Lake Shasta Caverns

We're heading back to the Bay Area today, but that doesn't mean we can't find some more fun.

My ride buddy had done her research and found an attraction that wouldn't have been on my radar screen: Lake Shasta Caverns. It's even a National Natural Landmark, like Burney Falls (which we visited last year) and Mt. Shasta itself.

Our timing couldn't have been better. We arrived early, but missed the first tour of the day (a busload of tourists). For our small group, it felt like a private tour.

We hiked down to the water's edge to catch a boat across Lake Shasta, which is fed in part by a river we visited two days ago. With the drought, the water level is down by some 150 feet. Over such a huge surface area, that's a lot of missing water.

On the other side, a small bus carried us up to the door where we would enter the cavern. Our guide filled us in on some history and interesting facts along the way. She claimed that poison oak will mimic the plants around it, which is something I'd not heard before (and, have not been able to substantiate). She also told us about treating the rash with Manzanita, which has indeed been recommended elsewhere. My strategy is to avoid the devilish vines in the first place, but I'm filing that remedy away in the “good-to-know” category.

Along the way, a friendly California Sister (Adelpha californica) posed nicely on the fence rail.

I haven't visited many caves; my family just wasn't into that. The caverns were unexpectedly fascinating, with a great variety of formations—not just the stalactites and stalagmites you'd expect. Flowstone, for example. The floor could be pretty slippery; there were handrails, but shoes with stickier soles would have been better than my hiking boots.

Most of the formations are “alive” (still growing). Our guide's flashlight illuminated the difference. Only the living formations had a translucent glow. We were cautioned not to touch, as the oils from our hands disrupt the chemistry and “kill” future growth. One room was an exception to this rule, including a formation that invited us to crawl inside.

A natural entrance to the cave was high above us in the last “room,” which was enormous. Bats swooped overhead as we stood there, admiring the spectacle.

I'm a curious sort of person, but I have to admit that, had I stumbled across the entrance to these caverns I would not have ventured inside. Especially with the primitive tools and lighting available in 1878. Thank you, Mr. Richardson.

A Social Century

The Mount Shasta Summit Century is the reason my biking buddy and I drove up to Siskiyou County. “Summit” is a bit of a misnomer; the ride ends, along with the paved road, at an altitude of 7,780 feet. There's quite a bit of mountain above that point, as the peak tops out at 14,179 feet.

The ride is put on by the local chamber of commerce, so we were surprised to see no hint of the event as we walked around town. No flyers. No posters. No signs. When we hiked at Castle Lake, we saw a notice that the parking lot would be closed on Sunday [rest stop], so we felt reassured that they hadn't called it off and forgotten to let us know.

We had registered for the full century, but as we did last year with the Fall River Century, we concocted our own route. We're the Goldilocks of cycling: 100 miles with 10,500 feet of climbing is too big, and 59 miles with 4,000 feet of climbing is too small. And of course we wanted to bike up Mt. Shasta. Shorten a loop here, skip a climb there, and go up the mountain. Just right.

Imagine our surprise when the first cyclists we met en route were a couple from our own bike club, on their tandem.

This event was the most social century of any bike event I've ridden. Normally, the hard core cyclists zip past without a word, intent on making good time. Not today. I had so many nice conversations with cyclists who slowed to chat. I called out to a couple of guys wearing a jersey from my home state—that's something I've never seen before, as it's hardly a nexus of cycling. One lives in California now, and his brother flew out to do this ride and spend a couple of weeks touring the Pacific Northwest.

There were also more women riding than I have ever seen at a cycling event (with the exception, of course, of the Cinderella). And they, too, were friendly. I was wearing a jersey from one of our club events, and some women admired it as they passed. One recognized the club and raised a fist in triumph, shouting “Sierra to the Sea!” She'd had the chance to do that ride.

Another first was the woman riding up the first climb on a mountain bike ... with three sled-dogs-in-training yoked together.

Raindrops started falling just as we finished lunch. We kept going. Sprinkles are fine; a downpour and slick roads, not so much. When I'd heard a thunderclap on the morning climb, I wondered just how we would find shelter in a lightning storm (surrounded, as we were, by really tall trees). A cyclist who was cutting his ride short offered me his jacket, asking only that I return it later to his hotel. But it was a warm day, and here's the thing: Once you're wet, you're wet. The raindrops actually felt good.

