Home of the Troll Bridge: Forest Park

Trails in Forest Park are irresistible. Like this. Could you stand here and NOT pick a path and walk?

Arno and I met for the very first time on Mount Tabor, a beautiful Portland park so close to my home that I walked there to meet him. It’s the site of an ancient, dormant volcano. The date went so well that we spent about four hours on Mt. Tabor, till we got hungry and had to come down off the volcano.

After eating, we weren’t ready to separate quite yet. Arno had moved from Chicagoland only months before, and didn’t know many places in Portland, so he asked where we should go next. I had had been in Portland a couple years, and didn’t know the place like a native, but knew of Forest Park, rumored to be one of the largest city parks in the country (5,172 acres). (I’m determined to do some real research some day, and figure out precisely where Forest Park fits in the list, since the lists I have found don’t mention it.)

In this photo, the sun is thinking about getting stronger and lighting the world.

trillium

On that day, we walked the trails and tried to keep ourselves steady as we tumbled madly for each other. We came to a beautiful little bridge over a creek, and stopped. Arno called it The Troll Bridge. We paused awhile to see if the troll would come out, and in fear for my life, I caught Arno in an embrace. (ok, maybe it wasn’t out of fear…)

violets

We shared our first delicious kiss on the Troll Bridge. And since then Forest Park has held a special place in our collective memory.

Yesterday the sky threatened rain, and I told Arno I was determined to go outside for a good long while, and get some exercise, rain or no rain. We found our way to the other side of town, to the west hills, and to one of the many trail heads. The drive was beautiful in itself, winding up through the gorgeous homes in Portland’s King’s Heights. The homes are so eclectic, so fascinating, so obviously loved, that it’s always worth the trip there.

Path through a decadent green carpet

We didn’t get rained on, though the sky remained cloudy. It remained warm, and our walk was lovely. Arno turned on the GPS to track us, and we did a 7 1/2 mile loop, which was enough to get the stir crazy out of my bones.

These picnic tables are begging for someone to stop for a lunchtime break.

We crossed many little wooden bridges, but did not come across our Troll Bridge yesterday. We did pause on a couple of them, however, to share a kiss and wait to see if a troll would come out.

Most of the people we passed on our walk were joggers and cyclists.

I asked Arno to hold the camera while I took off my fleece and tied it around my waist. He took my photo! Can’t trust that guy…

Awwww, I thought this was a really wonderful tribute. Here’s a place to read more and see a video of Dave Terry’s memorial.

adiantum aleuticum. Eye-catching, lacy, fern hands.

Oregon Tulips

Fields of colors at the Wooden Shoe Tulip Farm

I was desperate for something to help me re-direct my sour mood yesterday morning. I was in a super bad mood that had carried over from the night before and I felt grouchy the moment I woke up. I could tell it was “time to pull out the big guns” as they say. I needed to get out of the house and put myself directly into a situation where my natural joy of life would take over and squash those dark feelings.

It’s the season for the annual Tulip Festival at the Wooden Shoe Tulip Farm in Woodburn, Oregon. I went there once before in 2010, and found the huge fields of tulips irresistible then, and suspected they might be just the thing I needed.

Elliot Prairie Community Church

I popped my head into my teenager’s bedroom, recently converted into a fort to hold several other teenagers on a sleepover. I woke her up to remind her that she had to leave for ballet in an hour, that I loved her, and that I was on my way out the door to go photograph tulips.

Rather than take I-5 to the Woodburn exit, I went directly south on I-205 to Oregon City, along a scenic section of the Willamette River, and south through some truly gorgeous fields and hills of trees toward Canby. I love that I can live in places where I am periodically startled to see how beautiful it is. The views became more lovely as I continued my heading, winding me into valleys and over ridges and past the most postcard-perfect little farms with Victorian style homes and white picket fences and sheep grazing among daffodils.

Antique tractors at the far end of the farm. You can see the fallow fields and hazelnut grove in the background.

I reached the tulip farm in about an hour. The fee is $10 per vehicle, which was a little much for just me, but a good price considering one could bring in a station wagon full of kids and it would still be $10. The farm is dog friendly, so bring everybody when you come. Keep your dog on a leash to prevent tulip smashing and unwanted tangles with the many other dogs. I ignored all the circus tents and food and gifts for sale, and all the crazy festival hoo-haw going on beside the parking lot. Not. in. the. mood.

The tulips are planted in a different place this year than in 2010. Maybe they are moved every year. I was disappointed, because I liked having Mt. Hood and a hazelnut grove as the background to my tulip views. Just to be obstinate (remember I was in a really bad mood), I walked to the field I wanted the tulips to be in. There was only grass, and a cluster of antique wood-burning tractors.

I returned to the tulips and began clicking my camera at them. It’s cheating, to take photos there, because you can’t get a bad shot. Even if your composition is poor, the subject matter is good enough to make up for it. My biggest challenge was avoiding shots of people.

I was reminded of being in Japan, at the Iris Festival in Iwakuni, because there were many people surrounding flowers with cameras, most cameras much nicer than mine. They patiently dragged their huge tripods along with them. I find tripods cumbersome, but perhaps that reveals me to be an amateur. Me, I stepped carefully along the long narrow rows in my cowboy boots, and then squatted mere inches above the mud, and clicked, and looked at flowers and at the people and at the sun, and then scooted over a little and clicked some more.

