Blue Birds and Bat Habitats

 Blue Birds and Bat Habitats
              and Lollipops and Roses.

OK, so you probably gotta be pushing at least 60 to even remotely catch a whiff of a little sing song inference there.  Then you probably gotta have at least a little bit of a Jack Jones fetish, and maybe a moldy library of unabashed sentimental parental type pop tunes from the '60s.  Maybe then you might get it.  But then the way the trajectory of thought shoots through my cranium sometimes I don't even get it.

It's just that blue birds and bat boxes and bat boxes and blue birds has a sing song sort of rhythm, similar to lollipops and roses, or mustard and mayo.  Or lizards and mayhem.  

My son and I made the bat box (shown below) when we were on our walkabout up in Oregon.  We had a little time on our hands one non-sunny weekend and wallah, what we done:

By the way, that fancy rolling chair bottom it is sitting up against, shown in all it's shining glory below, has a story.  It's story began before we met, back when it had a back and was brand spanking new.

With ample foam cush and nice fabric covering, it was no doubt stationed underneath some executive's or assistant's nicely fashioned posterior when it first rolled out.  Witness the fancy wooden legs the wheels are on.  I'm sure it rolled out on reasonably plush carpet.

I came across it in it's second life, when it was in a back room satellite sales office.  It was sat upon by many, and most were not wearing fashionable apparel.  At that time it rolled on coffee stained indoor outdoor carpet.

When the back finally broke, I brought the rolling base home to utilize in the garage when working on projects.  A third life. 

When a house move came up in 1999 I was going to throw the it away.  But my son intervened, essentially saying I used the thing all the time.  Why toss it?  And he was right.  That base has been from here to Monterey to Portland and back.  It's a comfortable seat and the wheels work fine.  I still use it all the time, some 14 years later.  Now it rolls on asphalt and concrete.

The bat box is as solid as a sound, a loud sound for that matter.  It would take more than the sound of dynamite, Led Zeppelin or a clarinet to shake and shatter that bat box to it's seams.  And that's important for bats.  They like a good, solid, sound structure.

How did we get attached to bats?  Well, of course, their pest control prowess is legendary.  An adult bat will eat up to 1,000 mosquito sized insects per hour, and they usually feed from 3-6 hours every night.  Who wouldn't want some of that action flitting about their acreage at night?   

There is a ton of information out there on the internet regarding bats.  Most of it good.  One notable site is run by the OBC, or Organization for Bat Conservation.  You can buy ready made bat boxes, bat box kits and/or bat box plans from those guys.  If you have a mind to attract some bats.  You can definitely go bat shit crazy with all the information regarding these interesting little mammals.

Our bat box has been taking up a bit of room in the garage since 2008.  Now that we have finally arrived at home, it is finally time to see if we can attract some bats.  Hence, I have given the box a little face as well as linear lift.

Yes, that's a very thin opening.  There's also metal screen, like what you'd find on a window, tacked inside.  That way they have an easy way to attach their little bat claws as they sleep upside down during the day. 

We made the box to specific specs as per plans from Mother Earth News, and it needs to be hung at a minimum height of ten feet.  It has to face from Southwest to Southeast and receive a minimum of 7 hours of direct sun per day.  Those bats like it warm!  The box also should not be more than a quarter mile from a water source.

Well, we've got all these things going for us.  Plus, I see bats all the time around here at dusk.  Why not try to get some to move in?

Naturally, it is much more preferable for you to provide your bat habitat for them outdoors rather than indoors.  Generally speaking, having bats in your own belfry is not considered a pleasurable experience.  Unless you're a witch.  Or Batman.

Usually someone in the house panics, and instead of opening a window or door and try to usher the poor frightened critter out, some folks try to shoot it with a shotgun.  And that usually sprays the walls with holes and knocks down the chandelier instead.

Tennis rackets can be used, but if you hit the little guy square you're sure to have a bat souffle on the racket.  Or a real mess on some expensive lamp shade.  On the other hand, it might help dimensions if the bat smashed into the weird, abstract painting your Aunt Mabel did when she was on pain killers after breaking her hip.  You know, the one she gave you last Christmas.

An interior bat attack happened to my lovely wife and I once.  We were living in a log cabin, and somehow the little guy crept in through a teeny little bat crevasse between logs.  I awoke to this whirring noise as the frightened little attack bat ran circles above our bed, no doubt scrutinizing the best place for a guano drop.  Or trying to figure a way out.

