Cure for the Common Cold

They say the best cure for a debilitating head cold is sleeping on the ground and kayaking for three days on a remote island with a dozen friends, and a few foxes.

 Goldenseal and Echinacea were working pretty slowly so I thought I’d try that other home remedy. I even thought I might get a sound night sleep in a fancy sounding hotel for one night instead of staying at the usual beachfront shaggy hotel we patronized in the past. But the all-night neon from the Shell station beaming in the windows with curtains that didn’t close all the way precluded any real healing dreamlandia. Better than the Rex Hotel, though, huh Kim? Adam? Maybe? And certainly better than the afore-mentioned beachfront hotel where we learned the next morning there was a shooting that night. Nice. Someone's gotta write a crime novel about that place. Welcome to Ventura. Where the nearly empty Italian restaurant run by a few local Mexican-Americans had killer eggplant parmesan and a bottle of wine that costs $5.99 at Trader Joe’s goes for only $28.

I won’t mention how lost Gilbert and Steve got, using their GPS, nor how long the Island Packer ferry waited for them. I’ll only say the effort to unload their kayaks and gear and get it on the 9:00 am ferry rivals any NASCAR pit crew. I’ll just say we all got there through a pea soup marine fog, and the fierce park ranger Luisa Cuevas, didn’t yell at me this year. I stayed for the lecture about critters, trash and rouge waves rather than running to the beach to catch our kayaks. I brought plastic. Scrape away.

  We didn’t have all the tents up before Foxy 1 and 2 appeared and stole Steve’s salami. Luisa told you. Never go arm’s length from your food or trash. They circled the fox boxes looking to capitalize on rookie mistakes. I wondered what it would be like on the mainland if people took responsibility for every tiny gum wrapper or piece of food they didn’t want.

Part of the day’s fun would be to show the boys from Oklahoma and a few of the expert river paddlers why we get into sea kayaks and disappear into dark caves on the open ocean. Seeing the wonder on someone’s face as they pass through a tunnel on a swell is a contact high. Or watching them back nervously into a cave to discover an enormous room inside away from the pounding waves at the mouth to discover deep emerald water, birds nesting, a colony of starfish.

Admittedly I was working at half-energy being sick so I wasn’t as aggressive as I wanted to be. I watched half the crew round the point for Smuggler’s Cove and headed back with a small group to an early happy hour. Someone’s gotta do it. I daresay there were few who lasted into the night past three shots of Greg’s excellent tequila or Kevin’s classy Bushnell’s.

We come this time of year not just for the birthday party, but also for the carpet of Spring. Morning fog peeled back as we headed out for a long day of play en masse headed west. The first mile of caves and tunnels lay open to us, but rounding Cavern Point we met a stronger NW swell than anticipated.

When we came to the T-cave, a pass-through cave, Kevin and I didn’t even recognize it. Greg disappeared into it. Kevin kept watch at the other end. No Greg. I paddled back to the opening. Uh Oh. No Greg. Who was going into that funnel version of trash ‘em towers? Hmmm. Steve and I were about to draw straws over me going in for him, when Greg appeared from around the point. Hmmm again. So we were watching the wrong opening! Watching the breaking wave close out the cave at the far end was daunting and Kevin tentatively followed Greg through, carefully and quickly. Those of us waiting our turn saw a set close out on Kevin as he emerged on the other side. One, he was through the crest. The second he went vertical and punched through it, having all the gear stripped off the deck. Attaboy Kev!

We met up with Teresa and Adam at Potato Beach. The Oklahoma boys were a bit green, what can I say. Gilbert was still on a high. He joined Greg, Kevin and I the rest of the way to the last point before China Beach. I couldn’t hide my disappointment that waves closed out the Emerald Room I’d been hoping to show to the newbies. Next trip. But their disappointment was usurped by the thrill of going through the nastiness of the T-cave on the way back!! Pure adrenalin high.

The winds by now were blowing a field of whitecaps across the ocean. Holding out my paddle, riding the wind and following swell, we were easily moving at 3 knots. Happy hour was indeed happy.

Feeling well enough to enforce the traditional sunset march, a posse headed up the trail. The Okies spotted a whale just offshore. The Channel Islands’ prodigious Giant Coreopsis, that blooms for only a month each year, rimmed the cliffs. Gilbert and Adam saw a high peak and headed across open fields for it, clinging to the false hope of my borrowed headlamp with the dim battery. Hours later they came bopping into camp happily funneling our leftovers onto their plates. The fancy wok stir fry Kim and Greg displayed with a masala sauce definitely was classier than the pastas and other dishes the rest of us made, though it all tastes good under a sea of stars on a cold night fresh with eucalyptus in the air.

