Lisa had chosen her birthday present: a pony ride.

Lisa had also picked this Sacher cake, naturally with a pink flower.

Lisa turned four years old one day after our return from the Sierra, but we had managed to keep this fact hidden from her. I had nothing prepared for her, actually not even presents purchased. Lisa wished for her birthday to "go to the horses" and "some really good cake"; ponies at Half Moon Bay operate only on weekends, hence we postponed the celebration till then.

Late night on Wednesday, Duerers returned from the Sierra, just as Sid and I slowly began to come up with catastrophic scenarios where they might have gotten delayed, but it simply was just a long drive. Thursday was a laundry day and going to the playground day, so that the children could retire from nature and national parks and enjoy their earthly children's games. Our visitors left us again on Friday, this time on an independent trip to Lassen (i.e. without us) and to Northern California coast.

Lisa's birthday was finally on order. We tried to make it a nice day for her, so first followed her wish and went to a pony ride in Half Moon Bay. For lunch we had an appointment with Táňa and her family (whom we had visited in Flagstaff back in winter). Eventually we managed to lure our friends into our house, and we had a chance to sit and talk. And then Sid took Lisa to buy a cake. He had to explain to the clerk that since Lisa had chosen a sacher with a pink rose, he cannot possibly pack her one with a blue flower; otherwise, Lisa was very satisfied. She got a dress and some toy horses and books and ten dollars from Táňa to buy whatever she liked. I was surprised how much she enjoyed buying her own present -- she chose a stuffed cat in the end (and God knows we have a full house of these!), whom she named Krisna (Lisa comes up with new words, and we do not know how she figured out such a name).

Oliver, Nicolas, Tom and Lisa enjoying last minutes together -- on a circular San Francisco airport shuttle.

Lisa got from granny this wonderful new summer dress for her birthday.

Duerers returned to us on the following Friday. Kids were ecstatic to have their friends back, alas only for a single remaining day. We had one parting Vietnamese lunch and then we de-toured them on their way to the airport to our favorite Borel Hill, before our visitors would get confined to a limited space aboard the aircraft for many hours. We did not know, however, that the hills had been burned, and so we found our special place ruined -- half of the land was black and miserable. Tom cried that the boys were leaving and then he claimed that they would come back again on Friday (most likely Nico's idea -- neither one of the boys at five years of age have much of a clue regarding time).

We thought originally we would go camping with the kids on the following weekend, but an opportunity came up to leave our offspring with their granny, who had hopefully recovered from shingles. My Hippo and I could get out on our own. It was an easy choice -- neither one of us had been to the Redwoods National Park in Northern California. We had passed through many times before, but we were always in a hurry to get to Crater Lake, or were rushing back home quite tired from previous adventures. This time, we had some photos by Vicky, who visited the park on their way to Lassen; we received recommendations from Brehs, who really liked the Fern Canyon, as well as some positive rumblings from Vendula, hereby an authority and a traveling guru; things were clear.

We zipped across Golden Gate (not stopping this time for sure to avoid any encounters with dent-happy Chinese), turning off for a lunch in Petaluma. Early evening came to us in Eureka. We thought of eating at the proven Mekong, but we find it still closed. Sid insisted on finding a harbor and an inevitable fish restaurant therein; we ended up at Cafe Waterfront Oyster Bar. The food was all right, only the service was slow, which we did not mind. After endless amusements with kids, it is pleasant to just sit down unhurriedly, especially if they serve me some good beer to sit down with.

The northernmost lighthouse in California: Battery Point in Crescent City.

Sleep, perchance to dream. Meadow, forest, ocean, and the sun.

