The Autumn Nectar Flow

_

asters

honeybee on goldenrod

After the summer dearth, when the heat and dryness slowed the nectar to a trickle, there comes an autumn nectar flow.

It is the time of goldenrod and asters, and the bees, who've been robbed of their surplus by their beekeepers will top off their combs with thin autumn honey.

Bad gardening

_

Sad, sad broccoli

I've mentioned that I haven't been a very good gardener this year.  

The squash plants withered (though this year so did most everyone else's) and the cucumbers were under constant assault.  

I got small potatoes because I let the blister beetles defoliate the plants in July.  

Deer ate off half of the sunflowers and the Jerusalem artichokes (which have since grown back).  

My greens mostly struggled, though I had plenty of tasty weeds.  

Thai peppers and nasturtium

I raised sugar snap peas for Monica, but it turned out she wanted snow peas, so they mostly went to waste.  Scarlet runner beans I planted had pretty flowers but didn't set a single bean.  

We had plenty of herbs, especially cilantro and I gathered a jar of coriander when it went to seed.  Nasturtium and the Thai pepper plants are happy.  And we've got pesto in the freezer.

Not a bad crop of tomatoes, (at least before we went off to California for 3 weeks and the amaranth experiment collapsed on them).  

The beets look good although the blister beetles are still chewing on the leaves.  I should pull them up soon and pickle them.

Jerusalem artichoke, 12 feet tall

I'm fortunate I'm not depending on my gardening skills for my subsistence.

Fortunately the neighbors have been more diligent than I and they came by this evening with a bag of tomatoes and peppers.  I have some cilantro still going strong, (these were buried so deeply under the vetch that they didn't go to seed with the rest).  With this haul and the Thai peppers I'll make us a good, fresh pico de gallo.

_

Harvesting the Honey

_

Just robbed the bees of some of their honey.  The thievery went quite a bit smoother than last year, when I was on a very painful learning curve.  The key to not getting stung seems to be to use a smoker, bang the bees off each frame in front of the hive (by striking the corner of the frame sharply against a rock or something else solid), tidy up the last stragglers with a bee brush, and have a bee-proof container standing right by to place honey-filled frames into - in my case an ancient Coleman ice chest that I borrowed from my Dad and never gave back.  It may also have helped that I did one hive on Saturday and one on Sunday, so only one was riled up at a time.

This time no stings, and for the most part I was working in a cloud of confused, milling bees rather than angry, hostile bees.

The harvest seems about the same as last year -- maybe a bit lighter.  But still something over 50 pounds of honey taken from two first-year hives.  One of my hives never even filled the first super, so I let them be.

Tomorrow I'll put the wet comb back on top of the hives for them to clean up and depending on how heavy the remaining boxes feel (with their winter stores of honey), I'll start feeding them a bit and check for mites.

_

The task now is to help them get prepared to survive the winter . . .

_

Blackcurrant liqueur

_

The blackcurrant liqueur experiment seems to have been a success.  I finally got around to squeezing the berry-vodka mix through a cheesecloth, and stirred in a couple spoonfuls of sugar.  (I prefer my liqueurs on the less sweet side.)  It's really very nice and Monica and I shared the bit that didn't fit into this antique bottle.

(As for the blackcurrant jam I also attempted back in July -- the flavor is wonderful, but the cooking wasn't long enough to break down the berries obviously, because they are still a little too sturdy to spread.  Still, I'll count that one a success as well.)

And as an extra bonus, the kimchi that had been fermenting in the cellar the whole time we were gone came out delicious as well - spicy and tender and alive - and I had to dig up potatoes to accompany it for dinner.

Time to set the next one into motion . . . 

_

The Armstrong Redwoods

_

the curly bark of madrone 

dessicated moss 

Hiking in the Armstrong Redwoods -- a state nature preserve.

The great groves of the valley floor are crowded with walkers on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend.  I've come once before, a few years ago at a time of year when all was soggy and drizzly and flooded.

Now all is parched and dusty.

bench graffiti

I take the East Ridge trail up and away from the crowds.  

Towering, ruler-straight coastal redwoods are mixed with California bay laurel and madrone.

I have no map, but strike up with a Brazilian woman and she guides me.  She hikes here often.  There are few people on the trail.  The breeze is languid and I am glad for the shade.  

The trail climbs more than a thousand feet in elevation.  Redwoods and laurel eventually give way to dry meadows with live oak and manzanita - until we can step out above the valleys and see for miles.

In hiking sandals my feet are streaked black with dust and sweat.