While there, the clouds thickened and the cold wind which had been there all along, became even more wicked. My grumpiness threatened to pull me down some more, but I opened my heart as much as I could. This little boy came bouncing past me, shouting with glee, “This is so amazing! This is my favourite place, ever! Come on, you can only step on the humps.” and he hopped along the edge of the tulip field, leaping from dirt mound to dirt mound. His enthusiasm caught like a virus, and a few people remained chuckling for minutes after the boy had gone.

I loved the yellow boots!

This flower was standing tall, so I wanted to really set her off!

Another tulip standing out from the crowd that I just had to capture.

Drops of rain touched me here and there, and the wind pressed inside the seams of my jacket. My fingers were frozen and it was time to go. How glad I was for my early start. The photo of the church was the first one I took today: look at all that blue!

see her eggs?

sitting on her nest

Leaving the parking lot, creeping slowly to avoid mortally wounding a child or a dog, I heard a killdeer shrieking and was surprised to see her in the parking lot and not budging from her spot. I parked again and came back for a look. The Tulip Farm people had blocked two parking spots with cones, because the killdeer had made her nest right smack in the middle of a painted parking line. She stayed on her nest while I invaded her privacy, and then when I stood up to leave, it startled her, and she jumped up and came toward me.

These were my absolute favourites of the day. All the tulips in this row were crazy with lots of green.

Gribble Barn

California Camping

 

Getting the fire going in Lassen National Forest

Tucked at the base of a tufa pinnacle near Trona, California

This is a post dedicated just to our awesome campsites last week during our Spring Break road trip. Each and every stop was a delight for us, and I’m not just exaggerating. Each place we ended up for the night was pure jackpot, and it added so much to our experience.

Our first night camping was at the Trona Pinnacles. The best thing about Trona Pinnacles is that the setting is truly amazing. No, the best *best* thing is that we had been looking for a campground, and this is where we ended up, which is better than a campground.

Looking north toward the town of Trona.

The BLM website says this location supports what they call “primitive camping,” which means that there are limited facilities. Here, there was an information board at the beginning of the turn off road, and one vaulted toilet on one end of a very large area of pinnacles. And bleh, who wants to smell a stinky outhouse when you can simply dig your own hole? (Arno taught me that they are called “cat holes.”)  So I define “primitive” campsites as those more likely to have fewer campers and a higher percentage of the type of campers that I like. The camping here is free.

Our tent, beneath the Big Dipper, in Greenwater Valley

The next night we had planned to stay in a Death Valley National Park campground, but when we saw that the one at Stovepipe Wells was nothing more than RVs and tents jammed together in a section of gravel, we asked desperately at the Furnace Creek information center. The ranger suggested we venture into the “back country roads” and camp anywhere we wanted to off the side of the road.

That took us into a higher valley, which was cooler and had more vegetation, so I found it prettier. There were other campers, but within the 5th largest park in the United States, there was plenty of room for everyone! It was nice and flat, and easy to press the stakes into the ground, though I had been expecting it to be impossible. These campsites are not really campsites, so they were free, and zero facilities. Which is how we like it.

Our view of the Greenwater Valley in the morning, from the tent.

The next day we really hadn’t given any thought at all to camping until it was evening. Our main concern was to find a gas station. You know how it gets in a time like that, just sort of remaining anxious and focused on the miles clicking by. We gassed up, felt safe, and then realized it was late and we were tired. So we asked at the gas station for a  place to pitch a tent. We found out we were about a mile from a campground.

The Big Pine Creek campground stretches along the base of the hills, beneath those trees. You can see one of the toilets on the left.

Our fatigue made us willing to really lower our standards at that point, so we were truly thrilled to find a stunningly beautiful, inexpensive ($10 a campsite per night), large campground right within Big Pine city limits. It was so large that all the campers had made an effort to keep away from the other campers, and we had plenty of privacy. And everyone was on the creek, under trees. There were a few nice vault toilets, so we used them. If you are ever in the neighborhood, I recommend Big Pine Creek Campground for hikers, car campers, or RVs.

Arno crouches to prepare the spot for our tent, between the two small branches of the creek.

The place we chose was at a spot where the creek split, and large stepping stones had been placed in the first branch, so we could hop across, carrying our gear, to the fire pit between the branches. Found a lovely flat and sandy place for the tent, and unpacked our wood for the first time. It was too windy for a fire at pinnacles, too hot at Death Valley, and just right here.

In the morning, Arno spotted a heron about six feet from the tent, on the hill side of the creeks. It was slowly stepping through the tall dead grasses, watching the water for a morning snack.

Our final night’s campsite was my favourite one of all, because it reminded me of the camping I am most familiar with. The kind of camp spot I might choose if I had been backpacking in the Trinity Alps, or home in Idaho. Again, we were just driving along, and realized we were tired, so we earnestly began looking for a place to stop. Once we got inside Lassen National Forest, we eyed every single road for it’s potential to lead us to a new campsite.

I turned down a road that was supposed to lead us to Bogard Campground, but the Spring had not yet thawed the snow from the road, and I had to stop after only about a mile. The place where I was forced to stop in the middle of the road was where we ended up! The main road was just a dirt road, and there was less of a road than that which intersected it. Being so early in the season, though, it was more like a long, narrow, flat area than a road. We found a section with no snow, and pitched the tent.

