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This is the second part of a two-part trip report from this month's visit to Yosemite National Park.

Hetch Hetchy

Saturday morning, after a quick breakfast from Degnan's (Deg muffins!), we drove for an hour to the Hetch Hetchy region of Yosemite. It was my first time visiting this part of the park and I was eager to explore.

We parked at the end of Hetch Hetchy road, which terminates in a loop bordering the O'Shaugnessy Dam -- a giant wall of concrete holding in a massive body of water. Halfway down the dam face, a spectacular stream of water plunged into the Poopenaut Valley¹ and Tuolumne River below. It was a sight to behold.

We crossed the dam and entered a tunnel, which seemed cool for the first hundred feet until it became so dark, I couldn't see where I was stepping. But as everyone knows, when one sense is hampered, the other senses compensate. With my loss of sight came enhanced hearing, and my ears quickly told me exactly where I was stepping: in giant water puddles. A few hundred feet later, I emerged from the tunnel, wet boots and all.

Waterfalls

Two-and-a-half-miles later, we were at Wapama Falls. It was an easy, yet stressful hike. The trail had only a slight incline and required little effort to travel, which is why so many people were traveling it. It felt more like a pilgrimage than a hike -- not as bad as the herd of people that shuffle to Yosemite Falls or Vernal Falls, but bad enough to be annoying.

Wapama Falls was powerful and beautiful. The water thundered down, crashed on the rocks, and soaked everybody crossing the wood-planked bridges near its base.

At this point, M, whose leg had been bothering her again, returned to the car while I continued towards Rancheria Falls, 3.75 miles beyond Wapama. Since most people seemed satisfied to end their visit at the first waterfall, this length of trail was empty.

After ten minutes of brisk walking, I encountered six hikers halted in the middle of the trail, looking at something through the trees, towards the reservoir.

"Bear," said one of the hikers.

I peered through the branches and leaves and barely made out something furry and bear-shaped huddled near a tree trunk.

"It's best we stick together," said another of the hikers. Since this was my first bear spotting, this sounded like a good idea. I waited for somebody to take the first step, but everybody seemed paralyzed, so I took the lead, trying to slow my pace so the others wouldn't fall too far behind.

This worked for five minutes. Every minute after that, the others began to drift further behind. Fifteen minutes later, nobody was behind me. I dawdled -- stopping to drink water, eat snacks, check my bootlaces, photograph the reservoir, but it did no good. The others were gone.

On a day with better weather, I might have waited for them, but the skies were gray and growing grayer, and I wasn't keen on hiking in the rain, so after checking my bootlaces for the sixth time, I decided to keep going.

I soon came upon the wide cascades of Rancheria Falls.

I was looking for a way to get closer to the waterfall when it began drizzling. I took this as a sign to start my return hike.

Half a mile from Rancheria, I encountered the hikers who had mysteriously disappeared.

"We were worried about you," said yet another of the hikers. Before I could speak, they were already around the bend, which leads me to believe they weren't as worried about me as they claimed to be.

On the way back to the valley, M and I stopped by the Evergreen Lodge for a bathroom break and some coffee. As we were leaving, the light rain became a heavy downpour, making the drive back pure misery.

Helicopters

Safely back at Housekeeping Camp, we showered and had our Mountain House meals for dinner (re-hydrated gourmet!). The sound of raindrops on our canvas roof soon let up, but was quickly replaced by the sound of spinning propellers. For the next few hours, it seemed as though there was a helicopter constantly in the air.

On our way over to Yosemite Village, we stopped by the Ahwahnee Meadow to photograph Half Dome.

That's when we saw the helicopter and Yosemite Search & Rescue on the edge of the meadow. We didn't know what was going on at the time, but when we got home, we learned that what we had seen was the rescue operation for the hikers stranded on Half Dome after a man had slipped from the cables and fallen to his death earlier that afternoon.

A Good Night

We ended the day on a high note at Degnan's Loft, where we met up with Theresa and Tom, whom I met on Twitter (@simplytheresa and @tomagain, respectively), and who live in and work in/from Yosemite. I dread calling it a tweet-up, so I won't. Instead, I'll just say it was a blast meeting them in person and hanging out that evening.

A Mosquito

The next morning, after another quick Deg muffin breakfast, we made our usual stop at the Ahwahnee, where I managed to get my first and last mosquito bite of the trip. The mosquito, by the way, immediately spit out my blood when it discovered I wasn't a registered guest at the four-star hotel.

After dragging our feet for as long as we could, we reluctantly left the park for home.

You can see more photos from the trip on Flickr.

¹ Yes, I snicker every time I say or type Poopenaut Valley because I have the maturity of a eight-year-old (an eight-year-old who uses footnotes and parentheses).

For one weekend every spring, Henry Coe State Park opens its back door (a.k.a. the Bell's Station entrance) and allows visitors to explore the eastern half of the park, an area normally accessible only to backpackers with ample vacation time. During the weekend, the Pine Ridge Association (the park's official volunteer organization) offers folks a bundle of backcountry goodies, including free shuttle service (to minimize vehicle impact), guided hikes, painting/photography walks, campfire shows, and more.

This year, M and I decided to enter the lottery for a one-night camping pass. We applied in February and received word in late March (via snail mail) that we had gotten a spot. While it was quaint (and exciting) to find that self-addressed stamped envelope in the mailbox, I'm looking forward to a time when the whole process can happen online.

Anyway, last Saturday, we packed Kangaru (our new blue Subaru Outback) and were on the road by 9:30 AM. It took us roughly thirty minutes along 101 South and 152 East to reach Bell's Station, which is about seven miles northeast of the 152/156 interchange (or five miles past Casa de Fruta, the fruit stand-cum-town). It took us another thirty minutes along the Kaiser-Aetna Road to reach our spot at Pacheco Creek Crossing. The road was so dusty, Kangaru was completely tan by the time we arrived at camp.

There were at least a dozen cars already parked along the road when we arrived, and while I would have preferred a quieter place to camp, we chose to stick with the crowd since we're still newbies when it comes to camping.

After reserving a sunny spot, a suitable distance from our more seasoned camping neighbors, with our stately white-and-blue-checkered camp chairs from Target, we set out for a few hours of hiking.

While M visited Will's Pond, I hiked to Pacheco Falls via the Pacheco Ridge Road and volunteer trail. According to the handout, this "shorter but rougher way" to the falls was 5.4 miles long and had 1,540 feet of climbing. For the curious, the longer, "easier" way was 12.7 miles long, with a gain of 2,680 feet, which sounds longer, but not necessarily easier than the way I chose.

The first mile was the toughest part. After two creek crossings, the dirt road/trail climbed steeply to the Pacheco Ridge, which offered a nice view of Walsh Peak.

I followed the relatively level ridge line for more than a mile before coming upon a pile of rocks topped with a fluorescent pink flag, which indicated the beginning of the volunteer trail (I assumed). For the next quarter-mile, I scrambled down the steep grassy slope, following the fluorescent flags, hoping they didn't lead me astray.

When I reached the falls, I met the folks on the 10 AM guided Pacheco Falls hike. There were three of them -- the guide, the assistant guide, and their sole charge. All were nice fellows and since I wasn't in a hurry, I joined them on the rocky outcropping overlooking the falls. The most prominent feature of the falls was the black cliff above it.

The falls were dry. Looking down, all I could see were a few remnant pools of water. It looked nothing like the first photo on this page.

I joined the group for the return hike. On our way back, we made a quick detour to Hole in the Rock, one of the coolest spots in all of Coe.

When I got back to camp, M was already there. We relaxed for the rest of the afternoon, moving our chairs to keep them out of the shade. We cooked dinner using my new backpacking stove. I figured it was best to get the hang of it in a low-key setting.

As the sun set, the wind picked up and the temperature dipped. We packed away the chairs and prepped Kangaru for the night. With the rear seats folded down, the back of the car was big enough for the two of us to sleep comfortably -- legs outstretched, elbows unimpeded. I slid the moon roof panel open so we could watch the stars until we drifted off.

Considering I was actually able to fall asleep for more than four hours straight (a record for a first night of any camping/backpacking trip), I'd say camping in the Outback was a good idea. I awoke (just before seven) with a stiff back, but I chalk that up to being prone for a solid eight hours.

While M slept a little longer, I took a morning stroll to Tie Down Peak. I went north on the Kaiser-Aetna Road for 2.5 miles until I reached Tie Down Trail. The road had a few steep stretches, but was fine otherwise. Along the way, two volunteer-driven shuttles stopped to ask me if I needed a ride to Orestimba Corral, which was kind of them.

I was glad to leave the dusty road and follow the single-track trail into the greenery of the trees and hills. It was beautiful and so serene.

The reward for a bit of strenuous climbing was a spectacular view of the surrounding wilderness.

I followed the ridge until I reached Tie Down Peak. I was tempted to climb to the top, but since I didn't want to take the chance of injuring my ankle again, I decided to save the scramble for another day. I followed the fluorescent flags around the peak, down the North Fork Trail, and back to the car.

At camp, M had Kangaru packed and ready to go. I wanted to stay longer, but we needed to be in Napa that afternoon. Our early departure only made me more eager for next year's backcountry weekend. If we're lucky enough to get a spot, I plan to stay two nights and find a quieter place further down the road to camp.

You can read more about the backcountry weekend on Coe's site. You should also read Calipidder's outstanding account of her backcountry backpacking trip. Finally, you can see a few more photos from our trip on Flickr.

Yesterday, before heading up to San Jose for the final day of Cinequest, M and I went for a quick hike in Coyote Lake - Harvey Bear Ranch County Park.

I brought my camera "just in case" and happened to be walking along the right stretch of trail when the sun escaped from the clouds long enough to shine on this hill. Less than a minute after this shot, the clouds recaptured the sun.

By the way, this is one of the rare shots that look better bigger.

Spring is still eleven days away, but some parts of the south bay are kicking off the season a bit early.

The last time I visited China Hole in Henry Coe State Park, it was the fall of 2007, and there had been barely enough water in the swimming hole for toe dipping.

Last Friday, as I pulled into the nearly empty lot at Coe Headquarters, I hoped to find China Hole filled to the brim. It had been raining earlier in the week, so the odds seemed in my favor.

I started down the Corral Trail a few minutes before nine.

It was a mild morning. The temperature was in the mid to upper 50s (I'm guessing). The sky was a light shade of blue and there was barely a breeze.

Conditions were ideal for the type of stroll where one could enjoy the scenery without worrying about getting drenched or overheated; the type of stroll where one could walk for miles without feeling like a single second had passed. That's how it felt as I wandered along Manzanita Point Road.

In no time, I was passing Bass Pond and Manzanita Point and was soon standing at the junction where the road, China Hole Trail, and Madrone Soda Springs Trail meet.

As I had done the time before, I followed China Hole Trail, which begins as a narrow path lined by manzanitas.

Eventually, the trail widens and becomes a series of switchbacks that descend to Coyote Creek, which is visible on the way down.

When I reached China Hole, I was happy to see water flowing. It looked more alive than it did the last time I had seen it.

I stayed for a few minutes to soak in the scenery and snack before starting along the Mile Trail. The sound of running water accompanied me as I went. It was actually difficult to think about anything except water since the trail and springs crossed paths several times (ten to be exact). This isn't to say the way wasn't charming. It was -- in a wet and slippery sort of way.

Soon, I passed the Simas-Keeney cabin. I stopped for only a second to take this photo before hurrying on. I might have stayed longer if the place didn't give me the creeps.

I climbed the steep Madrone Soda Springs Trail and was thankful when I reached the road again.

Standing at the junction was a uniformed volunteer. He was a friendly, older fellow, who looked like he had been out on patrol. We talked for a few minutes and I learned he had been at Coe the previous weekend, when the park had gotten three to four inches of snow.

"The place was a zoo," he said. "Nothing like today, so quiet and empty."

He then suggested I visit Lion Spring, a spot just off the Springs Trail, on my way out.

I thanked him for the tip and was soon making my way along Springs Trail, one of my favorite trails in the park.

I made the quick side trip to Lion Spring and discovered it was one of the most peaceful places in Coe. I hopped atop a large rock at the campsite and just stood there, listening to the silence and occasional birdcall.

Twenty minutes passed. Before I pulled myself away, I took a twenty-second video to try to capture the moment. I apologize for aiming the camera at the table. It seemed like a bright idea at the time.

From there, it was roughly a mile back to Coe Headquarters. I left the park right around one.

You can see more photos (and another video) on Flickr.

And just for fun, here is a map of the park's terrain. The green marker is Coe Headquarters and the blue marker is China Hole.

As soon as I woke up on Saturday, I felt antsy. I needed a good hike (a euphemism for a walk in the woods). I had hoped to escape in the morning, but the morning had other ideas.

By the time I was able to break free, it was two in the afternoon. I didn't want to lose the day, so I decided to hike in nearby Calero County Park. It had only been two months since my last visit, but the park had plenty of trails left to explore.

To reach the those trails faster, I drove to Calero's southern entrance, on Casa Loma Road, just west of McKean Road.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I was confused by the sign. Instead of saying "Calero County Park", like I expected, it said "Rancho Cañada del Oro Open Space Preserve". Unbeknown to me, the park and the preserve bordered one another.

The funny thing is that I had heard of Rancho Cañada del Oro before. I just didn't realize it was so close or so easy to reach. I blame Google Maps for my geographical ignorance. (Note the lack of labels in the vicinity of the blue marker.)

Given that I only had a few hours of daylight, I abandoned my plan to hike in Calero and chose to explore the preserve instead.

According to the trail map, the preserve is only five years old. I think a small part of me hoped the trails would still have that "new park" smell.

I started up the Mayfair Ranch Trail, climbing a series of switchbacks to the top of the hill. The trail leveled off as it followed the ridge line and provided some nice views.

The trail resumed its climb as it turned north. I stopped a number of times to take photos of the surrounding terrain, which was a stunning shade of green.

The trail peaked at a conveniently located picnic table before descending quickly to Baldy Ryan Creek.

A few minutes later, I reached the Longwall Canyon Trail. At the junction, I took the left branch and began the steep climb to Bald Peaks Trail. I found this part of the park particularly serene.

Two miles later, I was standing at an elevation of 1,800 feet (the trail had started at 1,000 feet) and had a spectacular panaromic view of the mountains and valley.

After pausing to snack at another conveniently located picnic table, I continued east along Bald Peaks Trail. Without trees to offer protection, I was buffeted by the wind.

Along the way, I noticed I was being watched. There seemed to be paranoid deer on every hillside. As soon as I was in sight, they stopped doing whatever it is deer do (grazing, prancing, taking antler-enhancing drugs) and stared. Luckily, they left me alone, so I was able to enjoy the view of Calero Reservoir.

At the next junction, I took the Catamount Trail, which wound its way down, first east, then south, until it connected with a short access trail into Calero.

I followed the trail and was soon trudging along an extremely flat and extremely muddy segment of Calero's Serpentine Loop Trail. By this time, the moon was beginning to appear in the darkening sky.

I picked up the pace and was soon back at parking lot. After a few minutes of scraping mud from my boots, I was on my way home.

All told, it took roughly 2.5 hours to cover the 8.5-mile loop. It was just the walk in the woods I needed.

You can read other Rancho Cañada del Oro hiking trips on Yelp and Southbay Ramblers.

You can also see a few more photos from my hike on Flickr.

A month ago (on New Year's Day), I was sitting at a spot in Yosemite National Park known as Dewey Point, alone, looking across the valley, mesmerized by the view. Snow covered the distant mountain peaks and the valley floor far below me.

Only an hour earlier, I had been on the crowded shuttle bus that takes visitors from Curry Village, the Ahwahnee, and Yosemite Lodge to the Badger Pass ski area.

The ride had been uneventful. We had stopped twice along the way. Once for the driver to remove the snow chains and once for him to reattach them. Oddly enough, the longest part of that process didn't involve the chains; it involved the driver's wardrobe.

Before leaving the bus, he would methodically remove his leather fedora, carefully set it on the dash, pull a yellow slicker from behind his seat, and put it on. After dealing with the chains and reentering the bus, he would remove the jacket, fold it, tuck it behind his seat, lift the hat from the dash, and fit it on his head, adjusting it twice before sitting behind the wheel.

His motions were so deliberate, I began to wonder if he performed this ritual for superstitious reasons, believing if everything wasn't done in the proper sequence and in the proper way, he would jinx the bus. A crooked hat could mean doom for him and his passengers. (These are the types of thoughts that wander through one's mind when one has an hour to spare and an overactive imagination.)

If his motivation was superstition, nothing happened on the trip to contradict his belief. We made it safely to Badger Pass, which was fine by me.

Once off the bus, I crossed the parking lot to the trail head and latched on my snowshoes. It was a few minutes after 9:30 in the morning.

I started along well-groomed Glacier Point Road at a steady pace. After ten minutes, I was so warm, I had to peel off my fleece jacket. My remaining t-shirt and long-sleeved shirt were more than enough to keep me comfortable.

I only came across one person on the road. He was a sure-footed backpacker on his way back to Badger Pass, with snowshoes and a shovel secured to his pack. I wanted to ask him where he had camped, but his eyes seemed focused on his feet. Instead, I gave him a nod and he nodded ever so slightly in return.

Beyond Summit Meadow, I took the trail junction north, towards Dewey Point, following the snowshoe and cross-country ski tracks. As I skirted the meadow, I could hear the echoes of children laughing and yelling. I took a second to scan the treeline on the far side of the clearing and spotted the source of the sound. In between two gray and yellow tents, I saw three small, bright blue and green shapes (which I assumed were children) running around, throwing snowballs, and falling to the ground.

I kept walking, quickly leaving the meadow and entering a heavily wooded area. For the most part, I followed the footprints of those that had trudged before me, but every once in a while, the trail would branch off in three or four different directions without reuniting. In those cases, I searched for the yellow triangular markers anchored high on the trunks of trees every few hundred yards. They pointed the way.

Soon, I reached Dewey Point, which is one of many vista points located along the southern wall of Yosemite Valley. It was 10:30, and to my amazement, I had the view to myself -- the first time that had ever happened in five trips.

After spending a few minutes taking photos and uploading a shot to Flickr (I know, using my phone on a hike! For shame!), I put away my gadgets and endeavored to be "in the moment" and enjoy the rare gift of solitude.

I sat in silence, staring at El Cap and Clouds Rest and Half Dome and several other peaks I recognized, but could not name without the help of a labeled topographic map. I watched the sky above and gazed at the trees below. I felt the wind pick up and die down. It was bliss.

I kept expecting to hear the sound of approaching voices or footsteps, but they never came. I finally looked at my watch and realized I had been sitting for more than an hour. If I wanted to make it back to Badger Pass in time to eat lunch before the first afternoon shuttle left, I needed to scoot.

Ten minutes into my return trek, I encountered a loud group of twelve or thirteen Russian cross-country skiers. When the last one had passed, I let out a sigh of relief. I had left Dewey Point just in time.

I came across several more groups of skiers and snowshoers before reaching Glacier Point Road. I must admit, the presence of other people broke the spell that had enchanted the snow-covered meadows and trails only a few hours earlier.

Back at Badger Pass, I ate a vegetarian wrap and savored a large cup of hot coffee while watching kids of every age ski and snowboard. Just before 2:00, I boarded the shuttle and napped on the return ride.

With an entire month to let this experience settle in my memory, I would say this one ranks as one of the best winter treks I have ever had.

You can see a few more photos from the Yosemite trip on Flickr.

You can also read about two previous hikes I did to Dewey Point -- one from last April and one from November 2007

On Monday evening, M and I went to Coyote Lake-Harvey Bear Ranch County Park, which is on the eastern edge of San Martin, a tiny community sandwiched between Gilroy and Morgan Hill, as you can see in the following illustration...

For those who are accuracy-inclined, here is a more traditional map...

While M went for a run on the Martin Murphy Trail (a flat, paved loop trail, roughly two-miles long), I went for the briefest of hikes. Due to the lateness of the hour (it was nearly 4:30), M planned to only run four miles, which meant I had approximately 45 minutes to hike.

Since I knew I couldn't go far, I decided to do an out-and-back on the Harvey Bear Trail. In my head, I budgeted my time -- 25 minutes out, 20 minutes back, taking into account that "out" was all uphill.

I didn't have much time, but I tried to make the most of the time I had. This largely involved stopping often to admire the view and photograph the trees, hills, and horizon.

I got so caught up admiring and photographing, I overran my budgeted minutes. It was 5:00 and the light was fading quickly. I turned around and rushed down the trail. Halfway back, I spied the last of the sun dipping below the horizon.

I got back to parking lot just as M was finishing her run. The timing worked out perfectly. Now we just have work on getting there earlier so we have more time to enjoy the park.

To see a few additional photos, you can always visit Flickr.

Last weekend, I went hiking for the first time in two months. My time away from the trail wasn't due to waning interest in hiking, but growing discomfort in my hip and lower back.

When I saw the doctor six weeks ago, he said my problems were caused by excessive sitting at work. I nearly fell off the exam bed in laughter at that diagnosis, but then he gave me literature with illustrated stretching exercises for me to do at home, and I could tell he was serious.

I asked if it would be okay to hike and he said that as long as it didn't aggravate anything, hiking would be fine. His answer seemed to be a green light when I left his office, but by the time I got home, it had changed to yellow, shaded by my tendency to avoid risk. The result of my doubt was nearly two months of not hiking. Two long, depressing months.

What finally got me back on the trail was M. She called me on my moping and made me face my restlessness. "I'm not restless," I said. "Yes, you are," she replied. "You're just too busy moping to see it, so pick a park. We're going for a hike."

Once I got over myself, I chose Calero County Park because it was the park of least resistance -- only fifteen minutes away, with low degree of difficulty trails. It had also been a while since our last visit.

We did the short 3.6-mile loop we had done last year, around this time. As soon as we were on the trail, I began to feel better. No more moping. No more restlessness. Any fears I had about my back and hip were forgotten after the first few steps.

Of course, they were replaced with self-flagellation. How could I have been so afraid? Why was I so stupid? Why had I waited so long? Fortunately, after a few more steps, those thoughts faded, too, as I lost myself in the scenery.

When we got home, it hit me how much I had missed hiking and how good it felt to be back on the trail, even if only for a few hours.

Related links:

• A few more photos from the hike on Flickr,
  
  
• A longer hike I did through Calero in January,
  
  
• Two-Heel Drive's column about the park,
  
  
• Information about the park on Bay Area Hiker.
  
  

We got up early on Sunday morning to get a head start on the crowd we were sure we would encounter on our hike to Little Yosemite Valley. The valley itself isn't a popular destination, but it has the distinction of being between two of the park's major attractions: Vernal Fall and Half Dome.

We left Curry just before seven and reached the Happy Isles trailhead (a mile away) just as the first shuttle bus released its payload of Vernal Fall/Half Dome pilgrims.

It was a trial slogging our way through the pack of people climbing the John Muir Trail. Past strollers and children and grandmothers we went. The folks we passed in the first few hundred yards seemed in cheerful spirits. Those we passed as we got closer to the Vernal Fall Bridge seemed to have had the cheer sucked right out of them.

Beyond the bridge, we opted to avoid the Mist Trail and continue up the less-traveled John Muir Trail. We climbed the switchbacks at a steady pace and Nevada Fall soon came into in sight. It was still flowing, but not with the same exuberance it typically displays in the spring.

Usually, at this point, the trail resembles a small stream. On previous journeys, we had to dodge water dripping from overhanging rocks and jump over puddles, but this time around, the trail was nearly bone-dry.

When we reached the top Nevada Fall, we took a moment to look over the edge before finding a quiet spot by the water to snack and soak up the sun. There were surprisingly few people around. I chalked it up to the fact that most people who seek to summit Half Dome get a later start.

When we reached the second restroom on the John Muir Trail (the first is by the Vernal Fall Bridge), M turned back (she had only wanted to go as far as Nevada Fall).

Beyond the restroom, the trail becomes another set of rocky switchbacks. These lead to the entrance of Little Yosemite Valley. At the top, I continued for a short distance until I found an opening to the Merced River along the trail.

I hopped across a series of large rocks until I was standing in the middle of the river.

I stood there for several minutes, reveling in the beauty around me before reluctantly returning to the trail. I wanted to stay longer, but I had promised M I would catch up with her, so I couldn't afford to linger.

The return journey was uneventful. I stopped several times to take the same photo of the valley.

I also stopped several times to let people climbing the trail pass. During these encounters, the typical exchange was a smile or a simple greeting, but on more than one occasion, the exchange went like this:

Hiker: Are you coming back from Half Dome? How was it up top?
Me: I couldn't say. Today, I only hiked as far as Little Yosemite Valley.
Hiker: (with undisguised disappointment) Oh.

Slowed by growing sense of inferiority, I never caught up with M. Thankfully, she was at the trailhead waiting for me and hadn't had to wait long (ten minutes).

All told, it was a 9.5-mile hike with just under 2,000 feet of climbing, which was not as strenuous as hiking to Half Dome, but still enough of an effort to make me hungry. Once we were back at Curry, we grabbed pizza and beer from the Pizza Patio and spent the rest of the day relaxing in the valley.

Back in July, a week after my first hike through Pescadero Creek County Park with friends, I returned for a solo trek.

After parking at the Hoffman Creek Trailhead, I started down the Old Haul Road Trail, which was the same starting point and trail our group had used the week before. The trail looked familiar until I reached the Pomponio Trail junction. Instead of taking that branch, I stayed on Old Haul Road for the next 1.5 miles and made a right onto the Butano Ridge Loop Trail.

