Campground Full (Base Camp at Lake Casitas Recreation Area)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Six, Friday, June 8

I’m quickly learning that camping in California presents special challenges.  As I’m making my plan for the next few days, “No Vacancy” seems to be the norm rather than the exception.  No matter what day of the week, no matter what campground.  When a space IS available, it comes at a price.  I’ll soon find that the standard fee seems to be $35 night, with a few - very few - exceptions. Tack on an extra $8 if you reserve in advance and that makes $43.  In Arizona, $15/night seems pricey!  But because of my ever present worry of finding a space before the sun hits the horizon, I’m entering my credit card number to book sites for the next few nights.  My immediate need is for a base camp near Ventura Harbor.  The only spot to be had anywhere, at any price, is the very last one at Lake Casitas Recreation Area.  Over 400 sites at this campground alone (already, I know it isn’t quite my ideal) and I seem to have gotten the last one.  The last one for miles, actually.  But when I look at the map, I do, indeed, see a benefit. Lake Casitas sits at the base of the fun looking part CA-33.  And I really should ride CA-33.

Campsite secure, thanks and farewell bid to my Pasadena host, rush hour over (as much as it ever is, anyway), and I’m launching for my final battle with the hyper-tangled web of asphalt that is SoCal.  I enjoyed my visit, but it feels good - so good! - to escape.  Soon, the olfactory landscape shifts. I'm riding through Oxnard and the sweet floral scent of berries is positively jolting. Next, I’m spying wine grapes growing on hillsides here and there.  Excellent.

My journey to Lake Casitas is a short one, leaving me the rest of the day to explore.   CA-33 is not a bad way to kill a few hours, as you can see.

Not just a fun ride, but a fragrant one, too! These flowering shrubs line the road more often than not, and fill my helmet with their scent.  It's "Spanish Broom," or so I'm told.




I seem to be the only one on the road, until I come a cross a little fleet of cars pulled off the road.  Why?  Because there’s a swimming hole down below!




I had envisioned pictures of the Ducati with glorious backdrops across the west.  Here’s one photo, anyway.   It’s hard to focus on all the hobbies at once, and for this trip I heeded the call of the road, not the shutter button.




Playtime over and stomach rumbling, I wander into Ojai.  It’s a charming little village, filled with art galleries, cafes, and wine tasting rooms, but… it’s a madhouse.  Turns out there’s a music festival this weekend (which I’d love to attend, but can’t since I’d have to ride back to camp after dark to do so), and the difficulty I have in parking and pulling back out onto the street is bringing back memories of the freeway traffic I thought I had left behind.  Once parked, though, I enjoy a stroll, an enormous slice of apple cake, and take special pleasure in meeting American Impressionist Dan Schultz at his gallery.  I absolutely adore his dreamy, gentle works.

The Grebe Loop of the Lake Casitas campground is a cross between a Motel 6 and a block party.  The individual sites are tightly spaced, and every square inch is filled with pickup trucks, portable shade canopies, and loud music. Not exact a Dan Schultz oil on canvas, if you know what I mean.  Ironically, just a few steps away… the Elysian Fields! I find uninhabited picnic areas with grassy hills, wise old trees, and peaceful lake views.  Where would you eat your cheese sandwich?




Oh, and let’s not forget this guy:

The photo angle doesn't make it obvious that this guy was a good three feet long.  Gopher snake, I think.

As It Should Be (Southern California Must-See Number Two: Angeles Crest Highway

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Five, Thursday June 7

Left... right... left.... right... leftrightleftright... (Survey Run)
Salami Grinder.  Turn Around.
Left... right... left.... right... (Faster)
Wave to sport bikers taking a break on the porch of Newcomb's Ranch
Left... right... left.... right... (Faster still)
Turn Around.
Left... right... left.... right... (Again, faster - I don't have to keep saying that part, do I?)
Ride right on by Newcomb's Ranch without noticing.  Oops!
Left... right... left.... right...
Turn Around.
Left... right... left.... right...
Lemonade at Newcomb's Ranch.
Left... right... left.... right...
Head back to port.

