Hope Valley

I know precisely where I want to spend eternity, not in a crypt in some cold, dank mausoleum or in a fancy urn on the mantle or even six-feet underground.  I want my ashes spread under a grove of aspens on a gentle slope overlooking Hope Valley, located on the Carson Pass (Highway 88) about thirty minutes from Lake Tahoe.  Note: The second picture shows the aspen grove.

    I have always considered a mountain meadow to be one of the most beautiful sights in the entire natural world.  Hope Valley is not technically a meadow, it’s more accurate to refer to it as a subalpine valley, but nevertheless I prefer to call it a meadow, so there.  It may be not as majestic as that famous valley east of Fresno, but Hope has all the natural ingredients I love; the glorious aspens, a rich grassy bottom, a meandering stream, and snow capped mountains all around.  What could be better?

    A bit of history...In 1844 none other than those two famous adventurers, John C. Fremont and Kit Carson made the first winter crossing of the Sierra Nevada mountain range.  It appears they must have slogged their way through Hope Valley attempting to find a pass across the Sierra, which wound up being just a little south of the route Highway 88 takes today.  On top of that, the intrepid Norwegian skier, Snowshoe Thompson, traversed Hope Valley in 1856 as he delivered mail to the other side of the Sierra.

    In the spring and early summer Hope Valley is all green and lush and the mountains still have snow on them.  Long about October, the aspens do their thing.  They’re ablaze in yellow, orange and even red, while the meadow turns a tawny color.  In the winter all is covered in a blanket of snow.

    I was there this past October and as you can see in the first picture there is still a thin layer of snow on what must be north-facing slopes.  I ambled out into the meadow, visited the stream, saw a beaver’s dam and soon a sublime peacefulness enveloped me.  I walked over to the aspens and sat amongst them on one of the many boulders.  Up above the ridge a half moon set.  It all felt so marvelously comfortable, so perfect.  And you know what, for me it just doesn’t get much better than that.

Jerome, Arizona

Jerome, Arizona located southwest of Sedona was once a rich mining town where miners carved, dynamited and carted away millions of tons of earth from the surrounding mountains. Mainly it was copper that they were after. The first miners attracted to the area came there during prehistoric times and they were after colored stones. Later on the Spanish searched for gold, but only found copper and they moved on. It wasn’t until 1876 that the first mining claims were filed. Then Jerome quickly went from a tent city to a prosperous company town. It was built on the side a mountain they called Cleopatra. Jerome became a wild, wide-open town, notorious for its prostitution, gambling and vice. It was Jerome’s mixture of ethnic groups, American, Mexican, Croatian, Irish, Spanish, Italian and Chinese, that added a rich flavor to the excitement of its early days. The New York Sun called it “the wickedest town in the West.”
    Jerome was the talk of the Arizona Territory. It made millionaires out of promoters and investors. At first burro pack trains and freight wagons pulled by mules and horses carried supplies in and the copper out. Later, steam engines and trucks replaced them. Fires swept through the boomtown, destroying large sections, but always Jerome was rebuilt. Sometime in the early 1950s, all the mines closed after producing well over a billion dollars in copper, gold, silver, and zinc. The town went from a peek population of 15,000 to a mere 50 people.

    As we drove around, I noticed that many of the buildings cling desperately to Cleopatra Hill and a few of them have actually slid off their foundations. You would too if you were sitting on the 30-degree slope. Gravity and aging is a constant companion in this “village on the move,” (pun intended).
    In 1967 Jerome was designated a Historic District, and a National Historic Landmark in 1976. Today the funky little village is alive, attracting a steady flow of tourists. It’s a place where one can buy works of art and pottery in the more than thirty galleries and working studios and where two travelers from Capitola had a nice lunch, while clinging to a 30-degree slope.

