I just finished reading William Stolzenburg's Where The Wild Things Were - Life, Death, and the Ecological Wreckage in a Land of Vanishing Predators.

Before I expound the the attributes of this book, a disclaimer:  I came from the womb with an empathy for all animals.  Age has not diminished that.

This book offers a provocative new look at the world's top predators, and the cascades of unforeseen consequences triggered by their disappearance.  I'm normally a reader of novels and classics, reading primarily for entertainment.  So, it took me by surprise to be so riveted by a book on bioecology.  There was no carefully crafted plot, only careful research.  There was suspense only in that throughout his treatise, the author allowed the reader, at least an optimist like me, to hope for a favorable outcome.  But, at the end of the epilogue, I wept.

I wish this book were compulsory reading in every Middle School classroom, because, as the author points out, wildlife management is always a product of emotion.  If we can't teach children to value the natural world, they will never protect it.  And today's young people spend more time indoors than ever before.  They actually fear being in "wild" places or, if they haven't been taught the potential dangers,  are quickly bored by them.  Neither is a reasonable reaction.

An acquaintance of mine was killed by a mountain lion a few years ago.  That didn't change my opinion that mountain lions are essential.  It reinforced my opinion that mountain bikers should not go out alone.  One needs to be alert to the dangers of large predators when venturing into their habitat.  The few remaining open spaces left in this area are treated like Disneyland and many people assume they are safe when playing in them.  Mountain biking doesn't lend itself to being aware of one's surroundings so; rather than removing the mountain lion, ride with friends.  It's more fun anyway.

I don't know how many times I've come across riders wearing earbuds and listening to music at full volume while pedaling in the local hills.  I consider this to be part of the natural selection process.  Even a rabbit understands the importance of hearing what's coming to eat you.  On the other hand, I can't think of a more memorable way to die.  Every single one of my cycling friends remembers how Mark died and probably think of him every time they pass a suitable place for ambush.  One could be remembered for worse things, like being killed driving drunk or blowing yourself up being a suicide bomber.   Where's the glory in that?  But dying at the fangs of one of the very few large predators left in this civilized world, while doing the thing you love...that's not so bad.  I imagine the woman who was mauled and carries the scars to this day might argue the point, but even she would probably agree that it's wrong to annihilate every last one of them to prevent the occasional attack.  Maybe not.

At any rate, I strongly recommend this book.  It will broaden your perspective even if it doesn't change your mind.  And when you're through with it, pass it along to a young person and hope they will take up the cause of conservation, while there are still breeding populations to conserve.

The annual Scotch Extravaganza in Seattle is one of Mike's favorite events so when his friend, Michael, invited us to come up for the weekend, we jumped at the chance.  Michael lives in a condo on the 18th floor of a luxury hotel in downtown Seattle where everything is just a short walk away from the hotel entrance.  Just the fact that it's only three blocks from the fabulous Seattle Main Library is enough to make my heart beat fast, that and the fact that walking those three blocks, one gains somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred feet of elevation.

Our flight got us into Seattle around 1:00 PM so we had the better part of the day to explore the city.  We went walkabout:  exchanged a pan lid that I'd bought at Sur Le Table in San Diego; stopped at Le Panier for coffee and croissants; enjoyed some world-class people watching; and then went back to the condo to prepare for the evening's festivities.

The two Mikes cleaned up very nicely and looked quite dapper in their dress slacks and sports coats.  Michael's wife, Joyce, and I bid them a fond adieu and fortified ourselves for an evening of shopping with a nice bottle of chardonnay.  (I think this is what Queenie calls "drunk shopping") We ordered the courtesy car to drive us up to Macy's as  Joyce isn't quite as fond of walking up the steep streets of the city as I am, and truth be told, we were probably a bit too tipsy to be walking unescorted, even with her beautiful Belgian Sheep Dog, Lavender.

Lavender is a certified service dog and as such is allowed to go into businesses including restaurants.  She has impeccable manners and is so remarkably beautiful that people everywhere stopped to admire her.

