Sunday, June 21, 2009
Vegas Baby? (Part 1)
The morning after our late-night brush with megafauna we were at a slight crossroad. We could either head back into California - possibly as far as the coast - and look for jobs, or continue the trip by heading to points east. Heading east would mean going at least as far as Grand Canyon in northern Arizona, and after a bit of head scratching we figured that we would be foolish not to take advantage of the chance to extend things a little bit. Plus, we would have to drive right through Vegas on the way, meaning we could cruise down the strip once just to say we did it.
On our way to Vegas and Grand Canyon we spent two restful nights at the Grover Hot Springs State Park. Located at elevation in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, the park has naturally fed mineral hot pools in the midst of a mountain meadow, which make for a soothing cap off to any day. We had a great site - on a bluff overlooking the park, with dense forests behind us - and deer would wander through our living area at dusk. It was almost over-the-top idyllic. After two days there where we didn't do much other than relax, we were headed to Grand Canyon, via Sin City.
The drive through the interior of Nevada is, well, depressing. If Vegas is the city that made it big gambling, then the small towns you have to pass through to get there are the ones who got addicted and lost everything. Boarded up businesses seem to outnumber those that are still clinging to operation, there are rows of slot machines crammed into every dingy convenience store, and I half expected to see tumbleweed instead of locals whenever we stopped for gas or food. All of this isolation and hardship is all the more pronounced when contrasted with a destination that is renowned for the way that people and money flow through its revolving doors at a mind boggling rate.
We pulled onto Las Vegas Boulevard ("the strip") just after dark on a Wednesday (June 10th), much to the shock of our wilderness-oriented systems (our time in L.A. and San Francisco notwithstanding). The lights were flashing, the music was blaring and the sidewalks seemed to be one continuous line of people, three abreast, on either side of the street. We weren't sure that time in Vegas would be to the enjoyment of either one of us, but it was getting late and we managed to find a modestly priced Travelodge in the heart of the strip, so we pulled in for the night. (While we paid a nightly rate at the Travelodge, there were enterprising young women in short skirts spending time in the parking lot and going in and out of rooms with a frequency which would indicate the inn might have had some sort of hourly special that night, but I digress).
After showers we cruised the strip, a daunting task in and of itself. Single resort/casinos take up entire blocks, so passing by only a few of them can take a while when you factor in the slow-moving pedestrian traffic. Added to that is the fact that they are all mazes on the inside (deliberately, of course) so "Let's go into the MGM to grab something to drink" can quickly turn into a forty minute side trip into a labyrinth of indulgence. New York New York looked inviting enough, so we wandered in just to spend a little time on the floor of a casino.
We were wearily making our way across the floor, both acknowledging that we probably weren't in the right frame of mind for a Vegas trip, when I heard "Hart? Hart Shouldice? Is that you?" Turning around and drawing a brief blank I saw an acquaintance from my days at school in New Brunswick. It was as surprising as it was comforting to see someone who had been a friend years ago so far from the last place we had been in contact. He was there with his girlfriend and another couple, also from our alma mater (Mount Allison University), and we had a pleasant though brief catchup. They were on their way to Utah for some hiking the next day, so we wished them well and continued our dazed meander, as I extolled to Sarah for the billionth time the virtues of going to a small school with a well-defined sense of community and a warm social network that an alumnus never seems to be far from.
The strip was too much to take, plain and simple, so we headed back to the Travelodge, looking forward to Grand Canyon the next day.
Monday, June 15, 2009
San Francisco, Tahoe and a Late Night Visitor
Eviction notice in hand, we turned North out of Malibu and headed back up the Pacific Coast Highway. We spent a night deep in the mountains of the Los Padres National Forest, waking up above the clouds after a night so still that we barely heard a single leaf rustle as we slept under a blanket of stars with the roof of our tent open. From there we spent one night at a motel on the beach in Cayucos (where we could see gray whales from our room), and then back to Big Sur for a night which affirmed my burgeoning affection for that most inspiring stretch of coastline. From Big Sur, it was on to San Francisco.
I had been a little bit nervous at the trip's outset about spending time in large cities with so much of our material lives packed into the car. I have come to realize, however, that there is not a car alarm on the planet that can hold a candle to the AMC system that I had installed in my '99 Subaru before Sarah and I left Victoria. AMC, of course, stands for "All My Crap." Our car is so loaded down at the moment that I can't imagine any nighttime prowler wanting to take the time to sort through our mass of blankets, bikes and bagels to possibly find a stray dollar bill under the floor mats. It's like sifting through the twisted metal on a redneck's front yard in the hopes of finding a stray gold nugget. You'd be better off stealing lottery tickets. With that piece of mind, we drove into the Bay Area on Tuesday night, June 2nd.
Our time in San Francisco was great. We did the touristy thing but catered to our own tastes, meaning that while we went to the Japanese Tea Gardens, we also made sure to pay our respects at Jerry Garcia's old house in Haight Ashbury (indeed, 710 Ashbury Street was where all of the Grateful Dead lived for a couple of years in the mid-60s). The Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, Chinatown - we really made the rounds (almost entirely on foot) and made sure to breathe in the colourful houses, hilly streets and salty air as we went. There are three enduring observations/recommendations I took from my time in San Francisco that I feel compelled to pass on:
1. If you are ever on a road trip, of limited financial means, and need a brake job in San Francisco, make sure to go see Garry at Emerald Auto and Brake, 645 Judah Street. He will take pity on you and stop charging labour as he finds more and more that needs fixing with your car before he can let you take it on the highway again in good conscience.
2. Alcatraz was cold and lonesome, but the most sadistic aspect of punishment on the Rock would have been to spend your days locked up being able to see and hear people frolicking in their sailboats on San Francisco Bay. I think I would rather do my time at the center of the earth.
3. If you meet a kind older man named Danny with an encyclopedic knowledge of the Grateful Dead and mountain biking and he sells you concert tickets, the concert will have been made up and you will have likely just donated twelve dollars to the local meth trade.
With a fixed car we pulled out of the Bay Area on Saturday morning and opted to go inland again to Lake Tahoe, located along the California/Nevada border. After camping in the middle of nowhere on Saturday night, we arrived at the lake on Sunday and first spent time in Lake Tahoe City, a rather modest town on the lake's Northwest edge with all of the charm and slow-going of a natural (read: non-Intrawest) mountain resort. It was great. We decided not to stay in Tahoe City, though, and instead drove further down the lake to South Lake Tahoe.
The drive to South Tahoe was beautiful, up and down ridges overlooking crystalline waters of the lake's outer bays to our left, with towering pines to our right. South Lake Tahoe itself is considerably bigger than Tahoe City, and boasts more than its share of retail and nightlife...uuhhh...culture(?). The town also straddles the California/Nevada state line, and lest anyone get confused as to where that line is, two massive hotel and casino complexes can be found on either side of the street about six inches on the Nevada side of the border. High roller that I am, I stopped off at a blackjack table and won ten dollars while wearing my bathing suit. I still don't know why they didn't comp us a room.
We camped just outside of South Lake Tahoe in a campground that had locking metal chests - also known as bear-proof food storage - at each site. We didn't think much of it, as we have camped at several such sites on the trip, so we safely stowed our food for the night and climbed into the tent to read a little bit before falling asleep.
