Vacation 2009, Day Thirteen: To the Top

Today’s objectives were to climb Mt. Wittenburg, highest point on Point Reyes, and see the Arch Rock, whose imaginative name derives from the fact that it’s a rock just off the coast that looks a little like an arch. This was my longest, and last, hike of this vacation. Not particularly the best, but it was the most physically challenging.

As true of the last few days, this day started out fogged in, but it lifted around 9 or so and turned into another incredibly beautiful clear day. I’ve really lucked out on the weather; several Bay Area visits at different times of the year have shown that September and January are just about the best times to visit from a weather standpoint. Otherwise, you’re subject to high chances of unrelenting clammy, overcast weather. In other words, gloomy weather. Seattle is the same way; July through September are ok; the rest of the year can make you suicidal. This probably accounts for all the coffee and heroin consumption up there.

This hike starts at the main park visitor’s center, located in a really beautiful meadow and home to an incredible concentration of bees, gnats, and swarming flies. They really make a mockery of the picnic tables near the center, which is quite a shame because otherwise it would be a perfect area to picnic. If that’s a verb. So after “applying” (sunscreen), I headed out into the wilderness once again. Terry made what turned out to be an astute recommendation, to take the trail backwards from the way my hotel and at least one guidebook recommended. This trail has some very steep hill sections. Terry’s way took me uphill for about the first hour, and mostly downhill for the rest. Had I gone the other way, I’d have started out going relatively flat for the first two or three hours, but uphill the rest of the way until the end. This way I got the hard part out of the way while I was strongest and most hydrated.

As I mentioned, the first hour (about 2 miles) is an 1,800 foot gain in elevation climbing to the top of Mt. Wittenburg, the highest peak on the peninsula. Thankfully it goes through thick trees offering ample shade, because I was pouring sweat like [insert tasteless ethnic, gender, regional or college joke here]. It was pretty tough, despite the occasional cooling breezes. But after about an hour I made it to a clearing just before the top. I did go to the summit, only to find that its just a little clearing surrounded by some pine trees that completely block all views from the top. How do I know it was actually the summit? Well first, you have to go through this weird hall-like section, comprised of pine branch cover so thick it blocks out a lot of light. It made for a sort of walking through the hallway of the Wizard’s castle to see the Wizard of Oz-type effect. The other is that there were two US Geological Survey markers in the clearing, denoting an important survey mark. The only other place I can remember seeing these is in Lafayette Square in New Orleans, across the street from the federal courts building in one of the very oldest parts of the city. They should just clear all those trees out of there because they’re blocking an incredible view of Drake’s Bay. Uh, just kidding, tree huggers. Maybe we could relocate them somewhere else that doesn’t have enough trees. A tree relocation program. Like to Phoenix. So right there, all that effort to get to the top seemed a little wasted except as exercise.

From there, the trail joins the Sky Trail, which runs diagonally through the heart of the peninsula. I took it for some ways until it reaches a trail leading to the coast (the Woodland Valley trail). The Sky Trail ran through a number of clearings that finally did provide those great sea views I was hoping for. It also led through some impressive woods, including a substantial number of redwoods. The Woodland Valley trail ran though thicker and more primitive woods, as one would imagine, and the flies began appearing (and buzzing me) in greater numbers. I think the lack of much breeze let the flies have their way all day long. The Woodland Valley trail finally made it out of the woods (“step into the sun, step into the light”) revealing itself on one of those fantastic Marin County headlands sloping down to the ocean bluffs. In this case, the trail began a steep descent through some rocky ledges, and it was exactly at that point that my right ankle, in which I tore some tendons last summer, started acting up. I felt a knife-like pain shooting through the ankle and suddenly couldn’t put any weight on it. I hadn’t misstepped or anything obvious like that. It just got tired of walking I guess. After stretching it out and trying different ways of walking, it finally felt normal again when the trail leveled out a bit. As I was making the steep descent, limping along, I saw a black Elk scramble across the trail from above, and snapped a quick photo.

