Southern Californians simply do not know how to drive in the rain.  In their defense, they really don't have much experience in this area, but nonetheless, it is unsafe to go out on the road when it's raining here.  Yesterday, we took the freeway from the gym to Home Depot, a distance of maybe three miles.  In that space we saw two accidents, one of which was a single vehicle! 

This morning, even though it's Mike's birthday, we stayed home for that reason.  Mike worked out in the garage, building new forms for another guitar, until his fingers were too cold to continue. 

I baked cookies while belting out lyrics with Jackson Browne at the top of my lungs (Out into the cool of the evening, stro-ols the pretender; he knows that all his hopes and dreams begin and end there), and lurching about the kitchen, in my imitation of dancing, to the Doobie Brothers.      China Grove oooh, China Grove! (shake, wiggle, lurch)  Does that take you back?  Made me feel like lightin' up a fatty.

Here I am, still in my jammies, with my handy, dandy three-way spatula.

My friend AprilsPlace recommended this guy's Xanga blog and I found him so amusing that I just had to give him some more exposure.

Thanks, AprilsPlace!

End of Earth Rescheduled

A walk to the road confirmed our worst fears.  The puddles that had previously turned half the road into red slime were now ponds inundating the entire road bed.  Sally and I walked to the North Rim to get a cell connection, slipping and sliding all the way.  She advised her husband that she might have to ride her bike the twelve miles to the highway where he could pick her up so that she could make it to work on Monday morning. 

When we got back to camp, Mike had decided that we should attempt to get off the mesa before the next storm moved in.  A call to a friend who is an amateur meteorologist had convinced him that we had a window of relatively clear weather.  We loaded our gear as quickly as possible, hooked up the Aliner, and started down the road. 

The first mini-pond, just a few yards from our driveway, was easily circumnavigated as other, more intrepid motorists, had compacted a two-track through the sage brush around it.  The first couple of miles the road was steep enough to provide good drainage. 

A cattle grate crossing provided our first bit of excitement.  It had deep holes of slick mud on both the approach and the opposite side, and it was barely wide enough for our rig to pass through.  We approached it with more speed that we would have liked and bounced over it quite neatly.  The Aliner followed obediently.

The steep hill was more deeply rutted that it had been but it was mostly sandstone and had good traction.  Mike skillfully navigated over and around the crevasse that bisected the road.

Tension mounted as we approached the section of road that promised to be the most troublesome.  Sloping gently uphill, it consisted of nothing but slippery-as-snot clay for several hundred yards.  On previous trips (in dry weather) we had seen here axel-deep ruts made by serious off road vehicles.  As feared, the entire width of the road was a morass of wet mud, churned up by previous traffic.  There was nothing to be done but plunge in.

Mike approached with as much speed as he could muster safely and tried vainly to keep the truck moving in a straight line when it began to skid and swerve.  He skillfully turned the wheels to follow the skid and applied the accelerator deftly, managing to keep the truck on the road, but our speed was diminishing rapidly as the far shore beckoned from afar.  This time the Aliner objected to the abuse and bucked and swayed, trying to pass the truck first on the left and then on the right as Mike corrected his mount as it tried to make for the trees.  We were almost at a standstill when the drive wheels found purchase and hauled us onto terra firma.  We all applauded our captain’s heroic efforts.

Our relief was short lived as we looked up the road to the junction where there was another, smaller muddy stretch, with another cattle grate, which was at the top of a fairly steep ramp.  If we could have seen the swamp that awaited us at the top, where we had to make a forty-five degree turn, we probably would have lost hope.  But, giddy with our previous success, we charged the gate, ruts be damned.  We cleared the cattle grate with little speed to spare and now saw another wide swath of churned up mud.  Sliding through the turn like a Nascar driver, Mike applied gentle acceleration to maintain momentum. 

When all six tires found purchase once again, we all four burst into laughter simultaneously.  We were now safely on the graded road with only five miles between us and the paved highway.

