Now that we are back in the land of signal, we want to catch up on everything we've missed. Since we're trying to do this in order, please scroll past all the new posts if you'd like to read them in order.
[adam]&{pri}
Monday, August 31, 2009
Beacon on a hill
The relatively tiny plateau that sat the East Brother Light Station was picturesque and cozy. There were three buildings in total: the main lighthouse, the fog horn building, and the keeper's quarters that belonged to Lighthouse Ed and his wife Anne. Standing in the middle of the island next to a large white cistern, they explained how the only source of water came from rain collected during the rainy season and used sparingly throughout the rest of the year. They then walked the three couples on a short tour to show them the property and the rooms that each would be staying in.
The first pair was a wannabe San Francisco power couple, Jeff and Kristen. Both were the kind who had clearly done well for themselves, but in boring ways. So instead of sharing their own interesting experiences and insights, they would loudly interrupt any story with unrelated anecdotes about their more powerful, influential, interesting friends. Jeff was the typical frat man, still convinced at mid-forties that the word "bro" and a loud voice were the keys to immortality. Kristen was the type who just nervously packaged her sentiments in an awkward laugh, hoping that people would find her witty. These two were in the foghorn building, and apart from the remaining four of us. Lighthouse Ed and Anne dropped them off to change their soaked shorts while continuing on with us.
The next couple were Ed and Kim. They were clearly in their early thirties, had been married for two years, and we connected with them right off the bat. They were a humorous pair, intelligent and cosmopolitan in their experiences. The four of us were all scheduled to stay in the lighthouse that night, and after we were shown our respective rooms we rejoined Jeff and Kristen for a visit to the top deck of the lighthouse.
In the small balcony wrapping the massive lens I stood shivering in awe that lighthouses are not known to fall down more often. The wind was absolutely incredible; at the edge Adam appeared as if he were skydiving in a standing position. Lighthouse Ed told us to listen for a bell, then left us here to converse while he scuttled off to prepare dinner with his wife. Unable to stand in the brisk air much longer, we moved downstairs into the lounge and perused the piles of interesting board games and antique paraphernalia until we heard the dinner bell.
Appetizers were served at a wooden table outside, and we happily munched down "French nachos" (chips with bleu cheese and capers) along with a small selection of cheeses, nuts, and artichoke hearts. After having sufficiently frozen our extremities we were moved inside for a dinner including fresh bread, carrot soup, asparagus with eggs, and roast chicken with prosciutto. All in all it was a little too vegetable-heavy for my tastes but it was well made, all fresh. The table conversation was spirited, covering topics ranging from the lavatorial effects of asparagus (we thought of you, Summer) to whether or not we would eat our significant others on a stranded island. After dessert Lighthouse Ed and Anne bid their adieus and the rest of us traipsed upstairs to watch the glowing remnants of the sun that had snuck past the horizon while we ate.
Having expected a toasty California coast in summer, we were hardly dressed or prepared for the weather. Once Adam and Ed had their fill of photographing the sky, we headed eagerly back down to the warm lounge where Ed and Kim proceeded to teach us Liar's Dice. As Ed, Kim, Jeff and Kristen exuberantly shared their anniversary champagnes, the game got more and more animated. Eventually Kim insisted that we play Apples to Apples, a game that hinges on the mounting ludicrosity of its players. This was a ton of fun, and I ended up winning long before our inebriated counterparts ever realized it.
Once they caught on, we ended Apples to Apples and pulled out the old standard, Jenga, which Ed had never even played before. At this point the simple premise promised some fun for the two of us, being the only ones aside from Ed capable of still playing this game with some semblance of steadiness. Kim wisely chose to sit out the game, having downed at least a bottle and half of wine and champagne and weighing in at a hefty 95 pounds. Once the game began however, Kim became its most spirited feature, and she loudly, persistently, and shakily demanded move after move. The 5 of us generally ignored her instructions and laughed at her absurd inputs while holding our breaths at the near-misses of her accidentally ending the game early while trying to point out the best blocks. After a particularly heart-wretching nail-biting final round, we all packed it in for the night and headed to bed.
In the morning we awoke in time to dress for the breakfast bell. Downstairs we nibbled croissants, eggs, sausages and Belgian waffles while the other 4 recalled the more exciting moments from the previous nights events. With satisfied stomachs, Lighthouse Ed trooped us over to the foghorn building for a demonstration. The first horn he triggered was electric, and we all stood listening to its generic bleet over the water. Next however, he started up the motor for the old foghorn and led us outside to wait for enough pressure to build. With about five seconds to go, he signaled for us to close our ears and gleefully watched our faces as the deep baritone of the island rippled through the morning air. Even with our hands removed from our ears we could hear its echo tremoring in the atmosphere between the hills.
After finishing up and taking some last minute pictures, we once again packed up our things and clamored aboard the small boat. Lighthouse Ed talked continuously about Facebook and squinted at any audience feedback or input as if he weren't quite sure whether we were real or just a figment of his private imagination. Once our Willy Wonka dropped us at the parking lot we once considered the pit of fear, we said our goodbyes to the other couples and exchanged information. Having just made some new friends and gearing up to go meet some old ones, we pulled once again into the maze of thorns that once so easily hid our rose.
{pri}
The first pair was a wannabe San Francisco power couple, Jeff and Kristen. Both were the kind who had clearly done well for themselves, but in boring ways. So instead of sharing their own interesting experiences and insights, they would loudly interrupt any story with unrelated anecdotes about their more powerful, influential, interesting friends. Jeff was the typical frat man, still convinced at mid-forties that the word "bro" and a loud voice were the keys to immortality. Kristen was the type who just nervously packaged her sentiments in an awkward laugh, hoping that people would find her witty. These two were in the foghorn building, and apart from the remaining four of us. Lighthouse Ed and Anne dropped them off to change their soaked shorts while continuing on with us.
The next couple were Ed and Kim. They were clearly in their early thirties, had been married for two years, and we connected with them right off the bat. They were a humorous pair, intelligent and cosmopolitan in their experiences. The four of us were all scheduled to stay in the lighthouse that night, and after we were shown our respective rooms we rejoined Jeff and Kristen for a visit to the top deck of the lighthouse.
