A few of us were chatting near our cars when a pickup truck passed us, then suddenly reversed. “Are there more cyclists out there?” he asked. It turned out that he was one of the responders, so we learned what had happened. A gunshot—reportedly someone had shot a rattlesnake—and a gunshot requires a response from law enforcement.
Desolate. Did I mention, desolate? (But so beautiful.)
A couple of riders, ahead of me, paused at the base of the Calaveras Wall. They seemed impressed when I made the turn and kept going. “Just get it over with!” I replied.
I didn't feel especially strong, but I was a full minute faster than my previous best time. (Though, years before I started tracking the data, I may have been faster.)
It was another conversational sort of ride, the group splitting in two. Some were eager to stop at a cafe in Sunol; others followed my lead into Sunol-Ohlone Regional Park. I pack my lunch: Peanut butter and jelly, for the win. The rangers had water on tap again—a hint of a return to normalcy?
We regrouped at the natural places: at the top of climbs, and at a couple of intersections to ensure everyone was on track. A reliably pleasant 36 miles with 2,880 feet of climbing, in pleasant company.
Poor air quality has kept me off the bike, lately. Today's ride seemed like a good opportunity to get back into the swing of things.
Each ride leader has his or her own style, and today's ride was meant to be a friendly “no-drop” ride. It was nice to see some old familiar faces who apparently think they're too slow for club rides (but, they're not).
I learned something new today—namely, that I may not have the patience for this style of ride. I'm more at home with rides that tend to break up into smaller groups, by pace or for conversation. Rides with planned regroup stops, to ensure that no one is lost.
Maybe I was just feeling grumpy, but we seemed to be Stopping. Way. Too. Often. That, and the leader was detouring from the route he'd published (adding stops), which was confusing at best. If I hadn't pointed out a string of riders passing above us on the trail, at one such point, they would have blithely continued straight. (Which would have been fine, as that was the actual route, but we would have been separated.)
Near the end, a short semi-urban stretch of the Coyote Creek Trail lived up to my low expectations (littered with trash and broken glass, courtesy of a small homeless encampment). Not the best memory for my ride of 29 miles (with 1,860 feet of climbing); I'm much happier picturing the towering eucalyptus trees lining San Felipe Road on the rural fringe of San Jose.
A familiar view, albeit in unfamiliar conditions—gazing down at the winding road that leads to the summit of Mt. Hamilton. The sun, still high in the sky, was veiled by the haze of smoke from distant fires.
This view has been out of reach since flames roared up these slopes, one year ago (to the day). The wooden posts that supported the guardrail were incinerated—the fire came that close to historic Lick Observatory. And that is why the top of the mountain has been off-limits to visitors.
But, hold on ... where am I?!
Beyond the locked gate, atop the mountain ... trusted not to slide off the road. I'm here for a special night-time tour (having unconventionally made the trip not by bicycle, but in a vehicle—accompanied by the friend who first brought me to the top of this mountain, many years ago).
Alas, our viewing of the stars was not to be; the telescopes would remain tucked safely within their domes, their delicate optics shielded from the airborne particles. Our host seemed confused when we couldn't even see the sun set—that's how dense the smoke was.
To compensate, our guide was cleared to expand our tour of the facilities. Despite so many visits to the top, I'd never noticed how many telescopes are housed (and used) up there. One of the more unusual snippets of trivia he shared in one building was that it was used during the filming of a movie starring Lauren Bacall, The Gift of Love.
Not only did we see the Shane 3-meter Reflector—we got a behind-the-scenes look at the vessel used to realuminize its mirror.
And, of course, the Great 36-inch Refractor you'll see on a regular public tour.
I'd heard from a friend that they no longer raise and lower the floor in the main building; during our tour of the basement, we saw why. One of the things that intrigued me about the equipment—especially the telescopes—was wondering about how they were made. These things are all one-of-a-kind.
Our visit included a history lesson on the Observatory, during which we learned that James Lick was quite an eccentric character. We paid our respects to Mr. Lick, at eternal rest in the basement of the main building, below the telescope.
It is our enduring good fortune that he was persuaded to establish this observatory, and that one year ago this very night it was successfully defended by a small army of firefighters.
To the top. (Though not from the bottom.)
I've biked it, but not hiked it. (Not all the way to the top.) Today was the day to visit the summit of Mt. Umunhum on foot.
