Hike: Skyline Wilderness, Napa

On my day off Friday I trekked the hour or so to south Napa to meet my Uncle Bill for a hike in the Skyline Wilderness area. The temperature was perfect, 65 and sunny, and we were greeted by rolling green hills, squat trees, and a parking lot full of horse trailers and campers. We started off, armed with backpacks and hiking boots. This is the first sign we saw, and images of “Lost” flashed before my eyes: wild pigs, chasing campers, wild pigs, roasting over a fire, Locke with his knives, chasing wild pigs. Would Uncle Bill and I have a wild pig for lunch?

Even though we were confronted by many dangers, Uncle Bill and I decided to plow forwards, up the hill, into the Skyline Wilderness Area. There were oak trees everywhere, squat things with long tendrils of moss. Not the same as the lush rainforest of the Pacific Northwest, but interesting, nonetheless.

There were rock walls everywhere as we climbed, cutting across the hills. I felt like I was somewhere in ancient Britain, and prepared to see sheep grazing on the other side, chased by a shepherd in a cloak.

The hills were gentle, but provided enough exercise. Not like the grueling uphill hikes through the Mount Hood Wilderness area, but enough to get my blood pumping. Here is a view from the top of one of the hills. Napa is behind me.

When we re-entered the woods we ran into an older fellow named Doyce, with a gap-toothed smile and a Ham radio in his back pocket. He told us he used to be a trail manager here, and pointed out the best route to go.

We kept on going through what reminded me of the Sherwood Forest. My imagination ran wild as I thought about Robin Hood, bows and arrows, and….wild pigs.

After two hours of hiking it was time for lunch at Lake Marie, a brown square-shaped lake. And what’s lunch in Napa Valley, without a bottle of wine?

Then, it was on to the “dangerous” part of our hike. The part that reminded me of the Pacific Northwest. A burbling stream, moss-covered rocks, clusters of trees, and ferns! Still, more brown than Oregon, but I was happy to see a tad more green. The trail switched back and forth over the stream, and we encountered several dangerous crossings.

 

Dangerous River Crossing #1

Dangerous River Crossing #2

Dangerous River Crossing #3

Dangerous River Crossing #4

Enough of that. We got past all the dangerous river crossings with only one wet foot (Uncle Bill). Then we were on to a different type of terrain, our third so far on this hike. Manzanitas!

 

Wrangling a wild manzanita

While we didn’t see any wild pigs, cougars, bobcats, rattlesnakes, or John Lock on our hike, we did see lots of poop, or scat, with Uncle Bill liked to point out, and inspect.

EW! Gross!!! Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to affront your eyeballs with that nastiness. But what do you think its from? A bobcat? A lizard? A rat? Never mind. Onto more beautiful things like…..the deserty, muted colors of California. No more lush greenery out here!

Now, we’re in the Wild West. Where’ s John Wayne?

And last but not least, we went to Ireland. Sort of.

Complete with golf!!

Frisbee Golf!

And that completes our hike through California’s Skyline Wilderness just south of Napa. On our hike, we went through the Sherwood Forest, the Wild West, forded several streams a la The Oregon Trail, Ireland, Britain, the Mediterranean (Manzanitas), and finally, a golf course, and an archery range! We didn’t see any wild animals, but we saw plenty of poop, and drank some Mondavi Woodbridge in Napa Valley.

It was a four hour hike, probably 6 miles or so. Next time I go to Napa, hopefully I’ll be wine tasting!

Getting used to California

So, I’ve been hard on California’s Central Valley, namely, Davis and Sacramento. It would have been easy for me to move here if I was from somewhere like, Mobile, Alabama, or the outback of North Dakota, or the pasty, brown flatness that is Ohio. But no, I came from somewhere teeming with culture, with air perfumed with pine needles and rain, winding rivers, snow-capped mountains, and all the beer and tango you’d ever need. So, I was hard on the Central Valley, and didn’t really give it my all.

Now that I’ve been a few places in Sacramento, I can see that it’s not all bad. I’ve found some really cool live music venues, wonderfully friendly tango dancers and a few good beers (just have to look.) Yes, Sacramento’s version of “The Pearl” or “Northwest” is flat and spread out, but once you know where to look there are some good restaurants and bars. Plus, this week is Sacramento Beer Week, and I’m planning on giving Northern California beers a chance.

