Showing posts with label Mt. Hamilton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mt. Hamilton. Show all posts

October 1, 2022

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.

July 3, 2021

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.

April 17, 2021

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.

October 10, 2020

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.

June 6, 2020

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.

October 12, 2019

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.

October 27, 2018

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.

May 12, 2018

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.

July 8, 2017

Some Like It Hot

We knew the day would warm up; the forecast included warnings about “fire weather:” low humidity, hot air, and gusty winds that would quickly cause any fire to burn hot and fast. When a heat advisory was added to the mix, we missed that news.

Charred fields at Joseph D. Grant County Park, San Jose, California
We were surprised to see the golden fields of Joseph D. Grant County Park charred. We'd also missed that news, of a fire that burned here a couple of weeks ago. The roadway, and some of the brush, was stained pink with the residue of the fire retardant that would have been sprayed by a low-flying tanker.

Charred tree and roadway stained pink with fire retardant, Mt. Hamilton Road, San Jose, California
Some majestic trees have been lost, but the ranch's historic homestead was unscathed. Close call.

We regretted not getting an earlier start; I envied cyclists who were already descending. By the time we reached the park, about halfway to the top, the heat was taking its toll on me. I found myself stopping more and more often, and it was taking longer than usual for my heart rate to recover.

I thought about aborting the climb. (That would have been the sensible choice.) I kept going. I was mystified by cyclists outfitted head to toe in heat-absorbing black gear; I'd planned to wear my Death Ride jersey in solidarity with those doing the 2017 edition today, but nixed that in favor of pure white.

The gusty winds from the northwest materialized, but offered little relief—the air was just too hot. Was the breeze evaporating the sweat from my arms that fast, or was my dry skin a warning of heat exhaustion?

Lick Observatory atop Mt. Hamilton, San Jose, California
When the observatory comes into clear view, you still have a ways to go. And I was, uncharacteristically, nearly out of water. Like virtually all the cyclists we saw that day, I repeatedly aimed for a (rare) patch of shade and stopped to rest.

This was a ride of many firsts. The first time I've seen so few cyclists on the mountain. My slowest ascent, to date (and hopefully, ever). The first time I drained both bottles of water on this climb. The first time I saw streaks of dried salt on my bike shorts. The first time I bought and consumed two full cans of Gatorade at the summit. (Thank you, Lick Observatory, for stocking that.)

The temperature in San Jose today topped out above 100F. I was so glad not to be one of the riders in Markleeville. Thirty-nine miles with 4,670 feet of climbing were more than enough for me.

September 18, 2016

B-Day Ride

The friendly young clerk in the local market asked me what I was planning to do this weekend. [No, it wasn't a pickup line; he's young enough to be my ... well, let's not go there.]

Behind Lick Observtory, Mt. Hamilton, California
“I'm going for a bike ride tomorrow.” He smiled, but when he asked ”Where?” he wasn't prepared for my answer: Up Mt. Hamilton. “To the top?!” he asked, incredulous.

Of course, silly boy.

I had a birthday recently, and climbing my favorite mountain seemed like a good way to celebrate. When a club member listed a ride for today, even though it was much earlier than I would normally start, it seemed ordained. One downside of the early start was that, heading east, we were riding into the sun.

One of my regular riding pals joined me (no small sacrifice, at such an early hour)—and further surprised me with some lovely flowers, which elicited birthday greetings from the rest of the group.

Moon setting above the smoggy valley, viewed from the lower slopes of Mt. Hamilton, California
Sunday is the better weekend day for climbing Hamilton, as it's less busy. I was surprised that a few motorcyclists were also getting an early start, and even more surprised by cyclists already coming down the hill. Did they start before dawn? Maybe; the moon was nearly full, and the skies were clear.

The rest of the group was embarking on a century ride, and we wished them well. It would be a hot day; just doing Hamilton would be enough for me. A fellow cyclist pointed out that “just” doing Hamilton wasn't exactly sitting on the sofa playing video games, as it's nearly 5,000 feet of climbing.

Grant Lake and golden, oak-studded hills, near Joseph Grant Park, Mt. Hamilton, California
There was an uncommon amount of roadside junk: faded sofas, broken furniture, large pieces of rusted equipment. My guess is that some authority has hauled this detritus out of the ravines for pickup. Hopefully soon, since that sort of stuff is a magnet for more.

I've seen a lot along this road, but today I spotted something I'd never found before.

Right there along the edge of the road, its pink ribbon caught on some brush, was a Mylar balloon. A Happy Birthday balloon.

What are the odds?

pep with a Happy Birthday balloon atop Mt. Hamilton, California
I tugged it free and tied it to the back of my helmet. [And no, there wasn't enough helium to give me a lift.] This inspired many more passing cyclists to wish me “Happy Birthday,” making this climb one that I'll always remember.

The usual 39 miles with 4,715 feet of climbing. As someone recently reminded me, growing old is a privilege.

January 1, 2016

Ham, or Turkey?

In 2015, I climbed more than 149,000 feet and pedaled more than 3,575 miles. Time to reset the cycle computer.

Sun rays break through the clouds over the foothills of Mt. Hamilton, Santa Clara County, California
It's a Bay Area tradition to climb Mt. Hamilton on January 1st. One of my biking buddies invited me to join her, and ... well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

It seemed like less of a good idea this morning, with the thermometer at my house reading 31F. In other words, -0.5C.

Why do this? Maybe she'll bail out. [Nope.]

Who am I to cancel, then? Some sort of cold-weather ultra-wimp?

The climb was comfortable enough; it's the descent you have to keep in mind. The road was wet, in places, just as I expected. My toes were numb, despite wool socks and booties. It was a challenge to brake with stiff fingers. I've come down from the top before, with teeth chattering.

A pair of wild turkeys strutting through the grass along CA 130, Santa Clara County, California
Sensibly, we opted for half-a-Ham today, declaring victory at the entrance to Joseph D. Grant County Park. The sun was determined to hide in the clouds; the summit was just not enticing.

Let's get this New Year started: 17 miles, 2,030 feet of uphill.

November 26, 2015

Thanks for the Snow

The Low-Key Hillclimb series concluded with the traditional Thanksgiving-morning climb to the top of Mount Hamilton. Snowfall would close access to the mountain, and rain would cancel the climb.

The Low-Key Hillclimb finish line at Lick Observatory, Mt. Hamilton, San Jose, California
For the fourteenth time, the weather cooperated. [So to speak.]

Ice-encrusted pine needles, Mt. Hamilton, San Jose, California
The morning sun slipped icicles off the exposed pine tree at the summit ... but not all of them. It was that cold.

Bracingly cold (32F), with snow lingering from Tuesday night's storm. The roads were clear. [Mostly.]

Snow-covered shrubbery at Lick Observatory, Mt. Hamilton, San Jose, California
Ninety-one souls were brave enough to tackle the climb—a little more than half the number who turned out last year. The urge to stay nestled all snug in one's bed can get the best of anyone. [Not me.]