We remembered that there had been a sizeable puddle at a cattle grate on this road on our way in, so we had no delusions that we were home free.  From a distance we could see the obstacle ahead and as we approached our hearts sank.  The road disappeared into a red lake.  On the other side of the lake there was a muddy stretch and then a grated gate. 

For those of you who haven’t spent time in the open spaces of the American West, cattle are prevented from passing through gaps in a fence by grates composed of metal rails laid parallel, about a hoof width apart.  Cattle aren’t nimble enough to walk on them without falling into the spaces between them.

We stopped and all piled out to have a look.  There was a faint, uncompacted track through the pasture that went around the pond, but rejoined the road before the muddy section before the gate.  Even if our two wheel drive truck could have hauled the trailer through the pasture, through the ditch, and on to the slimy road, it was doubtful that it could make the turn through the narrow gate without risking damage to the gate posts and the truck or trailer.

A couple of vehicles approached from the opposite side of the pond, surveyed the situation, and turned around and went back to the highway.

So, we decided to dig a ditch to drain the pond.  We pulled out our little latrine shovel and Guy went to work.   Sally and I made feeble efforts to help.  Soon enough he had a gutter dug, eighteen inches deep where the bank was the highest, and as soon as he scooped out the plug at the pond, we had a miniature Colorado River flowing into the pasture below the road.  Within thirty minutes there was a strip of mud exposed wide enough for a vehicle to drive through.  I waded around feeling for the solid ground to determine the best path for the truck.  Where the water had been sitting for several days it came nearly to my knees and I sank several inches into the mud but the higher part of the road was solid just an inch or so below the mud.

Soon after we had drained the pond, a couple of monster four-wheel drive trucks came through and churned up the surface mud, creating decidedly better traction for our street tires.  The crossing was anti climactic as Mike easily drove through without incident.

It was fortunate that we came home a day earlier than we had planned because it took all day Sunday to get the red mud cleaned off the truck and trailer.  I toted two five-gallon buckets of it out to the garden and hosed another five gallons down the driveway.

Mike fixed the damage to the trailer and it looks better than it did before.  The only thing still to be repaired is all the new gray hair the experience gave me. 

Friday dawned gray and foreboding. 

After breakfast the rain slacked off but we decided to go for a reconnaissance walk, instead of taking the bikes out, in case ithe rain picked up again.  The walk turned into a bit of a hike as we got a little confused as to where things were in relation to where we were.  By the time we got back to camp we were all wishing we had taken our bikes because the walk home was all downhill.

We ate a leisurely lunch and then settled to our own pursuits.  Mike napped, Sally and Guy read, and I, well, you’re reading what I did. 

I polled everyone again to make sure that they didn’t want to pull up stakes and admit that we had gambled and lost, but nobody felt like packing up and making the 8 hour drive back home. 

Some people we had met on the trail said the weather had been like this all week, raining at night and threatening during the day.  We fervently hoped the road would remain solid for two more days.

Eventually, we gave up waiting for sunshine and suited up for a ride.  The air was brisk and we felt chilled from our sedentary afternoon but we were confident the ride would warm us up. 

The road to the north rim was firm with the exception of one large mud hole that stretched all the way across the road.  Some environmentally oblivious motorist had driven through the sage around the puddle so we followed in his tracks. 

None of us felt very confident as we scaled the sandstone with our tires caked with wet sand but soon found that we could trust our tires to hook up.  We accidentally turned onto one of the more difficult trails when we had intended to start with some confidence building, beginner trails to allow Sally to find her slickrock legs. 

Earlier Sally had admitted that the trails of Gooseberry cause her some apprehension, and even anxiety, while she felt that I looked at them more with eager anticipation.  I had to confess that I too felt a twinge in my gut before each ride but as soon as my shoe snapped into my pedal and my bum touched the saddle, all I felt was excitement.  Don’t misunderstand; there are many places where I get off and push my bike (none of which are downhill) because the penalty for failure is excessive.  Even some of the tricky downhill sections make the verbal side of my brain try to hold sway but as soon as wheels start rolling, it’s all pure fun.