As soon as I made the turn, the climbing began. I gained roughly 1,300 feet over two miles of switchbacks. Along the way, I saw plenty of redwoods. Some were charred.

Others had fallen.

All were impressive. The view from the ridge wasn't what I expected. I had hoped my climb would be rewarded with grand vistas. Instead, it was compensated with more redwoods. I grumbled, but only for a second since I have a tough time complaining when surrounded by scenery like this:

For the next two miles, the trail undulated. By the time I reached the junction and got off the ridgetop roller-coaster, I had unknowingly gained another 300 feet of elevation.

The descent back to the Old Haul Road Trail was steep and swift. Along the way, I passed interestingly carved rocks.

And spots that would have been perfect for more than a moment's peace (or pause).

While I could have taken the Old Haul Road Trail all the way back to the trailhead, I chose to take an alternate route, which included the Bridge and Pomponio Trails. The Bridge Trail offered this view of Pescadero Creek.

If I were being honest, I would admit that I picked those trails in the hopes of sneaking in a glimpse of the hiker's hut in Sam McDonald County Park. It was a completely unrealistic hope, though, since the "sneak peek" would have added five miles and another 1.5 hours to the hike. I kept the dream alive until I reached the Bear Ridge Trail and finally accepted the hut would have to be something to look forward to on another visit.

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.

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.

On Friday, both of my feet were yearning for a long hike and I was, too. (Things usually work better when we're all in agreement.)

I wasn't sure where to go. I had been wanting to visit one of the many parks in the Santa Cruz Mountains, but with the still-burning Martin Fire, it seemed best to look elsewhere.

"We should knock another Healthy Trails hike off the list," I said to my feet, link and all. (It's called speaking hyperlinkally.)

They suggested Joseph D. Grant County Park, but I objected on the basis that it would involve driving during the morning commute.

Then I remembered passing the sign for Coyote Lake - Harvey Bear Ranch County Park on my way to Henry Coe a couple of months ago. It was only thirteen miles from home (opposite the flow of traffic) and classified as a "moderate" Healthy Trails hike, which made it perfect on what promised to be a hot, sunny day.

Thirty minutes later, I was standing in the gravel parking lot of the Mendoza Ranch Entrance and lacing up my boots. With the exception of a truck with a horse-trailer in tow, my car was the only vehicle in the lot.

The plan was a simple nine-mile out-and-back trek on the Coyote Ridge Trail. It would be an easy hike, something to satisfy my feet while giving me a few hours of much-needed solitude.

The first mile of the trail was flat, wide, and covered with rocks. It was a strip of gray running through a field of yellow.

Once the gravel gave way to dirt and the trail began to climb, the hike grew interesting. I came across my first group of cattle resting in a rare patch of shade.

I got my first view of the valley. Gilroy, San Martin, and Morgan Hill were all visible.

I also caught my first real glimpse of Coyote Lake, which had been hidden from sight up to that point.

Between the junctions of the Rancho San Ysidro Trail and Willow Springs Trail, I enjoyed the contrast of the peaceful lake to the east and the developed valley to the west; only a simple ridge separated the two worlds.

Beyond the Willow Springs Trail junction, the trail curved west, away from lake, and provided pleasing views of the rolling hills that either cascaded to the valley or surged to the ridge, depending upon your point of view. I photographed them obsessively.

I soon reached the turnaround point and couldn't bring myself to return the way I came. I'm a hiker who prefers loops whenever possible, so I wandered down the Harvey Bear Ranch Trail.

A half-mile later, I came across a signpost for the Townsprings Trail, a path not shown on the map, which meant I had to explore it.

All was going well until I encountered a group of cows grazing near the trail on both sides. I'm not sure why, but the sight of them paralyzed me.

"They're just cows. They're harmless," said my left foot.

"I know," I replied, annoyed. "But there's a dozen of them and only one of me and they're chewing rather menacingly."

"If you walk confidently, they won't bother you," said my right foot.

"And you know this how?" I said sarcastically.

"Wikipedia."

"Oh. Well then. Let's go."

With boldness I didn't feel, I marched towards the small herd, maintaining a steady rhythm by humming "If This Is It" by Huey Lewis and the News. Visions of the next day's newspaper headlines ran through my head, "Hiker Trampled To Death By Rare Breed of 80s-Rock-Hating Cattle".

I was within twenty feet of them when they retreated to a nearby oak tree where another dozen cattle were resting. One cow, a large brown one with a white head and horns, watched me warily as I went my way, but he did nothing more than stare at me (and shoot imaginary lasers with his gaze).

Clear of the cattle, I soon reached the Willow Springs Trail and began the steep climb back to the Coyote Ridge Trail. This was the toughest part of the hike.

From there, it was a pleasantly uneventful return trek to the car.

For a better and more factual trip report, be sure to read Two-Heel Drive. To see a few more photos from the hike, you can find them on Flickr.

It's Saturday, May 3rd, and as I pull into the Dowdy Ranch Day Use lot, I revel in the fact I'm at Henry Coe's eastern entrance a mere three hours after its opening for the season. I register at the visitor center (barely a year old and still looking pristine), pay the five-dollar day-use fee, and ask the rangers for some hiking suggestions.

"Something in the neighborhood of ten miles," I say after one asks me how far I want to go.

She points me to a seven-mile counter-clockwise loop consisting of the Max's Corral, North Fork, Scherrer, Center Flats, and Hersman Trails. "You'll get some nice views," she says.

The other ranger pipes in, "I always tell people to bring plenty of water and beware of the hills."

"Are they like Hobbs Road?" I say with a shudder, thinking of the tortuously steep trail by Coe Headquarters.

"Not as steep, but more sustained," says the ranger.

I thank them, return to the car for my boots and poles, and head for the trail at the end of the lot, near the restroom and picnic area.

I start down Max's Corral Trail and immediately lose the trail. Instead of one clear path through the field of tall grass, there are several paths. It's the first democratically chosen trail I've ever encountered. I'm not sure how the exact process works, but I believe whichever way receives the most votes (or boots) becomes the newly elected trail.

For an entire minute, I stand in the field with a lost look on my face. I then remember the ranger's advice to keep an eye out for brightly colored tape tied to trees. "They mark the way", he said. I easily spot one and hurry in that direction, looking over my shoulder to see if anybody spotted my embarrassing moment of confusion.

Once out of the field, the trail choices narrow to one unmistakable path of trodden grass. It winds its way down the hill in a series of easy switchbacks.

Down I go through what feels like an orchard. Near the end of my descent, I pass a barbed wire fence and come across another field of tall grass. I hear the sound of running water ahead of me and soon encounter the North Fork Pacheco Creek, which I believe marks the start of the North Fork Trail.

The trail crosses the creek at least five times. I manage to keep my boots dry until the last pass, when my left foot decides it would be cool to be wet. Dumb foot.

In short order, I reach the Tie Down Trail junction. Here, I decide to visit Tie Down Peak and an unnamed pond just off Yellowjacket Trail.

I climb the Tie Down Trail and soon begin to see parts of the Kaiser Aetna Road across the valley. As I get higher and begin to wind my way around the peak, I catch a glimpse of the Dowdy Ranch restroom and picnic area.

Despite being so close to the peak, I can't find a safe way to scramble to the top, so I make the downward detour to what I'll informally call Yellowjacket Pond, a small body of brown water that is home to many dragonflies.

I snack before backtracking to the North Fork Trail. A quarter of a mile later, I'm at the impossible-to-miss Kaiser Aetna Road. I encounter the only other people I'll see on the trail all day: two hikers and two bikers.

I wander up the road, searching for the Scherrer Trail and come across a signpost that simply says "Trail". No apparent trail appears anywhere in the vicinity of the sign, but according to my map, this is the spot where the trail should start.

For three seconds, I contemplate returning to the ranch by way of the boring road. Then I dive into the brush.

I climb what looks like a potential path. It's entirely uphill and I soon begin to have serious doubts about the wisdom of my decision. Nothing indicates the existence of a trail. There is a striking absence of brightly colored tape anywhere.

I gain a little confidence when I reach a clearing at the top of a rise and see a faint path through the grass leading to what the map says should be Scherrer Lake. A feeling of joy sweeps over me as the lake comes into view.

I spend a few minutes here before returning to the "main trail". The next mile goes slowly as I climb what seems like an endless series of hills, guided only by my map and an improvised GPS device I build on the spot using three twigs, half a Clif Bar, my left sock, and a dime. At one point, I notice a series of trees with tape tied to them, but they lead off into grassy oblivion.

The climbing starts to take its toll and I'm just beginning to believe it might never end when, out of nowhere, the Center Flats Road appears. By sheer luck, I come out right where the road and the other end of the Scherrer Trail meet. I know this because a sign with a words "Scherrer Trail" duct taped to it says so. I wonder if the lack of a permanent sign is a budgetary issue or a certainty issue.

The road has a mild downhill slope to it and I follow it all the way until I reach the Hersman Trail. The prominent restroom/picnic area is in sight the entire way.

I wander down the Hersman Trail, another obscure, single-track affair, make a quick detour to see Hersman Pond (it's dry), and soon find myself back on the Kaiser Aetna Road, just two-tenths of mile from Dowdy Ranch.

Back at the lot, I sit a spell at one of the many picnic tables and scour the map for potential hiking destinations the next time I pass this way. Pacheco Falls and Mustang Peak are two strong candidates. Soon afterwards, I hop in my car and slowly make my way back down to Bell Station, Highway 152, and civilization.

You can see a few more photos from the hike on Flickr.

I should learn to keep a pen and a scrap of paper in my pocket when I'm hiking (or at least remember I have a Moleskine tucked away somewhere in my backpack) so I can jot the thoughts that cross my mind while I'm on the trail. This isn't because I have epiphanies that require recording for fear of losing them forever. Rather, this is because I keep stumbling over the same mundane thoughts and the only way I can think of clearing them out is by writing them down.

To help the de-cluttering begin before my next trek, here are three pieces of mental riffraff I've repeatedly run across on my recent hikes. I've tried to pare each of them to a paragraph for the sake of conciseness and clarity.

1. "Meditation in Motion" - This phrase has haunted me since my scramble to Snow Creek Falls in Yosemite a month ago. For some people, meditation requires stillness and silence or sitting and chanting or body-bending poses on mats, but for me, it's the repetitive nature of walking in nature that most readily facilitates contemplation. Hiking is meditation in motion. I don't mean it in some pretentious or self-important way. Not every walk in the woods is an exercise in deep philosophical thinking or soul searching. I'm just saying it can be. The activity allows for the possibility. It's just another reason why I love to hike.

2. Day Hikes and Toe Dips - During my last two hikes in Henry Coe, I have been thinking about how little of the park I've seen because I limit myself to day hikes. It has been a source of growing dissatisfaction. I find myself wanting to spend more time in the park -- to see more and experience more. I have the growing desire to experience the park differently. It feels as though I've only dipped my toe in the pool, or at the very most, waded around the shallow end. It's time to swim out until my feet don't touch the bottom, which in hiking terms means backpacking (one-nighters to begin with), something I haven't done for a number of excuses. It's time to take the plunge.

3. Repetition of Experience - Near the end of every hike, I always ask the question, "Would I do this hike again?" I usually answer it with a simple yes or no without seriously exploring the reasons why I would or wouldn't repeat a hike. This weekend, I gave the matter 0.6 miles of thought and made a list of general reasons why a particular hike or place (like Big Basin or Half Dome) would be worth repeating or revisiting...

• Something is so spectacular about the place or view that it's worth the effort in lieu of a new experience (good ol' opportunity cost).
• Something about the place or view has changed, deeming it worth another visit.
• Something about the place or view is about to change, deeming it worth one last visit.
• Something about me has changed. For example, next June will mark five years since my last trip to the top of Half Dome. That's five years of accumulated knowledge and experience, which may enhance the hike or give me a different perspective on the way up.
• Sharing it with somebody else. I'm thinking of children in particular. I think it would be very cool to one day summit Half Dome with my daughter(s) and/or son(s). (How open-ended is that sentence?) It would be a blast and definitely worth the effort.

Henry Coe State Park has four entrances:

1. Headquarters
2. Hunting Hollow
3. Coyote Creek
4. Dowdy Ranch

Out of habit or convenience, all of my Coe hikes have started from the Headquarters Entrance. A couple of weeks ago, I decided to start from somewhere new. Because the Dowdy Ranch Entrance was still closed for the season (it opens this Saturday), I drove to the Hunting Hollow Entrance, roughly nine miles east of Highway 101, by way of the Leavesley Road exit in Gilroy.

My initial plan was to hike to Coit Lake, but upon closer inspection of distances and elevations on the map, I scaled it back and chose Kelly Lake as my destination.

After paying the four-dollar day use fee, I started down Hunting Hollow Road, a winding dirt road with several creek crossings and zero-percent grade. It was uncharacteristically flat. For a second, I wondered if I was in the right park. Henry Coe is synonymous with hills, so a long stretch of level trail is suspicious.

Because I wanted to visit Willson Peak on my way to the lake, I took the Middle Steer Ridge Trail, which started innocently enough with a few lazy switchbacks, but quickly turned nasty. It was two miles of steep, straight-to-the-top climbing; 1,500 feet of fun. It was as though Coe was saying, "You want character? I'll show you character! How do you like me now?"

To survive the climb, I took several breaks photos. The view was breathtaking and gave me a chance to catch my breath.

I also paused to take a quick video.

Once I reached Steer Ridge Road, I made a detour to Willson Peak (elev. 2,651 feet). Other than a cool survey marker hidden by tall grass, there was nothing remarkable about the peak.

I backtracked and took the neighboring Serpentine Trail. It was a wild downhill run to Grizzly Gulch Road. I continued northeast on the road and visited tiny Tule Pond. I thought about sitting a spell at the pond, but as soon as I spotted the tarp tent across the way, I kept moving.

The Tule Pond Trail was another no-nonsense climbing exercise. Luckily, it was short.

The trail delivered me onto Wasno Road and I followed this undulating dirt path for a mile and a half to the Kelly Lake Trail, which remained level for half of a mile before dropping precipitously to the lake.

When I reached Kelly Lake, I was disappointed to discover I wasn't alone. Three backpackers were relaxing on the opposite shore. Their conversation carried across the water. I tuned out their voices and focused on listening to the small chorus of birds singing around the lake.

After a brief lunch break, I retraced my steps to Wasno Road and backtracked to the Dexter Trail, which was another half-mile of downhill dirt skiing.

I continued my descent along the Grizzly Gulch Trail, following it west and then southwest until I reached the Coyote Creek Entrance. From there, it was a two-mile trek on paved road back to the parking lot. If I had it to do over again, I would have chosen a different return route. On more than one occasion, I felt like sticking out my thumb and hitching a ride.

Just as I reached the lot, my water ran out, which made me grateful I hadn't kept with my original plan to visit Coit Lake. When I do, I'll know to pack an extra liter of liquid.

All told, it was a 13.8-mile hike in a part of Coe that is worth further exploration. With the reopening of the Dowdy Ranch Entrance, my next few trips will likely start from the park's southern entrances.

You can see a few more photos from the hike on Flickr.

Three weeks ago, M and I visited Yosemite to get in one last snowshoe walk before Badger Pass closed for the season. We arrived late on Friday night. The drive normally takes 3.5 hours, but due to heavy traffic on Highway 152 and road construction in the park (where El Portal Road and 120 meet), it took five long hours. The delay in the park alone was thirty minutes. We spent the time with the car in park, watching the guy in front of us empty his trunk and clean his golf clubs by the glow of our headlights.

Once we were able to move, we made a beeline for Curry Village, which was packed. We had no trouble checking in, but getting through the parking lot was a nightmare. At the far end, we were forced to stop because a large group of people were blocking the way. There were perhaps twenty or thirty Asian college-aged kids hanging out. At first, they didn't seem aware of us, but after a few seconds, the group slowly parted to let us through.

After a few more minutes of hunting, I found a spot at the opposite end of the lot. It was nowhere near our cabin, but it was also nowhere near the group. As I lugged our gear and food from the car, I made a wish that we wouldn't run into them for the rest of the weekend. That wish would go unfulfilled.

On Saturday, after grabbing coffee and bagels, we caught the early bus to Badger Pass. We strapped on our snowshoes, took a look at the map, and chose Dewey Point as our destination. It was a beautiful day -- sunny and clear -- and we figured the view from the valley rim would be amazing.

We started trekking towards Glacier Point Road, following the trail that borders the parking lot. Hardly anybody was on the slopes or the trails. We were thinking it would be a quiet journey to the point, when we stumbled upon the same group of twenty-somethings we had encountered the night before. This time, all of them were sitting the middle of the trail, putting on their snowshoes.

I didn't want to risk stomping on somebody with my snowshoes (accidentally or intentionally), so I gave the group a wide berth, trudging around them to reach Glacier Point Road. As they disappeared from sight, I started pushing our pace. I told M, "Let's go. I have a feeling they're going to Dewey, too, and I want five minutes of peace when we get there if we can manage it." As a result, I only took one photo along the way.

The first mile was an easy stroll along the groomed road. We were just getting onto the Dewey Point Meadow Ski Trail when I heard laughter and random shouting coming well down the trail behind us. We pressed through the meadow at a comfortable clip and for a second I thought we had increased our lead. But just as we were leaving the meadow, I heard the laughter again and it was closer than before. The laughter was followed by a few minutes of silence, which was broken by the sound of somebody imitating an ambulance siren.

At this point, the trail was growing steeper and the pace we were maintaining was starting to seem ridiculous. Why were we rushing through this beautiful landscape and ruining our experience? Were five minutes of peace at the destination worth two hours of misery during the journey? Of course, that's how I articulate our feelings three weeks after the fact. At the time, M stated the sentiment much more succinctly. "This sucks," she said. I agreed.

We decided to stop fighting the inevitable. We slowed down and allowed the group to overtake us. Less than a mile from Dewey Point, the first of the pack passed us. The leader, a serious-looking young man, took a second to warn us that a group of twenty or thirty others were coming up behind us.

(An aside: I should disclose that my disdain for large groups stems from deep-rooted guilt. My first trail experiences were group hikes. I'm not talking about small groups of ten or so. I'm talking about massive groups of forty or more. The whole noisy lot of us would chug down the trail, steamrolling over every lone hiker or hiking pair we came across. We didn't think about how loud or obnoxious we were, or how we were possibly ruining other people's experiences by our behavior, but I realize it now. So every time I encounter a large group, I'm reminded of those early hikes and a deep sense of shame wells up inside.)

Soon enough, we were at Dewey Point and the view was everything I had hoped for.

As a bonus, the wind gusts that usually sweep across the point were missing. We were able to sit near the edge and enjoyr the view without freezing or getting blown off the mountain. We grabbed a spot by one of the few trees along the rim and soaked in the sight of Half Dome, Ribbon Falls, and El Capitan.

The nearby rocks were surprisingly warm and I found one that was long and flat and had a gentle downward slope, perfect for a five-minute nap. Like a dork, I nicknamed it my bedrock.

After a short while, the group, which had been occupying the point, gathered their belongings and departed. Just for memory's sake, one of the guys in the group gained a great deal of satisfaction by repeatedly pretending to fall over the edge and scaring the girls around him. While I'm glad nothing serious happened due to his horsing around, I would be lying if I didn't admit a small part of me was disappointed he didn't slip. Perhaps a short drop would have knocked some sense into him.

After they left, we ran to the point. The top was clear of snow, which made scrambling easy. Finally, I got my five minutes of peace at Dewey Point and I spent them taking in the vast scenery around us...

and below us...

All told, we spent more than thirty minutes at Dewey Point. Reluctantly, we made our way back to Badger Pass. We only encountered a few people on the return trip, all of them heading in the opposite direction. By the time we reached the ski area, the college kids had cleared out. We caught the late bus back to the valley. Before going, I grabbed a nice hot cup of coffee and said a quick farewell to Badger Pass. I'm already looking forward to next season.

With the introduction of video on Flickr, I had to give it a try. I took this from Dewey Point in Yosemite National Park two Saturdays ago. It was the last weekend Badger Pass was open and we wanted to squeeze in one last snowshoe adventure before it closed. The music is from the soundtrack to Ratatouille. The song is "Kiss & Vinegar" by Michael Giacchino.

As far as I know, only pro members can share videos on Flickr and videos can't exceed 90 seconds in length.

I like the concept of a video being "a long photo" or "a photo that moves". I'm excited about the possibilities this presents and can't wait to play around with it some more.

Every year, the trail to the top of El Toro, the distinctive peak overlooking Morgan Hill, is officially opened for a day and a hike is organized by the town's historical society so the public can enjoy a view from the top.

View Larger Map

When I first climbed El Toro three years ago, there were perhaps a hundred people making the early morning journey. This year's group was at least three times larger.

When I left the house at 7:55 AM, I thought I was giving myself plenty of time to reach the Morgan Hill Library, the starting point of the hike. I even took a second to photograph El Toro from my front yard.

The event was advertised as starting at 8 AM, with a geology talk preceding the hike. So it was a bit of a shock when I arrived at eight and saw the last of the crowd disappearing behind the library and making its way to the peak. Either the geologist's lecture had been extremely short ("Look. Rock!") or it had been given well before the advertised time. In either case, I signed in as quickly as I could and sprinted to catch up with the main body of the group (not an advisable move before a steep ascent).

The hike to the top of El Toro is a short, but challenging one. Over a distance of 1.5 miles, one climbs a thousand feet to reach the peak, which stands at a lofty 1,420.3 feet above sea level.

The first half-mile of the hike was an easy stroll through the neighborhood that sits in the shadow of El Toro. It was somewhere along this stretch that I caught up with Ann (an elite reviewer on Yelp) and her friends.

The ascent began during the second half-mile, but the trail was still on paved road. The last half-mile was the most difficult. The trail became a gravelly dirt path and the final stretch reminded me of the final approach to Half Dome.

Every year, a local Boy Scout troop installs a rope cable system to assist hikers to the peak. This year, they also dug steps into the hillside to make the climb easier.

Including the wait time on the cables, it took approximately thirty minutes to summit the peak. As soon as I reached the top, I immediately started taking photographs of the town below.

I also played a short round of "Can You Find...?" with another local.

Stranger: Can you find the library?
Me: (pointing) Right there. Can you find the post office?
Stranger: Hmm... can't say I can.
Me: I win!

Okay, I didn't say that last line, but I might have been thinking it.

After finding my house, the train station, the Trader Joe's, my favorite sushi restaurant, and a few other local landmarks, I circled the peak, taking photographs to the south...

And north...

As you can see from the photographs, it was an overcast morning.

I was backtracking when I came across a group of familiar faces -- faces familiar to me because of their hiking blogs. I must admit I was a bit star-struck. There was Tom (Two-Heel Drive), Russ (Winehiker Witiculture), and Rebecca (Calipidder). I also met Rebecca's husband, David, who related a recent encounter with poison oak, a topic of immediate relevance because El Toro is covered with it.

Soon enough, I was making my way down the same way I had come up. The descent was tricky. The elderly couple ahead of me were having a tough time of it. They kept slipping and sliding. Luckily, they made it down alive. (A piece of advice: If you ever climb El Toro, remember to bring gloves and don't wear shorts.) Next year, I hope the Boy Scouts install a zip-line.

Before leaving El Toro, I took one last photograph.

When I returned to the library, I picked up my "Made it to the Top" certificate. It's now proudly displayed on the front of the refrigerator.

You can see a few more photos from the hike on Flickr.

For accounts of the climb that area actually fun to read, you should check out what Tom and Rebecca wrote.

Update: Ann also wrote a review about the hike on Yelp.

The online buzz about wildflowers (at least in hiking circles) has been growing over the last couple of weeks. On Friday, I decided to join the fun by visiting Pacheco State Park, an idea that spontaneously came to me while reading Dan's Outside.

The park entrance is south of Highway 152, roughly halfway between Gilroy and Los Banos. San Luis Reservoir and several windmills border Pacheco to the east. It took roughly 45 minutes to reach the park. If construction crews ever finish the nightmare 152/156 interchange, the trip should be shorter.

After paying my five-dollar day use fee, I grabbed a color map and a black-and-white wildflower guide (organized by color). As I started south on Spikes Peak Trail, I kicked myself for forgetting my crayons.

I feared I would be having to search high and low to spot even a single flower in bloom (as I had in Santa Teresa and Henry Coe a few weeks ago), but my fears were unfounded. In less than five minutes, I came across my first wildflower: a California Buttercup.

I was so focused on the bright yellow petals that it took me a few seconds to realize the entire field was covered by Buttercups. As I continued along, I began to notice other wildflowers. I pulled out my guide and tried my best to identify them. (It helped to picture them devoid of color.) There were Common Fiddlenecks...

Common Checkerblooms...

and Blue Dicks...

(Full Disclosure: I had help from Bay Area Wildflowers to identify these flowers.)

As I reached the first trail junction, I met an elderly woman walking her dog. She asked if I had seen the wonderful display of wildflowers on the way up. I said I had. Then she said that according to Carol Leigh's website, I could find another beautiful patch of wildflowers along Dinosaur Lake Trail. I said I would venture there to see it. She was the only person I saw on the trail all day.

I turned south at the junction and followed Pig Pond Trail. I soon reached a pond that bore no resemblance to any pig I had ever seen.

