Garrapata: our first thistle

I don't know if I should still look for an excuse, but my journals have been lagging behind. In part, it's because there's actually "not much happening". The other reason is my convalescence. Although I have been trying to stretch and practice and function, it still took me twelve weeks before I felt back, well, and strong. All the climbing and hiking and biking up to that point was always about having to, not about wanting to or enjoying it. It's interesting that then it changed practically from one day to the next — suddenly I stopped being completely exhausted in the evening, and my sewn-together abdomen muscles ceased to hurt.

Garrapata: among flowers

The other reason nothing was happening in the spring was that our ski season ends in mid-April and our camping season starts later in May. This years spring was cold and rainy, and we could not do much anyway. We did not even open our swimming pool until June!

Yet thanks to the rainy spring, our savanna had blossomed up, and so we ventured to our classic — Garrapata — in the middle of April. The kids rumbled and were being pre-teensy obnoxious even before they got there, claiming they would not make it for it is hard to hike, and so on. This given the fact they used to hike up the hill there when they were three or four years old. Nevertheless, it's too bad, as they don't have a choice, for they must go where their parents tell them to. Hence, amongst much moaning and yammering, we climbed up to a lookout bench — which is not even all the way to the top, as that is just a bit farther. Well I was rather glad we stopped there, the hike fell in the phase when I was still not feeling fit, and made me very tired. Still, the wild flowers were beautiful and we had drawn a lucky, rare hot day, when even at the coast one could wear only shorts and t-shirts — which means I also got sunburned.

At least they play decent music now.

On one weekend we had planned roller-skating; our friend Cathy from stables had reserved the whole floor in Santa Cruz, and we could enjoy two private hours of skating fun. For a while we had to negotiate with a teenager girl operating the cash register and the jukebox about playing different tunes — and we really needed music for GEEZERS — and instead of some loony post-techno rattle she put on ABBA and similar fossils.

Lisa concentrates.

We also got ourselves invited to our northern beaches. We don't usually go to Half Moon Bay, on account of it being too close to San Francisco and therefore crowded. But our friends we met while skiing in the mountains live in the North Bay, and so we had to agree that it could be good compromise. We came first and decided to fuel up for the occasion. The restaurant was OK enough, besides being a more or less hole-in-the-wall burger diner, charging prices that would buy us good sushi in South Bay, and the food was not anything to write home about. Before they brought our lunch, Igor and his children had arrived, and we proceeded to the beach. Igor's kids loosely match ours in age and gender, and thus they paired up well. We lasted on the beach longer than we would have thought possible.

There's a public fly-in event at the San Martin airport in mid-May. We had skipped it last year, and did not want to miss it this year, for Jeanne and Tom have come back from Dakota. Unrelated to that, Shelly, who owns Lisa's favorite pony Sugar, has moved close to the airport, and we had arranged to take her to see the balloons. The happening unfolded itself as expected, everybody just hung around and waited. Then it became apparent that besides Jeanne, who is able to conjure a strong crew even across half of the continent, another balloon was supposed to give tethered rides to gathered audience. This one was operated by two pilots — who were airplane veterans, but lacked a ballooning crew. So we had eventually joined them and organized the build-up of their balloon, which was interesting. Unfortunately, before we finished to complete the envelope, wind picked up. The area of the balloon envelope is a large sail and the pilot had trouble targeting the bottom opening with his burner, and so we had to collapse it again. The pilot was very sour and kept apologizing that he missed the quiet air time window, and wondered if he had cold-inflated the envelope more, perhaps he would have succeeded with heating it. Still, from my personal point of view, a pilot who is ready to pack the balloon up in the moment when continuing would mean increasing the risk (he could set the envelope on fire), is someone that I will gladly fly with next time.

Those who know, fly already.

We were anxiously following weather forecast and mostly road condition reports. This year's wet winter had dragged on till May. Most mountain passes got open in mid-May, but on the weekend before Memorial Day (the first camping three-day break of the year), had snowed again. Eventually Sonora got re-opened on Thursday, and we could start packing. Alas, a cool forecast had discouraged most our friends, and we were leaving on our own, sad and disappointed. It was supposed to be above freezing at night, and afternoon summer thunderstorms in the mountain are rather common, and there was nothing to fear.

