Roots

California is the third largest state in the United States, losing out only to Alaska and Texas. I thought that perhaps it was the longest state, but Alaska is a clear winner in that department as well. But we are the most populous state, dammit... but that's not my point. My point here, is that yesterday I spent the day driving across a good sized chunk of the state to pick up a piece of art in the Los Angeles area, and then returned home that same evening. My friends said I was mad for doing this, but the item was simply way too expensive to ship and my time is apparently worth much less to me than my money. Plus they say you have to suffer for art, and even though the saying is only supposed to apply to the artist, I think I will appreciate this painting a heck of a lot more now that I've invested so much time in it. The total driving time was just under twelve hours, and it gave me a lot of time to reflect on the land that I was raised in and subsequently fled - this Los Angeles.

I was born in Sacramento, not L.A., and was raised in a loving household by responsible parents. My most coherent memories are of living in a freshly built suburban neighborhood on the edge of town. I had neighbor kid friends, I learned to ride a bike, I played my Atari 2600 until my eyeballs burned... everything was very typical for a kid my age in Sacramento. When we moved to Los Angeles, the main thing I remember is that it was to further my father's musical career. It wasn't that magical draw that took us there - it was simply a business decision. And yet... artists of all make and model move to LA to get discovered, so perhaps there was a spark of that magic to pull us along. From my nine year old perspective, though, I didn't see it.

Starting school, I found that my "typical" Sacramento life was fairly lacking in this new paradigm. Making friends in LA was a lot more difficult, since even at that age kids were more fashion conscious than I knew how to be, more image-oriented. I was just some hick kid from hicksville, and I got written off as such during my first week. Perhaps that first impression went both ways, and some small part of me always felt like they were all stuck up bastards for judging me. I largely withdrew from the social "scene", and most of the friends I *was* able to cultivate, were outsiders in some form or other like myself, even though many of them later outgrew it. As I, myself, grew older I slowly came to realize that I really didn't like my life in Los Angeles. I was bored and depressed - something was missing... something I couldn't put my finger on. With few alternatives, I made do with what I was given and I learned to live in LA, and did my best to thrive in that self centered atmosphere. But by the time I was 20 I was desperately looking for an escape. That elusive something that was missing... it called loudly to me. I needed to find out what it was.

What I didn't know then is crystal clear to me today - the differences between LA County and Santa Cruz County are as obvious as a full moon. Halfway through my drive yesterday, I was on the 405 freeway heading North out of the San Fernando Valley, when I was passed by a large pickup truck. It was one of those overpowered monsters that is basically a souped up SUV. It had oversized almost-monster-truck tires (mebbe 3-4 feet in diameter), huge flames painted all up the sides, a tricked out interior, and a California license plate that said GAXI[heart]LA. As I stared bemusedly at this behemoth sin against my sensibilities, I realized that it was actually a perfect example of someone completely in tune with the city. Los Angeles is all about "self". Self-improvement, self-gratification, self-nurturing. I don't think this is necessarily bad (Gaxi is obviously having a grand time of it), but it does enable a lot of the bad behavior that Los Angeles is known for. The snobbery, the freeway shootings, the fashion, the '80s, ... Hollywood. Most of the populace in LA simply put themselves first above everything and everybody else, and then they also put themselves second... sometimes even third.

I have to appreciate people like Gaxi and his/her Supertruck - the LA environment suits some folks to a tee, and like it or not, I have to give these people respect for successfully living that lifestyle. It takes a lot more effort than it looks like. But I find it interesting that most of my friends - people who were compatible with my personality - have left Los Angeles at this point, or seem to be planning to. And since many of my friends had that same missing sensation that I did, that same boredom, the exodus makes a certain amount of sense from my perspective.

So how did I find my missing piece of the puzzle? I discovered it by accident, here in Central California. It was nothing more than a friendly spirit - a spirit infused firmly into the land and the people. It's a welcoming vibe that says "Come in and have a seat, can I get you anything?" It was a shock, and a relief, to my system. After vacationing a week in Santa Cruz, Staci and I were so taken with the beauty of the forests and beaches, the central location to other cities and places, and the overwhelming friendliness of everyone we met, that we moved here as fast as we could. And I doubt I'll ever leave the area, whether I stay in Boulder Creek or not. Santa Cruz is truly a paradise to me. But it's not a vibe that fits well on everyone - in fact, I think some people find it severely smothering. A friend once told me, "There are too many trees here! I can't wait to get back to LA." My eyes almost fell out of my head! But one must respect the feelings of others, so I grinned and nodded sagely. Looking back on that comment, I honestly think it was the vibe, and not the trees, that was really causing her distress. She was so acclimatized to the LA city vibe, that the calm, homey atmosphere of Santa Cruz was making her claustrophobic. I think that the Los Angeles and Santa Cruz regions must be like oil and water, separating out the people in much the same way. Lands of extremes.

