Yes, I used an outhouse on my wedding night...

... and lived to tell the tale. Derek and I were married on July 20 at the Alameda County Clerk-Recorder's Office in Oakland, and then headed up to Calaveras Big Trees State Park for our honeymoon. We stayed just two nights and saw so many amazing sights. Someday we will have to go back and see more.

After the wedding ceremony, we took our sweet time getting our stuff packed up and ready to go, stopping at Subway for a shared footlong sandwich, etc. By the time we left the Bay Area, it was about 4:30 pm, so we hit rush hour traffic. Otherwise it was a lovely drive through the rolling Sierra foothills. Also, I love the fact that California has a town called Copperopolis. Isn't that a fun word to say? Cop-per-o-po-lis. Yeah.

By the time we finally arrived in Arnold, it was starting to get dark. We turned off of Highway 4 onto a side road, which turned out to be the wrong way and ended up lost for a good 20 minutes or so (thanks, Google Maps). Finally we pulled over and asked a woman standing along the side of the road talking on her cell phone (which mystifies me still, since AT&T gave me absolutely no reception up there), who told us to stay on Highway 4.

We found the park easily after that, but by that time it was really starting to get dark, and there wasn't anyone in the kiosk at the park entrance. The map of the park gave no inkling of where our campsite, "Beaver," might be. So, we started driving around looking for it. Beaver is an "Environmental Campsite," meaning you have to park your car up to a quarter mile from the site and hike in. In exchange for the serenity of a secluded site, you get... no running water. I was initially a little upset when I realized this, but the park is so incredible that I couldn't be cranky for long.

Big Trees is absolutely awe-inspiring. The Stanislaus River runs through it, creating a dramatic view as you drive through the park. Even in my travel-weary state I found it captivating. We spent a good half hour driving around the park, which is about 8 miles from end to end. Anywhere we saw a sign for an environmental campsite, we stopped, hiked in, and did not find our assigned site. This is my sole complaint about this park: Why can't they list the names of the campsites in the parking area, so campers don't have to walk all the way in only to find out their site isn't there? Also, the sites need to be listed on the park map. It's a teeny, tiny, bone to pick given the utter majesty and splendor of Big Trees. But we were tired, hungry, and it was almost dark. And it was our wedding night, goshdarnit. Oh, and we were being seriously chewed up by mosquitoes! I was absolutely miserable at that point, scratching and slapping at myself and trying to dig through all the camping equipment to find the bug repellent. Never did find it, by the way. I was on the verge of tears and remember saying something to Derek like, "I want to sleep in a bed on my wedding night," and suggesting we drive back into town and see about spending the night in an inn there, with a bed and indoor plumbing and everything. I'm glad we didn't.

Eventually we found Beaver Creek, and based on the name we figured the Beaver site must be somewhere nearby. Makes sense, right? Well, we never did find it. But we did find a site named "White Fir" which seemed to be vacant. At this point we were carrying flashlights because the sun had finally gone down, and we decided to set up camp there for the night and explain to the rangers what had happened the next morning. We made a fire to keep the mosquitoes away, set up the tent in the dark and started cooking. We must have started eating our Boca burgers and corn somewhere around 10:00 pm. At some point during our meal, I saw two eyes glowing in the dark just behind "our" outhouse. I started to panic, remembering all the signs I'd seen earlier about bears and mountain lions. Derek grabbed the flashlight and revealed the terrifying creature: a deer. Yeah, I was just a little on edge after not being able to find our campsite!

The next morning we awoke to find that by daylight, our campsite was indeed beautiful. It was truly a joy to open my eyes at daybreak and hear Beaver Creek burbling along nearby. The environmental campsites are remote enough that it felt like we had the whole park to ourselves. I don't think we saw any other humans walk by our site during the two days we were there. We passed the time by exploring the impressive Sequoia trees (the "big trees" the park is named for). Many were so big we could even walk through them!

My husband inside a Giant Sequoia tree

We also spent time soaking in a calm part of the Stanislaus river. The water was deliciously cool, even in July. At a wilder part of the river, I tossed my bridal bouquet into a swift-moving current and silently made a wish as the roses and rosemary began their long journey to the Pacific Ocean.


To sum up, despite the initial frustrations we experienced, Calaveras Big Trees was a magical experience for our honeymoon. There is no place more sacred to me than being in the wilderness with few people around. Spending time in this secluded spot with my new husband was truly a blessing.

Camping in October! I love California!

