Remembered Earth

Mount Diablo Falls Trail

Miguel — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 01:09:02 +0000

I hadn’t been to Mount Diablo since my trip up Eagle Peak in November. But today was one of the first clear days after two weeks of daily rain, so Elizabeth and I took advantage of it with a quick morning hike to Mount Diablo’s Falls Trail.

When we started at 8:30 in the morning it was 46 with a clean blue sky marked only by a handful of puffy white clouds. The trees and grass were still wet and glistening from last night’s rain.

Everything felt fresh and new. And, in a way, it was. We are in the middle of the wet season and the hills are emerald green with young grass. The flowers are starting to bloom and the trees are ready to bud.

The trail was muddy, but the mud did no more than wet the bottoms of my shoes.

We started in the grasslands and savannas next to Donner Creek, where the valley oaks and blue oaks were still leafless. I’d walked along the creek plenty of times in the dry season, when it’s little more than a trickle you can just hop across. But today it was thick and full, reaching near its banks.

We stopped at an old cabin site next to the creek. All that remained of it was a small square foundation and a patch of daffodils. The flowers had apparently escaped from their garden and become naturalized, and now they were blooming with striking white and yellow flowers. They were evidence, Elizabeth said, that a woman had once lived in the cabin.

The rising sun stayed behind Mount Diablo. Gray pines formed spindly silhouettes against the sky uphill. Next to the trail, in the chaparral, was toyon, with its bright green leaves and bright red berries. The berries had been on the toyon for months, and by now most of them had been eaten. Next to the toyon was yerba santa: similar to toyon, but shorter and with darker, glossier leaves.

Higher up the trail, we had to cross Donner Creek. It was full enough that we considered taking off our shoes and fording it. But a network of logs and rocks strewn across it let us get to the other side with our feet dry.

While trying to cross the creek I saw the boughs of a redwood upstream. I nearly lost my balance and fell into the water. I’ve seen thousands of wild redwoods, and Mount Diablo is just too dry, too far from summer’s coastal fog, for them to grow. The nearest I’d ever seen one was in Redwood Regional Park, 15 miles to the west. Before today I would have wagered that the entire 180-mile Diablo Range, which includes Mount Diablo at its northern end, didn’t have a single wild redwood growing on it. But there they were: two redwood saplings growing next to the creek. I wondered how their seeds got there.

We turned onto the Falls Trail. Unlike the trails we’d taken so far, which were actually just dirt roads, the Falls Trail was an intimate single-track hugging the grassy hillside. A cool breeze came down from Donner Canyon ahead of us.

The falls were in the canyon somewhere. They grew louder as we hiked, but we couldn’t see them through the thick chaparral. But the next bend in the trail revealed them: a white streak, 10 feet tall, among the dark olive shrubs. Some more walking and we saw another set of falls, downstream from the first, and just as impressive, if not as tall.

The steep mountainsides were covered in short, thick vegetation. The morning air was still misty and water seemed to be everywhere. We felt as if we were trekking through a tropical cloud forest rather than the East Bay hills.

I’d assumed, without really thinking about it much, that we would walk by exactly one significant waterfall. Now I wasn’t even sure we’d get to do that. The terrain in the canyon in front of us was so rugged and folded that this might be the best view we’d get.

As I’d suspected, we couldn’t get close to the waterfall. The trail only got as close as a cliff where we could peek down at the fall. Well, there was a steep, loose, muddy path down the side of the cliff that might have given a better view of the falls, but we weren’t going to try it.

Content with our look at the fall, we continued our hike. Farther down the trail, we again heard the sound of rushing water.

Were there more falls? Through the woods we walked up to a stream flowing over a few feet of jagged gray rocks. Beautiful. We stopped to take them in.

We were halfway done with the loop. Time to walk back. In less than a mile, we would be on the dirt road again. No more falls, I thought.

We crossed the stream and climbed out of the canyon. But one more descent and we were next to a new set of falls. This was followed by another climb, another descent, and then more falls. I lost track of how many falls we saw.

As we finished the loop, we turned around to look back at the canyon. The falls were in a fantastic setting: steep green hillsides cut by lush ravines and punctuated by red-rock crags. What a great hike.

We’re nearing the end of the wet season, when the lengthening days and passing storms bring wildflowers. White and pink milkmaids bloomed near the falls. Indian warrior was popping up everywhere beneath the chaparral. Next to the Indian warrior were plants with long, thin leaves, but no flowers yet. Maybe they were star lilies, which I remembered seeing growing with Indian warrior on the other side of the canyon last spring.