In the small balcony wrapping the massive lens I stood shivering in awe that lighthouses are not known to fall down more often. The wind was absolutely incredible; at the edge Adam appeared as if he were skydiving in a standing position. Lighthouse Ed told us to listen for a bell, then left us here to converse while he scuttled off to prepare dinner with his wife. Unable to stand in the brisk air much longer, we moved downstairs into the lounge and perused the piles of interesting board games and antique paraphernalia until we heard the dinner bell.
Appetizers were served at a wooden table outside, and we happily munched down "French nachos" (chips with bleu cheese and capers) along with a small selection of cheeses, nuts, and artichoke hearts. After having sufficiently frozen our extremities we were moved inside for a dinner including fresh bread, carrot soup, asparagus with eggs, and roast chicken with prosciutto. All in all it was a little too vegetable-heavy for my tastes but it was well made, all fresh. The table conversation was spirited, covering topics ranging from the lavatorial effects of asparagus (we thought of you, Summer) to whether or not we would eat our significant others on a stranded island. After dessert Lighthouse Ed and Anne bid their adieus and the rest of us traipsed upstairs to watch the glowing remnants of the sun that had snuck past the horizon while we ate.
Having expected a toasty California coast in summer, we were hardly dressed or prepared for the weather. Once Adam and Ed had their fill of photographing the sky, we headed eagerly back down to the warm lounge where Ed and Kim proceeded to teach us Liar's Dice. As Ed, Kim, Jeff and Kristen exuberantly shared their anniversary champagnes, the game got more and more animated. Eventually Kim insisted that we play Apples to Apples, a game that hinges on the mounting ludicrosity of its players. This was a ton of fun, and I ended up winning long before our inebriated counterparts ever realized it.
Once they caught on, we ended Apples to Apples and pulled out the old standard, Jenga, which Ed had never even played before. At this point the simple premise promised some fun for the two of us, being the only ones aside from Ed capable of still playing this game with some semblance of steadiness. Kim wisely chose to sit out the game, having downed at least a bottle and half of wine and champagne and weighing in at a hefty 95 pounds. Once the game began however, Kim became its most spirited feature, and she loudly, persistently, and shakily demanded move after move. The 5 of us generally ignored her instructions and laughed at her absurd inputs while holding our breaths at the near-misses of her accidentally ending the game early while trying to point out the best blocks. After a particularly heart-wretching nail-biting final round, we all packed it in for the night and headed to bed.
In the morning we awoke in time to dress for the breakfast bell. Downstairs we nibbled croissants, eggs, sausages and Belgian waffles while the other 4 recalled the more exciting moments from the previous nights events. With satisfied stomachs, Lighthouse Ed trooped us over to the foghorn building for a demonstration. The first horn he triggered was electric, and we all stood listening to its generic bleet over the water. Next however, he started up the motor for the old foghorn and led us outside to wait for enough pressure to build. With about five seconds to go, he signaled for us to close our ears and gleefully watched our faces as the deep baritone of the island rippled through the morning air. Even with our hands removed from our ears we could hear its echo tremoring in the atmosphere between the hills.
After finishing up and taking some last minute pictures, we once again packed up our things and clamored aboard the small boat. Lighthouse Ed talked continuously about Facebook and squinted at any audience feedback or input as if he weren't quite sure whether we were real or just a figment of his private imagination. Once our Willy Wonka dropped us at the parking lot we once considered the pit of fear, we said our goodbyes to the other couples and exchanged information. Having just made some new friends and gearing up to go meet some old ones, we pulled once again into the maze of thorns that once so easily hid our rose.
{pri}
The book we judged
East Brother Light Station was the next big stop on our trip. A bed & breakfast made from the 5 rooms in a lighthouse on a small island in the San Pablo Bay, we initially had never expected to get reservations, especially for a Saturday night. As luck (and the steep price bracket) would have it, we booked the "San Francisco" room without issue. We were particularly excited because aside from getting to sleep in a lighthouse, the accommodations included the boat ride to the small island and a four course dinner. With these few hints about our stay, we headed to the water to find our dock.
Now take a moment to materialize your first impressions of the lighthouse based on the description above and apply them to any guesses you might have about the area that this dock might fraternize with. Trust that we were armed with the same expectations, and know that we were sorely mistaken. The website for East Brother had specified that the boat would arrive at 4pm at the San Pablo Bay dock, but nothing further. Some online research gave us only the name of one road, Western Drive, and we offered this paltry token of information into the GPS to guide us. After entering an area that made Newark look jovial and sociable, we continued driving through an industrial complex that appeared not to have seen human life since 1960. Eventually we reached Western Drive and forced the car through near-vertical climbs up and down one of California's infamously inclined backroads.
Adam fiddled with a more comprehensive view on the GPS before discovering that we were on the exact opposite end of the street that we needed; we were not even on the right side of the bridge. We breathed a sigh of relief and exited the area, navigated to the correct side, and made our way back to Western Drive. If we had felt alone before with the empty factories watching over us, we were now positively abandoned. Once again convinced of error, the GPS insisted we were heading the right way. Empty fenced-in dirt pits kept us company as we drove the narrow street edging the bay. We shortly came upon a sign that read "East Brother Light Station Historical Landmark turn right" and we happily grasped at the opportunity to take a different path. Unfortunately, the next fifteen minutes straight consisted of a mangled pile of road leading us in no discernible direction through patches of dead yellow grass. We were put to ease furthermore, when small signs notified us that we were now under the jurisdiction of the private property owner.
When the road finally opened up around a curve, we found ourselves pulling up to a deserted parking lot on the edge of a decrepit dock. Any cars in the vicinity were either weather-worn pickup trucks, or on cinderblocks without wheels. Stepping out of the car, we were serenaded with the calming sound of gunshots, presumably from the "Sportsmen's Club" that adorned the only sign in the area with their name.
