I'd Rather Retain Water Than Retain This Wall

The last phase of my overall 2015 exterior offensive will actually be short, verbally.  Not that it was an easy push, it was a week of physical labor, pure and simple.  But the pictures here will tell more of the story than my sardonic verbiage.

This last push will basically cleanup the entire close-in yard on the east side of the property, a narrow little strip that includes flat land as well as lofty cliffs.  Spicelandia.  The Stairway to Nowhere.  It will also clean up the view from the guest room, which began way back when and includes not less than a couple blog posts.

The Garbage Depo and What The L? both chronicle some of the preliminary work to get to where we are today.  

The first thing I did was sink a couple poles for a real clothesline.  No more back woods hillbilly chin-up bar land.

At the same time, I sank the posts for the eight foot wide privacy fence.  With that up no one will have to look at our underwear when they drive up to the house.

Then I started slicing away at the bottom of the cliff, making a nice, ten inch wide base for the coming wall, adding bricks and leveling along the way.  The bottom run is always the longest, time wise. Work wise.  Level wise.  But the secret to having a nice, level retaining wall is to take the time on the bottom level.  The rest just fall into place.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, all the above blocks are upside down.  That little lip on the back is supposed to face DOWN.  Didn't pick up on that until I was pretty much done with the bottom layer.  First time I've played with this particular type of block.  What a block head.  The bad news was I had to flip all them damn blocks. The good news was that it didn't affect the level.  As if I had nothing better to do.  Still, I positively call this process stupid fitness.  It's similar to forgetful fitness.   

Most folks my age get distressed when they walk into a room and forget why they went in there.  So when they discover a void has replaced the quest they usually retrace their steps with the hope that will trigger the quest again.  It usually does, but sometimes that pesky void reappears on the return trip.  Many times the quest can be lost and found several times before it is successful.  Freaks some people out.  I mean, half the time they're just shooting for something as innocuous as nail clippers.  I just figure it's my brain's way of keeping my body in shape.

Many times side trips can occur along the way.  When this happens I can get a lot of stuff done, although it seems to take forever to complete the original quest.  You know, I was on the way to the bathroom for nail clippers and ended up painting the hall, mowing the lawn and replacing a door knob in the kitchen.  That sort of thing.  Half the time I can't even keep track of where I am let alone what I'm doing.

 Do it at a nice sustained pace all day it's akin to Akimbo, maybe.  What is Akimbo, anyway?  I'm a word guy, sometimes it sounds good only it might not make any sense. 

Do it in quick spurts it's like memory loss aerobics.  We may be losing our minds but at least that process is helping keep us in shape.  This can be especially true when you have stairs in the house.  And smoke weed.  I tend to get a lot of exercise around here, not doing anything, really, that I can think of.

I suppose it could be distressing if the room you walked into contained all your friends and it was a surprise birthday party.  For you.

Everybody shouts, "Surprise!  Happy birthday!"

And you walk out muttering, "Why the hell did I come in here?"

But I digress.  And so have you, apparently, if this has really ever happened to you.

Once I flipped 'em and re-level'd, I added the remaining three rows, one block at a time.  256 blocks at about 24 pounds each.  So I moved, by hand and wheel barrow, around 6,144 pounds of bricks, just over 3 tons.  Not including the stupid fitness part of the program.  No wonder my back was sore the next day.

Once the final row was in, I was able to visualize the scene a little better.  It was then time to pull out some of the existing concrete like dirt and gravel and make the area level.

One shovel at a time.  About 35 shovels to a wheelbarrow.  About 40 wheelbarrows worth of bad dirt, at about 4 pounds per shovel.  That would equate to around 5,600 pounds of dirt.  In and out.  So that would be over 5 tons of dirt.  No wonder my back hurt the next day. 

I moved all the bad dirt over to the newly made extra parking area where the Great Wall of Innuendo was erected earlier this year.  That area is also the current firewood staging area as well as dirt depository.  Without that wall all this solid soil would simply erode away and I would have no place to play with my firewood.  Or park an extra car.

Once all the bad dirt was over here

It was time to move this good dirt

Over here.  Level it a little and then wait for an optimum time to plant the drought resistant lawn.

So much cleaner and it will be so much cooler once some greenery is established this fall.  I have a couple small items to complete, maybe a couple hours of relatively easy work, but it's definitely time for a breather.

Fowl Update

We ended up with at least one rooster out of our newest batch of chicks.  We may yet have another.  Little teeny crows echo our more established boisterous bellow of Goldie, our Big Bad Buff Orpington.  Fortunately I was able to find the first one a good home.  Looks like he's getting tossed into a harem of eight Barred Rock hens, his new owners want to breed him.  Should be a decent enough life for a bad boy.


His fortunes were not faring so well over here.  At four months he was getting his primal bird brain urges, and the younger ones weren't quite ready for his aggressive assaults.  So he'd get angry and chase them all over the yard..  The older hens weren't having any either.  He'd try to jump them and they'd have him off in a second, reading him a riot act and chasing him all over the yard.

I hope he didn't get a performance complex.

All our other fine feathered and furry friends are doing fine.  So are our blossoming buddies.  It's been over five weeks now since the gate and fencing have been completed.  No breach by them dang flea infested varmints.  Hallelujah!  Our roses, as well as other flowers are now blossoming freely!