Mike hadn’t ridden since his accident in December and was ambivalent about even taking his bike on this trip.  He chose to ride by himself when we first set off but later caught up with us and took the lead, riding with his usual effortless grace. 

Back at camp spirits were high.  The sky was clear enough for the nearly full moon to cast shadows and we were optimistic that Saturday would be perfect riding weather.

With happy thoughts of clear skies, I drifted off to sleep.  A few hours later I was awakened by the sound of rain gently falling on the fiberglass roof of the trailer.  I dozed off again, confident that it was a passing cloud and all was well with the world.  The intensity of the rain gradually intensified throughout the night.  By morning the mesa was darkly overcast and standing in puddles. 

In celebration of Sally’s fiftieth birthday we, Mike, Guy, Sally and I, agreed to squeeze in one last trip to the mesa before winter set in.  Since Mike wasn’t going to be home from Washington until the middle of the month we had little choice but to push the weather envelope and go the second half of the month. 

The week before we left it was cold and wet at home, and the forecast for the mesa was more of the same.  On Tuesday, before I began provisioning for the four days in the wilderness, I gave everyone a last chance to cancel the trip.  Sally and Guy had already made arrangements for a substitute teacher to teach their classes and so, voted to go, come hell or high water.

It rained steadily all through the night before we left and I had some serious reservations as I loaded the trailer.  It drizzled heavily until we reached the high desert where we left the gray skies behind.  Decorative remnants of storm clouds hung over the mountains but the valleys were clear.  When we reached the dirt road to the mesa there was evidence of some previous rainfall.  Deep puddles encroached on the road bed turning the fine red clay into slime.  Where the road began climbing up the mesa the traction improved and we grew more optimistic about being able to reach our camp site without difficulty.  It appeared that getting in was going to be possible but getting out could be another matter if the weather deteriorated.

The two-track out to our favorite campsite had become more rugged with the erosion of the sand from the sandstone ridges that lie just below the surface.  A section that has been navigable on previous trips snagged the crank post on the tongue of the trailer and rearranged its orientation.  The pull down step took a hit as well but I was confident that Mike would be able to fix whatever damage we inflicted.

We set up camp quickly and settled in for happy hour.   Guy initiated some stretching and I turned it into an elementary yoga class.  The setting was perfect for calming my jangled nerves and the nice bottle of red wine didn’t hurt either.

Our appetites temporarily satisfied, we set out for a sunset walk.  By the time we reached the rim of the mesa it was quite dark but a nearly full moon lit our path for the stroll back home. 

I heated up a pot of vegetable chili and warmed up the corn bread in a skillet.  We crowded around the little dining table inside the trailer to eat and for a short time the ribald conversation quieted.  No sooner had we finished our dessert of canaloni and tea, and my companions began turning my perfectly good chili into methane.  I finally was forced to eject them from the close confines of the trailer hoping that my bed mate, Sally, would have passed the worst of it before we crawled into bed together.  Sadly, that was a vain hope.

Sleep eluded me for a long time.  Tension about the success of the trip weighed heavily and I had to resort to meditation techniques from yoga class to force my brain to quiet.  When at long last I drifted into a fitful sleep, I was awakened by the sound of rain pattering in the trailer roof. 

We had left chairs outside so I crawled out of my down cocoon and went out to batten down the hatches.  It rained intermittently all night, waking me every time I heard it start up again.  At one point I crawled into the back of the truck with Mike and asked him if he was worried.  (Mike prefers to sleep in the camper on the bed of the truck because the bed in the trailer is to too short for his comfort.) He was puzzled about why I would ask that.  His complete lack of concern about navigating the slick road back to civilization soothed my mind and I went back to my own bed to warm up.  Sally’s deep, even breathing told me that my restlessness had not disturbed her sleep.

