There is always something new to see, even on the most familiar of routes.
However many times I've biked through this neighborhood, my eyes have likely been drawn to the same sights. Or focused on stop signs, potholes, and intersections. Or lost in thought. [Or all of the above.]
At the far end of my route today, I began to notice ... something. All the houses were painted in varying shades of beige. House after house, for blocks. Only one or two rebels dared to stray from the drab palette.
With that observation in mind, something unusual caught my eye a few miles away, on the return lap. Something that didn't blend in. Tucked behind a mass of trees and shrubs was a (very) pink house. And not just any pink house: A geodesic dome (gray roof, pink walls).
We've had some challenging weather, keeping me off the bike for weeks. [I'll admit it, I'm a fair weather cyclist.] There is also something to be said for not being within reach of falling tree branches (not to mention ... entire trees).
Another giant, squeezed between curb and sidewalk, felled by the fierce winds that knocked out power to tens of thousands of us. [For 32 hours, in my case.]
A bike ride is a reliable mood booster, even when the skies are gray and the route modest (27 miles).
Some of the Monday hiking crew had already made their Pix in the Parks pilgrimmage to this site, and it held no appeal for my companion last Friday. Could I squeeze in a quick visit after this morning's showers? The forecast for the next week or so is ... [wait for it]: Rain.
This is not the bench you're looking for.
Although a longer hike would be possible, I had time for the recommended 2-mile loop (easy, save for the mud). How many times have I biked past the Rancho San Vicente area of Calero without so much as a glance? I need not have worried about whether I'd find a parking space; apart from two guys wrapping up their trail work for the day (and lots of startled ground squirrels), the acreage was mine, all mine.
The ridgetop to the east is still dusted with snow, and more is promised. It's not uncommon to see white summits once or twice each winter; it is uncommon for the snow to stick around for weeks.
We get to enjoy this land because it was purchased to save it from being developed. The nearby mansions are a vivid reminder of what might have been (artfully framed out of my photos).
With most of the hike traversing rolling green meadows, I was surprised to round a bend into a rocky landscape. There is history here, adjoining the quicksilver mines at New Almaden.
Now it's just a place that happy hikers can share on a whim with the local flora and fauna.
As I returned to the start, the afternoon sun graciously illuminated the blades of the Aermotor across the road. [Which, of course, I could not resist.]
We've been having some unusual weather, of late. Poppies in the foreground, snow-dusted ridge in the distance. [In the Bay Area?!]
Here's a closer look, which I captured a week ago. Snowfall at the top of Mt. Hamilton reportedly measured two feet.
When I paused to consider whether this vista was photo-worthy, I hadn't yet noticed the 22 degree halo. [It sealed the deal.]
It often seemed that our next vantage point was impossibly far ahead, but we kept trudging forward. Looking back, the ground we'd already traversed also seemed so far away. How fortunate we are to have these meadows and hills preserved, for all to enjoy.
Not to worry about the mud caked on our boots; my hiking companion helpfully reminded me that crossing the stream (again) would take care of that.
And so it did. [Stayed safe and dry, both times. Whew.]
I thought today's hike would be all about collecting another Pix in the Parks photo. [In the company of friends, again.] I should have brought my binoculars!
The recommended route was much too short, so we started out by heading in the opposite direction before looping back to pose at the photo-op site—covering nearly 8 miles before we were done.
Most of us have biked the road that bisects the park, climbing to the top of Mt. Hamilton. Clouds appeared to stream from Lick Observatory in the distance.
Today's hike covered an area that was new to most (all?) of us. Up and down we went, admiring the bare trees festooned with mistletoe and hanging moss.
After spotting Northern Shovelers on Grant Lake, we trudged (somewhat reluctantly) up a steep hill. There we found a secluded little unnamed lake and were fascinated by three Buffleheads repeatedly diving completely below the surface (and staying underwater for a surprisingly long time).
Alas, no good photos of the waterfowl. [Note to self: Hike with a real camera.] It was a treat to have a birder in our midst, identifying two handsome birds that were completely new to me.
We'll have to settle for a picture of this old bird instead.
With the rainy forecast for this week in mind, I thought I would tackle some yard work this afternoon.
But, wait ... the thermometer registered 67°F. A shift in the weather promises strong winds on Tuesday. Bike today, rake tomorrow. [Well, technically, Tuesday.]
The hens at Bernal-Gulnac-Joice Ranch were scratching determinedly at the edge of their pen. Plotting an escape, perhaps? They wouldn't survive one night outside. [Coyotes.]
