WHEN: Saturday, June 18, 2005

WHERE: Davis, Auburn, Auburn State Wilderness (or something)

DISTANCE: about 120 miles

There was one more day to do something outdoors before heading back home. Katie is not an early riser, but a friend of hers who is a serious cyclist like she is, wanted us all to get up early and have a nice 40 mile ride through some hills. About a year ago when visiting here, I had done a flat but windy 30 mile ride on a bike that wasn't really my size, and it was do-able but hurt my ass in a big way. At home I mountain bike infrequently, and my butt never hurts, even with all the bumps. So while I was game for this casual/brutal ride, I wasn't disappointed when Katie slept in long enough for us to get out of it.

I'm sure she would point out that I also slept in, but hey it's her house, she can get me up if she's rarin to get on the road. So instead of the ride, we walked downtown for a really elegant cup of capuccino prepared by just about the loveliest tall thin brunette girl I'd seen in a long time. Her hair was long and thin and extremely well combed for that hour of the morning. She wore a black long sleeved shirt that didn't quite make it down to the waist of her jeans, so in a non-slutty way it revealed her hips. Her hip bones pointed out from how thin she was, but in a sexy way not an anorexic way. She had a cute nose and fuller lips than you'd expect and they had a natural pout. Her face reminded me of a guy friend from high school, like they could be brother-sister.

The sun was warm that morning, but it was very windy, so fleece zip-ups were in order. The University had graduation the day before, and it was an odd morning because of the relative quiet as people slept in. There was the occasional balloon ribbon flapping away in an alley, the odd empty keg here or there. There was a chair tied up in a tree in someone's yard... some drunken creativity from the night before. In the coffee shop we saw some people that behaved so awkwardly and without social grace that they could only be professors. No students were about yet. 

The chocolate croissant was excellent. The name of the place was chocolat, and it lived up to it. On the walk home I saw the best bumper sticker of the trip... it was on an old 10-speed and said 'My other car is a pair of boots'. Classic.

Once home, we got ready and headed to Auburn, on the other side of Sacramento. For not a very long distance, it sure ate up gas and time getting there. In Auburn itself there is an old town and a down town and we tooled around both looking for lunch to take on our hike. At the very first stop sign - which it wasn't for me - I got honked at by the person behind me because I shouldn't have stopped. I hadn't been honked at yet in the previous 1800 miles. A few brights shined at me as I flew past other cars too fast, but no honking. Then within another minute some other driver showed disapproval at something. Okay so I don't know my way around town, but calm down assholes.

We stopped and got sandwiches at a deli. They touted something called Dutch Crunch bread. I asked about it and the teenage girl behind the counter said 'only the best bread in the world... i'm going to be so bummed when I go away to school.' I should have said 'well don't go then' but all I could think to say was 'well just take like 6 months worth when you go'. She didn't get the humor, probably because it wasn't funny. She's like 'I don't think it would stay good that long'.

We were going to hike along a fork of the American River to a waterfall. To get there, there was a few miles of narrow paved road, then a couple miles of one-lane dirt canyon road. That was fun. I had to pull over to let trucks pass from the other direction.

The river was impressive. Wide and deep and fast. We found a spot to eat and the dogs waded around drinking the river. My sandwich was tasty and I gave the last several bites to the dogs. They pooped as soon as we got back on the trail, and instead of picking it up in a poop bag and carrying it for miles, I just tried to remember where it was for later. We crossed paths with kids and families on this very narrow trail, and I felt the need to hold the dogs aside out of reach for the humans' sake. Tibbs likes to sniff or lick or sometimes nip at people's hands as they walk by, all sly. Petunia ignores people but sometimes goes nuts about other dogs. Like she has to get in their face and sometimes she'll snap and bark and go crazy. Usually in that case, Tibbs becomes the next best object of her violence, and they snap and bark at each other. It looks bad, but they don't hurt each other. As we were reaching the waterfall a mile and a half into the hike, a couple older women with a dog came by. We got Petunia well out of the way but all the dogs were barking like crazy at each other. Petunia made a giant shove and got past us and snapped at the other dog. Or maybe they snapped at each other. I yanked her away, and made apologies to the women, and as they started away I and only I saw that the other dog had blood on its lip. Bad Petunia! Why's she gotta be so crazy in one circumstance and so perfect in others? It was like one drop of blood formed on the lip, so I figured it wasn't serious... I hope.

The waterfall was really nice. Not wide or a long straight drop. It had several drops maybe 4 feet wide, and formed calm pools at the bottom of each. We and the dogs hiked all through them. It was scary watching the dogs negotiating the slippery rocks because they didn't seem to understand the dangers, but they were fine. We hung out for a while and then headed back.

