Paradise Valley

Cycle Greater Yellowstone, Day 2: Livingston-Bozeman

There were two options for today's ride: short or long. Long, or short? Decisions, decisions ...

The prudent course would be the direct return to Bozeman, about 35 miles, conserving energy for tomorrow's long route. So of course ... I went long.

One could think of it as two rides: a 50-mile morning ride through the Paradise Valley toward Emigrant, followed by a mere 35-mile ride in the afternoon.

We headed out of Livingston on a paved path paralleling the highway for several miles. A roadside sign cautioned drivers: Watch for Wildlife on Roadway Next 51 Miles. [Okie dokie.]

The on-course support for this ride has been above and beyond my experience. Two people were stationed at one spot to divert us around a large patch of broken glass on the shoulder. The turns are marked, and route marshals keep us on course at key intersections. This makes good sense, really, because a wayward rider could be challenging to locate given that cell phone coverage is spotty. I confess that I was gleeful when I crested a hill and found the road marked “steep grade”—but, you know, that's me.

Our out-and-back route to Emigrant would follow the same route, though Headmistress Jennifer thought we should stay on the highway for the last leg into Livingston rather than take our chances playing “Frogger” to get back on the bike path. (Traffic would be light enough, as it turned out, to cross back onto the path; a welcome respite from riding the fog line next to vehicles traveling at 70+ mph.)

Sadly, too much of the West is ablaze; haze hung heavy over the hills. I left a smoky Bay Area only to find myself in a smoky Montana valley.

We passed through the communities of Pine Creek and Pray, the former of which mostly survived a wildfire four years ago that burned nearly down to the road.

A few miles from the rest stop that would be our turning point, a guy caught up to me and then sat on my wheel. [Sigh.] Honestly, I don't create much of a draft. I had the last laugh, though, dropping him in short order as soon as I got a slight downhill boost.

I stopped briefly after making the u-turn near Emigrant and was startled by two loud thuds behind me. I turned to see a pair of stout mule deer (doe and offspring) dashing across the field.

The day was heating up by the time we made it back to Livingston for lunch. And here's the thing: Although the morning wasn't a flat route, the last 35 miles presented two-thirds of the climbing. [I prefer my climbs in the morning ...]

We baked in the afternoon sun riding the ups and downs of a frontage road heading due west along I-90. It was a long, gradual uphill into a miserably strong headwind. I began to doubt that I had the ability to keep going. SAG vans passed with bikes and riders aboard. When I reached the penultimate rest stop at Grizzly Encounter, I could not incur the delay to visit the bears. Here the route turned north, and I convinced myself this would offer a break from the wind.

Our final rest stop was a one-room schoolhouse on the National Register of Historic Places, the Lower Bridger School. The building dates to 1900, and was used until 1958. Some riders refilled their bottles at the old hand pump; I stepped inside and back in time, recognizing a style of desk that was still in use at the public school I attended through grade four. (These were in much better shape.)

Another rider warned me that we would face a steep hill before we were done. Was this it, I wondered, at the first little rise? Maybe it's this one, I thought, at the second uptick. Ah, no, here it is ... at mile 79, riders were paper-boying it up a 10% grade that lasted for a tad more than a quarter mile. Admittedly, it was tough after all those miles, and with the heat. At altitude.

I was proud to finish strong: 89 miles, with 3,310 feet of climbing. In the morning haze, I failed to start both apps to track my route, so for today I can share only this image:

The hotel lobby, with its trophy elk heads and Kodiak bear (native to Alaska), was a welcome sight. This time, with my bicycle for a stress-free start tomorrow morning—another long day on the saddle.

Livingston

Cycle Greater Yellowstone, Day 1: Bozeman-Livingston

I watched enviously as a couple of the other guests at our hotel pedaled off to the park. Despite repeated phone calls, the rest of us waited 1 hour and 15 minutes for the shuttle that was supposed to pick us up around 6:00 a.m. We were not off to an auspicious beginning. Taking advantage of the hotel's free continental breakfast was a wise move; by the time we got to the starting line, most of the camp had already cleared out and been packed away.

