What If Kindness Was Like Rain?

 

Greetings from Morro Bay, a rare posting from Beagle’s southern basecamp.  I did attempt to write this while I was at Bass Lake but the trip felt so much like a vacation, a true vacation, that it didn’t happen.  And so you find me here, Beagle all cleaned up and waiting for Sunday when we hit the road again—but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

The freedom of this fall has been wonderful; no tennis teams, no brain surgeries and, with this past trip, no River.  (She is doing well but I opted to leave her at home with TWGPT enjoying her single-level living, the joy of being the only dog and, I imagine, hours of delightful piano music.) 

So River safely tucked in, Opus and I took off for four nights to Bass Lake, a stop many of you will recognize as my favorite quick stopover on my way to the Eastern Sierra.  This time I pulled out my hiking map, stared at it for hours, and selected a few hikes; it was time to explore this area in depth.

As usual, I took Highway 46 to 41, a beautiful drive any time of the year but especially right now:  Following the recent rains, the hillsides are covered in green, the air was clear and sharp and, once we climbed above Highway 1, we could see all the way back down to Morro Rock nestled in the blue ocean.  (I say “we” as if Opus was paying any attention at all.  Truth is, now that his crate is in the back of Wurzig, he disappears for hours on end, only occasionally coming up to the center console to take a quick look out the windshield and press his nose into my shoulder.)

The Cedar/Lupine Campground is open year-round and almost empty mid-week.  I had reserved site 72 but switched over to 68, my all-time favorite, when I realized it was going to be open all four nights.  The view out Beagle’s door:

Like the area around Morro Bay, the hillsides were sprouting greenery but Bass Lake added deciduous trees into the mix bringing glorious yellow, gold and red leaves into the mix.  

Opus and I immediately hit the trail leading from the campground, getting in a few miles before the sun began to set.

Our first formal hike was the Lewis Creek Trail.  Being at a bit of altitude (5,000’) I figured it would be a good starting hike for the week as it didn’t climb much.  Due to comments posted on Alltrails, we parked off of Highway 41 which is the mid-point of the trail.  Next time I will park at the southern entrance to make it a simple up and back but parking off the 41 gave me the Mountain Lion warning sign.

I responded to the “Avoid hiking alone”, with “Unavoidable”, and considered that maybe dogs count.  In any event, I was glad I saw the warning as Mountain Lions, as I learned in Colorado, are extremely dangerous and, unlike bears, you cannot hear them approaching.   I was happy to put on my large backpack even for this short seven-mile hike; anything to make me look bigger in the eyes of a cat.

It was a pretty hike along the creek with some interesting pools and low-flowing waterfalls.  I could easily see the appeal to lions; a narrow canyon with huge boulders from which to perch or to crawl between for an afternoon nap.  I was more than a little paranoid until more people showed up on the trail.  We did over seven miles and spent hours and hours just playing in nature; it was a delight not having to worry about River being locked up.

The next day we tried to reach the Jackass Lakes trailhead but, just like a jackass, I ignored the comments on Alltrails about the road requiring a 45-minute detour, passed the detour signs and drove to the end, still seven miles from the trailhead, where the road simply vanished; a victim, no doubt of the recent rainfall.  Fortunately, I had seen a sign for the Chiquito Pass trailhead on the way up so we turned around and took that instead.

Talk about a delight!  We didn’t see one other being all day—not a lion (not really lion country anyway), not a bear, not a person, not a dog.  Not a single soul other than some squirrels and birds.  It was a healthy climb up to our lunch spot at Chiquito Lake (pictured in the header) and a bit more elevation up to the pass where we encountered an intersection of three trails.  With mileage markers to dreamy places like “Chain Lakes 4 miles” and “Yosemite Valley 26 miles”, I wished I was still a backpacker.

I stayed up on the pass for a long time enjoying the particular pleasure of hiking along a pass; you are high enough in elevation to see across to other mountains and yet not stressing your body to climb.  Just an easy, meditative meandering along the cusp.  And reminiscing about backpacking--the joy of being totally self-reliant, needing nothing other than what you could carry on your back.  

Again, thankful that I didn’t have to worry about River, the hours flew by.

After two days of seven plus miles with a full pack, my legs were tired so day three I just set out to see some of the ancient Sequoias.  The Nelder Grove Interpretive Area is closed due to the raging fires of last year but I drove up there anyway, parked outside the gate and walked up the road to the trails.  It is impossible to explain the size of these trees and their scale is not nearly reflected in photographs.  We were all alone, it was perfectly quiet and still and I tried to soak up their history and accept that my tiny spark on this planet takes up about as much time as the blink of an eye.

We headed up the Graveyard of the Giants trail which quickly took us to the burn area.   With the black, branchless trunks still soaring many stories above, and the golden needles on the hillsides, I felt like I was walking on the back of a giant bumblebee.  Everything was black and gold until the bright blue sky cut in.

