And Then There Were None

As I was putting breakfast together one morning, I noticed a bird flying back and forth to the little patio table outside my window. The tabletop is packed with plants, and she (a female Dark-eyed Junco) was darting among the pots—carrying bits of grass or leaves.

Peering through the window, I spotted the nest she was constructing. Her male partner was observing from atop the nearby fence.

I backed away, wondering if they'd see me and be spooked.

After she laid her first egg, I had my answer.

I was thrilled to have a front-row seat, and also worried about the neighborhood cats.

The next day a second egg appeared, and one more the day after. I was impressed with the size of the eggs, relative to the size of the bird.

When I returned home later that day, the nest (visibly lined with strands of my hair!) was empty.

I found one of the eggshells under a bush; ants were finishing off whatever the hungry thief had left behind.

Was the culprit a crow? A scrub jay? The nest remained empty, the sad mystery unsolved.

Mostly Mud-Free

Following more rain, where might we hike?

Up a hill!

Word was that the Kennedy Trail would be a suitable choice (and it was).

The sky was gloomy, but our spirits were not: Getting outside is a reliable mood-booster.

Along the way we found a splash of color, including the largest mushroom I'd ever seen (nearly the size of a dinner plate!) and some early spring blooms. I was puzzled: it seemed too early for paintbrushes to bloom, and these were an unexpected hue. Today we learned about something new: Warrior's Plume.

We turned back at the base of the last steep climb; 6.8 miles and more than 1,400 feet of climbing were enough. [For now.]

While the Sun Shines

Make the most of a break in the weather.

A friend suggested an impromptu ride, and off we went!

The roadwork leading to Almaden Reservoir has finally been completed, no more one-lane traffic signal! [Guess I haven't been out there in a while.]

Along the way we merged with two other friends, ventured up alongside Herbert Creek until the pavement petered out, and rounded out the day with a lunch stop. Thirty-three miles, maybe 1,000 feet of climbing, a sandwich and a treat. Bike to eat ...

Triple Play

Normally I wouldn't plan to hike three days in a row ... it just worked out that way.

I wasn't sure I'd be up for a third day, and there was rain in the forecast. But ... why not? [Pack a rain jacket, just in case.]

What might I miss (besides the camaraderie)? Even in a familiar place, there is always something new to see. Especially in the rainy season.

The sky was brooding, but we stayed dry. Boots needed another hosing down at home, nonetheless.

We were motivated, as always, to enjoy another day on the trails—and completed our 5-mile loop well before the raindrops would begin to fall.

So glad I didn't stay home!

Hot Water?

With a trail named Agua Caliente, I was left wondering if there are hot springs somewhere in Ed Levin County Park. [Found no references.] Figuratively speaking, we were in hot water when we reached a very mucky stretch of the trail soon after starting out.

One person veered right, into the brush; another veered left, and slipped. I opted for the middle, more or less, and just muddied my boots before pausing to photograph the morass before moving on.

Waiting for the rest of our group to arrive, I had abundant avian company skittering about in the parking lot: noisy Red-winged Blackbirds, Great-tailed Grackles, and Brown-headed Cowbirds. What were they after?

I certainly didn't expect to find a Great Egret hunting along the trail, with long-lens photographers and casual gawkers mere feet away.

Climbing higher, we were afforded a quintessentially Bay Area view: rolling green hills and farm buildings in the foreground, stately homes transitioning to office/industrial sprawl and then marshland along San Francisco Bay, the Santa Cruz Mountains in the distance.

Cattle can be unpredictable, but this animal was more interested in grazing than messing with passing hikers.

I covered 3.6 miles with a few hundred feet of elevation gain, acquiring a new perspective on the region and a park I've biked past dozens of times.

Calero Calls

Joined some former colleagues for a modest hike with an occasional challenging grade (3.8 miles, some 500 feet of elevation gain) in a section of Calero County Park I had not visited before today.

Our trek afforded a clear view of the dam stretching across the reservoir, as well a clear view across the valley to Mount Hamilton and the Diablo Range.

Good timing; the hills were still green and the weather was just right. Our chosen trails traversed open grassland that would be baking hot in a couple of months. Too early for spring flowers, though.

Thanks to a few muddy sections, our charming four-legged companion (Charlie) was destined for a post-hike bath (as were my boots). I think he'd agree it was totally worth it!

Engineers ...

[Not] coming soon to a bike shop near you: An upright handcycle?

But, hang on ... the rider's legs were also spinning!

I'm sorry I didn't stop to chat with the fellow who rolled up on this curious machine, but it's a safe bet it was none other than Stanford's Richard Reis. (The “Full Body Bicycle” placard mounted on the front was my clue.)

A good 20 miles from the university, Dr. Reis clearly gets around. If our paths cross again, I'll ask why he didn't opt for belt-drive instead of chains. (Belts weigh less and need essentially no maintenance.)

In any case, I wouldn't want to cruise downhill on that thing ...

Bike More

Outlook for the week: Clear schedule. Clear weather.

Plan for the week: Ride bike.

The right moment, the right conditions, and even an ordinary place can suddenly be eye-catching.

I talked myself into another climb up Bernal. (Rainy days ahead!)

One of the advantages of solo riding is the freedom to take in the sights at a leisurely pace. To stop and admire things, like this engineering marvel. (Hard to judge the size from the photo—the nest is more than six inches long.) How did a bird build that?!

I appreciate camaraderie, too: Conversation and a reason to enjoy a luscious lemon meringue tart.

Plan for the week successfully executed: 110 miles, more than 3,000 feet of climbing, and plenty of fun with a bicycle.