Our final campsite in the trees.

Someone had been before us, and built a great firepit with enormous rocks. (That’s me playing in the fire in the photo at the top of this post.) It was very cold that night, but I was so happy. The stars were astonishingly bright, and we got to listen to a fascinating bird call like a loon. We guessed the birds were likely water birds, on one of the many shallow marshy small lakes in the area.

That’s all I wanted to say: we had the best campsites during our road trip. It is very hard to choose a boring hotel bed over these places.

Mono Lake, then north again

Sunny Sierra morning above our camp

The sun on the Sierra Nevada mountains this morning was stunning. My mouth dropped open and I ran for the camera. Part of the beauty could have been because the snowy peaks above the trees provided a different view than what we had been seeing in the rocky, prickly, dry parts of southern California. I am making an effort in daily life to pay less attention to how something came to be and more attention to simply addressing what is in front of me. So the important point here: gorgeous!

In the morning we treated ourselves to luxury and bought tokens to take showers in Big Pine. Then, all cleaned up to a no-longer-offensively-smelly level, we ate breakfast at an actual restaurant. Stuffed and happy, we hit the road for what would end up being a 330 mile drive.

I am enjoying the warmth at the water’s edge, and thinking about pulling off my black fleece

Ever since we camped at Trona Pinnacles State Park, we hoped to be able to stop at Mono Lake Tufa State Natural Reserve on our way home. The fascinating tufa formations revealed in both lakes once the water level dropped, are formed in the same way when mineral rich springs bubble up into an akaline lake. We wanted the benefit of being able to compare the 10,000 to 100,000 year old Trona pinnacles with the Mono pinnacles, which are younger and smaller.

tufa pinnacles reflect in the water at Mono Lake

an island of tufa

The campaign to “save Mono Lake” seems to have effectively been stamped onto the public consciousness, because many people (myself included, prior to my visit) believe we need to save Mono Lake. What I found out was that the campaign was successful in reverting the damaging drain of water since 1941 from Mono’s sources. In 1994, an order to protect Mono Lake was issued, and the City of Los Angeles reduced its level of water diversion. Now we can wait for the lake to begin filling up again – not to pre-Los Angeles levels – but back up a few feet with no more danger of total evaporation because of people. So Mono Lake has been saved already – yay!

The water hosts life on many levels, to include plant life below the surface

I was surprised at the numbers of birds there, assuming the water was somehow poisonous. But it’s not poisonous, just salty. Our morning had been a chilly one, and I pulled black fleece over my head to keep warm, but down at the south shore amongst the tufa towers, the sun quickly warmed us. We lounged and enjoyed the heat. And took photos.

A snowy egret perched atop a tufa spire

A bird perches high atop a spire for a magnificent view

Yellow grasses from last summer have not yet been replaced by this year’s crop

Looking west to the Sierra Nevada

The solitary tube standing alone out there is a good illustration of how each tufa spire begins as a formation around a spring bubbling up from underground.

After that it was time to go. We had much driving ahead of us, and we had recently discovered that the iPod connection that Arno installed had stopped working. Best guess is that it got disconnected during all the back country roads we bounced over in the pickup. We were not able to listen to music or news or audiobooks. So I pulled the laptop from the back seat and read a few chapters to Arno from my Shemya book that has been about 10 years in the making. I will -I WILL- finish it someday. Sharing it with other people really does help me pressure myself to work on it more.

Since we’ve known each other, in fact since our very first date, Arno and I occasionally come across topics that are too big to discuss in the moment. Arno suggested on our first date, as we stood on the Troll Bridge, that perhaps it was a topic to bring up later over a glass of wine. In the meantime, we’ve had this come up often: a topic to be discussed over wine. If it’s a heavy-duty topic, we suggest it should be discussed later over whiskey, heh heh. In anticipation of the trip, I had done a subject search of all our old emails (I’ve kept them all) for the keyword “wine” and had a list ready of stuff we now had time to talk about. We were driving, so there was no wine, but that was ok.

Preoccupied with talking, we zoomed north through Carson City and Reno, barely noticing them. I did interrupt discussion to point at the Upper Air dome (the radar that tracks the instrument box attached to launched weather balloons) as we passed the Reno National Weather Service office. I bragged that when UA operations were moved from Winnemucca to Reno, I was the one who wrote the SOP and and trained the Reno staff on how to fill, launch, and track weather balloons.

Our camp beside the Lassen National Forest road

In that way, we made it to Susanville and barely noticed the miles. It was getting late, and though a campground at Old Station had been recommended, we didn’t want to go that far. I was driving along Highway 44 when I saw a sign for Bogard Campground. I pulled off onto the red dirt road, and the truck got bogged a little bit in the mud. We came up over a hill and had to stop because the road was completely snow-covered. We were nowhere near the campground, but ready to stop anyhow, so we got out to take a look. When Arno found a fire pit, that sealed the deal. We found a dry-ish spot for the tent and settled in.

Yes, I am blogging by the campfire. In a skirt. And a down jacket.

