Talking with The Parentage the other night, one of the many topics we touched on was the H1N1 flu.  We chatted about whether or not they had gotten the shots, whether or not I would, etc.

One one point they made a very generous offer: should I come down with the flu, and should it be one of the strains that lays-you-out-for-a-week, they would be perfectly willing to drive south and help me out.

When you think about it, that’s pretty cool of them.  It’s not everyone who can say that their parents would be willing to come and help them out in times of illness.  It means a lot that they extended the offer.

At the same time, and not to detract from what I said above in the least, hearing the offer was a bit of a downer.  Why?  Because there’s a part of me that can’t help but think “Geez, I’m thirty-six years old, and for a thirty-six year-old guy to potentially need his parents to care for him during a severe illness (vs., say, a sibling, girlfriend, wife, etc.) just screams patheticness!  Geek-living-in-the-basement-playing-D&D level patheticness!  Comic Book Guy level of patheticness!”

I don’t know if it’s wrong to think that.  Maybe so, maybe not.  Maybe it’s just a reflection of the pressures society puts on us, or maybe it’s something deeper.

Whatever the case, I thanked them, of course.  Inside, though, I couldn’t help but lament my singledom.

Just a little bit.

Yesterday, Sunday, I hauled the bike out and drove down to ride the beach trail.  The day was warm(ish), but pretty hazy.  Breezes were light, thankfully, which made for pretty comfortable riding.

By about noon, the high tide was coming in, with pretty large waves crashing against the shore.  It looked and sounded like a winter surf, and reminded me of the wave activity I used to see against the Northern California coast: high-energy, violent, dangerous.

Of course, the surfers were out there in their wetsuits, the water temperature somewhere in the 60’s according to the board on the side of one of the lifeguard towers.  Its part of the reason that I’ve never done much swimming in the ocean off Southern California: for the most part, the ocean is damn cold.

It was the second weekend I’ve been down at the beach.  Although my Halloween was a dull and somewhat depressing experience (okay, fine, it was a total bust), I’d been invited to attend a bonfire on the beach Sunday night for a friend’s birthday.

The evening was fun (especially after your resident GeekHiker applied his camping skills to get the fire lit when no one else could) and, remarkably, I didn’t feel entirely out of place surrounded by strangers.

* * *

Two weeks in a row at the beach is, shall we say, pretty unusual for me.

I’m almost afraid to admit it, as it will make me a pariah in Southern California, but, truth is… I don’t really like the beach all that much.

I doubt I’ll ever be a beach bum.  The idea of spending an entire day at the beach, just laying out, is boring.  I suck at volleyball.  And while there’s some interest in trying surfing at least once in my life, I think I’d rather try some place where the water is warm.  Like, say, Hawaii.

Then there’s the sand.

The sand that gets into your clothes, your shoes, your car, your house.

The sand you find yourself vacuuming up weeks later.

Keep in mind, this is coming from a guy who hikes in the rain.  In the mud.  But at least mud dries, and the clothing can be put to the side.  Sand is insidious, worming its way into everything you own.

Don’t even get me started on what it’ll do to a camera.

The rocky shores of the Redwood Coast, though?  Where the cold ocean pounds the rocks and sprays of water leap high in the air?

This I like.

Or a warm tropical isle, with a warm languid sea and a gentle breeze, a cold drink in one hand and a good book in the other?

This I like.

Or, rather, I suspect I would like, having never actually been to such a locale.

So perhaps it’s simply a matter of location.

Until I get back to the Redwood Coast or win the lottery and jet off to that tropical isle, though, I think I’d prefer a muddy, grassy riverbank on a warm summer day.

Without a grain of sand in sight.

(Not to be confused with Red Rock Canyon State Park.)

Driving to the trailhead is, most of the time, a relatively straightforward thing.  The parking areas are usually well marked or easily definable (like a wide roadway shoulder).  Such is not the case with Red Rock Canyon Park.

