It has grown so cumbersome to browse from one subscription to the next in search of a new post, that I've nearly lost interest in Xanga.  Has anyone else found that you no longer get an email to advise you when your subscriptions have posted?  Why would they change that feature?  My Daily Update from my subscriptions is no longer daily, nor does it include all of my subscriptions. 

Well, nevertheless, I've vowed to post at least once a month, if only to keep a journal for my own future reference.  It looks like I missed March so there will have to be two in April.  No doubt, one will be a rant about our ridiculously complicated tax system.

So, March was uncharacteristically cold here, which was fine with me.  My winter garden is producing little more than salad greens and sugar snap peas.  Unless you count the California poppies that reseeded themselves from the ones I planted last year. 

Working horses is always more fun in cool weather, because they are more energetic and naturally, mountain biking is more fun because the rider is more energetic. 

It finally warmed up and with a vengeance!  With the warm weather, came the critters.  No more ploughing through tall grass with (relative) impunity.  This is a benign gopher snake who crossed our path trying to escape the construction of a new pipeline.

A stop streamside to wet our shirts and our hair, made the climb more comfortable.

Sally and I, in an attempt to rid ourselves of the One Trail Wonders moniker, have been descending Roller Coaster instead of Yikes!.  The two trails are twisted cousins, each descending from the same ridge in different directions.  Roller Coaster was created by motorcyclists so it doesn't bother with subtle nuances like turns and switchbacks. 

This is the first section, beautifully fragranced by the wild lilacs in full bloom. 

It just follows the contours of the ridge, straight down, devil take the hindquarter. 

This is a view of the second section as it plunges into the brush.

In this picture you can see how it got its name as it snakes up and down the ridge. 

The last section is especially exciting because it's not only STEEP but it's rutted, twisty, and flanked by poison oak.  Sally, who is a skillful rider, rode the entire trail without a single mistake for the first time, this week.  When I got to the bottom, I turned around to see how far behind she was and she popped into sight just seconds behind me.  We both burst into simultaneous laughter, half in relief of having survived, and half from the shear joy of a pleasure shared.

I'm spending hours teaching the horses to trust and to be patient.  They have been badly used by people who saddled hurriedly, without concern for their comfort.  Their response has been to grow agitated when being tacked up, and in their excited state, they want to bolt even before the rider is seated.  This is the view from my seat as I sit quietly, allowing them to relax (over and over) before moving off. 

And this is Florentino after his sponge bath.  Grace is supervising in the background.

This is the beautiful Gemela, looking deceptively placid.

It seems to be taking a long time to rehabilitate them, but when I consider that I'm undoing 15 years of bad habits, I think I'm making good progress.

I just finished reading Barbara Kingsolver's The Lacuna. 

Before I tell you what a compelling novel it is, let me preface it with some personal history.  I come from a family of scofflaws.  Oh, not the kind of people who disregard laws against crimes against others, just the laws that are so petty as to be enforced only randomly as a form of persecution and laws that are intended either to protect us from ourselves, otherwise known as victimless crimes (I can look after myself, thank you very much).  

Laws that are on the books, only to be used when expedient to make life miserable for the powerless, seem primarily to proliferate at the local level.  They are either enforced arbitrarily and without reason or randomly.  My personal brushes with the law have been limited to this type of infraction, at least since I've been an adult.  I do confess to inciting statutory rape but that will remain unexamined in this forum.

This week I was informed that I was not allowed to park a travel trailer that I'm trying to sell (on privately owned land) anywhere but on a paved driveway, at least twenty-five feet from the road.  Bear in mind that this is a semi rural area where most of the older houses don't have paved driveways, including the one on the property in question.  To add insult to injury, this message was delivered by a volunteer.  The county is so shorthanded that they are recruiting volunteers to turn in their neighbors.  I was reminded of Mao's China where people were encouraged to renounce each other. 

So, still smarting from this impingement on my freedom, I finished reading this novel.  It's a story of an innocuous, young writer who structures his life to stay out of the public eye and yet is caught in the web of government persecution during the early fifties. 

Younger people may not recall the rabid campaign against communism, called McCarthyism, that swept this country during the cold war with the Soviet Union.  In fact, kids may not even know there was a country called the Soviet Union.  I don't say that with any sense of superiority as, until yesterday, I didn't know there was a country called Western Sahara. 

