The Famous Rubber Duck of Mono County October 8 - 20, 2007 Salinas Air Show - Walker Duck Race - discovery at Children's Discovery Museum

	Blue Angels are taking off

I love autumn in California. The weather is beautiful; rain has not arrived yet, but it's no longer hot. After slow news days during the summer break, things start happening. Last months of the year are decorated with various holidays, and one has always something to look forward to, and to plan for. Besides, my virtual friend from Oregon came down to visit us with her two girls in Tom's and Lisa's age; Gabka and Radim and their nine year old Lukas moved here from Czechia. My social life began to heal its wounds acquired by last year's moving away of Zuzka, Petra, and Jitka.

	This year we have finally stayed long enough to see the highpoint of the Salinas Air Show

Salinas Air Show was our first attraction aimed at waking us from our jet lag. During last two years, we had always arrived early, and our kids had consequently lost their patience after watching planes for two hours, and we had to leave. This year we had resolved to witness the second half of the show as well, thus we rolled out, easy going, before eleven in the morning, had a lunch in Salinas, and only then headed for the airport. Keeping our kids' pace, we strolled past the stationary aircraft exhibits, and finally came to halt on a deserted clearing between a grandstand on the left and a collection of fighter jets on the right, right by the main runway. The children could not wait to throw themselves into the dirt and dust; Lisa's sifting through gravel and earth lasted her for the larger part of the show. Tom ran around, pretended to be an airplane, but then even he collapsed on a blanket and whimpered that he wants to go home. I, however, remained unmoved -- our goal, i.e. seeing Blue Angels, was within reach. I made up my mind that the kids were to last through at least half an hour of the fighter jet program. Lisa found running after mother, and covering her ears, a welcome diversion; Tom had a bit harder time enduring the noise, but it all had worked out.

	Daddy, what's written here?

The next stop in our schedule was a visit to a Pumpkin Patch -- a farm that sells pumpkins. Our favorite one in Mountain View has been closed (they'll build houses where it used to stand). I had hoped that Uesugi Farm in Morgan Hill would be just as friendly - that's how it looked on pictures. The bigger was my disappointment -- everything, even running through a corn maze -- was a paid affair. I understand that the farm must live off something, but I really had not expected that even the simplest joys would have its price. And that a kids' train ride would cost twice as much as in our park. Eventually we agreed to pay for it -- Tom was quite taken to ride in an EXPRESS. Well, I could mark off another item on our list, ceremoniously purchase some pumpkins, and hope that my kids had liked it. Although I shall look for some place else next year.

	One of the most photographed locations above Mono Lake

Our eyes were closely attached to weather forecast. Beginning of October has seen one weekend closure of the Sierra passes, on account of snow. One week later we were going to take part in a rubber duck race on Walker River. The Internet said the passes were open, and we were hoping they would remain so. Sid took a day off on Friday, we had booked a motel in Bridgeport, and headed east. There really was snow in Sonora Pass -- we stopped, wanting to allow the kids to frolic in it. Lizzy would first doubtfully check out some snow remnants, then she noticed how the snow creaks under her boots and that she leaves footsteps behind. Tommy squealed that he does not want to get out of the car, no indeed, he wants to get back in for he's cold, and he wants back to our house; he remained obnoxious. A snack in the car fixed that -- I really must remember that Tom requires good feeding -- when hungry, he's unbearable.

	Bridgeport Valley is protected by Crater Ridge from the west

We took our room and drove to dinner in Walker, where we tried to find out any details about the upcoming duck race. We got together in the evening with our Oregonian visitors. We had hoped that they would join us for our weekend program, but they were completely saturated by their California trip, and were departing early on their seven hundred mile journey home on Saturday morning.

	A small rock by the road is a welcome diversion on our hike.

We had opted for staying at the motel due to low nightly temperatures, and precipitation. Alas, it also led to reinforcement in our hatred towards fishermen. They not only dithered and hung around past midnight, apparently refreshed by their saloon exposure, slamming doors revving up fans and heaters in a bathroom adjacent to our room (in a quiet desert, such thing evokes the image of a jet aircraft taking off), but they were also getting up at six in the morning, only to holler about till eight -- of course, they were forced to start and idle the engines of their giant trucks for two hours -- to be able to yell at the top of their voices, rattle and trash with their fishy gear, in summary terrorizing the motel with their fishermanly confederacy, obviously the most important and most enjoyable part of their quiet solitary bond with the nature. Let nobody tell me that fishing is a silent, humble hobby.
Lisa whimpered several times during that night, trying to get up -- it was simply a horror of a night. At least, we could look forward to a breakfast at Hays Street Cafe - there, I was able to recover a little.