Buckeye butterfly

From the height you strike out across a saddle to the Gilliam Creek trailhead and down onto the Pool Ridge trail.  You make your winding descent along the deeply folded hillsides -- back among the redwoods and laurel.  These higher trees are not as vast as the giants upon the flat valley floor, but still magnificent.

Butterflies and grasshoppers are the main insects.

Acorn woodpeckers with clownish faces laugh their maniac laughs.  I look for a red-tailed hawk that is screaming - and finally spy the trickster Stellar's jay who is trying to disconcert me with perfect mimicry.

Wild turkeys

A flock of turkey crosses the trail in front of me -- 20 strong -- with reptilian eyes.  A squirrel barks somewhere.

Eventually I part from my guide and take the rest of a twisting trail down and down to the valley floor again, where thousand year old giants loom above the wreckage of the fallen.

Butterflies flicker in the spots of sunlight, and families stroll and marvel.

In Dutch Bill Creek

_

The creek is dry at the end of August.

I am laying on the cool, streambed gravel.  In the cottage, Madi and Diana are house cleaning - I can hear their music faintly.  They are happy, and I hear one of them singing along with the radio.  Each shift of my weight delves my contours deeper into the contours of the stones. Slowly creating a perfect, me-shaped vacuum to fill.  I am gazing up through the quivering leaves of California bay laurel - and above it to the gray-green towers of redwoods. The intoxicating aroma of the bay laurel is riding down the meandering watercourse.  A sprig of wild mint in my breast pocket vies.  A crow croaks and a vulture cruises the blue above the redwoods' ragged crowns.  I can tell it is hot out there, but here in the stones where the breeze flows all is cool.

In the car, riding from San Francisco up to the Russian river, I'd been talking with Diana about spirituality and paganism and how I had been turned away by California New-Ageism - corrupted as it is by a kind of weak-minded anti-materialist consumerism -- and how I hadn't found my coven among the Rhode Island Unitarians.

But on the gravel, in the perfume of bay laurel, redwood and mint, in the thick, flickering green light of August afternoon, in a haze of natural pleasure I find myself in Church, with no need for a coven or for a fellow congregant - unless it be a doe or a lizard or a satiated mink.

Eventually, I rise and return to my friends.

_

Delivering Porter

_

photo: Cate School

On Tuesday we delivered Porter to the Cate School for 10th grade.  Anna and Alberto met us there with the luggage we'd left with them during our travels to the Sierras.  The Cate seniors come a day earlier and are there to help each student with getting oriented, hauling bags, etc.  The returning sophomores and juniors arrive the day after.

We all helped Porter move into his room.  It's small, but comfortable -- wood paneling and french doors that open onto a small balcony.  And battered enough to feel comfortable in -- including scars that showed where a former student may have been throwing shuriken against the walls and a spot where the phrase "butt cheeks" had been carved into the wood.  "A testament to the maturity of Cate students," as one of the returning students remarked.

The Cate students, the faculty and staff are a likeable crew.  And Porter, despite a bit of nervousness showing through in the past few days - was clearly ready to get himself involved in it.

It's a pretty school -- sitting along citrus and avocado groves upon a mesa -- above the beach town of Carpinteria and below the Santa Inez mountains which rise above it in chaparral-draped stone.

The headmaster charmed with his stories, the admissions director gave her pep talk, the faculty introduced themselves.  We met teachers and advisors and other parents.  As they said, you are not losing a kid, so much as gaining a whole set of allies in raising him.  We'll see.  I think it will be a good thing.

Porter's crew

the abuelo, Alberto

Porter on his balcony

_

Lake Tahoe

_

Summer Vacation:

dead tree above Cascade Lake

By Friday smoke from the raging Rim Fire filled the Tahoe basin and the mountains across the Lake disappeared into the haze.  Tahoe's blue sky and blue waters a familiar visiting place to Monica, and she was the most disappointed by the shrinking vistas.

Our hiking became much less ambitious - a half mile nature trail around "balancing rock" and a mile and a half walk to see the falls that give Cascade Lake its name.

Although the cascade creek had dwindled to a trickle, it was fun to walk the scoops and channels that a million spring thaws had sculpted into the granite.

Saturday we swam at a sandy Tahoe beach in Rubicon Bay, and spent the day relaxing.  We had planned to visit friends in Sacramento and San Francisco.  But since we were going to be dropping off Porter at boarding school on Tuesday, we chose to spend time together as a family.

Porter was getting anxious about the impending arrival, and took breaks from reading The Hobbit by reading his new school handbook.

smoky vistas

Being travelers at heart, Monica and I tend not to stay in one place for long when we go on vacation, so it was a rare treat to spend some down time before the bustle of the new school year.