Located off Old Topanga Road, the turn-off on Red Rock Road has no sign indicating the park at its end.  Driving down the road, one passes by numerous “no trespassing” and “no parking” signs.  The road turns into a single lane.  The asphalt ends and the road becomes gravel.  It’s not hard to wonder after a half-mile if you’re really on the right road or headed into the middle of nowhere.

Then, boom, there you are.

I’ve passed by Red Rock Canyon Park numerous times over the years without knowing it.  Heck, I’ve looked down on the park on previous hikes along the Calabasas Peak Motorway.  Last weekend I found an old newspaper clipping at home and figured I’d check it out.

(FYI: The park has a $5 entrance fee as of this writing, payable to the iron ranger at the park entrance.  Personally, I think anything over $3 is a bit steep, especially given that most of the NPS lands have no entrance fee, but it is what it is.)

The hike here is relatively short, but the geology is quite amazing.  The best display of the namesake red rock is near the park entrance.

Red rock formations near the park entrance

Most of the park consists of a mixture of sandstone and conglomerate rocks, uplifted and tilted.  Here and there you can find the remains of sea creatures from long ago captured in the rock.  This fossils below are found in a boulder, conveniently located near the trailhead:

Fossilized seashells

From the parking area (picnic tables, restrooms and water available), head up the wide fire road, which starts under the shade of chaparral and sycamore trees.

Starting up the main road/trail

Be sure to examine the large outcropping that appears on the left about .3 mile in.  There, you’ll find numerous weathered caves carved by wind and water.

Eroded sandstone formations and caves

At about .4 mile from the trailhead, an optional spur trail (marked on the park map as the Red Rock Trail) crosses the creek and heads uphill to a ridgeline, then continues to climb through low chaparral and rocky outcrops.

Heading up the Red Rock Trail

The geology here is amazing, with huge slabs of what was once flat river or seabed solidified, raised above sea level, and turned 90 degrees.

Uplifted and tilted sandstone formation

Detailed view of the layers of sandstone and conglomerate rocks

The trail reaches the park boundary about .8 mile from the turn-off.  A use trail appears to continue beyond, but becomes brushy.  After picking off two ticks already, I decided to pass on going through thick brush on a trail that didn’t exist on my topo.

Returning to the main fire road, turn right and continue climbing.  The trail gains altitude and views north towards the San Fernando Valley.  At 1.2 miles from the trailhead parking area, the trail reaches a T-junction with Calabasas Peak Motorway.

A small bench will allow you to stop, rest, and take in the view.  Looking south, the view takes in Stunt Road and the Stunt High Ranch (where you can hike the Stunt High Trail), with a small sliver of Santa Monica Bay visible on the other side of the ridge.

Turning left from the junction will take you down .7 mile to Stunt Road (an alternative starting point for Calabasas Peak).  Our trail turns right on the fire road, crossing though a large white sandstone outcropping and climbing 1.2 miles from the junction to Calabasas Peak.

Crossing the white sandstone formation along Calabasas Peak Motorway

After a couple of turns, the trail passes a high point and the rounded top of Calabasas Peak comes into view.

Calabasas Peak

A short spur trail to the left takes you to the top of the peak.  While not the highest peak in the neighborhood, it does sport good views on a clear day, particularly of the San Fernando Valley and the chain of the Santa Monica Mountains stretching off to the west

Panoramic view of the San Fernando Valley on a clear day

Return by the same route.

The gym is hardly one of those places that I expect to be silent.  I mean, you’ve got a lot of people there, in a fairly enclosed space.

Machines are humming, weights are banging around, resistance equipment weight stacks are being dropped.  People are in various stages of panting, gruning, groaning.  Some, like me, are relatively quiet when they lift weights; others make an announcement to the whole gym that they are.

But that’s what a gym is all about.

On top of that, though, you’ve got the music that they play over the speaker system.  There are TV’s running, but their sound is sent through FM channels.  Which would be okay, except that some nights it all turns into an all-out sound competition.

Those nights tend to be when there’s more people.  More people equals more noise, so whoever controls the gym’s sound system decides to compensate by turning the volume up.