I am still watering the front lawn.  Not as much as last year, and it's looking pretty darn bedraggled, but by doing that I am also getting water to the large, majestic oaks that provide shade to the house.  I am also only mowing it once a month or so instead of once a week or so, thus forcing the roots deeper and allowing it to survive on less water. 

Sigh.  Here's hoping for that much needed El Nino this fall and winter.

The Front Fence Offensive

Like the adroit military commander I am not, I somehow planned with reasonable forethought and abundant amplitude the exact measures needed for me to make a final and decisive push to keep those brazen, marauding, flea ridden plant parasites out of what will soon hopefully become a beautiful parcel of flora and fauna.  A haven for bees and butterflies.  A little organic food producing paradise.  A munching mecca of vegetative delight.  An oasis for fruits and blooms.

The back and both sides of this rectangular piece of property have already been hill billy fenced with style and finesse.  You can read all about many of those exploits here: Bambi Can Eat My Drawers.  I had naively hoped that would have been enough, but those doe-eyed decimaters of all that is green simply made a trail around the end of the fence where the steep slope meets the road.  Like mountain goats on a cliff.  It's been an ongoing battle for me since we moved here, it was finally time to let our roses out of their cage and set our bushes free.

I have considered the location of the assault and studied my adversary for a couple of years now.  The route was chosen to take advantage of the natural slope of the land.  Where it was most level and most visible I planned on sinking about fifteen 10' 4x4's.  Where the slope gets steeper and the fence will be less visible I planned on sinking in T-Posts.   The feasibility seemed sound, it was just choosing the optimum time for the actual assault.

I sent my recon team down way back in January to assess the pernicious nature of the dead pan that existed on the future battle ground.  I came back to me with one essential suggestion, hit the dirt NOW while it was still saturated with water.  Soft, moist and decently slippery.

I had to sink fifteen 4x4's a couple feet in the ground.  It was either hit the dirt with a shovel then or I'd need a truck full of dynamite to accomplish the task later.  I thought about renting a two person power post hole digger, but then my helper kind of disappeared on me.  Like Bill Murray in Caddyshack after he blows his first hole.  Looky look left, looky looky right.  Soft shoe shuffle into the night. 

So I brought out my old trusty trenching shovel and banged out three to four holes a day, depending on how agreeable they were.  Half were real quick and easy, the other half not so much.  I'd get a few inches down and then have to add some water.  Hit it again the next day and so on until they were roughly two feet deep. 

I also pounded in about forty T-Posts along the steep embankment on the other side of the drive while the ground was still soft.  Then I let the posts and the holes sit a few months, I had a few other battles elsewhere brewing.  But their turn finally came around, so I gathered my fence offensive gear and prepared for battle.   

I took the 4x4 posts down from their delivery point and over the course of  two days concreted them in.  Level and pretty darn even.  Here's a shot of my Pole Hedge on the lower forty.

Then I let the poles sit for a few days to let the concrete set.  The surest way to bang up and crack your newly laid concrete is to start messing with it too soon.  48 hours would be minimum, 72 to 96 better.  The bigger the hole, the more concrete, the longer the cure time.

Prior to putting up my six foot high welded wire, I did some strategic strata-sizing and conversed with a couple friends.  I learned a mere human can't simply yank a fence straight.  A couple mere humans pulling in tandem can't yank a fence straight.  You can yank things with a straight face, or a marginally maudlin one, but I don't care how strong you are, you can't yank a fence.  Straight.

You need a Fence Stretcher, which is not human by the way.  Because if you were listening, a mere human can't yank a fence straight.  Even if they have a title.

There are a variety of fence stretchers out there, wherever they are.  They aren't very expensive, from forty to a couple hundred bucks.  The stretcher attaches to the fencing in some fashion and then you have to attach the stretcher to something that can actually provide tension to straighten the wire.  If you're in a meadow that's drivable, you can use your truck and a wench.  If you have a truck and wench.  Or, if you're in the middle of Botswana like me, you can use a Come Along, which is essentially a stand alone manual wench.   You can take a Come Along anywhere and attach it to almost anything that's sturdy, like a tree, a car, fence posts or John Wayne.  I borrowed my son's and put it (and myself) to work.

The first thing I had to do was roll out some wire.  It felt like I was dancing with a four hundred pound grizzly bear on tranquilizers when I started tangling with the 100' roll of 6' high welded wire fence all by myself.   I quickly discovered.

That was the hardest thing.  Dancing with the bear.  Unrolling it all in a semi plausible fashion.

So I rolled it out about 35 feet to the gate location and chained the bear to a post.  Just in case he decided to make a roll for it.

Then I attached my home made fence stretcher.  Yeah, I could get one online for forty bucks, but the two hundred dollar one looked better.  And was much more expensive.  So I just took 2 six foot 2x4's and sandwiched the fencing.  Then I screwed the 2x4's together with the wire in between with 4 three inch screws.

If you don't apply some sort of stretcher you would end up blowing out portions of your fencing since single strands could not handle the tension that's necessary to straighten the entire fence out.  By attaching a stretcher all the tension is on the stretcher, or in my case, the 2x4's.

Once the stretcher was on I wrapped some chain around the middle and attached the other end to the come along.  The other end of the come along had been previously attached to another run of chain that was wrapped around a 4x4 up the line.  Once all the pieces were together I ratcheted the come along handle until the fence wire was taut.  It worked like a breeze.

