For years a framed photograph I had taken in 2004 while hiking in the Paria Canyon, hung in the kitchen. One day my friend, Felix, a professional photographer, came over took one look at it and said, "the lighting is all wrong." Ever since then I have wanted to return to the Paria River to get a better photo. In 2004, I used a 35 mm point and shoot camera and had the photo blown up at Walgreens. The scene was two towering pilars of multicolored sandstone reflected in a pool of water. This year I decided to go back to the Paria River with my sister and photograph the Paria River again with my Canon camera and also combine the trip with some hiking in Grand Staircase National Monument.
On Saturday, as I passed down Highway 101 I noticed a huge bright light; the moon as bright as I have ever seen it and huge rose over the horizon in the west like a sunfish in the sky. Later as I sat in my seat on the plane I noticed an old lady walking with a cane, board the plane. As we were about to land the old lady ambled slowly to the bathroom and went in. I had read once about a plane that had to circle its destination for an hour because a man would not come out of the bathroom. So I watched with alarm as the old lady went in while the flight attendants' backs were turned. Finally one of them noticed and began to pound on the door. "Ma'am, you're going to have to get out of the bathroom" she yelled as she continued to pound. "Ma'am you must get out of the bathroom. The plane cannot land until you get out!" Oh my I hoped she wasn't already on the commode. Finally she slowly came out grimmacing and walked even more slowly back to her seat. We landed on time but I don't know if she made it to the bathroom on time.
I met my sister at the SLC airport and from there we drove to Kodachrome Basin State Park in Cannonville, UT. The Utah State Parks Department has a sense of humor designing a highly unusual campground with all the sites in a circle around the bathroom which had free hot showers, flushing toilets, and incredibly electric powered hand driers. After a short walk about the Grand Parade Trail and dinner we enjoyed a picturesque scene of the moon still very big and bright rising over the hoo doos of Kodachrome Basin. That night in my tent I slept very poorly as every time someone went to the bathroom and dried their hands a loud "hmmmmmmm" noise blared in concentric circles throughout the campground, waking me up abruptly.
The next day we drove from Kodachrome Basin down Cottonwood Road to the Lower Hackberry Canyon Trailhead. We made a wrong turn into the Cockscomb and wandered aimlessly for a needless two miles before realizing our error and getting into the main canyon to Hackberry. The first half mile was lovely but then the canyon opened up and cattle had entered the canyon past the rickety fence attracting thousands of swarming deer flies. These nasty little critters have a vicious bite and are apparently immune to poison. I sprayed copious amounts of 100% Deet onto my legs and yet they continued to molest me for hours as we looked for a side canyon that allegedly had an arch in it. After swatting deer flies with a sage brush for an hour we finally came to the canyon and scrambled over a rock fall 1.5 miles until the canyon ended in a pour over. There was no arch and I was out of water. I had not counted on the extra two miles in Cockscomb. Not only that but we had to re-enter the cow infested, deer fly infested canyon in order to get back to the car. I would not recommend hiking last three miles of Hackberry Canyon. What should have been a six mile hike ended up 14.4 miles. After our hike we were so grateful for the cold beers in the cooler. I had bought the beer at a grocery store in Salt Lake. In Utah, grocery stores can only sell beer with a maximum of 4% alcohol. So these beers were more like malted barley-aid. From Hackberry we drove back to Cannonville to buy some more Deet. I noticed that the once famous, Ruby Inn had been renamed "Grand Staircase Inn" and the town had a brand new Mormon Temple. These were very ominous portentious sightings for what was to come. We returned to our campsite at Kodachrome Basin where there were less people and we hoped less hand drying in the night.
Monday, we got up, packed up our tents and headed back down Cottonwood Road to the Paria River Vermillion Cliffs Wilderness Area. We headed first to the White House Campground which is at the eponymous trail head into the Paria River Canyon. There were two sets of people camping there already but one set was leaving so we took their site, set up our tent, and headed down the trail. I was shocked to see dozens and dozens of hikers and backpackers coming up the trail. When I hiked from White House Trailhead to the Paria in 2004 with Susan we were the only people at the campground and we never saw a single hiker the entire time. In 2004 we hiked seven miles to the unusual rock formation I had photographed and framed, and back to the car and camped for the night there all by ourselves. I knew things would have changed since my visit nine years earlier but I was totally unprepared for what we experienced while in the Paria River Canyon those two days. There was a complete onslaught of people to this remote wilderness area. After hiking four miles we entered the narrows which are about four feet across and very scenic. Then after three more we came to the spot I had come all that way to photograph. There those courtly colorful columns stood but there was no water to reflect their princely state. They were still magnificent to behold but without the water to reflect them it was clear my photo would not be the mind boggling, award winning photo I had been dreaming of. I took photos from as many angles as the body would allow and then we continued to the confluence with Buckskin Gulch. We passed a day hiker. I have never seen another day hiker in Grand Staircase before. We turned up Buckskin Gulch for another mile and came to a lovely canyon with trees. A Canyon Wren sang from the canyon walls and a large adult male Northern Goshawk was perched in one of the trees and glared down at me as if to say "get out of my canyon!" After the trees the canyon narrowed significantly and became filled with water. We turned back and headed back to the trailhead. On the way back we saw two juvenile Northern Goshawks, still with a little downy feathers, perched high up on the canyon waiting for dinner from mom. Back at the campground it had filled beyond capacity since we had left. We heard a lot of German. The men just across from us spoke very loudly and one of them had an annoying hack. Well past quiet hour, 10:00 PM, this guy was talking extremely loudly. I politely said several times, "you are talking very loudly." "It's quiet hours." He continued barking to his friends oblivious. I was reading a philosophy book I had brought with me. Finally, I started reading aloud from the book I was reading at the same decibel as he, "The simplicity selector, for example, picks out Null Possibility from among the cosmic possiblities. Similarly the goodness selector picked out the Axiarchic possibility universe." Someone camping behind us yelled out, "What on earth are you reading?" The men went instantly silent in fact the whole campground. The bathroom which was not even there in 2004, was completely inadequate to the changed conditions and was quite noisome. The wind blew the smell directly into our campsite. We had to drive up the road a ways to find any kind of privacy for our outdoor solar shower which is one of my favorite things in the world. Back at camp I noticed that a hurricane had passed through and dumped large quantities of red sand into my tent and sleeping bag. It was clear I could not camp there a second night. All I could think of was years earlier when Susan and I had camped there all alone and had such a great wilderness experience.
At 6:20 AM two large noisy trucks pulled up and dumped off hordes of hikers. I got up and said to Sharon, "let's get out of here!" After breakfast we packed up and drove to the Wire Pass Trailhead. We passed the ranger station where I had intended to pay for another day pass but it was still closed even though it was normal business hours. So we continued. In 2004 when I hiked Paria Canyon with Susan we had to turn on the odometer and guess where the Wire Pass Trailhead was; it was not even marked at that time. Well, things have certainly changed. There was a large sign, a huge parking lot full of cars, and two bathrooms at Wire Pass Trailhead. The signboard said that you had to have a day pass to hike Paria River which I knew; that had been instituted in 2003. The trail register said you had to apply three months in advance to hike to Coyote Buttes. We started down Wire Pass trail and decided to just go up Coyote Buttes anyway. Sharon had googled Paria River and read about some place called the Wave. Apparently this whole area has been the subject of an article in Der Speigel Magazine because there were dozens of people speaking German. I had a map from Michael Kelsey's excellent book, Hiking the Colorado Plateau, that had "Coyote Buttes" marked on a hand drawn map with two "xes" but that was the extent of our knowledge of how to find it. We hiked up over a hill of Kayenta sandstone and then headed northerly until we came to some beautiful brown colored buttes and a multicolored swirly wall. Then we noticed some people on the other side of the canyon so we walked in that direction. And there it was-- this incredible swirl of colors in the sandstone. There were a bunch of Germans there with their passes prominently displayed. After walking around this amazingly beautiful area and getting some fantastic photos we headed back to the parking lot which was now totally full of cars and people. With less than a mile to go we passed a family dressed extremely inappropriately for this hot desert hike. The little girl was carrying her dog in her arms! I could not make eye contact; I was so appalled. We left Paria River Canyon and drove Cottonwood Road back to Cannonville and on to Escalante where we were delighted to discover that there is a State Liquor Store! In Utah, liquor, beer over 4%, and wine can only be sold at State Liquor Stores. We bought some real beer and then drove on the scenic by-way UT 12 to Calf Creek Recreation Area. A sign said the campground was full but we pulled in anyway and low and behold a very private nice site next to Calf Creek was open. We camped there the rest of the trip. There were lots of birds singing and a very private place to take a solar shower. Yes, it had everything I needed in the world-- outstanding canyon walls to admire, a clear view of the stars at night, birds singing in the morning, and lots of privacy. As I set up my tent a Yellow-breasted Chat sang away in the cottonwood above me.