We started from the Black Mountain parking lot, encountering few others along the way.
The trail meanders gently upward; it's a long walk, but not a strenuous one—about 5 miles.
We could see the layer of smoke from distant fires thickening above the valley, soon to drive us all indoors.
My hiking buddy pointed out a few bail-out points on our downward trek, ways to shorten the route by walking down the road instead. And miss sights like these glorious madrones? (Not a chance.)
Oh, the pain.
Somehow I managed to be faster, today, than on previous ascents. Truthfully, climbing Reynolds wasn't as arduous as I expected. I was surprised to hear my fellow riders chatting before I rounded the last bend; surely I wasn't that close? [Yup, I was.]
Overall I completed 18 miles and climbed 1,910 feet, but Reynolds always feels longer than it is.
A social group today, we wended our way into town for those who wanted coffee. A parrot perched on a nearby table next to its human (clearly identifiable by the feather tucked into the band of his hat). An unstable guy bobbled and babbled in the street, slinging a boombox and taunting traffic. Who knew that our bustling little downtown would be so entertaining on a Saturday afternoon?
Welcome to the workplace.
I found the tattered balloon arch ironically fitting (though I'm sure they meant well).
We now have the option to return to the office, and a few of my colleagues had eagerly done so. (Not I.)
Despite all the protocols (e.g., complete a survey each day, attesting to your lack of symptoms or exposure), within the first three days some had received messages that a person who'd visited the same building on the same day had tested positive for Covid-19.
I spent no more than a few (masked) minutes indoors. I cleaned up my desk; after 15 months, surely I didn't need whatever papers were still scattered there.
I ate my lunch outside, alone. And was pleased to enjoy a walk through a now-thriving restored natural habitat.
A few days later, I received a message that someone who'd visited one of the same buildings had tested positive ...
So many memories light up on this climb. Low-Key Hillclimbs. Capturing a great photo of a club member who is no longer with us. Racing it. Watching the pros race it. Seeing a brand-new calf.
It's been several years since I last tackled this hill. I stopped, once, to ease my suffering (translation: get my heart rate to drop a few notches). Only four hardy souls joined me, today. We chatted a bit with a ranger stationed in the tiny parking lot at the summit—that's something new (and unusual).
The winding descent down the backside affords a view of the Calaveras Reservoir. There was still some water there. (Some.)
To report that I climbed 2,115 feet over 17 miles doesn't really capture the nature of biking up Sierra Road. Nearly all of that ascent is in a single stretch, less than four miles long.
Me and the Lassen Bench, we have some history. Last time, in the heat of the day, I flatted.
This year, I got myself lost. But first things first.
We rolled toward our pancake breakfast at the Fairgrounds in the early morning light, sunrise tinted by the smoke of a (somewhat) distant fire.
Up here, water still flows—a sight to savor, as California's drought worsens. Within the first couple of miles, a bald eagle thrilled me by gliding low above the road, just ahead. Mt. Shasta was barely visible through the wildfire haze. (Look carefully for the peak's reflection in the river.)
The area is rugged and remote. It can be challenging to cross a rumble strip on a bike, but fortunately there was very little traffic on CA 89 and the shoulder was reasonably wide.
A welcoming sign told us we were 2.17 miles from the rest stop. Not 2.2 miles, mind you, or 2 miles. Two-point-one-seven miles.
I remembered that first rest stop; this year, we were the source of much excitement for kids across the road—a day camp, perhaps? Some perched outside on a tall stump, others inside with their faces pressed up against the window—all eyes were on the cyclists in our colorful attire.
One of the charms of this event is the local hospitality. The American Legion served eggs (duck or chicken, your choice) as well as pancakes, and the Auxiliary staffed the first rest stop with extra care: just point at what you wanted, they handled the rest.
Our route skirted a southwestern branch of Lake Britton (which we'd visited yesterday).
We crossed the bridge above the dam; the lake to our left, the Pit River far below us, to our right.
We found ourselves with more riders, this year; maybe it was just lucky timing, but our memory of our last visit was pretty much being on our own. I chatted with a woman who's been riding in this event for 20 years, and with a guy who shared our alarm at the emergency evacuation of Markleeville on the eve of today's Death Ride (now canceled, of course).