The girls were not the least bit interested in me until I crouched down to their level and experimented with getting close for a photo. Were they curious about my phone, or drawn to the scent of an orange on my fingertips?
I'd rolled out at no particular time, heading for my default low-stress 27-mile route. [Ow.] I clearly haven't been getting enough saddle time. [Ow.] After yesterday's ride, my tender parts were ... tender. [Ow.]
And so it happened that, at the moment I was lumbering up a small hill and a runner was heading down on the adjacent sidewalk, we both did a double-take. Hold on, don't I know you?
The runner happened to be the person who had been my boss—for the longest continuous stretch (years)—until the team reorganized during an extended break I took last summer. When I'd shared, then, that I was “test-driving” retirement, he had been quick to respond. “I don't want you to leave, but I will support whatever you decide. And you will always have a home here.” Neither of us imagined that this would be out of his hands; at the company we had joined, it would not have been.
The company we'd joined was brimming with talent, including some of the best and the brightest I'd worked with at every prior job I'd had. And then, I worked with so many more! When asked what I liked most about my workplace, my answer was always quick: My colleagues. We were the keys to the company's success, and that's why I'd stayed.
For a few lucky minutes this afternoon, we were together again.
Four friends joined me for a relaxed jaunt on a familiar route.
In no hurry, we kept an eye on one another, happy to chat and take in the sights. An impromptu photo stop led to the discovery of a short trail which afforded a closer view of the still-muddy Chesbro Reservoir (nearly 89% full!).
Coyote Creek looked more like a lake than a creek, in places; we spotted a couple of Great Blue Herons hunting in the reeds, and a trio of deer grazing in a field. Also more than the usual complement of diabolical ground squirrels—which fortunately heeded my well-practiced hiss and fled away from us. Tsssss!
Trail-averse as I tend to be, I do enjoy the lower reaches of the Coyote Creek Trail. Traversing wide-open space, with little traffic (cyclists, mostly). And if that's not enough to brighten your day, surely the grins on the faces of approaching cyclists will!
Although we'd hoped for a few more miles on the trail, we were not surprised to find the last stretch blocked. Even though we haven't seen significant rain for a while, there is so much water still flowing—enough to flood one usual section.
We finished our 39 miles (with ~1,000 feet of climbing) while the sky was still mostly blue, especially grateful to enjoy this route without the traditional headwind—and in the company of good friends.
As we reviewed the seven locations in the 2023 Pix in the Parks challenge, we chuckled at one. No need to plan a group outing to Vasona Lake County Park, we agreed; just collect a selfie on your own.
How about ... today?
Bluebirds wouldn't stay put for a photo; mallards preening on a log in the muddy creek were indifferent.
I could have gone out of my way to follow the recommended route, but chose to cover more distance (and add some hilliness) with a more direct route and bonus meadering: a little over five miles. Either way, the “hike” was really just a stroll along a flat, paved stretch of the Los Gatos Creek multi-use trail.
A late-morning start was still chilly, but the skies were clear. My plan to pick up a sandwich (via a slight detour) on the way back worked out just right. Too windy, though, to enjoy it outside.
Quicksilver, as in mercury (Hg). Nearby waterways feature signs warning not to consume any fish caught there, due to enduring contamination from the long-closed mines.
I've biked to (and past) the Hacienda entrance to Almaden Quicksilver County Park many times, but had never started a hike here. Many years ago, I did hike a different section of this park—what I remember most was starting at a trailhead located in an ordinary suburban neighborhood. (New to the Bay Area, I found that odd at the time.)
I was surprised to see fog in the valley, but that would not be the biggest surprise of the day. [By far.]
The Monday hiking group is ramping up, and now ... I will be a regular.
Our route afforded a view of the nearly half-full Guadalupe Reservoir from the “other” side. How many times have I biked along Hicks Road, gazing across the water at the hills and trails of this park?
We had a destination in mind: the site of the Hidalgo Cemetery. Although I'd presumed that the lack of headstones suggested that they might have been simple wood markers, back in the day, a little research revealed that the remains had actually been relocated years ago.
The Santa Clara County Park system is running their last “Pix in the Parks” challenge. How could we not do this?
We took turns posing with the requisite marker before realizing there was a quivering creature on the ground, directly below the sign. Folded up, it looked like this:
We might not have noticed it at all, in that state; but when we first spotted it, it wasn't hard to identify.
Barely able to move, it was likely more frightened of us than the other way around. [Of course, we did not disturb it.]
