I spent this weekend visiting my other friend Jason in Houston, Texas. One of the many items on my to-do list while in the area was to see the Gulf of Mexico. The drive to Surfside Beach takes about two hours from Houston, but is well worth the investment.
After paying the parking fee, we drove out onto the white, sandy, seaweed-covered beach to find a decent parking spot. I say that seaweed covered, but in truth there was only a rim of seaweed on the shore.
My first look at the waters of the Gulf was a little surprising. The water was a sandy color, as opposed to the tropical blue, which I had envisioned. The waves seemed to continually crest and roll into the shore. The sea is untiring.
I couldn't resist the chance to ride these small white caps. They were small, but a few of them swelled past five feet tall. I ventured out into the salty abyss, wandering about a hundred feed from the shoreline. There is an amazing difference in the water level between two waves, when the water level is near my knees contrasted to the wave itself when, I am lifted several feet off of the bottom.
The waves did not seem to diminish in either frequency or strength during the two or so hours that we spend there. However, there is something to be said for letting the ocean have its way with you. The sense of something greater than yourself is ever-present. As I allowed the waves to carry me, several of them struck me with such force as to allow the undercurrent to pull me under. One particularly strong wave had me doing flips under the water. The experience is exhausting.
I made my way to the shore in order to dry off and soak up some rays. I was surprised to see tiny clams digging back down into the sand after each wave uprooted them from their homes. Life is everywhere here.
After drying off it was time to head back to Jason’s house. Alas, my wave-riding adventures had come to an end.
As this was my first time in a kayak, I was understandably timid. My friend Jason who was accompanying me on this little expedition had taken his boat out onto the waters of the Sparks Marina the week before. He informed me of how unstable the long, narrow craft seemed at first. After a pleasant and uneventful drive to the lake, which is about 35 miles North of Reno, we arrived at the tribal police station and each purchased a recreational pass for the day
We first put in at a nice, calm beach that I had discovered the year before. I put my life jacket on, put the paddle together, and proceeded to carry the forty pound boat out to the chillingly cold water. While the air temperature on this beautiful, sunny day was in the low seventies, the water had barely risen above the memory of its long winter freeze.
As I committed my body weight to my sleek, red kayak, I found that Jason was indeed correct about the stability. The slightest lean could have catastrophic effects. I thought about how unpleasurable falling into that frigid water would be and assured myself that it would not happen.
Maneuvering a kayak is quite challenging at first. . It almost seems that the paddle is more of a hindrance than a help, but after a short time one begins to realize that the boat, the paddle and the paddler must become a unified being, if control and stability are to be established. That is not to say that I have achieved this level, only that I realize that I will need to.
We paddled around this area on the Southwest corner of the lake for an hour or so, never going more than a quarter of a mile or so from shore. As I was beginning to feel a bit more confident in my ability to keep from capsizing, I suggested that we reload the boats onto the rack I had fashioned in the bed of my truck and drive around to the other side of the lake. There we could paddle out to Anaho Island and the actual pyramid for which the lake had been named.
The acceleration of these man-powered boats is amazing. In no time we were back on the shore, loaded up, and on the sandy dirt road leading down to the Eastern shore. The road was challenging for my two-wheel drive and seemed to be about ten miles long. This area around the Eastern shore is true desert with practically zero vegetation. Finally, we traversed a rocky section of the road, moving as slowly and carefully as my truck would go, which seemed to herald the last hurdle before reaching the shoreline.
This side of the lake is muddier and more a home for algae than the other side. After doing my best to walk on the steep roads and slimy shoreline, we got the boats in the water and we were off.
On the calm waters of Pyramid Lake, distance is somewhat deceiving. We paddled at least a half-mile out to the stone pyramid. As we discovered, the stone pyramid is not stone at all, but instead a five-story tall mineral deposit. It smells of sulfur and feels like salt on a margarita glass to the touch. A fellow kayaker, who was trying his luck with a fishing pole, informed us of a water-level hot-spring on the far side of the feature.
Upon his recommendation, we traveled around to see the wonder. In comparison to the massive pyramid, the small human-arm sized outreach was barely noticeable. It appeared as white outcropping just an inch or so above the surface of the lake water. We took care approaching it. I first ran my hand under the surface of the lake directly under the hot water spout. The surrounding water had been significantly warmed by the spring. I was almost afraid of actually touching the spring water itself, but couldn’t resist. Ouch! That water had to be near boiling. What an amazing thing this is.