I continued along Pig Pond Trail, continued south along Canyon Loop West (a nice single-track trail), and turned west onto South Boundary Loop. At Spikes Peak (elev. 1,927), I finally caught a glimpse of San Luis Reservoir.

Anybody who reaches the peak will be richly rewarded with a bounty of wildflowers. The hillside looked as though it had been covered with brightly colored confetti. The hills and meadows were dotted with orange, white, yellow, purple, and blue flowers. It was breathtaking and also the perfect place to soak in the view and the silence.

After a short rest, I continued south along Spikes Peak Trail. The trail itself began to disappear as grass and wildflowers overran the man-made path. By the time I reached the southern half of South Boundary Loop, the trail was gone. Only a gate in a distant fence gave any indication of the way.

I followed the South Boundary Loop as best as I could, in a counterclockwise fashion. Soon, I reached Bear Hide Lake, which likely resembles a bear hide from every vantage point except the one I was standing at. From there, it was a one-mile uphill trek to Canyon Loop East, where I turned east and headed towards Salt Creek.

I crossed the barely-flowing creek and continued east along an unmarked trail that I assumed was Dinosaur Lake Trail. A series of switchbacks led past the windmills I had been seeing in the distance all day. One out of every ten was turning.

The relatively level trail wound its way north through a meadow until it made a sharp turn and steep descent towards Dinosaur Lake, which looks exactly like a giant Triceratops, but only if you spin around five times fast and cover your left eye.

Once I crossed Windmills Road, the trail offered a wonderful view (and the best view all day) of San Luis Reservoir.

This little stretch of trail was also the last place where I saw wildflowers in overflowing abundance. The final mile was an anti-climatic walk back to the parking lot.

Before getting in the car, I did a quick tick check to make sure I didn't bring any unwanted friends home. (Ticks may look cute, but they're evil.)

Because of heavy and constant traffic, it was impossible to get directly onto 152 West. I eventually gave up and drove a mile down 152 East until I found a safe place to make a U-turn.

If you're a wildflower hunter, be sure to visit Pacheco State Park in the coming weeks. The park will hold its Fifth Annual Wildflower Day on Saturday, April 5.

You can check out a few more photos from my hike on Flickr. To see better photos taken by folks who recently visited the park, be sure to view the images Randy52 and Jeppmet captured.

Usually, when I'm hiking, I try to keep things low-tech. The only electronic device I have in hand is my digital camera. My iPhone stays safely in a pouch in my backpack. But yesterday, I began to think about ways my iPhone could possibly enhance my hiking experience.

For fun, I made a list of iPhone features or applications that could make hiking or visiting parks even more enjoyable. Here are my favorite five. It should be noted that some of these might already exist and a couple are tongue-in-cheek.

1. iCompass
It would be great if I could press a button on the screen and an arrow appeared, indicating magnetic north, if for no other reason than to confirm if my actual compass was telling me the truth. I know somebody has already created a simple compass application, but it has two limitations that are hard to overlook. First, it only works when the sun is out. Second, it doesn't work during Daylight Savings Time (or as the creator states "summer time is not supported"). In other words, it only works 25% of the year. That also means that if I got lost this weekend, the soonest the compass could help me would be the first sunny day in November.

2. onThisSpot
How about an application that determines your coordinates and then finds all of the geotagged photos and videos taken within a given distance of your current location? You could specify the provider (Flickr, Picasa, YouTube, Revver) and time frame (last 6 months, 1972, etc.). Of course, this could be dangerous around places like Glacier Point in Yosemite... "onThisSpot found 15,162,342 photos taken within five feet of your location. Display all?" A potential add-on to this program: onThisSpot: Seasons. As the name implies, it would show you what your location looks like during the peak winter, spring, summer, and fall.

3. The iDentifier
Instead of buying a thick booklet or several waterproof pamphlets, why not have an application that allows one to identify various animals, plants, and trees just by touching the screen? One would have to select the region and make the initial determination about the nature of the item in question, namely, is it an animal, plant, or tree, but once that hurdle was cleared, the program would help the user hone in on the ultimate identity. Of course, with my luck, the iDentifier would tell me something like, "You are looking at a common Poppy Oak Bear." Possible add-ons: track, scat, and bird call identifiers (just have the bird tweet clearly into the phone and the program does the rest).

4. Parkcasts
Not to be confused with Parkcast, a podcast that focuses on the issue of podcasting in national parks, but doesn't actually provide park podcasts. What I want to see are podcasts I can put on my iPhone or iPod that will enhance my experience as I visit popular points of interest in a given park. The best example of what I'm talking about can be found on Civil War Traveler, which offers battlefield podcasts for PDF map to carry with you, and enjoy a thirty-minute walking tour led by a park historian. Glacier and Yellowstone National Parks already offer podcasts, but it would be nice to see other parks podcasting, too.

5. ePassport To Your National Parks
How about an electronic version of the National Parks Passport? Instead of a 100-page booklet with a limited amount of space for stamps and stickers, have an application that allows the carrier to collect electronic stamps, images, or audio files as small keepsakes. The other benefit would up-to-date maps, park information, and photographs. This one came to mind because I'm always misplacing my passport or forgetting to have it handy when we're at a visitor center. I end up stamping a receipt and inserting it into the booklet after the fact.

A couple of weeks ago, I visited Santa Teresa County Park, in south San Jose, to tackle my third strenuous Healthy Trails hike.

The plan was to complete the 3.5-mile loop described in the booklet, starting from the Pueblo Day Use Area and following the Hidden Springs, Coyote Peak, Rocky Ridge, and Mine Trails. Unfortunately, while I was there, the Rocky Ridge Trail was closed due to "hazardous conditions" at the bottom of the trail, so I had to improvise.

I started out from the Hidden Springs trailhead around 10:40 AM and began the ascent to Coyote Peak (elev. 1,155 feet). It was pleasant 600-foot climb over a 1-mile stretch. The sound of flowing water accompanied me during the first quarter-mile. Just before reaching the Ridge Trail junction, I came across the source of the spring.

South San Jose came into view past the next junction.

Once I reached the peak, I was struck by a number of things. First was the layer of smog that hovered over the city...

It pretty much obscured the view of Mt. Hamilton and Lick Observatory. Second was the unsightly transmission tower and tank that adorned the peak...

Third was the beautiful, green rolling hills of Coyote Valley...

Last was the prominence of power lines. They were everywhere...

From Coyote Peak, I made a steep descent down Boundary Trail. This turned into Coyote Peak Trail, which quickly became Ohlone Trail, skirting the Santa Teresa Golf Course.

Once I crossed Bernal Road, I made a right onto Mine Trail and then a quick left onto the new Norred Trail, which passed Norred Ranch...

If I had turned back at this point, the journey to Bernal Road would have been an easy one, instead, I chose to return by way of the steep Joice and Bernal Hill Trails. This brought me past a small lot that offered free parking (as opposed to the $6 I paid to park at the day use area) and the Mine Trail.

This trail looped in a counterclockwise fashion around Trench Hill and returned me to the car.

In all, it was a 7-mile loop. While it was a decent hike overall, with some nice views, I was rather put off by the number of power lines and transmission towers I encountered...

I understand the park puts on quite a wildflower show in the spring, so I might have to make a return trip in the coming months. But beyond that, Santa Teresa doesn't offer the seclusion or escape from civilization I seek and can easily find at other nearby parks.

You can see a few more photos from the hike on Flickr.

You can read about other experiences at Santa Teresa County Park on Yelp and Bay Area Hiker.

Mt. Sizer in Henry W. Coe State Park. is an easy peak to underestimate. From a distance, it doesn't look like much, barely a discernible bump on Blue Ridge. In hiking books, its stats don't look like much either...

• Peak Elevation: 3,216 feet
• Trailhead Elevation: 2,662 feet
• One-Way Distance: 6.4 miles

To novices, Sizer might seem like a cinch, but experienced hikers know better.

Last Saturday, park administrators at Henry Coe finally opened the areas affected by last year's devastating Lick Fire. To celebrate the reopening, I made plans to hike to Mt. Sizer.

Part of the plan involved starting by 8:00 am. Thanks to some several shiny objects, I didn't start until eleven. If it had been summer, I would have been doomed, but temperatures that day barely made it into the sixties. Because of the late start, I scaled back my plans and set Sada's Spring as my goal.

After scooting along Monument Trail, I practiced my downhill skills on Hobbs Road, which descends steeply to Frog Lake. Tackling it directly is brutal on the knees and I loathe side-stepping, so I like to imagine the trail is a giant slalom course. Passing through the "gates" requires "skiing" a serpentine path down the road, which slows me down and seems to lessen the impact on my knees. It has the added benefit of giving me a chance to pretend I'm Alberto Tomba.

Past Frog Lake, Hobbs Road climbed until it reached Middle Ridge Trail and a picnic table, which offers a view of Mt. Sizer and a glimpse into the future - a future involving a very steep climb up Hobbs Road.

Beyond the junction, the trail made a sharp left turn and began a long descent to the Middle Fork Coyote Creek, passing Deer Horn, Skeels' Meadow, and Upper Camp along the way. When I passed this way last year, the creek was hidden by vegetation. The waterway was clearly visible this time.

Past the creek, the real climb began - roughly 1,500 feet over 1.5 miles. On steep trails, I find it helps to focus on the ground five feet in front of me and just keep walking. If I look too far ahead, I tend to psyche myself out. When I reach a natural bend or a place where the trail temporarily levels off, I usually turn around to see how far I've come. The view is often rewarding.

It didn't take long to reach Sada's Spring. I had made good time. A sensible person would have stuck to the plan and turned around, but I told myself, "Sizer is only a few steps away. I might as well check it out."

By one, I was on Blue Ridge Road. The first familiar landmark was Booze Lake. It appeared as though the fire went right from the ridge to the lakefront and simply stopped. The house on the other side looked undamaged.

It was an eerie feeling hiking along Blue Ridge. On one side, everything was green and lush.

On the other side, everything was brown, black, and barren.

Because Mt. Sizer is so unassuming, I nearly missed it. The only indication of its existence was a generic sign that said, "Trail". I ventured a short way down the road leading to what I assumed was private property. Black tree skeletons lined the road and the view was incredible.

After eating lunch and taking more photos, I braced myself for the return journey. It was two in the afternoon and I figured I had two options:

1. I could return the way I came (6.4 miles)
2. I could return by way of Jackass Trail and Poverty Flat Road (8.2 miles)

Because I'm something a loop snob, I chose to take the Jackass Trail. It was the wrong choice.

I was a quarter-mile in when the trail disappeared. The fire had wiped out any hint of it. Toppled trees and tractor marks further obscured the actual path, so I followed the path of least resistance instead. After ten minutes of wandering, I finally caught a glimpse of what I guessed was Poverty Flat Road. I immediately headed for it.

For the next fifteen minutes or so, I ran up and down several steep green hills. When I finally reached the road, my legs were tired. As it turned out, I had emerged on Poverty Flat Road, 0.4 miles east of the other end of Jackass Trail. (And just between you and me, I felt like a jackass, too.)

Poverty Flat Road was kind to me until I reached the Middle Fork Coyote Creek for the second time that day. After successfully crossing it without soaking my feet, socks, or boots, the road got mean and began its ascent.

For the next hour, I endured its slopes and slants. While it wasn't as bad as Hobbs Road, it actually felt worse because of the miles I had already hiked. There were more than a few times when I thought a hint of sunlight at the top of a bend meant the climbing was done. I was wrong every single time.

After what felt like an eternity, I finally reached Manzanita Point Road. I took a five-minute break at the picnic table under the giant oak that stands at the split. It was nearly 5 pm, so I decided to return to Coe Headquarters by way of Manzanita Point Road instead of Spring Trail to save a few tenths of a mile. As I crossed the final bridge on the Corral Trail, a sense of relief and accomplishment washed over me.

In all, I hiked 14.2 miles with over 4,000 feet of climbing in roughly 6 hours. For anyone hoping to hike Half Dome one day, I definitely recommend hiking Mt. Sizer first. It's a good place to practice. One piece of advice: don't do what I did. If you go, stick to the marked roads and take your time.

You can see a few more photos from the hike on Flickr.

Inspired by Tom's recent efforts at Two-Heel Drive to map his hikes, I thought I'd try to do the same. What can I say? Great ideas bring out the copycat in me.

Because I couldn't readily find a Movable Type plug-in to help me, I went right to the source (a.k.a. the Google Maps API). For the last day or so, I've been taking a crash course in Javascript and geocoding. Let me tell you, it isn't fun, at least not in the normal sense of the word.

By making use of MT's Excerpt and Keyword fields, I've been able to geocode a few of my hikes. While it isn't as extensive, comprehensive, or cool as Tom's or Casey's (a.k.a. Modern Hiker) creations, I think my map turned out okay.

For the curious, here's the link to the hiking map.

I'm still in the process of geocoding my hikes. I've only plotted ten so far, but when I'm done, I estimate there will be roughly thirty markers on the map. I can almost guarantee the map will look empty, revealing so many parks and places I have yet to explore.

Besides the folks I've already mentioned, I want to thank Cyberhobo and Bay Area Hiker for giving me ideas and opening my eyes to possibilities.

I'm going to go out on a limb and ask for any suggestions or constructive criticism regarding the map. Are there features you would like to see? If this were your map, what improvements would you make? Ideas, big or small, are welcome.

In the meantime, I'll be updating and tweaking the map over the next few days. By next week, I hope to have everything geotagged.

Last Friday, I was determined to go hiking and nothing was going to stop me.

"If the President calls, tell him he'll have to wait his turn," I told Abby. "Mt. Madonna called first."

Abby, by the way, is our cat and my personal assistant. Her top 5 responsibilities are to:

1. eat our supply of dry food at an alarming rate
2. use the litter box regularly (because someone has to)
3. shed enough hair to cover a second cat
4. wear a groove into the window sill from constant napping
5. answer the phone

On her last annual performance review, she received "Outstanding" on everything except #5. That one was a glaring "Improvement Needed".

But I digress.

Eager for the solitude only a walk in the woods could provide and equally as eager to complete my second Healthy Trails hike, I grabbed my daypack and drove to nearby Mt. Madonna County Park.

The strenuous hike outlined in the Healthy Trails guidebook is a 5.3-mile counterclockwise loop that follows the Merry-Go-Round, Loop, Iron Springs, Blackhawk, Contour, and Ridge Trails, and has more than a thousand feet of elevation gain. The good news is that all of the climbing happens in the first two miles, while one's legs are still fresh.

As I climbed Merry-Go-Round Trail, the noise of passing cars on Highway 152 gave way to the sounds of a trickling creek, which soon gave way to a steady silence.

Because this hike was nearly identical to the one I did last May, I knew what to expect when I reached the rocky grassland. Even so, the views still gave me pause.

Afterwards, I stopped by the Miller House Ruins to read and eat for a spell. It was so quiet and peaceful that I didn't want to leave. If I had a list of favorite reading spots, this would be on it.

The rest of the hike was a tranquil return to civilization. The silence of the ruins surrendered to the sounds of birds and a tumbling stream along the Blackhawk and Contour Trails. They were soon replaced with the noise of tires rolling on pavement as I approached the dirt and gravel parking lot.

When I got home, I said to Abby, "Any messages from the President?"

She replied with a curt meow, which I took to mean, "No, but you should know my bowl is empty and I'm taking the afternoon off."

You can see a few more photos from my hike on Flickr.

A month after my failed attempt to complete the strenuous Calero County Park hike described in the Healthy Trails brochure, I finally returned to Calero last week to finish the job.

The "job" involved hiking a 6.2-mile figure eight loop consisting of the Figueroa, Javelina, Pena, and Los Cerritos trails. It also involved a lot of mud. The recent storms had saturated the ground. The trails were walkable, but low points were still flooded and some spots where still soupy.

Because of the mud, footprints, tire tracks, and animal tracks were still visible.

For the first two miles, I barely left any prints of my own, but soon the mud started accumulating on the bottom of my boots and I could feel the soil starting to suck at my soles.

I was contemplating how far I could go before the suction removed the boot from my foot when I came across a skunk. As odd as it sounds, I had never seen a skunk in person. Before last Friday, skunks were smells on the highway and mythical creatures that sprayed my neighbor's dog. The only skunk I had ever seen was named Pepé.

Shortly after taking that photograph, I reached the Javelina Loop junction. Here is where the more scenic part of the hike began. Right away, I had a view of Calero Reservoir.

A little further along, I came across the Calero Bat Inn.

According to the interpretive sign in front of the inn, bats are critical insect predators. Some species are known to eat more than 1,000 mosquitoes per hour. Reading that factoid brought a smile to my face. I'm not a fan of mosquitoes and any animal that helps reduce the mosquito population is a friend of mine.

The factoid also raised a question in my mind. How did scientists manage to measure the mosquito consumption rate of bats? Did they hold a Mosquito Eating Contest? Is the bat that ate a thousand mosquitoes just your average, everyday bat, or is it the Takeru Kobayashi of the bat world?

Up to this point, the trail had been all downhill, but once I passed the inn, it was a steep climb to Fish Camp, the next point of interest. It had picnic tables, a water trough, and an observation deck overlooking the pond. It also offered a nice view of the trail.

After a quick snack, I sauntered back to the trail junction, passing a number of newts along the way. They were smart fellows that seemed to know the secret to a long life meant sticking to the trail shoulder. Even so, after I spotted the first one, I paid extra attention to where I was stepping.

Once I reached the trail junction, it was all familiar territory heading down to the trail head. Before setting foot in the car, I made sure to scrape the mud from the bottom of my boots. I didn't get it all off, but at least I no longer have platform Timberlands.

(For those keeping track at home, this is the first of five hikes needed to complete the Healthy Trails challenge.)

Yesterday, Governor Schwarzenegger proposed shutting down 48 state parks, beaches, and reserves as part of an effort to close California's $14 billion budget gap. Parks throughout the state would be affected, including Henry Coe, if the budget passed. (You can see a map of the proposed parks here.)

According to the state's budget summary, closing the parks would save the state $14.3 million by cutting 129.2 positions. Stated another way, the closures would reduce the budget gap by 0.1%. I realize "every bit helps", but when the bits are that tiny and involve tenths of a ranger, it seems ridiculous.

In addition, park personnel lucky enough to still have a job after the cuts would have the happy responsibility of patrolling the closed parks to ensure troublemakers like hikers and backpackers stayed out. That seems silly (and a poor use of reduced funds), too.

I'm hoping the closures don't come to pass and I've already emailed my local legislators (find yours here), but to be on the safe side, I plan to get in as many visits as I can to Henry Coe and other nearby parks over the next 45 days, just in case the state puts a giant "Closed" sign on the gates.

A few other bloggers have reacted to the Governor's proposal, including Tom at Two-Heel Drive, Modern Hiker, and the folks at Get Outdoors.

Every winter, after enough snow has fallen, Yosemite opens Badger Pass, the park's small ski area accessible from Glacier Point Road. While most folks go there to zip down slopes or glide along machine-groomed tracks, I go there to trudge around in snowshoes. Snowshoeing isn't an adrenaline rush¹, but it's a great way to get your heart pumping while exploring the wilderness in winter.

On New Year's Eve, M and I spent the day at Badger Pass. We caught the early morning shuttle from Curry Village and reached the ski area around 9:30 AM. The park offers two free Badger Pass shuttles in the morning (8:00 and 10:00 AM) and two return shuttles in the afternoon (2:00 and 4:00 PM). While the shuttle ride takes longer than driving one's car, I prefer the peace of mind and napping opportunities it provides.

With trail map in hand and snowshoes on feet, we began our trek to Bridalveil Campground, a relatively easy 6.6-mile out-and-back adventure. I had initially hoped to reach the Bridalveil Creek Ski Trail by way of the Ghost Forest Loop, but after discovering it would be 6.5-mile journey one way, I went with something less ambitious. It seemed unwise to kill ourselves on the first snowshoe walk of the season.

Instead of taking the easier (and groomed) Glacier Point Road, we opted to take Old Glacier Point Road, which is only groomed for the first mile. To me, the real excitement began once we left the maintained track for the "more difficult" trail.

We traveled along a narrow channel, less than two-feet wide, with walls of snow 12 to 18 inches high. Three inches of snow separated our lane from the lane used by cross-country skiers. (In roadway terms, snowshoe lanes are worn and rutted, while cross-country ski lanes are smooth and newly paved.)

To my surprise (and delight), we only encountered one pair of snowshoers on the trail. I feared we would come across several cross-country skiers, but Old Glacier Point Road didn't seem to be a popular route (or maybe we just lucked out).

The downside of taking the old road was the time it took to travel. The unpacked snow slowed our pace considerably. It took nearly three hours to cover little more than three miles. On the upside, the trail offered solitude and scenery. They weren't stunning vistas, but the surrounding landscape was still beautiful.

When we reach Bridalveil Campground, we found a sunny spot to sit and snack. I went in search of the Ghost Forest Loop, but never found the trail head. I discovered two trails leading to Westfall Meadows, but that was it.

By the time we started our return journey, it was one o'clock. M's foot was beginning to nag her, so we decided to return along the groomed Glacier Point Road.

One of my hiking habits is to count the number of people we encounter on the trail. Thanks to my turtle-like speed and grace on snowshoes², I was able to get a rather detailed tally. On this hike, I counted 116 people. Of those, 114 were on Glacier Point Road. 88 people were cross-country skiers, 18 were snowshoers, and 10 were walkers. I also had the tally broken down by gender, but I failed to write those numbers down while they were still fresh in my head.

Due to the groomed trail, it only took 1 hour and 40 minutes to return to Badger Pass.

We got back so quickly that we had more than an hour before the four o'clock shuttle arrived. We spent the time wandering around and resting. I also took a moment to enjoy a bowl of hot soup and a much-needed cup of coffee. Even with the caffeine, I napped all the way back to the valley.

This winter, I'm hoping to get in at least two or three more snowshoeing trips. I'm also hoping to learn how to cross-country ski. I've mentioned that before, but I figure if I repeat enough times, I'll eventually get off my duff and do it.

You can see few more photos from the walk and the Yosemite trip on Flickr.

¹ It's more like an adrenaline mosey.
² They don't like to brag, but turtles are the most graceful snowshoers on the planet. Of course, other animals (namely rabbits) claim that if they had as much time as turtles did to properly evaluate and execute every movement, they would have them beat, paws down, in the grace department.

Last week, M and I went for a hike in Palm Canyon, the largest of five canyons (Andreas, Chino, Murray, and Tahquitz are the other four) that make up Indian Canyons, a park located a few miles south of Palm Springs, California. The park is privately owned and sits on the homeland of the Agua Caliente Indians.

Admission to the park is expensive ($8 per person), but we managed to save a dollar per ticket by purchasing them ahead of time at the Palm Springs Visitor Center, located on the edge of town.

Due to a late start and heavy traffic, we arrived at the park shortly after noon, which gave us less than five hours to explore. The park is open daily from 8:00 AM to 5:00 PM. We overheard other visitors mentioning that park rangers were extremely diligent about having vehicles towed, so we knew we would have to keep our hike short to ensure we returned to the parking lot before closing time.

The plan was to do a loop along the East Fork, East Fork Loop, Vandeventer, and Fern Canyon Trails. According to the trail guide, it would be an easy seven-mile hike with a couple of short strenuous sections. As usual, the trail guide and reality didn't quite align and as the hike progressed, the plan would require a serious revision.

It started innocently enough. From the visitor center, it looked as though we would be taking a casual stroll beneath a canopy of palm trees.

For a short distance, it was a casual stroll beneath a canopy of palm trees.

Along the way, we passed impressive rock formations...

and the peaceful Palm Canyon Creek.

The first mile of trail was too busy for my liking, but once we were beyond the junction where the Palm Canyon, East Fork, Vandeventer, and Victor Trails met, the flow of people dried up. As it happened, the view from the junction was the highlight of the hike.

Past the junction, the trail followed the dry creek bed. Rock walls between 10 and 15 feet rose up on either side of us.

We would pass long stretches without seeing a single palm tree and suddenly encounter a bend where the palms seemed to come charging down the slopes.

The trail had a slight uphill grade and followed a gentle serpentine course. Everything was going smoothly until we hit a wall -- a literal wall.

After scaling it (not in the fashion shown above), we began to encounter periodic tight spots (also known as waterfalls when the creek is flowing).

According to the map in the trail guide, three miles of hiking should have brought us to the East Fork Loop Trail. At our normal pace, we can cover that distance in just over an hour. With the exception of our brief stops to scamper over walls and squeeze through crevices, we had maintained that pace. Yet, after more than two hours of hiking along the creek bed, we never reached the East Fork Loop Trail.

Instead, the trail kept going. I began to doubt the accuracy of the map's scale. While I wanted to press on and find the trail junction, common sense took note of the falling temperature and setting sun. Upon encountering another wall, we decided it would be wise to turn around and return to the parking lot.

It's my suspicion that we were very close to reaching the East Fork Loop Trail. My internal optimist says the junction was just around the next bend. My internal pessimist insists there would have been a fifty-foot sheer wall between us and the next bend.

Despite straying from the original plan, hiking through Palm Canyon was enjoyable. The oasis of palm trees in the middle of the desert was an amazing sight. Indian Canyons might be worth another visit someday, at least to see what the other canyons have to offer. More likely, though, if we're ever in the vicinity of Palm Springs, we'll probably continue driving east and visit Joshua Tree National Park.

You can see a few more images from the hike on Flickr.