A couple of weeks ago, Derek and I went camping at New Brighton State Beach in Capitola. Initially I'd been worried about the weather, thinking the nights would be chilly on the coast during mid-October. But I was proved wrong- we were walking around in swimsuits and even got in the water without much fuss. (In fact, we even got in the water in Santa Cruz this past weekend- October 25. This state ROCKS!)

The campsites were nice. The ones along the bluff overlooking the beach are absolutely gorgeous, and for that reason need to be reserved months in advance. Since we booked our site about two days before our arrival, we had a non-beach view. We were in site #7, a partially shaded area with pine trees and blackberries, much to Derek's delight, though we never got around to eating any.

A few sites down was the camp host, where firewood was for sale. After setting up our tent we took a walk over there to buy some wood. As we were paying, our neighbor across the way came bicycling over to us, all out of breath.

"Hey, are you guys in site number 7?" We nodded.

"Well, just wanted to let you know that a branch fell on your tent." We thanked him for letting us know. In my head I'm thinking, OK, so a branch fell on the tent. No big deal. We'll pick it up and move it, no problem. We walked back to our campsite relatively unconcerned.

Upon arrival, though, we realized that a very BIG branch had fallen on our tent. In fact, it was an entire TREE. An old pine, long dead and stripped of its needles, finally decided to keel over on top of our tent. The tent was still standing, just slightly indented where the weight of the tree fell across it. We thanked our lucky stars that neither one of us had actually been inside the tent at the time the tree croaked.

With the help of our neighbors, we were able to pull the tent out from under the tree and move it to another area of the campsite (where no dead trees were looming above). The tree itself was more or less unmovable, so we left it where it was. The ranger did offer to come over and remove it if it was in the way, or relocate us to another campsite, but by that time we'd already settled in and were eating dinner (Gardenburgers, baked potatoes and Top Ramen, in case you were wondering). The tree wasn't bothering us so we figured it was easier to leave it where it was.

Incidentally, the tent in question was purchased at Wal-Mart several years ago for about $25 and has proven to be quite sturdy and easy to put up. I'm not normally a fan of Wal-Mart, but they done good this time. The tent only suffered a few negligible tears.

The next morning we awoke to find the shore enshrouded in fog so thick that we could barely see past the breakers. The outline of a lone stand-up paddler was barely visible in the mist, a ghostly figure moving silently across the water. The tide was coming in so high that it became difficult to walk along the beach without getting wet. We spied the top half of a sea lion washed up on the shore, its bottom half lost to some predator. (Insert "Jaws" soundtrack here.)

Since we'd already paid for one state park and could be admitted to any other state park for the rest of the day, we also checked out Big Basin (always a favorite of mine) and Seacliff State Beach. At Big Basin I answered the caws of a raven in a tree and Derek finally spotted the elusive banana slug. The trip to Seacliff was my first and I enjoyed it very much- a long expanse of pristine beach with a nice boardwalk, and the old cement ship which now seems to be inhabited by birds. The beach also has a very nice gift shop- great place to pick up marine field guides and coloring books.

I'm trying to get in all the beach time I can before surgery on November 4. I'm not sure how well crutches work in the sand. I have a feeling I'm going to find out.

Woman Overboard

Over Memorial Day weekend I had the pleasure of camping at Del Valle Regional Park near Livermore. The weather was perfect. I arrived on Thursday evening and had some quiet time before the mob of holiday campers arrived the next day.

Friday morning, I decided to check out Lake Del Valle and see what kinds of boats they had for rent. I went down to the boat rental place and inquired as to what sort of boat would be good for a single person. A motorboat was suggested, but since I'd never operated one before I felt a little nervous about taking one out by myself. I opted for a good old-fashioned rowboat instead.

There was only one working rowboat available for rent, and as I tried to paddle away from the dock, I realized it just wasn't going to work for me. The wooden oars were huge and weighed a ton, and they weren't properly anchored to the sides of the boat. It was darn near impossible for me to row. The dock attendant saw my struggle and suggested I try a canoe instead. I eyed the two canoes dubiously. They were made of some kind of metal which creaked as the boats bobbed up and down gently on the waves. They both looked old. I chose the one that was less covered in bird poo.

I got into the creaky old canoe and was handed a single plastic paddle. "You want to wear the life jacket or should I just throw it in the boat?"

I was sure I could handle this lightweight canoe. "I'm not worried about falling out. You can just throw it in here." Yeah, famous last words.