	Hush! Lisa won't wake to the bubbling of a mountain brook.

We went on an interpretive trail by Mono Lake. Kids ran up and down the "bridges" - wooden walkways over a march, demanded to have all signs and boards read to them, and moved "connected like train engines". Northern shore also sports a beautiful playground, and we outed our kids quite thoroughly there.

	Well, would this lure you to a mountain trail hike?

We had planned to re-visit a meadow below Saddlebag Lake, from where we had been driven by mosquitos in the summer, and wanted to have a picnic there. Whoa! The road to Tioga was closed for snow. A long line of cars and buses waited there in hope for a noon opening -- nothing for us. We chose to check out the landscape near June Lake.

The first dirty turnoff had lured us away from the paved road. It ended with a small parking lot, and fishermen who had just came back from the trail swore that a trail about two miles long would lead us to a beautiful Parker Lake. The children happily entered this difficult alpine territory. Unfortunately, Lisa's enthusiasm is often focused on pebbles and sand, and she would mostly like to play while squatting in the dust of the trail. After a while of urging her forward, we put her, protesting and furious, into her back-pack carrier. For a while, Sid blazed the trail with Lisa on his back, providing acoustic background of a icebreaker with a fog horn. Then I capitulated against my principles and "mamas" switched onto mama's back. There, Lisa fell asleep within a few minutes -- not even our mid-day break would wake her up.

	Besides picnic tables along June Lake Loop, kids would not find here anything of value.

According to passing tourists, we only had about a quarter mile to the lake, but we had given up. Mostly because of Tom, who was very tired, and whom we did not want to overstrain and thus make him dislike hiking. We had already found a beautiful meadow by a creek, ideal for throwing pebbles in the water. In conjunction with a PICNIC, it doubtlessly was the highpoint of our trip.

	Kids would mostly enjoy the river, where they can throw rocks and sticks.

We had returned to our car while it was still early in the afternoon -- and thus we were facing the question, what now? We did not feel like walking; it felt a trifle cold for taking the kids to the hot sprints (we had 50-60°F during noon, while nights were freezing) -- so we decided to drive through the whole loop around June Lake and subsequently find some restaurant there. It turned out that the rest of the paved, year-round open loop is fairly civilized, but rather limited in food selection. As an exercise, Sid had suggested checking out a town named Benton, pointed to by a sign near Mono Lake. I will reveal right away that we did not find food in Benton -- but it was an educational excursion. From the Eastern Sierra, which shows all usual signs of civilization at least along highway 395, we transposed ourselves literally in the middle of nowhere. Shortly past Mono Lake the landscape turns into a bleak desert. Views to White Mountains are breathtaking, but I cannot imagine living is such a wasteland. It must attract only the toughest -- Benton is a tiny dwelling with a few houses; a place where time seems to have stopped moving a few decades ago.

We had no other choice but to return to the three ninety five. After a hundred miles through nothing, we decided not to take risks and headed for the skiing metropolis of Mammoth Lakes. Sid was joking that I would be able to choose among several overpriced Italian restaurants (he meant to say there would not be a regular diner or so) -- and he was probably right. A magnificent establishment named Mogul, which met our basic requirements (i.e. it was open and it was not a fast food chain joint), has been suffering a significant alpine surcharge. On the other hand, the service was friendly and professional, and their food excellent. Given the crowd that had stuffed in by some seven o'clock in the evening, I reckon that it probably was the only open place far and wide. Kids had received balloons. Regular, inflatable, rubber balloons -- but Lisa was so captivated by such exceptional present, she insisted to take it along to her bed. This night, to our great relief, no fishermen would occupy the room next door; there were bikers. I love bikers!!! Especially since they go to bed by nine p.m. and don't rush out until proper daylight on the road!!!

	Our obligatory autumn snapshot of Walker River lacks dramatic skies this year.

To be sure, we had made reservations for breakfast, and we got the best table -- with drapery-framed view to a snow-capped Sierra. We packed our stuff, checked out of the motel and drove down to Walker River, where we let the children play for an hour. After last year's dry winter, the river had actually turned into a small brook, accommodated by an oversized rocky bed. An ideal place for notorious rock throwers. And then high noon was upon us and with it the opening of a Duck Race in Walker town.