It was around eleven o'clock and we had been in the tent for about twenty minutes when we had a visitor. He wasn't around long - just running through our campsite for a few seconds - but his proximity to our tent made for one of the most intense experiences we've had thus far. Despite the brevity of the visit, there was no question that it was a black bear that had just run through our site. Not just through our site, but within five feet of our tent, as we confirmed in the morning when we figured out where he would have had to run in order to get between the tent and the trees. He was so close that we could hear his every snorting breath and feel the pounding of his feet - like a thoroughbred wearing work boots - in the pits of our stomachs. Indeed, we saw this bear. Perhaps not with our eyes, but with other senses that remained on edge for the rest of the night.
Which isn't to say that I was scared. I know that the bear would want no part of us, and that he would smell us in the tent and not come knocking. But I was definitely on instinctual alert for the next little while, and every sound I heard come across the still night air was another one of Yogi's cousins. A distant airplane was a flying bear. A rustle of leaves was a bear climbing trees. South-of-the-border rumbling in my sleeping bag was a bear who should have stopped at one serving of chili before bed. I felt like the prairie dog on his hind legs who just smelled a predator in the distance, and while there was never imminent danger to us (possibly even because there was no real danger), I relished the fleeting sentiment of vulnerability in the presence of a creature so awesome.
Feeling hard core after our brush with the big fella (whom Sarah heard again an hour later as we were dozing off), we packed up from Tahoe and decided to take a random left turn and head toward Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon. We spent a month in Vegas last Thursday night and have been in Zion Canyon, Utah, for three days on our way to the Grand Canyon, but all of that will have to wait for another posting.
Until then, please stow your food safely.
Peace,
Hart
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Beverly. The Hills, that is.
It was tough leaving Big Sur behind, but I know it's not going anywhere anytime soon. We left our campsite on the Friday of the Memorial Day long weekend, which in retrospect wasn't the best move. Apparently there was some sort of mass urban evacuation in place, as every city dweller in central California decided to camp for the weekend. We tried unsuccessfully at every campground we could find, but no amount of bearded charm could land us a campsite, so we had to stay in hotels for the Friday and Saturday. Mercifully we found a county park just north of Los Angeles with plenty of open sites and great mountain views for the Sunday night.
We awoke Sunday morning and knew that we were so close to L.A. - a place that we had both sworn we had no interest in and weren't going to bother with - that we would be remiss if we didn't check it out. A peek at the atlas showed some available camping in Malibu, so not knowing what to expect but figuring we'd only be there for a night or two, we cruised down the Pacific Coast Highway and followed the smell of Botox. What follows is a blow-by-blow account.
Monday - Arrive in Malibu. Without a doubt, one of the fifteen or twenty nicest beach towns I've seen in the past month. Seriously, is there really this much hype over a thirty mile stretch of gas stations, fish and chips restaurants and out-of-business surf shops? Granted, the houses in the hills immediately to the east of the highway are impressive, and yeah, the ocean is right there, but Malibu might be the most underwhelmingest place I've ever seen, relative to its hype. We're talking Ottawa-Senators-in-the-postseason letdown. Ouch. At least we have a campsite at the less-than-escapist Leo Carillo State Beach and Campground.
Tuesday - I lock the bikes to a tree at our site (better to not have anything on our roof if we want to fit in underground garages) and we head into L.A. It takes around an hour for us to pull into Beverly Hills, and our dusty station wagon loaded to the gills with our stuff feels right at home amidst the parade of 7-series BMWs and other paycheques on wheels. We park off Rodeo Drive (this must be where the cowboys hang out) and launch on a self-guided walking tour. We see Beverly Hills, Sunset and Hollywood Blvds., the Walk of Fame, Grauman's Chinese Theatre, etc. etc. etc. Highlights of the day include seeing Slash's hand prints in the cement and talking with a friendly local in a neighbouring car at three consecutive traffic lights as we were driving out of town, with her giving us tips on what we should see. The Venice Boardwalk should be high on our list, she says. We head back to the illustrious Leo Carillo State Beach and Campground, thinking that Hollywood isn't nearly as shiny as we had thought.
Wednesday - We take our new friend's advice and head to the boardwalk at Venice Beach. We quickly realize that it is just like the county fair, if everyone at the county fair was either selling t-shirts, slightly strung out, or selling t-shirts while slightly strung out. It's quite the urban bazaar, and unless you are in dire need of a handmade hemp necklace or pink shorts that have B-I-T-C-H bedazzled across the ass, you can probably skip it on your next trip to Southern California. A man pulling a little red wagon gives us "free tickets" to the next day's taping of Real Time with Bill Maher in L.A. We're suspicious, but take them since they're free.
We roll back into Malibu in the early evening and decide to hit a coffee shop for some e-mailing. I park the car without paying much attention to our surroundings, only to return a couple hours later to find it in a lineup of cars that went: Bentley, Bentley, Subaru with shoddy brakes and a Phish sticker, Bentley. Also, their are paparazzi swarming around. Apparently I have inadvertently parked in front of one of Malibu's poshest restaurants. My bad. Kenny G is emerging as we return to the car (we should have shared curl-enhancing techniques) and the paparazzi tell me that Lisa Rinna is inside. They then tell me who Lisa Rinna is. We see her blow past in her blue Bentley as we start to make our way back to the friendly confines of Leo Carillo State Beach and Campground.
Thursday - We head to the "taping" of Bill Maher's show. Unfortunately, even though the tickets were free, this is just a rehearsal for Friday's show, with the host running through his monologue, some jokes, and his closing commentary. It's entertaining, but feels a little like a bait and switch. The consolation is that it is filmed in the studio where they do The Price is Right, so I have successfully completed a pilgrimage I promised my ten-year-old self I would make. We also put our names down for Friday night when they tape the actual show.
After Bill Maher we make our way to Sunset Blvd., where a band we both enjoy - moe. - was playing that night at the Roxy. Seeing a band we dig at a legendary Hollywood venue is not something we want to pass up, and the show is rockin' despite a tragic dearth of overindulgent celebrities passed out in bathroom stalls. Apparently Sunset isn't all it's cracked up to be.
It's a late night and we return to camp at around 2:00 in the A.M. and find to our very brief amusement that they lock the gates of the campground at 10:00 P.M. Apparently the California State Parks system thinks it is our mother and has decided to impose a curfew. We try unsuccessfully to rig something up with rocks and a hockey stick (don't leave home without it) to drive over the spikes in place to prevent you from driving in through the out door. Unable to do so, and unwilling to leave our car packed with most of our worldlies out at the highway, we resolve ourselves to an uncomfortable few hours sleeping in the car (can't recline the seats in a car full of stuff) while we wait for the 7:00 A.M. opening of the gates. The novelty of saying "Yeah man, after that show at the Roxy I passed out in my car in Malibu," wears off quickly, although we remain mindful of the fact that there are many in the world who would think it a privilege to have a warm, dry and safe car to sleep in. We don't sleep much, but the time passes rather quickly and we didn't pay for that nights accommodation, so all in all it wasn't a horrible experience. At 7:01 Friday morning we are nestled snugly in our tent at the paternalistic Leo Carillo State Beach and Campground.
Friday - Back into town to catch the actual taping of Real Time with Bill Maher. Aside from the novelty of being in a studio audience, the show is engaging and thought-provoking, with discussion ranging from corporatization of food to the newest appointee to the U.S. Supreme Court. We want to go for a drink afterwards, but if we're not home by 10:00 we get in soooooo much trouble. We agree that as soon as we graduate we are so moving out of the tyrannical Leo Carillo State Beach and Campground.
Saturday - We are awoken by an apparent combination of Smokey the Bear and Rod Farva telling us that there seems to be some confusion about what nights we have paid for, and that all sites are reserved on weekends so we have overstayed our welcome. We are to proceed to the front kiosk at once to get things sorted out. We pack up and leave without stopping to pay for the night we had to sleep outside the gate. I think we may have made the prestigious lifetime ban list at the world renown Leo Carillo State Beach and Campground.