Wells, Nevada

Wells, Nevada is one of those forgettable places. People whiz by on I-80 or stop for gas and probably never remember its name.
    For thousands of years Wells has been a place where travelers pause to replenish. Shoshone Indians, Hudson Bay fur trappers and mountain men camped in the area. Covered wagons traveling the California Trail stopped in the 1800s before tackling the rest of the trail west. They camped not far from what today is downtown, about eighty miles from where Idaho and Utah meet. It was a good place to rest a while. It had a dozen springs and meadows with plenty of fresh water and grass. The area became known as Humboldt Wells and was the source of the Humboldt River, which those wagon trains followed all the way to the Humboldt Sink just outside of what is today Lovelock, Nevada. When the Central Pacific established a division point in Humboldt Wells, a town grew up around it and the name was shortened to Wells.
    Shortly after 6 am on February 21, 2008 a 6.3 magnitude earthquake rudely awakened the residents. Its epicenter was just 11 miles away. Virtually every house, 700 of them and all the businesses sustained some sort of damage. Luckily only three people were hurt. But the historic district along Front Street was devastated.
    March is my usual month to do what I call my walkabout, which is simply to mosey around Nevada and see what can be seen that I haven’t already sighted and to revisit favorite places. After attending Shooting the West in Winnemucca, another one of my favorite habits, I shoved off for Ely, but first there had to be a stop in Wells to see the damage. As I walked along historic Front Street, I harkened back to my last visit, long before the earthquake. I remembered that not all of the buildings were occupied then. Some were definitely showing their age, looking as if the only thing holding them up was their next-door neighbor. I surveyed the damage to these old buildings and thought, “To restore them will be a big job, costing a ton of money and requiring townspeople to unite behind the effort.” Is Wells up to that? I don’t know, but where there’s a will, there’s a way and rural Nevadans are hardy souls who have a lot of grit and determination. They just might pull it off.

Trinidad, a hidden gem

Bet you’ve never been to Trinidad. You’re probably thinking I mean the island off the coast of Venezuela, but I’m not. I’m talking about the small hamlet in Northern California. If you’ve traveled the 101, twenty-three miles north of Eureka, you’ve probably zoomed on by, ignoring the billboards that say “Discover Trinidad.” It’s easy to do; Trinidad is well hidden behind the trees. I ignored the signs until one day I took the off ramp and wow! There sat a funky little village, just the bare necessities, overlooking a beautiful bay.
    Trinidad has two rather famous distinctions: it’s the smallest, oldest, most westerly California town and in 1914 the lighthouse, not the replica shown here, but the one that sits on Trinidad Head, was struck by the highest wave ever recorded on the West Coast. It was the result of an unusually high tide coupled with the force of a violent winter storm. The wave shot up the face of the bluff and literally fell onto the top of the lighthouse, which stood 196 feet above sea level. It burst through the windows and snuffed out the light just as the light keeper was busy working in the lantern room. Can you imagine the look on his face as he turned and saw what he described as “a sea of unusual height?” There was no permanent damage to the building or the light and the keeper had everything back in service several hours later...after changing his shorts, no doubt.
    We love to camp a few miles north of town. Our favorite site is at the edge of a slope overlooking the ocean. In front of us are large bushes, ferns and ivy-covered trees; it’s like being in a tree house. A short distance from shore we can see several rock formations. On one of them a group of sea lions is usually doing their basking routine. They talk to each other most of the time and their barking can be heard quite clearly. They do stop once in a while, probably to rest their vocal cords or maybe to pause and scratch an itchy place. I wonder if they ever think about the noises coming from land? Nah, their thoughts are all about food, rank, sex, and who’s trying to eat me? And then there are the “words” of the big males, “Hey, you quit messing with my ladies.”
    It is great fun relaxing in our “tree house” listening to the barking seals. Trinidad is definitely one of those places that I have placed on my “Come-Back-To” list.

More Trinidad Images

Picture #1 is the residential area of Trinidad. The village is hidden behind the houses to the left of the church at the top, center of the picture.














