The Grapes of Wrath

Foreword: at some point on this trip, I'm going to find myself in a place with internet access where I won't feel the icy deadline of check-out time breathing down my neck. Alas, today is not that day.

I've finally left the lonely peaks of the Sierra Nevadas, and I am currently enjoying the finer aspects of life in Paso Robles -- the other wine country. I just learned last night at the San Marcos vineyard that Paso Robles is in fact the largest viticultural area in California (in terms of acreage of vineyards, at least -- larger than either Napa or Sonoma county), and I have dedicated myself to exploring its vineyards and tasting rooms. I am an explorer, after all.

I had originally intended to stay in King's Canyon National Park for an additional day, but after taking stock of my electronics (camera, GPS, laptop: batteries dead) and my personal hygiene (unspeakable), I decided to drive down from the mountains and find a nice place with a shower and a whole bunch of electrical outlets. I stand by my decision; King's Canyon is a wilderness park -- the last great roadless expanse of land left in the United States. From what I have read it is not as striking as the gorges and monoliths of Yosemite, but it is no less beautiful. Still, it is a place best explored by backpacking, spending several days traveling into the wilderness and camping out far from the roads and established campgrounds of civilization. I plan to return someday to see it properly.

I have seen more Giant Sequoias in the past week than most people will in their entire lives, and I still am awestruck every time I see one of the great giants. Their trunks are a brilliant cinnamon color, dwarfing hundred-foot pines nearby and standing so massive that it is impossible to gage their scale until you see a human, small and insignificant, stand near their roots. I have come to recognize their ecosystem: gentle, shallow mountain valleys high up the ramparts of the Sierras, where granite ridges block out heavy winds and small, lazy creeks provide the water to quench the Sequoias' unending thirst.

I have also been to the High Sierra, climbing to the top of Alta Peak where snow still lies in June as a deep as a man and trees retreat to lower, kinder altitudes. I had my first taste of the thin air snowshoeing my way up the final ascent at 11,000 feet, where the snow was a blindingly brilliant white and I had to stop to catch my breath every few steps. I also had my first taste of loss, as a audacious little marmot had his first taste of my hiking pole (this is an aluminum hiking pole, with a foam-covered handle. I doubt that it has any nutritional value whatsoever, and I also doubt that the sweat from my hands had left enough of a salt residue to appeal to Mr. Marmot. My theory is that after living year-round in a pile of rocks surrounded by a field of snow, the marmot was just so happy to find something that he could chew that he happily went to town on my hiking pole handle). I had left the pole at the base of the rockpile at the summit for only a few moments, in order to scramble to the top and write my name in the register cached there. I returned down to see the little bastard happily gnawing away, and shooed him away. He hadn't learned his lesson, though; the cheeky bugger kept coming back for more, ignoring my yells and only retreating when I threw snowballs at him. He even posed for a photo, just a few feet away, his face a picture of innocence.

The moral of the lesson: marmots are bastards.

Other wildlife has been more respectful of my property: the bear I spooked while hiking in Yosemite had the good sense to run away (my bear-battling record in Yosemite: 1 win, 1 tie), the mule deer have regarded me with casual indifference, the lizards scurry off when I step near their rocks, and even the mountain lion stayed up in his tree (I saw him my last morning in Yosemite; as I was driving I saw a large cat dash across an opening and leap into a nearby oak tree, effortlessly jumping from the ground into the branches ten feet from the ground. He immediately hid away in the foliage of the tree, and I wasn't willing to walk up to the tree for a closer look. Mountain lions aren't exactly known for being cute and cuddly). But the marmots...

I also drove through Selma, CA, which advertises itself as "Raisin Capital of the World." The claim to this title, apparently, is the countless acres of grapes growing around the town (meh) and the Sun-Maid Raisin Company factory just outside town. The sign outside the factory advertises the fact that it contains a "Gift Shop." As a currently unemployee, I prefer my slices of corny americana be be the sort where I don't have to pay money. I like signs that say "museum" and "self-guided tours." "Gift Shop" doesn't do it for me.

Grade for Selma: C-

After driving across the San Joaquin Valley (If you haven't been there, I'll describe it to you: it is flat. Also, it is hot). I came upon the peaceful little village of Parkfield, CA. Parkfield sits directly atop the San Andreas Fault and is the the most seismically-active town in the entire country. I walked about the town (Population: 18), spooked a few lazy cows by greeting them with "good afternoon, ladies," took a picture of the bridge into town (which bends to the right, a result of the slowly-creeping faultline that pushes the west abutment north by a couple inches each year), and had a drink in the Parkfield Cafe (Motto: "Be Here When The Big One Hits"). Despite the heat (almost 100), I was struck by the peaceful, bucolic nature of the place as I walked in the shade of the Live Oak trees and sat by the "Parkfield Water Works" fountain. A most relaxing place, despite the imminent threat that a massive earthquake could strike at any moment.

Grade for Parkfield: A-

And now, I am off to boldly drink wine and camp along the shores of the Pacific. More to come soon.

-Dave