Lassen Volcanic National Park

I had longed to visit Lassen Volcanic National Park for years ... but it is so far away. When I aspired to ride the Fall River Century, I saw that I could make a mini-vacation out of the trip and realize my dream. Better still, my biking (and now, hiking) buddy was of a similar mind.

Our research suggested a few sites to visit in the park, given that we could afford a single day: Lassen Peak, of course; and then the volcanic action at Bumpass Hell.

Our cooler packed with ice and sandwiches from the local market, we headed for the park on some roads that were familiar from yesterday's bike ride. First hike: Lassen Peak. Regrettably, our visit did not coincide with one of the days when the trail to the summit is fully open. We enjoyed our climb nonetheless. I made it to the turn-around point at Grandview, which was just below the level of the remaining snow fields (elevation: ~9,400 feet). Fellow hikers, who have frequently visited the park, told me that this was the first time they had seen Lake Helen without a surrounding ring of ice.

The landscape is fragile; near the bottom of the Peak trail, there are signs describing the “scar” on the mountain created by defiant visitors who trek straight up the rocky slope, off-trail. You would think that people making the effort to visit a National Park would have respect for the land.

And you would be wrong.

As I descended the trail, I came upon three dusty young people. One was clinging to the branches of a tree, scrambling to reach the trail. “Are you okay? Did you fall?” I asked. No, they had come up the rocks—tramping the scar yet deeper into the hillside. They had not gone without notice, however; I met a pair of rangers hiking up the trail to find them.

I re-joined my hiking buddy, who had paused at a lower elevation, and we continued over to Lake Helen. True to all accounts we had read, this park is not crowded with visitors. We enjoyed our picnic spread at a table with a view of the clear blue lake and the peaks beyond.

We were next determined to witness some volcanic activity first-hand, so off to Bumpass Hell we went. A whiff of sulfur and the loud hiss of steam venting from the earth heralded our approach to the site. And what a sight! Bubbling circles of mud, oddly-hued streams and pools, and clouds of sulfurous steam thick enough to condense rapidly on your skin. A vivid reminder that our planet is alive, and harbors strange and wondrous secrets underground.

The hike to Bumpass Hell is relatively easy, and the volcanic features draw a crowd. We chatted with a pair of hikers who trailed us on the approach. “You did what yesterday? Biked 86 miles?!” We're only here for the day, we explained. “And you hiked Lassen Peak before this?” they exclaimed. Only halfway, of course, the upper part of the trail is closed. These exertions did not seem extraordinary to us, and so we decided to leave the crowds behind and venture past Bumpass Hell.

I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Cold Boiling Lake was our destination. The terrain had changed completely, from the barren, rocky slopes of Lassen Peak and the fumaroles of Bumpass Hell to alpine meadows of wildflowers and towering evergreens. The trail became progressively rockier, narrower, and more overgrown.

With no markers to hint at the distance remaining, we prudently chose to turn back when we reached a point above Crumbaugh Lake. [We had made it about halfway to Cold Boiling Lake, as it turned out.]

For the day, about 8 miles of hiking—and some very sore legs. Biking muscles are not hiking muscles, for the most part. More cross-training needed.

Burney Falls

Given that our sojourn in Fall River Mills would be brief, it was a hard task to choose which sights to see. After biking back to the motel and getting ourselves cleaned up, there was plenty of daylight left to head back to McArthur-Burney Falls Memorial State Park (this time, by car) to see the famous falls.

That's right: After biking more than 86 miles in the heat, we went hiking. [Crazy people.]

There is a parking lot near the falls, and it is safe to say that most visitors don't venture much farther than the overlook, or the vista point near the base of the falls. We followed the Falls Loop Trail counter-clockwise, descending to the base of the falls before heading downstream, across some bridges, and then climbing back above the falls. Hiking 1.2 miles in the cool canyon felt great. [Seriously.]

We owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the McArthur family for having the foresight (and the means) to preserve this natural masterpiece for the generations to follow. If not for them, PG&E would have constructed a dam to generate more hydroelectric power, cutting off the flow to the falls. With some 100 million gallons of water pouring over the cliff each day, it is easy to understand why. The water ends up in Lake Britton (created by the Pit 3 dam we crossed earlier in the day).

On the opposite bank, high above the falls, something out of the ordinary caught my eye. A pair of birds surveyed the activity below, sitting in an enormous nest at the top of a very tall, very dead tree. From a distance, they were mere silhouettes. Without a ranger to consult, I tried a worker in the gift shop—clueless. [Do you look at the world around you? I wondered. Silently.] At full resolution, my trusty point-and-shoot had the answer: Ospreys.

Hazy, Hot, and Homey

Twenty years ago, a few cyclists up in The North State thought they might attract some tourists if they hosted a biking event. They were right. The Fall River Century made it onto my radar screen three years ago; this year I was determined to do the ride. One of my ride buddies took the bait: Road trip!

The festivities began on Friday evening, with early check-in and local fare (live music, fresh produce, and barbecue). Some riders choose to camp; these two riders chose the comfort of a local motel. We kept bumping into a retiree who had returned for the event; he was a fount of knowledge about Fall River Mills, being a third-generation (former) resident.

Our plan for the day was to follow the 100-mile route, trimming off a 20-mile segment that was conveniently out-and-back. The total climbing for the day was not a challenge, but we knew the heat would drain us. The longer we were out there, the hotter and less happy we would be.

The Lions Club served up pancakes, eggs, and more for breakfast. Chatting with a couple from Ashland who happened to sit at our table, we were stunned to discover that we had mutual (non-cycling) friends. [We then surprised them by sending a picture of the three of us, in our biking attire.] What are the odds?!

We rolled out at 7:00 a.m., buzzed overhead by a colorful flock of powered paragliders. We would see few other cyclists en route; with a little more than 300 participants spread over four courses, that was not surprising. The longer-distance riders got an earlier start. So did the people who wanted to beat the heat.

At the first rest stop, a SAG driver started chatting with us. “Were you the folks I saw on 299 this morning, riding to the fairgrounds?” [Indeed.] By the time we would have loaded the bikes, driven there, parked, unloaded the bikes, and assembled our gear ... well, we did the math. Just bike it (4.5 miles).

The first 13 miles of the course were ... flat. We made good time, despite some lollygagging to admire the scenery. I had been dreaming of riding around all day with glorious views of a snow-capped Mt. Shasta. Alas, that was not to be. The air was hazy, and sometimes thick, with the smoke of a distant wildfire.

The big climb of the day came early. I watched a fellow rider serpentine up the hill, which presented us with a whopping 3.6% grade for four miles. [No, I didn't forget a digit there.] The descent was splendid! With smooth pavement, clear sight lines, and no traffic I topped out at 42 mph.

Before entering McArthur-Burney Falls Memorial State Park, we followed the shoreline of Lake Britton and crossed the bridge above the Pit 3 Dam. We looped back toward Fall River Mills and were a stone's throw from our motel at mile 61. The temperature had climbed well into the mid-90's. I checked in with my ride buddy: Keep going, or call it a day? She was a trouper. She doused her arm coolers with cold water and we pedaled on.

We nearly bypassed an unexpected water stop until they called out “We have ice!” They told us a climb was ahead, and explained how we could bypass it. We were having none of that.

We crossed from Shasta into Lassen County. The volcanic terrain of Lassen Bench was other-worldly. And exposed. And baking. Climbing up the Bench, the whir of my tires was different. A hot day leads to hot pavement leads to soft rubber leads to ... easy punctures. My front tire was completely flat. Had been flat for some time. No wonder I was crawling up the hill.

Just then, the maroon pickup of our friendly SAG driver came into view. Was it a mirage? “We're less than two miles from the next rest stop, do you mind if we head there and fix the flat where there's some shade?” I scrambled into the air-conditioned comfort of the cab. He offered a lift to my ride buddy, too, but she was having none of that. By the time she arrived at the rest stop, my bike concierge had my bike ready to roll again.

Triumphant, we arrived back at the fairgrounds for the post-ride feast. Our SAG driver was relaxing with his buddies, and I thanked him once again. I told them we'd seen a buck on a rural road near the fairgrounds. He had run through the field, stopped in the middle of the road to eye us, and then leapt away. Everyone laughed. “The tourists are coming, roll the buck!” one of them joked.

One of the volunteers asked if I had enjoyed the ride. “Very much,” I gave him two thumbs up. A few minutes later he delivered a gift—a huge bag of leftover strawberries.

A few minutes later ... I remembered that we had biked to the start. [Sigh.] I looked longingly at those luscious berries.

A bit of begging scored a paper grocery bag, with handles. I looped it over the left side of my handlebar and tested my balance. The lower curve of the bar conveniently kept the bag from swinging into my front wheel. This just might work! My ride buddy fretted that I would crash. “I'll take it slowly.” [As if I would be moving fast in that heat anyway. Ha.]

For me, 86 miles and 3,300 feet of climbing for the day.

The small-town hospitality extended through the weekend, with our retired friend insisting that we join him for breakfast on our last morning in town. He led us on a brief local history tour, giving us a deeper appreciation for this old town that is unknown to anyone who just passes through.

We journeyed to Fall River Mills with no greater expectation than to enjoy a biking adventure in new territory. We got so much more.

Milling About

Close on the heels of last week's Pancake Breakfast, our club hosted our annual Ice Cream Social today.

The party site was convenient for launching a foray up to Skyline along a route I have not traveled in a while: Page Mill Road.

We avoided the high-speed traffic heading for the freeway by forking onto Old Page Mill. I kept expecting the grade to get steeper; it is a climb, after all. I arrived at the merge back onto Page Mill feeling puzzled. [Not that I should complain about an easy ascent.]

“I'll stop on my way back,” I called out to the kids hawking lemonade with their grandma at the side of the road. [And I did.] One dollar for a cup of ice-cold lemonade and some trail mix. What a deal.

The temperature was in our favor; the steeper parts of the climb are exposed and no fun on a hot day. Whether they are fun on any other day, well ... let's just say that might be in the eyes (and legs) of the beholder.