Wednesday, at 3:00 AM I woke to a Common Poorwill softly singing. Then at 5:00 AM that Yellow-breasted Chat started singing. A Poorwill is a nightjar and hunts for food at night but a Chat is a warbler. What was it doing singing in the middle of the night? My goodness I certainly did not want to get up that early. I considered it briefly but it was still dark out. When we did finally get up it was a bit chilly-- about 54 degrees. After breakfast we hiked from our site to Calf Creek Falls, a 120 foot year round waterfall that starts above from springs and flows into the Escalante River. Since we were the first people we saw lots of birds, more Chats, Black-headed Grosbeaks, Violet-green Swallows, Western Wood Peewee, Plumbeous Vireo, Hummingbirds, Black-throated Gray Warblers, lots of Yellow Warblers. We also saw two Fremont Indian granaries high up the canyon wall and a set of petroglyphs. After admiring the falls we turned around. On the way back there were dozens of hikers including two German chicks in bikinis and flip flops, one carrying a two liter bottle of water in her hands along with her pocketbook, and both yelling repeatedly, "April, April!" I said I don't want to hear y'all yelling in this wilderness area but they would not let us pass; they were oblivious or did not speak English or both. So I said, "excusez moi!" Finally they let us pass. Later as we left the campground we saw them at the entrance to the park with a third chick lighting up a cigarette. From Calf Creek we drove to the charming little town of Boulder, UT and onto the Burr Trail, a very scenic road through canyon country. We briefly had cellular service long enough to receive a text from Mary saying the Supreme Court had overturned Prop 8 and the odious, evil, and discriminatory Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA). Curiously this loathsome legislation had been signed into law by Bill Clinton of all people, the same president who made Grand Staircase a national monument by executive order in 1992. Well, I thank him for that but I could have done without DOMA when I was going through my divorce and it had a negative impact on my life and made my taxes so incredibly complicated for seven years. I was so happy that Prop 8 and DOMA had been overturned: I was overcome with joy. Here I was in my favorite place on the planet and finally justice had prevailed. What better place to be to receive the good news? Back to the Burr Trail. We passed an overturned Land Rover in a ditch. They probably took one of the curves too fast and flipped. We turned off the Burr Trail and went to the Wolverine Petrified Wood Natural Area where there are entire petrified conifers. We hiked down the trail and soon came to beautiful black petrified trees which made a stark contrast to the orange and red cliffs surrounding them. We hiked up the canyon five miles to the confluence with Little Death Hollow and then back. We returned to our neat little site at Calf Creek Falls and had a wonderful warm solar shower and then admired the stars. I was loving life. From our vantage point we could see all of Sagitarrius and the refulgent Milky Way. I slept like a log that night.
Thursday, the Yellow-breasted Chat did not wake me up but a flute player did at 6:30. Overall the campers at Calf Creek were extremely respectful. The campground went completely silent promptly at 10:00 PM every night. But there were some over zealous musicians there. After breakfast we drove to Hole-in-the-Rock Road, a dirt road that goes from Highway 12 in Escalante all the way to Lake Foul (Lake Powell) some 50 miles. We drove 36 miles to Forty Mile Ridge Road and then another 7 to the Trailhead. The rental car had been shaking and rattling since we picked it up in Salt Lake but now it was shaking uncontrollably and especially when I ramrodded it over a huge sand pile. When we came to a stop the radiator overflowed. I knew it would take hours for a tow truck to come so we went on the hike anyway. The hike is 18 miles round trip first cross country over slick rock to Crack in the wall, an extremely narrow crack you walk through in order to enter the canyon, down a two mile sand pile and into Coyote Gulch, then up Hurricane Wash for seven superbly beautiful miles to a natural bridge and then to Jacob Hamblin Arch. In the wash we passed three waterfalls, several hanging gardens, three arches, massive alcoves, and overhanging 1000 foot high cliffs brushed with desert varnish, towering over us. This beautiful canyon is one of Utah's premier hikes. I had hiked portions of it in winter several times with Susan in vain attempts to reach Jacob Hamblin Arch before finally reaching it in the summer of 2011 with my brother, John. It was a thrill of a lifetime to reach the arch in 2011 with John but at that time I was overwhelmed with grief over the divorce and could not truly appreciate it. So I was excited to go back on this sublime aw-inspiring hike again but was dismayed too, to see trash littering the canyon. It was disturbing to see my beloved Grand Staircase full of trash and people. After enjoying the arch and all the sumptous scenery we turned around and headed back to our disabled car. The last two miles up the sand pile Sharon became delirious and started babbling more than usual. I could not understand what she was saying but she was moving slowly. I reached Crack in the Wall and waited and waited while she continued to babble below me saying nonsense things. I got back to the car and got some gatoraid and took it back down the trail to her along with some ice. She finally made it up and then we waited for three hours for the tow truck to come. We enjoyed a stupendous sunset while waiting. Dale or Dell, the driver, showed up in a regular Dodge Pickup with a trailer attached. He told me he was from Danville, CA. He took forever to attach the car, complained incessantly about how bad the road was, and then proceeded to drive Hole-in-the-Rock Road 5 MPH for 36 miles! When we got to the intersection with Hwy12 he started counting on his fingers. Ignorant, depraved little miscreant could not even count. Then he said that will be $1150. I said I thought it was $500. He said no, I charge by the hour. No wonder the little reprehensible little soundrel was driving so slowly. He was running up the bill. I said, "you were driving like a snail and you took forever to hook up the trailer." He said, "I didn't want to drive fast and tear up my equipment." I was outraged. "What? You are a tow truck; you are supposed to be able to drive through anything. I'll give you $800." He said "no I'll take this car with me." I said, "fine you evil little mobster. I'll walk back to Calf Creek." Sharon told me just to pay the horrible little larcener. I paid him and then his final parting act of criminality was to rip the bumper off when off loading the car at Calf Creek. I wanted to punch him in the nose but I was too tired. It was 4:00 AM and too late to even take a solar shower. I had cut my leg in Coyote Gulch. It is now red and swollen as I write this. I hope it's not fatal.
