It’s been a while since I’ve written here.  In many ways, I regret that.  I’d set up this blog, after all, as more-or-less of an online journal all those years ago… wait, wow, my “About” page still says I’m in my “early 30’s”?  Sheesh.  Have I really been too lazy to update it?  Or is it a subconscious grab at wishful thinking?  I’ll let the reader decide…

Anyway, the short story, for those who are interested?  Meh, I’m fine.

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[Been a while since I’ve written one of these…]

I’ve done a number of hikes since I’ve arrived here on the Central Coast, but I’m just getting back into the swing of actually writing about them.  Islay Hill, a short, somewhat out-of-the-way climb, seems like a good place to start.

Islay Hill is actually the last in the chain of morros in the area.  The morros are a line of ancient volcanic peaks, nine in total, that start at the more famous Morro Rock at Morro Bay along the coast and stretch all the way inland to just south of the city of San Luis Obispo.  Among the more popular morro climbs are Bishop Peak and Cerro San Luis, both of which are close to town and both of which, I’m sure, I’ll write up soon enough.

Since I returned from my travels, and especially since coming to the Central Coast, there’s a thought that’s been nagging at me.  One that caught me off guard.  One that I didn’t, couldn’t anticipate.

My world feels like it has become suddenly very small.

[I know I’ve been posting way too infrequently… or, uh, at all, really… but every time I log in, it seems the WordPress interface has changed…]

I suppose it’s time that I write an update, if for no other reason to remind myself that this little blog exists and that I really should be writing more on it.  Not really out of a sense of obligation, but because I remember writing being something that once brought me a lot of joy.

Besides, I bought the domain name last year.

Oh, hi.

How are you?  Been a while, I know.

Figures, doesn’t it?  Just as I start going through pictures and writing about the travels, life suddenly turns into a crazy whirlwind.  I’d more-or-less anticipated that there would be a whirlwind at some point, the moment when things would suddenly change and start moving in new directions.  What I couldn’t anticipate was when, and what I never anticipated is everything that would happen…

[Journal entry from April 14, 2012.  I’ll be back-posting these travel posts as I write new entries.]

After spending time in both Australia and New Zealand, I think I’m genuinely reaching a point where I actually look forward to meeting locals.  This is a pretty radical thing for me since I’ve been a stereotypically shy geek for most of my life.  I don’t know if it’s entirely as a result of my travels, or simply because I’m getting older and am giving less of a damn what people think of me than I did when I was, say, 22.

So imagine how elated I was this morning when I boarded my plane in Auckland for Nadi, Fiji, and discovered my assigned seat-mate would be a bona fide Fijian.  Given the renowned reputation of Fijians for being incredibly friendly, I figured that a chat with my seat-mate would be fun and informative.  I’d get a bit of an “insiders view” the country I was about to spend the next two weeks in, and was excited by the prospect.  That’s not to diminish from the time I’ve spent over the past couple of months immersed in Aussie and Kiwi culture, which are distinctive, but they’re still 1st world, English speaking ex-British colonies that watch most of the same TV shows and eat most of the same foods I’m used to back home.  Fiji is my first truly foreign destination, and I was lucky enough to not be seated next to one of the many tropical-resort-beach-seeking tourists.

Or so I thought.  My feelings of elation and luck would dissipate pretty rapidly, as it turned out.  In fact, not long after we passed 10,000 feet and my seat-mate ordered his first Fiji Gold.

As I mentioned in my previous post, I’ve been reading Mark Twain’s “Roughing It” off and on for a few days now.  After a blisteringly hot 110 degrees on Saturday (that’s 43° C for my more logical metric friends), Sunday the temperature dropped into the 80’s (30’s) with a nice delta breeze kicking in: the absolute perfect day to sit in the shade with a cold drink and a good book.

In “Roughing It” Twain describes his travels and experiences from 1861 to 1866.  During this period, Twain journeyed by stagecoach from the Midwest across the Rockies and the Great Basin to Nevada, then spent time in San Francisco and California, and finally traveled across the Pacific to the Sandwich Islands (better known today as the Hawaiian Islands).

Reading the book on that beautiful Sunday afternoon, a couple of things occurred to me:

[Not the post I’d planned for tonight, but sometimes ya just gotta roll with things, ya know?]

I thought about my last post quite a bit over the weekend.  Mostly because I stepped over or around the box all weekend long.  I somehow managed to simultaneously try to spur myself into action and dealing with it by leaving it in the middle of the room, and completely avoid actually doing so.

Sometime over the weekend I remembered that I’d actually written about the box before.  (I wasn’t the only one; SkyBlueStateOfMind remembered as well, and I tip my Tilly hat to her memory skills.)  So I looked up the old post, which was mostly about the old letters in the box.  The memory snapped into place: I took the old cards off the shelf, put them in the box on top of the old letters, and proceeded to tape up the box and put it in storage.  I was centralizing and organizing my procrastination, and I’m not sure whether to puff out my chest in victory or hang my head in shame about that.

Why is it easier to get rid of the big stuff than the small stuff?

When I moved out of my old apartment and placed things into storage, I had to get rid of a lot of stuff.  A LOT of stuff.  In many ways it was cathartic, going through piles of outright junk and unceremoniously tossing it in the recycling bin or the trash.  While I do own a few nice things, collectibles and such, which I did keep, the Parentage were wonderful as a second pair of eyes to say “just get rid of it” to everything else.

One of the things I discovered along the way is that it’s a lot easier to get rid of the big stuff than the little stuff, and I have no idea why.

Nestled in the Sierra Foothills near Auburn, California, Hidden Falls Regional park is one of the nicest examples of lowland foothill country you’ll find around.  With its expansive trails, mixture of chaparral, oak, and pine woodland, Hidden Falls is a popular place with hikers, mountain bikers and anyone who enjoys a little peace and quiet.

As of this weekend, Hidden Falls has expanded nearly five-fold, from 200 acres to about 1200, with miles and miles of new trail.  I’ll go out there shortly, to explore it all.  (Astute readers may recall that this was the park I’ve done a couple of volunteer stints in over the past few months, building trail and installing signs.)  This hike, which lies entirely within the original boundaries of the park, loops back and forth, covering about six miles and most of the trails within the area.  You can shorten the hike at a number of points, creating a hike perfect for your abilities and time.