Got up at the crack of dawn, hoping to beat the heat.  I needed to change my rear brake pads before my old friend, Don L. arrived to join me for a local ride up the wash.

Don L. used to ride with us often before he got swept up by the demands of his ever increasing responsibilities at work.  Now he's been promoted to a position that requires frequent travel out of state, which posed little hardship (other than taking him off the bike) until tragedy struck his little family on June 5th.

His wife, and my friend of many years, died from complications of an undiagnosed illness. 

Becky was one of those friends who revealed herself carefully.  It took many years to feel that I knew her well.  To say she was a deeply private person would give the false impression that she held herself apart.  More accurately, I thought she chose her friends and her words thoughtfully.  I was honored to have been one of the few chosen.

My long time readers here may remember her from the Canyonlands journal I posted several months ago.  Though Becky was never the gung ho, gonzo-abusive rider that some of us fancied ourselves, she often surprised me with her skill.  She was generally at the back of the pack because she rode less frequently than we did (mainly due to health issues I suspect) but her technical skills and quiet courage astounded me time after time.

I've seen her pause at the top of a steep, skittery, rutted descent that quickened the pulse of this downhill aficionada, and then calmly push the front wheel over the edge and descend under perfect control.  Because she didn't do it often, it amazed me when she did it well.

She taught me to hop my bike up curbs and ride the homestretch with no hands on the bars.  Both feats require a leap of faith more than any particular skill (though I've flattened a tire or two when I failed to shift my weight properly popping up a curb) and she inspired the requisite confidence to try it.

Becky will never be forgotten by the Rut Riders because she left a legacy of beautifully crafted trails just beyond our back door.  While the rest of us were out riding, Becky and her dogs would lay out wonderful twisty, swooping, paths through the chaparral of the upper wash.  Becky's Connector Trail, the first, gave us a convenient way to ride loops on the existing trails.  Y2K was unveiled as a precious gift to the cyclists in our area on January first, 2000.  We will continue to compact them and maintain them with gratitude. 

My friend took her own life.  Her decision, like her life, was carefully made; her reasons, thoughtfully considered.  Though saddened by the circumstances that propelled her to take such horrific and courageous action, I refuse to second guess her decision.  Everyone who knew her, and treasured her unique talents, will selfishly miss her the rest of our lives.  But, those who loved her will never begrudge her the rest she chose.

This photo was scanned from the original that Becky took on our Canyonlands supported bike tour with Western Spirit. 

As I walked down the driveway this morning I noticed a strange sight in the field across the street.

A row of rocks seemed to peer across the landscape.

Upon closer investigation I found a small community of balanced rock figures that someone must have spent hours erecting.

I think the artist is one of the homeless guys who hangs out at the senior center.  I found his stash tucked behind a big rock. 

Pretty cool, eh?

Our lovely cool spring and early summer ended abruptly this week.  We were catapulted into triple digit temperatures with barely  any prelude.  The thermometer on the back porch tells only part of the story.  The billowing thunder clouds over the mountains were a visual manifestation of the monsoonal humidity that compounded the hellish temperatures.  To complete the setting, a nearby forest fire brought ash and smoke wafting on the heavy breeze.

I herded most of the cats into the family room where they luxuriated in air conditioned comfort. 

The garden wilted in the sweltering heat.

A sultry wind whipped the clouds and a mini twister roared through, snatching my patio umbrella and lofting it over the patio wall and tossing it into the garden.  The sky darkened and the thermometer dropped about 18 degrees.  Back in Michigan we would have called it tornado weather.  Here in California we just call it summer.

Mike left for his summer job in Washington last week without programming the recorder to cover the Tour de France because he didn't realize that DirecTV had renewed its contract with Versus.  I missed the first eight stages.  Tonight I'm watching stage 9.  Even if you don't care for cycling, the scenery is worth watching. 

My hero, Lance,

has been plagued with bad luck this year.  Even before the Tour he had suffered a bad crash but a flat tire and a time consuming wreck took him out of contention for this year.  Some of the thrill went out of the race for me because I had hoped this was going to be a rematch between Contador (his former team mate) and Armstrong. 

That, coupled with Floyd Landis' confession (so poorly timed during the Tour of California) that he was guilty of the charges (of doping) he had been fighting for nearly two years, really soured me on bike racing.  I had really believed that Floyd was innocent, especially after reading his book, Positively False.  (I should never have believed a grown man who wears his ball cap backwards)

And if it wasn't enough to admit that he was a big fat liar, he had to incriminate his former team mates as well.  Well, they probably are all guilty but a man of character would not out his fellow cyclists.  Lance would never do that.