While it might it have been interesting to join the gathering at Stonehenge to celebrate the winter solstice on Saturday, a small group of us chose to do something more conventional and closer to home. We met at the headquarters in Big Basin Redwoods State Park well after sunrise, but well before the temperature decided to rise (31° Fahrenheit), to hike to Berry Creek Falls.

When we started down the Redwood Trail, across from headquarters, there were only five cars in the parking lot. I took it as a good sign. It meant we wouldn't be encountering many people along the way.

The plan was to reach the popular waterfall taking the Redwood Trail - Skyline to the Sea Trail - Berry Creek Falls Trail route. We would then return along the Howard King and Hihn Hammond Trails. It would mean missing Golden Cascade and Silver Falls along the Sunset Trail, but in exchange, we would be passing Mt. McAbee Overlook on the way back.

It had been a couple of years since I had last hiked through this range of coast redwoods. I had forgotten how shaded the path was. Sunlight rarely reached the trail. Branches and leaves high above us kept the light for themselves and gave us only leftovers.

I had also forgotten how damp everything was. Mushrooms in various shades of brown, red, and orange huddled in the soil and on tree stumps. Nothing escaped the moisture. Even the rocks looked soggy. As is my habit, I failed to take any photos of mushrooms or rocks, but I did spot this survey marker and had to photograph it.

The first mile of the hike took us down through a prescribed burn area. We spotted scorched trunks and blackened patches bordering the trail. The smell of smoke was still in the air. In some cases, smoke was still visible.

Once we crossed Middle Ridge Road, the trail made a steep descent towards Kelly Creek, which feeds into West Waddell Creek.

The sound of flowing water gave me hope the waterfall would be going strong. After one last creek crossing, Berry Creek Falls came into view and didn't disappoint. We hastened our pace and were soon at the platform overlooking the waterfall. It was gorgeous.

After snacking and relaxing for a bit, we began our journey to the Howard King Trail, but were quickly stopped by the West Waddell Creek. The recent rains had flooded the two I-beams that serve as the creek's bridge. Even with hiking poles, it would be a challenge to cross without getting soaked socks. As it was, we only had four hiking poles between the five of us, so we turned around and returned to headquarters the same way we came.

I should note that before we retreated, I gave the creek crossing a go. I just wanted to prove to myself that it could be done without wetting my feet. Once I reached the other side, I felt a brief rush of accomplishment. This was rapidly replaced with a longer lasting feeling of stupidity as I realized I would have to repeat the feat to rejoin the group. Thankfully, I made it back across without taking an unexpected dip and we resumed hiking.

On our return trip, we encountered several other hikers (thirty in all), who were trekking to the waterfall. Each person we passed made me more grateful that we had started as early as we did. I'll trade a little cold for some solitude any day. The practically empty parking lot we had left five hours earlier was nearly full when we returned.

All in all, hiking in Big Basin was a great way to spend the winter solstice. It was a casual way to celebrate the beginning of one of my favorite seasons. Admittedly, it probably didn't compare with the fun the five-hundred folks at Stonehenge had, but then again, I've never been one for big crowds or ceremonies.

I leave you with my favorite photograph from the hike, one of several shots I took of Berry Creek Falls...

Calero County Park is a quick fifteen-minute drive from my house. Being so close, you would think I would be a Calero expert -- somebody with intimate knowledge of its landmarks, features, and trails -- and you would be wrong. Apparently, proximity does not equal familiarity. Before yesterday, I had never set foot in the park.

While I had hoped to hike the 6.2-mile trek described in the Healthy Trails brochure, M and I settled on an abbreviated 3.6-mile hike so we would get back to the car before sundown and get back to town before the The Golden Compass started. (The Plan was to see the 5:15 showing and one must follow The Plan.)

From the trail head, we took a short access trail to the Figueroa Trail. Because Calero is primarily an equestrian park, the trails are wide and strewn with horse droppings. On the downside, one has to be continually vigilant of where one steps. On the upside, it's difficult to get lost on trails so clearly and regularly marked.

The first quarter-mile was my least favorite part of the hike. Signs of civilization were still present. For a distance, the trail paralleled McKean Road, which is a choice route for motorcycle enthusiasts.

From the trail, we could also see a golf course across the road. The unnatural greenness of the course clashed with the natural browns and tans of the landscape. Obviously, golf knows no seasons.

As we passed a private residence adjacent to the park, we were overwhelmed with the sounds of two noisy dirt bikes gunning their way through a homemade stunt course (admittedly, both riders handled the jumps well).

Once we rounded the bend, the roar of the engines faded behind the hills and I started to enjoy the hike. The Figueroa Trail took us through a small wooded area before leading us up and around one of the many open hills that dominate Calero's landscape.

Two miles in, we came to the junction where the Figueroa, Javelina, and Pena Trails meet. If we had been taking the longer route, we would have taken the Javelina Loop, but we were good, stayed true to The Plan, and took the Pena Trail.

Where Figueroa used a roundabout approach to tell us we would be climbing, Pena used the brutal honesty approach. There was nothing subtle about the slopes over the final mile of the hike.

As we met up with the Los Cerritos Trail and returned to the trail head, we were rewarded with a nice view of Coyote Valley, a mostly undeveloped buffer zone that separates San Jose from Morgan Hill.

The Plan for this weekend is to head back out to Calero and make up for some lost time. Perhaps a long hike will help balance that pesky proximity/familiarity equation.

At a modest 10,165 feet above sea level, Silliman Pass is the low point between Twin Peaks (elev. 10,479) and Mt. Silliman (elev. 11,188). It sits on the Kings-Kaweah Divide, which is the border between Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks. It also overlooks popular campsites at Twin Lakes.

From Generals Highway, the parks' main road, two trail heads lead to Twin Peaks: Wuksachi Village and Lodgepole. While starting from Lodgepole would have shortened the hike by a half-mile, it would have meant driving, so we trekked through the manicured walking path behind the lodge and crossed a vast, empty parking lot to the Wuksachi trail head instead. It was 7:30 in the morning.

The trail began innocently enough. Long, lazy switchbacks led down to a bridge crossing Clover Creek. On the other side, the trail climbed gently for a distance, then quickly leveled off and remained level until we reached the junction (1.5 miles in) where the Wuksachi and Lodgepole trails met.

A mile later, we reached Silliman Creek. Snow had been falling lightly all morning. Individual snowflakes were accumulating on my jacket. I silently asked the snow to stop so I wouldn't be forced to cut the hike short..

The trail began to climb in earnest on the other side of the creek. M, who had wanted to get a taste of the trail, turned back at this point. While she made her way safely back to the lodge, I started the ascent that would take me past Silliman Meadow...

through Cahoon Gap (elevation 8,645 feet) and across a frozen Clover Creek.

A quarter-mile from the creek, I reached a split in the trail. The left branch led to J.O. Pass, while the right branch led to Twin Lakes. The snowing had stopped by this time, so I sauntered to the lakes.

The trail wove its way up through a sparsely treed area and skirted a frozen waterfall that usually feeds the East Fork of Clover Creek during the spring and summer.

I started catching glimpses of Twin Peaks between the treetops. I was so distracted by the views from the trail that the sudden appearance of Twin Lakes caught me by surprise. It was just before noon.

South Lake, the larger of the twins, was the first one I saw. Giant rocks protruded through its frozen surface.

As I stood there, it occurred to me that this was the first fully frozen lake I had ever seen in person. I had read about how noisy the ice could be, but it was still alarming to hear the groaning, snapping, popping, and crunching. As I walked along the edge, I took extra care to watch where I stepped.

I soon ventured over to take a peek at North Lake and was greeted with another amazing view of Twin Peaks, which still seemed to tower high above.

To that point, I had hiked 7.3 miles and climbed 2,200 feet, but if I wanted to reach Silliman Pass, I still had 1.3 miles to hike and 800 feet to climb. While the peaks looked daunting, they also looked enticing.

"Don't you want to see Mt. Silliman?" asked Taller Peak.

"Don't you want to know what is on the other side?" chimed in Shorter Peak.

In response, I started up a series of short switchbacks that soon offered a spectacular view of Twin Lakes and the valleys and ridges beyond.

Halfway up, I lost the trail and found myself standing on a granite slope directly beneath Twin Peaks. I focused on the saddle between the peaks and a previously invisible path appeared before me. In a matter of minutes, I was at the saddle. The peaks seemed much less daunting up close.

The view on the other side of the divide was well worth the effort. A massive granite amphitheater opened up before and below me.

I tried to match the distant landmarks with the names on my map. Somewhere out there was Sugarloaf Valley, Sphinx Crest, North and South Guards, Mt. Brewer, and the Great Western Divide.

Of course, the most easily identifiable landmark was nearby Mt. Silliman.

I don't know how long I stood there, but at some point, I reluctantly looked away and descended to Silliman Pass. After a few minutes of trial and error, I stumbled upon the trail that would take me back to the lakes. The time was ten minutes to two.

The return trip was downhill, quick, and uneventful. I paused at the lakes and the meadow for a few minutes each, just to soak in their beauty a little longer. At each place, I expected to come across another hiker, but during my entire journey, I never came across another soul.

I also used these stops to drink water directly from my hydration pack. The water in the tube had frozen while I was gaping at the views at the pass. Temperatures at the top must have been in the low to mid twenties. I made a mental note to buy tube insulation or a winter hydration pack when I got home.

I reached the trail head around 4:30. Daylight was dwindling and my legs were ready for some rest. After a long hike, a hot shower and hot meal sounds so good. I rewarded myself with both that evening.

You can see more photos from the hike and park on Flickr.

Yosemite's Happy Lexicon (with apologies to Franklin Pierce Adams)

These can be a hiker's happiest words:
"Dewey to Crocker to Stanford."
Trio of rim points, as high as the birds,
Dewey to Crocker to Stanford.
Each one offering a most inspiring view,
Of the valley and El Cap and Half Dome, too --
If you should visit, there's a hike you must do:
"Dewey to Crocker to Stanford."

My goal for Black Friday was to be as far away as possible from the insanity of shopping malls and outlet stores. Hiking in Yosemite was the perfect way to achieve it.

After filling up on Curry Dining Pavilion's breakfast buffet (eggs, hash browns, sausage patties, pancakes, cereal, and coffee for $8), we drove to the McGurk Meadow trail head on Glacier Point Road for a hike to Dewey Point. We were also going to visit Crocker and Stanford Points, but they weren't the headliners on this trek.

From the road, the distance to Dewey Point is 3.9 miles. From there, it's 0.6 miles to Crocker Point and an additional 0.7 miles to Stanford Point. Doing some fast math, the out-and-back distance is 10.4 miles.

The toughest part of the hike was finding the trail head. On our first pass, I accidentally overshot it and ended up at the Taft Point / Sentinel Dome parking lot. We backtracked and found it, just west of the Bridalveil Creek Bridge, by pure chance. The only sign of the trail head's existence was a post without a sign.

We found a place to park off the road and started out. It was 10:15 a.m. and 36 degrees.

The first mile was a gradual descent through the forest. I had hoped the sunlight would reach the ground to help me warm up, but the trail was well-shaded. After a few minutes, we came across a log cabin built in the 1890s by a man named John McGurk (source: Trails.com).

Beyond the cabin, the trail left the forest and crossed McGurk Meadow. The last time I saw the meadow, it was covered in snow. That was in January of 2006, when we snowshoed to Dewey Point. Now, the meadow was gold instead of white.

From the meadow, the trail meandered back into the forest and began a climb that would continue all the way to the point. After another mile, the trail merged with the Pohono Trail, which runs from Glacier Point, through Taft and Dewey Points, to the Wawona Tunnel.

After a good deal of climbing (mostly mild, with a few steep spots thrown in), I noticed the wind picking up and I took it as a sign that we were getting close. When we reached the point, I was struck by how different it looked without snow.

I walked to the edge and braced myself against a boulder to photograph the valley. The wind was blowing so hard, I could barely keep my eyes open and tears were streaking down my cheeks. Breathing was also difficult. Inhaling wasn't a problem, but exhaling was a different story. I found that yelling and hollering helped. The view was exhilarating.

Crocker Point was a short, downhill hike from Dewey Point. Two-thirds of the way there, M's foot began to hurt, so she turned back. The plan was for me to catch up with her after I visited Stanford.

The view at Crocker was still impressive, but not as spectacular as the view from Dewey.

From there, it was a steep, 400-foot descent to Stanford Point, named after Leland Stanford, the former California governor and cofounder of the Central Pacific Railroad, according to Richard Hartesveldt's Yosemite Valley Place Names. For the curious, Crocker Point was likely named after Charles Crocker, an associate of Stanford, and Dewey Point was named after Admiral George Dewey, the hero of the Spanish American War.

It was early afternoon when I started the return trip. As I reached Dewey Point, M radioed to say she had reached the split in the trail. Shortly after that, I lost reception. I was still two miles behind her, so I picked up the pace.

When I reached the trail head, it was 3:15 p.m. and the temperature was in the low forties. I expected to see M waiting for me, but she wasn't there. I tried the radio, but it still wasn't working. I checked the car and ventured down the road, but she was nowhere to be found.

Worry washed over me. Had the pain in her foot been too much? Had she strayed from the trail and gotten lost? Had she accidentally taken the other trail?

I dismissed the first two possibilities right away. If her foot had been hurting, she would have stopped and I would have stumbled upon her. As for straying off the trail, that just wasn't something M did. That meant she must have taken the other trail. It also meant she could either be backtracking towards me or heading towards Taft Point.

Unable to contact her to find out which way she was going, I decided to leave a note on the dashboard and retrace my steps on the trail to see if I could regain radio reception. After a quarter-mile, I did. M was okay.

"Where are you?" I asked.

"On the trail -- heading towards the trail head. I'm almost there," she replied through heavy static.

"You are?" I looked around, bewildered. "I think you're on a different trail."

I doubt she heard that last part because the radio cut out again.

I continued down the trail. A few minutes later, I met a family of four coming from Taft Point. They were only the third group I had seen all day. I asked if they had seen anybody matching M's description and the mom told me they had seen her heading towards Taft an hour earlier.

I thanked them and broke into a run. I sprinted by McGurk's cabin, through the meadow, and into the forest. As the trail began its ascent, I slowed, figuring all I was doing was wasting energy.

I was almost at the split when M and another hiker came around the bend. The hiker's name was Henry. M had run into him as he was coming from Taft Point and he had pointed her in the right direction.

An overwhelming sense of relief washed over me. The three of us hiked back to the trail head. Before parting ways, we thanked Henry for all of his help.

By now, the sun was setting and the temperature was dropping. As we drove back to the valley, we passed at least three or four dozen cars speeding towards Glacier Point. I didn't know why they were in such a hurry until we reached the Wawona Tunnel and saw the view.

Despite the excitement at the end, the hike to Dewey, Crocker, and Stanford Points was wonderful and I would highly recommend it to anybody visiting Yosemite.

You can find more photos from the hike at Flickr.

And now, to end this lengthy post, I leave you with this thirty-second video clip I took at Dewey Point. Please excuse the yelling in the beginning. That's just me trying to breathe.

The latest edition of The Wildebeat asks if Yosemite's Half Dome has become too popular to be considered wilderness. Steve Sergeant interviews hikers and experts to get their opinion on the subject and gets some interesting responses.

To me, there is nothing wild about the hike to Half Dome. It's strenuous and challenging, certainly, but there's never a feeling like it's just you and the mountain. If you run into trouble, just wait a few seconds and a group of hikers will be there to help you.

The trail is the park's version of a highway. The sheer number of people traveling between Happy Isles and Nevada Fall can make the hike unenjoyable and unattractive. At Vernal Fall, it feels less like a national park and more like a theme park.

Avoiding the Mist Trail and taking the John Muir Trail eliminates some of the crowd, but then there is the traffic jam at the cables. With people brushing by you and stepping on your heels, while you try not to bump into the hiker in front of you, it's like being in the security checkpoint line at the world's steepest airport.

This isn't to say that the view from the top isn't spectacular or that there aren't times when the trail is less busy, but if it's achievement, adventure, and views you're after, Half Dome isn't your only option. There are plenty of mountains in Yosemite that can provide that, too, like El Capitan, Clouds Rest, or North Dome. They may not give you the same bragging rights as the park's most popular peak, but they offer a better wilderness experience and something Half Dome can't offer -- a beautiful view of itself.

Garrapata State Park is located on the California coast, just south of Point Lobos State Reserve and Carmel Highlands on Highway 1. It is an unassuming park, a model of modesty. It offers one of the central coast's most scenic hikes, but doesn't have a single sign along the highway bragging about its presence. A metal barn, an unmarked turnout, and row of cypresses are the only clues a potential visitor has of its existence.

Luckily, I spotted those clues, which saved me from the miles of searching and backtracking I was expecting. It was cool and breezy morning on Friday and I was glad I had worn my long-sleeve hiking shirt. I also had my windbreaker tucked in my backpack just in case the wind picked up at the top of Doud Peak, my intended destination.

After suiting up (putting on boots, sunscreen, and a hat), I hopped across the highway to take photos of the ocean before starting up the Rocky Ridge Trail, past the metal barn that would be a point of reference for the first half of the hike.

It is a strenuous six-mile roundtrip trek to Doud Peak, named after Francis Doud, who operated a ranch on the land from the 1890s to the 1950s. The climbing began almost immediately and so did the views.

I was so distracted by the photo opportunities that I hiked a quarter mile before realizing I had left my hiking poles on top of the car trunk. After thirty seconds of Dobby-like self-flagellation, I turned around and ran to get them.

Five minutes later, I was back at the same spot, sweaty, slightly out of breath, and wondering why I had worn a long-sleeve shirt. As luck would have it, the poles I retrieved would prove to be invaluable later.

For the first two miles, the steep trail climbed through coastal scrub. I kept a slow, steady pace and took several photo breaks along the way. It was scary how fast the barn shrank. One moment it was life-sized; the next moment it was O scale.

At an overlook with a bench embedded in rock, I took a short snack break. The sound of highway traffic had finally disappeared, and it was replaced by the call of sea lions and the occasional cry of a circling falcon. It would have been the perfect place to read and gaze at the horizon if it weren’t for the gnats and flies buzzing about.

Eventually, the coastal scrub gave way to grassland and the steep uphill climb became a stroll over rolling hills. Because the park doesn’t contain a single sign, I initially thought I was at the peak, but then I noticed the trail continued east until it terminated at an unremarkable looking hill that was slightly taller than the hill I was standing on.

I trekked to the top of the taller hill, which I’m fairly certain is Doud Peak. From the top, I could see Monterey...

...and the tip of Carmel.

By now, it was early afternoon and the wind was picking up. I took it as a sign to begin my descent.

I retraced my steps until I reached an unmarked branch in the trail, which is the southbound leg of the Rocky Ridge Trail that takes hikers to the Soberanes Canyon Trail that loops back to the trail head.

Soberanes Canyon is named after the family that owned the area before the Douds. According to the park brochure, the Soberanes were ranchers who were famous for their hospitality and musical talents.

The branch proved to be extremely challenging. Instead of providing hiker-friendly switchbacks, the trail’s designer had chosen to use a more direct route. The first half of my descent felt like I was sliding down a bobsled chute. The second half felt like I was charging down a slalom course. My hiking poles saved me on several occasions as I stumbled and staggered the hill.

Passing through the tree canopy near the canyon floor was like entering a different park altogether. The previous hours had been spent in a dry and exposed environment. Suddenly, I was in a wet, well-shaded, and secluded trail.

Although it didn’t offer the magnificent views of the Rocky Ridge Trail, the path along the Soberanes Creek was my favorite part of the hike. The creek and the redwoods created a peaceful environment.

The trail back to the coast was an easy one. The ocean soon came into view again and I got a closer look at the cactuses dotting the hillside that I had seen from afar at the beginning of the hike.

If you are near Carmel and want a hearty workout with some beautiful views of the ocean and the coast, I would highly recommend Garrapata. If you prefer an easier hike, the park has that, too. Try the Soberanes Canyon Trail or the Soberanes Point Trail, a two-mile loop located on the ocean side of the highway.

You can see a few more photos from the hike here.

I just registered online for Healthy Trails, a new fitness program sponsored by the Santa Clara County Department of Parks and Recreation that challenges folks "to walk, roll, ride or run at least 5 of the 21 featured Santa Clara County Park trails". If participants complete the challenge within 12 months, they will receive a completion reward¹.

To encourage people of all fitness levels to participate, the 21 trails are broken into three categories: easy, moderate, and strenuous. There are 9 easy, 6 moderate, and 6 strenuous trails listed in the guidebook. Easy trails are 1 to 2.5 miles long and mostly flat. (Three trails listed as easy are significantly longer than 2.5 miles, but they are bicycle trails, so I guess they can slide.) Moderate trails are 2 to 5 miles long and have an elevation gain between 200 and 1000 feet. Strenuous trails are 5 miles long or more and have an elevation gain of 1000 feet or more.

Geographically speaking, the program has a good mix of parks. It covers all four corners of the county park system -- Ed R. Levin to the north, Joseph D. Grant to the east, Mt. Madonna to the south, and Upper Stevens Creek to the west. Numerically speaking, of the 28 parks, 15 are included in the challenge.

On its face, it seems like a good program. It will be interesting to see who participates. I wonder if it will it only be people who already get outside and exercise. I also wonder if the county will step up the program's marketing campaign, since I haven't seen a single poster, banner, or bus advertisement for it yet.

While I'm tempted to try to complete all 21 trails, I'm going to focus on finishing the six strenuous ones. I made a quick crib sheet of them for future reference.

By the way, if the classic song by Roy Rogers and Dale Evans had actually been "Healthy Trails", I'm guessing it might not have caught on so well.

¹ I don't know what that reward will be, but if it doesn't rhyme with otter coddle, I'll be happily surprised.

Experience has taught me that hiking in Henry Coe has less to do with distance and more to do with elevation. When I pick a destination, I don't ask myself, "How far is it?" I ask, "How high is it?" Or, in the case of China Hole, "How low is it?"

Tom at Two-Heel Drive recently visited that spot in the park in search of damage from the devastating Lick Fire and wrote a great trip report about it. Of course, even the best written account (with photos) is a poor substitute for getting out and seeing the sights for yourself. Besides, a good report is one that inspires the reader to get off his or her duff and explore. (That isn't the only quality of a good report, but it's an important one.)

According to the sign at Coe Headquarters, China Hole is 5.4 miles away. According to the map sold at headquarters, it's 4.8 miles away. Since I don't know which one to believe, I'm going to say China Hole is roughly 1,500 feet lower than headquarters.

With Friday's rain, I thought I would be hiking on wet and muddy trails, but as it turned out, there was practically no evidence of the previous day's precipitation. Corral Trail was completely dry and with the exception of the occasional puddle, so was Manzanita Point Road, which offered a wonderful view of the fields that were green only a few months back.

Since I can't seem to pass a body of water without photographing it, I made a quick stop at Bass Pond, the unintentional terminus of my St. Patrick's Day hike earlier this year.

I quickly reached the junction where the China Hole and Madrone Soda Springs Trails meet. Both trails lead to China Hole, so I flipped a mental coin (I called heads) and took the China Hole Trail, a shaded, single-track path lined with tall manzanitas. I invaded the personal space of one manzanita to take this shot...

As soon as I passed the Cougar Trail junction, the trees disappeared to reveal the canyons and ridges of the park.

Further down, as the trail became a series of long switchbacks, I finally got an unobstructed view of the fire damage near the top of Blue Ridge.

At China Hole, I scampered over a rock to photograph whatever water was left, but in doing so, I accidentally scared away three turtles that had been enjoying a pleasant Saturday afternoon sunning.

Since there wasn't a single soul around, I found a cozy spot to read, snack, and enjoy the solitude while the turtles silently cursed me. (I did move away to give them space, by the way, but I could still sense their resentment at my intrusion.)

Because I like to avoid out-and-back hikes as much as possible, I returned to Manzanita Point Road using the Mile and Madrone Soda Springs Trails. The Mile Trail, aptly named because it is exactly 1.2 miles long, is a heavily shaded path that crisscrosses the springs many times.

It also passes two notable landmarks: a collapsed and abandoned cabin...

... and a stone hut.

I didn't linger around or venture inside either structure. I'm sure both are perfectly harmless places, but when you're alone in the woods and have an imagination like mine, perfectly harmless places begin to attain a certain degree of eeriness -- not enough to send me running and screaming, mind you, but enough to keep me from poking around in dark corners.

The junction of Manzanita Point Road and Madrone Soda Springs Trail sits at an elevation of 2,321 feet. China Hole rests at an elevation of 1,150 feet. Because the Mile Trail stays along the canyon floor, the responsibility of making up the 1,171-foot difference rests upon the one-mile stretch of the Madrone Soda Springs Trail. I was relieved when the road finally came into sight.

I followed the road until I reached the next trail junction. Even though it added a few tenths of a mile to the hike, I took the Springs Trail to see how the season had changed the landscape. I was richly reward with views like this one...

All in all, it was a good hike. Some climbing was involved, but not enough to kill me, a trait I like in my hikes. It still amazes me that I've seen only a small percentage of the park. There is still so much to see and explore. A backpacking trip or an overnight stay in the coming weeks would be ideal. If that isn't possible, then starting from Hunting Hollow or Dowdy Ranch (when it reopens) might be a good alternative.

For more photos from the hike, please check out the Flickr set.