I then made it to the coast trail, which, as you can guess, goes along the coast. I was hoping it would be close enough to the water to pick up a strong breeze like yesterday, but no such luck. The section I was hiking, which led south along the coast, was just far enough inland that no breeze was had. Instead, I found myself, shoulder deep in more brush like yesterday. Above however were more headlands. A good number of redwoods were there, but were dead from what looked like fires. I’m not sure what spared the remainder of the forest, and the fire damage seemed limited to the lower elevations. It was a 3.5 mile hike from where I hit the Coast Trail to Arch Rock. I tried to eat lunch under the cooling shade of an enormous and old eucalyptus tree, but the flies were so bad I just had to move on. This trail was basically level, so I busted it as fast as I could to get to Arch Rock, where I assumed there’d be enough breeze to keep the flies away for me to eat. I made it in about a hour and a half, which is pretty quick even for me. And sure enough, the ledge jutting out into the ocean that gives you the view of Arch Rock did have a good deal of winds, thereby making it an ok lunch spot. Instead of flies, I had a single seagull perch himself just out of reach the entire time. He never tried to swoop in and take any food, but I’m sure he was waiting for me to stop watching. Arch Rock itself was nice, though not necessarily awe-inspiring, as depicted above. It was well worth the effort to reach it, however. While there, perched high above the Pacific, I noticed the water was unusually still and green. The rare calm day accounted for the lack of breeze (and the flies no doubt).

OK, so this was about four and a half hours in, and I needed to take another three mile segment to get back to the visitor’s center and my car. This was the Bear Valley Trail, which runs through what they call a “canyon.” Its really just some elevated rock that runs up to Bear Creek. The rock walls are lined with ferns and redwoods, giving it a sort of mini-Fern Canyon feel from up in Redwoods National Park. But here the trees cover the trail almost entirely, and the creek and the “canyon” walls are much smaller. Nonetheless, its relatively flat and made for the nicest part of the hike until, once again, my ankle started acting up. I brought a brace with me for just such an event, and had been taking it with me on each hike until today, when I forgot it. Some luck. The ankle pain hit right at the crest of a hill, and after I started walking downhill again it suddenly subsided. I took this as a sign that I’ve pushed my body too much these last few days, and resolved right there that tomorrow I’d take it easy.

I did finally make it back to the car, for a six and one-half hour hike of about 13 miles. Once getting back to the hotel, I put ice on my ankle, took a little nap, then wen to the Point Reyes Station House Café for dinner. This should have been nothing worth mentioning, but this place turned out to serve a really memorable dish of lamb osso bucco over creamy polenta. They use only organic ingredients and support local Marin County farmers, so the food itself was fresh and high quality. That’s probably more important than whatever the chef does with it. Though I’m no chef, I’m a great eater, and have always thought that the key to a good meal is getting good, fresh ingredients. No sauce ever made can hide a bad piece of meat or iffy fish. The bartender also regaled us with the tale of his proposal to his fiancée, which was kind of difficult to swallow, but that’s for another day.

Next-earthquakes, diners, lighthouses, and cruising.

Vacation 2009, Day Twelve: It Should Say "Spinal Tap" First, THEN "Puppet Show"

Well today was the assault on Tomales Point. Point Reyes basically is a triangle jutting out from the California coast north of San Francisco. Actually, to reveal my inner Star Trek geekishness, Point Reyes is shaped a little like the insignia for the starship Enterprise crew, you know, the bending over backwards triangle? Anyway, as you can see from this map, Tomales Point is the northernmost edge of the triangle, and today’s hike was from the historic Pierce Ranch north to the very end of the peninsula, which juts into Bodega Bay.

The day started off foggy, but around 9 it rolled back out to sea and for the rest of the day it was absolutely gorgeous weather. About 65-70, clear sun, with a constant breeze. This hotel (the Point Reyes Seashore Hotel) is pretty nice. Kind of a glorified motel actually, but they have nice furniture and settings, and the back courtyard is elegantly landscaped with lots of flowers (and looks down on a creek at the property’s edge). Breakfast was a carb fest reminiscent of the typical Argentine “hangover” breakfast-various forms of breads and fruits. No eggs! After racing back and forth to the Laundromat to clean enough clothes to make it the next three days, I headed out to Tomales Point, a 30 minute drive through the heart of the Peninsula. It started clear, but around midway a thick fog descended on the road, like it was Brigadoon and Cyd Charisse and 500 guys in kilts were about to surround me. Just as quickly, the fog lifted and it was clear again. That must be how Northern California rolls. I passed a number of dairy farms (Point Reyes is not only directly on the San Andreas Fault, it’s the epicenter of the Bay Area organic farming movement). Yeah, this romantic idea of dropping out of corporate/money culture and starting your own farm? Count me out. I can still smell these places about 48 hours later. Practicing law may be a prescription for an early heart attack, but at least it doesn’t smell bad at work. Usually.