Once we were underway, it was a nice ride; climbing very gently for the first 20 miles, past the Bridger Bowl Ski Area and cresting Battleridge Pass before heading downhill (woo-hoo!). The roads were in excellent shape, compared to our local California Bay Area roads. Montana gets weather (ice, snow), and we don't ... go figure. This being a Sunday, I wasn't surprised when local motoring enthusiasts passed us (one Ferrari, trailed by a Corvette and assorted muscle cars). Roads that are fun to bike are also fun to drive.

Rumble strips were commonly carved into the center line of the road, as well as along the fog line. Rumble strips are not friendly to bicycles, but I do appreciate that they help to keep motorists safer. The shoulder was often quite narrow—less than the width of a bike lane—and strewn with loose gravel. The fog line rumble strips, fortunately, were not continuous; when the road was clear, it was easy to dart in and out through gaps as needed.

Montana is a “personal responsibility” state. For example, there is no helmet law for motorcyclists, and many choose to ride unprotected. Personal choice is fine with me, as long as the consequences are also personal (i.e., don't count on the taxpayers to foot your medical bills).

Eager Girl Scouts served snacks and refilled water bottles at our second rest stop, the community center in Sedan, an area settled in 1885. Out back was the tallest slide I've ever seen—tall enough to make helicopter parents swoon, for sure. I was tempted, but didn't risk it; I have too many miles of riding ahead.

Throughout the day, I passed people (and of course, got passed). A light cloud cover kept the temperature manageable, but as the day wore on some tricky crosswinds developed. Livingston, I'd heard, could get quite windy. Turning south offered some relief ... a headwind is easier to handle than a crosswind.

Camp was set up alongside the Yellowstone River, near a statue honoring Sacajawea “whose loyalty, courage and devotion were instrumental in the success of the Lewis and Clark expedition of 1803-1806.”

Despite the challenging conditions, I managed to average 14.3 mph over 68 miles, with 2,300 feet of climbing.

Cycle Greater Yellowstone

The Greater Yellowstone Coalition has been running a multi-day cycling tour for the past few years. They choose a different route each year, always covering some portion of the Greater Yellowstone ecosystem. The map this year showed participants from nearly every state, as well as a few international visitors.

When this ride crossed my radar screen last winter, I took notice. While it was primarily arranged as a camping event, they would also run shuttles to a few chosen hotels in each town to accommodate non-camping-types (like me). Even though they offer a “tent sherpa” option, where they provide, set up, and tear down a tent for you, I expected that I would not be a happy camper. If you don't get a good night's sleep, in the morning you still have to climb onto the bike and pedal.

The gray sherpa tents were tightly packed in neat rows; good luck if your neighbors snore ...

I walked over to the coalition's headquarters early enough to claim my bicycle, just as they were loading trucks to transport gear to our starting location at Beall Park. I was the first to park in the “bike corral;” later I would learn that the preferred technique is to loop the handlebars over the rope.

There were all sorts of bicycles: road bikes, mostly, but a few mountain bikes, tandems, and full-on touring bikes with fenders. I didn't see any recumbents, but there was at least one Roundtail. A curious concept, for sure.

Our encampment was fully established, the corral packed with bicycles, by the time I returned for the first evening's festivities (dinner and announcements). Our leader, who I came to dub Headmistress Jennifer, was a stern taskmaster. Heed her directives, or else ...

I sat on the fence for months before taking the leap last spring and committing to Cycle Greater Yellowstone. While the route would not entail much climbing, each day's ride would be long. If it rained, that would mean a lot of misery. We would also be riding for seven straight days without a day off. I wasn't sure I could do this.

If I didn't try, I would never know.

I signed up and navigated the logistics of booking nine reservations with the right hotels on the right nights in the right towns (including pre- and post-ride adventures). Pro tip: Track it all in a spreadsheet.