Friday, at 7:45 AM, Avis finally showed up with the replacement vehicle. My god we would have died if we had waited for Avis at the trailhead. This poor slob said he had been lost for four hours in the mountains and his diabetes was out of control because he hadn't had any water to drink. We got in the new rental car and promptly drove it back to Hole-in-the-Rock Road to the Devil's Garden Outstanding Natural Area. This is a very bewitching area of hoo doos. After walking around there we drove the astonishingly bad road to Egypt Trailhead. Two miles from the trailhead we picked up two ladies who had driven their Prius as far as it could go. They said they had driven from Bryce Canyon and were on their way to Golden Cathedral in Neon Canyon and showed us a picture. We showed them the starting point, soon passed them, and never saw them again. It was easy enough at first. We just headed toward the Escalante River but when we came to the obvious entry point down the canyon Sharon insisted it was not the right place. So we marched another ridiculous two miles wandering aimlessly in the desert before she finally agreed to go down where I said originally. We got to the river and were happy to put our tired feet in. The water was warm but felt good. I wanted to dunk my head but when I bent over I slipped on the rocks and went down on my knee. It was painful to bend after that. We crossed the river again and then found Neon Canyon, where the Golden Cathedral is. There was no one else down there but us. I don't know what happened to those two ladies from New York in the Prius. After walking up canyon and not seeing the Golden Cathedral I was about to give up. I told Sharon to go ahead and look. She yelled back at me and sure enough just about 100 yards farther up canyon was a beautiful double arch with a pool of water below. After savoring this beautiful place we headed back to the Escalante River where we waded for quite a way before heading back up the canyon. I got excited with a mile left, dreaming of a cold beer, anything cold and ignored the remaining cairns. However, when I got to the rim where I thought we had parked, the car was not there! I walked back and forth along the rim but no car. Sharon came up after about 20 minutes and started panicking. She is not a good person to be with in an emergency. Do not get stuck in an earthquake with Sharon. I was out of water. It was 8:00 PM and we were walking along the rim. I suggested we go back into the canyon to look for a cairn and she said no! She was whining and complaining. My mouth was parched. I was out of water. I tried to stay calm and positive. I again suggested returning to the canyon to look for the last cairn. She kept dropping back and moaning. I was having to make sure she didn't get out of my sight and have to find her and look for the car. I was a little bit panicked. I started thinking how Mary always says I think I am "invisible" (she means invincible). I thought I was going to die in the desert I love so much and that has given me such joy in my life. I thought about my limp body prostrate in the sand with ravens picking at my flesh. I wondered what Susan would think when she found out I was dead. We had been to Grand Staircase so many times before. I thought she would probably think, "well she died doing something she loved. But why did she have to take her sister down with her?" I remained positive though and continued to study the canyon looking for clues. My garmin had died and was useless. We wandered an hour with no water. It was extremely hot that day, probably 100 degrees at the height. Finally we came across the last cairn and there it was all along, the big hill we had come down that morning. We struggled up it lips parched and throats unslaked until finally we reached the parking area and car. A tent was there and a lady stuck her head out, "Are you OK?" She was German. Yes, I said, "we just got lost and ran out of water." They had given the two New Yorkers a ride back to their car. We never knew if they made it or not but I'm glad they made it back alive and us too, although decomposing among the canyons of the Escalante in Grand Staircase, the place I love so much would not be such a bad way to go. The best beer I ever had was the one after I guzzled a liter of water out of the cooler, a Unitas Sum'r Ale. I'm not sure if it has alcohol in it or not but it sure was good. We drove slowly back down Egypt Road and then Hole-in-the-Rock to our lovely campsite at Calf Creek. Then I had a glorious outdoor shower followed by more beer. Sharon complained about the solar shower but I was having none of that. It was a lovely evening staring at the starry starry night next to our camp fire.
Saturday, sadly we had to pack up and leave Calf Creek CG. We got in the car and I'll be damned if we didn't have a nail and a flat tire. We drove into Escalante and fortunately the mechanic was on duty and it was not the criminal Dell from Red Rock Towing. This guy was fabulous. He repaired the tire in about 5 minutes and we were out of there and back on the road to Hell's Back Bone in no time. We drove to the trailhead for Boulder Mail Trail, which incredibly really was used to carry mail trail from the town of Boulder to Escalante. I cannot imagine why they would have chosen such a difficult route to deliver mail but it sure makes a great hike. Right in the middle of it the trail crosses Death Hollow, arguably the most outlandishly beautiful canyon hike in the world. The trail passes first through ordinary pinyon pine and Utah juniper before it opens up on gorgeous Navajo sandstone (my favorite) and then at 5.6 miles the rim of the ineffably beautiful Death Hollow. We hiked down about 1000 feet into the canyon, which was other wordly with trees, butterflies, flowers, and water. We took our shoes off and stood in the cool water of Death Hollow, before heading back up the canyon to the car. We passed another German couple on the way. Even though I have hiked Boulder Mail Trail once before with Susan in 2004, it was winter then, and we could only make it to the canyon rim. This time was so much more exciting to make it into the canyon. I knew that a new goal of mine would be to backpack the entire Death Hollow Trail, one day. One day. But today was our last day. Lamentably it was time to go; we left Grand Staircase after our hike and headed back to Salt Lake for the night. The next day at the airport I told Avis about my woes and to their credit they gave me the rental car for free. Despite the near death experience, the rapscallion tow truck driver, the biting insects, and everything else, it had been a wondrous outstanding adventure. I was doing something I love to do and I felt so fortunate to be able to have the opportunity to go to Grand Staircase and experience this nonpareil place again and share it with my sister, Sharon, who enjoys such things as much as I do. Bill Clinton you are a bastard for signing the evil DOMA into law, but thank you again for making Grand Staircase a national monument, the national treasure that it is, and bringing it to my attention. Shall it forever remain in the public domain and free from development, trash, and too many people.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Mt. Diablo, Walnut Creek, CA
I was mountain biking, mountain biking, mountain biking. So I decided to get out of my head and go for a hike and went to Mt. Diablo. I didn't take my binoculars; I just listened to the birds--California Thrasher, Cassin's Vireo, Oak Titmouse, Blue-gray Gnatcatcher, Scrub Jay, Lazuli Bunting, Black-headed Grosbeak-- just the ordinary birds of summer. Then what do you know, a Golden Eagle appeared overhead soaring high above. I was reminded of why I enjoy hiking so much; it gives me such joy. Instead of memorizing a poem as I often do on my meanderings I felt a poem composing in my head and here it is:
Mt. Diablo
Mt. Diablo
Mt. Diablo so beautiful I want to hug her
When I round Highway 24 there she is in all her
grandeur
Lush with green just three months of the year and
brown the rest
I want to put my arms around her bounteous breasts
A hike from Burma Road to the Summit will make your
waist line plummet
This place I hold so dear
inspiring she bursts with penstemon, purple owl's
clover, and Ithuriel's Spears all the year
Black-tailed deer and if you are lucky and quiet and
respect this mighty place,
you'll see a bobcat, black-tailed jackrabbit,
Alameda Whipsnake, Horned Toad, or Western Rattlesnake.
Oh how I love her, the place that has given me such
solace
That even walking her trails in summer's glaring
heat I long to reach her summit at 3849 feet
For when I am feeling sad and obsessing on something
ridiculous
She reminds me that I am just a smote of dust compared to forces such as plate tectonics
that formed her oak filled valleys circled by
chamise lined lofty peaks,
More powerful than all of us
And then instead of the day's anxieties
My heart and mind fill with all that pleases
The song of the returning Lazuli Bunting
A pack of coyotes laughing
Soaring Golden Eagle hunting
Mt. Diablo--
refulgent blessing
Michelle Brodie copyright 2013
Monday, June 03, 2013
The Difference Between Birders and Mountain Bikers
I have decided to rename my blog. It used to be called Birding with Michelle Brodie but since I have not been on any organized birding trips in over a year, I have decided to rename it to incorporate some other interests, to Birds, Trails and Tales with Michelle Brodie.
I first started birding in 1994 and like everything in my life I attacked it with vigor. I put all my resources into learning all the bird names, their habitats, their songs, identifying them, and compiling lists of all the birds I had seen. I had a life list and a North American list as well as a pair of hugely expensive top of the line Leica binoculars. In 2005, I signed up for a San Francisco County Big Year. This is a contest in which the participants attempt to see as many species of birds as possible within the county in one year. I had not been birding that long and no one really knew who I was but I came out of the gate like a race horse and gave it all I had. I got up at 5:30 AM every morning and went birding before work. My domestic partner at the time, bless her heart, joined me. In retrospect I believe this was added to a long laundry list of grievances against me culminating in a divorce in 2011. However, she did assist me in locating many of the birds and identifying birds songs which she was good at, and was with me during some of my accomplishments and I thank her for that.
