Canadian Algonquin

Algonquin

June 20, 2001

“Can you advise us on where we can best find warblers?” we asked the smiling, young thing behind the counter of the Algonquin Provincial Park Visitor’s Center in Ontario, Canada.  

“Yes, just a moment and I’ll call Ron.  He’s our expert.”

Ron Tozer soon appeared and announced his presence in a loud voice.  “Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yes, we are looking for some of the warblers that breed here, such as Canada, Magnolia, Connecticut, Bay Breasted, Cape May, Chestnut Sided, American Redstart and Tennessee.  Can you advise us on the best birding sites?”

Ron whipped out a map of the park and circled promising sites.  “But you should know,” he warned,  “warblers are very difficult to see in these thick north woods.  It would be best if you can identify them by ear.”

“O.K.” I replied.  (We have a CD of bird songs that can be played on the computer.  Consequently, I thought we could review the warbler songs before trying to find them in the woods.)  “Thanks for your help.”

“Oh yes,” he added.  “You should also read this pamphlet and purchase a copy of the bird checklist.  I wrote them both and you will find them very useful.”

We purchased the checklist, read the pamplet and listened to the Bird Song CD.  Unfortunately, only a couple of the local warblers were on the CD.  But, not to worry, our bird books illustrate the warbler songs as mnemonics.  For example, the yellow warbler says, “sweet sweet little more sweet,” and the ovenbird says, “teacher teacher teacher.”  OK, we were now all set.  When Pat heard  “teacher teacher teacher,” we knew to look for the ovenbird – and sure enough, there it was about eye level in the heavy forest.  But then she heard one that said, “sweet sweet sweet seesaWEETchew.” very much like the sound of the yellow warbler.  What to do!

We were walking the Bog Trail – one of the better birding spots in the park.  The bird song was coming from high up in a group of pine, birch and spruce trees.  We walked back and forth along the trail on one side of the trees for maybe 15 minutes.  The bird was invisible to us but continued to sing “sweet sweet . . . .”  On the sides of this group of trees were more trees and some heavy underbrush.  We were not to be denied.  On the far side of the trees was an open bog.  “If I could just make it to the bog,” I reckoned, “maybe I could see this elusive bird.”  As quietly as possible (to avoid scaring the warbler) I clawed my way through the dense Alder shrubs to the bog.  The squishy sound of my boots on the soft, wet moss of the bog, alerted me to the fact that this might not be so easy.  Before taking a second step onto the bog, Pat announced that the warbler had flown away.  It suddenly entered my mind that maybe Pat had deceived me.  Maybe there was no bird there at all.  After all, I am totally deaf in the pitches that warblers normally use, so I am totally dependent on Pat for hearing the little critters.  She could claim that she was hearing a warbler when there was none there and I would never know the difference.  Could she just be playing games with me?

But why, why, why would she stand in this dark place with hoards of mosquitoes and black flies constantly sampling our insect repellent looking for an uncovered spot of skin, just to play a joke on me.  Didn’t make sense.

A short distance down the trail, we learned more about this bog that caused us some degree of consternation.  About 11,000 years ago, a retreating glacier left behind a big block of ice that was covered by sand and gravel.  As the planet warmed, these ice blocks finally melted, leaving deep holes filled with water called kettles.  Over time, a thick mat of moss grew over the surface.  This floating mat is thick enough to support small Black Spruce trees, but also has some thin and weak spots.  If, by chance, I had stepped onto one of those weak spots while looking for our warbler, my body might have ended up in the deep water below the bog mat.  Some future archeologist might have found my well-preserved body, with binoculars still strapped around my neck, in the acidic, oxygen-poor peat about 18 feet below the bog surface. 

Continuing our search for warblers, we soon realized that mnemonics were helpful in providing the rhythm or cadence of the bird song, but did little to explain the pitch or inflections of the song.  Therefore, the only way we could learn the songs was to observe the bird while it was singing and then learn its mnemonic as an aid to our memory.  Using this approach enabled us to tentatively learn the songs of eight different warblers.  And, oh yes, the bird that sang “sweet sweet sweet seesaWEETchew” was a Chestnut Sided Warbler.  We even added the Magnolia Warbler and the Yellow-bellied Flycatcher to our life list.  

Our visit to this, the oldest of Canada’s parks, had been a great success.   The huge moose we had seen up close and personal decided to let us live a while longer, the mosquitoes and blackflies left us just enough blood to make it back home, we did not drown in the bog and we got to see some neat warblers.  What more could we expect of a first-rate park covered with lakes, forests, wildlife and canoe trails in the north woods? 

 

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California and Monterrey

Monterrey California

January 22, 1996

Wish you were all here (to coin a phrase).  Just watched the sun set over Monterey Bay.  Here at the Seacliff State Beach Park, our motorhome is parked just above high tide but we have complete hookups (water, electricity, and sewage).  It may be the best RV State beach park in California.  Because Santa Cruz juts out into the bay, it provides some protection to Sea cliff beaches from the storms.  The surf here is relatively mild compared to many coastal areas.  We can hear a constant roar of the surf but we are not covered with salt spray.  From our window we can see across the bay to Monterey and in the near foreground lies a sunken cement ship now occupied by harbor seals and assorted seagulls and cormorants.  Just offshore, the surf scooters (birds) appear to be trying to commit suicide in the surf.  They are very distinctive - generally black but with a round white spot in the back of their heads.  They appear to be frolicking in the surf, diving before each wave breaks over them, then appearing on the other side of the wave.