Saturday morning, we took the ferry across the Sound to Bainbridge Island.  We went to Michael's house to pick up mail and I took the opportunity to admire the granny flat that Mike had spent two summers building.  The house is a work of art, worthy of the view lot that overlooks the Sound and the Seattle skyline beyond.  We went into town for lunch and some shoe shopping as the boots I'd worn turned out to be unsuitable for serious walking.

We returned to Seattle for dinner at Al Boccalino (http://www.seattleslittleitaly.com/)   which was absolutely the highlight of the trip.  We were warmly greeted as Michael is a regular patron.  Our waiter asked a few questions about our tastes and then offered to serve us family style.  I eagerly agreed to allow him to surprise us while the two Mikes were a little more apprehensive.  The first course was a wonderful antipasto plate of cheeses, prosciutto, olives, and bread.  He selected a delightful, fruity, red wine from northern Italy that complimented the meal.  The entree consisted of a platter of a perfectly seasoned and grilled white fish, a pasta flavored with fresh rosemary, and pork chops smothered in a tangy fig sauce (with halved figs).  By the time we had cleaned the platter, we were satiated.  But no, the dessert plate arrived a few minutes later with cheese cake, tiramisu, and chocolate truffles.  Not a single bite remained on the plate.  It was one of those meals where one would be hard pressed to decide whether it was the food, the company, or the wine that made the evening so perfect.  Probably it was all of the above.

As always, Lavender was the center of attention.  She sat unobtrusively beside Michael's chair, never begging for treats.  Naturally, the waiter could not resist bringing her a dog biscuit.  She politely took if from his hand and when he turned away, set it discretely at our feet.

Sunday, we went walking again, this time up the hill to the financial district.  Michael's mother had recently moved into a retirement facility and her apartment, on the 16th floor has a splendid view of Mt. Rainier so we trekked up the hill to visit.  We passed the library but it wasn't open yet so we vowed to visit that on the way back down to First Street.  By the time we did the obligatory chat with the mother, we were all hungry.  Finding nothing interesting on the hill, we walked down to Cafe Bengodi for some more of Luigi De Nunzio's Italian food.  The cafe is not as upscale as Al Boccalino but the food is just as good.  We ordered a couple of pizzas, a spinach salad, a Caprese plate, a risotto, and a pasta dish.  This time we really were too full to eat dessert.  We never made it to the library.  Instead, we strolled back to the condo for a nap.

Just before it was time to catch the light rail back to the airport, we made one last trip down to Le Panier to pick up some pastries for the flight home.  Two almondines, a Napoleon, a baguette sandwich, all were devoured before we landed.  Vacations are a hungry business.

The winter storms have finally materialized, ending months of seasonal and not-so-seasonal drought.  Some are predicting "average" rainfall this year but a return to drought conditions in the years to come.  They tell us that these parched conditions are the new norm.  Get used to it; tear out your lawns; plant native vegetation they say.  Our once plentiful water supply has dwindled.  It seems that we have drained aquifers that have taken millions of years to fill in a mere century or two of prodigal use.  Once a desert, the European settlers transformed this area into a paradise of orange groves and perennial vegetation.  Thirsty crops, like alfalfa, thrive in the deserts of the Imperial valley, sucking up the last dregs of the Colorado River that's already been tapped beyond its limits from Utah to Arizona.

But today, we could pretend that all was well in our world.

The storms of the preceding weeks have transformed our desert into a landscape of promise, verdant green sprouts opportunistically in every naked expanse and crack.  Mike and I walked down to the Santa Ana River, which lies at the end of our street, eager to see the healing effects of the torrential downpour we heard pounding on our roof during the night.  Most of the indignities inflicted upon the landscape by quad riders and four-wheel drive vehicles during the course of the summer, had been erased by the rush of water coursing from the nearby mountains to the Pacific Ocean some sixty miles away.