And that was L.A. for us.
If there is one enduring sentiment we left with, it's that L.A. itself might be the world's biggest movie star. It's image of beauty, perfection and glamour pervades popular consciousness and is carefully crafted and maintained. Even a cursory glance at the city without the magic of television, however, reveals a decidedly grittier reality - even in Beverly Hills and Malibu, and especially in Hollywood. We were both glad to see L.A., but in a way it was like waking up next to the prom queen and seeing her without her makeup on. Warts and all it was a fun few days, but neither one of us was sad to pull out of Malibu and make a run for the mountains.
And we both sincerely hope that there will be but one "sleeping in the car" story upon the trip's conclusion.
Peace,
Hart
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Surtainly Magnificent
Yosemite had been an up-and-down experience. I hope as I look back on it I recall the majesty of the peaks and even the burning of my quads before the throngs of people and wildlife suppression techniques. Then again, I'm grateful for having seen the ugly side of things, and wouldn't have wanted a sugar-coated experience. Either way, it was only upon leaving the park on Saturday evening (May 16th) that we felt like we were getting a break from civilization. Weird.
Saturday night we stayed at an inn above a saloon in Coulterville, CA. Coulterville boasts the sort of old West, one-horse town aesthetic that tourist traps seek to replicate, but the boarded up businesses and sleepy feel to the town speak to its authenticity. It was a great place to recharge after Yosemite.
From there it was on to Santa Cruz, a town that is one part beach, one part forest and two parts awesome. It has beachfront for surfing (or learning how to surf...or simply carrying a board around town and winking at the ladies), mountains for hiking, and independent businesses for supporting. It's also known as one of the biking capitals of North America and has the best falafel I've ever tasted outside of Ottawa. Yeah, I think Santa Cruz and I will get along just fine. We were only there for a couple of days, but bookmarked the local Craigslist page before leaving, as of all the places we've visited thus far, it seems to be the front runner in the "Where are we going to live when we get home" sweepstakes.
South of Santa Cruz, past the über-ritzy tourist destinations of Carmel and Pebble Beach lies Big Sur. More a region than a specific location, and perhaps more a state of mind than a region, Big Sur (a bastardized derivative of the Spanish "Big South") is 90 miles of rugged coastline where the Santa Lucia Mountains jump abruptly from the seething Pacific Ocean, with Coastal Highway One serving as a winding and arbitrary boundary between the two. Many great writers have called Big Sur home (or at least called it muse) and standing in between the mountains and the sea, it was not difficult to understand why.
Of all the artistic greats who spent time in Big Sur, novelist and painter Henry Miller is the one whose legacy is the most enduring. On Wednesday afternoon, May 20th, we wandered into the Henry Miller library set across the street from the ocean in a thicket of lush Pacific vegetation. The aesthetic of the building is more wooden cottage than library, and over and above any other purpose it is a modest bookstore, selling Big Sur-inspired works and other books that make you think. In addition to a bookstore, however, it is also used as a performance space, and we happened to stumble upon it on the day of an open mic. We spent a short time at the library in the afternoon, with plans to return that evening for the open mic.
After some time back at our campsite - a beauty walk-in site at Andrew Molera State Park - we bundled up for the long night ahead and drove back to the library for the open mic. Seeking to get off the tourist track and spend time engaging in bona fide local activities is something I always endeavour to do while traveling, and to that end the open mic didn't disappoint. We arrived to find a smattering of locals sitting on the sprawling deck to the right of the main library building, shielded from the wind by trees yet fully exposed to the stars, liberally sharing mugs of coffee, cans of beer, pipes of combustibles and anything else that could be passed to your neighbour.
It was a pleasure to spend a few hours listening to locals sing and strum while we sat beside them, with songs about Jesus and love mixed in with the occasional poem or Sublime cover. When the music they played over the speakers in between performers included Leonard Cohen telling Marianne "I used to think I was some kind of gypsy boy/Before I let you take me home," I couldn't help but wonder if those are words I'll be singing to Big Sur before my time out West is done. We departed the open mic when it concluded at 11:00, but the night was far from over.
There is still much geologic activity on the west coast (geologic time includes now, after all) and along with the not-so-pleasant earthquakes come some of the more enjoyable byproducts of seismic activity, such as the hot springs at the Esalen Institute.
The Esalen Institute is a retreat and educational center on the ocean side of the highway a few kilometers south of the library. It has hot-springs-fed mineral baths that overlook the Pacific, and they open the baths to the public from one to three A.M. every night. Yes, that's 1:00 to 3:00 in the morning, and it's done by reservation only. When you make your reservation, they tell you that you have to be waiting in your car at the top of their driveway in a dusty pull-off alongside the highway at quarter to one in the morning. Someone will come meet you. Do not drive on to the property until he comes to get you. Just to recap: you have to sit and wait in a dark car in the middle of the night on the side of a highway for someone to come knock on your window, and you cannot proceed until he collects you. From the way they set it up, I wondered if there had been a miscommunication along the line. "No, you misunderstood me," I wanted to say. "I'm looking to soak in the mineral baths, not buy drugs." I bit my tongue, though, and several hours later Sarah and I drove from the open mic to sit in the pullout for a couple of hours, waiting for the knock on our window.
There was another car waiting when we pulled in, and a couple of others drove up to wait in the hour and-a-half before the staff member emerged from the darkness down the hill in a golf cart at a little before one o'clock. Shadowy figures emerged from the cars one at a time. "Walk down the hill," he told us all. "There is someone in the guard booth. He will sign you in. Wait there."
No, seriously. Am I trying to soak my bare ass in 2009, or buy moonshine in 1933?
We made our way down to the guard hut, signed our names and a standard waiver, and the man who had collected us in the highway pullout then escorted us through the compound down to where the baths are. After a brief rundown ("Here are the baths, here's how you make them hotter, someone will come tell you when it's almost three and your time is up") we were left to soak. There were eight of us altogether - Sarah and I, another young couple, and four single men. This makes for an odd dynamic when you are at a "clothing optional" bath with communal change rooms, but everyone managed to stifle their point-and-giggle impulses as we disrobed, showered (also communal) and individually wandered out to the baths themselves. The dim lighting helped.
There were four baths, each about the size and depth of a hot tub, with two of them outside sandwiched between stars and sea and two more under partial or total cover, but still in the open air. The baths were etched into a cliff, several stories above the crashing waves. The water was a little warmer than a well-heated swimming pool, but with the turn of a valve you could pour additional natural hot spring water into the tub to up the temperature.
There were also empty claw foot bathtubs, which you could fill with cold water from a garden hose if you wanted to jump between hot and cold water. Thinking this to be an exciting option, I turned on a hose to fill up one of the bathtubs, only to have it flail around on the deck when I let it go, spewing cold water at quite an impressive radius. I'm not certain, but I don't think having a furry naked Canadian shouting "What the hell?!" and chasing a garden hose raining ice water in all directions was what our fellow bathers had bargained for when they paid their twenty bucks, so I had to quickly shape up and rig up some sort of system where I could leave the hose unattended while I enjoyed my soak. After a few failed attempts I managed to tie the hose in a knot around itself that was sufficient to weigh it down until the tub filled. Moving back and forth between hot and cold was exhilarating, to be sure, and worth the brief interruption in the serenity.
