Mexico / Yosemite / Downieville / Lassen / Baja

****

Mexico Travel Tips
9/29/08

I recently returned from my seventh trip to Mexico, and having climbed, sailed, and surfed throughout the country, came up with a few tips for travelers headed that way:

*Before your buddies insist on calling everyone they meet a cabron — even the cashier at the supermarket — be sure they know exactly what it means. (See the urban dictionary.)
*Save those beer bottles. Beer’s cheap in Mexico, especially since two empty glass bottles are worth as much as a full beer. Here’s to recycling!
*Lookout for coconuts! Coconut trees are 99% awesome, 1% terrifying. Por que? Because those coconuts are like cannon balls, 80 feet up. Nappers beware!
*Acclimatize slowly but steadily. If you do hire a taxi to take you to a trailhead, consider having the driver NOT drop you off in the middle of nowhere at 13,600′ on your second night in Mexico.
*Get a sombrero and have it with you at all times. A sombrero is great for keeping the intense sun off your pretty face, and also for covering up your puny white ass when Pacific waves rip your shorts in half and you have nothing else to wear.
*Bring utensils. When wild dogs eat all of your bread, you will be happy to spoon down peanut butter (mantequilla de cacahuate) and jelly the old-fashioned way.
*Study your taco meat vocabulary carefully. Stomach (tripa), tongue (lengua), and brains (seso), when they are frying in oil, look much like ground beef (carne asada). Rest assured, they taste very different.
*Bring immodium, but avoid using it. For, as Shakespeare said, “‘Tis better to poop too much than not to poop at all.”
*Take your time at the frontera, but not so much that you run out of gas and have to push your car across the border. It is embarrassing to you, the border patrol officer, and your country.
Buenos viajes!