The scenery here is somehow muted compared to Oregon. The colors are less vibrant, the air not as perfumed, the water not as good. But, it has its deserty beauty, which I’m trying to get used to. Most of the houses in Davis are made of either wood or stucco, and most have vaulted ceilings and not a lot of windows (to keep out excruciating summer heat). I like that we have an open floorplan, but our house can’t compare to the cute vintage one in Ladd’s.

Our house in Davis

One thing I really like about this house is the kitchen. It’s the biggest kitchen I’ve had, with plenty of counter space and a huge butcher block/cutting board. It’s too bad I haven’t used it much; I’ve had a hard time getting into the swing of cooking with my swing-shift hours.

The kitchen

The floorplan here is very open. From the kitchen, I can look through the dining room to the living room. My desk looks outside at our very “California” back yard, which is a small stone patio, and a “yard” filled with barkdust and native California plants. It’s pretty, in its California way.

View into backyard (yes! that's a palm!)

There’s a gate in the backyard that leads to miles of greenbelt behind our house, which is one of my favorite parts of Davis. It’s always busy with bikers and walkers, so I feel safe going alone. Follow me, I’ll show you what the vegetation is like out on the greenbelt.

Lots of green space in the green belt

Tropicana California

A lemon tree!!

Lemons ready to be picked! (a huge deal for an Oregonian)

The pine trees here look very different from the NW rainforest

Something crazy out of Dr. Seuss!

So, as you can see, the vegetation is pretty diverse and interesting here. Yesterday on my walk I saw a lemon tree, and orange tree and a grapefruit tree, which is very unique for someone from Oregon. There are also pomegranates, all types of nuts, and fruit orchards everywhere. No wonder farmland stretches like stitched blankets every which way.

So, here is where I live, in Davis, California. Weird where life takes us. I never imagined I’d be living in Northern California, 70 miles from San Francisco, 90 miles from Lake Tahoe, 3 hours from Yosemite. There’s lots to explore here, and so I better take advantage of it before the 110 degree summer!

 

 

It’s raining in Davis

I’m sitting at my desk looking out the sliding screen doors to a backyard made of barkdust and shrubs with spear-like leaves. Rain drips in long strings of pearls from the gutter, the red berries bounce and sway. Even the palm tree is thirsty; little drops of rain are getting stuck in its brown woolly beard.

I never realized how much I loved the rain when I was living in Portland. It was just something that happened often, just part of living there, and what we waited for with joy was sun. Now, I feel comforted by the rain, the familiar pitter-patter of a thousand tiny feet against the pavement and my roof.

I’ve been learning a lot about myself while living away from the Pacific Northwest. This is the first time, besides Mexico for three months, that I’ve been away from either Oregon or Washington State. I’ve realized that there’s no place like home. I’ve realized Portland is where I want to be. I’ve realized that even though I’m shy in big groups, that I’m truly an extrovert.

Every day I wake up here, I wonder what I will do all day to entertain myself. Can’t go have lunch with Andrea or Lacey, can’t swing by my Mom’s shop, can’t go work out or wander the mall with my sister, can’t meet up with Annabelle and her two little girls. What I do is this: wake up, drink coffee, go on the computer, go on a walk, eat lunch with David, go on the computer, go to work. I feel rejuvenated when I go out with coworkers at night, or when I can go to tango on Fridays, or talk online or on the phone with friends and family. Yes, I need to be around people, and a variety of people, in order to stay happy and feel my best.

It’s raining today in Davis, and it reminds me of home. The leaves are slick and green, the pavement is dark, the windows are taking a beating. I know that when I go outside for lunch, the fresh air will clear my lungs and spirit. I’ll smell damp earth, feel drops against my cheeks, and feel thankful.

Short Fiction: Leaving

It was dusk, and the woman didn’t know whether it was she, or the earth, that was moving. Emerald grass grayed in the fading light, rounded mountains turned purple in the distance, the bare arms of trees seemed to drip trails of black into the earth. On some level she knew it was her body that was hurtling through space and time, but how can one truly hurtle when the mind is left behind.