We spent the last couple of weeks in the San Francisco Bay area.  Our son Brian was visiting from Hawaii so we had a good visit.  He is such a nice and interesting guy that we really enjoy our visits.  He enjoys living and working in Hawaii but it certainly complicates the interactions with business colleagues in Mountain View.  The highlight of our activities in the San Francisco area was a trip to Point Reyes National Seashore.  From the lighthouse on the furthest point, we saw several California Grey whales and many spouts of whales.  Several large elephant seals could also be seen sunning on the beach.  We also spent considerable time watching the shorebirds and ducks in the bay area.  The bay area has some very nice local parks with trails for hiking, biking, watching wildlife and running. 

We spent Christmas at our son Jimmy's.  The grandkids are growing up so fast.  Our kids got us tickets for "Les Miserables" and we enjoyed the show.  However, after reading Victor Hugo's masterpiece, I was somewhat disappointed by the show.  The book moved me much more than the show.  While reading the book, I thought that Hugo told the story in greater detail than was necessary.  However, in retrospect, the detail does a good job of preparing for the points he makes and the stage production cannot cover the detail.  However, I can easily recommend either version. 

I can also recommend the Monterey Bay Aquarium.  I'm sure that many of you have visited the Aquarium, but this was our first visit.  We spent over 6 hours watching sea otters both in the aquarium and outside in the bay.  The different habitat presentations including the kelp beds, deep sea, shore, estuary, etc. and their flora and fauna were all fascinating.

Today we biked the 17-mile loop on the Monterey Peninsula, loafed in Carmel, and toured the Big Sur.  Saw lots of harbor seals and sea lions.  We dined tonight on fresh, steamed artichoke that we picked up at a local roadside vegetable stand.  Ummm, delicious.  Pat admitted that though she had always thought that Californians were a little crazy to live in this land of earthquakes, it might not be too bad to live here when we can no longer drive motorhomes.  I think it is far too soon to make such decisions.  There are plenty of beautiful places in this world left to see and my feet itch.  

Guess many of you have heard that I have sludge in my veins.  My doc found a whole bunch of platelets that make my blood thick and increase the risk of stroke or internal bleeding.  My hematologist recommended that I start chemotherapy to reduce the number of platelets.  He wanted to start treatments with hydroxyurea.  Rather than start treatments, I decided to research the problem.  Some of the latest hematology books and recent research papers suggest that hydroxyurea might do more harm than good.  This chemical is mutagenic and has been implicated in causing leukemia after years of use.  Likely, initiating therapy will mean that I would continue treatments the remainder of my life to maintain platelet levels at an acceptable level.  Recent research indicates that patients with high platelet counts live just as long as a control group with normal platelets unless there have been previous symptoms of stroke or bleeding.  Because I have had no symptoms of stroke or bleeding, I have decided to do nothing for now. This decision made my hematologist mad as hell, but that is his problem.   If I have some symptoms in the future that do not kill me outright, I will start treatments.  Otherwise, I continue to run, hike, bike, lift weights and maintain an active lifestyle.  I will continue to monitor my platelet count - it has gone down somewhat in the recent tests so I am cautiously optimistic that my system will cure itself.  Sorry for all the detail, but thought many of you would like to know.  Other than having the flu this winter and assorted minor pains, I feel good but no longer think that my goal of living to be 110 is realistic - maybe 98???

Dorothy, sorry to hear about your asthma.  Hope you enjoy Spain.  Bruce, I hope that selling the cows was not too traumatic.  Fanny, I hope that all that back and heart stuff has been fixed by now.  Ruth - will call to set up a visit.  Will return to Texas sometime between February and April.  John & Fanny, we will visit the Valley sometime in the next couple of months - will holler.  Peggy, if you are still in the Valley we will visit.  Scott, good luck with selling the house.  Crank up your motorhome and meet us in Nova Scotia in July.  We can meet in the town of Pictou (I could find no town named Sterling in Nova Scotia).  Bring along any of your kids who want to be married.  Anybody else want to come?  John, do you need someone to help you eat all those fish you catch?  Bring them to Pictou and Scott will grill them and any other vegetables to perfection.  Pete, I thought of you today when we saw several beautiful golf courses, including Pebble Beach, near Monterey.  It was a bit windy for golf but I'm sure you would enjoy the challenge.   Peggy, I hope your foot is healed by now so you and Sonny can also meet us in Pictou.

Retirement is wonderful.

 

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California Wine Snob

California Wine Snob

May 16, 1999

 I make no claims to being a connoisseur of fine wines.  But maybe I know a little bit about wine snobbery.  Please let me explain.

Paso Robles, CA puts on a wine festival May 15 and 16.  Pat and I decided to attend.  Thought maybe I could find a wine that I really enjoy that also has some snob appeal.  You know, when you mention this wine over the dinner table, your sophisticated and wine-wise guests will ooh and ahh over your selection.  This one statement will establish you as a world-class wine expert in their eyes forever.  Soon you will have more friends and admirers than you can imagine.  

