Magnificent Trees

Trees go wandering forth in all directions with every wind, going and coming like ourselves, traveling with us around the sun two million miles a day, and through space heaven knows how fast and far!--John Muir

Every year I make a point of visiting the Mariposa Grove of Giant Sequoias, within Yosemite National Park. And every year I'm struck by how much I love these huge gentle giants. Apparently I'm not alone because two of the 23 people on our Elderhostel just concluded made a point of telling me how much it meant to them to have the opportunity to see them as part of their program.

The Mariposa Grove tram tour takes about 1-1/4 hours and transports riders from the lower grove parking lot on up the hill, passing by the Fallen Monarch, the Faithful Couple, the Bachelor and Three Graces and my personal favorite, the Grizzly Giant. At the Upper Grove Museum, situated on the site of Galen Clark's cabin, the tram turns back toward the parking lot.

Despite the number of people exploring the Grove along with us, there is still a grace and tranquility that reigns supreme. I especially feel that peace in the Upper Grove where the numbers of visitors tend to thin out.
 

 

I LOVE Sugar Pines. They have such character. I call them "trees with a bad haircut" because they have branches that grow all akimbo with no seeming rhyme or reason. Just look at a Ponderosa. Just look at an Incense Cedar. Their branches seem all regular and organized. Then take a peek at this guy above. He looks like he got up on the wrong side of the bed. I think his branches remind me of my hair. Maybe that's why I like him so much.

 

Yes, you're really look at BRANCHES (not the trunk) of the Grizzly Giant. Its branches are larger than the TRUNKS of any other tree species in the park. This is one magnificent tree, and think of all the history it's been witness to, in its nearly 2,000 years of life. It boggles the mind. 

But if you want your mind boggled even further, go take a gander at the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest, outside of Big Pine in the Eastern Sierras. Those trees date back 4,000 years and are the oldest living things on the planet.

This is my buddy Shirley Spencer, a naturalist extraordinaire. I'm lucky enough to have her teach most of my Elderhostels. She loves what she does, and she imparts that passion to all of her students (including me). She knows Yosemite like the back of her hand, hikes throughout the Sierra Nevada (summiting Mt. Whitney some 7 times), rock climbs with her super-husband, Mark, paints and sings. The only thing she's bad at (she claims) is math. I don't believe it. She's the one who's sparked my love of everything Yosemite and mountains in general. I can't get enough of hearing about her and Mark's adventures.














This is one of the burn scars on the trunk of the Grizzly Giant. Mountain man Galen Clark, the first superintendent of Yosemite National Park, stood right inside there.

Shirley teaches Elderhostel students the difference between Giant Sequoias (left) and Incense Cedars (right). Every time I'm lucky enough to get to accompany an Elderhostel field trip, I learn some new tidbit from Shirley. This time I discovered that Galen Clark had a second wife--who was a Gypsy fortune teller! Who knew!

Yosemite Week

I must be living right . . . having to spend two days of my work week in Yosemite! We're just finishing up a 6-day Elderhostel, and we were blessed with perfect weather, relatively small crowds--and the fact that the rockslide behind the Ahwahnee Hotel happened the day AFTER we were there.

Fun Photography - A First

Today was a milestone.

Today I completed my first-ever "photo shoot."

After I begged several of my friends to be guinea pigs for my newest hobby/avocation/passion, Virginia finally gave in. She said she needs new publicity shots for her website and stills for her new books. She's my hero(ine)--a real, live published author with a bunch of wonderful children's books in print and more in the pipeline. She's what I think I wanna be when I grow up. That or Ansel Adams.

Roommate Carol and I headed up to North Fork this afternoon and spent a delightful several hours experimenting with camera equipment and the new lens that just came in the mail today--a 50mm 1.8 aperture prime that I've coveted ever since my daughter got one several weeks ago. The photos it produces are simply amazing, or would be if the operator of the camera/lens knew what she was doing. But that was the whole idea of the shoot, to figure out if I can learn to take photos of moving objects, er, people. It seems  I can, with a lot more practice. The sum total of the day was something in the neighborhood of 700 images of Virginia, her dogs and her beautiful teenage neighbor, Sierra.

Because I don't have their permission to post any of Virginia's or Sierra's photos, I have to be content with showing you something else. Someone who DID give me the okay to share her pictures. WARNING . . . these could be considered pornographic in some circles.

