Nine One One

Black smoke. Was there a controlled burn today? That seemed unlikely, given where I guessed the source was.

Black smoke meant that no one was trying to extinguish the blaze (yet). More and more it billowed, and soon enough my hunch was confirmed. One of the quasi-permanent structures along the creek was being consumed by flames. A few souls have been erecting shelters on the water company's land for the past several years, undeterred by the “No Trespassing” signs that reference the relevant section of the penal code.

Several vehicles had stopped on both sides of the road; one man was on the other side of the fence, taking photos. I parked myself and my bike safely on the sidewalk.

Why wasn't the fire department already here? Had everyone assumed that someone else had already called it in?

It used to be the case that if you used a mobile phone to call 911, the call would be routed to a central dispatch center staffed by the highway patrol. After (too) many rings, I discovered my call had connected to San Jose's emergency response, and ... that all dispatchers were busy, please stay on the line. [Sigh.] Surely someone had reported this fire by now?

Standing there with my cell phone in hand, a driver pulled up alongside. “It's been called in, they've dispatched and they're on the way,“ he reassured me. And so we waited, helplessly watching as the main fire sparked two or three spot fires. Thank goodness it wasn't windy.

Paramedics were first on the scene. There was no hydrant nearby, but evidently some of the fire trucks carry a water supply. The smoke turned from black to white, and I pedaled away.

Many years ago (and many miles away), I had been puttering in my garden when it finally registered that I was hearing a high-pitched tone. Recognizing it was a smoke alarm, I dashed into the house to confirm it wasn't mine. (Whew.) But where was it?

As I approached my neighbor's house, I realized it was theirs. I had seen them leave earlier, but maybe someone was still at home? No one picked up the phone. I walked back, wondering what I should do. I gazed up at the kitchen window and saw smoke swirling. I ran back to my house and dialed 911. I was stunned to hear sirens before I could head back outside. Within thirty seconds? Definitely less than a minute.

As it happened, my neighbors returned to see the fire department on the scene, using a giant fan to exhaust the smoke.

“Thank you for saving our house!” they exclaimed. The fire captain turned toward me and pointed. “She's the one who saved your house,” he said.

That day I learned the importance of not being a bystander.

Social Miles

For much of the year, clouds are not a common sight in this area. Today's sky was positively brooding—a welcome shift from summer's monochromatic blue.

Friday's ride with friends included a stop for refreshments; I extended the route by riding to (and from) our rendezvous point. Thirty-one miles, including a spin through a lovely, unfamiliar neighborhood. (Technically private, my companions had been introduced to the route by another friend who lived there.) No one seemed to mind us passing through—four harmless old people on bicycles.

I hopped back on my bike on Saturday, meeting up with my regular biking buddy for a trip out through New Almaden to the reservoir.

With a two-day bike event coming up next weekend, I needed to get more training miles in. I led us past the Almaden Reservoir on Alamitos Road until the pavement got spotty. Riding to and from our rendezvous point gave me a total of 34 miles for the day (and 132 miles for the week, not too shabby).

I guess I'm ready for next weekend. To be sure, though, I'll get in some more miles (and climbing) before then.

Rules of the Road

Friday night, around 9:30. A crash. Sirens. Paramedics. Teens gathering, two sitting on a curb comforting one another. Teens streaming past on e-bikes.

It's all over social media, one shared. Another said the rider had been pinned under the vehicle. (A large GM model, with evident front-end damage.) Said he'd been riding a Super 73 e-bike (which, if you look it up, resembles a regular motorized dirt bike—not a traditional bicycle). “Minor injuries,” a neighbor later asserted. (Hard to believe, honestly.)

I don't know what happened. Looking at the road markings left by the police who responded, and being familiar with the signals at that intersection, I can hazard a guess.

Northbound e-bike rider saw the traffic signal flip from yellow to red.

Southbound driver, waiting to turn left, got the green arrow and proceeded.

E-bike rider assumed the driver also had a red light and chose to run the light, not expecting the vehicle to turn.

All road users need to respect the rules of the road. Which requires knowing the rules of the road.

I don't know what the answer is, but I do know that kids are riding powerful, heavy electric-powered “bicycles,” mixing it up (at speed) with vehicles on the road without the requisite knowledge. I nearly collided with a pair of them recently, myself.

In my case, I had paused for oncoming traffic before I could make a left turn onto a side street. Two boys, side by side at a stop sign, suddenly pulled out as I initiated my turn. They managed to stop; one nearly toppled over. Would they have done the same on a pedal-powered bicycle? (I doubt it.)

Regulations won't fix this. Enforcement won't fix this.

Teach your children. Ride smart.

Quicksilver

Today's hike was the reason I didn't linger longer in Monterey. Not only had I signed up for a docent-led history hike, I had suggested it for my former team's hike-of-the-month—and seven people turned up! (Plus one more, for our post-hike lunch.)