Back to the book...I also have to admit to being a fan of Barbara Kingsolver ever since my niece loaned me her copy of The Poisonwood Bible.  Since then I've read almost everything she's written with varying degrees of smittenness.  (Like that word?)  And so, I admit a certain prejudice towards anything she writes. 

All bias aside, this is a book worth reading.  It's a book that Americans who imagine that we are a people of tolerance, freedom, and rule of law should read.  It is a novel and as such, the protagonist is a creation of the author, but the historical context is fairly portrayed.  Kingsolver has done careful research and has woven her story around historical figures who have been fleshed out into living, breathing men and women.  Perhaps one of the most important ideas that I garnered from this novel is a healthy skepticism of anything reported in the media.  But then I suppose the reason it resonated so strongly in with me is because I already mistrusted the propaganda we are spoon fed.

I've been making some progress with the horses.  They're teaching me patience as they try to revert to their bad habits, but each day they grow a bit more tractable.  I felt exceedingly smug at having taught Gemela to stand quietly, while being mounted, in one lesson; but that pride dissipated  when I went to swing up into the saddle on Monday, and she pranced out from under me.  Back to square one.

Today, I spent another fifteen minutes, mounting and dismounting, until my butt muscles complained.  When she finally stood still, it was time to hit the trail.  We worked up and down the street, passing by the road back to the barn, until she accepted the idea that we were not going to prance all the way home.  Out on the street, she worked herself into a sweat refusing to step up a curb.  I urged he forward with legs and hands until my legs could squeeze no more.  At last I jumped off and led her and she followed with some trepidation.  Once she had followed me up and down the curb a couple of times, I got back on and then she did it with only slight hesitation. 

I get off and lead a horse over an obstacle only as a last resort because it puts one in such a vulnerable position.  Not only are you in danger of being stepped on or bowled over, there's no way to control a panicked animal that outweighs you by  eleven hundred pounds.  As long as you are astride, you can at least stay with the horse, and normally you can keep him from bolting by turning him in a circle.  I say "normally" because I once rode a horse who could gallop in a straight line with his nose to your toe.  That was pretty scary.

Speaking of bolting, Flo got fed up with standing still in the barn and galloped off with me only half on, the other day.  My sister and cousin, who were cleaning the corral, stood with mouth agape as we came sailing out of the barn.  Clinging for dear life, I managed to pull him around before he got up too much speed.  When he came to a stop, all I could do is sit quietly until my heart returned to its normal pace.  He knew he was in trouble and stood rooted to the ground until I regained my composure.  What a brat!

I've been spending time with a friend's horses, cleaning the barn, grooming and exercising the horses.  I had forgotten how much I love just being around them.

My own mare died about five years ago, and I was relieved to be free of the responsibility after caring for her for 29 years.  I had bought her when she was barely three years old and I was a young woman, newly married.  She and I were constant companions, exploring the local hills and river bottoms.  But I discovered mountain bikes when she was about 15 and my interest in riding her diminished, as my passion for mountain biking took fire.  

It was with some trepidation that I agreed to take on the responsibility of exercising two middle aged, neglected horses.  For over a week, I worked them from the ground on a long line, gradually starting them on an exercise program that wouldn't make them sore. 

My third niece, Tara, brought her son, Bradly, up to the barn to get acquainted with my charges yesterday.  Bradly is eleven and is a bit ambivalent about learning horsemanship, but Tara is determined that he will develop interests outside of video games.  Tara, on the other hand, is ecstatic about developing a rapport with these gentle giants.  Her previous experience with horses was limited to my mare, who was never very sociable with anyone but me.  In fact, she was pretty nasty.  So, finding that these Andalusians are very affectionate, comes as a pleasant surprise. 

We're starting with the basics, learning the proper way to halter a horse, how to safely lead them, groom them and clean their feet.  At first Bradly was apprehensive about standing close to the big gelding and asking for a foot, but today he was more confident.  Bradly does the front feet and Tara does the back.  Bradly is concerned that the horse will fart on him.

This is Gemela, the mare.  She has lovely ground manners and instills confidence in beginners.  Interestingly, her half brother, Florentino, is something of a pain in the neck on the ground but is fabulous under saddle, where Gemela is a challenge on the trail.

