Tag Archives: California

Kites fly high at Limantour.

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Even though his older brother is the one I call Pathfinder, my son Soldier took the lead in planning our family outing yesterday. Both of them wanted to include not only a hike but some  beach time, coming as they did from places where one can’t make a day trip to the ocean.

All eight of us were able to go in one car, which added to the fun. The children who had recently endured 12-hour days on the road were cheerful, even though it took us a while to get to our destination, a beach farther south than we usually venture: Limantour. The main thing I always retain in my memory of this beach is that it faces south, so it is a little warmer than many North Coast beaches. It is on a long spit of land on Drakes Bay, named for Sir Francis Drake. In the article, “Drake in California”, you can read the many keys to the identification of this bay as the place where the explorer thanked God for a safe haven.

This map shows you where we were in relation to San Francisco:

And this next one reveals Limantour Beach in the Point Reyes National Seashore:

We piled out of the car at the trailhead and hiked about two miles out to the beach, through dense woods opening up from time to time to views of the estuary and wide blue skies; irises in three shades of violet and purple dotted the sunnier banks. Under the trees stands of giant nettles extended back into the dappled shade, with swaths of forget-me-nots or candy flowers at their feet by the path.

Candy Flower – Claytonia sibirica

It was the sort of hike where Grandma, with one or two companions, falls behind the main group to examine and hopefully identify wildflowers, and then eventually catches up when the group stops to wait. Liam spied the Indian Paintbrush first.

The trail was bordered by a lush jungle of trailing blackberry and manroot, strawberries, buttercups and ocean spray. I couldn’t stop for everything that was interesting, and I can only mention a few of the hundreds of plants. But at the time, I pointed out to anyone who would listen, how conveniently the plantain herb was growing near the nettles: if you were to get a nettle sting, you might chew up a few plantain leaves into a poultice to put on the burning flesh to soothe it. Or so I’ve been told many times.

In spite of my lagging, we arrived on the beach and oh, what a lovely, clean and white expanse it was to behold; we didn’t pause, but walked right on out to the shore.

We had brought along three kites, so all the children had plenty of time
holding the fliers against the wind. It was a perfect day for that.

This one above, once it got up, flew by itself all afternoon at the end of its tether,
while we ate a picnic on the sand, and the men dug holes for the waves to flow into.

Then it was time to reel it in, and head back out the way we had come.


It was only on our way out that I had time to really notice these grand bushes of purple lupine, a relation no doubt of the big yellow version I’ve seen so much of farther north, and have even grown in my garden.

Almost the last thing I took a picture of was a baby rattlesnake lying still as could be on the path. It was too young to have rattles, but as we stood around looking at it, the other adults told us about how the shape of its head and neck helped them identify it as a rattlesnake, and how the venom of juveniles is very potent.

I couldn’t see his eye until I saw the picture I had taken enlarged; he was definitely alive and awake. We were told that rattlers aren’t able to strike effectively if they are not coiled up. But we moved on very soon, stepping around the rattleless tail.

My family all departed this morning very early, before the sun was up, and while fog was still lying low in the neighborhood. All day I’ve been reeling myself in! I had hoped to go to bed early tonight, but instead, before I move on into May — coming right up! — I wanted to finish my story of kites and wildflowers, and my dear people.

I sing of Christmas and comforts.

Christmas, home, music, Nativity, water, , , , , , , , ,
Correggio

If you have not already put away every thing pertaining to Christmas, perhaps you are like me in some way… I have various reasons, year by year, to leave up the lights around my kitchen window, or to be slow about putting away my basket of music CD’s about the Christ Child and the glorious message of God With Us. I just mailed the last of my Christmas cards this week.

My Orthodox parish celebrates the Nativity of Christ on the “new calendar,” December 25th, like most of you, but many of my friends only began on January 7th their feast both liturgical and dietary, and this year in particular I am grateful to continue my heart’s celebrations with them.

These monks in Ukraine gave a concert some years ago, and a full 15 minutes of their carol-singing is in this video, which I’ve been listening to over and over. Their joy infuses me, and I weep for being comforted. “Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people…”

Comfort ye! Comfort ye, my people! Saith your God.
Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem,
and cry unto her that her warfare is accomplish’d,
that her iniquity is pardon’d.
The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness,
Prepare ye the way of the Lord,
make straight in the desert a highway for our God.
Every valley shall be exalted,
and every mountain and hill made low,
the crooked straight, and the rough places plain.
     -Isaiah 40

I don’t need to know a word of their language to hear the message: Christ is born!!!