In solidarity with my compatriots in Markleeville, I sported my Five Pass Finisher jersey. My outing would be considerably less daunting or scenic, climbing a mere 2,600 feet over some 28 miles, affording ample time to enjoy a bowl of ice cream (or two) and assist with the clean-up.

Strawberries. Blueberries. Gooey home-made brownies. Sprinkles and nuts and chocolate bits. And of course, Rocky Road.

Bike Go Fast

Weight matters.

Instead of the workhorse, I rode the racehorse today: unladen carbon-fiber road bike instead of steel frame hybrid with its rack and bag. The comparison? Night and day. Think sports car vs. minivan.

My typical pace heading to the office lately has been 12.4 mph on the hybrid. On the road bike today? 14.4 mph. My average heart rate was a tad higher. [The bike made me do it.]


There was a reason for commuting on the road bike, and that reason was The Bike Doctor.

I think it's important to support our local bike shops. Over the years, I have entrusted my bikes to the mechanics at seven different shops, including four in the town where I live. [Two of those are no longer in business.] Even at a single shop, the quality of the work has been uneven—a good mechanic works on the bike during one visit, a not-so-good mechanic handles it the next time.

My last visit to a shop in town went like this: I wheel the road bike into the shop first thing on a Saturday morning; it needs a new chain. Best case: they'll install it while I wait, or at least on the same day. Reality: They tell me it won't be ready till Monday. [Sigh.] “Is it slipping?” they ask. “Sometimes,” I reply. A mechanic mounts it on a stand, spins rapidly through the gears, and announces that I need a new cassette. [$$$] “Let's start with the chain,” I reply dryly.

And that was the last time I will bring my bike to that shop for service.

I did not need a new cassette. I did not wear the chain to the point of damaging the cassette. When I did get the bike back, it was badly tuned and occasionally the chain jammed when I up-shifted the front dérailleur. Was that a deliberate misadjustment to send me back to the shop, thinking I needed that new cassette? Or just bad wrenching?

The Bike Doctor is a local bike shop (in a sense). His shop is a truck (low overhead). He visits various corporate campuses in the Bay Area on a regular schedule; he also makes house calls. You schedule an appointment, he fixes your bike, and you get it back within hours (not days). He is a good mechanic, he's honest, and his prices are fair.

And that is why I pedaled the road bike to the office today. Its dérailleur cables were two years old, and I would prefer not to suffer another snapped-cable incident. “Ah yes, Shimano cables will do that.” He understood.

He was on the phone delivering the bad news to another customer when I picked up my bike. The chain on that bike had worn the teeth on the cassette so severely that he marveled it would work at all. He showed me the effect—on some rings, the teeth were barely nubs.

I hopped on my well-tuned bicycle, shifted with my new cables and returned to my building, a happy customer.

Ornery Arnerich

The crux stretch on Arnerich is steep. Painfully steep. With my heart rate at 186 beats per minute, I took refuge at the base of a driveway. No strenuous exercise for 24 hours. This was almost exactly the 24 hour mark since I donated a pint of blood. [565 grams, actually. They weigh it.] Time for a little recovery before continuing up the hill.

As if Wednesday's demonstrations of idiotic driving weren't enough, a white SUV gave us a refresher course. On a deserted little side street between two busier roads, a white SUV pushed the pedal to the floor to roar past us. Except that we were nearly at the intersection, our left arms outstretched to signal our turn. Seven cyclists, one SUV. In a fit of bad judgment, the SUV swung past us, over the double yellow line. When she arrived at the stop sign, there she sat: completely on the wrong side of the road as we finished our left turn. (She wanted to turn right.)

What goes through the mind of such a driver? I hope she felt like a sitting duck, set up as she was for a head-on collision. I count four moving violations there: speeding, unsafe passing, crossing a double yellow line, driving on the wrong side of the road. All this before 10:00 on a Sunday morning.

Arnerich got the better of one cyclist; walking, she announced that she wouldn't go to the top because she didn't want to ride back down it. “Yes, it's a tough one,” I reassured her. Quite the view, though.

Most faces in the group were familiar ones, yet I learned something new about each one today as we regrouped at the top of each climb. I begged off when they headed for a post-ride snack, wanting to stock up for the coming week at the local farmers' market.

For the day, a mere 14 miles with some 1,740 feet of climbing (by bike) and another 3 miles on foot (half of that, laden with produce).

I figured that old “Don't food-shop when you're hungry” adage didn't apply today. After filling my basket with fresh fruit and salad fixings, I settled in the shade of a redwood tree with a savory crêpe and cold raspberry lemonade. [Yum.]

Powered by Pancakes

It was time. Time for Redwood Gulch. I didn't climb it last year. Or the year before that. The first time I climbed it, my heart rate peaked at 199 beats per minute. I zigzagged across the grade and paused after each steep section to recover. At least I didn't topple over.

First order of business was our club's annual Fourth of July Pancake Breakfast. After a couple of pancakes and some fresh fruit salad, I set out with three ride buddies to climb a few hills. They were itching to climb Montebello; if I followed them, I knew that would be my only climb for the day. I wanted to explore some less-visited (for me, at least) terrain.