These contests are strictly on the honor system. Since I was a parvenu to the elite world of San Francisco birders my sightings came under great scrutiny. One chilly September morning up on Mount Davidson, the highest point in San Francisco, at 900 some odd feet, I was looking for birds before work when an odd looking warbler perched on a branch not far away. A very aggressive and competitive competitor named David Armstrong was there. I told him there was an unusual warbler on a branch (this was exciting because there are not that many warbler species on the west coast, not nearly as many as the 30 plus on the east coast). He couldn't see it despite my explicit instructions, "look at the gray horizontal branch then go up one foot and slightly to the left to the v shaped branch above it and down 1/4 inch to the right." See it? No. "OK. See this branch right in front of us going across? Now go up and then slightly to the left." I told him. Warblers never perch this long. Poor thing must have been starving after flying all night. Birds migrate at night, almost exclusively along the coast on the Pacific Flyway, a migratory bird route that runs right through San Francisco. In the fall you can see them by the dozens early in the morning after they have been flying all night landing at the first thing to come into view as the sun comes up, in this case Mount Davidson. Often eastern migrants get lost and can be found during the fall migration way off course in San Francisco. Finally I got David on the bird and we agreed it was a Blue -winged Warbler, an east coast vagrant and first and, as far as I know, only sighting of this bird in San Francisco County. I had just set a San Francisco County record.
http://www.mdbrodie.com/birding/bluewingedwarbler.jpg
David sent a text to the other participants in the contest (this was a rule in the contest). Dozens of people descended onto Mount Davidson but despite a valiant search the bird was not seen again. This is fairly common as the birds are just stopping briefly during their migration and if they are lost often die before too long because of the unfamiliarity of the surroundings, exhaustion, hunger or they just succumb to predators. My sighting probably would have never been accepted had David not also seen it. Because it was a first county record I had to submit it to the “Bird Records Committee.” After scrutinizing David's and my detailed description, the sighting was accepted and went down into the record books. There was extreme jealousy brewing. How could this novice, this rookie, this novitiate, this nobody, really, have found the first and only Blue-winged Warbler in San Francisco County? The competition was heating up and close too. These people had no lives. They would leave their jobs with alacrity to go pursue the latest rare bird alert in San Francisco. It was coming down to who had the most time, the most money to expend, and valued their jobs the least.
Later in September I was at a locally favorite birding spot in the Presidio with my ex, near noon when I saw an unusual bird perched on a branch at eye level. I showed it to my ex and she and I studied it for some time. I said is that a branch in front of the wing or a white wing patch? Susan and I agreed it was a white wing patch-- it was a Lark Bunting-- an extremely common bird in New Mexico but only the second sighting in the County of San Francisco. I submitted it and sent out a rare bird alert. Hordes descended on the Presidio but it was never seen again. This time my submission was rejected. David said I must have mistaken it for something else. I was sure. It was broad daylight. My ex saw it too. It perched for several minutes. I was furious. I set two more county records that year. I saw the first ever Pileated Woodpecker on Bayview Hill. I reported it to the Bird Box (a place for birders to call and find out the latest rare bird sightings) and left. A bunch of other people re-found it and so that one was accepted. In October, I was again in the Presidio and saw an unusual thrush. I was pretty sure it was a Wood Thrush, again an east coast bird. I called my friend, Dan, and said I was pretty sure I had seen a Wood Thrush and told him where it was. He drove down and looked at it and said, yes that's what it is, call it in. I was hesitant. I was mad at being called a liar. I called it in and many, many other people re-found it. It was a second county record of a Wood Thrush.
Unfortunately I had become disillusioned at the miserable competitive attitude of the other participants and lost interest in the contest, even though going into December I was in third place. Someone saw a Summer Tanager in Golden Gate Park. I could have easily gone to find it; there are no red birds in San Francisco and Summer Tanagers are bright red so it would have been relatively easy to find but I was too mad and didn't go look and failed to move into second place. I ended the contest in third place. My enthusiasm had been completely crushed. I didn't even care what the results were. My Lark Bunting was not reported in the Quarterly Journal "Western Tanager." I gave up. I still loved birds, as I do all of nature and always will, but my desire to go out and explore and experience the thrill of finding a rare bird was doused like Class A Foam on a sizzling saucepan.
After that sour experience I continued to bird and keep my life list but it was a solo experience for me. I ventured out to other states to see new birds. One of my best blogs ever was written in 2006 after camping alone for two weeks straight on a birding expedition to Texas. I added 40 birds to my life list and had a great time doing so all by myself. As the years went by I began to miss my other great passion, hiking. It is impossible to bird and hike at the same time. Birding is painstaking at times. It requires standing in one spot for prolonged periods of time looking up into the canopy for birds obscured by poor lighting and annoying branches, causing extreme neck pain often referred to as warbler neck. Also the constant standing was exacerbating the arthritis in my low back. It got so bad at one point I had to carry a portable chair with me because I became unable to stand for prolonged periods of time. I felt like a very old lady. It was not possible to hike for miles and miles as I had in the past. It takes a lot of time to find the bird and then identify it while seeing only portions of its body at times and at awkward angles. Even the binoculars dangling from my neck contributed to my growing list of ailments. My spouse had no interest in it at all and after a while refused to accompany me at all on any of my outings. After she left me in 2011 and my world came crashing down I went on two major birding trips, one to Ecuador and another to Mexico. I saw so many beautifully colored and exotic birds but my life had been altered and disrupted and I was miserable. I took a year to recover from the divorce. My recovery was aided greatly by returning to my great love of nature and hiking. I spent hours hiking in the East Bay, east of San Francisco, just enjoying all nature had to offer and trying to ground myself. I logged miles and miles admiring the flowers and scenery and realized that I could bird just as easily by ear since I had learned all the songs of our local birds anyway and didn't need heavy expensive binoculars hanging from my neck. Now I could go farther when I hiked and can enjoy the flowers and the scenery. I was getting back to my core self.
I read the book Life List about Phoebe Snetsinger, a crazed birder who abandoned her family in her final years of life after being diagnosed with cancer, to accumulate what was at the time the longest life list in the world, some 8000 of the known 10,000 species of birds in the world. She was the very embodiment of a single mindedly focused, crazed, eccentric, competitive birder. I was starting to question whether I wanted to be known as a birder.
Then in June 2012, I met someone who asked me if I had ever considered mountain biking. I said “no, I don’t even own a bike but if someone were to invite me I would give it a try.” The first few times I had to rent a bike. It seemed like something I could master although it was very difficult not having ridden a bike since I was a teenager. I realized renting each time would be too expensive so I set out to buy a bike. At my brother's suggestion, I went big. Like everything in my life I would not tackle mountain biking half way; I would never consider doing anything half way. Why do it at all unless you are going to give 100% effort? So I set out to become the best mountain biker possible even at my late state in life. I attacked it like I attack everything in life. I bought a top of the line carbon fiber Santa Cruz Blur XC with special components to make it extra light. I spent the summer with bloody elbows and hideous bruises on my buttocks trying to navigate difficult terrain. This woman dragged me to some of Northern California's meanest toughest mountain biking trails.
In November, this mountain biking acquaintance talked me into joining a group of women on a mountain bike ride to El Corte de Madera Creek Open Space Preserve, known locally as Skeggs for the vista point and parking lot where the mountain bikers park. I was nervous. The group trail description said “for intermediate and above.” It also mentioned a 2700 foot elevation gain-- a lot on a bike, I came to find out. I looked around at the group during the introductions and realized I was ready to be humbled. I was not just humbled that day; I was humiliated. I am used to being the top dog, the queen of everything. On this ride I was pulling up the rear all day long. Not only that, but the group insisted on having a "minder" ride behind me so I wouldn't get lost. I asked her repeatedly to go ahead and not wait but she refused. The course had lots of roots, rocks, and logs. About half way through is a very long hill named the Methuselah Trail. I was gasping for air by this time. You think hiking will prepare you for mountain biking but it won’t. You do not use the same muscles for mountain biking as you do for hiking. You just don't. I had no idea. I was an aggressive and fast distance hiker. This day I took the longest time getting up that hill with that damn minder. She was this scrawny tiny little thing. She hardly looked the part of mountain biker. I don't know how long those poor women waited for me at the top of Methuselah. They must have thought I was dead. I just kept apologizing and they just kept encouraging me. I said I was sorry and that I had only been mountain biking about ten times so far. A very sweet lady named Sheila told me not to worry and that I was doing great. The last half mile mercifully came but it was all uphill. I was out of gas. I think I pushed my bike most of the way. My mountain biking friend said it was just as well because I moved at the same speed pushing it as pedaling uphill. I at least got back on the bike to ride back to the parking lot where the group was mingling. The others were finishing up the snacks and putting their bikes away. I felt my dignity had been eliminated that day. My mountain biking friend and I did not develop into a roaring burgeoning relationship, and in fact, our relationship such as it was, ended not long thereafter. Nevertheless, I decided to keep pursuing my goal of becoming a good mountain biker.
