CALIFORNIA WATER

I recently returned from a lengthy West Coast road trip — sunburned, tired and geographically enlightened. California is big.

Duh.

But it's one thing to know it's big and another to feel it by spending hours getting from Point A to Point B. Especially if you are moving east to west over mountain ranges or wandering down the coast, where the roads are serpentine, sometimes circular, and seemingly endless. Signs like this aren't uncommon. Rick did all the driving and I did all the panicking (mostly internal) that he was going to roll the van. We thought eventually we'd see a sign that said "0" and directed one to just get out of the car and stand still or perhaps walk in figure-eights. On calmer stretches, I did less panicking and more snacking — on roadside cherries (only $2 a pound!) and coffee.

Even just the northern part of California is vast — and overwhelmingly varied. Snow-topped mountains, ridiculously hot valleys, craggy shoreline dotted with sandy beaches. Pine woods that smell of wild rosemary and lilac (my nose still lusts for this). Dusky groves of ferns and ancient redwoods. Rivers and creeks and waterfalls. Wildflowers everywhere — on the roadside, on sand dunes, on granite cliffs, in marshes, on the beach. In the most likely and unlikely places. Food crops everywhere — untold acres of peaches, almonds, tomatoes, olives. Everything. Rice paddies with neon green shoots piercing the sun-dappled water (I found these especially mesmerizing). Garlic and onion fields that reek for miles. Grapevines to the horizon.

Vast cultivation next to vast wilderness: the perfect lover, in my mind — although I consider California to be already taken, by about 37 million others.

I've been mulling my photos for a week, and today it occurred to me that virtually all of them are of water (in some form) or plants. The others are of rocks, but we'll get to those later since they involve a story that doesn't reflect well on me. Also, there's this: a Pacific banana slug.



Come to think of it, a slug is mostly water and slime, so maybe it does fit the first category. Wikipedia says it's the second-largest species of terrestrial slug in the world. This one, which we saw on a hike through a coastal redwood forest, was about the length of my hand — and gooey. Rick informed me that the banana slug is the mascot for UC-Santa Cruz. How formidable.

So, first, the water.

Yosemite in springtime is all about water. The melting snow creates falling water everywhere you look. Yosemite Valley has some of the highest falls in the world and the largest concentration of big falls. From a distance they're unbelievably scenic and serene, but up close they're scary as hell — and thrilling. They are incredibly loud. They sound more like boulders crashing to the earth than anything you'd normally associate with falling water. If you are anywhere in the vicinity — like even 50 yards away — you feel their icy spray, and if you get really close you need a raincoat. I took a million photos of waterfalls. (Sorry, Rick). Every one seemed like the first one. I don’t know how long you’d have to live there before you stopped saying, “Jesus, look at that waterfall!” every time you went outside. I don't think I'd ever stop.



See me in the picture above? Where I'm standing is in front of the "little" waterfall at the bottom left of this picture:



That's Upper and Lower Yosemite Falls, and this is Bridal Veil.



The falls fill up the Merced River, which roars through the valley. This river, like the falls, was just a trickle when I was there in the autumn, but in the spring it’s a monster. The river’s bed is lined with gargantuan boulders and its banks with white and purple wildflowers. It’s loud and crazy and wonderful.



Elsewhere in the park there are streams and creeks with slower moving — and deliciously cold — water. These lend themselves more to contemplation than to slack-jawed wonder, but they are beautiful nonetheless.



Sorry for the yucky feet. Just focus on how this feels — not how it looks — after a hot, dusty hike.

After Yosemite we headed up to Lassen Volcanic, a national park a few hours north. We got there the day after the park roads opened, but there was still so much snow — despite being about 90 degrees — that all the road signs were buried.



Lassen gets, on average, 60 feet of snow a year. Within 50 miles of the park, there are fields and fields of volcanic debris from where Lassen Peak blew its top in May 1915. It was cool to be there in the same month that the volcano erupted. It made it easy to imagine how the lava melted the snow and added the devastation of a flood to the devastation of the explosion. The bluest sky I have ever seen was in this park.