The Tomales Point trailhead is located at the site of the historic Pierce Point Ranch, site of one of the largest dairy businesses in Marin County in the late 1800s and through the early 1900s. The Park Service has preserved the historic site, consisting of the main house, barn, creamery, tool building, chapel and a couple of other structures. It makes for an interesting 20 minute interpretative walk.

A sign at the trailhead warns about the endangered Tule Elk herds that live on the Point. It warns that these elk “need extended periods each day to graze, ruminate and rest,” so don’t harass them. Well no kidding. So do I. Do you think if I hung a sign outside my office door, or put in an automatic e-mail response saying "Chris Reeder needs extended periods to feed, think and rest," I’d get any reaction? I’m thinking not. I’ve tried everything else I can think of though, and nothing works.

The photos will do much more justice to the hike than this description. The first and last part of the hike (you go out and then come back) go through grassy hills without much tree or brush. All along the trail you have good Pacific views and I mentioned the near constant breeze. There’s a number of hills, but none terribly imposing until you pass the “Lower Pierce Ranch” site, which basically consists of a Monterey cypress grove. Shortly before that, however, I ran across two elk herds, the latter numbering about 40 to 50 elks, watering at stock tanks. They looked at me but otherwise ignored me and the few other hikers out on the trail this morning. Sure enough, they were mostly sitting around ruminating. I guess they were contemplating the meaning of life, or whether Christianity, Hinduism, Islam, or Judaism is the true religion…or maybe whether there’s any mountain lions ready to pounce. On the way back from the Point, I’d see two more herds larger than these first ones.

A short distance after the cypress trees, the Park Service doesn’t maintain the trail, so it becomes kind of helter skelter. And its mostly sand, so its hard to get good footing on uphill portions. Plus at this point, what appears to be some form of sage bush takes over the landscape, so you’re basically hiking on sand trails around sage bush until you reach the Point. The views are amazing the further you go. To the right, you can see Tomales Bay and the mainland. Ahead of you is Bodega Bay (as well as the town) and the entrance to Tomales Bay. To the left is the Pacific, and as you approach the point, some really interesting bluffs and ocean rocks below. I apparently interrupted a “sunbathing” European couple right at the Point itself. They were right there in the bushes and I almost stepped on them. These people were not that great to look at. Lets just say the frigid Latvian winters really don’t do much for the physique. The Point, however, was splendid. I took several photos and encourage you to look at those.

After having lunch right there at the land’s end, I turned around and hiked back from where I came, reaching the Pierce Farm at around 4:30 for a roughly five hour hike (9.7 miles or so roundtrip). When I got back, Kimberly and Taffy met me at the hotel. We got caught up briefly and then met Terry at the Olema Inn. This is a fantastic old hotel right across from my place, which has the best restaurant. We’ve eaten there a couple of times together on a past trip, but this time the Inn was under new management and has a new chef. We were interested to see what had changed. The dining room remains the same. On the other hand, the kitchen and service appear to be suffering kinks. They brought Kimberly a soup appetizer she didn’t order, and served me the wrong entrée. The food itself was still quite good and our waiter was friendly and well-informed. A pretty boisterous table of about six women (and a couple of men) were seated behind us, and as the night wore on (and the wine flowed), they broke out the marionettes. Yes, you read that right. The marionettes. It was the freaking “Lonely Goatherd” show right there behind us. Oh, and a couple of the women were dancing to the piped in music over the dining room speakers. Now, being from the People’s Republic of Austin, this is nothing. Unless people actually bring farm animals or start doing a rain dance, I hardly notice things like that any more. But I do have to admit, the puppets were a very creative touch. Props for originality in weirdness. Somewhere Frank Oz is thinking “God these people are annoying.” It was quite amusing watching Kimberly get more and more flustered by these people.

After dinner Kimberly and Terry returned home, while I walked across the street back to the hotel.

Next-a monster hike through the heart of the park.

Vacation 2009, Day Eleven: The Golden Road to Unlimited Devotion

Today I took one of the most famous drives in the country, the Pacific Coast Highway, from Leggette to Olema, California, virtually the entire leg north of San Francisco. It took most of the day, starting out of Klamath at 9:30, and arriving in Olema shortly before 8 p.m. It didn’t fail to impress, although let’s just say California is a much bigger state than I had in mind.