Rising in a panic, buck naked, I grabbed my bathrobe.  (I didn't have a shotgun or tennis racket handy.)  I then opened the sliding glass door, stood next to it and every time the little rascal made a whirring pass I attempted to alter his course out the slider by waving my cape, er bathrobe.   Being ever so mindful so as not to get bitten on the tip of the other thing that was flapping around in the still midnight air.  Toro!  Toro!

After several minutes of semi-frantic bath robe waving, looking much like a Spanish toreador, in my mind anyway, I finally managed to usher the winged phantom out the slider.  Another round of spray insulation began the following weekend.  By the way.

The bat box is now located on the lower 40, utilizing one of the posts from the Old Garden Fence.  (Those other posts will be removed once we get a little rain and the ground gets saturated.)  The location is perfect, on the edge of a meadow but also close to cover so that they can get in and out safely.  This spring I also plan on planting a row of Crape Myrtles down that fence line to start bringing in a little color.  That will also help provide some more cover from Owls and some hawks, which are the primary night time predators of our friendly little bat buddies.  Once those predators discover a bat nest, they'll hang out nearby and try to nab an eerie, hairy, tasty little morsel.  It's a bird eat bat world out there.

  

The 2x4 bat house post was attached to the treated round post with 2-6 inch lag bolts.  I also added some wire around the 2x4 to hopefully discourage any cats or weasels who may try to sneak in there and catch some napping bats.  Hopefully come spring we'll have some bat neighbors.  I'll keep you apprised.

This last spring some neighbors allowed me to take one of their blue bird boxes home so I could copy its design.  Blue Birds, in case you didn't know, are a species in decline.  Due to more and more encroachment into their native nesting type areas, they and other "cavity" nesting birds are having a heck of a time trying to find places to live.  Besides being a gorgeous bird, Bluebirds are also voracious insect eaters.  Who wouldn't want a family or two of them hanging around the old homestead?  Form AND function!

It is with these thoughts in mind that I wanted to build and deploy a blue bird house.  Plus, blue bird is really fun to say. 

I took measurements of our neighbor's box and built a template.  Once again, it is quite specific as to dimensions.  Then, since I have plenty of scrap wood around and nothing but time on my hands, I simply had to cut and put together two blue bird house kits for the grand kits.

With the wood all cut to fit and holes drilled in appropriate places away we went on a crafty day.  I did help Sophia quite a bit with hers, but our Grandson is getting pretty good with a hammer.  I started the nails for him, but he hit them all home.

Once they were put together, then it was time for the paint job.  And here is where our young mind's creativity flourished with some brightly colored avant garde bird abodes.  I call it "Disco Camo."

My darling Sophia.

After the paint job, I was really reluctant to deploy them without a little extra effort on the roof.  Without this intervention, they might have lasted a year in the elements.  Now they can last a decade or more.

Both boxes are now up and installed per expert's instructions.  I can only hope there are a couple blue bird families out there that like a lively colored home.

The Disco Camo Bluebird houses deployed.

These are both deployed about 5 feet high on single trees, facing SSE.  One is on the lower 40, the other the upper, thus allowing the minimum 100 yard spacing required between the houses.

Animal Update

Our hens and Goldie, the rooster, are all fine.  They seem to be enjoying our warm, mild autumn weather this year.  Our old man cat Joe is doing fine too, he actually seems to be accepting of our new kittens.  He has actually behaved like a cat recently, joining us on the sofa for a little pet time instead of running furtively from shadow to shadow.  I welcome the possibility that he becomes a bit more affectionate in his old age.  We'll see.

The two newcomers, Daisy and Lily, pretty much own the house.  Lily is a bit more adventurous than Daisy, and Daisy seems to be a little more social with humans than Lily.  They are both a delight and have already added a tremendous amount of joy to the house.  Happy Thanksgiving!

 Tubbin it!

What the L?

I had wanted to post this here article about a week or so ago, but I have recently discovered,

"It's hard to be funny when you have the flu,
It's hard to be sunny when you feel like the sole of a shoe,
Been laid up for a week now, it's all I can do,
It's hard to be funny when you have the flu."

It's been a long rollickin spring and summer around here, it seems there's never a dull moment.  Buy a little ground.  Do a little dance.  Get down for life.  I think I'll have a spare five seconds in another ten years.