Lassen has clear cold lakes but also, because it's a volcanic area, geothermal features like these bubbling, belching mud pots. I took a dozen pictures of this and still couldn't capture the little geyser of boiling goop. I should have thought to use the video feature on my camera; then I could have captured the goop as well as the sinister sounding bloop, bloop, bloop.



We couldn’t camp here because of the snow, so we decided to head for the coast. This was our first view of the Pacific after a long, long day in the van — somewhere not too far south of Eureka. There's not really a bad view of the Pacific Ocean, but this one, on that day, was damn near made to order, as my grandpa would have said.



We spent the night at a seaside state park called MacKerricher, and this is where I got my first real taste of the changing California weather. When we arrived, the beach looked like this. Wildflowers, blue sky.



Down closer to the water it looked like this (Since seeing this pair my idea of heaven has become being a naked toddler on a sunny beach holding a lovely woman's hand):



Just a few hours later the fog rolled in and the same beach looked like this:



We huddled on a big piece of driftwood wishing for hot cocoa instead of cold beer.

The farther south we got, the southernmost being San Francisco, the more fog we saw. Point Reyes, just north of San Fran, is the foggiest and windiest point on the Pacific Coast:



The fog helps explain why sailors of yore went up and down the coast without discovering San Francisco Bay. Francis Drake made it to Point Reyes in 1579, claimed it for Queen Elizabeth, dubbed it "New England" and set sail. It's amazing to me that someone who knew Shakespeare was traipsing up and down the California coast — and lived to tell about it, considering how many ships, even modern ones, wrecked in those waters, even after the lighthouse was built. It's also cool to think that Point Reyes, being a national seashore, hasn't been developed and so must look remarkably the same as when Drake visited.

(Interlude: Thank God for preservationists and environmentalists and liberal tree-hugging hippies of every kind. They are the reason we have national parks and wilderness and natural beauty. Honestly. When we were at the Muir Woods near San Fran — a remarkably pristine redwood forest — we read that some nimrod came damn close to building a dam and flooding the whole thing with a reservoir. It's just astonishing.)

At Point Bonita, which is just to the west of the Golden Gate Bridge — here enshrouded in fog — there's another lighthouse, but it was closed when we were there. We did, however, get to see some seals basking on rocks:





The seals have their pups in the spring, and signs all down the coast warn people not to mess with them. (Who would mess with a seal? OK, maybe I would, but is a sign really necessary?). Apparently, it's common for people to find unattended pups and become concerned about the mothers' whereabouts, so silly sounding reminders of "Don't pick up seals" are posted and signs like this:



One of the most bizarre things we saw was Glass Beach, which is in Fort Bragg, just north of Mendocino. The beach was used as a dump — yes, a dump — beginning in the late 1940s. A few decades later some brilliant soul pointed out that maybe one of the most gorgeous places on earth is not an ideal spot to store a crapload of garbage. So they stopped dumping and let the ocean take its toll on the trash. All the glass that had been thrown in the dump became tumbled by the waves. And now the whole area is a beach of tons and tons of broken glass smooth enough to walk on barefoot.





It's really remarkable in a man-we-screwed-up-but-now-we-have-this kind of way.

And that concludes the water portion of my summer vacation.

DO THIS, DON'T DO THAT

You can really tell a first-rate establishment by its willingness to put homemade signs all over the place. Like the "No Shoes With Wheels" signs at my favorite grocery store, or the sign above from my workplace. Usually these signs express some type of tormented exasperation and often have an ominous tone — a dark suggestion that karmic tabs are being kept on you.