When I woke up this morning, it was crystal clear and on the cold side for the first time since I arrived. Its perfect weather, but I decided not to change plans and hang around. This reminds me of the time my friend Kimberly went to Hawaii and it rained every single day, and then on the ride to the airport to go home the skies cleared for the first time and she left in beautiful sunshine.

The first part of the drive, along US 101, is through something I read is called the “Lost Coast.” This is the Northern California coast between the Oregon border and the PCH. I understand for the most part why its lost. Its pretty remote from any sizable towns, and difficult to reach from the main highways. The first town you hit, Arcata, is a pit, as previously mentioned. It didn’t fail to disappoint as I drove through, with bad smells, ugly inlets, various urban type debris, and the like. Its as if though an entire town consisted of the stretch of US 59 between downtown Houston and the airport. Think of it; an entire town that looked like East Mount Houston drive. Yikes!

But shortly thereafter one goes through the Gold Rush port of Eureka. This is a somewhat larger near-city, that has a nicely preserved old downtown, several Victorian buildings, including the extremely ornate and attractive Ingomar Club. The more modern sections are relatively clean and the town appears much more prosperous and lively than anything I’ve seen the last few days. Driving further south one passes through the Humboldt Redwoods State Park. This appears to be more sizable than the park where I visited the last couple of days, although in reality its slightly smaller. More seems to be accessible from the highway, however. If one lives in the Bay Area, this park might be a little easier to visit. You could drive up the 101, visit the park, spend the night in Eureka, then come back the next morning and take another turn through the park on your way home. Or come home via the PCH.

Eventually, you reach Leggette, which is just a couple of stores and a gas station, where Route 1 begins. The first part of the PCH actually runs the some really attractive woods, making very twisting, tight turns for about 25 miles as it winds its way to the coastline. The mix of redwoods, eucalyptus, and cypress trees plays havoc with the light and shadows on a brilliant sunny day like today. It spills into the coast around Rockport where it basically heads south all the way to Muir Beach. The first town of any consequence is Fort Bragg, a fairly non-descript town with a few interesting pubs and shops along the highway, where a number of Mendocino workers and artisans live. Fort Bragg has its share of hitchhikers, panhandlers and vagrants, however, and has at least a touch of Arcata to it.

Shortly Fort Bragg, the fog has rolled in and driven out the sunny day I’d been enjoying up to that point. As I learned however, the fog and sun would battle one another all day, all the way down to Point Reyes. It would roll in and look like the Irish coast for about 10 miles, then just as suddenly I’d drive right into a clear sunny day. These changes were generally quite abrupt, occurring all along the way. You can even see ahead or behind where the fog has taken over but not reached your location yet. It was quite a show.

Several factors make the PCH quite a difficult drive. The road is fairly narrow and in most places the lane nearest the coast has almost no clearance; a steep drop is waiting on the other side of the road. It makes numerous hairpin turns, and if you’re going even slightly too fast, you could veer off a cliff, or into oncoming vehicles. Dozens of cyclists are also on the road, and if you go over a crest too quickly you could hit them before you knew it. Passing them often requires going into the oncoming lane, making any passes on curves out of the question. The scenery is nearly always spectacular, but enjoying it for any appreciable length of time risks veering out of your lane. Finally, the road runs through any number of small towns and hamlets, so pedestrians can come out of nowhere along the way and present their own obstacles. Nonetheless, you can appreciate the drive enough. With the top down, I could smell the surrounding country, which often meant I could smell the fragrant pine and eucalyptus trees, and the ocean breeze (reminding me of the Seinfeld episode where Kramer came up with a perfume that smelled like the beach).

After Fort Bragg, the next significant town is Mendocino. The Sir Douglas Quintet, famously led by Austin’s own Doug Sahm, had the hit “Mendocino” in the late 1960s. Mendocino started as a whaling town, with whaling ships from all over the world making calls, and whalers living in the town when not at sea. Much of the architecture echoes Nantucket’s gray, simple shingled houses. When whaling played out, the town thrived on the logging industry, which also played out. Of late, Mendocino has catered to the summer tourist trade, with lots of well-heeled shops, art galleries, quaint inns and B&Bs, and restaurants and bars. Its situated along the Mendocino Headlands, which resemble in small measure the larger Marin Headlands immediately north of San Francisco across the Golden Gate Bridge. This gives it impressive sea views and lots of interesting hikes and walking options. I got off the highway to drive around town a bit. On the September Tuesday afternoon I drove through, the main streets were full of visitors, parking spaces were difficult to find, and the town appeared hopping even though the summer season had officially ended. Such is the lure of this attractive town.