Suffice it to say our Civic and our persons were a little out of place, and this too at 3:15 when we still had time to kill. Steering away from the "club", we walked over to the last building on the dock with a small handwritten sign that said "Office" and went in. There we found a woman piecing together a jigsaw puzzle of a meadow who told us that we were in the right place and that we were welcome to kill time as long as we didn't wander around or walk on any docks. Exiting with a short list of options, we chose to spend the next 40 minutes feebly attempting to pack a bag amidst the consistent gunshots and keeping our eyes glued to the road in hopes of some sign of incoming normal life.
With about 5 minutes to go before 4pm, we walked to the corner dock and found an EBLS boarding sign to station ourselves next to. From here we watched two other cars hesitantly pulling into the lot and their owners walking towards us. Luckily, these two couples appeared normal and equally confused; a short conversation later and we were sure we were in the same boat.
A few minutes later, a small boat pulled up and a man, who Adam later accurately and affectionately described as Willy Wonka, hopped off the boat holding a bag of trash. He quickly introduced himself as the garbage man, assured us the captain would appear shortly, and scurried away into some hidden depth of a nearby building. As the six of us sat conversing casually about our varied paths to the lighthouse, he suddenly apparated next to us. Exclaiming what a "fancy looking tripod!" Adam had while slowly walking away from us, we presumed to follow and lined up next the small boat he hopped in.
Once lifejacketed with our belongings settled, (Lighthouse) Ed, our new friend, led us out into the bay while asking us about our awareness of the lighthouse. As we headed quickly towards the island, the wake of a ferry sidearmed the boat, causing pretty much everyone except Adam and me to soak at least one article of clothing. When we finally reached, it took about 12 attempts before Lighthouse Ed could safely tether the boat to the pylons and let us climb up the metal ladder onto flat ground. Once all of us were safely up, we stood braced against an astoundingly persistent wind and watched him hook the boat up to be lifted from the water. As he exited the boat his wife introduced herself, ushered us towards the few buildings for warmer air, and gave us our official welcome the the island.
{pri}
Now take a moment to materialize your first impressions of the lighthouse based on the description above and apply them to any guesses you might have about the area that this dock might fraternize with. Trust that we were armed with the same expectations, and know that we were sorely mistaken. The website for East Brother had specified that the boat would arrive at 4pm at the San Pablo Bay dock, but nothing further. Some online research gave us only the name of one road, Western Drive, and we offered this paltry token of information into the GPS to guide us. After entering an area that made Newark look jovial and sociable, we continued driving through an industrial complex that appeared not to have seen human life since 1960. Eventually we reached Western Drive and forced the car through near-vertical climbs up and down one of California's infamously inclined backroads.
Adam fiddled with a more comprehensive view on the GPS before discovering that we were on the exact opposite end of the street that we needed; we were not even on the right side of the bridge. We breathed a sigh of relief and exited the area, navigated to the correct side, and made our way back to Western Drive. If we had felt alone before with the empty factories watching over us, we were now positively abandoned. Once again convinced of error, the GPS insisted we were heading the right way. Empty fenced-in dirt pits kept us company as we drove the narrow street edging the bay. We shortly came upon a sign that read "East Brother Light Station Historical Landmark turn right" and we happily grasped at the opportunity to take a different path. Unfortunately, the next fifteen minutes straight consisted of a mangled pile of road leading us in no discernible direction through patches of dead yellow grass. We were put to ease furthermore, when small signs notified us that we were now under the jurisdiction of the private property owner.
When the road finally opened up around a curve, we found ourselves pulling up to a deserted parking lot on the edge of a decrepit dock. Any cars in the vicinity were either weather-worn pickup trucks, or on cinderblocks without wheels. Stepping out of the car, we were serenaded with the calming sound of gunshots, presumably from the "Sportsmen's Club" that adorned the only sign in the area with their name.
Suffice it to say our Civic and our persons were a little out of place, and this too at 3:15 when we still had time to kill. Steering away from the "club", we walked over to the last building on the dock with a small handwritten sign that said "Office" and went in. There we found a woman piecing together a jigsaw puzzle of a meadow who told us that we were in the right place and that we were welcome to kill time as long as we didn't wander around or walk on any docks. Exiting with a short list of options, we chose to spend the next 40 minutes feebly attempting to pack a bag amidst the consistent gunshots and keeping our eyes glued to the road in hopes of some sign of incoming normal life.
With about 5 minutes to go before 4pm, we walked to the corner dock and found an EBLS boarding sign to station ourselves next to. From here we watched two other cars hesitantly pulling into the lot and their owners walking towards us. Luckily, these two couples appeared normal and equally confused; a short conversation later and we were sure we were in the same boat.
A few minutes later, a small boat pulled up and a man, who Adam later accurately and affectionately described as Willy Wonka, hopped off the boat holding a bag of trash. He quickly introduced himself as the garbage man, assured us the captain would appear shortly, and scurried away into some hidden depth of a nearby building. As the six of us sat conversing casually about our varied paths to the lighthouse, he suddenly apparated next to us. Exclaiming what a "fancy looking tripod!" Adam had while slowly walking away from us, we presumed to follow and lined up next the small boat he hopped in.
Once lifejacketed with our belongings settled, (Lighthouse) Ed, our new friend, led us out into the bay while asking us about our awareness of the lighthouse. As we headed quickly towards the island, the wake of a ferry sidearmed the boat, causing pretty much everyone except Adam and me to soak at least one article of clothing. When we finally reached, it took about 12 attempts before Lighthouse Ed could safely tether the boat to the pylons and let us climb up the metal ladder onto flat ground. Once all of us were safely up, we stood braced against an astoundingly persistent wind and watched him hook the boat up to be lifted from the water. As he exited the boat his wife introduced herself, ushered us towards the few buildings for warmer air, and gave us our official welcome the the island.