Sometimes they seek to make their point by shaming the would-be violator, like the signs in the faculty breakroom where I teach; they say things like "Your mother doesn't work here. And neither does your wife. So clean up after yourself." That one honestly delights me because it's so unabashed in pointing out the gender of the typical slob. Also, I feel like because I can't legally have a wife that it's cosmically OK for me to leave an unwashed cup in that particular sink. My wife not only doesn't work here, but she couldn't work here; therefore, I can make a mess. Another sign there says, "If you would like a styrofoam cup, request one from the dean's office upstairs." It took me awhile to figure this one out. Um, I don't have a Ph.D., but wouldn't it make more sense to store the coffee cups by the coffee maker instead of on a completely different floor of the building? But I eventually concluded that it's meant to discourage waste, like from the men and bitter lesbians who would opt for a styrofoam cup instead of one that would need washing and a wife. On a couple of occasions — when I have inexplicably been without my own mug — I have trekked up to the dean's office and requested a styrofoam cup, and the administrative professional acted like I had asked her to stop typing and give me a foot massage. Like I had some kind of nerve! Like, hello, that sign is just for show — meant to shame, not to enable, polluters. She grudgingly shuffled over to a filing cabinet and fished out a dusty styrofoam cup for me. My shame was such that I almost turned into the bathroom to pee in the cup before I remembered what it was for.

Tonight I had a little downtime at my other job, so I decided to collect a sampling of the homemade signs there. They all sound the same scolding notes of fear, shame, retribution, etc. I happen to agree with the content of all of these signs, I must say; however, I'm just not down with mucking up the workplace with them. I mean, why should one mar one's environment with an ugly sign in a vain attempt to keep some jackass from doing what he's going to do anyway? It's like those idiotic "no guns" signs posted everywhere. Are those going to keep some wackjob from packing? No. Are they going to mar the beauty of our public buildings? Yes. In place of those dumb red gun signs, you might as well just post a sign that says, "We have officially failed as a civil society." I mean, isn't there lurking — under this thick layer of Scotch-tape-and-paper tackiness — some grave admission of defeat, like we've all just given up hope that anyone will be courteous and common-sensical without written, bold-faced reminders everywhere?

ROAD RAGELESS

So yesterday, early evening, I was driving down New Hampshire on the way to the dog park, and this totally bizarre thing happens. It could easily have become a road rage nightmare, but the requisite rage was lacking. Instead it was more like a surreal road dream — minus talking penguins, circus clowns and weird sex with coworkers I dislike.

I get to a four-way stop, and when it's my turn to go, I go. But to my left I notice this guy on a bicycle who's making a left-turn signal with his hand. He appears to be slowing down, but he doesn't come to a stop. I think he's going to stop, but he doesn't. Meanwhile I am mostly through the intersection, and he keeps coming. He appears to see me. But he doesn't stop. It looks like he is going to run into me, even though we are making eye contact. Instead, he sharply pulls up and is suddenly riding right along beside me. He says, "I had the right-of-way. I don't have to stop."

"You do have to stop," I say.

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do. You had a stop sign."

"No, I don't," he says. "I'm on a bike, bitch." He is riding along all the while looking into my open window. He smiles.

"Bikes have to stop," I say. Then, registering that he called me a bitch, I add, "asshole." And smile back.

Meanwhile, Mabel has her whole torso out the window practically close enough to lick the guy's face. And he is just riding along like he's a family friend.

"Cute dog," he says, "but I didn't have to stop."

Oy. Just when I was starting to like him.

I scan my brain for something compelling to say, some nugget I picked up in Driver's Ed. Then it occurs to me that — wait! — I am in a CAR and there's no reason for me to be driving 10 mph and talking to this guy. So I shake my head in disbelief and step on the gas. He recedes into the past, like the boat in "The Great Gatsby." When I look in the rearview, he's waving.

Sheesh, I think, but wave back.

A LITTLE TOUCH OF HARRY IN THE NIGHT

Shakespeare wrote two groups of history plays — eight plays in all — that are sometimes referred to as the first Henriad and the second Henriad, because, oddly enough, they both involve kings named Henry and they more or less constitute a sequence, although it's not known whether Shakespeare intended them as a "cycle." They concern the period between the late 1300s and the late 1400s, but were written all out of order, like our modern "Star Wars," sort of. They tell the story of the War of the Roses — how it came about and how it ended with the House of Tudor — in the person of Elizabeth's grandfather, Henry VII — claiming the crown and healing the country. (Shakespeare was adept at complimenting the sitting monarch, as well as insulting her/him).