This can be exceptionally annoying, not just for the higher volume, but also since the channel is inevitably some XM “hits of the 90’s and today!” (exclamation point included) every night.  Apparently over the course of those nearly 20 years exactly 9 songs were produced, eight of them in the last two years.  All nine of them, and only those nine, must, by some unwritten law, must be played in endless rotation.  I have grown to hate those nine songs.  Heck it wasn’t even a matter of liking the nine songs beforehand.  No, I didn’t like them before, and now I actually loathe them.  But I digress.

Of course, with my luck, my preferred cardo machines happen to sit directly under the speakers.  Not wishing to listen to the loathed songs, I tune in the TV, and crank the volume up in a vain attempt to compensate.  At which point someone cranks up the volume on the XM crap.

You can see where this is going, don’t you?

Some nights I feel like I’m drowning in noise.  It all becomes just one big grunting-clanging-panting-banging-OhMyGodIt’sThatFuckingSongAgain-humming cascade of noise that I can’t seem to get away from.  All of which seems to increase in volume and sheer cacophony as the night goes on.  I don’t expect silence at the gym, but does it have to be an all-out war on my eardrums?

Maybe I should just wear earplugs.

At least it’s not that way every night.  Some nights are blissful.  The stereo is low, there aren’t many people there, and I can keep the volume on my earplugs reasonable.  If I’m lucky, one of the TV’s is even tuned to something interesting, like a news story that I find fascinating.  I can stay on the cardio machine and be pleasantly distracted from my exertions by that.

Tonight was one of those nights.

At least until someone had the channel changed to football.

Just can’t win.

I just realized something tonight.  Halloween is next weekend.

On a Saturday night.  With an extra hour because of the time change.

And me?  I’ve asked around.  Friends seem to have no plans.  No party invites have come my way.  In fact, no plans whatsoever.

On the one hand, I’m an adult, and so it doesn’t matter all that much.

On the other, it’s just kind of a wee bit sad, know what I mean?

Camping in Yosemite Valley, unlike the rest of the park, has certain unique factors.  Namely the fact that humans and bears have been interacting for far, far too long.  This has left the resident bear population very accustomed to seeing humans as a food source, leading to a nightly contest between ranger and bear.  Bears wander through the campgrounds looking for easy Snickers bars, rangers chase them off hoping they’ll go back to eating berries.

Anyone who thinks that bears are just dumb, aggressive animals could not be further from the truth.  Currently, all food has to be stored in large bear-boxes at each campsite.  Why?  Because they’ve been known to get into cars, bear-proof garbage cans, even take running leaps from nearby boulders and stand on each others backs to reach food hanging from trees.

And now, this, seen this morning on Salon.com:

For Yosemite bears, dinner arrives in a minivan

So… let’s say you decided to take my advice from last weekend, and head out to Julian for the day.

One of the first things you might decide to do is check the traffic on SigAlert.com.  It takes the CalTrans road speed information and maps it all out for you in a handy, color coded format.

One of the easist ways to get to Julian is to take CA Highway 78 east from Interstate 15.  Below you can see some of the mappings, and the sensor locations, near Santa Ysabel.

The sensors end for Highway 78 at Julian, right at Main Street.  And obviously, the map-maker knows what’s really important at that sensor location…

So, my order from UC Press’ big online sale arrived today.

Admittedly, after reading “Cheap – The High Cost of Discount Culture,” I keep trying to figure out if I should feel guilty for buying them on sale (especially with a number of them published in, of all places, China).  Oh, well, they were purchases I was (mostly) going to make anyway, so what the heck.

Of course, life is all about balance, so to make room on the shelf for my new books, I have a small stack that will be heading to the donation bin at the local library.  Wax on, wax off.

For those interested in how my geeky mind works, at least in a small way, I present my purchases:

Yep, five of the Natural History Guides.  I’ve even already read the one of SF Weather which, surprisingly, informed me quite a bit about how weather works in the Los Angeles region.  Yea for more random knowledge!

“San Francisco Bay: Portrait of an Estuary” was something of a lark.  I figured it would have good photography, which it does, but it also has quite a bit more informative text than I was expecting.  I’m rather looking forward to reading it.