This rock in Lindley Park puts it all in perspective. The plaque is inscribed: “This boulder marks the trail of the Lewis and Clark Expedition 1805.” Two hundred eleven years later, I'm just here to ride a bicycle.

T Rex Territory

Taking a cue from my librarian ride-buddy friend (thanks, Miss C!), I did a little research before heading for Bozeman. Much to my surprise, I learned that there is a computer museum (!) in town—though I didn't manage to squeeze in a visit.

The utility-box-beautification trend is evident throughout town. Near the library, this wrap was so realistic I needed to take a closer look to convince myself it wasn't an actual bookcase.

The downtown area is very walkable, and my hotel was not far from the Gallagator Linear Trail (a rails-to-trails success).

Close to town the trail passes through Bozeman's Sculpture Park, featuring works both abstract and whimsical, before continuing along fields and streams with views of the Bridger Mountains.

Most conveniently, the trail would take me straight to the Museum of the Rockies, featuring artifacts from a distant point on the timescale of Planet Earth.

In the larger scheme of things, humans are barely a blip. Terrestrial dinosaurs roamed the planet for more than 150 million years. Avian dinosaurs ... well, they're still with us.

The exhibits were so fascinating that I spent the better part of the day wandering through the galleries. I was puzzled when I caught a distinct whiff of vinegar, until I rounded a corner to peer through large windows at staff members gently scrubbing some fossilized bones with toothbrushes.

One remarkable display featured a Tenontosaurus that had apparently fallen prey to a pack of Deinonychus, accompanied by a thorough explanation of the scene. Scattered near the skeleton were many of the predators' teeth, lost while feeding—too many teeth to have been shed by just one of them.

As late afternoon approached, I scurried off to pick up the registration materials for the main event—the bike tour that brought me to Montana. I spied a fellow registrant sporting a L'Étape du Tour bag. [Uh-oh.] What have I gotten myself into?

Having shipped my bike, I slid the box into a quiet corner to unpack and re-assemble it.

With that out of the way, I could relax over a nice dinner and a stroll through town. What better theme for the utility box in front of an auto repair shop than this?

There's a lot to like about Bozeman. The locals say “Shhh ... don't tell anyone.” So I guess this will be our little secret.

Music on Main

Two women approached me in the hotel lobby. “We were on the same shuttle to the airport this morning!”

What are the odds? We flew to Portland before connecting to Bozeman. They traveled for a family reunion, though, not for biking.

Not having done my homework, I expected to find a somewhat dusty, possibly dated, western town. [Ha!]

I overheard someone liken it to Aspen, but it's not so chi-chi. It's a university town; there are multiple bookstores, fine places to eat, public art, and bicycles everywhere. Stylish bike racks abound, and there are even a few dedicated corrals (each occupying what would normally be a vehicle parking place—imagine that!)

This being a Thursday evening in the summertime, there was also a free concert: Music on Main. The street was closed downtown for a couple of blocks, with fun for adults and kids alike. Balloons, food trucks, beer. And of course, a band—with live streaming coverage for those missing the party.

The sun felt unusually bright, even with only an hour or two remaining before sunset.

It's the altitude (elevation: 4,820 feet). Hello, Bozeman!

A Little More

One of the club's annual getaways was this weekend, but I'm not much of a camper. A local ride fit the bill, though the route would be a tad shorter than I wanted. Riding to (and back from) the start would fix that.

The pace was mellow, the air seemed clear, the temperature was just right. It was a breeze, literally. We snaked through a maze of residential streets on our approach to Stevens Canyon. The group stayed together so well that there was no need for the first re-group we'd planned.

A change in elevation was all we needed to spot the lingering smoky haze.

More than once I found myself keeping pace with, or gaining on, another rider on the downhill stretches—without trying. He was keen on optimizing aerodynamics, and I was just letting the Cervélo carry me along. When an unlucky bee caromed off my upper lip, I was reminded why it's important to keep your mouth closed (and your jersey zipped) while descending.