	The ducks have started along the stream!

We had adopted the little rubber ducks back in the spring, now we had promised our kids that they'd be able to take them HOME. First we sought out the Sunday Flea Market in Walker, where we asked for directions to the correct bridge, underneath which the finishing line for the race was being prepared. Water level in the river must have risen, for several organizers were quickly installing additional makeshift safety nets; the audience (underage in majority) crawled in and out of the river, while overall high spirits spread throughout. All this action got our kids interested for about ten seconds -- then Lisa began to dig in dirt (again), and would not be distracted. Tom soon joined her. Other people chanted and supported their favorites, in words and by quacking loudly. First twenty ducks were caught and marked, volunteers collected the rest by means of nets and buckets. Tom asked when he would get his duck, but first it was necessary to transport tired competitors to the Flea Market. We diverted to lunch and only then sought out our favorites. Unfortunately, that's where the whole organization had failed -- several hundreds of identical rubber ducks were lined next to one another on the ground -- their owners were allowed to find and pick them up. Lisa's #541 got located rather soon, but Tom's #1070 was nowhere to be seen. A lady at the organizer's stand eventually showed soft heart and issued us one of the ducks that no-one had sponsored. Since that moment we now keep the original receipts away from Tom, so that he does not wonder why his duck switched numbers all of a sudden -- we hope that he shall forgive us this little parental trick.

	Ducks in finish ... and now look for yours.

Time came to start biting off from the two hundred and fifty miles back home. Shortly after Sonora Pass Lisa wanted to go poo, and we made a small pause by a creek (you can guess what our kids would do there). Driving across the whole Sierra was easy, many slower cars used turnoffs to let us pass, and we were hovering on a cloud of a cozy, relaxed weekend at the end of a season. Beginning with Sonora (town), the traffic has thickened, and we took to the byways through Knights Ferry and East Carter. Our connection has disappointed us this time -- approximately in the middle of the dirt road section, a huge puddle of unknown depth spread from ditch to ditch. We could not drive around it, and since a gang of ATV's coming from the other side had given up on it, we did not dare to risk with our bus. We had to turn around, engage in satellite navigation, and wander through alternative routes.

	Cranking produces electric current, which powers a small airplane hung near the ceiling.

The trip turned very well indeed. Our kids did (almost) behave (except for Tom's tantrum regarding snow, and Lisa's scene with the carrier), they lasted some six hundred miles in their car seats with minimum use of DVD playing. And this time, nobody fell in the water while throwing rocks!

I have been rather surprised, how our juniors had improved again. I don't know whether to attribute it to Lisa's going to pre-school now, but she made some strides. Suddenly I have two independent, relatively self-sufficient children, who can hold a dialog and who can be taken to many interesting places. They help me at home, and I have fewer chores and fewer worries. Our last visit to the Children's Discovery Museum showed much of the difference. Earlier in the summer we had spent most of our time in the toddler section; this time both Tom and Lisa visibly enjoyed the lower floor for bigger kids. Suddenly they manage to stick with one thing for a longer time. The museum stopped being a simple play place; it has become a place to explore and learn new things.

	Tom exploring a bubble.

We have somehow encountered a strange day in the museum, as it was not crowded at all. Perhaps because they've opened another section for preschoolers with Clifford (a red giant dog) and crowds had distributed more evenly -- or we had simply been lucky. Either way, I was very impressed and the kids must have been as well - I could not get them to go home.

Well, at home I have just collapsed our traveling crib with the changing table, which had stood in our living room for almost four years. It seems that the baby season has definitely ended. I don't know why exactly this detail means such a big deal to me -- perhaps I had gotten so much used to the changing table, the clothes' pit (the crib had eventually turned into a container with clothing and bedding items), and the diaper drum. Everything is different all of a sudden -- and much simpler, too. I wonder how I did survive the first year with two babies -- but it's important THAT I did. Now, I hope, shall enjoy cute pre-school time with communicative children. Take Lisa, for example -- apparently inspired by her favorite Sally from Cars -- she sang in the car (a Czech equivalent of) "Mary had a little Porsch".

Copyright © 2007-2008 by Carol & Sid Paral. All rights reserved.