We’d been in Mount Diablo’s shadow all morning. But now, on our hike down, the sun came over the summit and warmed our backs as the temperature moved up into the 50s. We even saw some buttercups that we’d missed on the way up. We finished our hike at 11:30, well rewarded for waking up early on a Saturday.

South Mountain Reservation in winter

Miguel — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 05:23:47 +0000

Elizabeth and I stopped at South Mountain Reservation for a quick hike this morning. We started from a hilltop overlook at 8:30. It was 38 degrees. A fierce wind blew through the trees, sending them swaying with each gust. Wind-blown drizzle threatened to soak anything that wasn’t waterproof. A thick layer of clouds drifted overhead. The trees were dark and wet from the rain.

One of the largest metropolitan areas in the country lay to our east. Newark, Jersey City, and New York City were right in front of us, but we couldn’t see them. We saw only a tree-lined grid of residential streets fading into a dull fog.

We turned into the woods and started hiking. After just a few steps, I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my shoes dry. Last night’s steady rain had turned the snow on the ground into two inches of slush. Snow in the depressions had turned into ponds of gray water. My ultralight trail runners recently failed me in the snow, and now they would fail me again. Well, rather than tiptoe around trying not to get my feet wet, I plodded ahead and got them soaked right away. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about them anymore.

Elizabeth was wiser. She had wool socks and insulated shoes and kept off the wetter parts of the trail. This tactic would keep her feet dry for nearly an hour.

The only map I had for the park was hand-drawn. I began with no faith in its network of unnamed trails, but my trust in it increased with each intersection I identified. I was even able to hike cross-country from one trail to another.

I don’t know if the forest was old growth, but it was certainly mature. Big, old trees had polished stumps from branches they’d lost long ago. Fallen trees were rotting and had their roots kicked up, leaving pits where they’d grown. Again, as at Hartshorne Woods, I was able to recognize the more familiar tree species by their bark.

There wasn’t much color besides white and brown. Pale green lichen grew on the oak trunks. The younger beeches still had their copper leaves attached. The only greenery came from eastern white pines.

We didn’t have much time, since we needed to drive on to Pennsylvania. Before turning around, we stopped next to a pretty stream. We listened to its trickling and the songs of a few chickadees.

Satisfied with my navigating abilities, I chose a different route for our return. Everything went fine until I started seeing intersections I didn’t expect. After ten minutes of this I admitted to myself, as well as Elizabeth, that we were lost. She was having fun in the snow and was genuinely unconcerned by the news. Which way was our car? The forest looked the same in every direction. Which way was north? The sun was in the southeast, but I couldn’t see it through the clouds. I had a compass, too, but I didn’t feel like getting it out.

I considered returning to the last point where I was certain of my location. Then I remembered the ridge on the other side of the reservation, which I’d seen when we started, and which I knew ran north-northwest. Our car was opposite that ridge.

We stayed on the trail. I saw a road through the trees, but it was too busy to be the one on which we’d parked. I checked my map: it was the main road through the park, which meant that our road couldn’t be far. At the next intersection, I was able to figure out where we were. Getting back to the car would be quick and easy. We were done with our hike at 10.

My feet hadn’t bothered me much, but that was because they’d gone numb. In the car, I took off my shoes to replace my wet socks with dry socks. But putting socks on my feet was like putting socks on a cadaver. I couldn’t wiggle my toes. My skin was pale and clammy. I thought this was a compelling argument for waterproof shoes with high tops, but the truth is I wouldn’t hike in these conditions again for at least a year. I drove away and warmed my feet under the car’s heater. That would do for now.

Hartshorne Woods Park in the snow

Miguel — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 05:43:02 +0000

I braced myself for more pain: even as my feet were recovering from a very cold hike through the snow in Sandy Hook, we were getting ready for another hike at Hartshorne Woods Park. Elizabeth was nice enough to lend me a pair of dry wool socks to replace my wet liner socks.

It was 35 degrees with 8 inches of powdery snow on the ground in Hartshorne Woods, just like Sandy Hook. But this time there was no wind, since we were farther inland and sheltered by forest. The snow on the trails was also well packed down—Hartshorne Woods had seen a lot more hikers than had Sandy Hook. These were conditions where my trail runners just might work. Maybe my feet would stay warm and dry after all.

We started our hike at 3 in the afternoon with only an hour and a half of daylight left. We decided on the 2.5-mile Laurel Ridge Loop. Sure, we might finish after sunset, but the leafless trees and the white snow would keep the forest bright through the dusk. And if we got lost, the park was small and hemmed in by suburbs.