Paso Robles wine country offers a choice of 26 wineries.  Could we possibly visit them all in one day?  Assuming that each winery offered ten wines to taste, then it would be necessary for us to taste and remember about 126 wines.  It would be a severe test of our taste memories.  Not knowing the reputations of any of these wineries, we haphazardly selected a few to visit.  Usually, the lawns and gardens were manicured and a small band or musical group performed outside.  The weather was especially cooperative – upper 70's and a cool breeze blowing from the ocean and over the foothills to Paso Robles.  Some wineries offered free tasting, one charged $3, another $5 and another $10.  I decided that I preferred to pay for tasting after I returned to taste a second wine at the Aciero Vineyards.  An old fellow behind the bar said, “Are you back again?  Buy, buy, buy!” Guess he thought I was taking advantage of the free wine -- which, of course, I was.  Usually with the cost of tasting, the winery included a cold wine glass with the winery logo on the side.  One logo offered that we should “Sin with zin” (Zinfandel).  Another suggested that we might enjoy “cardinal zin.”  

The obvious goal was to convince us that their distinctive and high-quality wines were worth the cost of from $8 to more than $25 a bottle.  The Bonny Doon Vineyard claimed that they were “open for tasting and knee-deep wading in the stream-of-consciousness” -- whatever that means.  Knowing that I could not handle much of the wine where the alcohol content approaches 30%, I carefully sipped each wine and threw out the remainder.  Pat quickly bored with the tasting and preferred to peruse the sales shops for next years’ Christmas presents, gourmet foods or something.  She also carefully checked me out after each visit for evidence of slurred speech or erratic driving. Guess I mostly passed her tests, but a couple of times she asked if I wanted her to drive.

Almost all the wineries offered tri-tip beef steaks, sandwiches or bar-b-que.  Unfortunately, none of the food was free.  Evidently tri-tip beef is really cool in California these days.  We ate lunch on the lawn of Aceiro Vineyards, where we enjoyed an elevated view from their hilltop location, across the vineyards and the soothing, verdant, hill country of San Luis Obispo County.  But maybe the greatest pleasure during the meal occurred when the reggae band decided to take a break for lunch.  The relative quiet from the loud, tinny sound of drums was delicious -- even as the crowd seemed to grow happier, dopier and noisier by the minute.  The larger wineries usually offered a tour of their cellars, where we could sometimes obtain a taste directly from the oak barrel of a developing wine.  

Upon emerging from the Eberle tasting room, Pat spied a small, yellow bird on a branch just outside the door.  It was a very tame Wilson’s warbler, which was acting a little odd.  It was very close to the door where wine fumes were emanating from the tasting room door.  It seemed unconcerned with the throng of reasonably sober tasters noisily passing by within a few feet.  Never having come so close to a Wilson’s warbler without disturbing it, I wondered about the possibility of warbler intoxication -- it was even singing.

Having heard a recent news report that red wines, taken in moderation, are healthy – I focused on the reds on the dry side of the spectrum.  At nearly every winery, I tried the Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and others.  Actually, I have been trying to develop a taste for these wines since I was first exposed to them in the Barrosa Valley near Sydney, Australia nearly thirty years ago.  (With our three preteen kids, I managed to irritate Pat by allowing the kids to taste the wines.)  I found the red wines palatable, but generally uninspiring to my taste buds -- which had been weaned on Lone Star Beer during my rebellious youth.  

I remember obtaining wine lectures in the all-men’s Gourmet Club of Brisbane, Australia, where frankly, I understood little of what was being said about “tastes clinging to the palate” and such.  Over the years, I have had many dinners with various Californians who were quite willing to exhibit their mastery of the subject.  I especially remember one dinner, with a group of distinguished entomologists, where we were all being subjected to an extended discourse on California wines.  Our expert (Vern Stern) ordered the wines, then explained the vintage, the grape variety that produced it, and more details, such as the fact that the wine yeast, Saccharomyces cerevisae, was added in pure form to convert the grape sugar to carbon monoxide, water and ethyl alcohol -- how the length of the fermentation period was extended to produce this drier wine that contains a higher alcohol content and fewer sugars than the fruitier wines.  He knew the exact year that his favorite California wine was produced and the soil type in which it was grown and explained that he could identify the vintage by the distinctive bouquet and taste.  He carefully swirled the wine in the glass before sniffing its bouquet with his educated nose.  Then he took a sip, rolled it around in his mouth, and finally -- after deliberating several minutes through this elaborate ritual -- proclaimed the wine fit to drink.  It was only after we had finished the wine and the discourse was ended, that Perry Adkisson (a Texas Aggie) explained that when he had excused himself from the table, prior to the beginning of the dinner, he had cornered the wine steward and persuaded him to change the wine order.  Our expert was mortified when the towel was removed from one of the empty bottles.  The label read: “Made in New York.”  I remember that Vern was completely humiliated and dejected at being fooled by the dirty little trick played on him.  He was silent for the remainder of the evening.

As a simple, country boy from south Texas, I never could completely understand the social importance of wines as evidence of sophistication, class, and couth.  I revealed the full extent of my ignorance on the subject when I was invited to dinner with the Dean of Agriculture, Harry Kunkel and a distinguished lecturer from San Francisco, who had been invited to our campus.  Kunkel was attempting to convince our guest that wines grown in west Texas were comparable to any Californian or European wines.  Feeling a little left out of the conversation, I interjected the notion that Texas cactus wines were the envy of the world.  I thought that they would understand my attempt at levity, but instead, I received only a cold stare from them both.  I remained quiet for the remainder of the dinner.  I learned that in the company of elites, one does not jest about such an important subject as wine. 