Here's my recipe for the vegetable chili and corn bread just for the GodfatherofGreenBay:

1 medium eggplant, peeled & cut into 1" slices
Olive oil
1 large yellow onion
2 red or yellow bell peppers, seeded and chopped
some chopped garlic
28 oz. tomatoes (I used fresh ones from my garden, parboiled and peeled but canned will do)
1 tbsp mild chili powder
1/2 tsp pico de gallo seasoning or whatever spicy seasoning you prefer
1/2 tsp ground cumin
1/2 tsp dried oregano
2 small zucchini, quartered lengthwise & sliced
14 oz canned kidney beans, drained & rinsed
2 cups water
1 tbsp tomato paste (if you use home grown tomatoes you can omit the tomato paste and half the water)
For garnish:  chopped scallions & grated Cheddar cheese 

1.  Brush the eggplant slices on 1 side with olive oil.  Drizzle some olive oil into a large skillet and add the eggplant, oiled side up, and cook until browned.  Turn the slices over & cook the other side.  Cut the cooked slices into bite sized pieces.

2.  Heat a little more oil in the pan and add the onion & bell peppers.  Cook until the onion is softened then add the garlic and cook until the onion is just beginning to turn color.

3.  Add the tomatoes, chili powder, cumin, and oregano.  Season to taste with salt and pepper.  Bring just to a boil, reduce heat, cover, and simmer gently for 15 minutes.

4.  Add the zucchini, eggplant, & kidney beans.  Stir in the water and tomato paste.  Bring back to a boil, cover, and continue simmering for about 45 minutes or until the vegetables are tender.  Adjust the seasoning to taste.

5.  Ladle into bowls and top with scallions & cheese.

Chili Corn Bread

Mix up a box of Jiffy corn bread mix according to package directions.  Add some chopped green chilis & frozen white corn (thawed & drained).  Bake according to package instructions.  To reheat in camp, melt some butter in a skillet.  Add the cornbread, cover, and heat.  Be careful not to scorch the bottom as butter burns easily.  Top with some grated pepper jack cheese.

With the General Election coming up my mailbox is being bombarded with propaganda again.  Just based on the superficial political advertising I've seen, we have the choice of the devil we know (Jerry Brown) and the she-devil we don't know.  The mud slinging from both of the viable candidates has convinced me that they are equally reprehensible.  Of course, I could always vote for the Libertarian candidate, or the American Independent, or the Peace & Freedom, or even the Green which would be tantamount to not voting at all.

I'm thinking maybe I'll vote for each candidate based strictly on their profession.  For Governor I'll vote for the Peace & Freedom party candidate, Carlos Alvarez, retail worker.  He sounds like a down to earth kind of guy who has his finger on the pulse of the average California voter.  Seriously, who meets more Californians than a WalMart greeter?

I think the Green party candidate for Lieutenant Governor sounds qualified with his background as a cultural spiritual advisor.  I don't know exactly what that is but it sounds very cerebral.

I'm stumped when it comes to the position of Secretary of State.  It's a difficult choice between Peace & Freedom's community volunteer and American Independent's aviator.  Having been a volunteer at the Mentone Senior Center, I truly appreciate how that service prepared me for political office, but an aviator has to have something on the ball too.

And then there are a myriad of other positions to be filled about which 99.999% of voters know almost nothing about.  I'd like to see this question on Jay Walking:  Who is the Associate Justice, Court of Appeal Fourth Appellate District, Division 3?  Since she appears to be the only candidate on the ballot for this position, why are we being asked to vote her in?

Oh, here's a good one, Measure 19 legalizes Marijuana under California but not federal law.  Permits local governments to regulate and tax commercial production, distribution, and sale of marijuana.  That one is going to be voted down by the established pot producers, distributors, and sellers for sure.  Why would they want regulation and taxation when they have been operating profitably for years without it?  The ballot points out that the fiscal impact is a potential increase in tax and fee revenues in the HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS (thats $X00,000,000.00) annually and potential correctional savings of several tens of millions of dollars annually.  Okay, so the folks in the corrections industry won't back it either but how about all the other beleaguered tax payers?  Surely they outnumber those special interests and will seize the opportunity to put these dollars into our depleted coffers.  Wanna bet?

