Sunday Stroll

 Waxing Gibbous Moon

The Juan Bautista De Anza National Historical Trail runs from the U.S./Mexico border in Arizona into Southern California and up the west side of the state to San Francisco. A four-mile section has been preserved as a hiking/biking/equestrian trail on the outskirts of San Juan Bautista, leading up and over the divide between San Benito County and Monterey County. For the better part of sixteen years, that has been my regular hiking trail. From my camp at the Mission Farm, it's about eight and a half miles round trip to the divide and back. Sometimes I do all of the trail, making an even ten-mile walk, sometimes I turn around at the divide, and sometimes I stop at the "second bench" and return, which gives me a five-mile walk. 

During the pandemic, I have curtailed my walks on the De Anza Trail due to an increase in foot and bike traffic, electing to do a set of five-mile daily walks mostly on back roads in an effort to social distance and to stay safe and sane. Yesterday, though, I felt like a longer walk in the sunshine so I did my eight and a half mile route from home up to the crest and back. I found that in this interim period of a year or so, the trail has degraded due to disrespect, ignorance, and anarchy. Maybe these things are one and the same.

When I got close to the trailhead where all the cars were parked (at least twenty, maybe more), I saw broken window glass littering the gravel road and new "Neighborhood Watch" signs telling you to call the police and report suspicious behavior (San Juan Bautista doesn't even have a police department - at any one time, there are three deputy sheriffs patrolling the whole durn county). Half the cars were parked in the area specifically set aside for emergency vehicles only. 

Moments later, I was hiking up the beginning of the steepish grade that forms the first mile or so of the trail. Looking up, I saw four mountain bikers barreling downhill on the wide trail, so I immediately shifted over to the side that was rockier, giving them a smoother descent. I was masked. They were not. They weren't even wearing helmets. I waved. They didn't look at me or acknowledge my friendly, considerate behavior. I shook my head, mumbled "you're welcome" under my breath, and moved on.

Shortly thereafter, I came upon the first of several rock stacks or cairns next to the trail. This is some sort of stupid fad that has been going on for a few years. I understand piles of horseshit  and some coyote scat here and there. I do not understand why humans stack rocks. It is not natural and it takes away from any sort of wilderness or urban wilderness experience on a hike. To me, it's like taking a dump next to the trail and walking away. Look, everybody, I took a dump! Do that in your backyard if you just have to follow a fad. 

Soon I began to encounter the hikers who came to the trail in all those mis-parked SUVs. I immediately pulled up my mask as soon as I got within thirty feet of them (when you are breathing hard, your aerosols can travel thirty feet or more if you are unmasked). Most of these hikers were in groups, clumped close together, not wearing masks, spewing whatever junk was in their systems right at me, grinning and gabbing, some looking at their phones, pretty much ignoring where they were, all wrapped up in themselves. I waved and said hello, like I always do, even though I wanted to scream at them. Very few responded. This went on the whole time I was on the trail, although I learned to pick up my pace or scramble away when I needed to evade them. 

 A little over a mile up the trail, the grade evens out a little bit and there is a shady, inviting sort of natural amphitheater in the rocks off to the side. Until a few years ago, this was a welcome rest stop for some of the older hikers, especially in the summer, a good place to snack and take a break if you were in the mood. That's not something I generally do on a short hike, but I get the appeal of the spot. Now though, it is the site of a fake little town. Somebody started it around 2017. They made these cutesy fake model houses a little bigger than a rat and scattered them here and there among the rocks, approximating a town. Why would I or anybody else leave town to hike up a trail to see a town? Since all this nonsense began, more crap has been added. Wind chimes. Tinsel and other junk hanging in trees. New age, fake-ass, bruja stick bundles. Rock stacks. It's disgusting. Clumps of maskless, fat hikers with expensive cameras stop and poke around the mess, taking pictures and ignoring the trees and sky and Earth around them. It is all I can do to stop myself from destroying the entire thing.

I climbed past all of it and turned around, encountering the inevitable fat maskless question over and over again from people on the way up: "how much farther is it?" How I wanted to explain that they, right then and there, were the only place they could possibly be. That there is no "it" to get to. That each and every moment and footstep is the reality of a hike and they were breaking all the fundamentals of hiking truth, happiness, and holiness by their disrespect, ignorance, and anarchy.