Then while the come along was tautly engaged I tacked the wire to the posts.  Easy peezy.

Once that portion of fence was tacked up I broke down my block and tackle come along assembly and moved it on up the line.  Utilizing the same strategy I put up about forty to fifty feet of fence at a whack, having to set up my block and tackle assembly a total of four times for about 180 feet.  It took two days, but this old man got 'er done.

Next I attached two runs of single strand wire about a foot apart above the welded wire.  That was done on the more level portion of ground, bringing the fence height up to eight feet.   Oh yeah, I also added a gate.

Then it was off to the driveway embankment and T-post time.  After pulling it taut, I wired the fencing to the metal posts.  The six foot welded wire should be all I'll need since the slope runs anywhere from four to eight feet below the fence.  I'm fairly certain they're not jumping that.  Unless there's a new breed of deer that's been bred with kangaroos.

With that portion of the offensive complete, it was time to turn my gaze towards the drive way gate.  Not to be satisfied with a simple farm gate, my lovely wife desired a little style.  And a lot of height.  After all, all this work was being done to keep them dang deer out.  I did my fair share of gate research and I eventually came up with an online presence called Aleko Gates.  They have a variety of styles and options and utilize powder coated aluminum, making their gates substantially lighter than a wrought iron replica.  And substantially less expensive.

They also have a variety of power options and gate entry options.  Since our gate was going to be several hundred feet down our Lombard Street Drive solar power was going to be the only option.  All was so ordered from Aleko for around $1,500.00 with free delivery.  Now you're speaking my language.

Having gone through the entire install process I can honestly say the only negative I encountered was the free delivery podunk delivery company.  A week after I ordered the gate the delivery company called and left a message stating they wanted to set up a delivery time.  I returned the call the same day.  I left a message for the person who called me, Lorraine, because apparently she was the only person out of a bank of eight who could decipher the English on my paperwork.  Lorraine called again a week later and left another message stating that we had to take care of this right away and if I don't respond they're going to charge me a storage fee.

Ahem, what?

I hadn't been pushing, I was busy.  But I did return her first call the same day.  When I called the second time Lorraine was not there.  Again.  However, one of the bank of eight figured out he actually could decipher the English on my paperwork and took it upon himself to set up delivery.

Delivery of just about anything here is a challenge because of our steep Lombard Street Drive.  We have learned to express this hazard to delivery folks right away.  Trying to express this to Scooter was ridiculous.  Since he apparently just discovered he really could understand his native language he was about as excited as a frisky pup, he was gonna get this thing done.  Yahoo howdy.  Somehow in the frenetic one-sided conversation that ensued it was established that the driver would call me the next morning to set up a time for delivery.

"What just happened?" I inquired to myself when I got off the line.  "I was just railroaded by a rabid Chihuahua." 

I called and actually spoke with Lorraine the next morning trying to head off the forthcoming cluster fuck.  When I re-confirmed with her that their semi size truck would not make it up our Lombard Street Drive, Lorraine said, "Oh dear."

She asked if I could meet the driver at the street.

I said, "With what?  My wheelbarrow?  I told Scooter I could get my son's pick up truck Friday.  But he insisted your guy come today."

"So you can meet the driver on Friday with a pick up?" Lorraine asked, belying notes of efficiency.

"Yes," I responded.

"OK, great," she said.  "I'll contact the driver, cancel the delivery today and have him call you Friday morning with a four hour window."

"Perfect."

"Alright", I thought, "Lorraine's got it together.  She's efficient.  Scooter needs to be housebroken, but no harm no foul.  The situation's under control, no CF today."

I wandered about my day, feeling right that a catastrophe had been avoided.  Until about two that afternoon when the driver called stating he was twenty minutes away and ready to deliver.

War is hell.

Fortunately the driver had a brain.  After spending yet another few minutes describing the above conversations the two of us made arrangements to meet that coming Friday.  We kept the Hole in the Head Gang back at the office out of it.

The solar power box and automatic opener had come via Fed Ex a few days prior.  In regular like looking boxes.  Nothing strange.  Or large.  The gate itself, however, was something entirely different.  We had ordered a fourteen foot gate, and even though I knew it would be divided into two 7 foot sections nothing quite prepared me for the box size.  They were massive.  You could play a ping pong tournament in either one.  Or set sail to the Bahamas, like, if you had a sail and the metal floated.

When I pulled up in my son's Toyota Tacoma at our predetermined rendevouz location, the driver said, "Well, this is going to be interesting."

Then I saw the boxes.  There was no way I could get those roller rinks home in the back of my truck.  There was absolutely no way to safely tie them down for the several mile journey back to the ranch.  I was gonna need a much bigger bungee cord as well as a couple of those pilot cars with the little yellow lights on top.  And a flat bed truck.  So we decided to offload at our drive.  Homeboy followed me home, going above and beyond his call of duty.

We had to block a lane of the road for a few minutes but we were able to offload the Olympic sized swimming pools onto the top of my truck's bed rails.  The boxes extended beyond the sides and back a couple feet all around.  So I took some rope, tied up on one side mirror, then around the middle hitch on the back of the truck and around the opposite side mirror.  It wasn't pretty, but it did allow me to get the Serengeti out of Tanzania and up into Kenya, if you know what I mean.

