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This is the first part of a two-part trip report from last weekend's visit to Yosemite.

A Change of Plans

Last Monday, the plan for the weekend was to stay home and sit still. It was a simple plan. It was a good plan. It was also a plan doomed to fail.

Later that day, I was online and thought it would be fun "just to see" if there was anything available in Yosemite. As expected, recreation.gov came up empty and yosemitepark.com came up with a room at the Ahwahnee, which is an expensive equivalent to empty.

A person truly intent on staying home and sitting still would have quit at that point, and I was that person for another fifteen minutes or so. But then it dawned on me that what I wanted wasn't to stay home and sit still. What I really wanted was to visit Yosemite. As soon as I accepted that, the search for a place to stay for the weekend began in earnest.

With persistence bordering on obsession, I was able to snag a spot in Housekeeping Camp for Friday night. It took another day of constant checking (and a bit of luck) to secure a second night.

With both reservations printed and placed in the safety of my backpack, all there was left to do was pack and think about potential hikes.

The Valley

We arrived in the valley just after noon on Friday. Our first stop was camp, to see if any sites were ready. There were a few, but we were told to come back between three and five to officially check in.

Not wanting to wander off too far, we decided to stay in the valley and see how differently everything looked compared to when we were last in the park, on New Year's Day.

The snow-covered meadows were now lush and green.



Flowers and plants buried by snow or dormant for the season were in bloom.



The waterfalls, which were little more than a spray, were booming.



And the quiet Merced River was once again a thoroughfare for rafts and kayaks.



Our last stop, before returning to camp, was the Yosemite Chapel. It recently celebrated its 130th birthday, but looks good for its age.



An Anniversary

One of the main reasons I went from wanting to stay home to wanting to make Yosemite happen was M. Last week was our fifth anniversary, and while I was initially set on taking her out for a nice dinner, I quickly realized I wanted to do something more for her. That ended up being Yosemite. I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but it's where we went for our first "official" date¹.

To mark the occasion, we had dinner at the Mountain Room Lounge, which is part of the Yosemite Lodge, and across from the Mountain Room Restaurant. We initially planned to dine at the restaurant, but after seeing the line of people waiting to be seated, we chose to eat at the unusually empty lounge.

While the lounge has a smaller menu than the restaurant (just three entrees), the quality of the food is still high. If I'm not mistaken, the same chef prepares the dishes for both places. (For the record, I had the roasted chicken with a glass of Chateau St. Michelle Riesling.)



A Show

After dinner, we returned to camp, showered, and ventured across Southside Drive to the LeConte Memorial Lodge, a small granite and wood building that is home to the Sierra Club. The lodge has several educational displays and a collection of books about Yosemite, the Sierra Nevada, John Muir, Joseph LeConte, and more. It's a beautiful place, outside and inside.



That night, the lodge was showing "The John Muir Trail", a video by Lee Turkelson, who was on hand to narrate and answer questions. The film followed Turkelson and his companions as they hiked the JMT from Mt. Whitney to Happy Isles.

What was most striking about the video was the way it blended two trips (one in early summer, one in late summer) to give a broader picture of the trail. The most memorable moments of the film were the interviews Turkelson conducted with thru-hikers he met along the way. My favorite was the artist who used watercolors to paint the view from his tent (and where he was headed) every morning.

¹ Not only was it a three-day first date, but was also a climb-to-the-top-of-Half-Dome first date.

Mon Ami Gabi (Or, We'll Always Have Faux Paris)

Upon our return from Valley of Fire State Park, we wandered the Strip in search of food and came upon Mon Ami Gabi, a full-scale restaurant at the base of the half-scale Eiffel Tower of Paris Las Vegas.




I was in the mood for breakfast and they were still serving brunch, so we gave it a try. They sat us on the veranda with a view of the Bellagio fountains and the traffic crawling along Las Vegas Boulevard.

Every thirty minutes, the fountains came to life and the water danced to music by artists like Celine Dion and Frank Sinatra. Every ten minutes, a billboard truck drove by, advertising showgirls, who also dance to music by Celine and Frank-caliber artists (I can only assume).

As for the meal itself, I had the Eggs Benedict and a glass of Riesling. Both arrived promptly and both were quite good. Service was fine until the couple at the next table started monopolizing our server's time with small talk. Between the time we asked for the check and received it, the billboard truck had circled the block once. Other than that, our dining experience was excellent, and I would highly recommend the restaurant.

After lunch, we took a relaxing stroll through Faux Paris. If we ever return to Vegas, this is the place I want to stay.




Gondola Ride (Or, Going, Going, Gondola)

From Paris, we walked down the block and visited Venice. (Only in Vegas!) We followed the canal in The Venetian until we found the ticket office for the gondola rides. Tickets are $64 for a private gondola or $16 per person for a shared gondola.

We only had to wait a few minutes before boarding. Our gondolier was a young olive-skinned man with black hair and what conventional wisdom would call boyish enthusiasm. Before our ride began, a professional photographer took our photos, which made me think, "What a small world."

The ride began with get-to-know-you chatting, which was nice. We then glided quietly along the canal for a minute or two; the only sound coming from the water as the oar passed through it. The ride would have been more than enjoyable if it had continued that way, but most people expect more, which is why the gondolier broke the spell and asked if there was an Italian song he could sing for us.

With eagerness, the woman across from us said, "That's Amore". A second later, people on the waterfront and on the bridges were stopping and staring at our gondolier as his rich voice echoed off the Venetian sky with, "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie. That's amore!"

I smiled meekly the whole time and avoided eye contact whenever possible. It's amazing the architectural detail one notices when one is focused on nothing else. Any thought of taking photos during the ride vanished in a wave of self-consciousness and paralysis.

After he finished singing, our gondolier asked for another song title. The woman across from us looked at me expectantly. The only song I could think of was "Con Te Partiro", but that seemed so cliched, I couldn't bring myself to say it.

Unfazed by the silence, our gondolier cleared his throat and began singing "Speak Softly Love" from The Godfather. His voice was melodious and he sang every note with the passion of somebody whose dream stretched beyond the canals of The Venetian. When the last note faded, he took a breath and launched right into "Belle Notte" from The Lady and The Tramp. It was during this song when we ran into trouble.

We were waiting our turn to dock when our gondolier inexplicably started paddling in reverse. The gondola slid backwards and under a metal lion head protruding from the canal wall. This would have been fine except for the steady stream of water pouring from the lion's mouth.

By the time the gondolier realized his error and maneuvered the gondola away from the wall, it was too late. Our feet were wet, our seat was wet, and M's lower half was soaked. Luckily, she had grabbed her camera bag before the water could reach it.

The gondolier apologized profusely and repeatedly. The Venetian then witnessed the fastest gondola docking in hotel history. We were hurried off the boat, which was promptly taken out of service to be dried. After a brief, but stern talk with the manager, we received a full refund and more apologies.

It wasn't exactly how I wanted our gondola ride to go, but it certainly made for a memorable experience.

Our trip to Las Vegas was three weeks ago. Some might say it's too late to write about it. I say now is the perfect time. It isn't so long past that I've forgotten the important details, but it's long enough ago to attribute any inaccuracies to a fuzzy memory. Let's get to it, shall we?

Arriving (Or, We'll Get There When We Get There!)

When we arrived at San Francisco International Airport, Friday evening, we already knew our flight had been delayed thirty minutes. Instead of being annoyed, I was relieved. The delay gave us plenty of time to get through security, which we needed since TSA seemed keenly interested in my backpack this time around. After an intense three-minute x-ray examination, the agents determined the allergy medicine in my bag posed no threat to national security and let it through.

This gave me just enough time to grab a bowl of clam chowder for dinner before we boarded the plane. I was nearly done drowning myself with soup when an airline representative announced the flight would be delayed an additional thirty minutes.

Our plane landed at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas around ten. By the time we reached the Excalibur, our "castle" for the weekend, the clock was closing in on midnight. At this point, most tourists would have dumped their luggage in their rooms and hit the bars and casinos. I did nothing of the sort. As soon as we unloaded our luggage, I hit McDonald's for a salad (the healthiest food I could find within walking distance), the shower, and then the sack. Yes, I was a dullard, but at least I was a clean, well-rested dullard.

Whole Foods (Or, The Most Expensive Bargains. Ever.)

Friday night, after registering, we decided to buy bottled water from one of the hotel's "convenience" kiosks. M worried we'd be thirsty during the night and didn't trust the tap water. We ended up buying three 20-ounce bottles of Aquafina at more than three dollars a pop. I drank a good eight ounces of water before dozing off just to feel the purchase wasn't a total waste of money.

The next morning, after B and J (M's sister and brother-in-law) picked us up, we stopped at the Whole Foods at the end of the Strip to buy water, juice, and snacks. For the same amount we spent the night before, we were able to get a 24-bottle flat of water. Only on the Vegas Strip would a specialty supermarket like Whole Foods be considered a bargain.

Valley of Fire (Or, I Fell Into a Burning Valley of Fire)

We were soon on our way to Valley of Fire State Park. From the Vegas Strip, one takes I-15 north and Highway 169 east to reach the park. On a good day, the drive takes roughly an hour and I assume that's how long it took since I was asleep the whole way there.

"But wait," you might exclaim. "Didn't you just claim you were a well-rested dullard?" And I would say, "Yes." And then we would sit here in awkward hypothetical silence.

Anyway, it's true. I was well-rested, but what you don't know is that three of us were seated in the back row of a minivan -- a cramped and uncomfortable back row. It didn't take long for the road to lull me into unconsciousness; my mind finding the fastest escape route. In a way, I was reliving my childhood, when I had the whole back row of our family's minivan to myself and would inevitably fall asleep on the late night drive home from our weekly visits to my grandparents; my dad skillfully steering us safely over the Santa Cruz mountains.

After paying the six-dollar entry fee, we proceeded to our first (and longest) stop: Beehives. Here, the reddish-orange sandstone formations were in sharp contrast with the blackish mountains in the distance.



After taking a few photos from the ground, I couldn't resist the temptation to climb to the top of a formation and survey the surrounding landscape. The scramble up the rock was short, but sweet. There were natural handholds and footholds everywhere and my sandals had surprisingly good grip on the slopes. I was only thirty or forty feet off the ground, hardly enough elevation to improve the views, but from where I stood, the vistas just seemed better.





From Beehives, we made a leave-the-engine-running stop at the Petrified Logs. J jumped out to take a photograph on behalf of everyone in the van and then we sped to Rainbow Vista. Here, the multicolored rock formations lived up to their name.



We then made a quick detour to Fire Canyon.



From there, we backtracked and made a brief visit to Arch Rock, one of the few formations where climbing is forbidden. Were one able to climb it, one would discover the arch is, in truth, tiny. I believe one could squeeze a head and arm through it before becoming wedged.



I should explain that a lot of our rushing around was out of consideration for B and J's two kids. The older one is 36 months old. The younger one is 9 months old. It only made sense that our schedule would depend on their comfort and needs, which meant we simply couldn't sit in one spot for too long or wander off for an hour or two. This trip gave me new respect for folks who travel with little ones. To me, traveling and raising children are challenging enough on their own. Combining the two seems almost insane, and yet people do it and do it successfully. They're amazing.

Anyway, after a fast bathroom break at the main entrance, we returned to Vegas. And yes, I slept the whole way back.

You can see more photos from Valley of Fire State Park on Flickr.

Friday

Late night flight, salad at McDonald's before bedtime at Excalibur.

Saturday

Starbucks, Whole Foods, and Valley of Fire State Park (scrambling around sandstone). Lunch at Mon Ami Gabi. Strolls through "Paris", "Venice", and "Rome". A wild gondola ride. A mild night of babysitting.

Sunday

McDonald's. A long drive to Mount Charleston for lunch. A monorail ride. The conservatory and fountains of Bellagio. A tram ride to Mandalay Bay for dinner (Trattoria Del Lupo) and a show (The Lion King).

Monday

Last chance for buffet foiled. Denny's, a dollar lost (penny by penny), and home we go.

This weekend, M and I will be visiting Las Vegas, Nevada with her sister's family (sister, husband, toddler, and infant) and her mom.

If this trip were only for us, I'm sure we would have chosen someplace more woodsy and less deserty, but this trip is for M's mom, who specifically requested the city inspired by the television show starring Josh Duhamel. (I've been told his last name doesn't rhyme with "camel", but that hasn't deterred me from pronouncing that way.)

This will be my second time to Vegas. My last (and first) visit was way back in December 2000. I went with my folks and sister. If I had to sum up that trip in a word, it would be "unpleasant". Don't get me wrong, I had fun hanging out with the family and I found the extravagance of the strip amazing -- the architecture, the lights, the shows, the casinos, the buffets. But my amazement was marred by two things:

1. Gambling. More accurately, losing at gambling. While I was there, I lost roughly eighty bucks. Now, if I had lost it all in one shot, perhaps after a lucky winning streak, it wouldn't have been so bad. Unfortunately, I started off losing and continued to lose (in 25 or 50-cent increments) over a period of several days, in the dimly lit confines of several casinos. It left me with a rather unpleasant impression of Vegas.
2. Allergies. An hour after we arrived at our hotel (the Monte Carlo), my allergies started acting up. I blame it on the cigarette smoke that seemed to be everywhere. Ironically, my worst attack had nothing to do with smoking. It happened at the Excalibur, when we went to see the Tournament of Kings, a dinner show featuring knights riding horses and jousting. Apparently, when I'm in an enclosed space with galloping horses, I lose the ability to breathe and gain the ability to wheeze and cough uncontrollably. A few minutes into the show, I had to rush outside and wait for my windpipe to reopen and fresh air¹ to fill my lungs. I eventually recovered, but the ordeal reinforced my unpleasant impression of Vegas.