The truck rumbled beneath her, its nose cutting through air, wind and bugs slapping the glass. A single star poked through the bruised sky. How could she be here, on a paved road to somewhere cold and wet, when all she could think about was him?

It was as though she could still touch his face, feel the gentle curve of his shoulder beneath her cheek. She wished the human body wasn’t bound by the laws of physics, that maybe if she thought hard enough, maybe squeezed her eyes shut, that she could be there once again in his embrace.

The world continued to blur. This time, two stars made a nest in the sky. She imagined a red-and-white checkered blanket, a bottled of wine, a vintage picnic basket stuffed with cheese and grapes and olives. Sitting there, with him, under one of those black trees as the sun slept and the moon kissed the sky.

She shook her head, tried to erase the dream, or was it real? The weight of the world was behind her, years of stuff, boxes and couches and clothes. She felt as though these things, these memories, would break through the barrier behind her back and crush her. She already felt it, her chest caving in, her heart struggling to beat, gasping for a breath. Was this what it’s like to drown, she wondered? Could one drown in a well of untapped passion?

The woman would never know. Her husband drove this truck. With great effort, she moved her head to look at him. He was the same as he’d been for the last ten years. A strong, cleft chin. A mouth curved like a bow. A craggy face that looked as though it was carved from clay. Black hair, blue eyes like ice. Roped forearms that led to straight, thick fingers that held the steering wheel that drove the truck, away from home, away from her love. The man she’d only seen from across the room. Was it a memory, or a dream?

The cry that curled and slept inside her finally broke free, and her husband looked at her, shock etched along his forehead. He leaned a little to his right, and from somewhere deep inside her despair she felt a finger caress her cheek. With that small and tender touch the memories erupted inside her. Her body shook, bumps crept up her arms and down her legs. Their wedding day on soft, white sand. Chicago playing at the high school prom. A glass of wine, a caprese salad in Venice. The way his kisses left spots of sunshine up and down her back. Then, her brown eyes met his blue, and she knew, this was where she had to be.

The woman settled back in her seat and turned her head to once again look out the window. But now, the world was dark, and she knew, with certainty, that it was she who was moving, not the earth.

Portland, where art thou

Every time I try to write a blog post about Davis, not many words come to mind. Bike paths, lemons, palm trees. Thai restaurant after thai restaurant. A tiny, collegy downtown with dormitory-style brown buildings full of, you name it, Thai restaurants. There’s a Borders, an In N Out burger, an Ihop. There’s even a brewpub (which I haven’t been to yet). But somehow, none of this can compare with the intricacies of Portland. The darkened pubs, each with their own character. The wine bars. Portland City Grill. Hubers. Tango seven nights per week. Friends. Family. Happy hours. Hiking. Neighborhoods that are so different, yet so alike: Northwest, Downtown, Old Town, The Pearl, Fremont, Woodstock, Mississippi, Alberta.

I’ve held off on writing a blog about Davis because my weariness might show. I might seem a little off, a little less upbeat than I was when I was writing about Portland. Because, you see, being in Portland again was a dream come true, but in the end, the city didn’t come through for me. I applied to dozens of jobs, had one interview, but eventually, the lazy lifestyle that is unemployment comes to an end. I took a job where I could get it, in Sacramento, which, unfortunately, isn’t the same as vibrant, beating heart of Portland. It does have a cute, touristy Old Town, and a somewhat interesting Midtown. I guess it’s good for Sacramento, but as I walk the flat, tree-lined streets I can’t help but think, “Is this really Sacto’s version of The Pearl?”

Yes, I’m full of Portland snobbery. I miss the chalky brick-red of the buildings in the Pearl next to shining metallic “modern” bars. I miss the scent of evergreen trees, the wide river, the sparkling bridges, the snow-capped head of Mt. Hood winking between clouds. I miss Ninkasi, Hopworks, Deschutes, Widmer, Terminal Gravity, Migration, Cascade. I miss talking about the difference in hops and alcohol-content in various IPA’s.

I’ve never been good at change, or moving, especially when I come from such a great city. It’s a good thing San Francisco is so close, it reminds me of Portland on crack, with vibrant neighborhoods, interesting people, and gorgeous vistas. But again, I wouldn’t live in San Fran. Too spendy. Inaccessible. Crime-ridden. Busy. Traffic-infested. But it sure is worth a wonderful weekend trip.