We had to remind ourselves to start loading Porter up with good advice . . . 

a dry cascade

balancing rock or dreaming tortoise?

_

Velma Lakes

_

After our Tuesday hike by the Gaylor Lakes, we drove deeper into Yosemite National Park, down the dramatic high valleys to Olmstead Point where you occupy heights above the famous Valley and see Half Dome looming in the distance.  Lunch was a picnic of fruit, cheese and sandwiches along Tenaya Lake, where travelers rested along the sandy beach. Stellar's Jays and Clark's Nutcrackers watched for their opportunities from the pines.

We drove back over Tioga Pass, and down the stony valley.  In his imagination Nico designed the castles and battlements that should be perched upon the cirques and crags.

Family friends of Monica own a little cabin on the southwestern shore of Lake Tahoe, and they were lending us the place for the rest of the week.  We arrived in the drizzling evening.  After a couple of hours of driving I'd developed a touch of altitude sickness -- a headache and lethargy.  I'd suffered it once before - the only other time I'd traveled from sea level to the mountains and then hiked above 10,000 feet.  Fortunately, Monica was unfazed and set about settling in and cooking a dinner.

On Wednesday we explored the shore, strolling a nature trail, picnicking among the boulders (until the thunderstorms chased us away).  At the cabin all the electronics got stowed and we played cards and read books.

Thursday was our most ambitious hike up into the Desolation Wilderness.

The hike up to Middle Velma lake and back is about 10 miles all told.  The first two miles are mostly uphill - climbing 1600 feet past Eagle Lake to the high country beyond.  From there the trail wends up and down through the barrens and groves and twisted, gnarled pines.

Although the morning was clear, smoke from the fires to the west and south gradually began to haze the air - and the smell of smoke sometimes stung the nose.  

We pushed on past the reedy banks of Upper Velma lake to Middle Velma Lake, where a scramble down the hillside brought us to the water's edge.  We ate our lunch and Monica and I both swam out to one of the small islands that stud the water.

The cool breeze dried us quickly when we climbed back out.  Except for the ducks and the dragonflies, we had the lake to ourselves.  Porter wandered off to explore, while Nico took a nap upon a rock.

It was the descent back down to the trailhead above Emerald Bay that really took it's toll.  Two miles of downhill strains the knees and tendons, and we were all weary and footsore by the time we got back to the car.  But the soreness would gradually give way to a tired satisfaction that we'd managed to climb to the high country, however briefly.

_

Gaylor Lakes

_

Summer Vacation . . .

On Monday the 19th we left Glendale - where we'd been spending the weekend with Monica's father and sister Anna.  We drove north along the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada mountains.  I've never seen it so free of snow.

On Tuesday, we took the Tioga Pass up to Tuolumne Meadows.  The highway, which is closed by snow most of the year, climbs and twists 3,000 feet up a great gorge of naked granite.  It crests at 9,934 feet on the eastern entrance to Yosemite National Park where it reaches a valley of open meadows and lakes.

But we were anxious to get even higher and we climbed the ridge to the Gaylor Lakes.  (We were soon wheezing and gasping in the thin air.)  A young mule deer placidly ignored us, grazing beneath the pines along the trail.

Beyond the crest of the ridge is a valley with a pair of beautiful blue lakes.  An osprey was cruising above.

The granite mountaintops range all around, and the meadows, even in parched August are filled with wildflowers -- ground lupines, paintbrushes, gentian, daisies, asters.

The watercourse between the lakes was dry -- brown-stained rocks. A tiny frog hopped there.  A troupe of rangers was digging up the trail that wound along it -- laying in a substratum of rock under the trenched meadow humus. 

Above the work crew, chipmunks and ground squirrels were active in the rocks along the trail.  Yellow-bellied marmots kept their distance.  Titmice and warblers stayed close to the clumps of trees and shrubs - and disappeared entirely as a peregrine falcon flew past.

Tart currants could be plucked from under the shrubs, and bumblebees were busy in a greenish-yellow thistle blossom that was splayed close to the ground.

At the top of the hike, above the upper lake are the ruins of a mining settlement - the Great Sierra Mines.  A handful of stone hovels and storehouses - only one of which still boasted a stone and timber roof.

And at about 10,800 feet the Sierras stretch out before you.

Nico snaps a picture

There were rumors among the hikers that fires were out of control along the western slopes,  but no smoke had blown into the High Sierras at this point.  Our only concern were the thunderstorms that were springing up every afternoon.

Lower Gaylor Lake

Sierra gentian

unidentified streamside wildflower

_