If this is a little too much exultation for you at this time, because you celebrated plenty already, it might be you could benefit from reading Auntie Leila‘s encouraging words about how to wind down from the overstimulation of the Christmas season. I was greatly helped by her simple and homey ideas, with easy “action points,” in this article, “An Epiphany Thought.” She writes:

“We didn’t used to call it overstimulation back when I was young, but when I recently saw something about this idea for moms, I reflected on how, as a young woman definitely fighting through to a quieter situation, I developed some strategies to address just that issue, of needing to be calmer so that I could think!”

In many ways it was easier to keep a quiet sort of focus and household when I was a young mother maintaining a certain atmosphere in the home, for the sake of a large family who lived together. Now that I have only myself to keep in order, I don’t do such a good job, and I am grateful for reminders like this, of how to “mother” myself.

One factor in the overall mood of a home certainly is the weather outside, and many of you have asked me how we are faring in my area of northern California, with the storms, high winds and flooding. They haven’t been a big problem for anyone I have talked to, and though I’ve been out and about the last few days, I haven’t come across any flooded areas. We have had these wet winters before, and to me this one doesn’t seem unusual. But I am just one person.

In spite of unfortunate damages, I can’t help being very glad that we are getting so wet. It’s a perpetually arid land, and I’m afraid people will always be fighting water wars. When extra water is falling from the skies, it feels like showers of blessing from Heaven, and cause for at least a temporary cease-fire in those battles. I will go on ignoring the weather news and will try to pay closer attention to what’s happening in my garden — and in my heart and home.

Purple Star Thistle

nature, wildflowers, , , ,

Friend Bella and I took a hike early in the morning, into the hills nearby. The slopes all around have gone from the winter green stage on through the golden months, and are now dull brown. But they are not unpleasant to look at from a distance, and in addition to the ubiquitous oaks, bay trees make dark green splotches here and there.

At close range one sees the hard and bare dirt, the tufts of grass withered to shreds, and minimalist lichens on the rocks looking healthy and pretty. Those autumnal scenes are bleak, compared to the real deserts I recently visited. We took our tonic from the fresh air, and I took a picture of the new-to-me and alien Purple Star Thistle, whose flowers beautify the neighborhood, while its thorns warn, “Stay away!” Honestly, I am minded to stay away from this particular park until the rains come and once again water the earth to green.

A dome without deciding.

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When we departed Mammoth Lakes on our last morning together, my family kept going north toward their home while I soon must cross the mountains westward. I was glad that while I was still on Highway 395 the road passed through forests of Ponderosa and Jeffrey Pine with sagebrush underneath. That is one of my favorite sights, the huge trees somehow adding a depth to the quiet, and standing in relief to the dry and scrubby desert. I also took extra time to drive off of the highway on a dirt road, trying to get closer to the mountain pictured above. I still needed to zoom in to see the beautiful geology streaked with snow.

That snowstorm our first morning had been a blessing in two ways. It cleared the air of the smoke that had masked the mountains when we approached the evening of our arrival back in California; and it added contrast to all the colors, highlighting the lines and textures of the rocks.

The decision about which mountain pass I would use that morning had remained a point of discussion for most of the trip. Google maps wanted me to go via Hwy 50 by Lake Tahoe; I suppose the program chose what would normally be the fastest route. But as a result of wildfire damage in that area the highway had been closed, and while the date of its reopening remained unknown, I leaned toward one of the other passes to the south, either Sonora or Tioga, and I booked a lodging in a little town that would be convenient either way. As the day drew near, Tioga Pass closed because of snow.

But it was opened again, and meanwhile it had become my first choice. The picture just above is from that road, Highway 120, which passes through Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite National Park. I had finally decided on this road because of all the memories associated with it, especially Tuolumne Meadows, starting with the day when 50 years ago last month my husband and I became engaged to be married.

This picture is just a closer view of the one above; you can see the aspens turning….

I stopped many times at turnouts, to get a look at Wright’s Buckwheat and a surprising number of other botanical roadside attractions:

But soon enough, around noon, I arrived at Tuolumne Meadows, and thought I would at least investigate the trail that leads up the back of Lembert Dome, which I mentioned just last month in connection to another granite dome. All my memories of this hike were foggy, it had been so long ago that we accomplished it.

I was curious, and entered into the process of continuing on the trail without quite deciding to do it. If there ever was doubt about my being a process- and not a goal-oriented personality, it has vanished, as I observe my rambling and meandering behavior that has created some problems for me, in this era when I have no goal-oriented husband around to keep me in check.

If you like maps (and domes) you might be interested in this one. I parked my car near the bridge over the river, so my trek started lower left at the doubled purple line.