I'm hoping I'll be able to sum up this trip with a more positive word. That may be a challenge, though, because of two factors:

1. Heat. It's going to be hot in Vegas this weekend. The highs for the next four days will be 96, 100, 102, and 98 degrees, respectively. I'll likely be inside most of the time, and likely wearing a t-shirt and shorts, but I'm not looking forward to stepping outside, which is a key part of my Plan for having a good time (see below).
2. The Excalibur. Out of all of the hotels and resorts on the strip, M unwittingly booked the location that holds my worst Vegas memory. While I could view it as a cruel trick of fate, I intend to view it as chance to replace a bad memory with a good one (or a not-so-bad one, at the very least).

Of course, I won't be going unprepared. This time around, I'm armed with a Plan for making this Vegas trip enjoyable. It includes:

• gambling less. I figure if I minimize my gambling time, I'll minimize my losing time.
• medicating myself. I'm bringing plenty of antihistamines and nasal decongestants, which I can take every four to six hours, as needed.
• avoiding horses. The general idea is to avoid circumstances where horses and I have to be in the same room. This should be easy, but I'll be vigilant for anything that neighs.
• avoiding Vegas. While we're there, we plan to visit Hoover Dam (east of the city) and Mt. Charleston (west of the city). I'm also hoping to see other areas of Lake Mead National Recreation Area while visiting the dam, but that will depend on how well we deal with the aforementioned heat.

As long as I stick to the Plan (and as long as there isn't a horse loose on any of the premises) I should have a pleasant Vegas trip.

¹ Fresh air with a hint of smoke.

Mono Lake is roughly 75 miles away from Yosemite Valley. According to Google Maps, the trip takes roughly two hours. Normally, we beat the travel time estimate by several minutes, but we stopped so many times along Highway 120 (a.k.a. Tioga Pass Road), we reached Lee Vining and Mono Lake an hour after Google said we would.

View Larger Map

We were on the road by 7 AM and were at Olmsted Point by 8 AM, where we spent an inordinate amount of time and energy searching for marmots without luck. I've seen plenty of marmots, but M has yet to spot one in person. If she doesn't see one soon, I fear the whole thing could grow from a simple desire to an obsession on par with the quest for the Holy Grail. While M was searching, I snapped this photo of Tenaya Lake.

Before leaving the park, we stopped by one of the most magnificent meadows I had ever seen. The sight of it filled me with such awe and joy, I felt the urge to sprint across it, fall on the ground, and stare at the trees, mountains, clouds, but something stopped me (likely the stodgy old man in my head known as Mr. Sanity) and I simply photographed it.

Beyond the park gates were two impressive lakes: Tioga Lake...

and Ellery Lake, which was smack dab in the middle of a wind tunnel. I got out of the car and could barely stand long enough to take a picture.

Past Ellery Lake was Tioga Pass, the highest automobile pass in California, roughly 9,945 feet above sea level.

From there, it was downhill to the tiny town of Lee Vining, which has a population of roughly 500 people. After getting our bearings at the Mono Lake Committee Information Center (Marker A), we made a quick detour to Panum Crater (Marker B), which is part of the youngest mountain range in North America (or so claims its parking lot sign).

The crater has two trails: the Plug and Rim. Because it looked like it would give us a better view at the top, as well as an idea of what was at the center of the crater, we took the Plug Trail.

After spending an hour wandering around the crater and getting blown around by the unrelenting wind, we finally reached Mono Lake, the day's main attraction. We visited the South Tufa area (Marker C). Normally, the entrance fee is $3 per person, but we had an America the Beautiful pass, so we didn't have to pay (or, we already paid, depending on your point of view).

According to the state's website, Mono Lake covers 65 square miles and is one of the oldest lakes in North America. It has no outlet and is nearly 2.5 times saltier than the ocean. It's the salt that creates the lake's signature tufa towers.

While the woman at the visitor center said I should drink some of the lake water to taste how salty it was, I decided to play it safe and take a few steps into the lake instead. After my feet had a few minutes to dry, they (and my sandals) turned completely white.

From there, we grabbed a quick bite to eat at the Whoa Nellie Deli. I had the Ragin' Cajun Jambalaya, which was delicious. All of the dishes were rather expensive, but the portions were generous. I also filled the tank while I was there. Gas was $4.79 a gallon -- a dollar more than the average.

After lunch, we made a quick stop at the state's Mono Lake visitor center and then the county park on the lake's northwest corner (Marker D).

If you want a nice place to picnic, the county park is ideal, but if you want the best views of the tufa towers, then South Tufa is the place to go.

It was nearing 3 PM and we wanted to get back to the valley in time for dinner, so we hopped in the car and made the return journey in a little over two hours (there might have been a short nap by Tenaya Lake along the way).

We dined at the Mountain Room Restaurant to celebrate my birthday (the not-so-big 3-4) and then called it an early night because the next day we planned to hike to Little Yosemite Valley.

Over the Labor Day weekend, M and I headed to Yosemite for a four-day getaway. It was a trip that almost didn't happen. We had been looking for a place to stay in the valley for several months without luck. I would have been happy taking our chances with a walk-in site, but I doubted M would be keen on the idea, so I kept checking daily (sometimes hourly). With only a few days to go before the impending weekend, a spot in Curry Village opened. As soon as I saw it, I booked it.

The drive that Friday morning was surprisingly smooth. The new Highway 152/156 interchange was open and bottleneck-free. The new Highway 140 by-pass bridges, with their improved angles to allow longer vehicles, were also open and we reached them just as the 15-minute stoplight turned green.

We arrived in the valley just before noon. If the temperature hadn't been in the nineties, I would have grabbed my pack and gone for a quick afternoon hike, but the heat tempered my desire to the hit trail. Instead, we cooled our heels in valley.

We visited the Ansel Adams Gallery (they have a blog) and I discovered two very funny children's books. Both involved a character named Scaredy Squirrel, a squirrel so scared of everything, he never leaves his nut tree. The tales focus on the adventures he has when he strays from the safety of his tree (and routine).The artwork and stories cracked me up. I felt so guilty for standing in the middle of the store, reading and laughing, I bought the books. Now that I have them, everybody who visits will be forced to read them, too.

Also in the gallery were the paintings of Penny Otwell, an artist who lives in Yosemite. If I'm not mistaken, I mentioned her a couple months ago. It was nice to see her work in person.

Afterward, we took a quick peek at the Ahwahnee to see how the other half dealt with the heat. (They deal with it in lavish style as far as we could see.)

As evening came and the temperature dropped, we walked from Curry to Sentinel Bridge to watch a Half Dome sunset. It was a splendid, short-lived sight.

After the sun had set, we retreated to the village to get an early start on sleep since we would be waking early on Saturday to visit neighboring Mono Lake (a ninety-minute drive from the valley). I drifted off with visions of the evening's sky.

It isn't a bad way to fall asleep.

Last week, M and I visited Boston for a few days. She went for work. I went for fun. (Unlike M, I had to pay my way, but if one were keeping score, I think I still came out ahead (not that I'm keeping score).)

On Tuesday, I left San Jose at 9:30 AM, had a four-hour layover in Dallas, and arrived in Boston around 11:30 PM. It wasn't the ideal way to go, but it was the least expensive way. During the flight and downtime in Dallas, I managed to get some work done (unofficially, of course), so the day wasn't a complete loss.

M arrived in Boston early the next morning and after she got settled in, we ventured over to Newbury Street, which was only two blocks away from our hotel. We were only across the street from the Boston Public Library, in the heart of Copley Place.

The highlight of our Newbury exploration was the discovery of the Life Is Good flagship store (a.k.a. Jake's House). I showed some restraint and only bought a cap. It says "Get Lost" and was 30% off.

The rest of the day was spent wandering through Chinatown and the Seaport District (where M's conference was happening).

That evening, we ate at Legal Sea Foods and Palm Restaurant (early dinner and late appetizers). (I'd recommend Legal over Palm any day.)

Thursday was my favorite day of the trip. I walked down Boylston Street, past the Berklee College of Music and Back Bay Fens, to visit historic Fenway Park. It was my first time there. I can't claim to be a lifelong Red Sox fan, but I've been a big fan ever since my first trip to Boston in 1993. (I was an impressionable 19-year-old, which seemed old then, but hardly seems so now.)

During my subsequent visits to the city, it was either not baseball season or the Red Sox weren't in town, so I never got to see them play at Fenway. This was the first time when they and I were in Boston at the same time, so I wanted to make the most of it.

To start things off, I took a tour of the park. Tours are $12 a person and they start on the hour (between 9 AM and 4 PM during the season). I caught the noontime tour and it was packed. Our group numbered in the fifties.

Our tour guide was an elderly gentleman named Steve. He must have been in his sixties, but he had the energy of a man decades younger. He told plenty of silly jokes, but also plenty of great stories about Fenway. A place can be saturated with all of the natural beauty and historical significance in the world, but they only represent two dimensions. To make it real, to bring it to life requires stories told by somebody who knows and loves it deeply. Steve was that somebody for Fenway. By the end of hour together, he and the park held a special place in my heart.

The park was built in 1912. The wall in left field, a.k.a. the Green Monster, was built in 1934 by the owner, Mr. Yawkey. He built it after receiving complaints about broken windows from neighbors and discovering fans peeking over the then ten-foot wall to watch the games for free. It's 37-feet high and 230-feet long. The seats atop the wall have been there for four years and there are 275 of them.

The red seat in right field stands marks the spot where the longest home run in Fenway history landed. Ted Williams hit it in 1946. The seat is roughly 502-feet from home plate.

The scoreboard is one of three manually-operated boards in the country . The same two guys have been running it for thirteen years. Over that time, they only missed one game. (One was getting married. The other was his best man.)

Fenway has the shortest home run (302 feet to right) and the longest home run (420 feet to center). The right field foul pole is called Pesky's Pole, named after Johnny Pesky who hit 12 home runs in 12 years, just past that pole.

Steve told us that last story as we sat atop the Green Monster. From there, we got to sit on the oldest, most uncomfortable seats in the park. Personally, they are fine to look at, not to sit on.

By the time the tour wrapped up, I only had enough time to walk back to the hotel to grab a jacket before walking back to the park to wait in line for day-of-the-game tickets. I didn't even have time to stop at the gigantic Apple store on Boylston.

Getting in line four hours before the game was good enough to get a chance to buy premium standing room tickets on the left field roof (not ideal, but still tickets).

From there, we saw the Red Sox pummel the Texas Rangers 10 - 0, thanks to an amazing nine-run second inning and stellar pitching by Daisuke Matsuzaka.

Friday started with breakfast at Finagle a Bagel. M had to prepare for her conference, so I took the T to Stony Brook for a tour of the Sam Adams Brewery, which is free and includes, besides a lesson about beer brewing, actual beer tasting.

After the tour, I met up with M and tagged along to her conference, spending the rest of the afternoon at the convention center. Later, we had dinner at the Bull and Finch Pub (a.k.a. Cheers).

On Saturday, I only had enough time to pack before having to hop on the T to the airport. I left Boston at 11:30 AM, made stops in St. Louis and Santa Ana, and touched down in San Jose around 5:30 PM.

And that was my Boston trip.

The itinerary for our first full day in London was tight. The plan was to ride the London Eye, take a cruise down the Thames, and visit the Tower of London, the Tower Bridge, and St. Paul's Cathedral. Luckily for us, the day didn't go as planned.

What threw us off was what I hadn't done the night before, namely, I hadn't set an alarm. We were on vacation after all. In my head, I envisioned shutting my eyes at midnight and opening them at 8:00. Eight hours of sleep instead of the usual six? How decadent! Unfortunately, I forgot to factor in that we had just been up for 32 hours straight (7 AM Wednesday morning to 3 PM Thursday afternoon, Pacific Time).

When I opened my eyes the next morning, something felt off. It was my internal clock. The traveling and the time change had knocked it out of kilter. With apprehension, I checked my watch, my phone, and the room's clock. All of them said 10:30. Our reservations for the Eye were for 10:00.

I calmly woke M, brewed two cups of coffee, and then proceeded to freak out. "We've lost three hours! What if they don't let us on? What if I can't get a refund? Augh!" Luckily, my moment of melodrama passed.

We raced to the Tube, made the two necessary transfers, and walked briskly across the bridge from the Westminster station to the Eye. When the person at the ticket counter took my printed confirmation sheet and handed me two tickets without a glance or question, I realized I had stressed out for no reason.

The London Eye, built as part of the millennium celebration, is a giant ferris wheel overlooking the River Thames. Instead of benches, it has large egg-shaped glass capsules. Each can hold twenty people without them bruising each other's ribs with their elbows. It's a carnival ride with class. A standard "flight" (they're too good to be called rides, apparently) will set you back £14. While I was online, I contemplated purchasing the champagne flight, but champagne at ten in the morning and 440 feet above the ground didn't seem prudent.

A trip on the Eye lasts approximately thirty minutes. The wheel rotates so slowly, the operators can load and unload passengers while it's moving. The most impressive view of the city is near the top, but one gets great views throughout the flight.

Afterwards, we crossed the bridge and boarded a City Cruises boat for a ride along the River Thames. We got the Red Rover ticket (£10, but "free" with London Pass (LP)), which allows unlimited use of the boat for the day.

We took the cruise from the Westminster Pier to the Tower Pier. Seats on the boat were unassigned. A clear shell offered protection from the wind while still providing a view of the river (an impossible-to-photograph view thanks to abundant water stains). Snacks and beverages were available for purchase towards the boat's stern. One of the crew members acted as a voluntary tour guide, pointing out the notable ships, bridges, and buildings, including London's uniquely shaped city hall.

At the end of the cruise, our guide reiterated the voluntary nature of his narrative and casually mentioned the tip jar he would be holding as he and his crew mates helped us from the boat. I didn't have anything smaller than a five-pound note and it seemed wrong to make change from the tip jar, so it was an awkward disembarkation involving a lot of eye contact avoidance and mumbled thank yous.

