I wouldn't come home early from a backpacking trip for any Tom, Dick or Harry. Well, maybe for Tom. But for Mike, especially to meet him for the first time, no question!
Mike was visiting Rachel from Chicago, where he lives. Rachel often goes to visit Mike in Chicago from San Francisco, where she lives. These days, there's quite a lot of visiting going on, mostly SF to Chicago, since Rachel can take her work with her. So, Rachel thought it would be great if we got to visit with Mike, too, when he came in this direction.
He did come to SF, last week, just as I was leaving for the mountains. But, just a few hours after I got home on Sunday evening, they came to visit us for a couple of days.
We like him. Good signs are that he likes NPR (knew about Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me! and where they tape the shows!), and has a sweet tooth. Oh, and not once did I see him roll his eyes if I said something goofy. And he's funny and laughs a lot, and seems very gentle and sincere. He brought us some honey from his dad's apiary and a sweet double cd of The New Grass Revival from the early days, 1977. Seriously.
It was fun getting to know him a little bit. He and a partner have a commercial contracting business in Chicago. And he's also a musician. You name it, he plays it, but it starts with the drums. Looking forward to hearing some of his recordings one of these days, which he can make in his own studio at home.
Here are a few photos Mike and Rachel were patient enough to pose for so you can see how cute. They had to leave Tuesday so he could catch a plane back to Chicago. And now we miss him, too. That's another good sign.
Our campsite was at a bit under 10,000 ft. We make a nice little compound, four little tents, around a fire pit and "kitchen" area. John, being not only a master fish-outsmarter, also builds a very fine campfire. Noel seems to enjoy keeping us all supplied with filtered water, and Clay has prepared the food supply, so he's the chef and my job is to keep my stove from exploding. I was only partially successful. But at least I did get it to work. Last year, it wouldn't. With the new parts I'd bought since, it worked usually only after a giant flare-up. No real harm done. Who needs arm hair?
Saturday, we decided to day-hike five-or six-hundred feet higher to see the other three lakes in the system--Harvey, Hooper and Neil. All the lakes are at different levels, all with at least one side against dramatic vertical rock rising thousands more feet. Neil, at the top, was shallow, with no fish, but lovely and warm enough to wade. Wildflowers were in full bloom and we munched our lunch at the edge under the glaciers. Except for John, who doesn't care about eating when there are fish to trick. He releases them all, by the way (except for the five delicious specimens we ate for dinner the second night). They look fine as they swim off, but I can't help but think that they're a bit embarrassed and resentful. Wiser, for sure.
We climbed back down to camp (without John, who--well, you know) and rested a little bit. Then it was time for frisbee golf, dinner, and more frisbee golf. We each, in turn, choose a "tee box" from which to launch, some far-off tree or rock or other natural feature as the "hole" to hit, decide par, and then play golf. I suck. I suppose it would help if I threw a frisbee more than once a year. But I love to play and they are kind enough not to laugh too much! Noel is most consistent and won both games this year. Clay and John do very well, also. Even with the mulligan I won with the ringer at the horseshoe pit, I came in way over par. But I had a few nice shots. And a bunch of fun. We play til dark.
Nights are magical. Super-bright stars, perfect mirror of a lake, beautiful fire and, often, popcorn and hot chocolate. Great company.
The original plan had been to stay in the backcountry three nights, and come out and drive home on the fourth day. But in the meantime, I'd found out that Rachel had a visitor from Chicago around the same time--Mike, a Person of Special Interest--whom Tom and I had not yet met. It would give me almost two days with them at our house, instead of less than one, if I could get home a day early. When I mentioned that I would try to hike out by myself on Sunday morning, suddenly, everyone thought that it was a good plan for themselves, as well.
So we did. Our knees and ankles took a pounding on and off the slippery trail, and we had forgotten to enter the exact coordinates of the trailhead on our gps's, so we floundered just a bit at the end (the actual trail being so hard to follow), but we came down in half the time.
We loaded up and drove the two Subies (ours and Clay's) down the mountain to a tiny place at the foot of the hills called Prather, from where our two vehicles would have to take different routes home. But there was a little cafe at the corner, where, dirty and beat-up, we went in and had hot sandwiches and french fries to mark the end of this year's adventure.