Unfortunately, since I was not planning on hiking much, I did not have on a hat nor was I carrying any water.  So we turned around after only a couple of miles.  On the way back, I was lamenting the fact that the area was closed; what is wrong with hiking amongst dead or dying trees?  Isn’t it all part of life?  Then a sharp crack like lightening sounded about fifty yards from me and I turned in time to see a giant branch fall from a blackened tree. 

During these long hikes I had plenty of time to think about life, to appreciate it, and to recognize the incredible amount of growth that springs from a simple thing like rainfall.   And what if kindness were like rain?  What if just a little bit of kindness sprinkled along your path caused almost immediate, and maybe, immeasurable growth?

Recognizing as well that, just like rain, the benefits of kindness can be hard to absorb and difficult to recognize; like when the rain causes a mudslide to take out a road.  When it causes a detour that you try to avoid.

-K

The Ravaged Coastline

 

Today I hiked Kirk Creek Trail for the second time.  Maybe later, if I feel the need to climb up on my soapbox, I will explain why I went up the same trail twice but for now, let’s just enjoy the story.

As I type this, I am sitting in Beagle, the sun is pouring in, I have all the windows and doors open to the ocean breeze; Kirk Creek Campground on California’s Big Sur coastline was quite a find:  One of the few campgrounds on the western side of Highway 1, half of the pitches are right on the cliff, the other half enjoy lovely views of the ocean from slightly higher ground.   There is a short trail down to a beach (during low tide.)  The Kitness was in great working order the evening I found one night available online and then, once here, the host changed me over to a site that had a cancellation the night before.  Three nights total in a spot that people try for months to secure.

Since the drive up was a mere sixty-four miles from my house—entirely on Highway 1—the Noses and I arrived on Tuesday in plenty of time for a short hike.  It was foggy as all get out but Opus and I set off up the mountain anyway.  After a mile or so I was about to turn around, you could only see about ten feet in front of you, the ocean just a roar way down below, when I ran into a German couple coming down.  They said it was clear and “like another world” only half a mile up ahead and that the views to the water were stunning.  So we kept on. 

I began to notice the little things that are so often overlooked when you are in awe of so much grandeur:  How bright green shoots of grass were pushing their way up between the taupe-colored grasses recently gone to seed, the dried foliage looking almost like a soft fur; a nice reminder of how everything has its cycle.  And we were not alone, the smallest lizard I have ever seen crossed the trail as did, sadly, not the smallest snake I have ever seen.  And a grasshopper.

At two miles in, the fog had not cleared and we had not been presented with stunning views of the ocean below; I decided that the Germans had miscalculated metric to miles or that the fog had moved—money on the later.  We turned around.

Today was a different story:  I woke early and sat gazing out Beagle’s windows into the light grey dawn, enjoying the sound of the crashing waves and my first cup of coffee.  (The Noses do not stir at that early hour.)  As this side of Earth turned toward the sun, color and focus arrived; the dark green tree across the field and the blue ocean just beyond.  It was a clear, bright morning and a perfect day for a long hike.

I drove down to Limekiln Trail only to find it closed for reasons completely beyond my understanding.  [Insert sound of soapbox being placed on the floor.]

I decided to just go up Kirk Creek Trail again.  This time the entire coastline was visible from the first step; I wouldn’t have even known it was the same trail—I had seen so little of it before.  We stopped for coffee about a mile in; it took some time to find a spot without poison oak (sprouting up everywhere), eventually I settled into the hillside, amongst the many mole holes, and enjoyed the view.

Back on the trail, Opus who, as you know, typically walks in front, was hanging behind me and so it happened that I was first to almost step on the tarantula.  Yep.  That gorgeous ocean vista keeps your eyes off the trail.   Once I was done with my involuntary jump and yelp, I stood and watched him make his way across the trail.  He was not in any great hurry, which was nice, so I had time to appreciate his black legs and body with their abundant, fine, taupe-colored fur covering.  He ambled along to the western side of the trail, onto the hillside and abruptly did a u-turn, placing his head into a mole hole.  Then he commenced to gather his legs underneath his body, pulling himself into a taupe-colored oval.  Looking, you know, just like the dried grasses recently gone to seed. 

Two lessons in one tarantula.

Further up the trail we saw a newly dead Coral Snake, expertly killed with a skull piercing by, I assume, the two hikers who had passed me earlier.  And, on the way down, a smaller, simply black tarantula which I pointed out to some hikers coming up the trail. 

“Fantastic!”, one hiker exclaimed, “And look, this must be a colony—see all the holes in the hillside?”

I may never sit in the dirt again.

-K

PS:  And more to the point of the post title:  This coastline has been ravaged by rain and fire and it is because of this that Limekiln Trail is currently closed.  The ranger said it was to “protect hikers from falling trees and/or mud slides”.  I do wish the government would stop pretending to care so much about my body.  #stillnotvaccinated