July 2006 Archives

It's the last day of the month and I'm 390 pages away from the end of the book I'm reading currently. Since it doesn't contain a lot of pictures or graphs, I'm going to venture out on a limb (a short, sturdy limb) and predict that I'm not going to finish it tonight. That means I can share the list of books I read in July. This month, I completed five more books, which puts this year's total at 29.

As usual (if one can call doing something the same way three times in a row usual), I'll be rating the books on a scale from 0 to 10. I would recommend reading anything scoring 6.5 or higher. Anything scoring less than that would probably make a great regift.

1. Flashman by George MacDonald Fraser (7.4)
2. Royal Flash by George MacDonald Fraser (7.7)
3. Generation Me by Jean Twenge (8.1)
4. The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara (7.5)
5. The Life of David by Robert Pinsky (6.2)

After a bit of pondering, I've concluded that blogging is exactly like batting, only with less pine tar. I would have said less steroids, too, but the prodigious daily word count of some bloggers leads me to believe they are using undetectable performance-enhancing drugs.

Sitting down to write is the blog equivalent of stepping up to the plate. Like batters, every blogger has a different stance. Some bloggers like to write in cafes (an open stance), some prefer the privacy of their homes (a closed stance) and some can only write when dressed as a hot dog (akin to Craig Counsell's classic stance). Everyone starts with a different stance, but when it comes to that critical point of producing written thought, putting the bat on the ball, everyone finishes at the same place (even Counsell, as hard as that may be to believe).

Topics are like pitches. Just as batters have certain pitches and locations they prefer (high fastball, inside breaking ball), bloggers have certain topics they prefer because they know it works well with their style. Of course, bloggers are slightly luckier than batters because life usually doesn't throw nasty stuff like Carlos Zambrano and Johan Santana do (or Randy Johnson and Roger Clemens did, for those seeking more recognizable examples).

As with pitches, there are several ways to approach topics. Most bloggers try to be serious (try to pull it), others try to be humorous (take it to the opposite field), some try too hard (aim for the fences), some don't try hard not enough (shallow pop-ups) and some are satisfied to write a sentence and add a link (bunt it down the line).

Finally, like batters, bloggers experience streaks and slumps because good writing, like good hitting, is rooted in practice and good mechanics. What causes slumps? Batters usually attribute their lack of hits to timing, while bloggers usually attribute their poor writing to a lack of inspiration. (And by bloggers, I mean me.) In either case, the only real way to break out of a slump is to keep doing the very activity that is slumping until the timing or inspiration returns.

So, as you can see from this brief (and shoddy) comparison, blogging is exactly like batting (minus the helmet and chewing tobacco).

I wanted to take a moment to thank Willis Haviland Carrier, the man who invented modern air conditioning. I also want to thank the power companies for keeping the electricity flowing.

This weekend, inland temperatures were in the triple digits. Smallville reached highs of 114 and 111. It was as if the entire town donned sandals and a towel and stepped into a sauna. The weather was perfect for people who like to sweat, wear sticky clothing and remind others to stay hydrated.

Watching the news and seeing how other parts of the country (like Phoenix, St. Louis and New York City) were also suffering from high temperatures and power outages kept me from complaining too much. I'm grateful to live someplace where it's possible to escape to the beach. We were able to take advantage of the cooler coastal temperatures on Saturday and Sunday morning before having to return to reality yesterday afternoon.

Weather forecasters are expecting temperatures to drop as the week progresses, which is good news for those who don't have the luxury of an ocean or Carrier's invention. It's also good news for firefighters battling California's ongoing wildfires and folks operating the state's delicate power grid that probably can't endure the strain much longer. I hope the rest of the country receives relief, too, especially New York City, where some neighborhoods have been without power for more than a week.

Tomorrow is the fifth of six Spare the Air days. Transit agencies recently added three more days to this year's program. What that means is more free rides for everybody! So, keep your car home or leave it at the nearest park and ride and take a bus, train or ferry to work (or wherever it is you usually spend the day). I missed Monday's Spare the Air day because I was carpooling, but I'm not planning on missing it tomorrow.

If you aren't able to take advantage of the free commute, there are still things you can do to help prevent smog tomorrow. The Bay Area Air Quality Management District recommends:

• carpooling or vanpooling;
• telecommuting;
• and refueling in the evening.