Because of our late start, we decided to visit the Tower of London and the Tower Bridge another day and head straight to St. Paul's Cathedral. To reach it, we took the Thames Path, a scenic footpath along the riverbank. The section we walked was only lightly used, making it one of the most relaxing and peaceful places in the city.

We were soon at St. Paul's Cathedral, whose impressive exterior doesn't begin to hint at the magnificence of its interior. Christopher Wren, the architect, started design of St. Paul's in 1669. After several rejected drafts, a final design was agreed upon in 1675. Construction began June 1677 and was completed October 1708.

While we were touring the cathedral (£10 admission, "free" with LP), one of the canons approached the pulpit on the dome dais and asked us to pause and join him in prayer. In the moment it took to say amen, lift my head, and open my eyes, I came to realize and appreciate Wren's grand design. The feeling that I was standing in a truly holy place was palpable.

The most incredible feature of the church is its dome. After walking the length of the nave and quire, we took the stairs and climbed 259 steps to the Whispering Gallery, which offers a magnificent view of the paintings and sculptures that adorn the dome's interior. From there, we climbed another 117 steps to the Stone Gallery, which provided a beautiful view of the city.

Clambering up another 154 steps, we reached the Golden Gallery, which also offered wondrous views, but was too cramped and crowded to enjoy.

On the way up, we came across a six-inch porthole that gave us a bird's-eye view of the cathedral floor, more than 250-feet below.

Before leaving the cathedral, we grabbed a bite to eat at the Crypt Cafe, which is literally located in the crypt beneath the church. It was the strangest place I've ever eaten a ham and cheese sandwich.

We then wandered down Fleet Street and The Strand until we reached the Covent Garden Market and Piazza. This was the first and nicest shopping area we saw in London.

A while later, we ventured over to the Covent Garden station to meet L, M's friend who lives in London. It's a popular meeting spot. Everybody seemed to be waiting for somebody. After a few false starts, we spotted L, who took us to nearby pub called Maxwell's. Because I was set on trying beers I wouldn't normally find on an American menu, I had a Kronenbourg.

After eating what could be best described as nondescript food, we wandered towards the Thames and stopped in at The Wellington, a pub near the Waterloo Bridge. That's where I tried my first Stella and resisted the urge to yell out the name like an idiot.

After the sun set, L took us across the Waterloo Bridge and showed us the amazing night view of London.

We parted ways at the Waterloo station and returned to our hotel via the Tube. All in all, it turned out to be a great day in London. Thank goodness for days that don't go as planned.

Our trip to London started in San Francisco two weeks ago, on a Wednesday afternoon.

To avoid the nightmare of making connections, we took a direct flight. We left on time and were in the air for ten hours. During the flight, they served us two meals (dinner and lunch).

I think I slept all of thirty minutes on the plane. I was excited about the trip and too captivated by the entertainment available on the tiny screen embedded in the headrest in front of me to nap. There were more than 45 movies to choose from. I immediately dove in and watched Elizabeth (a destination-appropriate historical drama), The Chronicles of Narnia, I Am Legend (at 2x speed), and Hitman (Timothy Olyphant bald and bar coded? Bizarre).

Once we were at a low enough altitude, the view from my window became infinitely more interesting than the television.

By the time we deplaned at Heathrow's new Terminal 5, it was Thursday morning. (London is eight hours ahead of California.)

To avoid the nightmare of checked luggage, we packed light. M had a duffel bag and purse. I had a backpack and small messenger bag. We would be spending 10 days and 9 nights in London and Paris, but we only carried enough clothing for 3 days. We also came prepared to do laundry every other night or so.

We wove through the terminal by escalator, stairs, shuttle, and elevator until we reached the Underground. Because I had purchased Oyster cards a few weeks before the trip, we were able to hop right on the Tube without the hassle of buying tickets. (Each card had £20 on it.)

Oyster cards are similar to BART's EZ Rider cards. To enter or exit a station, one only has to wave the card over the disk at the fare gate. Unlike the BART card, it's a great money saver. Instead of paying a £4 cash fare for a single ride on the Tube, we only paid £1.50. It also had the added benefit of a 24-hour-period price cap. We could ride the Tube all day and the most it would cost was £6.50.

The ride into the city was long (roughly 50 minutes), but comfortable. The most amusing memory from that first ride was listening to the recorded announcements. In her ultra-pleasant voice, the announcer told us what line we were on, where the train was terminating, and what stop was coming up. She also warned us to mind the gap (between the train and platform). The warning wasn't repeated often; it was repeated ridiculously often. I was soon cracking up every time I heard it. On a sad note, the woman who recorded the announcements was fired last November for criticizing the Tube.

The train was relatively empty until we reached Acton Town. From then on, it was consistently packed (another reason I was glad we were traveling light). Two long escalator rides later (the Piccadilly Line is deeper in the earth than the Mines of Moria), we were standing in the center of Piccadilly Circus.

Our first stop was the Britain and London Visitor Centre on Regent Street, where we picked up our London Passes. If we visited half of the places on my spreadsheet, the pass would save us several pounds. (At the time, one pound equaled $1.97.)

From there, we went to our hotel. Even though we weren't carrying a lot, we were carrying more than the typical Londoner, so we thought it best to unload our bags before sightseeing. By this time, it was 13:00, two hours before our official check-in time. We figured if our room wasn't ready, the hotel might at least store our bags until we returned.

While it would have been easier to hop back on the Tube, I thought it would be more fun to walk and get a feel for the city. We had been sitting for hours and my legs needed a stretch. I pulled out what would become my trusty pocket map and tried my best to navigate London's streets.

We crossed the roaring rapids of motor traffic (look right!), drifted by the statues, monuments, and fountains of Trafalgar Square, and let the current of pedestrians carry us down the Strand and Kingsway, until we reached the safe harbor of our accommodations on High Holborn.

It was all nearly too much for me -- the number of people, the height of the buildings, the narrowness of the streets, the speed at which everybody moved. I didn't realize just how anxious the city had made me until we stepped into the hotel lobby, where I felt instant relief. I could finally stop and breathe without being rushed, brushed, or shoved. (Luckily, it didn't take long to get acclimated to the crowd or speed of the city. By Day 2, I was at ease.)

The feeling of relief grew when we learned we could check in. We dropped our bags off and took a quick tour of our modest-sized room. Besides the typical bedroom/bathroom setup, we had a kitchenette, which came with an electric kettle, microwave, refrigerator, stove top, and dishwasher. How they fit it all into such a tiny alcove still befuddles me. The cabinets were fully stocked with dishes (including a pan and drainer), while the drawers were stocked with eating and cooking utensils. Paranoid, we inspected everything to make sure it was clean.

From the hotel, we took the Tube to Embankment, a station along the River Thames. The ride involved a transfer, but thanks to smartly placed maps, signs, and arrows, we were able to make it without trouble. (It was nice to feel comfortable with the transit system my second time through.)

A peaceful walk along the Thames brought us to the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben. The lighting was poor, but I tried my best to photograph the clock tower.

I also got a chance to photograph one of the statues on my list: Boadicea. She and her chariot are located at the corner of Westminster Pier.

From there, we circled the parliament building (it was closed to visitors) to reach Westminster Abbey.

Upon entering the church, I was disappointed to learn that photography wasn't allowed inside, but I soon grew to appreciate the restriction. The lack of cameras added to the solemnity and sanctity of the shrine.

After visiting the altar and choir, we slowly toured the various chapels and tombs. Statues and memorials dominated the Abbey. Aristocrats and monks throughout the ages are buried at Westminster. Several monarchs are also entombed there, including Mary I, Elizabeth I, Mary Queen of Scots, Anne of Cleves, three Henrys, and five Edwards. Seeing their names made me wish I had made more of an effort to study my British history.

Just before we reached the tomb of Elizabeth I and the Henry VII Chapel, we came upon the Coronation Chair, which has been used in every crowning ceremony since 1296. The last time it was used was in 1953, for the coronation of Elizabeth II. I still have a hard time wrapping my head around that fact.

We then visited the Poets' Corner, where I had greater success recognizing the names of the buried: Geoffrey Chaucer, Charles Dickens, George Frederick Handel, Rudyard Kipling, and Laurence Olivier.

We took a detour through the Cloisters and visited College Garden, which was refreshingly free from the weight of history. (I love history, but taking in several centuries all at once was too much.)

We returned to visit the nave and found where Charles Darwin, David Livingstone, and Isaac Newton were buried. Afterwards, we took a peek at the gift shop, which seemed absurd and out of place in the context of its surroundings.

From Westminster, we went searching for 10 Downing Street, the home of the Prime Minister. We toddled past the Winston Churchill Museum and through the Horse Guards Parade before coming upon the street, which was gated and closed to the public. Several policemen guarded the entrance, but I caught a glimpse the black front door of the residence. I'm sad to say I didn't spot Gordon Brown. Maybe next time.

After a brief stop at the hotel, we went hunting for dinner. We passed a number of pubs, pizza parlors, and Indian restaurants before settling on a place called Sway, which was quiet compared to the other places we had seen. The interior was dark, but the decor was sophisticated. I found the faux windows amusing.

As soon as we sat down, I knew what I wanted. I ordered the tiger beer battered fish and chunky chips (£7). The fish was tasty. I only wish they had given me more chips because those were the only vegetables on my plate. (The tiny container of mushy peas didn't count.) To complete the meal, I had a pint of Beck's (£3.50) because a glass of wine seemed wrong somehow.

It had been a long day, so we returned to the hotel to shower and sleep. The last thing I remember watching before dozing off was an episode of The Weakest Link. By some minor miracle, Anne Robinson and her creepy wink didn't give me any nightmares and I slumbered peacefully.

Now that we've been there and back again, I feel free to officially mention that we just returned from a week-and-a-half-long trip in London and Paris.

It was something M and I had talked about doing ever since we visited Vienna nearly four years ago. The conversation had begun broadly, while we were still on the plane.

"We have to go back to Europe," I said, or she said, or we might have both said at the same time, still on a traveling high.

Once home, the discussion quickly became a brainstorming session of European countries we wanted to visit. Since neither of us are seasoned international travelers, I suggested we start with a place that didn't require a book of common phrases. Visiting a country with different currency, customs, and culture would be difficult enough without the added challenge of a language barrier. That's how England (generally) and London (specifically) ended up at the top of the list.

I would have been content with only visiting England, but M wasn't keen on the idea of seeing just one country. With the crazy cost of air travel, she thought we should aim for a multinational adventure. That's how France (generally) and Paris (specifically) came to be second on the list.

I agreed to it wholeheartedly since it would finally justify the French classes I took in high school. I wouldn't be able to say much more than, "Pardon, garcon, je voudrais un sandwich au poulet." But at least it would make me feel better about not choosing Spanish like everybody else.

Fresh from Austria, I thought it wouldn't be more than two years before our passports would be inspected and stamped again, but then came M's graduate program, a lack of funds, and a shortage of vacation leave. The desire to travel abroad was relegated to the back burner, left to simmer until conditions were right. In the meantime, weekend getaways would have to satisfy our wanderlust.

Everything finally fell into place two months ago. In the span of a few days, we went from simmer to boil as we purchased plane tickets, booked hotels, and started researching each city in earnest.

Planning the trip was probably the most stressful part of the whole process for me. Trying to figure out what places to see or skip was agonizing. It was also difficult to balance the competing interests of exploration and relaxation.

To make things easier, instead of planning the entire trip together, we each took a city. M was lead in Paris, while I was primary in London. That method worked well and relieved some of the pressure.

Still, the planning process revealed something I didn't know about myself: when it comes to travel itineraries, I'm detail-oriented to a fault.

The Excel spreadsheet I created had more rows and columns than I'd care to admit. It included admission prices (in dollars and pounds), map coordinates, nearest underground stations, hours of operation (each day of the week), and page references (for both books: Eyewitness Travel and Lonely Planet). Besides landmarks, churches, and museums, it included statues (Boadicea, Wellington), famous streets (The Strand), and famous stores (Harrods). I didn't realize the extent of my need for detail until I printed it. The endless grid came as a nasty shock. Apparently, my ability to wing things isn't as strong as I'd like to believe.

Because I'm not a savvy world traveler, every new place I visit leaves an embarrassingly deep impression on me. It's silly, really, but I fall in love with everywhere I go. Salzburg? Smitten. London? Lovely. Paris? Paradise! Vienna? Vonderful! I'm a complete dork when it comes to globe trekking. I would make a horrible travel guide, which is why I strongly discourage people from using the travelogue I plan to write and post in the coming days as a planning tool.

Today is my first day back at work. It's also my first day back at blogging, which is my excuse for the rambling nature of this entry. My head is still spinning from the trip (due to either the incredible experience I had or the jet lag -- it's hard to say which). The spinning sensation isn't helped by my inbox, mailbox, and RSS feed reader. All are overflowing.

I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed and I have a feeling I'll be walking around for the next few days with a giant question mark floating above my head, asking the same thing over and over, "Now, where was I?" So, please, pardon me while I get back into the swing of things. It will happen, I promise... eventually.

For those just tuning in, it's 2008. I know. It came as a rather nasty surprise to me, too. One minute, at roughly 10:02 PM, it was 2007. The next minute, at exactly 7:27 AM, it was 2008. I thought I would be wide awake when we leaped into the new leap year, but the God of Sleep (and General Napping) had other plans, apparently.

I thought I would use this first post of the new year to briefly recount what I did during the last week of last year. To keep it brief, but interesting, I will limit myself to a bullet point summary.