Amusing misfortunes aside, the middle-of-the-night soak was a full-sensory endeavour in regeneration. Nurturing for mind, body and soul, and offering a strong connection to the elements. For our eyes: the silhouetted black clouds jockeying for position in front of a never-in-the-city star scape. For our ears: the pulse of the ocean a hundred feet below us, churning and thundering, apparently unaware that night is for resting. Even the strong aroma of sulfur emanating from the thermal pools was gentle and welcome, reminding us that it was Mother Earth on her own who was keeping the baths warm. All the while the mineral water washed over us, providing an embryonic immersion of the most soothing proportions. Much like a night at the bar - but for entirely different reasons - three o'clock came much too soon. After a drive back to the state park, the walk back to our campsite in the pitch black forest as the clock struck four was a fitting punctuation to a night of the sublime.
Short hikes and beach time were the order of the remainder of our time in Big Sur. That Wednesday night, though, was not only the sort of night that makes me want to travel in the first place, but the sort of night that makes me wonder in retrospect why I chose to keep moving. For now I am enjoying my time as a gypsy boy (a gypsy boy with a gypsy girl accomplice, that is), but if Big Sur calls me home, I will be only too happy to answer.
Peace,
Hart
Saturday night we stayed at an inn above a saloon in Coulterville, CA. Coulterville boasts the sort of old West, one-horse town aesthetic that tourist traps seek to replicate, but the boarded up businesses and sleepy feel to the town speak to its authenticity. It was a great place to recharge after Yosemite.
From there it was on to Santa Cruz, a town that is one part beach, one part forest and two parts awesome. It has beachfront for surfing (or learning how to surf...or simply carrying a board around town and winking at the ladies), mountains for hiking, and independent businesses for supporting. It's also known as one of the biking capitals of North America and has the best falafel I've ever tasted outside of Ottawa. Yeah, I think Santa Cruz and I will get along just fine. We were only there for a couple of days, but bookmarked the local Craigslist page before leaving, as of all the places we've visited thus far, it seems to be the front runner in the "Where are we going to live when we get home" sweepstakes.
South of Santa Cruz, past the über-ritzy tourist destinations of Carmel and Pebble Beach lies Big Sur. More a region than a specific location, and perhaps more a state of mind than a region, Big Sur (a bastardized derivative of the Spanish "Big South") is 90 miles of rugged coastline where the Santa Lucia Mountains jump abruptly from the seething Pacific Ocean, with Coastal Highway One serving as a winding and arbitrary boundary between the two. Many great writers have called Big Sur home (or at least called it muse) and standing in between the mountains and the sea, it was not difficult to understand why.
Of all the artistic greats who spent time in Big Sur, novelist and painter Henry Miller is the one whose legacy is the most enduring. On Wednesday afternoon, May 20th, we wandered into the Henry Miller library set across the street from the ocean in a thicket of lush Pacific vegetation. The aesthetic of the building is more wooden cottage than library, and over and above any other purpose it is a modest bookstore, selling Big Sur-inspired works and other books that make you think. In addition to a bookstore, however, it is also used as a performance space, and we happened to stumble upon it on the day of an open mic. We spent a short time at the library in the afternoon, with plans to return that evening for the open mic.
After some time back at our campsite - a beauty walk-in site at Andrew Molera State Park - we bundled up for the long night ahead and drove back to the library for the open mic. Seeking to get off the tourist track and spend time engaging in bona fide local activities is something I always endeavour to do while traveling, and to that end the open mic didn't disappoint. We arrived to find a smattering of locals sitting on the sprawling deck to the right of the main library building, shielded from the wind by trees yet fully exposed to the stars, liberally sharing mugs of coffee, cans of beer, pipes of combustibles and anything else that could be passed to your neighbour.
It was a pleasure to spend a few hours listening to locals sing and strum while we sat beside them, with songs about Jesus and love mixed in with the occasional poem or Sublime cover. When the music they played over the speakers in between performers included Leonard Cohen telling Marianne "I used to think I was some kind of gypsy boy/Before I let you take me home," I couldn't help but wonder if those are words I'll be singing to Big Sur before my time out West is done. We departed the open mic when it concluded at 11:00, but the night was far from over.
There is still much geologic activity on the west coast (geologic time includes now, after all) and along with the not-so-pleasant earthquakes come some of the more enjoyable byproducts of seismic activity, such as the hot springs at the Esalen Institute.
The Esalen Institute is a retreat and educational center on the ocean side of the highway a few kilometers south of the library. It has hot-springs-fed mineral baths that overlook the Pacific, and they open the baths to the public from one to three A.M. every night. Yes, that's 1:00 to 3:00 in the morning, and it's done by reservation only. When you make your reservation, they tell you that you have to be waiting in your car at the top of their driveway in a dusty pull-off alongside the highway at quarter to one in the morning. Someone will come meet you. Do not drive on to the property until he comes to get you. Just to recap: you have to sit and wait in a dark car in the middle of the night on the side of a highway for someone to come knock on your window, and you cannot proceed until he collects you. From the way they set it up, I wondered if there had been a miscommunication along the line. "No, you misunderstood me," I wanted to say. "I'm looking to soak in the mineral baths, not buy drugs." I bit my tongue, though, and several hours later Sarah and I drove from the open mic to sit in the pullout for a couple of hours, waiting for the knock on our window.
There was another car waiting when we pulled in, and a couple of others drove up to wait in the hour and-a-half before the staff member emerged from the darkness down the hill in a golf cart at a little before one o'clock. Shadowy figures emerged from the cars one at a time. "Walk down the hill," he told us all. "There is someone in the guard booth. He will sign you in. Wait there."
No, seriously. Am I trying to soak my bare ass in 2009, or buy moonshine in 1933?
We made our way down to the guard hut, signed our names and a standard waiver, and the man who had collected us in the highway pullout then escorted us through the compound down to where the baths are. After a brief rundown ("Here are the baths, here's how you make them hotter, someone will come tell you when it's almost three and your time is up") we were left to soak. There were eight of us altogether - Sarah and I, another young couple, and four single men. This makes for an odd dynamic when you are at a "clothing optional" bath with communal change rooms, but everyone managed to stifle their point-and-giggle impulses as we disrobed, showered (also communal) and individually wandered out to the baths themselves. The dim lighting helped.
There were four baths, each about the size and depth of a hot tub, with two of them outside sandwiched between stars and sea and two more under partial or total cover, but still in the open air. The baths were etched into a cliff, several stories above the crashing waves. The water was a little warmer than a well-heated swimming pool, but with the turn of a valve you could pour additional natural hot spring water into the tub to up the temperature.
There were also empty claw foot bathtubs, which you could fill with cold water from a garden hose if you wanted to jump between hot and cold water. Thinking this to be an exciting option, I turned on a hose to fill up one of the bathtubs, only to have it flail around on the deck when I let it go, spewing cold water at quite an impressive radius. I'm not certain, but I don't think having a furry naked Canadian shouting "What the hell?!" and chasing a garden hose raining ice water in all directions was what our fellow bathers had bargained for when they paid their twenty bucks, so I had to quickly shape up and rig up some sort of system where I could leave the hose unattended while I enjoyed my soak. After a few failed attempts I managed to tie the hose in a knot around itself that was sufficient to weigh it down until the tub filled. Moving back and forth between hot and cold was exhilarating, to be sure, and worth the brief interruption in the serenity.
