The scenery along Highway 1 south of Fort Bragg and running all the way down the coast is magical, especially if you're blessed with sunny weather. The California coast can get quite foggy, especially in the summer, and sometimes you can't see the ocean unless you drive off a cliff into it. I'm pretty certain that would not be nearly as much fun as we had simply driving along it's magnificence.
We've found both spring and fall to be the best bets for finding sunshine at the coast. We weren't disappointed this time at all. The weather was nearly perfect, the countryside impossibly effervescent and verdantly green. The lush and and inviting coastal and mountain meadows were also dotted with an abundance of blooming wildflowers of every imaginable color, dancing and swaying in the ocean breeze. They were dazzling underneath the warm, spring sky, sparkling with an effervescence usually found only with some sort of chemical imbalance.
"Picture yourself in a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies..."
In addition to the kaleidoscope panorama of happy, dancing wildflowers, many meadows were festooned with a broad array of cattle. Big ones, little ones, brown ones, plaid ones. Some of them possibly even had antlers. A few might have been speaking French with each other.
"Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly...."
Naturally there were grand and exquisite vistas of the Pacific Ocean at every other turn and in-between. Yes, you can travel fast if you want to, but with the unbelievable scenery, why? We were definitely going slow and taking our time. We were routinely pulling over and letting hastier drivers go by. Why not? I
don't know why more drivers don't do this. There are many times I am
laden with hastiness and the driver in front of me, enjoying a
lackadaisical day, also seems to enjoy my frustration by not being
polite or considerate. Passive aggressive child's play I surmise. I'd much rather pull over then have someone riding my ass for any
length of time. Unless, of course, that person was my lovely wife.
Giddy up.
We cruised through the little towns of Caspar, Little River, Albion, Elk and of course, Mendocino. All of these "blink and you'll miss it" towns ooze little teeny tiny more than small town charming ambiance. There's not a lot to any of those population 24 towns, except for Mendocino. If you need to buy some post cards, a coffee mug or anything else completely useless but sentimental Mendocino is your best bet.
A little further south we put in at the Point Arena Lighthouse. Their website sez that the lighthouse is situated on the closest point of land to the Hawaiian Islands in the Continental United States. That seems like a stretch, but what do I know? Nevertheless, it was time for a stop and a short half mile hike down to the lighthouse, museum, lighthouse keeper's cottage and other assorted buildings. As well, of course, as getting the closest as possibly to Hawaii without actually getting in the water.
You can actually rent one of the old cottages there for the night, but why? You can get the feel of the deal in an hour or two. Then what are you going to do? There's absolutely nothing within miles, not even Starbucks. I guess you could visit with the tourists who trickle by. But if you're trying to get away from people, what kind of a solution is that? Do yourself a favor, definitely VISIT but spend the night somewhere else.
Speaking of staying somewhere else, south of Fort Bragg and running all along the coast are a plethora of pricey bed and breakfast inns. It looks like a lot of folks who escaped the big city for a country dream might have turned their old Victorian's into Inns. Which is fine, I suppose, if you like having strangers staying in your house all the time.
We're not big bed and breakfast people. We stayed at one in Napa one time, and we found the breakfast part of the deal just a little bit creepy. I mean, B&B's salaciously ooze romance. So it was like, you know, at breakfast we got the sense that everyone, no matter what color their hair or temperature their persuasion, had just spent the previous night in a Jacqueline Suzanne novel. And the host was running around in a fire red long sleeve dress shirt, schmoozing and acting as if he had orchestrated a subliminally surreal Masters and Johnson party clinic the night before.
"A girl with kaleidoscope eyes..."
About sixty miles down the road from Fort Bragg is the lovely little hamlet of Gualala. So how do you pronounce Gualala? Some folks pronounce it Gwa-LA-la, like me, but that would only serve to prove they are ignorant, or tourists, or both. Like me.
The natives pronounce it Wa-LA-la.
The name comes from a Kashaya Pomo Indian phrase, "Ah kha wa la
lee" which means, "Where the water flows down". That would work, a river flows out to the ocean directly across from the
center of town, right by a big sand bar where whales stop for lunch
every year. Have a few shrimp cocktails. A Martini or two. Listen to a little Bobby Darin. Then head on their way.
As far as I know there's no maritime law on the books regarding whales swimming while impaired. Yet.
Gualala should also always be pronounced to the tune of "Volare". But probably only if you're Italian. And drunk on cheap Chianti.
I was in Gualala some decades ago, back in my impetuous youth. My cousin, who was into the redwood burls, was also into making driftwood mobiles. That caught my attention and artsy eye and I began a decade long affair with that type of creation. Massive, 20 to 40 piece driftwood mobiles. Some were sold, some were gifts. The top arm could be anywhere from three to five feet wide. There were mobiles within mobiles within mobiles. Sometimes I'd need a crane to take the weight off the rafters.
Naturally I became a driftwood snob. And I could never find any decent driftwood along the the Santa Cruz beaches and north to San Francisco. Yeah, there was driftwood from time to time, but I might have been able to use one piece out of fifty. It all looked like cheap creek construction scraps.
So I went on a weekend driftwood recon road trip with an old friend one time and we landed at Gualala, where the Gualala River meets the sea. It must have been right after a storm, because you could hardly see the sand on the beach through all the driftwood. A mother lode of beautiful, ocean massaged wood. My old pal just sat down on the beach and strummed his guitar for a couple hours as I gleefully dashed hither and yon, accumulating a boat load of the stuff. So to speak.
My lovely wife and I moseyed into Gualala this time around two in the afternoon. I had done a little research on potential places to stay, but I didn't make any reservations since we didn't want to tie ourselves down. The only definite reserved space was Thursday and Friday nights in San Francisco, with dinner at the Tonga Room Thursday night. Maybe a Giants ballgame Friday. Other than that, we were keepin it loose.
Gualala, I might mention, has the most accommodation options available other than Fort Bragg along that entire stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway. And keep in mind a lot of the places you'll find online aren't necessarily directly in a particular town. They may be nearby, or on Mars, but many are not within a particular town's city limit. So to speak.
After driving by and perusing a couple of potential places we decided we'd walk in and check out Seacliff on the Bluff, which has a 4.5 star rating on Trip Advisor. The first thing we noticed when we strolled into the lobby was the multitude of LIVE blooming orchids everywhere. And of course the full on ocean view out the large, west facing picture windows. When Kathy, the receptionist, was finished with the customer in front of us, we began our friendly assault.
We discovered Cathy, with a "C" was the orchid care taker. Kathy, with a "K", our receptionist, besides being quite friendly, was familiar and fond of our nape of the neck of the woods in the Sierra Nevada foothills. One thing led to another and we ended up getting a free upgrade to the room we had originally been considering. Besides being overtly and sincerely friendly, it didn't hurt we were there on a Monday and the place was nearly vacant.
Our new room was an upstairs unit. Besides having a much better ocean view than a downstairs unit, there was also a gas fireplace and a jacuzzi tub for two. Standard amenities also included two reclining chairs in front of the two large picture windows facing the sea. Binoculars hung near by. The spectacular ocean view went on forever.
After road testing the hot tub and what that can eventually lead to, we found ourselves facing a new town dinner dilemma. What to do, what to do? In room marketing paraphernalia is OK, but we decided to ask our new friend Kathy, who recommended a couple places. A strong option was a delicatessen, where we could get our eats and then picnic in our room. Watch the sun set through the large picture windows, out of the wind, snug and warm. But "Bones Roadhouse", with their authentic Texas style pit BBQ and pirate ambiance won out.
They only have a beer and wine license, but somehow my lovely wife managed to order an $18 Bloody Mary. Bloody hell? She loved it, but she'd have to drink forty of 'em just to catch a buzz. The pulled pork platter I ordered was great, and my lovely wife loved her dinner too. Whatever it was. BBQ something.
It looks like Bones bounces between 4 and 5 stars on Trip Advisor, I'll go along with that. Plus, if you're an animal person, the owner's very friendly and just a little bit husky Labrador may come visit your table to see if you're enjoying your meal. He probably wouldn't impress a health inspector much, but he managed to get some love, attention and maintain some of his abundant weight through us. Small town stuff. Gotta love it.
By the way, it is very refreshing to mention that south of Fort Bragg there are no chain restaurants or chain fast food places anywhere along the coast. So, you know, if you're a big McNugget fan you're gonna be jonzing.
We could have stayed another night in Gualala, it was all so delicious. I mean, the view was so spectacular and the ambient sound of the ocean's roar was so relaxing we could have spent the entire day in front of the picture window, easy. But we decided to press on. Besides, who knew what treasure may lie beyond the next bend?
More scenic vistas, more panoramic meadows. Wildflowers. Plaid cows with antlers. We also went on a nice, mellow hike at Stockhoff Creek Loop. The trail wound through tall and majestic redwood trees, hearkening back days of yore when a herd of us high school youngsters would traipse through the enchanting Santa Cruz mountains.
"Cellophane flowers of yellow and green, towering over your head..."
The trail also took us to the old, one room school house from the old Fort Ross settlement, circa old. The Fort Ross State Historic Park is always worth a stop and look see, but they were closed on Tuesday. Due to financial cutbacks, they are now only open Fri-Mon. Fort Ross was an outpost and colony for the Russian-American Company when they were diddling around the California coast back in the 1830's, working on extincting otters. In case you were wondering.
If we didn't stop at Fort Ross and get information there, how the heck would we know about that particular hike? Why, the "Moon Outdoors California Hiking" guide, of course. They have divided the state into sections and rate the scenic beauty, difficulty and duration of 1,000 of the best hikes in the Golden State. It's amazing, no matter where you are in the state you are possibly within a few minutes of a fabulous hike.
We did notice all along the way there were a lot of real estate for sale signs, both vacant land and houses. I mean, a lot. I don't know if this means owners are trying to cash out at the top of a real estate market or just trying to get out before California falls into the sea. Actually, there were a couple houses along the way that was actually happening to. A couple had already taken the dive, several more were in immediate jeopardy.
They weren't our houses, so we thoroughly enjoyed another lackadaisical day along the coast. Our plan was to potentially stay at Jenner by the Sea or Bodega Bay. Even though some online sources state there are a few places to stay at Jenner, we found it to be not quite so. The only coolish place we found was "Rivers End", which was established in 1929. It was nice enough looking, but one of their big "draws" is no television or internet, which is fine for all those tech addicted folks from the bay area. But hell, I just got a tablet, I never have the time to play with the darn thing. Rivers End was out, and so was Jenner. There was nothing else there. It was time to cruise another twenty miles down the road to Birdsville.
We found Bodega Bay did have several accommodation options available, but nothing like Gualala. I might mention that we were traveling on a budget, so that limited our choices a bit. Otherwise maybe one of those pricey yet creepy B&B's might have appealed to us. Just for kicks and weird memories.
We ended up at the Inn at The Tides, which got a 3.5 star rating on Trip Advisor. I'd actually give 'em a 4. Once again, possibly because of our friendly nature, but more than likely the fact it was a Tuesday night, we received a free upgrade to a room en suite. It wasn't right on the ocean like our previous night had been, but the spaciousness of the room and free wine for my lovely wife made up for it. The room was big enough to play football in, but we just played tag instead.
Amazingly there are no real grocery stores in Bodega Bay. There's not really anything in Bodega Bay, actually. A couple motels. A couple restaurants. A couple little markets. You'd think there would have been more to the town since there are quite a few vacation homes and it seems to be a big coastal destination for folks form the bay area. But there's nothing there. Except a harbor and some fishing boats. And memories of Rod Taylor and Tippi Hedren fighting off extreme, aggressive, and psychotic sea gull weirdness.
Hell, even Gualala's two little markets were very well stocked and one of them even included a deli and butcher shop. Plus you are right on the ocean there and you can be lulled to sleep by the sweet sea's symphony. Bodega Bay is a bay, and unless you can hear stuff a couple miles away you're not going to be lulled to sleep by anything. Except off key harmony if I happen to be singing anywhere near you. For whatever reason.
We dined that night at The Tides, right on the bay and owned by the same person as the resort we were staying at. I mean, they gave us a 15% discount coupon for dinner, why not? The Tides got a little over 3 stars on Trip Advisor, I'd go along with that. The food was good, but not great. The view was fantastic though, I mean, we were sitting almost in the bay. We watched sea lions play and when the wind whipped into a frenzy the bay became dotted with a half dozen or more wind surfers.
The next morning the bay was as tranquil as can be. Sheer glass. Instead of wind surfing you could have water skied.
After a free breakfast, we hopped on down the road about thirty miles to spend the day at the Point Reyes National Sea Shore. We have driven by the road that takes you into the park numerous times, we just never made the left. Or right. The park is simply amazing. You could easily spend a couple days there, especially if you went on any lengthy hikes.
We primarily drove around the massive park, more verdant meadows with dancing wildflowers and plaid cows. We did go on one hike that was both easy and incredibly scenic. The trail took us out to a bluff that overlooked the Pacific Ocean on the right and Drakes Bay on the left. The views were stellar. Again we were blessed with sunshine on the coast. Our visit would not have been nearly as spectacular if it had been foggy. I mean, it would have been a waste. Unless we were actually on psychedelics. Only then is fog fun.
Spring. Autumn. Plan your trip to the California coast accordingly.
I had tentatively thought about maybe planning on staying in Stinson Beach that night, but who the heck was I kidding? There are NO accommodations in Stinson Beach. Nada. Zip. I wouldn't even consider letting your crazy Aunt Martha stay in either one of the two flea infested barnacles somebody has the audacity to call a motel. Sorry folks, you can't brightly paint that much cheap and disgusting away.
There were a few quaint places to stay in Tomales Bay, Olema and Point Reyes Station, but nothing really appealed to us and there was that budget thing again. We thought about heading back up the road to Bodega Bay, but then we had a date at the De Young Museum in San Francisco the next morning. We didn't really want to back track and make our route longer the next morning. Dang. It was getting late in the afternoon, zombies would be letting out soon. We needed a plan directly. Where to? What were we going to do?
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Friday, May 15, 2015
Fort Bragg Howdy
Before I launch into the next Fort Bragg post, apparently I MUST share my most recent religious proselytizing experience. I was a bit traumatized at first, but my lovely wife thought the story pretty funny, so here goes...
It was a hot and blustery spring day. OK, the day was hot and I was blustery. I had been week whacking, which will make anyone hot and blustery, and sweaty too, even if it's freezing outside. After a good five hours of brutal physical assault on my body and the errant vegetation, it was time to call it a day. I was by no means finished with the annual chore, it takes me a good 30-40 hours to whack it all down around here every year. In stages of course. This old physical specimen needs to regroup after each battle. I'm gonna need a goat in a couple more years. Hell, I'll be an old goat in a couple more years. I wonder what that all means?
I trudged back up our couple hundred yard long Lombard Street drive and put away the gear for the next time. Then I noticed, with complete dismay, that I needed to put one more coat of paint on the coffee table I was refurbishing. Dang!! Never a dull moment around here.
I was hot, tired and blustery. And sweaty. And my feet ached. So did my body. I so wanted to just
go inside and take a shower. Paint later after I'd regrouped. But it made sense to paint first and then shower. Save time and water. I was already dirty. There's a drought on around these parts. I sighed.
Then I took off my boots, shirt and pants. Who cares? The only living thing to witness my partial nudity would have been a couple squirrels and a hawk. And maybe the neighbors across the valley if they really had their telescope dialed in. And had an inordinate amount of time on their hands. Who the heck (besides my lovely wife) wants to take a peek at a partially naked rapidly aging old geezer? Talk about kinky.
So there I was, happily putting the final coat of paint on the coffee table. Tired, blustery, sweaty. I couldn't wait to finish and then take a shower to lose ten pounds of dirt, grime and salty water covering every pore of my anatomy. And then I hear what sounds like it could be a car coming up our couple hundred yard long Lombard Street drive. I thought about bouncing quickly to put on my pants, but they were in the garage, about twenty feet away. This old tired body was simply not into bouncing anymore that afternoon.
I was expecting a Fed Ex package. The usual driver is male. It'll be OK. He won't care if I'm in my underwear. He'll think it's funny.
I said to myself.
I watched the top of the drive with pending fascination and horror as I painted. And then, what to my wondering eyes should appear? Why, a metallic blue SUV with two females front and rear.
Where the hell was my Fed Ex guy???
So I sat there, paint brush in hand. Thankfully I wasn't wearing my tie dyed leopard print thong. Thing. I was in a pair of basic cotton boxer shorts, my underwear of choice since the third grade. Nothing fancy, nothing flashy. Light blue.
The driver pulled up and hopped out, smiling. A middle aged proselytizer, aided and abetted by a couple older ones inside. Her shotgun partner hopped out too, smiling. Hell, they were all smiling.
Hallelujah.
I sat there, agape. Not the agape they would hope to have me attain, but the agape that inhabits the facial features when one is agape in the grip of complete disbelief.
"Hi, it looks like you're working!" the driver said, completely ignoring the fact I was sitting there in my underwear. Maybe she didn't notice. Possibly she didn't care.
"We're out here today sharing the good word of the bible. You've probably been wondering what's going on in the world these days..."
I interrupted. I was going to bring it to her attention.
"Um, no, not really. Don't really care. They're all pretty crazy out there. What I am really wondering, however, is why you feel compelled to proseltyze me on private property when I am clearly not even dressed."
"Um, maybe this isn't a good time," she said haltingly, backing away, as if I might bite. Or suddenly developed leprosy.
Or maybe the realization suddenly came upon her that viewing a partially nude male body conflicted hideously with her bible thumping morality. I might have suddenly become a sin. She was possibly going to turn into salt. The entire event reeked of dire circumstance and circus clowns.
I stood up as shotgun also rapidly backed away and got back in the car, which made a hasty retreat back down our Lombard Street Drive.
"Might have been different if I had been expecting you. I might have put my pants on," I hollered after them.
When am I going to get that driveway gate up?
Most tourists that arrive in Fort Bragg are there to see the ocean. Or be in the ocean. Many take Hwy 1 north from the Bay Area, doing the Northern California Coastal Route Scenic Highway thing. Similar to what we did. Only we went south.
Fort Bragg is kinda at the northern end of the line for Hwy 1. The highway does continue north another forty miles or so until it merges with Highway 101. Gets a little sketchy as it approaches 101 too. Very narrow and curvy as it winds through the redwoods. It also passes through the teeny weeny little towns of Cleone, Westport and Rockport, eventually merging with 101 at Leggett.
The drive north from Leggett on 101 is spectacular as it courses through the redwoods, eventually hitting the Pacific Coast again just south of Eureka. There are a number of charming small towns and magnificent redwood wonders on the incredibly scenic hundred or so mile drive. Hwy 101 then hugs the coast another hundred miles and continues on past the Oregon border.
If you're road tripping north on Hwy 1 and hit Fort Bragg near the end of the day, I would recommend staying in Fort Bragg. Unless you want to sleep in a tent. Or your car. The next nearest accommodations would be Leggett, an easy hour or more up the road. And that last part of the road requires a lot of attention.
The last time we were on that last part of the road was when we were coming down from Portland, Oregon. Hitting that slice of road at 11:00 PM after being on the road for six hours was a real treat. Plus it's beautiful, which you can't see at night. Take it slow in the morning and enjoy the ride.
Fort Bragg is by far the biggest town on Highway 1 north of San Francisco, boasting a population of around 7,250. Fort Bragg also boasts three grocery stores, a Harvest Market, a Safeway and a throwback Purity Market, for those of you who grew up in the sixties. They've got the same sign and everything. If you're looking for a grocery store, these are the only three you're going to find on the coast north of San Francisco. Yeah, there's little markets in every town, with little market big prices. Just so ya know if you're traveling on a budget. Cookies can get real expensive when there's only a couple bags on the shelf.
There are a number of motels in Fort Bragg, from two to four star. Take your pick. A lot of travelers also stay at MacKerricher State Park, which has a fabulous campground right on the coast. It's a few miles north of town. We've never really known the touristy side of Fort Bragg, we've always known someone who lived there. I think we stayed in a motel once about thirty years ago when we were over for a wedding.
The first someone we knew in Fort Bragg was a cousin who moved up there in the mid seventies. He started making redwood burl clocks and tables in San Jose back in the redwood burl hey day and soon took his talents to the source, opening a burl shop right on Hwy 1. And that's how my Bud ended up there. We went up to visit my cousin and my Bud almost never left.
Fort Bragg did have two large industries at one time. The Union Lumber Co was launched in 1891 and was in business (finally as Georgia Pacific) until 2002. It was a major employer for over a century and the 400 acres it sat upon is right on the coast and within the city limits. All the old buildings have since been demolished and there is currently a scenic trail that drifts along the property from some place over to another. It's nice I'm told.
Commercial fishing has also played an important role in the economic base of the community. Once a major commercial fishing port, Fort Bragg was well known for producing quality fish products that were distributed to major metropolitan markets. There are a number of commercial vessels that still venture out of the Noyo Harbor in search of crab, salmon, albacore, and rock cod. Sport enthusiasts also dive for abalone and urchins, when in season. Nicely dressed children when out of season.
Tourists can also catch a sport fishing or whale watching boat down at the harbor. Or, if you'd rather not set sail to the sea, you can just enjoy some great eats. There's a few good restaurants down at the Noyo, which is one of the West Coast’s most scenic working harbors. It is tucked into the forested hills at the south end of town, the high bridge on the highway shoots right over it. To get there you have to wind down off Hwy 1, there are signs if you don't have a local in the car directing you.
We dined Sunday night at Silver's at the Wharf, engaging a sumptuous fried fish platter. Silver's has a 4 star rating on Trip Advisor, we'll give it a 5 because the location is great. We also give it a 5 because another old Fort Bragg friend's daughter-in-law was our server.
Another major dining attraction at the harbor is Carine's Italian Fish Grotto, which only received a 3 star rating on Trip Advisor. A lot of the negatives though pertained to their seafood entrees. Lemme get one thing straight, if you want seafood, go to Silver's. If you want a burger, go to Carine's.
I have been to Carine's a few times. The first thing you see when you get in the lobby are the autographed glossy 8x10's of Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn et al when they were filming the movie Overboard in the area in 1987. Apparently they enjoyed the casual ambiance and good food.
The only thing I've ever ordered at Carine's is their burger. Which comes with fries. Enough fries to fill a station wagon by the way. You need about 3,000 of those little ketchup packets to cover the amount of fries you get. Or, you know, maybe you could just use a half a bottle of ketchup, which would probably be easier than opening 3000 foil packets. Now that I think about it.
And the burger? You know the four sided one pound rectangular brick of ground beef you buy in the grocery store? Well, that's what you get, cooked to order and on a bun. Sort of on a bun. The meat has a tendency to stick out a bit beyond the bun circumference. My wonderful daughter's eyes almost popped out of her head when she first saw a Carine burger.
Carine's was closed the night were there. My Bud sez that Mama Carine, the matriarch of the restaurant clan, is in failing health. This could mean the era is ending. If you are a burger enthusiast, this is one you don't wanna miss. Git over there soon!
Another fun sighting for my lovely wife, who is also a cat whisperer, was the number of Wharf Cats we saw after we left Silver's. It was dusk, prime feline time. Feral friggin cats were everywhere. The old cartoon Top Cat theme reverberated in my cranium. We saw twenty and figured there were at least a hundred more running around down there. I doubt there's many rodents around the harbor, or errant fish, but if some sort of birth control intervention isn't made soon the cats at Noyo Harbor will someday outnumber the amount of fish left in the sea. Which would be ironic, wouldn't it?
Fort Bragg is also the retail hub for the Mendocino County coast line. Besides three grocery stores there's a couple hardware stores, a few pharmacies and a car wash. The old part of downtown also has a number of fabulous kitschy touristy gift shops, for which we are always good for a visit. Drop a dime or two for the local economy.
After a block or two of fine views, including an overpriced antique shop, we ventured across the highway to the museum. It's in an old Victorian right on Hwy 1, in the middle of town. Can't miss it.
The main exhibits at the museum primarily pertain to the lumber and fishing industries, offering a fascinating look at what men did before the invention of power tools. And comfortable socks. I mean, some of those guys, and probably not the sanest guys, made railroad ties in the middle of the damn forest with just axes and hand saws. BIG hand saws, but uncomfortable socks. Who wants to deal with that?
On one visit we made many moons ago the museum featured a lamp with a shade I would love to see again. I believe at the time it was on loan from a local aristocrat. Back in 1966 the local ranch owner/aristocrat hosted a dinner for the cast and crew of "The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming", the hilarious movie in which Alan Arkin won an Oscar for best actor.
As a way of thanking their host for dinner the entire cast and crew autographed the lamp shade. Alan Arkin, Carl Reiner, Eva Marie Saint, Brian Keith, Paul Ford, Jonathan Winters, and Theodore Bikel among others.
That movie is one of my all time favorites.
My other two all time favorites, in case you were wondering, are "It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World" and "What Did You Do in the War, Daddy?" They both happen to be comedies as well. Imagine that.
After the museum we ventured a few miles down the road to the lovely hamlet of Mendocino, a quintessential California coastal town. It is lovely, lively, and quite picturesque. It is also very touristy, but a MUST see and do if you're ever in the area. Lots of gift shops, eateries and small town coastal ambiance.
The wild Fort Bragg weekend wound down to a close after our Sunday dinner and catathon, and Monday morning our Bud was off to reality. And we were off on vacation. We packed and said good bye to our coastal home away from home. Hopefully it won't be another three to four years until we return.
Next up: It's So Fun To Say Gualala
It was a hot and blustery spring day. OK, the day was hot and I was blustery. I had been week whacking, which will make anyone hot and blustery, and sweaty too, even if it's freezing outside. After a good five hours of brutal physical assault on my body and the errant vegetation, it was time to call it a day. I was by no means finished with the annual chore, it takes me a good 30-40 hours to whack it all down around here every year. In stages of course. This old physical specimen needs to regroup after each battle. I'm gonna need a goat in a couple more years. Hell, I'll be an old goat in a couple more years. I wonder what that all means?
I trudged back up our couple hundred yard long Lombard Street drive and put away the gear for the next time. Then I noticed, with complete dismay, that I needed to put one more coat of paint on the coffee table I was refurbishing. Dang!! Never a dull moment around here.
I was hot, tired and blustery. And sweaty. And my feet ached. So did my body. I so wanted to just
go inside and take a shower. Paint later after I'd regrouped. But it made sense to paint first and then shower. Save time and water. I was already dirty. There's a drought on around these parts. I sighed.
Then I took off my boots, shirt and pants. Who cares? The only living thing to witness my partial nudity would have been a couple squirrels and a hawk. And maybe the neighbors across the valley if they really had their telescope dialed in. And had an inordinate amount of time on their hands. Who the heck (besides my lovely wife) wants to take a peek at a partially naked rapidly aging old geezer? Talk about kinky.
So there I was, happily putting the final coat of paint on the coffee table. Tired, blustery, sweaty. I couldn't wait to finish and then take a shower to lose ten pounds of dirt, grime and salty water covering every pore of my anatomy. And then I hear what sounds like it could be a car coming up our couple hundred yard long Lombard Street drive. I thought about bouncing quickly to put on my pants, but they were in the garage, about twenty feet away. This old tired body was simply not into bouncing anymore that afternoon.
I was expecting a Fed Ex package. The usual driver is male. It'll be OK. He won't care if I'm in my underwear. He'll think it's funny.
I said to myself.
I watched the top of the drive with pending fascination and horror as I painted. And then, what to my wondering eyes should appear? Why, a metallic blue SUV with two females front and rear.
Where the hell was my Fed Ex guy???
So I sat there, paint brush in hand. Thankfully I wasn't wearing my tie dyed leopard print thong. Thing. I was in a pair of basic cotton boxer shorts, my underwear of choice since the third grade. Nothing fancy, nothing flashy. Light blue.
The driver pulled up and hopped out, smiling. A middle aged proselytizer, aided and abetted by a couple older ones inside. Her shotgun partner hopped out too, smiling. Hell, they were all smiling.
Hallelujah.
I sat there, agape. Not the agape they would hope to have me attain, but the agape that inhabits the facial features when one is agape in the grip of complete disbelief.
"Hi, it looks like you're working!" the driver said, completely ignoring the fact I was sitting there in my underwear. Maybe she didn't notice. Possibly she didn't care.
"We're out here today sharing the good word of the bible. You've probably been wondering what's going on in the world these days..."
I interrupted. I was going to bring it to her attention.
"Um, no, not really. Don't really care. They're all pretty crazy out there. What I am really wondering, however, is why you feel compelled to proseltyze me on private property when I am clearly not even dressed."
"Um, maybe this isn't a good time," she said haltingly, backing away, as if I might bite. Or suddenly developed leprosy.
Or maybe the realization suddenly came upon her that viewing a partially nude male body conflicted hideously with her bible thumping morality. I might have suddenly become a sin. She was possibly going to turn into salt. The entire event reeked of dire circumstance and circus clowns.
I stood up as shotgun also rapidly backed away and got back in the car, which made a hasty retreat back down our Lombard Street Drive.
"Might have been different if I had been expecting you. I might have put my pants on," I hollered after them.
When am I going to get that driveway gate up?
Most tourists that arrive in Fort Bragg are there to see the ocean. Or be in the ocean. Many take Hwy 1 north from the Bay Area, doing the Northern California Coastal Route Scenic Highway thing. Similar to what we did. Only we went south.
Fort Bragg is kinda at the northern end of the line for Hwy 1. The highway does continue north another forty miles or so until it merges with Highway 101. Gets a little sketchy as it approaches 101 too. Very narrow and curvy as it winds through the redwoods. It also passes through the teeny weeny little towns of Cleone, Westport and Rockport, eventually merging with 101 at Leggett.
The drive north from Leggett on 101 is spectacular as it courses through the redwoods, eventually hitting the Pacific Coast again just south of Eureka. There are a number of charming small towns and magnificent redwood wonders on the incredibly scenic hundred or so mile drive. Hwy 101 then hugs the coast another hundred miles and continues on past the Oregon border.
If you're road tripping north on Hwy 1 and hit Fort Bragg near the end of the day, I would recommend staying in Fort Bragg. Unless you want to sleep in a tent. Or your car. The next nearest accommodations would be Leggett, an easy hour or more up the road. And that last part of the road requires a lot of attention.
The last time we were on that last part of the road was when we were coming down from Portland, Oregon. Hitting that slice of road at 11:00 PM after being on the road for six hours was a real treat. Plus it's beautiful, which you can't see at night. Take it slow in the morning and enjoy the ride.
Fort Bragg is by far the biggest town on Highway 1 north of San Francisco, boasting a population of around 7,250. Fort Bragg also boasts three grocery stores, a Harvest Market, a Safeway and a throwback Purity Market, for those of you who grew up in the sixties. They've got the same sign and everything. If you're looking for a grocery store, these are the only three you're going to find on the coast north of San Francisco. Yeah, there's little markets in every town, with little market big prices. Just so ya know if you're traveling on a budget. Cookies can get real expensive when there's only a couple bags on the shelf.
There are a number of motels in Fort Bragg, from two to four star. Take your pick. A lot of travelers also stay at MacKerricher State Park, which has a fabulous campground right on the coast. It's a few miles north of town. We've never really known the touristy side of Fort Bragg, we've always known someone who lived there. I think we stayed in a motel once about thirty years ago when we were over for a wedding.
The first someone we knew in Fort Bragg was a cousin who moved up there in the mid seventies. He started making redwood burl clocks and tables in San Jose back in the redwood burl hey day and soon took his talents to the source, opening a burl shop right on Hwy 1. And that's how my Bud ended up there. We went up to visit my cousin and my Bud almost never left.
Fort Bragg did have two large industries at one time. The Union Lumber Co was launched in 1891 and was in business (finally as Georgia Pacific) until 2002. It was a major employer for over a century and the 400 acres it sat upon is right on the coast and within the city limits. All the old buildings have since been demolished and there is currently a scenic trail that drifts along the property from some place over to another. It's nice I'm told.
Commercial fishing has also played an important role in the economic base of the community. Once a major commercial fishing port, Fort Bragg was well known for producing quality fish products that were distributed to major metropolitan markets. There are a number of commercial vessels that still venture out of the Noyo Harbor in search of crab, salmon, albacore, and rock cod. Sport enthusiasts also dive for abalone and urchins, when in season. Nicely dressed children when out of season.
Tourists can also catch a sport fishing or whale watching boat down at the harbor. Or, if you'd rather not set sail to the sea, you can just enjoy some great eats. There's a few good restaurants down at the Noyo, which is one of the West Coast’s most scenic working harbors. It is tucked into the forested hills at the south end of town, the high bridge on the highway shoots right over it. To get there you have to wind down off Hwy 1, there are signs if you don't have a local in the car directing you.
We dined Sunday night at Silver's at the Wharf, engaging a sumptuous fried fish platter. Silver's has a 4 star rating on Trip Advisor, we'll give it a 5 because the location is great. We also give it a 5 because another old Fort Bragg friend's daughter-in-law was our server.
Another major dining attraction at the harbor is Carine's Italian Fish Grotto, which only received a 3 star rating on Trip Advisor. A lot of the negatives though pertained to their seafood entrees. Lemme get one thing straight, if you want seafood, go to Silver's. If you want a burger, go to Carine's.
I have been to Carine's a few times. The first thing you see when you get in the lobby are the autographed glossy 8x10's of Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn et al when they were filming the movie Overboard in the area in 1987. Apparently they enjoyed the casual ambiance and good food.
The only thing I've ever ordered at Carine's is their burger. Which comes with fries. Enough fries to fill a station wagon by the way. You need about 3,000 of those little ketchup packets to cover the amount of fries you get. Or, you know, maybe you could just use a half a bottle of ketchup, which would probably be easier than opening 3000 foil packets. Now that I think about it.
And the burger? You know the four sided one pound rectangular brick of ground beef you buy in the grocery store? Well, that's what you get, cooked to order and on a bun. Sort of on a bun. The meat has a tendency to stick out a bit beyond the bun circumference. My wonderful daughter's eyes almost popped out of her head when she first saw a Carine burger.
Carine's was closed the night were there. My Bud sez that Mama Carine, the matriarch of the restaurant clan, is in failing health. This could mean the era is ending. If you are a burger enthusiast, this is one you don't wanna miss. Git over there soon!
Another fun sighting for my lovely wife, who is also a cat whisperer, was the number of Wharf Cats we saw after we left Silver's. It was dusk, prime feline time. Feral friggin cats were everywhere. The old cartoon Top Cat theme reverberated in my cranium. We saw twenty and figured there were at least a hundred more running around down there. I doubt there's many rodents around the harbor, or errant fish, but if some sort of birth control intervention isn't made soon the cats at Noyo Harbor will someday outnumber the amount of fish left in the sea. Which would be ironic, wouldn't it?
Fort Bragg is also the retail hub for the Mendocino County coast line. Besides three grocery stores there's a couple hardware stores, a few pharmacies and a car wash. The old part of downtown also has a number of fabulous kitschy touristy gift shops, for which we are always good for a visit. Drop a dime or two for the local economy.
After a block or two of fine views, including an overpriced antique shop, we ventured across the highway to the museum. It's in an old Victorian right on Hwy 1, in the middle of town. Can't miss it.
The main exhibits at the museum primarily pertain to the lumber and fishing industries, offering a fascinating look at what men did before the invention of power tools. And comfortable socks. I mean, some of those guys, and probably not the sanest guys, made railroad ties in the middle of the damn forest with just axes and hand saws. BIG hand saws, but uncomfortable socks. Who wants to deal with that?
On one visit we made many moons ago the museum featured a lamp with a shade I would love to see again. I believe at the time it was on loan from a local aristocrat. Back in 1966 the local ranch owner/aristocrat hosted a dinner for the cast and crew of "The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming", the hilarious movie in which Alan Arkin won an Oscar for best actor.
As a way of thanking their host for dinner the entire cast and crew autographed the lamp shade. Alan Arkin, Carl Reiner, Eva Marie Saint, Brian Keith, Paul Ford, Jonathan Winters, and Theodore Bikel among others.
That movie is one of my all time favorites.
My other two all time favorites, in case you were wondering, are "It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World" and "What Did You Do in the War, Daddy?" They both happen to be comedies as well. Imagine that.
After the museum we ventured a few miles down the road to the lovely hamlet of Mendocino, a quintessential California coastal town. It is lovely, lively, and quite picturesque. It is also very touristy, but a MUST see and do if you're ever in the area. Lots of gift shops, eateries and small town coastal ambiance.
The wild Fort Bragg weekend wound down to a close after our Sunday dinner and catathon, and Monday morning our Bud was off to reality. And we were off on vacation. We packed and said good bye to our coastal home away from home. Hopefully it won't be another three to four years until we return.
Next up: It's So Fun To Say Gualala
Friday, May 1, 2015
The Fort Bragg of Our Content
My lovely wife and I recently returned from a wonderful little road trip vacation. The plan was to leave on a Saturday morning and motor over to Fort Bragg, on the California coast and visit an old school friend. We were going to spend the weekend there, then slowly meander down the Pacific Coast Hwy for the next three days, landing in San Francisco on Thursday. We'd spend a couple nights there, then amble over the bay to Oakland and spend the day and night with our kids and grand kids.
The plan was solid and we had a great time. The End.
OK, there's a little more to the story. There's always more to the story, especially when I'm at the wheel. Are you kidding?
Back in our 20's and 30's we used to motor over to Fort Bragg three or four times a year. Now we seem to get over there every three or four years. Same numbers, different space continuum. Thing.
Typically when we drive over to Fort Bragg we get on Highway 20 here, in Grass Valley. And we stay on Hwy 20 until we get to our friend's house, which is right on the road about five miles this side of Fort Bragg. Pretty easy, actually, and really hard to screw up.
I say typically because we started this journey with a minor detour to Sacramento, to hell and gone off the route and almost heading in the opposite direction. Why? Because my lovely wife wanted to return an item or two to a department store down Sac way. What can I say? It was the first day of a road trip vacation and we weren't in a hurry.
Actually, that diversion allowed us an opportunity to explore a little more of this state. From the top side of Sac Town we hit Hwy 5 North, but rather than take that all the way to Hwy 20 at Williams, we chose instead to take highway 16 through the lovely Capay Valley. That would hit Hwy 20 about seventeen miles west of Clear Lake and save us a whopping six miles.
We picked up Hwy 16 out of Woodland, and the two lane road was a little heavy with traffic for the first few miles as we passed through the little towns of Madison, Esparto and Capay in rapid slow succession. Once through the towns we broke out on an open two lane highway, cruising through the lush green countryside. Wildflowers were popping everywhere, orchards, pastures and a few old barns flew by.
Traffic got a little bunched up again as we approached the massive Cache Creek Casino, which loomed like a large monolith in the middle of the countryside. Or nowhere. Take your pick. There were about fourteen cars in it's two thousand space parking lot, I guess it wasn't the right time of the month for social security checks.
We wound around into the low flung hills and soon were running alongside the now trickling Cache Creek, which is the sole outlet of Clear Lake. There was a time, some 35 years ago, that we actually white water rafted the Cache. It was also the scene of my first would be rescue.
The Cache is named a "creek", but back in better water days it can become a ripping current, good enough to attract a bevy of fast water enthusiasts. A friend was familiar with the spot, had the gear and invited us along. It wasn't a Class 5 torrent, but for our first taste of rafting we had a rollicking good time.
Somewhere along the ride there was a small forestry one lane road that crossed the river. There were two large, four foot diameter culverts that allowed the river to pass through the earth and concrete road barrier bridge. At that time there was really no clearance between the top of the two culverts and the ripping water.
In the middle of summer you could probably walk through the culverts, that day all the water enthusiasts had to ford the bridge. We oared to the side of the river about fifty yards up stream from the bridge where we casually lifted our raft out of the placid water and brought our gear (and beer) to the other side. Then it was break time for a few.
I was near the bridge when I noticed a young woman in her late teens or early 20's in an inner tube having some trouble getting to shore. She had ignored the signs (yes, there were signs) or hadn't seen them and was rapidly losing the battle of the river. Since the twenty foot wide free flowing river was being channeled into 2-four foot culverts the water really got choppy and fast. She was flailing in the swift current and having a difficult time trying to get control.
Then I watched in slo-mo horror as she lost the battle and got swept into one of the culverts.
"Holy shit," I thought, as I ran onto the bridge.
Two kayakers were on the bridge at the time and had also witnessed her getting vacuumed up. There were also other folks on shore who had witnessed the culvert suck up the lady and all eyes were on the white water flow shooting out the other side. It seemed like a minute, but was probably only ten seconds when she was finally spewed out the other side. She was gasping and flailing and bobbing and weaving, like a disheveled human yo yo, out of control and being swept down river by the swift moving water.
I looked at the kayak guys. Surely one of them would dive in and rescue the lass. I thought. They looked the part. They had on helmets, wet suits and the whole bit. You know, gills, fins. I was wearing Levi cut off shorts. Sure, I had just joined the volunteer fire department back home, but this was different. I had no experience with white water rescue. Surely one of kayakers would take the finger out of their asses and rescue this girl. Surely.
Our inner tube gal was now about twenty feet downstream and still gasping and flailing, clearly in potential of drowning. There were literally a dozen people on the shore and bridge, just watching, in horror, I hope.
My lovely wife, by this time, had come running up on the bridge. I turned to her, exasperated, and said, "Nobody's doing anything!"
Now each kayakers respective fists were up each others collective asses. I figured they would be the guys. They're on rivers all the time. They got helmets and stuff. Fins. Gills. I go to a river once a year. Maybe.
About ten seconds had elapsed since she had emerged from the gushing culvert. I looked at the fast flowing water and dove.
As I dove I said to myself, "Dive light you stupid mother fucker. You have no idea what's under the surface."
I did dive light. It was as horizontal as it could have been. Belly flop aerial style. My hands were out in front, primarily to protect my head should there have been a boulder you know, like, right there. Fortunately, there was not. As a matter of fact, my hands hit gravel as did my stomach. Instead of launching into a mad, frantic breast stroke to save the maiden, I stood up in ankle deep water and sprinted towards her instead. I dove from a height of about six feet into a depth of about six inches. Uh, whew. I could have become a rescue case myself.
By this time our damsel in distress had managed to flail towards the bank, and when I got to her she was sitting in shallower, calmer water, still gasping for breath. We sat there for a minute, then I walked with her to the shore. A ranger was by a few minutes later to check on her. Amazingly she was fine. Shook up, but fine.
Moral of this story: Books and covers.
Once we hit Hwy 20, we climbed up and around the scruffy hills and ambled on into Clear Lake Oaks, the first of many meth addled looking towns along the north shore of the lake. Which is full of water by the way.
The north shore of Clear Lake, probably much like the rest of the shores, is really nothing to speak of. It's not very colorful, not very panoramic. There are a few nice, newer homes along the lake shore, but most of the structures on the lake or otherwise look like they were built in the 1950's and 60's by folks on gas station attendant pensions. Painted plywood additions appear to be a dominant remodeling factor among the residents. That and cardboard.
How do you compliment a single woman from Clear Lake?
Nice tooth.
There is a Frosty Freeze that has been there forever it would seem. Or at least as long as we have been making the Grass Valley-Ft. Bragg trek. The only other really noteworthy mention about the north shore of Clear Lake is the little town of Lucerne, which has a big sign and touts itself as the Switzerland of America.
AUFKM?
I've never been to Switzerland, but I've got news, from the pictures I've seen Lucerne looks a lot more like a Breaking Bad town situated next door to El Centro, Ca or El Reno, OK. Switzerland? They must be on meth. What on earth could they possibly be smoking when trying to compare their town with Switzerland? How could they possibly think the scrub oak infested rolling little hills look anything like the majestic looking Alps. The only snow Lucerne's little mountains would ever see I surmise would be what's in the bowl of somebody's pipe.
There is a lovely little town in north Washington state that is reminiscent of the Alps. Germany. Switzerland. It's the lovely little Bavarian looking town of Leavenworth, just like the federal prison town in Kansas. Only a world apart, trust me. Leavenworth, WA, is definitely worth a visit. It's quaint and charming and the Cascades are very reminiscent of the Alps. Leavenworth, Kansas, on the other hand, is neither quaint nor charming. And there are no mountains. For miles.