The climbs are mostly gentle, but as we rose higher I caught the whiff of smoke in the air—I wondered how the sky could be so blue, and whether I would choose to cut today's ride short. [Ha.]
Unlike my ride buddy, I had no memory of the second rest stop; now it is one I will not forget. Four kinds of homemade breads; the young woman serving us explained that her aunt and uncle were inside, taking a break; they had been up late into the night baking for us. They came out of the house to socialize while we were there—her aunt tethered to her portable oxygen tank.
And then there was Duke (the dog). After I saw him chase a (wimpy) stick that another rider had thrown, I started looking for a proper one. And he knew what I was doing—suddenly he was right at my heels, wagging his tail. His muzzle was gray, but Duke leapt like an excited puppy when I teased him before tossing that stick.
As I reflect on the (many) rides I've done, in so many interesting and beautiful places, it is the kindness and generosity of the people I remember most clearly.
I got ahead of my riding buddies. I passed another group of riders. I was hungry. I sailed down a gentle hill, following the bend at a fork in the road, and ... stopped. Uh oh.
I didn't see an arrow on the road. My odometer suggested that the next turn, toward lunch, was a mile or so away. I walked back toward the intersection and saw arrows heading down the other road.
I went that way.
Sadly, my original trajectory had been correct, despite having missed the helpful arrows leading up to the intersection. And I had stopped just short of another set of arrows that would have reassured me I was on the right track.
I kept going, expecting to see a sign like “1 mile to lunch!” (There was none.) The miles ticked past, in a straight line. By the time I stopped to get my bearings, I was well on my way to McArthur, on the post-lunch part of the route.
My brain needed more fuel. I wasn't thinking straight.
Continuing to the next rest stop didn't seem sensible; I needed real food, not snacks. I turned toward McArthur, and the Fairgrounds. Should I just end my ride there, with the post-ride meal? [Of course not.]
I headed back to Fall River Mills, where somehow I was not the last rider to roll in for lunch.
I texted my buddies to let them know that, regrettably, I would skip the segment to the Lassen Bench and catch up with them at the finish. Refueled, I discovered that I had been riding all day with my clear lenses, not remembering to swap in my sunglass-tinted lenses. I studied the map and decided where I would cut the route short to return to the Fairgrounds.
My plan for the day had been to ride about 88 miles; I climbed 3,135 feet and rode 88 miles (just not the 88 miles I'd intended).
After we got cleaned up (and ate even more food), I persuaded my chief ride buddy to go for an evening stroll.
Unintentionally, we ended up at the fateful intersection. That's how close I was to lunch when I went astray. Just a couple of blocks away. [Sigh.] There were the arrows I'd overlooked in my downhill and distracted euphoria, as plainly marked as they should be.
Ah, well. Just might have to come back. Next year?
Organized cycling events, still, remain rare. Last year, I reacted to plans for the Fall River Century with raised eyebrows. They went ahead, apparently successfully, despite the risks.
This year, being fully vaccinated, I floated the idea past my chief biking buddy.
“Let's go!” We knew it couldn't be as magical as our original visit, but we were okay with that. (Has it really been seven years?! Where does the time go?)
We returned to McArthur-Burney Falls Memorial State Park and hiked the waterfall loop.
A chance encounter with a volunteer sent us down a trail to the historic Pioneer Cemetary.
The revelation, for me, was Lake Britton. Next time (if there is a next time), I'm packing a swimsuit and a towel.
After searching for other local attractions we headed for the fish hatchery (why not?), only to find it closed.
Wandering around the giant creatures at Packway Materials, however, might have been more fun than the fish. A Tin Man, a flying (VW) bug, even a penguin!
Of course, the menagerie wouldn't be complete without a bona fide junkyard dog. (Yes, there is a small pile of ... rocks beneath his hind end.)
They're not promoted as a local attraction, but obviously worth a visit!
I also had time to explore the eclectic collection of artifacts in buildings on the grounds of the Fort Crook Museum, and absorb some of the local history. I stood in a cabin that had housed a pioneer family, appreciating that it was smaller than my motel room. Maybe even smaller than a modern “tiny house.” A bed for sleeping, a fireplace for cooking, and not much else.
The landmark round barn, I learned, was designed for training horses for the cavalry, in winter. Ingenuity.
A day off, but none of our club rides called out to me. Too early. Too far away. Too much time on shared-use trails.