Waterfront Oyster Bar has an interesting history. Weaver Building used to originally serve as a bar, where prospectors, sailors and generally interesting folks would gather. During prohibition police raids, many prospectors must have quickly hidden their bags with nuggets in various cracks and holes -- some got found when the place was remodeled. Upstairs served as a brothel until the fifties. In the forties, ground floor was named Bluebird Cafe, where one could -- for ten cents -- get to dance with a "young lady". When prostitution got outlawed, the building became available, and renovations only began in the nineties. Today, the lower part is a restaurant, with a hotel upstairs.

I have to say that the slow dinner, good beer and the sleepy nature of the small town, where exciting times of gold prospectors and sailors have long gone past, lulled me into a pleasant lazy feeling of a vacation. I think that I really needed to turn off for the weekend and for a few days stop organizing and arranging. Hence I was not too bothered by our ensuing nightly wandering around and searching for a suitable spot to sleep, however these uncertainties unnerve me other times. Eventually we had found an abandoned logging road outside all national and state parks, and went to bed inside our wagon. We must have been well protected by the mountains; in this spot we could not hear the traffic of the highway 101, or any other human noises. Only the whispers of trees under a sky full of stars.

The southern side of almost every point forms a steep slope: cliffs south of the Klamath (Indian river) mouth.

The northern side of almost every point form a long bow of a sandy beach: Endert Beach, about 5 miles south of Crescent City.

We woke up by eight thirty, which is an unusual achievement -- for the last four years, we had been trained hard by Lisa for seven a.m. -- but this simply was such a relaxing weekend. We drove down from our deserted road to a viewpoint in the park, were we had breakfast at one of the picnic tables with a view to redwood hills and the Pacific Ocean. Our morning idylla got disturbed by the first eager visitors arriving this deep in the park, but it was time to move on anyway.

We got issued a map at the information cabin, and long pondered our options where to go. Bára had suggested a path which, considering our lazy attitude, seemed too long (4.5 miles = 7 km each way) and we did not feel like going there and back on the same trail. We chose two loop candidates and eventually went back in the cabin to ask the ranger, which one was better. The woman knew only one of them, claiming that it was very pretty, and so there we went -- it was better than a coin toss.

The ranger also recommended to hike up a hill along South Fork Trail, which -- as we found later -- went against the common tourist direction, yet turned out to be a good idea. South Fork Trail is a neck-breaking climb, but once you huff up to the top, the worst is behind you and the prettiest part of the loop - Rhododendron Trail and Brown Creek Trail -- can be enjoyed without much effort. We have our "own" redwoods in Felton, a stone's throw from our house, but the local grove is just a small county park. Here we found ourselves in a large redwood area. I would probably like to see this section in the spring, when rhododendrons bloom -- it must be amazing. Brown Creek is beautiful, again with the backdrop of majestic trees.

Mike's Hard Lemonade® became one of the important attractions of this trip.

Photographs in a redwood forest are often misleading, therefore it is desirable to include an object whose size one can guess. For example, a regular, common local tree in Carol's background.

The hike made us quite satisfied, albeit no athletic records were broken here. We wondered what to do with the afternoon just started, and concluded that we did not feel like walking; we wanted to just hang out somewhere. Thus we drove past the northern edge of the parks, to Crescent City. It was cold and windy yet clear there, which seemed rather odd for Pacific coast. In my memory I connect northern shores with impenetrable fogs and weather worthy the Hound of Baskerville. At a store we purchased Mike's Hard Lemonades^® that are mildly alcoholic, and moved to a beach. The view of Battery Point (a local lighthouse) and the blue ocean, among huge driftwood trunks, was very enjoyable. I actually enjoyed it so much that I feel asleep on one of the logs -- I must have been really tired -- me, who has a problem to sleep in my own bed, would zonk out on a tree-trunk? My Hippo has a theory according to which redwoods are another form of intelligent life, who affects people telepathically and sometimes cause them to fall asleep incidentally; I would place my bet on that Mike's lemonade instead of on redwoods.