• December 26 - Drove to Anaheim to visit M's friend and wander through Downtown Disney. (After a week in Disney World earlier this year, I was Disneyed out and didn't need to set foot in Disneyland.)
• December 27 - Visited Palm Springs and hiked in nearby Indian Canyons (more about that in a separate entry).
• December 28 - Drove home and succumbed to the will of the God of Sleep (and General Napping). Fourteen hours of driving over a three-day period (a sizable chunk through Los Angeles) was physically and emotionally draining. I don't think I could survive living in Southern California.
• December 29 - Pottered around the house and performed many domestic chores.
• December 30 - Drove to Yosemite. Explored and played in the snow-covered valley.
• December 31 - Spent New Year's Eve snowshoeing near Badger Pass (more about that in a separate entry, too). After an exhausting day, surrendered to the God of Sleep (and General Napping) two hours before the stroke of midnight.
• January 1, 2008 - Tried to avoid the drive home, but eventually did, due to a sense of obligation to work and the cat, but mostly the cat. (She expects to be fed daily and doesn't believe in sick days. She also has claws.)

On Sunday, we traveled to Nevada City, CA, a town roughly sixty miles northeast of Sacramento, to experience the town's fabled Victorian Christmas, an annual celebration entering it's thirtieth year.

For five days in December, the town's historic district travels back in time. The streets are filled with vendors, carolers, and musicians dressed in period clothing.

Cars disappear and horse-drawn carriages take their places.

Even Santa Claus undergoes a transformation and becomes St. Nicholas or Father Christmas. (I wish I had gotten a photo of him, but I only had my iPhone and he has always been a fast-moving fellow.)

The magical effect of time travel was helped by the fact that Nevada City still resembles an old gold mining town. Its most modern building is city hall, with its art deco facade.

The drive to Nevada City was a smooth one. From Sacramento, we took Highway 80 East, towards Reno, and cut over to Highway 49, near Auburn. That took us north through Grass Valley and dropped us right off at Broad Street, the main thoroughfare of the historic district. While the town offers a shuttle for a nominal fee ($2), we opted to find our own parking and walk to the event.

Although part of event felt like the typical weekend art and wine festival, I was still taken with the town's holiday transformation, charm, and sense of community. I wonder what the place feels like during the rest of the year. It might be worth another trip.

If you or future me should ever plan to visit Victorian Christmas, here are a few tips:

• Make sure to verify the times of the celebration. This year it was only held on three Wednesday evenings and two Sunday afternoons in December.
• Be prepared for cold weather. It was chilly while we were there and I was thankful to have my jacket, hat, and gloves.
• Remember to bring a camera. (Do you hear that, future me?)
• Suspend disbelief and enjoy it. There will always be one or two killjoys who will point out every anachronism, but don't let them ruin it for you. It's Christmas. Even cynicism needs a holiday every now and then.

This weekend, M & I visited Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks. Unlike last weekend's trip, which was spontaneous, this trip was planned well in advance, so we were able to reserve a room at the Wuksachi Lodge, two miles from Lodgepole, Sequoia's main visitor center. Considering Saturday's nighttime temperature dipped to 16 degrees Fahrenheit, I was happy to have a warm place to sleep.

One of the things I wanted to do while at the parks was visit the General Grant Tree in the Grant Grove area of Kings Canyon. In addition to being the third largest living thing in the world, the General Grant Tree is also "The Nation's Christmas Tree". To celebrate this designation, a local chamber of commerce has led a pilgrimage to the tree and held a ceremony at its base on the second Sunday of December every year since 1926.

Since we wouldn't be able to attend the official pilgrimage and ceremony, I thought it would be cool to do our own "Trek to the Tree", perhaps with something symbolizing the spirit of Christmas.

Of course, this idea only occurred to me as we were driving to the park on Friday, somewhere between Los Banos and Clovis. The odds of finding a store selling simple decorations seemed slim. Unless Lady Luck blessed us with a Christmas miracle, ours would be one sad little trek.

By the time we entered Fresno, I had given up all hope. We hadn't seen one convenience store along the way. I was positive Lady Luck was ignoring us.

That's when M suddenly pointed and said, "Hey, look, there's a Dollar Tree!" Those dingy green block letters never looked so good.

Four dollars and thirty-three cents later, we had a 15-inch wreath, a bag of fake cranberries, and two Santa hats. Some assembly was required, but M did a fine job of decorating the wreath.

For thirty minutes, we had the grove and giant sequoias to ourselves. We took our time wandering along the Grant Tree Trail. It was difficult to walk without stopping and staring up in awe at the colossal trees.

When we reached the General Grant Tree, I placed the wreath on a post in front of it. There weren't choirs singing or balloons on parade or dignitaries making speeches or celebrities lighting trees, but in that moment, without any of the pageantry, it felt like Christmas.

Before we left, we removed the wreath, just in case a ranger came along and thought we were trying to deface a national treasure with cheap decorations.

We drove down Generals Highway, checked into our room, dined at the lodge, and retired early in preparation for the big hike on Saturday.

Since neither of our families were having a traditional Thanksgiving celebration, M and I made a last-minute decision to do a destination Thanksgiving in Yosemite. It had been nearly two months since our last visit and I was eager to see what the park offered during the holidays.

Because of the short notice, I wasn’t able to reserve any of the park's heated units, but I managed to book an unheated tent cabin in Curry Village. With nightly lows dipping below 30 degrees Fahrenheit, it wasn't ideal, but it gave us a chance to see how our sleeping bags (both rated for 15 degrees) withstood the cold.

We reached the park around one o'clock on Thursday. After checking in and unloading the car, I tried to make dinner reservations at Yosemite Lodge's Mountain Room over the phone. They told me I needed to reserve a table in person at the restaurant, so we took a shuttle to the lodge.

Unfortunately, the restaurant was closed. A sign on the door said to call a different number for reservations. This call was more successful. They told me they were booked, but they might be able to squeeze a party of two in at 8:15. I took it.

As we were heading outside, I saw a sign advertising free movie screenings at the Lodge's Cliff Room. They were showing Transformers and Ratatouille over the Thanksgiving weekend.

"Transformers is a profound holiday choice," I told M. "Deep down, it's a movie trying to remind us to be thankful for what we have, because at any given moment, warring alien robots with the ability to transform into anything they want could come and take it all away from us." She just looked at me and shook her head.

After grabbing lunch from Degnan's Deli (my favorite eatery in the park), we returned to see Ratatouille.

I'm going to pause here and say I'm sure somebody is thinking, "Why would you spend ninety minutes in a dark room, watching a movie, when you're in a beautiful place like Yosemite? Shouldn't you be outside, exploring and seeing the sights?"

My initial response is a guilt-ridden, "Yes, you're right." My ultimate response, though, is, "I'm grateful to be living as close as I do to Yosemite that I don't feel like I'm missing out on something or wasting time if I'm not out spending every second of daylight seeing the sights."

I'm sorry for being so defensive. Opinionated hypothetical people aggravate me.

After watching the movie (and falling in love with it again), my stomach was growling. (Who knew digital food could look so delectable?) Our tentative reservations were more than two hours away and I didn't think I could make it.

Without mincing words, I told M, "I don't think I can make it."

Luckily, the Mountain Room Lounge was serving a Thanksgiving meal that didn't require reservations and it was right next door to the Cliff Room. For twenty dollars, the meal included turkey with cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, vegetables, and pumpkin pie.

It wasn't as elaborate as the multi-course feasts at Ahwahnee, Wawona, and Mountain Room ($86, $32, and $28 a person, respectively), but it was in the spirit of the holiday and closer to our price range.

The Lounge was packed, but we found a table quickly. The service was fair and the food was only standard (the turkey was on the dry side), but it was still a pleasant Thanksgiving experience. (I was particularly impressed with the Swedish fireplace in the center of the room.)

Afterwards, we caught a shuttle back to Curry. I showered in the newly remodeled shower house where the water was actually hot (such a luxury). Clean and warm, I raced back to the tent cabin and hopped into my sleeping bag, which did a fine job of keeping me cozy during the cold, cold night.

When I awoke the next morning, I felt fully rested and ready to hike to Dewey Point.

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.

Friday was an impatient kid in the backseat of Mr. and Mrs. Weekend's minivan repeatedly asking, "Are we there yet?"

Saturday was the hysterical mother screaming, "Do you want a time-out? Do you? Ask that one more time and I... Okay, that's it, I'm pulling over! Five-minute time-out!"

Sunday was the matter-of-fact father saying over the cheering child, "See, if we had left him at the kennel like I suggested, there'd be no need to tie him to the roof rack."

That was my weekend - a blue Ford Aerostar speeding down the highway at 85 miles per hour. It just flew by.

M and I were in Yosemite from Friday through Sunday. The weekend after Labor Day is the time to go. Temperatures may be on the high side, but the number of visitors drops precipitously, at least the number of American visitors does.

The park had a definite international flavor this weekend. I heard no less than half-a-dozen languages spoken. In order of popularity, Spanish, German, English, and Japanese were the languages of choice.

An observational aside: Spanish-speaking visitors seemed to stay close to camp, large families hanging near the river and picnic sites. German-speaking visitors were often rugged young men who looked like they had spent days climbing or backpacking and were making a quick stop at the village store for supplies before heading back for more.

The big adventure on Friday was climbing to the base of Lower Yosemite Fall. It's the second time I've done it.

Last time, dozens of people were crawling over boulders and jumping into pools. This time, there were only two other guys bounding about. For a while, I had the entire waterfall to myself (if you don't count the mosquitoes).

From a distance, the waterfall appears to have dried up, but a closer look reveals the truth. Yosemite Falls continues to trickle like a giant leaky granite faucet.

Climbing in the waterfall is both fun and infuriating to me. It's fun because, well, it's like playing in a giant playground that has failed a safety inspection. Scampering over boulders large enough to crush you and everybody in your fave five is more than half the fun. Technically, it's 65% of the fun. The other 35% is the part where you survive the scampering unscathed.

It's infuriating because while I'm hopping from boulder to boulder, I come across discarded trash. People leave behind empty drink bottles, wrappers, socks, and other items. They treat what is one of the wonders of the world like a garbage bin. It's maddening to see.

I picked up whatever would fit in my backpack to recycle when I got back to the viewing bridge. It's apparent that some people still haven't gotten the concept of Leave No Trace through their heads. If I could, I would make the litterbugs spend a day picking up trash in the park.

On Saturday, I hiked to the top of North Dome by way of Upper Yosemite Fall. It was a 16.5-mile round-trip trek with views almost worth every step and slip. (A few less slips and it would have been completely worth it.) An entry packed with special features like words and photos will be up tomorrow.

Sunday was a day for relaxing and recovering. We moseyed around the valley and pretended to be posh at The Ahwahnee (as posh as one can be in hiking shorts and Tevas) before finally surrendering and returning the demands of the "real world" beyond the park's borders.

From Friday through Sunday, we were visiting Chandler, Arizona. Chandler makes up the southeastern portion of the greater Phoenix glob. (During the other three seasons of the year, it's an area, but during the summer, the heat melts the neighboring municipalities into one big, sticky glob.)

We flew out of San Jose on Friday morning. It took two minutes to get through security, which was disappointing. The last few times I flew, security pulled me out of line just to say hello and search my belongings before sending me on my way fifteen minutes later. It passed the time and made me feel special. This time, I actually had a chance to eat a cheese egg mit from Noah's Bagels, drink coffee, and relax before boarding. It made me edgy. I almost went back to the checkpoint to ask them to search my backpack anyway, just to calm my nerves.

Because the point of the trip was more to visit friends than to see the sights, we didn't do a lot of wandering. They're a young family with a two-year-old and a one-month-old and since they had already been so kind to invite us to stay with them, we didn't want to burden them with entertaining us as well. We just tried to be low-key and undemanding in an effort to make the weekend as much of a vacation as possible for everybody.

As soon as we were out of the airport, my camera was out and snapping shots of the local scenery. This was one of the first photos...

After dropping off our backpacks at the house, we had brunch at Brunchies, a country kitchen establishment that is famous for its American and Mexican style breakfasts. What it should be famous for is the talking horse's head mounted on the wall. The thing freaked me out. Fortunately, it didn't start babbling until after I had finished my Brunchies Omelet (a three-egg omelet with cheese, avocado, and bacon).

That evening, M and I cooked cheese raviolis covered with ground turkey and tomato sauce. After dinner, I received a refresher course in toddler endurance. I've never seen a child push a train around a track so many times without tiring or losing interest. His enjoyment never flagged. By the time he was done, I was choo-choo-ed out and ready for a good long nap.

On Saturday, we visited Phoenix's Desert Botanical Garden ($10 per person). Thanks to thunderstorms the night before and that morning, temperatures were only in the nineties, a welcome relief from the previous day's 100+ high.

The garden, located in Papago Park, features cactus, succulents, wildflowers, and other plants that thrive in the desert, more specifically, the Sonoran Desert, which extends from Mexico, through Arizona and California, and into Baja California. My favorite plants were the octopus cactus, teddy bear cactus, and saguaro cactus. The first two are pictured below...

The garden also featured Childhood Dreams, a living sculpture by Patrick Dougherty.

Afterwards, we ate lunch at Aunt Chilada's, where I had a two-enchilada plate (shredded chicken and shredded beef).

We then drove to Dobbin's Lookout in South Mountain Park (free). It's a popular spot (easily accessible by car) that offers a magnificent view of the greater Phoenix glob.

On certain Sundays (called Silent Sundays), the roads inside the park are closed to vehicles. Only hikers, runners, cyclists, and equestrians are allowed full access. It's a great concept. I wish I had seen it in effect. Actually, it would be great if they enforced it seven days a week. The crowd at the lookout would have been a third of the size and there would have been less litter. It's sad to see empty soda cans and water bottles strewn across the mountain landscape. After seeing a teenager drop his empty bottle on the ground, I was tempted to toss it (and the rest of the litter) into his car. Instead, I surreptitiously dumped it in a garbage can.

For dinner, we had barbecued chicken and hot dogs. Afterwards, we watched an entertaining episode (or three) of The Backyardigans. Then, after the little ones had gone to bed, I watched 300, one of bloodiest and most melodramatic green screen movies I've ever seen. If I had my way, I would have added a penguin named Pablo and had the Spartans sing "The Worman Polka" (Yip yip yip!).

