Category Archives: Travel

My 70th birthday trip over Mono Pass and down Mono Creek: part 1

California, Camping, Mono Pass, Photography, Sierras, Travel

Sometime during the last year, I decided to celebrate my 70th birthday with a trans-Sierra hike. I am not sure how, or why, I came up with this scheme, but I did. Now we are back and I am whooped, but I am still glad I came up with the idea. It did turn out to be more logistically difficult and a harder hike, for me, than I originally expected.

Part of the difficulty was that the leaving and arriving trailheads are six to seven hours apart and part of it was that, after going over the pass, the runout on the westside – for me – was still a three day walk. I am still pretty stiff and sore. But, and it is a huge BUT, the trip was very worth it.

When we Googled the fastest way from ,the west trailhead to the east trailhead, Google took us through Yosemite Valley. That just didn't seem right. Through Yosemite Valley on a Saturday, on a free weekend – that just couldn't be the fastest way. When we finally got past the denial stage to the grief stage, we knew we were in trouble. But, when we got to the tunnel view at sunset, we pretty much felt we had lucked out. 

This was the place, after all, immortalized by Ansel Adams.

Tunnel view ansel 

When we got there, the other lucky tourists were all, in the perfect light, taking pictures.

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When, Ansel took his picture, he must have waited hours for the right light. Standing there with a huge 8×10 camera on a sturdy tripod, a light-proof cloth over his head. We just blew through. Drove up, walked to the edge, stuck the camera in roughly the right direction, and then got back into the car and drove away. It seems both slightly cheap in the ease and liberating at the same time. The digital age is a whole new photographic ballgame. So to speak.

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 There were five of us on the trip and I started early, Monday, morning, walking the first part of the trial with a friend and, then, alone.

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The trail is gorgeous, leaving Mosquito Flat and slowly working up towards the pass. As we walked, we spread out along the trial and then gathered for lunch just before the final push towards the pass.

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To get an idea of the scale of the area, double click on the pic below. The small dots are members of our group.

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I say final push, I think for everybody else it was a stroll and , for me, it was slow but not that hard. After the pass, we started down – duh! – and met up again at the very high, very barren,  Summit Lake.

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From there we dropped into the Mono Creek drainage. The canyon, or valley – certainly not a canyón – opened up below us. Continued here.  


Happy 4th….redux

Americana, Current Affairs, Photography, Travel

On the 4th I went to what seemed like my first, small town, 4th Of July parade. But, upon reflection, it was really my second 4th of July parade: my first was a parade in Downieville, California in 1957. I don't remember much about that parade except that, afterwards, I was eliminated – in the second heat – in the town footraces.

My second, small town, parade was in Sonoma. It was very small town. It was much fun, and, I hope, it will be as long before I go to my third, small town, parade. I don't know what I expected, certainly not the Rose Parade, but something more than what we got. Maybe not more, different. I don't mean to knock the parade, but I do want to say that it was more charming looking back at it than standing in the hot sun looking at it.

I kept thinking how the parade reflected California and, more specifically, Northern California, and how much different – and the same – it would be if we were watching an Iowa small town parade.

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What I didn't expect, but should have, is that most of the floats were by service groups, promoting their causes. This one, by a mentoring group, was typical.
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What I did expect was that lots of groups used somebody's car to promote their group.

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I was a little surprised that there were so few Mexican entries. Maybe not Sonoma proper, but the Sonoma area must be primarily Mexican – it is a farming community after all, even if the farming is mostly grapes for wine.

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A couple of great looking draft horses turned into riding horses.

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It wouldn't be a California parade without atleast one dragon.

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This grandfather and his two grandkids representing nothing more than their family, charmed me.

 

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I am not sure what the deal was with these zombies and their dollar truck – and if anyone has an idea, I would love to hear it – but I did think they were great fun. 

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And they were a contrast to the fuzzy puppy (Bichon) entry.

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Of course, I expected veterans, but is still a shock when the veterans turn out to be young kids from a war we are still fighting and not some old guys from WWII. This particular vet, I think the only one in the parade, was almost a parody. 