Passing by the the little fake town on the way down, I once again saw the mountain bikers on their return trip to the Monterey County side. They were still unmasked, still clumped together, still unfriendly, refusing to acknowledge another human's presence. They were snapping Nikon photos of the houses and each other as loud music blasted from the leader's speaker mounted on his three thousand dollar e-bike. Hell has come to the De Anza Trail.

Disrespect, ignorance, anarchy. It's time for me to move on.

Peace, Love, and Getaway,

Jim

Retreat Forward

 New Moon

Sometimes, to get ahead you have to take a step back.

That's what I did yesterday on a hike up the hill to St. Francis Retreat and back. Between the bothersome dental episode, the earwax excavation drama, and my first COVID shot, I have been feeling less than stellar for a month or so - not really sick or anything, just kind of slow. I got the first Moderna dose on March 2 and didn't feel any ill effects for about the first 36 hours. Then I got woozy, sleepy, and achy for less than a day, then I rebounded briefly before getting pokey again, with night sweats and some really foggy brain drain. 

Through all of it, I kept up my walks and substituted yard work and highway cleanups for the bike rides (a little wary of my balance). Often I would have to stop for a half a minute to just breathe and be still. That, of course, is not an unpleasant thing to do, but I wondered on and off how I might be perceived by a casual onlooker - oh look, there's an old man all wrapped up in dementia!

Yesterday, I woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I hadn't sweat at all overnight and I was refreshingly clear-headed. So after breakfast, I set off for a six-mile walk up to St. Francis Retreat and back to test my new clarity. It was awesome! I didn't stop and stare once! I think I'm back!

The sky was in transition between the storms of the past two days and whatever is going to happen next and my most favorite tree in the world was hanging out to greet me on the way up.

I can't explain it, but that big, graceful oak never fails to fill my heart with love. Is it more early onset dementia or am I really in love with a tree? The view from the other side, with different lighting on the way home is just as inspiring to me. Your mileage may vary.

Up at the Retreat, there is a gorgeous gazebo that features wide open views of the valleys and mountains, but yesterday, I was focused on the burly sky and clouds. 

After a quick tour of the grounds and the stations of the cross, I headed home through the comforting tree tunnel back to my cozy camp. I was feeling whole and balanced. It took a positive retreat to make some forward progress. 

Peace, Love, and What Will Shot Two Have in Store?

Jim

Birdman on The Farm

 Waxing Gibbous Moon

Drawing inspiration from brother John's recent photo essay Birds of the Texas Snowpocalypse, I used a little of my stimmy to purchase a three-pound bag of wild bird seed this week. I wanted to see if the Steller's Jay that nests in one of the redwoods in my camp might be interested in a little government-sponsored food distribution. I did not, however, purchase any sort of bird feeder. I simply cut open a corner of the plastic bag holding the wild bird seed and shook out a few handfuls on the gravel pad next to my redneck deck. Then I went inside and observed. 

To my surprise, said Steller's Jay did not show up to investigate right away. Instead, a flock of migratory Northern Shrikes, aggressive little warblers with stubby seed cracking beaks, moved right in like they knew in advance of my experiment. I had not seen a Northern Shrike around here since last winter, but apparently they were keeping tabs on me. 

They were all over that wild bird seed, in groups of 3-10, hopping, scratching, pecking, and eating, sometimes messing with each other, then fooooop, instantly en masse retreating up into the trees at the first sign of an intruder. Then, when the coast was clear, they swiftly and silently reappeared on the gravel pad for further furtive feeding. They are fun to watch, even though they are nowhere near as personable as my Steller's Jay.

Today I tried to take pictures and videos of them through my window with my Smartyphone. The results were pretty dismal, but those nervous little shrikes would not stick around when I tried in vain to step outside to get a bit closer. 

As for the video, it was equally dismal, plus I don't know how to upload it to this blog. I will try this brute force experimental method to see if it works. Click on Shrike Spy Cam.