On Sunday, we drove thirty miles southeast to the town of Coolidge and visited Casa Grande Ruins National Monument ($5 per person), the location of an ancient agrarian community of people known as the Hohokams. The Casa Grande, or "great house", is one of the largest Hohokam structures still standing. The four-story building is over 700 years old and is now protected by steel roof.

We spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing and spending time with our friends. They kindly dropped us off at the airport and we caught our flight home without trouble or "special" treatment (darn you, TSA!). When we got home, I had just enough energy to empty my backpack, dump my dirty clothes in the washing machine, shower, and jump into bed.

The next time I visit Arizona, I hope to go during the spring or fall. I also hope to stay longer. A road trip through the state would be ideal. There is the Grand Canyon still to see, as well as Canyon de Chelly and the Petrified Forest. In the Phoenix area, I'd like to see a Spring Training game or at least watch the Diamondbacks play. It could also be fun to visit Rawhide (a western theme park) and couple of genuine ghost towns. In any case, it's a state I want to see again.

Finally, I leave you with a parting shot from Casa Grande Ruins...

You can see more photos here...

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 wrote this last Friday, but forgot to post it.

In the United States, there are 388 national parks. Of those, I have visited 14 (12 in California, 2 in Hawaii). Of those 14, there are four I'd like to visit again (Haleakala, Kings Canyon, Sequoia, and Yosemite). That leaves 374 left to explore. Even if I were to travel to 12 a year (one per month), it would take 31years and 2 months to visit every park. I imagine it's possible to cut that time down if I were to plan trips to particular regions to maximize the number of parks I saw.

To make this potentially monumental undertaking more manageable, it would be helpful to prioritize which parks I wanted to see first. It would also be helpful to set a few constraints. Let's stick with 2007 and California for the time being.

1. Lassen Volcanic National Park
2. Whiskeytown National Recreational Area
3. Joshua Tree National Park
4. Death Valley National Park
5. Channel Islands National Park

It could be possible to combine Lassen and Whiskeytown in one trip during the summer. The Channel Islands might be neat in the summer as well. Then, later in the fall, when temperatures are cooler, a combined Joshua Tree/Death Valley trip sounds feasible.

All of this is still in the early fuzzy phase of planning. Anything and everything could change. Right now, it's just fun to think about it. In the next couple of weeks, I should do some research on those parks to see what is possible and what is practical.

If you'll bear with me, I would like to finish what I started. After we left Santa Rosa, we puttered north on Highway 101, headed east on Mark West Springs Road until we reached Calistoga, and headed south on St. Helena Highway.

We passed Bothe-Napa Valley State Park, a place I would like to visit next time we're in the neighborhood. Hiking in the morning and wine-tasting in the afternoon? There could be worse ways to spend the day.

Since it was quickly becoming evening, we headed straight for V. Sattui Winery, one of the few wineries that offers free tastings. (Actually, we stopped by Beringer Vineyards first, five minutes before they closed and were tersely turned away, so we kept going.)

After sampling a few wines, we continued south to American Canyon. We stayed at a brand new hotel called Gaia Napa Valley Hotel and Spa It is one of California's first green (or eco-friendly) hotels, which means it was designed and constructed with environmental sustainability in mind. What that means is that during design, the architect focused intensively on issues like sustainable site development, water and energy efficiency, and material selection.

Being green also means the hotel management focuses on ways to make their operations more environmentally-friendly. This means things like low flow showers and toilets, energy efficient air conditioners, recycling receptacles, bulk soap and shower dispensers, and chemical free landscaping. I was quite impressed with their list of green features.

It was by pure coincidence that we stayed during the hotel's grand opening weekend. The upside was that nothing had been used yet. I think we were the first ones to stay in our room. The downside was that certain amenities (like the restaurant) weren't open yet.

My favorite parts of the hotel would have to be the swan in the lagoon...

And the gauges in the lobby showing carbon dioxide emissions and electricity and water usage...

That evening, we dined at La Strada. The food and wine were delicious, but the service was only okay. Next time, it would be interesting to try one of the Italian restaurants in downtown Napa.

On Saturday, we got a late start on the morning and decided to visit a winery that was more out of the way, so we ventured over to Andretti Winery, which was founded by famous race car driver, Mario Andretti.

Afterwards, we headed east to take a leisurely drive on the Silverado Trail. At some point, we cut back over to St. Helena Highway and stopped by Cakebread Cellars only to discover that we needed an appointment to taste their wines (a minor detail repeated on their website, which is why it's good to do your research beforehand, children).

Feeling shunned by the world of wine, we drove to Napa to enjoy a midday meal at Gillwoods Cafe, where they serve breakfast all day. I had the Gillwoods Scramble and a big mug of coffee to cleanse my palate of any wine residue.

We wandered around Napa and St. Helena that afternoon, stopped by Trader Joe's to pick up an inexpensive dinner we could eat back at the hotel (thank goodness for microwaves), and resisted the urge to venture out for the rest of the evening.

Here's one of the buildings I photographed while in downtown St. Helena...

On Sunday, we did many mundane things that now escape my memory. The most exciting thing that happened that day didn't take place until that evening. We saw Blue October perform at The Fillmore. I first saw them play in San Jose nearly four years ago.

The opening act was good, but all of their songs seemed to sound alike, except for their inspired cover of Radiohead's "High and Dry". Blue October, though, was pure energy and unforgettable. My favorite songs from the evening include "You Make Me Smile", "Into the Ocean", "Overweight", and "X Amount of Words".

At the end of the night, they gave away these free posters...

And that's that.

M had spring break last week and I had Friday off, so we took advantage of the long weekend to visit Santa Rosa and Napa Valley.

The point of visiting Santa Rosa was to stop in at the Charles M. Schulz Museum. I first visited it four or five years ago, when it first opened, and I had been wanting to return.

We arrived at the museum in the early afternoon. The traffic on the main roads around the museum were busy, but the museum itself was quiet, which meant we wouldn’t have to fight crowds to enjoy the exhibits. By the way, for those who might want to visit, admission is $8 per person.

The first thing I spotted when I got out of the car was the giant version of Snoopy's house in the lot next door. It serves as the information kiosk for the adjacent baseball field complex.

The museum is housed in a two-story building across the street from Snoopy's Home Ice, the Warm Puppy Cafe, and Snoopy's Gallery & Gift Shop. I didn't take a picture of the museum's front, but I did take one of its back.

The first floor of the museum is home to two permanent installations and two rotating exhibits. Both installations were created by Yoshiteru Otani, a Japanese artist. One is a massive wood sculpture called "Morphing Snoopy". It is 9.5 feet tall and 26 feet long. It also weighs 7,000 pounds, which means it must have been fun trying to hang. I have trouble hanging simple picture frames. I'm wondering how many people it took to get it up there and who was the lucky one who stood far back and said, "I think it needs to be a little higher on the left. No, your other left."

While the sculpture was impressive, I liked the tile mural more. It is 17 feet wide and 22 feet high and consists of 3,588 different Peanuts strips printed on 2" × 8" ceramic tiles.

These were the only two indoor exhibits we were allowed to photograph. Everything else was off limits.

The two rotating exhibits included Peanuts Lives: A Tribute to Charles M. Shulz and Changing Seasons. The tribute featured the work of other cartoonists. Some of the more familiar strips included Cathy, Garfield, Bloom County, and Beetle Bailey. They also had political cartoons on display. It was interesting to see how cartoonists used familiar images (Charlie Brown's futile attempts to kick the football, the kite-eating tree, etc.) to get across their point. Overall, it was incredible to see the influence Schulz had on other artists.

There were many quotes on the wall, but two stand out most in my mind. One was by Bill Watterson, who praised Schulz's "graphic shorthand and stylistic economy". The other was by an artist whose name escapes me at the moment. He compared reading Schulz's strips to reading a haiku. I'm sure that comparison has been made by others about other comic strips, but it does seem especially appropriate to Peanuts.

The other exhibit featured Peanuts through the seasons. I think I've always been aware of the cyclical nature of the strip - baseball in spring, camp in summer, school and football in the fall, and snow in the winter, but I never really stopped to observe it.

The upper floor featured the obligatory biographical exhibit complete with a time line and trophy cases. It also featured a replica of the studio where Schulz drew Peanuts every day.

After visiting the museum, we went across the street to visit the gift shop, which has some artwork of its own on display...

After getting a couple of small souvenirs, we dropped by the Warm Puppy Cafe for some coffee before getting back on the road and continuing on to Napa.

The final thing I'll leave you with is the sketch I drew at the museum. On the second floor, there's a classroom where anybody can go in and try their hand at drawing. I grabbed a book called How to Draw Peanuts and this was the result...

I apologize for not writing about the final part of the Solvang trip we took two weeks ago. Just to refresh your memory (and mine), a couple of weekends ago, we drove down Highway 1, visited Hearst Castle, and reached Solvang, my favorite Danish town in California.

When we arrived, we checked into the hotel and then did a little wandering before it got too dark. To help visitors with poor memories, the town hangs bright red banners on the lampposts as reminders.

1. I just wasn't very attentive the last time I visited
2. In the past few years, Denmark has grown extremely fond of wine.
3. Local wineries and the town are attempting to capitalize on Sideways.

One of the reasons I love Solvang is the architecture. The timber framing, the thatched roofs, and the windmills all help to solidify the town's identity and heritage. I especially like the windmills. There are at least three in town. We passed this one on the way to dinner.

We ate at Meadows Restaurant where I tried a Danish smorgasbord, which included meatballs, sausages, potatoes, carrots, and more.

The next day, I got up early, ventured out, and grabbed a morning cup of coffee from Bulldog Cafe. It was so cold outside, one of the fountains down the street was still frozen.

Around midmorning, we ate brunch at my favorite restaurant in Solvang, Paula's Pancake House. They make delicious Danish pancakes. If you eat there, go early because the place fills up fast.

Afterwards, we visited Mission Santa Ines, which is on the edge of town.

Before leaving, we made a quick stop by Nojoqui Falls County Park, just a few miles south, which has a small waterfall at the end of a quarter-mile trail. In January, there is barely a trickle of water, but it didn't matter to me. All I cared about was stretching my legs a little. Even a short walk in nature is good for the soul.

After that, it was time to go. We hopped on Highway 101 and headed home.

1. An introductory tour for first time visitors,
2. a more in depth tour of the upper floors in the main house,
3. a tour of the main house's north wing and one of the three guest houses,
4. a tour of the gardens and grounds,
5. and an evening tour.

We had taken Tour 1 two years ago, so it only seemed natural to take Tour 2 this time around.

During the off-season, the price per adult is $20. The tour lasts approximately 70 minutes, not including the bus ride to and from the castle.

We arrived at the visitor center shortly after eleven o'clock on Saturday morning. When I went up to the ticket booth, I fully expected the woman behind the counter to tell me we would have to wait until noon for the next available tour. (Buses for Tour 2 leave on the hour and twenty minutes after the hour.)

She surprised me when she said, "We have two tickets left for the 11:20 tour. If you can run, well, not run, but walk quickly, they're yours."

I took them without hesitation. As she was waiting for the tickets to print, she said, as though taking me into her confidence, "You know, I'm glad you got these. I don't have any other Tour 2s for the rest of the day."

I thanked her, took the tickets she passed through the window slot, and was just about to thank her again, when she shooed me away by saying, "Go now, through those doors and to the left. Hurry!"

As I said, Tour 2 takes visitors through the upper floors of the castle, also known as Casa Grande, where numerous guest quarters, Hearst's bedroom, and two libraries are located.

The tour began where I believe all of the tours begin - at the Neptune Pool. The pool is usually a brilliant blue, but it was white and empty the day we were there so they could repair a severe leak at the shallow end of the pool (the far end in the photo)...

From the pool, we entered the house...

Of the various guest quarters we saw, my favorite was the Doge's Suite. This is one of the walls in the sitting room...

As we were told repeatedly, the purpose of Hearst Castle was to display the art William Randolph Hearst had collected. In his day, he had earned the reputation and the nickname of The Great Accumulator and it was obvious why. He accumulated everything, not just paintings and statues, but also doors, door frames, door knockers, rugs, walls, and more. He especially liked to collect ceilings...

The upper floors contained two libraries. The larger one (with 4,100 volumes) was available to Hearst's guests...

The other, the gothic study across from his bedroom (holding 3,800 volumes) was for his personal and private use...

I think a dream of mine would be to spend a morning in his study - sitting, drinking coffee, and reading one of the thousands of books in his collection.

I wonder how much that would cost. Let's do some quick math - $20 per person, 12 people per tour, 2 tours per bus ride, 2 bus rides per hour, 2 hours of tours before noon, and tack on a 50% fudge factor. That equals $2,880.

Okay, I might have to put that dream on hold for the time being.

Anyway, let's continue to the last two stops on the tour. After leaving the upper floors, we took a quick peek at the modern kitchen (modern for the 1930s, that is)...

And finished our journey at the Roman Pool, another stop common to most of the tours, I believe...

Once back at the visitor center, we stopped at the gift shop, where I bought an illustrated biography of Hearst, just to learn a little more about the man.

Afterwards, we made a quick detour at Cambria for lunch at The French Corner Bakery, which makes inexpensive, but mouthwatering sandwiches. From there, we didn't stop until we reached Solvang.

Taking advantage of the sunny weather, we got away to Solvang, California this holiday weekend. Instead of driving directly to our destination using Highway 101, we decided to take the more scenic Highway 1 and stop at Hearst Castle in San Simeon along the way before completing our journey.

We left home just before eight on Saturday morning. The sun was out, but hadn't been out long enough to warm anything up. According to the car's temperature gauge, it was in the low to mid-twenties outside.

Traffic was light and grew lighter the further south we went. Once we passed Carmel, we hardly saw anyone else on the road. We saw a few early bird photographers at Carmel River State Beach seeking the perfect shot...

We also saw a few seagulls, but I suspect they were the late risers in the flock. The rest had already flown to the next feeding spot...