Well after dark, we heard a eerie bird call that was much like the Common Loons I had heard when living in New England. Perhaps they were Pacific Loons, I don’t know, but their call was so compelling I couldn’t bear to make a sound while I heard it. After the fire died and we went to bed, I turned up my face and was astonished to see a million gazillion stars! I forget! I forget how many there are, and how incredible it is to see them without light pollution.

Dante’s View and Scotty’s Castle

Is it cliche to call this a natural tapestry? How else would you describe these colours and swirls and dynamic fingerpainted streaks across the mountainsides?

Thursday morning we rose early as usual. Well, to be honest, we’ve been “sleeping in” till around 6:30 this whole vacation. We typically rise at 5am on a weekday, so this is more relaxing. Arno has been so indulgent and supportive of me on this trip; often rising to make coffee so I can disappear with the camera, and several times entertaining himself while I write blog posts and then again while I post them at some borrowed wireless stop. This morning we skipped the breakfast routine in order to make an early tourist stop.

Looking north toward me with my coffee at Dante’s View

Looking down onto Death Valley from Dante’s View

The white path is what we walked on the day before. The black curved strip is the paved road. From Dante’s View we could actually discern little black people specks on the white.

Our goal for the morning was to hit Dante’s view (5475 feet elevation) in the morning light. It made sense that with the sun rising in the east, the view of Badwater Basin (5577 feet below) would be best in the morning. It was a great view despite the hazy air, and we got a better sense of where we had walked the previous afternoon. The area that we assumed was packed flat by mere human feet alone, coincided with a drain channel in the basin. People seem to have walked to the edges of the channel, rather than forcibly widening a walking path beyond what was necessary. This information was easily ascertained from our great height, and made me less irritated with the tourists.

Arno makes breakfast on the tailgate, at the site of a supposed ghost town called Furnace. The vastness of the desert appeals to me.

We bought only a couple gallons to get us safely to the next gas station, because gas prices in the park were a bit steep.

After the view, we backtracked to the dirt roads again to find a ghost town because Arno was hoping we might find something cool. There turned out to be only minimal evidence of mining operations, and I hardly think the nomer “town” was appropriate. If the place had ever been a town, there would surely be more residue. Today there is a framed mine shaft with a steel cage around it (for safety we assumed), and nothing else but a leftover pile of tailings. I wrote for my blog while Arno cooked breakfast.

mine shaft

Breaking News! Death Valley has now been officially recognized by the World Meteorological Organization as the hottest spot on the planet. On July 10, 1913, a temperature of 134 F was measured at the Furnace Creek Ranch. Previously the record was believed to have been set at El Azizia, Libya, but the WMO determined that the inexperienced observer mistakenly recorded the temperature 7 degrees too high in 1922 when he used replacement instruments.

The courtyard of Scotty’s Castle. Family living quarters on the left, and guest quarters on the right.

We calculated our time available, and were saddened to have to cross the Racetrack Playa off our itinerary. That’s the place where rocks appear to have been pushed across the dry desert floor. Instead we aimed for Scotty’s Castle; our last stop before leaving the park.

We drove almost 80 miles to Scotty’s Castle, still in the park. This truly is a ginormous park; apparently the largest National Park outside of Alaska, and the 5th largest in the U.S. at 5,269 square miles. The trip took about two hours, and at one point we climbed high up into the mountains and were able to look behind us and spot Mt. Whitney. There are 85 air miles between Badwater Basin, the lowest point in the contiguous United States, and Mt. Whitney, at 14,495 feet, the highest point. (They’re also in the same state!)

Looking down into the living room from the second floor balcony

Prior to this trip I had heard about Scotty’s Castle, but had no idea what it was.  We were in for a treat! This amazing Spanish style house is also called Death Valley Ranch. It was built by Albert and Bessie Johnson, two young and wealthy adventure-seekers from Chicago. Scotty (Walter Scott), our tour guide told us, was famous for being famous. He began working for Buffalo Bill Cody in his Wild West Show, but after being fired, began one heck of an investment fraud. Scotty duped many, but when he found physically disabled Chicagoan Albert Johnson, he thought he had hit the jackpot. What were the odds that Johnson would ever take the trouble to visit Death Valley and discover that Scotty’s famed gold mine didn’t exist?

Bessie’s fabulous Spanish kitchen

The dining room. Scotty’s initials are on the porcelain plates. I want to know how he pulled that one off.

Johnson did come to Death Valley however, and Scotty desperately cooked up a plan with his buddies to fake a pistol battle and robbery in a desert canyon, intended to scare the bejeebers out of Johnson and send him howling back home. The buddies accidentally shot Scotty’s brother in the leg, and the whole plot was revealed. In the meantime, Johnson was having the time of his life, and all his fantasies about the Wild West had come true in that one crazy afternoon. So he continued to fund Scotty, who looked after the property that the Johnsons began acquiring in 1915.

dragons everywhere

Bessie and Albert built the gorgeous mansion near a generous spring that supplied power and water. They built Scotty his own room in the mansion, as well as his own house, 4 miles up the canyon. When the Johnsons were away, Scotty used the setting to dupe a growing list of investors in his gold mine, and not one of them saw a return on their investment except Johnson, who got a mad storyteller and a desert guide out of the bargain.