If you take the Highway 68 East exit from Highway 1 in Monterey, turn right on Olmsted Road, and follow it for a mile, you’ll come upon Jacks Peak County Park, home of Jacks Peak (who knew?), the highest point overlooking Monterey Bay at 1,068 feet above sea level.

While M was attending a conference in Asilomar, I kept myself busy by venturing over to the park early in the morning for a short hike. When I reached it, I discovered the park wouldn’t open until eleven, which threw me for a loop. It served as a good reminder to always double-check the hours and fees of parks before visiting them.

I returned to the park at eleven sharp, paid the three-dollar day use fee, and parked at the Jacks Peak Parking Area (name creativity isn't the park's strong suit).

From the lot, Jacks Peak is only a third of a mile away. It's an easy climb to the top and the view that greets you is commiserate with the effort.

There are just enough trees in the way to prevent you from enjoying a breathtaking view of Monterey Bay. Instead, you get a glimpse of the ocean blue in between treetops and branches.

Because such a short hike was hardly satisfying, I continued along the Skyline Trail that drops down and around Jacks Peak in a counterclockwise fashion. The view from this trail was much better than the one at the top of the peak.

From Skyline, I continued east along the Iris, Rhus, and Madrone Trails. All of these trails were wide and well-maintained. The dips and rises were gradual and the trails were well-shaded. They're perfect for trail running.

Trekking along, I came across a couple of unusual sights including this tree that seemed to be wearing a beard...

And these dramatic clouds...

The steepest part of the hike came just after the junction of the Madrone and Earl Moser Trails, but even then, the uphill suffering was minimal.

At the next junction, I made a quick detour to Bandtail Point and Hidden Meadow. Both were rather disappointing. Bandtail Point didn't offer much of a view...

And Hidden Meadow was so well-hidden that I honestly couldn't find it.

From there, I started heading back west along the Sage and Pine Trails. Both offered glimpses of the beauty of the region.

The park boasts over eight miles of trails. During the two hours or so I was there, I covered roughly five of them.

The park doesn't offer the best views of the bay, but it does offer a great escape from the crowds you'll find on the wharf and Cannery Row in Monterey.

Roughly four months ago, I mentioned I was following the adventures of Ben (Stitch) and Lauren (Figgy) as they hiked the Appalachian Trail.

They have been going strong these past months and according to their last transcribed phone message, they are just a week away from reaching Mt. Katahdin in Maine (a.k.a. the finish line). They "only" have a hundred miles or so of their 2,174-mile journey left to go.

It has been exciting to tag along as the two crossed state lines (they hit New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, New Hampshire, and Vermont in rapid succession), worked as A.T. boundary maintenance volunteers, and even celebrated their anniversary on the trail, marking down the miles all the while.

Figgy's ankle began bothering her this past week, but she hasn't let the injury stop her. It actually seems like the additional adversity has only strengthened the couple's resolve to keep going.

They've come so far and only have a little farther to go. My thoughts and prayers are with them as they hike steadily towards their goal. Go Figgy and Stitch!

As illustrated in the informative and mostly factual table below, there are three ways to reach Yosemite's North Dome.

With no intention of driving out to Porcupine Flat and never having been a fan of Papa Bear, I went with his Younger Brother.

Because I wanted to get the climbing done before the midday heat arrived, M and I tried to get a somewhat early start. We took the shuttle from Yosemite Village (Stop 4) to Camp 4 (Stop 7) and were at the trail head by eight o'clock.

The hiking conditions to Columbia Rock were noticeably different from those in April. Instead of a trail with constant traffic, we only bumped into three hikers along the way. Instead of darkening skies, there was growing morning light, which made photographing the valley difficult.

This was M's first strenuous hike in over a year (due to a foot injury), so we took it slowly. She went all the way through the first few switchbacks above the middle cascade before turning back. I was sad to see her go, but was proud she had made it that far.

I continued up the rocky and sandy switchbacks and reached the waterfall overlook by eleven. I didn’t venture to the edge like old John Muir, but got close enough to snap a few stomach-plummeting shots.

I dawdled at the top, enjoying the solitude while I could. For thirty minutes, not another soul appeared.

Knowing my destination was still five miles away, I picked up the pace, rapidly crossing a wooden truss bridge and following a winding, uphill granite trail towards Yosemite Point.

Like Columbia Rock, Yosemite Point is nothing more than a metal rail secured to an outcropping. How secure it really is, I couldn't say. I wasn't willing to lean against it to test the workmanship. I stood there longer than I expected, though, partly due to the sight of the trail below and the Lost Arrow spire.

From there, I continued on the granite trail to North Dome.

A quick aside: I'm not a fan of granite trails. The only indication of a path is usually a strategically placed rock (a.k.a. a marker). Of course, not all rocks are markers and that's where I usually run into trouble. I sometimes read too much into the rocks - perceiving patterns that aren't really there, divining direction from "markers" more likely placed by a cunning mountain lion than by a person.

With the help of a couple who had hiked the Baby Bear, I managed to stay on the trail. The path soon entered a forest and began an undulating course - down to Indian Gulch Creek, up a ridge, down to Lehamite Creek, up a ridge, down to Royal Arches Creek, and up another ridge. It was like riding a rollercoaster in the woods.

The trail emerged from the forest and became a cluster of granite switchbacks. At the top, I came across an Australian fellow who had just hiked the Papa Bear. He happily told me I only had a half-mile to go and then pointed to what was obviously North Dome.

I thanked him and raced to the summit. The view at the end was more breathtaking than I imagined. There was the valley, Illilouette Falls, Tenaya Canyon, Clouds Rest...

And, of course, Half Dome, front and center...

I spent about fifteen minutes at the top. I wanted to stay longer, but it was already two in the afternoon. Knowing the hike down would take nearly as long as the hike up (due to the steep and sandy switchbacks), I reluctantly left the dome.

I wish I could say the return journey was uneventful, with only one or two unremarkable slips, but somewhere between the Upper and Middle Falls, I took a tumble worth mentioning.

I had just achieved a comfortable downhill rhythm, using my poles for extra balance, when I came upon on particularly bad swarm of mosquitoes. Instead of planting my right pole, I swatted at one of the buggers while taking a step.

My right foot went out from under me, spinning me around. The sky fell away. My poles scattered and my right arm shot out, grasping air. My forearm scraped the rocks as I twirled and fell. The sweatshirt and snacks in my backpack cushioned the fall - the gummy bears and cookies getting the brunt of it.

Dazed, I ran a quick diagnostic. Beyond the scratched and bruised arm (call it a bad brush with Brother Bear) and a tightened right calve muscle, nothing else seemed to be amiss. I stood up slowly, brushed myself off, and resumed the descent with more caution and less mosquito-swatting.

I reached the valley floor in one piece around 5:30 p.m., just in time to see the shuttle leaving Stop 7 and heading for Stop 8 at the Yosemite Lodge.

Because I had promised to meet M at the village before six, my rattled brain figured my only chance of making it in time was to catch the shuttle.

Visitors in Camp 4 that day saw a grimy hiker sprinting through camp, crossing the road, and running through the Lodge parking lot to leap aboard a shuttle.

It was a good two-hundred-yard dash that I didn't think was in me. Thirty minutes later, my legs informed me that, in fact, I hadn't had it in me. I had actually purchased the dash on credit and would be paying for it the rest of the evening at an exceptionally high PAPR (post-adrenaline pain rate).

You can check out more photos from the hike on Flickr.

B and I were on the road to Aptos before 8 a.m. on Sunday morning. Traffic on Hecker Pass and Highway 1 was light. The entrance to Forest of Nisene Marks State Park is less than a mile from the freeway exit (coincidentally named State Park Drive).

The park is a haven for mountain bikers and runners, most of whom park their vehicles outside the entrance to avoid the six-dollar day use fee. Since we intended to start from George's Picnic Area, nearly two miles beyond the entrance, we paid to park.

The plan was to see the park's two waterfalls: Five Finger Falls and Maple Falls. We planned to hike the Aptos Creek Fire Road until we reached the Aptos Creek Trail, where we would make a quick detour to see the epicenter of the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake. Due to a landslide last winter, the trail is closed beyond that point, so we planned to backtrack to the fire road and take the White Lagoon Road-Big Slide Trail to reach Five Finger Falls. From there, we would backtrack to Miller Pond Trail, cross the creek, and head north on Bridge Creek Trail until we reached Maple Falls.

It sounded good, which is why it was doomed to fail.

We had no trouble sauntering up the fire road. It's wide, well-traveled, and paved.

Beyond the gate at the Porter Family Picnic Area, the roads narrows and the pavement disappears. On this stretch, mountain bikers dominate. We saw a few determined runners, but no other hikers.

Redwood trees towered above us, providing a canopy of shade and keeping the temperature cool. Highs were expected to be in the low to mid eighties. With the exception of a few sunny spots, it never felt that hot.

According to the interpretive sign at the Loma Prieta Mill Site (elev. 320), the forest was heavily logged from the 1880s through the 1920s, so we were actually hiking through a second-growth forest and what once was a town of 400 loggers and their families. Today, there's almost no evidence that the community ever existed.

We made several stops along the fire road, taking photos of the creek and coastal redwoods.

After ninety minutes of steady climbing, we reached the trail head of the Aptos Creek Trail. We immediately crossed the creek and followed a winding path to the sign memorializing the magnitude 7.1 earthquake that shook California on October 17, 1989.

As we made our way back along the weaving and twisting trail to the fire road, I mentioned to B that for a straight line drawn on the map, the trail was awfully curvy. Instead of joking about it, I should have taken it as a warning.

We returned to the fire road and climbed a number of switchbacks until we reached what the map called the Top of the Incline (elev. 962). From the so-called top of the incline, the road continued to climb.

We reached the White Lagoon Road junction easily. According to the map, the Big Slide Trail clearly splits from the road. According to reality, the split isn't so clear. We followed what we believed to be the split until we reached a sign that gave no indication as to our location, but made it blatantly clear that no bikes were allowed.

From there, the trail became a steep, single-track path. It crossed ditches and hills and wound around trees. It dipped and banked and disappeared in places; the only hint of a trail being a strategically tied ribbon on a tree branch. Along the way, we encountered a mountain biker riding in the opposite direction, obviously ignoring the park's signage.

It took an hour to hike the 1.3-mile trail shown on the map. When we reached the junction, instead of finding the Aptos Creek Trail, we discovered a fire road and a trail sign identical to the one we had seen earlier. It was apparent we had taken a wrong turn somewhere.

From what I can piece together, somewhere along the Big Slide Trail, we accidentally strayed onto an unmapped bike trail and looped back to the Aptos Creek Fire Road. We had managed to hike a circuitous three-mile route to a point two miles north and 700 feet above where we had started.

At the time, we didn't know where we were, so we chose to hike down the road until we either came across a sign or a person. Twenty minutes later, we had seen neither. Instead, we stumbled upon an amazing view of Monterey Bay. We could see all the way from Moss Landing to Santa Cruz.

Around the next bend, we came across three mountain bikers resting. I was pretty sure where we were, but to be safe, I pointed at the map and asked, "Would this be Sand Point Overlook?"

One of the cyclists smirked and said, "Those are some powerful map skills you have there."

It took me a few minutes to appreciate his remark and the humor of the situation. I suppose that when I lost my sense of direction, I lost my sense of humor, too.

Anyway, the revised plan was to take the Hinckley Basin Fire Road to West Ridge Trail, connect to Big Stump Gap Trail, and hike to Maple Falls via the Loma Prieta Grade. It would be a three-mile detour, but we would at least see one waterfall.

We made it to Hoffman's Historic Site (at the Loma Prieta Grade Junction), but like the building we beheld, our drive to see the waterfall had collapsed into a heap of detritus.

It was after two in the afternoon and the prospect of more climbing didn't sound appealing enough to attempt, so we admitted defeat and hiked back to George's Picnic Area.

On my way down, I swore I would return to the Forest of Nisene Marks to see the original plan through and reach the two elusive waterfalls. Next time, no landslide, unmapped trail, or incline is going to stop me.

I leave you with my favorite photo from the hike. It isn't very good, but I like it.

You can see a few more photos from the hike on Flickr.

A week passes fast, especially when one swears off calendars for the week in question and attempts to divine what day it is based on the contents of one's refrigerator. For future reference, a half-gallon of milk, a head of lettuce, a cup of yogurt, three pieces of cheese, and eight slices of bread means it's Monday. It also means I'm having a cheese and lettuce sandwich for lunch.

When there was only a gallon of milk in the fridge (or two Fridays ago), we were car camping in Uvas Canyon County Park, located eight miles south of San Jose.

We arrived at the park that evening and easily found our designated campground, which was roughly a third of a mile from the entrance. Our group of ten occupied three of the park's thirty campsites.

Each site has enough parking for two cars. Each also has a picnic table, grill, and food locker. The campground has restrooms with running water, but no showers.

On this trip, we got to use our new tent. A while back, we thought it would be a good idea to have something roomier than our 2-person backpacking tent, so we invested in a 6-person tent that was on sale for $40 at a big box store.

Instead of focusing on the price, I should have paid attention to the dimensions. The tent is ten feet by twelve feet, nearly four times the size of the backpacking tent. It's six feet tall and comes with a dividing wall. I understand the deluxe version comes with bay windows, walk-in closets, indoor plumbing, and a loft.

Saturday morning was cold, but mostly clear. Because temperatures were expected to reach into the nineties, M and I wanted to hike as early as possible.

Although we knew there wouldn't be much water flowing, we hiked the Waterfall Loop Trail, a 1.5-mile loop that leads hikers past four waterfalls: Granuja, Upper, Basin, and Black Rock Falls. Only Granuja and Upper Falls were active.

The trail is somewhat steep, but well-shaded. It's also moist and well-populated with mosquitoes. Standing still to take photos was an open invitation to be swarmed and bitten. Bug repellant only made them meaner.

After we returned to the trail head, M went back to camp and I ventured to Knibbs Knob (elev. 2,694 feet), a steep 3.6-mile out-and-back hike. If I'm reading the contour map correctly, the trail climbs 1,400 feet over 1.8 miles. The trail is a fire road, which accounts for the steepness.

It took an hour to reach the summit. There wasn't much to see at the top, only a secluded picnic table.

It was on the trail leading to the Knob where one could soak in the incredible views of the green canyon and the valley beyond.

On the return trip, I ran most of the way down, figuring it was best not to fight gravity. The downhill trip took about twenty-five minutes.

It was warming up by the time I reached camp. I spent the rest of the day avoiding the heat, either reading or playing games I had never heard of before. I won once, but that was through clueless beginner's luck.

After dinner, we all played a rousing game of Pictionary, where I drew words like Saturday night, box of chocolates, and logo with varying degrees of failure.

On Sunday, our last day, I was the first one awake in camp. The morning was cold and foggy. Knowing everybody would be leaving after breakfast, I decided to do a quick hike to the old logging camp at the end of the Alec Canyon Trail.

The hike is a moderate 2.6-mile out-and-back trek. It's steep in sections, but not as steep as the trail to Knibbs Knob. The whole trip took less than an hour, and like the previous day's hike, I didn't encounter another soul along the way.

The end of the trail lacked any evidence of an old logging camp, which was rather disappointing. I had hoped to record how I explored and ran screaming from the dilapidated, haunted structures.

Back at camp, it didn't take long to break down the tent and pack the car. We left the park well before the designated 1:00 pm checkout time.

All in all, it wasn't a bad camping trip. If I stay there again, I'll go at the beginning of the year, when the weather is cooler and the waterfalls are at their fullest.

While most Americans were preparing big Fourth of July barbecues and planning extravagant firework displays in their backyards last Wednesday, I was hiking to Clouds Rest (elev. 9,926 ft.) in Yosemite National Park.

Not wanting to bake while I hiked (highs were expected to be in the mid to upper 80s), I started from the Sunrise trail head (elev. 8,200 ft.) around 8:10, which wasn't as early as I wanted, but ended up being early enough.

The trail started with plenty of shade and was easy on the feet. It had an upward grade that was barely perceptible. Several guidebooks had rated the hike as strenuous, but I had a hard time believing them as I sauntered along.

After 1.5 miles, the effortless walk in the woods ended abruptly. The innocent, forest trail suddenly became a steep series of uneven granite switchbacks. Each sandy step I climbed confirmed the appropriateness of the strenuous rating.

After a mile of climbing, I reached Sunrise Creek Trail Junction. I came across two hikers sitting on rocks. One, who had hiked the trail before, reassured me that I had survived the hardest part. I took comfort in her words, not knowing that the hardest part was still to come.

The trail abruptly descended and gradually regained altitude over the next 2.5 miles. I crossed a number of creeks and passed a beautiful lake on my way to Sunrise Camp Trail Junction.

The trail widened and grew steeper as the summit of Clouds Rest came into view.

The climb to the top was easier than I expected, but harrowing once I reached the sign marked Clouds Rest Foot Trail.

The peak, which is perhaps twelve feet wide at its broadest point, offers an incredible view of the snow-topped peaks and wooded valleys that make up Yosemite.

The view is better than the view from Half Dome primarily because one has a view of Half Dome.

Despite the hard climb, the journey to the top only took three hours. I had the peak to myself for ten minutes before another hiker arrived from the opposite side of the mountain. He had climbed more than 5,000 feet over a stretch of 10.5 miles from the valley floor to reach the top. His effort put mine to shame.

I wished him a Happy Independence Day and he said, "It most certainly is and I can't think of a better way to celebrate it." We then gave each other space (as much as one can feasibly give under such circumstances) and silence to enjoy the top of the world.

After forty minutes of gazing at the scenery, taking photos, and shooting my standard panoramic video (I call it the 30-Second Spin Shot), I said goodbye to Clouds Rest and headed down.

The return journey was quick and relatively straightforward. Things went well until I reached the segment right before Sunrise Creek Trail Junction. The segment that had been an abrupt descent on the way out, was now an abrupt ascent on the way back. And it was an ugly one at that.

The brisk pace I had been maintaining had tired my legs and I paid for it with every step over the ridge. With the temperature rising, I drank a lot of water in the effort. I had packed approximately 2.5 liters for the nearly 15-mile hike. Normally, that would have been enough water, but not this time.

Fifteen minutes from the trail head, I ran out of water. It was an avoidable mistake. I had a bottle of iodine tablets and had passed plenty of water sources on my way down. I just hadn't paid attention to the amount of water I was carrying or consuming. It's a mistake I won't repeat.

I reached the trail head right around 2:10 and made a beeline for the grocery store in Tuolumne Meadows. I nearly drained an entire bottle of Powerade on the spot.

If you have a chance to visit Yosemite in the summer, I highly recommend hiking to Clouds Rest. It's a difficult hike, but it's less strenuous, less dangerous, and significantly less crowded than the hike to Half Dome. Plus, it offers a view that rivals, if not surpasses, the view offered by its better known granite sibling.

You can find more photos from the hike here.

Before I write about my Independence Day hike, I need to write a clean and proper report about my Desolation Wilderness backpacking trip. A quick and dirty summary simply won't do. Go on and lace up your boots while I rewind time by two weeks...

Day 1 – Glen Alpine to Heather Lake

The trip began at the Glen Alpine trail head (elev. 6,560), not far from Lake Tahoe, around 2:30 on a Friday afternoon. It was sunny and in the mid-seventies.

The first mile was a wide and rocky fire road with a steady uphill slope. It was the perfect surface to practice not falling while wearing a 35-pound pack. Somehow, I succeeded in staying on my feet, which was good because the next mile was a series of switchbacks that only grew rockier and steeper.

By the time we reached the three-mile mark, right around the Gilmore Lake junction, the pack felt comfortable and my feet felt steady, but I was beginning to feel exhausted. The combination of altitude and elevation gain was taking a toll.

After three hours of hiking, we reached camp at Heather Lake (elev. 7,900). We had hiked nearly five miles and climbed roughly 1,300 feet, which is nothing to an experienced backpacker, but is a fair amount to a rookie.

We set up camp quickly, warded off mosquitoes while eating dinner around tiny camp stoves, filtered nearly three gallons of water for the next day's hike (there were six of us, roughly 2 liters each), and stayed up until the cold and dark finally chased us to our tents and sleeping bags.

Day 2 – Heather Lake to Mt. Tallac

While two of the group went fishing early in the morning, three of us hiked the perimeter of Heather Lake, which was a challenge since only half of its shore has a clearly defined trail. The other half is rocks, boulders, or snow.

Miraculously, we survived the off-trail jaunt and returned to camp in time to join the group for a hike to Mt. Tallac.

One of the neat features of my backpack is that the top can be removed and used as a day pack. I loaded it with a hydration pack and snacks.

The first four miles of the six-mile hike to Mt. Tallac were easy. The trail was either flat or downhill until we reached Gilmore Lake. The hike grew more difficult as we crammed a nearly 1,800-foot climb into the last two miles.

The two things I remember most about Mt. Tallac is the wind and the view. At the peak, the wind gusts felt strong enough to blow a person right off the mountain. It was a struggle just to stand and pivot to take a 360-degree video.

As for the view, it was breathtaking and well worth the climb.

When we got back, we ate a hearty dinner and retired early due to the rapid drop in temperature. I thought I'd get a good night's sleep after such a hard hike, but the constant wind gusts kept waking me up throughout the night. Several times, the tent felt as though it was going to snap from its anchors and roll over.

Day 3 – Heather Lake to Mosquito Pass

After a quick breakfast, we said farewell to two in our group who had to return to work on Monday. We relocated our camp to a smaller site on the west end of the lake. After settling in, we hiked a short distance to beautiful Lake Aloha, a lake that is home to several granite islands.

We hiked as far as Mosquito Pass, which gave us a glimpse of China Flat.

As we returned from Mosquito Pass, we spotted the first visible plumes of the Angora Fire, which we would later learn started twenty minutes before we saw it. From the ledges overlooking Lake Aloha, we watched the fire grow.

After ninety minutes, we returned to camp. We thought the fire was a good distance away, so we felt safe staying the final night before heading home. Only on our way out would we learn just how close the fire actually was and how lucky we were.

Day 4 – Heather Lake to Glen Alpine

On our final day, we awoke to smoke. It was everywhere. The strong wind gusts of the previous three days were gone. Without the easterly winds to protect us, the smoke had moved in, obscuring everything, including the sun.

We quickly broke camp and headed to the Glen Alpine trail head. My pack was perhaps five pounds lighter and our path was nearly all downhill, so it made the outbound hike much easier. My pack would have been even lighter if I hadn't been the rookie of the group and tasked with garbage duty (remember, leave no trace).

We reached the car without incident and were overjoyed to see that nothing had happened to it. We slowly made our way back to Highway 89, passing a number of fire vehicles and exhausted firefighters on the way out.

Conclusion and Lessons Learned

• Pack less clothing – I had an extra long-sleeved shirt and pair of convertibles I didn't need.
• Pack camp sandals – Comfortable footwear around camp would have been nice.
• Rice packs – Somebody brought rice packs from Ranch 99. They're individually sealed bags of rice and shrimp or chicken that one can boil in water for seven minutes and eat. I got a chance to try one and it was delicious.
• Pack a bandanna – It makes a great cooling rag, face towel, and mosquito swatter.
• Keep a set of clean clothing in the car – It would have been great to be able to change into a fresh t-shirt and shorts for the ride home.

Hello, everybody. I'm happy to report that I survived my first backpacking trip, a four-day excursion in Desolation Wilderness, a recreation area just west of Lake Tahoe. This was my second visit to the area, but my first camping trip there. I hiked to Fontanillis Lake last year during my first visit.

On Friday, we started from the Glen Alpine trail head, located near Fallen Leaf Lake and hiked roughly five miles to our campsite at Heather Lake.

On Saturday, we hiked to the top of Mt. Tallac and were greeted with the amazing sight of the Lake Tahoe Basin.

On Sunday, we rambled over to Aloha Lake and Mosquito Pass. On our way back, we stopped to relax on the ledges overlooking the lake and spotted a small smoke plume to the east. We guessed a fire had broken out somewhere near South Lake Tahoe. Over the next hour and a half, we sat and watched the plume grow. We knew it was a big fire, we just didn't know the seriousness or true extent of it. Perhaps stupidly, we stayed the night as we had originally planned.

On Monday, we awoke to find ourselves in a smoky haze. Luckily, it was only smoke. We quickly broke camp and hiked five miles back through the ashy haze to the trail head. Only when we reached the car and turned on the radio did we learn the scope and scale of the Angora Fire.

All roads into South Lake Tahoe were closed, so we had to take Highway 89 north through Tahoe City to catch Interstate 80 in Truckee to head home.

That's just a quick and dirty summary of my first backpacking trip. Photos and details to follow.

My heart goes out to the folks who lost homes and businesses in the fire and my prayers are with the firefighters who are working tirelessly and risking their lives to save structures and contain the blaze.

I hiked with my backpacking gear for the second time last Friday. I loaded 30 pounds of Skittles equipment (how I wish it were Skittles) into the pack (a Kelty Red Cloud 5600, to be specific) and hiked through Henry Coe to see if I could survive steeper terrain.

I did a simple 4-mile out and back along Monument Trail and Hobbs Road, which took me just beyond Frog Lake. The hiking poles helped in both directions, but uphill was still nasty.

Before I started, a volunteer ranger asked me what I was doing and I said, "I'm practicing with this gear here before backpacking in the Sierras."

He said, "You know what? Most people say that and I tell them they've got all wrong. They should be practicing in the Sierras so they can backpack around here. If you can survive Coe, you're set."