Unlike 101, where the point is to get to wherever one needs to be going as fast as possible, the point of Highway 1 is to stop frequently and take plenty of photos, which is what we did.

Every time we saw a uniquely breathtaking view and a turnout, we stopped and took a picture. I now have dozens of nearly identical "uniquely breathtaking" shots of California's central coast and the Pacific Ocean.

Here are a few of the photos I snapped. I wasn't particularly good about noting where I was when I took them, so these may be photos of Point Sur, Salmon Creek, and Ragged Point or they may not...

As we got closer to San Simeon, the traffic grew heavier. Just beyond Piedras Blancas Lighthouse, we pulled over to view the elephant seals. We weren't alone. There was a whole crowd of onlookers, but the number of people didn't compare to the number of elephant seals laying on the beach.

According to one of the nice docents from Friends of the Elephant Seal, the rookery (the term for a group of seals) at our end of the bluff was made up mostly of females and pups.

There were some males present, but most wouldn't be arriving until next week. That's when the beaches would become noisy with activity. In the meantime, the seals were quietly spending their time trying to stay cool (by waving their fins and throwing sand on themselves) in this hot (30 to 40-degree) weather.

Here are two shots of the rookery...

The wind and the cold finally chased us from the beach and we continued on to Hearst Castle, which is only five minutes down the road. We arrived at the visitor center a few minutes after eleven and I will expand on that bit of the trip in the next entry.

Ever since I upgraded Movable Type, I've been having plug-in troubles and template problems. It has been quite an adventure repairing pages, fixing the "repairs" and then trying to repair what was broken in the first place. If something doesn't appear right (beyond the usual nonsense I write), please let me know. I'll try my best to "work the problem" or, if that fails, simply delete it.

I spent this weekend camping and hiking in Sequoia & Kings Canyon National Parks. It was my third visit to the jointly operated parks in four years. Three years ago, we stayed at Grant Grove. Two years ago, we camped at Cedar Grove. To change things up this year, B and I camped at Lodgepole in the Sequoia half of the park.

Since B had to work Friday morning, we left for the park in the afternoon and reached Lodgepole around 5:30 pm. The late arrival was fine except for the fact that the village showers close early in the fall. For whatever reason, they're only open from 9:00 am to 5:45 pm during the off-season.

Why they keep such short hours is a mystery to me. My guess is the rangers have a secret arrangement with the local black bears. In exchange for not eating visitors, the bears receive hot showers every night. Everybody wins. Campers don't get eaten, rangers don't get bad publicity for eaten campers and bears get hot showers on cold nights. And really, isn't it better to have dirty campers than devoured campers?

I suppose the only ones who really lose are the maintenance workers who have to spend the wee hours of the morning cleaning bear hair from the drains. So, to be more accurate, 98% of everybody wins, which isn't bad if you think about it (and you aren't a maintenance worker).

Considering the cost of a hot shower (minimum three dollars for eight minutes), the tight time constraint turned out to be less of an issue than how to obtain three dollars worth of quarters and not accidentally drop one down the drain (with all the bear hair) when trying to feed the shower meter.

After all that fun, we set up camp, ate hot meals around the campfire and went over the game plan for Saturday's big hike before retiring for the night.

(Or "The Tale of the McTeagles")

Since Labor Day, the Ferguson Rock Slide Bypass on Highway 140 has been open 24 hours a day to signaled, one-way traffic. Due to limited space on the opposite side of the river, the bypass has a vehicle length restriction of 28 feet.

As we drove to Yosemite on Friday, I noticed a number of signs posted along the route informing travelers about 140's status and restriction. I also listened to the road condition radio station that looped a message reminding people about the length limitation.

With so many signs and alerts making it nearly impossible for people not to know about the restriction, it only makes sense that we would find ourselves in a line of cars following an SUV towing a long travel trailer on Highway 140.

1. The driver was so focused on driving that he missed the signs, didn't hear the radio and was oblivious to the restriction.
2. The driver knew about the restriction, but believed his SUV and travel trailer were shorter than the stated length.
3. The driver knew about the restriction and knew he was longer than the stated length, but figured he could make it through anyhow.

By the time we reached the stoplight at the bypass, we were ahead of the SUV. (After accumulating a large following, he had finally used a turnout to let his groupies pass.) While we waited, I caught a glimpse of the rockslide and temporary detour.

It was easy to see why Caltrans had a length restriction in effect. Long vehicles would have no trouble getting onto the bridge, but it would be impossible for them to get off. Both the bridge and the roadway were barely wide enough for one vehicle and the turn from one to the other was extremely tight - nearly a ninety-degree angle. Unless we suddenly entered the world of Tron, there was no way a long vehicle could clear the turn without clipping the bridge or the canyon wall.

To make sure traffic flowed smoothly, Caltrans had a road crew stationed to monitor the bypass. One of the workers, wearing an orange vest and white hardhat, walked down the line of vehicles and greeted us as he passed. When he reached the SUV with the travel trailer, he spoke to the driver for a minute and then walked back up the line.

The light finally turned green and we began to making our way across the bridge. In my rearview mirror, I could see the SUV pull off to one side to let the rest of the traffic clear. Although I soon lost sight of what was happening, I envisioned the crew having to shut down the road temporarily to let the SUV execute a u-turn (or, more likely, a 97-point turn). It would then have to return to Mariposa and enter Yosemite through the south entrance using Highway 41, adding at least a few hours to the trip.

As we continued towards the park, I wondered what was going on in the SUV and my imagination supplied the following scene...

[The McTeagle family is on its way to Yosemite. The SUV is packed. The travel trailer is stocked with food and everything they need for a relaxing weekend. Dad is driving, Mom is minding the map and the kids are watching videos on the drop-down screen. They pass an orange road sign with yellow flashing lights.]

Mom: Ewan, did you just see that sign? It said no vehicles longer than 28 feet are allowed on 140.
Dad: I saw it, Lassie. But don't you worry now. We're shorter than that.
Mom: Okay, if you say so.
Kids: Are we there yet?
Mom: Not yet, dears, but we're getting close.

[They soon pass another sign.]

Mom: Are you sure we're less than 28 feet long?
Dad: Yes.
Mom: Did you measure?
Dad: Yes!
Mom: You did?
Dad: No! Who in their right mind measures these things?! We'll be fine. You'll see.
Kids: Are we there yet?
Dad: Almost. Just another hour or two. Maybe three.

[They eventually reach the bypass.]

Worker: I'm sorry, sir, but I'm going to have to ask you to pull over so we can let the others cars through. Your SUV and trailer are too long, so you'll need to turn around and use 41 instead.
[Mom glares at Dad. Dad feigns indignation.]
Dad: What? That's impossible! We can't be longer than 28 feet! I measured!
Worker: You did?
Dad: No! Who in their right mind measures these things?!
Worker: Okay, sir, but I can tell you just from looking that you're too long, so just pull on over and we'll get you set right.
Dad: Can't you make an exception just this once?
Worker: I'm sorry, sir, no can do.
Dad: [sighs deeply and turns to everybody in the SUV, avoiding eye contact with the fiery glare of Lassie] Well, you heard the nice construction worker, kids. I'm sorry to say we're going to have to backtrack a little, but we'll be fine. [turns back to the worker with a resigned look] I guess if there's no other way... then fine.
Kids: Are we there yet?
Mom: [still glaring at Ewan] No, Colin and Fergie dear, and you have your father to thank!

[As he makes the u-turn, Dad McTeagle realizes the mistake he's made. And he'll be reminded about this mistake for the rest of the weekend and at dinner parties and family gatherings whenever Yosemite is mentioned and in arguments completely unrelated to Yosemite and on every road trip the family ever takes... ever again... for the rest of his life. As they make their way back along the highway, Ewan McTeagle breaks down and sobs.]

Since I don't have access to my photos at the moment, this picture-in-words summary will have to do.

We were on the road to Yosemite (a.k.a. Highway 101) by 7:30 a.m. on Friday. We made the usual stops in Los Banos for coffee and Merced for gas. Traffic was light and we only had a five-minute wait at the new two-bridge bypass on Highway 140 where the Ferguson Rock Slide took place. I have a story about the bypass, but I'll write about it in another entry.

[begin random digression] Notice how I just linked to an entry I haven't written yet? I call it future-linking or flinking. I imagine most web experts would say flinking is poor internet etiquette and they're probably right. Of course, by the time you read this, I'll have written and posted the entry I have yet to write, thereby making the flink a link, restoring order to the blog-time continuum and appeasing the so-called web experts. [end random digression]

We reached the Arch Rock Entrance around 11:00 a.m. and made our way to the Tioga Road. The plan was to visit Mono Lake, Lee Vining and the Whoa Nellie Deli, a restaurant a reader recommended. Due to a few slow vehicles and one-too-many stops to take photos along the way (I couldn't help myself), we didn't reach Tuolumne Meadows until well after noon. According to my calculations, that didn't leave a whole lot of time to visit everywhere we wanted and return to Yosemite Valley without rushing around and spending less than the desirable amount of time at any one spot.

So, after a brief bout of agonizing, we decided to explore the area around Tuolumne Meadows instead and save Mono Lake and the rest for another trip. This decision led to a solo hike to Lembert Dome and Dog Lake, which I'll detail in another entry (no flink provided) complete with photos and possibly words.

M is still dealing with an injured foot, so she was unable to join me on the hike. It's a less than ideal situation, but a short-lived one, I hope. Hiking alone is fun, but hiking is more fun when done with somebody else. While I hiked, M read and did some non-injury-aggravating exploring around the dome. We returned to Yosemite Valley by 5:00 p.m. and registered at Curry Village. We ate in and retired early in preparation for a big Saturday.

On Saturday, we were up before seven, eating at Degnan's Deli before eight and I was at the Happy Isles trail head by nine. My plan was to hike to Glacier Point by way of the Mist, John Muir and Panorama Trails and down to the valley again via the Four-Mile Trail. A 13-mile hike became a fast-paced, 5.5-hour journey as I attempted to return to Yosemite Village in time for a three o'clock gallery showing of original prints by Ansel Adams. Again, an actual hike report (with photos) is forthcoming (but not flinked... yet).

Later that evening, we dined at Yosemite Lodge, ate ice cream at the Curry lounge and retired early. I should note that I was exhausted from the day's hike and wanted nothing more than to sleep for a length of time equaling, if not exceeding, eight hours for a change.

Of course, if you sleep that long, then time flies, so Sunday morning came rather abruptly. We were up again before seven, eating at Degnan's before eight and then lounging around the village and the Ahwahnee for the rest of the morning. Around one in the afternoon, we said farewell to Yosemite and arrive home right around five. And that concludes the all-text summary of our weekend trip.

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.

• When we checked in, ATA, the carrier included in the vacation package, told us that our confirmed seats weren't so confirmed. They had overbooked the flight. We received our seats only a few minutes before the plane left the gate.
• Since I had brought my hiking backpack, sans work-related items, there were hiking items in my bag, including a Swiss Army knife I had forgotten about. The knife and I parted ways at the security gate.
• Due to heavy winds, our 11:00 flight didn't leave until 12:15.
• Due to trade winds, instead of arriving in Honolulu by 2:30 as scheduled, we arrived at 5:00 and missed our 5:00 connecting flight. Aloha Airlines, our inter-island carrier, placed us on standby for the 6:00 flight.
• The 6:00 flight was full, so we had to wait on standby for the 7:00 flight, the last flight to Mau'i.
• By a miracle, we caught that flight, but our luggage didn't. ATA had supposedly sent it all the way through to Mau'i, but we couldn't find it anywhere in the baggage claim area. Our lost luggage wouldn't arrive at the hotel for another 36 hours.

• Never, under any circumstances, check in baggage. Carry-on can be a hassle, but the hassle is limited to the airport and the plane. Lost luggage will haunt you until it's found, if it's found.
• In my attempt to save money, I had filled my backpack with food, leaving no room for the toiletries and spare set of clothing every smart traveler knows to pack when flying. Forget the food; pack the clothing and toiletries, even if you intend to carry on your bags (you never know if they'll require you to check your bags in anyway).
• In package deals, pay special attention to the carrier. If you have the option, choose the one you like. If it isn't the cheapest, consider the benefits of paying more. Also, check to see how much you really save by booking it as a package.
• If possible, fly direct. Making connections may save money, but paying extra to avoid the stress and headaches is worth it. I might end up changing my mind on this one, but my recent string of bad luck with connecting flights has me convinced that direct flights are better.

The good news is that once we were done with the traveling, the trip took a marked turn for the better.

Picking up from where I left off, I spent a peaceful Saturday morning at Barnstormers, a cafe in Bedford that had an aviation theme. Old photographs and posters from air shows hung on the walls. The interior decorating gave one the sense of being in a tiny air hangar.

I ordered a large mint chocolate coffee. I had never had one, but I thought I'd be daring and chose the biggest size. The blend tasted wonderful for the first twelve ounces or so, just about the amount of a typical small drink. It tasted okay by the time I consumed the equivalent of a medium. By the time I finished all twenty ounces, it tasted plain nasty. I had obviously chosen poorly.

Anyway, when I left, I pulled out my camera and took a photo of the cafe's exterior. As soon as I did, one of the employees stormed out. She asked accusingly, "Did you just take a picture?"

Although I had done nothing wrong, guilt swept over me. It must have been the tone in the woman's voice. Since I was still holding the camera and couldn't very well deny it, I said, "Uh, yes?"

"Are you a reporter?" she questioned, hands on her hips.

"No, I'm a tourist," I replied.

"A tourist?" she repeated with a frown, as though I had just admitted to being a terrorist. I almost wondered if she misheard me.

She clearly thought I was up to no good, so I quickly clarified, "A tourist. A tourist from California. I'm just visiting and wanted to take a photo."

As comprehension sunk in, her demeanor suddenly changed. The frown became a smile and she let her arms relax in relief. "Oh, you like our place?"

