Fall Color

Expecting little color in the landscape this time of year, I was surprised to find something bright—a flower that was new to me.

I had explained to my hiking companions that today's trails are reliable for wildflower viewing in the spring; turned out that the serpentine sunflower is also at home in this soil, later in the year.

Cloud cover was building as the day wore on; there was little wildlife to see, perhaps due to the cool temperature. Cattle grazed nearby, separated from the trail by barbed wire. We were treated to the sight of a nursing calf—not a common thing, for us.

As we circled toward the end of our 4.6 mile loop, we passed through an area busy with birds: acorn woodpeckers, California quail, lesser goldfinches. As we climbed the trail that would return us to the parking area, a large bird swooped overhead toward a tree. I couldn't be sure that it perched, or that I could find it, but my camera zoomed and delivered: a red-shouldered hawk.

The presenters at Raptor Fest yesterday had suggested that the area was popular with local raptors, and here was one—reinforcing the importance of preserving contiguous (or near-contiguous) tracts of wild open space.

Raptor Fest

It was 37°F when I woke up; my neighbors' rooftops were frosted. Perhaps registering for the first session of “Raptor Fest” today wasn't the best idea? [Dress warmly.]

Hosted by the Peninsula Open Space Trust and Santa Clara County Parks, we would be treated to a presentation by a falconer.

Hillside seating ensured clear views for all.

Before the program started, local nature-related organizations had tables to visit. The Wildlife Education & Rehabilitation Center had brought along a few birds. Certainly the closest I've been to a turkey vulture!

When the falconer brought out his first bird, he asked the audience to identify it. A few voices rang out, including the guy sitting next to me: aplomado falcon. [Hmm, you've been here before, I take it?]

The falconer was a skilled entertainer as well as educator, telling stories and readily answering questions. It's not all for show—he's licensed for abatement, and noted that Sunnyvale's pesky crow population has been reduced from about 800 birds to 130 or so. Before releasing his Harris's hawk to fly over the crowd, he noted that if you duck because you're unsettled by the bird flying too low overhead, the bird will react by flying lower. Put a hand up instead, he advised.

We learned that the ears of the Western barn owl are not symmetrically opposite, and that the ring of feathers circling the bird's face also contributes to its sense of hearing.

We heard the last bird on the program before we saw it, a startling cry that sounded like a sea bird to my untrained ear.

We learned that the peregrine falcon's eyesight is so keen that it can see dust particles rising in a thermal updraft. On a hot day, they'll climb higher to reach cooler air.

With so many event calendars to follow, I would have missed this had I not spotted an announcement posted on a county park's sign after a recent hike. It pays to pay attention!

Reflections

Some months ago, my chief biking buddy observed that it had been a long time since we'd biked up Old Santa Cruz Highway. I noted that the road had been closed for quite some time (due to storm damage in multiple locations), but had reopened. (And I've explored it a few times since then.)

Today was our day. Post-summer-beach-traffic congestion. Pre-Christmas-tree-farm congestion. Neither too cold nor too hot. Lexington Reservoir's low water level surprised me; I expect they're preparing for winter rains, and I hope Mother Nature delivers.

Back in the day, it was permissible (and free) to park above the dam; that's been off-limits for many years. The local bike club prefers to start rides further south, where there is ample (and free) parking near the Lexington School, but that cuts out the scenic rolling hills on the east side of the reservoir—the route we chose today.

By now I've pedaled farther (and higher) than all of last year (or the year before that). I'd noticed that my enthusiasm for cycling waned significantly after I completed my recent three-day tour. Is this a trend? Cycling should be fun, not a chore.

We opted to return on the west side of the reservoir, which entails a short stretch on Highway 17 (at the edge of a lane that carries little traffic, leading to the reservoir). A motorist tapped his horn as he passed me, perhaps thinking that I shouldn't be there and didn't know what I was doing? Surprise! It is actually bicycle-legal (and not too scary).

We covered a little under 15 miles and 1,400 feet of elevation gain. But it's really about the camaraderie, not the stats.

Hints of History

Today's hike introduced me to a section of Almaden Quicksilver Park that I had not yet explored.