We made our way completely around the pyramid and then decided to make the now apparent, long trek to Anaho Island. It seemed like the thought, “we’re almost there” crept into my mind countless times before reaching the island’s ancient shore. In truth, it was about two miles from the pyramid and about a mile and a half from where we had left my truck, which now appeared only as a spec.
The shore of the large island was littered with tiny creatures’ shells, broken avian bones, and a hodge-podge of mineral-encased, fossilized rocks. I thought to myself, “when was the last time someone had stood upon this shore? Who were they? And, did they have the same wonder for the majesty surrounding them?” In the distance, I could hear seagulls sound the approach of dusk. It was time to paddle back and return home. As I loaded the boats back onto my truck and drove away, I thought and whispered to myself about returning.
The buildup to doing this was almost unsettling. As the date approached, I forced my mind to focus on the exact moment that I would turn loose of the plane. This seemed to work, as I was calm through the entire affair. Training was given, preparations were made, and then we were off. Of my two companion adventure-seekers, only one gathered enough courage to follow through with the jump
As I leaned out over the plane’s exit hatch with my instructor tied to my back and the parachute to his, I thought, “If there is a moment when my courage might falter, this will be it.” I have always told myself I am not afraid of anything; not death, not pain. In this, my moment of truth, I held my ground and did not hesitate to look danger and death straight in the eye. When the instructor gave the signal, I allowed myself to fall out of the plane, which was 13,000 feet above the surface of the Earth.
The experience of plummeting to Earth from over two miles straight up and at over 120 mph is enlightening. Never in my life have I felt so at peace with myself and the universe. As I assumed that my thoughts would be of death and remembering the greatest times of my life, I was totally wrong. My thoughts were of nothing at all. For perhaps the first time in my life, my mind was at rest; not a whisper, not an image. The reality that I have always been a part of and I were finally one.
The falling itself is not falling at all, nor is it like flying. It is just floating. I did not get the feeling from the bottom of my gut that is normally associated with falling. I did not perceive the rapidly approaching ground as a danger. It all just seemed like normal motion, with the exception that the horizon was now circular at a glance as opposed to being a horizontal line.
When we reached 6500 feet, the instructor signaled me to prepare to pull the ripcord. I began watching the altimeter fastened to my wrist and at 5200 feet I reached back and triggered the life preserver that would allow us to safely touch down to Earth once again. In total, the freefall was about 60 seconds, but time had no meaning for me, as I was outside of time. After the chute successfully opened, we glided to the surface at a comfortable rate for the next five minutes or so. It seemed as though we were just hanging from the heavens. Shortly thereafter, we made a perfect landing, which is to say we slid along the drop zone landing area on our rumps.
After a day’s worth of soreness, it was gone and the memory of the ordeal was safely tucked away in my memory banks and in this journal. One more checkmark has been placed on my “Life’s to-do list.”
I was a little unsure of this hike, at least with regards to what I should expect. The well cut, but stony trail descends to an area along a peaceful creek. At the base of the trail is a water carved cave of magnificent proportions. There is a shallow pool underneath a stalactite-covered roof. In total it is the size of an average swimming pool. At the far end, is a water carved tunnel about ten feet in diameter.
I watch as some adventurers use flotation rafts to explore further into the tunnel. I am very envious that I didn’t bring such an object, as this appears to be quite exhilarating. I will return here someday with the proper gear.
That wonderful, wet cave smell fills the air and the water is as clean and cold as any other spring water that I have ever touched.
Just a few yards downstream is an area that has a floor of what I believe to be marble. It is smooth to the touch and contains the beautiful dark strand patterns that we are all familiar with. This quiet stream has fashioned a canal through the marble over time. It appears now, so perfect as to make one think that it was designed this way. Small minnow have found a place in this canal to call home and dart off as I dip my hand in the cool, refreshing water.
While, as I said, I didn’t know what to expect of this trail, it turned out to be an extremely enjoyable experience.
I think that I shall never see anything so lovely as a tree, or so LARGE! As I write this, I am setting on a log under the shadow of the Agassiz Tree, the tenth largest living thing on Earth. This tree measures 250 feet tall and 25 feet in diameter. It is burnt out from its trunk to about 75 feet up, but this doesn’t keep this granddad of the forest from living on. This one is only an example of how these behemoths can survive forest fires century after century, millennia after millennia.
The feeling of being watched by very ancient things filled me as I followed a well-cut trail to this place. This place feels old; much older than anyplace I have ever seen.