Today the mansion is a museum, owned by the Park Service. The place is stuffed with all the original furnishings, to include the leather curtains, a refrigerator and freezer, and Albert’s own invented electric fixtures. Since I am a dragon collector, I was delighted to see dragons scattered throughout the place. Though Bessie was an intensely devout Christian, and took it upon herself to preach every Sunday, she apparently loved the mythical as well. Our tour ended in the music room (where Bessie held her sermons), and we were treated to a song from their Welte-Mignon Pipe Organ.

One of the buildings of Palmetto

Finally we left the park and bent our way north, hoping to find some greenery to camp in for the night. We found the ghost town of Palmetto, right beside the highway. It is the site of lots of broken down stone buildings and is much more interesting than the one we investigated in Death Valley. So Arno got his ghost town fix, which made me happy.

The mountains in a darkening sunset as we made camp in Big Pine

The truck was almost running on fumes when we finally made it to Big Pine, California. After feeding our ride, the attendant told us we could camp right there in town. The spot we found was unexpectedly beautiful. We parked the truck and carried our gear across a creek by stepping on stones. We fell asleep to the sound of rushing water; a different environment entirely from Death Valley.

Below Sea Level

The view of Death Valley from the western approach on highway 190.

Sunrise view of the pinnacles surrounding our camp in the morning.

{Disclaimer: forgive the length! This is one of the times when I found it difficult to resist including lots of photos and descriptions.} Arno made us another fabulous breakfast while I took more photos of the stunning and surprising pinnacles. I even did some of my physical therapy exercises, trying to keep Jessica and Tyler from Therapeutic Associates happy.

Hey all my East-Coast friends: get a load of this highway. They don’t make roads like this in New England!

We drove along very straight and empty desert highways (so typical in the West), and finally made it into Death Valley National Park, the driest, hottest, lowest spot in the United States. One must drive miles into the place before coming to a park office that will allow an entrance fee to be paid.

Isn’t this hilarious? We pulled over to take photos of the “Welcome to Death Valley” sign, and these shoes were begging to be photographed.

At the entrance to the park

At Stovepipe Wells Village we saw our first park campground, which was basically pitching a tent on a gravel parking lot – bleh. Unacceptable. We pulled in at the visitor’s center and Arno headed for the door, while I headed out back because I had spotted a National Weather Service Cooperative Weather Observer (COOP) thermometer shelter. I popped off the latches and opened the door to see what equipment they had. Sadly, only max and min thermometers. Sometimes more interesting equipment will be housed in one of these, such as as barograph, or a thermograph. The shelter made me happy enough though, bringing back memories of my 11 years with NWS, often very active in the COOP program.

Arno bought the year pass for all the parks, hoping we would be able to use it later. I am really hoping to take advantage of that. We are frugal enough to go to a park just because we bought the pass, so it can be a bit of reverse psychology to force me into exploring our amazing United States. How truly fortunate we are to live in a country that wants to, and is able to, set aside humongous areas simply for public enjoyment. If we were a tiny Cyprus or Liechtenstein or Andorra, we could not afford this luxury.

Mesquite Flat sand dunes near the Stovepipe Wells Visitor’s Center

Along Harmony Borax Works interpretive trail

Near the office was access to a large area of sand dunes, so off we went across the dunes, and benefited from springtime blossoms to brighten up the view.

After that, we explored some remains of a Borax mining operation, with an old wagon famous for the days when borax was moved from the desert using the famous 20-mule teams. It was getting hot, but neither of us minded much, since desert heat had been part of our goal all along. As we walked through the ruins, I told the story of when I accidentally brushed my teeth with Borax. I come from a remarkable family in many ways, and yes, it turns out to be a family where a teenager could mistake a mason jar of borax for a mason jar of baking soda. I didn’t die, so that proves it wasn’t a poisonous substance, but I did complain to Mom that the soda tasted pretty bad that day. (turns out she had been cleaning, and left the jar of powder on the counter by the sink)

By that time we had finally reached the population center of the park, Furnace Creek. There is a small forest there (startlingly unexpected after all the dried out desolation), with a large visitor’s center and camping, and even a posh resort. Just beside all the touristy stuff is Timbisha Shosone lands, where native Americans continue to inhabit lands they have occupied for more than 10,000 years. At the center we got information on where to camp and not be on a gravel parking lot with hundreds of other tourists. At the general store, we bought ice cream and awesome Tilley hats to protect our skin from the sun.

In our new Tilley hats at the lowest point in the United States

The inset shows you what the sign says, high above our truck

Obviously (well, to me at least) the main attraction of Death Valley is the fact that one can stand on dry land below sea level. Moses ain’t got nuthin’ on southern California. So our next stop was to visit the place itself. We got lucky in the parking lot (no, not that kind of lucky…) when we turned around – away from the basin – and spotted a sign mounted waaaay up on the rock face at the point of sea level. It was helpful to understand just how far -282 feet really is.

The path out into Badwater Basin

From the basin, looking back toward the parking lot and the head of the trail

Water! Liquid water in Death Valley

New crystallization of the mineral rich environment

We walked out into Badwater Basin and by that time we were suffering from the heat. The temp at the visitor’s center in Furnace Creek stated 91 degrees, but I’ll bet it was hotter than that out in the basin itself. Pedestrians had worn a wide, hard-packed path out away from the parking lot at the base of the mountains. Arno and I lamented that so much of the fascinating mineral formations had been crushed by millions of shoes. We tentatively approached the edges, careful not to crush anything new, and investigated crystalline formations at the edges. In places where people had crushed it flat, new lacy snowflakes were often forming again on top of the flat area. Nature proving that persistence rules. I was reminded of a blog acquaintance who is obsessed with fractals, one of my favourite examples of natural mathematical artistry.