At the car I said how about a couple cold drinks, and Katie was all about it. She's a fan of the big coke, for as long as I've known her. We tried to find one as painlessly as possible in Auburn. We tried a Quizno's - no, Pepsi. We tried a grocery store - no soda fountain at all. We finally ended up at a gas station food mart that served Pepsi products at the fountain, but sold Coke in the cooler. We each got a bottle and a cup full of ice, for the proper effect, and got back in the car. What does it take to get a coke? If it wasn't for McDonalds, would they be anywhere anymore?

Here's the weirdest thing about Auburn... I saw no less than 20 other Subaru WRX's there. Literally a couple times a minute I pointed another one out, as if I were joking but it was true. On the entire trip I'd only seen maybe 8 others in the whole state, but 20 in about 10 minutes in Auburn. The previous best sighting was in Half Moon Bay on Hwy 1... an STI sitting at a light, with the exact same wagon as mine, year and color, sitting right behind the STI. Are you kidding me, an STI on Highway 1?!?

We got back to Davis and went to the co-op that had a huge and uncommon wine selection. I got 3 bottles for people back home, and some peaches and sushi for my breakfast and lunch on the road tomorrow. I was looking at a 750 mile drive on Sunday, and back to work on Monday.

WHEN: Tuesday June 14 - Friday June 17, 2005

WHERE: Chico to Davis, CA

DISTANCE: 85 miles

CAR NOTES: Got only about 22 mpg driving hard & fast down 99 from Chico to Davis. It's 90 miles and I did it in an hour-fifteen. That's not impressive, but that road goes through several small towns and some traffic lights. I-5 would have been the better call there.

Sunday to Wednesday the dogs and I stayed in Chico at my grandparents' house. The days consisted of waking up early, having coffee, walking for more coffee, making a simple lunch of sandwiches, then a simple dinner or a restaurant. Bedtime was no later than 10pm. I had a guest house to myself and the dogs played rough in the grass a couple times each day. It was fun and relaxing.

Wednesday night, I drove down to Davis to see my friend Katie. Davis is a nice little college town near Sacramento. Chico is a nice little college town too - they're pretty similar in size and feel. Big cycling communities. We checked out all the coffee shops, and took walks around the downtown and also north davis.

I stayed with her and her roommate Julia until Sunday morning. They're some real down to earth women. They like farming and gardening, which is a big deal around there. They have a U-C school with a farm, and Katie just started working for the university.

We ate at a Thai place, a greasy burger joint, at home, and at a few delis around the student section. I spent some afternoons at a coffee shop called Delta of Venus. I thought that would be a good name for a lingerie store....

It was actually a better coffee shop than anything I've seen in Phoenix. For one, they have refills. For two they have a full breakfast menu and good lunch sandwiches. I had the pesto chicken on an italian hard roll. It was good, and everyone else seemed to order the same thing. They also play great obscure new wave music from the 80s & 90s. When I walked in they had Sonic Youth playing - "100%".

The coffee was good and strong, as was the wireless signal. I was supposed to move the car every two hours, but the first time I forgot and let it go an extra half hour, and got a $30 ticket. In the past, I would get pissed off about things like that, but I easily put it aside this time. What, a tank of gas? A bag of dog food? It was just another travel expense, and my own fault anyway. I moved the car, went back to the coffee shop, then went home when it was due to be ticketed again. I drove home and hung out with Katie and Julia. Tried to rent "Team America World Police" but they were all out. We got "The Yes Men" instead - a satirical documentary about the World Trade Org. Insteresting.

WHEN: Monday, June 13, 2005

WHERE: Grandma’s house, Chico

DISTANCE: 2 miles, walking

Woke at 730, walked with the dogs and Grandma to the coffee shop we like downtown, half a mile away maybe. Sat and had a "West Coast Americana" which to you and me is a 16oz coffee with two shots of espresso. Aka a blackeye in starbucks lingo. What's interesting is that this drink is actually on the menu. They don't have a one-shot in coffee listed, or a cafe americano which as you know is a single shot of espresso in hot water (pourquoi the dilution?)… but we like the place. They have superior pastries, cakes and quiches. I had a chocolate croissant that was very good. Gram had an apple tart and cappuccino. The dogs were behaving and attracting attention as they usually do in public. 