Bradly poses in the fading sunlight with Florentino.

Neither of my students was eager to ride yet, preferring to get more familiar with the animals before attempting that feat.  So, I finally threw a bareback pad on Gemela and gave them a short demonstration of how to cue her.  I was overwhelmed by the feeling of being astride after so many years.  My anxiety vanished and I immediately felt at ease and in communication with this beautiful mare.  I suspect that only a fellow horse lover can truly understand that feeling.

The first Rut Rider ride of the new year saw renewed interest in the Sunday morning group ride.  Recent acquaintance, Stacey, dragged her lovely teenaged daughter, Mackenzie, out of bed to join us; and Sally too brought young blood to the group.  Her son, Tim, and his friend, Nate, also carved time out of their busy teen schedule to show us old ladies how to ride. 

Guy led the boys up the wash via the more difficult trails while we girls pedaled up the less technical ascent to meet at the top.  After a week of steady rain, the traction was ideal and even the sand pits were relatively firm to the tire. 

There's a section of trail that travels along the top of a flood control berm right next to the highway.  The traffic noise spoils the wilderness experience for me, so I've been scouting for a way to descend the opposite face of the levy to ride at the base of it instead.  I had been eyeballing a spot between two large bushes where one could slide down the grassy top part of the levy, about 10' or 15', to the concrete-covered rock base.  The rock base looked reasonably easy to get down, much like slickrock, but the roll out at the bottom was pretty abrupt.  I clambered down to survey the proposed route, debating the survivability of it.  Stacey volunteered to film my attempt so the "show off" factor tipped the scales in favor of new trail blazing.

I handed the camera to Stacey and scrambled back to the top to mount my trusty Intense.  I half expected to chicken out when I rolled up to the edge and looked over, but since I was already clipped into my pedals, and the hill was soft, there was no reason to abort.  The bike slid a little sideways in the wet grass but the rear wheel never passed the front so I held my line.  As soon as I hit the Gunite-coated boulders of the base, I regained control and rolled neatly to the bottom; and that's where my marvelous Fox fork saved me.  Even though my butt was well behind the seat, that big four inch shock compressed all the way to the bottom and the bike stopped dead in it's tracks.  For a fleeting second I waited for the rear wheel to levitate and launch me over the bars, but luck was with me and I nonchalantly pedaled out of it, albeit with an elevated adrenaline level.

When we viewed the video we found that only a portion of the descent had been caught "on film" and Stacey suggested that we do a retake.  "I don't want to keep the guys waiting that long," I begged off (they were up ahead waiting for us).  Inwardly I was thinking, "Are you kidding?  I cheated death once; I'm not going to press my luck."

As far as Christmas spirit goes I'm probably right up there with old Ebeneezer Scrooge.  Don't misunderstand, I love the family gatherings and the feeling of good will that is so easily expressed at this time of year, but I just can't muster up any enthusiasm for decorating and shopping for the requisite happy crap. 

I rather enjoy rubbing elbows in the crowded grocery stores and inching through packed parking lots.  What I don't enjoy is running the gauntlet of beggars who station themselves around the entrance to every grocery store in town.  The Salvation Army bell ringers have become a Christmas icon and they are unobtrusive, allowing their bells to garner attention.  But today I had to navigate between the man hawking gym memberships; the woman soliciting donations for homeless children; the veteran begging for alms to sustain his valorous brothers in arms; and the derelict who openly admitted he needed beer money.  I steeled my heart and nodded politely to each of them, returning their greetings of the season. 

Just when I thought I had made my escape, I rounded the corner to find a young girl and her little brother, selling mistletoe.  She was perhaps ten or eleven, and her little brother looked about eight.  He was seated in front of a music stand, with a violin case lying open at his feet, carefully sawing out a discernable rendition of Jingle Bells.  There was something so heartwarming about these serious little entrepreneurs that I opened my musty little pocketbook and dug out a few well worn schillings.  A $2 bag of mistletoe and a tip for the little busker was all it cost to send me home smiling and humming Jingle Bells to myself.

