Clear as Mud

Traversing mostly exposed terrain, we hoped to find mostly-dry trails.

We found enough mucky clay to cake our boots.

Climbing up toward Coyote Peak, we made good use of our trekking poles and were surprised to cross paths with a sure-footed couple using none—especially given that the dad was toting their baby.

When visibility is limited, focus on what's near. Too early in the season for flowers; rocks, moss, mushrooms, mud ... did I mention, mud?

Not that I'm complaining—hiking in a fleece vest over a lightweight woolen top. In January.

Beautiful in its own way, and beautifully quiet. I completed a six mile loop, with 952 feet of elevation gain.

When we finished, I scraped off as much mud as I could. (And was grateful that I'd developed a habit of swapping boots for street shoes before and after my hikes.) My experienced companions assured me that it would be easier to clean my boots right away, at home; that it would, in fact, be a bigger challenge once the mud dried. [Though, lunch came first!]

Flash of Color

Sometimes an ordinary, unremarkable bike ride takes a noteworthy turn.

As luck would have it, I needed to abbreviate today's route (20 miles, rather than the 27 I'd planned). But with little traffic on familiar roads, I could comfortably look here and there ... and up. I happened to be in the right spot at the right moment to capture a wee bit of iridescent cloud.

What I would have missed, had I chosen to skip this ride today!

The Hiking Club

An unusual event popped up on a local events calendar: A short hike led by someone from the county parks department, in conjunction with a visit to the local art museum (NUMU) to view an exhibition (The Hiking Club: A Vocabulary of Yearning). The artist (Linda Simmel) and the curator joined us for the hike and would later lead us through the exhibit, piece by piece, answering questions.

Given the advertised duration for the event, I knew the “hike” would be a short one. With rain in the forecast, I thought I might be the only person who would show up—and the hosts might wish I'd stayed home, like everyone else.

Ha! More than 20 people turned out. The group met at the museum and chatted over coffee, tea, and pastries before setting out.

Fittingly for a nature outing, we gathered near a different exhibit featuring embroidered renderings of endangered plants (the lost ones: iterations and murmurs, by Liz Harvey).

Rain didn't fall (nor did people fall) as we made our way along a sometimes-muddy, sometimes-uphill stretch of the Flume Trail before retracing our steps to the museum.

A grumpy old man came barreling down the trail and scowled “You can't block the trail!” Our guide rolled his eyes, and someone in the group quietly chuckled “Oh yes we can” as people politely stepped aside.

Our guide had suggested that we imagine the noise of the freeway as the sound of the ocean, instead; which, oddly enough, sort of works. He encouraged us to take in more of the world around us—advice that would certainly have benefited a certain grumpy old man. Our guide even shared a few magnifying glasses for getting a closer look at small things along the trail. Our group was clearly a mix of art lovers and nature lovers, and I was surprised at how engaged everyone was.

What I didn't expect from this event was to be culturally enriched. The artist focused on the techniques used to create the work, insisting that she doesn't work conceptually. But the people around me were adept at teasing out themes that had seemed hidden to the artist herself.

I wasn't the only one who saw a deeper meaning in The Wood, featuring a colorless, transparent outline of a woman in high heels striding toward, and merging with, a vibrant natural landscape.

A poem by Wendell Berry (The Peace of Wild Things) was placed next to one of the works.

For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

A Hopeful Hitchhiker

When the rain was falling again last night around 9 p.m., I fully expected that I would not join my companions for today's outing, having no desire to ride on slick roads.

Much to my surprise, the roads had largely dried by the time I woke up. It was also 34°F. [No excuses. Get dressed!]

Wisely, our leader changed the plan for today's ride, rather than risk slip-sliding across black ice on a frosty back road. [Ice, in the Bay Area? Yes, it happens.]

Luckily I glanced down at the bag on my rear rack before we took off: There was a (rather sluggish) yellowjacket! Perhaps clinging to the dark surface for some warmth? I certainly didn't expect to see one of these out on cold winter morning.