Here's another nod to Aleko.  When I finally unraveled the two big mysteries, I found they had been packed with excellent care.  They were within a soft, velvety plastic sheathing and then covered with two layers of cardboard, enough to make a dollhouse the size of Los Angeles.  Every inch of both sides of the gate were perfectly unscathed.

With the help of the good friend who helped demolish the old back deck, I sank and leveled both eight foot heavy metal posts.  This was not going to be any old simple fence post sinking, off an inch or two on distance or height.  These two had to be perfect.  Three feet deep perfect.

Prior to my bud coming over I had already started the holes.  Which my recon team forgot to tell me about back in January.  Instead of slicing like butter, the ground this time of year is like concrete.  You need dynamite to get anywhere, that or water.  Since dynamite is a bit of a fire hazard, I scrapped and juggernauted a few inches down for each hole.  Then I filled both little indentations with water.  The next day I labored them down a few more inches and so on over the course of several days until they were about a foot deep.  The night before the full assault I filled them with water and let them soak.  Espionage, those holes never knew what hit 'em.

My Bud brought over his off-set handle post hole digger, which worked well, especially carving out that last foot.  Fortunately we didn't encounter any rocks the size of Arkansas.  It was still a bit of a workout though, three feet is a long way down.  Halooo China.

We sank the first post, leveled it and then attacked the second.  We ran a tape measure bottom to bottom, it had to be just over 14 feet.  Then we ran a line level across the top and found we had to toss a few inches of dirt back in the second hole.  Once comfortable with all our distance and leveling changes we dropped in the post and filled the second hole with a couple bags of concrete.

The posts ended up being fourteen feet one inch apart, near perfect.  They might be 1/8 inch off on their height, which is quite livable for me.  Not bad for a couple rookies.

Once the posts were set I let the concrete cure for a week.  Yeah, 72 hours is great but a week is even better.  Big holes.  Lots of concrete.  Plus, I still had plenty to do.  Like set the post for the solar panel and let that cure.

The solar set up came with pretty decent instructions.  They also had really great diagrams, which is where I usually go when trying to figure things out.  Folks have a weird way of saying things sometimes, if there's a picture it's worth, well, a thousand words.

While everything was curing I made a little wooden box out of scrap wood and material to house the battery and a couple other sensitive electrical doo-dads.

A week after the posts were set my strong, able bodied son helped me put up the gate.    

The gate location was determined because of the driveway slope and the fact it is on a straight portion of the drive.  Once the gate was up I completed the fencing on both it's sides and then completed the final run up the other side of the drive.

We opened and closed the gate by hand for a few days while I waited for an extra part was necessary for my particular install.  Typically gates open inward.  I can't do that because inward here is on an up-slope.  I was going to put the opener on the outside so that it would pull open and then I discovered there is a push to open method of install, only I needed a different bracket. 

Once the bracket arrived it was time to get crazy.  Geometric configurations and electrical connections.    

 

I had already installed the solar panel on the post and dug a trench from the pole to the box, of which I had also drilled a hole in the bottom.   I had also already installed the exit wand, a contraption that will live about a foot deep in the ground and four to six inches from the drive.  Its mission will be to sense large metal objects inside thus prompting the gate to open.  That trench had also been dug and the wire was at the box.

I had also already hooked the solar panel up so that it was powering the battery.  I wanted to make sure there was enough juice so that I could keep things cooking once I got started.  All electric connections were a breeze, there was an excellent diagram.  

Getting the gate arm dialed in was a bit more of a challenge.  A day and a half challenge.  It's all about the angle of the dangle.  There's a variety of holes to contend with on the brackets, and figuring out which one to use also indicates where holes need to be drilled on the gate to hold the gate bracket.  More or less.

It was a process, and without going into extreme boring details I now have the gate opening and closing just about near perfect. 

Now you need a code to get up the drive, which I'm not posting here.  You'll have to call me.  Or email. 

We've got a lot more privacy now, no more dealing with religious enthusiasts in my boxer shorts.  And so far, knock on flea infested hides, we have not had a nocturnal deer visit since the gate's been up.  Been over almost four weeks now.  And trust me, we'd know.  They were munching plants on our deck the night before we closed it. 

Fowl Update

We have lost a couple hens over the last six months.  Some malady of an unknown origin.  No fowl play, just extreme lethargy and difficulty walking.  Then death.

I suppose I'm a bit pragmatic when it comes to the hens.  I have difficulty taking a bird that cost under three bucks to the vet.  Yeah, there's been food spent on them, but.   And it's not like they're sleeping with us.

I did a fair amount of research on potential maladies but could not figure out what was detrimentally affecting them.  It was never a rampant disease, just one hen affected at a time.  Then several months later another one bit the dust.

And then it hit the rooster.  Now trust me, I have a very sturdy love hate relationship with that bird.  On the one hand, he helped start this blog.  He is also a beautiful, glorious bird.  On the other hand, he can be quite aggressive.  I've sent him flying with my foot on more than one occasion.

I considered an antibiotic, but after some research and then conversation with folks at Ridge Feed I decided against that.  But there on their shelf they had an organic water soluble powder that included Oregano.  I had done some reading that one poultry farm back in Vermont has added Oregano to their bird's diet because of the herb's antibiotic properties.  I bought that instead.

Besides lethargy and difficulty walking, the birds have also had sort of a distended under belly.  Goldie exhibited all this, and his usually flamboyant tail feathers were quite droopy as well.