In this area of  mountains and valleys, where nothing is flat, and where rain comes savagely in storms generated in the Pacific Northwest, rivers flow urgently and ephemerally.  Hours after the deluge, the river bottom is only rock and sand packed firm by the slowing of the current where it encounters an obstacle.

Mike suggested that we leave the smoothly compacted road bed, created by the recent water district project, and head upriver on the inviting stretch of newly deposited sand.  It was easy going as most of the small rocks were covered and the large rocks were easily skirted.  I forged ahead reading the fresh coyote tracks and noting the high water line on the vegetation.  I heard an expletive from Mike and turned to see him wading ankle deep in quick sand.

Quick sand isn't like in the old Western movies where horses and riders are slowly sucked to their death, at least in my experience, but it is still unnerving to suddenly have ground that looks firm, give way beneath one's weight.  Mike quickly extricated himself from the soupy sand, grousing about his now cold, wet, sandy feet.  I feigned sympathy while inwardly laughing at his blunder.  I learned long ago, not to walk in the sand uphill from a barrier, like a big rock or a concrete bridge foundation because the water of the river, though invisible, is still flowing underground.  It gets damned up behind solid objects and boils to just beneath the surface, creating pockets of quick sand.  A short time later, I skirted a large boulder which must have been like an iceberg with more beneath the surface than above, and I too was sucked into the soup.  I felt it was a just punishment for having gloated earlier.

One of the fun things about scouting after a deluge is that things are newly exposed.  Rusted parts lend themselves to speculation as to their original use.  We found a rusted, riveted piece of steel that we wondered if it could be a part of the airplane that had crashed some time back.  The airport is nearby and infrequently there are accidents in the area under the approach to the runway.

A little farther upstream we found a half submerged car.  We discussed it's make, I thought it was a VW or Fiat hatchback while Mike guessed it was a Jeep.

We found our trail that leads out of the wash bottom, through some scrub land, and to an orange grove, that we have long trespassed through to get back home.

There are about 40 beehives that are placed on both sides of the trail and I was surprised to see how active the bees were considering how cool the weather was.  Many of the hives here have been infiltrated by Africanized bees (sometimes called killer bees) so it was not without some trepidation that we walked briskly through the gauntlet of hives.  At the orange grove we discovered that the fence that we normally crawl through had been repaired so we were forced to turn back and brave the bees yet again.  A few of them bumped into me and buzzed my head but didn't take any more aggressive action to hustle us on our way.

I regret that I forgot to take my camera so you will have to settle for archive photos.

A few weeks ago, my cousin came from Michigan to visit with her granddaughter in tow.  They had spent a few days with her wild little cousins and she was ready for some quiet time with the old ladies.  Of course, at eleven (years of age) a little time with the old ladies goes a long way.  She was quickly ready for some activity and so a trip up to the barn with "Aunt" Judy was exactly what was needed.

Lanaya had spent some time playing with a friend's pony but hadn't actually ridden a full-sized horse before.  Naturally, she was cautious as she learned her way around the gentle giants but Flo's friendly nature soon emboldened her to try riding him in the arena.

Her legs weren't quite long enough to make use of the stirrups on my dressage saddle so I suggested that she try riding bareback.  I've long believed that novice riders who learn to balance without the false sense of security provided by a saddle, ultimately make better riders.  This is quite a leap of faith for a youngster who is just getting acquainted with an animal but Lanaya astutely figured that comfort trumped having a security blanket.  Flo seemed to recognize the limitations of his rider and quietly walked around, and around, AND AROUND the arena until, gaining some confidence, Lanaya began asking him to jog.

Flo has a naturally smooth gait but still, balance plays an important part in a rider's ability to sit still and he quickly realized that she wasn't ready and returned to his walk.  At one point, Lanaya evidently found the cue for canter, because he obediently broke into a gallop, quite uncollected, and she clung for dear life as she brought him back under control.  I swear Flo looked a bit sheepish at having startled his little mistress.   He resolutely maintained his dignified walk after that despite her best efforts to coax him into a jog.  By this time her legs were practically trembling with fatigue so we called it a day.

The next day, Lanaya insisted she wasn't too sore to try again so we went back.  I could tell she was sore though because she was content to walk and had difficulty cuing Flo with her legs.  The heart was willing but the legs ... not so much.

Yesterday, I found a hand-written card in my mail box.  "Thank you for letting me horseback ride with you.  Also thanks for letting me sleep over at your house!  It meant alot (sic) to me, thanks alot."

It meant alot to me too.  I've always maintained that a joy to be fully appreciated has to be shared and sharing it with a child who views the world with a heart open to new experiences, and expresses such appreciation, made me look at the idea of riding again with fresh enthusiasm.

Michele's picture of the ancient stone windmill prompted me to dig into my archives for this shot of the graceful De Zwaan in Holland, Michigan, USA.  My sister Babs is in the kayak in the foreground.  While it doesn't look that impressive from this distance, bear in mind the blades are 80 feet long.  It was shipped from the Netherlands in 1964 and reassembled on an island in the Black River.  Much of it was so rotten that it had to be replaced but it retains its original character none the less. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/De_Zwaan_(windmill

When Sally told me that she and her sister were going to hike the Grand Canyon, I boldly invited myself to join the party.  My old knees don't allow me to do much downhill hiking but I figured I could entertain myself on the rim while they hiked the eighteen miles down the Kaibab trail and up the Bright Angel Trail.  Besides, I was eager to take my new SUV on a road trip.

The extended weather forecast looked favorable for our dates but as departure grew near, predicted temperatures dropped from the low seventies to the low forties with rain and wind.  Friday night we were still undecided whether to scratch the mission, and possibly lose the hotel deposit, or just tough it out and make the best of it.  The chance of rain diminished to about 50% as the storm swept north of us and we decided those were good enough odds.

It was pouring rain as I drove to Sally's house to pick her up but by the time we got up Cajon Pass, things were looking up.  The horizon was decorated with lovely cumulus clouds and the desert was green with opportunistic vegetation.  Highway 40 has to be one of the most scenic in the country and it's certainly the least traveled in California.  Speed limits are high in Arizona, and gas is cheap.  I set the cruise control at 80 and the Lexus powered through that fossil fuel like a Labrador Retriever at the feed bowl.

We arrived at the canyon just before dark.  Sally and Lynn proceeded to settle in to our modest hotel room at the Maswik Lodge.Here Lynn is sorting through the hurriedly packed bags, selecting the items she will need for the early morning hike.

We met Glen, a co-worker of Lynn's, for dinner at the Bright Angel Cafe for a mediocre meal and then retired for the evening.  Glen, who has done this hike several times suggested that we be at the trailhead before dawn but as it was raining when we awoke, nobody was very enthusiastic about hitting the trail in the dark.  Everybody finally managed to get their gear together and I drove them to the South Kaibab trailhead just as it was getting light.

The canyon brooded silently in the light snow fall.

It was with mixed emotions that I waved good-bye as they dropped from view.

On one hand, I wished I could hike with them but on the other cold hand, I was happy to get back into the warm car and drive to the lodge for breakfast.

Not having appreciated the lesson of the previous meal, I returned to the Bright Angel Lodge Cafe where I ordered a scrambled egg and a multi-grain pancake.  The first bite of pancake stuck to the roof of my mouth like Wonder bread and the eggs were as hard as marbles.  I made a feeble attempt to force some of it down, incredulous that anyone could screw up something as simple as this meal, but there was no amount of whipped butter that could make this sticky mess slide down.  The Brooklynese waitress noted my barely touched meal and asked if it was not good.  Loathe to appear the food snob that I am, I made some vague motions to indicate that it was alright.  She solicitously asked if she couldn't bring me something else, some cream of wheat she suggested, or perhaps some fruit?  I politely declined.  I heard her tell the other waiter with sincere concern, "She barely ate anything!"  For her tenderness, I left a generous tip.

I wandered along the rim, and found a book shop.  I've never met a book shop that I could ignore so I popped in to peruse their selection of Grand Canyon related books.  Lo and behold they had a paperback copy of Marguerite Henry's Brighty of the Grand Canyon, one of my childhood favorites.  On a whim, I bought a copy.

Remembering how elegant the El Tovar had seemed when I first visited in 1964 with my parents, I decided to revisit.  The dining room was open and the hostess assured me that the food would meet my greatest expectations.  I was seated at a table on an elevated section of the dining room which afforded an excellent view of the canyon and of the people seated below directly in front of the window.  I ordered conservatively, cinnamon-raisin French toast (the waiter from Mississippi claimed the bread was made on the premises) and pulled out my new book to wait for my meal.  The conversation at the table below caught my attention as a little girl articulately asked the waiter if she could please have the polenta pancake with prickly pear infused/pistachio encrusted butter on the side.  She politely refrained from suggesting that she might not like the unusual butter but one could infer that she was being cautious.  I was captivated by her inquisitive interaction with what appeared to be her grandparents and parents.  The topic of the Grand Canyon mules came up and she asked what the difference was between a donkey and a mule.  Since nobody at the table admitted to knowing (quite unlikely as the grandparents were obviously from the South) she proceeded to query Siri via her electronic device.  By the time I'd finished eating, I'd decided that this precocious little one must have my book.

I walked over and explained that this had been my favorite book when I was her age and that I would like her to have it.  She said that she could read "chapter books" now and would like to read it.  Her initial look of surprise turned to wonder and then delight as she politely thanked me for the unexpected gift.

I had intended to wait until Sally, Lynn, and Glenn would be coming up the trail to head down to meet them but as the weather warmed, the trail beckoned and I just couldn't wait.  I had already logged about two miles exploring the village environs and didn't want to squander any more energy so I changed into my hiking shoes and started down the Bright Angel Trail.

The trail was so well populated that I almost grew weary of greeting other hikers that I met or passed on the way down.  Trails of this sort attract a wide range of people, from the very serious hiker (like Sally) to the overweight couple who just stepped off the train from Williams in their dress shoes.  My eyes must have visibly widened when I met a middle-aged couple, she with immaculate make-up and Dolly Parton hair and wearing expensive fashion boots, he following with her real animal fur coat draped over his arm.

This sign, posted on the restroom door at the mile and a half rest stop persuaded me to immediately sign up the the GC Search and rescue team.  I suppose I'll have to do some training first.

This is my first attempt at taking a selfie.  I rather like it.

But seriously...

And no visit to GC would be complete without a visit to the mule barn for this wrangler.

When I visited the canyon with my first husband in the 1970s, he took a picture of me similarly posed.

The journey home was rather longer than the trip out as is common for road trips.  We stopped along the road almost once every hour or so to limber up overused muscles and relieve bladders that were working overtime to rehydrate bodies pushed to their limits.

Did you ever read The Horse Whisperer?  It was made into a movie as I recall.  I thought the end of the story was absolutely implausible but the beginning of the story has lingered in my mind as every equestrian's worst nightmare.

In the opening chapter, two young girls are out riding on a winter morning.  They are on a road and hear a truck approaching.  So they try to scramble up an embankment to get out of harms way.  One of the horses loses its footing and slides into the path of the truck which is sliding out of control on the ice.  That scene has haunted me ever since I read it.

Horses are amazing in that they can be trained to behave as if they think like we do.  They can be trained to respond to the slightest touch or shift of the rider's weight.  They can be trained to move one foot or their entire body at the direction of the rider.  What cannot be trained out of them is their instinct for flight.  The "control" a rider has over his mount is only what has been taught over a period of a few years while the imperative for flight is imprinted on their DNA.

Last week, word spread through the equestrian community here that one of our own, an experienced, competent equestrian, had been hit by a truck.  Her horse was killed and she was pinned beneath her dying mount.  The animal had bolted into the path of the van and despite the driver's best efforts to avoid a collision, they were struck.  There was no fault.  The driver was driving at a safe speed and the rider was guiding her schooled horse at a "safe" distance from the road.  Suddenly something triggered the flight instinct and everything turned to chaos.  Ten days later, after several surgeries, Dottie died.  I use her name because the term rider doesn't convey who she was.  I'm heartsick.