Sorry, I couldn't bring my little friend along for the ride—I'd rather not be stung unexpectedly, especially in the rear. More to the point, I'd simply rather not be stung at all. I coaxed the critter onto a twig and gently relocated it near some plants.

When we reached our coffee stop, I decided that a chocolate croissant fit the bill. It was still warm, the chocolate gooey!

I must say, I'm liking this routine: 29 miles, good conversation, and an indulgent treat.

Hello Kitty

It's rained, on and off, over the past few weeks. It doesn't take much for the grasses to start popping up, turning the hills green.

The day was clear (and chilly). When we started hiking, I was surprised how many ground squirrels were scampering about. No hawks overhead, missing out on an easy feast.

Our group was busy chatting when a ranger caught our attention. “Shhh,” she waved. “Bobcat!” she whispered.

We stopped in our tracks and saw the skulking feline pass through some scrub, and then were lucky enough to watch it after we rounded a bend.

Indifferent to our presence on the trail above, the cat was hunting the rodents. None were in sight there; maybe they knew enough to hunker down in their holes just then.

The ranger had also alerted us to another creature we'd encounter: photographers were on the hunt, and she asked that we not share where we'd seen the cat. She was irritated with them for venturing off the trails. “Mum's the word,” I nodded.

We crossed paths with two small groups. “What are you photographing?“ I asked. “Bobcats!” they replied. “Oh, good luck!” I smiled.

One had the biggest camera lens I'd ever seen, covered with a camouflage pattern. “How much does that weigh?“ I inquired, thinking I would be loath to hike any distance with such a rig. Not understanding my question, he replied “Twenty thousand.” [As in, dollars. Not what I asked but ... whoa.]

We saw another bobcat before we completed our 4.6-mile trek; odds are that the photographers got the shots they sought (far superior to mine). It was a thrill to watch the cats in action, compared with the fleeting glimpses I've caught over the years.

We chose this hike because the trails are exposed, lots of sunshine (and little mud) on a chilly day. The bobcats were an unexpected bonus.

Plenty of Sunshine

My last rose of the season:

My cycling pals are hardy souls, undaunted by the morning chill. I have the right winter gear; but left to my own devices, I would have opted for an early-afternoon ride.

I explored a detour to avoid an underpass on the Los Gatos Creek Trail that always made me nervous; last time I rode there, two cyclists came barreling down the other side (around a blind corner), just as I'd always feared. Survey says: The detour is worth it.

Our intrepid leader meandered through some neighborhoods I'd never visited before now (and others that were all too familiar, part of my former bike-to-work route). Amazingly, there is a house that is still under construction on one of those streets—for more than 11 years. (Google's Streetview images show it was likely early 2011 when the previous structure burned, and construction was underway in 2013.)

After lingering over our coffees and tea at the end of the ride, I tried a different route home (suggested by one of our group). Too. Much. Traffic. Won't try that one again.

Thirty-one miles for the day, and my first camellia bloom of the season:

My, oh, my, what a wonderful day!

Happy New Year?

One clear sign of New Year's Resolutions: Unfamiliar faces out for a jog.

As for me, well, January 1st seemed like a splendid day for a bike ride—once it warmed up.

Circling back, my plan was to include a short stretch of trail alongside Almaden Lake.

Surprise! The park was closed and gated off, which explained why I'd noticed the trail was empty on my outbound pass. It seemed a shame for such a popular park to be off-limits on a beautiful day that surely would have drawn many visitors. Happy New Year (not) from the city of San Jose!

First road debris of 2024:

To the motorists whose tires were spared: You're welcome.

Looking for a bright spot, I extened my loop (29 miles) to Vasona Lake County Park, which was open for all to enjoy. The Fantasy of Lights fixtures are still in place. Herewith, my hopeful wish for 2024: