July 2008 Archives

It's a little known fact, but true one that there is only one satellite orbiting our planet with the ability to produce high-resolution sketches (and caricatures). It's known as the Sketchellite. Last night, using my iPhone, I was able to link to the satellite's computer, adjust its trajectory to pass over my house, and download this sketch of my sit spot. After that, all I had to do was add a few labels and upload it to the web. Isn't technology amazing?

Here is a larger, more legible version of the sketch.

The night was too cold for sitting, but I sat. It was so cold, even Time's pulse slowed. To distract my mind from my discomfort, I focused on the stars. I counted roughly 63 of them before the sound of a neighbor shutting his or her second floor window broke my concentration.

As soon as my sitting time was up, I rushed inside and grabbed the camera. I wanted to experiment and see if I could take some nighttime video. I strapped on my headlamp, leaned down so the camera was nearly on the ground, and filmed the rock path that has been on my mind lately.

After several takes, I finally managed to keep the camera focused on the light and capture footage that didn't make me dizzy. Back inside, I stitched the two best clips together and added Simon & Garfunkel's "I Am a Rock" to give the forty-second video some spirit.

Every visit to my sit spot (a.k.a. the backyard) has been a reminder of how much work the yard needs. There are weeds to pull, a gazebo frame to dismantle, and a rock path to finish. The last task on that list has been the most nagging because it seems to be the easiest to complete. Buy rocks. Drop rocks. Avoid toes. Done.

Only it hasn't been so simple.

Until today, the problem has been that the local hardware store had been out of the specific rock we need -- a whitish, blueish, grayish rock called Bermuda Green (or Verde Bermuda, according to the bag). Whenever I visit, they're always out and in the process of ordering more. I always leave thinking I would have been better off going with Lava Black, Vida Blue, or Red Skelton (I can't recall the real names at the moment, so I took some liberties). Those are always in stock.

Luckily, when I visited the store earlier today, they had one slat of our green-only-in-name rock. It was on the top shelf and required climbing up and down a rolling staircase several times to snag nine bags (the car's capacity), but the effort was worth it.

I just need eleven more bags and the project will be done. Then I'll have one less task protecting me from the endless joy of weeding.

Today, I'm waiting for something dramatic to happen while I sit outside and soak up the afternoon sun.

Perhaps a meteor the size of a pumpkin will fall from the sky and create a crater so large in the park across the street the city will decide to make it into a skate park because it would more cost effective than restoring it.

Or, maybe the rhinoceros the neighbor three doors down is secretly keeping as a pet will break loose, barrel through the fence, stop for a second to munch on some basil, and continue busting through fences towards the freeway. Of course, I have no idea if the neighbor actually has a rhinoceros. For all I know, he may only own a wildebeest.

Or, perhaps I'll hear the doorbell and a thud by the front door. When I go to answer it, I'll see a generic delivery van speeding off. I'll look at my feet and see a silver briefcase. A tag with my name on it will be tied to the handle. After bringing it inside (gosh, my hypothetical self is trusting), I'll open it and discover a GPS unit, $50,000 in cash, car keys, and an envelope containing a letter informing me I'm now in a national parks version of the Amazing Race. (Not officially sponsored by the NPS, mind you. Do you think they could actually afford to give people that type of schwag for a competition?). The instructions contained in the envelope will tell me I have thirty minutes to find a partner, inform my friends, family, and employer that I'll be gone for what could be months, and pack. If I don't succeed in this first challenge, the money, GPS unit, and car will self-destruct, but I'll be able to keep the briefcase as a token of their appreciation. Twenty-nine minutes later, M and I will be on the road, heading towards our first destination: Point Reyes National Seashore. (Boy, our hypothetical counterparts are not only bigger risk takers than we are, but they're also faster packers.)

Hold on a second, I think I just heard the doorbell and a thud by the front door. I swear the whole house shook. (This is what happens when you have a tiny house). I'll be right back.

[Timekeeper note: A minute passes.]

I'm back. The good news is I saw a delivery van driving away when I opened the door. The bad news is that there wasn't a silver briefcase, only a brown box for M -- from the Gap. Not very dramatic at all. Oh well, maybe tomorrow.

When I visit my sit spot, I try to make a point of not bringing anything with me that might be a distraction. That means no phone, no camera, no book, no music, no drink, and no food. This is because I already have the biggest source of distraction around stuck right in my cranium.

Today, though, I failed to keep my sit spot free of external distractions. I found an open twenty-minute slot during the day and thought it would be as good a time as any to visit the spot. Unfortunately, I discovered this opening while scooping a fair amount of soy chocolate ice cream into a bowl. Not wanting to miss the window of opportunity, but also not wanting to waste ice cream, I snuck the bowl out with me. And since I figured I was already breaking the no-distraction rule, I brought my camera out to chronicle the transgression.

It was a very warm day. The ice cream was barely out for a minute before it seriously started to melt.

The weather seems so unpredictable. Last night, I stepped outside and felt comfortable. Tonight, at roughly the same hour, I stepped outside and nearly froze to death. It's funny how I'm not surprised by such temperature changes when I'm out in the wilderness, but when it comes to my own backyard, I'm caught off-guard, as though I expect this outdoor area, enclosed by a simple wood fence, to come equipped with climate control. Perhaps Global Object Designers¹ will include that feature in Earth 2.0².

I sat and shivered for the entire twenty minutes. I had a sweatshirt and jeans on, but was still chilled by the constant wind. Apparently, my remark about the nighttime wind being "a mere breeze" bruised Night's ego and it was exacting its revenge. It seems I need to show more consideration for the feelings of anthropomorphic personifications.



¹ Members informally refer to the team as The GOD Squad.

² Assuming this is the first version of Earth, of course.

I made yet another late night visit to the sit spot. This time, though, instead of focusing on the sky, as I had been doing the previous two weeks, I focused on the ground -- the soil beneath my feet. In all honesty, there isn't a whole lot of it, at least not the exposed kind. Over the past few years, anything resembling dirt has been covered by brick, bark, rock, or greenery. It isn't that I hate the sight of soil, but our backyard wouldn't be a socially acceptable plot of ground if we didn't protect its modesty by clothing it with landscaping.

I wish I had seen what the land had looked like before it had been cleared and graded for a housing tract. Was it an orchard or vineyard? Was it a farm or ranch? Was it simply an open field?

The only holdovers from this land's previous life are the trees that stand in the front yards of the houses at the end of the street. They are older than everything around them. They're the neighborhood elders, likely spared by an arborist who deemed them worthy due to their trunk diameters.

I tried to imagine what the area would look like if the land not covered by houses or streets had been left in its original state, unadorned by fences, fountains, patios, barbecues, pools, non-native plants, and ground cover. It was easy visualizing those things gone. It was hard envisioning what would take their places. It was even harder imagining what life would be like in the neighborhood. Would people still feel the need to sculpt their surroundings? Would I? Or would we all be content to leave the land alone and in its natural state (a.k.a. its birthday suit)?

These were the thoughts that occupied my mind as I sat and stared at the bricks beneath my feet and the glow of the solar light on the bark.

For the first time in more than a week, I visited my spot while the sun was still above the horizon. It was nice to actually see the flowers and trees in full color and hear the birds singing (no offense meant to the crickets).

What wasn't so nice was the wind. At night, it's a mere breeze punctuated with the occasional gust, but in the afternoon and evening, the wind doesn't simply blow, it blasts. Anything not nailed down either falls over or flies away. The list of items I've seen topple or tumble includes gloves, sandals, doormats, paper bags, potted plants, and the fabric-covered gazebo (it went down two months ago).

Since a photo wouldn't do the afternoon wind justice, I took short video of its effects on one of the neighbor's blossoming trees. The song clip is from Haydn's "Wind Quintet Divertimento No. 1 in B Major".

I spent Saturday night in the dark, mourning the moon...

It's funny how you can miss something 235,000 miles away.

It was 11:40 p.m. by the time I made it to my sit spot, which gave me exactly twenty minutes to squeeze in twenty minutes of sitting. I believe the phrase people like to use is "cutting it way too close". I prefer the term "precision procrastination".

There would have been wiggle room if we had gotten home earlier, but we had just been to a Chris Isaak concert at the Mountain Winery in Saratoga, and at M's urging, we had stayed after the show to get his autograph.

To be honest, it didn't require much urging to convince me to stick around. I like his music and I thought his performance was amazing. We only shook hands and exchanged a few words, but in those few seconds, he came across as a genuinely nice guy, which I guess I wasn't expecting from a musician/rock star/celebrity. I left the show star struck.

I was still distracted when I finally reached my sit spot. It took a minute to lower the volume of the songs still going strong in my head. I gazed at the beauty of the full moon, hanging high in the night sky, with "Only the Lonely" and "Forever Blue" playing in back of my mind. It was the perfect way to end a fantastic night.

What follows isn't a photo of the moon, my sit spot, or Chris Isaak. Rather, it is a photo of the Mountain Winery, which is tangentially relevant to this entry's topic.

(These journal entries are now a week behind. Events described as happening tonight actually happened last Thursday. I apologize for the confusion.)

Tonight, I sat on the ground, pretending I was just a few feet away from my tent somewhere along the Pacific Crest Trail. It was a challenge clearing away the sights and sounds of a suburban neighborhood and replacing them with an authentic mental representation of the wilderness. Had I known I would be exercising my imagination so vigorously, I would have stretched my brain beforehand.

My journey into Make Believe Woods was spawned by events earlier this evening. A few hours ago, I was at the Morgan Hill Public Library, listening to Barbara Egbert talk about her book, Zero Days, which recounts her family's 2004 Pacific Crest Trail hike. Four years ago, Barbara, Gary (her husband), and Mary (her daughter) successfully completed the 2,650-mile trek. What makes their journey particularly noteworthy, besides the fact that they accomplished it as a family, is that Mary was only ten years old at the time, making her the youngest person to ever thru-hike the trail.

My favorite part of the evening's talk was the slide show. Normally, a twenty-six-minute photo presentation would put me to sleep, but this one did no such thing. The photos brought the hike to life. They enhanced the stories Egbert put on paper, adding a dimension to the people and places she described. I was awake and alert the entire time.

I left the library with visions of completing my own long-distance hike one day, and the visions were still strong when I visited my sit spot hours later. Hiking the Pacific Crest Trail sounds very appealing, but there are countless steps I have to take (figuratively and literally) before I can seriously contemplate the possibility. The key is to start small. For tonight, at least, that means spending twenty minutes imagining camping in the wilderness while sitting in the comfort of my own backyard. (A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, even if it's a mental one.)

It was hard to sit still tonight and stay in the moment. Being present was difficult. My mind kept wandering back inside to the new Nintendo Wii that had arrived earlier in the day. I felt so distracted, I thought about taking a rain check and trying again tomorrow, but I wanted to save my "free pass" for later in the challenge, when I truly needed it. Instead, I scolded myself and focused on what was around me.

It was actually comfortable outside. The usual night breeze was suspiciously absent, which was a good thing considering I had ventured out only in a t-shirt and shorts.

Also absent were the familiar strains of the cricket orchestra. They must have been scared off by the noise of the kids practicing their skateboarding on the street behind me. From the sound of it, they needed the practice. I assume the better one is at tricks, the less one has to swear.

The moon had moved a few more feet to the left and was hovering over the right end of the house (the western end, to be more accurate). It will be full in another two nights (I have to be sure I don't miss that.)

Of course, after a few minutes, my mind drifted back to the Wii and I suddenly found myself holding a remote in my hand. I tightened the strap and started playing with it. Nothing happened until I turned the power on. Once I did, I tried different moves and combinations.

Holding the B button while sweeping the remote down caused the streetlights to dim. Aiming at the sky and pressing the A button would make a star appear (twisting the remote at the same time made the star brighter). If I held the button down while swinging my arm, a star would shoot across the heavens. If I aimed the remote at the moon and pressed the A and B buttons at the same time, I could position the silver orb wherever I wanted.

After a few minutes of experimenting, I discovered how to draw lines between the stars and form my own bizarre constellations. Since they were all imaginary, they tended to fade quickly, but it was an amusing exercise while it lasted.

Before I knew it, the alarm went off, signifying the end of my twenty minutes for the day. I held the power button down for a few seconds and the night sky returned to its previous state of reality. I loosened the remote and set it on the ground. Then I bolted inside to try my hand at bowling and baseball on the real Wii.

Tonight, I spent forty minutes at my sit spot. For the first twenty minutes, I sat and stared at the moon impatiently, fidgeting to the point that I began to annoy myself. All I wanted to do was experiment with the manual settings of my camera to see if I could digitally capture the moon more clearly.

Like most things, anticipation in moderate amounts is a good thing. Having something positive to look forward to makes us happy, but if the anticipation gets out of control, if it steals all of our attention, it robs us of our ability to enjoy the present. Everybody knows this. Even I know this, yet when I'm caught up in it -- focused only on the future -- I temporarily forget.

This is all to say, I succeeded in sitting outside for twenty minutes without ever paying attention to what was around me. What did I hear, smell, feel? I couldn't say. What did I see? Well, the moon was before my eyes, but all I saw were the shutter speed and aperture settings on my camera's viewfinder. It was twenty minutes lost.

For the next twenty minutes, I gave my attention completely to my camera. My world became a two-inch screen. When I think back, I can still feel the metal body and the sensation of pressing the buttons to make adjustments and take the photos. I can remember the feeling of holding my breath and trying to remain still while the shutter was open, holding the bottom of the gorillapod to keep the wind from knocking the camera over.

Tomorrow night, I'll make a better effort to stay in the now. It's okay to let my attention travel to the past or future, but only as long as it spends some quality time with the present.

Since getting the adirondack chairs, I've taken a shine to them. I think it's the fact that they're much easier to turn than the patio swing¹ when I want to face the moon, which is waxing gibbous.

The moon has grown more fascinating with each passing night. It isn't surprising. The sky has become the center of my attention and the moon is the biggest and brightest object up there. I've also come to accept that the sky is the most natural "thing" (gosh, I wish I could think of a better word) within sight of my spot (if you don't count the weeds). Everything else around me has been placed here by human hands - the houses, the fence, the plants, the trees, the streetlights, this chair. And while it's true that humans are part of nature and it's only natural that we make our mark or leave our mark on the world around us, it feels like we touch everything, like we can't keep our hands to ourselves. At least with the stars and the moon and the night sky, our fingerprints (satellites, lunar spacecraft, etc.) aren't visible.

¹ One day, somebody will invent a swivel swing, and I'll be the first one to buy it and first one to tip over or get flung from it.

It has been several years since I owned a video game console. The last one I had, which technically belonged to my folks, was the old NES. I was hesitant to invest in one, but I saw no good reason to postpone exploring another avenue of potential fun.

Okay, enough talk. I'm eager to play some virtual baseball.

My sit spot experience has increasing become a nocturnal experience. I will have to make a greater effort to visit it during the daylight hours.

On the bright side, because I've been sitting outside at roughly the same time (between 10 and 11 pm), I've had a chance to observe the moon.

Tonight, I took a few minutes to create a time-lapse sketch of the night sky. As you can see below, I enhanced the black and white drawing with some computer coloring to make it more aesthetically pleasing, which is adultspeak for saying, "Coloring is fun". Enjoy.

In keeping with my vow not to visit my spot so late at night, I stepped outside at 10:30 pm, a whole ten minutes earlier than the night before.

I took a seat in one of our newly acquired adirondack chairs. They are dark green, plastic, and have matching ottomans. We had purchased them from the hardware store earlier in the day because they had been on sale and were in serious need of outdoor seats. (Other than the swing, there's the ground.)

The moon had lost its amber glow and was a brilliant fluorescent white. It had shifted another foot to the left (from my perspective) and seemed to be precisely 54.7% full.

Having experienced the previous night's chilliness, I was better prepared for the cold, dressed in jeans and a windbreaker. I also had socks on to keep my feet warm; thus ending my five-day streak of bare feet.

At night, the world feels larger, emptier. It also feels less real. It's hard to explain, but when I look at the houses and trees around me, they feel like life-sized models and not the genuine articles. High above, the night sky adopts a more ceiling-like quality and if I stare at it long enough, it begins to within the realm of possibility that the next vessel I see crossing the night sky won't be a plane, but a pirate ship. And because reality isn't altogether with it, certain laws and absolutes, like gravity and distance, lose their rigidity, and it's conceivable that one could reach up and grab ahold of a passing ship's railing and pull oneself aboard (if one were so inclined).

The day had been a long and tiring one. By the time I made it to my sit spot, it was 10:40 pm. Actually, it was 10:39 when I first went out to the backyard swing, but the unexpected chilliness of the night air forced me inside to switch my shorts for jeans.

If the early morning belongs to the birds, then the late night belongs to the crickets. They kept me company with their chirping the entire time I was outside. While listening to them, I felt myself slipping away into sleep. I fought the drowsiness by shifting around and focusing on the moon.

In my sleepy state, it seemed as though the amber moon began to grow. It soon filled the sky. The background sound of cars on 101 transformed into the restless sound of people at the theater. The unseen audience quieted suddenly when the silhouette of a lean man with wild hair stepped from the shadows and took his place on a podium I hadn't noticed before. He cleared his throat and raised both arms. In one hand was what looked like a conductor's baton. He brought the baton down with a dramatic swipe and the invisible orchestra began to play Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata". It was the worst arrangement I had ever heard. The piano carrying the melody sounded fine, but it was drowned out by the accompanying string section. They were out of tune and didn't sound anything like violins. They sounded more like crickets. I craned my neck to peek into the orchestra pit and thought I saw a row of antennae, but couldn't be sure, so I tried to stand.

And that's when I woke up. I checked my watch. I had been asleep for three minutes. I stayed out a few extra minutes after the alarm to make up the time and then dragged myself to bed, swearing I wouldn't repeat the mistake of visiting my sit spot so late at night.

(The Story Behind the Picture)

Once upon a time (or just the other day), I had gotten home from work and was feeling thirsty. The day had been a scorcher, so something cold sounded enticing. I went to the fridge and spotted five bottles of Vitamin Water on the bottom shelf; each bottle a different flavor.

"Which one would M be least likely to drink?" I wondered aloud. "She obviously wouldn't drink something that tasted like raspberry and apple."

I grabbed the one called Defense and chugged it.

Five minutes later, M came home and saw the empty bottle.

"Aww man! That was the only flavor I wanted," she groaned.

"It was?" I said, shocked. "I'm sorry. I'll go to the store and get, like, seventeen of them to replace it."

I don't know why I said seventeen. The number just dropped into my head like one of those number balls the state uses for its lottery drawings.

"Sure you will," she said as she turned and walked away. Incredulous barely begins to describe her tone.

It was the tone that sealed the deal. I suddenly had a mission.

The next day, I ransacked every grocery store in a two-mile radius and temporarily wiped out the town's supply of Vitamin Water Defense. (The supply has been replenished by now, I'm sure.)

When M got home, she was shocked, but impressed by the stockpile.

And we lived happily ever after (which is roughly two months in the real world).

Moral of the story: When randomly picking numbers, stick with single digits. It's more believable and less costly.

The main problem with visiting my sit spot first thing in the morning is that I don't have much time after the fact for reflection. As soon as the twenty-minute alarm went off, I had to rush out the door. I had hoped to jot a few words down about the experience when I got home yesterday evening, but I ended up spending all of my writing time updating my iPhone and trying to install the new applications that became available. (Not my idea of a good time.)

One of the minor problems with visiting my sit spot first thing in the morning is that the swing is extremely damp with dew. Of course, I wasn't going to let a little moisture slow me down, so I sat. After five minutes of showing the world (or at least the backyard) that I could endure anything it threw at me, I raced inside to retrieve a few plastic bags to shield my already wet pants from becoming wetter.

In the morning, the backyard belongs to the birds. I could hear them chirping and calling all around me. They were all hidden from view, which I suspect was my fault since every time I turned to see if I could spot one, the plastic bags beneath my legs raised a crinkly alarm. The loudest one sounded like a high-pitched, rapid-fire sprinkler. It was perched somewhere in the tree behind me that pushes against the fence (and may one day uproot the fence).

The oddest part about yesterday's experience was the feeling that twenty minutes just wasn't long enough. I imagine part of the feeling stemmed from not wanting to spend all day inside at work, but I would like to believe a larger part stemmed from enjoying the serenity of the scenery.

Poem on my mind... "Trees" by W.S. Merwin, as heard on The Writer's Almanac.

Trees (excerpt)

I am looking at trees
they may be one of the things I will miss
most from the earth
though many of the ones I have seen
already I cannot remember
and though I seldom embrace the ones I see
and have never been able to speak
with one
I listen to them tenderly
their names have never touched them
they have stood round my sleep
and when it was forbidden to climb them
they have carried me in their branches

If somebody created a patch with this poem on it, I would sew onto my backpack in a heartbeat.

I didn't make it to the backyard swing until ten this evening. I had intended to go outside at eight, but it was still too warm for my liking. By the time I went out, the temperature had fallen to what felt like the mid-seventies.

As I had done the previous two days, I came outside barefooted. The patio bricks were still warm to the touch.

Initially, I thought it would be nearly pitch dark, which is why I brought my headlamp with me, but after less than a minute, my eyes adjusted and I realized there was no need for an additional light source.

There was plenty of light coming from the neighbor's second-story window and the solar lamps around the yard. The roof and fence basked in the glow of the streetlight in front of the house. And in the night sky hung the moon, which was roughly 48.3% full (by my best guess).

Halfway through, the last of the air conditioners finally fell asleep. In their absence, there wasn't silence. There was only softer sound.

I could actually hear the underlying layer of noise upon which every other layer of noise rested: the constant flow of freeway traffic. I had forgotten how close 101 was to the house. As the crow flies, it's only a half-mile away. Tonight, it sounded much closer.

As a mental exercise, I replaced the sound of engines and tires with the sound of rushing water. Instead of an eight-lane highway, I envisioned a river more than two-hundred-feet wide. Every bridge became a footbridge and every on-ramp and off-ramp became a landing. Every car became a fish and every pothole became a boulder.

It wasn't a difficult exercise to do. It was quite easy to see with my mind's eye, which I attribute to the magic of nighttime. Darkness, even relative darkness, has a way of enhancing one's imagination.

I must admit that I like my secret spot at night. It's quieter and more peaceful. I'll have to visit it again at this time. As for tomorrow, I plan to see what it's like first thing in the morning.

Almaden Quicksilver County Park is located in south San Jose, on the edge of Almaden Valley, one of the wealthier parts of the city. It has a rich history. One-hundred and fifty years ago, it was the site of a mercury mining operation. Evidence of its past (buildings and tunnels) remain.

On Sunday, the plan was to complete the 6.1-mile loop described in the Healthy Trails booklet, which was an obvious typo. Quickly summing the trail distances reveals the actual loop is only 3.5-miles long. Math aside, we were to follow the Deep Gulch, English Town, and Mine Hill Trails in a clockwise loop.

M and I arrived at the park's Hacienda Entrance just before eleven. After grabbing a map, I promptly led us up the wrong trail. Instead of starting on the Deep Gulch Trail at the west end of the parking lot, we started on the Mine Hill Trail, which begins right next to the kiosk.

Even though it was the wrong trail, it offered nice views of the surrounding hills.

Of course, I didn't realize we were off course until we reached the English Camp Trail (ECT) junction four-tenths of a mile later. To salvage some semblance of the original plan, we took the ECT (a hiker-only trail), which climbed roughly 500 feet over 0.9 miles, to the Deep Gulch junction.

From there, we continued up the ECT until we reached English Camp. Cornish miners established a settlement here in the 1860s. At its height, 1,000 people lived in the town, which included a mining office, store, schoolhouse, cabins, and a church. Mining in the area eventually declined and the town was abandoned. With the exception of the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s, the town has been unoccupied. Only a few buildings remain standing.

From English Camp, we ventured a short distance down April Trail before turning around. It was just past noon at this point and warming quickly. The trail offered little to no shade.

We took the Mine Hill Trail back to the trailhead. On the way down, we caught a glimpse of downtown San Jose through the haze.

The next time I visit, I hope to hike deeper into the park to check out some of the historic tunnels and catch a glimpse of the Guadalupe Reservoir.