Off I paddled into Lake Del Valle. I've been kayaking a few times and thought the canoe would be similar to a kayak. It wasn't. First there was that whole metallic creaking bit, and also, I'd never used just one paddle before. I proceeded across the lake in zigzag fashion- a few strokes left, then a few right. It was definitely easy to paddle but not very efficient.

Since I had my digital camera with me, of course I wanted to take pictures. Lake Del Valle is very large- there are two separate beaches that you can drive to, East and West. From the middle of the lake, I couldn't get a good view of the birds hanging out along the shore. So I decided to get closer.

There were several mergansers, and lots of red-winged blackbirds singing along the shore. I am still convinced that red-winged blackbirds on the West Coast sound slightly different from their brethren in the East. Closer and closer I came, though I didn't want to get too close to shore, for fear of getting stuck.

And that's when the trouble started. Maybe it was the current, pulling me closer to the shore. My zigzag paddling pattern certainly wasn't helping any. Suddenly I was headed straight for shore, despite my best attempts not to. The boat veered to the left as I got closer, and then stopped.

Some tree branches had grabbed the boat, holding it fast. I tried to push off from the shore with my lone paddle, but the water was too deep. I tried to move the branches out of the way, but they were unyielding. I shifted my weight ever so slightly, trying to get at a better angle to move the branches...

... and over I went, into the lake. It's funny how when things like this happen, time seems to slow down. I'm sure that no more than five seconds could have passed from the time I fell overboard to when I poked my head out of the water again, but it seemed like an eternity, as though I might have been watching a movie of myself falling in slow motion: the disorientation of suddenly being next to the boat instead of in it, then the sensation of water rushing up and over me as I looked up at the sky, now seen through a filter of green water sparkling in the sunlight, and finally my legs instinctively kicking, propelling me towards light and air. I felt strangely peaceful in those few moments underwater; it reminded me of the many times when, as a child playing in the ocean, I was overcome by waves bigger than myself and sucked underwater, turned head over heels and dragged along the bottom until finally being spat out on the shore. Time stops in those moments underwater and there is little to do but think about your next breath.

And so it was this time, except that instead of being tossed onto the shore like an abandoned plaything, I surfaced in the water, next to my sad little canoe. The first thing I did was pull off my camera bag, which was still securely strapped around me, and toss it into the boat. The camera was really the only thing I was worried about in all this. I have very little fear of the water and have a hard time understanding the worries of people who do. I knew I would be fine, but I was very, very concerned about my poor camera.

The next logical step seemed, of course, to try and climb back into the boat. I quickly realized that this would not be possible. The canoe was so lightweight that I couldn't climb in without capsizing it. So I swam in circles around the canoe for a bit, contemplating swimming across the lake to the opposite shore where there was a nice, flat beach. The shore I was currently swimming on was a mess of tangled trees with nowhere to stand up. Those trees must have been rooted in the water.

Then I heard someone calling across the water to me- a fisherman on the opposite shore had spotted me. "Don't move, I'm going for help!" I have to admit that I sort of didn't want help, because that seemed embarrassing. I now noticed that a small crowd of people was gathering on the opposite shore. Great.

I swam around for a bit, looking for the paddle I'd dropped when I fell, but didn't find it. So I just sort of hung out near the boat, treading water. After about ten minutes, I heard and saw a large motorboat headed directly for me. Again, my first thought was not for myself, but for my camera. I snatched it out of the canoe and handed it up to one of the park rangers in the motorboat. The two park rangers, one male and one female, then proceeded to try and pull me into the boat. The side of the boat was pretty high and there was no rescue ladder, so it wasn't easy for me to swing my legs up and over the side. Finally each ranger grabbed one of my hands and pulled. The side of the boat dug into my ribcage and I said, "Um... ouch," and they let go. I had a terrific bruise on my chest after that.

I finally got into the boat by climbing on the rudder and then being pulled on my stomach the rest of the way. I was embarrassed and sore and laughing, lying there on my stomach in the boat. I think I apologized to the park rangers about a dozen times for causing so much trouble. They were very cool about it and said it happened all the time. Really? There are other dorks out there like me, who don't know how to steer a canoe?

They tied the canoe to the motorboat so it could be towed back to shore, and we found the missing paddle. About halfway back to the marina, the boat took a sharp turn and the canoe turned on its side and then filled with water and sank. We had to stop the boat and get the canoe righted again. All in all, it was hilarious. When we finally made it back to the dock, I said to the attendant who'd helped me earlier, "Yeah, so remember how I said I wouldn't need that life jacket?" I think I was laughing for an hour straight after that.