No long haul freeway riding through the desert.
No high winds that blow me across not one but two lanes of I-10, despite my conservative speed.
No SoCal gridlock.
No camera.
Just 175 miles of doing what the Ducati was born to do.
Good Stuff.

Southern California Must-See Number One (Santa Monica Farmers Market)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Four, Wednesday June 6

Touring in a urban area is a first for me.  I won’t plan anything too challenging for today, because I need to work on developing completely new skills, such as juggling various vehicles in small spaces to free my motorcycle from the carport, and managing a gate remote with gloves on, getting it stuffed back into my tank bag, and riding out before the gate closes again.  Plus there’s that pesky phenomenon of southern California traffic.  I lingered longer than I would have liked over my coffee waiting and waiting some more for all the red lines indicating stopped traffic on Google Maps to abate.  I’m not quite ready to lane split yet.  But I eventually do reach Santa Monica, and I feel like a pro when I score free parking - on market day, no less!






 

I’m walking and tasting, walking and tasting.  The stone fruits – so tempting, but they’re just not at their prime.  The strawberries, they’re all over the map, although the Chandler variety (one of my favorites) is holding its own.  But it’s the “Eran G” cherries that stop me in my tracks, with their perfect balance of sweet, tart, and full cherry flavor.  I really don’t think I’ve ever had a cherry this good before, and there’s no question what I’m having for my ocean side snack.  



But I want more than just cherries, so I question a baker sternly as to the ingredients in his croissants.  Butter?  Gluten?  There had better be, or I’m not interested.  He assures me, but it’s really not even close, and shouldn’t even be referred to as a croissant at all.  You win some, you lose some, I guess.

After my snack, it’s time for a walk on the pier.  It’s got everything – a roller coaster, boa constrictors, musicians, a Ferris wheel, and if I want, I can even take a trapeze lesson!





I am actually quite tempted, but at look at my watch tells me I don’t have time if I want to get back to Pasadena before the real traffic storm hits.  Even so, no matter what time of day, it seems inevitable that traffic will be at a standstill at some point, and – oh, how quickly caution gives way to impatience! – I dive between the lanes just a moment here, a moment there because, well, I can!

Though I have successfully demonstrated my new skills, even a bit more smoothly this time (back through the traffic, back through the gate, vehicles re-juggled like a logic puzzle), my day is not over.
First a hike…

Yep, you yell into this thing and get a spectacular echo.

… then a well deserved dinner!  Polish food is delicious, but not particularly pretty on the plate.  But Polish Polka Restaurant is simply charming, and the proprietors hail from the same town as my Pasadena host.

Not shown: sorrel soup, a little salad, potato dumplings, beef gulasz, kielbasa, pierogi, veggies (actually we couldn't figure THOSE out - corn is definitely not Polish, but no matter) and nice cold beer (Zywiec) to wash it down.  All just fabulously delicious, but the sorrel soup took the prize.

Turns, Trout, and Transects

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Three, Tuesday June 5

My  bag of granola hits the picnic table with a solid and satisfying “thud.”  A month’s worth of granola weighs quite a bit, doesn’t it?  I jettisoned a number of other food items when packing so I could ensure I’d be eating my own granola for breakfast.  This  batch doesn’t have anything particularly special in it, and I can’t quite put my finger on why homemade* is so much better, but like many things, it doesn’t matter.  It just is.  And I won’t survive this trip if I have to eat store bought granola, or, even worse, what-have-you-bars for breakfast.  This, and those little cups of unsweetened applesauce are two of my most essential camping staples.**

Before I leave Joshua Tree National Park, I take a ride over to Keys View to have a birds eye look-see of the San Andreas Fault in the distance.  Funny, I never would have identified it as such on my own, but there it is, seen from here as a line of low mountains -  mounds, really - on the Coachella Valley floor.

Difficult to see in this photo:  look at the right side of the mountains furthest back on the horizon. Follow the valley floor from their base towards you and you'll see a tiny row of mounds.  Yup, that's it.  Not exactly, uh, earth-shattering.  Until it is.