Roadwork (bridge construction) has continued on upper Stevens Canyon Road. It seemed particularly wasteful that they'd left two generators running, for no apparent reason. This being a Sunday, there were no work crews onsite. And even though I'd just cycled here a few weeks ago, I was surprised when I reached the gate—the last of the wood-planked bridges are gone! Safer for cycling, but kind of sad to lose them nonetheless. It is a mystery why the county is building such beefy bridges on this remote, effectively dead-end road.

At the top of our final summit, the group voted to reverse course rather than descend Highway 9. Having been undecided, I cast my lot with the majority. Highway 9 would be more direct, but ... did I really want to tangle with simmering beach-bound motorists, stewing in their cars? Diverted once again by the downtown street closures designed to keep them from clogging local neighborhoods.

I settled into my familiar commute pattern, strategizing about which route would be best to avoid the thwarted traffic as I got closer to home. My thoughts turned to lunch (“bike to eat,” after all) ... I could enjoy a nice sandwich at Erik's, but that might entail dancing with traffic. With a subliminal prod, perhaps, it dawned on me that I had just passed a different Erik's location. U-turn!

Thus fortified, and feeling strong, I needed More (Avenue). It seemed easier than I'd remembered. Until I got to the last bit, which was as steep as I'd remembered. (Yikes!) In the photo, notice how the road appears to drop off, like the edge of a cliff? Yup, it does that. (That's what I climbed.)

Flush with triumph, I decided to go exploring. I'd seen a cyclist turn onto a side street, let's see where that goes. Another right turn and I was heading downhill ... would I need to climb back up? [No!]

Back to my regular route, and ... there's the edge of the traffic. Decisions, decisions ... one lane is blocked, encouraging them to turn. Straight ahead for me, then! Till I caught up to the next clog. Left turn, bypass!

For whatever reason, I was still feeling frisky. I had actually passed some folks in our group on climbs today. It was still early, why not climb a couple more hills? [So, I did.]

For the day, 44 miles, 3,020 feet of climbing. That's respectable, I'd say.

Bike Buddy

The Soberanes wildfire rages on in the steep canyons south of Carmel, sending some smoke north to the Bay Area. I have continued to check the air quality before riding; in the early morning, it's clean enough to bike to work.

In the evening? Not so much.

To encourage more folks to bike to work, our company recently started a program where experienced cyclists offer to show newbies the ropes. For our trouble, leaders are rewarded with “Bike Buddy” t-shirts. [Right. Like I need another t-shirt ... ] The logo features a tandem bicycle that only a non-cyclist could draw.

What's not to like about getting more people on bicycles? It's an off-season Bike-to-Work Day, any day.

I signed up. Ha, I thought; no newbie will tap me for a 20-mile commute.

Haha. The joke's on me. Someone did.

For our first trip, we joined the semi-regular Friday gang last week. Today, he was game to follow me on my normal route, which is a tad more direct. It's also a tad more advanced, bypassing the trail and entailing one merge across three lanes of traffic to make a left turn.

It worked out just fine. Traffic is especially light on summer Fridays. And he's a willing student, shadowing my every move at a safe distance.

There's more than self-satisfaction in this, for me; I do manage to pick up the pace when I'm not riding alone. It's all good.

The Weird and the Wild

I was just telling a colleague that one of the things that discourages me from cycling to work more often is boredom. I've ridden the same route so many times. Lately I've been changing it up, seeking diversions that bypass stop signs and traffic signals. I gave up my game of trail roulette, though, after it became a little more chancy than I'd anticipated. (Some local miscreants caused at least one serious crash, and several near misses, by launching a skateboard into the path of an approaching cyclist.)

Yesterday morning I was rewarded with the sight of a small flock of wild turkeys rambling across a suburban lawn. I shuttled most of the way home, though, to avoid breathing the smoke drifting up from a huge wildfire scorching canyons some 70 miles to the south.

This afternoon I returned from another building and was surprised to feel something tap my arm as it dropped from my hair. There on the floor was a yellow jacket—a wasp. Crushing it was an option. But it had chosen not to sting me, so I chose to scoop it up and release it. Missing most of its left wing, I set it on some flowering shrubs and wished it well.