Well, I survived four miles of Coe, but we'll see what that means in the Sierras.

It has been approximately 5 days and 23 hours since I last wrote here. I'm feeling a little rusty, so I thought I would jot down a couple of things I've down over the last few days. Let's see, I

> attended my first Script Frenzy write-in. That happened last Wednesday at Mission City Coffee in Santa Clara. There were half a dozen of us working away at our screenplays. A couple of tables away, a group of actors were practicing their lines for an upcoming production. Part of me wished I had printed a page or two of my script for them to perform. Seeing the lameness brought to life would have been humbling, but awesome.

> watched over four hours of How I Met Your Mother. If I had to describe the show as an A meets B, I would say it is Friends meets Two Guys and a Girl. It's one of the funniest shows on television today; right up there with The Office. Of course, I wasn't just watching it for fun. I was watching it for the sake of research. Edutainment, if you will. I was trying to see how the writers used recurring jokes, flashbacks, and narration for maximum comedic effect.

> watched part of the French Open. I must admit that I was rooting for Roger Federer to finally beat Rafael Nadal, who is invincible on the clay courts of Roland Garros. For the third year in a row, Nadal crushed Federer. It was a match and rivalry worth watching, even if it meant getting up early on Sunday to see it. (Okay, not that early. I missed the first set, which started at 6 a.m., but I did catch the rest of the match.) I read on ESPN that over the past four years, Federer has a win-loss record of 277-19. Of those 19 losses, 7 have been to Nadal. Those are just incredible statistics. Nadal is only 21 years old and still on the rise, which makes one wonders if he'll soon begin beating Federer on other surfaces.

> went on a four-mile test walk to break in my backpacking gear. In a couple of weeks, I'll be going on my first backpacking trip. I wanted to see how everything fit in the pack (sleeping bag, pad, tent, food, clothing, etc.) and see how the pack felt on my back. We went over to the Coyote Creek Trail to try it out. The trail is flat and paved, which is completely opposite of the conditions I'll be on, but it was a good first outing nonetheless. This weekend, I'll probably venture over to Henry Coe to try it out on steeper terrain. Yesterday, the pack only weighed 25 pounds, which is roughly ten pounds less than the final weight I'll be carrying. A couple of articles recommended hiking with a lighter pack the first time and increasing the weight on subsequent hikes. The good news is that everything felt fine. My shoulders felt a little sore and my legs were a little tired afterwards, but I feel fine today. I can't wait to go!

For the last week or so, I've been following Ben and Lauren's Adventure on the Appalachian Trail (A.T.). (I discovered it thanks to Two-Heel Drive.)

They've been thru-hiking the 2,174-mile trail that stretches from Georgia to Maine (or Maine to Georgia, depending on your point of view) since April 30th. They have hiked roughly 20% of the trail (or 460 miles) and will reach Mt. Katahdin in mid-September, if all goes as plans.

The couple, who originally lived in Hollywood, California, sold everything they had to undertake the nearly five-month adventure. While it's one of my dreams to hike at least a portion of the Pacific Coast Trail and the A.T., I don't know if I would be willing to give up everything like they did to do it.

I think they're both incredibly brave and I applaud them for doing what was necessary to make their dreams a reality. Some people only talk about living more simply or pursuing their passion if they only could. Lauren and Ben (or Figgy and Stitch, to use their well-earned trail names) are living theirs.

Besides the usual physical and logistical challenges that every A.T. hiker faces, the couple has to confront an additional hurdle. Figgy is a Type 1 diabetic. To keep her blood sugar levels up, she has been eating 15 figs a day (hence her trail name). In her latest post (from somewhere near Damascus, Virginia), Figgy did the math and calculated that over the span of the journey, she'll eat somewhere in the neighborhood of 45 to 50 pounds of figs. That's a lot of figs. (More than I'll probably eat in my lifetime.)

Fortunately, she was able to convince a California fig company to sponsor her. The company shipped a trip's worth of figs to Maine and the couple mailed five-pound allotments to the various resupply points along the trail so Lauren would never be without her much-needed fruit.

It's a great story to follow. They've already hit a few snags (inflamed knee and shin splints, lost wallet, mailing mishaps), but I'm wishing them well and looking forward to seeing them succeed.

To celebrate Cinco De Mayo, I went hiking in Mt. Madonna County Park, which is located roughly ten miles west of Gilroy, on Highway 152.

The plan was to follow the hike outlined on bahiker.com. It's a 4.6-mile loop that begins and ends at the Sprig Recreation Area, as long as one follows directions and walks in a counter-clockwise fashion along the Merry-Go-Round, Loop, and Ridge trails respectively.

Of course, I'm bad at following directions and managed to tack on an extra mile due to something I like to call "impulse hiking". This happens when you come across a spur trail or detour that you had no intention of exploring initially, but since you're actually there, the temptation to take a quick peek is too much to resist. Sometimes, the most memorable parts of a hike are a direct result of impulse hiking. Yesterday's stroll is a good example of that.

I reached the Sprig Recreation Area sometime before 11:00 AM and started up the Merry-Go-Round Trail. Up is the key word in the previous sentence. One starts from an elevation of 500 feet above sea level and climbs approximately 700 feet over 1.5 miles. The trail is meant for both horses and hikers, so it's wider than your typical path.

As one approaches the Old Mine Trail, the path flattens and offers some wonderful views...

It also provides a large canvas for silly silhouette photo possibilities...

I should take a moment to say that one of the reasons I like hiking alone is the flexibility it offers. I can walk as fast or as slow as I like without feeling like I'm rushing people or slowing them down. It also gives me a chance to do dumb things as shown in the photograph above. As I wrote in my hiking journal, "If you can't be a total dork when you're alone, then what's the point?"

On the other hand, one of the reasons I don't like hiking alone is that I become extremely paranoid about being attacked by a mountain lion. Experts say one way to reduce the chances of a mountain lion encounter is to "avoid hiking alone". Another way is to "make noise while you hike so as not to surprise a lion". Since I obviously ignored the first piece of advice, I made an extra effort to follow the second piece. While I hiked, I sang every song I knew by The Mavericks so any mountain lions within earshot would know I was coming and skedaddle.

Anyway, on an impulse, I decided to venture down the Old Mine Trail to see what there was to see and discovered a hidden lake located on private property.

This was such a secluded spot, I thought it was the perfect place to do a little reading and writing. I had brought along Mark Twain's Pudd'nhead Wilson for company. Twain makes an excellent hiking companion.

I retraced my steps until I reached the Merry-Go-Round Trail and followed it westward until I reached the Loop Trail junction. This half-mile section involved another 500 feet of elevation gain. Luckily, that was the last of the climbing.

I cut over on the Loop Trail Cut-Off (a hikers-only path) to visit the Miller House Ruins (all that remains of the one-time summer estate of a rancher named Henry Miller) and the white fallow deer. They are descendants of a pair that were a gift from William Randolph Hearst to Miller.

From here, I took the Upper Miller Trail back to the Loop Trail, headed south until I reached the Ridge Trail, and followed that trail east until it reconnected with the Merry-Go-Round. For the first mile, the way was well-shaded, but just beyond the Tie Camp Trail junction, the trees gave way to shrubs and the shade disappeared. Fortunately, I was heading downhill all of the way. I would have dreaded coming up this way in the scorching sunlight.

All in all, it was a good hike. Mt. Madonna is definitely a park I want to visit again.

Last weekend was John Muir's birthday and Earth Day. Despite the the rain and possible snow in the forecast, I wanted to be in Yosemite to celebrate both occasions, so I booked a spot at Curry Village on Friday and we were on the road to the park early on Saturday.

In all honesty, even if it were just another weekend, I still would've made the reservations because I had been itching to get outside and play for weeks. Plus, it had been nearly three months since we had last set foot in Yosemite and I had been wanting to return. The weather on Saturday was perfect...

We got into the park just after eleven and headed straight for the Earth Day celebrations happening in Yosemite Village. We first stopped by the Earth Friendly Product Fair.

Vendors were giving away all types of goodies and offering free samples. I tried some organic chocolate, organic juice, organic beer, organic milk, and organic tea. We'll skip the part where I went in search of an organic bathroom.

I perused the various products on display (recycled steel jewelry, organic t-shirts, eco-friendly cleaning products, etc.), but only grabbed one goodie: a paper bookmark made from recycled elephant poop. It's the sturdiest bookmark I've ever owned. Unfortunately, it doesn't smell anything like an elephant.

We continued on to the booths in front of the Visitor Center. Their focus was on the park's environmental efforts (like reducing the presence of non-native plants and operating low emission shuttles). There was also a Sustainable Salad Bar where we sampled more organic food...

Afterwards, we took a quick tour of the recently renovated Visitor Center. Besides being nice, clean, new, and educational, the retrofitted displays were also interactive...

Okay, they might have been hoping for more mature interactions, but I couldn't resist. Anyway, we left the Visitor Center and took a short stroll over to Yosemite Falls...

It was approaching 4:30 in the afternoon and I still wanted to get in a small hike, so I decided to venture up to Columbia Rock, which is a 3.5-mile round-trip trek. It's considered a strenuous hike because there is an elevation gain of about 1,000 feet.

On my way to the trail head at Camp 4, I passed a group of rock climbers. They were so busy climbing, I don't think any of them knew I took this photo...

The climb took longer than I expected, not due to exhaustion, but due to constantly stopping and stepping aside to let hikers coming down pass through. I tried to keep track of how many people were descending, but I lost count around fifty. Most smiled and said hello, but a handful simply gave me disapproving stares, as if to say, "You should know better than to be hiking in that direction so late in the day."

I wholeheartedly agreed with their glares, but pressed on. After thirty minutes of continuous climbing, these views were my reward for reaching Columbia Rock...

After a brief five minutes of enjoying the scenery and watching the sky begin to darken with rather ominous looking clouds, I headed down and reached Lower Yosemite Fall 25 minutes later. All told, it was a fun hour-long adventure.

Sunday came much too quickly. As expected, the perfect weather was replaced with rain and snow. Overnight, the landscape took on a distinctly wintery feel...

After a hearty brunch buffet at Curry Pavilion, it was time to say farewell to Yosemite...

On the way out, we made the usual stops to take photos, including the typical view of the valley...

While I was at Columbia Rock, I shot a panoramic video clip. For fun, I added some music to it ("Skullcrusher Mountain" by Jonathan Coulton) and embedded it here for your amusement...

It has been a busy week. I haven't had the time or been in the right frame of mind to go through photos or put into words our visit to Yosemite last weekend during Earth Day. I will get to it as soon as I get back on Sunday from a short weekend camping trip. I'll write about that and Yosemite upon my return. As it is, I'm up far past my bedtime. I need to be up by 5:45, and it's nearly midnight. Time to hop in bed for some shuteye.

Yesterday, to celebrate St. Patrick's Day and satisfy my desire to hike in this beautiful weather, I drove to nearby Henry Coe State Park. To reach the park, one must cross a trussel bridge...

And pass Anderson Lake, a popular boating, fishing, and picnic location...

Most folks stop at the lake, which I like to see, since it usually means less people at the park.

I had originally intended to venture out to Frog Lake for an hour or two of relaxation, but when I saw a pack of twenty-somethings heading off that way, I decided to head in the opposite direction, towards Madrone Soda Springs. Since the park had a checklist of wildflowers currently in bloom, I made a point of keeping an eye out for them.

It was a beautiful day. The sky was so blue and the hills were so green that I kept stopping to take photos. I elected this one to represent the twenty or so I took...

From the headquarters, I took the Corral Trail until I reached the spot where four trails intersect. It makes it a little confusing if you've never been here before. One has a choice of the Flat Frog, Fish, Forest, or Springs Trail. There's also Manzanita Point Road, a dirt road that people treat as a trail.

I chose the Forest Trail since I was told it would be my best shot of spotting wildflowers. Up to that point, all I had seen were California Poppies. I did come across California Buttercups, Hound's Tongues, and Lowland Shooting Stars along the trail, but that was pretty much it.

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Other than the flowers, the most colorful thing I could see amongst the browns and greens was a cyclist in red, riding on the Fish Trail.

Not that I'm complaining about the browns and greens. The view of the Middle and Blue Ridges were impressive...

Once I reached the end of the Forest Trail (where it connects with Manzanita Point Road, Poverty Road, and Springs Trail), I stopped at a picnic table under a large oak tree to eat lunch and write.

I ended up spending so much time at the table that I had to change my plans. Instead of getting all the way out to Madrone Soda Springs, I only reached Bass Pond...

I took Springs Trail back and was treated to some pretty views on my way back to Coe Headquarters...

And that's pretty much how I spent St. Patrick's Day. To end this post, here is a page from my hiking notebook that I thought I'd share...

According to this Mercury News article, annual attendance at Yosemite National Park is at a sixteen-year low. Last year, only 3.4 million people visited the park (roughly 9,300 people per day).

Personally (and environmentally), that's great news. Fewer visitors mean less traffic getting there, shorter lines getting in, less traffic in the valley, less people in the village, and less hikers on the trails. All of that translates into a more peaceful, relaxing, and enjoyable experience. Knowing Yosemite has fewer visitors makes me want to visit it more often.

For the park and the National Park Service, fewer visitors mean fewer dollars. That could mean every visit I make in the future could cost more. To cover operating expenses, the park's concessionaire could raise lodging rates, camping fees, and prices for food and souvenirs. To cover budget shortfalls for infrastructure and facility improvements, the park could raise entrance fees.

The higher entrance fees wouldn't affect me this year, since I have a National Parks Pass (NPP) valid through the end of December, but I'll be paying more when I renew next year because the $50 NPP has been discontinued and replaced by the $80 America the Beautiful Pass beginning this month.

Despite potentially higher prices, I can't wait to return to Yosemite, hopefully in the next month or two, while there's snow and Badger Pass is open. I haven't used my pass once this year and it's burning a hole in my pocket. I'm also hoping to make another visit to Yosemite's high country later this year.

If you have a free weekend, I would encourage all of you to visit the park, too, and take advantage of the smaller crowds. And if you aren't within driving distance of Yosemite, then visit park nearest you because the decline in attendance isn't unique to Yosemite; it's a trend affecting the entire national park system.

It has now been two months since I last hiked. I've been missing it, but I've only myself to blame. It's true how we make our own misery.

Fall is a wonderful time to hike. The days may be shorter, but the weather is cooler and there are less mosquitoes and people. With such appealing conditions (especially the less people part), it's hard to believe I haven't made any effort to hit a trail.

With the recent news about the rescue of the San Jose couple who were lost for five days in Castle Rock State Park and their lack of preparation, I've been thinking about how well-prepared I am whenever I wander into the wilderness.

Before I hike, I have a relatively good idea of the route I want to hike. I also try to make sure I have extra water, extra food, extra clothing, a hat, sunscreen, a poncho, a first aid kit, matches, a map, and a flashlight. How it all manages to fit in a backpack is a modern marvel. Somehow it all does, so I'm happy.

The one big omission from the list is a water filter. Until now, I've been lucky and have never needed one, but I should invest in a filter to be on the safe side.

With thoughts of preparation, I found a great list of common sense rules for hikers on Winehiker Witiculture that I wanted to share. It's called The Hiker’s Top 25 Rules for Returning Home Safely. It's a good bit of reference to keep handy and check before heading out on a hike.

I don't know if I'll be making it to any parks this month. The National Park Service is encouraging folks to visit a park during the holidays and it has a list of special events happening across the country through the end of the year. It would be great to experience Christmastime in a park. I hope to, but we'll have to see if the stars of free time and good weather align.

I know this is going to sound like hyperbole, but Saturday's hike to Alta Peak in Sequoia National Park was the hardest I had ever undertaken. Of course, before B and I set out for it, I had dismissed it as just another hike up just another mountain. One might say I was in a state of denial - disregarding the facts in front of me, the physical realities described to me, and the warnings coming from various mental quarters in my head. Denial is a good way to get in a bad situation. Thankfully, I didn't have a famous Washington Post editor/reporter present to chronicle it all.

As most hiking guides describe it, the hike to Alta Peak is a 13.8-mile trek with an elevation gain of 4,000 feet. Well, that wasn't enough for us. Instead of driving to Wolverton, the described starting point, we started from our campsite in Lodgepole, which added 3.2 miles and 500 feet of elevation to our journey.

We started out around 7:30 in the morning from Lodgepole, which has an elevation of 6,700 feet. It was still chilly outside and the sun had barely risen. For the first four miles of the hike, we were in shade; the giant forest protected us from direct light.

The ascent along the trail to Wolverton was gentle and steady. At Wolverton, we picked up the Lakes Trail, a popular backpacking trail, that crossed a number of dry or trickling creeks and passed a few small, ragged meadows.

At the next trail junction, we turned right onto the Panther Gap Trail. (I keep calling it Jaguar Gap and I don't know why.) We soon reached Panther Gap, which offered the first real view of an amazing tree-covered canyon that stretched to the horizon.

We turned left along the Alta Trail and followed it along the canyon edge. The terrain became rockier and steeper. At the next junction, where the High Sierra Trail branched, we turned left and passed Mehrten Meadow.

We soon reached the final trail junction. The trail to the right led to Alta Meadow; the one to the left led up to Alta Peak. There were only two miles left, but about 2,000 feet left to climb. This is where my troubles began.

Up to that point, I had been keeping hydrated and feeling no ill effects from the elevation. We had been making good time. It was eleven o'clock and I was almost certain we could be at the top of Alta Peak by noon. But a half-mile past the Alta Meadow junction, I wasn't feeling so well. B got out ahead of me and he was soon out of sight.

Over the next series of switchbacks, various symptoms began to appear. Breathing became more difficult, my throat felt dry only moments after drinking water and my head began to throb to the beat of my heart. At one point, I just stopped and rested, hoping to recover a bit.

The further up I went, the slower my progress became. The distance I could cover without taking a break began to shorten. The trail finally entered an area where I could see the top of Alta Peak. I could also see B or a speck that I assumed was B. Judging from the steepness of the trail, I figured I had fallen at least twenty minutes behind him.

Thanks to the power of denial, the thought of giving up never crossed my mind. Turning back wasn't an option. It was just a matter of how long it was going to take to reach the summit. To fight the urge to keep stopping, I started bargaining with myself. "You can stop and drink some water after another hundred steps," I'd say. I would count a hundred steps, stop, drink water, wait for the throbbing to abate and then take another hundred steps.

After an eternity and a bit of boulder climbing, I was standing atop Alta Peak. The view was spectacular. To the south was the green canyon disappearing into mist. To the west, north and east, there seemed to be mountain ranges as far as the eye could see. To the east, where Mt. Whitney supposedly stood (though I couldn't see it), mountain peaks looked like ocean waves.

There wasn't a whole lot of room atop Alta Peak, which stands 11,204 feet above sea level. If you doubled the size of your office cubicle, tilted it at a fifteen-degree angle and imagined it a few thousand feet off the ground, you would have Alta Peak.

In a depression atop the peak, somebody had placed a metal box. I opened it to discover a lime green register and two or three pens. I made an entry in it to record I had been there. Of course, when I initially took the register from the box, the box tipped backwards and nearly went over the sheer side of the peak. That gave me a fright.

After about thirty minutes up there (or an hour in B's case), we began our descent. It was just after one in the afternoon. I took some Tylenol to help with the head throbbing and later used some moleskin on my left foot where I felt a blister coming on.

We returned essentially the way we came until we reached Panther Gap. From there, instead of returning down Panther Gap Trail, we continued along the Alta Trail and took the Long Meadow Trail back to Wolverton. The alternate path added at least a mile to our planned hike.

We got ourselves a bit turned around at Wolverton, but soon rediscovered the Lakes Trail and reached Lodgepole around 5:25 in the afternoon, which gave us twenty minutes to grab what we needed from camp and race over to the market center to take a hot shower before they closed for the day.

I will write about the lessons learned from this hike in another entry, but let me say that I would recommend this hike for experienced hikers, especially those who want to be equally challenged and rewarded and want to avoid the crowds. We saw a total of twelve people (and three dogs) the entire time we were out there.

More photos from the hike can be found on Flickr.

I took this photo while ascending the Panorama Trail to Glacier Point in Yosemite. It's the same shot that anybody could take by simply driving to Glacier Point, but this one is special (to me) because it took eight miles of hiking to reach this spot to snap it. I took the long way around to get there, but it was worth it.

According to the guidebook listing fifty short hikes in Sequoia/Kings Canyon and Yosemite, the hike to Lembert Dome is a two-mile out-and-back jaunt with an elevation gain of 850 feet starting from the Lembert Dome parking lot. In reality, if one starts from the stated parking lot, the hike is twice the advertised distance. Of course, I didn't realize the book's mistake until I was a mile into the hike and nowhere near anything resembling a summit.

The trail head was easy to find. It was right at the intersection of the parking lot, picnic area and restroom facilities. There was also a handy sign with the words - "Lembert Dome / Dog Lake / Trail Head". Trusting that nobody would leave a misleading sign standing, I headed down the trail. It was around 1:45 in the afternoon.

After a quarter-mile through a relatively flat clearing, the trail entered a more forested region and began to climb and bend gently to the right, skirting the dome where I could see tiny rock climbers clinging to the sheer granite wall. (Okay, technically they were normal-sized climbers, but they appeared tiny.)

After another half-mile of hiking (and ascending), my head began to throb and my breathing became ragged due to the altitude. Almost all of the hikes in Tuolumne Meadows begin at an elevation around 8,600 feet, which is a solid 4,000 feet higher than the hikes I'm accustomed to that originate in Yosemite Valley. To alleviate the throbbing sensation, I took two swigs of water, paused for a second and then took another for good measure.

At the one-mile mark, instead of standing atop Lembert Dome, I found myself standing at a split in the trail. A sign indicated that I could continue straight and reach Dog Lake in 0.3 miles or turn right and reach Lembert Dome with an additional mile of hiking. Knowing I would pass through later, I decided to save the Dog Lake detour for the return trip and headed towards the dome.

For a short distance, the trail remained level and bordered a small, muddy-colored lake, but at the next trail juncture (where I had to make another right turn), it resumed its ascent in earnest. I soon reached the beginning of Lembert's granite slope.

Arriving at the first plateau, a gust of wind greeted me, as did a couple who were admiring the view. And what a view.

I ventured to every edge and took photos in every direction, trying to capture the vastness of it all. At some point, I realized how ridiculous it was to be looking at things through a two-inch viewfinder and stopped photographing.

Just then, I noticed the couple talking to somebody using an orange radio. It reminded me that I still needed to buy a pair of two-way radios. I saw them sign off and begin to descend to the trail.

I turned my attention to the steep approach to Lembert Dome's peak. With a little momentum, it would be easy to climb. The only problem would be getting back down without going all the way down. To let the present me focus on climbing, I keenly delegated the responsibility of getting back down to the future me.

When I reached the top, the wind was stronger and the view was more spectacular than before. Everything - the trees, the river, the meadow - looked so small. It felt like I was looking at a model of Tuolumne Meadows instead of the real thing.

With the exception of a woman perched on a nearby boulder, staring at the horizon, there was no one else around. We did the whole I'll-take-your-photo-if-you'll-take-mine routine and then she asked, "Did you happen to see an orange radio on your way up?"

I told her I had and explained about the couple. "Oh," she said. "They must have been talking with my husband. He's waiting for me down at the parking lot."

With that, I expected her to scramble down to catch up with the couple, but she seemed rather matter-of-fact about losing the radio. I suppose she expected they would simply return it to her husband when they reached the lot. I hope they did.

Anyway, I spent a few minutes more atop the dome, snacking and enjoying the scenery. Thankfully, future me was able to navigate down the dome with only a small slip here or there, but luckily, not that big final slip.

As planned, I made a quick detour to Dog Lake, which was a beautiful shade of blue. I stayed just long enough to snap a few pictures. It would have been nice to stay a longer, but I needed to get back to the parking lot.

Picking up the pace, I activated my backpack booster rocket, secured my Rocketeer helmet and jetted back to the trail head. At least that's what happened in my head. In the real world, I walked very, very fast. By the time I reached the lot, it was four o'clock.

For anybody visiting Tuolumne Meadows, I would highly recommend hiking to the top of Lembert Dome. It's a hike I hope to repeat one day soon.

• Total Distance: 4.6 miles
• Total Time: 2.25 hours
• Peak Elevation Gained: 9,450 feet
• # of Climbers Seen: 7

Two weeks ago, I wrote that I hadn't hiked for nearly a month. If that tidbit had gone unwritten, I'm almost certain another month without hiking would have slipped by unnoticed, but writing about it made me aware and fueled my desire to get back on the trail that weekend.

The first question was when to hike. Due to family obligations, the only available blocks of time were Saturday and Sunday mornings before eleven. If I got up early enough to be at a trail head by eight and gave myself an hour to get back, shower and drive, I would have roughly two hours to hike. I estimated I could cover four miles of steep terrain or six miles of level terrain in that amount of time.

The next question was where to hike. Since I had recently seen an episode of The Great Outdoors about it and was going to be nearby, I set my heart on hiking Montara Mountain, which is located about twenty miles south of San Francisco and is part of San Pedro Valley Park and McNee Ranch State Park (within Montara State Beach).

Because of the time constraint, I chose to start from San Pedro Valley Park in Pacifica. The plan was to hike the Brooks Creek Trail to the Montara Mountain Trail, which I would take until I reached the boundary between the county and state parks. There, I would backtrack to the trail juncture and take the Montara Mountain Trail down to the starting point. In all, it would be a steep four-mile loop (with a tail, which technically made it a lasso).