My sister pointed me to the following YouTube video yesterday. It's the alternative Pearl orientation video the Hanso Foundation didn't want you to see. This is perfect if you need a good laugh and a Lost fix to start your week.

It's time to list the books I read in May and June. As I did last time, I'll be rating each book on a scale from 0 to 10, where I'd recommend anything rated 6.5 or higher. Of the five books I'm listing, I read four of them in June, which isn't a prodigious number, but a marked improvement over May. Here they are...

1. Quicksilver by Neil Stephenson (6.1)
2. Jefferson's Second Revolution by Susan Dunn (7.3)
3. Flashman on the March by George MacDonald Fraser (7.8)
4. The Last Assassin by Barry Eisler (7.3)
5. Fantasyland by Sam Walker (8.2)

Of the five, The Last Assassin (TLA) was the quickest read and Quicksilver was the slowest. Measuring time in espresso drinks, I was able to finish TLA in the time it took to drink two grande lattes, which isn't a knock, but a credit to the book considering it took sixty venti lattes to complete Quicksilver.

TLA is a great cafe read. Without revealing too much, I was glad to see Eisler's assassin return to his roots and make at least one death look like a result of natural causes, but I was sad to see one of my favorite characters pass away.

Jefferson's Second Revolution focused on the contentious Election of 1800 that pitted John Adams against Thomas Jefferson and resulted in the first peaceful transfer of power in history. I use peaceful in the narrowest sense of the word. Federalists and Republicans, the emerging parties of the day, waged a mighty war of words in the papers and in Congress that shook the very foundation of the Constitution, but they didn't actually kill one another.

I discovered Flashman on the March because Terry Pratchett mentioned that Fraser was one of his favorite authors. I actually read the last book in the series first and recently went back to the beginning. I just finished the first two books in the collection.

The book I most highly recommend is Fantasyland. In 2004, Sam Walker, a sportswriter for the Wall Street Journal, finagled his way into Tout Wars, one of the nation's elite rotisserie baseball leagues. What starts as an experiment soon becomes an obsession. To help him win, he hires a crack research team (including a NASA scientist and a psychic) and travels to ballpark locker rooms around the country to get the inside scoop and encourage "his" players. The book is infused with humor and is a great summer read for anybody who loves baseball.

Lake Tahoe seems very schizophrenic to me. On the one hand, there are places on its shores far removed from all modern conveniences. On the other hand, there are places on its shores called casinos. It's a gambling hiker's paradise.

Following a long day of hiking in the wilderness, we spent our third day relaxing and visiting the more developed parts of Lake Tahoe.

I awoke around six and had freeze-dried ham and scrambled eggs for breakfast. It doesn't sound very tasty, but it beats freeze-dried bagels and cream cheese. M and I loaded our packs and were on the road to the Taylor Creek Visitor Center by eight, which wasn't a late start unless you compared us to B, who had broken camp three hours earlier and was well into his bike ride around the lake by the time we left.

After stopping in at the Visitor Center, we hiked the short Lake of the Sky Trail, which led to an isolated strip of beach along the lake where geese swam in the protected waters of a cove. For a few minutes, we had the shoreline to ourselves, but the arrival of a man and his dog soon disturbed the peace, which I note only because a prominent sign at the beach entrance explicitly said, "No Dogs Allowed".

We returned to the car and made a quick stop at Camp Richardson's general store for cold drinks (I had a thirst for Gatorade) before heading to Vikingsholm for a tour.

Vikingsholm is a Scandinavian-style mansion built by a Mrs. Knight in the late 1920s. It stands at the west end of Emerald Bay and served as Mrs. Knight's summer home for fifteen years. After she passed away in 1945, it (along with the surrounding land and Fannette Island) was sold to the state.

To reach it, one must hike a steep mile down from Highway 89 to the bay. The tour of the house cost five dollars per person and lasted about thirty minutes. Our guide was an elderly lady named Helen Henry Smith. Her parents had been good friends of Mrs. Knight and she had spent fourteen summers at Vikingsholm in her youth.

After the tour, we drove to Timber Cove in South Lake Tahoe and kayaked on the lake. It was my first adventure in a kayak (a double kayak at that), so it took a few strokes to get the steering and timing down pat. We got as far as Regan Beach, about a mile west of our starting point, before turning around.

The entire experience was exhilarating. I was especially stoked that we didn't crash into anybody or tip over. We only ran into trouble when we returned to shore, something the person who gave us our initial instructions neglected to mention how to do.

As we approached the beach and got within earshot of the person onshore (somebody different from before), she shouted, "Are you guys coming in?"

We shouted we were. She shouted that we needed to either come straight in or back in. By the time we understood what she wanted us to do, the waves had turned us sideways and had pushed us too close to shore. I made a few futile strokes with my paddle, but there just wasn't enough room to maneuver. In a matter of seconds, she shouted for us to bail. We got out of the kayak just as another wave propelled it into the line of boats already on the beach.

Afterwards, we made a quick snack and coffee run at the Safeway across the street, dried off back at the beach and then drove to the California/Nevada state line. The casinos stand right on the Nevada side of the border.

Feeling lucky after our narrow escape from the killer kayak, I decided to try my hand at the slot machines. We wandered into Harrah's and found the quarter slots. I won twenty-five cents from the first machine, but lost fifty to the second one I played. To make up for the lost quarter, I only took a five-minute shower that night (two-and-a-half minutes shorter than normal).
We left the casino and explored the Marriott Grand Residence Club, which has stores (North Face, Patagonia), restaurants (Fire and Ice, Wolfgang Puck Express) and Heavenly Ski Base - Gondola. While we skipped the gondola, we did dine at Wolfgang Puck Express, which had decent food for a reasonable price. It put me in mind of Sonoma Chicken Coop.

After dinner, we returned to camp, showered, sat around the campfire, watched the light leave the sky and retired for the night.

Ah, back-to-back entries about sports. How wonderful. Escapism at its best. This one isn't about soccer, though, it's about something much better than that. It's about baseball. More specifically, it's about last night's All-Star Game held in Pittsburgh.

For fans of the National League, the Midsummer Classic is beginning to feel more like a Peanuts comic strip every year. Since 1997, the National League has played the part of the eternally optimistic Charlie Brown. They come in once a year hoping for a win (that elusive football), but the American League (crabby Lucy) inevitably snatches it away.

This year's game started well enough. The Dodgers' Brad Penny struck out the side in the first inning with nothing but fastballs. He surrendered a solo home run to the Angels' Vladimir Guerrero in the second, but the National League responded in the bottom half of the inning with a home run off the bat of the Mets' David Wright, the runner-up in Monday's Home Run Derby.

A quick aside: Philadelphia's Ryan Howard won the Derby, making him the second Philly in a row to take the title. Bobby Abreu won in 2005.

In the third inning, the National League took the lead after the Mets' Carlos Beltran doubled, stole third and scored on a wild pitch. For the next five innings, the N.L. kept the A.L. at bay and took a 2-1 lead into the ninth.

San Diego's Trevor Hoffman came in to pitch the last inning and managed to get the first two batters out. Everything was set. Lucy was holding the football and Charlie Brown was a step away from kicking it. It looked like it would actually happen this time.

But at the last second, Lucy yanked the football away and sent Charlie Brown flying. With two outs, Hoffman gave up a single to Jose Lopez, a double to Troy Glaus and a triple to Michael Young, which scored Lopez and Glaus and put the A.L. ahead by a run. Mariano Rivera pitched the bottom of the inning and secured the American League's eighth consecutive All-Star victory.

It was heartbreaking loss. With its young, rising stars putting them on the board early, the National League looked like it had a real chance of snapping its losing streak, but an old arm blew the lead late in the game and kept the sorry streak alive.

Sigh.

I guess all I can do is echo the mantra of baseball fans everywhere, "Wait till next year!"

Italy beat France for the World Cup. After two hours of intense soccer (ninety minutes of regulation play and thirty minutes of overtime), the score remained tied at a goal apiece. A penalty kick shootout resulted and a botched kick by France's David Trezeguet gave Italy the championship.

By the time the showdown came, the Italians were competing against a handicapped French squad missing its best players. Their exciting striker, Thierry Henry, was out with an injury. The coach had already substituted Frank Ribery, the explosive player with a distinguishing scar on his face. And Zinedine Zidane, their retiring soccer legend, was out with a red card for reeling and ramming Marco Materazzi.

Zidane's actions still befuddle me. I don't know what provoked him, but the more I think about it, the less relevant the cause seems. In the end, it doesn't matter what the opposing player said or did, Zidane should have kept walking. Instead of the world remembering his brilliantly tapped penalty kick off the top bar in the ninth minute, the world will remember the infamous head butt that led to his exit late in the match.

Honestly, I don't know if France would have won if Henry, Ribery and Zidane had stayed in the game, but I know their absence strips some of the splendor from Italy's victory.

One of the best parts of camping is waking up to the natural light that filters into the tent. Ours faced east, so the first thing I saw every morning was the sunrise over the lake.

On Saturday, after a bagel and a cup of coffee (brewed in a 10 oz. press), B and I filled our packs with snacks and water and drove to the Eagle Falls trail head located on the eastern edge of Desolation Wilderness, part of Eldorado National Forest.

The plan was to hike to Dick's Pass by way of Middle Velma Lake. The pass is east of Dick's Peak, which stands 9,974 feet above sea level. The trail head sits roughly 6,800 feet above sea level.

We completed the day use permit and began our hike at 7:50. The trail wasted no time ascending. Stairs led to a vista point with a view of Emerald Bay and Fannette Island. We reached the bridge overlooking Eagle Falls in short order and with one last look behind us, entered Desolation Wilderness.

The climb continued as we followed the shaded trail that wound between Maggie's Peaks and Eagle Lake. To the west was Phipps Peak and to the southwest we could see Dick's Peak and Jack's Peak, all of them white with snow.

By this time, we had hiked about a mile and had gained just over a quarter mile of elevation. The climbing lasted until we emerged from the alpine forest and reached the first split in the trail, roughly 2.6 miles from the trail head.

We followed the split to the right and began a gradual descent. The forest gave way to a vast gray valley of granite that reminded me of Kings Canyon and Yosemite, Tahoe's Sierra cousins. The trail up to this point had been relatively well marked, but as we traveled into the valley, the markings began to blend into the landscape. Only random piles of rocks kept us from straying too far afield.

We quickly came to a second split. The three-foot-tall signpost indicated Dick's Lake to the left and Velma Lake (they didn't specify Lower, Middle or Upper) to the right. We took the right branch and were soon in the forest again. Here, the trails began to resemble drainage ditches and we passed a number of ponds a.k.a. mosquito havens.

We soon came across a lake that I thought might be one of the Velmas. I couldn't be sure because it was difficult to match our surroundings to the map. Fortunately, we saw another pair of hikers by the lake and asked them for help. Unfortunately, they were also lost. They had ventured from their camp at Upper Velma Lake and couldn't find their way back.

Luckily, an elderly couple came along right then. They were camping by Middle Velma Lake, our midpoint destination, and they helped clear things up. Apparently, we were at one of the unlabeled lakes on the map and were less than a quarter-mile from Middle Velma.

We thanked the elderly couple and headed in the direction they indicated. The lost campers tagged along. We soon reached the river that fed Lower Velma Lake and paused to take photos while the lost campers forged ahead.

From what we could tell, the river had washed out the trail and there wasn't an easy way across. I suddenly spotted the lost campers tenuously crossing a fallen tree over the water. Seeing no other option, we made our way to the improvised bridge. At the crossing, the river was perhaps twenty feet wide and a foot or two deep. The tree was maybe six inches wide. A second smaller tree rested against the first.

B crossed first, making use of both trees. He was a third of the way across when the second tree rolled, causing him to slip, plunk his foot into the river and soak his boot and sock. B recovered swiftly and made it across safely.

I went next and luckily had my hiking stick. Up to then, the stick had been more annoying than useful. I'm not a fan of carrying things in my hands on a hike, but I'm glad I had the stick that day. It saved me at least once as I crossed.

With the excitement of the river behind us, we tried to locate the trail, but couldn't find it. There was a fast-flowing, unmarked stream to our right and more fallen trees in front of us. According to the map, if we kept moving forward, we would eventually encounter the trail again, so we pushed ahead and stumbled upon it by accident.

The trail was becoming muddier and wetter. We crossed more snow mounds that threatened to obscure our way and finally reached the pristine Middle Velma Lake. I was stoked at the sight of it until I realized the lake was on our left, which wouldn't have been a problem if the map hadn't said it was supposed to be on our right.