I could have been stupid and said, "Well, I was leaning towards liking it until your coffee nearly made me sick and you came out and scared the bejeezus out of me, but now I 'm not so sure." But I decided to take the prudent route and said, "Oh, yes, I like it a lot. I just wanted a souvenir to remember it by. So, thanks and have a nice day!"

Later in the day, M & I walked along one of the neighborhood trails to The Great Road and had lunch at Whole Foods Market because it was there and we wanted something healthy to eat. As evening came around, we visited Cambridge, strolled through the Harvard campus and stopped for ice cream at Baskin Robbins. Before leaving, we browsed through the Harvard Book Store and I bought a copy of the 150th anniversary edition of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass.

On our second day in Massachusetts, a Friday, we visited the Cape Cod area. We piled people and beach gear into the SUV and were on the road by nine. To save time, we had breakfast as we drove. My morning meal consisted of two chocolate glazed donuts, four munchkins and a cup of coffee from Dunkin' Donuts. It was one of the tastiest breakfasts I have ever eaten and one I have no intention of repeating.

Along the way, I enjoyed my first experience with rotaries, those big asphalt circles that suck cars in from one direction and spit them out in another. How vehicles are able to enter and exit without colliding or accidentally ending up on the wrong road is a mystery to me. As I watched the interweaving motion of metal and rubber, I was suddenly very glad that I was a passenger and not the driver. We successfully negotiated the rotary and made it to the mid-Cape town of Dennis.

We were searching for Eden Hand Arts, a hard-to-find jewelry store that is most famous for its unique bracelet. The place was so hard to find that we passed it twice before locating the hidden gravel parking lot, which had enough room for six cars. Although warned about the store's popularity, I was still stunned to see the line of people stretched out the front door of the tiny cottage.

Afterwards, we drove south to Dennisport for lunch at Clancy's Restaurant. We took advantage of the good weather and ate on the patio. I tried the Guinness-battered haddock, which had some flavor, but wasn't extraordinary.

We continued up the Cape to one of Wellfleet's ocean beaches. From the parking lot, it was a steep descent to the sand and surf. I sat and wrote for a bit, trying to jot down the details of the previous day before I forgot them. Then, at some point, I walked towards the water and let the waves wash over my feet. It was an exhilarating feeling.

Evening was approaching, so we left Wellfleet and made a quick stop at Nauset Light Beach so that I could get my lighthouse fix. It wasn't open, but we were able to roam around and take pictures of it. We then decided to visit the town the Orleans to watch a baseball game.

The Cape Cod League recruits players from colleges across the country to play ball every summer. The games are free and played at local high school baseball fields. Families attend and set up lawn chairs or blankets to watch the game. A roach coach in the parking lot serves hot dogs and sodas, while kids chase foul balls into the street despite the PA system warnings not to.

The game we saw featured the Brewster White Caps and the Orleans Cardinals. They must be popular teams because it seemed as if the entire town had come out to see them play. (Random fact: The White Caps' caps are black.) Since we had a long drive home, we ate some pizza at the park and left before the game ended. If the score held, then the Cardinals won 1-0.

Last Thursday, we woke up early to catch a flight from San Francisco (SFO) to Providence (PVD) by way of Chicago (ORD). Our ride dropped us off an hour before departure at Terminal 1, just outside the check-in counters of our carrier, Acme Swift Skies. As soon as we walked inside, the fun began.

We had only carry-on bags, so we entered the long line for express self check-in. I think there were four airline personnel working. One helped people understand the concept of a line, one attempted to assist confused passengers with the touch screen system, one stood behind the counter in case anyone actually required customer service and one supervised. When it was finally our turn to check in, I stepped up to the screen.

The computer asked me to insert the credit card I used to purchase the ticket. Once I did, the computer processed the information and told me that it would need my flight number, so I unfolded my printed confirmation, found the number and entered it. Again, the computer processed the information. I glanced over at M, who seemed to be a few steps ahead of me. She shook her head and said, "It's not working." I grew concerned.

My screen suddenly prompted me for the 13-digit ticket number. I scanned the page and carefully inputted each number. Almost instantly, the computer informed me that no such flight or ticket existed. This couldn't be right, I thought.

I read my confirmation paper again. I was almost certain I was in the correct place and had entered the correct information. Almost. I inserted my card again and gave the whole process another try. The second attempt failed as well. I suddenly realized why the line was so long. It was because of people like me.

Fortunately, we were standing in front of the employee providing customer service. He scanned our confirmations and said, "Oh, this flight isn't actually with ASS. It's with our codeshare partner, Chapter 11 Airlines. They're in Terminal 3."

With a sigh, we heaved our bags onto our shoulders and trudged through empty Terminal 2, past the crowds at Another Airline and to the deserted counters of Chapter 11 at the end of Terminal 3. We were able to check in on their computers and pass through security easily. We then dragged our bags through the long corridors and moving sidewalks to our gate where we received our seat assignments.

The flight to Chicago went smoothly. After they served us beverages and pretzels, they showed the unoriginal and unfunny Guess Who starring Bernie Mac and Ashton Kutcher. When we landed, we learned our connecting flight was a mere four gates away. With only a short distance to walk and time to spare, I grabbed a grande coffee from Starbucks. It cost $1.97 and I nursed it all the way to Providence.

While we waited for M's friend, C, to pick us up, I took a photo of this statue at the airport. I believe the piece of art suggests either the uncontrollable and destructive force of Mother Nature or the crunchy goodness of an ice cream cone.

The drive from the airport to Bedford took nearly ninety minutes due to rush hour traffic. That evening, I met the rest of C's family, watched some television and, some time after midnight, finished the sixth Harry Potter book. It would have probably been smarter to get to bed earlier, but the Half-Blood Prince was just too good to put down.

If I had written this yesterday, I could have started with the generic, "Greetings from Massachusetts!" But since I didn't write this yesterday, this will have to do...

Greetings from (yawn) California.

M & I just spent a week on the East Coast, leaving last Thursday and returning last night. To most people (and that was but a handful), I said I was in Boston, but we were only in the city for a day. We were in small towns, like Bedford, Dennis, Marblehead and Rockport, the rest of the time.

Thanks to the generosity of M's friends, C & S, we had a nice place to stay in Bedford. The only tradeoff was spending parts of our trip with a 3-year-old and a 16-month-old, which is not a bad tradeoff at all. Toddlers are amazing creatures (and I use that term because calling them human hardly seems sufficient). They have the ability to change from angels to monsters and back to angels in the blink of an eye, before you can call for help. They can melt your heart with a giggle and drive you up the wall with a wail. Now I have even more respect and appreciation for people who are parents. They are incredible.

• flew to Providence, Rhode Island.
• took the T.
• ate at Dunkin' Donuts.
• drank a Sam Adams at Cheers (the Bull & Finch Pub).
• was keenly aware of how difficult it is to find television shows suitable for young children.
• thought, "Too many lighthouses! Too many lighthouses!"
• put my feet in the Atlantic Ocean.
• did not shave for a week. (I now look like a survivor from Lost.)

I'm a few days late, but Happy August!

On Saturday morning (a week ago), we woke up early, grabbed coffee from the hotel and picked up pastries from Mendocino Bakery and Cafe. I had a delicious cinnamon twist. The other option was to purchase pastries from the cafe with a plasma television fish tank, but their merchandise didn't look very fresh.

I forgot to mention that on Friday, despite the weather, we treated ourselves to some scoops at Frankie's Ice Cream Cafe, a down-home ice creamery with mouthwatering flavors.

Anyway, back to Saturday, we drove to Point Cabrillo Lighthouse, which is a few miles north of Mendocino and off the same road as the Russian Gulch State Park. It would've been nice to visit the park, but muddy trails and possible showers kept us away.

On the bright side, we had more time to visit the lighthouse and explore the 270-acre preserve. The Point Cabrillo Lightkeepers Association recently restored the lighthouse, which is nearly 100-years old. Currently, the three keepers' houses are undergoing restoration. The largest of the three will become a bed and breakfast.

It's a half-mile hike to the lighthouse. The peaceful walk heightened the sense of seclusion that surrounded the structures. The clouds made the view from the bluffs even more dramatic and the patches of blue sky provided sharp contrast to their billowing white and gray masses.

Since the lighthouse wasn't open yet, we drove to Fort Bragg to see what was in the town of approximately 6,000 people. It was surprising to see how commercialized it was. It had a McDonalds, Super 8, Safeway, Bank of America, Starbucks (where we stopped) and many other familiar names. Visiting Starbucks wasn't my proudest moment, but in the spirit of trying new things, I had a cup of Komodo Dragon Blend, one of the chain's recent releases.

On the way back to Mendocino, we stopped by the lighthouse one more time to take a look inside. We also explored one of the lightkeeper's houses. Once we got back, we took a stroll through Mendocino Headlands State Park, which borders the town on three sides. The land here doesn't gradually slope down to the ocean, but drops off in sheer cliffs. In certain areas, the waves have carved their way through the soil walls, creating tunnels and arches. The whole scene was quite amazing. It was also intensely cold and windy.

For dinner, we bounced back to Fort Bragg to try The Restaurant. As one enters through the double doors, one door has "The Rest" and the other has "aurant" written on it. As one leaves, they read "The Rest" and "of the World". I found that amusing. The food itself was decent. I had the clam chowder and the pork medallions with asparagus and potatoes.

Afterwards, we returned to the hotel, sat by the fireplace in the lobby and eventually retired for the night. And that pretty much sums up Saturday in Mendocino.

Last Friday, a.k.a. Earth Day, M and I took a trip to Mendocino. I had no idea that Silvia would also be spending a weekend in the area, but it's a cool coincidence. Anyway, we made our way across the Golden Gate Bridge and up 101 past Sausalito, San Rafael and Petaluma, until we reached Highway 116. We cut over this two-lane road through Sebastopol, Guerneville and across the Russian River before reaching Jenner and Highway 1.

The Shoreline Highway winds and weaves its way up the coast. If you choose this scenic route, expect the trip to take an extra hour or two. If you're prone to motion sickness, I'd recommend taking Highway 128 instead. Otherwise, the beautiful ocean views are worth the extra time and curves.

Our coastal journey continued northward through Gualala and too many little towns to list, but we eventually pulled off to visit the Point Arena Lighthouse at the end of the road. The fog had beaten us there by about an hour, so visibility was horrendous, but that didn't stop us from climbing the spiral staircase of the 115-foot structure. This incarnation of the lighthouse is nearly a hundred years old. An earthquake in 1906 destroyed the original lighthouse built in 1870.

We ventured further north and stopped at Queenie's Roadhouse Cafe in Elk for some coffee. Before leaving, we discovered a trail that led down to Greenwood State Beach, a quiet cove with grayish black sand. It was wondrous there and a place deserving more of our time, but we had to be moving along.

We continued up Highway 1 through Whitesboro, Albion and Little River. Before long, we made a sharp left turn off the freeway and into Mendocino, a coastal village with approximately 1,000 inhabitants.

We stayed at the Mendocino Hotel and Garden Suites located across from the Mendocino Headlands State Park. The historic Victorian hotel has a combination of suites, standard hotel rooms and European-style rooms. We went European, which meant we had to share bathrooms with other guests. The room was small, but cozy, and contained a bed, chair, sink and closet.

My favorite part of the hotel was the lobby. It had dark wood furniture, burgundy wallpaper, old photographs, antiques and a large fireplace. It was like traveling back in time. In the morning, there was complimentary coffee and tea in the lobby and newspapers at the front desk.

The major downside of our accommodations was the noise. A tarp over the adjoining restaurant roof amplified the rain that came Friday night. Constructed in 1878, the building is old and its walls don't block out the sound. One can hear everything people say or do in neighboring rooms. When I say everything, I mean everything.

After perusing the local shops and restaurant menus, we decided to dine at Mendocino Cafe. It had a selection of seafood, steak and Thai dishes. If you're on a budget, a number of pubs offer cheaper entrees like burgers, fish and chips and, oddly enough, more Thai dishes.

On the outside, Mendocino isn't a refined or sanitized tourist trap like Carmel or Monterey. It's a tourist trap trying to keep it real. The town is worn and dilapidated, but instead of tearing down abandoned churches or water towers, folks have creatively reused the buildings as stores or homes. Like Fort Bragg to the north, Mendocino was once a lumber town. Today, it's a community without an economic engine. What keeps it alive are its art galleries, jewelers and restaurants.

To me, the main appeal of the town isn't so much the town itself, but the town's surroundings, which we found to be breathtaking. On Saturday, we would explore it more.

• is an early riser and late sleeper, but doesn't mind sleeping in now and then.
• loves to explore, but isn't adverse to relaxing at a sidewalk cafe.
• prefers not to rush, but can rush when needed.
• knows what he or she wants.
• can compromise.
• can stand in awe for a moment before taking a photo.
• can sometimes just stand in awe.
• is curious, patient and trustworthy.
• is willing to try the local cuisine.
• can appreciate the architecture and landscape.
• can set aside an hour for napping when the other isn't feeling well.
• knows how to plan, but doesn't panic when the plan goes awry.
• doesn't mind getting lost.
• can think on his or her feet.
• has common sense and a sense of humor.

Certainly, it's an incomplete list, probably missing some crucial qualities, but it's a start. Sometimes, being a good travel companion is difficult. Sometimes, being one is the easiest thing in the world. Traveling, by its nature, is fun with a high potential for stress. There are places to be and things to see on a tight budget of time and money. The stress only increases when traveling with the wrong person.

During our first night in Vienna, my travel companion and I went on a dining expedition down Wipplingerstrasse, a street we would walk many times during our stay. Intent on finding restaurant signs and menus in windows, my eyes were blind to the streets and alleys we passed along the way. Four or five blocks into our journey, she stopped me and pointed down a narrow street off to our left. Tucked behind a row of buildings stood Maria am Gestade, the beautifully lit church in the photo. It was one of many occasions where, if not for her, such a sight would have gone unseen. A good companion spots what the other overlooks.