Sometimes I wonder if we've got too much of a geriatric whiplash by the what the hell tale goin on.  We'll be 60 next year.  Starting a homestead on the side of a hill in our late 50's turning 60?  What were we thinking?

On the other hand, it's a wonderful location and home.  And we are finally home.  And I do enjoy home improvement and improving the landscape.  Selectively clearing the land, being a prudent steward of this teeny little slice of dirt.  Getting some food producing plants and trees in the ground.  A splash of color here and there.  Pretty things up.  In a linear sort of fashion.

And it's my gym.  I think all these projects are keeping me in shape.  At least my heart's in great shape, it's the rest of my body that is apparently falling apart.  I never break bones though, I just do enormous damage to tendons and ligaments.  Stretch, tear, sever, that sort of thing.  But I digress. 
 
Part of my spring/summer work schedule around here always includes winter preparation.  That includes firewood and most other outside attractions.  It is no fun doing outside chores in the rain, that's why they get done when the sun is shining.  I now feel fabulous and fortunate, the wood is up and this "L"acious project was my last to get done before the rain come to complete.

The first step of this project actually began back in May, when I created The Garbage Depot.  I needed a place to put all the recycle and garbage so that I could continue with my simple homey dream, to be able to walk around this house barefoot, without looking like I am walking on hot coals half of the time. 

                                
                                
Now all that crap is comfortably contained below, away from the house and open guest windows.

The depot will eventually be adorned with some sort of growing, glowing, fragrant greenery.  You know, plants.

I definitely wanted this concrete L done before winter set in.  When it rains hard, this little corner where the ends meet is like the confluence of the Columbia and Williamette rivers in Portland at rip tide.  Boats sink.  Cargo is lost.  Ballads are sung.  It turns into my Lake Stupid every winter, but there is a plan.

The first thing I did was remove all the brick that had served as a walk way of sorts, or at least a base for all our garbage cans.  Then I made a few steps over to the depot, which lasted about six days, or until the Grandchildren were visiting.  Then I think forts or castles ensued.

                                   
                                   
                                       
After moving the brick, I was naturally waylaid  by umpteen other things until I got back to the issue at hand.

The actual walk excavation began the morning of July 24, 2013.  The day before, July 23, I rented a carpet cleaning machine at a nearby Raley's and cleaned all the carpets.  I generally do that when my lovely spouse is away because the entire house goes into complete disarray.  It's much easier for one to navigate in than two.

My lovely wife was off with her lovely sisters on a Sisters vacation that week, all four of them together in Capitola for the first time in ages.  I have elaborated on some of those Sister escapades in The Drunk Rooster.

Since the ground here is dead pan hard to begin with, especially in the middle of summer, I dumped the dirty carpet water in the area I would be digging in the following morning.  Soften it up a little bit.  Big physical plans for one who is nursing a painful right ankle.

                                 

The carpet cleaning went well.  I think I do a better job than most commercial cleaners and it's about a third of the cost or less.  Especially since I make my own carpet cleaning solution.  Add a cup of ammonia to a couple gallons of hot water.  Simple. Cheap.  Easy.  The aroma fades away when dry.  But do it with the windows open, otherwise you'll look like you've been huffing spray paint again.  Ammonia is just as effective but a fraction of the cost of any commercial carpet cleaning product out there.

BTW, I also clean bathrooms and glass almost exclusively with distilled white vinegar diluted with a little bit of water.  You want a true no streak mirror?  Use vinegar and water.  About half and half or 2/3 vinegar 1/3 water in a spray bottle.  You'll never buy Windex again.  Oh yeah, besides the ease, there's a massive financial savings as well.

So, then, moving on to the project at hand, you may be asking the question, why on earth would I want to move some earth in the middle of summer?  Well, as I mentioned earlier, I really want this walk done before the rains come.  I am trying to redirect a substantial flow of water out and around the parking area instead of over it and down the embankment.  Water flow is incredibly important when you live on a hill.

Besides being regular dead pan dirt, half this walk was gravel and had been driven on for decades.  The other part was used to store our garbage cans, until the garbage depot was built.  And then, aided by dirty water dumped the day before, the actual games began.  Armed only with a pick and shovel, and without the assistance of a dozer or C-4, I began to toil.  It was like trying to pull up Sepulvada Blvd in LA with a teaspoon.  But eventually it did give way to my persistent huffing and puffing.

Dig it.