We left in another minute, and went to let the dogs meet this other dog that looked a little like a miniature Petunia. She was mini-Doberman and something else. The dogs went wild in a most embarrassing way, and the other dog's owner came out of the shop with her coffee. She was very nice about it, very understanding. She was very talkative with us. She told us all the places in town you can take dogs and let them run free, because you can't in the awesome park in the middle of town across the street from Gram's house.

So, we went home and I got online all day. Grandma and Granpa Jim and I had a pleasant lunch of cheese sandwiches in the back yard while the dogs sunned their bellies rolling in the grass. Later we had a good dinner of the two trout I had brought. All three of us ate from them, and I got stuffed. The one was a huge trout, and thick. It was like biting into a burger. I fried them in egg and flour batter, and they turned out great. But you can tire of fresh trout. They’re a little sweet tasting for fish. But I’m glad I caught them.

I don't follow horoscopes, and I have just a very little knowledge of the zodiac, but I read my horoscope today in the local paper. It said Leo: you're wonderful, it's true. But something something something...

This day, I walked up the steps and stopped to talk to two older men sitting on the porch drinking miller.

(continued from previous entry)

+++++++++++++++

We talked about the weather. It looked like rain, and one of them said 'probly get some snow up there'. I said really, and he shook his head no. But damn near. The other guy said regarding the long wet winter: 'this is the first normal year we've had in 20 years'.

I went into the bar and ordered a Sierra Nevada bottle. There was an older gentleman tending bar and a youngish brown stringy haired man sitting at the bar holding a water bottle. He looked all crazy, but I plowed ahead anyway. Sat next to him on a stool. He talked about music, and asked me if I knew of this guy Beck. He kind of looked like Beck, but with brown hair. Wow, maybe it was him. His gums were too big - or his teeth too short. He was all gums when he smiled. Made him look weird.

The more we talked the more normal he seemed, but still there was something off about him. He almost seemed to be putting on an act, either for the bartender or me, or something in between. He went from seeming normal and just drunk, to seeming crazy. This town has 153 people. What that must do to a person.

I left after one beer, because of him. And also the fish. I caught one in the first five casts, then another, and after a while another. All in the same spot, between 6 and 9 pm. I walked home fast along the bank in the near dark, and made a straighter trail than the deer had. My shins were lashed by the reeds but I felt no pain, and walked with a good dinner in my pocket.

The fishes' heads were already off and staring up at the night sky, half in and half out of the water, back at the beach where I caught them. All in the same spot. I roamed that whole beach, but the heads wound up in the same little side pool. They all got on the hook from me hurling the lure out into the current and letting it carry downstream for up to 30 seconds. They didn't hit in the first 2 seconds, but midway through reeling. The fights were good, they jumped out of the water. Lots of trout were jumping out of the water, and lots of bugs were hovering on the water. I cast too many times into the heart of the current, so that I had to go up or down stream to let the fish forget. But when I came back another one would grab the lure.

The killing came much easier now. The knife went in and the heads came off almost as if there was a special seam for it. They looked like fish at the butcher counter - all cleanly cut. I plopped them onto the kitchen counter and set about with garlic and butter in the pan. Three good size trout. The dogs got some too, but not so much as to expend a whole fish on them, as if that would be a waste of a fish. Some people would say so, but these dogs are family to me. I don't spoil them too much, but I take good care of them and keep them well. and they get lots of love from me and everyone else.

I fell asleep on the couch again with a blanket, and the fire slowly burning out in the iron stove.

++++++++++++++

The morning was a repeat of the coffee and the fire and the view. I got out to fish a little later, because I had no fear of arriving too late... I had caught that nice one at 10-something yesterday.

At the first rapid, I made a good cast and reeled it in without incident. Second cast rule in effect, I thought, and threw the lure out. I felt what seemed like either a big hit or a big snag. This was nothing new - just another cast wasted on a snag. I reeled it in with some difficulty, then when I expected to see the lure, I saw a white belly. It was a big fish. It didn't make sense, there had been no fight. A little bit coming out of the water, but once I held him over land, I started to see why.

The hook was a little deeper than usual, but instead of going down the throat it went through the gills in the arc of the lower jaw. It didn't look bad but the fish was bleeding a bit from the hook. It started flipping like mad and blood flew everywhere. It was a strong fish, I could feel it through the pole and through the ground from the butt of the pole.

I grabbed him on top of the dorsal fin. He was so thick I couldn't get my hand around him. The knife went in with more hesitations than the night before, but he died easily.

I thought of stopping then, only five minutes into it. I had enough for breakfast certainly. I decided to try for one more. It came at the second rapid, in the same spot as the night before. The killing was routine now.

