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.

FOOL'S GOLD!

On some planes of public discourse (real estate, tourism, Craigslist) the area where we live now is referred to as gold country. Well, there was a huge, deep ( a mile down at the deepest) goldmine here that operated from 1850 to 1956.

this mine shaft goes down 1800 feet on a 45 degree slope.

miners going down into the mine to work.

this is where the mine manager lived.

Enormous chunks of land have been hosed through giant sluice boxes by way oversized streams of water. here are some illustrative pictures.

Miles of canals or ditchbanks, leaping over canyons and side creeks with flumes were built to supply hydraulic mines.

We hiked on the Independence Trail, which is an abandoned canal converted to a wheelchair accessible path above the south fork of the Yuba River. This was called the Excelsior Canal. It ran, nearly level, from the south fork of the yube river to Smartville, 25 miles away. there it was sprayed on hillsides to wash out gold bearing gravel from earlier, higher river beds.

not the easiest place to work.

wheelchair access. a new use for an old canal.

Another area of major hydraulic mining nearby is Malakoff Diggins State Park (yes, that is the official spelling).

You can search for "Nevada City, CA" on Google Maps. Zoom out a bit till you see a whitish blob just north and slightly east of nevada city. that's Malakoff Diggins. in 1884 a federal judge banned hydraulic mining as nuisance because the silt runoff inundated large areas of farmland in the central valley and silted in San Francisco bay at an alarming rate.

Isn't it amazing what humans will do following the lure of riches? I see that gold is getting very expensive again.

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.

An Old Friend

We finally had some time to take a walk in our new neighborhood, and were lucky enough to run into this old friend:We immediately recognized the shine on its wings, while walking on the shadow side of the road...
...and its familiar brilliance in the full sun, under cloudless mountain skies.

dragonflies will be gone
there will be snow
by the time we learn these roads

We're acclimating. You can't believe the time it takes.

Here and Now

I haven't downloaded any photos in over a week (except for this one of Bonsai checking out the young buck in the yard). There's been no time to take long looks at anything. Life moves quickly, drawing everything in blurred lines like an impressionist painting of life, and not life itself. Two 17 ft U-Haul truck moves, and everything we have ever collected and didn't finally discard in a fit of moving fatigue is now with us. All under one roof. We have our big cushy couch and wide recliner. We even have cable TV. My heart broke a little when I saw The O'Reilly Factor on our TV listings. We haven't had cable or satellite for over year, I had forgotten such crap is really broadcast over the wires. We haven't been paying any attention to the online news sites for weeks. We have even given up on our favorite political bloggers. The emails keep coming, though. Call Congress for the Public Option. Don't give up on Health Care. The battle is not yet over.

I think we have come to the mountains because we suspect the biggest battles really are over. We have come to where there is enough sunlight to generate solar power, where there is enough collectible rainfall in winter to grow a life-sustaining garden in summer, and where there is enough of a community to maintain a social structure while the larger society falls apart.

It's hot here for many months of the year. We're going to learn to live where it's relatively inhospitable (for a wuss like me). It's something we're all going to have to face in the future, whether you accept the climate is changing, or not. We're just taking it on now.

Life is serious at the moment.

(Don't forget to click on the pic of Bonsai. He's definitely in his kitty cat element.)

Between Here and There

There are 225 miles between Santa Cruz and Nevada City, a three-thousand foot climb in elevation the last few miles. We rented this 17-ft U-Haul, towed our car, and drove those miles on Friday. Roger did almost all of the unloading while I set up some kind of home base in the kitchen and master bedroom. We discovered upon arrival that the house we rented does not come with a refrigerator. A disappointing realization because the only large appliance we sold before we left Humboldt County last September was our refrigerator. We have never bought or rented a place that didn't have a fridge. So life there is like camping out, no matter how modern the house, when we're left with just our Coleman cooler.
This backyard also reminds us of camping. It looks like most of the campsites we've ever happily pitched a tent. This is our yard for the next six months while we search for a home and land. The squirrels and deer seem to like it here very much. Some animal I've never heard before sang a tune here in the dead darkness of night on Saturday. I listened to it as it crossed the yard, and I only knew it was moving as its call became fainter and fainter. Maybe in the coming rains and snow we'll find some tracks to give us a clue. The neighbors tell us that there are coyotes. We can't wait to hear them. This creature was definitely not a coyote, but a delightful mystery.
On the road covering those miles between here and there, we stop at this vista point with an overlook at the Carquinez Strait. It's a good place to rest half way between the sea and the Sierras. We always pack a lunch and take a look around. Lately the temps have been in the high 90s, but the dragonflies are still out and about, watching the traffic, or something.