Where did all this dirt and gravel go, pray tell, you may be asking yourself?  Well, there was a plan.  There's always a plan.  There has to be a plan.  Otherwise people like me go crazy.

I wheel barrowed a plenty, a few more than twenty, across the drive to this little location right yonder here.

,

That's a little dirt turnout right off the asphalt parking area that actually gets put into use from time to time.  We've had a couple family events with about eight cars up here, and though the asphalt area seemingly is quite large, it gets full real quick.  I am leveling this area out and then will be bolstering the supporting hillside with native plants and a whole lot of Rosemary.

Rosemary develops extensive root systems quickly, is fragrant, attracts bees, is deer resistant and can be used in a lot of recipes and home spun health remedies.  Plus I already have a dozen starts ready to go.  Half those were taken from an established Rosemary plant here I tried to transplant.  Unfortunately the transplant didn't take, but a half dozen of her babies will be thriving in the ground soon.  The other half were taken from a Rosemary plant I have had in a pot for years.  That Rosemary plant finally made it into the ground once we moved here.  We should have a happy, festive Rosemary hillside come spring, 2014.

After about twelve hours over three days of hand excavation, I had the ground level down to where I wanted it.  Then I built a frame with 2x4's and adjusted the height.  Once the concrete is poured, water will flow from that top landing down to the corner at the bottom and away to the left.  Water from the down spout will also flow down towards the corner and away.  Then that flows around the parking area, down the side of the drive and into a gully.  That's a substantial amount of water that will no longer saturate the face of our hillside.

                                     
Then water will flow along the section below down and across the drive.  That will be a fraction of what was previously going across the drive.  Prior to making these adjustments, most all the water from the downspout all flowed along the front of the house.  The corner was a lake that Canadian Geese had on their migration trail.  I love them geese, but when you have 400 of 'em landing in one small area right next to the house they can create quite a mess.  Plus, all that water I believe has been impacting some slippage on our landings hillside.  This is step one in mitigating that, step two, as mentioned, is Phil and Rosemary, which will both be addressed in another post.

I had to do a little razzle dazzle to get the frame level along one of the existing concrete pylons.  In order for the frame to fit I had to make a concrete cut and chisel out a little extra existing concrete.  I have sliced bricks and concrete like this before with a basic trusty skill saw, of course inserting a masonry blade first.  And thus:

That dropped the base enough so that my frame could run at the slope I desired.

I have a good buddy whose previous occupation involved being level amongst many other things.  Back in my drinking hey days we leveled ourselves quite a few times.  One memorable occasion we crisscrossed the state, heading to SF for a Giants game from here in the morning, then ending up at South Shore Tahoe that evening because we missed our turn north off the freeway.  Now that's gettin leveled.  Or hammered.  Mostly both.  Anyway, my Bud's still got a good eye for level things, and he came over and we made a number of adjustments on the frame based on his observations.

I then made two PVC channels.  One will allow me to add a drip system to the front planter box, the other is a just in case extra avenue into the electric breaker panel.  Just in case.  I tossed in a little rebar, and then did some math.

                                     
                                    

LxWxH.  And this site: The Concrete Calculator.  Based on their figures I figured I would need about two yards of concrete.  Or around 134 sixty pound bags.  Are you kidding?  134 Bags?  That was NOT an option.

It's hard to find a professional around here to come out and deliver mixed concrete for less than 5-6 yards, but I eventually did find a guy.  He calls his company "Short Load", and he will mix and deliver from 1-6 yards of concrete at a very reasonable price.

My good buddy tossed his hat in the ring to help this concrete novice out, and he brought along another good bud.  I had set up delivery for 10/14, but Short Loaf hadn't been out to do a pre-inspect.  He was very concerned about our steep Lombard Street drive.  He figured since he had a full load for a project to be poured after me, he didn't want to have to try and go back down our drive with too much weight.  He could end up on the other side of the valley at the end of a long, freshly mowed tree strewn boulevard.

We rescheduled for 10/21, and fortunately my buds were still free.  Short Cake arrived with his truck, and the real fun began.  Mud, as it is called in construction terms, went a flying.  Unfortunately, I just have a couple before shots and then the afters.  I was real busy when the mud was flowing out the chute, there was no time to take shots.

                                                                          

                                       

Thank goodness my very experienced friends were along for the ride.  I could not have done it without them.  As a matter of fact, they really didn't let me do much but the grunt work, which is probably as it must have been. 