It feels good to have the most desolate areas of desert behind me as I make my way to the home of a friend in Pasadena.  But Mother Nature sends a little message to keep me humble.  While I’m no stranger to being blown off course by strong winds, this breeze is unlike any I’ve ever dealt with before.  No wonder there are so many windmills here.  Wham!  I am blown clear across two entire lanes of I-10, and after taking the Lord’s name in vain in my helmet, I give thanks that no one else was occupying the space I so unexpectedly entered.

Every good motorcyclist knows that detours are always in order, so it seems perfectly reasonable to ride south to go west.   The persistent wind hampers my performance on the Banning-Idyllwild Panoramic Highway, but even so, it’s beautiful, and it feels fantastic to dispense with the never-ending straight line of freeway riding.

I’ll be saying this all month, it turns out, but this is a special trip, so I decide not to overly economize on my first touring restaurant stop.

I am quite pleased with my trout and egg brunch at Restaurant Gastrognome.

Either the wind has abated, or the mountain is protecting me, because after lunch, I have no trouble enjoying the lefts and rights as I drop down the other side of the mountain.  When I reach CA 74, the road’s camber tilts this way and that, and I find the non-sensical angles tricky to read.  I’m riding on a giant asphalt fun house mirror, and it keeps me laughing.

The fun ends all too soon, and it’s time to get serious again.  I take a deep breath before doing battle with a good 80 miles of the southern California freeway system.  I don’t want to take my eyes off the road to consult my map, so I’m barking the directions in my helmet like an air force pilot in combat.  215 North! 60 West! 71 North! 57 North! 210 West!  I rehearse the plan over and over in my head, as I would a challenging flute solo, lest I forget my next move.

Doesn’t everyone pack solar viewing glasses when motorcycle touring?  I’ve got mine, and they are handy at the Venus Transect Viewing event at Cal Tech.  Between last month’s solar eclipse, last night’s lunar eclipse, and today’s transect, astronomers (and astrologers, I suppose) must not be getting much sleep. The transect, clearly visible as a black speck on the sun, is rather less dramatic than a solar eclipse, so I don’t bother photographing it.  But it’s a fine enough excuse to drink and dine outdoors in the perfect weather, and the Cal Tech campus is beautiful with happy flowers and turtles, so I snap a picture of those, instead.






*Rolled oats (and whatever other rolled grains you might choose), plus your choice of simple to exotic extras: nuts, dried fruits, dried coconut, etc.  Toss the grains, nuts, and coconut with warmed mix of peanut oil, maple syrup and vanilla, and toast low and slow in the oven (225), stirring frequently for an hour to an hour and a half.  You know, ‘til it looks like granola.  Mix in the fruits after.

** At this point, I don’t own a camp stove, although this may change. I’ve started experimenting making my own dried soup mixes, and if that goes well, I’ll make the investment.  ‘Til then, I also carry little cans of V8, summer sausage, Triscuits, some dried fruit and nuts (NOT mixed together!) among other things.  Every few days, I’ll buy a couple rolls from the grocery, along with just enough cheese to make a cheese sandwich, along with a durable piece of fresh fruit.  That’s enough for me to feel like I’m eating a meal, rather than snacking, which gets old after a few days.  I also go out to eat once a day, and will either stuff myself silly, order something whose leftovers pack well in a bit of foil, or both.

A Dangerous Crossing (Joshua Tree National Park)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Two, Monday June 4

Today I’m adding 100 ounces of water to the 100 I already have on board.  I’ll be riding 300 miles across the Sonoran and Mojave deserts, and, in my opinion, that’s not something that should be taken lightly.  This distance is a moderate touring day for me, and it’s not the heat that worries me (115 degrees just a few days before I left), or the desolation (plan gas stops carefully and don’t count on your cell phone, other people, or the likelihood of finding civilization at all for miles and miles), or even the lack of available water in the extreme heat, but the combination of all three.  Just a few unpredictable seemingly trivial events can conspire to put you into serious trouble quicker than you’d ever guess.  Like not bringing your minimum “It’s a Desert, Bring Water, Stupid” water bottle when you’re just picking your bike up from the shop. And then, instead of riding the three miles home, allowing the bike to divert for a short trip over Gates Pass. The rear brakes lock up of their own free will, you have no water, no cell phone coverage, it’s 100+ degrees, your bike is stuck in the middle of the road on blind curve, there’s no one around, and just 15 miles from home you find yourself hitting the assist button on your newly acquired SPOT GPS Messenger emergency tracking device, hoping one of your friends will get the message and call AAA on your behalf.*  Or, not one, not two, but everyone’s motorcycle breaks down, and no one can go for water, and suddenly you’re all drinking out of a precious muddy puddle in southern UT in August, hiking miles back and forth between this bike and that, frantically trying to get even one of them operational.**