Early evening. A warm breeze. Air conditioners buzz and hum. More are running today than yesterday. Tomorrow is supposed to be even hotter. It might be downright deafening outside tomorrow evening.

I'm dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, ready to hit the gym when M gets home. It has been more than a month since I been there, opting instead to stay fit by exercising in more natural and less stationary settings.

Actually, the equipment isn't what has kept me away. It's the aggressive employees who always approach and try to convince me to sign up for personal training sessions.

I sometimes think it would be funny if they worked as park rangers. I can just imagine hiking along a random trail when one of these gym transplants steps out from behind a tree and says, "How do you do? Nice day isn't it? If you sign up and pay for just four guided nature walks, you'll get a fifth one free. As an added incentive, if you pay cash, I'll throw in a free pair of binoculars."

My mental wanderings are interrupted by the ringing cell phone sitting next to me on the swing bench. It would probably be cheating to answer it, but it's the local bookstore calling to tell me the book I ordered last week is in. I always seem to miss their calls. I grimace and answer. Thirty seconds later I'm off the phone.

That's when I notice the silhouette of the arbor on the wall. I end up staring at it for the rest of my sitting time, watching it creep up the window sill and then the window. It had traveled several inches between the time I noticed it and when I took this photo.

Tomorrow, the phone stays inside. It's the wristwatch from now on.

After a serious bout of indecision, I finally settled on the backyard as my secret spot, which isn't so secret now that I've mentioned it.

Before sitting down and doing nothing but looking and listening for twenty minutes, I moved the patio swing so it would be facing something other than the wall. I cleaned the bench so I could sit, set the alarm on my phone, and promptly sat at 7:30 pm.

The first five minutes took at least fifteen minutes to pass. It seemed to drag on because my mind was racing, asking all kinds of silly questions...

What am I supposed to do? How long have I been sitting here? Am I doing this right? Am I done yet?

I resisted the urge to check the time. It would be cheating, I told myself.

So I started listening. The sound of air conditioners overpowered everything else. What was funny was how cool it was outside. With the constant evening breeze, the temperature was falling fast. An hour earlier, it had still been warm and stuffy. Now it was comfortable, bordering on chilly.

Every once in a while, I would hear birds chirping or dogs barking or the sound of trickling water coming from the neighbor's backyard fountain. I could hear the occasional car drive by the house. Then, I tuned all of those noises out and I could hear the my feet touching the patio bricks every time I pushed the swing.

And I started looking. Initially, I only saw everything I needed to do in the yard - weeds to pull, plants to trim, trees I wanted to plant. Then I began noticing the bees around the lavender plant and the hummingbird by the lamb's ear. I had never seen hummingbirds in the yard before. We have at least two.

Before I knew it, the alarm went off. It seemed like it had taken five minutes for the last fifteen to pass. And suddenly, I wished it had lasted longer.

Luckily, this is only Day 1. There are still 29 days to go, which means I should ration the exuberance I feel right now, so I can complete the challenge.

It's nine in the morning on the Fourth of July. I'm in my car, driving along Big Basin Way, just west of Saratoga, on my way to hike with friends in Pescadero Creek County Park (an idea inspired by a recent post on Two-Heel Drive). I'm feeling rather proud of myself for taking this route instead of the route suggested by Google Maps, which recommended driving up 280 to Palo Alto and then back down Highway 84, through La Honda, to reach the park.

My way is eight miles shorter and more scenic. I'm mentally patting myself on the back when I come upon an intersection without street signs.

"What street is this?" I ask the empty car. "Is this Skyline Boulevard?" The car remains silent. (In an ideal world, I would have said, "Computer, am I at Skyline Boulevard?" And my car would have said, in Majel Barrett's voice, "Working... affirmative.")

I frantically scan the intersection for clues, but nothing reveals itself. I check the odometer and do some fast math. I've been on Big Basin Way for more than six miles. The written directions resting on the passenger seat say I should be on it for more than seven.

I peek in my rearview mirror and see a car coming. I inhale deeply and make a right turn onto the mystery road.

The next six miles are agonizing. I pass mailboxes with only numbers on their sides. Every road I cross only has the name of that road. The suspense is killing me. Relief finally arrives when I see the sign for Alpine Road.