****

Loving/Hating Yosemite
9/13/08

I’m in a love-hate relationship with Yosemite. I love her rocks — the grit, the strength, the steepness, and the sheer size of her granite domes and cliffs. I hate pretty much everything else about her — the goofers taking photos of deer in parking lots, the car alarms going off all night and echoing throughout the valley, and the campgrounds as densely populated as Manhattan. Instinctively, as a climber, I think of Yosemite as the Center of the Universe. Yet I can’t help but find Yosemite an overcrowded, over-managed, spoiled tourist trap. Call me snobby, but when I go somewhere to climb big rocks, I don’t like all that other stuff getting in my way.
Matt and I rolled in to Yosemite on a Saturday afternoon in mid-September. This, I now recognize, was officially a Bad Decision. Why? Because all of the campgrounds in the valley were full. Every site. How the heck does this happen? Do Californians, finding their houses foreclosed, decide en masse to flock to Yosemite and camp there for weeks? Is there some unofficial custom in which everyone with a last name from Baker to Mason holds a family reunion in Yosemite in the summer? What gives?
Luckily, two climbers in a VW van let us crash at their campsite. (I am grateful that in the small world of climbing such behavior is still routine.) After a few drinks and the grubbiest food available at the overhyped Ahwahnee Hotel (it’s big and old and expensive — big friggin’ deal), we did our best to bed down early, so that we could get up at 3am and climb Half Dome the next day. We’d planned to climb an 8-pitch route up the southwest ridge, called Snake Dike, hence the early start.
Alpine starts are always painful. You rub your eyes, look at your watch, and think, why the hell did I decide to get up THIS early? Is it really worth it? Then, because you don’t wanna look like a wuss in front of your good friend, who you agreed to climb with, you put your headlamp on, squirm out of your sleeping bag, shiver a little bit, and start packing up.
At the trailhead, we bumped into two other climbers headed up to do the same route. Go figure: it’s 3:30am, in the middle of the woods, and somehow, while all the world is asleep, you’ve got not just company, but competition. Like I said: showing up in Yosemite on a Saturday in September was a Bad Decision.
Nevertheless, it felt good to huff it uphill. A couple miles in, we bumped into a few more people — going in the opposite direction. Twenty hours after starting their climbs, they were still descending, bad knees and all. Ouch. A little while later, the batteries in my headlamp died, but I was too tired to notice the dim, brown glow. Finally, after stumbling over far too many rocks, I tossed in new batteries, and found myself rejuvenated. I could feel the cold wind on my sweaty shirt, but was warm inside, and eager to keep ascending.
As we rounded Lost Lake, just above Little Yosemite Valley, the sky grew light, and revealed the south face of Half Dome looming before us. It was huge, and blank, and, aside from a few water streaks, featureless. John Muir called Half Dome “the most beautiful and sublime of all the wonderful Yosemite rocks,” and the climbing guidebook calls it “the most spectacular hunk of granite in North America,” and it is. If such a mountain does not inspire awe I do not know what will.
We scampered up a boulder field, through some thorny bushes, and across some 4th-class ledges, until finally we were at the base of the route. Staring up at it, knowing full-well that Snake Dike was a pretty easy (5.7) route, we admitted that our nerves were a bit tattered.
I led the first pitch, which started up an unprotected slab to a small overhang. I put piece of gear in the crack below it, then contemplated the blank traverse to the left. I was definitely nervous. My feet were cold, and my legs were stiff, and the rock demanded that I climb delicately and gracefully. Tiptoeing up, I barely made it to a big hold, and continued up an easy crack to the belay. Matt followed, and then led the next pitch, an exposed traverse off towards who-knows-where. The sun, by now, was just beginning to hit the rock, exaggerating the distance down to the shaded valley below. I followed, somewhat in disbelief, and led the third pitch, another delicate traverse with only 1 bolt for protection. By now I was warm, and no longer tentative. The climbing was glorious — there were just enough features to dance up — and I couldn’t get enough of it. At the end of the traverse, I reached the dike itself — a nobby orange stripe of rock about a foot wide, which sticks up above the rest of rock by a few inches. It wasn’t quite a ladder, but it was close. Up it I continued, all smiles. I’ve been climbing for 15 years, pretty much everywhere in this country. and haven’t ever climbed a pitch that stellar. I couldn’t contain myself.
Matt and I swapped leads as we climbed quickly up the dike. The climbing was easy, and the exposure was horrific. On most pitches there was only 1 bolt between anchors, meaning we regularly climbed 75 feet up with no protection. The route redefines the word “runout.” You’d have to really goof up to fall, but if you did, it wouldn’t be pretty.
At the top of the 8th pitch, we squeezed into a 4-foot wide horizontal chimney, and untied from the rope. We took off our climbing shoes and harnesses, and lay there, basking in the ascent as we ate sandwiches and nibbled on cookies. We were already well above the top of El Capitan, which was visible in the valley 4,000 feet below. Above us lay another 800 feet of low-angle slabs — a calf-burner to the very end.
Upon arriving at the the summit, I remembered I was in Yosemite when the love/hate thing came back with a vengeance. You know you’re in Yosemite when hordes of people break out their cell phones on the summit (”Hi honey, I’m on top of Half Dome!”) And you know you’re in Yosemite when you begin descending the cables route, which is the only trail on which I’ve felt like I was stuck in traffic. And you know you’re in Yosemite when, up ahead on the trail, you hear two women screaming, “Bear! Bear! Bear!” as they hide behind a log, and you just kind of laugh as you walk by, casually, because you know that the puny little bear cub wouldn’t harm a thing. And you know you’re in Yosemite farther down the trail, at Vernal Falls, where crowds of people are taking photos of every leaf, rock, and bird around. And you know you’re in Yosemite when, finally, back in the valley, there are people taking photos of deer peeing in the parking lot, and little kids running around and driving their parents crazy, and car alarms going off in the distance, and overconfident squirrels stealing bits of food beneath your table, at which, sore-footed, and red-faced, you’ve settled in for the post-climb trifecta of pizza, beer, and ice cream, and you feel so glorious, so totally blissed-out, 12 hours and 17 miles after you first set out into the mountains, that you realize you still love it.

