Tour de Mont Blanc: Rivers and Rocks

On the Tour de Mont Blanc, you were never far from some sort of river. There were streams you could leap over, deep gorges you had to cross via suspension bridges, sightings of waterfalls as you rounded corners and glimpses of icy blues and glassy greens through tree branches. Each day we crossed water at multiple points. These crossing were aided by bridges of all sorts--skinny bridges held by swaying ropes, ancient bridges of cobbled rock, wooden bridges recently painted and makeshift bridges composed of single boards balanced (sometimes precariously) over raised rocks. At times the river water was brilliant blue; other times it was milky green. When the water ran fast, it was frothy white; and at slower points, it was steely grey or muddied brown. The rivers crossed countries. They zigzagged and meandered; gushed and pooled. Sometimes the trail hugged the tour's rivers. Other times the trail furled away from them. But never for long. Each day, again and again, your travels were punctuated with that sound of water over rock (rushing, trickling, flowing, lapping).

Rocks were another constant. They rose up on either side of you, forming hillsides and distant mountains. They were underfoot--as small bits of gravel ground into dirt by the summer's hikers or smooth slabs of rock deposited during the Roman empire. Their colors were varied--bright orange, deep blue, liquid silver, nearly black, white with flecks of gray and gray with stripes of white. Rocks were assembled into teetering cairns, sturdy huts,  piled offerings to lost hikers, protective walls for windy summits and other, more frivolous arrangements. They made sounds--crunching, falling, jostling, echoing. Some were so large they took your breath away, while others were small enough to be examined in the palm of your hand. They were jagged and craggy; they were polished and smooth. They resembled things: stern faces, whimsical animals, little hearts or broken glass. There was no way to see them all but that didn't stop you from trying. 

This is my (small) tribute to the many rivers and innumerable rocks of the Tour de Mont Blanc:

They're forever changing; they've been around forever.

Fall Hikes

Hiking the Central Coast in October is warm afternoons, dazzling sun, jean shorts and sunglasses, trails to yourself, sweaty climbs, dusty paths, leaves underfoot, intervals of cool shade, dogs with long tongues, occasional yellow trees, blue skied vistas, fog rolling in, parkas on the drive home and a sound night's sleep.  This October we visited Loch Lomond Recreation Area in Felton (the day before it closed for the winter) and the Cruikshank Trail south of Big Sur.

Below are some photos from our fall hikes:

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I think the hiking is one of my favorite parts about living here. The weather is almost always perfectly suited for it. And there are hundreds of beautiful places to explore.  I only wish more places allowed pups . . . But I'll happily take what we can get because there's not a lot of things in life that beat a long, hard hike with your very best dog. 

Adventures with Dog: Hiking in Almaden Quicksilver Park

The other weekend C and I took Buckwheat on a hike through Almaden Quicksilver Park.  In Almaden Quicksilver Park there were bushy green trees, fields of waving grass, vistas of little houses and patchwork hillsides, old mines and dilapidated buildings and winding paths with wildflowers around almost every corner.  There were also mountain bikers (one of which almost his us while barrelling down a hill), a couple of horses, a handful of trail runners and of course, other hikers.  The park was so big though, that most of the time it felt like we had it all to ourselves.

Halfway through the hike we stopped and had bagels and lox at a picnic table with a view and felt pretty happy about our choice for the day.  Three quarters of the way through the hike, we asked ourselves why we chose to take a 7 and a half mile hike the day after a 10 mile run--our legs were tired and we were ready to be back at the parking lot.  But Buckwheat was a happy camper the whole time--trotting from scent to scent, only slowing when he noticed me fall behind to take photos . . .