There was another option, though—to meet up with a popular (former) leader who's been hosting small gatherings, outdoors in local parks, for members who are also vaccinated. Today's little party was nearby, how could I pass up this opportunity? Besides, she said there would be cake! (Coffee cake, as it turned out.)
It also turned out to be a fine day to catch up with other members I haven't seen on rides in quite some time. And even though this was not an actual club ride, everyone pedaled their bikes to (and from) the park. (What did you expect?)
Three of us headed out together, when the party was over, before spinning away in different directions. To the post office, for me, and then a scenic return.
I stopped to snap the photo above, even though I've captured that shot before, because this time the plants floating on the creek were blooming! I cherish these little discoveries; even a familiar place can surprise.
Two birders paused nearby. A Green Heron, they told me, offering to share their binoculars. It was hopeless, for me, to spot the bird in the brush—but I did get a glimpse when it took flight!
One more errand (lunch!) before heading home, 8 miles and 185 feet of climbing.
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.
On this day, the first stage of this year's Tour de France, of course I was going to go for a bike ride! (After watching the race. Of course.)
The local bicycle coalition had a pop-up station for a few hours this morning, near one end of a new trail segment. They still had some socks left over from last year's (canceled) Bike to Work Day, so of course I would work that into my route. (Socks!)
It was a breezy day, and I decided to saunter along my old commute route to visit the rookery.
It's always nostalgic to pedal that route, starting with a memory of a now-inactive cycling buddy who introduced me to a section of the trail. I remember the elderly guy who would stand at the center of the bridge over the railroad tracks nearly every morning (watching the trains, I supposed). I think of the woman in a saffron-hued sari that I'd often pass on the way home, resting on a bench with her husband. And of course, the Googleplex, as it was and as it is now. (Still closed.)
Each year there seem to be a few more nests of Black-crowned Night-Herons. There were a bunch of hungry egret chicks being fed by an adult. I had been too lazy to tote a proper camera, and of course I regretted that.
When you think of birdsong, you likely don't imagine the sounds that egrets make. They don't trill or warble, peep or cheep, chirp or tweet. No. They don't squawk or caw. If you haven't heard them, you'd never imagine that such beautiful creatures would make such an unpleasant noise. How best to describe it? Choking? Gagging?
The trail had been busier than I like (of course), so I opted to head back on the road. Stopped at a traffic light, I spotted three girls on the opposite side. One was fiddling with her bike, seemingly befuddled.
I guessed correctly: a dropped chain. Easy-peasy. There was a handy twig nearby, sturdy enough to ease the chain into place (no grease on my fingers!) as I pressed the rear derailleur forward to slacken the chain. I lifted the bike, spun the crank to settle the chain on the cog it wanted, and they were good to go. I narrated as I worked, so they might learn how to cope with this problem, but I suspect the fix flashed by too quickly for the grateful girls to absorb it. (Help a fellow cyclist, whenever you can. That's just the way we roll.)
A satisfying (but tiring) 48 miles, with a wee bit of climbing (1,140 feet).
There are a few iconic cycling routes in the Bay Area, and the Paradise Loop is one I had never managed to do. Until today.
When my cycling buddy invited me to join another friend, I was all in. After a too-hot week, San Francisco's summer fog would bring a welcome chill.
We planned to include a Marin Headlands climb, but scrapped that idea given the strong, gusty winds pushing fog through the Golden Gate. Still, we were grateful to be ... cold.
I haven't biked through Sausalito or Tiburon in years, and given how popular this route is, I was pleasantly surprised that the locals were friendly (and, patient). One worker in a pickup truck paused to chat at an intersection where I stopped to wait for my biking buddies. There, next to a fire station, I spotted this sign:
Sure enough, tucked in the parking lot was a public bike repair station—the all-in-one model with a pump and a few tethered tools (like the Dero Fixit).
Paradise Beach County Park was worth the descent (and climb back out); a nice spot to enjoy our snacks at the water's edge (despite the June Gloom).
I was surprised to witness a cyclist pulled over by a motorcycle cop around Sausalito. There were a few small groups of us, heading in the same direction. I'm not sure what his infraction was, but his exasperated tone likely earned him a ticket rather than a warning.
We finished with some 28 miles and more than 1,000 feet of climbing, and a vow to return on some fog-free day in the fall.
Posts
All Comments