{pri}
Small world
Leave it to Pri to find a random architectural garden in Sonoma that happens to be on our way to the lighthouse, but just wait... it gets stranger. We stopped at said location, Cornerstone Gardens, after driving through a lot of grape fields (I apologize to any wine aficionados for my unceremonious description). Hastily, we tried to don some semblance of humanity as this was our first real interaction with civilized people since leaving NJ. After walking past the large purple chair that guarded the parking lot, we made a quick stop at the visitor's center. Once inside, we were greeted by an older gentleman who looked and spoke like he had stepped out of a Steinbeck novel written just down the road. We learned that the gardens were free to the public, and that there were several small artsy shops congregated near the parking lot to peruse as well. The actual garden is best described as a menagerie of artistic landscapes presented in small spaces almost like a flea market. The artists were each given a rectangle of land about 30ft x 20ft (some larger some smaller) to do whatever they wanted with.
One of the first exhibits had a circular pit of sand that you could walk on barefoot surrounded by metal walls on which were polished plates littered with graffiti. From the open ceiling hung about 100 strings of that bead-like chain that dogtags are worn with. Examining the edges of the sand revealed several expo dry erase markers. We contributed our own additions to the metal walls before carrying on.
The next garden was an absolutely beautiful display of form and texture. I forget what these plants are called, but as shown below they were arranged in a stunning field of amber grasses. The space was completed by a small grove of dark colored olive trees.
A long reflecting pool spotted with small fish was in the back corner of the gardens. Though the sun was getting quite warm we continued on.
Luckily I spotted a break from the heat in the form of a large drainage pipe surrounded by shrubs and trees. We lingered here until we cooled off a bit.
Next was a square space which had a small entryway to discard footwear in order to properly explore the texture of soft woven ropes arranged over several mound shapes. The warm thread of the ropes was soft yet rough underfoot.
I exited the rope garden to find Pri wandering around an oyster shell carpeted area with several striking birch trees. I immediately imagined the other possible permutations of this garden involving the dark variant of birch trees and black sand. The artist's intent was to create some sort of playground-like area, hence the strange balls on the ground, but I thought the monochromaticity was sufficiently enthralling.
Several other gardens were interspersed though not all were photographed. There was an array of small plastic sunflowers that spun in the wind, a garden of nothing but different grasses, and a wedge-shaped hole in the ground with a small fish pond hidden behind a chunk of golden wheat.
They were all a worthy way to spend the morning before departing for the lighthouse. But we still had time to spend so we set off to check out the shops.
Two garden-themed stores were full of everything from gloves and shovels to fine art sculptures. Another shop was reminiscent of the MoMA store. The were a few hermetically sealed framed beetles by the artist, and author of Pheromone, Christopher Marley, but they were slightly outside of my price range.
The last store was an eclectic collection of objects. Containers full of metal skulls, buckets of watch mechanisms, an old wooden horse from a merry-go-round, beautiful worn wooden doors, and other strange authentic antique treasures littered the tables and bell jars throughout the place. I got the impression that vendors like Anthropologie purchased from whoever owned this store.
My suspicions arose when I saw several chunks of ice blue glass sitting on a shelf. At the counter, as Pri winnowed through the jar of watch parts, I asked the woman behind the counter if the world of architectural salvage was small. She looked at me kind of funny as she said yes, most people in the field have at least heard of each other. I pressed on asking if she knew anyone in the business back east, perhaps a guy from New Jersey named Matt White. Her face instantly transformed from a look of hesitant confusion to a smile.
(I should pause to explain that Matt is a good friend of my family. He has an architectural salvage company based out of Barnegat approximately 2 minutes away from my house online at www.recylingthepast.org. I've probably known him for over ten years and my sister even worked for him during the summers in high school).
So Pri and I were introduced to the store's owner, Dave Allen, who was indeed a friend of Matt's. They had traveled to China about a year ago, which is where Matt had purchased the curious blue glass which I sometimes see gleaming in a giant pile outside his shop on Rt. 9 back home. We talked for a bit then parted ways laughing about the strange coincidence.
We made a quick stop at the cafe and feasted on really tasty mozzarella and tomato sandwiches with a side of even more delicious olives and chased with a refreshing glass of watermelon juice (the wonders of fresh produce). With our batteries charged we set back out to reach the lighthouse ferry boat by 4PM.
[adam]
One of the first exhibits had a circular pit of sand that you could walk on barefoot surrounded by metal walls on which were polished plates littered with graffiti. From the open ceiling hung about 100 strings of that bead-like chain that dogtags are worn with. Examining the edges of the sand revealed several expo dry erase markers. We contributed our own additions to the metal walls before carrying on.
The next garden was an absolutely beautiful display of form and texture. I forget what these plants are called, but as shown below they were arranged in a stunning field of amber grasses. The space was completed by a small grove of dark colored olive trees.
A long reflecting pool spotted with small fish was in the back corner of the gardens. Though the sun was getting quite warm we continued on.
Luckily I spotted a break from the heat in the form of a large drainage pipe surrounded by shrubs and trees. We lingered here until we cooled off a bit.
Next was a square space which had a small entryway to discard footwear in order to properly explore the texture of soft woven ropes arranged over several mound shapes. The warm thread of the ropes was soft yet rough underfoot.
I exited the rope garden to find Pri wandering around an oyster shell carpeted area with several striking birch trees. I immediately imagined the other possible permutations of this garden involving the dark variant of birch trees and black sand. The artist's intent was to create some sort of playground-like area, hence the strange balls on the ground, but I thought the monochromaticity was sufficiently enthralling.
Several other gardens were interspersed though not all were photographed. There was an array of small plastic sunflowers that spun in the wind, a garden of nothing but different grasses, and a wedge-shaped hole in the ground with a small fish pond hidden behind a chunk of golden wheat.
They were all a worthy way to spend the morning before departing for the lighthouse. But we still had time to spend so we set off to check out the shops.
Two garden-themed stores were full of everything from gloves and shovels to fine art sculptures. Another shop was reminiscent of the MoMA store. The were a few hermetically sealed framed beetles by the artist, and author of Pheromone, Christopher Marley, but they were slightly outside of my price range.
The last store was an eclectic collection of objects. Containers full of metal skulls, buckets of watch mechanisms, an old wooden horse from a merry-go-round, beautiful worn wooden doors, and other strange authentic antique treasures littered the tables and bell jars throughout the place. I got the impression that vendors like Anthropologie purchased from whoever owned this store.