Natural bridge a one-mile hike from the paved road

Spectacular colours and shapes and drama embedded into the mountains along the Artist’s Drive

The wonderful one-lane Artist’s Drive as it rodeos around the landscape

We headed back toward Furnace Creek, and along the way stopped to hike a short trail to a natural bridge. Then we took a little paved detour called the Artist’s Drive, just to see what we could see. It offered us truly remarkable views of striations in mountain faces, and layers dripping over one another to look like a giant pile of melting ice cream. The road itself was a riot. It was a narrow one-laned twisty, curvy rollercoaster road that was like a theme park ride. Near the end, we passed several vehicles pulled over, and couples in lawn chairs up on the slopes, waiting and watching for the impending sunset. It reminded us to get a move on, since we were hoping to set up camp in daylight.

Our view of Orion as we ate our stir fry chicken and peppers with couscous, and sipped the Fetzer wine we had picked up in Lakeport earlier in the week.

We had been told at the Visitor’s Center about dispersed camping along the backcountry roads (read: gravel or dirt) on the southeast side of the park. When we were almost to Furnace Creek, we turned right and went south into the Greenwater Valley. It was higher elevation, below Coffin Peak, and the temperature dropped into the 70s up there. MUCH more indicative of a good night’s sleep. And also, with the scattered plant life, a much more scenic valley than the Badwater Basin. We were not quick enough to set up camp in light, but we managed anyhow with headlamps. Arno cooked another in a series of mouthwateringly great meals while I set up the tent and inflated the mattresses  We ate, and watched the stars, and I couldn’t help but take some more night time photos before we were fully exhausted and dropped into our sleeping bags for the night.

Red Rock Canyon State Park and Trona Pinnacles

My attempt to make the Central Valley look beautiful. (Luckily the photo doesn’t capture the stinky cow poop smell.)

Tuesday we hit the freeway with the intent to make some miles. We zoomed through the Central Valley and saw acres upon acres of crops. There were political signs up about water rights. The battle for water rights must be permanent in this area, since it’s always dry, they get much of their water from somewhere else (e.g. diversion from the Trinity & Klamath Rivers into the Sacramento River), and since an enormous quantity of America’s food comes from right here in this big valley.

Arno stands at the base of one of the stunning cliffs in Red Rock Canyon SP.

Arno beside a Joshua Tree

We reached Red Rock Canyon State Park relatively soon, since it is a little over an hour east of Bakersfield. I asked Arno to stop at the short trail named for Rudolph Hagen, right at the entrance to the Ricardo Campground. I love that Arno is always game to pull over and take pictures, or hike, or climb, or explore. I had been looking forward to visiting this place since my spring break trip two years ago in the rain and cold. Today’s visit was gorgeous and warm!

I photographed this rock two years ago.

I’m a sucker for geological intrigues, and find so much satisfaction in discovering unexpected rock formations and the queer things the wind and rain have done to them. Here we saw lots of angles jutting from the earth, columns holding up tables of rock, and curtains of rock walls.

Me, jumping down the rocks

Then we were off again to try and get as close as we could to Death Valley before it got too dark to set up a tent. We got to a town called Ridgecrest and filled the tank with the idea of having plenty of gas upon entering the park.

Arno was excited to see China Lake Naval Weapons Center and China Lake Naval Air Weapons Station, and had me get a photo of the F4 Phantom as we passed the entrance.

We had asked at the gas station and the attendant told us there was no place to camp between there and the park. But just as we were leaving town, we spotted the Maturango Museum and information center, and pulled into the parking lot at 5:32 pm. There was a man with a name tag on his khaki shirt, walking away from the building and toward the parking lot. “Are you closed?” we asked. “Yes,” he answered. “What do you need?”

This cliff looks like curtains of fabric to me.

So we explained that we just wanted a place to pitch a tent before it got dark. “Let me ask Mary,” he said. “You can follow me.” He knocked at a locked Employees Only side door and Mary let us in and introduced herself. The man introduced himself as Harris. We thanked them for taking pity on us, even though they were closed. We explained what we wanted for a campsite (we’re fully self-contained and simply need a piece of land). As she came up with some ideas, Mary also asked us where we were headed, and we told her. She disappeared into the back for awhile, and came back loaded with brochures, a map, and a Death Valley National Park publication (you know, the kind you always get at the entrance of a national park).

One of the sheets she brought out was of a local point of interest she thought we might be interested in: the Trona Pinnacles.

“Oh!” Harris and Mary said almost at once, “You could camp at the Pinnacles.”

The Trona Pinnacles in the setting sun. Can you spot the pickup?

Mary told us how to get there and said people camp there all the time. We thanked them again, gathered up all our brochures (including one of wildflower identification – how thoughtful!) and left. Before leaving Ridgecrest, I sat in the cab of the pickup and wrote some postcards and birthday cards for my niece  nephew, and brother, and we mailed those off before leaving town.