****

Downhill in Downieville
9/12/08

Here’s to Santa Cruz Bicycles, for successfully putting a La-Z-Boy on wheels. And here’s to September, for providing perfect riding days — fresh, crisp mornings, warm days, and few post-Labor-Day tourists. And here’s to the Sierra Buttes Trail Stewardship, for having devoted thousands of hours to building some of the best mountain bike trails in the country in Downieville, California.
Friends had been urging me — “Dude, you gotta go ride in Downieville!” — for so long that I sorta stopped hearing it. It became static. Mere background noise. “Yeah, yeah,” I said, “One of these days…” Now that I’ve ridden there, I can’t stop thinking about it.
I rolled into town from the East, dropping down the Yuba river valley from the Pacific Crest, unaware that they made such curvy roads in California. Finally, I crossed a one-lane bridge, saw a brick saloon on the corner, and figured that had to be it. And what a reprieve from the rest of California! Downieville is a tiny little hamlet of a town (population 325), with no pretense, no chain stores, no fluorescent signs, and no traffic, nestled in a narrow valley up in the mountains.
I unpacked my stuff as fast as I could, put on my bike shoes, bike shorts, and jersey, grabbed my helmet and gloves, and raced over to the bike shop, just down the street. I rented a badass, full suspension Santa Cruz Blur LT2 (my La-Z-Boy on wheels), and signed up for the 3:00 shuttle up to the Sierra Buttes. Now, I’m as game as anyone to ride up hills, but $20 for a ride from 3,000 feet up to 7,200 feet is too good to pass up. It’s like a ski lift for bikes, without the crowds or hullaballoo of a ski resort.
I hopped in a van with four other guys who’d ridden at Downieville a lot, and couldn’t stop talking about it. For the next hour, as we headed up, they suggested trails, and other trails, and variations on other trails, telling me to turn left after the foot bridge, but to cross the fire road, and not to turn right too soon afterwards, etc. etc., until I was totally confused. “I need a map!” I countered.
Up at the top, once we all piled out of the van, Wayne, who runs Yuba Expeditions and has been riding in Downieville for 18 years, busted out a big topo map. He began recommending a ride to the guys. “OK, here, you’ll get TOTALLY worked” — he pointed to a spot on the map — “And then here, you’ll regret every decision you ever made.” When he explained that this was only the first half of the ride, I stopped paying attention. Eventually, once the other guys calmed down, Wayne showed me the classic ride: the Sunrise trail, to Butcher Ranch, to 2nd Divide, to 1st Divide. It was 17 miles long, and all but 300 feet of it was downhill. Perfect.
The first bit of trail was dusty, with occasional jagged rock outcroppings. I entered the woods, and started hopping down roots and over logs and around tight, perfectly banked corners. Standing up in my pedals, my legs began burn, and the trail just kept going. I crossed a fire road, rolled into a green valley, and started riding over baby heads (aka small loose rocks), and still my legs burned. The trail kept desending. Every once-in-a-while, on a smooth stretch, I could sit down and rest my legs, but not often. I splashed through a stream, bounced over a bunch of jagged rocks, and started taking turns faster. It seemed I’d been riding downhill for hours. Everything was passing by in a blur. All of a sudden, the trail made a sharp turn to the right, and I miscalculated. I tapped on the front brake, turned my wheel to the right, and was airborne. The blur went away. My arms, out in front of me, stopped shaking. It grew quiet. My legs were free. The woods were still. I felt weightless. And then I landed, ass-over-teakettle. I did a little roll, and shook the dust off of me as I stood up. Lesson learned: don’t touch the front brake.
From there, I crossed a foot-bridge, and rode through some dark, leafy sections of trail. Then the trail narrowed, and followed a narrow rocky ledge high above the river below. I was riding on dinner plates – flat pieces of slate — and had to walk a few burly sections that were definitely no-fall zones. Still, down I rolled. I met up with a fire road, took a right, and hung a left at the bottom — back onto a narrow trail. More narrow ledges. More tight turns. And then leaves and pebbles whizzing by, and the setting sunlight in my eyes, and one last turn — and then pavement. Back to Downieville. Holy shit.
I jumped in the river, put on a pair of jeans, and then ate like a king. I wholeheartedly recommend the pineapple-strawberry concoction at Smoothieville, and the fish tacos up the street (there are only four restaurants in town.) I recommend the local supermarket, too, in part because there’s a full suspension Santa Cruz Heckler for sale ($1300) in it. That’s my kind of supermarket.
The next morning, after fresh-squeezed OJ (here’s to California) and a giant, hot, cinnamon roll, and a whole mess of eggs, I hopped in the van again and headed up for another descent. I didn’t bite it this time, but the guys I were riding with got a couple of flat tires, so we stopped a lot. It was a good excuse to give the legs a rest.
Back in town, I bumped into one of the mechanics from the bike shop. He was busy picking bits of bark off his bike, because earlier that day he’d crashed into a tree. Nevertheless, he reassured me it was cool to ride the 3rd Divide trail at 40mph. Since my legs were too mushy to do much else, I poked around town.
There were lots of BHRMT’s (Big Heavy Rusty Metal Things) scattered about — mining tools and gaskets and pumps and other remnants from the Gold Rush days — even gallows. Over the years, $30 million in gold has been found in the hills and creeks near Downieville, and 150 years ago, when the gold rush was on, Downieville was a busting town. In only a few years, it grew from a few cabins to a town of 5,000 to a town of 16,000 residents — making it the 5th largest city in California, and one of the most prosperous. So prosperous, in fact, that Downieville became a serious contender to become the state capital of California — losing out to Sacramento by only 10 votes.
Thank god Downieville lost. It’s definitely better that way.