Amusing misfortunes aside, the middle-of-the-night soak was a full-sensory endeavour in regeneration. Nurturing for mind, body and soul, and offering a strong connection to the elements. For our eyes: the silhouetted black clouds jockeying for position in front of a never-in-the-city star scape. For our ears: the pulse of the ocean a hundred feet below us, churning and thundering, apparently unaware that night is for resting. Even the strong aroma of sulfur emanating from the thermal pools was gentle and welcome, reminding us that it was Mother Earth on her own who was keeping the baths warm. All the while the mineral water washed over us, providing an embryonic immersion of the most soothing proportions. Much like a night at the bar - but for entirely different reasons - three o'clock came much too soon. After a drive back to the state park, the walk back to our campsite in the pitch black forest as the clock struck four was a fitting punctuation to a night of the sublime.
Short hikes and beach time were the order of the remainder of our time in Big Sur. That Wednesday night, though, was not only the sort of night that makes me want to travel in the first place, but the sort of night that makes me wonder in retrospect why I chose to keep moving. For now I am enjoying my time as a gypsy boy (a gypsy boy with a gypsy girl accomplice, that is), but if Big Sur calls me home, I will be only too happy to answer.
Peace,
Hart
Monday, May 18, 2009
Yosemite Part 3: A Sad Encounter
Fifteen hard miles in ten hours in the hot sun will leave anyone feeling a little wilted. There was a palpable air of relief around us as we shuffled our way back to the car, which was parked in a dusty lot and pulled in facing a wooded area. The setting sun was still beating on the granite cliffs to the South, but the parking lot was in total shade.
I was on the driver’s side and had just let out a relieved grunt as I slid off my stiff and heavy backpacking boots. Standing up to stretch after slipping my feet into some sandals, my jaw dropped as I saw two hundred pounds, four legs and light brown fur lumbering away from a neighbouring car with a brown paper bag in it’s mouth.
“Sarah! A bear!”
She wasn’t fifteen feet away from us and only wandered about twenty feet into the woods to dig into her new find. Seeing a bear with a tag on its ear and a grocery bag in its mouth doesn't quite recall the majesty of John Muir's Yosemite, but there was still a quiet awe in both of us as we stood transfixed and silent.
Sarah and I had each snapped a picture and I was going to reach for a phone to call and report the late afternoon snacker when I turned and saw the rangers approaching us. Dressed in their green pants, matching ball caps and crisp khaki shirts, the gang of four were probably a couple years younger than me. Two men and two women, with two of them carrying high-tech listening equipment and a paintball gun.
I was approached by the younger of the two men, wearing big glasses and a stubby dirty blond pony tail pulled through the back of his hat. Knowing what he was looking for I whispered “Right there, straight ahead,” and pointed. He took a look and then went back to his teammates. There was a deceptive and fleeting moment of calm as the four of them took about three steps toward the bear.
The contrast could not have been more stark: the silent reverence when we sat watching the bear eat, and the top-of-their-lungs shouting as the rangers gave chase. "HEY BEAR! GET OUT OF HERE!" They exploded like a pack of wolves on Red Bull, a college football team emerging from the tunnel trying their best to psych out their opponent as they ran straight at the animal. She was undeterred for a moment, but once the rangers were within about ten feet she dropped her find and retreated to the woods. As quickly and silently as we had seen her, she disappeared in a jarring mess of shouts and pressurized paint pellets.
They weren't done, though. The older of the two male rangers, sporting close-cropped black hair and a neatly groomed beard (pffff) went back to the truck and emerged with what looked like a Soviet assault rifle. The younger woman stayed close by him with radio equipment they could use to track the animal into the woods.
"So, what do you guys do now?" I asked.
"We have to go and find her. This bear has been a real problem," came the cavalier, almost boastful response from the ranger brandishing the firearm. "We've been chasing her almost exclusively for about a week and-a-half, and she's getting bolder and bolder. We're going to shoot her with rubber bullets to try and keep her away, but we've relocated her five times."
"Did she break into a car just now?" Yosemite bears are famous for tearing into locked cars in search of food.
"No. Somebody put their food down and walked a hundred yards away. She came and grabbed it as soon as he walked away."
"So I guess he didn't pay attention to the signs that seem to be every five feet telling you to store your food properly, huh?"
"Yeah, well, signs are only so effective. " And then, as a casual afterthought he added "We'll have to put her down if she gets worse."
So, just to recap: Person comes into bear's habitat. Person told not to leave food out. Person leaves food out. Bear gets shot. It was a strange and troubling end to four days in Yosemite that were overwhelming for any number of reasons - both magical and devastating.
Yosemite National Park is stunning. The granite cliffs, soaring waterfalls and mountain meadows are enough to bring a grown man to tears. They have captured the imaginations of writers, artists and musicians for generations, and are why three and a half million people visit the park every year (that's an average of ten thousand a day, for those of you keeping score at home). But of those 3.5 million, one has to wonder how many of them see the park as simply a forested extension of the cities from which they come. It would not be a stretch for anybody to view Yosemite as yet another consumerist enclave, only one that happens to be surrounded by natural, rather than artificial skyscrapers.
I am not an elitist. I think the woods are for everybody, and just because I can walk a little ways into the mountains, that does not mean that I am any more entitled to see Yosemite than someone who, for whatever reason, cannot venture more than a half mile from the car. But to nurture the sort of roadside tourism which Yosemite oozes - a pizza joint, souvenir "clearance outlet" and sprawling, cancerous golf course can all be found on the valley floor - does not show the same sort of reverence for the natural environment that the park pretends to espouse. How are tourists supposed to take seriously the warnings about locking up their food when they are parked a stone's throw from an all-you-can-eat buffet? The park is dotted with signs asking us to keep the animals wild, but they aren't exactly setting the best precedent with what they've done to the landscape.
If ten thousand people a day want to respect and learn about the land - even from the comfort and safety of their cars - then that should be encouraged. Awareness and education are the cornerstones of conservation. But I am at a loss as to what good is served by the hordes coming through Yosemite to eat pizza and buy t-shirts, only to have the wildlife that is emblazoned on those very t-shirts be euthanized as a result of the negligence of park visitors. (Funny, too, how John Muir - a man whose image and name are shamelessly plastered all over the park - defined his life by the time he spent in these mountains without every buying a single t-shirt).
Let anyone who so desires come to Yosemite. Let them stay awhile, take pictures and tell all their friends about it. I, myself was a temporary guest, and am very grateful to have been allowed to come for a visit. But let the people come on the terms of the mountains, dictated by compassion, not consumerism. I'm happy to pay to enter the park, but I want to pay to enter a park in the mountains, not a shopping mall in the woods. If you want a pizza buffet, stay at home. If you want a buffet for the soul, bring your sleeping bag and plan to stay a while.
Just remember to lock up your food.
Peace,
Hart
I was on the driver’s side and had just let out a relieved grunt as I slid off my stiff and heavy backpacking boots. Standing up to stretch after slipping my feet into some sandals, my jaw dropped as I saw two hundred pounds, four legs and light brown fur lumbering away from a neighbouring car with a brown paper bag in it’s mouth.
“Sarah! A bear!”
She wasn’t fifteen feet away from us and only wandered about twenty feet into the woods to dig into her new find. Seeing a bear with a tag on its ear and a grocery bag in its mouth doesn't quite recall the majesty of John Muir's Yosemite, but there was still a quiet awe in both of us as we stood transfixed and silent.
Sarah and I had each snapped a picture and I was going to reach for a phone to call and report the late afternoon snacker when I turned and saw the rangers approaching us. Dressed in their green pants, matching ball caps and crisp khaki shirts, the gang of four were probably a couple years younger than me. Two men and two women, with two of them carrying high-tech listening equipment and a paintball gun.