Looking out from our campsite

We found the Pinnacles without much trouble, and they were truly remarkable. On the way, I read the brochure to Arno and we discovered that they are 10,000 to 100,000 year old tufa (calcium carbonate) formations from back when the area was the site of a huge lake, now called the Searles Dry Lake Basin. These formations are caused when a spring beneath the lake bubbles up mineral rich water into an akaline lake, and it forms a cone around the spring, much like stalactites and stalagmites in a cave. The cone builds higher and higher over the years, but remains below water level. It’s only when the water disappears that the tufa formations become visible.

Sun strikes the spires rising from the dry lake bed.

The temperature was pretty warm, but the wind was crazy wild. We drove for some time until we found a place where we could tuck the tent in the shelter of one of the larger pinnacles. Then I ran around with my camera and took photos.

Full moon rises in some thin cirrus behind a tufa spire.

The lights of Trona are visible in the distance, and stars above make it seem peaceful here, though the wind was whipping at the time the photo was taken.

The moon rose full tonight, so I played with the tripod and night time setting. My camera pulls in so much light, the photos make it look like it was still daytime, but you can see the stars that prove it was night. The wind raged for a few hours, then finally dropped off during the night. The moon rose higher and higher and lit up the tent almost as bright as a spotlight. When we woke in the morning, it was dead calm and we had an easy time making scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast before we left the most amazing dry lake bed I’ve ever slept in.

Northern California feels like home

Arno and I playing in the Pacific

Somehow Arno’s boys and my girl are on the same visitation schedule with seeing their other respective parent. It’s lovely to have that convenience, since we can get all the kids together during the holidays we have them, and then they all leave at the same time too, so Arno and I get our grown up time together. This week, for example, the boys left PDX airport Sunday morning, we all piled into the car to head south to drop Tara off with her dad in Humboldt County, and the rest of the week would be ours. Blessed stress-free, kid-free week of camping in the desert.

Burst of daffodil yellow in the median strip.

Two years ago I took a solo Spring Break trip south and noticed the daffodils. They caught my eye again this year. It is really a delight to see them splashed in the freeway median and beside the road. I was reminded that there are few freeways that are as scenic as these parts of I-5 through Oregon. From around Salem through Roseburg, I am often impressed by the view. I can think of I-89 in Vermont that is a gorgeous freeway, but nothing else. Leave a note in comments if you have your own favourite beautiful stretch of freeway in the U.S.

Our first glimpse of sea as we moved south of Crescent City.

For Tara and I, the thrill of Sunday’s drive was arriving first in the redwood groves and then at the coast. I lived in Humboldt for over 7 years and Miss T has been coming back to see her dad her whole life. So the redwoods and the northern Pacific are home to us. She ran barefoot down the beach and splashed in the waves, getting wet sand all over everything (as is proper at the beach). I put my fingers into the cold water and tasted the salt. The salt in my mouth makes me think of the days when I was surfing a couple days a week with my friend Chad, back when we were students at College of the Redwoods.

Me in the driver’s seat, goofing with Tara as we waited at a stop light.

We dropped Miss T with her dad and step-sister, and then hit the highway south again for Fortuna. My dear and long time friend Margaret had welcomed us to stay at her place for the night. Her partner was there too, and they served us a fabulous dinner. We drank entirely too much wine, but we all got to know each other, since we ladies had not met each other’s men. Finally, though, we were fast asleep.

Miss Tara splashes through the waves in a skirt.

Me and my Arno

We got a late start Monday morning because Margaret and I were still catching up. We hadn’t seen each other for two years. Once we did get on the road, I probably annoyed the hell out of Arno for the next few hours with my incessant stories triggered by memories of living there. I was reminded of a hundred excellent days, like the Avenue of the Gods 10K (through the redwoods; my first serious race), the world’s largest Reggae festival in Piercy, outdoor Shakespeare at Benbow (no longer an annual summer event), the organic sandwich shop in Garberville, Ren Faires in Willits (terrible review), and the remarkable wines I discovered, quite by accident, stopping in at wineries that caught my eye in my many wanderings through the northern California countryside.

Sadly, all the beauty of northern Cali must eventually come to an end, and we hit the end once highway 20 took us back onto I-5 in the central valley of California. Yuck and yuck. I feel sorry for people who have to live there. We ended the night in Santa Nella and got to try a bowl of Pea Soup Andersen’s split pea soup before sleep grabbed us again.

Urinal fun

I dare you not to pee while staring at a waterfall.

Arno showed me this photo he took from the men’s restroom in the Oregon Convention Center Saturday while he and the boys were at a Lego Con.

I love this intentional manipulation, playing with our inability to resist allowing the sound of running water to trigger the need to urinate. Even staring at a photo of a waterfall tugs at our lower intestines. There is some brilliant designer somewhere who needed to find a way to get folks in and out of the bathroom quickly, to ensure the Convention Center lines rotated through people on break as quickly as possible.

If only the boys could have peered into the women’s bathroom to see what they have. Honestly, I don’t think a photo of a waterfall would be sufficient to get the women to take care of their business and get the heck out of there. You’ve seen the lines to the women’s restroom. It would take a cowboy with a red-hot branding iron, threatening to brand “Dawdler” onto her round white butt if she didn’t wrap it up in the next 10 seconds.

It reminded me of the flies in urinals in Amsterdam. You know, you remember that email that was forwarded to you in 2008, and 2005, and 2004?