I mixed up a batch of Oregano water for the entire flock.  With my lovely wife's assistance we corralled the rooster.  It wasn't too hard, he was moving real slow.  Then, with a needle-less syringe, we hand watered him a couple times a day for four straight days.  He actually showed improvement on the second day.  We no longer had to hand water him after day four.

I don't know if it was the fact we just got some liquid in him or if it was the added Oregano that did the trick, or both.  It doesn't matter.  At least I have a direction to go if this ever happens in the future.

The Oregano water is now part of their staple diet.  I interchange that with another organic water soluble powder called Rooster Booster.  An ounce of prevention is totally worth twenty pounds of cure.

Goldie had a pronounced limp for a couple weeks after he regained his health.  Therefore his progression for potential attack was slow as well.  I thought, maybe, this experience might have changed him.  But I can honestly say he is totally back to his regular ornery self.  His instinctual, aggressive bird brain has completely forgotten about the hand that not only feeds him and his harem daily but also hand held and lovingly nursed him back to health.   

What's wrong with this picture?   Am I suffering from some sort of fowl, masochistic tendency?  Do I need to flock to a mental therapist?  

Speaking of fire season, it's here.  During our Father's Day dinner, which was being consumed outside on the new back deck, we heard the air attack spotter plane fly overhead.  That was followed shortly by a fire retardant bomber.  We locals here in Nevada county intimately know those sounds, an air attack base is located at Grass Valley Airport. 

As I was explaining the sounds to our city dwelling son in law, comments were being made that no one could smell smoke, so we should be OK.  Some one was trying to pull up Yubanet.com, which is a fabulous resource for relatively up to the minute emergency reporting.

In the meantime, as I was about to say, "We really don't need to worry much unless we start to hear choppers," I heard the chopper.

"OK then," I said as I put down the rest of my burger to head out front.  There, on the ridge top across our small valley was a rising plume of smoke.  The spotter was circling high overhead, a chopper was en route with a big bucket of water and a bomber was making a turn mid range eye balling his drop.  This aerial ballet was taking place about two miles from the house.  Flames weren't visible yet but there was a slight wind blowing in our direction.

Ah chi mama.

I hustled back to the assembled masses and informed them that if we see flames we need to get to work.  Fast.  I have a plan. 

This house and property are just about as fire safe as can be.  There's hardly any underbrush remaining and many of the trees have been thinned.  Nevertheless, depending on which way the evil comes, a little dampening isn't going to hurt.  And two folks were going to head out and alert neighbors.

We're fortunate here, we have a pretty expansive view south, west and north.  Most of our neighbors are down in the valley and probably had no idea what was potentially on the way.  We all scampered out to the front just in time to see the first of two drops by the bombers.   A long plume of bright red retardant fanning out and then raining down on the front line.

Two bomber drops was all it took.  The chopper made about four more drops of water and we watched a second fire engine heading towards the diminishing smoke to help mop up.  It fortunately looked like our show was over.  But not before we whooped and cheered each aerial drop by the bombers.  Those were better than any super bowl touchdown could ever be.

I'm so hoping that's as close as it's gonna get.   Stay cool out there, summer is upon us.

Trivago Schmago Bongo Drums-I'll Tell Ya How to Snake a Real Deal

After discovering there really were no accommodations to speak of for semi relevant human perspiration in Stinson Beach, we decided to keep pressing forward rather than back track to Bodega Bay.  We had a date at the DeYoung Museum in The City the next morning and we didn't want to make the journey there any further than necessary.   I thought maybe we could find a place to stay in Sausalito or something.  Seemed plausible.  We wound our way on Highway 1 around Mount Tamalpais and down into the quaint little hamlet of Mill Valley.

With my lovely wife on her smart phone exploring potential accommodation options, I was beginning to engage with some considerable traffic.  Considering it was the middle of the week and a little after 4:00 PM, yeah, that old north bay area commuter traffic was ramping up.  Traffic of any kind is one of those perplexing situations of travel I to live to avoid.  At just about any cost.  I used to travel an additional ten miles each way daily for a couple years on a work commute just to avoid a rather nasty little town tangle.  And Lo, I was being thrust into snarling confusion in the middle of a relaxing vacation and there seemed like there was no way out..  

We bumped and grinded our way into and around Sausalito and then back to Mill Valley exploring a couple options, but nothing was coming to fruition.  Part of the problem was our budget, both those towns can be a little pricey.  Another part of the problem was getting folks to answer the phone at 4:30 in the afternoon.  Like, what?  Were we interrupting happy hour for the front desk?  Or were half the folks on the highway also looking for a place to stay and all lines were busy?

Speaking of traffic, the streets, avenues and by ways were getting pasty, thicker and trickier.  A chaotic crisis of uncontrollable proportions and teeming madness was beginning to unfold.  I would rather undergo a night of colonoscopy preparation than deal with commute traffic.

Wait a minute.  No I wouldn't.  Who said that? 

One right turn led to a left, then a right, then a left, then we turned ourselves around.  Did it again.  That's what it was all about.  Somehow we ended up at a Sheraton in San Rafael.  I ended up entering Highway 101 North bound around 5:00 PM, right in the middle of when it turns into a parking lot.  Fortunately we only had to travel about six miles.  At ten miles an hour.   In the car pool lane.  It took about a half hour to get there.  Six miles.  How do the people that live there get anything done during any given day?