There was not much water in Stevens Creek; the creek bed was completely dry in places. The pavement continues beyond a gate at the end of the road. I was curious, but decided to save that for another day. Heading back down, the stop sign came into view much sooner than I expected. Was there a one-way control I overlooked as I climbed through the canyon?

No. This was it. Redwood Gulch. I shifted down and made the turn.

As another cyclist remarked at breakfast, it's as steep as ever. But I am in better shape. No need to tack across the grade. No need to stop. No risk of toppling over. And my heart rate peaked at a manageable 181 bpm. I was drenched with sweat, but happy. The familiar landmarks are undisturbed. The most curious sight was a faded plastic toy, a model of the Golden Gate Bridge, standing upright next to the road. (Too steep to stop for a photo.)

Why not tackle Sanborn, too?

Let me tell you why. You make the turn off Highway 9 and there it is before you: straight up. I didn't climb this one last year, either. This time, I ventured past the gate and the algae-choked pond to the Youth Hostel (closed since 2010). The building (now 106 years old) appears to have been shrink-wrapped in white plastic. It is unclear what its future might be, and I'm sad that I didn't see it before they shuttered it.

I was surprised to discover that the paved road continued. Uphill, of course. San Andreas Trail, read the sign. (Yes, that San Andreas—the fault.) I turned back at the bridge over Todd Creek. The pavement was pretty sketchy by then, and the road ahead looked steeper than I might want. I wasn't far from the end at that point.

My return to civilization was abrupt. Stopped at the lower one-lane traffic control light on Highway 9, four rude motorcyclists advanced themselves to the front of the line. All the windows rolled up in the leading car, but I had no way to seal off their noxious exhaust. I could move, though. Just far enough to be ahead of them—technically, off the road. [Whew. Fresh air.]

Let me say this: I won't be visiting Highway 9 again soon. When the light turned green, I waited for the line of cars to pass. Two stragglers approached ... one got through, and the light was already red. Yikes! I had pressed the button, back at the light, which supposedly allows more time for cyclists to pass through. Now what?

I decided to go for it, and that was the right choice. The one-lane section was longer, and narrower, than I expected. But the signals were red in both directions [thanks to that button press]. The line of cars waiting to head uphill was ... long. Really long. Let me say this: I won't be visiting Highway 9 again soon.

For the day, 41 miles with a virtuous 2,670 feet of climbing. Powered by pancakes.

Low Maintenance

People pass me along the multi-use trail on every commute. I'm used to that. One day last week, I spied a very capable rider in my rear view mirror, sitting on my wheel. Drafting me at 15 mph is so not worth it. Was he angling to flirt with me? He looked age-appropriate.

It was my bicycle that he was ogling. “Your bike is a classic!” he said. “Great for commuting,” I replied. Then he sped off.

A good bicycle can last a lifetime. Some parts will wear out and need to be replaced, but even a neglected bike will transport its rider from point A to point B for years. I spotted this vintage machine on a rack at the office recently. I'd wager that most of those parts are original, from the plastic bar grips to the rust-speckled brake levers and wheel rims. The drive train, however, was well-lubricated—that's key.

My classic bike, a Trek 720 “hybrid” circa 1992, has had an easy life. I racked up a few miles (very few) before moving to the west coast. I had its fossilized brake pads replaced in 2002 and rode the short course in the Tour of Napa—its most ambitious outing to that point. When I started cycling in earnest in 2005, I quickly realized I needed a lighter-weight road bike to stay with the pack on club rides.

I dusted off the hybrid in 2006 when I began to dabble in bicycle commuting. I swapped its (original) knobby tires for slicks in 2007. Sometimes it would occur to me to wipe down the frame and lubricate its chain ... once a year, maybe. Last year, I treated it to its first service since 2002. I watched the Bike Doctor measure the chain for wear; it wasn't due.

One year and more than 2,000 miles later, the chain would occasionally slip. My chain tool found the links within spec. The Bike Doctor's chain tool found the links (just barely) within spec. “It's time,” I said. He was not convinced. “It's the original chain,” I told him. He did not believe me. “The bike has upwards of 8,000 miles on it.” I know how improbable that sounds. But I have no record of replacing the chain. I have racked up more than 8,000 miles commuting to my current workplace, and the bike was serviced only once during that time.

He humored me. “You won't get 8,000 miles out of this chain,” he joked. “That's okay,” I smiled.

What a workhorse.

Stayin' Alive

Today was the sort of day that keeps my non-cycling friends, and even some non-roadie friends, off the roads.

Years ago, I observed the day-by-day antics of a small brood of mallards at a sheltered little pond in an office park. One day, Mama Duck swam to the edge of the pond and climbed up the rocky bank, a line of ducklings trailing behind. Save one. Said duckling turned around to find an empty pond; much panicked quacking ensued. The size of the brood dwindled over time. Did the aforementioned duckling survive? [Doubtful.]

I allowed myself a later start this morning; this being a holiday week, traffic has been lighter. Unfortunately, the Stupid People also get a later start.

Either that, or I failed to get the memo that today was Right Hook Day. I thought I would illustrate this post with one of the many images provided to cyclists about the hazards of the right hook, but they are all crafted to teach the cyclist how to avoid this crash by not hugging the curb at an intersection.