+++++++++++++

Back at the cabin I decided to take the fish to grandma rather than eat a third meal of pan fried trout. I gutted them as neatly as I could and wrapped them with an accompanying ice pack in the cooler. I ate a peach and cleaned up the cabin.

Finally left at 2pm and had to go back out of the Feather River canyon. It was a rough drive, I almost had to pull over and hurl a few times. But I talked myself through it and kept the wind blowing in our faces. I was suffering worse than Petunia.

We made it to Chico in 2 hours or so - about 80 miles. Greeted the grandparents and had a shower. Dinner was steak barbecued by cousin Jake, 19, of Quincy.

He's a cool kid. Big man at his high school, now down at Chico State for his first year of college. Doing well. His sister Cassidy is soon to graduate from there. She's studying abroad this summer in Ghana.

I got to sleep fairly early and was very glad to be in a regular bed type bed. Mr Tibbs stole a pillow down to the floor in the night. Petunia slept on the carpet at the other side of the bed.

WHEN: Saturday, June 11, 2005

WHERE: cabin near Taylorsville, CA

I woke up on the couch at 630 and first priority was fishing. If you don't know, they tend to bite best around dawn and dusk, when the bugs are out, and the birds and all the animals. There are very few practical matters for a human to attend to out in the woods. Food, shelter, warmth - that's about it. It was cold in the cabin. The fire in the wood burning stove had burned itself out overnight, and it was down to about 60 degrees inside, and 45 outside. So I figured get a fire going, and the place will be warm by the time I get back with the fish. But first start the coffee brewing so by the time I got done with the fire it would be ready to drink. You start thinking pretty clearly when there are only a few things to think about.

A fire in the stove is ignited the same way as a campfire - light tinder, add logs. But it was designed to burn efficiently, so the fire leapt to life quickly, and by means of adjusting the cover over a window cut in the front of the stove, you manage the oxygen getting to the flame. If you close the window with the fire going pretty well, the stove radiates the most heat, and burns slowest. That's the overnight setting.

With the fire under way and coffee poured, all I had to do was get out the door. But when I sat down to drink the coffee in front of that window, I was mesmerized once again by the view. It's as good as the ocean. You can just sit and look at it forever. But I reminded myself about the fish, and got to it.

I needed to redeem myself after the unfruitful evening session, so I didn't go sightseeing along the banks, but straight to the rapid where I'd been lucky before. The water hadn't changed much overnight. Still running fat and fast. I made several casts upsteam, then downstream, with no bites. I started to remember my five cast rule. After five casts into the same area, the fish have seen it all they want to. If they haven't gone after it by now, they're not going to. They're not dumb, they can recognize non-prey if you plunk your lure in like a mack truck. You're also supposed to sneak up to the water. They can hear the crunching rocks and snapping branches, and see movement on the shore. Trout are visual hunters. Catfish go by smell. That's why you can catch them with a half rotted chicken wing that you sink down to the bottom of a lake. You have to hope it stinks enough to lure them from wherever else they may be. Trout you have to stalk. You have to figure out where they are and then present the lure in a convincing fashion - drop it in upstream or downstream of them and reel it through their territory.

But this is all just theory. In reality, most trout I've caught hit the lure within 2 seconds of it hitting the water. And some of them on very bad casts that splashed in like a small aircraft. It doesn't make much sense... the lures are designed to flash and move like a wounded fish or an insect once you start reeling. But until then it's just a chunk of shiny metal drifting in the water.

I moved downstream a quarter mile to the other rapid. This area is rife with deer, and it was morning grazing time. I spotted a male and female and froze in my tracks. Another uncle of mine is a big time deer hunter and he had told me long ago that if you don't move, they can't see you. Their eyes register movement more than recognize shapes. So I watched them and didn't move, to see how they behaved. They had seen me at first, and one of them faced me while the other watched with one eye, it's head turned. After a few seconds they lowered their mouths to the long grass and continued grazing. I stood still and they didn't seem to notice me anymore. I moved slightly and their heads snapped up, looking right at me. After a few more seconds they went back to their meals. I snuck up on them very slowly until only 10 yards separated us. Hunters always joke that the deer know when it's deer season. Maybe they're just more on-guard in the fall because of the time of year. Food is getting lean, the seasons are heading toward winter. Summer is a time of plenty and good weather.

After proving my point that I could sneak up on them, I stopped being cautious and walked toward them, as they were between me and my destination. They casually moved along, then trotted to get ahead of me.