This gorgeous girl is Freckles, and this is the way she likes to sleep. She paid no attention whatsoever to me or my camera as I snapped pose after pose while she napped on the deck outside the sliding glass door.

Isn't she beautiful?

Thanks, Virginia (and Freckles), for letting me invade your space. Thanks also for the scrumptious dinner, a chance to visit with you, Dick and Muriel, and for giving us the chance to catch up on all the Pilegard news.

Can we do it all again soon--this time at our house?

Ghost Towns & Cemetaries - Virginia City, NV

Seems like the journeys Pat and I have taken recently have taken on a certain . . . flavor . . . OLD. As in ghost towns and cemetaries.

We've promised ourselves that each time we venture out we'll hit someplace neither of us has been before. In early August our Tahoe trip included a visit to Virginia City, an old mining town perched at the 6,200 foot elevation on the side of a Nevada mountainside. Some will remember it as the fictionalized setting for the 70's TV series, "Bonanza."

To get there, we took the long way around from Carson City, via highway. As we wound through the mountains, incredible views emerged of Reno, in the distance. Amazingly a number of higher-end houses were tucked strategically along the highway, taking advantage of those vistas.

Virginia City, to me, at least, was at once fascinating and disappointing.

Fascinating . . . as we imagined the wild-and-wooley life of miners searching for elusive wealth. The evidence of a once booming town was obvious as we checked out the saloons that lined the main street along with the offices of the Territorial Enterprise, where Mark Twain began his journalism career. Juxtaposed against the saloons were St Mary's in the Mountains Catholic Church, which dominates the Virginia City skyline, and St Paul's Episcopal Church. Both of them are still active, although St Mary's is in the midst of an extensive renovation, so St Paul's currently serves as its subsitute.

Disappointing . . . because spider webs of wires strung along telephone poles mar the views of Main Street, along with the cars parked along its length. The mood built up by the wonderfully decrepit buildings is destroyed by the modern conveniences the autos and wires represent.

Piper's Opera House was a pleasant find, and I couldn't wait to let friend JK know I'd discovered it. What a marvelous bit of synchronicity when he told me that as a teenager he'd visited Virginia City a number of times with his mother. The Opera House was a highlight of his time there. He wonders if that might have been the start of his love affair with the world of opera.


We wandered up and down the street, into and out of the many saloons, enjoying a Sarsaparilla in one of them.


Ironically the part of Virginia City I enjoyed the most was the Silver Terrace cemetery. Unkempt, rocky and stark, the land this last resting place occupies must not allow for a a restful sleep as the wind howls incessantly among the headstones. Most of the graves date from the 1800's, with a few of them drifting into the 20th century.

Rolling Stones

For my money, the very best parts of Yosemite exist outside the over-populated and much-photographed valley. Take just a few hours to cross the Sierra Nevada via Tioga Road (Highway 120), and you'll discover an entirely different face of the Queen of National Parks.

The photos here were taken at or near Olmstead Point, which is very close to the halfway point of the journey. From here you can see up-close-and-personal the centuries of glacial action.

Glacial erratics (boulders picked up as if they were handheld stones) lie where they were left as the glacier retreated. Try picking one up . . . you'll discover the massive efforts required.

From Olmstead point you also get the "other" view of Half Dome--the backside. Bring your binoculars, and you just might see the line of hikers pulling themselves hand-over-hand up the cables to the 13-acre top of the rock.

Travel a bit farther on the highway, and you'll get your first view of Tenaya Lake, set in the bowl of the surrounding peaks.

McGurk Meadow - Easy Hike, Big Payoff

Spring and summer are big deals in my hiking life. I watch anxiously for the opening of Yosemite's seasonal Glacier Point Road so that we have access to all the great trails that take off from there.

Because I'm a flower nut (never met one--cultivated or wild--that I didn't love), one of my very favorite treks wanders through McGurk Meadow. A hike of four miles out-and-back yields an extravaganza of beautiful blossoms. The photos displayed here are a small sample of the blooms we encountered. (For those who can tolerate a raft of flower pictures, check out my Flickr photos (I'm hawkshearth) and look for my McGurk Meadow 7-30-09 set. It'll turn up 130+ photos taken on July 30. I tried to paste a link to the set, but couldn't get it to work right.)