All in all, it was a funny experience. Everyone at the park was super nice and helpful (and I wish I could find that fisherman to thank him). But I did learn that next time I should probably wear my life jacket. I can swim, but you never know what could happen. I could've hit my head on the side of the canoe and been knocked unconscious, and my legs wouldn't have saved me then.

Here is a picture of my campsite, taken a couple of hours after I fell overboard with the camera:

The camera has since made a complete recovery after I removed the battery and flash card and left everything to dry in the sun for a couple of days. A friend suggested I might try sending it in for repairs anyway, just in case there's algae or something blooming in there (or in case I start seeing fish swimming across the screen...) I'm really amazed at how durable my camera is!

I got to watch a pair of acorn woodpeckers in the trees near my campsite for the two days I was there. I really became quite fond of them and their endless drumming and raucous chatter. I also met several yellow-billed magpies who are not the least bit afraid of humans, and I spotted some California quail and a Western bluebird. I wasn't able to get pictures, of course, but that's ok. Sometimes it's nicer to spend the time focusing on the experience itself rather than worrying about getting pictures.

Later, I went for a swim in the lake, with a proper swimsuit on this time instead of my street clothes. The water was surprisingly warm. As I walked up the beach, I noticed a kayak rental place. Next time, I'm definitely renting a kayak instead of a canoe!

Into the Slough

Yesterday I made another trip to the Don Edwards National Wildlife Refuge in Alviso. I am still amazed that this beautiful marshland exists amid the stench of raw sewage that surrounds it.

I arrived around 2 pm and so had time to wander a bit before the gates closed at 5 pm. A meandering wooden trail of sorts made its way from behind the Education building through the slough. I set out along the path, eying with both distrust and fascination the murky green water surrounding me. It was a cloudy day, yet far out into the marsh, amongst the tall grasses, a bit of sunlight sparkled here and there, and Canadian geese flew in pairs in between the reeds.

The labyrinthine path snaked through the brackish water. I wondered what would happen if an earthquake were to occur at that very moment; would the meager boards give way and send me tumbling into the green muck? I decided not to worry about it and continued on my way.

Finally I was on solid land again, standing at the southern edge of the Bay. Brown pelicans were hunting in the shallow water, flying low and scanning the slough below, then plunging suddenly into the water with a great splash, sometimes scooping fish into their enormous bills. Others swam quietly in groups of four or five. I stopped to watch them, marveling at those huge pelican pouches.

An earthen- or was it concrete?- trail wound through the slough now, weather-beaten and worn. Here and there were scattered bird carcasses in various stages of decomposition: a white wing, still feathered, here; a fragile and almost prehistoric-looking bird skeleton there. Stray bones and feathers were strewn about without rhyme or reason. It seemed that the slough had been left to itself for a very long time.

I kept walking. A single railroad track separated one side of the slough from the other and there was no way to cross the track without getting wet. As I continued on foot, an Amtrak train emerged from the south, looking almost like a toy train in the middle of the vast slough, making its way north to Sacramento. I recognized it as the train I used to ride to Suisun City where I would meet my then-boyfriend. Suisun City is also a slough. I watched the train disappear into the slough, headed somewhere far away to my former life, getting smaller and smaller until finally I couldn't see it at all.

I realized, too, that I was walking in the very same slough I used to watch through the train windows, and that a little farther north would be some old abandoned wooden shacks. I always wondered about those shacks- had anyone lived in them? Why did they sink into the marsh, half-covered now in water? When I got back to the Education building later that day, I learned they were a part of the community of Drawbridge, which is now a ghost town. I am absolutely enthralled by the idea of a ghost town in the midst of the slough.

I walked and walked. Sometimes I passed other people walking on the trail. They appeared as tiny dots in the distance, taking on more detail as they got closer until they were real people who smiled and nodded before disappearing behind me, just blips on my radar for a moment, passing in and out of my world.

I wanted to cross the track and walk along the other side of the slough, where the water looked deeper, but there was no feasible way to do that without getting soaked. For a moment I imagined I was a ghost in World of Warcraft, running easily over land and water to find my corpse. Real life in the slough isn't like that, though. I had to walk for a long time until I finally found a dry place marked with a proper railroad crossing sign. And I crossed, and looped back in the direction I had come.

Little yellow flowers shaped like bells grew along the water, and rocky trails stretched out into the slough. I stayed on the main trail, watching two ravens sitting on the railroad track, cawing at each other in their corvid language. I walked and walked. Two young men came towards me and asked if they were headed in the right direction to get to Wal-Mart, and whether I had come from there. I replied that I hadn't, and that I didn't know the trail led to Wal-Mart. Then they asked whether there was any place to cross the track.