South of Mendocino, the highway runs through any number of smaller towns. One interesting place I did not visit was the Fort Ross State Historic Park. This was the site of an old Russian fort, built in the mid-1800s by Russian explorers. The original no longer exists, but the state has recreated the buildings on the same grounds.

Somewhere around here, ironically, I hear on the radio that the Ukraine has prohibited Elton John and his domestic partner from adopting an HIV-infected baby orphan, on grounds that he is too old (62) and does not have a sufficient family unit. Let me give you some background on orphanages in this part of the world, courtesy of my Dad’s mission experiences in nearby Moldova and Transnistria, also former Soviet Republics. Orphanages and mental asylums are about on par with one another and often orphanages house adults with either mental or physical disabilities. They generally are located far from the cities, so the orphans have little outside contact. Buildings generally are dilapidated at best. Meals are inadequate, as are winter clothes. Bathroom facilities are appalling and wholly unsanitary. Orphans have very little access to education. In short, the government basically warehouses these little children, barely keeps them alive, then turns them loose on the streets without any connections or chance for betterment when they grow up. So for this Ukrainian official to assert that this kind of life is preferable to life as an adopted child with extremely rich Elton John, albeit his age and situation may not be the norm for adoptive parents, really says a lot. It tells me that Sir Elton didn’t bribe this guy enough. Life in Elton John’s guest room is 100 times better than the average non-HIV infected person in the Ukraine. As for the age thing, why, Hugh Hefner has cared for young blonde girls at his home well past the age of 62, and no one’s complaining about their “mistreatment.” Hell, those girls get their own TV shows out of the deal. Elton, with whatever faults he may have, real or perceived, could surely give this little child a better life than what awaits in some Ukrainian orphanage.

South of Fort Ross lies the little town of Gualala, which is just north of the Sea Ranch development. Those of you who read this blog closely will know that the Sea Ranch is a residential/commercial development where Kimberly and Terry will often rent a small house, or bring other friends for a weekend trip. I’ve written before its an extremely peaceful place with inspirational ocean views, and with numerous interesting and challenging hiking trails. It was fun to go through there again.

South of Sea Ranch all the way past Jenner, the road becomes much more twisting and winding, making driving even more difficult. As I headed into Sonoma County, however, the road actually was above a fog bank sitting right on the coastline with a brilliant late afternoon sun beating down on top of it. This resulted in the above photo , which clearly is the shot of the entire trip. I timed it perfectly, and just pointed the camera and clicked. No photography class needed for that one.

Again, several small little towns are situated between Sea Ranch and the next town of note, Bodega Bay. Alfred Hitchcock made The Birds in Bodega Bay, so it has something of a familiarity to it. Otherwise, however, its just a little bit bigger small town along the coast.

South of Bodega Bay, the land changes into rolling, grassy hills, with few trees. It resembles much of the remainder of Marin County just a bit down the coast. Farming takes over in this area, with nearly every property having grazing cattle or sheep. This area is still attractive, but not nearly as scenic. More importantly, you lose the coast until the road hits Tomales Bay. This is near the beginning of Point Reyes. As I shall describe tomorrow, Point Reyes basically is a triangular peninsula jutting out from the mainland right along the San Andreas Fault north of San Francisco. So the PCH runs along the bay side right into Point Reyes Station and Olema, where I’m staying as I write this. Darkness fell quickly as I left Bodega Bay. So too did my gas needle. I coasted on fumes, with white knuckles on the steering wheel, all the way into Point Reyes Station where I made it to the one gas station in the entire area a little bit before it closed. These two factors combined to ruin what would otherwise have been an extremely scenic and enjoyable drive along the bay coast, enhanced by getting to listen to one of the finest baseball play-by-play announcers, Jon Miller, calling the Giants-Rockies game on KNBR radio.

That made for an extremely long travel day. It was dark when I arrived at the hotel, which I’ll describe in tomorrow’s post. The remainder of this night was just settling in and getting something to eat, and fighting with the hotel’s internet.