I didn't know Dottie personally.  I know her husband, who always glows when he speaks of her.  I know her friend, who admires her.  I grieve for their loss and I feel the loss on a personal level.  Everyone who has ever thrown a leg over the back of a horse knows the risks.  We take those risks, never believing that "it" will ever happen to us.  Christopher Reeves guided his trusted mount over the fences with such utter confidence that when the horse's courage faltered, Chris plunged head first into the fence.

What crazy optimists equestrians are!  We horse lovers are cursed with the ability to see nothing but beauty and love in a horse.  We are blind to the dangers, to the expense, to the hours of backbreaking toil they require.  We willingly embrace the responsibility of their care, knowing they will eventually grow old ahead of us, or be injured and need to be put down, breaking our hearts.  You dog lovers are no better off so don't think you are.

Is there a point to this blog?  Not really.  I had decided some time back that my horseback riding days were behind me.  This cements that in my mind.  Yes, none of us are going to get out of this alive but I'll take my chances on a mountain bike because...it won't happen to me.  Ha ha, I'll let you know how that works out for me.

I joined the Old Farts group this morning for their regular Saturday morning ride from Loch Leven to Angelus Oaks.  The trail used to be the old road before the "new" highway was carved into the side of the mountain higher up the canyon.  It's been closed to vehicular traffic as long as I can remember and it was probably closed long before that because, even in the seventies, it was overgrown and blocked by landslides and washed out bridges.  Today, it's mostly singletrack, kept rideable by a couple of Old Farts who clear slides, build water bars and trim brush.  This is a slide that completely obliterated the road.  It took many hours of Old Fart manual labor to build this trail. 

The trail winds relentlessly up through oaks, pines and manzanita, crossing a clear stream several times, sometimes over picturesque stone bridges but just as often, going through the stream .  In the lower part of the canyon, foundations and rock chimneys of long-ago burned out cabins stand amid iris beds gone wild in tumbled-down, river-rock retaining walls.

The group today consisted of about seven men between the ages of 18 and 78, and me.  We all grind up the six mile ascent at our own pace, settling into two or three groups of similarly fit companions.  There are places where we regroup and socialize while we wait for the latest arrivals catch their breath.  One of the riders is a man who is struggling with Alzheimer's.  He isn't able to carry on a conversation but he seems to enjoy living in the moment and he can still keep up with the group, even though he can't remember how to shift his bike.  His friend selects a comfortable gear for the climb and then shifts his bike into a higher gear for the descent.  Everyone keeps track of him so he doesn't get lost (most of the time).  The guys aren't quite as vigilant as I think they should be but our friend has only been lost once, so I guess they do a good enough job.

Today, Our Friend was lagging a bit towards the end of the climb so I dropped back to make sure he didn't lose sight of the group.  We were almost to our destination, the restaurant in Angelus Oaks, and riding on a trail that perches on the shoulder of the highway.  It's just wide enough for a bike but drops off steeply on the side away from the highway.  Our friend pedaled just a little too close to a post marking the road's edge for the snow plows, and clipped his handle bars.  He instinctively steered hard to the left to keep from being thrown onto the highway and plunged over the side of the steep slope while I watched helplessly.  As he went over the bars, he managed to grab a bush and arrest his slide, but still ended up several feet down the slope with his bike on top of him.  I managed to pull his bike back onto the trail and he somehow extricated himself from the bush but he had torn a large patch of skin off his arm and was stuck all over with pieces of the thorny bush.  I was still trying to remove branches from his bike and his person while he was trying to mount and ride away.

Everyone teased me about knocking him off his bike while I patched his bleeding arm with a gauze pad and band aides.