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I had come to get a picture of a fire-engine with flags, but we had to wait until the end of the parade.

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Maybe they are at the end because – in small towns all over America – everybody has come to see the
fire-engines with flags.

 

Running late to the Smoke Creek and beyond and back – really

Americana, Photography, Travel

The plan was to high-tail back to Mike and Linda's. Mike had said that the big mine, that we had visited in the morning, was about 2 1/2 hours away from their place. But we were a little further afield, going back the long way, and would probably stop more; so I was estimating about 3 1/2 hours. It took us more than four hours. But there was lots to see on the way: clumps of rye grass and mallows, Indian paintbrush with some very delicate pink flowers, morning glories, more antelopes, vistas, more road.

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We stopped for a late lunch along Applegate Trail – where Michele made sandwiches which we ate, hiding from the wind, on the lee side of the truck.

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An aside. The Applegate is the southern route of the Oregon Trail where the first wagon train came through in 1846. It  became a busy road with 3500 settlers passing through in 1853. Sixteen years later, it was mote. The country was connected by railroad the continent could be crossed in five or six days – sitting down. Twenty nine years later, my grandparents came to the United States from Europe, and kept going until they got to San Francisco.

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End aside. 

Finally we came to the Blackrock Desert, the biggest playa of all, and
we knew we were getting close to having a beer in Mike and Linda's
backyard with a great view of the Smoke Creek playa.

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We had alot of road to travel, so we said our goodbyes and drove south through the darkening desert complaining about the lousy light. At the very souther end of the Smoke Creek, as we were going over the pass, the sun finally came out to give us a farewell display. (Like all wide formate shots, double clickable.)

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Running late to the Smoke Creek and beyond and back

Americana, Travel

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Michele celebrated Memorial Day morning by sleeping in – under a threatening sky. Maybe more than threatening: we could see virga as we looked around.

As an aside. There are four deserts in the United States. They are generally characterized by the plant life but I think they can also be characterized by their character? myths? aura? I am not sure of the right word. I have not spent enough time in the Chihuahuan Desert to form an opinion, but the other three deserts are very different.

The Mojave Desert is the wacko desert and I mean that in the worst way and the best possible way. It is where people get abducted by Aliens, it is the desert of Charles Manson, the Repo Man desert. It is also the home of the Mojave Air & Space Port and China Lake Naval Air Station and Edwards Air Force Base.

The Sonora Desert is the Indian desert. It is where the Navajos live, where tourists go to Pueblos over 500 years old, the best place to buy real and faux Indian art.

The Great Basin Desert is the Cowboy desert. Yes, there are Indian reservations, but few tourists visit them. It is where wild horses still roam and cowboys try to thin the herds using helicopters. It is a cold desert in winter – but, now, by the end of May, it is pretty warm – and the dominant plant is sage brush. Rub up against a plant or drive over one and the smell of sage permeates the air. I find it delightful. It is called the great basin because it does not drain to the sea. There are no rivers that lead out of the Great Basin. You can accurately say that The rain that falls in Nevada stays in Nevada.End aside.

We had camped near an abandoned mine that was really just a vertical shaft – but deep enough so that we couldn't see the bottom – and there was abandoned junk spread around. It was more picturesque in the fading light of last night than the heavy gray sky of morning.

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After breakfast, we went south and ran into the tailings, abandoned buildings, and industrial size junk of what looked to be a huge operation. 

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Because a couple of the abandoned vehicles were WWII deuce and half trucks, I'm guessing the mine operated, at least, into the 1950s. But the remaining buildings and technology could have been from a hundred years ago. Including the Tequila Junction bar Michele dropped by and

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the outhouse with view.

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The mine site – I wouldn't call it big enough to be a ghost town – was a little creepy in the drab day and what we really wanted to do was go for a long walk, so we drove north to a canyon that looked promising on the map. And it was: we walked up a double track road until it petered out and then cut cross country back to the truck.

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When we got back to the truck, it was getting late, so we high-tailed it back to Mike and Linda's. 

To be concluded.

 

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