I began to walk around the northwest side. At first the way was fairly flat and easy…

…but it quickly steepened, and ascended through the forest, where patches of snow still lay on the path and I could occasionally see the dome through the trees. It was lonely and lovely. In the first hour I saw only one couple, and listened to the sort of quiet that is full of small bird songs, the wind murmuring through the pines, and chipmunks chirping.

Looking back the way I’d come:

I heard groaning as of a door swinging on its hinges, and looked up to see a slender tree trunk that had fallen into to the branches of a larger tree, and was sliding back and forth the slightest bit when the wind blew.

Tramp tramp tramp, swish swish crunch, tramp tramp splish splish…. My boots were adding the only not-quiet sound, as I pushed on through snow and mud and plain dry dirt. I was glad that I hadn’t come too early, or I might have lost the trail in the snow, but tread marks showed me the way. After nearly an hour I saw this sign:

Really?? Still that far to go…? I realized that I hadn’t looked at the map beforehand to see how many total miles I was in for — because “it was an easy hike a toddler could do,” after all. Well, I was not going to give up at that point! Then it was, I suppose, that I knew I had a goal.

That next  mile was pretty easy, and only took 40 minutes. When you get behind the dome and the trail bends around to the approach, soon you start to see blue between the trees and down to the ground, and you know that you are high.

The last part is very root-y and rocky… and then, the bare granite is in front of you…


Lembert Dome sits on the meadow, which is 8500 feet above sea level. In less than two miles of climbing you gain 900 feet to the top of the rock, so the trail would naturally have to be steep. The grade, the length, the time it took, the difficulty — none of it was as I remembered. Nor had I remembered how old Pippin was — she was three, not two years old — and now that I have been up there again I can hardly believe that she walked the whole way, but that is the story that we’ve all been telling, and it’s true that she was a child who climbed everything from the start.

Looking down to the bottom, from where I’d come:

It’s such a wide space, you want to walk all around, and talk to the other rare people one finds in such a spot. I met three pairs of folks: First, a couple who mentioned several times that they were both afraid of heights!  They stayed in the middle of the expanse, and we took each other’s pictures. If you squint you can see them on the left below, eating gluten-free peanut butter pretzels which they also shared with me.

I met two 20-something boys, one of whom was ultra friendly and reminded me of the Jesus People of my own youth; I kept expecting him to ask if I knew Jesus. I liked him a lot, even though he asked my name as soon as I said “Hi.” I guess it’s okay to be forward with a grandma. And there was a father with his teenage son; we also took each other’s pictures, and told stories about Yosemite.

It was odd not to be talking about the names of the peaks. I don’t remember any of them, though their locations and the hikes linking one to another have been a realm of study and exploration for many people in my family, including my father and my husband.

In the picture above, we are looking around the west side of the dome to see Tuolumne Meadows as a tan strip in the distance, approximately in the middle of the frame. And below, Tioga Road is snaking through the forest. It’s a big expanse, but it is not exactly flat anywhere, so just standing around you have to brace yourself more or less.

I was up there more than an hour, but the time flew. I did not go around the side of the “knob,” as I call it, to the front of the dome, but I did feel confident to walk up on the broad and slanted slope just below. If I had not been alone I would have explored that last little area; when I told my fellow dome acquaintances why I was not going “all the way,” several of them offered to have me go with them. I was warmed by the camaraderie they were feeling, but was not at their level. I was content with my own solo feat.

And I had many miles to drive that afternoon, before I would get to my Airbnb home in the foothills down below, so I did not even sit down for a minute. I had a goal of getting to my resting place before dark, and it would take at least an hour to get back to my car. But I stopped on the way to chase after a tree frog for a snapshot. I think he was cold, and wanted nothing more than to sit in that patch of sunshine.

I also was looking forward to resting my aching body, and hoped there would be a tub in which I could soak, where I was headed. But it was extremely uncomfortable, psychologically, to be so driven in my driving, to keep pushing on toward my goal, with only a fleeting glance as I passed swaths of wildflowers and compelling rock views.

I allowed myself a brief stop at Olmsted Point, which was always a favorite place when we had children with us, and we would walk among the slabs and boulders of granite that we loved to explore. That spot might be more fun than a dome, because you can be freer to run and play. People who like can gaze up at the peaks and name them one by one.

I didn’t make it to my Airbnb before dark, but it was all okay. There was a tub to soak in, and a good bed, and my pictures to start sorting through. My last day’s drive was short and to the point, and I came home surprisingly energized and rejuvenated, having received in eleven days a thousand gifts.

This completes my October road trip story.