I signed up for another group ride on June 1, 2013 for Annadel State Park, near Santa Rosa. Annadel is very rocky and one of the toughest mountain biking places in northern California. I had been there once before with my mountain biking friend: there was a lot of blood involved. Her bike fell on her at one point gouging huge holes in her leg, leaving lava flows of blood down her leg and Mauna Loa sized holes. In retrospect I should have taken her to the ER but she just laughed it off. At the end though she had her second outburst of emotional umbrage during our brief experiment together, over the ride selection, and vowed to never go back to Annadel.
The group postings for June 1st were emphatic-- no beginners, strong intermediate and above only! I was so nervous the night before the ride I could not sleep. Was I setting myself up for another day of humiliation? Was I a beginner? Did I have any business going? During the introductions I observed everyone closely looking for someone to save me from pulling up the rear all day long. That same damn Minder from Skeggs was there. She didn't even remember me from Skeggs! Anyway the Minder didn't count as it was her job to be last. I was determined; my one and only goal was to not pull up the rear with the Minder. There was the leader, Casey, who was 54 but who had been mountain biking since the sport was invented in Marin County, California in the late 70s; Pauline and Christina who were both obviously lesbians and tough as nails, both a little chunky and no doubt downhillers (people who prefer flying down the steeps to grinding up the uphills), Jackie who was very highly skilled (she was riding an Ibis but told me her other bike was a Santa Cruz Blur XC-- my bike!), Jay a skinny little thing who lived in Danville at the base of Mount Diablo and who rode her mountain bike to the summit (3849 feet) every day after work for fun but who was a complete craven at the first sign of any roots, and rocks, and logs and would get off her bike and walk before attempting anything remotely dangerous; Elba, a maniac who was so supercilious that she had a glamour make over before going to the DMV for her driver's license photo, and who was also at Skeggs but didn't remember me because that's how far ahead of me she was all day long; Aria, who had been mountain biking for years and was very familiar with Annadel's trails and had great technical skills, and Wendy, lovely Wendy, very sweet Wendy, beautiful Wendy. Thank you, Wendy, for attending this mountain bike ride.
The beginning of the ride went uphill, up a fire road that became rocky after awhile. I struck up a conversation with Jackie as we seemed to hit it off. She had an accent and was very affable. I asked her if she was French to see if we could practice speaking in French but she was Italian. However, we segued into Spanish, the default language in California, after a while, and Jay who was fluent in Spanish joined in as well. Jay had come dressed in a, well, dress. I jokingly asked her if she had bought it from Macy's. During the introductions Jay looked at Christina and Pauline derisively and turned to me and whispered with undisguised scorn, “why do they have to look like that?” Soon some other bikers appeared coming down hill so we had to get into single file at which point I passed Aria. Aria, the punctilious intermeddler, yelled at me to slow down. I was nonplussed. What was she talking about? I looked at her legs and they appeared rather like drum sticks but not like a cornish hen drum stick so much as like a Canada Goose drum stick might appear after having eaten two bass. I became somewhat annoyed and again vowed not to end up pulling up the rear. Moreover, Casey was way out in front and I was just trying to keep her in sight. There is a no loss rule. If someone passes an intersection she is supposed to wait for the next rider to come into view before turning. Some of us waited at an intersection for Wendy and Minder and a guy with a big gut passed us. Then Casey decided to press on instead of either passing him or letting him get ahead. Then my problems started. We came upon a rocky uphill section and the guy with the gut stopped suddenly causing me to have to stop. Aria was behind me observing and critiquing. When the guy with the gut failed to move out of the way I had nowhere to go but a patch of poison oak. It was only the first in a series of humiliations and embarrassing failures to execute. Later I was about to round a switchback when the lady in front of me, Jay, fell. So I had to stop and wait for her to get out of the way. By that time Casey was breathing down my neck behind me. I had taken my left foot out of my clip as is my practice when stopping or resting because I am left handed, left sided, left brained, left personed. But to make this switchback you needed to have your right foot out. I felt rushed and fell in the switchback with my right foot still clipped in. Casey leaned over me, helping to pull my trapped right foot out of the clip and with a stern Mr. Murdstone voice said, “you need to swing way out to make the switchbacks and get your right foot out of the clip.”
After a break, there was a discussion about an upcoming steep, steep hill with a root in it. I am very familiar with those as I had had a serious crash a few weeks earlier trying to attempt that at Saratoga Gap. So I was getting nervous and didn’t really want to attempt it in front of anyone. Christina said to sit way up forward on your saddle in order to make it. I couldn’t see well around the trees and am not sure if Christina made it or not. Jackie pedaled furiously and I saw her make it up. Everyone had gone but Wendy and me. Wendy walked her bike up. I didn’t want to look that pusillanimous. So I attempted it and fell over. Aria yelled down at me, “you have to get your foot out of your clip, you dunderhead!” I yelled back up the hill, “I have only been mountain biking one year and I’m 52! Give me a break!” Christina just quietly told me to move forward in my seat next time. After a very fun single track through the trees we came to an extremely rocky uphill climb. Aria got right behind me yelling advice like a martinet. She refused to pass me even when I invited her to do so, as she was enjoying mentoring me. Wendy walked good portions of this section. I tried to struggle through it and fell hard on my right leg. Every time I fell I either received unwanted overly solicitous attention from the Minder or unsolicited advice barked to me. At the top of the hill Aria belted out, “you need to get out of that right clip. Is it on the lowest setting? Let me give you some lube for it.” She was all over me, hectoring and haranguing me. After the picnic table we went through a difficult boulder field. How did Aria end up behind me? There were two boulders side by side with about one inch between for your wheel. I took my left foot out and pushed through it using my foot. Aria chimed in, “Michelle, what happened back there?” I said my left pedal was going to hit the rock so I pulled out. She said, “you need to ratchet your pedals when that happens so that the other pedal is higher and can clear the rock!” Right! If I had been mountain biking for 12 years I’m sure it would have come to me instinctively. That is like telling a new skier, “just go over those Volkswagon sized moguls by making tight sharp turns quickly.” Yes, that is how you get over moguls but it takes time on the slopes and practice.
