Independence Day

“Why are you still working?” friends would ask. Busy with hiking, cycling, traveling, volunteering, and hobbies, they wondered how they'd once had time for full-time jobs.

Another friend shared thoughtful advice she'd been given: “Don't retire from something—retire to something.”

I still enjoyed my work (and my colleagues). But over the past year or so, I had been growing less tolerant of big-corporation-bureaucracy and less inspired by the work ahead.

Last May, my chief biking buddy and I took a couple of days off to join a group cycling in the Paso Robles area. Arriving ahead of the group, we planned our own adventure for Monday. Sunday night, I tackled Monday's crossword puzzle.

Was the universe sending me a message?! Not just 44 down (RETIRE), but HAHAHA (41 down), NOTAFAN (of work? 39 down), and LIVELONG (37 down).

In case the message WASNTCLEAR (Tuesday's puzzle, 32 down), I was reminded that I was OUT (of office, 53 across).

I had already crafted a plan—a plan to “test-drive” retirement. I had contrived to hoard the maximum number of vacation days, which (when supplemented with a few holidays) would allow me to take off the entire months of June and July.

My plan was to live an ordinary, day-to-day life. Cycling, hiking, catching up on chores. Would I be bored? I've been intellectually engaged for virtually all of my life, certainly academically and throughout my career.

Some days, I felt ready to retire. On other days, the prospect terrified me. Maybe I would return in August and convert to part-time for a while.

During my test drive, I compiled a list (“Things I Will or Won't Miss”); there were almost twice as many “won't miss” items. I also kept a log tracking how I'd spent each day; when August came around, I wouldn't be left wondering what I'd done with my time.

Spoiler alert: I learned that I didn't miss the office.

I did, however, decide to return. Weighing multiple factors, I kept working full-time (with a spring-time plan to propose going part-time through the end of 2023). I went back because I knew I could still be useful. My skills were valued by my team; we were working hard to deliver on a critical, priority-zero project. The reward for me was in the human interaction: coaching and mentoring, supporting my colleagues as they developed their careers.

I had picked up a copy of Steve Lopez's recent musings about retirement (Independence Day), finding many points that resonated. Losing your (professional) identity. A job that no longer feels rewarding. The need for connection. Waking up each day looking forward to something you want to do. Doing what you love to do.

I hadn't quite finished the book when the callous form letter landed in my email inbox in the wee hours of January 20, informing me that my employment would end on March 31 (although I had already been sidelined, along with thousands of others deemed surplus).

A friend asked what would happen with that big project. I shrugged. “Not my problem.”

Laptop returned.

Career ended.

Santa Teresa Loops

With a break from the rain, our Monday hiking group was raring to go on a moderately long hike (about 6.5 miles). Steep bits interrupted our conversation from time to time. [Talk or breathe: pick one.]

Chilly temperatures meant the poppies mostly kept their petals curled up tight.

I've often gazed down at these trails when I bike up Bernal; today I cast my eyes upward for a glimpse of IBM's Research Lab.

We carefully picked our way through the muddiest sections; at one point I followed another's lead onto a short bypass. [Is this a trail or a a stream?] Trails are closed to mountain bikers and equestrians, but hikers are lighter on the land. Lucky for us!

More stormy weather ahead ...

By the Bay

Springtime on the shores of Monterey Bay.

It was, however, chilly and very windy.

There were an astonishing number of sea otters cavorting in the surf—more than I'd ever seen in a single visit, including one mom with a pup (out of range without a proper camera).

We were here for a visit to the aquarium, my first since The Before Times. The resident sea otters playfully hammed it up for spectators, and a fish with gilded fins caught my eye in the Kelp Forest tank.

After more visits than I might count, I finally got to touch a bat ray! Tucked into a cozy corner, a loner rose up when disturbed by a guitarfish and swam right within my reach. Smooth and silky!

The rarest privilege was seeing a cluster of eggs that the Giant Pacific Octopus had hung right next to the glass, for all to admire. (At the same time, a sad event—as it signals that the end of her life is drawing near.)

Even so, for me, happiness is a day by the bay.

Saturday Surprises

There is always something new to see, even on the most familiar of routes.

However many times I've biked through this neighborhood, my eyes have likely been drawn to the same sights. Or focused on stop signs, potholes, and intersections. Or lost in thought. [Or all of the above.]