The trek along Clear Lake's north shore is around 25 miles, and averaging 45 MPH it takes seeming FOREVER. The saving grace are all the festering sociological gawking opportunities that abound. It's like looking at Wal-Mart shoppers for miles. Once past the lake it's another twenty some miles until you hit Highway 101. Meth o mania is finally in the rear view mirror.
North we flew on Hwy 101/20 into Willits, a nice highway town which touts itself as the Gateway to the Redwoods. Which it is. Traffic on the highway got a bit boogied up just south of town. Apparently they are working on an alternate route for the highway that will go around the town. Currently the highway goes right through the town and right under a charming neon sign. The alternate route makes sense, but then most folks heading north would miss the charming neon sign and the second of Willits's four traffic lights.
That's where Highway 20 heads West. It was there we turned and pit stopped at the whatever fast food joint was on the corner. Travel note: we have found fast food restaurants usually have the cleanest and most accessible bathrooms, if that's all you need to do. They have food too if you're hungry. But no gas, typically, except for inside their patrons intestines.
It's only about 20 miles from Willits to our bud's house, but it always takes 45 minutes to an hour to get there. Slow go's and lots of turns. Always a Winnebago. And every once in a while a fully loaded semi. At Willits, however, my lovely wife took the wheel and I got to look at the trees and play with the radio.
Thought I was going to say something else, didn't you?
I knew we were heading into a nostalgic time warp weekend when I happened upon The Coast radio station, KOZT, 95.3. The Coast is out of Ft Bragg and they were playing Albatross, by the real Fleetwood Mac. Then they launched into Crystal River by Mudcrutch, an offshoot of Tom Petty's.
Holy cow, a song I liked that I'd never heard before by a group I'd never heard of. I was in melody mania. Some of the guitar solos were very reminiscent of Jerry Garcia. As if reading my mind, Franklin's Tower by the Dead came next. The set was finished with Sunlight by the Youngblood's, one of my lovely wife and my songs. From way back when. All that and no Top whatever before a commercial. Radio like back when.
It was about this time we rolled right past our buddies place. What the heck. What's another four minutes for a turn around when you've been on the road four hours? Right?
Our Bud and I go back a long ways. We've known each other for over 45 years. That's pretty damn scary. Eighth grade Spanish. Or was that seventh grade? See, it's been so long. The stories we could tell, and do tell. But I can't tell you because then we'd probably need an attorney. Another old pal also showed up for the weekend, or the night as it happened. Put him in the mix and we'd probably need the entire team at Boston Legal to keep us out of trouble. Suffice it to say, nostalgia reigns when we get together. And conversation is so easy when draped in old friend's arms. It was only yesterday...
Our buddy is currently a bachelor, there's a novel right there about his love lives. Being a bachelor, his kitchen is not quite as equipped as a culinary purist might prefer, unless, of course, we wanted a peanut butter and fish stick souffle. We ventured out for dinner instead.
Mexican food was the order of the eve, and rather than bouncing into the main drag touristo burrito eatery, we had a long term local to guide us. He guided us to "Los Gallitos", an extremely unassuming little hole in the wall in a strip mall next to CVS. Next door was a laundromat. A tourist would never know this place existed. Unless, of course, they spilled some red wine on their favorite sweater.
"Los Gallitos" makes the best darned Mexican food this side of the Napa Sonoma Mendocino county line. And they make it "to go" too. Which is a good thing since they can only seat about twenty people at a time. We got seated and were treated to some great food and dandy repartee (as well as great service) by a couple young gals who weren't afraid to mix it up with our special brand of madness. A grand time was experienced by all. And if it wasn't, we tipped well.
"Los Gallitos" gets our vote for favorite undiscovered gem in the big city this time around. Stay tuned for "The Fort Bragg You Never Knew Existed", next on your favorite blogorama.
The plan was solid and we had a great time. The End.
OK, there's a little more to the story. There's always more to the story, especially when I'm at the wheel. Are you kidding?
Back in our 20's and 30's we used to motor over to Fort Bragg three or four times a year. Now we seem to get over there every three or four years. Same numbers, different space continuum. Thing.
Typically when we drive over to Fort Bragg we get on Highway 20 here, in Grass Valley. And we stay on Hwy 20 until we get to our friend's house, which is right on the road about five miles this side of Fort Bragg. Pretty easy, actually, and really hard to screw up.
I say typically because we started this journey with a minor detour to Sacramento, to hell and gone off the route and almost heading in the opposite direction. Why? Because my lovely wife wanted to return an item or two to a department store down Sac way. What can I say? It was the first day of a road trip vacation and we weren't in a hurry.
Actually, that diversion allowed us an opportunity to explore a little more of this state. From the top side of Sac Town we hit Hwy 5 North, but rather than take that all the way to Hwy 20 at Williams, we chose instead to take highway 16 through the lovely Capay Valley. That would hit Hwy 20 about seventeen miles west of Clear Lake and save us a whopping six miles.
We picked up Hwy 16 out of Woodland, and the two lane road was a little heavy with traffic for the first few miles as we passed through the little towns of Madison, Esparto and Capay in rapid slow succession. Once through the towns we broke out on an open two lane highway, cruising through the lush green countryside. Wildflowers were popping everywhere, orchards, pastures and a few old barns flew by.
Traffic got a little bunched up again as we approached the massive Cache Creek Casino, which loomed like a large monolith in the middle of the countryside. Or nowhere. Take your pick. There were about fourteen cars in it's two thousand space parking lot, I guess it wasn't the right time of the month for social security checks.
We wound around into the low flung hills and soon were running alongside the now trickling Cache Creek, which is the sole outlet of Clear Lake. There was a time, some 35 years ago, that we actually white water rafted the Cache. It was also the scene of my first would be rescue.
The Cache is named a "creek", but back in better water days it can become a ripping current, good enough to attract a bevy of fast water enthusiasts. A friend was familiar with the spot, had the gear and invited us along. It wasn't a Class 5 torrent, but for our first taste of rafting we had a rollicking good time.
Somewhere along the ride there was a small forestry one lane road that crossed the river. There were two large, four foot diameter culverts that allowed the river to pass through the earth and concrete road barrier bridge. At that time there was really no clearance between the top of the two culverts and the ripping water.
In the middle of summer you could probably walk through the culverts, that day all the water enthusiasts had to ford the bridge. We oared to the side of the river about fifty yards up stream from the bridge where we casually lifted our raft out of the placid water and brought our gear (and beer) to the other side. Then it was break time for a few.
I was near the bridge when I noticed a young woman in her late teens or early 20's in an inner tube having some trouble getting to shore. She had ignored the signs (yes, there were signs) or hadn't seen them and was rapidly losing the battle of the river. Since the twenty foot wide free flowing river was being channeled into 2-four foot culverts the water really got choppy and fast. She was flailing in the swift current and having a difficult time trying to get control.
Then I watched in slo-mo horror as she lost the battle and got swept into one of the culverts.
"Holy shit," I thought, as I ran onto the bridge.
Two kayakers were on the bridge at the time and had also witnessed her getting vacuumed up. There were also other folks on shore who had witnessed the culvert suck up the lady and all eyes were on the white water flow shooting out the other side. It seemed like a minute, but was probably only ten seconds when she was finally spewed out the other side. She was gasping and flailing and bobbing and weaving, like a disheveled human yo yo, out of control and being swept down river by the swift moving water.
I looked at the kayak guys. Surely one of them would dive in and rescue the lass. I thought. They looked the part. They had on helmets, wet suits and the whole bit. You know, gills, fins. I was wearing Levi cut off shorts. Sure, I had just joined the volunteer fire department back home, but this was different. I had no experience with white water rescue. Surely one of kayakers would take the finger out of their asses and rescue this girl. Surely.
Our inner tube gal was now about twenty feet downstream and still gasping and flailing, clearly in potential of drowning. There were literally a dozen people on the shore and bridge, just watching, in horror, I hope.
My lovely wife, by this time, had come running up on the bridge. I turned to her, exasperated, and said, "Nobody's doing anything!"
Now each kayakers respective fists were up each others collective asses. I figured they would be the guys. They're on rivers all the time. They got helmets and stuff. Fins. Gills. I go to a river once a year. Maybe.
About ten seconds had elapsed since she had emerged from the gushing culvert. I looked at the fast flowing water and dove.
As I dove I said to myself, "Dive light you stupid mother fucker. You have no idea what's under the surface."
I did dive light. It was as horizontal as it could have been. Belly flop aerial style. My hands were out in front, primarily to protect my head should there have been a boulder you know, like, right there. Fortunately, there was not. As a matter of fact, my hands hit gravel as did my stomach. Instead of launching into a mad, frantic breast stroke to save the maiden, I stood up in ankle deep water and sprinted towards her instead. I dove from a height of about six feet into a depth of about six inches. Uh, whew. I could have become a rescue case myself.
By this time our damsel in distress had managed to flail towards the bank, and when I got to her she was sitting in shallower, calmer water, still gasping for breath. We sat there for a minute, then I walked with her to the shore. A ranger was by a few minutes later to check on her. Amazingly she was fine. Shook up, but fine.
Moral of this story: Books and covers.
Once we hit Hwy 20, we climbed up and around the scruffy hills and ambled on into Clear Lake Oaks, the first of many meth addled looking towns along the north shore of the lake. Which is full of water by the way.
The north shore of Clear Lake, probably much like the rest of the shores, is really nothing to speak of. It's not very colorful, not very panoramic. There are a few nice, newer homes along the lake shore, but most of the structures on the lake or otherwise look like they were built in the 1950's and 60's by folks on gas station attendant pensions. Painted plywood additions appear to be a dominant remodeling factor among the residents. That and cardboard.
How do you compliment a single woman from Clear Lake?
Nice tooth.
There is a Frosty Freeze that has been there forever it would seem. Or at least as long as we have been making the Grass Valley-Ft. Bragg trek. The only other really noteworthy mention about the north shore of Clear Lake is the little town of Lucerne, which has a big sign and touts itself as the Switzerland of America.
AUFKM?
I've never been to Switzerland, but I've got news, from the pictures I've seen Lucerne looks a lot more like a Breaking Bad town situated next door to El Centro, Ca or El Reno, OK. Switzerland? They must be on meth. What on earth could they possibly be smoking when trying to compare their town with Switzerland? How could they possibly think the scrub oak infested rolling little hills look anything like the majestic looking Alps. The only snow Lucerne's little mountains would ever see I surmise would be what's in the bowl of somebody's pipe.
There is a lovely little town in north Washington state that is reminiscent of the Alps. Germany. Switzerland. It's the lovely little Bavarian looking town of Leavenworth, just like the federal prison town in Kansas. Only a world apart, trust me. Leavenworth, WA, is definitely worth a visit. It's quaint and charming and the Cascades are very reminiscent of the Alps. Leavenworth, Kansas, on the other hand, is neither quaint nor charming. And there are no mountains. For miles.
The trek along Clear Lake's north shore is around 25 miles, and averaging 45 MPH it takes seeming FOREVER. The saving grace are all the festering sociological gawking opportunities that abound. It's like looking at Wal-Mart shoppers for miles. Once past the lake it's another twenty some miles until you hit Highway 101. Meth o mania is finally in the rear view mirror.