Early on the slopes of Mt. Shasta, something caught my eye just off to the side of the road. How silly, I thought; why would someone put a statue of a deer out there in the forest? [Duh.] It was a live doe, standing so still and with a coat so perfect she didn't look real. She was watching me. “Hi there,” I said. “Be careful if you're going to cross the road.” As soon as I passed, that's exactly what she did. Luckily the woman driving an oncoming car saw her, and slowed.

I was a bit apprehensive whenever I passed someone walking along the road. What are they doing, basically in the middle of nowhere? Are they going to harass me? The guy in the green t-shirt, carrying a paper grocery bag, cheered me on. “Great job!” he called out. The scruffy mountain man, with his long hair and longer beard, greeted me with a friendly hello.

The climb itself, 15 miles at a gentle 5.6% grade, didn't even require my granny gear. Nonetheless, being unfamiliar, it seemed everlasting. “You did the Death Ride,” I reminded myself: twice the climbing. Keep turning the pedals. I noticed the thinner air around 7,000 feet. “You climbed above 10,000 feet last year,” I told myself. No excuses.

By the time I made it to the top, I was more than ready to be done. And looking forward to the descent, with its smooth pavement and wide sweeping turns. Three of us took off at the same time, and I was finding it a challenge to keep a respectable distance. When I reached a comfortable place to pass them, I did. Later, when they arrived at the finish, the woman saw me. “You're a great descender!” she said. Thanks, I smiled. “I followed her all the way down!” she announced.

Two fast guys had flown past me; I know better than to give chase. A woman passed me, too, and gained some distance but stayed within sight. I could play with that. Just by tweaking my aerodynamics, and with greater comfort in the curves, I started gaining on her. She was surprised when I passed her. “It's a great descent!” she shared, when she pulled even with me again.

For the day, 79 miles, 7480 feet of climbing. My legs hurt. Just right.

McCloud Falls

Mt. Shasta is a curious town. As we waited in line for a sandwich at the local natural foods market, it was hard to watch the inefficiencies behind the deli counter (and not intervene). I will say that the food was worth the wait.

There were lots of shops selling crystals. Our hiking buddies from Heart Lake had shared an amusing encounter: They had been in one of the shops when a guy wandered in, claimed he was the 16th incarnation of Buddha (or some such), and demanded a particular crystal of significance that was on display. Or else he would blow up the shop. [Which, of course, is just what Buddha would do.]

Our afternoon plans included a much less strenuous hike than this morning's. We headed for McCloud Falls, which is really a series of three waterfalls along a stretch of the McCloud River.

I envied the families playing in the water, scrambling over the boulders and jumping off the rock walls. [Well, not so much the cliff jumpers. I'm too chicken for that.] It was refreshing to see so much unbridled splashing and sliding, with no signs or officials in uniforms shooing people away “for their own safety.” I wished I'd brought a bathing suit.

Here, it was a little less hot than on our earlier hike. The distance to the upper falls was not clear; we needed to return to town to pick up our registration packets for tomorrow's ride, so we kept walking with an eye on the clock.

As we were climbing the uppermost segment, two young women came running down the rocky trail. And one tripped. My ride buddy, walking just ahead of me, caught her. Most importantly, in that brief-but-terrifying moment, both of them stayed upright and neither one tumbled over the cliff.

We made our u-turn at the upper falls with ample time to hike back down. Then we spotted a crowd heading for the narrow trail. Wearing ... costumes? Colorful broad-brimmed hats, South American style. Did they step off a bus in the parking lot, above? It was as though someone had conjured a line of zombies, as they marched along with blank expressions. My ride buddy and I looked at each other. “Let's go!” And let's stay ahead of them.

And so we lived to tell the tale. 4.1 miles, round-trip, with much less climbing than our morning adventure.

Heart Lake

My ride buddy proposed that we head north for a cycling event near Mt. Shasta. We didn't get to see much of the mountain last year, after all. As we did then, we made the most of our short time in the area by adding a couple of hikes.

We planned to skip one of the climbs on tomorrow's route, the better to accommodate our pace. The question was, which one?