Seriously. Better companions for an adventure of any kind you will not find. Funny and smart and kind and crazy, the lot of them. Clay, the Adventure Architect, crafts a wondrous and memorable experience every time. I can barely even remember the misery...Thanks again, guys!!
So, we drove our separate ways.
Later that evening (next)...
Ever been accused of not having "sense enough to quit"? This last weekend, I suppose, could have been a classic case for me.
It was time for our somewhat-annual backpacking trip. By "our", I mean "not including Tom", who prides himself, and deservedly so, on having quite a lot of sense about most things. Especially backpacking, as in not doing it. So, for many years now, I have found others with whom to share my certain lack of logic about having fun while in quite a bit of pain and discomfort. Those others this year, as in most years, are, by name, Clay, Noel and John, good friends from San Diego. For Noel, backpacking is a newer experience--the last couple of years--but he's been a part of other infamously painful expeditions, specifically our successful assault of Mt Whitney in '06 and our spectacularly UNsuccessful attempt a few years earlier to get from the top of Mt Whitney to Badwater in Death Valley on foot/bicycle in, um, one day, sunrise to sunset ("The Diabolical Descent"). Yeah. We know. Can't be done. We figured that out, eventually, finally finding that aforementioned sense.
Our intrepid leader and planner-in-chief of all our adventures through the years has been Clay. We follow Clay-the-State-Parks-Big Kahuna-and-Experienced-Adventure-Planner into any wilderness, any plan, without question. I can't deny, however, that there have been specific moments when we've wondered why he commands our blind allegiance. Friday, for instance.
The schedule was different, this time. On Wednesday of last week, we met (I from the up here, they from San Diego) in a condo at Huntington Lake, a gorgeous place a couple of hours east of Fresno (past Shaver Lake) in the Sierras. At 7300 feet or so, Clay figured it would help us acclimate (to avoid another "Deer Lake scenario"--where, as you might guess, we nearly killed ourselves (again) getting to, well, Deer Lake) if we spent a couple of nights before of the climb at altitude.
It was cool! We watched movies (on a DVD player that had its own opinions about which ones we should watch), took a great car trip to some hot springs and an Edison Lakeside resort (where I scored the only ringer in a 5-minute game of horseshoes), enjoyed Clay's homemade pizza, went to a nice restaurant for dinner, and, generally, had a fabulous time.
Friday morning we drove the hour-and-some over rough, single track road (go Subies!) to the trail head near Florence Lake. The first clue that this might be a challenging journey should have been that we couldn't find the the actual trail. We knew it was somewhere nearby (there was an official marker), but it certainly wasn't obvious. Fully loaded (my pack was 45#+), we clambered through a stream, over rocks and boulders and pushed through thick manzanita, finally to find something sort of trail-ish. At least three of us in the group are pretty experienced trail-followers. It's a bad sign to keep losing the trail, which we did repeatedly.
So, our route turned out to be 6 hours of mostly straight Up (approx. 3000 ft), over loose rock and through thick brush, on-the-bad-trail and off, and generally torture. Guess who was the caboose of the group. Yup. The boys are, not surprisingly, all stronger and in better shape, for one thing. I have more chub on one thigh than they have on their whole bodies combined. They run or walk many miles every day. My training consists mostly of walking to get the paper every morning. I may need to step it up a bit. But, we all struggled. When Iron-Mountain-Goat John starts to look a bit strained (and even utter a few words of fatigue!), we all know we have permission to feel like we're about to die. While we didn't actually mention the word "mutiny", there were other sentiments expressed that implied that we wondered what Clay had been thinking when he'd planned this thing.
Turns out, it was all about the fish. John is an Avid Fisherman (that should be in all caps, actually). John has a hard time staying in the car when we pass the smallest body of water. He'll leap out, fishing pole and tackle flying, if we stop for even a photo or two. We've thought about strapping him in. Our last trip, the lakes were all sterile and only yielded one fish for John and one for Dave. They handled it bravely, but were visibly disappointed. So, Clay had heard that the Hooper Lakes were full of fish. And that hardly anyone ever went there. Little wonder.
We arrived, at last, skinned-up, mosquito-bitten and completely exhausted, at Gordon Lake, the first of the group of four. We WOULD trudge no further to check out other sites at the other lakes. Gordon was our friend. But, it was a wonderful campsite, and after an hour or so (even John had to rest a bit before throwing his first line into the lake!), a miracle began to take place. As with childbirth, the joy of the result, in this case, the beauty of the high country, overcomes the pain of the process.