"I crossed over a little while ago. It's not far," I replied, realizing that in order to get back to my car I would have to find another place to cross once again. The men gazed off into the horizon, thanked me, and continued on their way. And I continued on mine, not knowing quite where I was headed. Do I look like someone who knows where she's going? I'm just a crazy woman wandering alone in the slough.

After awhile I realized I was hungry, and contemplated the pickleweed growing there in the slough. I remembered a kayaking trip in the Elkhorn Slough farther south, and grabbing up handfuls of the salty weed to snack on. But now I was in the middle of the slough next to a sewage treatment plant, and I wasn't at all certain that eating pickleweed would be a good idea. So I didn't, but fantasized about the delicious seafood dinners of my childhood on the Great South Bay of Long Island, fancying that I could smell broiled flounder with lemon on the wind.

Eventually it became clear to me that I wasn't going to find a way to cross over, and that I'd have to turn back the way I came and loop back around again. On my way back I passed the two young men again. "No luck?" I asked them.

"No. How about you?"

I shook my head. "I couldn't find a bridge or anything. I'm going back the way I came. Where are you going?"

One of the men pointed off into the distance. "See that yellow hut over there?" I squinted, and barely saw it there on the horizon. Luckily for them, it appeared to be on this side of the slough.

"Well... good luck, then." The men nodded and continued on their journey. I paused for a moment, squinting after them, wondering what I might find if I decided to follow them, but decided against it and continued back to the railroad crossing.

Another Amtrak train, headed southbound this time, came tearing through the slough, its horn blaring. I stopped to watch it. The engineer waved out the window at me, and I waved back awkwardly, remembering the many times I'd passed through this slough on that very train, hurtling through the marsh on my way back to San Jose. I waved and waved. Goodbye, my former life. How strange and wonderful that I am standing here now on my own two feet in the midst of this slough, waving at you. Something caught in my throat for a moment, but I pressed on.

When I reached the railroad crossing this time, I noticed a sign which said the trail was closed through January for waterfowl hunting. It was February 28th, yes, but for the entire trip back I thought I heard gunshots far off in the distance, though when I turned to look there was never anyone there. Maybe that's what being hungry and tired will do to you.

As I almost rounded the edge of the marsh, I caught sight of one of the ravens I'd seen earlier, still perched on the railroad track. He was alone this time and seemed, though perhaps it was my imagination, quite distressed. He cawed and cawed ceaselessly, not even seeming the least bit afraid when I was standing so near to him. I wondered if he was calling to his mate, lost somewhere in the wide slough. I have never heard a raven vocalize so much, and noticed for the first time the many variations in his speech. He turned and turned on the track, looking in all directions, searching the ground and the skies, crying out in that hoarse voice. My heart ached for the raven and I prayed that he would not be left alone in this huge slough, that his mate would come out of the sky and rejoin him. I think I would have stayed there longer with him to watch and see what happened, but it was getting dark and cold and I knew I had to get back to my car before the gates closed.

One foot in front of the other, across the wooden trail and the sickly green water. A bicyclist perched on a bench, lost in thought. He barely looked up when I said hello. His mood was heavy and somber. I felt an urge to stop and stand there with him, bearing witness to whatever misery had settled upon him. But it was clear he wished to be left alone, so I walked on through the muck, finally winding my way out of the slough and coming upon several orange poppies, next to which a sign read, "California State Flower." My stomach and legs ached.

There are still wild places left in this silicon valley, in the strangest places sometimes. I am in awe that such beauty still exists, even next to a sewage treatment plant. This is the unlikely landscape in which we live; where toxic muck and ghost towns converge in wildlife sanctuaries.

Best Day Ever

Today was quite possibly one of the best days of my life, and I wouldn't make such a statement flippantly. It was absolutely magical.

I finally made it over to Ed Levin County Park, in the hills above Milpitas. It is undoubtedly one of my new favorite spots. Maybe even the most favorite spot. Nah, can't have just one favorite.