“Yosemite: Art of An American Icon” was actually the book produced for an exhibit at the Autry National Center back in 2007.  I rarely buy exhibition books, mainly due to price (the hardcover was $65, the softcover $35).  During the sale, UC Press was selling the hardcover for $10.  Ten dollars.  Who am I to pass up such a deal on a book about a place I love anyway?

These two books weren’t really necessary purchases, as I already own the California Coastal Commission’s “California Coastal Access Guide”.  Still, I don’t regret picking them up, since the books provide a wealth of information regarding the local coastline.  Each part of the coast is covered, showing parks and facilities (i.e. picnic areas, campgrounds, etc.), as well as sidebar articles on various aspects of the area (i.e. history, natural environment, etc.).  For any Californian these are a welcome addition to the bookshelf.

“Imperial San Francisco: Urban Power, Earthly Ruin” is a book that’s long been on by to-read list.  The reason for this, I think, is because it’s so, so much more common to criticize L.A. than S.F.  There are shelves of books on all the things wrong with L.A., but S.F. always seems to be held above the fray, as if it exists on another level.  This, of course, isn’t true: S.F. is just a much a cancer on the landscape as any other city. After all, its primary water supply comes from a dam and reservoir built inside a national park.  Earthly ruin, indeed.

“Natural State: A Literary Anthology of California Nature Writing”, on the other hand, contrasts the work above, consisting of over three dozen short works by authors such as John Muir, John Steinbeck and Jack Kerouac on the beauty of California’s natural environment.  I picked it up for a couple of reasons.  One: because, as we all know, I love my native state, especially its wilderness areas.  Two: I think it will be nice to read what others have written about California in short pieces.  Maybe, just maybe, as a side benefit, my own writing about my home will improve as well.

* * *

As a totally random side note: with all this serious literature on my shelf, I’m thinking I should look for something fun next time I’m down at the library.  So, what’s the funniest book you’ve ever read?  Recommendations?

When October rolled around when I was a kid, in addition to Halloween, there was the annual trip up to Apple Hill.

Located near Placerville, up in the Sierra Nevada foothills east of Sacramento, Apple Hill is an association of apple growers who banded together to promote their products.  The Parentage and I went up every year to pick up things like apple syrup (which, much as I love maple, will always be my favorite on waffles) and apple crisp.

My memories of the trips up there are pretty random, but always happy ones.

I remember stopping at Grandpa’s Cellar on a rainy day to pick up our annual supply of syrup (apple and apple-cinnamon, naturally).  While my parents chatted with the owners and bought gift baskets to be mailed to various relatives, I explored around outside.  The owners would later turn the area into a nature trail, but at the time the area surrounding the farm was untamed woods.  I ran around exploring, getting wet from the moisture dripping off the trees, having a fine time.

Or the trip stopping at Kids Inc. to have apple crisp on another cold rainy day.  At the time, Kids’ was just a small place: a small one-room shop heated by a pot-belly stove in the corner.  At the time, the kids were still kids, some around my age, who worked there, serving up tasty apple crisp with a scoop of cold vanilla ice cream.

I haven’t been to Apple Hill in a number of years and, in truth, I think I’d be a bit hesitant to go nowadays.  I know that it has changed and grown quite a bit since when I was a kid, the old business adage of “grow or die” being as true in small foothill communities as it is anywhere else.

Then again, change is a part of life, and the memories are still there, right?  Perhaps I should go again if I’m ever back in Northern California during the apple harvest.

* * *

Southern California has two well-known apple growing areas: Julian, in eastern San Diego county, and Oak Glen, near Redlands.  I’ve visited both over the last few years, sometimes with The Ex Girlfriend, sometimes with friends.

Last weekend I decided to do a loop trip, hitting both areas before returning to L.A.  It’s an idea I’ve been mulling over for years, so a few weeks ago I decided to go for it and made a camping reservation.  When the friend I invited couldn’t make it, I decided to just make it a solo trip and get out on the road on my own.