****

Zipping up Lassen
9/11/08

When you go to Mt. Lassen, be sure to drive a fast car, because the roads up there are open, hilly, and paved like glass. I rented a Mini Cooper for the journey, and do not regret my choice. Shortly after leaving San Francisco — and its traffic — behind, the thermometer and speedometer were in the 90’s. I was listening to the blues on the radio, but not feeling very bluesy, because I was headed north, into the mountains.
Before entering Lassen Volcanic National Park, I stopped for some grub in Mineral, CA (population 90). At the door, there was a giant wooden bear carving; on the walls, mounted deer heads; and on my green placemat, drawings of moose. If I hadn’t already known I was next to a National Park, I’d have been a moron not to realize it. It’s somehow reassuring that so many of our national parks, as diverse as they are, exude the same woodsy theme.
Lassen’s a lot like Yellowstone, in that there are geysers spewing stinky sulfurous steam out of the ground, spectacular meadows, lakes, and ridges in every direction, and views so big you wish you had a bigger windshield. Lassen’s a lot unlike Yellowstone, though, for its lack of crowds. As I zipped up and over the shoulder of Mt. Lassen, it was just me and that big tachometer. I like to think that I gave the Mini a good workout.
I camped next to a lake, and struck up a conversation with the campground host, who knew exactly when the first snow would come: September 28th, she said, exactly one month after a certain grove of Aspens turned yellow. I don’t doubt her. I woke up before sunrise the next morning, and shivered my way into the Mini. It was above freezing out, but just barely. Twenty minutes later I was at the trailhead, wondering why I hadn’t brought anything besides a pair of shorts. Oops. At least I had a jacket.
The trail up Lassen is easy and fast — so easy and fast I wondered if I coulda driven the Mini up it. But I wanted my own workout. It’s 2.5 miles, and 2,000′ up to the top (elevation: 10,500′), and took about an hour. Halfway up the trail the sun popped up, casting a huge shadow of the volcano off to the west. Switchback after switchback, the shrubs grew smaller, until all that remained was a huge jumble of volcanic rocks. As I neared the summit ridge, the wind picked up, and tried to blow my hat away. I passed a lava flow from the eruption in 1915, and a chunk of dacite regarded as California’s youngest rock (only 93 years old). And then I was on top, and could see Mt. Shasta to the north, and endless ridges off to the east. I expected to see someone else up there — but it was just me. I had the whole mountain to myself, which is just the way it should be.