I was approached by the younger of the two men, wearing big glasses and a stubby dirty blond pony tail pulled through the back of his hat. Knowing what he was looking for I whispered “Right there, straight ahead,” and pointed. He took a look and then went back to his teammates. There was a deceptive and fleeting moment of calm as the four of them took about three steps toward the bear.
The contrast could not have been more stark: the silent reverence when we sat watching the bear eat, and the top-of-their-lungs shouting as the rangers gave chase. "HEY BEAR! GET OUT OF HERE!" They exploded like a pack of wolves on Red Bull, a college football team emerging from the tunnel trying their best to psych out their opponent as they ran straight at the animal. She was undeterred for a moment, but once the rangers were within about ten feet she dropped her find and retreated to the woods. As quickly and silently as we had seen her, she disappeared in a jarring mess of shouts and pressurized paint pellets.
They weren't done, though. The older of the two male rangers, sporting close-cropped black hair and a neatly groomed beard (pffff) went back to the truck and emerged with what looked like a Soviet assault rifle. The younger woman stayed close by him with radio equipment they could use to track the animal into the woods.
"So, what do you guys do now?" I asked.
"We have to go and find her. This bear has been a real problem," came the cavalier, almost boastful response from the ranger brandishing the firearm. "We've been chasing her almost exclusively for about a week and-a-half, and she's getting bolder and bolder. We're going to shoot her with rubber bullets to try and keep her away, but we've relocated her five times."
"Did she break into a car just now?" Yosemite bears are famous for tearing into locked cars in search of food.
"No. Somebody put their food down and walked a hundred yards away. She came and grabbed it as soon as he walked away."
"So I guess he didn't pay attention to the signs that seem to be every five feet telling you to store your food properly, huh?"
"Yeah, well, signs are only so effective. " And then, as a casual afterthought he added "We'll have to put her down if she gets worse."
So, just to recap: Person comes into bear's habitat. Person told not to leave food out. Person leaves food out. Bear gets shot. It was a strange and troubling end to four days in Yosemite that were overwhelming for any number of reasons - both magical and devastating.
Yosemite National Park is stunning. The granite cliffs, soaring waterfalls and mountain meadows are enough to bring a grown man to tears. They have captured the imaginations of writers, artists and musicians for generations, and are why three and a half million people visit the park every year (that's an average of ten thousand a day, for those of you keeping score at home). But of those 3.5 million, one has to wonder how many of them see the park as simply a forested extension of the cities from which they come. It would not be a stretch for anybody to view Yosemite as yet another consumerist enclave, only one that happens to be surrounded by natural, rather than artificial skyscrapers.
I am not an elitist. I think the woods are for everybody, and just because I can walk a little ways into the mountains, that does not mean that I am any more entitled to see Yosemite than someone who, for whatever reason, cannot venture more than a half mile from the car. But to nurture the sort of roadside tourism which Yosemite oozes - a pizza joint, souvenir "clearance outlet" and sprawling, cancerous golf course can all be found on the valley floor - does not show the same sort of reverence for the natural environment that the park pretends to espouse. How are tourists supposed to take seriously the warnings about locking up their food when they are parked a stone's throw from an all-you-can-eat buffet? The park is dotted with signs asking us to keep the animals wild, but they aren't exactly setting the best precedent with what they've done to the landscape.
If ten thousand people a day want to respect and learn about the land - even from the comfort and safety of their cars - then that should be encouraged. Awareness and education are the cornerstones of conservation. But I am at a loss as to what good is served by the hordes coming through Yosemite to eat pizza and buy t-shirts, only to have the wildlife that is emblazoned on those very t-shirts be euthanized as a result of the negligence of park visitors. (Funny, too, how John Muir - a man whose image and name are shamelessly plastered all over the park - defined his life by the time he spent in these mountains without every buying a single t-shirt).
Let anyone who so desires come to Yosemite. Let them stay awhile, take pictures and tell all their friends about it. I, myself was a temporary guest, and am very grateful to have been allowed to come for a visit. But let the people come on the terms of the mountains, dictated by compassion, not consumerism. I'm happy to pay to enter the park, but I want to pay to enter a park in the mountains, not a shopping mall in the woods. If you want a pizza buffet, stay at home. If you want a buffet for the soul, bring your sleeping bag and plan to stay a while.
Just remember to lock up your food.
Peace,
Hart
Yosemite Part 2: Half Dome (Choose Your Own Adventure)
(Please choose a number between 1 and 4. You'll need it later on in this post)
Friday had been a great day of recharging, and after some back-and-forth between us about avoiding crowds and what we wanted out of our time in Yosemite, we decided that climbing the fabled Half Dome on Saturday would be a fun and challenging way to cap off our time in the park. Half Dome is more rock than mountain, a granite formation rising up 4800 feet (1, 144 metres) from the valley floor to an elevation of 8,836 feet (2,693 metres). The summit of the rock is accessible without technical climbing gear, with fixed cables shepherding hikers up the last 400 feet (120 metres) of the steep climb. It's a grueling 15-mile round-trip, but something we were very much looking forward to as we packed up camp on Saturday morning and took the short drive to the trailhead.
There are other lookout points and waterfalls on the way up to the summit, so we were very much part of a thundering herd as we started the walk. I felt like a pilgrim heading to Mecca, only with more of a crowd. While the crowds would ebb and flow throughout the day, we never quite had the feeling that we were "getting away from it all," as we estimated at day's end that we spent less than ten percent of the day without other people in view or earshot. I shudder to think of the masses that flock to Half Dome at summer's peak.
The highlight of the early part of the hike is the misnomered "Mist Trail," a steep granite stair climb that has you walking along side a pumping waterfall (pumping in springtime, at least), while the mist from the falls gives you a thorough soaking. It wasn't a bad way to start the day, as the scenery was great and we knew that we were in for a hot day of hiking.
The walk levels off somewhat after the mist trail culminates with the thundering Nevada Falls four miles (about seven kilometers) in. After a flat, sandy section the trail climbs gradually toward the summit, with the final two miles being gnarly to say the least. There are dozens of steps seemingly carved right into the side of the rock, then some free scrambling up bare rock (nothing but the valley floor to stop a fall) which takes you to a false summit. From the false summit, you look straight up to the final 400 feet (120 meters) of climb: a seventy degree rock face where the only (sane) way up or down is to haul yourself up using the steel cables that are in place from May to October. It took me a long, hard look at the cables to figure whether or not I wanted to make the final push, but in the end...(kindly recall the number you chose at the beginning of the blog to complete this sentence. Let's all meet up again after number four.)
1. But in the end, I chose not to pull myself up the cables and climb the final 400 feet. The Maori people of New Zealand have asked climbers not to stand directly on the summit Aoraki/Mount Cook - that country's highest peak - out of respect for the mountain's sacred history. I thought the honourable thing to do would be to show the same respect to Half Dome.
2. But in the end, I chose not to pull myself up the cables and climb the final 200 feet. My mother is an avid knitter, and my untimely demise resulting from a potential misstep would have put her way behind on her Christmas socks for this year. I couldn't do that to her.
3. But in the end, I chose not to pull myself up the cables and climb the final 400 feet. Sarah told me I was more of a man for not doing it than all of those who did it just for the sake of doing it. And besides, I haven't felt the need to prove anything to anyone since my second successful defence of the Camp Sheldrake 60-second burp record in 2003(120 burps in one minute, and it still stands to this day).
4. But in the end, I chose not to pull myself up the cables and climb the final 400 feet. The thought scared the living piss out of me.