My suspicions arose when I saw several chunks of ice blue glass sitting on a shelf. At the counter, as Pri winnowed through the jar of watch parts, I asked the woman behind the counter if the world of architectural salvage was small. She looked at me kind of funny as she said yes, most people in the field have at least heard of each other. I pressed on asking if she knew anyone in the business back east, perhaps a guy from New Jersey named Matt White. Her face instantly transformed from a look of hesitant confusion to a smile.
(I should pause to explain that Matt is a good friend of my family. He has an architectural salvage company based out of Barnegat approximately 2 minutes away from my house online at www.recylingthepast.org. I've probably known him for over ten years and my sister even worked for him during the summers in high school).
So Pri and I were introduced to the store's owner, Dave Allen, who was indeed a friend of Matt's. They had traveled to China about a year ago, which is where Matt had purchased the curious blue glass which I sometimes see gleaming in a giant pile outside his shop on Rt. 9 back home. We talked for a bit then parted ways laughing about the strange coincidence.
We made a quick stop at the cafe and feasted on really tasty mozzarella and tomato sandwiches with a side of even more delicious olives and chased with a refreshing glass of watermelon juice (the wonders of fresh produce). With our batteries charged we set back out to reach the lighthouse ferry boat by 4PM.
[adam]
Shady NoCal
We set off, regretfully leaving the majestic redwoods behind in pursuit of new adventures. There were a few hours of driving ahead in order to reach the Best Western of Petaluma, CA. We drove down US-101 for a while before seeing signs for Avenue of the Giants, a scenic drive through some of the old growth redwoods that had avoided the scourge of logging several decades previous. Given the rarity of such ancient trees, it was a necessary detour.
The road was not unlike the Newton B. Drury scenic highway (except this time it was lit by the sun instead of headlights). The mammoth trees were scattered around, some encroaching on the highway and some hiding back in the dappled ferns. Occasionally there would be the carcass of one of the monsters laying on the ground with the same tragedy of a fallen Roman sculpture. We made the mandatory stop at the tree cross-section with various important events in history marked on the corresponding tree rings.
Then, the moment I was waiting for finally presented itself: the opportunity to drive through a redwood. Apparently one example of the old attraction was still remaining, though it was offset from the main road. I pulled off, gladly paying the $6, before slowly approaching the giant tunnel cut through the tree (note that I don't really advocate marring these beautiful trees, but since the tunnel was created a long time ago, I decided it would be okay to indulge in the unique experience). It was surprisingly close quarters in the tree. The whole thing lasted about 30 seconds and we were back on the road. We drove for miles and miles through the old growth redwoods before eventually merging back onto US-101. We passed through countless small towns clinging to the highway like parasites. The towns were mostly in disrepair and somewhat shady looking. We were both starving as we hadn't eaten since lunch, but every town we passed did not look terribly friendly. We even exited the highway once or twice to scope out potential dinner places, but they were all either 1. closed, 2. nonexistent, 3. far too sketchy looking to warrant stopping. We eventually reached a quasi-serious town and pulled off in the cool evening night air to a Carl's Jr. We quickly scarfed down some burgers as we looked up and double checked plans for the next day.
With our hunger finally satiated, we drove in a straight shot to Petaluma. The Best Western was spotted very shortly after exiting the interstate. We got a room almost at the end of the complex (it was pretty late to be fair) and pulled up in the makeshift parking spot. As I crept the car closer to the curb, I looked up onto the balcony level to see the person who was to become our neighbor for a night lazily leaning over the railing and gesturing at me to move over to the right. I glanced over and saw what I assumed to be his older BMW parked next to me.
We got out and assembled a bag full of shower supplies and clean clothes and walked up to our door. There's something about taking your first shower after about a week of camping that's indescribable. Anyone who's ever gone on long camping trips will agree. After we both were showered, we got our stuff ready for the next day and rightfully passed out.
[adam]
The road was not unlike the Newton B. Drury scenic highway (except this time it was lit by the sun instead of headlights). The mammoth trees were scattered around, some encroaching on the highway and some hiding back in the dappled ferns. Occasionally there would be the carcass of one of the monsters laying on the ground with the same tragedy of a fallen Roman sculpture. We made the mandatory stop at the tree cross-section with various important events in history marked on the corresponding tree rings.
Then, the moment I was waiting for finally presented itself: the opportunity to drive through a redwood. Apparently one example of the old attraction was still remaining, though it was offset from the main road. I pulled off, gladly paying the $6, before slowly approaching the giant tunnel cut through the tree (note that I don't really advocate marring these beautiful trees, but since the tunnel was created a long time ago, I decided it would be okay to indulge in the unique experience). It was surprisingly close quarters in the tree. The whole thing lasted about 30 seconds and we were back on the road. We drove for miles and miles through the old growth redwoods before eventually merging back onto US-101. We passed through countless small towns clinging to the highway like parasites. The towns were mostly in disrepair and somewhat shady looking. We were both starving as we hadn't eaten since lunch, but every town we passed did not look terribly friendly. We even exited the highway once or twice to scope out potential dinner places, but they were all either 1. closed, 2. nonexistent, 3. far too sketchy looking to warrant stopping. We eventually reached a quasi-serious town and pulled off in the cool evening night air to a Carl's Jr. We quickly scarfed down some burgers as we looked up and double checked plans for the next day.
With our hunger finally satiated, we drove in a straight shot to Petaluma. The Best Western was spotted very shortly after exiting the interstate. We got a room almost at the end of the complex (it was pretty late to be fair) and pulled up in the makeshift parking spot. As I crept the car closer to the curb, I looked up onto the balcony level to see the person who was to become our neighbor for a night lazily leaning over the railing and gesturing at me to move over to the right. I glanced over and saw what I assumed to be his older BMW parked next to me.
We got out and assembled a bag full of shower supplies and clean clothes and walked up to our door. There's something about taking your first shower after about a week of camping that's indescribable. Anyone who's ever gone on long camping trips will agree. After we both were showered, we got our stuff ready for the next day and rightfully passed out.