There are a few odd boulders that pop up around this area. Regrettably, I know nothing about geology. This specimen has an impressive fissure, though it didn't appear likely to split anytime soon.

The skies were clear, thanks to some recent windy weather. The trails gave us views of the Santa Cruz Mountains and Mt. Umunhum to the west, and

eastward across the valley to Mt. Hamilton and the Diablo Range.

Although some folks jumped ahead, the group mostly stayed together.

While it might seem obvious that you shouldn't stray off the trail to explore the crumbling remains of old cabins, warning signs were posted. One included a special note that hantavirus has been found in the park's rodents. That was a warning I'd never encountered, until now; all the more reason to stay clear of old buildings (and always read signs)!

The April Tunnel Trestle still stands, but the years have taken a toll. Without restoration, sections seem likely to collapse. It's an impressive relic, for now.

After hiking six miles I was ready for the sandwich I'd packed. This time of year, the picnic table's well-intentioned pergola cast a shadow on the ground, several feet away. It was surprisingly warm for a November day; four of us made like birds on a fence and perched side-by-side, our backs to the sun.

Now that the mining museum has reopened (though not daily), I should plan a visit. Some rainy day, this winter.

Pedal Pushers

Foxy's Fall Century is a popular one-day bike event that I'd never done, and this year my chief biking buddy and I signed up. Rides like these are great opportunities to see parts of California that we would otherwise likely not visit.

Davis is renowned as a big biking town, and we saw plenty of university students (and others) on the streets and trails.

We headed for the university's arboretum to stretch our legs after our long drive. Blooms are scarce this time of year, though we did pass some common yarrow and California fuschia. Nature's Gallery Court, with its colorful tiles featuring native plants and pollinators, was a lovely consolation.

The arboretum's waterway was dry (under renovation), much to the disappointment of my biking buddy, who was especially looking forward to seeing the lake.

A red flag warning (for gusty, dry winds) had been scheduled to expire on Friday night, but then was extended into Saturday evening. On the drive up we'd seen a grass fire from the freeway, to the east; that smoke wouldn't be a factor, but I did smell smoke (faintly) when we started biking on Saturday morning. That fire was closer, I learned, but contained.

Our route followed mostly rural roads, with very little traffic, past orchards and vast agricultural fields. The middle third of the ride brought us closer to some hills, with a welcome lunch stop at Lake Sonoma. Like many of our fellow riders, we perched on the curb with our sandwiches to enjoy the view.

The winds (headwinds, with occasional gusts) picked up as the day wore on. Despite that, I averaged 14 mph over the course's 62.6 miles. I'm pretty sure that's my fastest pace over such a distance (thanks to very little elevation gain—less than 1,200 feet).

Of course, several pacelines passed me like I was standing still ... but that's to be expected. Unlike so many rides these days, I wasn't passed by a single ebike—I saw only one, all day. What a joy it was to pedal with so many like-minded cyclists!

Can't You Read the Signs?

As I pulled on my hiking boots at Bear Creek Redwoods, a couple climbed out of their pickup truck with a small dog. Thinking that dogs weren't welcome at Midpeninsula's open spaces, I was surprised—and figured that I was mistaken.

Yes. And no. (They're welcome at some preserves, but not this one.)

Fog touched the treetops on the hills, but our trail wouldn't climb that high. I was glad when my former teammates suggested this preserve for our hike today; at this time of year, the forest is an especially welcome alternative to the dry hills. One of the guys was hiking with us for the first time ... along with his friendly dog.

Busy chatting, we passed the usual (brown) sign at the trailhead. Do this, don't do that ... Of the many icons and other text on the sign, what caught my eye was the hiker (permitted, of course) and weapons (not allowed). All of us focused on the bright yellow sign, beneath, about mountain lions. I also noticed a temporary sign announcing that the Madrone Knoll trail was closed, but we weren't planning to hike that anyway.

None of us noticed that dogs are, in fact, not permitted. None of the hikers we passed said a word.