We ended up getting a great rate at the Sheraton.  Partly because it was a Wednesday night, but also partly because they were undergoing a huge renovation.  The main entrance was closed and once we found our room I had to trek about fourteen miles to get a bucket of ice.  The ice maker in our new wing wasn't hooked up yet, it was only paces from our room.  Instead I had to get on the elevator and go up to the 4th floor.  Then I had to walk almost the length of the hotel to get that damn ice.  And return.  By the time I got back it was water, but what the hell.  I needed the exercise.

We stayed in that night and ordered room service.  After spending the last five days in small town country where any semblance of traffic did not exist, we were a little shell shocked having just spent two hours trying to find a place to stay.  In peak extraordinary traffic conditions.  Yeah, we needed room service.  French fries and HBO.  On the sheets.  You bet. 

As we awaited room service, I began to reflect on our accommodations.  We had saved an average of $40 to $50 per night on rooms to that point, it seemed like it definitely paid to be traveling during the week.  And our savings would be off the chart once we hit The City.  And here I will explain a big part of our problem as far as paying extreme prices for accommodations is concerned.

Whenever I am looking into booking a room somewhere, I pull up Hotwire and Priceline.  Those are my go to sites.  I will end up booking a room from either of those two sites 99% of the time.

Hotwire almost always has a hard to beat lead in deal.  For instance, a few years back I was looking for a place to to take my lovely wife for a winter weekend.  Get out of Dodge.  Noodling around the Napa area I found a five star hotel with room service near Santa Rosa for $45.00 per night.  Regularly at least twice that price.  Room service on five star sheets.  Works for me.

This time I was looking for a place around Union Square in San Francisco.  Hotwire had a lead in deal near that location for $155.00 per night.  They don't tell you the name of the place at the time because (they say) hotels don't want to advertise prices that low. You get the hotel name after you book, so the hotel keeps its good image.  What.  Ever.  Don't care why.  So far I have NEVER been disappointed with the hotel or location when I've booked in this manner.

.

$155.00 per night near Union Square seemed like a pretty good deal, but I also wanted to double check with Priceline.  Priceline's got a new Express Deal option, which is better than regular, but the real savings can be made when you Name Your Own Price.  Here's a few secrets and tips I have learned about that process over the years.

Just like Hotwire, Priceline won't name the hotel until you book it.  But they do divide where ever you're looking to stay into a number of specific sections.  For instance, San Francisco has 13.  The Wharf, Union Square, The Airport, Civic Center, Alviso, ETC.  With that many sections it's pretty easy to get in the vicinity of where you want to ideally be.  They recommend that you choose as many locations as possible to increase your chances of getting a place, but I disagree.  Start with one.  If you don't get a hotel on your first attempt, then you can add another.   

You also get to choose a star level for the place you'd like to stay.  Again, just choose one.  Start at the top.  Five star in the Tenderloin.  If you don't get a place on your first attempt, then you can go a star level lower.   Or keep the star level the same and add a new section.  Suffice it to say there's a variety of ways to play, just don't tip your hand all at once.  You'll get a better chance on getting a GREAT deal.

And the biggest tip of all: Don't be bashful when formulating your bid.  It's a computer for crying out loud.  When you punch in the star level you'd like to stay in, they come up with a median price for that quality of hotel in those specific areas.  They'd like to see you bid around 60 to 70 % of that median price, but I never do that.  I'll start around 35-40% and go from there.

When I start that low a little message will usually pop up stating my chances of getting a place at that price are about as good as Elvis being at the same hotel at the same time we'll be there.  But you never know.  He could be.  It'll only take you ten minutes to find out.  And maybe save you some money too.

When we were doing recon for our Portland, OR move we stayed at a Marriott Residence Inn for five days for $45.00 per night.  I felt like I was stealing from them every time we had a free breakfast.  We have also found three star places in San Diego for $75.00 per night. 

If your first bid is not accepted, then they ask you to add locations, maybe drop your star rating.  Raise the price.  So you add one location, drop a star level and add ten bucks.  Do it again.  And so on until you either get a place or give it up.

Which brings me to another point.  Sometimes you just can't snake a great deal on Priceline's Name Your Own Price.  Sometimes it's the destination.  Sometimes it's the dates.  Obviously your chances of getting a great deal will be easier during week days, but I've also hit some great San Francisco weekend rates.  It's always worth a few minute look see.

This booking was really easy.  Hotwire already had a great price at a great location.  All I had to do was beat $155.00.  I tried several bids on Priceline starting at $125.  Not accepted.  So I added an area, dropped to four star and raised my price to $135.  Nada.  Then I went to $145, keeping the star level and areas the same.  Zip.  Oh well, I already had a great deal.  I went with Hotwire.

We ended up at the Stanford Court on Nob Hill.  Next door to the Mark Hopkins.  Across the street from The Fairmont.  For $155.00 per night.  The Stanford Court's regular price for that room is $287.00.  Regular rooms at the Mark Hopkins and Fairmont are in the $400-500 range.  Of course, that price ended up jading us when we were looking for places to stay on the rest of the excursion.

"What?  Your bed and breakfast inn charges $300.00 per night?  When we're staying on Nob Hill for half that?  I've got news Hon, the view's OK but there ain't nobody's buttermilk biscuits except mine that are that good."