[adam]
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Rousting the bear
Having gone to bed amongst the monumental Redwoods in the dark, we had anticipated a magnificent waking in the morning. We did not however, calculate the sum of California's daily fog, the rising sun, and the forest standing sentinal around us. The result of this equation can be seen in the picture below, a saturated dose of beauty that started our day with more vigor than the entire Starbucks chain could provide.
After clumsily attempting to pack up camp with our attention drawn upwards to the soaring beams of light instead of the work at hand, we set on our way to the Thomas H. Kuchel Visitor's Center. Our aim was a permit to the Tall Trees Trail, a limited-access 4 mile hike around the oldest growth Redwoods in the park. The trees here date to B.C. times, and with a park limit of 50 passes offered each day we wanted to ensure our early arrival in order to procure one.
The drive to the center was half an attraction in itself; the fog had not yet cleared and we hugged the sharp curves of the mountain while the silent giants scanned our eager faces with their spotlights. The drive was a ballet of shadows, not an intrusion into their secrets but a conversation about them. Once we arrived at the visitor's center we were lucky to find a solid pile of permits still available (it still being only 9:30am after all), and we listened as the guide explained how to unlock the gate, the 7 mile drive to the trailhead and subsequently, the steep 4 mile trail around the grove.
At this point anyone reading this who knows me is struggling to comprehend how the prospect of a strenuous 4 mile hike is a subject being thrown about with such nonchalance by me, someone known for their marked inability to complete any vaguely demanding physical activity. Let me be clear: I was freaking out. To say the least, I was terrified that I would get partially through this hike and need an airlift. I had never walked that distance in one take before, nor had I climbed up steep hills at the end of a hike estimated to take 2.5 hours for the *average* hiker. The only thing bartering my consent was the promise of creatures I would never again see the likes of were I not willing to make this sacrifice.
After locating the correct side-road, successfully bypassing the padlock, and making our way down the long driveway to the trailhead, we hastily arranged a day pack with a good supply of water, cameras, and vials. We then quickly assembled a couple of our new signature road trip sandwiches (cinnamon swirl white bread, peanut butter, strawberry preserves), downed them and set off on our way.
The first 1.5 miles of the walk were a steep downhill path, and every step I took down I knew I would have to take back up when the day was warmer and I was slower. Nevertheless, the woods played their part well by offering consistent distraction from these depressing thoughts, and we stopped frequently to feel the bright fiery red that lay soft and feathery on the barks of the trees. For anyone who has never felt Redwood bark, I can only describe it as a delicate clumping of shimmery red fibers that will crumble in the pressure of your fingertips. The gentleness of its texture serves a sharp contrast to its leviathan form, and gives the impression that if any one of these trees fell in the woods they truly wouldn't make a sound even if you were around to hear it.
At the end of the 1.5 mile downhill, we reached the small loop trail that belts the oldest and tallest growth like a ringlet of honor. If these trees were kings then this path was their crown, bejeweled by the speckles of awe in the eyes of those that circle them. We reveled in their midst for about 45 minutes before we unexpectedly reached our starting point, and I began mentally preparing myself for the hike back to the car.
For anyone curious how generous I will be to myself, I will be blunt: I suffered. Adam outpaced me by a longshot despite a backpack holding 2 liters of water, an SLR, spare lenses and a tripod. On a steep climb, every ounce of weight feels like a pound, and I have more than a few built in ounces to spare! Multiple times I had to stop, breathe, and drink, but as my body became more used to the idea that it had no alternate choices, my ability to recoup grew better. The ranger had told us that we would have to crawl back to the car and to be prepared, and while it wasn't quite that extreme, it felt close. Once the mirage of the car solidified at my fingertips, I felt exhuberant and invincible. I acknowledge that the ratio of my joy to the scale of the accomplishment is most likely pitiful, but I happily listened to the song my muscles were humming as we set off towards Petaluma.
{pri}
After clumsily attempting to pack up camp with our attention drawn upwards to the soaring beams of light instead of the work at hand, we set on our way to the Thomas H. Kuchel Visitor's Center. Our aim was a permit to the Tall Trees Trail, a limited-access 4 mile hike around the oldest growth Redwoods in the park. The trees here date to B.C. times, and with a park limit of 50 passes offered each day we wanted to ensure our early arrival in order to procure one.
The drive to the center was half an attraction in itself; the fog had not yet cleared and we hugged the sharp curves of the mountain while the silent giants scanned our eager faces with their spotlights. The drive was a ballet of shadows, not an intrusion into their secrets but a conversation about them. Once we arrived at the visitor's center we were lucky to find a solid pile of permits still available (it still being only 9:30am after all), and we listened as the guide explained how to unlock the gate, the 7 mile drive to the trailhead and subsequently, the steep 4 mile trail around the grove.
At this point anyone reading this who knows me is struggling to comprehend how the prospect of a strenuous 4 mile hike is a subject being thrown about with such nonchalance by me, someone known for their marked inability to complete any vaguely demanding physical activity. Let me be clear: I was freaking out. To say the least, I was terrified that I would get partially through this hike and need an airlift. I had never walked that distance in one take before, nor had I climbed up steep hills at the end of a hike estimated to take 2.5 hours for the *average* hiker. The only thing bartering my consent was the promise of creatures I would never again see the likes of were I not willing to make this sacrifice.
After locating the correct side-road, successfully bypassing the padlock, and making our way down the long driveway to the trailhead, we hastily arranged a day pack with a good supply of water, cameras, and vials. We then quickly assembled a couple of our new signature road trip sandwiches (cinnamon swirl white bread, peanut butter, strawberry preserves), downed them and set off on our way.
The first 1.5 miles of the walk were a steep downhill path, and every step I took down I knew I would have to take back up when the day was warmer and I was slower. Nevertheless, the woods played their part well by offering consistent distraction from these depressing thoughts, and we stopped frequently to feel the bright fiery red that lay soft and feathery on the barks of the trees. For anyone who has never felt Redwood bark, I can only describe it as a delicate clumping of shimmery red fibers that will crumble in the pressure of your fingertips. The gentleness of its texture serves a sharp contrast to its leviathan form, and gives the impression that if any one of these trees fell in the woods they truly wouldn't make a sound even if you were around to hear it.