An article from NPR explores the idea a little more, to my savage delight. It explains that the forwarded email is true, and further, it’s scientifically supported that when men have a target, they aim for it without even knowing they’re aiming. And aiming for a fly is more appealing than aiming for a dot.

Is it really proof that men never outgrow boyhood? That when faced with the mundane task of relieving themselves, they can be immediately side tracked by the opportunity to drown a fly? That when thinking about the totally cool Lego Hogwarts replica – complete with quidditch field – they can be so easily reminded that they are in front of the urinal for a single reason, and that is to empty their bladder?

Oh, I love you men. I foresee a lifetime of continued amusement for me.

Bald eagles, double bridges, fishing platforms, climbing Stonehenge

Diego walks along the nature path beside the Klickitat River, frequented by Bald Eagles.

It’s always a pleasant surprise to me how easy it is to discover truly interesting and entertaining things in my world, if only I go outside and pay attention.

It also consistently surprises me that I forget my camera so frequently. No, worse, I think to myself Will I need my camera? Naaawwwww.  And then 20 minutes into the journey, I am kicking myself. This is what happened weekend before last when Arno, Diego, and I wandered into Klickitat County in southern Washington.

Our original intent for the entire day was to attempt to spot bald eagles, and practically as soon as we crossed the Columbia River, we began to see them. Where was my fabulous camera with zoom lens? Safe at home, intentionally left behind because I thought I wouldn’t need it. Luckily Arno had his little pocket camera, but the light in the sky was poor and the camera not powerful enough, so I can’t show you photos of eagles. They are huge. Really huge. And beautiful. Every time I see a bald eagle it makes me proud and patriotic. Thank goodness our national bird didn’t end up being a turkey.

We also saw a Golden Eagle and I was excited to spot a Kestrel. I became intimately familiar with a kestrel family when I lived in Nevada, and am glad that their voice is still recognizable to me.

Double bridges span the Klickitat River on the Washington side, but they are clearly visible from the Oregon side.

We had parked beside a nature trail, so we went for a walk. I was very pleased to see the double bridges I had spotted many times from I-84, the Oregon side. Each time I see them I lament the lack of a place to pull over and take a photo of the remarkable arced bridges. Viola! Here I was at last with an excellent view of them, and not traveling on a freeway at 68 mph.

Not yet ready to head directly home, we followed highway 142 into the canyon. It was a stereotypically beautiful creek canyon for this area, and my hungry eyes gobbled up all I could see till I spotted something I had never seen before in real life. “Oh! They’re fishing platforms!” I said out loud. “Arno, pull over.” And he did, though he had not seen them.

I peered over the steep ledge and was more convinced that they must be fishing platforms built by local Indians. I had seen a photo or two of Indians standing on wooden platforms above rushing river water, waiting to spear fish, but I couldn’t remember when or where. Perhaps that famous photo of Celilo Falls was my resource. Arno and Diego, the climbers, instantly felt that we needed to go over the side and get down to the water.

Unstable but apparently effective fishing platforms

You brought the camera!

At riverside, I suddenly wanted Arno’s camera, which I had – wait for it – decided to leave in the car thinking I wouldn’t need it. Arno clambered back up the steep cliff to retrieve it for me.

I was satisfied simply by looking at the platforms, but the boys spotted the rickety wooden bridge spanning the river, and needed to cross it. So I indulged them bemusedly and watched with anxiety as Arno bounced across the bridge over raging whitewater.

After returning to the car, we continued farther into the river canyon, which led higher in elevation to the source of  the Klickitat River. We went up, and up, and came out high above the rest of the world, on an incredible plateau so high that the mighty Columbia seemed only a mild trickle in the canyon below us.

Arno bounces across the handmade bridge. Yikes.

We were understandably hungry by this time, and Diego was happy for the chance to play with his dad’s smart phone, even if it was only to use the map feature to find us a place to eat. He steered his dad directly into the parking lot of a Mexican restaurant in Goldendale, WA. Sated, we turned south onto highway 97.

Stonehenge replica made of concrete and perched on a ledge above the Columbia River.

I remarked that I had never seen the Stonehenge replica out there before, except at night, when I was a kid traveling through in the back of a big brown 1975 Ford Elite. There were lights on the structure, and all I remember is the circle of bulbs, and someone telling me it was Stonehenge, which was confusing, because I thought Stonehenge was far away, but I was a kid and often wrong about things at that point in my life.

So Arno turned east on highway 14 and announced that we were going to see Stonehenge. It wasn’t far, and soon we were standing beside it. I learned that it was built by Sam Hill to honor the fallen soldiers from Klickitat County in World War I. It was the first WWI monument built in the entire nation! The site now has other memorials, honoring the Klickitat military sacrifice in other wars, Vietnam, WWII, Afghanistan, and more.

Diego climbing

View of Columbia

My climbers couldn’t resist the walls of the life-sized replica, and were soon scaling them. I wandered through the inside, marveling at not only the original monument in England, easy for me to visualize with this replica surrounding me, but also marveling at the ambitious project of the man who built the Klickitat version. It was a cold, windy, horrid day, and we were all ready to leave that exposed point rather quickly. However, I will go back this summer in better weather, better light, and armed with my camera!

Inside the Stonehenge replica