When I first drove into the park, I was a bit confused because I couldn't see any obvious trails. (And there wasn't a ranger at the entrance booth and the self-pay machine was out of order. So for the second Sunday in a row, I failed to pay my park entrance fee. Not my fault this time!) The park is located on Calaveras Rd, which is actually Calaveras Blvd/237. It was funny to drive past so many strip malls and then suddenly find myself headed uphill on a beautiful country road. Finally, I parked in the equestrian lot (there are stables there- I'd like to go back for horseback riding sometime). I still couldn't figure out where the trail was so I ended up following some other people past the stables and up a hill, where it turned out the Spring Valley trail began. I was pleased to have found this particular trail because I'd been reading about an old pioneer cemetery from the 1800s which is apparently located along this trail. I love old cemeteries and I really wanted to see it.

I never did find the cemetery... that will be a story for another day in the future. What I did find was a serious abundance of wildlife! It was a bird nerd's dream come true. I hiked to the top of a lush, green hill overlooking the valley below. And riding the thermals over my head was a great black turkey vulture. I stood there on the hill for a good ten minutes or so, craning my neck to keep my eyes on that vulture. It circled lower and lower around me until I could see its bald head. It was like having my very own personal vulture! I know some people think they're ugly, but I love vultures. They look truly magnificent, floating on the air currents with their huge black wings outstretched.

In the distance, another vulture circled over a different hill. Higher in the sky, red-tailed hawks (smaller but just as graceful) surveyed the land. I wonder how they can spot small prey on the ground from all the way up there? And higher still, little propeller airplanes buzzed across the sky. On a far hill, a human with a green hang-glider slid smoothly into the green slope. So much to look at in the sky!

Coming down the other side of the hill, I discovered several deer grazing amongst some dry grass. There looked to be two adults and four juveniles in all- I'm not sure if "fawns" would be the correct term for the young 'uns because they looked like they were about halfway grown up already, but still small. The six of them pricked up their ears as I came tiptoeing by. The two adults fixed me with a steady stare. I stared back. They didn't run off; just kept staring at me until I rounded the corner and was out of sight.

Then I was at the bottom of another hill along a creekbed, and that was where things got muddy. I don't mean just a little bit of mud squelching under your shoes here and there- I'm talking about some serious mud. It was thick, and it was sticky, and there was no way around it. I almost lost my shoes a couple of times. My soles were completely caked with it, and after a few steps I also had lots of twigs and leaves stuck to them. My feet felt heavy but I persevered, slooshing slowly through the mud, keeping a lookout for any critters that might be nearby.

The really excellent thing about mud is that it retains animal tracks very well. I saw lots of horseshoe-shaped tracks, the smaller cloven-hooved tracks of deer, and something that looked... feline. This gave me pause.

It was late in the afternoon on a winter's day, and I was standing alone along a creekbed at the bottom of a steep hill covered in dry grass. I looked up at the hilltop, nervously scanning for mountain lions. I'd totally love to see one, but only from afar. I saw a taxidermy of a mountain lion once and was impressed with its size. And its sharp teeth.

No mountain lions in sight. I cautiously continued along my sticky path, keeping an eye out for any more pawprints. After a little while, I looked down at my shoes and saw that they were darn near covered in mud, top and bottom. I was going to be up to my ankles in mud pretty soon. Since it was getting late and my progress was slow, I decided to turn back.

It's entirely possible that I was just spooked after seeing the pawprint, but I swear I could feel some sort of feline energy there in that tall, dry grass. I felt like I was being watched. In my mind, I tried to laugh it off. I tried to reason with myself. What would be the odds of running into a mountain lion out here? I didn't even see any warning signs posted about lions at the entrance.

And that's when I saw it, sitting up straight with a regal air, its tufted face visible above the tall grass. Its eyes were fixed on me, regarding me coolly. Not a mountain lion, but... a bobcat. When I turned to meet its gaze, it quickly hunkered down in the dry grass, almost out of sight. It made no sound, and neither did I.

I continued creeping along the muddy path, trying to look cool and collected, even though my heart was singing, I SAW A BOBCAT! WHEEE! and I wanted to jump up and down for joy. See, I didn't want to look like a dork in front of the bobcat.

But in my heart, whatever had been hurting me so terribly up until that moment was forgotten. I SAW A BOBCAT! I had fully expected that I might go my entire life without glimpsing one of the elusive cats, but today, I saw one. I was absolutely giddy.

As I rounded the corner to climb back up the hill, I saw the six deer still in place, grazing. I wonder if they had any idea that a bobcat was sitting just a few yards below. I've read that in the winter, bobcats will sometimes hunt smaller deer when their usual food sources (rabbits, hares, etc.) are not available.