If you want even more of a workout and have the time, continue on another two miles or so, following the trail signs at each junction, until you come to the southern rim of Yosemite Valley at a place called Dewey Point. The several times I've been there, it's been relatively peaceful; only once have we found more than one or two people occupying our favorite lunch spot. A nosh of crackers, cheese and one of those individual bottles of Merlot or Chardonnay and you'll think you've died and gone to heaven. Take a little nap before heading back to Glacier Point Road and soak up the tranquility that seems so rare in most of Yosemite National Park.

But back to McGurk Meadow. That's another slice of heaven just waiting for the flower enthusiast. The hike I'm describing here can be done by anyone in reasonable shape. Don't forget, though, that you'll be hiking at an altitude of approximately 6,000 feet, which can prove to be a challenge for those used to walking at lower elevations.

The amount of time it'll take you depends on whether you plan to take lots of photos. If you're not recording the trail for posterity, you can reasonably make the round trip in a couple of hours.

The first mile is downhill through a lodgepole pine forest dotted with Yarrow, Lupine, Pennyroyal and more. Right before the trail opens up to the meadow, a log cabin appears to the left of the trail. A metal sign marks the distance to Glacier & Dewey Points.

The expansive meadow stretches for a mile or more and displays its white carpet of blossoms. In just a few more feet you come to a bridge across a small stream .

Timing the hike can be a bit tricky. Go too early, and the flowers haven't bloomed yet. Go too late and they've already wilted. The window of opportunity amounts to roughly a two-month period from the end of June to mid-to-end August. Because my friend Dana served as group leader for our Elderhostel hiking group from July 5-9 and McGurk was one of the hikes on their schedule, I knew that I needed to get my rear in gear. The available date was July 30, and I was worried I might already be too late. Although some of the species (especially the Corn Lilies) were bloomed out, the rest of the display was spectacular. Masses of Indian Paintbrushes turned parts of the meadow into a crimson carpet. Lupine and Penstemon and Cone Flowers added their splashes of purple and yellow.

One of the interesting facts about this trail is that its terrain, along with its flora, changes constantly. In the meadowlands, bathed in sunlight, Indian Paintbrush abound. In the dryer, open areas ground-hugging plants like Pussy Paws show off their finery.

As you approach the two-mile marker, where the trail approaches a crossing of Bridalveil Creek, the flora changes again. Now you find waist-and shoulder-high displays of Fireweed, Larkspur, Arrowleaf Groundsel, Blue Monkshood interspersed with specimens of Crimson Columbine. (The Columbine were mostly done for the season by July 30, so the photos I took don't represent the best of the species, unfortunately.) Here and there a Sierra Lily could be seen. In all the times I've walked this route, I've never seen the number of Blue Monkshood in bloom this year. That's the beauty of this trail--it's never the same twice.

Remember that I told you the trail was downhill in the beginning? Guess what? That means the trail is UPHILL on the way back. That's really the only part of this trek that proves to be any sort of challenge. Although it's a mile from the meadow back to the trailhead at Glacier Point Road, really only half of that is a bit of a slog.

Take plenty of water, snacks, a hat and sunscreen. Parts of the trail are in open sun and even the shady parts will be hot in mid-summer. You may also want insect repellant, and hiking poles make the walk out a bit more bearable. Those who are not packing around a few extra pounds and who hike with some regularity will not find this difficult at all.

After you're done, the drive to Glacier Point only takes 15 to 20 minutes and gives you yet another perspective on the expansive vistas that comprise Yosemite National Park.

Bread feeds the body, indeed, but flowers feed also the soul.  ~The Qur'an 

Sleep Is Highly Overrated

Since I semi-retired, I've discovered that my most productive, or at least active, times are early morning (5 am to 7 am) and, gulp, 11 pm to . . . whenever I can persuade my eyes to close. All too often that ends up being 2 or 3 in the morning.

This habit can be quite disconcerting to those with whom I live or travel since it tends to go against the well-established time-table of most households. I'll also be the first to admit that I tend to not be the quietest person in the world.

This isn't healthy, and I'm really looking for a way to change this modus operandi, so far with no luck. Perhaps this phenomenon is related to the triple-digit temps the Central Valley and Sierra Nevada foothills have been experiencing for the past several weeks. It's difficult to slumber when you sweat.