The only plants with leaves on them were mountain-laurels and hollies. The mountain-laurels grew as nondescript bushes on the hillsides, but the hollies were 20-foot tall trees with shiny green leaves and bright red berries. The latter reminded me of Christmas.

I found I could identify many of the bare deciduous trees by their bark and shape. Northern red oaks had tight bark with vertical fissures. Eastern white oaks had curving branches and light gray bark that peeled off in strips. Tuliptrees had tall, straight trunks and had fruits on the ends of their branches.

A group of deer trotted up a hill. They saw us and froze. Their winter coats were the color of tree trunks and their tails were the color of snow, making them nearly invisible when they stopped.

We could see the houses that surrounded the park through the winter forest. They looked like islands in a sea of asphalt and turf, just like all the other buildings in the area. This seemed to me a destructive and inefficient use of space, and part of me wished that they had been more closely spaced so that more wild land could have been spared. But I didn’t dwell on these thoughts for long—the forest was so pleasant.

The sun set. As it disappeared behind a ridge, its golden light filtered through the treetops. The high clouds slowly turned rose and orange. The snow, reflecting the sky, glowed pink. The temperature dipped below freezing.

We were at the last intersection on our hike. The car was a few minutes away, but Elizabeth and I were having so much fun that we decided to walk another trail for a while before heading back. We walked to the top of a hill and enjoyed the woods in the pretty dusk. There was still plenty of light.

We turned back. Elizabeth broke out in a run. I ran too. We slid and hopped down the trail, sending up clouds of powder.

We got back to the car at twilight, thoroughly pleased with our little hike in the snow. I’m happy to report that my feet stayed warm and dry.

Sandy Hook in the snow

Miguel — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 03:23:35 +0000

Elizabeth and I are in New Jersey, which just received a foot of snow from a major storm three days ago. Freezing temperatures during the intervening days have ensured that almost all of the snow is still around.

I’d wanted to visit Sandy Hook for a long time. Most people think of it as a hugely popular beach, but it’s also one of the few places on the Jersey shore that’s still in its natural condition, with its dune and woodland vegetation intact. The weather would be clear today, so why not go see it in the snow?

We drove toward the ocean on Route 36 under high, flat clouds. At the shore, we turned north into Sandy Hook. The road was empty. Signs, intended for summer beachgoers, warned of heavy outbound traffic in the afternoon.

The parking area at the visitor center was surrounded by mounds of plowed snow. Wind-blown drifts curved onto the asphalt and turned into ice. It was 35 degrees with gusty winds.

We took the Old Pine Trail near the visitor center. The snow on the trail was packed down by a few footprints, but it was still deep and powdery.

I was thinking this wouldn’t be a very long hike.

I don’t own a pair of hiking boots or even waterproof shoes. I stopped wearing those years ago when I realized I never needed them. Instead I just hike in running shoes: they’re light, so you can hike longer and faster, and they’re breathable, so your feet stay cool and dry most of the time but don’t get waterlogged when it’s wet. Likewise, I never bother with hiking socks. I simply wear nylon dress socks: they’re hydrophobic, last hundreds of miles, and cost about a buck.

But one look at the snow on the Old Pine Trail and I knew my usual footwear wouldn’t be serving me well today. My only hope was that it would be cold enough for the snow not to melt through my shoes.

The forest, on the other hand, was entirely charming. The trees were no more than twenty feet tall. Their leaves were as green as if it were summer. But, remarkably, their branches were still covered in pure, white snow.

There was American holly with its glossy, spiny leaves. Next to it was eastern juniper, a conifer with dark leaves and waxy blue berries. Black cherry was the lone deciduous tree, conspicuous by its curving branches and black, scaly bark. I’d often seen black cherries growing over 100 feet tall in the forests of Pennsylvania, but here they barely grew over my head.

The forest gave way to dunes of blond grass as we got closer to the ocean. But instead of sand, the dunes were made of untouched snow, as if we were on a true white-sand beach.

The Atlantic Ocean was a deep greenish blue. Its water was perfectly calm. To the north, we could see the tops of New York City’s tallest buildings rising above the curvature of the earth.

By now, my trusty footwear had failed me. Snow had melted through my shoes and socks. This by itself wouldn’t have been so bad, since hiking would typically generate enough heat to keep my feet warm. But the wind blew straight through the mesh walls of my shoes, making my toes painfully cold. They experienced waves of warmth, but I couldn’t tell if they were actually getting warmer or just getting numb.

We turned around and hiked back. At the car, I took off my socks and shoes and dried them out under the car’s heater. On the way home, we would stop at Hartshorne Woods Park for another hike. Would my feet feel better there?