Anyway, back at Paso Robles, the wine tasting continued.  I made notes of some of the least objectionable wines for possible purchase later.  But I purchased no wine that day.  None met my uneducated standards for wine and I found no good cactus wine.  I still prefer a good house red or white wine to the more expensive ones.  I remain convinced that -- as much as anything -- wines offer an appeal to snobbery that often lies hidden below the surface in us all.  If I were given a grade for my knowledge of and interest in wines, something below a C- might be appropriate.  But maybe I can blame my ancestors.  Maybe the selection pressure for their survival was not based on their ability to tolerate the tannins in red wine.  My ancestors probably evolved to withstand and enjoy good Scotch Whiskey or warm, dark, moldy, English beer.

 

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California Tsunami

California Tsunami

 

June 12, 1998

In 1964, a tsunami tidal wave smashed ashore where our motorhome was parked, overlooking the harbor at Crescent City, CA.  If we had been there then, we would have been under about 20 feet of very turbulent water as the wave came ashore at the speed of several hundred miles per hour.  An underwater earthquake out in the Pacific Ocean near Alaska had triggered the wave.  What is now an open, city park along the waterfront was then part of a town that was partially wiped out by the wave.  Fourteen folks died.  “Not to worry” claimed our RV park manager, “we now have warning systems in place.  Once a week the alarm is sounded as a test so that folks will understand its meaning.”  If we are lucky, the warning would provide several minutes to hop in our car and travel inland far enough to escape the next wave.  Was the view of the harbor with its harbor seals, sea lions, common murres, western seagulls and Atlantic loons worth the risk of staying three days in such a place?   The odds were in our favor that another tsunami would not occur while we were there and the benefits of having ready access to Redwood National Park, the Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park, and several shoreline viewpoints which overlooked the Pacific Ocean made the risk worth taking.  Actually, I will remember that site as one of our favorites.

On a high cliff near the mouth of the Klamath River, we watched whale spouts periodically dotting the surface of the ocean far below.  Earlier in the day they were difficult to see, but in the late evening, the spray was highlighted against the setting sunlight so that we could see them over a mile away at sea.  The receptionist at the Redwood National Park Visitors Center in Crescent City was very interested in our sightings.  “We get very few reports of sightings at this time of the year” she claimed.  “However, there is a resident pod of grey whales that live year-around at the mouth of the Klamath River, so your sightings are believable.”  

The weather was either rainy (locals refer to it as liquid sunshine or "frizzle" -- made up of fog and drizzle) or high winds greeted us during our three-day stay.  The large seas, whipped up by the high winds, provided us with a greater appreciation for the hazards of living near an ocean.  Winter storms can drive waves so high that they break the upper lighthouse windows in the offshore St. George Reef Lighthouse.  Several lighthouse keepers have died while doing their job since the lighthouse was first built in 1892.  The incentive for building the lighthouse was due to the fact that a ship, the Brother Jonathon struck a rock in 1865 near the lighthouse.  Two-hundred and fifty folks died -- only 19 survived.  The lighthouse was finally abandoned in the 1970's but is now being restored as a tourist attraction.  Tourists will be ferried by helicopter to the lighthouse which has no boat landing. 

 

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California Stalking the Condor

Stalking the Condor

March 30, 1999

At about 60 mph, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a black strap waving in the wind beside the left rear-view mirror.  Then something black sailed by my closed window.  I watched it in the mirror as it hit the pavement, did a triple somersault, then a double and finally rolled to a stop near the center stripe.  Horrors!  Could it have been my binoculars?  I glanced on the floor beside the driver’s seat to see if my binoculars were in their usual place.  They were not!  Oh no!  My $800+ Swarovski 10X42 binoculars had just fallen onto the pavement at 60 mph – they would certainly be demolished.  I made a quick U-turn to see if I could salvage some of the parts before an approaching auto could crunch them into smaller pieces.  Nearing the binocular cadaver I could see that they were in only two parts.  I rapidly grabbed them both and trotted off the highway as a California car whizzed by.  One part was a rubber lens cover that was undamaged and could be easily reattached.  Amazingly, the lenses were not broken or even scratched.  Looking through the binoculars toward the Sierra Madre Mountains, I was again amazed.  The binoculars were still in perfect focus and had apparently suffered no major ill effects from the crash.  The focusing mechanism did not work as smoothly as before, but it worked.  The rubber covering on the right eyepiece was split and the metal underneath was dented and scratched.  The screw-out part of the eyepiece -- that adjusts for using eyeglasses -- was broken.  It no longer could be screwed in or out, but it could be slid in or out, so I could still use the binoculars.  It seemed inconceivable to me that such an apparently delicate instrument could fall about four feet, slam onto the pavement at 60 mph, bounce around a while and still work OK.  My respect for the craftsmanship and durability of Swarovski binoculars grew considerably.

It had been a very good day.  Pat and I had prepared for a full day of birding.  With a lunch, snacks, water, bird books, binoculars and stuff, we drove leisurely from our RV home base at Lake Casitas by Ojai, CA (north of Ventura), across the Los Padres National Forest and into the Cayuma Valley.  The hills and mountains were green due to the recent rains.  Our 4-wheel-drive Honda CRV bounced and strained slowly up the steep, gravel road through Bates Canyon till it reached what the locals call “Hurricane Deck”-- the Sierra Madre Ridge.  The road followed the ridge for about eight miles, providing some spectacular views to both the north and south.  On particularly clear days it is possible to see both the Pacific Ocean and the Sierra Nevada Mountains from this ridge.  On the day we were there, the sky was clear, the warming sun moderated the chilly mountain air, but the air was too humid for us to see the ocean.  However, using binoculars, we could faintly see the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada far across the San Joaquin Valley.