It's the kind of euphoria you might feel when someone stops beating your head with a baseball bat. (The picture at right is uncharacteristically-pooped John. That mountain in the background is our ultimate destination.)
Next, more pics and the answer to the question: what should we do the day after we almost killed ourselves hiking?
Last Wed, Rachel needed a change of scenery. She works remotely on her laptop/Blackberry from anywhere she happens to be, which is usually in her cute apartment with a nice view of San Francisco. But, it's not summer in the City--that was a few weeks in the spring--and so she borrowed a car and hung out with us for a few days. Dylan came out on Thursday. That meant that I was the only one in the house, for a couple of days, not hunched in front of a laptop.
We found time for a bit of fun at Thursday Market night in Grass Valley, munching street food and buying veggies to a varied musical background. Some of the time was spent brainstorming with Dylan about the marketing of his business.
Things are going well, but there are still a few details to iron out.
He had to return, (hauling a bunch of our scrap wood to spin into amazing art-furniture, Rumplestiltskin-like) Friday evening, but Rachel stayed on a little longer. We found some fun food at Matteo's Public-a new establishment in Nevada City-absorbing the cool night on the patio after a very unusual hot day (98) up here in the foothills.
On Sunday, we drove back to SF with Rachel to pick up the Sube (which Dylan needed to haul the wood). Rachel went off to join some friends for a hike and we hooked up with Dylan and Emi for brunch. 
From there, we made our way home again. I've said it before a number of times, but we are so happy to live close enough to the kids to see them so often. Yet it doesn't feel quite like we're hovering--does it? I don't think so.
Anyway, tomorrow (Wed) I'm off to the mountains just north of King's Canyon NP where I'll join good friends Clay, Noel and John for another backpacking adventure for a few days. So I need to get back to my gear-gathering. Stay tuned...
I drove to San Francisco last Friday to have brunch with Rachel and her friend, Megan. Oh, and also to drop off the Sube to Dylan, who needed it for a few days of transporting large objects. It was fun, but noonish I had to turn around and find my way home (or near it) without a car.
Not that I'm an authority on the subject of public transportation. I'm more of an expert, having lived all my life in Southern California (with a bit of time in rural Colorado), on the lack of it. 
RANT ALERT!!!
I've heard all the reasons. There are myriad historical, sociological, anthropological, geographical and political (and whatever other "-al") explanations as to why there is such a dearth of good public transport options in most areas of Caleeforneeya (and the rest of west). Funding (the "financi-al") is only the manifestion of priorities, and isn't, in an of itself, a reason.
So, to follow two hours-driving time along I-80 (I don't demand door-to-door-just the interstate part of the journey) by Amtrak last Friday, took four. There is track the whole way. Many routes on Amtrak, like this one, are segmented train/bus service. One I traveled several years ago from San Diego to Fresno took all day: train/bus/train. It's not Amtrak's fault. The blame lies with us, the short-sighted, car-happy public. Just sayin'.
END ALERT
Since we're on the subject of transportation, the Nevada County airport is about two miles from us, as the Cessna flies, though it's about 15 minutes to drive. And that little airport became a beehive of activity on Saturday for the annual air show. Oddly, having lived near Miramar (of Top Gun fame) for so many years, where the air shows are huge and full of Blue Angels among other spectacles, we've never attended such an event.
I think we were both surprised about how much fun it was to look at all the old war planes (well, sobering, too), the colorful vintage aircraft, the sleek experimental airplanes, the CalFire scout planes and water-bombers, many of them doing fly-bys in turn, and more! We even loved the amazing eagle-sized radio-controlled hobby planes (like honeybees among the condors). I've always thought it would be quite a thrill to know how to fly a small plane, but it's never been, say, very practical to think about it too much. There were helicopters, ultra-lights (now THERE'S some fun!!) and micro vehicles (three-wheeled), made by Messerschmidt and BMW. And, this being Nevada County, at every event one can always plan to see lovely vintage cars and/or belly dancers. The dancers were conspicuously absent, but there were some beautiful old cars. And, now that we're getting a bit acquainted, at most events we encounter a few folks we know, which is fun.
Happy traveling!
I wouldn't come home early from a backpacking trip for any Tom, Dick or Harry. Well, maybe for Tom. But for Mike, especially to meet him for the first time, no question!