Heat waves and bad air quality are partners. I stepped from the cool comfort of the shuttle into a veritable blast furnace: 97F. No need for exertion today; I prepared for a leisurely pedal home.

What's that in the middle of the lane, I wondered, as I signaled my turn from a busy road onto a side street.

Feathers ... did someone hit a duck here? There shouldn't be a duck here.

I stopped. It was a pheasant. [Yes, a pheasant.] A youngster, molting into his adult plumage. In the middle of the road. He was alive, but in distress. Miraculously, no one had run over him (yet).

What to do, what to do ... He was breathing hard. In this heat, collapsed on the hot roadway was not the place to be. I assumed he was injured and I would need to pick him up, but he rose and started walking.

No, no, not toward the busy road! I formed a moving fence, guiding him slowly to safety (and, shade) under a bush on the corner and wishing him well, regretting that I had no water to share.

That bit about being bored with my commute? Rubbish.

Shifting Shadows

There were many choices for riding today, all of which involved ice cream.

Most of the rides would end up at our club's annual Ice Cream Social, but all of those would involve baking in the hot summer sun.

Cool summer fun seemed like the better choice, so I headed over the hill for a ride that would end up on Ice Cream Grade.

I was sorry to skip the party, but much more comfortable in the redwood forest.

I was even downright cold as we dipped down toward the coast. We turned north into a mighty headwind and stopped to visit Swanton Berry Farm, where cyclists are welcome (and even get a 10% discount) on the treats, but it was just too windy and chilly for picnicking today.

Next Saturday, the Santa Cruz County Cycling Club will host their annual Santa Cruz Mountains Challenge, and today the volunteers were out on the course enjoying their workers' ride. Which meant that we saw more cyclists than cars on Swanton Road.

Heading back, of course, meant ... major tailwind! With my top gear maxed out, I settled for a tad over 47 mph on the smooth descent to Scott Creek. The fog was blowing in, teasing us with wispy shadows on the road.

What goes down, must go back up. Fortified by a wedge of olallieberry pie, I made my way to Ice Cream Grade along Bonny Doon and past the cliffs on Martin.

After 37 miles, 3,865 feet of climbing, I was rightfully tired. I celebrated at home, with ice cream. (Of course!) And a long nap.

Steady As She Goes

The end of the public portion of Soda Springs Road—effectively the summit—is surprisingly high: 3,000 feet. Trees and hillsides block the view there, but an intermediate vantage point offered a clear view of the layer of gray smog hovering over the valley. The past few days have been “Spare the Air” days, but too many people drive too many vehicles, nonetheless.

The climb isn't particularly difficult; the grade is a nearly constant 8%. Somehow it always feels never-ending; there are few landmarks or vistas along the way, and I haven't ridden it often enough to grow familiar. A large boulder, a few mailboxes and private gates. Eventually you round a bend and there's a welcome sign: “Road ends in 500 feet.” [Finally.]

The tricky part is the descent. The road is in better shape than I remembered, but the grade makes it fast. Too fast, for a curvy road with few clear sight lines. Descend with caution.

Getting this ride done before the day heated up seemed like a great idea. Even better was the cool breeze that kept the temperature just right. Chilly, even.

Not content with one hefty climb, we ventured to the far end of Aldercroft Heights. From there, Wrights Station is oh-so-near; but, off-limits. [Sigh.] For the day, 23 miles with 3,440 feet of climbing.

The Metcalf Mauler

There is a weekly afternoon tradition of climbing Metcalf Road, and since I had the day off, I decided to join the party.

What's that, you say? You can think of better things to do on a day off than ride a bicycle up a steep hill? Ah, well, you're not me.

The downside of this ride (apart from the grade) is that the climb is almost entirely exposed—broiling hot on a sunny July day.

The upside of this ride is that there would be little traffic, mid-week, with the off-road vehicle park at the summit closed.