Running Water

Oh so many years ago, when I was new to the Bay Area, a friend and I ventured to Uvas Canyon County Park in search of waterfalls. [We found none.]

That was likely due to clueless timing—we were probably there during the (dry) summer months. I think we turned back, disappointed, after finding a trail blocked by fallen trees.

Some trees adapt.

When our chief hiking instigator suggested the park for today's hike—for the waterfalls—I knew it was a brilliant idea. Surely they'd be flowing, and maybe the trails wouldn't be too muddy.

Indeed! We met a local who assured us our timing was spot-on: Too soon after a storm and the water would be muddy. Today? Splendid!

Our group has often biked into this park, for the challenge of the climb and to linger over our snacks in a such a lovely place. Parking is limited, so advance reservations are required . . . for those arriving in vehicles. [Today, we carpooled.]

Expecting to spend the day in the forest, I was surprised by the occasional view across the valley—even though we did not climb to the highest point in the park.

For a close-up of Upper Basin Falls, I found sure footing and extended my arm to get a clear shot around that boulder.

We spotted several clusters of Convergent Lady Beetles, an unusual (but natural) phenomenon that I'd not witnessed before. Our world is a wondrous place!

Even though this was prime time for waterfall viewing, we had the park nearly to ourselves—a big perk for weekday hiking. Our clockwise loop led us to the biggest waterfalls near the end, covering about five miles and crossing a wide, rocky stream with no mishaps. Hiking poles, for the win!

Oh, Snap!

Well, that's a problem.

I had regretted not riding on Saturday, when the rain arrived much later than expected. I was determined to ride today, but once I got a good look at the menacing clouds, I wondered if I'd chosen poorly. Clinging to the western hills, I hoped they were releasing moisture there (and only there).

Fortunately, I did stay dry. Whenever the sun broke through, I was too warm; but mostly the clouds kept me well-chilled.

Sunday's storm was characterized as a bomb cyclone; I stayed safely indoors. Prepared for the inevitable outage, I lucked out and only lost power for about five hours. Many of my neighbors did not fare so well—some were in the dark (and cold) until this afternoon.

Cruising around today, I was surprised not to see more damage along my 29-mile route: Two fallen trees on front lawns, mostly twigs and small bits of debris in the bike lanes. And then, well, that utility pole ...

More rain tomorrow.

Bluebirds of Happiness

With some wild (wet and windy) weather in the forecast, it was high time to tackle a challenging ride: First ascent of Bernal in 2024.

I followed my usual routine at the picnic area: Pick up litter. Place litter in trash can. Which is ... right there. [People!]

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).

I'll be back!

Butterflies, Birds, Bunnies ... Bobcat?

To the west, a clear view of the valley and the southern reaches of San Francisco Bay.

Turn your back on civilization and admire Mt. Hamilton to the east.

With some hope that we might see a bobcat, I'd suggested today's hike to a friend who is also fond of felines. [No promises, of course.]

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).

Birds provided the soundtrack for our trek. Amidst much twittering, one intermittent call stood out—almost like laughter. Merlin Sound ID, for the win: a California Quail. [ha-HA-ha, ha-HA-ha, ha-HA-ha.]

Keep your eyes, ears, and mind open. Always!

A Taste of Eden

Now here's a popular route I haven't ridden in quite some time: Mt. Eden. On a weekday?

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.

The view from the vista point has changed over the years. It affords a clear view of the cube atop Mt. Umunhum in the distance. In the foreground, well ... new “estate homes” creep ever closer.

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?

Water, Always

I'd suggested an easy, post-lunch stroll up the trail alongside Los Gatos Creek, perhaps turning back before reaching Lexington Reservoir. [I should have known better.] No mud today, I'd insisted.

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?]

I didn't start tracking our “hike” until we left the reservoir, expecting we'd make a direct return on the other side of the creek. [Wouldn't we?]

“Let's go up St. Joseph's Hill,” my companion suggested, seeking a real hike after all. [I should have known.]

I'd only been up here once before, and that was ... more than 20 years ago. [Really?!]

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.

Clear as Mud

Traversing mostly exposed terrain, we hoped to find mostly-dry trails.

We found enough mucky clay to cake our boots.

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.

When visibility is limited, focus on what's near. Too early in the season for flowers; rocks, moss, mushrooms, mud ... did I mention, mud?

Not that I'm complaining—hiking in a fleece vest over a lightweight woolen top. In January.

Beautiful in its own way, and beautifully quiet. I completed a six mile loop, with 952 feet of elevation gain.

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!]

Flash of Color

Sometimes an ordinary, unremarkable bike ride takes a noteworthy turn.

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!

The Hiking Club

An unusual event popped up on a local events calendar: A short hike led by someone from the county parks department, in conjunction with a visit to the local art museum (NUMU) to view an exhibition (The Hiking Club: A Vocabulary of Yearning). The artist (Linda Simmel) and the curator joined us for the hike and would later lead us through the exhibit, piece by piece, answering questions.

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.

Fittingly for a nature outing, we gathered near a different exhibit featuring embroidered renderings of endangered plants (the lost ones: iterations and murmurs, by Liz Harvey).

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.

A grumpy old man came barreling down the trail and scowled “You can't block the trail!” Our guide rolled his eyes, and someone in the group quietly chuckled “Oh yes we can” as people politely stepped aside.

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.

I wasn't the only one who saw a deeper meaning in The Wood, featuring a colorless, transparent outline of a woman in high heels striding toward, and merging with, a vibrant natural landscape.

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.