Through the bad times, they can make everything more tolerable. During the good times, they can make the experience that much better. If any the listed traits make someone a good travel companion, then mine was a good one indeed.

Of the various churches in Salzburg, the most impressive by far is the Dom or Cathedral, which sits in the heart of the pedestrian district. Construction was completed in 1628. Three of its sides face plazas: Residenzplatz to the north, Kapitelplatz to the south and Domplatz to the west, facing its front (photo). Four large statues made of light-colored marble stand at the cathedral entrance (photo). Beautiful chandeliers, richly painted frescos and stucco ornament adorn the interior of the Dom. According to my travel guide, it was built to accommodate a congregation of more than 10,000.

If the Dom was meant to awe those who lay eyes upon it, then it succeeded. In its scale and detail, I was amazed. It wouldn't be until we stepped foot in Stephansdom in Vienna that I would experience someplace manmade that felt so holy.

In the early stages of planning, I don't remember if we ever considered seeing Salzburg. We focused primarily on Vienna with a side trip to the lakeside town of Hallstatt. Salzburg was never mentioned until we tried to find a way to reach Hallstatt. As our plans solidified, the town by the lake faded from the picture and the city better known as the birthplace of Mozart came into view. With so much attention and anticipation placed on Vienna, little did I expect Salzburg to be the place that captured my imagination.

On Tuesday, we set out on foot to explore the town. We crossed one of many bridges connecting the banks of the River Salzach. Ever in sight, high on the hill, was the Hohensalzburg Fortress (photo upper left). On the right side of the river was a network of narrow cobblestone streets lined with tall shops and houses (photo), which were perfect for pedestrians and gave Salzburg much of its charm. Every so often, the narrow passages opened into spacious plazas where fountains or statues stood (photo).

As the day progressed, we tried to reach higher ground. One path leading up to the fortress provided a nice view of the Dom and town center (photo upper right). Continuing up the path and around the hill, just beyond the Nonnberg Priory, revealed a view of southern Salzburg (photo lower left).

Daylight was leaving when we finally made our way back across the river. In one last burst of adventure, we decided to climb a steep and narrow staircase tucked between two buildings on a tiny side street. The stairs wound their way up to the Church and Monastery of the Capuchins at the top of the hill. From there, we could see across the rooftops as the last of the light faded (photo lower right).

Tomorrow, I'll post photos of the Dom, which deserves an entry of its own.

Nine days away from the computer and internet can be traumatizing for some people. For me, it wasn't traumatic until the tenth day, when I booted up the computer and saw the huge pile of spam and tiny mound of email accumulated in my inbox. In that moment of intense anxiety, it dawned on me that I was also nine days behind on journal reading. After some deep breathing exercises and a cup of coffee, the anxiety passed and the calm returned. I know I'm behind, but I have to accept that it will take some time to catch up.

For one week in October, I was in Austria. As I sit here and type, it's hard to believe it ever happened. The whole thing is a memory now. Only photos, scribblings and souvenirs remain as evidence. It was my third trip out of the country and the first in fifteen years. Jeopardy Question #6,467: What is Vancouver and Hong Kong?

The trip began last Sunday. The itinerary called for us to fly from San Francisco to Vienna via London. From Vienna, we would travel by train to Salzburg where we would be staying two nights. If everything went as planned, we would leave San Francisco at 1 PM on Sunday and arrive in Salzburg by 5 PM on Monday (losing a day due to time change). However, nothing ever goes as planned.

Our flight from San Francisco left an hour late because of mechanical problems with one of the cargo doors. Everything on the ten-hour flight went fine, but once we reached London, our plane flew a holding pattern because there weren't any available gates. It was around the time our connecting flight was leaving that ground control allowed us land. Every gate was still occupied, so a shuttle took us to the terminal where we were booked on a new flight. Instead of flying directly from London to Vienna, there would be a transfer in Munich.

While in Heathrow, I purchased Terry Pratchett's Going Postal, the latest novel in his Discworld series. The main difference between the British and American versions is the cover art. To me, the British cover is much more appealing.

The remainder of our flight was uneventful. We arrived in Vienna safely, as did our luggage (thankfully). If you are ever in Vienna's airport, look at the ceilings. They are covered with murals (photo upper right).

We caught a bus to the train station (Westbahnhof) and were heading for Salzburg by 7:30 PM. Salzburg sits some 317 km (197 mi) west of Vienna, approximately three hours away by rail. We walked from the station (Hauptbahnhof) and reached our hotel, not far from the banks of the Salzach, around 11 PM. We had been up for nearly thirty hours. Having slept very little along the way, sleep came easily at the end of the day.

I wanted to post at least a few family vacation photos before scooting out for a three-day weekend. A few of us are heading back to Yosemite. This will be my third trip this year. So far it has been all Half Dome. To change things up a bit, we'll be hiking to the top of El Capitan this time. For those keeping track at home, that makes it Half Dome, Half Dome, El Cap. It's a Yosemite twist on the whole Duck Duck Goose game.

While at the resort, we stayed at the Grand Californian Hotel. The grounds are adjacent to California Adventure and hotel guests have their own private entrance to the park. The hotel also has easy access to Downtown Disney, where there are a number of restaurants and shops.

While the entire hotel is beautiful, the atrium lobby is the most impressive part. The building stands about seven stories high and the lobby opens all the way up to the roof. During the day, sunlight filters through from high above. Off to one side, a magnificent fireplace provides a cozy spot for late night gatherings

One of my family's favorite restaurants was Storytellers Cafe. Because they loved it so much, we ended up having breakfast there three of the five days. The menu included omelettes, french toast and Mickey Mouse waffles. They also offered a buffet. I especially liked the interior decorating that paid tribute to the tales of California's ealry pioneers.

The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror (ToT), located in the Hollywood Pictures Backlot, seemed like the most popular ride in the new park. It also seemed to be the one most susceptible to breakdowns. I believe it opened this May, so the mechanics must be still working out the bugs. Better than a roller coaster, ToT seamlessly blends the story and feel of a Twilight Zone episode with the ride. I found myself so caught up in the story that the drop caught me by surprise twice. I think we took this ride six times.

Rereading this entry, I'm afraid all of my Disney-related posts are going to sound like commercials. I apologize if they do, but I'm only trying to relate how I felt. Apparently, I'm an exuberant fan.

For five days and four nights I was vacationing with the family at the Disneyland Resort. To say we were vacationing in Anaheim might give the false impression that we were wandering around town, amusing ourselves with other diversions and experiencing other entertainment outlets, but we never actually left the Disney property. Well, except when we shuttled to and from John Wayne Airport in Santa Ana and when we legged it to Hilo Hattie in Orange. Other than that, our experience was more like a Disney Immersion Program (DIP).

I'm not complaining. Really. I love most things Mickey. I love the imagination, creativity, magic and happiness the brand represents and projects. I dislike how the company has managed to transform those positive qualities into collectible pins, hoodies and mugs. This isn't to say I don't fall for such merchandising. I purchased a few mementos while I was there. I just hope my taste in souvenirs is slightly more refined than the average theme park patron's. It's probably not, but that's the Disney snob in me talking.

While five days might seem like overkill for most people, it's a decent amount of time for my parents. Disneyland is my dad's dream vacation spot. It has been for as long as I can remember. When we were younger, he and my mom would rush us from ride to ride, or more accurately, from line to line. Now, they take their time at the parks. They'll grab a FastPass for Indiana Jones or Soarin' Over California and then cruise through the shops while waiting. It's been just four years since our last visit. My dad's reason to my mom for returning so soon was to experience the new California Adventure. I suspect he would have gone even if there were no additions to the park.

As soon as I have access to a computer that can upload photos, I'll post some from our DIP. It's Monday again. Isn't that nice?

I had a wonderful weekend in Washington (specifically Seattle). Spending time with T and exploring the city gave me such a high. But yesterday, as the plane landed in San Jose, I was already crashing. I exaggerate, but it's difficult to explain this emotion any other way. I didn't want to come down.

I don't know when I'll get a chance to sort through my photos or share some funny stories from my trip (there are plenty of both). I want to get to them while they are still fresh, but I'm playing catch up on many fronts and feeling a bit overwhelmed. Procrastination is the culprit.

Some days my life feels like a runaway train and I'm just trying to jump aboard.

I don't wanna come back down from this cloud
It's taken me all this time to find out what I need

We rented a car for the weekend and braved the streets and highways of Oahu. My dad drove and my mom navigated. My sister and I joked that if my parents were ever on the Amazing Race, they would be the first team eliminated. It doesn't take much for them to get lost.

On Saturday, we had breakfast at the Liliha Bakery before finding our way to the Dole Plantation, home of the world's largest maze.

From there, we spent a good portion of the day driving along the coast, making stops at beaches like Waimea and Waimanalo. After that, we laid in a course for the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific.

We had dinner at Assaggio Ristorante Italiano, in the Ala Moana Center, where I had a delicious dish of calamari alla parmigiana. We somehow made it back to the hotel without getting lost.

(Yeah, I'm still writing about it.)

On Friday, my dad wanted to visit Pearl Harbor, so we booked the Home of the Brave tour. It included visits to the USS Arizona Memorial, Wheeler Airfield, Schofield Barracks and Fort Shafter. Although it began at 6 AM, breakfast wasn't included, but there was a lunch buffet.

The shuttle was really a mobile classroom. Every available space was covered by maps, photos, articles or diagrams. There was a television/VCR where the guide could show video clips of old newsreels and From Here to Eternity. I was impressed by the guide's World War II knowledge and numerous "strange but true" stories. There was so much information to absorb, I began to wonder how many units the tour was worth and if I should be taking notes. My dad, who loves military history, thoroughly enjoyed it.

After the tour, we had dinner at Hee Hing Restaurant. Their vegetable of choice seemed to be ong choy. The walk there from our hotel took us along the Ala Wai Canal, where a couple of crews from the Lokahi Canoe Club were practicing. Did you know California has quite a few outrigger canoe clubs? Even San Jose has one or two.

Our fifth buffet took place on a sunset cruise aboard the Navatek I, a beautiful catamaran. It was advertised as one of the "smoothest cruises" available, but there were periods when the silverware rattled audibly and my coffee was more shaken than stirred. If that was smooth, then I'd really hate to see where the coffee would end up on another ship.

The cruise began near the Aloha Tower Marketplace, made its way around and beyond Diamond Head before looping back to port. The whole journey lasted about two or three hours. There was live entertainment (a singer and hula show) and many opportunities to take photos of the spectacular views. The sunset was mostly obscured by the growing cloud cover, but that didn't prevent most of the passengers from gathering at the ship's bow to sneak a peek and avoid the conga line forming before the main stage.

We eventually made it back to the hotel and I hit the sack early, knowing we had another tour first thing in the morning.

After an early morning dip in the amazingly warm ocean, we grabbed a quick buffet breakfast at Duke's Canoe Club. We then took a shuttle to the Polynesian Cultural Center (PCC). Our driver was informative, funny and cool enough to warn us that the PCC didn't sell any caffeinated beverages. Before arriving, we made a brief coffee stop.

This year the PCC celebrates its 40th anniversary. It was built by Mormon missionaries and students from the adjacent Brigham Young University - Hawaii make up a majority of the staff. The Center attempts to preserve and share the cultures of seven Polynesian island nations including: Hawaii, Fiji, Tonga, Tahiti, Somoa, New Zealand and Marquesas.

At the end of a long day, we saw a great production called, "Horizons". The show's unintended highlight was an errant flame that flew onto an aisle step from one of the fire knives. A bold audience member attempted to stamp it out, but only made succeeded in spreading the small flame to second step. Fortunately, another bold (but competent) guy came to the rescue and expertly extinguished both little fires with his feet.

We arrived in Honolulu around 8:30 in the evening on Memorial Day. The flight was gratefully uneventful, the meal was edible and the in-flight movie, Tuck Everlasting, was easy to sleep through. We were soon in a taxi and on our way to Waikiki. After taking us to two incorrect hotels, the driver finally made it to the Aston Waikiki Beach Tower Hotel.

I'm not sure how most families plan their vacations, but we have a pretty straightforward system. Each person picks out the top one or two things they want to do and time is dedicated to that activity, tour or shopping mall.

Tuesday was my mom's day. So after a complimentary breakfast, we went on "free tours" of Maui Divers Jewelry and Hilo Hattie (home of the world's largest Hawaiian shirt). It hadn't taken long for the souvenir purchases to begin.

We then took a free shuttle to the Ala Moana Shopping Center, where I had my first cup of Kona coffee. It was quite delicious and very necessary to survive the window shopping.

In the evening, we went to Creations - A Polynesian Journey, a dinner show at the Sheraton Princess Kaiulani. Both the buffet dinner (the first of too many) and show were decent, but better ones were still to come.

The plane from Honolulu, Hawaii touched down in California at 6:31 this morning. I should be sleeping now, but my body hasn't recognized the time change yet. It will pay for its obliviousness when work resumes later today.

For a little over seven days, I stayed in a Waikiki hotel, with a beautiful view of the Pacific Ocean. I can't express how much I actually enjoyed getting up early in the morning, stepping out on the patio and simply taking in everything around me. No matter how early I awoke, people were always up and outside before me, especially the surfers.

The trip was a nice combination of celebration, exploration and relaxation. It was an early celebration of my parents' 30th wedding anniversary. They had spent their honeymoon in Hawaii and it was their first time back in many years. To make it a complete family vacation, my sister and I joined them.

For many years, I longed to visit the islands, which made this trip very special. Although we only explored Oahu, there was still so much to see and experience. I hope to record and share some of those experiences over the next few days. It was so fantastic, I'm already longing to return.

Lastly, this past week has been relaxing. For once, my natural tempo seemed to match the pace of my surroundings. It was so easy to slow down and disconnect from my regular routine. Unfortunately, the routine begins again in a few hours. There is more to share, but it will have to wait.