We came to a lake and took a rest. Some of the gals jumped in but Elba didn’t want to get her hair wet and mess it up. I’m not sure what her cure was for helmet hair. After the lake there was one last rocky descent that I rode pretty well and then we all stopped at an intersection. I came up to the group. Casey said we have two more we’re waiting for. I said, “thank god for Wendy so I am not pulling up the rear all day.” Casey chided me, “this is not a contest!” I apologized and said I was sorry and was just kidding. (I wasn’t kidding. My entire goal for the day was to not be pulling up the rear). The last bit of the ride was just a fire road. I started up the road with Aria and Christina. Christina said there was a jump but not to go over it. I said I wanted to and she said just be sure to pull up. I said what do you mean pull up. Just about then she went over something I couldn’t see and I just followed. I pulled up as instructed so as not to go over the handlebar when landing after flying over what was not a jump so much as a three foot high wall. Somehow I landed it cleanly and proceeded ahead. Unfortunately Jay, who was two people behind me, had not been privy to the conversation, went over the wall, catapulted over her handlebars, and got her dress very dirty, cutting her face, and splitting her lip. Everyone dropped their bikes in the road to provide some solace and some first aid to Jay. There were thousands of dollars of equipment in the road in a line. http://www.flickr.com/photos/17376274@N03/8943798204/
We proceeded back to the cars where Casey brought out some snacks for everyone for some apres-ride socializing. Jay mentioned she was starting a new job as a wellness coordinator and next week was safety awareness week. She wondered if they would fire her when they saw her fat lip and bloody cheek. Jackie revealed that she had been both a professional dirt bike racer and later downhill racer, was three time world champion, and still held the world record for the fastest time. Pauline said, “that’s not possible; I was the champion in 2005.” Several exchanges went back and forth on who was the champion. I put my money on Jackie; she had a Blur XC and you could just tell that she was a prodigious talent and stupendous person. After a while everyone returned to their cars and their lives. I drove into the park to a picnic area and set up my chair to read and have a beer. The area was surrounded by stately tall oaks and the birds were singing—a lovely setting for a Saturday afternoon-- but all I could think about was that it was June 1st, the day that I had met that lady who introduced me to mountain biking, how the relationship never materialized, what a failure that relationship was and its connection with mountain biking, and my failure with mountain biking itself. I was feeling sorry for myself and like a lorn lonely creature, a bit like Mrs. Gummidge in David Copperfield. A little tear even welled up in my eye. I wondered if I should give up mountain biking altogether. What was I after all? A crazed birder? A terrible mountain biker? A lousy girlfriend? A lawyer? (Yes, and a damn good one but I have never defined myself by my career.) I am much more than that. Then I wondered, what is the difference between a birder and a mountain biker anyway? They are both very eccentric, a little bit crazy, and very competitive. The only difference I can see is, one has expensive binoculars through which they see the world and the other, expensive bikes through which they experience the world. In the end, I was all those things --a crazed, competitive birder, a burgeoning mountain biker, and a damn good lawyer. Was I giving up mountain biking and all its concomitant purple bruised buttocks and bruised ego, I thought as a Cassin’s Vireo sang his question song up in the Valley Oak? Heck no. Where was the next mountain to conquer?
I first started birding in 1994 and like everything in my life I attacked it with vigor. I put all my resources into learning all the bird names, their habitats, their songs, identifying them, and compiling lists of all the birds I had seen. I had a life list and a North American list as well as a pair of hugely expensive top of the line Leica binoculars. In 2005, I signed up for a San Francisco County Big Year. This is a contest in which the participants attempt to see as many species of birds as possible within the county in one year. I had not been birding that long and no one really knew who I was but I came out of the gate like a race horse and gave it all I had. I got up at 5:30 AM every morning and went birding before work. My domestic partner at the time, bless her heart, joined me. In retrospect I believe this was added to a long laundry list of grievances against me culminating in a divorce in 2011. However, she did assist me in locating many of the birds and identifying birds songs which she was good at, and was with me during some of my accomplishments and I thank her for that.
These contests are strictly on the honor system. Since I was a parvenu to the elite world of San Francisco birders my sightings came under great scrutiny. One chilly September morning up on Mount Davidson, the highest point in San Francisco, at 900 some odd feet, I was looking for birds before work when an odd looking warbler perched on a branch not far away. A very aggressive and competitive competitor named David Armstrong was there. I told him there was an unusual warbler on a branch (this was exciting because there are not that many warbler species on the west coast, not nearly as many as the 30 plus on the east coast). He couldn't see it despite my explicit instructions, "look at the gray horizontal branch then go up one foot and slightly to the left to the v shaped branch above it and down 1/4 inch to the right." See it? No. "OK. See this branch right in front of us going across? Now go up and then slightly to the left." I told him. Warblers never perch this long. Poor thing must have been starving after flying all night. Birds migrate at night, almost exclusively along the coast on the Pacific Flyway, a migratory bird route that runs right through San Francisco. In the fall you can see them by the dozens early in the morning after they have been flying all night landing at the first thing to come into view as the sun comes up, in this case Mount Davidson. Often eastern migrants get lost and can be found during the fall migration way off course in San Francisco. Finally I got David on the bird and we agreed it was a Blue -winged Warbler, an east coast vagrant and first and, as far as I know, only sighting of this bird in San Francisco County. I had just set a San Francisco County record.
http://www.mdbrodie.com/birding/bluewingedwarbler.jpg
David sent a text to the other participants in the contest (this was a rule in the contest). Dozens of people descended onto Mount Davidson but despite a valiant search the bird was not seen again. This is fairly common as the birds are just stopping briefly during their migration and if they are lost often die before too long because of the unfamiliarity of the surroundings, exhaustion, hunger or they just succumb to predators. My sighting probably would have never been accepted had David not also seen it. Because it was a first county record I had to submit it to the “Bird Records Committee.” After scrutinizing David's and my detailed description, the sighting was accepted and went down into the record books. There was extreme jealousy brewing. How could this novice, this rookie, this novitiate, this nobody, really, have found the first and only Blue-winged Warbler in San Francisco County? The competition was heating up and close too. These people had no lives. They would leave their jobs with alacrity to go pursue the latest rare bird alert in San Francisco. It was coming down to who had the most time, the most money to expend, and valued their jobs the least.
Later in September I was at a locally favorite birding spot in the Presidio with my ex, near noon when I saw an unusual bird perched on a branch at eye level. I showed it to my ex and she and I studied it for some time. I said is that a branch in front of the wing or a white wing patch? Susan and I agreed it was a white wing patch-- it was a Lark Bunting-- an extremely common bird in New Mexico but only the second sighting in the County of San Francisco. I submitted it and sent out a rare bird alert. Hordes descended on the Presidio but it was never seen again. This time my submission was rejected. David said I must have mistaken it for something else. I was sure. It was broad daylight. My ex saw it too. It perched for several minutes. I was furious. I set two more county records that year. I saw the first ever Pileated Woodpecker on Bayview Hill. I reported it to the Bird Box (a place for birders to call and find out the latest rare bird sightings) and left. A bunch of other people re-found it and so that one was accepted. In October, I was again in the Presidio and saw an unusual thrush. I was pretty sure it was a Wood Thrush, again an east coast bird. I called my friend, Dan, and said I was pretty sure I had seen a Wood Thrush and told him where it was. He drove down and looked at it and said, yes that's what it is, call it in. I was hesitant. I was mad at being called a liar. I called it in and many, many other people re-found it. It was a second county record of a Wood Thrush.
Unfortunately I had become disillusioned at the miserable competitive attitude of the other participants and lost interest in the contest, even though going into December I was in third place. Someone saw a Summer Tanager in Golden Gate Park. I could have easily gone to find it; there are no red birds in San Francisco and Summer Tanagers are bright red so it would have been relatively easy to find but I was too mad and didn't go look and failed to move into second place. I ended the contest in third place. My enthusiasm had been completely crushed. I didn't even care what the results were. My Lark Bunting was not reported in the Quarterly Journal "Western Tanager." I gave up. I still loved birds, as I do all of nature and always will, but my desire to go out and explore and experience the thrill of finding a rare bird was doused like Class A Foam on a sizzling saucepan.
After that sour experience I continued to bird and keep my life list but it was a solo experience for me. I ventured out to other states to see new birds. One of my best blogs ever was written in 2006 after camping alone for two weeks straight on a birding expedition to Texas. I added 40 birds to my life list and had a great time doing so all by myself. As the years went by I began to miss my other great passion, hiking. It is impossible to bird and hike at the same time. Birding is painstaking at times. It requires standing in one spot for prolonged periods of time looking up into the canopy for birds obscured by poor lighting and annoying branches, causing extreme neck pain often referred to as warbler neck. Also the constant standing was exacerbating the arthritis in my low back. It got so bad at one point I had to carry a portable chair with me because I became unable to stand for prolonged periods of time. I felt like a very old lady. It was not possible to hike for miles and miles as I had in the past. It takes a lot of time to find the bird and then identify it while seeing only portions of its body at times and at awkward angles. Even the binoculars dangling from my neck contributed to my growing list of ailments. My spouse had no interest in it at all and after a while refused to accompany me at all on any of my outings. After she left me in 2011 and my world came crashing down I went on two major birding trips, one to Ecuador and another to Mexico. I saw so many beautifully colored and exotic birds but my life had been altered and disrupted and I was miserable. I took a year to recover from the divorce. My recovery was aided greatly by returning to my great love of nature and hiking. I spent hours hiking in the East Bay, east of San Francisco, just enjoying all nature had to offer and trying to ground myself. I logged miles and miles admiring the flowers and scenery and realized that I could bird just as easily by ear since I had learned all the songs of our local birds anyway and didn't need heavy expensive binoculars hanging from my neck. Now I could go farther when I hiked and can enjoy the flowers and the scenery. I was getting back to my core self.