I’ve held off on writing a blog about Davis because Davis depresses me. When I wake up in the morning, for a moment, I don’t know where I am. I relish the darkness of my room (because of closed blinds), the softness of my bed, and pretend that once again I’m waking up in Ladd’s Addition, where the sky is a steely gray, elm trees curve over the streets, and my best friends and family members, tango and happy hours, are only a phone call away.

Tango Obsession

Tango Obsession. It sounds like some sort of perfume. Something high society women with pointed noses and long fingers would wear with their crushed red velvet dresses. But no, Tango Obsession is real, and it’s grabbing me around the neck and squeezing.

This week, I’ve already practiced Argentine tango for 5 hours. Over two on Sunday at a casual “practica” at Viscount, and over two last night at a “milonga” at the PPAA. I dream about it, I think about it, the music courses through my brain in a never-ending chant. My back,  my arms, the balls of my feet, my obliques are all sore but I would do it again today. For hours.  I’ll try to restrain myself. There’s work to be done.

Last night was my first real “milonga”, and I felt terribly under-dressed. I tried not to roll up my jeans, but couldn’t help it. My heels kept catching in the long fabric around my ankles. So there I was, in dorky rolled-up jeans and a black shirt, while women all around swirled in black dresses, short skirts, and beautifully colored shirts, their feet tracing patterns on the wood floor, their legs poised and strong. Men wore sport coats, button-up shirts, slacks. Yes, some wore jeans and sneakers, but they, and I, were in the minority. Oh well, that’s how life goes. The dorky tango look didn’t prevent me from dancing almost every set, with my feet killing me by 11pm.

There were many people who stuck out in my mind last night. One, a man over 70 in a sport coat, who gently led me around the dance floor, whispering quietly and laughing in a good-natured way. I learned he has great-grandchildren, and his eyes sparkled when he spoke of tango. I loved one thing he told me, which was, “Men take tango lessons to learn to be trustworthy. Women take tango lessons to learn to be easier to dance with.” It is so true, in a remarkable way.

Trust. The concept brings me to another man who asked me to dance. It was my second time dancing with Carlos, a broodingly handsome man with dark features and a piercing gaze. He didn’t say much, maybe nothing, didn’t smile, just looked at me, held out his hand, and I took it. Immediately, I closed my eyes within the tango embrace. I was floating there, in a moment of space and time, the dance floor filled with dozens of swirling couples. I knew the women kicked, the men turned sharply, but I didn’t care. Trust. For some reason, I trusted Carlos beyond the shadow of a doubt. I knew he would guide the way around the crowded dance floor, keeping me safe. I must have danced with him for over ten minutes, for a tango “set”, which consists of three or four songs. I didn’t open my eyes the entire time. I just let myself be led, and concentrated on the intricacies of the steps, the weight-changes, the subtle shifts from side to side, the strong momentum of forward strides, the front cross, back ochos. If I mis-stepped, Carlos was in front of me, leading the way, not making me feel stupid, or incompetent, or any bit of a “beginner.” All around us, I could hear chatter, laughter, the creak of the floorboards, but it felt as though it were far away, in another dimension, perhaps. I was so focused in the here and now, all my attention devoted to my partner. Afterward, one man said, “I saw you dancing with Carlos. He’s really good.” and I was like, “Uh, yeah.“  Probably one of the best.

And I think that’s one of the most amazing things about tango. It’s meditative, it’s hypnotic qualities, the connection between partners. It’s how humans are supposed to be, I think. Communicating in a way that’s subtle, loving, trusting, and caring. Not like salsa, which is often more about men hitting on women, or women trying to look overly sexy. This doesn’t mean I don’t still love salsa, but I wouldn’t go salsa dancing on my own. Tango I go by myself, and feel like I’m part of a community. I recognize people, they smile at me, I say hello. We’re all there for the same reason: for the love of the dance, the music, the passion, nothing more. Just the haunting melodies of the accordions guiding the way.