North we flew on Hwy 101/20 into Willits, a nice highway town which touts itself as the Gateway to the Redwoods. Which it is. Traffic on the highway got a bit boogied up just south of town. Apparently they are working on an alternate route for the highway that will go around the town. Currently the highway goes right through the town and right under a charming neon sign. The alternate route makes sense, but then most folks heading north would miss the charming neon sign and the second of Willits's four traffic lights.
That's where Highway 20 heads West. It was there we turned and pit stopped at the whatever fast food joint was on the corner. Travel note: we have found fast food restaurants usually have the cleanest and most accessible bathrooms, if that's all you need to do. They have food too if you're hungry. But no gas, typically, except for inside their patrons intestines.
It's only about 20 miles from Willits to our bud's house, but it always takes 45 minutes to an hour to get there. Slow go's and lots of turns. Always a Winnebago. And every once in a while a fully loaded semi. At Willits, however, my lovely wife took the wheel and I got to look at the trees and play with the radio.
Thought I was going to say something else, didn't you?
I knew we were heading into a nostalgic time warp weekend when I happened upon The Coast radio station, KOZT, 95.3. The Coast is out of Ft Bragg and they were playing Albatross, by the real Fleetwood Mac. Then they launched into Crystal River by Mudcrutch, an offshoot of Tom Petty's.
Holy cow, a song I liked that I'd never heard before by a group I'd never heard of. I was in melody mania. Some of the guitar solos were very reminiscent of Jerry Garcia. As if reading my mind, Franklin's Tower by the Dead came next. The set was finished with Sunlight by the Youngblood's, one of my lovely wife and my songs. From way back when. All that and no Top whatever before a commercial. Radio like back when.
It was about this time we rolled right past our buddies place. What the heck. What's another four minutes for a turn around when you've been on the road four hours? Right?
Our Bud and I go back a long ways. We've known each other for over 45 years. That's pretty damn scary. Eighth grade Spanish. Or was that seventh grade? See, it's been so long. The stories we could tell, and do tell. But I can't tell you because then we'd probably need an attorney. Another old pal also showed up for the weekend, or the night as it happened. Put him in the mix and we'd probably need the entire team at Boston Legal to keep us out of trouble. Suffice it to say, nostalgia reigns when we get together. And conversation is so easy when draped in old friend's arms. It was only yesterday...
Our buddy is currently a bachelor, there's a novel right there about his love lives. Being a bachelor, his kitchen is not quite as equipped as a culinary purist might prefer, unless, of course, we wanted a peanut butter and fish stick souffle. We ventured out for dinner instead.
Mexican food was the order of the eve, and rather than bouncing into the main drag touristo burrito eatery, we had a long term local to guide us. He guided us to "Los Gallitos", an extremely unassuming little hole in the wall in a strip mall next to CVS. Next door was a laundromat. A tourist would never know this place existed. Unless, of course, they spilled some red wine on their favorite sweater.
"Los Gallitos" makes the best darned Mexican food this side of the Napa Sonoma Mendocino county line. And they make it "to go" too. Which is a good thing since they can only seat about twenty people at a time. We got seated and were treated to some great food and dandy repartee (as well as great service) by a couple young gals who weren't afraid to mix it up with our special brand of madness. A grand time was experienced by all. And if it wasn't, we tipped well.
"Los Gallitos" gets our vote for favorite undiscovered gem in the big city this time around. Stay tuned for "The Fort Bragg You Never Knew Existed", next on your favorite blogorama.
Friday, April 24, 2015
Father's Day Offensive 2015-Deck Mania
The old back deck had turned rickety and hostile. One wrong move and you might get it.
Right between the toes.
It has been a situation of agitation for me since we first moved in four years ago. I have actually tossed in a half dozen planks to replace some of the really bad ones. Dry rot, especially at the ends, and loose screws everywhere, abounded. It was time for the old wood to go and for the joists, if palpable, to sprout new planks like wings. Or something like that.
Prior to getting hip deep in a brutal tear off assault, I first had to contend with, quite gingerly I might add, a delicate propane contusion situation type disorder thing. You see, old Homeboy, the previous owner, was a gassy kind of guy. I mean, he dealt in propane. He loved all things gas. So he ran a line run from under the house to the outside corner of the deck for the BBQ. Which is fine I suppose if you BBQ every single day. But every single day is not a holiday and some days the weather can be cold and inclement around here. Some days we just wanna have a salad, know what I mean?
I probably would have left it all alone 'cept there was this six inch flange contusion that protruded beyond the deck. Right at the corner. Somehow in the last four years no one has been shinned on it, but it was only a matter of time.
First I turned off the gas. Yes, I want to ultimately demolish the deck, but not at the expense of blowing half the house up too. Next I removed two rows of decking to get access to the gassy lollapalooza. Then I proceeded to try and undo the fittings. Both the top and side protrusions you see above were rusted tight, they wouldn't budge. But then as I added just a touch more oomph, magically, the entire twenty foot line started coming undone at the juncture under house. The place I was going to have to ultimately go and undo, only I thought it would be easier by removing all the odd angled crap at the other end first. Go figure. That saved me a whole lot of time and trouble. Then I went and bought a six inch extension to replace the removed falderal and it's all now tucked nicely under the house. No one should ever get shinned on that.
Then it was time for the all out demo assault. Bazookas. Machine guns. Machetes. I was taking no prisoners. During the blitz I encountered three different types of screw heads. And nails. Crafty, sinister bastards. All required different weaponry to remove, but I was up to the task. And then, at one point, when I was hip deep in crocodiles and barracudas, a good friend dropped by. Ahhhhhhhhhhh, reinforcements!
He saw the sweat on my brow and generously waded in to battle. Two AARP ex-hippies gettin her done, slashing, whacking and biting. The old lumber never had a chance. Of course, neither one of us could move that night, but stories will be told of our heroic exploits that day. That's for sure.
Once the tear off was complete, I removed any remaining hardware from old 2x4's. Three one gallon buckets of metal were ultimately removed. Then I stacked the better lumber which will be deployed later this summer for the tree house. Re-purpose Re-purpose Re-purpose.
Complete tear off took a day and a half, then I took stock of the joists. All of them were relatively sound, but most of them had suffered pretty fair dry rot along the tops.
The main problem with the old deck was that home boy did not leave any space between his top deck planks. Typically you should have a 1/8-1/4 inch gap between each board, allowing for water to run off, down, through and away. When they're solid the water will sit and the wood will start dry rotting, especially at the ends. Even though it was redwood decking, homie had painted it over and essentially shit showed the entire bonanza beyond recognition.
Fortunately there is a way to deal with dry rot at the top. It's called "sistering" the joist. Or at least that's what we called it. Basically you just nail or screw another board along the joist for whatever length you need. Then screw the top plank into that instead of the dry rotted joist next to it. Since I wanted a pretty solid screw line, I ran a sister the entire length of each joist. I simply re-purposed some of the old deck 2x6's, the cost was nil. If you're paying for the sister, then it would make sense to keep her in line with just the dry rotted section of the joist, which might only be a foot or two.
Once the entire under belly was solid, I treated it with a wood preservative. That was completed on Thursday, allowing a couple days for the oil to sink in and the smell to dissipate before our fabulous son in law and grandson would be up to help install the new.
The first thing we did Saturday morning was cover the joists. Yeah, I preserved them, but I definitely don't want to go there again. Not in this life time. They make plastic snap on type covers and they also make a roll on. Sort of like deodorant, only different. There's a 4 inch wide roll, which would cover a sistered joist quite nicely. Based on my figures, I would have needed two rolls.
There was also a 9 inch wide roll for about $5.00 more than the 4 inch roll. I figured that would cover twice the amount of sistered joists and I would only need one roll, which would save me about $30 bucks. It's called math. It comes in handy some times.
The joist tape cut very cleanly with an exacta knife and attached quite easily with a staple gun. An hour in and we were ready to start planking.
What did I choose for my plank material? Redwood. Basic redwood. After looking at the pros and cons of all the happy horseshit non wood "maintenance free" products, I opted for the basic. It'll last, as long as I splash a coat of water seal on it every year or two.
Look, Homie installed a "Maintenance Free" ironwood deck in front. Only I have to splash some oil on it every year. Which doesn't sound "maintenance free" to me. And ironwood is a lot more expensive than redwood. So I figured if I already have to annually maintain the front deck what's a couple extra hours to maintain the rear?
I once lived at a house that had trex deck. That stuff absorbs the oil off a Dorito. Drop a Dorito crumb and you end up with a Dorito oil stain on the deck. Have a big party with the appropriate amount of alcohol and your deck is going to get chip besotted, spotted and stained. Then you're going to have to refinish the entire thing with little corn chip chips so it all looks even. Who wants to do that?
The first couple rows of redwood 2x6 planks took a little time. One had to be notched to allow for some PVC, and a couple others needed to be sliced to allow for access to the house water line. But once those were set we were ready to rock and roll. My fabulous son in law took the helm, and assisted by our amazing grandson they tacked down the ends on all the wood I fed them.
Since the length of the deck was 20 feet I had ordered the appropriate amount of 12 footers and the appropriate amount of 8 footers to fill the original deck footprint. How did I do this? I counted the boards.
By ordering 8 and 12 footers, I was able to leave only two nice, clean seam lines. Most decks have seams that are willy nilly everywhere, like old Homie did. Not so here, now.
We did the big section first, then the little after deck off the dining room. It was a full day of fun and frolic, and our amazing 8 year old grandson stayed in the game the entire way. Most 8 year olds would have hung out for about ten minutes, then ran off to play. Not so here.
He not only hung, he helped with the not so fun grunt stuff for most of the day. His reward? Once all the pieces were in place I started about fifty screws for him to finish off.
Sunday was a play day, but Monday I got another box of uber fabulous star red screws, which blend with redwood quite nicely, and spent the rest of the day trimming the edges and screwing off. The deck that is. Not the rest of the day.
A couple days later I addressed the deck long step issue, and with a little snap sizzle I was able to put it all together. A little shimmy here, a little shammy there. Once again, in the heat of battle, photos go by the wayside. But here are a few of the finished product.
Next up will be the Front Fence Offensive. All the 4x4's and T-Posts are in, having dug holes and pounded them in while the hard clay ground was still rain moist and malleable. But there's a lot of wire and a couple gates left to do. Small tomatoes.
The next couple blog posts will be about a recent excursion my lovely wife and I made along the Northern California coast. They will be chalk full of things you probably never knew existed.
My second book is just about half way complete. I hope to have that available on Amazon later this fall, really really later in fall. Probably early winter, actually. Or maybe some time next year. Anybody got a couple spare ten seconds they can lend me?
My first book, as always, is still available on Amazon.com.
Happy Spring Y'all.
Right between the toes.
It has been a situation of agitation for me since we first moved in four years ago. I have actually tossed in a half dozen planks to replace some of the really bad ones. Dry rot, especially at the ends, and loose screws everywhere, abounded. It was time for the old wood to go and for the joists, if palpable, to sprout new planks like wings. Or something like that.
Prior to getting hip deep in a brutal tear off assault, I first had to contend with, quite gingerly I might add, a delicate propane contusion situation type disorder thing. You see, old Homeboy, the previous owner, was a gassy kind of guy. I mean, he dealt in propane. He loved all things gas. So he ran a line run from under the house to the outside corner of the deck for the BBQ. Which is fine I suppose if you BBQ every single day. But every single day is not a holiday and some days the weather can be cold and inclement around here. Some days we just wanna have a salad, know what I mean?