Next-Tomales Point

Vacation 2009, Day Ten: Names, Hills, Rocks, Rivers, Sunsets and Shortcuts

Today was a bit of a letdown, because the particular section of the park where I hiked was not nearly as insular and other-worldly as yesterday. Had I gone to this area first instead, I’m sure I’d have enjoyed it immensely. As it was, it was a bit of a comedown from yesterday’s amazing spectactle

It rained through the night. The good news is that when I got ready for bed, the dogs weren’t barking. The bad news is some guy was hurling rather loudly instead, for at least 20 minutes. It was what Wayne Campbell (of Wayne’s World fame) would call “peristaltic vomiting.” A really special vacation moment. Oh, and silver lining: once the guy stopped, the dogs started barking again. Tomorrow night it will probably be road construction, or an elk orgy, or some native fire-walking ritual. So I had no choice but to shut the windows, and get hot during the night. And not the good kind of heat in the night either. It was still drizzling in the morning, and the fog/mist would stick around til mid afternoon.

Today’s hike was north of where I’m staying, closer to Crescent City, CA, the last town of any real size before the Oregon border. The object is the “Stout Grove” in Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park, which the innkeeper has assured me is a really attractive spot for redwoods. “Jedediah” reminds me of this apparent trend I’ve noticed lately among 20ish suburban white couples going to these modern “relaxed” churches to give their kids obscure bible names, like “Caleb” or “Ezra.” 1876 called, it wants its names back. It’s just so FLDS or Branch Davidian. Like the young ones should be wearing scarves and looking for Uncle Dad somewhere. You’re not getting into heaven any faster by sticking your kids with one of these names, but you are making it a lot more certain your kid will get pummeled at recess. This is really just the new wave Protestant church version of the Hollywood kid name, or their version of “Apple,” or “Lourdes,” or “Chastity.” What’s wrong with the classics, like “Chris,” or “Mark,” or “John”? Or “George Foreman”? This is on par with giving your kid a first name that’s really a last name, like “Hunter” or “Austin.” Hey, you’re not in a soap opera, and neither is your kid. Its also about as bad as creative spellings of actual names: “Krystal,” or “Klohe.” Its like Sarah Jessica Parker’s character in LA Story, Sandee (spelled SanDeE, with the last “e” having two dots over it).

So. Anyway.

Today’s hike to the Stout Grove started in the drizzle, which cleared up just a bit into the hike. The Stout Grove is located near the Smith River, which runs right through the middle of the park. There’s a half mile loop trail that runs through the grove, with trails leading off that loop. The grove itself is quite lovely. Tall, old growth redwoods, but fewer in number. It was a much smaller area than yesterday’s hike, though, so it lacked that closed-in, insular feeling. Also, as the sun came out, sunlight hit the trees above and later in the day cast some interesting shadows and light rays. Several people were out on the trail, and even more were driving on the main road leading through the park. Quite interesting for a Monday at a place in the middle of nowhere.

I first took the River trail off of the loop, which extends for nearly a mile up the Smith River. Unfortunately, it really didn’t offer any views of the river, or access to the river, so I did something parks always tell you not to-I cut off the trail and made it to the river. The “river” consisted of a medium-size stream running over hundreds of thousands of rocks of all sizes. Maybe in the spring with snow melt there’s a lot more water, but for now, the river wasn’t very imposing. I sputtered around for a bit, enjoying the view of the treeline and bluffs above, lined with redwoods, and took in the views before finishing the trail. Then, after eating lunch, I tried to take the Mill Creek trail for a distance. This is a smallish creek feeding into the river, and was lined with somewhat high banks, although not nearly as high or narrow as Fern Canyon from yesterday. The “trail,” however, did not really exist. There was no trail in the sense of something having been laid out that hikers can follow. Essentially, the trail was just the river stream, which at many points could not be followed without getting up to knee deep in the water. Personally, I wouldn’t have minded that, but I’m extremely wary of blisters anyway, so immersing my boots just doesn’t make sense. But try as I might, I splashed twice trying to maneuver around the creek, so I bagged that trail after about 45 minutes.

After trying my best to wring creek water out of my boots and socks, I drove a bit and hit something called the Bald Hills trail. This trail led south and generally followed the river. The trailhead marker warned of strenuous and difficult conditions on the way out, with an 1,800’ elevation gain. Sure enough, the trail was more like doing the stairmaster than hiking along a trail. Although it led through a redwood forest, this was a “new growth” or replanted section, meaning that the redwoods were not nearly as imposing, and other trees such as maples (whose leaves were beginning to turn) have intermingled with the redwoods. There was much more open space so this section didn’t have that same “Land That Time Forgot” quality as yesterday. So really it was just like walking through the woods. Woods with tall trees mind you, but the woods nonetheless. As I wrote earlier, had I not been through the Prairie Creek park yesterday, I’m sure this park would have been much more impressive. Having done so, today just wasn’t as special.

