Ham for Lunch

Destination: Lick Observatory.

Having committed to do a multi-day tour (which is fast approaching), I've been upping my mileage (and hill climbing) for the past several weeks. And what better way to assess my endurance than to ascend Mt. Hamilton?

This time of year (mating season) brings out the tarantulas. Yes, they're big. And hairy. But benign.

A coyote crossed the road ahead of me, then eyed me from the nearby slope before moving along. The wild turkeys I'd passed miles earlier were out of range, I expect. I heard the usual mix of scrub jays, acorn woodpeckers, quail, and red-tailed hawks. I'm pretty sure it was a gray fox I spotted on my descent, scampering into the brush right next to the road.

I slogged my way to the top, slower than my last trip here. Skies were clear, but the temperature was just warm enough to be uncomfortable. I had paused to shed my jacket on the lower climb, then five more times on the upper climb for snacks, proper hydration (electrolytes), and the occasional photo. From the summit, I envied the fog layered over Monterey Bay.

First to the patio, I scored the best (shadiest!) table. My chief biking buddy had gamely joined me again, even though she's not particularly fond of this climb. We loitered and chatted with visitors; I ate everything I'd brought and refilled my water bottle before heading down. I was alarmed to see a fire burning near San Jose International Airport; a grass fire that was quickly contained, as it turned out.

I had my eyes peeled for a (possibly flattened) rattlesnake on the way down; a visitor mentioned seeing one across the center line on his drive up. I don't think about encountering them when I'm cycling, though ironically the only time I'd seen one was in this area.

Seemingly against the odds, there it was. Alive!

It was motionless, apart from flicking its tongue in and out a few times. I kept my distance, but the snake was not amused when I moved—stepping sideways to try for a better zoom angle on its rattle. It coiled, raised its head, hissed, rattled, and slithered off the road. Which probably saved it from being flattened by a vehicle today. [You're welcome.]

Mission accomplished: the traditional 39 miles with about 4,800 feet of elevation gain. For the month of September (so far), 311 miles and some 13,000 feet of elevation gain.

Next week ... ready or not, here I come.

Picture Perfect

My first trip to the top of Mt. Hamilton by bicycle was in October, 2003 (on a recumbent tandem), followed by a repeat in 2004. My first solo trip was in 2005; the group started just above Joseph Grant County Park (midway) and biked out and back on Kincaid Road as well. After that, I pedaled to the top every year (mostly recorded here), from the bottom ... until last year. I was deterred by road closures, and later wasn't confident I was fit enough to make it to the top.

I wasn't so sure today, either. Then I thought about Remco Evenepoel visualizing victory at the Olympic road race in Paris two weeks ago, imagining what an iconic image it would make to cross the finish line solo at the Eiffel Tower. Then, he did it.

I planted an image in my head, standing in front of the main entrance at Lick Observatory atop Mt. Hamilton.

Much to my surprise, a good friend had driven up to meet me at the top—not only snapping photos, but bringing lunch!

I expected to see more cyclists on such a beautiful day.

Not my fastest time up the hill, but not my slowest either! On the way up, I'd thought about pausing for a quick snack, with a particular tree-shaded overlook in mind. Not finding it, I just kept going. On the way down, I saw why: Only a low stump remains, a casualty of the fire in 2020.

A couple of miles from the bottom, I caught up to a vehicle and slowed to keep a safe distance between us. With a bike rack on the rear (empty), the driver understood that I could outpace him and graciously waved me to pass when it was clear.

I'll be back. Soon.

Up We Go

How could it be so, that I had not yet ascended Mt. Hamilton in 2022? It's October, already!

My cycling buddy graciously joined me in riding to the top, despite this being one of her least favorite rides.

The landscape is slowly healing from the firestorm of 2020. Conditions were ideal for cycling: cool, sunny, and almost no wind. There was an unusually thick layer of fog blanketing the valley to the south.

It was uncharacteristically quiet for a Saturday on the mountain: we saw only a handful of cyclists, and none loitering at the top. Few cars (but more than a dozen motorcyclists) passed us as we pedaled up. We traded tales of epic rides on two wheels with a couple of them as we enjoyed our lunch on the the observatory's cozy patio.

When I'd shared my ride plan with some friends, one presaged a certain wildlife sighting.

It's tarantula season, though I'd never seen one on Hamilton before.

On the way up, I'd dodged some suicidal squirrels as they darted back and forth across the road. On the way down, I spied a very robust coyote standing in my lane, focusing on the opposite hillside. Trot up the road apiece, I thought, for some easy pickings. I slowed my approach until the coyote retreated into the brush.