I left L.A. last night with a relief. Having been away from that city for so many years makes even the driving style of the cars around me feel aggressive and oppressive. I've clearly made my choice - in my heart I am a city boy... no longer.

Animal Kingdom

Squirrels have a lot of personality. Do not mistake them for vacuous rodents like bunnies or guinea pigs (don't get mad, bunny and guinea pig owners! I don't understand fish either, so maybe the problem is mine). The problem with heavily personality-laden creatures, is that they seldom remain content with their lot. And the squirrels in Boulder Creek are some of the most discontented squirrels I've ever met.

The picture on the left is taken from our living room window - that particular squirrel is deeply offended at whoever built a house right next to its special tree, and it has begun chittering territorially at the photographer (Staci, in both cases here). Staci has clearly invaded upon its sacred lands and if she doesn't get lost, the squirrel will have to resort to something drastic... like... something! The picture on the right is just one of the furry little demons taking a pause in its scampering to survey its demesne. It wants to make sure that no one else (squirrel or otherwise) is having a go at its potential food sources.

The squirrels here are aggressive and loud, and regardless of whether or not they decide to claw out your eyes they will give you the impression that they are ready, willing, and able. Not too long ago, I wandered into my own backyard and had the audacity to inadvertently startle one that was sitting on the fence. It stared me down instead of scampering off, and started nervously making chit-chit-squee-squee noises at me to indicate that it was dead serious. I weighed my options at this point, and decided that the squirrel was more than capable of leaping onto my face from where it stood posturing and waving it's tail angrily. It was obviously trying to decide whether to spring forward and defend... it's fence sitting spot..., or leap backward onto the tree and flee. Not knowing at the time that squirrel's are masters of the fake-out, I thought I'd better make its decision a lot easier, so I backed slowly away.

I know now that if I had lunged forward, the squirrel would have most likely high-tailed it right out of the yard. But have you ever seen a squirrel's claws up close? They are designed for biting deeply into any wooden or stony substance. Why tempt fate with my bare flesh? It's not like I need to eat the squirrel to survive or anything... I have a turkey sandwich in the fridge that will do just fine. Let the squirrel think it's the master, for now. Later on, mebbe I'll catch one unawares with the pressurized hose. That'll show 'em!

And so the squirrels and the humans live in relative harmony, just so long as the squirrels get free run of the place, and the humans get to occasionally scare the bejeezus out of them for entertainment value.

Heat Wave

All I can say is that I purchased a portable air conditioner shortly before summer began this year, and today it has paid for itself a thousand times over.

Boulder Creek is typically at least 10 degrees hotter than Santa Cruz in the Summer. I can only attribute this to the the fact that the heat sits on the land the way pudding sits in a bowl - it has nowhere to go. Also, Santa Cruz gets a daily afternoon ocean breeze that blows their pudding away... into Boulder Creek I suspect. Meanwhile, Boulder Creek's afternoons just get even hotter.

Our little house is blessed with a large opening in the canopy of trees. This is normally a very good thing, since the mold will eat you and all your belongings if you don't get at least 4 hours of sun a day in the woods. However, in the summertime this opening allows the sun to beat solidly down upon our roof from about 9:30am - 11:30am and again from about 1pm - 5pm. The first 3-4 of these hours is typically all it takes to bring the temperature of our living room to 10+ degrees hotter than outside, thanks to our lack of decent insulation. And because of our lack of nice ocean breeze, opening the windows doesn't really help. Opening the windows at night only invites 17 billion insects into the house, since we have no window screens (thanks to the type of windows we have). We tried last year to put up with the bugs... it wasn't worth it... oh god it wasn't worth it.

Which brings me to the air conditioner. Remembering our discomfort from last year, and discovering that getting customized window screens is not a cheap and affordable option, I was pleased to discover that for a comparatively cheap price we could own a nice air conditioner that could be rolled from room to room, as needed. After researching some models, I found one on Craigslist for almost half price - even better! The reality of the portable air conditioner is that it generates more heat than cool air, so unless you can get that heat out of the house effectively, it is a piece of crap. This is why so many people complain that the units don't work. They *do* work, just not as well as their windowed counterparts. Anyways, after a few false starts (including accidentally leaving the exhaust hose unattached while relatives were visiting... ugh), I got it to the point that it helped pretty significantly to keep the heat at bay.

