Five girls! Won't it be fun?!

In January of 2006, four other girls and I had planned to backpack along the PCT, and instead stumbled upon Newcomb's Ranch in the Angeles National Forest, where we spent the night sheltering from the hypothermia-inducing sleet outside. Darren the bartender wrote in our journals, played us his accordion, made us shots, and gave a moving lecture on why Los Angeles is the greatest place on earth. (I still half believe him.) It was a tremendous evening, after which we continued on our way, bumbling through the nearby trails, sunbathing in the sand, and doing some minor bouldering.

Memories of Newcomb's stuck, though, and when Eisha mentioned it as part of her weekend bike rides, we realized that it was the scene of my favorite college epic, an epic that I drearily retell at every opportunity. On my visit to LA last weekend, we made the pilgrimage, this time with a full tank of gas, yet another mistake we'd made before. The trek felt far too domesticated: I had a bland omelette, Darren's girlfriend, now living at Newcomb's, took our order, and the sky outside was gray but not particularly menacing. Gone was the puppy dog eagerness of my friends ("Five girls! Won't it be fun?" was the way Jenny invited our shivering crew inside to spend the night), the two am trip into the woods to rescue our camping gear, the overwhelming feeling of unexpected warmth and hospitality, and the $29 check for all our dinners, our drinks, and our lodging. This was just lunch.

And then, snow started to fall insistently. Unperturbed, we sat still, enjoying our hot drinks, and the hike we'd been planning looked more and more dubious. It was already three. I was wearing jeans and a rain jacket -- not the best gear for a winter snow storm; Eisha wasn't much better off. So we wandered out of Newcomb's, slightly too full, wondering half-heartedly what kind of walk we could take, drove a little ways through the snow, and parked the car in what looked like total isolation. We hiked an unmarked trail to Bandido Camp, and then down the Silver Moccasin Trail. The boulders we'd scrambled up six Januaries ago were dusted with snow. It was peaceful, almost stunningly quiet. And it was cold. Rembrandt insisted that we keep going, and we were happy to be goaded into going further than we'd expected and prepared for....

...until it began to get dark. We booked it back to the car, as I felt more and more like a stray hobbit on a journey designed for hardy dwarves. It was the right feeling for a day at Newcomb's: a little bit of risk, just enough, but far less than I could convey in the (now even longer) saga. We made the necessary stop at Newcomb's on the way back, had a good round of hot chocolates, and trundled safely home.

Mendocino

A disclaimer that recent trips have not been camping related and that most of these photos are borrowed....but at any rate, they were all exploration-centric. We've been on a cute B&B kick, and Mendocino is the perfect place to indulge such a kick.

We stayed at The Andiron Inn in the "Play" cabin, full of vintage board games (PerQuackety!) and complete with Whoopie pies on our arrival. The breakfast toast bar far transcended the humble status of toast, happy hour was fun, and the starlit hot tub in the grove was fantastic; best of all, though, were the goats (Peanut Butter & Jelly), who are friendly and perpetually in need of a rub and a treat.



The town of Mendocino was lovely...gifty and gallery laden, sure, but also right on some coastal cliffs that we eventually explored after we tired of buying candles and ogling expensive beach wood items of dubious functionality.



Fort Bragg, home of the Skunk Train, was a little more down to earth. We went for a run along the old railway trail, a gorgeous ocean-side track that goes on for miles along a secluded coast line. We ended by running back to the Trestle Bridge (near "Pudding Beach")...more striking to see from a distance than to stand on, but important to stand on, nonetheless.



And...the best ending for a run... we tried the beer sampler at North Coast Brewing Co. over soup and sandwiches.



Our second run was perhaps even more lovely, because so secluded. We ran into Russian Gulch State Park from the beach parking across the street from the entrance, up through the park, and onto Fern Canyon Trail.



"And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow"
W.B. Yeats

San Quentin Village...

...has the most lovely neighborhood beach I know. On Sunday evenings, I see dogs chasing balls, brave toddlers playing in the water, and grown-ups sitting and watching, soaking in the view of the San Rafael bridge, whose hurry one can't really hear for the sounds of the water.

Lights on bridges at dusk always remind me curiously of the Geoffrey Hill lines:

"Over, across, the Pennine scarps and valleys

motorway lights -- festal suspension bridge,

high arching nocturne. I grasp the possible 

rightness of certain things 

that possess the imagination, however briefly"

Without Title

Port Townsend Adventures

Port Townsend, WA is sheer small-town neo-Victorian loveliness, nestled on the Northern Sound. Water, water, everywhere -- water on both sides of your route as you drive up, water so grey against a sky so grey that the whole world might easily be water. There is something incredibly peaceful about a monochromatic world.



It is also home to some wonderfully quirky bars...The Pourhouse, right on the edge of town, is a bring-your-own-food bar, well stocked with brews and games, a totally new experience for me. We brought apples (Washington apples are so wonderful!) and bread and cheese, and were only a little disappointed that it was too gusty outside for ping pong.



We were only there for a few days, but the downtown area is truly lovely, full of inventive, silly, and sweet toy and furniture stores, and home to the best used book store (of its size -- can't really beat Powell's) I've ever seen. There was even a section for decorative tiling projects!



And the running terrain? The hills are tremendous; part of the town is on a cliffy craig, and part is at sea level. So traversing town means running up a cliff.



We ran out to the Fort's lighthouse from downtown. Never have I been more glad of my Virginia Woolf training: Nick asked if we should go all the way to the lighthouse, and -- despite being tired -- I thought "of course, of course we always have to go to the lighthouse when we can" and said (more simply) "yes." It was shut up, but the beach just west of it was rugged, branch strewn, and framed the many shades of grey in sight for the most sensational view of the trip. Hurrah!