****

Baja Surf Vibes
8/28/09

You can tell Bill’s been coming to Baja for 50 years by the way he hauls ass through the Mexican desert in his van — cutting turns, passing everybody, stopping only at the best taco shack — doing everything possible to get to his beach-front surf camp, about 200 miles south of the border, as rapido as possible. When I say “beach front” I mean it; I’ve camped on the beach many times and slept farther from the water than I did at Bill’s camp.
Since I’d tried surfing only once before (unsuccessfully, years ago), and couldn’t have told you what side of the board the wax goes on, I was psyched to be under the tutelage of Bill and his business partner, Roger. Bill, aka Baja Bill, aka Guillermo, speaks with the tone, drawl, chuckle and goofy stutter of our esteemed presidente, but the resemblance to W. goes no further. Answering his phone, he says, “Yo… que onda?!” He’s got a barrel chest, a graying goatee, and leathery skin, and I rarely saw him without sunglasses on his head. When he refers to himself as a “twelve-year hippie,” you believe every day of it. Roger, who runs the biggest surf school in San Diego, looks like Bruce Willis, but is, I believe, much mellower and humbler. “I have a clear head from 7am to 9am,” he once said. “The rest of the time, I’m fucking lost.”
I’d headed down to Baja with 4 other surfers – two couples from Orange County — on Friday night, and after eggs and pancakes Saturday morning, Team OC was rearing to go. So my land-based surf lesson was muy corto. No matter. With a pile of old surf mags as my textbooks, I was told that there are five principles to surfing. I don’t remember what they are, but I do remember that Roger said it’s about balance and power, and that sounded good to me. I did some balance drills on an Indo Board, and practiced popping-up on the ground (from push-up to squat position, in one fluid motion), and that was that.
We drove north on a dirt road a few miles, along an unpopulated coast, passing nothing but pelicans and cactus and mucho ocean. Crowded around here would mean 5 other people within 10 miles. We stopped, and hopped out, and put on our wetsuits. Air temp: 75. Water temp: 65. We scampered about 20 feet to the water, and paddled in, and then, before I knew it, I was focusing on what to do. Get in the right spot. Turn around. Paddle hard. Pop up. Keep your knees bent, and hands forward. Keep your back straight, shoulders back, and head up. Enjoy the ride… And just like that, I was surfing. I caught about a dozen waves before coming back all smiles. Back at camp, we gobbled up tacos, and put back some beers, and took a proper siesta. Whether or not you use the language of “being stoked,” and “feeling the vibe,” and “riding big waves, bra,” there is a glow that comes from having balanced yourself on a board, while balancing that board on moving water.
The wave gods didn’t smile upon us after that morning, but it didn’t matter. I read a book, and tossed a frisbee, and played some ping pong, and ate well (salmon and steak). I watched a lot of stuff: the swell rolling in, pelicans diving for fish, thunderheads growing over the mountains, palm fronds shimmering in the wind, the sun setting, and the moon rising. We drank tequila, and sat around a warm fuego, and talked of old watermen, and Hawaiian surf legends, and how waves come to be named after women, and what happens when cars break down in the middle of nowhere, as they tend to do. I slept listening to, and dreaming of, the ocean.
On the way back to the states, Team OC asked if Bill wanted to surf one of the classic waves in San Diego, and Bill reminded them that he hasn’t surfed in the states for 10 years. If I had a place like Bill’s, I wouldn’t surf anywhere else either.