Condor Country

 

Finally, we reached McPherson Peak, which provided a view of Lion Canyon where releases of California Condors are routinely made.  As you may remember, in 1986 all 27 remaining condors in the wild were captured and taken into breeding programs in hopes of preventing their extinction. The breeding program has been so successful that there have been eighteen releases back into the wilds beginning in 1992 and continuing to the latest releases of six birds on March 24, 1999.  Besides the releases in Lion Canyon, there have been seven individuals released near Big Sur and eight birds atop the Hurricane Cliffs in Arizona.  The total number of condors in the wild is now up to 56, with 91 remaining in captivity.  According to a news release by the California Condor Recovery Program: “To give the young birds a better chance of surviving in the wild they have been undergoing power pole aversion training and staff from the Refuge Complex have been delivering stillborn calf carcasses to the Los Angeles Zoo to help the young birds develop carcass feeding skills.  In addition, three older condors were placed into the flight pen with the six young birds so they can gain experience competing with older birds for food.” 

Pat and I hoped to be able to see at least one of these condors in the wild.  We scanned down into the canyons, across the valleys, and across the surrounding peaks for almost two hours.  We saw Red-tailed Hawks, Ferruginous Hawks, Kestrels, Merlins, Ravens, Rufous-sided Towhees, White-crowned Sparrows, Cliff Swallows, Mountain Quail, Mountain Bluebirds, Horned Larks, Meadowlarks, Red-winged Blackbirds and assorted other birds – but no Condors. We ate our lunch, enjoyed the view and then started back down the mountain on the three-hour trip back to Ojai.

But we had one more chance to see condors.  From the floor of the Cayuma Valley, we could see up into Lion Canyon.  The American Birder’s Guidebook claims that sometimes condors can be seen from the valley if you scan up into the canyon.  We scanned for a few minutes until our arms began to tire from holding up the binoculars.  Then a fellow – who identified himself as Albert Johnston – drove up and in an old, yellow pickup truck and stopped to chat.  “Lion Canyon was named by my father, Eugene L. Johnston Sr.” he claimed.  “He was working for the U. S. Forest Service at the time and was riding his horse through the canyon.  He saw a couple of Mountain Lions mating.  His horse spooked and ran away, taking the rifle – still in its scabbard -- with him.  My dad was left on foot with no way to defend himself against the lions.  Fortunately, the lions decided not to attack him, but from that time on the Canyon has been called Lion Canyon.”

When I explained that we were searching for condors, he replied, “You are wasting your time trying to see condors from here, you can only see them up in the mountains.”

I told him that we had just come from the mountains and had seen no condors.  Then I decided that Mr. Johnston had an interesting story to tell, so I laid my binoculars on the hood of our car and took out my notebook. 

“When I was young, there were lots of condors here.  But they died out because of lack of food -- not due to hunting, lead poisoning, flying into high lines and other causes claimed by the wildlife experts.  However, one condor recently found some antifreeze where it had drained from an overheated auto in the town of Fillmore.  It drank this stuff and died on the spot.  The valley once held over 25,000 cattle – there are no more than 5000 here now.  Thus, dead cattle no longer provide a reliable food source for the condors.  There were also a great many sheep over in Button Willow that provided food for the condors.  Now there are not many sheep and not even enough deer to feed the condors.  The lions have eaten all the deer.  Also, the Forest Service protected the forest from burning, so there is not enough food for deer now.  I’ve killed deer up in the Salsbury potrero (high mountain meadow) and elsewhere in these mountains all my life, but now there are more hunters than deer.  In my life, I have ridden over almost every square foot of these mountains.  We watched as the wildlife folks captured the last 27 condors from the Hudson Ranch, which is high country at about 4000 feet elevation.  They have had considerable success at breeding condors, but I doubt that condors will survive reintroduction because there is not enough food for them.”

We shook hands as we parted.  Pat and I were now later than I had hoped and wished to avoid driving through the mountains in the dark.  We had seen no wild condors, but what the heck --  wait till next time.  In my hurry, I forgot all about having left my binoculars on the hood of the car and you know the rest of the story.

 

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California RV Park for the New Millennium

California RV Park for the New Millennium

 

April 29, 1999

A new RV park in Bakersfield, CA. advertises that it was “built for the new millennium.”  So what qualifies a RV park for such a claim?  What is so important about a park being developed for the millennium?  Is Bob Stanton (the owner) suggesting that his park will be a haven where escapees from Y2K problems can be safe?  I don’t think so.  Bob means that his spaces are 23' wide for accommodating large, modern RVs with slide-outs.  Also, his office computer and telephone service are Y2K compliant and he provides water, 50 amps, TV cable, and sewage hookups.  But after having spent a week in this park, my notion of what qualifies this park for the “millennium” designation is due primarily to the fact that they have instant telephone hookups at each site for their overnight customers -- giving customers instant access to the Internet.  As a matter of fact, Bob provides two phone jacks at each site.  One – for the reasonable price of $5 per week – is available for instant (overnight) use and the second can be connected by the local phone company for long-term use.   