I have found these great deals on Priceline and Hotwire really only work for hotels and rental cars, by the way.  If you try to snake a deal on a flight from San Jose to San Diego they're going to send you through Des Moines.  For instance.  To save $18.00. 

Trivago's been getting a lot of air play of late so I thought I'd check them out too.  I found Trivago worthy as a clearing house for looking at comparable options, but their best Stanford Court price was $185.00, $30 higher than Hotwire's. I have also played with most all the other travel sites.  All of 'em.  I'll still take a look see now and then, but as I said before, 99% of the time I go with either Hotwire or Priceline.   

Thursday morning we lolled and lazed.  There was no way on earth I wanted to get on that freeway again during commute traffic.  A lobotomy sounded better.  We did enjoy a complimentary breakfast buffet, to which a family of four actually came to in their pajamas.  Even the parents.  We'll get to more fashion, apparel, and lack of concept thereof real soon.

After breakfast we moseyed on down 101 and across the Golden Gate Bridge into that fabulous world class City by the Bay, San Francisco.  Since my lovely wife and I grew up in the suburbs of the South Bay Area, we are no strangers to The City.  We've been there many times and done many things, usual tourist stuff and a lot of unusual otherwise.  A lot of rock shows.  And the Castro Street Fair for instance.  Which is a story in and of itself.  That one includes the wedding of our good friend we just left in Fort Bragg and a couple other very dear players who are no longer with us.  It's the stuff of legends.  

This day we were heading to the De Young Museum to check out a Scottish exhibit that was on display.  I know that doesn't sound too terribly exciting, especially if you start thinking about famous Scot artists.  I really can't think of any famous Scotsman, let alone artist, save for the first (and best) James Bond, Sean Connery.

The reason we chose to view the exhibit was that it was a traveling show of master pieces that were normally on display at the Scottish museum.  Which museum?  Hell, I don't know.  There's probably only one in the country.  I mean, isn't Scotland about the size of Delaware?  Or, you know, Times Square?  Seriously though, that slice of the island is home to some of the finest golf courses in the world as well as the finest Scotch's in the world.  It is also the birthplace of the family name of one of my oldest and dearest friends.  So it does have that going for it.

Works by most all  the famous impressionists, like Monet, Renoir, Manet, Degas, Cezanne and Van Gogh were on display as well as a number of other worthy fancies.  The Scots might not have a bunch of famous painters in their ranks but they sure do know what to look at.  Their curator has done a wonderful job acquiring the catalog.  It was great to view a number of the pieces since we'd probably never get over to Scotland to see them.  I mean, Scotland's not too high on the bucket list right now.  There's quite a few other places we'd like to visit before we ever went there.

Unbeknownst to we two impressionist oil painting aficionados, there was also apparently a very well known and highly anticipated floral exhibit going on.  Since, you know, fresh cut flowers generally have a shorter life span than say, an oil painting, the flower exhibit runs for a very short duration.  And since it only runs for a few days I think about 35% of every woman in the bay area from the age of 50 to 80 was there when we were.  The air was redolent with the scent of White Diamonds and Shalimar.

It might have been easier for us if the floral exhibits were all in one place, but nooooooo.  They were intermixed EVERYWHERE, behind statues and apparently in front of EVERY single painting I expressed an interest in viewing.  Sigh. 

We were out of the museum by early afternoon.  Since we couldn't check into the hotel until 3:00, we had a couple hours to burn.  There's a lot of fun stuff that can be done in that wonderful city, but we chose to simply pull out a blanket and laze in Golden Gate Park.  We were on vacation after all Nad looking at famous works of art can be exhausting.

We did do a walk by of one of the wind mills located in the western section of Golden Gate Park near the ocean.  There are actually two windmills over there, which at one time served a functional purpose for the city.   Built in the early 1900's, they were once responsible for pumping as much as 1 ½ million gallons of water on a daily basis.  Though currently in a state of semi-disrepair, they are still worth a look see.   Or at least one of them was.

After that my lovely wife was awaken from her nap by the site of a couple bison in a pen across the way from our meadow.  She thought the cows were getting antlers again.  And needed a hair cut.  Then she put on her glasses.

Bison don't "Moo" by the way.  They actually speak Latin. 

Check in at the hotel at three was as smooth as can be.  Valet parking, at $60 per day, was a wee pricey, but parking is pricey everywhere in The City.  Hell, it costs $30 to park for a ball game at AT&T Park.  Other than that, and the parking cost really was expected, we found the accommodations excellent.  The view was a brick wall, but we didn't care.  This room was for sleeping, not lounging.  The Stanford Court got a four star rating on Tripadvisor, we give it a five.  The location was stellar, the price ridiculous.  And it was right across the street from the Tonga Room, the location for our anniversary dinner that night.

I'd been to the Tonga Room as a young teenager, way back when.  Dear old Dad took my brother and I there, it was one of my first dress up dine out experiences.  There were some ladies involved too.  DOD's future wife, our future sister, and a future girlfriend.  Very fond memories.  And my lovely wife had never been there.  So the whole deal around staying in SF on that particular day kind of centered around the Tonga Room dinner, it was a special night.

When I was booking the hotel room I was hoping we'd end up a few blocks or at least walking distance to the restaurant.  Little did I know the Tonga Room entrance at the Fairmont was right across the street from our hotel entrance.  No need for a cab this night. 