At 8:12 a.m., I was approaching an intersection where the road widens into two lanes. Two or three cars were already stopped; the traffic signal was red. Since I would be going straight, I abandoned the bike lane for the center of the road, staying to the left of the right-turn lane. This is exactly where I needed to be to avoid the dreaded right hook—which happens when a vehicle turns right in front of a cyclist who is proceeding straight.

Twenty yards from the intersection, a multi-ton truck from a local lumber yard overtook me on the left. But he was not lining up to make a left turn, or even to go straight. His right turn signal was flashing. I was able to stop safely and let the stupidity unfold. He crossed in front of me—into the right-turn lane—and made his turn.

What might I do differently, in the future? Tough call. I could move farther left, to take the full lane for straight-through traffic; but that would likely aggravate any drivers headed that way.

The next bit of stupidity was a dog-walker on a multi-use path. The ill-trained dog was wandering back and forth across the trail. “Brring brring!” went my bell. The dog, at the end of his leash strung across the path, turned around; the owner did not. Anticipating trouble, I had ample time to stop. But not without making a deliberate impression on the human: my mis-aligned brake pads generated a loud, exaggerated screech. That got the human's attention. He even apologized.

The most dangerous incident would unfold on my return commute, a few miles from home. I made eye contact with the guy in an SUV on a side street; he would not pull out in front of me. A sedan was approaching from the opposite direction, its left turn signal flashing. I was wearing a bright orange jersey, a bright flashing white light mounted on my handlebar. [Always assume you are invisible.] I slowed my pace. The driver, a white-haired elderly woman, turned left onto the side street without even slowing down. This hazard is known as the Left Cross. I still needed to brake, but gently. The guy in the SUV shook his head at the stupidity.

Having had much more than the usual commuting excitement, I looked forward to the serenity of the county park. I passed through the side gate and started down the hill. I saw the white SUV heading out of the parking area to my left. I guessed, correctly, that the driver would pull out without looking to her right. I calculated, correctly, that I had sufficient speed to stay clear. And I predicted, correctly, that I would make a vivid impression when I flew through her field of vision. She stayed far, far behind me after that.

Don't be that duckling.

The Golden State

We gathered today to bid farewell to a club member who is moving back to the Pacific Northwest. There could be no better send-off than a group ride (and, of course, lunch). My ride buddies and I got a head start; the rest of the group caught us at the top of the first significant climb. Lagging behind after that, we managed to arrive in time to catch the lunch party winding down.

More often than not, I have seen deer in the brush as we pass from Sveadal into Uvas Canyon County Park. Today's encounter was exceptional: a multi-point buck and his doe stopped to study us as they crossed the road. Fortunately I have only met them while climbing this stretch.

The water level in the Chesbro Reservoir is at 4.8% of its capacity. If the people who drench their lawns with drinking water saw this, would they finally let their grass turn brown?

Fresh arrows on the road and a red silhouette of the Statue of Liberty suggested that an organized event was underway. We met three riders following the course of the Morgan Hill Freedom Fest Bike Classic. “The guy at the rest stop said this just kind of rolls,” one complained at the top of Willow Springs. I smiled and reassured them that they had ascended the easier side and could look forward to a nice downhill. (Before climbing Llagas. I didn't mention that.)

Whereas we were (not) looking forward to the stiff headwind we would face on our return to San José. It is ever so. Relentless. Eleven miles. A truck hauling tandem trailers stacked high with bales of hay briefly sucked me toward the lane of traffic as it passed, and I caught an unexpected taste as stray pieces swirled around me.

Some 51 miles with a modest 2,085 feet of climbing through the redwoods and golden hills of summer. I would not want to relocate.

Laurels

Years ago, when I was relatively new to cycling, I sought out a bike fitter to address worsening knee pain. He made the proper adjustments and asked about my riding habits. When I told him that I biked only on weekends, he explained that I was essentially starting over (fitness-wise) every week.

Not being an early bird, I could not imagine rising before the sun for a workout before heading to the office. And it would be so easy to talk myself out of an after-work ride. My best option was clear: ride my bike to work. I typically made the effort a couple of times per month, which did pay fitness dividends.

Last year I set a personal record for bicycle-commuting to work by averaging one ride per week. This year I decided to up my game.

What if ... what if my preferred method for commuting to (and from) work was bicycling? I am a fair-weather rider, but in the Bay Area we are blessed with an abundance of fair weather.

Which brings me to today: rounding out 1,825 miles of bicycle commuting with trip number 52. Halfway through the year.

Time to rest on my laurels? (I think not.)

Six-Pack

Last year, I set a new personal record for the number of times I commuted to work by bicycle. New year, new goals.

In the morning, I can bike to a shuttle bus and step off in front of my office (door-to-door, typically 60-65 minutes). Or I can simply bike the whole distance (typically 85-90 minutes). Don't get me wrong—I am extremely grateful for that shuttle. But I rather like being on my bicycle more.

In anticipation of a hard ride each Saturday, it was my habit to “save my legs” by riding the bus on Fridays. Until I reached a certain level of fitness [thanks to all that cycling], and realized that a Friday ride really didn't set me back.