BTW, these guys aren't for hire anymore.  But if you are lucky enough to lure them out of retirement, their price is lunch and a 12-Pack of Pacifico.

Once the mud was in and relatively level, then it was time to smooth it all out and get the "cream" to the top.  As you may or may not know, there's a lot of little rocks in concrete.  When it's first leveled out with a large float, it' still a little lumpy at the surface.  Then my bud went over the surface with a wooden hand float, dialing in the level which also brings smoother concrete, or "cream" to the surface.

With a project this size, there was no need to hurry after the initial delivery and leveling.  There were a couple extra hours spent waiting until it set up enough to put the final broom finish on.  That was lunch and a little extra cerveza time. 

It is also important to put some stress joints in when it gets a little bit firmer.  We put one in about every six feet or so, with an extra special one at the corner.  This helps relieve any pressure from expanding or contracting and will help mitigate any cracking.

The final finish was a little wavy broom action across the surface, done with finesse and ethereal artistic whimsy by my other bud.  Without this minor intervention that surface would be as slick as elephant snot when it's wet. 

That little space between the walk and asphalt will become a brick planter box this next spring/summer.  That will help with a little definition (as well as some color) between the drive and the house.  

Stay tuned, now that the concrete is complete a vast array of adept, inept and ballet performance projects shall ensue.  Over the winter I hope to get irrigation infrastructure run throughout the area so that I can eventually get a lawn in next spring. 

However, as always, there's a number of steps before that reality happens.  But the first step of this stage, which was preceded by several other steps, is done.  Let Winter come.

Kittens

Our famed feline Tom Kitten took his last walk to forever this last summer.  We miss him still.  We allowed several months time for his younger brother Joey, now 18, to become the Lion King of the house.  Joey lived his entire life under Tom Cat's alpha shadow.

But Joe did not rise to the occasion.  He is still the paranoid schizoid cat he's always been.  While Tom listened to a wide variety of tunes in his cat cranium, from pop to rock to reggae to jazz, maybe even a little Elvis now and then, Joey only seems to listen to Megadeath.  Loud and apparently all the time.  Pounding away in his paranoid cat cranium.  He has never been affectionate either, probably because he spends all his time running for cover.  My lovely wife has really missed cat affection.

A couple weeks ago we went out to a local animal shelter, and just look at what we have to put up with now!

They are sisters, and the one on the left is named Daisy.  The one on the right, who seems to be establishing a little alpha dominance, is tentatively named Lily.  They are happy, they are loving, and they are as fresh as little flowers.  We are spending hours just enjoying and laughing at their little kitten antics.  They have pretty much taken over the entire house and we, of course, are at their beckon call.

Someone Put a Cabo in My Caboodle

Several years ago I coined the phrase, "When the going gets tough, the tough go to Cabo."

OK, somebody somewhere else probably said that before I did, I'm always late to the party.  Maybe I'm the first person to put it in print.  OK, at least I know I'm the first person to put it in print in my own blog.  I think.

I coined that phrase because my lovely wife and I, in the fair to middlin beginin of our not too long ago four year walkabout, were having a heck of a time finding a rental house in Santa Cruz that would be to our liking.  Let me retreat for a moment.

We were living in Monterey, CA at the time, where she took over a branch office for a local title company.  My lovely wife, BTW, was the top notch escrow maven in the this county before she was spirited away by oodles of money and an opportunity to relocate to a most lovely part of the state, even the country for that matter.  The position only lasted a year though because the overall area manager was a nit wit.  Several top notch escrow personnel jumped ship to another title company and my lovely wife was again recruited to open up a branch in downtown Santa Cruz.  Due to the nature of timing, we only had about six weeks to find a house rental in a college town.

We're old people, we've got a lot of crap.  A 3/1 under a thousand square feet wasn't gonna cut.  And that seemed to be what most of the available places were.  We had driven up to Santa Cruz three weekends in a row to find a place, no joy.  The days ambled on by, we were running out of time and my lovely wife was getting stressed to the max.  Besides the stress of her current position, not having a future nest in place was also a source of concern.  When stress gets up to a point of maximum concern and confusion and one box of wine don't cut it anymore, there's only one thing I know that's sure to alleviate the pain.

Cabo.