I arrived at the second rapid, and it was a much more accessible spot to fish. There was something of a wide beach, with spots where the trees and bushes didn't encroach on the bank. So I cast from there, below the rapid, up into the rushing water trying one eddy or fast spot after another. Below the rapid the water didn't calm down all at once. The water in the middle of the creek flowed fast for a hundred feet downstream, with eddies on either side. Lots of fish like these margins of fast and slow water. I had the idea of casting cross-stream into the middle of the fast water, and letting it carry the lure a long way before reeling it in. This would cover a lot of territory. I had already lost two of the three lures, and this last one was light - one-eighth ounce. It wouldn't cast across to the other shore, but did make it to the middle. I let it play out and then reeled. No bites, but it did get snagged each time and bring in a chunk of moss and mud, rendering these long casts useless.

The lure had a treble hook - three hooks welded together around an axis. I had used pliers to pinch the barbs of the hooks down. My friend Alex had shown me this trick, and it had several purposes. It made for fewer snags and therefore fewer lost lures. It made hooking a fish more of a challenge, as the barbs would not automatically snag in the mouth. And if you did manage to land a fish and it was too small, it would be easier to remove the hook and let the fish back in the water.

One of the hooks had snapped off on a snag, and another one did shortly after. The remaining hook was bent out from a snag, and I couldn't with my bare fingers get it back in line. So after a couple hours of trying, I was losing hope of a trout breakfast. Around 10 am, I was getting mentally ready to head back to the cabin, making my final casts, when I finally got a strike from one of those margin areas. I jerked the rod to set the hook and started

reeling. From the fight and the white belly flash in the water I could tell it was a keeper, and this was confirmed when I got him on shore. I managed to grab it around the midsection and felt around for the buck knife in my pocket. I'd had this knife since I was twelve or thirteen, and despite some polishing in the past it had developed green tarnish on the copper-plated ends. Mr Tibbs in his youth had chewed one end of its leather case, but all in all the knife still worked after 20 years.

This was the part of fishing I dreaded. All the artistry of casting was great fun, and fighting a fish is pure adrenaline, but killing is not something I enjoy. I sometimes won't even kill an insect, but go out of my way to capture and release it outside. With a fish I had options of course. I could put him in the plastic bag I had brought and let him suffocate. I could string a nylon rope through the gills and let him dangle from my waist. Or let him wait out his demise in the water with the rope-end lodged under a rock. But why prolong the suffering? I took the point of the knife and tried to find the spot on top of its head where the brain could be most easily accessed. The fish struggled in my hand when it felt the blade touch its skin. I didn't want to make a mess of this, like I had a few times in the past. It makes you feel pretty bad to try and be humane but wind up torturing a fish to death.

I got lucky. The knife point went in easily, not finding bone, and I twisted it to make sure I got the brain. The fish twitched once, hard, and then went still. The spinal cord being severed I hoped. My hands were shaking and I was panting a little. I washed him off in the water, slid him into the plastic bag and put that in my coat pocket. Well, I thought, you've got your breakfast, and this late in the morning. I picked up the rod and headed back to the cabin.

The last time I was here, with my mom, she cleaned the fish. I didn't know she knew how, but she said in her childhood her male relatives would bring home fish and the women would clean them, and it hadn't left her. She was not squeamish like I was. She works in a hospital and has voluntarily viewed autopsies. I think she may have a bit of the morbid curiosity in her. But she wasn't here now, so I did the work myself.

I steadied myself with coffee, then set to it. There was a pointed dicing knife and a small fruit-cutting knife that were sharp. I chose the larger and poked it in just between the gills on the underside. It was a lovely fish - brown with spots on top and a white belly. Just a hint of pink luminescence to the small scales. The knife cut easily down the belly past the anus to the tail. I spread the flaps and looked briefly at the tidy package of organs, then scooped them out with a finger. I had to scrape the black blood from a vein that ran the length of the spine, then all that was left was pink muscle and bones. The head came off not very easily, and I decided I didn't choose the right spot to do it. But it was done, and the pan was hot and the onions and garlic starting to blacken, so I laid him on top of them.

It took 5 or 6 minutes to reach rare, the way I like all meat. I toasted some bread, put it all on a plate and sat down in front of that view. Wow, this is what I came here for. It needed a moment's pause, then I ate.

+++++++++++++

After breakfast I sat around for a while then started to think about the rest of the day. It was noon and I didn't want to fish again until 5 or 6. In the meantime there was a nice cheap 9-hole golf course about 10 miles away on the other side of town. I had tried to bring my full set of clubs in the car but had to pare it down to a skeleton crew of 5. Driver, 5 iron, 8 iron, lob wedge, putter. I would have rather had a pitching or sand wedge, but the lob served the dual purpose of being a good dirt club. That is, I have a modified game of fetch I play with the dogs where I hit a tennis ball with a golf club, and they retrieve it. We have the routine down well, and I figured on this trip we could play it on the beach, in the woods, wherever. So far we hadn't - just played fetch the old fashioned way.