After poring over maps and hiking recommendations, we opted to skip climb number two (Castle Lake). Today we would hike there, instead.

Rather than a trail, at times it felt more like we were hiking in the dry wash from the slopes above—loose rocks always underfoot. We started at Castle Lake, heading for Little Castle Lake, above. It was a steep climb, and the trail was essentially unmarked.

We found Little Castle Lake, but not a way to get close to the shore. I made three attempts, more or less bushwhacking my way along what appeared to be footpaths, but each fell short.

We also wanted to find Heart Lake, but ... how? We hadn't noticed other trails branching off; had we missed a marker along the way? On our way down, a small path led to some large rocks. If only we had known that was also the way to Heart Lake ...

I scrambled up the rocky outcropping and was rewarded with a sweeping view of Castle Lake, with the top of Mt. Shasta floating above the layer of smoke from this year's distant wildfires.

As we hiked down the hill, a small group passed us, heading up. They were oddly dressed—in street clothes, some carrying babies. A woman in a casual white lacy dress; a guy in a dress shirt, vest, and pants; a woman in a long skirt. Ah, well, that's California for you. I've seen people climbing a trail up the slick, sandy rocks next to a waterfall in leather-soled shoes.

Of course, there were wildflowers along the way.

And with a little patience, I got a clean shot of a butterfly (Aphrodite frittillary?) that was flitting alongside the trail.

We made it all the way back to our starting point, still mystified about where we missed the turn to Heart Lake. Our timing was lucky: we got some tips and joined a friendly couple who were also trying to find the lake. Then we turned around and trudged back up the steep slope. [Oh no ... say it isn't so.]

When we reached Heart Lake, well, there were the hikers in their fancy clothes—a wedding party. [Aha!] They knew how to find Heart Lake. We witnessed their vows from across the lake, with Mt. Shasta in the distance, and cheered.

My ride buddy had suggested that we tackle this hike in the morning, and she was oh-so-right. It was a hot day, and a hard 4.5-mile hike. Both times up the hill.

The Wild Wild West

The locals are so welcoming on Bay Area backroads.

As we turned west onto Bear Gulch Road, there was one to greet us. With his faded brown sedan parked next to the cluster of mailboxes, he shouted:

You're not going through to the coast!

“No,” I replied; “we turn around at the bottom and ride back up.” (The public road is a dead end, with a well-marked gate demarcating private property.)

He continued:

If I find you on my ranch I'll fill you full of buckshot!

So noted.

Here in the 21st century, we have plenty of detailed maps to guide us. It would be stupid not to consult them. And it would be even more stupid to trespass on private property.

I can only imagine that, to this paunchy redneck with his stringy hair grazing his shoulders, that the stupidest idea of all would be that two women on bicycles would coast effortlessly to the bottom of a really steep hill just to make a u-turn and pedal back up.

Nah, we're really cattle rustlers in disguise.

I half expected him to drive back down the hill and park at the end of the road. I picture him sitting on an old lawn chair somewhere on his property, his shotgun across his knees, still waiting for us to arrive. Disappointing, on so many levels.

I hadn't climbed Old La Honda Road in awhile. I wasn't trying for a personal best, but I will say that it took less effort to pedal the new bike up the hill. Reaching the summit on this penultimate day of Le Tour de France, it was fitting to discover that someone has created a traditional French-style road marker and planted it there.

Snacking at the top of Kings Mountain before starting our descent, we overheard a conversation between some nearby cyclists and a very lost motorist. When they told him to head down Kings, my ride buddy and I looked at each other. Go, now, before we get stuck behind this guy who has never seen Kings Mountain before.

I'd forgotten how long that descent is. There was only open road ahead of me, as I took care not to let the fast bike accelerate to warp speed. An SUV appeared behind me; I had a clear advantage on the curves, and there were no straights long enough for him to pass me safely. He'd just have to wait. Besides, I was doing the speed limit (or better).

For the day, 3,440 feet of climbing over about 26 miles. And no buckshot.

Change Up

One morning this week, the same cyclist passed me three times.

Wait ... how can that be?

Of the two of us, he was the stronger cyclist. But I was the cyclist following an optimized route. He never said a word, but he must have wondered what was going on. I chuckled to myself.

The downside of my optimized route is that it can get dull—same old, same old.

I became familiar with “the regulars:” people whose routines overlap with mine. In the morning, the woman walking a pair of pit bulls (who make me nervous). The guy with the rambunctious puppy. The small elderly guy with long sideburns and a mustache who stood near the center of a bridge looking at ... what? Not necessarily the trains.

Evenings are less routine, though I would often see an elderly woman in a saffron-colored sari and her husband, out for a stroll. A large woman in a wheelchair near a convalescent center, parked on the sidewalk, reading a book. Sometimes a colleague might come along and chat before dashing away.

I've been wondering whether I should change the route to ease the boredom. But every time I study the map, I stick with my route. It's pretty safe, and quiet, and direct. Now and then, something unexpected spices it up.

This week a friend got up early, rode to my house, then returned with me along my commute route—just for fun. Two weeks ago my older road bike made for a fast trip; the Bike Doctor would be on campus, and it needed a little TLC. [New brake cables, as it turned out. So that's why it wasn't stopping very well ...]

One evening I passed a helmet-less guy in a long-sleeved white jersey, stopping irregularly to pick up trash. This week, a guy wearing an orange safety vest, a human face mask strapped to the back of his helmet. A woman struggling with a jammed chain, hands covered in grease. [I stopped to help.]

Late afternoon took me to the central part of the campus for an unexpected meeting. I had biked to work specifically to avoid the traffic meltdown that ensues when there's a major event at the nearby concert venue, but now I would land in the thick of it. I really didn't want to be on the road until I was well clear of the concert traffic.

The map confirmed my hunch: I could roll straight onto a different creek trail, follow it east to pick up the Bay Trail, loop around and catch the trail I needed to head home.

Variety is the spice of life.

C is for ...

C is for Colma and cemeteries, the Centennial Way Trail and the Cold War. And, of course, cycling.

I was most excited about today's route, which promised a bona-fide adventure: I was unfamiliar with much of the area we'd be exploring.

We rode up Sneath Lane to reach a trail leading to Sweeney Ridge. Bikes are permitted, but squeezing through the tight angular gate was a challenge. I was toodling along just fine, wondering why the climb was much easier than our club's rated difficulty level, when it got steep. Heart-rate-180-bpm-steep.

What remains of the abandoned Cold War-era Nike missile control site was less interesting than I expected. The walls are a magnet for graffiti vandals; perhaps it would be better to tear them down. The views of the Pacific and of our next destination (San Bruno Mountain) were beautiful on this clear day, however.

Our leader took care to keep us together as we navigated city streets to connect with the Centennial Way Trail. We made our way through Colma, which naturally included passing through a cemetery. (Colma is renowned for having more dead than living residents.) This one had it all: ornate private mausoleums the size of small chapels, headstones, simple flush-mounted plaques. Which started me wondering about why ordinary people erected such grand monuments to themselves.

The view to the west from the top of San Bruno Mountain was more familiar now that I fully recognized the green fields of Colma dotted with marble and granite.

I had spent quality time with a map in advance, devising an alternate return route. Our leader's route back to Skyline was more direct, but followed some roads that I expected would be unpleasantly busy with traffic. The Colma Community Center turned out to be the perfect place for a rest stop. My ride buddy and I were quite happy with the route I devised; apart from the climbing, it was quite pleasant. But, well, getting back to Skyline unavoidably means going up.

We paused at the south end of San Andreas Lake to watch some very relaxed deer on the slope below us. After rounding the bend to continue south on the trail, I spotted a doe and her still-spotted fawn at close range. I imagine they're feeling the stress of our long drought, and perhaps becoming too comfortable with people. I slowed as I approached another cyclist who was about to resume pedaling; only then did I see the buck (!) to my left, on the paved trail, munching away. He seemed completely indifferent to people passing by, in both directions.

C is for the Crystal Springs Reservoir, where we began (and ended) today's journey: 48 miles, 4,440 feet of climbing.

Riding the Eastside

A simple club ride to ease back into normal life, to catch up with friends.

I hadn't visited these roads on the rural fringe of eastern San Jose in awhile; it was another warm day, when a short outing (with some shade) seemed just right.

The second climb was gradual, but longer than I'd remembered.