At one time it might have been a Toga Party with copious amounts of ingested alcohol, but now we seem to have a need to get out of Dodge, get away to a tropical place and let our cares drift away in a soft ocean breeze.   Maybe with a little Harry Belafonte in the background.  A little calypso, and for my lovely wife, maybe a tropical rum drink or two with them pretty little umbrellas.

Well, I did what any normal spouse would do, I got online and found us a heck of a deal down south.  It really was a great last minute price, booking the trip about 48 hours before we embarked.  If you can deal with a host of unknowns, that's a great way to pick up a last minute travel deal.  We actually ended up at San Jose del Cabo, which is a lovely, sleepy little town about twenty miles up the Sea of Cortez side of things from Cabo.

Unbeknownst to me when I booked the joint it was an all-inclusive resort.  I just wanted a room with a view and a swimming pool.  Upon check-in we got a plastic wrist band, the proverbial key to the highway.  We still really had no idea now it worked until we tried to pay for drinks, which we didn't.  And then we went to dinner.  No bill.  What a concept. We got used to it all real quick.

We rented a car one day that trip and headed in to Cabo, which had surely changed a bit in the 25 years since we'd been there last.  They had dredged out the harbor and now it is a cruise ship destination.  It has also become what I would call the Las Vegas of the Baja Peninsula. 

We had been to Cabo before, back in the early 1980's.  The town was entirely way different.  Back then it was a sleepy little fishing village with dirt streets.  A few shops, a few restaurants and a couple cantinas.  Now that a cruise ship lands every other day and Sammy has a night club there it's a rollicking little town. 

We also headed out to Todos Santos, to the original Hotel California, or so they say.  It certainly would have been out on a dark desert highway, especially back in the 1970's.  It was a nice desert drive for us and a quaint little town.  We had some lunch at a cantina a US ex-pat owned, and found out the place was a haven for displaced Americans.  At least four of 'em.  And maybe there were a few lost souls in a perpetual Eagles flashback that were living the dream.  Somewhere out there.

We learned a new phrase at Cabo this year which I'll get to later.  It was coined by one of our tour guides and companions, Carlito, who we have been friends with for over 30 years.  He has been after us for many years to join he and his lovely spouse on one of their many tropical vacations.  They've been retired now for a few, and they go on these all-inclusive tropical vacations several times a year.  Carlito finally put me in a head lock, scrunched my ear until I cried  "Johnnie Walker" and off we went.

Actually, it was a five pack of intrepid wayfaring wanderers that flew down to the Riu.  It was going to be a 6-pack, but there was a very unfortunate relationship situation that developed between two folks which occurred between booking and travel.  We talked our female friend of the relationship into continuing with the vacation.  She needed to get away probably more than anybody.

"It's all happenin at the "Riu".  No need to believe it, I know it's true.   "Riu" is a resort chain with over one hundred hotels in some of the best destinations in Mexico, Central America and the Caribbean.

Yowzah.  With that plug maybe they'll give me a free dinner next time I'm there.

Wait a minute.  Most of them are all-inclusive, and if you like to eat and drink this is the place for you.  Unbelievable food and drink at unbelievable prices.  We just skated into the "off " season by about a week, and could not believe what we were gastronomically experiencing at such ridiculous prices.

If you are a foodie you will feel as if you have wandered into a land of heavenly, sheer gastronomical bliss.  The buffet was unbelievable.  Splendidly sordid.  Wickedly wild.  Stand back.  It was, without equivocation, much better than any Hometown Buffet I've ever seen.

My biggest regret of the vacation was that I do not have a big appetite.  I typically do not eat three meals a day, I eat when I am hungry.  And I rarely over eat.  Damn.  This would have been the time to be a hawg!

It all started with a twenty foot salad bar, smoked salmon, smoked marlin, shrimp, vegetables, salads, and 85 salad dressings.  Ok, at least 12.  Splendid garnishments were everywhere on the bar, a wide assortment of vegetables carved into all sorts of flowers with intricate petals.

Oh, and on one night, they had a Caesar Salad bar along with the regular salad bar.  How many options can actually be used in a Caesar Salad?  About a hundred.  Apparently.  You could have done an entire 3 course meal at the Caesar Salad bar, then gone on to peruse the other available hundred entrees. 

There was a little bakery area, which always had an assortment of 8-10 different kinds of breads and rolls.  Probably more like 20.