Well, this was going to be a tirade on the stupidity of ignorant voters being encouraged to vote on issues they don't fully understand and instead I only proved that I'm one of those ignorant voters.  Sadly, I'm not alone in my ignorance.  In fact, I'd be willing to wager that I am slightly better informed than the average California voter.  And that, my friends, is the flaw in democracy.

I applied for a position with the school district yesterday and I was puzzled about why the first question asked was "Are you Hispanic?"  The second asked the applicant to define her race from about twenty choices.  Dutch wasn't one of them, by the way.

If I were the suspicious type, I might think that this question was designed to allow some sort of weeding out of applicants based on ethnic origin.  If the question were posed after the hiring process was completed, one might infer that there was some reason the district was curious about the ethnic makeup of their staff, but requiring that information in the initial contact seems to lend itself to racial discrimination.

Perhaps "discrimination" is not the politically correct word for the practice of using race to add merit to an applicant, in the interest of diversity in the work force; but when one is on the "detract merit" side of the equation,  discrimination is what it feels like.

In the interest of discouraging age discrimination, a prospective employer may no longer ask age, or date of birth, but that's easily circumvented by demanding dates of graduation from high school.

Sadly, it seems that screening in the public sector is designed to meet the demands of a political agenda rather than selecting the most qualified person for the job.  The result is that we often get poorer performance at greater expense.  Nowhere is this more evident than in the public school system.

Speaking of greater expense:  The school district web site boldly proclaims that .  In what world are they looking for work!?  The part time position for which I applied pays $16.15 - $20.60/hr.  It is a clerical position.  Show me the part-time job in the private sector that pays a typist $16.15/hr and I'll be there, resume in hand in my best Ann Taylor interview suit.

Okay, I've ranted long enough.  I'm headed to the gym to blow off some of this steam.  Next I'm going to expound on Propositions, so stick around.

I just finished reading my second book by Rory Stewart.  It was even more riveting than the first one I read, The Places In Between.  The latest was The Prince of the Marshes.  I think he actually published them in the reverse order.

Even if you have no interest in the quagmire this country is in in the Middle East, his books stand on their own as damn good reading.  He's funny, self-deprecating, erudite, enormously courageous, and has a great accent (I listened to The Prince of the Marshes which was actually narrated by him.)  After spending twelve hours engrossed in his tale of a year in Iraq, I feel almost adrift.  I crave more of his lucid views of a culture more foreign to us than Klingon. 

The following is a link to an interview with him on the Charlie Rose Show. 

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This book was, for me, the kind that makes me wish I were someone who hadn't yet read it. 

The Crafton Hills Conservancy hosted a short hike this morning that culminated at the reservoir at the bottom of Yikes! where a representative from the water department gave a talk about the imminent expansion of the reservoir.  

Since the hike was to start at 9:00, I figured I could ride to the trailhead from home, join the hike, and then ride to the top to do a couple of laps down Yikes! before heading home to mow the lawn.  I arrived at the reservoir just a little before 9:00 and found the group was already there and the talk was in progress.  Puzzled, I asked what time they had started and they said 8:00.  We surmised that the local public radio station had goofed.  Headed down the Stanley Ranch trail, I met another group coming up, which included my sister, Babs.  Like me, they had heard 9:00 and their guide, a representative of the Conservancy, confirmed that the other group was mixed up.  So, I turned around and followed them back up to the reservoir to hear the talk from the beginning.

Midway through this talk, Babs' phone rang.  It was her daughter calling to ask if Babs could fetch Ricky (Babs' grand daughter) from the airport in Orange county.  The airport is about an hour away so I said I'd go with her to keep her company.  Babs had almost a mile hike back to her car so I figured if I beat cheeks I could get home almost as quickly as she could.

