Cadillac Sunrise

This morning I stood on the edge of the Eastern Seaboard high on top of a small mountain.  I rose before dawn and zipped through the dark, the mist, and the fog to ensure I reached the summit before the sun rose.  Light rain pattered.  

I wasn’t the only up at the pre-dawn hour – life was just starting to stir all around.  The rabbit jetting out into the road causing me to hit my breaks was just one sign, as was the fox trotting across just up ahead.  But, I was the only human up on the summit of Mount Cadillac, having cut sleep short to partake in a special occasion – witnessing the sunrise before any other human in the U.S.

I reached the top with time to spare, though the light of the sun had already begun to illuminate the dark morning, partially gracing my strip of planet.  Just enough light to hike from my car to a higher, more eastern vantage point.  And so I stood in this spot and waited.  

And waited.  The rain and wind pelted my back side and I continued to stand on top of a boulder.

Staring into the distance, my hopes were low.  Misty fog enveloped the eastern sky.  And yet I continued to watch as the minutes until official sunrise counted down.  And then in an act of grace from Aeolus, the god of the skies and wind, the fog received puffs of breath from the south.  For a moment the clouds began to break and phantom islands appeared in my eastern landscape.  Then, just as quickly, the fog enshrouded them once again, my glimpse of skies only fleeting.  The reds of sunrise would not be mine today, which is not to say I didn’t witness a sunrise of another kind.  

I got to see the Cadillac Sunrise – the product of the pre-sunrise glow on the slabs of granite making up this peak.  

Let me describe this mountain sunrise.  

Minutes before the sun officially rose, the rock all around me suddenly lit up.  Vibrant pinks, and greens, and blues unexpectedly popped out of the ground.  For a couple of minutes, the mountain itself gave me the dazzling color display of a sunrise, as if to say, “Sorry for the poor visibility today.  Here is your consolation prize to ensure you don’t leave with early riser’s remorse.”

And then the sun was up.  I could now clearly see all around me.  The rain began to subside.  The lichen-covered granite became just rock again.  I took in deep breaths and headed back to my car with a certain giddiness.  The Cadillac Sunrise had just kick started my day. 

Pray for Rain

Suggested song to listen to while reading the following post. It's the song that was in my head the day that the following event took place.

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The mountains tend to be cool, but when summer finally reaches the peaks, the mountains can be just as warm as most any place. However, when it's a hot enough day in the mountains, there's no telling if it will stay that way. If the cold fronts in the peaks are confronted with the rising warm currents, thunderstorms will result.

It was one of these uncomfortably hot days in the mountains of Wyoming. So hot that all I could think about was water even though I was on the way to climb. I hiked over boulders with my pack of gear, trying to stay near the trees for their welcomed shade as best as I could.

And then my prayer for rain was answered.

Cooling my skin, the light drops came to my rescue and brought the temperature down to something more reasonable. I continued to snake along amongst the outcrops of boulders towards the direction of the route that I hoped to climb.

The clouds continued to release their build up, with the light shower soon turning into larger drops. In little time, the rain became heavy and fast, leaving little choice but to seek shelter. Like an animal crawling in for refuge from the night, I huddled under a protruding boulder and covered myself with a poncho.

And I watched it rain. Beautiful, large drops of rain.

A mule deer wandered by, feeding on leaves. Apparently the rain didn't make much of a difference to her agenda. But once she spotted me, my presence caused her to break from her lunch and spring away.

I continued to watch the rain form under my rock. The storm built with magnificent lightening in the distance followed by tremendous claps.

I pushed my pack back further under the rock to protect it from intruding trails of water. As the water flow down the roof of my rock increased, channels were needed to redirect their paths. With a stick, a deep groove was dug in the dirt towards the ground outside of my refuge and a micro-river was created.

Tipping my head back, I took in a mouthful of water from another trail of rain making its way down the roof of my rock. It tasted incredibly sweet with its freshness. I gulped the up.

And, as quickly as the storm had come, it soon had moved on to cool another area. I emerged and laid on a giant rock that was already mostly dry. I let the sun soak up the water clinging to my poncho and warm my body back up.