Along the entire back wall was the hot food section, which went on for days.  Besides hot dogs, pizza and hamburgers for the stalwart eaters from Wisconsin, the rest of the selection was extreme gourmet.  And I'm talking about another 25-30 freaking options.  10 hot vegetables and 20 main courses.  At least.  Hell, the burgers and dogs could have been gourmet too, but I certainly wasn't going to waste my waist on them things.

I had a little bit of many things at every dinner, the most memorable being a beef enchilada with the most incredible mole sauce I have ever tasted.  That's pronounced mole-a, and probably tastes much different than a sauce made from a rodent.  I had two of those, the only time I doubled up on anything.  Unless you call eating about four hundred shrimp dialed in a half dozen different ways doubling up.  What?

I pretty much stayed with a few papaya and assorted melon slices every morning.  I usually only have a couple cups of coffee, so I was pushing it.  If I wanted to push it, besides the fruit bar, I could have had an assortment of hot or cold cereal, the bakery was always stocked with a half doz different kinds muffins, plus another assortment of 15 or so bread products.  Bacon, ham, eggs any way you like, cheese.  Chorizo, a half dozen different flavors. An omelet bar with about 20 options.  The salad bar it's regular self but with an additional 16 different types of cold cut meats.  To go with your endless champagne.

The 20 foot dessert bar at dinner was glorious.  There were at least 6-8 different assorted petit fours type things every night, little 3 and 4 layer frosted cakes that were sumptuous.  Little cuplets of flan and custard, cookies, chocolates, and garnishments of chocolate iguanas that were a foot in length.  Many of them were missing their tails.  There were at least a couple hundred of these lovelies available in the fairy tale sugar land at any given time.  Then there were the white and dark chocolate fountains.  Buckets of berries of your choice.  Another section where something deliciously traditional was being cooked up every night.  It was a dessert junkies paradise.  People were actually taking pictures of the wondrous display of sugar magic, it was that extreme.

The selection changed every night.  One night was sushi night.  Another Italian.  Another um, Mexican.  All you can eat.  Every night it changed.  It was food delirium.

And then there was the booze.  I personally don't drink alcohol anymore, I stopped a couple decades ago.  That's a whole nother story, one which will actually be available sometime early next year.  But my good buddy Carlito likes to drink alcohol like I used to like to drink alcohol, and our other traveling companions have been known to toss back a cocktail or two now and then.

There's a couple pool bars, a couple theater bars, an upper level terrace bar, a disco bar and cocktails available at all the 5 restaurants.  And then there's about 800 pool boys and girls and waiters and staff that will fetch you a cocktail at a  moments notice.  It was not difficult to find a drink.

I brought my own brand of madness, baked into chocolate wholesome goodness.  Besides water and soda, I also had several fruity non-alcoholic options available.  Even with an umbrella if I wanted.  And my lovely wife almost made it all the way through the Riu's colorful tropical cocktail menu that had about 20 options.


You could do some serious drinking there if you wanted to.  One of the first days I likened serious "day" drinking to surfing.  From what  I recall it takes a couple pops to get on the board and then another one or two to get up and catch the wave.  That's in the first half hour or so.  After that it's mindless and cautious maintenance, which can be difficult I would think when you're surfing at an all inclusive resort.  Too much and you fall off the board.  Too little and you become bored.  Aren't homonyms fun?

When my lovely wife and I were married the first time back in the mid-1970's, we honeymooned in Puerto Vallarta.  On that vacation we both went parasailing, which is essentially taking a parachute ride behind a speed boat over water.  The first day at Cabo we noticed a number of parasails out in the bay, and we decided to give it another go.  It looked like there was a double ride, where we could ride together.  It was all or nothing, an adventure for the ages!  Or ageless.  Whatever.

We made arrangements through one of the recreation beach boys at the resort, and even though we communicated well enough he kind of neglected to tell us how far down the beach we had to walk to pick up the boat.

So we started our unexpected trek, which seemed like fourteen miles, but was probably only one.  That took about a half hour.  It didn't help that just a scant fifty yards into the trek we got blasted by a wave because we were too close to the water and not paying attention.  Wet, taking stock and a little bit aghast, we got blasted again within about 45 seconds.

We were now decently sopping wet, and sand was everywhere about our persons.  My lovely wife's hair was in quite disarray, and she was not happy.  Nevertheless, she was a trooper and carried on.  We had to walk in the softer sand now, so as not to get blasted again, and the going was much tougher.  It was getting hot, and she was getting tired.  And she was not happy.  This was not starting out as the grand fun adventure I had hoped for.