A steady breeze and high thin layer of clouds made for a perfect day to head for Henry Coe State Park. I remember visiting this park for a hike many years ago, and thinking that cycling up there from the valley was crazy, or impossible, or both.

Which leads me to today: my sixth consecutive day of cycling. Up Thomas Grade. Up Dunne Avenue. Fourteen miles to the picnic table at the visitor center.

From out of the hills would come the peace of one's soul and food for the power of thought.

Sada Coe Robinson donated the ranch to Santa Clara County, for a park. A few years later, it became a state park.

I earned that view, with some 3,400 feet of climbing over 28 miles (out and back). Wrapping up the week with 12 bike rides, covering 225 miles with 8,250 feet of climbing.

Thank you, Sada. Admiring your beloved hills from Pine Ridge does bring peace to my soul, every time.

Look and Listen

Driving to the start of today's ride, I passed a pair of vagabonds pushing carts stuffed with their belongings. It was hard to imagine the route they must have followed to reach that point near the highway. A few minutes later, we were startled to see that they had continued their trek down to the highway and were heading south. On one of California's most dangerous roads.

Anticipating that this journey was likely not to end well, I was about to call the highway patrol when a motorist stopped and began to load them and their stuff into his car. The highway patrol appeared in short order, offering some measure of safety with the cruiser's flashing lights.

As our group assembled, a large bird soared overhead. A bird with a distinctive white head and tail. “Eagle,” I exclaimed. “It's a bald eagle!” People were busy chattering away. No one looked up.

We regrouped at a popular park. As one of my ride buddies sat on the ground to apply more sunscreen, a toddler came along and was transfixed. She seems to have some magical effect on men, having shared one improbable tale after another. [Talk about robbing the cradle!] Mom had to drag the little tyke away.

Climbing Rodeo Gulch, I saw a plant that I had first seen near the coast last week, a tall green stalk bearing large yellow flowers. I vowed to stop for a photo of the next one ... and, there were none. The summit afforded a view clear to Monterey Bay.

Overwhelmed, the blue-haired millennial at our lunch stop could not take our orders (much less our money) as fast as the sandwich maker could produce them. A couple of guys started asking about the history of Mountain Charlie.“We'll pass his cabin near the summit,” I explained. They didn't hear me, as they chattered about the 19th century bear fight and the plate in his head.

As we climbed along Bean Creek, I spotted a turkey perched on a fence. The bird was so still I mistook it for a statue at first. My ride companions were chattering away, but they did turn their heads in the direction I pointed.

Two unexpected sights awaited me on Mountain Charlie. As I rounded a bend, there were the vagabonds, with their dog and their carts, heading down the hill! They could never have guessed that our paths were crossing for the second time today. And at the summit, I found the whole group waiting patiently for me, despite their head start after lunch (not to mention their speediness). They were, not surprisingly, chattering away.

For the day, 51 miles with 4,520 feet of climbing, with so many sights unshared. Till now.

The Valley Formerly Known As

Once upon a time, the fertile acres of the Santa Clara Valley were dubbed the Valley of Heart's Delight. But like so many others, it was Silicon Valley that drew me here. Our industry has transformed the world, leaving scant traces of the valley's rural past.

My bicycle has taken me through the less developed land of nearby counties: Santa Clara, Santa Cruz, Monterey, San Mateo, Alameda, Marin, Napa, Sonoma, Stanislaus, San Benito, San Luis Obispo. [I get around.]

The back roads meander through wild land, with deer and coyotes, turkeys and towering redwoods. They also cross farmland, with horses and cattle, fields of berries and grapes, lettuce and cabbage. There aren't many orchards left.

They took all the trees
Put 'em in a tree museum

Schoolchildren make field trips to plots that are kept for historical purposes. A few plots remain in family hands, barely enough to sustain the occasional roadside stand. Much of the “local” produce at our farmers' markets travels here from California's Central Valley.

My bike route to (and from) work varies little; for the past two years, the final stretch to the office is a 4-mile segment of a multi-use trail. By now, I have passed the sights along the trail more than 150 times, and learned to identify some of the native flora. Dazzled by the trailside Matilija poppies and California flannel bushes, three or four gnarled and stubby trees were easy to overlook.

Here, between the right-of-way for high voltage transmission lines and the freeway, are the remains of an orchard. A couple of trees, abandoned and neglected for decades, are studded with tiny apricots. Intensely flavorful tiny apricots. (I couldn't resist sampling some.) There is very little flesh around the stone, unlike the (mostly flavorless) variety we find in the grocery store.

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Surf's Up

The temperature started climbing today, and so did we. Like many other overheating Bay Area residents, we headed for the beach. Unlike the masses, we traveled by bicycle.

The marine layer loomed (mostly) overhead. Of course, the height of one's head factors into that equation—at the summit of the Santa Cruz mountains, our heads were high enough to get wet.

My ride buddies and I rolled out early, ahead of the main group by 30 minutes and a couple of miles, fully expecting they would overtake us. (They did not.)