So, there you have it.  I'm back and I'm proud.  Well, fat and sassy anyway.

The census job is winding down.  My crew leader recognized my enthusiasm for the job and kindly assigned some of the difficult cases to me so I'm still working while others on my team have finished.

Difficult cases aren't necessarily anything other than housing units with locked gates or people that are never home, but some of them are more interesting.  Refusals are challenging, especially if the initial respondent was hostile.  Usually the first enumerator will have left notes describing the level of hostility they encountered.  I read between the lines, filtering the information based on the person who wrote them.  There's one guy on our crew who is easily intimidated by rough looking neighborhoods and gang banger types.  Interestingly, the meanest people I've encountered are middle aged white women (like me) and young white males. 

Maybe my most interesting case was a young man who was out working in his yard when I walked up.  As soon as I identified myself he began ranting and cursing most profanely about what a bunch of bull!@# the census was and how he wasn't going to tell me anything.  I listened politely for a moment or two and then told him I would leave my number so he could call me at a more convenient time.  "I'm not !#$% calling you!" blah, blah, blah, so I walked a few feet away and began filling out my form.  The form has a dozen boxes to be filled in so it took me a long time to complete it (I deliberately wrote slowly) while he continued his tirade.  Since he never directly ordered me off the property, I walked up to the front door and slid the notice of visit into the crack.  By this time he was losing steam so I began sympathizing with him a bit.  He was incensed by the fact that the government asked if he was of Hispanic, Latino or Spanish origin.  I admitted that I didn't really understand why ethnic origins were important either.  Pretty soon, we were on the same page and I picked up the thread of my scripted interview.  "Did you live here on April 1, 2010; Do you usually live here or is is a seasonal or vacation home; How many people were living here on April 1.  As I turned to page two, I was sure he was going to tell me to get lost when I launched into the PII (personally identifying information) but amazingly, he willingly gave me his name, age, and date of birth.  By this time I was feeling kind of cocky with my success and broached the subject of origin, "I suppose it would be safe to guess that you're NOT of Hispanic origin", I cracked, looking up at him with a twinkle in my eye.  He laughed and we finished the interview congenially. 

I inherited another "hard case" from one of our most competent enumerators.  She had made contact with the resident and had even gotten a phone number but wasn't able to get the interview.  I went to the housing unit and knocked for several minutes as I could hear people inside.  Finally, I called the number they had given and, surprisingly, a man answered.  Since I had looked up his name on Whitepages.com, I addressed him by name and told him I was at his front door.  He told me to hold on.  He had done the same thing to my coworker and had left her holding for fifteen minutes before she gave up.  I held for a minute or two and finally a woman picked up.  She said she was in the back yard and did I want to come around. 

At first she was reserved and asked if she was required to respond.  I explained that this was one of the very few things the Federal government was expressly allowed to do by authority of the Constitution.  Eventually, she invited me to sit down.  I declined but suggested that she do so as she was holding a baby while two other young children milled about clamoring for attention.  When we got to the question "Were there any other people you forgot to mention, staying here on April 1?"  she responded, "Do you really think I would have noticed in this chaos?!?"  When I concluded the interview she looked visibly disappointed and said, "Is that all?  I have so much more to tell you!  You have no idea how much I crave some adult conversation".  I promptly plopped down in the chair she had offered and said "Talk to me."

And then there were the sad cases:

The house looked like the residents could have died six months ago and were perhaps rotting away in a back bedroom; three cars in the yard, two of which hadn't moved in months, the third so dirty you couldn't see through the windshield; leaves drifted up on the porch; bare wires hanging where a porch light used to be; heavy drapes sagging unevenly on their rod.  Knock, knock, knock...knock, knock, knock....I began filling out my notice of visit, knocking at intervals between lines of data.  Finally, I slipped the notice under the door and went to the house next door.

The house next door was almost as derelict and had a filthy car in the driveway.  This one had a realtor's sign in the yard which is a bonanza to the census enumerator as realtors almost always have good information about occupancy.  To my surprise a young man answered the door and gave me a complete interview.  I asked him what the story was on the house next door and he said there were people living there but he didn't know them.  So, I trotted back, nearly breaking my ankle in a hole in the dirt yard.

Knock, knock, knock.  ~long pause~ KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.  ~ another long pause~ KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!!!  I hear a shuffling behind the door.  Feeling like Agent Starling in Silence of the Lambs, I step back out of arms reach and wait with bated breath.  The door opens and a man of indeterminate age blinks dazedly at me.  I identify myself and tell him the purpose of my visit.  He looks at me uncomprehendingly through dilated pupils. 