Any suggestions out there, short of drugs or other banned substances?

Or should I just let the status quo stay and take advantage of the late-night quiet to be productive?

Consider It a Miracle!

It didn't last long, but from somewhere I got a burst of energy and actually did some cleaning around here. I washed the bathroom floor. (Sorry, Pat--it's like closing the barn door after the horse, I know.) I washed the bathroom rugs, scrubbed the kitchen floor, emptied the dishwasher, changed the bed, even attempted to vacuum the living room. (It's a chore with the two vacuums available to me.)

Scared myself, too, because I left the doors between the laundry room and the bathroom open. In most houses that wouldn't be an issue, but I have Grey Eagle, a 19.5 year-old declawed cat who can exit the pet door and get outside, whereupon he cowers in abject fear of the Great Outdoors and finds himself a place to hide for the next few hours.

The dog, of course, shakes and shivers when I shove her anywhere near the dreaded escape route. If there were ever any doubt whether dogs are smarter than cats . . . CATS RULE!

This all happened because I slept late--7:00 a.m.--and couldn't muster the wherewithall to go for my morning walk. Now that's totally ridiculous. But the good news is that the floors are clean, the rugs shampooed--all because I was too lazy to go for a walk.

A Glorious Sendoff

If ever anyone deserved—and received—a glorious sendoff, it was Louise (Grammy) Wiberg. I was privileged to be present at her memorial and in the presence of her family last weekend.

I wish I'd had more time to get to know Grammy. At 89 she left us much too soon. She had a gentle yet strong persona that enveloped all around her.

She headed a large and loving family. When my daughter, Farida, married Louise's grandson, Jason, Louise drew the rest of the Hussain family into the extended Wiberg/Wilks clan. I spent a number of Thanksgivings and Christmases with her and her husband, Harold (O'Dad). To Louise and Harold, we were never strangers. We felt completely welcomed—and loved. We were as much family as Harold and Louise's own children, Spike, Hal and Tom, and their children.

Even though Louise and Harold embraced us wholeheartedly, I'm sad I didn't get to know Grammy better. After all, I thought we had many more holidays with her. When it suddenly became clear that those years were not in the cards, it was much too late. For the memorial, Louise's son, Tom, composed a letter shared with those gathered in the sanctuary. In it, he wrote that there were only eleven days between her diagnosis and her passing. At that statement those in attendance gasped; none of us realized she'd gone so quickly.

That was not the only surprise revealed during the service. A young man—now probably in his forties—spoke eloquently about his connection with Louise. He explained how she'd taken him in when he was only 17, cared for him, counseled him, supported him, gave him employment and led him to the Lord. The surprise was not that she had done so, but that none of her grandsons had ever heard the story. She and Harold lived what they believed, but they felt no need to brag, or even talk, about their actions.

Many others came to pay their respects to Louise, so many that the church found it necessary to move the after-service reception from the smaller room originally assigned to the fellowship hall to accommodate us all. Louise was loved, and she will be remembered.

In the company of my two daughters, my son-in-law, Jason, and my grandson, I spent the day before Grammy's memorial at Spike and Bob's home. What might have become a time of tears and sorrow became an amazing example of joy and remembrance. Yes, several times tears sprang to our eyes, but there was far more laughter as the grandsons and great-grandsons splashed on the slip'n'slide.

I felt particularly blessed to spend time in conversation with O'Dad, during which he told me stories of his life with Louise and shared with me memories of the more than two years they lived in Mexico City and Querétaro, two places dear to my heart. I also found out that he'd worked for the same company as my mother, although, years apart, their paths couldn't have crossed. As we sat, a flocks of hummingbirds swooped out of pepper trees behind the house to swarm the feeders above our heads.

The family that gathered around the table that evening was bound by love as much as by blood. Four generations shared the love and light of the woman who had been wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, great-aunt and friend to all of us.

Read Louise Wiberg's Obituary in the Orange County Register.

Friends: Installment 3 - Pat

Pat and I have shared lots of good times together, from the wilds of Yosemite to the sophistication of the American Ballet Theatre and the Hollywood Bowl. She's been my friend since 1967, the day my husband and I moved into our Huntington Beach home.

