. Herewith, my hopeful wish for 2024:
Posts
All Comments