Higher on the hill, I'd passed a band of teenagers (boys) setting up their cameras and skateboards for a different sort of descent. I was relieved to get well ahead of them.

For the day, the usual 39 miles and 4,860 feet of climbing.

Ham, Again?!

Not too hot. Not too cold. No reason not to climb Mt. Hamilton. Again.

I chatted, for a spell, with a visitor who had traveled down from San Francisco to join our group today for his very first ascent. He was apprehensive about vehicle traffic; I reassured him that there would be little, since the Observatory was still closed to the public. Nevertheless, motorcycle and car club outings are not uncommon. (Today, it would be the former.)

At the top, I stopped one motorist from blocking an access road by parking in an area clearly marked “No Parking.” I pointed him at the small parking area, just ahead.

Technically, there was (limited) access to the Observatory: the back lobby with the vending machine was open, but necessitated a hike up the hillside stairs. A few cyclists went up, two of them carrying their bikes. [Not I.]

38 miles, 4,790 feet of climbing and one of my better times up the mountain, of late (2 hours, 44 minutes), but alas ... no complete GPS track. Evidently I had not recharged my Wahoo, and the battery ran out of juice on the way down. In a curious design choice, the unit resumed recording the track when I got home and started to charge it. It would have been preferable for it to pause the track before shutting down, and allow me to stop it when it powered back up.

Till next time ... Somehow, I think, there will be a next time.

Hamilton in Recovery

The summit teases: so close, yet still far away.

Feeling strong, I was determined to make good time on my way up the hill. No lolly-gagging for me today.

I tried to commit a few photo-worthy sites to memory, scenes to capture on the way down.

Some trees survived the inferno. Some did not. The slopes seem so barren, now.

The usual 39 miles and 4,940 feet of climbing for the day, though I will say that the uphill stretches on the way down feel less bothersome these days. Gusty winds encouraged me not to loiter at the top and to be prudent in my descent.

It will take time, but the landscape will heal. It will be different, that's all.

The Aftermath

All sensors green, the air throughout the Bay Area was clean! A day, finally, for the ride I'd hoped would be the finale of my Best Buddies 2020 Challenge: Mt. Hamilton. The ride I'd planned before the Fires.

I was anxious to survey the post-fire landscape. Lick Observatory, I knew, had been successfully defended.

The first sighting of scorched terrain was at the edge of the foothills, approaching Grant Ranch Park. The demarcation line was clear: the pinkish stain left by the fire retardant separated the blackened earth from the golden grasses.

At the Twin Gates trailhead, the hillside had burned right down to the parking lot. The next stark containment line emerged at Smith Creek, past the CalFire station. To the right, uphill: burned. To the left, a field: spared. A few wild turkeys poked around in the brush.

Where they had not been totally incinerated, charred stubs of wooden fence posts hung suspended in the barbed wire. There were wide-open vistas that I don't recall.

The heat had been enough to melt at least one metal marker.

I was mystified by the occasional tangle of white material that looked almost like the hide of some unfortunate animal. That made no sense, fur would have burned . . . Then it came to me: Fiberglass. The flat, plastic reflector posts that line the edge of the road are made (in part) of fiberglass. When the rest was vaporized, the fiberglass was left behind.

Nearly all the pines that once dropped their enormous cones onto the roadway were gone. The cleanup has been underway for some time. Many of the dead trees have been removed, the sides of the road now dotted with their stumps.

The fire had burned the top of the mountain, encircling the observatory. Exposed animal trails criss-cross the slopes. 

I'd heard that one (unused) building had been lost, but didn't expect to see it. 

On my last visit, I had (uncharacteristically) continued a short distance on San Antonio Road to admire the vista. What a lucky choice that was, to have taken it in just a couple of months before the backcountry burned right up to the summit.

That was then.

This is now.

Then . . .

. . . now.

Despite all my lollygagging, I covered the 39 miles and climbed 4,890 feet at a faster pace (8.7 mph) than in June (7.9 mph).

Winter rains will bring mudslides and green grasses. But it will take decades, for the trees.

Not the Tippity-Top

It was windy, but I decided to head for one of my favorite climbs, anyway. I could always bail out. [Right, like that's gonna happen.] My chief ride buddy turned back, but there are always other cyclists on this route. Fewer today, than usual—but possibly some pros? I was passed a couple of times on the climb by helmet-less guys moving at least three times faster than I was. And I saw one descending, disturbingly close to the rear of a car with a bike racked on top.