As soon as he saw the activity in our driveway, Alan, our neighbor on the left, came running. He fashioned himself a good-will ambassador, eager to introduce us to the rest of Kamuela Drive. He pounced on the occasion to introduce us to the residents on our right, Jim and Pat. Jim was career Navy and overseas much of the time. My husband was also often away, so Pat and I forged a friendship. Over the years both of us have done our share of moving around. I eventually ended up in the Yosemite area, while Pat now lives on Brookhurst, at the end of Kamuela Drive, just two blocks from where we first met.

When I moved to Huntington Beach, I was seven months pregnant with Farida, so Pat has known both of my children before their birth, and I've known hers. Her Kirk arrived nine months after Farida, and Carisa came along a year after Nasreen. They grew up together and, in a sense, so did Pat and I, as it became clear that our marriages were not destined to survive. We provided sounding boards for each other (much to the displeasure of our respective spouses) and moral support whenever needed.

Back in the days when women coaches were a rarity, Pat and I—along with our friend, Kathy—coached an AYSO girls' soccer team. Much to the chagrin and obvious displeasure of the men coaches in our division, our Mini Green Giants won the championship by a hair in the last 5 minutes of the game. To this day, we swear our success that season was due mainly to the talented girls on the team—including Carisa and Nasreen. But matching hair ribbons, cheerleading from the sidelines and our emphasis on positive teamwork helped, too. Those afternoon planning sessions floating in Pat's pool accompanied by lemonade spiked with vodka didn't hurt, either. Although my girls gave up soccer long ago, Carisa still plays and continues to be a mainstay of her adult team.

Pat and I were among the only working women in our neighborhood, and both of us held down full-time jobs while raising our families, a further bond between us.

She's far more cultured than I with musical tastes ranging from opera to classical to classic rock and a lot in between. I confess (sorry, JK) that I've never been able to develop a feel for the operatic, although I appreciate the other genres.

Pat discovered the availability of a Hollywood Bowl biweekly subscription, and for nearly ten years we spent every other Friday summer evening sipping wine, nibbling grapes and sampling cheese as we listened to a variety of musical treats. Our favorite, hands-down, was the annual Tchaikovsky Spectacular complete with the 1812 Overture, cannons, fireworks and the USC Trojan marching band.

We held the same Bowl seats each season and looked forward to seeing who else would return to the surrounding seats. Life got even easier as we discovered the convenience of Park-n-Ride to and from the Bowl. There were a number of evenings when we needed that buffer between the wine and the drive home.

Attempts to instill our love of fine music in our children failed as they resisted the urge to indulge in our version of cultural refinement. They considered our one mutual Hollywood Bowl episode akin to waterboarding.

Another contribution Pat made to our cultural awareness was an annual subscription to the American Ballet Theatre at the Shrine Auditorium. The ABT was in its prime in those years with superstars like Barishnikov and Bissett. Gelsey Kirkland's stellar performance in Swan Lake was a memory to last a lifetime. We managed to drag our daughters to The Nutcracker, and they claimed to enjoy it.

One of the more “esoteric” musical events Pat and I shared with our children was a Bee Gees concert at Dodger Stadium. Farida, Nas, Kirk and Carisa were less than enthusiastic, but we got them to agree to go. Although to this day they'd probably deny it, once the show started, all of them seemed to enjoy the talents of the Brothers Gibb.

At Pat's urging we both participated in a past-life regression. It was billed as an experiment conducted through the California School of Professional Psychology, which friends of ours attended. I didn't buy into the experience, especially when the hypnotist

I had the pleasure of introducing Pat to one of my favorite musicians: Elton John. She knew little about him when I coerced her to attend a concert at the Universal Amphitheater. That was in one of Elton's quieter phases (no feathers or platform shoes for this performance); just Elton on piano and Ray Cooper on percussion.

who conducted the session claimed to have contacted my father. His death, when I was 21, had haunted my memories. For many years each time I'd hear the song “Leader of the Band” by Dan Fogelberg I'd burst into tears because it would remind me of my dad. The hypnotist ordered my dad to leave my aura and continue his own journey. Despite my misgivings, following that past-life experience, I've never since been bothered by that song.