The Sequoias themselves are relatively sparse in this grove, but they are unmistakable. A few adolescent examples make the observer take note, but thirty or so giants demand one’s attention. They make a soul feel diminutive in comparison. The things these grand old keepers of time must have seen!
It is good to note that the U.S. Forest Service has a sense of humor. One burnt out trunk near here is labeled the “Palace Hotel” and rightfully so. This titan of a tree has an area the size of a single-car garage hallowed out by fire. This would make reasonably comfortable living quarters for a man and even comes complete with windows.
I somehow feel that I have become a part of something, which is frozen in time by visiting this place. This experience will not soon be forgotten.
The trail to reach Point Defiance demonstrates well the difference between uphill on good terrain and uphill on bad terrain. As I made my way up a very well cut, but narrow and quite zigzagged path through yellow grass and burs, I was joined by a pair of wild turkeys. They were apparently headed in the same general direction as me, but kept a safe distance anyway.
After about a mile-and-a-half of this serene countryside trail, I reached the summit of Point Defiance. The elevation gained on the way up was amazing in both its magnitude and ease. The summit is crowned by an arrangement of stones with a picnic table in the center. All of which, is tucked away under some small shade trees.
A bit further and I had to cross a small wooden bridge over a dry ditch. Beyond that, the narrow trail merges with a dirt road, which becomes washed out and impassable by vehicle even further ahead. The dirt road curls around the backside of Defiance Point. Far below, the blue-green waters of the serene Yuba River flow by.
Ahead of me, two deer-like animals dart off into the thick brush. I say deer-like because they hopped away instead of running. Perhaps they were antelope. Unfortunately, there is no way to tell, as they are long gone.
Once again, then narrow trail separates from the dirt road and begins to curl around the starting point, but uphill again. This path is covered by stones, which must be traversed carefully. Between the trail and the river, which has once again entered view is quite possibly the largest patch of poison ivy that I have ever seen. I am careful to not step on or break any stems. Hopefully, this attention to my step placement will prevent me from having a reaction to the plant.
Further ahead, a steep dirt path leads down to the gravel-laden riverbank. This river was once a serious destination for gold-panners. Still today, hobbyists try their luck, but it is obvious; this is a perfect choice. The water is shallow here and the bottom is covered with tiny gravel bits.
There are many footprints in the sand here, but none so distinct as the mountain lions; a serious reminder to be cautious. I lean down to wash my face and find myself suddenly refreshed by the cool, clean mountain-water runoff. Wow, I needed that!
I make a thwarted attempt to circle on around via the riverbank. After walking about three hundred yards in the sand and gravel, I am met with a stack of stones and boulders. It appears to be climbable, so I make my attempt. To my surprise, I reach an upper boulder about forty feet above the river and find that there is nowhere to go. I decide to turn back and rejoin the trail.
The sun has set and as darkness approaches, I double-time it back to the trail. I am concerned that I may have taken a wrong turn and may need to return the way that I came, which is quite a ways back. I decide to gamble on my sense of direction. Luckily, I am correct. The trail now begins to circle back to the starting point.
Over the river below, a long, wooden covered bridge provides shade to some swimmers. Rumor has it that this is the longest spanning covered bridge still in existence. Off in the distance, I see my truck in the parking lot and just in the nick of time as it is nearly dark now. Time to head home.
The drive to Big Bald Rock in central California traverses some of the most heavily forested areas that I have ever seen. It lends support to the existence of the Bigfoot Legend. It seems very believable that an unknown species or sub-species of man could be lost in this vast region without a trace.
The area known as Big Bald Rock is truly an amazing sight. It reminds the observer of a playground for the Ancient Greek Titans. Boulders the size of houses set atop a three-fingered summit. Each summit finger itself a gigantic boulder set down in the earth.
I was able and obligated to do some minor rock climbing here. It seems a necessity if one is to see the entire area. Besides, this place reminds me of the now destroyed King’s Chair, back home. The only difference is the size and scope. As with everything in the west, Big Bald Rock dwarfs King’s Chair thousands of times over.
Under one of the largest boulders on the western-most finger, someone has fashioned a primitive dwelling by piling small flat stones up to make walls around an exposed area under the giant boulder. This is probably a party hangout for local teens. It’s a great place for such a thing.
This place for all of its splendor and majesty seems desolate and lonely. I can just envision Sisyphus endlessly struggling to roll a boulder up the cliff side of one of the fingers.