The interview took perhaps fifteen minutes because each question I posed required supreme effort on the part of the respondent, who turned out to be only in his mid twenties.  Even remembering his own name took several seconds to filter through the drug riddled maze of his brain. 

And perhaps the more distressing case was the fifteen year old kid who was hanging out with his friends, outside a rundown apartment with boarded up windows, a dirt yard, and a dog tied to a post in the sun with no water.  His mom had been too busy to talk to my coworker on several previous visits.  He managed to give me the interview with a little less difficulty than the previously mentioned drug addled man though he clearly struggled with reading the information sheet I gave him.  He said he attended continuation school (high school for kids who can't function in a regular school setting) where he didn't know if they taught Spanish or not but he thought they did teach English.  He lived with his mom (who was thirteen years older than he) and two siblings, all of whom had different last names.  None of them ever lived some place else for child custody reasons.  He doesn't know that he is drifting down a stream that is taking him towards a raging torrent of misery, with nobody to teach him how to swim against the current. 

Thankfully, these are the few remarkable cases.  Most of the "hard cases" are just busy families, too busy with life to spare 10 minutes with the census taker.  When I do nail them down, they are apologetic and helpful.  I will be sad to say goodbye to this job.

We all agreed that we simply could not head home without doing one last ride.  With tired legs and sore butt, I put on my last pair of clean bike shorts.  I figured if I couldn't keep up with the kids I'd turn back and wait at the truck with my book.

Over breakfast Jeff entertained us with the tale of the Navajo in the hot tub.  Jeff who has worked in law enforcement, has extensive training in behavioral science; so when a man and a woman joined them in the spa he observed them from his vantage point.  He quickly surmised that the guy assumed that he and Steve were gay.  Seeing no harm in having a bit of fun, he did nothing to disabuse the man of that erroneous notion.  The fun ensued and Jeff's rendition of the events was pretty entertaining breakfast conversation.

Church Rocks Trail starts off with a gentle descent through what passes for pasture in these parts.  Eventually, it crosses a sandy wash bottom and heads up into some interesting slick rock.  The best thing I can say about this trail is that it seems like it's downhill in both directions because the terrain is gently rolling hills with only few short, steep climbs.  It was the perfect trail for weary legs and a tender tail end.

Our trusty steeds wait patiently.

This might have been rideable but none of us were highly motivated at this point.

Is this Church Rocks?  I dunno.

The trip home was surprisingly quick as traffic never stalled as it so often does between Las Vegas and Victorville.  Everyone agreed that there are more trips to Gooseberry in our futures.

Awake long before dawn, I lay quietly listening for signs that Colleen was awake too.  She probably got the best rest of the night after I awoke, knowing how I snore. 

We all seemed to be on the same clock as we converged on the complimentary continental breakfast at the same time.  Steve, Jeff and I were brimming with anticipation of the planned ride, all of us having ridden the trails of the mesa previously, but Colleen seemed a bit apprehensive.  We were confident that she would enjoy them as much as we did once she got the feel of the super traction of sandstone.

We posed for a group shot before hitting the trail.

A thin layer of high clouds filtered the otherwise intense desert sun and a cool breeze kept us comfortable in our black lycra.  We started off on the practice loop, giving Colleen a chance to get a feel for the slickrock before we plunged into the more challenging South Rim Trail.

Jeff loses a pedal as he careens down a sandstone drainage.  Whoohoo!

This is one of the obstacles to be avoided along the trail.

None of us had the legs to ride up the Whale's Backbone.

Colleen connects the dots.

This is one of my favorite places to play.

This happy pose was taken shortly before Colleen had an unfortunate mishap.  She lost some skin but not her sense of humor. 

Back at the parking area we cleaned up Colleen's scrapes and rehydrated. 

The guys who were parked next to us provided entertainment as they fortified themselves for their next ride with beer, bourbon, and cigarettes.  Not surprisingly, one of them turned out to be someone who had ridden with the Rut Riders in our glory days.

They were all riding single-speed, twenty-niners, with no suspension.  For those of you who don't understand the significance of this, I'll explain:  In order to ride a single-speed competitively, one must be extraordinarily fit; theoretically, the twenty-nine inch wheels (normal mountain bike wheels are twenty-six inches) roll over larger obstacles more easily, mitigating the need for suspension.  My sour grapes take on it is that it's a form of elitist snobbery that only a masochist would adopt.  I can't even begin to imagine being so strong that I didn't appreciate every one of my twenty-seven gears and every plush inch of my 130mm shock absorbers, but then I've never been a young male with testosterone to spare.