From Highway 1, I turned onto Linda Mar Boulevard and took it until it ended at Oddstad Boulevard. I made a right on Oddstad and then a quick left into the park's gated entrance, which opens every morning at eight. Parking was available in the bordering neighborhood, but I felt guilty about leaving my car in front of somebody's house, so I made my five-dollar donation and parked in the empty lot instead.

Before I left the car, I checked the time and temperature. It was 8:10 AM and 60 degrees outside. The trail head was well marked and easy to find from the lot. Despite being a continual climb, hiking the Brooks Creek Trail was a pleasant experience. Eucalyptus and other trees (that I should learn to identify) provided plenty of shade and I could hear the flowing creek below and to my left.


Less than a half-mile into the hike, I came to the first trail junction marked with a signpost and bench. The trail branching to the left was the Old Trout Farm Trail that would loop down to the parking lot if I followed it, so I kept to the right and continued to climb.


The tall trees quickly gave way to manzanita and other shrubs that reminded me of the chaparral in Pinnacles National Monument. I soon came to a second bench that offered a great view of Brooks Falls across the valley. Being summer, the waterfall was barely trickling and hard to spot, but I'm sure it is quite a sight in the winter and spring.

With scarcely a cloud in the sky, I became conscious of the sun and the fact that I had forgotten my wide brim hat. I was obsessing about it and continuing my ascent when I heard slithering by my right foot.

The sound snapped me back to the present and I stopped, looked down and spotted a garter snake parallel parked along the side of the trail. I know they're supposedly harmless, but as soon as the snake started moving again, so did I, but in the opposite direction and at a faster clip.

Just over a mile into the hike, I reached the end of the Brooks Creek Trail and followed the Montara Mountain Trail to the left. For the next third of a mile, I had a fantastic view of Pacifica and the ocean to my right. As the trail continued to rise and bend away from the ocean, I passed two hikers heading the opposite direction. They were the first people I had seen all morning on the trail.

The trail grew steeper and rockier as I progressed. By 9:00 AM, I had successfully negotiated a series of switchbacks to reach the boundary between San Pedro Valley Park and McNee Ranch State Park. The elevation at the border is roughly 1,400 feet, which means I gained just about 1,200 feet of elevation from the trail head.

Because the best of parts of any hike are the moments when I'm standing still, I took a ten-minute break to soak in the view. As I munched on a Clif Bar, I heard approaching footsteps and turned to see a backpacker pass by and continue up the trail into McNee Ranch. Of course, part of me was jealous that he could keep going while I needed to start heading back to the car so I wouldn't be late.

Just as children beg their parents to stay up ten minutes longer, my inner child begged my inner parent to continue hiking just ten minutes more. Apparently, my inner father was on duty because he succumbed to the pleas and I ventured into the state park until 9:20 AM before turning around. If it had been my inner mother, well, no amount of begging would have worked.

Anyway, I made good time downhill. I quickly passed the Brooks Creek Trail junction and followed the Montara Mountain Trail that became a series of gradually descending switchbacks that didn't offer much of a view or any protection from the sights and sounds of civilization, but would be great for trail running.

I reached my car by 9:55 AM. By that time, it was 66 degrees outside and there were only four more cars in the parking lot. All in all, it was a good hike and one I hope to repeat this coming winter or spring. For those who like them, more photos from the hike can be found here.

Since exploring Desolation Wilderness four weeks ago, I haven't been hiking much. Okay, that isn't true. I haven't been hiking at all, but I only have myself to blame. More accurately, I only have my low tolerance for high temperatures and high gas prices to blame.

To hold me over while I find the will to leave this air-conditioned dwelling to fill the tank, I've been hiking and visiting parks virtually. Thanks to the wonder of blogs, folks are sharing stories and photos from their latest hiking and backpacking adventures online. They're also offering advice about gear and suggesting parks to explore. It doesn't beat venturing outside, but it keeps me from going stir crazy. Here are some of my favorites:

Two-Heel Drive - Tom Mangan surfs the web and finds all sorts of interesting links related to hiking and backpacking. He also includes his own trip reports from time to time.

The Wildebeat - Steve Sergeant produces this informative, quality audio journal about "getting into the wilderness" (as the host says every podcast). There are interviews, gear reviews and trip reports. Each entry is about five to ten minutes long.

Dan's Outside - Dan Mitchell combines his love of the outdoors with his love of photography. He most recently took some wonderful photos (like this one) of Yosemite and Mono Lake.

Yosemite Blog - Speaking of Yosemite, this one covers everything happening around California's most famous national park - the rockslides, the road closures, the missing hikers, the bears and the fires - all the reasons I love the park. Oh, and he has an entry every now and then showing Yosemite's beauty.

National Parks Traveler - Kurt Repanshek doesn't limit himself to just one park. He talks about them all and issues affecting them. He also covers anything related to the National Park Service, which lately seems to be making decisions that aren't in line with its mission to "preserve the value and natural and cultural resources" of the nation's parks.

Go on and check them out and then get outside! (And don't worry, I'll be heeding my own advice very soon.)

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.

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.

For I don't know how long, I've wanted to return to Muir Woods National Monument. I was just a kid the last time I visited, so my memories of the redwood forest are distant ones. I chiefly remember trees, towering trees, the tops too high to see and the trunks too wide to hug (something parents advise children to do if they lose their way in the woods).

For all my desires to see the park, I hadn't made much of an effort to set aside time, but an impulsive decision on Saturday changed all that. Thank goodness for spontaneity. Of course, spontaneity does have a drawback, namely, it doesn't allow a great deal of time for preparation. Had I planned a visit even a day in advance, I would have worn proper attire and brought extra snacks and a camera with me.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on you like to experience nature), Muir Woods is very visitor friendly. It has a full-fledged visitor center, gift shop and cafe (with both indoor and outdoor seating). Paved asphalt and boardwalks cover the most heavily traveled trails, making them easily navigable by wheelchairs and sandaled feet alike. Every fifty yards or so, signs on the path ask visitors to stay on the path. Muir Woods isn't so much a walk in the woods as a walk in a well-groomed tree museum.

This isn't to say it wasn't an impressive tree museum. It was. The trees were as majestic as I remember them. After all this time, they haven't lost their ability to awe. It made my day to see people stop and gape at the magnificence of the California coast redwoods.

The weather was sunny and mild, a pleasant escape from the heat of last week. Benches in the sun were perfect places for basking. The trail was bustling with folks, but once one got beyond Cathedral Grove, the crowds vanished and it was possible to find a few minutes of solitude and silence, for which I'm grateful.

Before leaving, we stopped by the cafe for coffee. While waiting in line, I noticed a large jar of pickles on the counter. I've rarely seen pickles sold individually, but there they were, available for $1.25 apiece. Feeling a sudden craving, I gave spontaneity another go. When we reached the head of the line, I said, "Two coffees and a pickle, please."

The man behind the counter started to say okay, stopped suddenly, started to say something, stopped again and finally said with a puzzled look, “Really?"

The next time I visit (and I hope it's soon), I must bring a camera. I must also stop by the cafe for a pickle. It was pricey, but delicious.

Half Dome... with Clouds!

The photos from my recent trip to Yosemite can be found hanging out here. As for this photo's caption, I thought it best to distinguish it from all of the other photos - all of the many, many photos - I've taken of the park's most famous feature.

We headed to Yosemite on Friday to see how the park was looking after a few months of rain. Somebody is probably thinking right now, "Well, I could have told you how it would look without moving an inch from this computer and saved you the gas money if you only asked. It would look wet. Very wet." And that somebody would have been right, but I'm one who likes to see things for himself, things like the astounding price of gas in El Portal ($3.77 a gallon for regular unleaded).

By pure chance, we happened to be in one of Earth's most beautiful places for this year's Earth Day. To celebrate, the park had a festival featuring activity booths for children, displays about the environment and sustainability, some of the park's hybrid and electric vehicles and samples of various organic foods and environmentally-friendly products. One of the booths that caught my attention showed the park's future development plans that aim to reduce the environmental and physical footprint of permanent structures in the Curry Village and Yosemite Lodge areas.

In honor of Earth Day and John Muir's birthday, which was April 21, Lee Stetson gave a free performance of his one-man show, "The Spirit of John Muir", at the Visitor Center Auditorium on Saturday night. Adopting the attire, accent and persona of Yosemite's greatest champion, Stetson retold some of Muir's wild adventures in California (Yosemite, Mt. Shasta) and Alaska (Glacier Bay). He told every tale with such emotion and enthusiasm that it only took a few seconds for my imagination to fool me into believing the man on the stage was Muir himself. It probably helped that part me wanted to believe.

While it wasn't as wild as a Muir experience, we had our own moment of excitement, a few hours before the show, as we sauntered along the Mirror Meadow Loop Trail.

We were perhaps a quarter of a mile beyond the furthest point we had ever traveled on the trail when we heard a loud snap, as loud as a thunderclap, come from somewhere up on Half Dome. We then heard what sounded like a series of firecrackers or shower of hail, with rumbling underneath.

A hundred yards ahead of us, a pair of hikers stopped and peered up at the mountain. We stopped and turned to look, too, but could barely make out the face of Half Dome through the trees.

Although we were far from the base of the mountain, with an entire lake separating us, I had the fleeting vision of a boulder charging down the cliff, crashing through the trees, taking a bad bounce (in slow motion) and landing on top of me. I tried to make out any evidence of boulders or rocks or dust clouds or snow, but saw nothing.

We waited nearly a minute before resuming our hike. We had barely gone another hundred feet or so, when there was another snap followed by more rumbling. Again we paused in awe. Although we couldn't see it firsthand, there was definitely something big coming down the mountain.

Later, when we were returning to camp, I took a moment to look at Half Dome. From what I could tell, the face of it didn't look any different. The best I can fathom is that we heard icy sheets of snow break from their granite seats high above Mirror Lake and shatter on the cliff wall before cascading down the mountain to the valley floor.

Whenever I'm out hiking, I'm usually aware, on some fundamental level, of how tiny I am compared to, well, almost everything, but every once in a while, there is a moment that makes me very aware, very suddenly, of my size and insignificance. I don't think that type of moment will ever cease to be humbling.

This weekend also marked the beginning of National Park Week, which runs from April 22 to April 30. (Technically, that's nine days, but apparently they round it down to the nearest week.) Parks across the country have special events and activities planned throughout the "week". So, if you have the chance and the itch to get outside and explore, this would be a good week to visit a national park near you.

"Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul alike." - John Muir

I had been checking weather.com daily for two weeks, keeping an eye on the forecast for Yosemite over the Martin Luther King, Jr. weekend. It felt like I was playing she-loves-me-she-loves-me-not, each day plucking a petal from a flower. One day it would say partly sunny and the next it would say snow showers. Partly sunny. Snow showers. By Friday, it had settled on rain that night, followed by snow showers and rain on Saturday. I had been apparently plucking the wrong flower.

The original plan had been to leave early on Saturday to give us enough time to negotiate any poor road conditions and heavy traffic due to the storm. But with the rain coming overnight, the original plan went out the window¹. Friday evening, I called the park, moved our arrival date up by a day and then hurriedly packed so we could get on the road as soon as possible.

We didn't encounter any rain or snow along the way, so we didn't have to stop and put on the tire chains. We arrived at Curry Village around 1:30 in the morning. The rain and snow came only after we were safely tucked away in our tent cabin. By the way, heated tent cabins are pricier, but worth it if wearing nine layers of clothing or freezing to death isn't something you enjoy.

By Saturday morning, everything was covered in snow. Clumps of it weighed on every tree branch and sheets of it adorned every rooftop and field. We spent the day wandering around the valley, visiting familiar places to see how different they looked. It was incredible to see the majestic granite walls of Glacier Point and North Dome and Half Dome dusted and streaked with snow.

Everything seemed so magical. Walking along the trail to Lower Yosemite Fall was like walking through a black and white photo. The sheer amount of snow made any hint of color - where one could find it - stand out with brilliance.

This was especially true when we reached the little red chapel. In the photos, the church almost looks unreal, as though it's set against a green screen. I think the sharp rooflines contrasting with the blurred trees in the background enhance the effect.

Later in the afternoon, after we had satisfied our curiosity and were soaked and chilly, we returned to the Curry lounge to warm up, dry off and recharge for Sunday's big snowshoe adventure to Dewey Point above Badger Pass.

¹ And landed softly on the grass, where a patrolling neighborhood crow promptly swooped down and ate it.

I made a right turn at the sign for Milagra Ridge, a park that is part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area. The road curved along the hillside, with houses to the right and a steep drop to the left. It went for no more than a mile before reaching a gate.

In front of the gate, there was just enough room for four cars to parallel park. With three cars already there and the road so narrow, I had to make a three-point turn to back into the last spot. (In reality, it was more like an eleven-point turn, but let's not quibble.)

Just left of the gate was a trail head leading west and up one of the grassy hills. The trail began with a waist-high cable fence and dirt steps kept in place by 4×4 beams. As I got closer to the top, the distance between the steps grew.

The climb was easy and in less than five minutes, I was standing atop one of the park's highest ridges overlooking Pacifica and the Pacific Ocean. The wind was blowing, but I was prepared with a thick jacket, a wool cap and gloves.

It was after four in the afternoon by this time and the sun was slowly dropping to the horizon, casting long shadows and causing the water to sparkle yellow and white. I would have hiked the trail along the ridgeline and taken photos of the same ocean from various angles, but with less than an hour of daylight remaining and a desire to read, I plopped right down on the summit.

I was nearly alone out there. The only creatures I could see were the crows, butterflies and one other soul sitting on a hill, about a half-mile off, looking out at the ocean. The two of us were enjoying the same view as the houses, condominiums and apartments surrounding the park, but the remarkable distance between us struck me. We were the only two occupants on this grassy island.

I looked at the homes on the hills behind me, each with large windows or porches and a view. I tried to imagine every single occupant admiring the sunset at the same time. My imagination then removed the walls and roofs, but kept the people and the picture in my mind's eye showed a crowded hillside. Everything and everyone was so close together, too close for my taste. That made me truly appreciate where I sat, for it felt like the biggest porch in the world.

The book I was reading was Alvah Simon's North to the Night, an account of his Arctic experience and adventure in Tay Bay aboard his yacht. The man is both inspirational and insane (and I mean that in the nicest way possible). It takes a certain type of person to sail that far north and voluntarily strand himself, his wife and their cat in such an inhospitable environment for a year to have an authentic Arctic experience. What he describes isn't extreme adventure; it's extreme living. I'm all for working hard and playing hard, but when going bathroom or making coffee becomes an adventure in itself, that's where I draw the line. Call me a wimp, but I'll take Milagra Ridge over Tay Bay any day.

We drove to Yosemite on Sunday morning. Despite it being Labor Day weekend, we didn't encounter any traffic. High gas prices must have kept everybody off the roads and close to home.

Instead of heading directly for the valley, we drove to Tuolumne Grove, which is near Crane Flat, off Big Oak Flat Road. We hiked amongst the giant sequoias, some reaching into the sky, some stretching across the ground. While walking along, we came upon the remnants of a towering tunnel tree. It looked as though lightning had struck it, leaving little more than the archway cut through the trunk.

Next, we stopped by Siesta Lake, a dying pond by Tioga Road. It looked more like a marsh than a lake. Eventually, it will look more like a meadow than a marsh. We didn't stay long, but I thought the spot would be ideal on a cool day, when mosquitoes weren't as likely to be about.

We continued to White Wolf, one of the popular lodging areas in Yosemite's high country. It has a dining hall, market, four cabins and twenty-four canvas tent cabins. Because it's open less than three months a year - July through September - obtaining reservations is difficult. I hope we can stay there next summer.

Later, we registered at Housekeeping Camp where we relaxed the rest of the day. To be able to stop and do nothing but appreciate nature was a blessing. As darkness came, it grew chilly, but we braved the cold, bundled up, grabbed our star guide and searched for constellations in the clear night sky.

On Monday, the morning began brisk, but it warmed quickly. We brewed a pot of macadamia nut coffee and ate our customary Deg muffins from Degnan's Deli. We read by the Merced River and, for a while, had the entire beach to ourselves. The river was so calm. It was hard to believe that only a few months ago the same river was several feet higher and rushing by us. It seemed as though nature had shut off the water supply, allowing the waterfalls and streams to run dry.

Before leaving, we stopped by the bookstore and gift shop to inspect the latest merchandise. I bought a 2006 Yosemite desk calendar, the Yosemite Road Guide - a book about the road markers placed throughout the park - and Fur and Loafing in Yosemite, a collection of Farley comics set in - you guessed it - Yosemite.

Farley is a comic strip by Phil Frank that the San Francisco Chronicle features every weekday. My favorite character is Alphonse, an urbanized black bear who loves the S.F. Giants. He wears a baseball jersey and raids campsites for the sports section to see how his team is doing. He's my type of bear. I wonder what he thinks about Bonds returning tonight.

For twenty years or so, the town I live in has held an annual spring hike to the top of El Toro (Spanish for "the bull"), the unique westerly peak that appears as the official town logo. It's the first thing I see as I leave the house and ever since moving here three years ago, I've wanted to climb it. Of course, as with anything that is close and easy to do, I never got around to it, which turns out to be a good thing because El Toro is private property. The only way to make it to the top without trespassing is to attend the yearly event sponsored by the town's historical museum that obtains permission from the landowners.

Early on Saturday morning, about a hundred townspeople gathered in front of the museum to make the trek. The local Boy Scout troop had climbed El Toro the night before to clear the trail and set up ropes. The hike itself isn't very long or hard. It took about thirty minutes to reach the ropes and another ten to reach the summit (approximately 1,402 feet above sea level). From one angle, El Toro looked like a greener version of Half Dome.

While not as steep as Yosemite's granite giant, the climb was still challenging. Loose soil and ropes increased the difficulty level. As long as my gloved hands held onto the rope and my feet were on the ground, I was okay, for the most part. Every now and then, the person in front me would slip and yank the rope, which caused a whole group of us to swing two feet to the left and into the waiting branches of poison oak. Luckily, my skin and the leaves never made contact, so I didn't develop a rash, only severe case of paranoia.

On a geological note, the base and most of El Toro is composed of greenstone (a.k.a. red rock), a type of volcanic rock. According to the local geologist, as one nears the top, the brownish rock, which is neither green nor red, gives way to limestone (which tastes nothing like lime). Of course, grass and trees cover everything, so the entire hill actually looks green.

When I reached the top, a young Boy Scout greeted me. He was a scrawny kid who took his job of passing out tickets seriously. Nobody got by him without receiving one. "Here's your ticket," he said, thrusting a blue raffle ticket into my hand and smiling. "Take it back to the museum for a certificate." I don't exactly know why, but I liked him.

The top of El Toro isn't very big. If I were to take a wild guess, I'd say it's between sixty and seventy feet in diameter. To get a panoramic view of the valley, one has to circle the peak. On Saturday, it was hazy, so visibility was limited, but one could still see the town limits, the rolling green hills and Chesbro Reservoir.

I spent about ten minutes on the summit before making my descent. It took about half the time of the climb to reach the bottom. Back at the museum, I had a sip of coffee and traded my ticket for a certificate proclaiming I had reached the top. I'm hoping to return next year. With any luck, the skies will be clear and I'll have more time to enjoy the view.

These were photos taken while wandering around the grounds of The Ahwahnee in Yosemite National Park. One day, I'd like to spend the night here, possibly even honeymoon here.

While there's something to be said for taking long, arduous hikes to the top of peaks for a majestic valley view, there's also something to be said for taking casual strolls through a scenic valley for views of majestic peaks. They are both perfectly acceptable ways of appreciating nature, although the former, to some, seems more admirable or worthwhile due to the effort required for the rarer vantage points. I don't necessarily agree. It may be true that fewer eyes have beheld the sight, but difficulty seldom determines splendor.

I believe the beauty of places like Yosemite doesn't depend on the level of exertion or elevation. It depends on a person's willingness to stop and use his or her senses to experience it all. It requires patience.

Last Saturday, after eating a tasty Deg muffin, we hiked behind Yosemite Village, along a trail that starts from Lower Yosemite Fall and continues beyond Mirror Lake in Tenaya Canyon. That is, at least, what the map claimed. In reality, the trail led us only as far as Ahwahnee Meadow.

Houses stand at the western edge of the open field. One or two of the larger bungalows have picture windows providing lucky residents with an unobstructed view of Half Dome. Waking up and seeing that every morning must be incredible.

We took our time crossing the valley, stopping every now and then to take photos or to simply stop. We eventually made our way back to Curry Village to pick up the car and drive to Badger Pass, Yosemite's ski area. It would be nice to brag about hurtling myself down steep snow slopes, but the closest I came to hurtling myself down anything was the staircase to the bathroom (and even then, I descended in careful, measured steps).

• All I need is the sun and some snow to cry on cue.
• It just seems wrong (yet somewhat cool) to see people skiing in t-shirts and shorts.
• Drinking hot coffee and watching other people hurl themselves down steep snow slopes is more enjoyable, less expensive and considerably safer than doing it yourself.
• Snow causes the price of everything to rise. A Deg muffin in the valley costs $1.95. A Deg muffin in the snow costs $4.50.
• I definitely want to snowshoe in the park next winter.

On the way back to the valley, we took photos from Tunnel View and spent some time on Sentinel Bridge photographing Half Dome at sunset (those pictures in another entry). As darkness fell over the park, we made our way to Yosemite Lodge and dined at the Mountain Room Restaurant before retiring for the night.

The weekend began last Friday as we took our first trip of the year to Yosemite. With this visit, the fifth in ten months, I've now seen the park in all four seasons. Each time, there is something different about it, be it the waterfalls (in full falling), the weather (sunny and mid to upper 60s) or the number of visitors (the smallest I've seen). I honestly believe I will never tire of the place. Every time is a new adventure.

The first couple of visits, it felt like I was traveling to a different world, going somewhere remote and mysterious. This time, it felt like I was coming home. I imagine it's how everybody feels after visiting somewhere repeatedly, but I'd like to think there's something special about Yosemite and the people I travel with that give the park that certain feeling.

On previous trips, we've taken the Highway 120 route through cities like Fremont, Dublin, Livermore, Tracy and Manteca and then through towns like Oakdale and Groveland before reaching the park's Big Oak Flat Road entrance. On this trip, we tried the Highway 140 route. This meant traveling through Gilroy, Los Banos, Merced and then tiny towns like Mariposa, Cathey's Valley and El Portal (also the name of the entrance).

If you ever travel this way, be sure to buy gas in Merced. It was "only" $2.23 a gallon at Arco. If you wait to fill up, there is always the last gas station before the park (Shell, I believe), which will sell you a gallon of gas for $2.96.

Scenic Highway 140 runs alongside the South Fork Merced River. The curves are gentle and the slopes are gradual. With a little imagination, the car became a raft, seatbelts became life preservers and we were suddenly riding the rapids. We reached the park in a modest 3.5 hours.

When we arrived, we checked into our cabin at Camp Curry. Because this past weekend was still the off-season, most of the restaurants and facilities in the village were closed or operating fewer hours. Only the pizza parlor and coffee corner were open for business.

After unloading the car, we set out for Mirror Lake to see what the waters held in winter. Focusing the camera on the lake, one can capture reflections of Ahwiyah Point, Half Dome, the edge of Clouds Rest and Mount Watkins. Three of these photos were taken from the lake and the fourth (the one of Half Dome) was taken from Clarks Bridge as we returned to the village. I know everybody else snaps the same shot, but the dome is one of the most beautiful features of the park. After perusing my Yosemite albums, I'm convinced I need to train my eye to see the pictures less taken.

On this visit, I became obsessed with learning the names of the geography, both original and current. For example, Mirror Lake was once known as Ahwiyah or quiet lake. Half Dome was once called Tissiack (or Tisseyak), meaning woman turned to stone and Mt. Watkins was once Weiyow, which means juniper mountain. After so many visits, I thought it was time to expand my Yosemite vocabulary. Otherwise, there's no real reason to know these things other than to impress friends, family and Alex Trebek.

Afterwards, we had dinner at the Yosemite Lodge Food Court. It was like a school cafeteria in look, atmosphere and food quality. I had the trout with broccoli and mashed potatoes along with a bowl of clam chowder. Only the chowder had any taste. With our tummies full, we returned to camp, showered, read and retired early for the night.

Last Monday, on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, we went to Henry Coe Park, my third visit in three years, and hiked to Frog Lake.

I'm sure there are many stories and mysteries surrounding a body of water with a name like that. Fortunately, for those of you reading this, I don't know any of them. Of course, the obvious questions do arise. Who named it Frog Lake? Why not Tadpole Pool? Is frog an acronym? Did whoever name the lake have a frog fetish?

I pondered these questions as the helpful park ranger highlighted a photocopied trail map in orange to indicate the best route to and from the lake. I then paid him five dollars for parking and gave him a description of my vehicle since I couldn’t remember the license plate number. He wrote down tan ford torris. I smiled and thanked him kindly.

It’s easy to reach Frog Lake. We took the Manzanita Point Road to Monument Trail to Hobbs Road to Frog Lake Trail, a sequence less than two miles long. Monument Trail has a gradual climb and Hobbs Road has a steep, but manageable, descent. We crossed the Little Fork Coyote Creek, climbed a short ridge and arrived at the lake. Here is an excerpt from what I wrote while sitting there:

It's only in the mid to upper fifties, but feels warmer than that in the sunlight. Wisps of white clouds float across one of the bluest skies I've seen in a long while. With the exception of the birds squawking from high in the trees and the occasional buzzing of a nearby fly, it's completely quiet out here. Every so often, I feel a mild breeze. The day is lovely for sitting by a lake.