I probably would have left it all alone 'cept there was this six inch flange contusion that protruded beyond the deck. Right at the corner. Somehow in the last four years no one has been shinned on it, but it was only a matter of time.
He saw the sweat on my brow and generously waded in to battle. Two AARP ex-hippies gettin her done, slashing, whacking and biting. The old lumber never had a chance. Of course, neither one of us could move that night, but stories will be told of our heroic exploits that day. That's for sure.
Once the tear off was complete, I removed any remaining hardware from old 2x4's. Three one gallon buckets of metal were ultimately removed. Then I stacked the better lumber which will be deployed later this summer for the tree house. Re-purpose Re-purpose Re-purpose.
Complete tear off took a day and a half, then I took stock of the joists. All of them were relatively sound, but most of them had suffered pretty fair dry rot along the tops.
Once the entire under belly was solid, I treated it with a wood preservative. That was completed on Thursday, allowing a couple days for the oil to sink in and the smell to dissipate before our fabulous son in law and grandson would be up to help install the new.
There was also a 9 inch wide roll for about $5.00 more than the 4 inch roll. I figured that would cover twice the amount of sistered joists and I would only need one roll, which would save me about $30 bucks. It's called math. It comes in handy some times.
The joist tape cut very cleanly with an exacta knife and attached quite easily with a staple gun. An hour in and we were ready to start planking.
Look, Homie installed a "Maintenance Free" ironwood deck in front. Only I have to splash some oil on it every year. Which doesn't sound "maintenance free" to me. And ironwood is a lot more expensive than redwood. So I figured if I already have to annually maintain the front deck what's a couple extra hours to maintain the rear?
I once lived at a house that had trex deck. That stuff absorbs the oil off a Dorito. Drop a Dorito crumb and you end up with a Dorito oil stain on the deck. Have a big party with the appropriate amount of alcohol and your deck is going to get chip besotted, spotted and stained. Then you're going to have to refinish the entire thing with little corn chip chips so it all looks even. Who wants to do that?
The first couple rows of redwood 2x6 planks took a little time. One had to be notched to allow for some PVC, and a couple others needed to be sliced to allow for access to the house water line. But once those were set we were ready to rock and roll. My fabulous son in law took the helm, and assisted by our amazing grandson they tacked down the ends on all the wood I fed them.
Since the length of the deck was 20 feet I had ordered the appropriate amount of 12 footers and the appropriate amount of 8 footers to fill the original deck footprint. How did I do this? I counted the boards.
By ordering 8 and 12 footers, I was able to leave only two nice, clean seam lines. Most decks have seams that are willy nilly everywhere, like old Homie did. Not so here, now.
He not only hung, he helped with the not so fun grunt stuff for most of the day. His reward? Once all the pieces were in place I started about fifty screws for him to finish off.
Sunday was a play day, but Monday I got another box of uber fabulous star red screws, which blend with redwood quite nicely, and spent the rest of the day trimming the edges and screwing off. The deck that is. Not the rest of the day.
The next couple blog posts will be about a recent excursion my lovely wife and I made along the Northern California coast. They will be chalk full of things you probably never knew existed.
My second book is just about half way complete. I hope to have that available on Amazon later this fall, really really later in fall. Probably early winter, actually. Or maybe some time next year. Anybody got a couple spare ten seconds they can lend me?
My first book, as always, is still available on Amazon.com.
Happy Spring Y'all.
Friday, April 10, 2015
Father's Day Offensive, 2015-Battle of the Lattice
It was a dark and blustery December afternoon. Rain was actually falling here in Northern California and lightening was crackling periodically through the dark grey skies. The wind whistled and howled.
Hunched over pages of graph paper with hundreds of linear, lateral and horizontal lines filled with trapezoids and octogons, I sighed as the fire cackled. I wasn't sure if that was on the natch or if it really was laughing at me.
I looked up from the massive mess of geometric design and decided the fire was behaving itself. How could it know what I was thinking, anyway? Then I looked at my lovely wife and asked, hesitantly, "You want this when?"
A lightening bolt pierced the marauding sky.
The last time I was involved in a major home remodeling offensive was when we first bought this place. New paint, floors, appliances, fixtures. It was a howling battle, I lost fifteen pounds during the eight week melee.
Then there was the time at the last house we owned. There was something about the living room and family room that just wasn't sitting right, like the furniture, the walls and the floors, so my lovely wife decided four weeks before Christmas they needed to be remodeled. We had company coming.
It was a blitzkrieg, an all hands on deck ten bells to the stern bow tree frog sort of thing. Somehow I managed to accomplish it all. Of course, professionals did the flooring, but I did all the demolition and painting.
The demo on that one was an all out brawl. Dividing the entry way and the living room was a waist high 2'x4' brick planter. It was the first thing you encountered when you entered the house. My lovely wife wanted that gone.
The old brick planter hadn't seen a plant in a while. A mirror had graced it's top since before we arrived on the scene, a mirror that would have been a big draw back in the eighties. If you know what I mean. Since it was made of prized used brick, I originally thought I would just tap tap tap them out with a rubber mallet so that I could reuse them later. After a few tap tap taps with nothing at all moving, I figured it was going to take me a couple years to bang the thing into submission. I didn't have that kind of time. So I opted for a larger, more imposing eight pound sledge hammer. Instead of tap tap tap I went wham wham wham. Shards of brick and mortar flew, and dust rose from the battle scene like smoke from an alcoholic bachelor's old burning sofa.
By the way, a word of caution. If you are taking an eight pound sledge hammer to task INSIDE of a house, best to make sure all your nice, fragile stuff is tucked away and covered. Or, as in my case, the room was bereft of everything, including old carpeting. Oh yeah, remember to paint AFTER your demo, not before.
When nightmares of my last major offensive had subsided, I learned the upcoming deadline for the current blitz was on June 20th. I had a little time this time, The Father's Day 2015 offensive was underway!
A brazen attack was the only way I saw possible for this old man to accomplish the mission laid out before him. Holy cow. Most folks would need an army, but this Major Kernal is going to endeavor to try to accomplish the insane. Inanely on his own. It's been done before, why not give it a go one more time? While I'm still young.
The Father's Day Offensive is going to be a ten prong exterior improvement attack near in and around this old homestead. The old dry rotted deck needs replacing, the retaining wall needs some dressing, another retaining wall must be built, drip irrigation installed, a courtyard designed and outfitted, a clothesline erected, a short privacy fence built and then some form of drought resistant ground cover that's easy on the toes needs to be planted.
This whole bag of tricks will also include a couple hundred foot long 8 foot high fence across the front of the property, as well as a solar powered remote controlled driveway gate. That part of the project is courtesy of Bambi and her vegetation decimating ilk. Yeah, those flea infested varmints, them dang doe eyed deer.
Bah.
Prior to much of this, however, a pretty hefty pre-landscape bombardment of dropping trees and moving lumber needed to fly. Thank goodness I had one of my able and strong nephews lending a hand for much of that hefty heavy stuff.
A couple of the oaks, which were dying, were up at the top of the property. Fifty footers with lots of branches. The most direct route down to the firewood staging area was dropping them on to the future back lawn area. Why not take them down before and spare the hassle of repairing divots the size of an accordion later?
The other area required a couple oaks come down prior to the fencing going up. Makes sense to drop the trees now, before the fence is up rather than drop the trees and the fence at the same time later. Know what I mean?
I also had to run another sortie during my initial attack. I needed to run about 100 feet of PVC under the future "lawn" area. This will allow me to set up three strategically placed hose bibs. Those will, of course, allow me to run a hose from those locations. However, I am going to primarily use them to set up timed drip water systems.
Ole Stupid over to the plumbing supply place what threw away my diagram when he should have been making sprinkler plans motivated me to change my mind. Screw him. I decided to make five or six zoned drip systems instead. And guess what, I'm buying all my supplies anywhere but at his store.
My nephew and I did the trenching and the PVC is in as well as hose bibs. It went well, primarily because my nephew did most all the trenching. We ran the underground line, then I went back later to install the angles, bibs and run the line to the top. This is a summertime only draw and will be shut off during winter and colder months. I am not concerned about top side exposure.
Next up was this. mess. below.
That old retaining wall right there used to surround (on two sides) an above ground pool. I cornered it off with some wire fencing and have used it as a garden and nursery for the last couple years.
From the house and deck vantage points, you could see the old pump house as well as Bernadette, our newer rain water basin. Since the old retaining wall partially hides a few of these essential but eyesore necessities and it is still in good condition, I decided to add a little razzle dazzle to the existing wall. To that end, I mustered some of this lumber and deployed as necessary.
First I added eight foot redwood 4x4's to every other existing retaining wall post. I did this by first drilling holes all the way through the 4x4. Then I attached the 4x4 to the post by ratcheting in 2-seven inch lag bolts. The process looked a lot like this:
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Once the posts were in I made lattice frames with 2x4's nailed in at the top and then screwed in at the bottom. Once those were in I attached the lattice. Sorry, sometimes when I really get involved in battle it's hard to stop and take extenuating photographs. All you're left with is the finished product!
I'm not quite finished. I still need to attach arbor arms at the corner, plus I am still waiting on the redwood 2x2's from the lumber store. Those will go four out across the top to help add a little definition between the horizontal and vertical. Eventually both the lattice and arbor will be covered with some sort of fragrant, flowering vine.
The garden and nursery will soon be moved out from behind their protective fence. This will be done when the front fence is complete. I have already dug 15 post holes by hand that I will need for the front 4x4's. I also spray painted the initial coat of paint on the 24 or so T-posts I will be pounding in on the other side of the drive. Basic black will look a little bit better than agricultural red. Or green.
A lesser part of the driveway gate phase will be the delivery box I need to make that will sit on the property but outside the gate. This way FEDEX and UPS won't have to contact us, they can just drop stuff off. Unless, of course, it's a wild animal from Borneo or something. Then we'll probably need to be home. The box will probably be 2x4' and a couple feet high. It will be strategically located so as not to be visible from the main road. Both the new fence and gate locations will allow for unfettered propane delivery as well as a safe, off road turn around locale for the delivery persons.
Besides digging the post holes while the ground was still somewhat moist and soft, I also pounded in about 20 of those T-Posts this last week. Just like ducks in a row. My timing was good, the ground was like butter. However, it was still work. I'm beginning to discover this homestead experience is nothing but physical. Who needs a gym?
I have also done most of the excavation along the back cliff where the block retaining wall will be going. Might as well get 'er done while the ground is somewhat soft. Less work later. That dirt went over where the other recently erected retaining wall was built. Apparently when I live on a hill retaining walls seem to sprout up like a white rabbits from a ragout. Once that is done I can bring all the oak firewood up for final bucking and staging.
When am I going to give me a break?
Who's idea was this, anyway?
Next up was the old, dry rotting back deck. It was getting dangerous.
I demo'd that a couple weeks back with the assistance of another aging AARP hippie. We did the work of a couple twenty year olds that day. Felt like a couple eighty year olds that night.