So why is it so important to have instant phone hookups in preparation for the new millennium?  I think that providing instant access to the Internet is crucial.  When we first began living the RV lifestyle more than ten years ago, surrendering our regular home telephone was a sacrifice we were willing to make in order to enjoy the freedom to move around the country whenever and wherever we chose.  We could use pay phones, cell phones and “snail-mail” to keep in touch with friends and relatives. Now, we are not so easily satisfied.  With the advent of the Internet, email became the preferred means of easy communication for us.  We could write one note, letter or story and instantly send it to a list of friends and relatives.  Many RVers conduct business “on the road” and find that access to the Internet is vital to their success.

Modem-friendly RV parks have been touted as a reasonable solution to this problem.  So now when you read about the features of a RV park in campground directories, they may describe a park as “modem friendly” or something similar.  However, providing a phone jack somewhere in the park does not mean that you will be welcome to tie it up for hours while searching the Internet.  It usually means that if that line is not busy with park business, you may use it for a few minutes to quickly send and receive your email.  This service was a major step in the evolution of park technology, but I doubt that it will be sufficient for the needs of the next millennium.

We were shocked in 1996, when we first checked into the Bakersfield Palms RV Park in Bakersfield, CA and found out that they not only had instant phone hookups, but would also provide a phone.  There, in the comfort of our own motorhome, we could chat with the kids, order supplies and mail by phone, make reservations at the next RV Park, and check our email.  It was great!  At that point I began to search for similar parks and, with the assistance of many cooperators, now have a list* consisting of 122 such parks in the USA and Canada.  Yes, I will continue to use  “modem-friendly” RV parks, but only when an “Internet-friendly” RV park is not available.  I prefer not to “bug” the park manager to use the jack in his office to obtain email.  I do not wish to feel guilty when I tie up his phone an extra five minutes to take a quick Internet peek at my investments or something.

The clientele of RV parks is constantly evolving.  All of us old codgers who did not grow up with a computer mouse in our cookie-crumb-covered hands are slowly being replaced by a more computer-literate generation.  This new generation will likely insist on access to the Internet (in whatever form it eventually evolves) wherever they stop for the night.  Certainly, instant phone hookups at each RV site are not the only way to access the Internet.  Cell, pay and satellite phones can provide access by the RVing public to the Internet.  But my experiences with cell and pay phone linkages has been far from satisfactory.  I much prefer a regular phone line because they tend to be more dependable and far less expensive.  Satellite phones are prohibitively expensive for most of us.  Satellite DSS dish downloads are an option, but still require a regular phone line for uploads.  Consequently, some parks are betting that regular phone lines will still provide the predominant RV linkages to the Internet into the near future.  Do they worry that investing $24,000 or so into a phone system may be a bad investment because it may be obsolete in the near future?  Of course!  But even the Direct PC (like Direct TV) satellite technology requires a regular phone line for uploading.  Won’t an abundance of RV parks with overnight phone hookups increase the probability of that some RVers will choose the Direct PC route?  How long will we be able to resist the 400 Kbps download rate?

It may be impossible for anyone to accurately predict what the needs of the RVers will be in the next century and what new technology will be available to them.  Who knows what new invention will change the way we live. But some park managers are trying to build parks to the specifications that they anticipate RVers will require.  For example, Ray Brockie (ggbee4344@aol.com) is in the planning stages of building a new RV Park that he calls Project Two Thousand (P2K), where each RV site will have a T1 (data only) phone.  According to Ray, “the working society is fast becoming mobile.  Employers don't have to provide office space, insurance etc. and employees don't have to spend money on clothes, lunches or gas and can often work at their own convenience as far as time of day is concerned.  We want to be able to provide a pleasant, appealing, yet workable environment for those people as well.”  Ray is also concerned with the problem of “built-in obsolescence.”  He is considering T1 lines rather than voice lines partly because  T1's are less expensive.  He expects each T1 line to serve 28 sites.  Cost of this line to the customer would be included in site rental for what he calls “plug-n-play” service.

However, Mel Chaney (www.concentric.net/~Lmchaney) recently commented on Ray’s option. 

 “The problem with Ray's solution of installing a T1 line ... is that it is an Ethernet one, not a telephone line. That would mean each PC on a campsite would need to be assigned a TCP/IP address and have an Ethernet NIC board installed. Those aren't cheap for laptops and are complex installations normally performed by a professional. 

“The only other solution for him is to install modems on the central side of each line from the campsites and put a dedicated modem on each. The modems would be interfaced to a costly concentrator, via parallel port which in turn connects via Ethernet to the router and the T1 line. Not even the costliest of hotels are doing this -- they are staying with telephone lines connected to their internal telephone switch. 

“ I wish him luck, but think he's bitten off more than any RVer will ever need or want to pay for.

Ray’s choices forced me to ponder the importance of voice phone lines as compared to data lines.  If forced to choose between one and the other, which would I choose?  Historically, we find voice phone lines familiar and easy, so tend to prefer them.  But they suffer from one serious drawback.  Some consider that hanging-up-first during a phone conversation is a form of rudeness.  Consequently, conversations may last for extended periods of time because no one wishes to be the first to hang up.  Even during extended periods when everybody runs out of subject matter, and the conversation begins to drag, there is a reluctance to hang up.  When we are forced to write out our ideas and information, we tend to be much more conservative with verbiage.  Consequently, email can be a much more efficient form of communication.  Given the choice, I might prefer a data line to a voice line (but please don’t tell my wife and kids).