I’m going to miss the Portland Argentine tango scene, where one can dance every night of the week. Sacramento does have a tango website with lots of practicas and milongas, which of course, I’m going to check out. And in California, David will learn tango, where I hope Tango Obsession grabs him around the neck and doesn’t let go.

Why NaNoWriMo is good for my brain…so far.

So, yeah, I’m writing a blog post instead of working on my novel for National Novel Writing Month. Too bad these words don’t count for the 3,000 I have to write today. I’ve already plodded through 1,000, so I’m on the right track! Now, all my brain has to do is think, and imagine, and let those words fly free.

Here are my stats. It’s day 10. I have 14,400 words and 55 pages. Most of it is crap, but there are a few gems hidden inside the rocky caves of crapitude. When I’m finished, I know I’ll go back with my hard hat, work boots and pickax, and hammer away until I make my writing shine.  I’ll rearrange scenes, add subtext to others, delete unnecessary dialogue tags and evil words like “that” and “then.” I’ll add words like “crapulent” and “spatchcock.” Then, all my words will make that much more sense.

This experience has been incredible for me so far. I’ve been reading some blog posts where people question the point of churning out 50,000 words in one month. “People should write all year round,” they say. But that’s the problem. Some of us don’t write all year round. There’s some underlying fear, some psychological barrier to allowing imperfection and letting the muse go. I often think my plot has to be perfect, my characters completely formed in my brain before I start. I’m afraid of making mistakes, of writing horrific sentences, of creating characters that don’t make sense. But now, the process of writing every day is defining my characters, allowing me to know them. By the end of this process, I’ll know these characters as well as my best friends, and in my rewrites, they’ll emerge from their faceless balls of clay and become whole, real people. Yes, my psychology major sister studied writers and their attachment to their characters in class. That makes us all head cases, right? Or maybe just in love with our own brains.

I have written some descriptive lines that I like, such as: “The underbelly of the sky had ripped itself open while Charlotte and Tony were inside, and now slivers of blue slashed gray. The sun ran its hands over the city of Portland, shining the buildings until they gleamed.”

And some terrible lines like this, “This beer was all right, but nowhere near as good as a Cosmo. She did detect a little bit of sparkle, though, that matched Richard’s eyes.” That really makes me want to gag. Cheeseball overload.

So, right now my character is creeping around a dark basement, looking for a box with her name on it. It’s scary down there, and cold. I better rescue her and find out what that box has inside it. Yay!

Good luck, my fellow wrimos. How are your novels going?

The ups and downs of NaNo prep

When it comes to my novel for NaNoWriMo, I feel a bit manic-depressive. I’ve gone from loving my story idea, to completely hating it, to loving it, then to changing it almost altogether. One of my main characters is the same, but the female protagonist is different. The story still involves a brewery, but the context where the female protag comes to run the brewery is completely different. And as I go through NaNo, I’m sure my ideas will change yet again. So, here is my idea for now, which is still in the very rough phase, and I haven’t decided whether to tell it in 1st person or 3rd.

————

The story starts in Southern California with 28-year old Charlotte Jeffries, who’s living the fast life. She spends her days on the beach, going out to bars with her no-good, player boyfriend, and smoking pot. She works as a barista and lives with her dad to support her partying habits, but one day she gets a  phone call that will change her life: her mother in Portland, Oregon has been in an accident and is now in a coma. The prognosis isn’t good.

Charlotte has never been close to her mother – she abandoned Charlotte when she was only 7 years old. But her mother’s will leaves an entire successful brewpub to Charlotte – who must try to run it for one year before she’s legally able to sell and keep the profit.

So, Charlotte and her boyfriend Tony head to Portland, which they hate, and try to brew beer. When they fail, Charlottee hires a brewmaster, who happens to be a dashingly handsome, former member of the British Guard. Richard Anderson is 15 years older than Charlotte, which at first gives her pause, but  with his tutelage, she learns to love Portland and brewing beer, and eventually sends Tony packing. (lots of drama with Tony and Richard)

What Charlotte doesn’t count on is her mother waking up from the coma, or learning some terrible secrets about the past. Will Charlotte stay in Portland and run the brewpub with her mother, or go back to So Cal to her old partying ways?