Grinding my way up the hill, sweat pouring off my body, I tried to hold that image of the serene blue water of Coyote Creek in my head. [Didn't help.] If only those kids with super-soakers who gleefully cooled us down during the LIVESTRONG ride were always here ...

I've climbed this hill a handful of times. Six times, before today. By way of contrast, our ride leader has climbed it more than 1,200 times. [That's not a typo.] It's been a few years since he took stock, and he's continued to climb it regularly, so it's more likely that he's biked up more than 1,300 times.

Who am I to complain? [Nobody. That's for sure.]

Lacking a power meter, my heart rate is a proxy for the effort it takes to get up the hill. It peaked at 178 bpm, and when it would occasionally drop to 176, or 174, that meant the road was a just a little bit less steep for a few moments.

To put that in perspective, that's just shy of 3 heartbeats per second. Which is pretty remarkable, if you think about it; and for some reason I hadn't really thought about it before this ride.

You might expect it's all downhill after reaching the top, and that would be true if you made a u-turn to return to the base. It's not true if you continue down the back side and loop around via San Felipe Road, which (of course) is what we did.

You also might expect to learn something new about this territory from someone who had climbed it so many times, and that was true. Our leader pointed out the remains of a private narrow-gauge railroad barely visible through a thicket of trees. It's neglected, these days, by the current landowner.

For the afternoon, about 17 miles with 1,780 feet of climbing.

Tick-tick-tick.

Party Poopers

The club hosts a pancake breakfast every Fourth of July, and I always look forward to the socializing (and the carbs). I don't look forward to getting there at the very beginning; 7:30 on a holiday morning is just too early, even with the promise of pancakes.

The post-pancakes rides don't start till 10 a.m. (or whenever clean-up is finished), so my regular ride buddy and I figured that rolling in at 9 a.m. seemed about right. We've done this before.

We were wrong. Or maybe we didn't get the memo. I arrived a couple of minutes past nine, and the chairs were already put away. The last tables were being clanged shut. The plates had been removed, the fruit was being bagged. I hurried to snag a (hot) pancake bursting with blueberries, which I rolled up and ate taco-style. I found a paper towel to serve as a napkin, and retrieved a couple of strawberries and an orange wedge. Having arrived at 8:55 a.m., my ride buddy had scored a plate but was eating while walking around—the table had been almost literally pulled out from under her.

What was the rush? Disappointed and annoyed, I didn't stick around to find out. Why wait till ten? We ate and ran.

I vaguely remembered that Arnerich Road had a section that was pretty steep. [Yup.] Heart-poppingly steep. 185 beats-per-minute steep. [Confirmed: I can still function at high heart rates.] After that, the remainder of the route was tame; although the climb to the top of Reynolds seemed longer. Right around that bend ... nope. Right around that next bend ... nope.

Persuaded to join me for our town's celebration in a local park, I gave my ride buddy a choice: stay flat or go over a hill. [Bet you can guess her choice. Birds of a feather, we are.]

The Lions Club runs a barbecue, so they got my support: hamburger and chips. We stood for the national anthem and watched some Boy Scouts raise the flag. After listening to the San Jose Wind Symphony play a few marches, we were on our way. Our timing was perfect to watch a Billy Jones Wildcat Railroad train chug past—the diesel locomotive, not the steam engine, today.

Burned off that pancake with 30 miles, 2,240 feet of climbing. Next year, I'll have to get an earlier start to the day. [Sigh.]

Blustery Black

Cycling up Black Road is hard. Because I don't make a habit of it, I tend to forget how hard. And how long. At my pace, there is plenty of time to gaze down the steep sides of the canyon, and up at the towering trees. Now that the John Nicholas trail is open, there are also a fair number of vehicles carrying hikers and mountain bikers up.

It was surprisingly windy as we approached the top. Expecting a hot day, I had chosen this route for some shade; I didn't expect it to be, actually, chilly. [I was happy to be chilled.]

The temperature shift was evident as we circled back toward Lexington Reservoir, despite the wind. We were descending, but our thermometers were rising.