At the far end of my route today, I began to notice ... something. All the houses were painted in varying shades of beige. House after house, for blocks. Only one or two rebels dared to stray from the drab palette.

With that observation in mind, something unusual caught my eye a few miles away, on the return lap. Something that didn't blend in. Tucked behind a mass of trees and shrubs was a (very) pink house. And not just any pink house: A geodesic dome (gray roof, pink walls).

We've had some challenging weather, keeping me off the bike for weeks. [I'll admit it, I'm a fair weather cyclist.] There is also something to be said for not being within reach of falling tree branches (not to mention ... entire trees).

Another giant, squeezed between curb and sidewalk, felled by the fierce winds that knocked out power to tens of thousands of us. [For 32 hours, in my case.]

A bike ride is a reliable mood booster, even when the skies are gray and the route modest (27 miles).

Snatch Some Sunshine

Some of the Monday hiking crew had already made their Pix in the Parks pilgrimmage to this site, and it held no appeal for my companion last Friday. Could I squeeze in a quick visit after this morning's showers? The forecast for the next week or so is ... [wait for it]: Rain.

This is not the bench you're looking for.

Although a longer hike would be possible, I had time for the recommended 2-mile loop (easy, save for the mud). How many times have I biked past the Rancho San Vicente area of Calero without so much as a glance? I need not have worried about whether I'd find a parking space; apart from two guys wrapping up their trail work for the day (and lots of startled ground squirrels), the acreage was mine, all mine.

The ridgetop to the east is still dusted with snow, and more is promised. It's not uncommon to see white summits once or twice each winter; it is uncommon for the snow to stick around for weeks.

We get to enjoy this land because it was purchased to save it from being developed. The nearby mansions are a vivid reminder of what might have been (artfully framed out of my photos).

With most of the hike traversing rolling green meadows, I was surprised to round a bend into a rocky landscape. There is history here, adjoining the quicksilver mines at New Almaden.

Now it's just a place that happy hikers can share on a whim with the local flora and fauna.

As I returned to the start, the afternoon sun graciously illuminated the blades of the Aermotor across the road. [Which, of course, I could not resist.]

Higher Up

The trail continues ... over there.

I was lured out for a Friday afternoon hike of uncertain length, mostly in the Rancho Cañada Del Oro Open Space Preserve. [Nearly 8 miles, with more than 1,200 feet of elevation gain, in all.]

We've been having some unusual weather, of late. Poppies in the foreground, snow-dusted ridge in the distance. [In the Bay Area?!]

Here's a closer look, which I captured a week ago. Snowfall at the top of Mt. Hamilton reportedly measured two feet.

When I paused to consider whether this vista was photo-worthy, I hadn't yet noticed the 22 degree halo. [It sealed the deal.]

It often seemed that our next vantage point was impossibly far ahead, but we kept trudging forward. Looking back, the ground we'd already traversed also seemed so far away. How fortunate we are to have these meadows and hills preserved, for all to enjoy.

Not to worry about the mud caked on our boots; my hiking companion helpfully reminded me that crossing the stream (again) would take care of that.

And so it did. [Stayed safe and dry, both times. Whew.]

Buffleheads and Shovelers

I thought today's hike would be all about collecting another Pix in the Parks photo. [In the company of friends, again.] I should have brought my binoculars!

The recommended route was much too short, so we started out by heading in the opposite direction before looping back to pose at the photo-op site—covering nearly 8 miles before we were done.

Most of us have biked the road that bisects the park, climbing to the top of Mt. Hamilton. Clouds appeared to stream from Lick Observatory in the distance.

Today's hike covered an area that was new to most (all?) of us. Up and down we went, admiring the bare trees festooned with mistletoe and hanging moss.

After spotting Northern Shovelers on Grant Lake, we trudged (somewhat reluctantly) up a steep hill. There we found a secluded little unnamed lake and were fascinated by three Buffleheads repeatedly diving completely below the surface (and staying underwater for a surprisingly long time).

Alas, no good photos of the waterfowl. [Note to self: Hike with a real camera.] It was a treat to have a birder in our midst, identifying two handsome birds that were completely new to me.

We'll have to settle for a picture of this old bird instead.