So, yes, I’m a bit on edge for this portion of the journey.  Nevertheless, my bike runs happily, I've stopped checking my luggage in my mirrors every three miles, I do an outstanding job of hydrating (read: I’m glad I’m stopping every 75 miles for gas, because I have to pee constantly), and temperatures only approach 100 degrees.  The Mojave has granted me a pass this time, and I arrive at my destination unimpeded: Joshua Tree National Park.

I haven’t quite reached my campsite, but I’m curious and ready for a leg stretcher, so I hike a few miles on the Skull Rock trail.

Aptly named, no?

Lunch:  The kitchen sink calzones I made, froze, and kept frozen last night at my friends’ house, the recipe development of which was based on the few remaining scraps in my freezer: pizza dough, ground beef, and wilted greens, plus onions, garlic, sliced olives, grated cheese, and just enough bits of dried fruit to keep it interesting.  I wasn’t entirely convinced when I put them together, but after eating them, I’m a fan.

I arrive at Hidden Valley Campground to a miracle:  a campsite with shade!





I can’t stop taking pictures of these crazy trees.  They come right out of a Dr. Seuss book.







I've still got some energy, so I explore a trail near my campsite.

Hidden Valley is, well, hidden.  Large rocky mounds form a full ring around the valley .  Turns out it was a great place to hide stolen livestock.

Now I’m waiting for sundown.  I want to photograph a Joshua tree at night, “light-painting” it the way I did the Ducati last year at Canyon de Chelly..  I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.  With the 300 miles, the worrying desert conditions, two hikes… well, my eyelids are drooping already.  I set up the camera in an effort to keep myself awake, and then lie down "just for a minute." But I succumb, even as there’s still plenty of light left in the day.

I awaken in the middle of the night. The wind is blowing full tilt one minute, eerily silent the next. The full moon is a searchlight in my tent.  I squint, peer out groggily.  Lunar eclipse?  Dream?  Arise and photogra--- ***  I can hardly move, and fall back to sleep before I’ve finished rolling over.

*Happened to me about a week before leaving on this trip.
**Happened to someone I know last summer.
***I may have been dreaming, but there was indeed a partial lunar eclipse visible from the western US that night.

"Sort-of-Sabbatical" Launch!

"Sort-of-Sabbatical" Day One, Sunday, June 3

Dust. Mop.  Clean out fridge.  Type out sheets of information.  Not exactly how I usually begin a motorcycle camping trip.  But since I'll have sub-letters arriving in my absence, it must be done. I'm guessing I get out of here around 3:00, if I'm lucky.  Which is exactly why I've only planned to ride 100 miles today - a wholly unglamorous first leg from Tucson to a Phoenix suburb. At least it will be good for a test run the new packing set up (I've never carried so much!) and the heat.

Ready, set... Bucket List!
Included on board: What I hope will be a month's worth of my granola recipe, and two enormous calzones, constructed from odds and ends left in my freezer and then frozen.

Miraculously, at 3:05, I hit the starter button and the Ducati awakens.  I've never been so excited just to ride to Phoenix.  I am, actually, for a moment, almost overcome with emotion.  The day I've been wanting for years has arrived and it's almost too much to comprehend.  I'm on my way.

Dinner with good friends who will see me off across the desert in the morning.