Anyway, oh well, you will have to take my word for it. It is really fun to watch shrikes feed. Out of nowhere, today a California Towhee showed up. It was bigger and burlier that the shrikes, but totally on its own, and there were no fights for territory or seed. It looked like it was trying to fit in with the flock even though it was big, fat, and clumsy in comparison. Then the Steller's Jay came by and everybody split while he took his brief turn at the feast. He acted like he just wanted to see if he could get away with chasing the shrikes and the towhee away. I think maybe he's mainly a meat-eater. When he had succeeded in dispersing the flock, he ate a little and left, presumably to hunt for worms and bugs. Later, a belligerent blue jay did the same thing. 

I like this bird feeding thing, I'll keep doing it until it stops being fun. 

My renegade implant saga is on hold, in case you were wondering. The hole in my head is healing nicely and down the road I will get a scan to see if the bone has regenerated or whatever you call it. My good ear was bothering me so I went to see Dr. J, an Ear Nose and Throat surgeon. He listened to my story, then peered inside my ear hole with his peering tool. He didn't think I had anything too serious beyond some blockage so he pulled out his anti-blockage tool and excavated an amazing amount of reddish brown gunk from my ear hole. It came out in a couple of dozen small chips and flakes about half the the size of a piece of oatmeal. 

Soon, though, he bumped up into a tool-resistant mass of ear gunk and the weirdest thing happened. Every time his tool touched the gunk/pebble, I flinched and coughed involuntarily. It just happened on its own instantly, like an electric shock. I thought that electric shock flinching/coughing should not be a normal reaction to ear hole cleaning, but Dr. J assured me it was. He was just about to give up and I was growing weary of the flinch-coughing when he adjusted my position, straddled the side of the chair, grunted, and said, "Ha!" Then he showed me a raisin-sized hunk of ugly ear gunk stuck on the tip of his anti-blockage tool. It seemed to me to be quite a gargantuan thing to be residing in my ear hole and I was glad it was gone. 

Almost immediately I noticed a significant improvement in hearing in that ear and a reduction in the fullness in my sinuses. A happy excavation it was. 

On Friday, I will return to Dr. J's offices to get a hearing test. The idea is to establish a baseline in case my good ear begins to deteriorate for real. The left ear is still dead, of course, and he said there wasn't any way to make it work, which I already knew. 

In the meantime, I will continue with my exercise plan, rest while watching the birds feast on seeds, and wait to get my call for the magic COVID vaccine. Supposedly, they are on the 73 year old group in my county right now, so it shouldn't be too much longer.

Peace, Love, and I Need to Learn Video Skills,

Jim

Escape from Captivity

 Waning Gibbous Moon

I'm free! 

Palomino is out of the barn as of this morning at 9:20. Wahoo!

Doctor O examined the hole where two faulty objects once called home (Tooth Number Three and Implant Number One). He said it was still a little swollen but it was healing nicely. Chalk that up to all that early childhood training at following directions, thanks Mom and Dad (spare the rod, spoil retirement). The sutures will come out next Monday, then I will wait 4-6 months for the bone to heal itself and hopefully seal off my sinuses. A scan of some sort (ICAT?) will tell the tale. I can wait.

Meanwhile, I can start to eat regular food if I'm careful and if I chew only on the good side. This is good news. I was getting a little bit tired of soup, oatmeal, applesauce, and scrambled eggs. And, thank the Holy Cosmic Muffin, I can return to my walking/biking/calisthenics habit as long as I take it easy for another week or two. This puts my 2021/1202 Challenge in jeopardy but who really cares about that anyway?

Watch out, world, I'm making a comeback. 

Peace, Love, and Temporary Insanity,

Jim

Cabin Fever

 Waning Gibbous Moon

Today marks my seventh consecutive day of indoor living with no exercise. It has been no fun whatsoever.

Backstory: A couple of years ago I had Tooth Number 3 removed by a periodontist in Monterey whom I like and respect very much. It was painless and the hole healed quickly. I was content to have a gap back there, but Doctor K talked me into getting an implant, the better to keep my choppers from shifting around in my old age or something like that. The titanium implanted post was supposed to sit there for six months or so while the surrounding bone welcomed it to my ecosystem, then serve as an anchor for a fake crown to be installed by my regular dentist Doctor H. Well, the process of the bone/titanium getting solid enough to take the crown turned out to take two years or so, but I finally got my crown and I thought that was that. 