The observatory is closed to the public, at present, denying us the opportunity to reach the highest point. I made a left at the top to capture some less familiar vistas from San Antonio Valley Road. I definitely didn't have the stamina to add the backside climb today, unlike one couple I overheard. The woman was ready to continue. “We still have 75 miles to go,” she told her companion. [Yikes.] “It's 50 to Livermore. It will be getting dark, normally we'd have started this ride much earlier.”

The temperature at the top was only 50 degrees, and the wind was gusting to 20 mph. Why didn't I think to bring a lightweight jacket for the descent? My toes got cold, and I kept my teeth from chattering only through the sheer force of will. Descend slowly for less wind chill, or descend fast to spend less time being chilled? Those are your options.

There were a few clusters of sports car racer-wanna-bes driving the narrow mountain road today. As well as the occasional SUV that kept going to the top—despite the hand-lettered signs placed at manageable turn-around points, warning that the observatory is closed. I watched one car pause at the top, the occupants seemingly bewildered that there was no place to park.

By happenstance, I found this unusual specimen when I stopped to admire a cluster of wildflowers. It was the only one of its type.

Biking 39 miles is no big deal, but climbing 4,995 feet on my road bike definitely engaged some underutilized muscles. Aches, soreness ... it's all good.

Hamilton, the Mountain

That view means one thing ... I have made it to the top of Mt. Hamilton ... again!

Somehow, 2019 had mostly slipped by without undertaking my favorite climb. I decided to try something I haven't done in a long time: Pedal non-stop to the top. Just take photos at the top, I told myself.

Smoke from a distant fire added to the haze, but it was an otherwise perfect day. Expecting to see no flowers, this late in the dry season, I was surprised by yellow blooms. How have I not noticed these before? (In 2012, I climbed this mountain 10 times, missing only the months of March and December.)

This was the maiden voyage for my starry Lick Observatory jersey. I truly didn't need another bike jersey (don't ask), but how could I not add this one to my collection?

A staff member gave me a thumbs up as she pulled out of the parking lot. “You earned it!” she said. [Indeed.]

I offered a head start to the others in our group, in case any of them felt uncomfortable about having no one behind them. “It normally takes me about an hour and ten minutes,” I explained. One rider's eyes grew wide. “It takes me two hours!” she said.

In all, 39 miles with 4,855 feet of climbing. I summited in just a tad (less than two minutes) over three hours. Turns out I descended a bit faster than I expected (62 minutes), despite having to brake repeatedly behind an SUV—and a teenager on a skateboard (!) on the lower section. Those two pesky climbs on the way down hurt less today.

Use It

I struggled up Mt. Hamilton today. My heart rate was higher than it should have been. When I'd pause, it wouldn't drop as quickly as it should have, either.

But it was a beautiful day, and I kept going.

I wondered whether I should keep going. But I kept going.

[Stubborn? Who, me?]

I wanted to take advantage of what might be the last warm day of the season to head for the summit. I've descended it in the teeth-chattering cold before.

I was alarmed at how hard the climb was; I wasn't trying for a speed record. It was the usual 4,895 feet of climbing over 39 miles.

Maybe that sounds daunting? But it shouldn't be, for me. How many times have I climbed it? [More than 35 times.]

The reason it was hard today was not mysterious: My last bike ride was four weeks ago. [Yikes!]

Use it, or lose it.

Wild Flower Hunting

The burn scars are gone; the fields have renewed themselves.

Three women (racers, evidently) passed me as we approached the first descent. Coming around the bend, I was gaining on them, and ... I dropped them. As expected, they caught me when the climbing resumed. “You started it,” they joked, “now you have to stay with us!” Ah, if only ... “I have no horsepower,” I confessed. “You've got great descending skills!“ they replied. I smiled. Yes, there is that.

In 2012, I managed ten and a half ascents of Mt. Hamilton. I missed March and December that year, but surely there were wildflowers in April and May. Why was today so remarkable? Was it the rainy winter, or was I just paying more attention?

I certainly never noticed the lilac bush at the summit. Because, how would you? Unless it was in full, fragrant bloom. Like today.

Yellow flowers along the driveway to the observatory.

Msny flowers I don't recall seeing before.

I started wondering how I'd identify them all, which got me thinking about how it is in our nature to name things. The flowers have no need for being named.

I noticed some yellow lupine on the way up, then regretted not pausing to get a photo. Regretted enough that I actually stopped on the descent.

The usual 39 miles and 4,890 feet of climbing, but I will never tire of this climb.

Even without the flowers.