Skyline to the Sea Trail, February 2004 (by Pa, to return to Casey's version click here)

Straining

My son Casey asked over the phone Saturday night if I was perhaps nearing my patented panic phase. This is when I back out of hiking engagements, like I did when the family Mt Whitney enterprise was ready to lift off. No, no, I'm good for the tour this time.

He was brushing his teeth when we first saw him at the parking lot, Saratoga Gap, at the conjunction of highways 9 and 35 (Skyline). He just walked up unobserved like an injun. Then he began going through my bag like US customs along the Rio Bravo. Tossing excess items into the Rolls for Niki J and Scoob to carry on home.

The objective is the Skyline to the Sea Trail.

I watch Scoob sitting and gazing longingly as me and Casey move off down the trail with some anxiety. I would have some eight and ½ hours for contemplation.

Casey is disappearing into the trees. I hurry to keep up. Before we began, I was self-conscious. What if I'm not able to do this? Always I can be that way. When I would commute by bicycle over hill and dale some sixty miles a day, I would be nervous every single day before I pushed off. And I had done the journey hundreds of times. Still I was unnerved by the prospect.

It follows along the roadways, Highway 9 and then 237 in Big Basin Park. It's almost like a Disneyland ride; a golly-gee real woodsy trail just off the midway, sort of like the Great Frontierland Keelboat Race in which you row with a piddly plastic play paddle while the cable under the hold drags the phony boat through the synthetic Disneyworld swamp.

Casey moves at a brisk pace. At first there is me setting out. My pack is excellently engineered and it is a part of me. We carry bedrolls and tents and clothes and grub and water and extra emergency gear. Then there is one who is hiking. Then there is only the hiking.

I lapse back to watch me sometimes. I think, I'm in the second phase. There are essentially three. One is starting out, and you might strain and draw wind. Then you have burst into the floating realm, and you are tired but you know you will not be beaten at this pace. Then you dissolve into the process and there is nothing left but the hiking.

But you don't remember the names of the pretty bushes.

Training

Off to the left maybe a third of a mile from the parking lot at Saratoga Gap lie the headwaters of the San Lorenzo. This is the river we live by now. Once it was the Red, and the crossing of the Rio Bravo, these were my rivers. Now it is the San Lorenzo which, as rivers go, is pretty dry and weedy come midsummer.

Melba looks up on Bourbon Street, says to her companion, "Well, I do declare, Christian, it's that three-river gambling mayan." She meant the Cincinnati Kid. All are known by their rivers.

You'd think they'd forget sometimes, but every time I was with them and the front tires whumped up onto the bridge, here would go Reloj and Chico together bursting into the Marty Robbins tune, "We crossed the Brazos at Waco…"

Fannin County was dry, which meant no booze of any sort, and so the River was a rite of passage in our town. There were so many ceremonial exits from downtown to the River; at first nobody really wanted to go, and then they couldn't help going. This is everyone's autobiography from back home, them as didn't leave.

But we will not cross the river this trip. We don't even see it, although the effects in a break in the trees with a view across the valley a couple of places may be said to have been caused by it. Instead we cross the road. Several times. Like children asserting independence but not too much, we come toddling back to the street over and over. (The plan originally was to connect Castle Rock and Big Basin, neighboring parks in the Santa Cruz Mountains, and the trail engineer in 1915 noted the original Turnpike wagon route still owned by the State Parks was 200 feet in width, whereas Highway 9 was only 50, which meant the State Parks could form a trail along land they already owned. We came across several surveyor stakes along the way.)

There are noble means of travel. On a river. By a railroad. Hiking in the hills. But when you're on the roadway, you're only walking.

The distance from Saratoga Gap to Waterman Gap is 6.5 miles, and the way there winds through fir and redwood and oak dropping soft cover for the path. There's a trail camp at Waterman Gap, and water, but we carry our water. Casey says, if you pack the right amount, you arrive slightly thirsty, and that's just how we are at Big Basin.

Here, we only cup cold to splash on our heads and head out once more through the tall trees.

