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

Catching up from Sequoia National Park

Sequoia National Park was blessedly free of cell phone coverage, modern civilization, and electrical outlets of any kind. I was able to get in a quick entry before my laptop batteries decided that 80% was far to optimistic a prediction, and dropped suddenly to a mere 7%. Hence the abrupt ending. More to come soon.

-=dave=-

In The Company of Giants (Journal Entry, 6/7/08)

No free electricity tonight, so like my forefathers did I’m typing by firelight. I’m staying at the Lodgepole campground in Sequoia National Park, and feeling pretty lucky. I rolled up this morning to a “CAMP FULL” sign, but because I have such a small camping setup, the ranger let me in to a tiny lot way in the corner of the campground – and right next to the river. It’s a beautiful place, and the white noise of the rapids flowing past drowns out any inane chatter from the nearby lots. I scored big on this one.

Today was my first full day in Sequoia – I showed up yesterday afternoon, nabbed a camping spot in the chaparral woodlands, and went for a nice hike up to the nearby waterfalls. Sequoia is a unique park in that its lands range from under 2,000’ (where I camped last night) to the Giant Sequoia forests at 7,000’ (where I am now) to the high peaks of the Sierra Nevada (where I’m going tomorrow). It was a long, winding, uphill drive to the trees, but I took consolation in a new wildlife sighting – a bobcat drowsily walking across the road. This brings my wildlife sighting count up one further, now including: two bears, one marmot (on the summit of Half Dome), almost a dozen deer (including one that saw me, didn’t un, looked me right in the eyes – and took a great big piss), and innumerable chipmunks, ground squirrels, and lizards.

Tomorrow I make my ascent up Alta Peak – one of the few mountain peaks that can be reached by a day hike here in the park. There are countless little short hikes among the Sequoia groves, and an impressive number of super-long backpacking trails, but not many of the peak-bagging day hikes I love to hit on my road trips. According to the ranger, there’s up to three feet of snowpack still up near the summit (a little over 11,000’), so I’ll be bringing my snowshoes. I like my snowshoes.

I spent just about all of today wandering the numerous short trails throughout the Giant Forest. Along the way, I did stop at General Sherman (the largest tree – and living organism – in the world), along with a crowd of everyone else in the park. It was impressive – as impressive as a 52,000-ton tree can be – but I found that I preferred the smaller, nameless trees I came across while in the woods. Walking at the feet of the Sequoias, my footsteps muffled by the pine needles of the forest floor, the light streaming down in narrow beams through the canopy hundreds of feet above, the brilliant red bark of the Sequoias glowing in the sun, the overwhelming sense of peace and calm…well, it was beautiful.

Battery almost dead, gotta go.