Having an overnight, instant, phone hookup at a modern RV park may not be the most important feature needed to prepare for the new millennium, but right now it gets my vote.

 

Table of Contents:  https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/4404749581224177008?hl=en

 

California Redwood City Storm

Redwood  City Storm

 

September 19, 2002

Flood in an RV Park

 

Arriving in the San Francisco Bay area for the birth of our grandchild, Kira, and to spend the holiday season with Brian/Frances & kids, we checked into the Trailer Villa RV Park in Redwood City, CA – the only local RV Park with reasonably easy access to Brian’s home.  The receptionist informed us that we were entering the rainy season and that the park has been known to flood.  In 1998, a flood triggered a massive exodus of RVs – some in such a hurry that sewage and water hoses trailed on the ground as RVs escaped the rapidly rising water.  The park is located only a few feet above high tide and adjacent to the salt ponds of San Francisco Bay.  Floods are caused by heavy rains flooding a local creek, coupled with exceptionally high tides.  A high tide list is provided to park customers on the bulletin board.

“Do you knock on our doors to warn us of impending danger?” I asked.  

“No,” she replied.  “We cannot predict what will happen, so the decision to leave or stay is yours.”

“Do you reimburse us for the time that we are away from the park during a flood?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

Remembering her sage advice, we became somewhat nervous when weather reports announced that remnants of a typhoon in SE Asia were heading across the Pacific and directly toward California.  As it approached the coast of California, it consisted of about four large, separate storms following in railroad car fashion, one after the other.  The TV weatherman announced that “We can expect up to 15 inches of rain in some places from these storms.” 

The first storm produced up to 10 inches of rain in areas north of San Francisco – but in the South Bay area, we got only about ½ inch.  The second storm produced similar results and we got about 1 inch of rain.  But even so, by now the soil in the Southern Bay area was becoming saturated and we expected that the next storm might begin to cause rising waters in the local creeks.  These storms were separated by a day or more of relatively dry weather.  At this point, most of the problems reported in the Bay area were produced by the high winds that accompanied the storms.  Trees falling on homes and autos caused the most problems – except maybe for a hillside in Oakland that, along with three homes, were sliding downhill onto apartments below.  High waters were causing lots of traffic problems.  One fellow wisely parked his car on the street to protect it from the dangers of falling trees in his driveway.  Down the street, a large tree fell on the electric lines causing several electric poles to crash in domino fashion.  One of these poles fell on the guy’s little car and flattened it.  

Rain amounts were generally much higher in the hills between the coast and the South Bay.  Much of the rain was squeezed out of the clouds as they passed over the hills so there was less left to fall on us.  

On a Sunday afternoon, we drove along the coast by Pacifica and watched the giant waves crashing.  Some were reported to be 25 feet or greater.  One fellow who grew up in Pacifica was also out watching the turbulent waters.  He claimed that he had never seen such a rough surf or such high waves.  The largest waves were breaking almost ½ mile from shore and between there and the shore were lesser – but still very large waves  – coming from different angles, crashing and churning.  The surface of the water was covered with white foam.  I leaned into the strong wind to take some photos.  We stopped in a parking lot where some of the pavement had calved off into the surging water below.  As I stepped out of the car to take a photo, heavy rain began to fall.  Deciding that we had had enough fun, we started back to Redwood City.  We drove in a blinding wind and rain until we left the coast, then the rain slowed for the remainder of the trip.

By the time we returned to the RV Park, maybe another inch of rain had fallen.  We felt comfortable as we entered our snug and cozy motorhome.  Then, sometime about midnight, the winds picked up and the rain intensified.  At times, the motorhome rocked as gusts of wind hit.  I found it difficult to sleep with the sounds of wind and rain but slept fitfully until about 5:30 A.M. when I got up to inspect the situation.  The rain had fallen constantly for several hours and water was beginning to accumulate in the street in front of our motorhome.  I watched as it continued to rise.  Obviously, the drain was not keeping up.  Checking the local weather station, I was informed that high tide should arrive at about 8:30 A. M. and should be about 6 feet above normal.  Other neighbors were also out assessing the situation.  I waded across the street and chatted with them as they worried about whether or not to leave.  It was now 6:30 A. M..  Deciding that the water would soon be too deep to escape, I woke Pat and informed her that we should leave as soon as possible.   Wading in the cold water, I unhooked everything and we drove through some water about 1 foot deep and to the local K-Mart parking lot to wait for low tides so we could return to the park.  Several other RVers were already there.

Pickup Wake

 

In a quick ride back to the park in our little car, the traffic was snarled on the road in front of our park.  A creek to the east was flooding and the street was impassible.  The water in our park had risen about another foot and all roads were blocked off.  “Call us after lunch and we will tell you when it is safe to return,” a worker announced.  He also explained that the tide table on their bulletin board was designed for San Francisco.  To obtain the tides for Redwood City, add two hours and add one foot to the high tides.   Consequently, high tide was really at 10:30 A.M.  I left the park feeling very good that we had escaped the high waters.

About 3:00 P. M., I phoned the park and was informed that all water had drained out and it was safe to return – so we did.