I privately wondered if it was wise for his friends to continue to take him on these rides but came to the conclusion that we all have mishaps like that.  It's nothing new or frightening and it certainly doesn't keep us from riding and it shouldn't keep Our Friend from doing what he enjoys.  I only hope that when my day comes, my friends will be so supportive.

Sometimes you just have to ride to stay in condition to ride.  We have a couple of trails that lend themselves to conditioning; they're called Lower Workout and Upper Workout.  Neither is particularly fun but, as the names suggest, they do the trick.

Neither Mike nor I felt much like riding Sunday so we decided to crank out a quick one close to home.  I don't know why but Sally has dumped me like a bad habit.  I haven't heard from her in weeks and she doesn't respond to my email.  I'm devastated.

I like riding with Mike but he's not much in the conversation department where Sally excels.  Mike does have his good points though.  He pushes me to ride harder and faster, which I'm able to do since I'm not talking.  And, he's good at fixing things if something breaks or goes flat on the trail.  He can also pontificate for miles (while I'm breathing so hard I'm sucking up gravel from the road bed) on the advantages of a 26" wheel over a 29er or the value of the new long-cage derailleur he installed on my bike.  Yeah, like I said, I miss Sally.

So, we rode up Lower Workout, and then we turned around and rode back down.  I ran over a stupid lizard who committed suicide by running under my back wheel.  If cats have nine lives, lizards have two.  This guy had already lost his tail to some other near-death event and perhaps found life untenable without it.  Thankfully, I didn't witness the drama, never even realized I'd been a party to it.  Mike, the aforementioned conversationalist, caught up with me and described the unfortunate lizard's missing appendage and his death throes.  Have I mentioned how much I miss Sally?

The above photo was taken before the grading described below.  The green orange grove is gone now.

At the base of Lower Workout grading has begun for a new housing tract, a fire station, and two schools, where orange groves once flourished.  I guess the developer didn't get that memo about the severe water shortage in these parts.  The firefighters may have to fling dirt on any blazes that erupt.  The whole project is within two inches of the San Andreas fault which experts predict will most assuredly slip and slide to the tune of a 7+ magnitude earthquake within the next 100 years.  There is a single, two-lane road that crosses two narrow bridges to access the development.  Only one of those antiquated bridges is slated for replacement.

I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed, barely managed to stay in school long enough to get a high-school diploma, but even I can see that this project is flawed.  Of course, I don't stand to make a bunch of money on developing said project, which may have removed the rose-colored glasses through which others are viewing it.

People from Orange County will buy the spacious houses, because at $450,000 a pop, they are a bargain compared to the 1000' townhouse that money would buy in Laguna Beach.  They will move in with their 2.2 children, along with their pedigreed shitsu (sic), and then call animal control when they find a rattlesnake curled up under the patio grill.  They will watch in horror when that formerly adorable pack of coyotes carries Fluffy off for breakfast, traumatizing their 2.2 children.  So, they will replace Fluffy with a Rottweiler who will be carried off, in the dead of night (thankfully) by the mountain lion who has been living in the canyon just above their humble 3,500 square foot home for his entire life.  Again, Animal Control will be called and the offender will be tracked down and "relocated".

On to other things:  I'm reading (actually listening to on my MP3 player) Most Dangerous Book by Kevin Birmingham.  It's about the life and times of James Joyce.  I've never read any of his writings and this doesn't encourage me to do so, especially Ulysses, though I may try The Dubliners.  I gather he was like many of today's comics, mired in the scatological and vulgar.  Lest I sound like a prude, let me say that I am a fan of Larry the Cable Guy, Louis C.K., & Jim Jeffries.  I don't mind trash but I'm not into that obscure, artsy stuff.

To offset the obscure art of Joyce, I'm reading the collected short stories of William Faulkner.  He writes about low-life in the American South instead of Joyce's low-life in Ireland.  Like reading Shakespeare, at first it's a struggle.  But once you adapt to the language, it's almost like you've lived in that place in a previous life.  The human condition is recognizable in any setting or dialect.