We're tired. Another, final trip looms later this week.

Almost Gone, Except For Still Being Here

We waited all day Tuesday for a property manager to call us, to fax us a six-month lease on a house we are renting in Nevada City. This property manager has been a disappointment from the moment we met her last week. She has never come through in any way, always enthusiastically making promises that we happily accept, but always with suspicion. It's not that we won't get the place, we will, but she will take forever to let us know. It will throw off the schedule for picking up the U-Haul; ordering the high-speed internet; setting up basic phone service; putting the utilities in our name. We always have high expectations for simple levels of competence, and we are often let down. I can't understand how someone can be so sucky at their job and still keep it. How does that happen? Do people just not care anymore?

Still if all goes well with this particular transaction, we will be renting a large modern house in the hills outside of Nevada city on 1.73 acres. It will be a fine place to winter while we house hunt in earnest.
It's just too hard and absurd to shop online for a house. Things that are spectacular in photos often prove to be less stellar in the stark light of day. Take this house, for instance. Cute, isn't it? It has very little southern exposure and would take a whole lot of tree cutting to bring any sunlight for gardening. The trees closest to the house on the west, which should be cut down to mitigate fire danger, are not even on this property. "Hello, new neighbor, mind if we chop down your trees?" Or, take that gorgeous house with a million dollar view of the lakes and the coveted Sutter Buttes (west) or Sierra Buttes (east), it will be so hot there in the summer that even the snakes and lizards will slink off looking for respite. That lovely rambling house with its 'pottery barn" colors is really a triple wide mobile home (photo below) with a permitted two-story addition that is not being used for what it is actually permitted for. That beautiful cabin sided with the rich dark wood milled from its own land has no back steps, and drops off into a steep canyon. Real estate is very tricky business, and short sales (where banks have to agree to take less than what is actually owed on the house) can literally take six months to close and will drive you insane in the process.
We have been living in the upstairs two rooms of the old, uncared for family beach house for over a year now. It's amazing how small a space Roger and I can comfortably occupy together. Transitioning to a bigger space is not always easy. We don't really know how to spread out. It's not our nature. Most houses these days are absurdly big, and all boast the same currently popular features. We look at photographs online and find something almost weirdly voyeuristic about it. We are privy to the privy (double stall shower, big sunken tub with soothing jets), invited into the boudoir (always a strip of contrasting wallpaper where the wall meets the ceiling), given a place at the dining table in modern stainless kitchens (double door side-by-side refrigerator), and then slowly tour the great room with requisite cedar tongue and groove ceilings. All in homes anxiously waiting for someone to buy and love them.

When we finally walk through these places in real life, some people maintain the stage and prep the house for our audience. Others don't even make the beds or wash the breakfast dishes. We've seen bowls of cereal left on the table, cheerios floating soggily in warm milk; blow-dryers left on the bathroom counter with the cord draped across the sink; private notes on the refrigerator; personal paperwork strewn across desks; printed computer pages of dream searches for downsized houses and lower mortgages.

We're not even sure which is worse-- the beautiful antiseptic people-less staging, or the house in the throes of the utter mundanity of private lives. I always carry a camera on these outings, but mostly I look away and never take a single photo. I know some shoppers look through cupboards and drawers, I swear I can't imagine why.

The property manager never did call us. We finally called her again and found her in at her desk dealing with some personal issue that she went on about at length with Roger. The house is ours. The high speed internet will be connected on Saturday. If that's really true, you'll know about it. Wish us luck.