I read the book Life List about Phoebe Snetsinger, a crazed birder who abandoned her family in her final years of life after being diagnosed with cancer, to accumulate what was at the time the longest life list in the world, some 8000 of the known 10,000 species of birds in the world. She was the very embodiment of a single mindedly focused, crazed, eccentric, competitive birder. I was starting to question whether I wanted to be known as a birder.
Then in June 2012, I met someone who asked me if I had ever considered mountain biking. I said “no, I don’t even own a bike but if someone were to invite me I would give it a try.” The first few times I had to rent a bike. It seemed like something I could master although it was very difficult not having ridden a bike since I was a teenager. I realized renting each time would be too expensive so I set out to buy a bike. At my brother's suggestion, I went big. Like everything in my life I would not tackle mountain biking half way; I would never consider doing anything half way. Why do it at all unless you are going to give 100% effort? So I set out to become the best mountain biker possible even at my late state in life. I attacked it like I attack everything in life. I bought a top of the line carbon fiber Santa Cruz Blur XC with special components to make it extra light. I spent the summer with bloody elbows and hideous bruises on my buttocks trying to navigate difficult terrain. This woman dragged me to some of Northern California's meanest toughest mountain biking trails.
In November, this mountain biking acquaintance talked me into joining a group of women on a mountain bike ride to El Corte de Madera Creek Open Space Preserve, known locally as Skeggs for the vista point and parking lot where the mountain bikers park. I was nervous. The group trail description said “for intermediate and above.” It also mentioned a 2700 foot elevation gain-- a lot on a bike, I came to find out. I looked around at the group during the introductions and realized I was ready to be humbled. I was not just humbled that day; I was humiliated. I am used to being the top dog, the queen of everything. On this ride I was pulling up the rear all day long. Not only that, but the group insisted on having a "minder" ride behind me so I wouldn't get lost. I asked her repeatedly to go ahead and not wait but she refused. The course had lots of roots, rocks, and logs. About half way through is a very long hill named the Methuselah Trail. I was gasping for air by this time. You think hiking will prepare you for mountain biking but it won’t. You do not use the same muscles for mountain biking as you do for hiking. You just don't. I had no idea. I was an aggressive and fast distance hiker. This day I took the longest time getting up that hill with that damn minder. She was this scrawny tiny little thing. She hardly looked the part of mountain biker. I don't know how long those poor women waited for me at the top of Methuselah. They must have thought I was dead. I just kept apologizing and they just kept encouraging me. I said I was sorry and that I had only been mountain biking about ten times so far. A very sweet lady named Sheila told me not to worry and that I was doing great. The last half mile mercifully came but it was all uphill. I was out of gas. I think I pushed my bike most of the way. My mountain biking friend said it was just as well because I moved at the same speed pushing it as pedaling uphill. I at least got back on the bike to ride back to the parking lot where the group was mingling. The others were finishing up the snacks and putting their bikes away. I felt my dignity had been eliminated that day. My mountain biking friend and I did not develop into a roaring burgeoning relationship, and in fact, our relationship such as it was, ended not long thereafter. Nevertheless, I decided to keep pursuing my goal of becoming a good mountain biker.
I signed up for another group ride on June 1, 2013 for Annadel State Park, near Santa Rosa. Annadel is very rocky and one of the toughest mountain biking places in northern California. I had been there once before with my mountain biking friend: there was a lot of blood involved. Her bike fell on her at one point gouging huge holes in her leg, leaving lava flows of blood down her leg and Mauna Loa sized holes. In retrospect I should have taken her to the ER but she just laughed it off. At the end though she had her second outburst of emotional umbrage during our brief experiment together, over the ride selection, and vowed to never go back to Annadel.
The group postings for June 1st were emphatic-- no beginners, strong intermediate and above only! I was so nervous the night before the ride I could not sleep. Was I setting myself up for another day of humiliation? Was I a beginner? Did I have any business going? During the introductions I observed everyone closely looking for someone to save me from pulling up the rear all day long. That same damn Minder from Skeggs was there. She didn't even remember me from Skeggs! Anyway the Minder didn't count as it was her job to be last. I was determined; my one and only goal was to not pull up the rear with the Minder. There was the leader, Casey, who was 54 but who had been mountain biking since the sport was invented in Marin County, California in the late 70s; Pauline and Christina who were both obviously lesbians and tough as nails, both a little chunky and no doubt downhillers (people who prefer flying down the steeps to grinding up the uphills), Jackie who was very highly skilled (she was riding an Ibis but told me her other bike was a Santa Cruz Blur XC-- my bike!), Jay a skinny little thing who lived in Danville at the base of Mount Diablo and who rode her mountain bike to the summit (3849 feet) every day after work for fun but who was a complete craven at the first sign of any roots, and rocks, and logs and would get off her bike and walk before attempting anything remotely dangerous; Elba, a maniac who was so supercilious that she had a glamour make over before going to the DMV for her driver's license photo, and who was also at Skeggs but didn't remember me because that's how far ahead of me she was all day long; Aria, who had been mountain biking for years and was very familiar with Annadel's trails and had great technical skills, and Wendy, lovely Wendy, very sweet Wendy, beautiful Wendy. Thank you, Wendy, for attending this mountain bike ride.
The beginning of the ride went uphill, up a fire road that became rocky after awhile. I struck up a conversation with Jackie as we seemed to hit it off. She had an accent and was very affable. I asked her if she was French to see if we could practice speaking in French but she was Italian. However, we segued into Spanish, the default language in California, after a while, and Jay who was fluent in Spanish joined in as well. Jay had come dressed in a, well, dress. I jokingly asked her if she had bought it from Macy's. During the introductions Jay looked at Christina and Pauline derisively and turned to me and whispered with undisguised scorn, “why do they have to look like that?” Soon some other bikers appeared coming down hill so we had to get into single file at which point I passed Aria. Aria, the punctilious intermeddler, yelled at me to slow down. I was nonplussed. What was she talking about? I looked at her legs and they appeared rather like drum sticks but not like a cornish hen drum stick so much as like a Canada Goose drum stick might appear after having eaten two bass. I became somewhat annoyed and again vowed not to end up pulling up the rear. Moreover, Casey was way out in front and I was just trying to keep her in sight. There is a no loss rule. If someone passes an intersection she is supposed to wait for the next rider to come into view before turning. Some of us waited at an intersection for Wendy and Minder and a guy with a big gut passed us. Then Casey decided to press on instead of either passing him or letting him get ahead. Then my problems started. We came upon a rocky uphill section and the guy with the gut stopped suddenly causing me to have to stop. Aria was behind me observing and critiquing. When the guy with the gut failed to move out of the way I had nowhere to go but a patch of poison oak. It was only the first in a series of humiliations and embarrassing failures to execute. Later I was about to round a switchback when the lady in front of me, Jay, fell. So I had to stop and wait for her to get out of the way. By that time Casey was breathing down my neck behind me. I had taken my left foot out of my clip as is my practice when stopping or resting because I am left handed, left sided, left brained, left personed. But to make this switchback you needed to have your right foot out. I felt rushed and fell in the switchback with my right foot still clipped in. Casey leaned over me, helping to pull my trapped right foot out of the clip and with a stern Mr. Murdstone voice said, “you need to swing way out to make the switchbacks and get your right foot out of the clip.”