——————

Anyway, that’s what I’m thinking for now, which is quite the deviation from my original plot. I’ve decided that I can’t really pull off the whole humor romance genre. It’s not really my thing, at least, not now.

How do you prep for National Novel Writing Month? Is your story sealed in your mind or is it subject to change? Good luck everyone!

 

National Novel Writing Month

November is National Novel Writing month, which is a frenzied 30 days of pounding out 50,000 words on a book. This often helps writers get out a “crappy first draft”, something they can work with and rewrite, over and over again. It’s often scary to jump into a new novel. I, for one, wants every word to be perfect, which prevents me from writing ANY. NaNoWrMo allows me to write, no strings attached. So what if the sentences suck? So what if the dialogue is stilted? So what if the plot bounces all the way to Mars and back? I believe NaNoWrMo converts into about 1600 words per day, and I’m seriously thinking about jumping in.

I’ve been working and reworking my beer plot ideas in my head. Now, I’m thinking of making Richard own an English pub right down the street, and he and Elizabeth are rivals. When the economic meltdown hits the hospitality scene, the two have to figure out what to do with their breweries, and each other. So, I’m still pecking away at the characters, their histories, and have to plot character arcs for each one. What are the major turning points in this book? What are the major points of drama? What is the inciting incident? My first book I attacked with more of a “Panster” attitude. I had the basic premise, but no details. This book I’m going to be a bit more of a “Plotter”, but too heavy of outlining steals my creativity.

I’m wondering – how do YOU prepare for National Novel Writing Month? Are you going to participate in this craziness? I’m leaning towards it, and am about 70% decided. I know I’ll need a lot of coffee, wine, beer and encouragement. So, I have just 2 and a half more weeks to figure out how to brew beer and run a brewery! Ack!

Hoppily Ever After

So, I’ve been ruminating over my next novel for months now. The plot keeps taking different twists and turns in my  head, and I think I’m going to throw out the first 30 pages I wrote over the summer. My characters keep coming more alive, and at this point, they are struggling to break free of my mind. I wrote a couple pages today, but also wrote a new sketch of the premise. I need a little help. Does this sound like a book that would interest you? I can’t decide if I want to write it from Elizabeth’s perspective, or a combination of Elizabeth and Richard. Both are highly quirky people who would be fun to write, but I’ve never written a man’s perspective before. My first novel was in the first person, so it will be interesting experimenting with a different style. I’d love your feedback on my premise! I’ll probably have to throw more drama in there at some point, but here are the basics:

—————–

There’s a triple-dosage of “wrong” in Elizabeth Anderson’s life. Her parents are divorcing, her dead-end nanny job is unbearable, and she’s had nothing but bad luck on Match.com. It doesn’t help that she quotes “Star Trek” all the time and has an unusual fascination with mustaches. Elizabeth’s ready to give up on love when she spots a “for sale” sign on an empty pub in Portland’s industrial district, and with a loan from her guilt-ridden father, decides to start her own brewery as a way to find a husband. Men like beer, right? Good thing best friend Christina Velasquez is along for the ride- she’s agreed to help manage the place.

The two embark on the tough job of opening a brewery – inventing recipes for the best beers, experimenting on brewing through trial and error, and finally, opening a pub called “Hoppily Ever After.” Men stream in, but still, Elizabeth can’t quell her bad dating luck. Until Richard Finnegan shows up. And stays.

Richard is a former member of the British guard, and a beer aficionado/sci-fi geek. It seems Elizabeth has met her match. The problem? He’s twelve years older, and Elizabeth doesn’t do “old.” But there’s just something about Richard that Elizabeth can’t ignore – maybe its his penchant for going on “sprees” (lunch at The Spaghetti Factory seven days in a row, listening to John Denver for five, watching the Sound of Music for three days straight), or the irresistible way he describes his moods as types of beer. Despite her efforts to keep Richard at bay, Elizabeth finds herself more and more attracted to him.

But then the economy slumps, Elizabeth’s pub goes downhill, and her parents divorce proceedings take a turn for the worse. Elizabeth’s hopes for a wedding and dream marriage slowly drift away and she believes she’ll be alone forever. But Richard is still there, buying beer, sitting at the bar. Can he help save Elizabeth and “Hoppily Ever After?”