Saturday morning I packed the truck.  Sort’a.  In truth, it was more that I just threw all the camping stuff I have in the bed and tied it all down, figuring that if I just took all of it I’d have everything I needed (so much easier than backpacking!).  Then, a mixture of Neko Case and Tom Petty on the CD player, I hit the road.

I decided to take a round-about route to Julian, swinging through Anza-Borrego Desert State Park on my way.  I’d been curious about Anza-Borrego for some time, and over the years whenever I told someone that I hadn’t been their, the look on their faces was somewhere between shock and disbelief.

Entrance to Anza-Borrego Desert State Park

Descending San Diego County Road S-22 towards Borrego Springs

Due to my camping reservation, of course, I only had a couple of hours to spend in the park.  Still, it was enough time to get some lunch at a friendly diner in town (a little place I’d found online called Kendall’s Cafe, located at the back of The Mall Shopping Center), and then head up to the visitor center.

The Visitor Center is very nice, with exhibits covering the natural, geological, and cultural history of the area.  The building itself is also pretty cool, half-buried underground with natural vegetation across the surface of the roof.

Rooftop of the Visitor Center

Entrance to the Visitor Center

After the Visitor Center, I headed east, turning off the blacktop, putting the truck in 4WD and heading up to Font’s Point.  4.1 slippery, sandy miles later I arrived at this view:

Weathered rock in the Borrego Badlands

Font’s Point overlooks the Borrego Badlands, an area of uplifted rock that has been eroded down by the rare rains over the eons.

Looking over the edge of the uplifted rock of the Borrego Badlands

Returning to the main road, I headed back across the park, picking up California Highway 78 and proceeding to follow the slowest truck in existence up the road.  In about 20 twisty, winding miles, the road ascends from near sea level to 4,000 feet.  Along the way, the trip travels from dry desert through scrub brush and, finally, into oak woodlands.

Julian is an old mining town that, after the strikes petered out, continued to grow as an agricultural community.  The area is primarily known for it’s apple orchards, and has grown into a definite tourist destination.  Of course, that also means that this time of year, the town is packed with tourists, mostly locals from the San Diego area.

I chose to just drive through town (all six blocks of it), turning left onto highway 78/79 a couple of miles before turning off and driving the 4 miles to my camping spot: William Heise County Park.  Set in an oak woodland, the park is a great car-camping spot, especially as most of the campground was spared from the Cedar Fire of 2003.  The sites are generally large, well spaced, with fire rings and picnic tables.  There are restrooms with flush toilets and coin operated showers as well.

Evening light on the road to William Heise County Park

This being a lazy weekend, I set up camp, then headed back out to the highway and drove west to Wynola Pizza Express.  I picked up a pie to go, drove back to camp, and built up a fire.  Settling in, the sun went down, and I ate pizza.  Of course, by that point, the thin-crust pizza had gotten a bit cold, so I simply stuck a slice on my marshmallow fork and heated it over the fire.

It was a bit smokey tasting, sure, but at least now I can say I’ve roasted pizza over an open fire.  Really, how may people can make that claim?

The rest of the night was spent reading, keeping the fire going at an admirable height, and drinking hot chocolate.  The evening was perfect: cool without being cold, calm weather.

Sunday morning I awoke exceptionally well-rested.  The weather in the morning was just like the night before: cool but not cold, making it easy to crawl out of the sleeping bag and start the day.  I took a shower, packed the truck, and headed back into Julian.

Morning light on the trees in the campground

Main Street in Julian, CA

In town, I stopped at Mom’s Pie House to enjoy an early morning slice.  Whereas Saturday the line had been out the door and down the block when I drove by, I had the whole place to myself.

Well fed, I picked up a couple of bottles of apple syrup from a local store (Julian Cider Mill; no website) and headed back down the road to Santa Ysabel, picking up a frozen pie from Julian Pie Company (the original store is in Julian, but they grew so much they needed a larger facility in Santa Ysabel).  This pie will stay in my freezer until later in the winter, when the weather is cooler.  I should’a bought two, but at least I can get more online.