But a ranger was lying in wait, his truck tucked into a spot just off the trail. And he was not pleased. Our colleague got a ticket (not a warning) and was sternly told to “leave immediately.” (We were on the return leg, at that point.) The ranger insisted that we had passed 11 “no dogs” signs. [Not really. Paying close attention, we found four or five that we had indeed overlooked; others are likely placed at paths we didn't follow.] Maybe a couple of the small, dog-specfic signs would be more eye-catching if they were, say, black and white?

Lesson learned. Read the signs, always.

In the Misty Morning Fog

With breakfast done and luggage handed off, I managed to get rolling about 15 minutes earlier today. On my own, again.

We'd been cautioned about sharing the road with traffic as we climbed out of Pacifica, even so early on a Saturday morning. [Where are they all going?!]

Bright jacket. [Check.] Bright flashing white light on my handlebar. [Check.] Super bright flashing red light on my back. [Check.]

I found myself at Devil's Slide sooner than I expected. Vehicular traffic passes into a tunnel; cyclists follow the original road as it snakes along the slide-prone cliffs.

Not much of a view.

Visibility was so limited, even at bicycle speed, that I had to slow down. The white line at the edge of the road is your friend. (Now I get why it's called the “fog line!”)

The fog condensed on both sides of my lenses. I had to stop—often—to wipe them dry. Sometimes I just peered over the top, despite my profound nearsightedness.

Approaching Half Moon Bay, a few riders pulled out of a parking lot. [Unofficial rest stop at a Starbucks.] I. Am. So. Slow. I had been looking forward to the traditional tailwind, heading south; uncharacteristically, we were battling a headwind.

Then we saw red and blue flashing lights ahead. A lot of them. Emergency vehicles blocking most of the road. My heart dropped. I was relieved that I wasn't facing this scene alone. And even more relieved that no cyclists were involved; a large white SUV had smashed into another vehicle. Later I overhead that a couple of riders had been nearby and dodged a wheel that broke loose from one of the vehicles.

I spotted a paved trail running parallel to Highway 1 and wondered why we weren't on it. Eventually, I shifted over and enjoyed it while it lasted.

Sometimes a dry-my-lenses-and-refuel moment was at least somewhat photo-worthy.

I knew that I would pass the burn zone from the CZU fire. It's been more than four years, and I hadn't yet mustered the courage to view the aftermath. Cycling rather than driving along the edge was probably best, anyway. You can't help but be distracted by what once was, and thinking of the man who lost his life on a remote road I'd biked past many times.

The fog layer lifted overhead around the halfway mark. I'd been grateful that a car club (Porsches, mainly) had been heading north when they passed us. Now, on the outskirts of Santa Cruz, a less well-behaved caravan of mostly Ferraris and Lambos sped by, heading south. I found a safe place to step off the road.

There was a plan for everyone to assemble at a spot in Santa Cruz and ride together to the finish in our matching jerseys. Gauging the timing, I knew I wouldn't make it. Lacking local knowledge to navigate through Santa Cruz more directly, I was further slowed by boardwalk traffic, unpredictable pedestrians, and detours. I arrived just as the group photo was being taken, and missed it when a well-intentioned bike valet stopped me. Ah, well.

As a newbie, long-time participants were curious how I came to join the ride. “Are you a Rotarian?” asked one of my dinner companions on the second night. “No,” I smiled. “That's okay, I forgive you.” he bantered.

Cast your memory back to episode one of this saga, where I mentioned the article that launched me on this journey. The author didn't ride this year, but she was there at the finish line celebration. I introduced myself: “You're the reason I'm here!” Her face lit up.

With today's 65 miles and some 3,400 feet of elevation gain, I managed to ride 175 miles over three days, approaching 9,950 feet of elevation gain. The best part? The people! The organizers, the cheerful and supportive volunteers, my fellow riders, a roommate who turned out to be very compatible. Over the course of three days, I didn't see a moment of negativity from anyone. [Imagine that!]

We formed a community to raise funds for a designated set of youth-related causes—and we raised enough to support the club's commitments to all of them. Hearing from leaders of the receiving organizations, and experiencing the dedication of the people hosting this ride, was inspirational. Seriously.

Same time, next year? Hmm ...