Which brings me to today. The worst heat California has had in ... years? Dozens of people have dropped dead. Power has gone out in many areas from over-consumption (nearby San Jose is currently suffering from this- people are sleeping in their back yards), but thankfully ours has held steady. Staci and I pulled the air conditioner into the bedroom (the most insulated room in the house), closed up the doors, and powered it up. By midafternoon, the temperature in the living room hit 112 degrees!! Poking my head out to grab some lunch was like stepping into a kiln. Unbelievable!! But here in the bedroom, the temperature is a "cool" 85 degrees. Downright balmy, thanks to my new best friend the portable air conditioner.

We loves it, precioussss.

Alien Visitation

This very interesting creature clambered out of the bushes this afternoon as I was attempting to dig up a corner of the yard. It wriggled and moved like a worm, but as the picture clearly shows. it had none of the typical features of a worm. For one thing, it had arms and legs, and for another it had scales and eyes and nasal holes. And yet it was like no lizard I have ever seen. It was about 2-3 inches long, slimy, and quite energetic. Perhaps it was a salamander?

After several minutes of stressing it out by putting it into a bowl and taking pictures of it, Staci and I released it back into the wild. As it wriggled away, it left it's tail the same way that lizards sometimes do. If you have any ideas as to what it is, please feel free to post your thoughts.

First Snow

Snow is a rarity in California. People living in towns like Big Bear or Arrowhead will read that sentence and then send me hate mail, but it's true! Er... with the exception of the Sierra Mountains and a few other communities (there, happy?). California, on the whole, is not usually subject to snow. So when the meteorologist predicts snow for the Santa Cruz Mountains, one greets such news with a certain degree of skepticism. Early this morning, however, the Arctic air that was sucked into our low pressure zone from Alaska supercooled the clouds above Boulder Creek, turning our (apparently ENDLESS) rain into a fresh blanket of the genuine article!

Staci's parents were visiting us for a few days, and it was her father who first noticed that our skylights were covered in white. We threw on coats and scampered outside taking a million pictures like the bunch of Southern Californian fools that we all are. We opened our mouths to catch snowflakes and even engaged in a snowball fight (half of which is pictured below - turns out we were both terrible shots). We continued this silly behavior until the fact that we were all wearing pajamas with coats on over them sort of started sinking into our bones, and then we quickly re-entered the house to fix hot cocoa and huddle by the wood burning stove.

Curious about just how low the snow came, we went online to Google Earth to figure out exactly what elevation I live at. It was here that we made a truly shocking discovery. I live less than 500 feet above sea level.

... eh? I looked again. It was still true.

This hardly seems possible. I live on top of a MOUNTAIN, in the FOREST. It's freaking COLD in the winter and boiling HOT in the summer. We just got snowed on for heaven's sake... it can't be true. I can't possibly live closer to the ocean than the top of the Golden Gate Bridge... it makes no sense. I could go on and on and on about how flabbergasting this was, but I will spare you.

Oh well, having the snow was seriously cool - our neighbors have informed us that it snows here approximately every other year, so Staci's parents lucked out on the timing. The best part about it? It was completely melted after about four hours. (Sorry Big Bearians and Arrowheadites.)

Road Trip

California State Route 9 is a two lane windy mountain road, and much what you'd expect from a route that was cobbled together from countless little roads built over the years - some dating back to the 1890's. Residents of the county call it "Highway Nine" or just "the Nine", and as it winds up through the San Lorenzo Valley towards the summit, it unites a handful of villages and towns into a single cohesive community that is surprisingly self-sufficient.

There are only a few ways to get to our home here in the mountains, and almost all of them are Highway 9. In fact, I think it's safe to say that if you want to travel by land, and you're not too big on hiking, the Nine must be navigated to some extent in order to get to here. Being relatively near to the summit, I have the unique ability to turn either left, or right on the Nine, and hit reasonable levels of civilization in about the same timeframe... 35 minutes. I point this out because it's important to my story - I drive on the Nine every day. Every time I need to go somewhere... anywhere... except maybe the corner store. And who can pay that much for milk? Admittedly I've had my lazy days... but I digress. Thirty-five minutes a day on the Nine means I'm fairly familiar with it at this point.

Now let me shift gears away from the Nine for a moment, so that I may make note of another important factor to my story. Boulder Creek is cold in the winter. Cold and wet. Bitterly cold - particularly at night. And the wet, did I forget to mention it? It rains more in Boulder Creek each year than anywhere else in the bay area (at least that's what a friend told me, and I believe it!). Since our little house lacks a certain degree of insulation, we set a fire in the wood burning stove nearly every evening to keep the freezing temperatures at bay. It's the most effective heater we have.

On a night a few days ago, the outside temperatures were in the low 30s, so we got a fire going and let it burn through the night. In the morning, I checked the coals to make sure they weren't too hot before I left for work, and discovered that they were, in fact. So, I tossed a bit of water on them on my way out the door, and headed off to work thinking nothing more of it.