Years ago I visited famously windy Wanaka, with its namesake lake. The whitecaps on the reservoir didn't rival that, but they were remarkable for Lexington. I had never seen our reservoir like this. The ripples approaching the shoreline made sense; the wind was pushing the water toward us. What I don't understand were the series of streaks crossing them.

Short and simple, 20 miles with 2,610 feet of climbing.

Chop, Chop

Fortunately it had been a relatively quiet week at work, with many folks adding an early extension to the upcoming July 4th holiday. Because somehow, my volunteering stints were all packed into the last week of our month-long community service extravaganza.

Since I've worked at the same company for a while, chances were that my projects would include some folks I knew; and that was true for both projects earlier this week (Sunday Friends and Castle Rock). Today's project was led by someone from our organization, and several of us joined in: Go, team!

The chefs for Loaves and Fishes Family Kitchen set us up with aprons, gloves, cutting boards, and sharp tools. Then we got to work.

One group would cut and season chickens. A lot of chickens. Another would prepare meatloaf. A third group cooked enchiladas. Somehow, trays of salad were prepared. I joined the crew prepping vegetables for a stew.

At the office, teams can sign up for sessions in an onsite “teaching kitchen.” It's a fully glass-enclosed space, and I admit that I often chuckle at my colleagues inside, many of whom have that deer-in-the-headlights look on their faces. [It's okay, that would be me, too.]

Anticipating the inefficiency our lack of experience would entail, a chef showed us this one weird trick for chopping off the broccoli florets: Hold the head upside down, by the stalk, and then whack-whack-whack the florets off with the knife. It takes a few seconds. [Wow.] Three of us could fill a large aluminum pan within a couple of minutes. Cauliflower was a bit more work; after removing the leaves and base, the best approach was to break off the florets by hand.

After we exhausted multiple cases of cruciferous veggies, we joined the rest of the crew working on potatoes (easy) and carrots (hard).

After we helped with cleanup, they estimated the number of meals we'd prepared, by type. Altogether: Five thousand. Five thousand? That's a lot of meals.

But there are so many people who need them.

Rockin' the Castle

I remember the first Earth Day. I was just a kid, but I helped haul trash out of the marshy woodland near our school, former cranberry bogs gone native. I was inspired to haul more trash out of the wooded area near my home, too.

Spend any time on the road, especially on a bicycle, and the popular dumping grounds become all too familiar. In the local neighborhood, it's small scale: cigarette butts, fast-food wrappings, bottles and cans. Get out of town, though, and there is so much more. I think of one area along Sierra Road as “The Valley of the Appliances:” washers, dryers, you name it.

I can only wonder how it all got there. I mean, if you're hauling it in the first place, why don't you just haul it to the dump? [Yes, I know. Because then you'd have to pay a disposal fee.]

My assignment today was to lead a group of colleagues for a few workday hours in the wild: Hard labor in Castle Rock State Park, on behalf of the Portola and Castle Rock Foundation.

One group would stay in the parking lot and repaint the trim on the entrance kiosk. Light duty.

Another group would hike to the Castle Rock Falls overlook and paint the railing. Beautiful view.

The third, and largest, contingent was needed to haul junk out of the creek in a not-yet-opened section of the park.

Guess which group I joined? [Hint: I'm not much for painting.]

This new tract was formerly a Christmas tree farm. Oh, the allure of exploring non-public territory, legally!

Down the hill we tromped, past the stumps of logged redwoods and one particularly massive Douglas fir. Old growth.

Of course we went down the hill, because that's where you find a creek. [And poison oak. Though I managed to emerge unscathed.]

Down means we'd be hauling the junk back up the hill. Cardio workout!

Tires. There are always tires. That's easy to understand; they roll.

Pipes, tubes, rusted wire mesh, fence posts, orange plastic netting, a traffic cone. Three lengths of narrow PVC piping encasing three heavy-gauge insulated wires. A sealed bucket full of white paint.

Really, what is all this stuff? And why is it here?

The grand prize was an unwieldy corrugated metal panel, as big as a garage door, but heavier. Down an embankment. (Of course.)

