Word Wednesday: Our Day On The Yuba

I wish I could tell you how hard it is to photograph rainbows rippling endlessly across a flowing river. I think these picture convey that difficulty.
We were supposed to get up early Tuesday morning to meet our new geezer hiking group for a major hike in the high country. We didn't.
Oh yes, we woke up early enough, but rushing around to go for a hike just didn't seem the right way to start the day.
We anguished about it because we love that our neighbors invited us on their Tuesday geezer high country hike, and we felt like total jerks for not showing up.
But it occurred to us that one of the things we love the most about retirement is that we don't have to leave the house at 7:40 am to do anything. EVER.
And our consolation prize was this: a hike on the south fork of the Yuba River. It was such a beautiful day there at the very end of summer, even if I couldn't quite photograph the rippling rainbows.

PS: That's me trying to do a Betty Grable pose. Oh well, the fun is all in the trying!

Looking Up and Looking Down

If I were a painter, I would have to paint a canvas of Roger and me sleeping out on the deck under a snug down comforter with meteor showers and planets twirling over us. There is something about waking and looking up at a star-filled sky and seeing meteor after meteor shooting across. It is a deep and satisfying reminder that we really are on a planet whirling in a galaxy, among a billion galaxies. From the time I was young, I have wished we could see stars and planets during the day. I wanted the fact of our speck of dust existence to be omnipresent. A balance to our insane homo sapien sense of exceptionalism.

Some of the meteors we saw were mere hints of moving light, but others took our breaths away and made us giddy, like kids. "Oh wow, did you see that?" "Whoa, look over there." Whoosh. Gone. Neither of us can remember when we first started loving August for the chance to see the Perseid showers, but it's from very early on in our relationship. We've been out under the stars everywhere we've lived, but have not seen showers like these before.

The night here is very dark. We could see the dustiness of the Milky Way directly overhead. A single planet shone in the southern sky. I was reminded of the different skies I've seen over the years. How a mere handful of stars dots the skies of southern California on the clearest nights, or how the millions of stars in a prairie sky shine with such depth and multi-dimensionality you can get disoriented and feel the planet actually spin beneath your feet. Here there are plenty of stars, but less of that awesome depth. The lights of Sacramento 60 miles away must leak into our darkness.

We stare up for as long as we can (it's 4:00 in the morning!), saying we'll go back to sleep right after the next one, and then the one after that. Pretty soon we really are sleeping, and the meteors go on flying over us, even when we're not looking. That's what I would paint, if I could.

Roger continues to heal quite well. We've managed to do some good hiking and even took a short trip to the Yuba River. There, it is just as much fun to stare down into the clear and sparkling waters and see the light glint brightly off the river stones and the shiny scales of very friendly fish, as it is to stare up into the Perseid night skies of August.

1. Top pic taken off the internet without permission. I could never get a shot like this.

2. Roger stood in the Yuba River to get this shot. There were so many of these 12 inch fishes, and they were curious about him and fearless.

New Trails; Old Fears

I've noticed something whenever we set out on new hiking trails: I experience a sense of dread and fear. It's an interesting sensation. It could have something to do with the trailhead signage. We know that there really are plenty of mountain lions and rattlers in this neck of the woods, but that's not what sets my heart thumping. It more likely has something to do with my own personal history. My fear is almost always about other humans, and getting lost.
The trails along the south fork of the Yuba River are really quite beautiful. There is a wild, quintessential western ruggedness about this terrain. Although, this land has yielded itself to the greatest assaults in search of gold, it still demands careful attention for almost every footstep along its ore-rich paths. Every now and then when I do chance a glance upward at a towering granite boulder, the perfect launch for a hunting mountain lion, the dizzying drop off to the river below can literally spin my head around.

But the thing that keeps me most alert are the fellow hikers. The few we've encountered have all been as cheerful and friendly as any other place we've ever wandered. But, some nagging part of me conflates the unknown trail with an unknown entity that I am sure is there only to hurt us. Is that not sad? I think it's very sad. I haven't told this to Roger yet, but half the time when I'm hiking along, I'm wishing he'd carry a giant walking stick, big enough to club some mountain stranger who lurks behind every tree like a storybook ogre, that old boogeyman.
Yet, despite this fear, and my ongoing rant about trails not being properly marked (and signs that show up in the middle of nowhere with no worthwhile information, or signs that announce we are leaving the park boundary without any indication of what the obvious continuing trail actually becomes or where it goes...) I still have enough free attention to spot the wildlife flying, sauntering, and crawling by. Even this pretty well-camouflaged gopher snake (doing a good imitation of a rattler) sunning itself on a south-facing rock catches my eye. I almost always have a great time out on the trails, but most especially when we're hiking back, and I've exhaled a crazy sigh of relief.

Looking East; Looking West...

We've been exploring the beautiful green Yuba River State Park (thank you Ahnold for not closing our parks yet). Looking east towards the rising Sierra Mountain range, the granite walls narrow at a place called Hoyts Crossing. A nice hike on a sunny day.
Several species of butterflies are still very active, this late in the season. I kept thinking I was seeing Lorquin's Admirals, but it turns out it was an Adelpha Californica. They were everywhere on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

These small California Crescents also caught our eye. The last few flowers springing wildly from between granite rocks attracted them to where we were sitting. These butterflies now match the oak leaves with their yellows and oranges against the clear mountain skies.
It's easy to dismiss gray squirrels, but there was something about this one that caught our attention. Its tail wasn't bushy, and it had wonderfully mottled fur. A little research told us that we were seeing California Ground Squirrels. A rather charming and inventive little creature. If you get a chance, check out how they defend against their most ardent predator: the Rattlesnake.
Then, we looked west. Soon the Yuba will be rushing over all of these rocks. We plan to make this a regular hike, to watch the rising river in the coming winter. Our first rains are supposed to start on Tuesday. We'll keep you posted.