We are moving south, and below Waterman Gap we turn west. Now we're heading for the sea. Casey calls a halt every hour, and we unhook and lay with our feet high. It's amazing how refreshing that can be. Daughter Emily says it will drain some 30% of the lactic acid buildup.

The weather is excellent well, Valentine's Day 2004, with just enough sun to add a glow and no heat. We're inside Big Basin park now, and we climb up off the road, Highway 236, which runs through it. We're looking for an interesting lunch site.

Sometime after noon we stop where it looks like nothing will lead us much higher, and there is a low stump like a bench. We have peanut butter and jelly, mine with cheese. We can rest now until 1:00, says Casey. It's maybe twenty minutes from now. He sets his watch alarm and we try and nap.

The clouds close off the sun. We're cold now. We have during the morning removed cover so we're in T-shirt and shorts. Maybe it's because we stopped moving. We head off into the woods. It doesn't warm much. The day has changed.

I have had two sandwiches and part of one of Casey's and an apple. Casey glances back along the trail. I'm munching on a powerbar. "I can't believe you're still eating!" I take in lots.

Somewhere just inside the boundaries of Big Basin (the oldest state park in California) we edge out onto 236, the roadway running through it, as it fishhooks, and just to our right, out of sight to the north, is the origin of Boulder Creek, another notable waterway in my Santa Cruz County history. We are at the beginning this day.

We come out of the trees briefly onto China Grade Road. This is the ridge of the Santa Cruz Mountains on our track, and you can see that's just what it is. Over there is the wind down to the sea. On this side of the range there are sandstone talus, except they are solid. My feet begin to take a beating on this trail. I am trying to keep up with Casey but sometimes he moves away from me while I'm trying to softshoe down a rocky path. (I have, from Grand Canyon and Skyline to the Sea, four purple-to-black toenails.)

From China Grade, it's 4.5 miles to Park Headquarters, the end of this day's venture. We consult. There is a half liter of water left. I say, we can make it go. The alternative is to scoop from some running brook and treat it for drinks, but we agree to press on.

The sandstone talus below the ridge of China Grade, a panorama: http://www.virtualparks.org/scenes/ZXY8prw7j2uu-00mvXj3yBA.html

There are some pretty little dells with wood bridges now. We sit at one and share the last of the water. Then it's off to Headquarters. The last few miles are always the slowest. We are encouraged, the way sailors are to see shorebirds, by the well-dressed tourists from the park. The fatter the better, for the less far-ranging they be. It can't be far now, judging from these shorebirds.

Raining

The rain is coming. We can feel it coming. We want tent cabins for the night, although we've carried tents all day. The clerk says, down that way. We head off down the road. And down. The. Road.

We are discouraged now. Casey swipes his trekking pole against the branches. We were set to stop and now we're still going. I drift back. It is two long miles to our campsite, and that's two long miles we'll have to recover in the morning to start for the sea.

It's the day changing flavor, the nature of the air going out of it. This would be exciting for strangers to this land, even with the rain and the hike when hiking should be done. We grind along the road with our packs. I am not angry. I am never angry. I am, however, disheartened.

I'm glad Casey has the gumption to call off a losing game. You have to remember, we live in woods like these. This scenery is similar to what I see right now looking out the windows of our cabin. With hikes in the Sierras, Grand Canyon, Big Sur, this is not really on that level as an experience.

"We're so close to our hot tub," says Casey. He was raised in these woods. This is his native country.

Okay. He says, I'll head back to Headquarters. We'll ask for a refund on the cabin. I'll call Mom. That's what he does. I follow, but slowly. My right hip is aching. Bursitis maybe. And Casey says, just above his left Achilles' is very sore.

"You can blame it on me," he says. "And I'll blame it on you."

We call it off before the 11 miles to the sea. That would have been the easiest portion of the trail; we've hiked that one before. But in the morning when I listened to the falling rain, smiling, I knew we had made the right choice. Casey had traveled some 24 miles and I had done maybe 19 and we had done it in full pack, and we did it with a right good pace, 8 ½ hours from Saratoga Gap. We were both a bit ginger on leaving the Rolls once we were home. But it was a grand hike, for me, because it showed me I could do it. Hey, I'm thinking, I can play this game.

(Click here to return to Casey's version.)

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