Splitting the posse the next day, some bolted west on the ocean back to the caves while some of us opted to stretch our legs. Smuggler’s Cove was calm, with crazy ravens dancing in the tidal foam. And the back trail that loops away from the sea cliffs back into the ravines was knee high in places with morning glories, fresh grasses, poppies and coreopsis.

 Remnants of the few families that farmed here until recently were rusted relics in tall grass. The secrets they could tell. What must it have been like? Little shade, surrounded by the ocean, insanely peaceful. Did they adventure? Or toil in isolation? The story of the Chumash, the animals... time to read some books before returning.

There’s the last minute scurrying to get all bags and gear angled for collection by the afternoon boat. Then nap time on top of that gear.

Lucky Gilbert and Steve had another day on the island, but at least those of us who left that afternoon were granted a perfect following swell and two playful humpback whales dancing around a fishing boat. Icing on our perfect weekend birthday cake.

Snow melting into Spring

I gave myself an hour and a half of factoring quadratic equations and trying to remember how to divide square roots. Meanwhile, a pale blue light was emerging through the oak branches. Robins, wrens and nuthatchers were creating a ruckus competing for sunflower seeds outside my window. I threw a variety of fruits and bottles of water in a day pack and headed to my usual morning trail, Stonewall Peak, stunned to find snow still comfortably carpeting much of the hillsides.

Earlier hikers had taken out the cobwebs at face level. The recent high winds had toppled some new trees across the trail. I watched a man carefully clear snow from the final steps leading up to the peak for his less sure-footed hiking companion: such a generous act, I could see she was quite flattered and grateful. From the top, mounds of progressively fading blue led to the ocean. Switchbacks in white cut across the landscape of grey and green trees on Cuyamaca.

 It’s a perfect Spring day when there is still deep snow in the shadows on the highest peaks, but in the canyons below, icy cascades flush into deep green pools one after another under a brilliant sun.

Back in the parking lot at Paso Picacho…too early yet to go home. There’s work there. I could always lie around reading maybe. Neither was appealing. This would be an excellent time to test the veracity of my tires on 13 miles of unpaved county backroads.

As it was already late morning, 20 cars had beat me to the intersection that marked the trailhead to Three Sisters Waterfall. Remote, my tuckus. The metal gates were decorated with empty glass and plastic bottles. Next time I’ll bring a garbage sack to clean up after my fellow humans.

I wanted to cloak myself in the shade of the tall oaks on the ridge as I headed down that dusty red dirt excuse for a trail into the canyon. The pitch of this path puts the Saddleback to Cedar Creek Falls trail to shame. I’m just saying. There’s always the surprising fashion parade of other hikers that makes you wonder: long white skirt (how long would it stay white?), bikini and hiking boots (not a bad idea), no shirt and tight jeans (bad idea), carrying a small dog (really bad idea). I helped one woman in ballet slippers find footholds on the rope ladder/rock section.

Passing the first clear river pool, …okay. The second pool: too inviting to pass up. I ducked through the boulder tunnel to inspect a hint of emerald green water fed by a small but noisy rush of water. No turning back: I plunged gratefully into my first icy bath of the season. Countless warm, flat, smooth, clean rocks ringed the pool. Does it get any better?

People perched on the rock walls above the different Sisters. Strangers helped each other across the slipperiest parts where placid pools became spectacular drops. Another random act of kindness where a wrong choice in foot placement could be an E ticket.

From the falls, one can look across to the red dirt trail that meant hot, dirty effort. It could wait. One more icy dip, then to dry on the warm polished rock.

Eventually, when clouds floated up from the coast cooling things down, it was time. Back on the ridge, at the ring of tall oaks, the new grass beckoned, and my shoulders let go of the pack. The grass smelled like… skunk! Uh oh. From elbow height I saw nothing, and surely I smelled worse than he did. But if I fell asleep now I knew I’d wake to Cruella de Ville perched on my belly fat, so thus ended the siesta.

Walking by the largest oak, what looked like a melting bee hive was dripping from a wound. No bees though, and it smelled like tar. Someone must have discovered oil, plopped an oak down to mark the spot, and run off to get a 30-gallon drum. In the meantime the growing geyser blew off a giant limb, from where it commenced to ooze. That’s my theory anyway. But sadly, on inspecting a different tree, one that had barely any leaves, near the bottom, casings like slugs in the shape of giant one-a-day vitamins lay piled in black sludge. Those dastardly gold-spotted oak borer beetles. It made me want to cry. We have no solution yet to deal with these climate change opportunists.

Of course, once home, I inspected my oaks. Knock wood, no signs of the pests, yet. But the dead trees in the next field have me worried. How long can we hold on to paradise? We just better make the most of every perfect Spring day. And they’re all perfect.