This thunderstorm lasted perhaps an hour, but in that short time it provide the most dramatic solution to the day's unbearable heat.

Slow for the Buffalo

Yellowstone National Park holds many distinctions - first national park; home of ye Old Faithful Geyser and other geothermal formations; land of feared predators like grizzles and wolves; where the buffalo roam.

Driving along a windy mountain road, the car took a turn and was greeted by a herd of buffalo making their way up the mountain. Such an unusual sight. Buffalo are often spotted in the park, but typical in meadows or crossing the road to get to the other side of a meadow, but miles up on a narrow road was something else.

The buffalo became the traffic directors. They slowed the cars down to a barely-faster-than-walking speed of about 5 mph. And the cars obeyed. Luckily my car was not on the side of the road that they were managing. I could pass. And as I did, I saw a line of at least 100 cars piled behind their conductors. The line would only build as the buffalo marched on up the road - a road that wouldn't spread out into a meadow for the buffalo for quite some time.

Desert Egg Hunt

A feathered sentinel patrolled the gravel road leading to my camp in the high desert lands of southern Idaho. Nearly every time I drove on the road past its post, the killdeer crossed to the other side, making its round.

The killdeer is guarding something, but not the road. It's protecting its cache of eggs through diversion.

Killdeer are not nest builders. They instead lay their eggs amidst rocks. Gravel makes a perfect terrain in their opinion. It provides camouflage for their speckled eggs. Never mind the fact that gravel on the side of roads potentially means frequent traffic traveling at high speeds. Fortunately, the road that my killdeer's eggs where next to was so rough that vehicles couldn't go much faster than 10 mph.

The traffic speed and frequency really must make a difference in the level of stress that a killdeer experiences since they are compelled to cross the road whenever any moving object comes within a certain distance of their eggs.

Finding killdeer eggs is not easy. Even though I could see the general area from which the killdeer crossed every time I passed, evolution has performed its job well - the eggs look so much like rocks that it's easy to gloss over them.

At least the killdeer is willing to play the hot/cold game with me. All I had to do is watch for it to put on its dramatic show to let me know I was getting warmer. The closer you get to its cache, the killdeer will feign a broken wing to draw a potential predator away from the eggs.

Can you spot the eggs? Click on the photo to enlarge it.

After a couple of attempts, I finally located the eggs.

Beautiful Brown

While walking through the lush rainforest, I found myself admiring the brownness of some ferns. Typically I love ferns for the vibrant green that they bring to forests. But in this forest, green was in excess. So, on this occasion, I found myself admiring the rich reddish brown of the dead parts of ferns.

Then I looked about, and I saw the chocolate bark of the cedars through my new eyes. And I thought, Why do we discriminate against brown? I can't ever remember meeting a person who said their favorite color is brown. Have you? Instead, it's always one of the colors in the rainbow, or occasionally black, but never brown.

Today, my favorite color is brown.

Brown for rich, healthy dirt.

Brown for thick, fur-like bark.

Brown for the foundation upon which life is nourished, grows and thrives.

On the Road Again

I have five weeks of being a bum. For me, this is what summer's about – being on the road, traveling around, camping out, being off the clock. Seeing how the night sky changes over the course of days and weeks, the moon waxing and waning and waxing. Falling into the natural rhythms of the world. Relearning to tell how much day is left based off of the position of the sun.

This is summer.

As in past summers, I begin with something mellow. The first stops tend to be light and easy going to reintroduce me nicely to playing in the outdoors. That way I won't be scared off for what's ahead.

My first taste of adventure is a simple overnight backpacking trip to a creek in the old growth redwoods. A somewhat steep hike in, but nothing too strenuous. My pack is relatively light.

Redwoods reside in the coastal temperate rainforests of the Northwest. Without fog, they would cease to exist. We soak in their climate – literally. The forest envelopes us in various degrees of mist our whole visit. It's magical. The forest throbs with energy. Or, perhaps, it's just the high concentration of oxygen taking me to another plane.