I’d brought a change of clothes so I could go out to dinner later in Crescent City, so on the drive into town I found a place to change, and got to town around 6:30. Figuring it was still a bit early to eat, I drove around town a bit and found something labeled as a “scenic drive.” Sure enough, it led me to a fairly long road right next to the water, giving great views of the shore and some of the large rocks out in the water. The street was of course lined with surprisingly small and modest homes facing the ocean. Although I’m sure these houses are quite expensive, their remoteness from Portland or San Francisco means they can’t be anywhere near as expensive as further down the coast. There were several points to stop and enjoy the scenery, and at Fort George Point, I could hear seals barking on the rocks below. I stayed until sunset and got some great pictures, which hopefully one day I’ll be able to post.

Crescent City in some ways reminds me of Galveston: a town whose glory days are long since passed but it keeps hanging on, trying to find some reason to justify its continued existence. Crescent City came into prominence as a port town to ship logs down the coast. When the lumber industry dried up (due to the forests playing out and Congress’ creation of the national park), there was nothing left but tourism. Some of the news accounts suggests the people here aren’t exactly thrilled about the parks in their midst. They recall the glory days of mowing down the forests. Likewise, Galveston hasn’t had any real purpose since all the commercial interests fled to Houston after the 1900 storm. For the most part, shipping goes to Houston, not Galveston. The town tries to get its share of Houston tourists, but after Ike that may be problematic. Plus, rising incomes have given Houstonians more vacation options than just driving to Galveston. Each city has a kind of bleak feel. In Crescent City, its all the hitchhikers, panhandlers, and guys walking around without shirts. But they do have a Wal-Mart!

Next-the Pacific Coast Highway!

Posting problems

The place I'm staying in Point Reyes appears to have the world's worst internet connection in the world, so the posting is going to be delayed. I'm doing this on a blackberry, but that's impractical for one of my "War and Peace" epic posts. Will try to get this fixed ASAP. Also affecting photo posting. Stay tuned.

Vacation 2009, Day Nine: Another World

Back to the trail elevation report.

Last night when I went to bed I heard several dogs barking loudly and incessantly. This morning, at 6:30, they were back at it. What a great way to wake up. Early. On vacation.

If you're looking for a quiet spot at the Requa Inn, however, you might try the dining room. Four couples are sitting at four different tables, yet no one is saying a word to each other. So while I'm traveling alone, apparently I'm not missing out on any great conversations.

The Requa Inn otherwise is pretty nice. It was built in 1914, as I think I wrote yesterday, yet has been updated with most modern conveniences. One thing it lacks is sinks where the hot and cold water come out of the same spout. The last time I saw this was at Kathy Farroba's house in Wellington, NZ. Before that, at my Grandmother's house in Galena Park. The Inn is at the mouth of the Klamath River, in Klamath, CA. On the opposite bank is a forested rise, part of the national park. The Inn has extensive antique furnishings, and a sort of Laura Ashley design concept. My room has lace curtains and a white teddy bear on the bed. A sort of RV/tent camp is located just a bit up the river, and on Sunday when I passed by it looked like some sort of modern-day Okie transit camp, a la Grapes of Wrath. At breakfast, an older lady came up to me and introduced herself and said she's from Lakeway, and she and her husband were also staying at the Inn (the front desk has a sign that lists the towns from which all that night's guests come, so she knew there was someone from Austin and asked the clerk). They were in Point Reyes (she recommended visiting Cowgirl Creamery-I enthusiastically agreed as Kimberly and Terry have taken me there once already). They're going on to Oregon, then coming back to Napa, where they're going to French Laundry. I felt so sophisticated to be able to tell her "you're going to love it!" Then, her husband came over and introduced himself and we talked for a bit about our trips. This proves once again, there's no people like Texans (or Louisianians). No matter where you run into each other, you've got something in common, in a way that two people from New Jersey or Rhode Island don't. Texas is the best. And Louisiana.