When we stopped for a snack, some of us were disappointed to find that the smoothie place was gone.

The GPS in my phone cut out, leaving me with a partial track to remember the 34 miles we covered. With only 2,080 feet of climbing, I was able to maintain a respectable pace. And a short ride left time to do other things in the afternoon.

Wait, there are other things to do besides cycling?

Don't Be Late

I almost missed the pancakes and fresh fruit salad at the club's annual July 4th breakfast. Note to self: Get moving earlier, next year.

The day was hot, and promising to get hotter. I convinced my ride buddies that we should skip the hard climbs we'd planned, substituting instead a leisurely trip into a well-shaded canyon alongside a creek. Feeling adventuresome, we continued into the Monte Bello Open Space Preserve at the end of the road, as far as our skinny-tire road bikes could sensibly carry us. By the end of the day, I had covered some 39 miles, climbing 1,840 feet to burn off those pancakes.

This year, I made it to my town's celebration in time to get a traditional burger for lunch. The party was in full swing at a local park: a wind symphony playing marches, kids running and playing in the fields, adults clustered in whatever small patches of shade they could find.

I learned that some famous marches were composed for newspapers. John Philip Sousa wrote one for the Chicago Tribune. He composed another, which I'll bet you've heard, for The Washington Post, for a ceremony celebrating award-winning essays by schoolchildren. ['Twas a different age, indeed.]

I found a spot along the fence next to the park's steam train, near the carousel. A family of four occupied a pair of benches, the two children oblivious to the festivities and attractions around them. They appeared to be about 7 or 8 years old, and were completely absorbed in playing games on their iPads. Completely. Absorbed.

“There's a steam locomotive behind you,” I wanted to shout. “Look, they're spinning it around on a turntable.” What kid doesn't like trains?

The boy was so fixated he wouldn't even eat; his father repeatedly thrust a hot dog in his face and he'd swat it away. When he finally forced him to eat a few bites by taking away the iPad, the boy let forth an earsplitting wail.

I walked away. Why did you bother to come here, I wondered. Go home and play in your virtual world.

'Tis a different age, indeed.

Can't Go Home Again

As I made my way through Germany, Austria, and Switzerland over the past few weeks, I always found a church to light a candle in memory of Mom. She would have liked that.

Now it's time for one last visit to Mom's house, to help with sorting and sifting through the things she collected and treasured over a lifetime.

The finality is inescapable.

She downsized some 18 years ago, and I had not visited our old neighborhood since. Seeing our former home was as disheartening as I expected. The lawn and landscaping had been ripped out. The canopy of the once-towering silver maple tree had been lopped off, four feet of the dead trunk left standing.

On the spur of a moment, I visited the cemetery. Crabgrass has taken hold on the patch of bare earth above her.

Later, I honored our routine with Manhattan clam chowder for supper, tea and a black-and-white cookie. (Two delicacies uncommon on the West Coast.)

How I'd dreaded the day I would face this process: what to keep, what to toss, what to surrender forever to strangers in an estate sale. I think she'd be disappointed in my choices, for the things of highest value to me are sentimental.

I found a Mother's Day card I'd drawn for her, in pencil, maybe around age seven. The paper is folded in fourths, just so, like a regular greeting card.

But it's the P.P.S. that makes the card:

P.S. AGAIN
THIS IS THE RUFF COPIE.
I'M SORRY, BUT OUR CLASS DIDN'T BEHAVE.
SO WE DIDN'T HAVE ART.

I browsed through the albums she'd filled with photos and postcards from trips she'd taken with her friends. Lined up together on a bookshelf, it was sad to know that she hadn't opened them in years. I wish I'd pulled them out during a visit and helped her relive those moments.

Dad's been gone for 30 years, and it took some time for her to weather that loss. I found two newspaper clippings, carefully preserved: essays by widows on the topic of living alone. “Women can learn to like living alone,” published about two years after he died. “Gathering the courage to live your life” ... published 20 years after he died.

She didn't share her thoughts or feelings with me, and she didn't keep a journal. It broke my heart when I found two longer entries in her “birthday book,” a special datebook where she recorded the birth (and death) dates of friends and family:

My husband who I loved more than anyone else died at 9:00 PM, Age 58

Three days later:

Hon - Laid to rest as I watched with a broken heart and all my love.