Santa Ysabel Valley

Heading north, I decided to skip the interstate and take the back roads, cruising through open country and Hemet, heading straight north for Oak Glen.  Oak Glen was unbelievably crowded, but I was in a pretty relaxed state by this point, so it didn’t bug me too much.  Nevertheless, I didn’t want to stay long.

So, after picking up a tri-tip sandwich at Riley’s at Los Rios Rancho, I drove down to Snow-Line Orchard, which makes great cider, and is the only place I know that makes raspberry cider.  I picked up three half-gallons (two of which will also be frozen for later enjoyment), struggled to get out of the parking lot (a narrow one way road largely blocked by a Hummer driver who clearly had no clue how to handle a vehicle that size), and headed downhill to I-10 for the westward journey back to L.A.

Cider Barn at Snow-Line Orchard

* * *

The unexpected thing about this trip was that it allowed me to compare and contrast Julian and Oak Glen in a way that I hadn’t before.  Overall, I have to say that Julian was the better part of the trip.

Don’t get me wrong: Oak Glen has its charms and is well worth a visit.  I think the crowds at Oak Glen were mostly due to an airing of Huell Howser’s show on the area, which always puts the idea in the locals’ heads and off to the mountains they go, all on the same weekend.  Plus, Oak Glen is probably more like Apple Hill than Julian is.

The hard part about Oak Glen is that there are relatively few growers as compared to Apple Hill’s 30 or so.  Oak Glen also has, in some parts, a bit of a tourist-trap feel to it, especially in the area around Law’s Oak Glen Coffee Shop, which has a large area with games, arts & crafts booths, even a petting zoo.

Come to think of it, I think some farms at Apple Hill had that, but we simply never went there as a kid.

Still, raspberry cider…

Julian, on the other hand, was a town before it lured the tourists up to partake of its apples.  There’s some history there.  In addition, Julian has managed to maintain some of its small-town charm, if for no other reason than there’s no Thomas Kinkcade store.  Having traveled to a lot of small towns in California that live or die by their tourist trade, it always seems to go downhill when a Kinkade store moves in, in my humble opinion.

Julian, of course, has all the things you’d expect in a small, tourist town: antique stores, gunslingers walking the streets, bed & breakfasts.  Still, the people are friendly, the food is good, there’s a real feeling of a community there, and the nearby mine tour is pretty darn cool.  (I do have a couple of little tips, if you go.  Skip the Wolf Center tour; when The Ex Girlfriend and I went several years ago, the mostly-nocturnal wolves stayed out of sight in the shade.  Definitely do the mine tour, which is really cool.)

Would I enjoy Julian as much on just a day trip?  Maybe not, given the crowds I saw when I drove through town.  Still, if you can only get to one, I’d have to recommend Julian.

* * *

One thing I will say about this trip is how much I’m reminded that I like foothill country, both in Northern and Southern California.

4,000 feet is where you get distinct seasons, with warm summers and cool winters, but it’s mostly below the snow line.  As a result, you don’t spend all winter shoveling snow, nor all summer in blistering heat.  There are seasons, without the extremes of the High Sierras or the lowland valleys.

And without bloody June Gloom.

* * *

In the end, I think the biggest difference between Oak Glen and Julian might just come down to one word: pie.

Apple Pie.

See, in Oak Glen, they prefer a high-domed apple pie: maybe an inch around the edge, but rising to 2-3 inches thick in the middle.  In Julian, the pies are level: even all the way across the top of the pie.

Why is the difference important?  The high domed pies never seem to cook up right to me, especially when I take them home.  The center never quite cooks through; the outside can get downright burnt in an effort to cook the center.

The flat-topped pie cooks up perfectly.

Maybe it’s a small thing, and maybe it makes me picky about my pie.

So be it.

‘Cuz a perfect, warm slice of Dutch Apple?  The slice where the apples are so tender they practically melt in your mouth?  Where the topping is slightly crispy, mixing with the sauce and the apples?  Maybe even sitting next to a small scoop of cold vanilla ice cream?

I doubt I need to say more, because that’s pretty darn hard to beat.