Okay, about seven months ago, during the first shelter in place, I noticed the implant was beginning to loosen, like the early stage of losing a baby tooth. It took a while to get an appointment with Doctor H, but he said to wait and see until December when I was scheduled for my next cleaning. As December rolled around, I noticed my hearing in my right ear, right next to Tooth Number 3/Now Wobbly Implant, was starting to fade. I am already deaf in my left ear, so this is more than a small inconvenience. I worried that my right ear might be getting infected if there was some communication through the loose implant into my sinuses. 

So last Monday I went to see Doctor K's associate, Doctor O (Doctor K has since retired) and he said, "that's got to come out." He shot me full of numbing agent and carved out the contraption, sewed me up and sent me on my way with antibiotics, mouth rinse, and pain medication. My instructions were to apply ice for swelling, take the meds as directed, and NO EXERCISE UNTIL I GO BACK TO SEE HIM MONDAY FEB 1. 

I understand the value of letting the wound heal, I really do. And for two days, I took the pain pills which made me sleep most of that time. But on the third day, I said no more of these pills, geez, I feel like a junkie, so I switched to Ibuprofen and regained most of my cognitive functions, thank heaven. All that is probably par for the course for anyone in my situation. However, I haven't taken a week off from working out since I don't know when. That part has been ridiculously foreign and difficult to process. I have complied but am not myself and I absolutely hate it. 

Tomorrow I will drive to Salinas in the morning to see what Doctor O has to say about how this is going. I will ask him what my options are moving forward. I really don't want to replace the old implant with a new and bigger one, nor do I really want him to install a bridge. Can I just let the wound heal and leave it be? Will I risk a future full of sinus infections? 

My right ear, by the way, is still a little wonky, but it's better than it was. Ever hear of something called Pulsatile Tinnitus? It's like regular tinnitus, but instead of a ringing sound in your ear, it's a loud, slow, rhythmic, whooshing, like a washing machine, timed with your heart beat - whoosh, whoosh, whoosh - over and over and over again. I was experiencing constant Pulsatile Tinnitus for the last forty-eight hours prior to going to see Doctor O. Very, very strange, ladies and gentlemen, very, very strange. 

So that's life in the bizarre time of COVID right here right now. I am on the waiting list for old-folks vaccinations whenever that rolls around. If the shots make me whoosh, though, I will get naked and run into the woods, never to be seen again. There is a limit to how much nonsense I will put up with. It might be time to forage for nuts and berries, find a warm, dry cave, and hide from this crazy, whooshing thing we call civilization. 

Peace, Love, and the Call of the Whooshing Wild,

Jim

High Peaks Trail Thriller

 New Moon

I must be doing something right. Today I was completely flabbergasted by what happened with a little less than two miles left on my hike up and over the High Peaks Trail (HPT) at Pinnacles National Park. 

I won't lie. I was already pretty tired from my one-hour climb up from the Bear Gulch Visitor Center. A peanut butter and apple slice sammie revived me at the bench overlook just before the start of the HPT. Then I was good to go, passing a familiar landmark I recalled from a trip long ago. A friend's son climbed this enormous pinnacle that day to the dismay and nervous concern of his Dad. My only thought was "how is he ever going to get down?" Of course, he did get down, mostly because he was fourteen, cocky, and made of elastic.

That feat was about twenty-five years ago or so. It seems more impossible now than ever.

The actual HPT is lots of legwork on steps hacked out of stone by the Civilian Conservation Corps back when men were much shorter and more easily persuaded to wield heavy hand tools. They also managed to install sturdy handrails, almost like second thoughts for making it so easy to fall and split open your skull. You can tell those dudes were little, though, because the handrails they constructed, sturdy as can be to this day, are about knee-high on modern adults. At least they make you cautious, and if you bend down to grab them, you feel reassured. This section is only a mile or so long, but it takes a while, unless you are fourteen and super bendy.

The views of the park are outstanding when you gain enough elevation and secure footing to look around. I love it up there.