At the end of the 1.5 mile downhill, we reached the small loop trail that belts the oldest and tallest growth like a ringlet of honor. If these trees were kings then this path was their crown, bejeweled by the speckles of awe in the eyes of those that circle them. We reveled in their midst for about 45 minutes before we unexpectedly reached our starting point, and I began mentally preparing myself for the hike back to the car.
For anyone curious how generous I will be to myself, I will be blunt: I suffered. Adam outpaced me by a longshot despite a backpack holding 2 liters of water, an SLR, spare lenses and a tripod. On a steep climb, every ounce of weight feels like a pound, and I have more than a few built in ounces to spare! Multiple times I had to stop, breathe, and drink, but as my body became more used to the idea that it had no alternate choices, my ability to recoup grew better. The ranger had told us that we would have to crawl back to the car and to be prepared, and while it wasn't quite that extreme, it felt close. Once the mirage of the car solidified at my fingertips, I felt exhuberant and invincible. I acknowledge that the ratio of my joy to the scale of the accomplishment is most likely pitiful, but I happily listened to the song my muscles were humming as we set off towards Petaluma.
{pri}
Newton B. Drury
It had been several days since we had eaten anything but fast food or camp food, so we decided we should treat ourselves to one of the seafood places back in Crescent City.
We passed a male and female elk crossing the beach road in the twilight. They quickly ambled into the trees where they peered at us as we slowed to a stop. Deciding to not antagonize them too much we headed down to 101 and drove north for a few miles. Pri pulled out the iphone in order to find somewhere to eat. After parking 20ft from one of the restaurants we found on the phone, we started looking up the menu. We eventually realized how pathetically tethered we were to the technology. I stepped out of the car and quickly learned that the place was closed. We found another restaurant that had a view of the surrounding harbor and both enjoyed a nice dinner.
This of course set us back considerably, and we had to drive down the famous Newton B. Drury scenic highway in the dark. Luckily the redwoods are still mysteriously beautiful at night. We pulled up to our site in Prairie Creek Campground and I can not properly convey the awe we experienced as we got out of the car amidst several giant redwoods. We were literally camping in a small grove of about eight of the behemoths. Food was not needed, so after setting up the tent Pri rustled up her first campfire. We sat in the warming red light of the fire, admiring the amazing trees towering above us into the star speckled abyss, before thoroughly extinguishing the blaze and crawling into the tent. The temperature was much more comfortable than up north, and we were granted a restful night's sleep.
We arose the next morning and regretfully diassembled the camp in the customary fog of the Pacific Northwest. If I had known how incredibly beautiful our site would be I would have gladly stayed a few nights longer.
[adam]
We passed a male and female elk crossing the beach road in the twilight. They quickly ambled into the trees where they peered at us as we slowed to a stop. Deciding to not antagonize them too much we headed down to 101 and drove north for a few miles. Pri pulled out the iphone in order to find somewhere to eat. After parking 20ft from one of the restaurants we found on the phone, we started looking up the menu. We eventually realized how pathetically tethered we were to the technology. I stepped out of the car and quickly learned that the place was closed. We found another restaurant that had a view of the surrounding harbor and both enjoyed a nice dinner.
This of course set us back considerably, and we had to drive down the famous Newton B. Drury scenic highway in the dark. Luckily the redwoods are still mysteriously beautiful at night. We pulled up to our site in Prairie Creek Campground and I can not properly convey the awe we experienced as we got out of the car amidst several giant redwoods. We were literally camping in a small grove of about eight of the behemoths. Food was not needed, so after setting up the tent Pri rustled up her first campfire. We sat in the warming red light of the fire, admiring the amazing trees towering above us into the star speckled abyss, before thoroughly extinguishing the blaze and crawling into the tent. The temperature was much more comfortable than up north, and we were granted a restful night's sleep.
We arose the next morning and regretfully diassembled the camp in the customary fog of the Pacific Northwest. If I had known how incredibly beautiful our site would be I would have gladly stayed a few nights longer.
[adam]
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Abandoning the fallen sky
After our short, unplanned visit to "It's A Burl!" we continued on 199 until we were eventually welcomed to California, and hopped over to 101 shortly following. Soon after entering Redwood National Park (stopping only to collect a trail map) we finally reached Crescent City and the ocean crept closer to us on the GPS, threatening to reveal itself at any moment. A couple minutes south of the city, our proximity to the water secured a hint of blue teetering on the edge of the cliff, and we drove forward to a vista that ensured full splendor with just one step out of the car.
We pulled to a stop, grabbed our cameras, prepared a few vials, and excitedly exited the car. Upon full standing height, we simultaneously beheld an ocean new to us, bigger and foggier than our coast had ever been. We walked down the pebbly beach to small ponds of water trapped in valleys of the sandy hills. Taking pictures and collecting samples, we stood coating our hides in salty air, using it as a preservative not for our skin, but for place and time instead.
We decided not to waste much time at this beach and continued south to Edert's Beach Trail where excellent tide pools were promised to us. Upon arrival at the trailhead, it became clear that to reach the rocky ponds required a hike down the cliffs to the shore below. After the surprising amount of warnings against theft at this particular trail, we locked up our valuables and made our way down the path to the large boulder below.
Clamoring down, we went through a small stone tunnel, past a massive fallen redwood and across the beach over to the kelp wasteland left by receding waters.
Like the crumbled ruins of old city walls filled with the swaying instability of low tide, the pools lay before us like shrapnel from a broken snow globe full of ocean water. As if the sky had fallen onto the rocks and all its stars had been given corporeal form upon contact, the stone sat dark and glistening, speckled with spiny sea stars in shades of blood, wine, and peach. Looking like a radioactive experiment gone wrong, sea slugs and putridly green anemones clung with slimy fervor to the crevices.