So I didn't stand atop the absolute summit of Half Dome. But to let that detract from what was a near-idyllic day on the trails (save for the crowds) would be to miss the point of a day in the woods altogether. The lizards scampering below me, wild flowers in bloom beside me and snow-covered peaks in front of me were the stuff of a Planet Earth highlight reel, and to spend a day letting my senses feast in such a theater was a wonderful privilege. Summit or no summit, to be so blessed as to be wincing my way down the mountain in the relentless sun after walking on the shoulder of a giant was soul food of the highest nutritional content. I am grateful to Half Dome for letting me spend a blink of her eye alongside her, and have never had a shower so glorious as the waterfall mist on the descent.
Peace,
Hart
Friday had been a great day of recharging, and after some back-and-forth between us about avoiding crowds and what we wanted out of our time in Yosemite, we decided that climbing the fabled Half Dome on Saturday would be a fun and challenging way to cap off our time in the park. Half Dome is more rock than mountain, a granite formation rising up 4800 feet (1, 144 metres) from the valley floor to an elevation of 8,836 feet (2,693 metres). The summit of the rock is accessible without technical climbing gear, with fixed cables shepherding hikers up the last 400 feet (120 metres) of the steep climb. It's a grueling 15-mile round-trip, but something we were very much looking forward to as we packed up camp on Saturday morning and took the short drive to the trailhead.
There are other lookout points and waterfalls on the way up to the summit, so we were very much part of a thundering herd as we started the walk. I felt like a pilgrim heading to Mecca, only with more of a crowd. While the crowds would ebb and flow throughout the day, we never quite had the feeling that we were "getting away from it all," as we estimated at day's end that we spent less than ten percent of the day without other people in view or earshot. I shudder to think of the masses that flock to Half Dome at summer's peak.
The highlight of the early part of the hike is the misnomered "Mist Trail," a steep granite stair climb that has you walking along side a pumping waterfall (pumping in springtime, at least), while the mist from the falls gives you a thorough soaking. It wasn't a bad way to start the day, as the scenery was great and we knew that we were in for a hot day of hiking.
The walk levels off somewhat after the mist trail culminates with the thundering Nevada Falls four miles (about seven kilometers) in. After a flat, sandy section the trail climbs gradually toward the summit, with the final two miles being gnarly to say the least. There are dozens of steps seemingly carved right into the side of the rock, then some free scrambling up bare rock (nothing but the valley floor to stop a fall) which takes you to a false summit. From the false summit, you look straight up to the final 400 feet (120 meters) of climb: a seventy degree rock face where the only (sane) way up or down is to haul yourself up using the steel cables that are in place from May to October. It took me a long, hard look at the cables to figure whether or not I wanted to make the final push, but in the end...(kindly recall the number you chose at the beginning of the blog to complete this sentence. Let's all meet up again after number four.)
1. But in the end, I chose not to pull myself up the cables and climb the final 400 feet. The Maori people of New Zealand have asked climbers not to stand directly on the summit Aoraki/Mount Cook - that country's highest peak - out of respect for the mountain's sacred history. I thought the honourable thing to do would be to show the same respect to Half Dome.
2. But in the end, I chose not to pull myself up the cables and climb the final 200 feet. My mother is an avid knitter, and my untimely demise resulting from a potential misstep would have put her way behind on her Christmas socks for this year. I couldn't do that to her.
3. But in the end, I chose not to pull myself up the cables and climb the final 400 feet. Sarah told me I was more of a man for not doing it than all of those who did it just for the sake of doing it. And besides, I haven't felt the need to prove anything to anyone since my second successful defence of the Camp Sheldrake 60-second burp record in 2003(120 burps in one minute, and it still stands to this day).
4. But in the end, I chose not to pull myself up the cables and climb the final 400 feet. The thought scared the living piss out of me.
So I didn't stand atop the absolute summit of Half Dome. But to let that detract from what was a near-idyllic day on the trails (save for the crowds) would be to miss the point of a day in the woods altogether. The lizards scampering below me, wild flowers in bloom beside me and snow-covered peaks in front of me were the stuff of a Planet Earth highlight reel, and to spend a day letting my senses feast in such a theater was a wonderful privilege. Summit or no summit, to be so blessed as to be wincing my way down the mountain in the relentless sun after walking on the shoulder of a giant was soul food of the highest nutritional content. I am grateful to Half Dome for letting me spend a blink of her eye alongside her, and have never had a shower so glorious as the waterfall mist on the descent.
Peace,
Hart
Yosemite Part 1: Any Room at the Inn?
We enjoyed our stay in Arcata, but a guy can only see so many dreadlocks and yoga pants before looking for a change of scenery. We headed just a little ways down the 101 to Ferndale, CA, a one-horse town renowned for its Victorian architecture and quaint Main Street.
My Lonely Planet guidebook told us that we could camp for a modest fee - hot showers included - at the Humboldt County Fairgrounds in Ferndale, so we followed the signs when we arrived in town. The fairgrounds are located a couple of kilometers outside of town in some pretty serious agricultural country. We weren't sure the camping rumours would be true, but sure enough we found a field adjacent to the county racetrack that had a few ramshackle motor homes amidst the overgrowth and a hand-painted red-and-white sign that said "Camping Check-In". The sign pointed to a trailer that could not have had half as much furniture inside as it did outside.
Ten dollars later we were setting up our tent at the edge of an unkempt field across the street from a fine bovine herd on one side, the county fair grandstand on another and a scrap tire yard on yet another. It would seem that they don't get too many one-night visitors at the Humboldt County Fairgrounds (except during the fair, we were later told), as eyes peered out from behind tattered screens and rickety front doors of each of the ten or so trailers and motor homes that lined the field, watching our every move as we set up the tent and settled in for the night. A couple of young road trippers from Canada were the front page story for the fifteen hours we were camped at the fairgrounds, as every time we went to the bathrooms or walked off the property, locals made sure to find a reason to be standing in front of their trailers or in their windows to get a good look. I'm not sure if it felt more like a scene from Deliverance (backwoods creepy) or Snatch (bare-knuckle boxing gypsy creepy), but either way I wasn't sad to be leaving on Tuesday morning, the back-in-time charm of Ferndale not withstanding.
The coast had been good to us, but it was time to head inland a ways. After a one-night stopover in Ukiah, CA we headed to Yosemite National Park and the Sierra Nevada Mountains therein. It being midweek and early May at this point, we were looking forward to some time in the woods away from civilization. Everyone knows that National Parks are mobbed from June to September, so we were psyched to think we were ahead of the rush.
We were surprised, then, when we arrived late Tuesday night and found an "All Campgrounds Full" sign taped to the unoccupied entry booth in the Southwest corner of the park. Slightly confused and a little but unnerved, we turned around and set up camp in a dark and primitive campground (no picnics or brushing of teeth allowed, because of bears) about forty kilometers outside of the park.
We rolled in to the park again, for the first time, on Wednesday morning. We were told that all of the reservable campsites in the park were taken, but that the walk-in and non-reservable Camp 4 might still have a few spots left. Camp 4 is located on the floor of the Yosemite Valley, a good half-hour's drive from the entry to the park, so we booted it there as fast as we could, knowing that if we got shut out from Camp 4 our Yosemite experience might be in serious jeopardy. Again, this being the supposed off-season, we were taken aback at the amount of traffic we saw driving in, but we plowed on undeterred and were relieved to get one of the last sites available in Yosemite National Park.