A couple of times I mentally cautioned myself not to push the limits because it's not a good plan to crash when riding alone.  But, of course, knowing I was in a race, I couldn't help it.  The trail down the wash is alternately rocky and sandy providing many opportunities for mishap.  After a couple of miles at race pace my back was tiring and I thought I would need to stop to stretch at the next suitable opportunity.  As I rounded a loose, rocky turn in the trail, I discerned the unmistakeable form of a Western Diamond Back Rattlesnake stretched three quarters of the way across my path. 

It's funny how when you come across a gopher snake it takes a moment to determine that it's not a rattlesnake as their coloring is similar at first glance.  But a rattlesnake is obvious in a nano second.

In a split second it flashed in my consciousness that A) I was going too fast to take any kind of evasive action; but fortunately, B) The skinny end was aimed at my side of the trail.  Quicker than I could say "Whoa !@#$" he swapped the noisy end for the business end and was coiled, prepared to strike, but I was already past.  I sprinted on, giggling with relief that none of my hapless friends were following me today. 

It wasn't until I reached the paved road that my back reminded me that I needed to give it a rest break.  The shot of adrenaline provided by my hostile friend had completely eliminated all pain.

I went to a US Census sponsored job fair today that was supposed to assist former census workers in finding employment.  I was ambivalent about going, but since they were offering a workshop on interviewing skills, I thought it would be worth the drive.

There were the usual tables manned by various trade school representatives; and several "employers" looking for commission sales people; and a few tables set up by local governments.  It would appear that unless one is willing to market energy drinks in a pyramid scheme, or coax friends and family to buy insurance or financial products, one's options are limited to going to school or feeding at the public trough.

Since I refuse to prey on my very small and dear circle of friends, I thought I would look into the government jobs available.  First stop was at the US Census table.  Did you know that the US Census is conducting surveys all the time?  The surveys are far more intrusive than the ten minute head counting we did as enumerators.  Some of the interviews take from one to three hours to conduct.  It's hard to imagine that you could get a very broad sampling when your opening salvo would be, "Do you have a few hours to answer some deeply personal questions for the Federal government?"  Talk about a challenging job!  I'd take it though, if offered, just for the experience.

My next consideration was the L.A. Police Department.  There were two bright, young people, in dress uniform, manning the table.  They barely paused in their conversation when Suzanne and I approached, seeing only two old ladies, not worthy of recruitment.  Just to be perverse I asked what the upper age limit was for entry level employment with LAPD.  The young man said dismissively that he knew of no age limit but that one had to be able to scale a six foot wall.  I think he thought I was kidding when I said if I could get a grip on the top of it, I could get over it.  I figured it would just be bragging to add that I could get my mountain bike over it too.  He just grinned at his coworker and I was afraid Suzanne was going to leap over the table and kick his ass; so, I quickly steered her on to the next table.

The next bright-eyed, effervescent, gainfully employed, young lady was taking applications for staffing for the mid term elections.  They were looking for people willing to work temporarily, eight to twelve hours a day, from 6 PM until 3 AM, for $10/hour.  I'm not that hungry yet.

Suzanne was actually interested in that one, saying she stays up all night anyway.  Suzanne is one of my former Census coworkers and an acquaintance from the senior center.  I think the woman has a thyroid problem.  She walks/runs a couple of hours a day and then takes a couple of Hawaiian dance classes and teaches a line dancing class.  I guess compared to working in the mines of Montana while raising two kids, that's easy for her even at sixty something. 

Even though the "job" part of the fair was a bust, the day was well spent.  It was nice to see some of my former Census coworkers again, although I was sad to hear they hadn't found work yet.  It's scary to see such intelligent, motivated people, who really want to work, beating the bushes month after month and not finding anything.

The interview workshop was well worth the time too.  The young woman presenting the material was prettier than the channel 5 weather girl and kept the whole room riveted.  I'm eager to try out the things I learned.