Mt. San Bernardino glows in the winter sunset.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Winter has finally come to these Southern climes, just in time for Christmas.  My walking companion, Urszula, and I wished we had worn gloves and hats on our walk today.  Lily, her dog, didn't seem to mind the cold at all even though she has been recently transplanted from Florida.

We flushed a falcon (or possibly some kind of small hawk) from the brush along the side of the road.  He flew to the top of a nearby tree and waited for us to move on so he could continue his meal, or so we assumed. 

Tony was not pleased with my tardiness as evidenced by this disgruntled look.  Though he has yet to allow us to touch him, he feels entitled to his three square meals a day at my doorstep.

I took Mike to the surgery center first thing this morning for his first knee surgery.  He was a little tense about it as evidenced by his irritable disposition.  He was barking orders at me and cursing at having to return to the house to retrieve his forgotten paperwork, but I shrugged it off, figuring we all handle stress differently.  I sat with him in the reception area until the nurse came to get him.  I asked her to check to be sure that they had made note of the DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) order.  She gave me a funny look.  What?  I was half kidding.

I picked him up a few hours later and he was all smiles, flirting shamelessly with the nurses and telling me how pretty I looked.  The nurse took his friendly comments in stride.  I asked, "What'd you give him, Rohypnol?"  (That's the date rape drug known as roofies to you street drug users) She claimed it was only hydrocodone/acetaminophin.  I wasn't too worried either way, figuring I could certainly outrun him should he become too amorous.

At home, I made him some breakfast and left him with two remotes, two books, and a supply of pain meds.  By the time I got home from work he was back to normal and in good spirits.  The repaired knee hurt less than the other one, which hurt less than the hole in his hand from the IV.  He had already discarded the $38 crutches and was walking from the chair to the bathroom without help and with a minimum of discomfort. 

Some credit must be given to Butchie who provided excellent companionship.

What a satisfying weekend!  I got to ride three days in a row and still had time to do the laundry, grocery shopping, and work in the garden.

On Sunday I rode with a woman whose husband I had met on the trail Friday.  It was like a blind date in a way.  She called me and introduced herself on Saturday night.  We arranged to meet on Sunday morning.  As I was getting dressed for the ride I felt a little apprehensive because, even though it was just a friendly, get-acquainted ride, there is always that spirit of competition that makes one want to make a good showing.

Just before I left the house, I Googled her name.  To my dismay, I pulled up race results in which she had placed very well.  Oh, great, I thought, she's gonna kick my butt. 

She showed up right on time, but since I had arrived at our meeting place a few minutes early, I had lost my warm up.  We started up the road at a fairly moderate pace but the cold air triggered a small asthmatic reaction so I had to slow down for a few minutes.  When we came to the first rock obstacle, she announced that she had just recently found the courage to ride over it.  I admitted that I sometimes didn't ride over it either because it is a little intimidating.  I followed her lead and we both cleared it with grace.

A short time later we came to another tricky section and I led her through it with ease.  And then we came to the concrete bridge. 

Now, I have ridden this bridge at least once in each direction but that was only to prove to myself that I could do it.  I've walked my bike over it a gazillion times, each time telling myself that the penalty for failure is simply too dear.  Wouldn't you know, she rode over it as if it were only six inches off the ground instead of six feet.  Well, I'm sorry to say, I just could not force myself to ride it no matter how girly it made me look. 

I realize that I must now get over my trepidation and just do it.  There is no way I can walk when another woman is riding.  It was okay when it was only the guys riding it, but this woman has thrown down the gauntlet.  I vowed to ride it in the reverse direction when we returned.  I didn't of course, I'm a big fat chicken.

We had a very pleasant ride and I think she was as happy as I was to have found another woman who was a compatible riding companion. 

The One-Trail-Wonders climbed out of their rut today and rode a different trail.  Though Yikes! had it's appeal, what with superlative traction after the rain, I was in the mood for some gut wrenching, leg punishing, lung bursting, climbing.  NOT REALLY   You were just about to check for flying pigs, weren't you. 

Because it was such a spectacularly clear day, what I was in the mood for was the view from the Morton Peak Trail.  Lamentably, that goal entailed the aforementioned gutwrenchinglegpunishinglungbursting climb. 