A pleasant hike—a little over 6 miles—and the closest I've knowingly been to a (live) bat.
A friend beckoned me to join him for a hike. Rather than just ambling alongside the creek, why not ... head for Bald Mountain? (I was keen to keep it short and flat.)
We hadn't visited since restoration work on the cube was completed. After our mini-hike, we parked near the top of Mt. Umunhum and climbed the stairs (159 steps, per the sign) to the summit.
The surface of the Pacific gleamed in the distance, bouncing back the late-afternoon rays of the winter sun.
The views, the silence ... this wouldn't be a bad place to spend a weekday afternoon, in a comfortable chair with a book to read and binoculars for bird-watching.
Today is the first day of the rest of my life ... [Well, technically the next phase of my life began eight days ago, with the unexpected end of my professional, working life.] It's all play, now (or so I'm told).
What's better than a bike ride, on a sunny day, to raise one's spirits?
I crafted a route suitable to share with a former teammate, met up and led the way to the end of Cañada Road. The distance, and hilliness, was just right. Given the lingering effects of recent storms, I guessed (correctly) that these roads would be clear (enough). A little work in progress to clear mudslides led to some short delays, but we were not beholden to a schedule.
In addition to more water in the Crystal Springs Reservoir than I can recall ever seeing, there were a couple of surprises in store at the Pulgas Water Temple. A stream of Hetch Hetchy water was flowing out into the reservoir, after spraying into the far end of the reflecting pool.
Many years ago, there was some belt-tightening during a downturn at the (large) company where I worked. My boss was recruited to help look for cost savings. Reviewing records for the cafeteria, he spied an outlier. “Oho, what's this? Why are we paying this guy so much?!” Um, that's the guy who makes the Eggs Benedict ... “Say no more.”
In the tech sector it seems that nearly every company “over-hired” during the height of the pandemic, and now they have buyer's remorse. Their regrets play out in jobs lost and lives upended—but not the jobs or lives of the people who miscaluated in the first place.
So what's a company to do? What does the company value?
Perhaps the easiest approach involves taking a hard look at the product portfolio, and dropping some. The associated jobs are no longer needed, so eliminating all of them is straightforward.
Or a company might start by apologizing and paring down the people who were over-hired.
Maybe it will focus on job performance, parting ways with people who don't measure up.
Whatever the approach, there will be a real, human toll.
Late last year, I spoke on a panel for our extended team about work-life balance. They're stressed under normal circumstances, and news about layoffs at other companies was spooking people.
I opened with a hard truth: The company pays you in return for the work you do; it doesn't owe you anything else. For many of us, it's easy to get our identities entangled with the work we're doing (speaking from experience); when you leave (voluntarily or not), the process can be gut-wrenching.
This being Silicon Valley, one can imagine another approach. The scale of the hiring and the laying off (tens of thousands of people) begs for a computational solution. (It's really just a math problem; no fancy generative AI needed.) Focus on how much money would be expended on each employee over some fixed period of time vs. how much money it would cost to send that person packing instead. Rank everyone accordingly. [Well, almost everyone. Leave the executives out of this.] Factor in protected class attributes (race, age, gender, etc.) to achieve a non-discriminatory balance. Crunch the numbers, draw a line, and in the wee hours of the morning, send a personalized form letter to every surplus person.
How efficient! How tidy! No need for uncomfortable face-to-face meetings. No need to witness anyone's distress.
Ah, well, I don't know how the sausage is made (as they say). I do know that, despite the hard truth I shared with my colleagues last year, it still stings to be cast aside.
And I also know that the company I joined on this very day, well over a decade ago, is but a treasured memory.
The power went out shortly after 2 a.m. The ferocious wind hurtling rain horizontally at my south-facing windows gave me a fright; I considered relocating to a less-exposed room, but ... my bed was warm and the house would just be getting colder without any heat. [Note to self: Next time there's a forecast like this one, get cozy away from all that glass.]
When I woke up after daybreak, I heard some sirens and noticed the lack of traffic (no electricity, no school?). I also noticed that passing vehicles were slowing, making a u-turn, and re-routing. After breakfast, I stepped outside to see a towering oak tree blocking the road. There were no detour signs, and only a pick-up truck from the local utility company positioned alongside the tree. [Without that, more than a few drivers would likely attempt to pass through. Read on.]
I bundled up, pulled on my rain boots, grabbed an umbrella and decided to head toward town.
I quickly saw why I'd heard sirens.
It was that driver's lucky day; the tree cracked the windshield, landing just shy of the passenger compartment. No injuries.