Color us old fashioned.  Maybe we're from a different school, another time, another planet.  It just seems to both of us that there are certain times and places that require certain kinds of attire.  For instance, I think a tie for a man is appropriate when you go to church, court or a job interview.

Shirts with sleeves are generally appropriate when in public, unless you're at the beach.  Then you can wear or not wear whatever you want.  At no time anywhere is it appropriate to be out in your pajamas.  Especially when dining out.  Even for breakfast.  There is NEVER an appropriate occasion to be out in your PJ's.   Ever.

Dinner, anywhere, generally requires some form of pants.  Unless you're eating at a hot dog stand or Denny's.  And take your fucking hat off at the table.  For crying out loud.  

A really nice dinner should require a button down shirt, slacks or clean Levis and maybe a sport coat.  If it was a really formal dinner I might even splash on a tie.  Like I did as a kid the first time I Tonga'd.  This time I decided a sport coat would work without a tie.  And my lovely wife looked stunning, as usual, in a pant suit something or other.  Thing.

With a halter top and sweater.

Maybe.

I can't be certain and really have no idea.  I didn't take attire notes.  Don't quote me on this.

There was a long line to get into the bar and happy hour, but happily, since we had dinner reservations, we strayed right up to the front and were whisked into the restaurant in an instant.  A poolside table awaited, and we were immediately immersed into the charming romantic ambiance that pervades the dimly lit Polynesian themed room.

We found the menu extensive and hard to pronounce, so we chose one of their Prix Fixe options.  It was splendid.  And easy.  I pointed and said, "We'll have that one, for two."

We were reveling in the fine cuisine and thatched roof atmosphere; every thirty minutes sprinklers turned on over the pool that the tables surrounded.  Thunder and lightening added special effects to the several minute tropical rain revue.  And then sunshine would break through the clouds, birds would start chirping and the fresh, cool sweet air would wash over our sensibilities.

With all these fun diversions and exquisite cuisine, our taste buds on a gloriously delicious stroll through flavor filled fields of Polynesian fusion fancy, it was easy to ignore the two middle aged mid-west fashion challenged nimrods that were seated at the table next to us.  In their T shirts and shorts.  Which would have been fine at Denny's or Burger King, but not dinner at the Fairmont.  

I did a lot of home and garden shows for a company I worked for a while back.  Saturday and especially Sunday mornings we'd always see people who looked like they literally just rolled out of bed, put on some shoes and came to the show.  Wearing what they slept in.  Didn't even comb their hair.

Don't they know that's what ball caps are for?

I can kind of understand wearing sweats in public, even though my lovely wife refuses to be seen with me if I ever do.  Sweats should usually be reserved for athletic events or lounging around the house.  Pajamas?  Lounging or bed.  What are you thinking when you wear them in public?  Have you completely given up trying?

After a wonderful dining experience that even middle aged mid western fucktards in repose could not dampen, we wandered the halls of the historic Fairmont Hotel.  There, in thirty minutes, we got a grand history lesson just viewing the black and white photographs that grace the hallways.

Friday was a total play day, nothing on the schedule.  We took off walking towards Union Square, but I got us off in the wrong direction.  And that's one thing that can be kind of bad when your starting point is essentially on the top of a steep hill.  Six blocks, one way, downhill, meant there were at least six blocks uphill that would be required to get back to square one.  Which is where we wanted to go, Union Square.

So we hopped on a cable car, and imagine my surprise when I discovered the charge is now $6.00 one way.  By the way.  Each.  Which is fine I suppose if you're going the distance, riding it like it's a feature ride at Disney.  But we used to hop on and off for 25 cents a whack, apparently way back when.   Go a few blocks, hop off.  Pick one up later, no big deal.

Twelve dollars and six blocks later we arrived at Union Square.  That's one dollar per block.  Each, by the way.  Cabs are cheaper.  So are helicopters.  Probably.

We cruised the streets, stopping, be-bopping and shopping here and there, eventually ending up on Market Street.  I am always fascinated by the street scene and vibe in all the cities we visit.  Probably because we live in the country and I'm out here by myself all the time talking to squirrels and woodpeckers.  San Francisco is fabulous.  There's such a vast array of humans on the planet and I think most of the weirdest ones end up on the streets of San Francisco. 

After a day of meandering, wandering, shopping and soaking it all up we took a cab back to the ranch.  It was like seven bucks to go a heck of a lot further than we went on the cable car for twelve.

My lovely wife and I are both San Francisco Giants fans, I have been since 1962.  Her a little later.  It's been pretty wild ride these last few years, winning three world series after never winning since the team moved out to San Francisco.  I must admit, it's been kinda fun.  At any rate, we decided to go to the ball game that night since we were in town.  And they were too.  We could take a cab.  You know, save on the $30.00 parking.

Reasonably good seats and a ball park Polish Dawg didn't help us win the game, but we had a great time anyway.  We also discovered a night at the ball park was almost as expensive as dining at the Tonga Room.
In case you're wondering.

The next morning we moseyed over the Bay Bridge to Oakland and spent a wonderful day and night with our kids and grandkids.  We watched a little league game, dined on some great daughter cooked cuisine, hung out and had a blast.  It was a wonderful way to cap off a great week away.  Old friends, the California coast, a beautiful big city and family.  The best things in life all intermingled into one time warped week.  It couldn't have been better.

So, How The Heck Do You Pronounce Gualala?

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?

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