I made another stop at the top of the hill to watch the vultures again, and as I continued onward, I spotted some sort of small hawk hunting in the open field. It was either a Cooper's or a Sharp-shinned hawk, though I'm still not certain which. I'm guessing from its flight pattern (lots of small, erratic flaps followed by gliding) that it was a sharp-shinned, but I can't be certain.

On my way out onto Calaveras Blvd (with lots of mud still on my shoes), I thought I spotted a rainbow. I was driving directly towards the setting sun and sunlight does affect me strangely, so at first I thought it might be the beginning of a migraine aura. But the rainbow didn't move like an aura would, and when I took off my sunglasses to look again the sun was too bright and I couldn't see it anymore. So I kept the glasses on and admired my own personal rainbow.

During all this rainbow-watching, I wasn't paying very good attention to which lane I was in, and I mistakenly got on 237. I was a little bit annoyed, but I figured, oh, well, I'll get off at the next exit and see where it takes me. The next exit was Zanker Rd. As I pulled up to the stoplight I saw a sign pointing right for the Don Edwards San Francisco Bay National Wildlife Refuge. See, I knew I took a wrong turn for a reason!

I followed the signs past the San Jose waste plant (I could smell the poop even with the windows closed. Seriously) and realized I must be in Alviso. I've heard tales of this mythical place and its marshlands but had never sought it out before. It was really rather strange to drive past a stinky waste plant and then find yourself on an island of sorts in the midst of a sparkling marshland. I didn't have time to explore much because it was getting late and the gate was about to close, but I did get to visit the education center briefly, where I discovered that this refuge is a haven for all sorts of birds, including some that are rare in the Bay Area. I will definitely be back! While I was there, I purchased an owl finger puppet (so cute!) and a copy of Birding at the Bottom of the Bay, a book produced by our local chapter of the Audobon Society about where to find birds in the South Bay. I've been wanting that for a while and was pleased to come across a copy.

I can't believe my good fortune in my adventures today! Everything fell into place just perfectly. And I'm still all excited about that bobcat! Part of me wishes I'd brought a camera along, but I'm glad I didn't. I would have been so caught up in taking pictures that I wouldn't have been able to truly experience that wonderful moment.

Next time: the cemetery, lots of bird photos, and who knows what else? I won't dare to hope for another bobcat!

Mt. Madonna

Today I finally visited Mt. Madonna County Park for the first time. I loved it! It has the majesty of Big Basin, but it's not as crowded and is a little closer to home. I will definitely be returning to camp there in the near future!

I found the park with relative ease, though Dino had some trouble climbing up the steep hill once I entered the park. I could practically hear him wheezing as the SUV behind me glided effortlessly up the incline. I'm almost ashamed to ask, but if anyone has a recommendation for an SUV that isn't a huge gas-guzzler, I'd like to hear about it. I feel like I really need a vehicle that I won't have to worry about in remote areas. Are there any "green" SUVs in existence?

I had a lovely hike in the redwoods and did not encounter another human being for over an hour. I got scolded by squirrels and I talked back to crows. (My cawing shut them up right away. I think they didn't know what to make of me.)

And I never get tired of banana slugs! I couldn't resist taking the above photo. They're just so... yellow. And slimy. And BIG. Banana slugs rock!

Here's some fungi for good measure:


I think Mt. Madonna may be the quietest park I've ever hiked in. As I walked, I realized that I was the one making most of the noise with my Gatorade sloshing, my feet crunching on old leaves, and the muted "thud" of my camera bouncing against my hip. When I'd pause for a moment, there was... nothing. But when I stood still for several moments, I started to notice the sounds of branches cracking under the weight of some creature, and the scurrying of tiny feet in the brush. Occasionally a plane would fly overhead. The sound seemed almost out of place there. It seems trite to say this, but in the silence and absence of fellow humans, I did not feel alone. I felt more surrounded by life than ever, knowing that the forest was teeming with all sorts of creatures I couldn't see. Who knows who may have been watching my noisy walk, perched high in a redwood tree?

And there I am, gazing up into the canopy of trees. I liked what the light did in this picture.

I think I haven't enjoyed such a peaceful walk since my days at Bennington, when I used to forego homework in favor of hiking on the Blue Trail. For some reason, today's experience reminded me very much of those magical days at Bennington. I feel that there is some holy presence in those tall old trees.

When I got back to the car, I found a "courtesy reminder" to pay my $6 park entrance fee on the windshield. I had counted out exactly $6 and put it in my pocket before I left home, but when I arrived at the park there was no one at the booth collecting money. Turns out you're supposed to put the money in one of the boxes around the park. That $6 fee is one thing I don't mind paying- to me, it feels like a privilege to use our beautiful parks and I feel good about contributing towards their upkeep (assuming that's where the money goes). And since California parks were threatened with closure a few months ago, I surely don't mind coughing up $6 if it means the parks will be kept open.

