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.