The course is superior to most in Phoenix just because of the natural watering it gets. The grass is lush and the greens, like all I've seen in California, are soft. Nevertheless my swing was not quite on, and it was one of those rounds where I feel no need to keep score.

After golf I drove down the road to a couple other nearby towns. Crescent Mills is very small, but larger than Taylorsville. I stopped at the general store and bought two more lures - both 1/4 ounce Panther Martins. The heavier weight meant farther casts, and the larger hooks meant only big ones could bite it. The next town was Greenville. I was trying to find the roadside bar that my uncle had taken me to before. I thought it was in Taylorsville, but didn't see it as I drove in and out. Greenville had three bars. I chose the one with Harleys in front. It was dark inside with a long wooden bar and tattered vinyl seats that were a bit too low. I sat two seats over from a skinny old man, and at the end of the bar were 4 or 5 native american women. They were all locals. The two women tending bar looked like biker ladies. Or in Phoenix I would peg them as west-siders. I'm such a snob about east side and west side, having grown up just a little east of Central and now living just a little west of it. There was really not much sense to it, purely the prejudices of an uninformed youth. The west side I always pictured really started west of the I-17. White trash, to use a bad stereotype. But it's only some parts of the west side. Anyway the stereotype I always had was of women with leathery skin and stringy dirty blonde hair, a little too skinny from addiction to alcohol or amphetamines. Cigarette voices and too many miles, too many kids from too many boyfriends. But I try to be less judgmental now. I've known some and they tend to be good people, fun-loving and generous. Just living among of a different set of values than the yuppyish money-centric east siders.

I had a few short gin and tonics there and didn't really talk to anyone. Got bored, got back in the car and headed toward Taylorsville, where I was starting to think the bar I remembered was hiding off of main street. It was a whole new car without the dogs and luggage in it. They were back at the cabin, probably sleeping on the couch despite my efforts to keep them off it. I decided to try out that gas-and-brake style of mountain driving I'd witnessed. Yeah, it works. It's a hell of a lot of fun. You don't have to waste time reading suggested speed signs, because you can double them anyway. Just judge a turn by how quickly the road disappears behind the hillside. I've found this engine is happiest above 4000 rpm. That's where the turbo is kicking in and winding up to maximum horsepower at about 6000. On I-10 that first day across the desert at 100 mph, the rpms were steadily at 4000, and that was the best mileage I'd ever gotten. A little gas and the engine leaps in that range.

Back in Taylorsville I prowled the other streets lined mostly by dilapidated houses. No bar. Then I got back on Main and there it was - Taylorsville Tavern. My uncle and I had stopped here after a round of golf back in September. I had a Sierra Nevada and he ordered a jack and coke. The lady bartender seemed to recognize him. He lives about 20 miles away in Quincy but his work takes him all over the area, so he'd surely been in before. She poured him a generous jack. With a splash of coke. We chatted with her about small town stuff and had a second round. He grew visibly tipsy - and he's a big man. He was all ready for a third round that would have made us late to dinner with my mom and his wife, and it was I who made the decision to moderate. And regulate.

This day, I walked up the steps and stopped to talk to two older men sitting on the porch drinking miller.

---- TO BE CONTINUED ----

WHEN: Friday, June 10, 2005

WHERE: MacKerricher St Beach, Mendocino, Willits, Williams, Willows, Oroville, Feather River, Taylorsville

DISTANCE: maybe 250 miles due east across the entire state, almost all mountain roads, 6 or 7 hours driving

CAR NOTES: I like this car more and more every day, but today I learned that mountain people can drive fast in anything. I got passed all day, and at one point schooled by some guy in an old Nissan Sentra who would brake and practically get it sideways into hairpin turns at 60 instead of the posted 30. I was taking those at 40 or 45, but no one else was. My driving strategy in all mountains has always been to use the brake pedal little if at all, do all the deceleration with engine braking. This was how I was taught to drive, in older cars with worse handling, scared of the stench of burning brakepad that insinuated a slide into thin air. It leads to conservative driving because the difference between your high and low speeds should only be as much as you can accomplish with downshifting. Now I know better. For one, all that downshifting wears on the dyno-whatever in the transmission that helps the gears during shifting, and creates the engine braking effect. That's more expensive to replace than brake pads. For two, it's just not necessary to try to save the brakes in this car. It has four big discs that have yet to heat up or soften noticeably in any conditions. Plus that tight suspension, wide tires and very responsive engine, and it's really unfair to take this thing into the mountains and drive like I have been. But I can blame it on the dogs - they're not buckled in, and I can tell when they start to get nervous or carsick. I try to give them a smooth ride.