The drive back to San Jose at sunset was beautiful. I'm consistently amazed by how much variety in landscape you can find in California (and even in the Bay Area alone). The hills of Gilroy were awash in golden sunlight and looked like something out of a postcard. I saw horses, cows, and sheep grazing. So different from the "silicon valley" where I live, yet so close! I feel lucky to live in such a diverse area.

Dino Rides Again

My car is old. I recently swore that I would not invest a single penny more into fixing it, since I plan to buy a new car before long. However, a car with a dead battery is pretty much useless, and replacing the dead battery is pretty much unavoidable if you ever hope to drive the car again.

And so it happened that around midday on Sunday, I set off for Rancho San Antonio in ye olde Sable, hoping to squeeze in a short hike before going to watch a friend's dance performance. Really, I don't know what I was thinking- you need to arrive at Rancho practically before the crack of dawn to get parking, and I was one of many circling the parking lots waiting for someone to leave. After nearly half an hour of this I finally got fed up and left.

As I was getting onto the freeway, I felt the engine shudder and struggle to get up to 45 MPH. The engine felt "weak," if an engine can be said to feel like anything at all. The battery light was on. Oh, goody.

Luckily I was near the De Anza College exit and I am familiar with the area, so I got off there and dragged my lame butt into the parking garage near the Flint Center. I parked and proceeded to turn the engine off and on several times, hoping it might "clear" the problem (that's worked sometimes before when the "check engine" light came on). It didn't help.

I really didn't want to call roadside assistance because I was afraid they'd send a tow truck and I wasn't sure how much that would cost. But I also didn't want to break down on my way home, so I finally decided to stay put and give them a call. Initially they were going to send a tow truck, but I asked them to send someone to jump me instead. They said it would be about a 45-minute wait.

Being stuck in the De Anza parking garage alone on a Sunday afternoon is really not very interesting. I bided my time watching pigeons and squirrels ambling about. I probably imagined it, but I thought I saw a pigeon walk up to my car, stop, eye my car for a moment and then turn around and walk away with a look of annoyance on its birdy face. Maybe I was in its way.

Finally I got a call from Bay Area Roadrunner, saying they were on the way. To my surprise it was a woman's voice on the phone! When I hung up I thought maybe she was the secretary at their office, but a few minutes later a white car pulled up and two older women got out. How cool is that? I always assume anyone working with cars would be male, but here were two awesome ladies sent to my rescue. The driver of the car, who had beautiful long, grey hair, hooked up a battery to mine and found that my battery would not hold a charge. She said the alternator was not the problem, which apparently was a good thing because they cost more than a new battery. She advised me not to get back on the freeway and to take it to the nearest auto parts store.

So I slowly puttered down Stevens Creek and came upon a Jiffy Lube. I asked if they did batteries, and the guy replied no, but would I like an oil change? I guess oil changes are just about all Jiffy Lube does. They directed me to Pep Boys down the street. The guys in there were super friendly and helpful (cute, too). It was a long wait because there were so many cars being serviced, but finally they did run a test, determined that the battery was no longer capable of holding a charge, and installed a new one. I decided to get my oil changed too while I was at it.

Sitting in the waiting area at Pep Boys is also not very interesting. I read my way through all the "women's" magazines in about fifteen minutes. They were far outnumbered by the number of automotive magazines. Then I wandered around the store and looked at GPS units, floor mats, and iPod chargers. Whee. All in all, I was there at least two hours, way longer than it would have taken if I'd gone to Tom (the mechanic I usually go to who sold me the car). Tom probably would've charged less, too, but he doesn't work on Sundays. I felt slightly guilty about getting an oil change from someone else, but I didn't want to make a separate trip to get that done. All in all, I had a good experience at Pep Boys and I would go back there in a pinch, but only if Tom wasn't available.

The new battery is awesome. I hadn't realized it, but I guess the old one was getting ready to give up the ghost for a while. Dino rides much more smoothly now, without hesitation. I think the heat feels warmer than it used to be, too, although I'm not sure if the battery has anything to do with that. I'm not happy about putting more money into the car, but it kind of had to be done. And I am pleased with the results.

I can't believe how attached to this car I've become. I can't believe I gave him a name. I know I'm going to need a new car before long, but it will be really hard to part with Dino.