Soon we had no choice but to relent our explorations and give way to the rising tide, made our way back over the black stone beach marbled with white quartz and up the path once again to the car. With new significance to the idea of stars in our eyes, we begrudgingly ended the days activities and made our way back to restaurant row to satiate a simpler hunger.
{pri}
Monday, August 24, 2009
It's a burl!
When planning this road trip, we focused primarily on the locations to see and the paths to get between them. We did not, however, plan out the kitschy tourist traps that are an inevitable component to undertakings such as these, trusting in the divine spirit of adventure to reveal these treasures along the way.
Starting our drive down highway 199, we were immediately captivated by the sight of a towering, clearly handmade fountain gushing with water dyed in a purple hue normally reserved for Nickelodeon and Halloween. Flanking this eggplant geyser was a small army of beautifully twisted tree stumps and unusual carvings; any momentary hesitations quickly evaporated and we pulled a hasty u-turn despite our tight schedule.
"It's A Burl!" was a small gathering of 4 buildings, each filled to brim with handmade crafts sourced from local artisans. The first building contained metalwork in intricately manipulated sheets to form lanterns, candleholders, and furniture. I absolutely fell in love with a wall sconce made in the image of a delicate forest fungus, quivering layers of oxidized copper enveloping a small sheath of wax. Were it not for a price tag surpassing the triple digit borderline, it would have undoubtedly found a place in the growing collection of acquisitions steadily decreasing our gas mileage in the back seat.
We skipped the next two buildings for lack of time and interest, but could not resist the contorted, tortured distortions of what were once redwood trees settled about the wraparound porch of the fourth building like tired animals. Here we spent a legitimate amount of time, partially due to an overwhelming presentation of wooden deformities, and partially due to the caretaker Harvey who wandered verbally through topics concerning everything from political protesters to his mother.
After spending a good time perusing the wallpaper of pieced pulp transformed into stained, laquered, grotesquely beautiful household accessories, we finally agreed that anything we truly loved would put an unreasonable dent in our collective wallet. Unwilling to leave empty-handed however, we settled on two small unworked wood samples to bring home with us: a swirly fingerprint of Oak and a spiky, inflated slug of Bird's Eye Maple.
Clutching our new prizes, we sank into the scalding seats to continue our drive to Redwood renewed by the thrill of a jewel hunt and the satisfaction of knowing that our first shopping trip resulted in the purchase of objects far beyond the creative capabilities of anything manmade.
{pri}
Starting our drive down highway 199, we were immediately captivated by the sight of a towering, clearly handmade fountain gushing with water dyed in a purple hue normally reserved for Nickelodeon and Halloween. Flanking this eggplant geyser was a small army of beautifully twisted tree stumps and unusual carvings; any momentary hesitations quickly evaporated and we pulled a hasty u-turn despite our tight schedule.
"It's A Burl!" was a small gathering of 4 buildings, each filled to brim with handmade crafts sourced from local artisans. The first building contained metalwork in intricately manipulated sheets to form lanterns, candleholders, and furniture. I absolutely fell in love with a wall sconce made in the image of a delicate forest fungus, quivering layers of oxidized copper enveloping a small sheath of wax. Were it not for a price tag surpassing the triple digit borderline, it would have undoubtedly found a place in the growing collection of acquisitions steadily decreasing our gas mileage in the back seat.
We skipped the next two buildings for lack of time and interest, but could not resist the contorted, tortured distortions of what were once redwood trees settled about the wraparound porch of the fourth building like tired animals. Here we spent a legitimate amount of time, partially due to an overwhelming presentation of wooden deformities, and partially due to the caretaker Harvey who wandered verbally through topics concerning everything from political protesters to his mother.
After spending a good time perusing the wallpaper of pieced pulp transformed into stained, laquered, grotesquely beautiful household accessories, we finally agreed that anything we truly loved would put an unreasonable dent in our collective wallet. Unwilling to leave empty-handed however, we settled on two small unworked wood samples to bring home with us: a swirly fingerprint of Oak and a spiky, inflated slug of Bird's Eye Maple.
Clutching our new prizes, we sank into the scalding seats to continue our drive to Redwood renewed by the thrill of a jewel hunt and the satisfaction of knowing that our first shopping trip resulted in the purchase of objects far beyond the creative capabilities of anything manmade.
{pri}
OR-20
After driving all night through Idaho, we finally reached the first rest stop in Oregon.
We slept in our car for a few hours, then continued down to Oregon State Highway 20 before the sun rose. I watched the fiery orb begin its ascent through the mountains with the knowledge that we would be racing to the horizon this day.
The road curved through the eastern hills of the state, at one point mirroring the winding Rogue River.
We stopped at a rest area to get M&Ms and we found some really cool moss.
Eventually I needed gas, and after passing several stations that looked abandoned I finally pulled up to a pump where I was greeted (for the first time since Jersey) by a gas attendant. The jovial one-toothed man informed me that only NJ and Oregon had the no self-service law. After filling up, we passed onwards, jumping between highways in order to get closer to the ocean.
We painfully drove past the exits for Crater Lake, one of the many amazing sights that would have to go unseen this trip. After a short hop on Interstate 5 we reached our final exit onto US-199 which would bring us all the way to our destination for the night: Redwood National Park in northern California.
[adam]
We slept in our car for a few hours, then continued down to Oregon State Highway 20 before the sun rose. I watched the fiery orb begin its ascent through the mountains with the knowledge that we would be racing to the horizon this day.
The road curved through the eastern hills of the state, at one point mirroring the winding Rogue River.
We stopped at a rest area to get M&Ms and we found some really cool moss.
Eventually I needed gas, and after passing several stations that looked abandoned I finally pulled up to a pump where I was greeted (for the first time since Jersey) by a gas attendant. The jovial one-toothed man informed me that only NJ and Oregon had the no self-service law. After filling up, we passed onwards, jumping between highways in order to get closer to the ocean.
We painfully drove past the exits for Crater Lake, one of the many amazing sights that would have to go unseen this trip. After a short hop on Interstate 5 we reached our final exit onto US-199 which would bring us all the way to our destination for the night: Redwood National Park in northern California.
[adam]
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