We had dinner in a local restaurant, which tries to be Thai, but in fact is Vietnamese; and since sun had not set yet, we ventured on a viewpoint over Crescent City. Northern California coast is actually a different continent -- another earth plate, that is -- not the same with Southern California, and so this coast looks a bit different. Despite a bright and sunny day it was cold, and I felt that this corner is really suitable only for seasoned settlers.

From the viewpoint we headed to our night-stand, with a photographic break near a grazing elk. Then we realized that the gas tank gauge was inevitably approaching the low peg and it would be smarter to pump, and so we turned back (passing the elk again) to Crescent City and filled up. After all, our out-of-the-way sleeping spot was still far away.

Five finger fern.

Fern Canyon.

On our way we caught a sunset over meadows, so we relaxed and watched and hit the sleeping bags by nine. Again we managed to sleep till eight-thirty a.m. -- having two small children, an almost twelve-hour sleep is a heavenly luxury. We pondered the fate of the two remaining lemonades over breakfast -- there was the danger of them getting awfully warm over the course of the morning, and then we were bound to head back home more than three hundred miles away, and it wouldn't be wise to imbibe alcohol on such a trip. The only good solution was to drink them right there in the morning; thus invigorated we went to see the fabled Fern Canyon. Ranger at the entrance warned us that we were to cross three fords. And so we were. A tipster SUV caught up with us at the first creek, and its driver hesitated to cross it; only after he'd seen how smoothly our wagon overcame the obstacle, he let himself into the water.

Fern Canyon is a special place -- vertical earthen walls surrounding a small creek (you cannot pass with dry feet in the spring; now we were just skipping over water on logs and small wooden bridges that looked more like leftover pallets) - and the canyon walls are thickly covered with ferns and moss. There was a considerable stream of tourists passing through, but still we really liked the canyon. Even the local beach is quite beautiful -- wide and stretching out in a northern fashion, with a dark sand, plenty of interesting pebbles, randomly scattered driftwood logs and a strangely blue sky. We drifted in the dunes and collected the most beautiful rocks, ate a cold lunch -- continued good times.

Slowly the time came to start returning, but near Eureka my Hippo began to rumble that it was too soon and we would surely get stuck in the worst traffic near Santa Rosa, through which the whole San Francisco would be returning from the weekend out. And thus we stopped at South Jetty -- the southern sand bank separating Humboldt Bay from the Pacific. Hang gliders had a field day on a hill over the bank and we chatted with them a bit; they told us how to get down onto the bank. Many years back Hippo and I had visited the northern counterpart -- Samoa Peninsula; South Jetty is less populated -- and very strange.

Another comparison in scale: two trees vs. Hippo.

It's practically impossible to take a picture of the whole redwood tree, even if you unhinge your neck. This tiny one has a diameter of about twelve feet at the bottom.

Then came the real end of the weekend and we had to let go of relaxing in the abandoned end of California, and drive home. An e-mail from my neighbor awaited me there, whether I know already, which teacher will tom have in kindergarten? I reckon that back when I ran to the mail box for my admission papers to high school, my knees were possibly more shaky -- but this time I was an adult, so I could sit down and, having finished reading that Tom starts with the morning shift, I could have a drink on it with Hippo and granny.

To make the school situation a bit clearer, Kindergarten is limited to two classrooms and four teachers. Unlike regular grade classes, which typically last from eight till three, KG takes only about three and half hours. This either from eight to half past eleven, or half past eleven till three. Who was the idiot thinking that pre-school children can best concentrate in the afternoon? Some kids still nap at this age (not ours, though). Classes that begin at eleven thirty count on the children having had lunch already. To send two kids to school by 11:30, I would have to serve lunch at ten. Not to mention that such class hours totally kill the whole day. You cannot do anything in the afternoon (try to go to a ZOO or a museum, after school end at three, kids roll out hungry and tired -- and institutions close at four or five). I would have perhaps half hour in the morning and a whole hour in the afternoon (we start fixing dinner at five) -- simple the whole day gone.