Getting up into a green morning.

It felt weird, leaving Ned behind in the valley, and to go visiting his buddies, but we don't own a horse trailer or a truck that could tow it. Thus, horseless we went. We actually managed to drive out around eight a.m., aiming to leave the Valley before most of other vacationers stumble out, and it seemed to work OK. We reached Strawberry for lunch, and soon we were erecting our tent in our usual spot. Gone for a chat to the pack station, we watched the clouds gather, and with the first raindrops we headed to Walker. Passing a thunderstorm inside Jeff's pub over a beer was exactly the right thing; we returned to our campsite, finding it only slightly wet, the storm long gone.

Walker Lake foul play.

We had planned a hike at Parker Lake for Sunday, having been there years ago with our children still small, and this time we hoped to explore the area a bit more. Yet when we approached the trailhead parking, we were faced with a line of about twenty un-parked cars, engines running, waiting for who-knows-what to happen. A narrow single lane dirt road between sagebrush bushes did not offer us the option to leave the car in the ditch (there was none), so we laboriously turned around and drove back a bit, following a sign to Parker Creek. We were hoping that a road would take us to it, but we only found a beautiful wild campsite next to the creek, which we certainly would use in the future. The kids begged to stop and play outside, and even did not slip off the logs crossing the creek.

Then we backed up a bit again, to another turn-off to Walker Lake. A foul play awaited us there — the lake is situated five hundred feet lower than the trailhead, thus we had to hike down and then huff and puff uphill. But we spotted a trail to Blood Canyon, which connects to Mono Pass — this was the original route from Yosemite to Mono Lake.

Already by half past two, we showed up at Nellie Deli, had a late lunch, and by four we got back to our campsite, meeting with the only brave comrade, Honza with Klárka. We let the kids run in the woods, roasted sausages on the campfire, and went do bed relatively early, for we had reserved horses on next morning.

Walker River is deep and the stream fast.

Sid was issued Atticus, Lisa my favorite Razmine, who was shod only in the front. Tom rode Jenna, and Honza ended up on Opie. I was assigned Splash, whom I found to be chomping down on his bit a lot and bending his head down, and I did not know — was he ridden earlier by a heavy-handed tourist? It got better during our ride, and perhaps it passed. The river was rather deep and very swift — Klárka's Tyler did not cooperate. It's interesting how horses immediately recognize a beginner and get obnoxious — even the nice and well trained horses.

On a ridge above Leavitt Meadows.

Back when it seemed that no one would join use on our trip, we had considered a four-hour ride to a waterfall, but for Klárka and Honza we eventually chose a shorter loop to Secret Lake. Even so I think it was more than enough. Before we said good-bye and disentangled from the pack station, it was past noon; we finished our supplies at the campsite and slowly packed for our journey back home. We had established that driving back early makes no sense, one only gets stuck in traffic, and thus we took our time. We had offered to show Honza our secret shortcuts off the main routes, but they had left us near Knights Ferry, looking for food and choosing Roadhouse; we lasted until Tracy for a Vietnamese pho.

Thus we had found ourselves in June, with only a few days of school left. Those are always crazy, one event follows another, and I lose track of who has what sports day or farewell party, and what we should bring. It would seem that our children managed somehow; they brought their report cards. Lisa's last day was a big celebration, with diplamas handed out by the principal, and going home early — fifth grade switches to middle school, and they leave their hitherto campus for good.

School ended on a Thursday, and on Friday we first had a party at the stables, then a lunch in Scotts Valley, and finally visited San Lorenzo River. I invited Nicholas to be company for Tom, Klárka joined Lisa, and we were off. I remain fascinated how these almost-teenagers (Tom is going to be thirteen in the fall) find themselves a good game in transporting assault mud balls across the river on a board. Perhaps puberty is overrated.