When I moved to Bass Lake, our friendship continued to flourish, although we didn't see each other as often. Pat would drive up for the weekend, and we'd take off to explore Yosemite. Many's the day we'd drive to the valley, park at Curry Village and walk all over the valley floor. We'd always end up at the Ahwahnee Hotel, where we'd park ourselves on the patio with an Irish Coffee or a Chip Shot or two. That tradition continues today and has been passed on to other friends and family through the years. She may not remember with such fondness the day I convinced her to hike the western loop of Yosemite Valley. She swore to me she could do the six-mile trail, but her knees—none too sturdy over many years—gave out on her as we rounded the bend where John Muir met with Teddy Roosevelt. I left her in the meadow while I hoofed it back to our car, parked by the Yosemite Chapel. When I came around to pick her up, I discovered she'd endured a brief shower. while a number of park visitors stopped to admire a black bear who shared the meadow with her. I don't remember her ever thanking me for that adventure.

With Pat I explored Tioga Road for the first time and discovered the most glorious parts of Yosemite. We'd take off early in the morning, drive to White Wolf, walk around there a bit and then continue on through the high country to Olmstead Point, Tuolumne Meadows and Dana Meadows. Together we marveled at the Sierra splendor displayed before us. Pat has photos where's she's venturing ankle-deep into the last snows of the season at the foot of Mt Dana. We recently reprised that episode on our way from my house in Coarsegold to Pat's condo in Lake Tahoe. We stopped at the same spot, where Pat waded into the snow-melt of the Tuolumne River.

We decided to take “the back way” home from Tahoe through Monitor Pass and eventually on through the 22 per cent grade of Sonora Pass, through some of the most beautiful mountains I've seen in California.

Though Pat and I have remained friends, our kids have gone their separate ways. They haven't seen each other since Carisa's wedding nearly 20 years ago. Kirk survived a stint in the Marine Corps and has moved all over the country as a result of his job with American Equipment. Carisa remains rooted in Orange County.

Pat's sense of adventure continues as she approaches her 70^th decade, she's about to embark on the journey of a lifetime. Next June she expects to find herself en route to a French-speaking country in sub-Saharan Africa as a Peace Corps volunteer. She figures that as she winds down her career in Orange County, her vast computer and teaching experience will stand her in good stead as she assists third-world women strive to reach their entrepreneurial potential.

It's an incredibly brave undertaking to leave your home and family traveling halfway around the world to serve others in conditions less than ideal. I can't begin to tell you how much I admire and applaud you, my courageous friend.

The Rumors of My Demise . . .

As Mark Twain said, "The rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated."

It's clear that Facebook is a powerful social networking tool when you can go there and learn that at least some part of your world thinks you're dead.

In one of my first blogs I wrote that I have no friends left from before my college years. That statement has to be amended now . . . and the friend who surfaced last week on Facebook informed me that at my 50th high school reunion I was listed on the "In memory of . . ." page.

Facebook is not one of those sites I spend a lot of time perusing, but every so often I decide to see if I can find anyone from my distant past pre-LA State. That past includes probably 2 people who I would remember and who would remember me.

My parents--allegedly for my own good--yanked me out of my country high school in Vista after my sophomore year and threw me, kicking and screaming, into big-city San Gabriel High School. Let me state here and now that removing a teenager from the safety of the world she's known since she was three years old constitutes cruel-and-unusual punishment. It ruined what was left of my high school years. My junior year I wandered aimlessly, trying to figure out where and how I fit into a society totally foreign to me. My grades suffered along with my psyche. I can't tell you the number of times I wanted to bolt and run. Things turned around--somewhat--in my senior year, and I made a couple of good friends.

I lost touch with those friends almost immediately after leaving high school, although I've thought about them often over the years. I've even searched for them from time to time, but I'd given up any hope of locating them.

Of course I could have possibly caught up with them had I considered finding out about my high school reunions. But I couldn't face that. The memories from Vista were too nostalgic and those from San Gabriel too traumatic. No wonder San Gabriel High School believed I'd moved on to the Great Beyond. No one there had heard from me since the day I'd walked out of the school doors.

Betty Willhoft Johnson was one of those few friends who made my San Gabriel High days bearable, and the last time I ever saw or heard from her was when I served as a bridesmaid in her wedding, shortly after graduation. When she popped up on Facebook last week, it was totally unexpected--and a gift from the past.