Our need for real food soon motivated us to pack up and head for Springdale, the small resort community just outside the South entrance of Zion National Park.  Jeff knew of a great little burger joint called Oscar's that sounded just perfect to all of us. 

Oscar's was packed with people standing in line for a table but after perusing the menu, wild horses couldn't have dragged me away from the place.  We all took the opportunity to call our respective spouses while we waited for our table and the time passed quickly.

Jeff ordered a bottle of 3 Blind Moose cabernet sauvignon that was the perfect accompaniment to our burgers and sweet potato fries.  Colleen and I both ordered the ground turkey burger, slathered with guacamole, jalapeno chiles, green chiles, pepper jack cheese and who knows what else.  That spicy burger made the wine go down very easily.  We were all too full to indulge in one of their tempting desserts but vowed to return after a hike in the canyon.  Jeff generously picked up the tab for dinner over our polite objections.

There's a free shuttle bus that carries passengers up the canyon, stopping at frequent intervals to allow passengers to disembark at the various trailheads.  It was nearly dark so we rode the bus to the end of the canyon before jumping off at The Narrows.

The spring runoff had the normally shallow stream living up to its moniker of river.  The Virgin River filled the canyon from one vertical wall to the other, preventing any hiking into the narrow slot canyon.

Steve posed to give human interest and perspective to this shot of the boisterous river.

The ride back down the darkening canyon was enhanced by the silken voiced driver who announced each stop in such a sultry tone that I couldn't help but imagine that she looked like a movie star.  As we bid the matronly driver good night, I couldn't help but wonder if she put such effort into her patter just to alleviate the tedium of her job. 

The boys suited up for a trip to the spa as soon as we got back to the motel but Colleen and I headed for bed.  Colleen's wounds were too fresh to immerse in a public tub and I don't care for the dehydrating effects of a hot tub.  The next morning the guys had tales to tell of their adventure.

Gooseberry Mesa, just east of Hurricane, Utah, is always beautiful in a desolate, desiccated way; but in a spring of abundant rain and cool temperatures the mesa displays a fecundity completely unexpected.  I've often wondered why the United States Bureau of Land Management allows grazing on this fragile environment when the forage is so sparse.  This visit showed me a facet of the desert personality I hadn't seen in many years.

The wrecking crew for this adventure consisted of four cyclists, all unrelated to each other, in fact some were even previously unknown to each other:

Steve, who has recently become one of my favorite trail buddies, organized the weekend.  Prior to this trip I had ridden with him only a handful of times but found him to be competent, congenial, and considerate;

Colleen, (whom you may remember from my Birthday Ride blog) who is an absolute climbing machine and a great bike handler;

And Jeff, whom I had never met before the morning of departure when I piled my gear into his truck and climbed aboard;

The fourth, of course, was me, the elder stateswoman of the group.

Despite the fact that everyone was younger and stronger than I am, I was confident that age and treachery would compensate for youth and skill.  Colleen had never ridden the Utah slickrock before and was recovering from being hit by a car a few months ago; Jeff was young and fit but less experienced than the rest of us; and Steve is so kind hearted that he wouldn't even think of abandoning me to the coyotes.  It turned out to be a match made in heaven.

Captain Jeff transported us to St. George in record time, stopping only once to refuel Big Red and his passengers.  We checked into our motel and prepared for our first ride, the JEM Trail.  JEM connects to a network of trails above Hurricane but below Gooseberry.

JEM lacked the technical difficulty of the trails on the mesa but the views of the mesa above and the Virgin River below made the ride well worth the effort.  Wanting to save my legs for the next day, I prevailed upon the guys to climb back up to the truck while Colleen and I followed the Hurricane Rim Trail back to the Canal Trail which deposited us at a lower point on the highway.  Even so, there was enough climbing to satisfy even Colleen with her bionic knee.  The entire ride was a mere 12.5 miles, just enough to whet our appetite for a hot shower and dinner.

Here Colleen shows us how to ride one of the few technical sections of the JEM trail.

This is more representative of the fast, rolling nature of the JEM Trail terrain.

Jeff got a pinch flat on one of the rare rock outcrops which allowed me to take time to smell (and photograph) the flowering shrubs.

The promontory in the background is Gooseberry Mesa.  Colleen is preparing to fly down this lovely stretch of the Hurricane Rim Trail.

Our rooms at the Red Cliffs Inn were super cheap ($55/night) and surprisingly comfortable.  Initially I had questioned the decision to stay so far away from the mesa (about an hour's drive) but the amenities quickly won me over.  We selected a nice restaurant where, away from the healthy influence of my mate, I splurged and ordered bacon wrapped scallops. 