We finally got to the tent, and since our beach boy had contacted them via walkie-talkie they were ready for us.  They smiled and ushered over a water taxi straight away.  There was no wait, we were the first customers of the day. 

We had wanted to go out as early as we could to avoid high seas. You see, my lovely wife is very susceptible to motion sickness.  That's why we don't cruise, or take boat trips.  And only fly on big planes.  She's OK on commercial airliners, it's the smaller commuters and Cessnas she can do without.  Hell, she can't even kayak on calm lake water without usually puking.

As we had been walking, we had discussed the fact we hadn't thought we'd be going out on the water.  In a boat.  How stupid were we?  She was getting concerned.  I was getting concerned.  Holy shit.  Our great adventure was turning into a potential catastrophe. 

The water taxi is kind of like a row boat sized skiff with a motor.  They delicately maneuver over and around the incoming surf to get their patrons on board.  Their patrons usually get wet.  Oh well, we were already wet.  And sandy.  We got on board and churned out about fifty yards to the real boat, a heavy duty cruiser.  Then it was another ten minutes over somewhat choppy water to the point of flight.

So far my girl was doing OK.  She was still trooping it.

During ten minute ride out in the bay they gave us both a life vest and a harness to put on.  Finally they stopped, unfurled the chute, got out a doubles bar, clipped us on and had us sit down on the 6x6 foot platform that was the back of the boat.  Then they rolled the rope right on out at a fairly steady pace.  The chute just lifted us off the platform and into the sky.

Their web site says they let out six hundred feet of line.  For the first few minutes, as we unfurled, we lazed along in the warm ocean breeze.  A few larger fish were visible from the 50 to 100 foot elevation.

As we continued to drift behind the boat, I soon understood why they like to get further out in the bay.  Once we got out beyond the large rocks that provide the shelter for Cabo's bay, the ocean wind lifted us like a hawk on a hot air rise.  Within a minute we were almost directly above the boat, going from 50 to 500 feet in 60 seconds.  It was a blast, and almost felt like we would lift the boat right out of the water.  No wonder they needed a big boat.

After a good twenty minute ride, they slowly reeled us back in, and we landed softly on the back of the boat where we initially took off.  No fuss, no muss, no wet.  The water taxi met us, and then we rode back in.  Fortunately he dropped us off at about the halfway point between their tent and our resort.  Unfortunately there was a resort rule banning him from dropping us off at our back door.

Once we got back to our room, my lovely wife laid down for a little while.  It was touch and go a couple times for her, even when we were up in the air she had to keep a constant eye on the horizon.  It was at least a thirty minute motion filled adventure, wracked by waves and minor discontent, but my lovely wife endured and we really had a wonderful ride.  Because of that motion thing, we don't do stuff like this very often.  Or ever.

I am currently writing a ballad about the whole adventure, entitled, "My Girl Didn't Hurl".

There were also very good live, themed song and dance shows put on by the entertainment staff at the resort every night.  "Las Vegas", "Broadway" and a "Michael Jackson" tribute to name just a few.  All the entertainment staff were youngsters and in great shape, otherwise we might have seen a good Joe Cocker show.  What am I saying?  Joe's still in great shape.  Crank it up.

There was also a disco on site that opened at eleven PM.  We only made it in there once for about 15 minutes.  We're old folks.  Eleven PM?  Who were we kidding?

We had an ample mini suite with a delightful ocean view.  All the rooms are stocked with 4 quarts of booze, rum, vodka, tequila and scotch.  I think.  Just in case you weren't sufficiently sauced from drinking all day, or just in case you needed a drink to walk the fifty yards or so to the nearest open bar.  The mini fridge was also stocked with beer, sodas, juice and bottled water.  It was replenished every morning.  No charge.

We all brought about $50 in one dollar bills and tipped regularly.  Every third or fourth delivery of drinks warranted a buck, dinner usually warranted 2 or 3.  And we tipped the maid a buck every day.

The Riu Palace is a five star resort.  I believe it.  The grounds are impeccable, the cuisine incredible, the staff top notch.  The resort personnel and staff worked hard but always had a smile on their face. We will definitely visit a Riu again, but probably at a different location.  Maybe Costa Rica, or maybe Jamaica.  Mon.

And always remember, as my good buddy Carlito would say, "What happens in Cabo, never happened."