Besides, I was seriously worried how Tom would cope with the afternoon classes, since he needs regular meals and regular rest to be even "useful". I wrote all my concerns in the spring into the school forms and it seems we were granted our preferences, for Tom indeed was assigned to a MORNING class.

Signs along the highway warn drivers to not impede traffic whilst spotting a grazing elk, and instead turn off onto side roads (there as none, but we were OK with the shoulder).

Another typical feature of the northern coast: a sand bank (here South Jetty) naturally separating a lagoon or bay (Humboldt Bay here) from the open ocean.

On the Thursday preceding Tom's first day in school, an orientation was taking place from one p.m. It was certainly a good idea -- kids and their parents would check out the classroom, bathroom, each child's cabinet, how to get to the playground (KG has a playground separated from the rest of the school) and meet the teacher and the assistant. The actual proceedings were a bit worse, since the classroom is designed for about twenty kids and two teachers, and not for twenty kids, forty parents, fifteen grand-parents, and whirling uncertain amount of siblings. Some families truly appeared to have invited several generations and out-of-state branches, after all I, too, had to bring Lisa alongside my school-bound Tom (aside from logistic problems with a sitter for Lisa, she would not bear it well to be excluded from such a festive occasion). After twenty minutes, both kids had had enough and I was over more happy that Tom WOULD NOT attend the afternoon school -- one p.m. was apparently not his best moment of the day.

On the same night, there was a meeting for parents WITHOUT kids, and Hippo got to baby-sit. I appreciate this meeting -- I think that the principal and the teachers managed to tell us all that I would ever think of asking about -- starting with how and where to bring the kids on the first day, what snack to pack, how a Home and School Club works, to an overview of the curriculum, teaching methods and home work. All that quite impressed me.

We spent the weekend at home, for we had planned a farewell party with Kubackis, who were returning to Czech Republic for good. The early version counted on Gábina packing all her household into a container on Friday, and the party would take place in their newly emptied rental apartment, but the closer the date came, the more technical issues have been brought up. For example, there'd be no toys for the children to play with at Kubacki's, no chairs, and actually no dishes. Their swimming pool was down for repairs and I just could not imagine our kids being kept inside a two-bedroom flat for several hours. In the end Hippo and I had offered our house for the party, where assorted offspring can be tossed into the pool and where we keep a functional barbecue with lawn chairs and glasses and back yard to sit at.

Kubacki's farewell party in our back yard.

Our farewell present was a scrapbook with compromising pictures.

I think the party went well, although I must admit I can imagine better occasions. When you finally meet someone you like to be friends with, you don't like to say good-bye. I can only hope that this friendship, just like my other ones with Vicki or Pepe, shall never be dependent on time we had not seen each other, or the number of miles between us. Even so, all the gyms, beer pubs, our back yard, or even the roads going somewhere fun, will be much emptier this way.

Our Tommy scored points a few times at the party. First, with his sense of order he concluded that empty bottles were to be immediately moved to a recycling bin, and he did so with a great verve. He even urged full beer bottles into the hands of our visitors, when he thought they were not drinking frequently enough and thus not producing enough of recyclables. He refused to go to bed, and at nine thirty he insisted that he had to "dispose of the beer bottles after adults". I was quite afraid what would he talk about on Monday -- his first day of school -- if the teacher asks the kids what did they do during summer? You know kids -- the last impression is the strongest one.

After dark, the insect screen in our patio door became invisible and there were several attempts to pass through this screen. When finally even Tom ran into it (who was, after all, at home, and well aware of it), he got mad and declared that we must install a stop sign there. He pulled out a sheet of paper, drew a stop sign, and attached it with tape onto the screen. I must say his safety arrangement works perfectly. I doubt that anyone would actually read his red letters STOP, but everybody is clear that the sign cannot just hang in mid-air, there must be an invisible barrier. Where would we be without our Tommy!