The first Henriad — first because Shakespeare wrote them first, not because they come first in history — is made up of these four plays: Henry VI, parts 1, 2 and 3 and Richard III. These are all early works of Shakespeare, and the only one I’ve read so far is Richard III. Richard is the "deformed" king who boldly proclaims in his opening monologue "since I cannot prove a lover ... I am determined to prove a villain." And, indeed, villainy follows on every page. It's an exciting play with a colorful, well-spoken antagonist, a gaggle of sassy queens and a collection of cold-blooded murders, most notably of the child princes in the Tower of London. I'm a bit apprehensive that the three Henry VI plays leading up to Richard III won't be quite as fun, so I've put off reading those, but maybe I'll be pleasantly surprised. The thing about Shakespeare, I've learned from some of his less famous plays, is that even at his "worst" he's still the best.

The second and more famous Henriad takes place earlier in English history and is made up of Richard II, Henry IV, parts 1 and 2, and Henry V. This sequence, which features the immortal boozer Falstaff, I’ve just completed.

The basic story of the second Henriad is this: Richard II is not a very good king. He makes questionable decisions. He has favorites who don’t deserve to be favorites. He believes kings rule by divine right and thus don’t have to merit the privilege of leadership. He banishes his cousin Henry Bolingbroke because Bolingbroke is an upstart and likes to challenge people to duels and whatnot. Bolingbroke’s a thorn in Richard’s side (in actual history, he defeated Richard’s most beloved favorite, Robert de Vere, and Richard took revenge, though this isn’t really part of the play). So Bolingbroke is stripped of his land and banished, but he eventually sneaks back into England and demands all his property back. While he’s at it, he figures he might as well go for the crown, too, so he usurps the weak Richard, who is then murdered, and Henry Bolingbroke becomes King Henry IV.

Henry IV, parts 1 and 2, are basically about how Henry then seeks to legitimize his usurpation of the crown and comes into conflict with various rebel lords. The plays are also, most famously, about the journey of his son, Prince Hal, from his rowdy, drunken tavern days to his mature, responsible adulthood, when he hotly defeats the rebel Hotspur and coldly forsakes the debauched Falstaff (with the crushing and all too public "I know thee not, old man"). Hal embraces the duties of kingship as Henry V.

Henry V is mostly about the young king's brassy attempt to conquer France. The French, of course, are loath to "give our vineyards to a barbarous people," the crude beef-eaters of Britain, but in the end they are soundly vanquished — at the famously lopsided battle of Agincourt — and do just that. One of the play's best features is its portrait of the French as a rather effete and conceited and ineffectual people — a wrong but amusing stereotype that persists to the present.

More than anything, I've come to think of these plays as Shakespeare's macho offerings. They are about proving one's manhood in various ways. They are about war and swaggering boastfulness and brotherhood (the phrase "band of brothers" comes from Henry V). They are about conquest — of countries and women. Several passages refer to how a bonus of war is that you get to viciously rape your enemy's women. Falstaff and Hal have an explicit conversation about this (like war is mainly just an excuse for men to behave as badly as they desire, under the cloak of patriotism — a notion that still has currency), and in one of the most disturbing passages, King Henry V urges the French at Harfleur to surrender peacefully, then brutally outlines what will happen to the women if they don't.

The gates of mercy shall be all shut up,
And the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard of heart,
In liberty of bloody hand shall range
With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass
Your fresh-fair virgins...

What is't to me, when you yourselves are cause,
If your pure maidens fall into the hand
Of hot and forcing violation?...

If not, why, in a moment look to see
The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand
Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters;

Yikes. I want to rewatch "Henry V," the Kenneth Branagh movie, to see if this language appears there. It's hard to bear, like Shakespeare's villifying of Jews and blacks, even allowing its historical context. It's a bit of ugliness that stands side by side with his accomplishment of overwhelming beauty. I don't really understand attempts to make it seem other — either better or worse — than what it is.

One thing that really appeals to me about the Henriads is that they took place when kings were expected to actually go into battle. There was no sitting at home while, like our own leader, you blithely send the country's youth to slaughter. The phrase "a little touch of Harry in the night" — spoken by the play's Chorus — refers to King Henry V's attempt to provide courage and heart to his men on the dark eve of a dark battle. And this little touch of Harry makes all the difference. Dying for your country has a whole new ring when the leader of your country is willing to die at your side.