The combination of rain and wind caused about 2 million residents to lose power in the Bay Area and up to 18 inches fell in places.  Winds reached 100 mph on top of Mt. Diablo east of the Bay.  Many homes and businesses flooded and cleanup was started.

So, how does one prepare for the storms and flooding associated with storms such as these?  We have the advantage over normal homes in that our home has wheels.  When waters rise, we simply unplug the water, sewage, electricity, and telephone, crank down the TV antennas and move to higher ground.  

Since our motorhome had been sitting in one spot for a month, a few days before the storms I thought it might be wise to check out all systems in case it was necessary to leave suddenly.  Surprise!  When I turned the ignition key, the battery was dead.  How did this happen?  Then I remembered, our two-year-old grandson, Preston, likes to push buttons.  On a visit to our motorhome, he climbed into the driver’s seat and pretended to drive.  “What can he possibly hurt?” I wondered.  “So what if the wipers, radio, and air conditioner come on when I turn the key?”  So I let this bright, inquisitive, two-year-old punch buttons as he played driving games.  Unfortunately, one of the buttons he pushed was the auxiliary battery switch.  This caused all 12 volt systems in the motorhome to use energy from the starting battery rather than the house batteries.  Almost all of my grandkids have played the same game, but somehow they missed that particular button.  Now I know to remember to check that button after the grandkids have “driven” our motorhome.  A small auxiliary battery charger quickly fixed the problem.  Small price to pay for the enjoyment we get from grandkids!

But today, we watch as clouds and showers pass and bright sunshine follows.  Then another shower!  The TV weather reports that the final large storm should arrive today.  It will have high winds, but maybe less rain.  Maybe!  If not, we will be prepared to visit our friends at the K-Mart parking lot again.

 

Table of Contents:  https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en

California Clear Lake

June 6, 1998

Pat at Clear Lake

Traveling north from the Bay Area near San Francisco, we viewed the grapes and vineyards of the Napa Valley.  Then on the northern end of the Valley through Calistoga, we began the long climb up to the pass in the Palisade Mountains.  It is not a long climb -- only a couple thousand feet -- but the road is narrow with many hairpin turns and with large trucks passing inches away from the left mirror on the motorhome.  I had been told that the road was passable in a motorhome, but that nerves of steel would be required when driving.  As we neared the pass, my “nerves of steel” were turning into jelly.  We stopped to rest at Robert Louis Stevenson State Park before descending down through the Collayomi Valley into the Clear Lake country.

Seven fledgling bushtits lined up side by side on a willow branch -- so closely that they first appeared to be a sort of feathery, grey squirrel on a branch.  They did not yet have the long tail and brown cap of the adult.  Suddenly, a Cooper’s hawk flew through the canopy, hoping for a meal of tender, young, bushtit.  But the bushtits saw it coming and dispersed frantically -- giving me the impression that the “squirrel” had disintegrated into seven parts as the birds flew off in different directions.  Apparently confused, the hawk could not decide which bushtit to chase and they all escaped.  A few minutes later the fledglings regrouped on another branch.  First one, then another and another landed, then sidled up close to each other.  After several weeks in a small nest, maybe they were accustomed to being close to their siblings.  Or they sought body warmth in the 50 F cool of the evening.  Although the late-afternoon sun still shone, a cool breeze blew from Clear Lake.  This breeze came from the direction of Snow Mountain Wilderness north of Clear Lake and still retained some of the chill as it bounced across the lake to our birding spot at the base of Mt. Konocti volcano.  The parents were expending considerable energy searching for worms in the willow blossoms to feed the hungry clan.  A bolder bushtit fledgling left the group and searched unsuccessfully for worms, then returned to the comfort of the group. 

The next morning, while jogging in the same area, I observed a Cooper’s hawk fly from a willow with a small, grey bit of feathery fluff in its talons.  Maybe the bushtit siblings now numbered only six.  Redwing blackbirds appeared to be attempting to ride the larger hawk and peck it behind the head.  They were apparently defending their own nest against this deadly bird eater.  They become so defensive that they sometimes fail to distinguish bird-eating predators from fish-eating predators.  I watched one pair fly high over the lake to pester a great blue heron that happened to be flying by.  They apparently wasted a great amount of energy while attacking this heron.  Evolutionary experience seems not to have taught these birds to chase only bird predators and leave fish predators alone.

Clear Lake is the largest natural lake in California.  Several million years ago a massive landslide filled Cold Creek Canyon with debris that formed this natural lake north of Napa Valley.  We had decided to visit the area because our son, Brian, had shown us a newspaper article about a California Back Country Discovery Trail (BCDT) that starts at Clear Lake.  This trail is the first of an off-highway motorized route that is planned to ultimately run from the Mexican border to the Oregon Border.  The first section runs through the Mendocino National Forest and covers 86 miles.  Since much of the trail is steep, dirt, and rough, a four-wheel vehicle is recommended.  

From our camping spot at the town of Nice, CA, we could observe western grebes performing their mating dance on the glassy surface of Clear Lake in the early morning.  Their long necks extended as they seemed to mimic each other’s behaviors and attempts to walk on water.  A mallard hen swam by, followed by a half dozen babies.  A black-crowned night heron landed the tule reeds.  It quickly assumed the posture of a feathered statue for a few minutes.  Apparently not finding a fish, frog or whatever it was seeking, it flew away to be replaced by a pair of great blue herons.  When I opened the door to the motorhome, they yelled their displeasure at my intrusion into their territory and flew way.