Hmm, maybe going for a walk today wasn't the best idea ... Until now, I'd never mused about the health of the massive trees that are squeezed into a narrow patch of dirt between a curb and the sidewalk. I gave more thought to the route I was taking.
Another tree down; I'd strolled that stretch of sidewalk just yesterday.
At an intersection, the town had blocked one lane to send drivers in the other direction. So, what did they do? Instead of turning left, one car drove around the barriers—on the wrong side of the road—followed by (count 'em) two more. The word dummkopf came to mind.
Without power, the vaunted 5G cellular network was overwhelmed and unusable; I thought I might have a better chance for a signal in the business district, but the whole town was dark. Since it wasn't particularly windy, nor pouring rain, I decided to walk alongside the creek. I wondered if I would find the reservoir spilling over [nope], but there was plenty of water all the same.
Despite having hiked along that trail many times, today I noticed a few things for the first time. Walking kept me warm. Back at home, power was finally restored at 4 p.m.
It's been a catastrophic week for so many local communities: floods, mudslides, multi-day power outages. We're the lucky ones.
As one storm after another sweeps through the Bay Area, roads flood and winds topple trees whose roots lose their grip in the saturated soil.
We do need the water, but ... not all at once?
I took advantage of a break in the weather yesterday, once the roads dried out, to go for my first ride of 2023 (21 miles, 300 feet of climbing).
Almaden Lake was brimming with muddy water, its shores ringed with debris (natural, and not). The Santa Teresa hillsides are turning bright green, and streams of water they can't contain seep onto the streets.
I'd chosen this route, in part, because there would be little exposure to toppling trees. [So I thought.] Next time, I'll stop for a photo of a mighty one that had been cut back to clear the road (and, the bike lane) after it fell.
With another break in the rain today, I donned my boots for a walk into town—pausing to kick mud and leaves from blocking a few storm drains along the way. Some folks are still spreading a little holiday cheer, California-style.
The Bay Area, land of palm trees and ... holly. [Plenty of ivy, too.]
The forecast for the rest of this week is discouraging (very wet), and of course it's a work week.
Except for today. I had no particular plan; I'd considered a long ride, but realism carried the day. I haven't been on the bike in the past month. [An errand of nine miles doesn't count.]
My neighbor was keen to go for a ride, so I revised my plan: Bernal Ranch Park is a convenient place to turn around. By then, he'd be ready for a break. On the return trip, he ran out of gas about a mile from home, but mustered enough energy to continue after a short rest. [Effects of a low-carb (no carb?) diet.]
“I'm going to keep up with you in a few weeks!” he predicted. “Ah, then I'll pick up the pace!” I smiled. “Noooooooooooo!”
Closing out the year, I may know more people who have contracted Covid-19 by now than not; cautious and fully boosted, I have managed to stay healthy. I even attended a Christmas Eve party at a friend's home, a tradition that we last celebrated in 2019. Responsible adults all, we agreed to test ourselves that morning. [All good.]
Twenty-five miles and 400 feet of climbing for my last ride of 2022, finishing out the year with more than 2,350 miles over the course of 95 rides. Fewer rides and less distance than last year, because ... reasons. Total elevation gain is harder to know with my current set-up. Something approaching 90,000 feet, give or take. I'm relying on stats from my Wahoo Elemnt Bolt these days; compared with my trusty old Polar S720i, I've found its readings inflated by as little as 2.5% or as much as 55.3%. [Due to lack of an accurate altimeter.]
The long-range forecast continues to trend wet. We certainly need the water, but I don't need to ride in it. Looking forward to my first ride of 2023, whenver that will be.
We started our day with a whale sighting. [Too early in the season for the real thing.]
I'd suggested the Cowell-Pursima Coastal Trail, heading south from the Cowell Ranch Beach access. Surprised that the lot was full (!), we found adequate roadside space on the northbound side of Highway 1. Being so close to Half Moon Bay, I'm guessing this trail is popular with the locals.
We recognized a stretch from a prior outing; then, as now, we descended the stairs to the beach. Either the tide was coming in, or the approaching storm was kicking up the waves. I kept a watchful eye on the sea. There isn't much sand down there, at the base of the cliffs.
Fine weather for a Christmas Day hike. We hadn't walked far before I was ready to peel off my jacket—most welcome after our recent spell of freezing temperatures.
Having started further south today, we continued down through the canyon at Purisima Creek and onward to the southern terminus of the trail, for a leisurely round trip of nearly eight miles.
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