How to describe Camp 4? It's a walk-in only campground, where everyone parks in a dusty lot and walks in to their site (we were about two hundred metres from the car to our tent). People are camped on top of each other, six to a site with, one meagre set of washrooms (no showers) serving all two hundred and some campers. Set in the shadow of Yosemite Falls and the iconic El Capitan, Camp 4 is renowned among rock climbers, who seemed to comprise at least 90% of the residents of this strange little village that was one part campground, one part music festival, and one part parents' basement. Twenty- and thirty-somethings who could probably be doing something more productive with their lives are the norm (present company proudly included), but the duct-taped gear and mac-and-cheese diets belie the diversity of the campers. Once the headlamps get turned on around the picnic tables at night you are just as likely to hear conversations about how "Siiiiick, dude" the nose route of El Cap is as you are to get recommendations on where to get sushi in Berlin or whether The Canterbury Tales is Chaucer's best work.
Tents and bear-proof food storage cabinets at Camp 4. You really have to hope your neighbour doesn't snore.
The full campsites and traffic heading from the park entrance to the valley (where most of Yosemite's commercial and slumbering activity takes place) had given us some cause for concern, but I don't know that either of us were quite prepared for the total gong show that would await us after we set up in Camp 4 and made our way to the beehive that is Yosemite Village.
The village is the hub of Yosemite National Park. Three and a half million people visit the park each year, and it seemed to us on Wednesday afternoon that 2009's entire allotment had checked in that afternoon. There were gift shops (and one "souvenir clearance outlet") swarming with tourists browsing the floor-to-ceiling t-shirts. Others clambered over each other in line at the full service grocery store, and still more were found in line at the plethora many eateries in the village, or on their way to the 18-hole championship golf course. It was like a dusty Disneyland, with all of the jostling, noise and aggravation of a major tourist trap and none of the anticipated tranquility or even mutual respect one anticipates when entering a national park. We had paid twenty bucks (the entry fee to the park, per car) for the privilege of fighting crowds for parking spots and roadside views, and were both feeling pretty demoralized.
Thursday was better, however. After the confusion and frustration of Wednesday, we checked out of Camp 4 into the more serene and natural North Pines Campground, and had a wonderful day of hiking 10 miles (round trip) to the top of Yosemite Falls - North America's highest waterfall, plunging over 2,000 feet to the valley floor. Watching the water unfurl as it leaped over the falls and billowed its way into the streams below and hearing its jet-engine roar that could only have been soothing in this particular setting was just the therapy we needed and left us feeling like we'd had a real day in the woods. We looked forward to a rest day on Friday and then a climb of the mighty Half Dome on Saturday.
My Lonely Planet guidebook told us that we could camp for a modest fee - hot showers included - at the Humboldt County Fairgrounds in Ferndale, so we followed the signs when we arrived in town. The fairgrounds are located a couple of kilometers outside of town in some pretty serious agricultural country. We weren't sure the camping rumours would be true, but sure enough we found a field adjacent to the county racetrack that had a few ramshackle motor homes amidst the overgrowth and a hand-painted red-and-white sign that said "Camping Check-In". The sign pointed to a trailer that could not have had half as much furniture inside as it did outside.
Ten dollars later we were setting up our tent at the edge of an unkempt field across the street from a fine bovine herd on one side, the county fair grandstand on another and a scrap tire yard on yet another. It would seem that they don't get too many one-night visitors at the Humboldt County Fairgrounds (except during the fair, we were later told), as eyes peered out from behind tattered screens and rickety front doors of each of the ten or so trailers and motor homes that lined the field, watching our every move as we set up the tent and settled in for the night. A couple of young road trippers from Canada were the front page story for the fifteen hours we were camped at the fairgrounds, as every time we went to the bathrooms or walked off the property, locals made sure to find a reason to be standing in front of their trailers or in their windows to get a good look. I'm not sure if it felt more like a scene from Deliverance (backwoods creepy) or Snatch (bare-knuckle boxing gypsy creepy), but either way I wasn't sad to be leaving on Tuesday morning, the back-in-time charm of Ferndale not withstanding.
The coast had been good to us, but it was time to head inland a ways. After a one-night stopover in Ukiah, CA we headed to Yosemite National Park and the Sierra Nevada Mountains therein. It being midweek and early May at this point, we were looking forward to some time in the woods away from civilization. Everyone knows that National Parks are mobbed from June to September, so we were psyched to think we were ahead of the rush.
We were surprised, then, when we arrived late Tuesday night and found an "All Campgrounds Full" sign taped to the unoccupied entry booth in the Southwest corner of the park. Slightly confused and a little but unnerved, we turned around and set up camp in a dark and primitive campground (no picnics or brushing of teeth allowed, because of bears) about forty kilometers outside of the park.
We rolled in to the park again, for the first time, on Wednesday morning. We were told that all of the reservable campsites in the park were taken, but that the walk-in and non-reservable Camp 4 might still have a few spots left. Camp 4 is located on the floor of the Yosemite Valley, a good half-hour's drive from the entry to the park, so we booted it there as fast as we could, knowing that if we got shut out from Camp 4 our Yosemite experience might be in serious jeopardy. Again, this being the supposed off-season, we were taken aback at the amount of traffic we saw driving in, but we plowed on undeterred and were relieved to get one of the last sites available in Yosemite National Park.
How to describe Camp 4? It's a walk-in only campground, where everyone parks in a dusty lot and walks in to their site (we were about two hundred metres from the car to our tent). People are camped on top of each other, six to a site with, one meagre set of washrooms (no showers) serving all two hundred and some campers. Set in the shadow of Yosemite Falls and the iconic El Capitan, Camp 4 is renowned among rock climbers, who seemed to comprise at least 90% of the residents of this strange little village that was one part campground, one part music festival, and one part parents' basement. Twenty- and thirty-somethings who could probably be doing something more productive with their lives are the norm (present company proudly included), but the duct-taped gear and mac-and-cheese diets belie the diversity of the campers. Once the headlamps get turned on around the picnic tables at night you are just as likely to hear conversations about how "Siiiiick, dude" the nose route of El Cap is as you are to get recommendations on where to get sushi in Berlin or whether The Canterbury Tales is Chaucer's best work.
Tents and bear-proof food storage cabinets at Camp 4. You really have to hope your neighbour doesn't snore.The full campsites and traffic heading from the park entrance to the valley (where most of Yosemite's commercial and slumbering activity takes place) had given us some cause for concern, but I don't know that either of us were quite prepared for the total gong show that would await us after we set up in Camp 4 and made our way to the beehive that is Yosemite Village.
The village is the hub of Yosemite National Park. Three and a half million people visit the park each year, and it seemed to us on Wednesday afternoon that 2009's entire allotment had checked in that afternoon. There were gift shops (and one "souvenir clearance outlet") swarming with tourists browsing the floor-to-ceiling t-shirts. Others clambered over each other in line at the full service grocery store, and still more were found in line at the plethora many eateries in the village, or on their way to the 18-hole championship golf course. It was like a dusty Disneyland, with all of the jostling, noise and aggravation of a major tourist trap and none of the anticipated tranquility or even mutual respect one anticipates when entering a national park. We had paid twenty bucks (the entry fee to the park, per car) for the privilege of fighting crowds for parking spots and roadside views, and were both feeling pretty demoralized.
Thursday was better, however. After the confusion and frustration of Wednesday, we checked out of Camp 4 into the more serene and natural North Pines Campground, and had a wonderful day of hiking 10 miles (round trip) to the top of Yosemite Falls - North America's highest waterfall, plunging over 2,000 feet to the valley floor. Watching the water unfurl as it leaped over the falls and billowed its way into the streams below and hearing its jet-engine roar that could only have been soothing in this particular setting was just the therapy we needed and left us feeling like we'd had a real day in the woods. We looked forward to a rest day on Friday and then a climb of the mighty Half Dome on Saturday.
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