Pasta Bowl - Liberty Market

Another Occasional Other Matter from the Sky – Eclipse 2012

I am in yoga class and what began as a barely perceptible pull on my consciousness this morning is fast becoming as urgent as the need for air.  I am inexplicably swept away by the naive idea that somehow, witnessing the sun slowly being extinguished by the moon’s shadow will somehow shed light on those things that might be best extinguished from my own life.  But this magic spell, in which I have total confidence, won’t work unless I can view the eclipse in solitude.  The fact that this is a near logistical impossibility sends me into a panic as I lie, outwardly quiet, with mind whirling ever further from Nirvana, in shavasana, at the end of class.   All the obvious viewing places are just that. Obvious.  Gates Pass, Tumamoc Hill, Saguaro National Park West and the eclipse party at the Food Truck Roundup will be filled with the celebratory oohing and ahhing of the masses.  Reality forces me to relinquish the romantic ideas of riding my motorcycle out to the edge of the earth or hiking to the top a mountain, since I have no idea exactly what sort of darkness the setting of an eclipsed sun will bring.

The idea of it all ferments in my brain for much of the afternoon, as I consider and discard option after option.  What I need is a topographic map and a chart indicating the position of the setting sun, along with a bit of luck.  Captain Google provides the first two items, and I make Brown Mountain my target.  I hope it’s enough off the beaten path, and hot enough out that most sane souls will not want make the physical effort of even this small climb, yet I know the trail to be short enough that impending dusk of any sort probably won’t  endanger my descent.

By the time I have a plan, there is barely enough time to enact it.  With great purpose I fly, acquiring the necessary solar viewing glasses, and tossing items in my Camelbak:  sunscreen (oh, the irony!), water, hat, granola bar (my snack of last resort), head lamp (just in case) and, as an afterthought, my camera and tripod, although I have no idea how to use the former in this unique situation, and the latter self-destructed into a number of tiny pieces in my top box on a ride a couple of months ago.   I’m off, dodging trains and putting the Corolla through its paces up and over Gates pass, wincing as I am reminded it’s no Ducati.

Remarkably, I beat the traffic over the pass, and find myself at my vantage point utterly alone.  I can’t believe no one else thought of this.  I’m pleased to be ahead of schedule, because it allows me time to sort through the puzzle of the tripod pieces, figure out that I can hold the solar viewing glasses in front of my camera lens, and take a stab at a few camera settings before the cosmic event sets forth.

I wait.  The sun hovers in the sky, searingly unrepentant.  The hot breeze does not refresh.  I fidget.  Two bees orbit each other like noisy sub-atomic particles.  I look at my watch.  In the distance I hear a motorcycle accelerating through the turns of McCain Loop Road, and in a mix of fellowship and covetous desire, I sigh.

My mind knows it’s simply a specific arrangement of planetary bodies, and, according to sock drawer statistics, probably no more unlikely than any other.   Nevertheless, I can not seem to let go of my pagan expectations.



I want to reflect on life, but I’m struggling with my camera instead.  It’s difficult to make the necessary fine adjustments with the tripod with one hand, while holding the solar glasses in front of the lens with the other.  The manual focus won’t hold my selection, so my photos keep coming out blurry, and I’m fighting with the malfunctioning jog dial, which I can not bring myself to pay to have repaired again, since the hate side of my camera love-hate relationship is quickly, well, eclipsing the love side.   The thin film of plastic that is the solar viewing glasses creates an unwelcome sense of remove, as if I was watching the entire event on television.  Curiosity is a powerful phenomenon, and as if to prove the point, I steal an unprotected glimpse.   My light sensitive eyes can only bear the blaze for a fraction of a second, not even long enough to register what is happening.  Instead, the crescent sun is recorded only as a ghost image burned upon my retina.   Surprisingly, without the filter, and without foolish furtive glances directly at the fireball itself, the only clue of the unusual event at all is the subtle coolness of a cloud passing over the sun.  Except, of course, there are no clouds. 



As my camera battery runs down, I feel wholly unenlightened. I trudge down the hill and miss my chance at perhaps the best shot of all – the eclipsed sun against the backdrop of the mountainous horizon.  I try to find a lesson, an allegory, in the moment.  There are so many to choose from. Light follows darkness.  Perhaps change needn’t be so scary.  But my heart will have none of it.  There are no answers, there is no clarity, and I feel robbed of my epiphany. I try to block out the reality I’ve known all along: life is not altered by the path of the moon, the power for change lies solely within myself.

And if I step on it, I can get to the Food Truck Roundup before it disbands.