The descent to the coast was ... cold. Surfers, in their wetsuits, were enjoying some waves along Monterey Bay. The onshore wind was chilled by the cold water, encouraging us to make quick work of our sandwiches. Surely the faster riders of the group would catch us here? (They did not.)

We continued on our way to Corralitos, where we would begin our return climb over the Santa Cruz Mountains. We paused at the town square, where I noticed this rustic map for the first time. The local 4-H Club welcomes us to tiny Corralitos. It's that kind of place. By now, the fastest riders from our group should start passing us. (They did not.)

The marine layer had receded as the day warmed up; the exposed segments of the climb were hot. The towering redwoods of Eureka Canyon offered intermittent shade as I picked my way around the potholes and crumbling pavement. It's a long, (mostly) gradual climb to the summit. Undoubtedly some riders from the main group would breeze by. (They did not.)

At the top, I left my ride buddies behind. It was 2:20 P.M., and I was hoping to get back to our starting point by 3:30 P.M. With 16 miles and more than 650 feet of climbing ahead, that meant a bit of a race for me. And it all but ensured that I would not see anyone from our main group of riders today.

I stopped the clock at 3:25 P.M., logging some 64 miles with 4,620 feet of climbing.

An hour later, I saw a rider from the main group as he passed through town. Finally.

Picnic in the Park

A perfect day for a social pace up the lower half of the mountain. Destination: picnic tables beneath the trees at Joseph D. Grant County Park.

For many years, this was my traditional rest stop on the way to the top of Mt. Hamilton. Situated at about the halfway point, I appreciated this spot with its running water and actual restrooms, even though the detour into the park added some distance and climbing. A stone's throw up the road is a more practical stop, a trail head with a port-a-potty—and a water spigot.

Our group today was not headed for the top, which afforded some time for exploring. I have hiked some trails in this park, but never sought out the ranch buildings. The last Grant family member to live in the house bequeathed the property to two charitable organizations. Fortunately, the county purchased the ranch in 1975 to preserve it as a public park for all to enjoy. (It seems that it narrowly escaped becoming yet another housing development.)

We put our lunches to good use by climbing to the summit on Quimby Road before returning to our starting point. I was dismayed to see road signs tagged by graffiti vandals, to the point where some have been completely obscured. In particular, the cautionary 10 mph warning at the final sharp bend has been completely blotted out; frankly, that's a safety issue. (I know that curve rather too well.)

For the day, a modest 21 miles with some 2,500 feet of climbing. Enough of the afternoon was left for me to get cleaned up and make a trip to the local Goodwill donation trailer. Progress.

Weekday Wanderings

After the long holiday weekend, this week seemed like a good time for an extended stay (at home). It was high time to face my backlog of housekeeping chores.

But all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

So, I played hooky on Tuesday and Friday mornings, when club members conveniently scheduled some short local rides. Besides, a little social contact is good for the soul.

I had forgotten how steeply Canyon View climbs. With my heart rate peaking at 181 bpm, I was not convinced that my recent sojourn at high altitude did much good. I was able to keep turning the pedals, though, without taking a break. We took the back way into town and congratulated ourselves at a local coffee shop.

The little-traveled segment of Skyline we visited today seemed busier than usual. A doe was poised to leap over a fence from a Christmas tree farm just as I approached. She turned tail, but did not run. In a calm voice, I reassured her that all was well (as I kept a close watch that she wasn't about to jump into my path).

For the week, some 38 miles with 3,285 feet of climbing. Not to mention substantial progress sorting, cleaning, tossing, and re-arranging stuff around the house. More of that awaits.

Remembering Evi Nemeth

Evi gave me the Milky Way.

By day, we gathered at the university for a small technical summit. By night, we gathered high in the Colorado mountains. The skies grew dark and the telescope came out. Having spent virtually all of my life on the crowded east coast, it was a wonderment to see so many stars. Too bad about that thin cloud smeared high across the sky, I thought.

The Milky Way.

Today we came together to remember Evi; a birthday barbecue, with tubs of ice cream but necessarily without the guest of honor. She affected the course of so many lives; the room overflowed with former students, colleagues, family members, neighbors, and fellow sailors—friends, all.

Here, there, and everywhere

Stories were told and tears were stanched. Some colleagues shared the clever not-quite-layover they arranged to be there, saving a few bucks in the process; it was just the sort of deal Evi would have contrived, they laughed. I made some new connections. Evi was our common thread; she would have introduced us if she could.

Knowing that love is to share

Twenty-six years ago, I met Evi when I took a course she taught at a technical conference. The more I learned, the more I realized I needed expert help to design the local area network in our new building on campus. Would she be interested in a contract? She bid not only the design, but the installation as well. We could not begin until construction was complete and we were cleared to occupy the building. Evi flew out with her son and a handful of students; I recruited my brother. We worked furiously through the weekend. When the faculty and graduate students moved in on Monday morning, there was at least one working network connection in every office.

The lifelong connections that resulted were the greatest value.

I wasn’t sure my brother would remember Evi. I was visiting him last June when I got the news. Evi is lost at sea, I told him. “No!” he shouted at me. “I just saw that story! That was Evi?”

Of course he remembered her. She was not a forgettable person.