We pedaled at a leisurely pace across the Santa Ana River, stopping to chat up another group of riders just long enough to lose our warm up.  The temperature was comfortable for climbing but not ideal for standing around in a sweaty jersey, flapping our jaws.  I have worked diligently on maintaining my reputation for being Chatty Kathy on the trail, and I couldn't pass up an opportunity to recruit their lone woman rider to join our ranks.  I passed out my Cycling Enthusiast calling cards with an invitation to hook up with us in the future, and we were on our way, with Sally whining like a girl about how cold it was. 

Shortly thereafter we began to climb and she had something different to whine about.  Oh, wait, that was me. 

We assaulted the first steep climb with the fury of two tortoises scrambling for the same leaf of lettuce.  Pausing at a level spot where Lower Workout branches off towards our destination, I stopped to consult with Sally about our route.  We'd originally planned to take Upper Workout, which is a brutal, relentless ascent; but it occurred to me that we could instead take the lower route that deferred the painful climbing until farther along the trail.  I know, I know, you're saying, "Why put it off", but that's just how someone who hates to climb thinks.  Never mind the fact that by procrastinating, we condensed the elevation gain into a shorter distance.  Brilliant!

We opted for Lower and congratulated ourselves on our choice when we got to the Shortcut, which is an exciting little trail that plunges straight down the side of the hill and has rocks and  ruts just to keep it interesting.  When we eventually reached Easy Street (so named because it is an easy ride downhill) and began the breathless agony of climbing up to Upper Workout, we had ample time to regret our choice of routes.  For most of the way it was rideable, if you don't mind grinding up in granny gear, struggling to keep the front tire on the ground, and sucking up gravel with your labored breathing; but about fifty yards from the top, it gets steep. 

When we were able to get back on, and our lungs had recovered from our profligate use of oxygen, we turned east on Upper Workout and dropped steeply into a fold in the hills, crossed a stream bed, climbed out the other side, and realized we had gone the wrong way.  We turned around, dropped back to the stream bed, and climbed up what had been a very pleasant and quick descent.  It wasn't so quick on the reverse trip. 

At last, we reached the beginning of the climb.

Here, Sally poses at the start of the Santa Ana River Trail (2E03) Mentone to Morton Peak

This is probably the least used section of the SART and it was a little worse for the lack of wear.  Brush encroached on the trail, clawing at our arms and legs, and I quickly realized that I had forgotten to pack my leg and arm guards.  Within yards, I was bloody. 

You probably can't pick out Sally on the trail in the upper right quadrant of the picture.  You can make out the trail in the upper left as it zigs and zags up Morton Peak.

There was frost on the shaded, north facing slopes but the intensity of our exertion kept us warm and by the time we reached our destination we were wet with perspiration.

Here Sally is proudly displaying her granola snacks and bragging about the dry clothing she has in her pack for the chilly ride back down.  Note the trail behind her winding uphill.

Sally pulled off her wet jersey and, even though I hadn't brought a replacement, I pulled mine off to dry in the sunshine.  She had even brought a dry bra so she stripped naked to the waist.  I was on the verge of slipping out of my soaked sports bra when I heard the unmistakable sound of tires coming down the trail.  I had time to exclaim "Oh, shit!" before a mountain biker slid to a stop at the turn in the trail where we were disrobing. 

There was nothing to be done but dissolve into giggles and scramble for our clothes.  As soon as he realized that he had ridden into a puddle of semi-naked ladies, he discretely turned his back.  He warned us that he had two friends who would soon be joining him.  By the time they too came sliding into the blind turn, we had composed ourselves and were fully clothed.  I expect his rendition of the encounter was a bit more embellished than this one but who could blame him?

Even though I promised Sally that I wouldn't publish this last photo, I thought it graphically illustrated how traumatized she had been by the incident.  No sooner than they had clipped into their pedals and disappeared down the trail, she took cover behind a "bush" to do her business.

Moral of the story:  Never trust a mountain biker with a camera in her hand.  When it comes right down to it, we're all in this alone.

NOTE:

Since Xanga has become a bit hit and miss about notifying me when my subscriptions post, I can only assume that my subscribers are experiencing the same neglect.  So, I've tagged the people who have expressed interest specifically in mountain biking to make sure they don't miss my outdoor adventures, even if they aren't mentioned in the blog.  If you want me to either include you or quit bugging you, let me know.