After a break, there was a discussion about an upcoming steep, steep hill with a root in it. I am very familiar with those as I had had a serious crash a few weeks earlier trying to attempt that at Saratoga Gap. So I was getting nervous and didn’t really want to attempt it in front of anyone. Christina said to sit way up forward on your saddle in order to make it. I couldn’t see well around the trees and am not sure if Christina made it or not. Jackie pedaled furiously and I saw her make it up. Everyone had gone but Wendy and me. Wendy walked her bike up. I didn’t want to look that pusillanimous. So I attempted it and fell over. Aria yelled down at me, “you have to get your foot out of your clip, you dunderhead!” I yelled back up the hill, “I have only been mountain biking one year and I’m 52! Give me a break!” Christina just quietly told me to move forward in my seat next time. After a very fun single track through the trees we came to an extremely rocky uphill climb. Aria got right behind me yelling advice like a martinet. She refused to pass me even when I invited her to do so, as she was enjoying mentoring me. Wendy walked good portions of this section. I tried to struggle through it and fell hard on my right leg. Every time I fell I either received unwanted overly solicitous attention from the Minder or unsolicited advice barked to me. At the top of the hill Aria belted out, “you need to get out of that right clip. Is it on the lowest setting? Let me give you some lube for it.” She was all over me, hectoring and haranguing me. After the picnic table we went through a difficult boulder field. How did Aria end up behind me? There were two boulders side by side with about one inch between for your wheel. I took my left foot out and pushed through it using my foot. Aria chimed in, “Michelle, what happened back there?” I said my left pedal was going to hit the rock so I pulled out. She said, “you need to ratchet your pedals when that happens so that the other pedal is higher and can clear the rock!” Right! If I had been mountain biking for 12 years I’m sure it would have come to me instinctively. That is like telling a new skier, “just go over those Volkswagon sized moguls by making tight sharp turns quickly.” Yes, that is how you get over moguls but it takes time on the slopes and practice.
We came to a lake and took a rest. Some of the gals jumped in but Elba didn’t want to get her hair wet and mess it up. I’m not sure what her cure was for helmet hair. After the lake there was one last rocky descent that I rode pretty well and then we all stopped at an intersection. I came up to the group. Casey said we have two more we’re waiting for. I said, “thank god for Wendy so I am not pulling up the rear all day.” Casey chided me, “this is not a contest!” I apologized and said I was sorry and was just kidding. (I wasn’t kidding. My entire goal for the day was to not be pulling up the rear). The last bit of the ride was just a fire road. I started up the road with Aria and Christina. Christina said there was a jump but not to go over it. I said I wanted to and she said just be sure to pull up. I said what do you mean pull up. Just about then she went over something I couldn’t see and I just followed. I pulled up as instructed so as not to go over the handlebar when landing after flying over what was not a jump so much as a three foot high wall. Somehow I landed it cleanly and proceeded ahead. Unfortunately Jay, who was two people behind me, had not been privy to the conversation, went over the wall, catapulted over her handlebars, and got her dress very dirty, cutting her face, and splitting her lip. Everyone dropped their bikes in the road to provide some solace and some first aid to Jay. There were thousands of dollars of equipment in the road in a line. http://www.flickr.com/photos/17376274@N03/8943798204/
We proceeded back to the cars where Casey brought out some snacks for everyone for some apres-ride socializing. Jay mentioned she was starting a new job as a wellness coordinator and next week was safety awareness week. She wondered if they would fire her when they saw her fat lip and bloody cheek. Jackie revealed that she had been both a professional dirt bike racer and later downhill racer, was three time world champion, and still held the world record for the fastest time. Pauline said, “that’s not possible; I was the champion in 2005.” Several exchanges went back and forth on who was the champion. I put my money on Jackie; she had a Blur XC and you could just tell that she was a prodigious talent and stupendous person. After a while everyone returned to their cars and their lives. I drove into the park to a picnic area and set up my chair to read and have a beer. The area was surrounded by stately tall oaks and the birds were singing—a lovely setting for a Saturday afternoon-- but all I could think about was that it was June 1st, the day that I had met that lady who introduced me to mountain biking, how the relationship never materialized, what a failure that relationship was and its connection with mountain biking, and my failure with mountain biking itself. I was feeling sorry for myself and like a lorn lonely creature, a bit like Mrs. Gummidge in David Copperfield. A little tear even welled up in my eye. I wondered if I should give up mountain biking altogether. What was I after all? A crazed birder? A terrible mountain biker? A lousy girlfriend? A lawyer? (Yes, and a damn good one but I have never defined myself by my career.) I am much more than that. Then I wondered, what is the difference between a birder and a mountain biker anyway? They are both very eccentric, a little bit crazy, and very competitive. The only difference I can see is, one has expensive binoculars through which they see the world and the other, expensive bikes through which they experience the world. In the end, I was all those things --a crazed, competitive birder, a burgeoning mountain biker, and a damn good lawyer. Was I giving up mountain biking and all its concomitant purple bruised buttocks and bruised ego, I thought as a Cassin’s Vireo sang his question song up in the Valley Oak? Heck no. Where was the next mountain to conquer?
Saturday, March 02, 2013
Winter Birding in California
I have not posted anything for almost a year and I have no birding trips planned for this year at all so I thought I would just post about something ordinary like birding in winter in California. Yes, it is technically still winter until March 20, 2013 even though it has been a most spring like winter here in Northern California. Typically birding in this area in winter is not nearly as interesting as in spring or fall when the migrants are arriving or leaving unless you enjoy looking at Yellow-rumped Warblers or telling the difference between a Long-billed and a Short-billed Dowitcher (now this is one of the reasons most people find birders so eccentric) or squinting into a telescope until you are nearly blind looking at tiny dots far out to sea. On the other hand winter brings some very charming birds to our area. For example the beautiful Varied Thrush winters here. It has the most adorable song which sounds like an alto, contralto, tenor, and bass whistler and has beautiful orange and black plummage (yes like our Giants).
Two weeks ago I heard dozens of them on the Miwok Trail on Mt. Tam and so today I thought I would go back and hike that trail with my 400 mm lens and finally get a decent picture of one. The only one I have on my site is terrible. So I started through the coyote bush and the wild flowers were just starting to come in -- some wild irises, California buttercups, Indian Warrior, Footsteps of Spring, and Paintbrush. Then as I entered the forest where they reside, I heard the telltale whistle blowing and walked as quietly as I could so as not to scare it off when who should appear but a trail runner talking extremely loudly to his running mate. Poof there went my Thrush. Well, I picked a bad day it seems for photographing our lovely wintering Varied Thrush as runner after runner ran by flushing every bird in the forest. I managed to get a few not so great pictures such as this one: Varied Thrush. And then the forest went silent. I went up a little higher just to have a nice view for lunch and enjoyed the just arrived Allen's Hummingbirds desperately trying to attract a mate before heading back to the trailhead somewhat dejected. I would have just continued to the summit except that camera weighs about 20 pounds. Fortunately I had left my mountain bike in my car for next I drove to the base of Mt. Tam in Mill Valley and rode my bike to the summit and back, a gain of 2200 feet. The clouds had moved in and the birds had moved out so it all worked out.
Two weeks ago I heard dozens of them on the Miwok Trail on Mt. Tam and so today I thought I would go back and hike that trail with my 400 mm lens and finally get a decent picture of one. The only one I have on my site is terrible. So I started through the coyote bush and the wild flowers were just starting to come in -- some wild irises, California buttercups, Indian Warrior, Footsteps of Spring, and Paintbrush. Then as I entered the forest where they reside, I heard the telltale whistle blowing and walked as quietly as I could so as not to scare it off when who should appear but a trail runner talking extremely loudly to his running mate. Poof there went my Thrush. Well, I picked a bad day it seems for photographing our lovely wintering Varied Thrush as runner after runner ran by flushing every bird in the forest. I managed to get a few not so great pictures such as this one: Varied Thrush. And then the forest went silent. I went up a little higher just to have a nice view for lunch and enjoyed the just arrived Allen's Hummingbirds desperately trying to attract a mate before heading back to the trailhead somewhat dejected. I would have just continued to the summit except that camera weighs about 20 pounds. Fortunately I had left my mountain bike in my car for next I drove to the base of Mt. Tam in Mill Valley and rode my bike to the summit and back, a gain of 2200 feet. The clouds had moved in and the birds had moved out so it all worked out.
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