I had last heard from Evi the year before. A friend of hers had forgotten his email password; she reached out to me to reset it. [sudo vi /etc/passwd … ah, if only it were that simple.] I tracked down the instructions for the process he needed to follow, and they were grateful when it worked.

The skies darkened. A massive bolt of lightning streaked in the distance. Pellets of hail dotted the deck. The sun came out, and as I drove away, an old Beatles song started playing in my head.

I will be there everywhere.

Rocky Mountain High

There is a moose outside your window.

That is a sentence you don’t expect to hear at 7:00 a.m. [Or most any other time, I’d wager.]

I was spending the long weekend with some friends who live in the Colorado mountains, and a young moose was munching on the shrubbery outside my ground-floor guest room. It seems impossible that creatures as large as moose and bear can sustain themselves by munching on small plants and berries.

It took me a couple of days to acclimate to their altitude (above 8,000 feet). The reduced level of oxygen mostly left me feeling woozy. I lagged behind when we set off on the local trails, especially whenever we hiked uphill. Rusty (the dog) was excited to see me on his home turf. Inexhaustible, he’d bound ahead and double back to guide us through the woods. Each night, he’d stretch out to sleep on the floor at the foot of my bed.

It was a bit early for wildflowers; the ground had been buried by 20 inches of late-season snow just the weekend before.

We headed for Rocky Mountain National Park. The highest continuous paved road in the United States, Trail Ridge Road, had just re-opened for the season. [Less than 12 hours later, fresh snow would close it again.] A few hardy cyclists reached the summit while we were there; I did not envy them their frigid descent.

We followed the tracks of other hikers as we tromped farther uphill through the snow, to the highest elevation I have visited on foot (~12,300 feet). The forecast threatened us with thunderstorms every day, but somehow we always managed to dodge the drops.

After lunch, we thought we might find some snow-free hiking at a lower elevation. [Wrong.] After easily circling Bear Lake, we trudged our way to Nymph Lake. Our hiking boots were up to the task, though crampons would have been welcome. [Especially downhill.] The lower trails attracted more of a crowd and thus were pretty slick. Some visitors, clad in sneakers or thong sandals, were ill-prepared for the conditions; one nearly took me down as he slid behind me.

My stamina at altitude improved after two days, and we made our way along the local trails to Mud Lake (5.7 miles). Property owners are mostly tolerant of the trails that traverse their land, though some resent the mountain bikers. It isn't quite backcountry, given the nearby roadways (paved, or not); it felt more like living in one gigantic open space preserve.

An open space preserve dotted with the remnants of long-ago mining activity. [Watch your step.]

Most of the aspens were just starting to leaf out.

My last visit to Colorado was quite some time ago. (18 years, to be precise.)

My next visit? I hear those aspen leaves turn golden in the fall.

Josie

Letting go is the hardest part.

I promised myself that I would not go to extraordinary lengths to prolong her life. To do otherwise seemed selfish; she would rather be curled up in a spot of sunshine at home than being poked and scanned under artificial lights in a strange lab.

I knew that promise would be hard to keep.

Josie came to me in August, 1998. Losing my previous cat during a tough time in my life had made it even tougher. I couldn't imagine replacing her.

A week later, I was back at the clinic to see their kittens. I was just too sad. “What's the story with that one?” I asked.

Josie was 11 months old, returned by the family that had adopted her. Their new apartment didn't allow cats, they had said. She had been born at the clinic; someone had left a pregnant feral cat in a box on the doorstep.

Settled on my lap, Josie leaned into me, pressed the back of her head to my chest, and started purring.

Every night, she would snuggle up next to me. If she got there first, she'd take my side of the bed. More often than not, if I woke during the night she'd start up purring. When she needed some petting, she'd stretch out a paw and gently tap my shoulder or my face. Her fur was as soft as a chinchilla's.

I was reading the newspaper one day, spread out on the floor, when she trotted over and dropped a spongy ball in front of me. Did she want me to throw it? [Yes!] The more it bounced and ricocheted, the better; she'd bring it back for more. A cat who plays fetch? Sometimes the ball would go splat! in front of me; evidently it was more fun after she soaked it in her water bowl for a while.

She loved shoes. Not to chew them (well, sometimes, if they had stretchy bits). She'd rub against them and roll all over them in a fit of ecstasy.

She had a couple of mystery illnesses as a youngster, never diagnosed, always cured by antibiotics. Hooked up to an IV at the clinic, she stretched her paw through the cage to touch me. “You know,” said the vet, “let's send her home with you now; I think she'll do better there.” After they shaved her belly the second time for an ultrasound, she decided it would be best never to let the fur grow back. In the winter, she would lie smack on top of the best heating vent.

Sitting in front of the computer one night, I heard something rustle and drop. From the kitchen, she had carried upstairs a piece of shortcake in a plastic sandwich bag and deposited it next to my chair. Is this a snack for me, or for you?

Wherever I was, that's where she wanted to be. On my lap at the computer. On, or under, my chair at breakfast and dinner. Often underfoot, she forgave me immediately whenever I stepped on her tail.

She was so active and brave, I had no idea how very sick she was until there were only a few days left.

I miss you so much, sweet Josie Pussycat.