A few hours later, Staci called me in a panic. The house was full of smoke! The first thing I thought, was that I had forgotten to close the door of the wood burning stove. I had her check it, but it was closed, and she told me that the smoke seemed to be everywhere and coming from nowhere, and it was thick like a fog inside the house.

Here is what I should have said: "Call the fire department."

Or alternately I could have suggested: "Go to the neighbors, I'm calling the fire department."

Instead, I made this brilliant offer: "Open the front door to let the smoke out, and stay in the bedroom where the air is better - I'll be right there!"

If only my stupidity had ended there...

I leapt into my car and roared down the freeway. I roared onto the Nine, and I zoomed up the two-lane, 100+ year old winding mountain road with all possible speed. You may know where this is heading... you might have predicted by my choice of words how this story ends... I'll cinch your suspicions by taking this moment to mention that it had started raining about 30 minutes before I received Staci's phone call 'o' doom.

While speeding up a nice enticing straightaway about halfway up the mountain, I told myself to slow down before I got to the curve ahead. Unfortunately, I waited a little too long before applying the brakes (not taking my bald tires or the rain into account). It was a fascinating sensation to feel my front wheels lose all traction while I turned the steering wheel all the way to the left and pressed down on the brake pedal with all my bodily strength and then repeatedly in a pumping motion but all to no avail. There was a moment where I felt that heat of shame that crawls down your back when a police cruiser flashes their lights in your rearview and you know you are busted. At that same moment I felt the pit of my stomach drop out the same way it does on a roller coaster. And all the while time slowed to a crawl even as it moved at normal speed- like I was in two places at once. I watched the edge of the road coming closer and closer as each millisecond clicked by. I stared forever at the treeline, then I stared for a while at the hill I was about to careen down, then I slowly braced for impact, thinking to myself very matter-of-factly, "Here We Go!"

I went off the edge of the pavement probably going about 40-45 mph. Somehow I missed every tree, although the trunk of an ancient berry bush took off my right side mirror. Another 6 inches would have landed my front bumper squarely into that trunk, and I think that would have been Bad. As the momentum of my car took out everything berry-related to the left of that trunk, the impact was like 30 guys simultaneously throwing wet kindling onto my windshield as hard as they could. Then it was over. I clambered out of my car after determining that I was not hurt, and surveyed the scene. The rain soaked hillside saved both the vehicle and me from serious injury, as the weight of my car pushed me deep into the mud and kept me from continuing down the mountainside, across the yard and into the living room of the nice people whose berry bush I had just put a car-sized hole through. I called Staci on my cell phone to let her know what had happened, and *finally* suggested that she call the fire department if the smoke got any worse. A tow truck was on the scene within 3 minutes - before I'd even had a chance to call the CHP. Miraculously, the car only suffered a blown tire, some front end damage, and a severe case of berry-bush-in-the-undercarriage. The nice people who lived behind the berry bush informed me that the berry bush belonged to the county if it belonged to anyone, and therefore was of no concern to them. They took down my information anyways, in case I'd killed the water main like the last person who had crashed in the spot I landed in. A couple months ago. Apparently that curve is something of a problem.

Never having forgotten about the possibility that my house was on fire and that my disabled wife might be in mortal peril (but never mind contacting emergency services of any sort!!), I leapt into what was left of my car, and frantically drove an extremely reasonable speed to my house. After a quick survey of the wood burning stove that involved me touching areas that, if there had been a fire, would have severely burned me, I determined that the house wasn't burning down. Probably. Further inspection revealed that a seam in our chimney pipe had ruptured or something, and the severe smoke was the result of my throwing water onto the coals at the very same time that the seam had decided to give. After setting up some fans to blow the smoke out, and removing the offending coals, I... drove... back... to... work. My reason for returning to work was a genuine worry that if I stopped my car for any length of time, it might not restart again. Cars have a nasty habit of malfunctioning after you drive them off a mountain, you see? So I drove back to work, made arrangements to have my car towed to a shop, and picked up a rental car - a Dodge Neon (hateful little car).

What have I learned from all of this? For one: always drive carefully in the rain. For another: obey posted traffic speeds, especially in adverse conditions. And if you suspect that your house is on fire, for heaven's sake, don't screw around. Call the fire department, that's what they are for. I've officially earned the ultimo imbecile award for the month. And I was damned lucky too. If I'd gone off of any other curve on the Nine, I'd be at the bottom of a 500 foot ravine or halfway through a tree. Or both. I'm just grateful that I walked away from this in one piece.

Incidentally, Dodge Neons suck. They encompass everything you hate about American cars, cleverly combined with everything you hate about Japanese cars. I wish I'd driven this thing off the road instead. *sigh*