Today I basically hiked in the Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park from the visitor's center to the ocean, along "Fern Canyon," then back along a creek to the visitor's center. Prairie Creek is one of the constituent parks making up the Redwoods National and State Parks. As I learned the next day, its the superior portion of the complex. Without waxing eloquently again on every detail about redwoods, here's some more impressions. The park was "other worldly." With the moss, ferns, slugs, spiders, chirping birds, towering redwoods, fallen and crashed redwoods, and other ground cover, and all of it blocking light, I expected a tyrannosaurus rex or brontosaurus to plod by any second, or a pterodactyl to swoop down from the sky, or a mastodon to lumber along. It had a distinct million years ago in the primordial ooze feel to it. No traffic sounds, no one talking, no bikes whizzing by, no dogs barking, no teenagers giggling, no slobs trying to figure out how to make it to the Cinnabon. You feel concealed within a closed world, somewhere else in time or place, without cities, lawsuits, elections, defective products, credit reports, and all the other trappings of our modern civilization. Its the most contained place I've ever been.

Hike wise, today's hike was about six hours, much of it through drizzle that started when I made it to the beach. It started out clear and somewhat sunny, prompting me to take dozens of photos. For much of the hike, I was climbing uphill (and carrying a pack). But as I approached the shoreline the trail went downhill, as you'd expect. Not long after I made it to the beach and started eating lunch, the fog and then clouds started rolling in quickly. I figured I'd better get back under the tree canopy quickly, so I cut lunch short and ate while hiking over to Fern Canyon. This is a really interesting area in an extremely interesting park. It literally is a fern-covered canyon through which a creek runs to the sea, cutting into the park for almost a mile. Its pictured above. Hard to say how high the canyon walls are, but you can get an idea from comparing to the man in the photo. After Fern Canyon, I followed a trail back to visitor's center, along the same creek that later runs through Fern Canyon. The drizzle continued and actually picked up on the way back. It made a really peaceful sound as the drops hit the broad leafed plants on the forest floor, a rushing sound that along with the constant creek sound was almost like a natural static. Boy did it make me have to use the bathroom every 15 minutes. (Sorry for that detail, but hey...).

Again, words can't do justice to this place, not even photos. You really have to be there, and experience the solitude and the majesty of the place firsthand. To give you some idea, parts of Jurassic Park 2 were filmed here, and Redwoods National Park was Endor in Return of the Jedi. You know, the forest planet where those creepy Ewoks lived.

Next-day two in the redwoods, and sunset hunting

Goodbye Patrick Swayze

Interrupting the ongoing road and trail elevation and tree and bird species reports to say a few words about Patrick Swayze, who as you probably know passed away today at the young age of 57 from pancreatic cancer. This year's Summer of Death claims another victim.

Swayze was one of those few movie actors that you liked no matter what the role or movie. While a lot of television actors can connect with the TV audience like that, few movie actors do. Its something about the medium. But a few movie actors bridge that gap. James Garner is probably most known, though he was more of a television actor later in his career. Travolta is another. Something about Patrick Swayze was just appealing on a personal level. Part of it may have been that he never turned into a douche like a lot of other action stars. He never jumped up and down on Oprah's couch. He never went on Arsenio and complained about the President or saving the whales. And he didn't trade in his wife for some 20 year old on the party circuit. He also readily poked holes in the image. He starred as a drag queen in "To Wong Foo," and famously starred with Chris Farley in the Saturday Night Live Chippendale's dance-off sketch. He may not have been the greatest actor of all time (signed having about three different accents in Dirty Dancing, sometimes in the same sentence). He may have been in some pretty horrible movies and been forced to slog through some highly dubious lines ("Nobody puts Baby in a corner!" or "Pain don't hurt"). But he always sold it, and you always liked him.

Maybe less well known is that Swayze, and wife Lisa Niemi, are lifelong Houstonians. Unlike stars who hit it big, he stayed connected with Houston and was always active in numerous Houston charities and other pursuits.

Swayze first hit it big in Dirty Dancing, but never really pursued roles featuring his amazing dancing talents thereafter. Swayze started in the Joffrey Ballet Company in 1972. He starred in a Broadway production of Grease, and of course you saw him dance in Dirty Dancing. He had an amazing gift for dance.

And in his final days, he fought pancreatic cancer doggedly, never giving up, continuing to make future plans and even starring in a TV series, The Beast.

So goodbye Patrick Swayze. You left far too soon.

WOLVERINES!!!