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This day started out in the tent at MacKerricher State Crowded Campground, rising at maybe 630 to try to beat the crowds. Last night at bedtime, the dogs acted like they expected to sleep outside the tent, under the wind guard. I think this tent was designed for Everest, it's so aerodynamic and low to the ground. It's great though. I see all these huge multi-room tents that you could swing a golf club in, forget having to crawl in on hands and knees. But it's just big enough for me and the dogs, and it fits in the backpack with everything else for camping, so it's perfect.

When we got up, the first thing was to find the beach and let the dogs run free. They really like the beach. As soon as the leashes come off, they run all out of control, playing tag with each other for a couple hundred yards down the beach. Then trotting back through the sea foam, running randomly up to the dry sand. Sniffing everything. Anything can be a ball, so we play fetch with a piece of opaque dull green seaweed with what looked like a hollow plastic ball at the end. By the time they brought it back it would be chewed apart from their tussling in the surf.

It was a black sand beach, made up of smooth pebbles a millimeter or two in diameter. You'd want to say it was course sand, but there was nothing course about it. So that must mean the sand is young and not broken up yet. And the blackness of the rock would imply its type. Glassy, volcanic? Or basaltic, from the ocean floor? What's around there, geographically? The headlands (aka sea cliffs) in Mendocino, 15 miles south, have sandstone or limestone in them. So is that the source of the sand at those beaches? Actually, the beaches there are made of big smooth rocks being pounded by rough waves. I guess I could google it.
Anyway the sand that morning was black, and I've never seen that anywhere before. With the rising sun behind us, the sea was a different color. There were patches of fog. The black dogs against the black sand looked strange and very cool. I took pictures - see below.

We walked the length of the beach in both directions and eventually came to the mouth of a stream that poured into the ocean. It may have been a tidal stream, because the water was really rushing out of it, as if it had just rushed into it. But it didn't last only as long as a wave, it kept running hard. I should have tasted the water to tell fresh or salt. The flow had carved the most amazing ripple effect into the sand that it passed over. See the picture below. It looked like ridges down an alligator's back. There were smaller ones nearby going in slightly different directions. Never seen that before either.
I put the dogs on their leashes because I thought for a minute that seals might be on the rocks beyond the little river mouth, and they were about to go over there. But I looked again and it was just some gulls, no seals blending into the brown rocks. Just then my eye caught a person a ways off walking down from the short cliff towards us. It was a park ranger, a woman. She yells "Whyja put their leashes on just now?" I remembered then that dogs were supposed to be on leashes in the state park and I guess on the beach too. "Uhhh, it just seemed like the right time."

Very smooth.

"Are you camping here?"

"Yeah"

"Well they need to be on leashes in the park." She's closer now, just across the river. She's kind of cute. Young, blonde, smiling as she squints into the sun. "They're nice dogs."

Got coffee at the Mendocino Bakery, which used to be the hippie coffee shop but is now busy with bay areans and manned by a bunch of nice looking kids and a european-looking woman in her 40s. They were really busy, but fast. I asked for a triple cappucino, in my big stainless cup. That was a dumb order. Three shots of espresso is the same as four to make, and twice the work of two. And with them all busy. Plus, how much hot milk is she going to have to put into that 16 oz cup? I have to drive, not go to bed. Got the best looking food in there, which was a not very good looking bagel and "smoked salmon cream cheese". I hate that. I wish you could get smoked salmon. And cream cheese. Only at some places, and it's like a thousand dollars.

I took breakfast out to the headlands, within sight of my grandmother's old house. What a place that was. I miss it. The last time I was there was the first week of June 2002, and one day it was 45 degrees at noon. This morning it was warmer than that. Shorts and tshirt, but windy. I parked the car and ate the bagel and drank the coffee and watched the ocean a long time, then got the dogs out and walked to the cliff's edge and down a little ways to a hangout spot. It was kind of a pensive time, which it always is there. Something about the ocean and spray and wind gets you lost in thought. I thought of the different girls I'd been there with, and how those relationships had ended and what they were up to now... having families and whatnot.