I love engineers. How best to move that behemoth called for brains as well as brawn. Pipes and shovels were pressed into service as levers, and with coordinated effort (and coordinated grunting), the panel was heaved up the hill. About six inches at a time. More importantly, no one got hurt!

Someday I'll hike along these same trails, and I will see what others cannot: The ghost of Christmases past.

Sunday Friends

During June, my employer lays out a month-long smorgasbord of community volunteering, around the globe. Most of these opportunities are scheduled during the workday, and we are generously given the time to participate.

I signed up to lead a project for the fifth year in a row, and that will happen later this week.

Then my coworkers organized a group for a different project, so I doubled down (as a regular volunteer, also this week).

And then the word came out that a few projects were in jeopardy because no one had offered to lead them.

That, I could not abide. Our local non-profits are counting on us. I surveyed the list, and regrettably ruled out one after another.

With one exception: It would be a short drive from home, on a Sunday afternoon. I just didn't have a reason not to step up.

Thus I found myself leading a small group of colleagues, along with their friends and family, volunteering outside my comfort zone: in a room packed with children (and parents), families all struggling to meet their basic needs in our community.

The stated mission of Sunday Friends is to “empower families to break the generational cycle of poverty by fostering positive development in children while educating and guiding parents to support their children's life success.”

Their approach is well-honed after two decades of service. We stepped into a room buzzing with activity: crafts and educational tasks to engage the kids, cooking and thank-you letter writing for all. There were also classes for the adults: parenting, financial literacy, English as a second language.

Our group fanned out to help where needed: tutoring, Fourth of July decorations, red-white-and-blueberry yogurt parfaits. I joined the crew working on today's hot meal, chopping onions and mincing garlic for the potato-and-red-pepper hash. Families also bring pot-luck dishes to share with all.

This program runs with a special twist: Time spent on each activity earns tickets, which can be redeemed for products at the Sunday Friends store (or banked online for future use). The store is stocked with necessities we take for granted, like household and school supplies, health and beauty products. There is also a small stock of simple toys, like stuffed animals and games. At the end of the day, every family will also go home with a bag filled with fresh produce.

For me, this was an extraordinary experience. I was apprehensive that I would be met with suspicion and resentment; instead, I found warmth and acceptance. Volunteers and families worked happily together. The room bustled with children eager (and equipped) to help with every task—even food prep. It's about pride: Pride of accomplishment. Pride of contributing to the community.

The organization's executive director (Ali) was onsite and had given our group a tour. The main room had emptied out, and I wondered if the families normally trickled away after the meal.

Not at all.

They had assembled outside to sing “Happy Birthday” to Ali; the kids had crafted a tall party hat for him. With much cheering and clapping, the crowd followed with a second joyful song, in Spanish.

I can think of no better testimonial, than that.

Remembering Bill Davis

I opened the email message and burst into tears. My heart raced, my stomach knotted. I felt sick.

The life of my friend and colleague, Bill Davis, had been ended by a reckless (likely impaired) driver.

Bill was riding his bicycle with a friend on this sunny summer Saturday in Boulder, Colorado when a woman swerved her multi-ton SUV into the bike lane and killed him.

She then fled. But she was caught. Reportedly, she has been guilty twice before: injuring someone while driving carelessly and driving while impaired. Fines, community service, and probation didn't dissuade her from doing it again.

It is unspeakably horrific to see the photo of Bill's twisted and shattered bicycle. I cannot begin to imagine this experience for his family. His three children have lost their daddy, his wife has lost the love of her life, his parents have lost their son, his siblings have lost their brother. All of us have lost a friend.

For the love of humanity, for the love of daughters and sons, wives and husbands, mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers:

Don't drive drunk.

Don't drive if you're impaired in any way, shape, or form.

If you see someone who shouldn't get behind the wheel, don't look the other way. Take their keys. Get them a ride home.

Bill Davis in his signature floppy hat, volunteering his wrenching skills for Bike to Work Day in 2008.