Old growth redwoods are giant.

As typically happens at the beginning of a long journey, this next adventure is the big plunge. Now is time for boot camp. Time to get my butt back into shape for what the rest of the summer has to offer. It is now when I most regret having not trained harder in the last few weeks leading up to my trip.

The next stop of the trip is Smith Rock.

View from my tent.

My training begins as I head off on a trail with the name that was so suiting – Misery Ridge. With a somewhat heavy pack of gear, I head down in the canyon, back up the other side, and then over the ridge. The trail is steep and the sun is shining hard at high noon. I'm cranky and tired. As I finally reach the base of my climb, my toenail jams into a rock and splits down the middle. I'm ready to climb.

Smith Rock is the birthplace of sport climbing. It's kind of out in the middle of nowhere in Oregon, Bend being the closest somewhere. While I am here, I climb next to two legends. Chris Sharma, arguably the best climber in the world attempts to onsight a 5.14 (look this dude up if you don't know who he is). It's the first 5.14 that was ever put up. It happened back in the '80s. I watch him climb like a spider. I'm amazed at the positioning of his legs – so contorted, yet so natural.

Don't be fooled - Smith Rock is more than climbing. Landscape-wise, this place is heavenly. Our tent is perched near the edge of the canyon wall. The drop off is dramatic, as are the views. Across the way, I not only have beautiful walls of red and orange rock, but a tall tree from the canyon floor houses a pair of bald eagles. I sit in front of my tent watching the eagles, like someone on their porch watching the activity in the street. To my left is a range of snow capped mountains, filling out the reds and oranges and greens of the landscape with their distant mountain purples and blues.

Bald eagle nesting across from my campsite.

I can't believe that this has all been experienced in less than my first week on the road. So much more adventure to come.

Take a Look Around

Biking from my home to work in downtown Oakland is a sweet ride. Besides giving me a good cardio workout and personal thinking time, I have visual entertainment courtesy of the locals making the best use of their public space. A wide range of embellishments on signs, walls, and common spaces reflect the various values and personalities of the neighborhoods I pass through.



Take for example these traffic circles in South Berkeley.

California poppies swarm one, while the other is surrounded by a frame that is perfect for tomato vines to creep up. This neighborhood values these little plots of open space, making the best of the circles in their intersections. I often see community members of all ages doing a little tending to the plants in these communal plots of dirt.

Along this same stretch of road, some stencil artists got the idea to pay homage to music from the 1990's on a couple of stop signs.



Other signs show pride in the cultural background and history of the neighborhoods. Here is a house whose owners decided to make the fence a space for public art with messages of empowerment.
And here is a freeway underpass that had its walls painted over with images of community members decades ago.

The graffiti on this wall in an abandoned lot adds some color and life to otherwise bleak stretch along San Pablo.


There are other random acts of art that I encounter along my commute. A few months ago, a pure white bike appeared chained to a street pole. While its purpose remains an enigma to me, I imagine that it was created in memory of someone who once rode these streets and I think of that unknown person as I pass.


Before bikes were in full force on the streets of Oakland, there was a time when horses must have been one of the main modes of transit. The horses below have been given a horrific appearance. I don't know the intent of the artist, but perhaps these horses are displaying shock from something that they witnessed.

I don't want to give the wrong impression about my route - it's not like riding through a museum gallery. It's a commute full of concert with plenty of ugly buildings and billboards. It's just nice to have touches of beauty and creativity interspersed along the way.

Finding the Sweetness in Deserts

When I was a kid, my sister taught me a trick to remember the difference in the spelling for that sweet after-meal treat and that barren sandy wasteland. The extra 's' goes to the yummy food - dessert - because you always want more of it. Sounded like good logic to me. And then I discovered the desert.


My, what a magical place the desert can be. No longer do I have visions of vast emptiness, shifting sand dunes, and scorched stretches of land without views. I have discovered the incredible variety of life and formations that our deserts hold.