After dinner, we went straight to bed with visions of slickrock trails dancing in our heads.

Okay, I've got exactly twenty minutes until the tuna-noodle casserole comes out of the oven.  My family loves those bland, creamed-noodle dishes that I'm always tempted to gussie up with green chilis and other non bland ingredients.  This is a dish I fall back on when I've got less than no time in my budget to make dinner.

I went from no employment to working eleven hour days.  The little computer store job occupies four hours and the U.S. Census employs me as many hours as I can squeeze in.  And then there is the occasional dog or cat sitting job that I do when the opportunity arises.

I'm posing as an enumerator for the census but in reality I simply have a badge that entitles me to pursue my natural nosiness about my neighborhood.  I've also been chosen as a Team Leader Assistant which means I get to check the Enumerator Questionnaires of my fellow enumerators.  Occasionally I get to follow them around and evaluate their understanding of the job. 

I've come to the realization that the people in my neighborhood are overwhelmingly really nice, decent, hardworking people.  I know I've spoken disparagingly in the past about their slovenly yards and their exuberant celebrations but when I meet them face to face, I learn that they are an amalgamation of lower income people who are simply making the best life they can. 

I've interviewed a single mother who lives in a single-stall garage, converted to a mini apartment.  She struggles to support herself and her young daughter; a beyond-middle-age, health care worker, working 12 hour days to provide for herself and her terrier and big, grey cat; a grandmother who provides a roof and support for her daughter and three grandkids; a young family, renovating a rundown starter home, bright eyed and optimistic about their future; a disillusioned curmudgeon who lives in a cramped apartment that he owns along with three or four other decrepit units; a single, immigrant, apartment manager who has multiple vacancies in need of repair, takes time away from his work to give me the information I seek, while a thin, calico cat mews plaintively at his feet.  Every person I contact is generous with their time, polite, attentive and eager to provide correct information.

Ironically, many of my coworkers who have territories in the nicer areas with expensive new homes, report incidences of rude, even hostile respondents.  Thankfully, the difficult ones are rare.

Oops, there goes the timer; dinner is ready.  My family feels like they are orphans, having their dinner served after 8:00 PM.

I'm reposting this, hoping to entice more people to join us on May 7th.

Another trip to Gooseberry Mesa has exceeded our expectations.  I had been less than enthusiastic about this trip since Vic and his contingent of riders from Yucaipa had backed out.  Fortunately, I had kept my reservations to myself, otherwise Mike would have probably canceled the trip.

Our usual camping spot was occupied by a couple from Oregon so we set up in the next site up the road with plans to move into our regular site the next morning when the couple moved out.  It turned out we liked the new site just as well so we were spared the inconvenience of moving.

I discovered a great way to travel most inexpensively.

One of my favorite authors, Paul Theroux, has a new book out about his journey on the tracks of the great railway bazaar.  His descriptions of remote places always leave me hungry for more.  I want to see for myself, the gritty, seamy side of the downtrodden places he visits.  I need to revel in the in the faded glory of the palaces, mosques, and train stations.  And, thanks to Google Earth, I can.  I simply type in the name of an obscure village in Romania and instantly, I'm there.  With a click of the mouse, I can see the train station with its weed lined tracks, discarded plastic water bottles, and spindly trees.

He describes a delicious meal he has in Turkey, of Imam Bayildi, and I Google search for the recipe and recreate the dish in my own kitchen.   It was quite good, by the way, but none of us actually swooned over it.  (the name of the dish means "The Imam fainted") 

I can enjoy the sights, tastes and smells, all without the slightest discomfort; well, except for the gastrointestinal repercussions of eating eggplant, onions and peppers.  Perhaps that's why the Imam fainted .

Speaking of traveling; I'm headed back to Gooseberry Mesa again only this time I'll be traveling with friends.  Mike's shoulder isn't well enough to ride so he's staying home with the cats.  It will be a different kind of trip altogether as the people I'm going with prefer hot tubs and restaurant meals to starlit nights on the mesa.  I will miss the the serenity of the quiet evenings but I'm sure the comfort of a shower and a real bed will be adequate compensation.

I've been hired as an enumerator for the U.S. Census and I start training on Tuesday.  It's a temporary position, only two months, and the hours are flexible.  I've been told that they try to place you in your own neighborhood.  That's a little scary.  Mentone has more dogs than people and more pit bulls than any other breed.  I'll have a chance to practice my pack leadership skills.  Think calm assertive, no touch, no talk, no eye contact, and always carry dog biscuits.

Please excuse the poor videography of the video; it's the only one I had of Mike playing at Gooseberry Mesa.