After you cross the exciting part, all that is left is to abuse your feet and knees going steeply downhill for a while. There are plenty of great places to stop and look at the rocks. You can see your trail leading back to the truck way way down there.

With a couple of miles to go, the HPT splits into two trails, the Blue Oak Trail, I think it is, and the Condor Gulch Trail. Condor Gulch was the long, bouldery gully that would lead me back to my beginning at the Visitor Center. By this time I needed a snack and more agua, so I stretched out and leaned back to look at the clouds, one of my favorite daily pastimes. This is when I started getting flabbergasted.

I was taking a bite of an energy bar, pre-occupied with reading the ingredients on the wrapper when a rather large shadow passed directly over me, moving fast. I jerked my head up to see what it was and holy Moses, I couldn't believe it. Way up in the sky over my picnic spot were twelve soaring condors, making great big circles in the air, soaring soaring soaring, then one big double wing flap, then soaring soaring soaring, over and over again. Twelve of them, very loosely organized, just coordinated enough to stay safely apart, but sort of engaged in a dance in a casual, wing-dip way. I pulled out my Smartyphone and took a few dozen pictures, hoping to get at least one good one. 

Of course it soon became obvious that I wasn't going to succeed, so I just laid back on the rocks and feasted my eyes. The air show went on for ten minutes before most of the group (flock? murder?) whooshed away, leaving three behind to fly in a big, slow circle directly over my head. 

I couldn't believe it. I was enchanted. I kept saying out loud, "what did I do to deserve this much joy?" I was laughing out loud, smiling and thanking them. It was so cool! Okay, okay, I know there were other people in the park. I saw at least seven other hikers in the course of a few hours. So probably, if they were paying attention, each of them saw something, too. But what it felt like, staring up at these prehistoric airborne giants, was absolute, personalized, Mother Nature magic. There are only a hundred (or fewer) California Condors remaining on the west coast and twelve of them came to see me. Flabbergasting.

And then, the time to be flabbergasted was over and it was time to walk on. Every so often, as I rounded a curve on the trail, I would catch a glimpse of a few of them, looming far away over a ridge. I stopped to see them each time, looking much smaller then, but still and evermore Pinnacles' gliding, powerful lords of the sky.

I smiled all the way home.

Peace and Love on a Special Day,

Jim

2021 Hike and Bike

 Waning Gibbous Moon

Today, January 1, 2021, the Sun came up in the east. At the same time, over to the west, the Moon was getting ready to set. Based upon my observations, this is normal Sun and Moon behavior.

I had no reference point, standing outside in my pj's with my Smartyphone in my hand, that would indicate this is a new year though. It really just seemed like another regular, winter morning.

When I went back inside, the first thing I noticed was my wall calendar, which was completely filled with ink showing my daily walking tallies for 2020, among other little reminders and notes. It was time to put up a new wall calendar, this one labeled 2021. 

But what was I going to keep track of this go 'round? 

Here is what I decided on.  

2021 Every Day Workout

Every morning, the first thing I will do is a series of stretches, movements, and breathing routines that takes about 15-20 minutes, mostly done as floor exercises. Deep breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth is part of every movement, as is engagement of the core muscles.  I've been doing this routine every day for years and I love it.

This year, I am going to shoot for these two following workouts. They add up to 2,021 miles of bicycling and 1,202 miles of walking. 

2,021 miles of bicycling over 365 days averages out to around 5.5 miles per day. At a moderate (easy) (old man) pace of 12 miles per hour, that will  take about 30 minutes. 

A one-hour walk at an old man pace for 365 days equals 1,202 miles. 1,202 miles in 2021. You can see what I did there, haha. Don't worry, that does not mean I will walk backwards. That would be weird. And unsafe.

Combining Cal with these two daily workouts will be an investment of less than two hours per day into my health and well-being. I will still have plenty of energy left to work on my fascinating memoirs, watch hoops, and/or putter around on Facebook. 

Peace, Love, and Re-creation,

Jim

P.S. This moderate daily regimen thing all goes out the window if the vaccine works and travel is safe July 1. Then the sky's the limit. I'm gonna blast on outta here.