At that moment, we encountered another hiker. He wore green shorts, a National Park Service cap, a backpack and no shirt. We asked him for some help and he said, "That lake is Upper Velma. Since you guys are already here, you might as well check out the waterfall not too far off. It's worth a look."

I asked him the best way to get to the Tahoe Rim Trail/Pacific Crest Trail and he pulled out a Forest Service map, much nicer than what we had, to show us. "When you get to this spot," he said, pointing to a trail intersection. "Keep right. You don't want to go left. It's still covered with snow."

Of course, our destination required us to go left, but I didn't tell him that. We thanked him and headed towards the waterfall, which I must admit, was a welcome sight. We scaled the granite slope and soon had a view of the lake below.

We then had a decision to make - press on or turn around. Snow buried our desired path. Even if we made some progress, our ultimate goal was 800 feet higher, which meant the conditions would worsen. We weren't familiar with the territory and weren't equipped for the snow.

Then again, the source of the waterfall was Fontanillis Lake, which bordered the trail we sought. We were more than halfway up the waterfall, so if we climbed just a bit further, we could at least claim to have been on the Tahoe Rim Trail. Common sense said to turn around, but my sense of adventure said to press on.

So, we pressed on. Two hundred feet up, we encountered snow. We kept trudging uphill, sinking and sliding, but making steady progress. Near the top, we looked back and had a magnificent view of the water tumbling down the mountain, the tiny lake beneath us and the tree-lined slopes that nearly formed a bowl, but stopped just short to reveal a slice of Lake Tahoe in the distance.

I don't know what Fontanillis Lake normally looks like, but when its shores and surrounding cliffs are white and snow a foot thick floats in its waters, it is stunning. It's how I imagine the Arctic looks - a spectacular world of whites and blues.

The trail along the lake was clear of snow, so we followed it for about a half-mile before we came across our first snowfield. There, we saw a steady line of footprints, which we kept to across the field, over a ridge and into less traveled snowfield where the line of footprints diverged.

Since we were still some ways off from Dick's Lake and further off still from Dick's Pass, we decided not to push our luck any longer. We took a photo of where we stopped and turned around. It was just after one in the afternoon.

We retraced our steps down the waterfall, across the river, through the desolated valley, until we reached the very first split in the trail. Instead of returning directly to Eagle Falls, we took the Bayview Trail. This brought us over Maggie's Peaks and gave us a better view of Eagle Lake. We then hiked a series of switchbacks, skirted Granite Lake and came out on Highway 89 about a mile from B's car.

That last mile to the car was probably the most dangerous leg of our hike. The highway had no bike lanes, only skinny shoulders. We somehow managed to get back without an RV, SUV or boat trailer sideswiping us. We reached the car by 3:50.

In all, it took eight hours to hike a total of fifteen miles with a cumulative elevation gain of nearly 3,000 feet. It was disappointing not to reach Dick's Pass, but we got as far as we could without taking too many foolish risks. We'll have to attempt it again someday, but next time, do it later in the year, after the snow has time to melt.

The highlight of the long Fourth of July weekend was our trip to Lake Tahoe. A few weeks ago, when I first went searching for a campsite to reserve, I learned firsthand just how popular Tahoe is during the summer. Every campground was full, except for the ADA spots, which were unavailable unless I found a way to procure the proper placard. Since I couldn't claim poor planning skills as a legitimate disability, I was out of luck.

A week before the big weekend, in a fit of desperation, I checked online again, hoping somebody had canceled at the last minute. Maybe somebody had decided to stay closer to home due to the high gas prices. Maybe the non-camper in somebody's family had discovered a vacancy at one of the casinos on the state line. Maybe somebody's family cat had gotten sick. One never knows.

While I wasn't secretly (or overtly) hoping somebody's cat fell ill, I was definitely hoping something would become available. Fortunately, a non-ADA site at Emerald Bay State Park did and I snapped it up.

By 9:30 Saturday morning, M and I were packed and on the road. The drive was smooth across the Bay and Carquinez Bridges. It was smooth on Highway 80 towards Sacramento and continued to be smooth on Highway 50 east, until we reached the outskirts of Placerville.