That was done next because our fabulous son-in-law, the scientist, wanted to get his carpentry on and help build the new deck when the time came. And a couple weekends ago was the only time we had available within our conspiring latitudes. That will all be covered in a forthcoming post.
Once the deck is done I will begin in earnest on the front fencing, as well as shoring up the surrounding existing hillbilly fencing. Once the perimeter is secure, then I can move the plants out of our future "courtyard" and begin dressing it all up and making it look nice nice.
Part of that plan is to get rid of the other end of our existing clothes line, that hillbilly looking chin up bar down yonder.
Then I will be installing a regular looking clothesline, a 2 T-Post five line drying bonanza. And a little privacy fence. So you won't see our underwear when you drive up.
Very soon I will have forays extending into all intended target areas. Now if I could only remember my name.
Utah's Place
My lovely wife and I are heading out tomorrow on a little road trip over to the coast. The first blog post from this excursion will be "The Ft. Bragg You Never Knew." Guaranteed to be a page turner!
Prior to leaving, however, I was a little flummoxed as to what to do with the bevy of 3 dozen eggs we had on tap. And, with our flock currently delivering 6 to 8 fresh eggs a day, there appears no end in site. Until it gets hot. Then those little fair weather layers will turn to sulking and hanging out in Lake Capon, jabbering and complaining about the heat, and forgetting all about why they are on this planet in the first place.
So I was listening to our local community radio station, KVMR, this morning on the way home from the dump and they had on a very nice lady who was talking about the donations needed at Utah's Place, our local hospitality house's homeless shelter. And even though she didn't mention eggs, who the heck doesn't need some farm FRESH eggs? Especially when they don't even know it.
And that's where they went.
Fowl Update
As I previously mentioned, our flock of ten laying hens is producing 6 to 8 eggs per day, which isn't bad considering 5 of them are entering their third year and theoretically should be laying less. That's why I've wanted to add a couple three or four chicks every year until I get up to a maximum flock of 20. That way I should be continually introducing new and productive layers every year.
So "Chick Days" at our local favorite feed store, Ridge Feed and Supply, happened to be on the weekend we worked on the deck, when the grand kids were up. While the men folk worked on the wood pile, I sent the women folk to the feed store to pick up 2 or 3 chicks. I mean, how fun can this be for a five year old girl? And her Mother? And her Grandmother? This is what they brought back:
Do you, um, see more than 2 or 3 chicks in there? Me too.
Moral of the story: send the girls to pick up a couple chicks and they go, "Golly, they sure are cute."
So anyway, we now have 6 chicks in the brooder. A Gold Lahenvelder, a Wellsummer, A Silver Leghorn, an Australorp, a Silver Wyandotte and a White Rock. They will blend in very well in a few more months with our other 7 breeds.
Variety, love that spice of life.
Hunched over pages of graph paper with hundreds of linear, lateral and horizontal lines filled with trapezoids and octogons, I sighed as the fire cackled. I wasn't sure if that was on the natch or if it really was laughing at me.
I looked up from the massive mess of geometric design and decided the fire was behaving itself. How could it know what I was thinking, anyway? Then I looked at my lovely wife and asked, hesitantly, "You want this when?"
A lightening bolt pierced the marauding sky.
The last time I was involved in a major home remodeling offensive was when we first bought this place. New paint, floors, appliances, fixtures. It was a howling battle, I lost fifteen pounds during the eight week melee.
Then there was the time at the last house we owned. There was something about the living room and family room that just wasn't sitting right, like the furniture, the walls and the floors, so my lovely wife decided four weeks before Christmas they needed to be remodeled. We had company coming.
It was a blitzkrieg, an all hands on deck ten bells to the stern bow tree frog sort of thing. Somehow I managed to accomplish it all. Of course, professionals did the flooring, but I did all the demolition and painting.
The demo on that one was an all out brawl. Dividing the entry way and the living room was a waist high 2'x4' brick planter. It was the first thing you encountered when you entered the house. My lovely wife wanted that gone.
The old brick planter hadn't seen a plant in a while. A mirror had graced it's top since before we arrived on the scene, a mirror that would have been a big draw back in the eighties. If you know what I mean. Since it was made of prized used brick, I originally thought I would just tap tap tap them out with a rubber mallet so that I could reuse them later. After a few tap tap taps with nothing at all moving, I figured it was going to take me a couple years to bang the thing into submission. I didn't have that kind of time. So I opted for a larger, more imposing eight pound sledge hammer. Instead of tap tap tap I went wham wham wham. Shards of brick and mortar flew, and dust rose from the battle scene like smoke from an alcoholic bachelor's old burning sofa.
By the way, a word of caution. If you are taking an eight pound sledge hammer to task INSIDE of a house, best to make sure all your nice, fragile stuff is tucked away and covered. Or, as in my case, the room was bereft of everything, including old carpeting. Oh yeah, remember to paint AFTER your demo, not before.
When nightmares of my last major offensive had subsided, I learned the upcoming deadline for the current blitz was on June 20th. I had a little time this time, The Father's Day 2015 offensive was underway!
A brazen attack was the only way I saw possible for this old man to accomplish the mission laid out before him. Holy cow. Most folks would need an army, but this Major Kernal is going to endeavor to try to accomplish the insane. Inanely on his own. It's been done before, why not give it a go one more time? While I'm still young.
The Father's Day Offensive is going to be a ten prong exterior improvement attack near in and around this old homestead. The old dry rotted deck needs replacing, the retaining wall needs some dressing, another retaining wall must be built, drip irrigation installed, a courtyard designed and outfitted, a clothesline erected, a short privacy fence built and then some form of drought resistant ground cover that's easy on the toes needs to be planted.
This whole bag of tricks will also include a couple hundred foot long 8 foot high fence across the front of the property, as well as a solar powered remote controlled driveway gate. That part of the project is courtesy of Bambi and her vegetation decimating ilk. Yeah, those flea infested varmints, them dang doe eyed deer.
Bah.
Prior to much of this, however, a pretty hefty pre-landscape bombardment of dropping trees and moving lumber needed to fly. Thank goodness I had one of my able and strong nephews lending a hand for much of that hefty heavy stuff.
A couple of the oaks, which were dying, were up at the top of the property. Fifty footers with lots of branches. The most direct route down to the firewood staging area was dropping them on to the future back lawn area. Why not take them down before and spare the hassle of repairing divots the size of an accordion later?
The other area required a couple oaks come down prior to the fencing going up. Makes sense to drop the trees now, before the fence is up rather than drop the trees and the fence at the same time later. Know what I mean?
I also had to run another sortie during my initial attack. I needed to run about 100 feet of PVC under the future "lawn" area. This will allow me to set up three strategically placed hose bibs. Those will, of course, allow me to run a hose from those locations. However, I am going to primarily use them to set up timed drip water systems.
Ole Stupid over to the plumbing supply place what threw away my diagram when he should have been making sprinkler plans motivated me to change my mind. Screw him. I decided to make five or six zoned drip systems instead. And guess what, I'm buying all my supplies anywhere but at his store.
My nephew and I did the trenching and the PVC is in as well as hose bibs. It went well, primarily because my nephew did most all the trenching. We ran the underground line, then I went back later to install the angles, bibs and run the line to the top. This is a summertime only draw and will be shut off during winter and colder months. I am not concerned about top side exposure.
The garden and nursery will soon be moved out from behind their protective fence. This will be done when the front fence is complete. I have already dug 15 post holes by hand that I will need for the front 4x4's. I also spray painted the initial coat of paint on the 24 or so T-posts I will be pounding in on the other side of the drive. Basic black will look a little bit better than agricultural red. Or green.
A lesser part of the driveway gate phase will be the delivery box I need to make that will sit on the property but outside the gate. This way FEDEX and UPS won't have to contact us, they can just drop stuff off. Unless, of course, it's a wild animal from Borneo or something. Then we'll probably need to be home. The box will probably be 2x4' and a couple feet high. It will be strategically located so as not to be visible from the main road. Both the new fence and gate locations will allow for unfettered propane delivery as well as a safe, off road turn around locale for the delivery persons.
Besides digging the post holes while the ground was still somewhat moist and soft, I also pounded in about 20 of those T-Posts this last week. Just like ducks in a row. My timing was good, the ground was like butter. However, it was still work. I'm beginning to discover this homestead experience is nothing but physical. Who needs a gym?
I have also done most of the excavation along the back cliff where the block retaining wall will be going. Might as well get 'er done while the ground is somewhat soft. Less work later. That dirt went over where the other recently erected retaining wall was built. Apparently when I live on a hill retaining walls seem to sprout up like a white rabbits from a ragout. Once that is done I can bring all the oak firewood up for final bucking and staging.
When am I going to give me a break?
Who's idea was this, anyway?
Next up was the old, dry rotting back deck. It was getting dangerous.
That was done next because our fabulous son-in-law, the scientist, wanted to get his carpentry on and help build the new deck when the time came. And a couple weekends ago was the only time we had available within our conspiring latitudes. That will all be covered in a forthcoming post.
Once the deck is done I will begin in earnest on the front fencing, as well as shoring up the surrounding existing hillbilly fencing. Once the perimeter is secure, then I can move the plants out of our future "courtyard" and begin dressing it all up and making it look nice nice.
Part of that plan is to get rid of the other end of our existing clothes line, that hillbilly looking chin up bar down yonder.
Very soon I will have forays extending into all intended target areas. Now if I could only remember my name.
Utah's Place
My lovely wife and I are heading out tomorrow on a little road trip over to the coast. The first blog post from this excursion will be "The Ft. Bragg You Never Knew." Guaranteed to be a page turner!
Prior to leaving, however, I was a little flummoxed as to what to do with the bevy of 3 dozen eggs we had on tap. And, with our flock currently delivering 6 to 8 fresh eggs a day, there appears no end in site. Until it gets hot. Then those little fair weather layers will turn to sulking and hanging out in Lake Capon, jabbering and complaining about the heat, and forgetting all about why they are on this planet in the first place.
So I was listening to our local community radio station, KVMR, this morning on the way home from the dump and they had on a very nice lady who was talking about the donations needed at Utah's Place, our local hospitality house's homeless shelter. And even though she didn't mention eggs, who the heck doesn't need some farm FRESH eggs? Especially when they don't even know it.
And that's where they went.
Fowl Update
As I previously mentioned, our flock of ten laying hens is producing 6 to 8 eggs per day, which isn't bad considering 5 of them are entering their third year and theoretically should be laying less. That's why I've wanted to add a couple three or four chicks every year until I get up to a maximum flock of 20. That way I should be continually introducing new and productive layers every year.
So "Chick Days" at our local favorite feed store, Ridge Feed and Supply, happened to be on the weekend we worked on the deck, when the grand kids were up. While the men folk worked on the wood pile, I sent the women folk to the feed store to pick up 2 or 3 chicks. I mean, how fun can this be for a five year old girl? And her Mother? And her Grandmother? This is what they brought back:
Moral of the story: send the girls to pick up a couple chicks and they go, "Golly, they sure are cute."
So anyway, we now have 6 chicks in the brooder. A Gold Lahenvelder, a Wellsummer, A Silver Leghorn, an Australorp, a Silver Wyandotte and a White Rock. They will blend in very well in a few more months with our other 7 breeds.
Variety, love that spice of life.
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