We’re alone now. There were only a few other folks here earlier. They left about thirty minutes ago. First, there was an older group of four: two men and two women. They talked and laughed loudly while resting in the shade of a tree across the lake. Next, there was a father and his three sons hiking through. They stopped to skip stones across the brown water, causing ripples in the mesmerizing reflection of green hills and leafless trees reaching out of the lake. Finally, a pair of riders paused briefly to give their horses a drink before riding on.

I can hear a woodpecker in some unseen tree and a frog from somewhere out on the lake. At least one exists, likely the token frog voted to stay behind and represent the others that left for greener lily pads. It's so relaxing out here. I could stay for hours, but we must be going.

We returned to Coe Headquarters via Flat Frog Trail and Corral Trail, trading steepness for distance and a different view. The entire loop was approximately 4.5 miles long. Looking back a week after the experience, I would say Frog Lake ranks as one of my favorite short hikes of all time.

Let's jump into my handy time machine, which looks oddly like a large Kenmore refrigerator box with the words David's Time Machine scribbled on the side, and travel back to last Friday. While you get your helmet and goggles on, I'll just set the dials to the proper day and time. I know, dials aren't the most modern controls, but I like the whole retro look. Plus, I blew the budget on the rear spoiler and blue racing stripes.

To ensure we don't disturb the whole time continuum thingamajig, we'll watch events unfold from up here, where we won't be seen. Okay, seatbelt fastened? Here we go.

Ah, so see that tan sedan attempting to park on the side of Highway 35, outside the main entrance of Castle Rock State Park? That's my car. And, okay, you didn't just see it pull too far forward into that ditch and have to back up. Let's skip ahead.

The weather forecasters said it would be mostly cloudy and in the low fifties. Notice how wrong they were? It's cool and sunny and there isn't a cloud in the sky. You'll also notice a group of sixteen people hiking along Castle Rock Trail. We followed that to Castle Rock Falls, which was merely a trickle.

Let's fast forward through me tripping there and there and oh, okay, so we just took the short Interconnector Trail over to Ridge Trail. Hear that? That's the sound of gunfire coming from a nearby firing range. You can also hear each shot echo through the valley. That grew annoying fast and you can tell by the expression on my face that I wish somebody would run out of ammunition. Moving on.

Here we are at Russell Point, which offers a beautiful view of the park and Saddleback Ridge. Unfortunately, we weren't supposed to be there. We were somewhat lost. Instead of continuing through Castle Rock Trail Camp to Frog Flat Trail as planned, we accidentally looped back along Saratoga Gap Trail and ended up at the Interconnector Trail again. That was fun. Skipping ahead.

Ah, there I am running along the trail to catch up with the seven people who decided to continue hiking. The other eight thought it best to call it a day. Why? I don't know. This time machine isn't equipped with mind reading capabilities. Maybe in the future. Oh, that's me taking a photo of the ground.

Okay, time for some product placement. Here I am smiling as I drink hot Starbucks Espresso Roast coffee from the cap of my red Coleman thermos. I thought that would be important to share. Seeing me drink a liter of water wouldn't be nearly as interesting.

Oops, you probably want to get back to your day, so let's zoom through the rest of this hike. There we are eating, walking along Loghry Woods Trail, crossing Highway 35 to Skyline Trail and returning to the main entrance. Just so you know, we only hiked nine miles or so.

Ready for the return trip? To help you out, I'll set the dials to the exact moment we left. No time lost! Watch your step as you exit the box, I mean, time machine and please leave the helmet and goggles in the seat for the next person. Thanks and come again soon.

I don't think I'll ever get enough of Yosemite. This weekend's trip was the fourth of the year. Considering how I missed out on this magical place for most of my life, I view this recent cluster of visits (four in five months) as making up for lost time. Every visit offers something new. This most recent one offered the beginning of fall colors, colder weather and snow.

Instead of lengthy hikes to higher elevations, we pottered around the valley floor and took in the glory of El Capitan, Half Dome and other snowcapped peaks from below. Due to recent snow and rain, waterfalls like Bridalveil and Upper Yosemite, dry only a month ago, were alive again.

One of my favorite places to grab breakfast in Yosemite is at Degnan's Deli. For $1.95, one can eat a Deg Muffin. It's a heated muffin sandwich with egg, melted cheese and a choice of turkey, ham, sausage, bacon or soy patty. It's delicious and a great way to start the morning.

On Saturday, we climbed the steps of the Yosemite Chapel. The glass-paned doors were closed, but we could see a wedding ceremony going on inside. As we peeked in, there was a man next to us, likely part of the wedding party, also watching the proceedings and gently bouncing a baby. "They're renewing their vows after fifty years of marriage," he volunteered. All I could utter was an unremarkable, "Wow!"

What would it be like to love and be with one person for that many years? What physical and mental condition would either of us be in after fifty autumns? Why did this couple choose Yosemite of all places to renew their vows? Was it where they first met? Were they married here fifty years ago? Or was it simply somewhere "nice" to celebrate their marriage?

We had barely retreated down the steps when the doors opened and the couple, vows renewed, stepped out of the church, led by the professional photographer. They were so happy. In that moment, questions faded and I looked upon them like I would Half Dome - in awe. For here was a love that had endured many seasons, sunny and stormy, like the granite mountain. Seeing them stirred something in me and made me smile.

We walked from Curry Village to the Yosemite Falls Trail near the back of Camp 4's parking lot. That sounds short, but it's actually a two-mile hike before the hike. Pre-hike and post-hike hikes add invisible miles. They can transform an innocent 16.2-mile jaunt into a nasty 20.2-mile march. In the morning, when your feet are fresh and your coffee is hot, you think nothing of those hidden miles, but you really should.

The hike to El Capitan began with a steep climb up a series of switchbacks to Columbia Rock over rocky, dirt-covered steps. As we gained elevation, the dirt transitioned into sand. One ascends approximately 1,000 feet in the first mile. This was the most popular stretch of the trail since it provided a view of the valley with little exertion.

The trail descended as it approached Lower Yosemite Fall, but picked up its steep ascent to reach the overlook at Upper Yosemite Fall. Over this 2.4-mile stretch, one gains another 1,400 feet of elevation. The granite steps were no longer covered by dirt or sand, but remained odd-shaped and uneven. I stopped numerous times to take photos and sneak in rest breaks.

At this time of year, the waterfalls are nearly or completely dry, but one can see where water once tumbled over the ridge. At the overlook, there was a view of the channel and deep pools that line its bottom. There was also a breathtaking view of the Ahwahnee Hotel and Yosemite Lodge nearly half a mile below.

We continued along the trail heading to Eagle Peak. The path was relatively flat. Granite gave way to a lush green environment that eventually reverted to granite. The remaining 1,100 feet to El Cap extended over some 4.7 miles.

As we climbed, the temperature fell. We were chilled by the wind. Some folks had hiked in only t-shirts and shorts, suitable clothing on the valley floor, but inadequate atop El Cap. I had hiked in a t-shirt and convertible pants, but had a windbreaker and hat in my pack. They helped, but additional layers or gloves would've been nice.

Walking to the edge of El Capitan felt like walking to the edge of the world. That is, if the edge the world was a desolate, windy and uninviting place. The view of Half Dome, while still amazing, was essentially the same we had a thousand feet lower. It was somewhat disappointing. What wasn't disappointing was the number of people. Hiking Half Dome, one can come across hundreds of other hikers. Hiking El Cap, we came across six.

We made our way down at a faster pace, until we reached the upper fall. That's when the journey became more challenging. Those uneven steps that had made the ascent slightly easier made the descent slow and difficult. Slipping and sliding were inevitable. Thankfully, everybody made it down safely, without falling or twisting an ankle. Fully aware of the miles hidden in the post-hike, we hopped on the shuttle and returned to the village for a welcome shower and some grub.

The freeways for commuting look identical to those for escaping. My first fifteen miles to work are the same as the first fifteen to Yosemite. The paths diverge at a major highway interchange. Most weekdays, I take the northbound ramp, but Friday found us taking the southbound ramp through places like Oakdale, Groveland and Chinese Camp instead of downtown San Jose. Oakdale, the last "big" town before the valley, is good for two reasons: coffee and gas. They have a convenient Starbucks at the corner of Yosemite Ave and F Street and gas stations offering unleaded for $1.95 a gallon.

We reached Curry Village around one o'clock. Some of our group had already arrived and they started hiking while we dropped our bags off at the tent cabin. We were soon heading to the Four-Mile Trail, which leads up to popular Glacier Point. Along the way, we came upon Yosemite Chapel standing across the meadow. Beyond its spire, the mountain ridge rose heavenwards. According to my Lonely Planet guidebook, it was built in 1879 and moved to its current spot in 1901. On a side note, Lonely Planet contributing writer is now one of my top 5 dream jobs.

The ascent to Glacier Point wasn’t an easy one and we trudged up only a mile or two before encountering part of our party coming down. Considering the hour, we turned around and walked back with them. Every now and then, we would catch glimpses of Half Dome through the trees. The sky was so clear and blue. The day's highs had been in the upper seventies, but the temperature would rapidly drop over the weekend.

We returned to the village, grabbed some pizza, showered and retired early to our cabin, which was across from the bathrooms. The location was a mixed blessing: less distance, but more noise. Our cabin was also on unsteady footing. Whenever somebody rolled over in his or her cot, the entire structure shook. A midnight trip to the bathroom would register a 3.2 on the Richter scale. Despite the noise and tremors, we still managed to get some sleep. We needed it if we hoped to reach the top of El Capitan the next day.

Over the Fourth of July weekend, I went camping and hiking in the Cedar Grove area of Kings Canyon. Last year, I recounted the trip by numbers and had so much fun, I thought it would be amusing to do again. Because I'm a statistics freak, the previous trip's tally is given in parentheses for comparison purposes.

Price for a gallon of gas: $2.19 ($2.09)
Hours spent in the park: 69 (45)
Miles hiked: 41 (18)
Hiking companions: 2 (2)
Number of times lost: 2 (3)
Waterfalls seen: 3 (5)
Bears seen: 0 (0)
Deer seen: 2 (2)
Liters of water consumed on the trail: 6.5 (7)
Liters of Gatorade consumed: 3.5 (2.5)
Number of pictures taken: 176 (198)
Number of times hearing Kylie Minogue's "Can't Get You Out of My Head" : 3 (5)
Rattlesnakes seen: 1
Cost of a ten-minute shower: $2.50
Number of showers: 3
Number of Clif Bars eaten: 8.5
Cumulative elevation gained during hikes (in feet): 10,800
Number of lovely mosquito bites received: 12
Number of shooting stars seen: 2
Price of a cup of hot coffee: $1.75
Minutes needed to become cold coffee: 5

This visit was better than the last one, even with the bug bites and a brief thunderstorm. Admittedly, there were a few moments when I felt less than patriotic for missing the weekend's typical barbecue and firework fanfare. However, as I walked through our campground and spotted sites decked out in the red, white and blue, I took a little time to give thanks and remember those who fought and sacrificed for the freedoms I enjoy today.

Three weeks ago...

"Do you think you'll ever hike Half Dome again?" It was a question asked less than an hour after we returned to the village. Despite my aching toes, I answered with a shrug, "Maybe in a year."

Three days ago...

We were atop Half Dome once more. The journey along rocky and ascending trails was easier the second time around. We started later, but hiked more rapidly. It took over an hour to climb the last 900 feet. One needs to reach the base before noon for people-free cables.

We spent nearly two hours on the dome taking photos, walking from one end to the other and snacking. The snow from three weeks ago had melted. Girls in swimsuits sunbathed. A group of guys roasted hot dogs on their miniature grill. Teenagers leaned precariously over the edge to look thousands of feet below. While waiting for the others to arrive, we took a little time to write. It was quite wonderful.

On the valley floor, the question was repeated, "Would you hike Half Dome again?" My answer was the same as before, but I was more adamant. There is so much to explore in Yosemite and beyond. Too much, actually, but just the right amount to keep me preoccupied for a while.

Half Dome. Been there, done that and loved it. It whetted my appetite. I won't take it for granted, but other adventures await.

The second day came fast. I woke up before my alarm, which is unusual on most days, but quite common on trips. The morning sun lit our tent and we were soon preparing for the long day's hike. One thing that becomes apparent is how difficult it is to move about a tent cabin without waking anyone up.

We were on our way to Half Dome by 7:00. The most heavily traveled portion of the trail is the first 1.5 miles to the bridge that crosses the Merced River. We climbed the wet steps of the Mist Trail and Vernal Fall duly misted us. The stone staircase would be the first of three leading up to the dome. Somebody in our group called it the ultimate Stairmaster. When we reached the top of the second staircase at Nevada Fall, we had climbed 1,900 feet.

The weather was cool, but I still had to shed two layers of clothing and made a mental note to dress and pack lighter the next time I came. We soon left the sand-covered trails of Little Yosemite Valley and started up the long switchbacks leading to the third and most difficult set of stairs.

As we progressed, our group of nine slowly broke apart due to different hiking paces. B charged out ahead and reached the top of Half Dome by 10:50. I was part of the second group. We rested at the base for about ten minutes. Then two of us, noticing how empty the cables and plywood slats were, decided to don our gloves and walk up the mountain. We reached the peak at 11:50. Two more arrived ten minutes later and the last of our group made the climb while we were coming down.

As I stood atop Half Dome (a.k.a. Tissiack) with a view of the valley, I began to understand what inspired John Muir to write, "... the Valley, comprehensively seen, looks like an immense hall or temple lighted from above. But no temple made with hands can compare with Yosemite." In 1868, when he first set foot in the valley, he was just thirty. Muir would later help Yosemite become a national park. I wonder what he would think of its development and present condition if he were alive today.

We took group photos and began the trek back around 1:00. The cables were full of hikers, like a freeway jam during rush hour. As I slowly made my way down, someone above me shouted, "Camera!" Seconds later a silvery, digital-camera-shaped object clattered down the side of the dome, about fifty feet off to my right, and disappeared into the valley below. Somewhere in Yosemite, a yellow-bellied marmot is taking photos with a Canon Powershot.

The rest of the hike back was uneventful. We returned the same way we came, but my toes began to hurt as we descended the uneven stone steps. I reached Curry Village by 4:20. I was tired, a bit stiff and ready for a hot shower and meal. We had two large, steaming pizzas and then took a shuttle to Mirror Lake to photograph watery reflections at sunset. Later that night, I tucked myself into my sleeping bag and had little trouble falling asleep.

We left the Bay Area around eight on Friday morning and reached the Big Oak Flat Entrance a little after 11 AM. We stopped for gas at the last station before the park and paid the price for my procrastination... $3.09 per gallon. The tank wasn't empty, but to be safe, I reluctantly bought three gallons. Note to self: Buy gas in Oakdale.

We were too early to check in, so we headed up to Glacier Point, making numerous stops along the way to take photos. One particular vista point was packed. The lot was full of motorcycles, antique cars and charter buses. With a little persistence, I found a place to park and tried to see what was so special about this spot. Bikers, senior citizens and Japanese tourists lined the edge of the lot and had their cameras trained on something. I followed their gaze and saw beautiful Bridalveil Fall. I quickly joined them and snapped a few shots.

Our first hike was to the top of Sentinel Dome first. The wind was quite strong, but the 360-degree view was spectacular. We had our first glimpse of Half Dome, which rose another 700 feet above our vantage point. I sat on one of the large flat stones huddled around the toppled Jeffrey Pine at the center of the dome and its warmth surprised me. I took a moment to enjoy the sun-heated seating.

We then hiked to Taft Point. The trail was damp and large patches of icy snow (photo) remained. It hailed lightly for a minute or two before we came out of the wooded area and to the fissures, deep vertical slices through the granite. We were rewarded with a dramatic view of El Capitan and Yosemite Valley some 3,500 feet below.

We continued on to Glacier Point, a very popular spot in the park. From where we stood, it was easy to frame Vernal Fall, Nevada Fall and Half Dome in the camera viewfinder. They looked small enough to require only a hop, skip and jump to reach the top. "Just think," somebody said. "You'll be climbing that tomorrow." I nodded solemnly, peered across the seemingly painted landscape and thought, "This will be the hardest trail I ever hiked."

We then drove down to Curry Village and waited in a long line at the reservation desk. At first, I was taken aback by the number of people and cars, but reminded myself that escaping from civilization wasn't the purpose of this trip. The only real way to do that in Yosemite was to avoid the valley and backpack through the lesser-known parts of the park, far from any road and creature comfort.

We ate a buffet dinner in the dining hall, showered and loitered a little while in the lounge before retiring early to our tent cabin. On any other Friday, I would have stayed up late and slept in even later, but Saturday promised to be a long day and would require an early start.

Over the weekend, I mistakenly told people that the only family member ever to visit Yosemite was my dad. Nagged by doubt, I decided to check my facts with the family television guide, advice nurse and historian, a.k.a. my mom. According to her, my dad took my mom on a date to the national park in 1972. They spent the afternoon in the valley looking at the waterfalls and exploring the villages. She added that they spent all morning and all evening driving to and from the park. It would be their only visit.

This was my first trip there and it was incredible. We stayed at Curry Village in tent cabins and enjoyed three days of good weather. We did a little exploring, hiking and relaxing. I'm no Ansel Adams, but took plenty of photos. Over the next day or two, I hope to share a few of them as well as some memories from the trip.

I drove up to Tiburon on Sunday morning. It's a little bayside community with a name that's fun to say. The town was bustling with activity due to Opening Day on the Bay, the first official day of the boating season in San Francisco. I was there to catch the ferry over to Angel Island for a hike and barbecue. The trip took about twenty minutes and the ferry docked in Ayala Cove.

As soon as we dropped off the food and drinks, we hiked the Sunset Trail to the peak of Mt. Livermore, which offers a beautiful panoramic view of the bay. It would have been nice to stay up there longer, but hunger struck and we were soon heading down the Northridge Trail back to the group picnic area.

After eating, a couple of us decided to venture over to the Immigration Station museum. Unfortunately, the station was closed for restoration. From 1910 to 1940, it not only served as the entry point for nearly a million immigrants, but also as a detainment center for thousands of Chinese immigrants. In fact, the government built the station to help enforce the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882. The facility gained national landmark status in 1997.

Visiting Angel Island was a relaxing way to spend a Sunday and we stayed as long as possible, but the last ferry eventually arrived to take us back to Tiburon and real life.

Sometimes I can hear this old earth shouting
Through the trees as the wind blows
That's when I climb up here on this mountain
To look through God's window
Now I can't fly
But I got two feet that get me high up here
Above the noise and city streets
My worries disappear

- "Mayberry" by Rascal Flatts

About eight months ago, we hiked to Berry Creek Falls from the Boulder Creek entrance of Big Basin Redwoods State Park. On Sunday, our destination was the same, but we began at the Rancho del Oso entrance, across the way from Waddell Beach. Even on overcast days, driving up the coastal Highway 1 is enjoyable.

The plan called for a moderate 12-mile out and back hike along the Skyline to the Sea and Berry Creek Falls Trails. We lunched on the wooden observation platform across from the falls. Afterwards, instead of retracing our steps, we improvised, headed off towards the Sunset Trail and (as expected) got lost. With a little luck and a map, we soon figured out how to get back on track. In the end, it took us approximately eight hours to finish 17 miles.

This was the first hike I've been on where the group got separated by miles. Paces varied and some folks struggled. The group I was with reached the beach about thirty minutes before the last one emerged from the trail head. While we waited and with a little encouragement, I removed my socks and hiking shoes and stood in the ocean. The freezing cold water worked wonders on my feet.

I got up early on Sunday, out of necessity, not choice. Choice wanted to sleep in until noon, but necessity would have none of that nonsense. So, after packing a sandwich, granola bars, bananas, Gatorade, two liters of water and a thermos of coffee, I was on my way to Mt. Diablo State Park. From San Jose, it takes a little over an hour to reach the northern park entrance, which is in the town of Clayton.

Our goal was to hike to the summit of Mt. Diablo. The planned route was the Mitchell Canyon Loop, a fourteen-mile loop with approximately 3,400 feet in elevation gain. The hike began on wide fire roads that followed a creek, but eventually became single-track trails as we made our ascent.

We reached the summit around one in the afternoon. The visitor center at the top was closed due to budget shortages, but the observation deck was open. Much to my disappointment, there was also a parking lot up there (for the "lazy people", as someone in our group commented). We enjoyed the view of the valley as we ate lunch. Soon afterwards, we set out again along the North Peak Trail, which we had a little trouble finding at first.

A slight tangent: The group I hike with has a tendency of getting lost. We don't go off the trail, but usually find the trail we're on and the one we think we're on to be two very different trails. Ambiguous signposts don't help. To keep on track, two of us bought maps. B kept his copy safely in his CamelBak, which meant it was up to me to point us in the wrong direction.

Amazingly, we stayed on the trails we wanted, but still managed to tack on an extra mile for a scenic detour along the Falls Trail. There were quite a few waterfalls and another cold creek crossing in our bare feet. The last part of the hike was the muddiest. The trails were saturated from the rain and the squishy sound boots make when they sink into the mud was nearly unavoidable.

We made it back to the starting point while it was still light outside and I had just enough time to change clothes (and finish my coffee) before heading to the concert in San Francisco.

On Sunday, we went on a short seven mile hike in Monte Bello Open Preserve. My legs ached a little from the previous day, but walking relieved the soreness. We were spared from the possible rain and only had to contend with the mud and wind.

We made it to the peak of Black Mountain around one o'clock and stopped for lunch. From our vantage point, we could see San Francisco, San Jose and the billowing black smoke of the devastating Buchser Middle School fire in Santa Clara.

The next morning, there was a news report about two rescued hikers in local Alum Rock Park. Let's just say they aren't the sharpest tools in the shed.

I moved to this little town nearly two years ago. Right next door is Henry Coe State Park. Two weeks ago, I finally hiked in it. To make up for lost time, I made a return trip on Saturday.

The first hike was supposed to be a six-mile loop, but turned out to be eight miles long. A mathematical mistake accounted for the two missing miles. We took the loop in a counterclockwise direction to finish the steepest section first, going downhill. We completed the inevitable climb through a series of switchbacks near the end.

The second hike was advertised as ten miles long, but became twelve after we got lost went exploring. We traveled in a clockwise loop, so the steep climb came last. It felt like we regained all 1,800 feet of elevation in the last mile or so. My legs weren't happy, but secretly, I didn't mind a good challenge.

On both hikes, we had to cross the Coyote Creek. The water level was low enough to balance atop slippery stones the first time. However, on Saturday, the creek had risen due to recent rains and had submerged the stones. Instead of turning back, we rolled up our pant legs, removed our footwear and waded through calf-deep water.

The good news is the freezing water quickly numbed my bare feet. The bad news is that as I stepped out of the water, a severe stinging sensation replaced the numbness. The good news is my socks never felt so warm once I put them back on.

Sunday's hike began an hour earlier than the hike on Saturday, but it was much closer to home. Even so, I still managed to be late. There must be a part of my brain that compensates for time and distance, along with other factors like traffic, temperature and the latest political tracking poll, to ensure I arrive exactly five minutes after I should.

My destination was Grant County Park, located in the east foothills of San Jose. As soon as I stepped out of the car, the cold air had me searching for a pair of gloves, which I couldn't find. I would later discover them staying warm on the living room floor. My hands quickly sought refuge in my jacket pockets.

Solitary oak trees stood atop grassy, rolling hills. As we reached higher elevations, the suburban sprawl and southern tip of the bay came into view. While San Francisco's towering skyscrapers were amazing, San Jose's sheer size astounded me. Looking down upon us from the summit of Mount Hamilton was University of California's Lick Observatory.

Our thirteen-mile hike took us by Grant Lake, all the way north to Deer Camp and as far south as Twin Gates. It lasted nearly six hours with stops for lunch and photographs. The hike was the longest one I ever completed and will likely be a precursor to Yosemite's Half Dome later this year.

I hadn't hiked since last December, when a few of us made a twelve-mile trek around Rancho San Antonio. Okay, it was only supposed to be ten miles, but a wrong turn and some backtracking can sure add up.

A day after that hike, I fell ill and spent a number of weeks recuperating. The prolonged idleness soon produced guilt, which eventually fostered a restlessness to be outside again.

Unable to wait any longer, I joined a group for a short five-mile hike through San Bruno Mountain State & County Park on Saturday. I wanted something moderate to see how my body reacted.

We were lucky the morning was cool and overcast. The treeless trail offered no shade. The hardest part of the hike came immediately. Reaching the first vista point required a long and steep climb. A beautiful view of model-sized San Francisco was the reward for our efforts.

The group made its way along the Ridge Trail and stopped for lunch shortly after noon. From where we stood, we could see everything from the peninsula to the bay. South of us, miniature planes took off from SFO. We stayed until the chilly air became too much to bear.

A few hours after the hike, I joined the rest of my family for our traditional Chinese New Year's dinner. Have you ever noticed how good everything tastes after exercising? The meal was exceptional.

Before calling it a night, I did a quick internal check. Everything felt fine, better than fine. With my worried mind eased, I let myself dream about Sunday's hike.