The next few miles are bliss. It doesn't matter that the road is no wider than a bike path in stretches or that my heart is in my mouth every time I pass a cyclist. All that matters is that I know where I am.

Soon, I reach the entrance of Memorial Park on Pescadero Road. Three of my fellow hikers are already there and tell me to park at the Hoffman Creek Trailhead on Wurr Road, a quarter-mile back. It's free and there are plenty of places to park.

We regroup at the trailhead. One member of our group hasn't arrived. He told us he would be late and not to wait for him. We wait a few minutes anyway before setting out. It's 10 when we start down the Old Haul Road Trail, a wide, shaded fire road. We pass a few unmarked junctions before turning left onto the Pomponio Trail.

We are barely on the trail for five minutes when we encounter two equestrians. While they pass, I take a photo of the creek running parallel with the trail.

I also photograph the sun shining through the trees that line the trail.

After a quick creek crossing, we arrive at Worley Flat, one of the few unshaded sections in the park.

We're admiring the view when B, our missing trailmate, comes sprinting into view. It had taken him all of five minutes to make up the distance it had taken us twenty minutes to cover, and he hadn't broken a sweat. I had no idea we had been moving so slow!

With everybody accounted for, we pick up the pace and soon cross Towne Creek using Granger Bridge. We continue along the Pomponio Trail, which now has the added designation of the Brook Trail Loop.

I had hoped to take the Brook Trail Loop towards the Bear Ridge Trail via the Towne Fire Road, but confusion and navigation-by-committee leads us to stay the course, which in this instance means continuing along the Pomponio Trail.

I quietly stew at the missed opportunity, but it's impossible to stew for more than a minute in such a setting. It's so peaceful and relaxing walking in the redwood forest. There isn't a breeze, but it feels cool here. While everywhere else in the Bay Area is brown and dry, this place is green and moist.

We soon reach a sign that brings a halt to my reverie.

While admiring the trees, I had forgotten the park is home to a county jail. I'm sure Pescadero Creek is perfectly safe (at least as safe as any park can be), but it would feel a lot safer if the prison wasn't present.

It's now just past noon and the majority decides it's time to turn around. We retrace our steps along the Pomponio Trail and take a turn at the Shaw Flat Trail.

After another creek crossing, the trail returns us to the Old Haul Road Trail. Across the way, I see a sign that says Big Basin Redwoods State Park is a mere seven miles away. One day, I'm going to try hiking from Portola Redwoods State Park to Waddell Beach.

We reach the cars shortly after one o'clock and decide to have lunch in Mountain View. We caravan through La Honda and take Highway 84 to 280. It's longer, but admittedly easier to drive than my route, so I may take it the next time I visit, but let's keep that between us. If Google Maps ever found out, it would just gloat.

Update: Two days after our visit, Tom Mangan at Two-Heel Drive revisited the park and published this great write-up on his site. He hiked the same trails we did, plus some. Now I'm inspired to make a second trip soon to see the spots he highlighted and more.

Last Fourth of July, I was hiking to the top of Clouds Rest in Yosemite. Unless somebody cancels their reservations in the next few hours, I probably won't be repeating that feat (or visiting the park) this Independence Day, which bums me out because I've been aching to wander through Yosemite's high country.

It has been three months since our last visit -- 95 days for those who prefer greater precision (I would state it in hours, but I can't cater to everybody's needs). What has sustained me while we've been away (and will keep me going until we return) are the virtual visits I've made.

• Jeppmet over on Flickr has posted a gorgeous photo set from a visit he made in May. It includes stunning shots of Yosemite Falls, Half Dome, El Capitan, and the Merced River.
  
  
• One of the valley's residents, Edie (a.k.a. Ambitious Wench), always posts fabulous photos on Flickr, including this recent one of a hazy Half Dome...
  
  
  
  
• Thanks to a recent entry on Yosemite Blog, I discovered the paintings of Penny Otwell. This is one of my favorites. It's called "The Giant Stairwell".
  
  

  
  
  

  You can see more of her paintings on her blog, in her online gallery, and on the Yosemite Artists site.

With any luck, I'll be tromping around Yosemite soon, but in the meantime, the only visits I'll be making will be virtual in nature.