I'm also reading Tom Jones, by Henry Fielding.  It isn't easy reading, but like Dickens, it's so worth the effort.  It is laugh-out-loud funny and sometimes shockingly politically incorrect.  The more one reads great books, the more the appetite is whetted.

My slightly hypochondriac mate reads extensively online, pursuing every article on health and science.  A while back he read that rice contains high levels of arsenic and its consumption should be limited.  I wondered aloud if perhaps the fact that we were eating Thai jasmine brown rice an average of a ton a week, was contributing to the fact that we both sported big, purple bruises on our appendages almost all the time.  The slightest contact with a sturdy bush on the trail, nudging the gate open with the back of an arm, even grazing a door jamb accidentally, resulted in an immediate blemish that took weeks to disappear.  Since we don't eat dead animal flesh, except for fish, our diet includes copious amounts of beans and rice.

Experimentally, I cut rice out of our diet, almost completely, for a period of several months.  Voila!  Both of us were noticeably free of unsightly port wine stains on our limbs.  Anecdotal, no doubt, but it was a worthwhile experiment.  Gradually, I've added some rice back into our diet but now I make a mixed grain pilaf, reducing the amount of rice in a serving.  I try to get my fussy guy to eat quinoa but it remains stubbornly on his plate.

Tonight’s pilaf recipe called for wine and one thing led to another and here I am, blogging my besotted little heart out.

Southern California is sweltering through the last hurrah of summer.  The thermometer on the back porch read 80˚ when I woke up at 5:27 AM.  Clearly, if there was any mountain biking to be done, it would have to be in the mountains.  We, Mike and I (Sally is backpacking at Mt. Whitney) loaded the bikes and headed for the hills.  The temperature dropped encouragingly as we climbed, and by the time we reached the trail head at the Santa Ana River, it was 60˚.  Perfect!

The section we rode today begins with a rocky, loose, descent with two small stream crossings.  I hadn’t ridden this section of trail this year so I was riding tentatively, which is never good in rough terrain.  Speed is always your ally when there are rocks, sharp and irregular, that can stop you dead at slow speed.  (Why is it I always get sweaty hands when I write about this stuff?)

Mike was following me but soon found it was too difficult at my pace so he stopped to give me a chance to put some distance between us.  For those of you who may not remember, Mike was the California State champion mountain bike racer (in his class), for three years in a row.  Hence, I am unashamed of not being able to even come close to keeping up with his pace.  His bike handling skills are legendary in these parts.  Following his line is exhilarating and dangerous because he makes it look so easy.  Fortunately, I can’t keep him in sight long enough to get too far over my head.

I soon found my stride and began riding like a real woman.  Feeling at one with the earth and bike, I let it flow, carving turns, swooping through meadows of flaxen grass, and maneuvering through rock gardens.  The mood was shattered when a small bird shot across the trail directly into my wheel. 

I knew before I could skid to a stop, I had killed him.  He lay in the trail, still alive but mortally injured.  I placed him gently on the side of the trail and watched him expire.  Mike rounded the turn behind me and being even more sensitive to the suffering of animals than I am, tried to console me.

As I continued down the trail the little bird weighed heavily on my mind and my pace slowed accordingly.  We had seen a dead fox on the road on the way up the hill and the two events got me thinking about a recent story I’d read of a mountain lion attack. (I know, strange segue) A woman had been attacked while hiking with several other people.  Here I was, alone on the trail (by now Mike had dropped far behind me to make repairs to his seat post) and I began to imagine how a mountain lion might launch from above me and break my neck as easily as my spokes had broken the bird.  I got kind of creeped out and decided that I needed to get a grip.

My life was no more important in the long scheme of things than the bird’s was.  I was more likely to break my neck riding while perseverating about mountain lions than I was to have it broken for me.  Besides, what a great story death-by-mountain lion would make.  My friends would be talking about it for years!

There was plenty of fresh bear scat on the trail but we saw no bears, mountain lions, or any predators that might have enlivened this story, I’m happy to report.