Our guide led us on a modest hike, framing his narrative across three periods of human activity. First, that of the native Ohlone people—who dusted themselves with the red ore they dug from a cave. Next came the settlers who recognized that ore for what it is (cinnabar) and what it yields (mercury). Finally, to the modern era: environmental work to clean up the toxic aftermath of the mining and restore the land to a more natural state.

When I moved to this area, I have a vague memory of being advised against hiking in this park on warm summer days, to avoid any latent vapors rising from the soil. True? Maybe not. But it is true that the local waterways are clearly posted with warnings not to eat any of the fish (due to high levels of mercury).

I had not realized that there were structures still standing.

Maybe some things are best left undisturbed? Evidently this rotary furnace was used until 1976, which seems ... recent, even though nearly 50 years have passed. As incongruous as it is, it made sense to build it here to process the ore on site rather than transport the raw material elsewhere. (Unfortunatley with little or no awareness of the ensuing contamination.)

Crushed ore was heated to release mercury vapor, which condensed in the system of pipes to be collected in liquid form. One thing that didn't get discussed today was the health impact on those who worked with these substances.

Trees were felled to feed the furnaces. Large, isolated trees likely marked the former sites of workers' homes. I was intrigued by a blooming plant that seemed both familiar, and yet unfamiliar. It turned out to be Spanish broom (invasive). As we were near the area known as “Spanish Camp,” that made sense: residents must have introduced it.

As we retraced our route along Wood Road, our guide revealed that the meadow we crossed was also the result of human activity: a hill had been leveled for soil to cap the area where the contaminated materials had been moved (location undisclosed and off-limits, within the park).

The hike was short on distance (less than four miles) but long on learning: cultural, historical, and chemical (how mercury is used to extract gold).

Point Lobos

Oddly, I have biked past the Point Lobos State Natural Reserve more often than I have visited. My last visit was in January, 2013. Even in winter, the Reserve was over capacity that Saturday; on our bicycles, we had cruised past the line of vehicles waiting for their chance to enter.

On a weekday, with schools back in session, I was surprised to find a few cars ahead of me. I was even more surprised that I passed three parking areas before I found an open space, which thus anchored my hike.

I headed south along the South Shore Trail, to the Bird Island Overlook. Inland, the sky was blue. Toward the sea: gray.

Of course I stopped to capture this view (without realizing how canonical it is). You can see why.

I spied a red wrapper in the brush, and naturally I could not leave it there. I didn't realize that a gentleman in a motorized chair was watching me. “Thank you,” he said. I smiled. “Of course!” In all, I picked up (and properly disposed of) at least six pieces of trash, including a disposable coffee cup (with its plastic lid!) tucked into a rock seam at the water’s edge. [People ...!]

I hunt litter; birds hunt lunch. The first time I passed this Great Blue Heron (trailside), it caught a lizard. Unbothered by the quiet hiker just a few feet away, the bird was fixated on the ground at its feet. Suddenly it dipped its head, shook its rump back and forth, and plucked the reptile from the brush.

Returning along the same trail, I came upon the bird again. When I saw the same behavior, I knew what was about to happen. This time, it speared an unlucky vole—which it swallowed, whole.

I hiked north to the Cypress Grove Trail, fully circling the grove.

I explored more of Point Lobos today than ever before, meandering slowly on a trek of five miles, give or take.

The hunting heron was the clear highlight of my visit to Point Lobos; the snow globe jelly (Modeeria rotunda) was the highlight of this trip's visit to the Monterey Bay Aquarium.

Such wondrous things to behold! Get out there and explore the world.

Asilomar State Beach

Not that I need an excuse to visit the Monterey area, but when I decided to attend an event at the Aquarium I opted to spend a couple of days down there. With a new adventure in mind, I scored a State Parks Pass again at my local library and headed south.

This sign made me chuckle. Wile E. Coyote! At home, it's not unusual for neighbors to report coyote sightings, time and again. [Get over it. They live here. And keep your cats indoors.]

As it was a clear evening, it dawned on me [ha] that I could catch the sunset.

Why not? I was near the beach at Asilomar.

And so the sun set on another day.

Redwoods in the Mist

I was only vaguely aware of the Bear Creek Redwoods Open Space Preserve, still harboring a belief that it was a closed area. And this year it was closed—temporarily—until a few weeks ago. Heavy damage from last winter's storms (to Bear Creek Road, as well as in the Preserve) had finally been addressed.

My friends had hiked here many times in prior years; evidently it's been open to the public since 2019.

I scouted the parking lot last week. My friends had warned me that parking could be an issue, even on a weekday with schools back in session. There were only a couple of vehicles, but it was later in the day. Would we find the lot empty, because people weren't yet aware that the Preserve had re-opened? Or would it be packed with hikers eager for access after months of closure?

As it turned out, we nearly had the place to ourselves. And it was magical, today.

The fog thickenend and swirled around us, the higher we climbed. We followed the Alma Trail to the Redwood Springs Trail, completing a loop of some 5.3 miles. Given the fog, we opted not to extend our route to the Bear Creek Summit.

Save that for next time ...