Picture #2 is a view of the bay looking northeast along the shoreline.
















Picture #3 is a view of the bay and
Trinidad Head looking out to sea.

















And the last picture is the view looking down from the top of Trinidad Head. That is the lighthouse that was struck by the humongous wave.

Crescent Beach, WA

You want to know our favorite place to park our motor home? It’s up in Washington on the Strait of Juan de Fuca at Crescent Beach & RV Park. Their motto is “Surf, Sand, Serenity” and that’s for sure.
    The park doesn’t have a lot of amenities, but the view from the sites is to die for. It’s in a sheltered cove with a half-mile long beach and the strait practically at your doorstep. The area is heavily forested like many places in the northwest and deer often come down in the evening and browse. All of this makes for a very private place to just sit, admire the view, relax and take life easy.
    In the late 1800s, the area was called Port Crescent, which was envisioned as a deep-water harbor for ocean going vessels. Timber freighters were to be loaded with logs bound for foreign ports. Ambitious plans were conceived and put into operation. Port Crescent town site was laid out calling for 20,000 lots on a nearly square grid. They began dredging the harbor and almost immediately misfortune struck. A hidden reef was discovered, making it impossible to continue, so those plans were abandoned, however, the plan for the town continued. Soon there were two saloons, a couple hotels, stores and all the things that went into making a frontier town. Port Crescent continued to exist well into the 1920s, and then the town died when a fire swept through it. A careless beachcomber had left an unattended log burning on the beach. A fire on a sandy beach usually is of little concern, but unfortunately the sand was soaked with oil from the old oil house. The sand caught fire, which spread to the wharf, which spread to one of the hotels and before long all the other buildings were ablaze. Sadly today, all that is left is a postscript in the history books and the old cemetery next door to the RV park. Other than that, there is no trace of the old town.
    We‘ve spent many idyllic days there, looking out at the strait, watching big container ships and atomic submarines go by, flying my kite, strolling along the beach and venturing out, once in awhile, for some sightseeing. We haven’t been back there in a long time, but I’m sure it’s still pretty much the way we left it the last time. One family owns the whole area and they want to keep it the way they found it. And you know, in the case of Crescent Beach, I think that’s a really good idea?

Burney Falls

Situated on the Modoc Plateau east of the Cascade Range, McArthur Burney Memorial State Park is home to a wonderful waterfall. Two large cascades plunge 129 feet while numerous ribbons of water pour out all along the rock wall. The result is unlike any waterfall I’ve ever seen. To the casual observer it would seem that Burney Creek provides a continuous supply of water for the falls. But during part of the year the creek is bone dry and still millions of gallons of water tumble over and seep out through the rocks. One must understand volcanism and how lava flows and about subterranean lakes and streams to fully appreciate why there is a falls even when the stream is dry. All that water in various places underground feeds springs, which provide a year round supply of water for the falls. How much water is there in Burney Falls? How about an estimated 100 million gallons per day! It is one of handful of waterfalls in California that has a good flow throughout the year. It is not the highest or the largest waterfall in California, but it is quite possibly the most beautiful cascade of water, if not the most spectacular in the state. From the falls the water flows down Burney Creek and feeds into Lake Britton.
    Burney Falls was named for a pioneer, Samuel Burney, who settled in the area sometime in the 1850s. Later, the McArthurs arrived and set up housekeeping. The two families saved the land surrounding the falls from being developed, by buying the property and then giving it to the state in the 1920s.
    The waterfall drew the attention of a famous outdoorsman, Teddy Roosevelt, who called it the eighth wonder of the world. I can just imagine him seeing the falls for the first time. The sun glinting off those famous pince-nez, the toothy grin, the riding breeches, his roughrider hat at a jaunty angle. “What do you think of the waterfall, Mr. President?” “Bully....bully falls.” “Beg your pardon Sir, that’s Burney Falls.”