Those formations include some of the best rock to climb in the winter, like Tom's Thumb in Arizona and Joshua Tree National Park, CA.

If the gods decided to put a playground for climbers on this planet, then Joshua Tree NP is it. The piles of jumbled rocks with superb cracks leave me to say without a doubt that the purpose of this swath of desert land is for climbers to have their own slice of heaven on earth.


But don't be misled into thinking that deserts are only about interesting formations. Choose the right season, and the desert can be speckled with vibrant reds and yellows of blooms.


And even the plants without showy displays of color have something interesting to offer the viewer.

The agave plants have towering blossoms that remain after their prime like some sort of beacon. Certain stretches of desert are scattered with these towering appendages which can be spotted from afar.

Here's a palm oasis sprouting in the middle of the desert! I literally rounded a corner to be greeted from afar by towering palms clustered around a rare water source.

One must make the best of the plant life available, as a bird has done by nesting in this cactus. And speaking of birds, the desert is home to a couple of varieties that we best know from cartoons.

Roadrunner....beeep beeep....

Hahaahaahaaahaa....it's a woodpecker

While I've long thought of myself of as a mountain girl, I've now found a special place in my heart for the desert. When the winter rolls around and snow touches the ground, the mountains are not the place that I want to be. I seek a place that will still give me a taste of adventure, but with an added touch of warmth. That's where the desert enters, and leaves me wanting more.

Top 10 of Canada (in no particular order)

The past month was full of fun and adventure in Western Canada. Here are some of the highlights:

10. Hiking among wild berries and wild flowers. Ripe blueberries and raspberries in Squamish; wild roses in Alberta; too many varieties of flowers to count in the Canadian Rockies.
9. Wildlife viewing - from a flying squirrel to a lynx to bear. Canada has so much wildlife that roads through major parks are lined with gates to help keep the animals off highways.

Big horn sheep.

Porcupine.

Marmot.

Moose.

8. Canadian hospitality. Or was it climber hospitality? Whatever it was, great people showed us great places and gave us places to rest our weary heads. Thanks to Jos and the BCMC, and thanks to Adam and his crew of friendly folk out in Alberta.

7. Shell collecting on Rathtrevor Beach. Warm, shallow waters full of pretty shellfish and jellies.

6. Vancouver. A beautiful city surrounded by mountains, water and beaches - the perfect place for outdoor enthusiasts and extreme sports types with a taste for the urbane.
Sushi cheaper than burgers or Chinese food!?
And if that wasn't enough, I can't think of another city where you can park on the street over the weekend with your car full to the brim with stuff and not have it broken into.

5. Service roads, logging roads, and all other types of unpaved back roads. Nothing like traveling down miles of rugged roads to untouched fishing holes and other wild places full of wild animals.

4. Long summer days. Daylight until 10pm means sleeping in is ok. We could start our hikes or paddles at 11am, or 1pm, or, yup, 5pm, and we could still get in hours of fun. And when we got our act together by 9am, we were rewarded with endless hours to in which to get our adventure done.

3. Bowron Lake circuit. 7 days of paddling on a remote string of lakes and rivers. With no time piece, we relearned how to read the sun and fell into the rhythm of nature and the rhythm of canoeing on the water - wake, eat, pack up camp, paddle, paddle, paddle, set up camp, eat, sleep. Throw in some fishing, a little white water action, and whittlling, and that about sums it up. As our backdrop, we had glaciated mountains and birds like the loony loon, eagles, and osprey.
2. Horne Lake Caves. Spelunking on our own with nothing but our climbing helmets and head lamps. So much excitement comes from flirting with dark, labyrinth-like, claustrophobic spaces. We went through squeezes, up underground waterfalls and rivers, and into little chambers.


1. Climbing! Granite, quartzite, limestone. Sport, trad, and bouldering. Some rock was definitely better than other. Granite was solid; quartzite was crumbly as hell; limestone was a little slimy. No climber in Canada goes without a helmet. If you partner doesn't knock a rock down at you, the big horn sheep will - no joke. I gained a deeper appreciation and understanding of the variation in climbing.