She's gone, and I feel like I didn't fully know her.

Hers was always a world of worry. In the kitchen, where she would see it throughout the day, she had hung a framed quote I'd given her (attributed to Mark Twain):

I've had many problems in my life,
most of which have never happened.

“Be careful,” she'd tell me at the end of every phone call. “Be safe.”

Wish you were here, Mom.

Au Revoir, Switzerland

The rest of the group will cycle on without me for another week, as it's time for me to head back to the U.S. I'll miss the legendary cheese and chocolate; family obligations must prevail.

One of these days I'll post something about how (and what) to pack for a cycling trip. As you can see, I was traveling pretty light. The surprise hit for this trip was a 22-inch Dakine roller bag that I picked up at the last minute, wanting just a wee bit more room than my old Delsey carry-on. On a plane, that bag used to fit under the seat in front of me; now, its protruding handle makes it too long to be carried on at all. And these days you can barely fit a handbag under the seat in front of you.

Switzerland is the most beautiful country I've visited. I'm partial to rolling green hills and craggy peaks, waterfalls and wildflowers. And, of course, great chocolate.

Till next time ...

Gruyères

Another day to be on our way. Another ... rainy day.

Just as there were different philosophies of navigation among the members of our group, there were different attitudes about the weather.

The hardy contingent, indifferent to the conditions, were the first to depart. Just suit up and ride.

Next were the ones who preferred to look outside. “It's stopped raining, let's go!” [They got wet.]

Then there were the ones who looked at the forecast on their smartphones. “It will stop raining by 9:30 a.m., we'll leave then.” [They were delayed.]

And there was pep, who likes the animated weather map on her phone. “After that next band of showers, we'll be good to go.” [For those who waited with me, only the roads were wet.]

This being a Sunday, there was very little traffic. It also meant that most businesses were closed, including cafés.

For the last ride of my trip, I was all for a scenic route. With some hills, of course.

There was one minor problem with that: The bike was balking at shifting into my granny gear. And when the going gets steep, I shift. Down. All the way down.

There was one tricky turn that our host worried we would miss. He pointed at the map; there was a distinctive hairpin outside of Saanen, which (if we saw it) meant that we had gone too far. I found the spot on Google Maps and zoomed in, switching to satellite mode. “Ah,” I said. “Before the turn, there is a hotel on the left. There are diagonal lines painted in the center of the road. Shortly after that, there will be more diagonal lines in the median, and that's where we turn right onto the Unterbortstrasse.” When we got there, it was clear. “Next turn,“ I called out, signaling to the right.

Our route took us along some isolated roads, skirting the edge of the Gruyère Pays-d’Enhaut Regional Nature Park as we moved east into the French-speaking area of Switzerland. We enjoyed a narrow winding road alongside a stream, Le Ruisseau des Fenils. The banks were edged with a plant whose leaves were enormous—bigger than my head. Bigger than a bicycle wheel.

The long grade was a slow uphill grind without my lowest gears, but it was doable. To a point. Periodically I would tap the lever for the recalcitrant shifter, to no avail.

Then, finally, it clicked into place. Oh, the joy! Just in time, for soon the climb got steep. If that's not clear to your legs and lungs, it's clear to your eyes when you meet local cyclists training on it. A strong woman cruised past me with apparent ease, but it wasn't long before I caught sight of her again ... walking. It turns out that the grade was >10% for a couple of miles.

The road over the last summit passed through fields where cattle were free to roam; “Bovi Stop” signs were placed near the cattle guards. As a few started across the road, saw me approaching from one side and a car approaching from the other ... what would they do? They looked nervous. I stopped and waited for them to sort themselves out.

Our hotel in Gruyères was at the edge of the old town. Here's the thing: the oldest parts of European towns are typically on a hill, the better to defend against unwanted visitors long ago. “Yes,” I assured the others; “we go up.”

After dinner, we strolled through the town and around the outside of its 13th-century château. I was told it would be a travesty to say I'd visited Gruyères and not had double cream, so I joined my hosts for a bowl of framboises à la crème double. [Mmm.] And well earned, after climbing 4,000 feet over 42 miles.