That's when it came to an abrupt halt. Apparently, the town installed two stoplights to allow locals to cross the highway safely. Besides stopping freeway traffic, the stoplights also help to funnel some of that traffic (and business) into the town's historic downtown district.

Curious to see how historic it was and needing to refuel on both gas and coffee, we took a quick detour into town. After filling the tank, we drove down the center of old Placerville. Rundown, two-story shops and restaurants line the narrow thoroughfare. It's what Disneyland's Main Street would look like if it were given a healthy helping of grime and a double serving of reality.

I'm not very familiar with the town's history, but after a little research, I now know why so many businesses have names referring to Hangtown, like Hangtown Bakery or Hangtown Grill. Apparently, back in the 1850s, Placerville was the location of an old mining town that had its share of crime. To deal with the growing problem, the miners resorted to vigilante justice. Hanging was apparently a popular form of punishment. One of the more graphic references to the town's history is the noosed cowboy dummy hanging in front of the tavern known as Hangman's Tree, which stands where the town's original hanging tree used to be.

Of course, I didn't know any of that as I drove by the creepy sight. At the time, I took it as a sign to get to a Starbucks, get a cup of coffee and get the heck out of Hangtown as quickly as possible. It was a bit of shock when we got back on Highway 50, east of town, and found the four-lane road nearly devoid of vehicles.

It was like that until we reached Meyers, southwest of South Lake Tahoe. From there, we inched our way through town, up Highway 89, past Camp Richardson and into Emerald Bay State Park. By the time we pulled up to our campsite, it was 3:30 in the afternoon.

Out tent site was perched on the eastern edge of Eagle Point and had two distinct halves. The front half had a fire pit, a picnic table, a bear locker and enough paved area for two cars. A narrow path through shoulder-high shrubs and bushes led from there to the back half, which featured another fire pit, plenty of level terrain for multiple tents and a breathtaking view to the east of Lake Tahoe and the mountains beyond.

After we set up the tent and stored the food away, we took a short hike down to the beach along Emerald Bay. The beach itself isn't much to look at - it's perhaps four feet wide, twenty feet long and packed with people - but it offers access to the pristine waters of the bay.

Since the other person in our camping group, B, was still a little while out, we hopped in the car and took a quick drive to Meeks Bay to see what we could see. When we got back, we used the coin-operated showers (1 quarter for 2.5 minutes, 2-quarter minimum - 5 min., 15-quarter maximum - 37.5 min.) and boiled some water for our freeze-dried dinners. I had beef stroganoff, which was good considering it was a meal-in-a-bag.

As darkness came, we had the citronella candle burning to keep the mosquitoes at bay. It seemed to work, for the most part, but a few still got us. Before heading to bed, we huddled around the map, illuminated by a headlamp, and planned Sunday's hike. As we tried to calculate the approximate mileage, a brown and white beetle surprised us by flinging itself at the lighted surface and knocking itself out. When a second one made the same suicidal move, we called it a night and retreated to our tents.

With last Friday being my usual day off (go alternative work schedules!) and yesterday being a holiday, I used a day of leave on Monday to piece together a five-day vacation. Since I don't have enough time to write about everything, I'll just write briefly about the Fourth of July and the World Cup.

For the Fourth of July, we went to the small celebration at my parents' place. My dad barbecued steak and chicken and we had some of my mom's homegrown zucchinis. What the gathering lacked in size, it made up for in patriotism. It was stars and stripes all over the place, from the large American flag flying atop the fifteen-foot-tall pole in the front yard to the fifteen smaller flags adorning the lawn. Even the dog was sporting a red, white and blue bandana. Next year, I'm fully expecting the U.S. Marine Drum and Bugle Corps to be out in front of the house playing the national anthem.

The 2006 World Cup is nearly finished. I saw the last part of yesterday's semifinal match between Germany and Italy. Throughout the tournament, the German team seemed like an unstoppable machine. It ploughed through opponents with an efficient offense and an impenetrable defense. I thought they were a sure shot for the title, but they fell apart in the final moments of the second overtime period of yesterday's game. Within a matter of minutes, the Italians scored twice and eliminated the host nation from the World Cup. It was so abrupt, I couldn't believe it. With France defeating Portugal today (1-0), the title match is now between European neighbors. I don't have a favorite, but if I had to pick a team, I guess I'd root for France. They defeated heavily favored Brazil and that has to be worth something.