After that we took the road back to Hwy 1, 10 miles up to Fort Bragg and then on the 70 back the same way to Willits. That's 50 miles or so through the coastal range. I consulted the maps as I drove. That's hectic to do with those curves every 100 yards. I determined the most direct route and thickest line was the 70 through Willits, 15 more miles to Williams, then north 15 miles to Willows. What's with all the W's? Across a few miles of the northern end of the mercifully flat Central Valley, then into the Sierra Nevada for a good long ways to Oroville. There are a lot of lakes and fishing around there. I stopped in a hunting store and grabbed a Panther Martin lure, and some gas and chips and Sierra Nevada beer at a gas station. The gas was the same or less than in Phoenix. Everywhere it was the same or less than Phoenix - what's that about?

Back before Willits there was Clear Lake - a pretty big lake with all these little towns around it that were named after European cities. Lucerne, Nice. And they all in some way tout the connection with their namesakes, almost as if descendants from each place lived here. But that's ridiculous - how could small groups from around Europe decide to go re-create their cultures around a lake in northern california? That's one more thing to google.

In the Sierra they have another lake like that. Several actually, in Lake County. There's a picture of one below. From Oroville it's 70 miles to Quincy where my uncle lives, and the turnoff to the cabin was 10 miles before that. So while we're well past halfway, it was 3pm with the longest stretch in the mountains still to go.

But they are beautiful mountains. And the road follows the Feather River. It's pretty wide and running fast the whole way. It carves a mean canyon. I swear these were the sickest roads yet. Several tunnels and bridges that are one-lane. I started to feel woozy. Back when I was about 10 my mom and I drove through this canyon, and I did get sick a couple times.

At long last I arrived at the turnoff for Taylorsville, population 153, elevation 3585. Aunt Norma's cabin is 5 miles further, in no town at all. I've been there before, last September with my mom and we got to see the first snow in the mountains. One morning after a rainy night the sun came up and the mountains were white. Well, on June 10th, almost 9 months later, there was still plenty of snow. Not fresh, but still there. That side of the mountain faces north.

I found the dirt road leading to the cabin, parked and hauled some stuff down the path. Found the key, let us in. At last.

The place is remarkable for its location and especially its view. It has all the luxuries you could expect in a very rural area. Any more accomodations would diminish the rustic charm. Like I said before, running water but spiders in the bathroom. Hot water, toilet, shower, stove, oven, sink. Coffee maker. One wall is all window for the incredible view. Picture below from the porch.

Across that field of about an acre I'd say, there's a little drop down to a riverbed. The creek itself occupies not the entire width of the riverbed. The water is about 30 feet across. Trout live in it. Not everywhere though. Last time I fished every bit of both sides for a mile in each direction. The creek is lined with trees and bushes, so you have to poke around in them and sometimes walk in the cold water. It's fun. Last time it took all that to catch a few fish.

I started out like before, fishing up one side for a half mile. Mostly just checking out the creek itself. It's deeper and much faster than in September, which would be the longest it has to run before the rain and snow begin again. Everyone in this part of the state, in this town, in the entire west, reports this past winter was the wettest they've seen in a long time. Certainly true in Phoenix. As one guy sitting in front of the tavern in Taylorsville put it, "This is the first normal winter we've had in 20 years."

The banks looked the same, but the water was fast and deep enough that I didn't feel I could cross it except maybe at a couple places if I wanted to get all wet. Last time I could cross it almost anywhere. More water meant less rough water, which meant fewer places to even try to find trout. They like rough water. Makes for fun fishing. You cast, reel, cast, reel. Not like the kind of fishing where you let the line sit for as long as you can stand. Here you try to land the lure in a certain spot in the rapid, and predict what the water will do with it, and where that fish is hanging out, and which way the lure will run through the water, and how to change it.

It became apparent that the same places that had no fish before, really had none now. So I went to the one spot where I caught all the fish last time. It was just a little downstream of the cabin, the biggest rapid along this mile of river. It wasn't huge, but dramatic. Last time I'd walked across it on rocks only getting my feet wet. This time I definitely would have been carried away. I could get out five or six steps across it on dry rocks, and from that position cast above or below the rapid. It was like standing in the middle of the maelstrom, the water rushing by and roaring loud enough that nothing from shore could penetrate the sound. I caught a couple tiny brown spotted trout, far too small to keep. I tossed them back. There was one hit below the rapid that was big. I saw the white belly flash in the water and it looked as big as the strike felt. The fish was off before I could set the hook. But that said to me: here's where they are!

I fished the rapid and all around it til dark but came home empty handed. Dark comes after 9pm up here, and I only had energy to make hard salami & cheese on bread, melted in the toaster over. It wasn't bad at all, but I wanted fish. As I served it up I said to myself "This is dinner for people who don't catch fish".