The City by the Bay

I was born in the Bay Area of California. I haven’t revisited the area for a very long time as we moved from there at the end of 1970. I returned a couple of times on business trips, but like all business trips you really don’t get to see much except the inside of an airplane, the inside of a taxi, the inside of a hotel room, and the inside of a meeting room. So when the opportunity arose to tour the Bay Area and Southern California on a week long series of seminars, I gladly accepted. There were some shenanigans to be worked in between gigs and it promised to be worth the go. I could see more than the inside of meeting rooms.

I was among a group from work to present our latest release of software, and was billed first every day. I spoke from 9 to 10 every morning, then got to sit around until noon when the event concluded and was then mobbed with questions from the audience. There were three other speakers, partners of my company who make add-on solutions to the core product. After day one I made my hour more interactive. I discovered people were mostly there to get a free breakfast and get one or two questions answered, and rather than listen as I spoke, they daydreamed until the Q&A section. Then they would ask about something I went over ad nauseum during the demo. Fortunately, everyone was clear and understandable when they asked their questions. It used to be I would present to very technical people, there were always some non-Engrish speaking fellows in the crowd who would always have a bunch of questions. I would have to ask them to repeat the question several times and I would still not make out what they were asking. I got some sage advice from a colleague who worked for IBM that helped out tremendously. When you can’t understand the question, you say, “What a great question, but you know, it’s a little beyond the scope of today’s presentation, so let’s take that off line and talk about it after.” Then after you’re done, you pack up your shit as fast as you can and make tracks before they can hunt you down.

The first day was in Milpitas, California which is in Silicone Valley near San Jose. We would be making our way down to the other Silicon Valley, Southern California ( where the silicone is implanted in the robot-women that live down there), in a day or so, but we had the Bay Area to tackle first. The routine was get up, do our gig, then 7 of us would pile into a huge SUV, the kind that are detectable by satelites in orbit, driven by our fearless leader, the orchestrator of the whole boondogle, Alex. Alex is a big amiable guy with a quick wit and boyish good looks. He may be the whitest guy you would ever want to meet. Which is why it surprised me greatly when he insisted on listening to vile, loud, booming, bass enhanced hip hop music in the SUV. I took a position in the very back of the bus hoping to escape the “music” but, the auto manufacturer saw fit to include speakers in the back as well.

We took the 101 up north to San Francisco. I was born in Oakland (East Bay) and lived in San Mateo, which is between San Jose and San Francisco. I have put a lot of miles in up and down the 101. They have done some work on it, but many parts still resound with the thunka-thunka on the tires that I remember. As stated earlier, it had been a very long time since I had been this way, and my memories are mostly from when I was a 10 year old girl. But when we passed Moffett Field, a Naval Air Base, I was thrilled to see Hangar One still standing proudly.

Moffett Field’s Hangar One was built during the depression for the USS Macon, an airship built and operated by the U.S Navy. The row of WWII blimp hangars are still some of the largest unsupported structures in the country. Hangar One’s floor covers eight acres and can accommodate 10 football fields. The building has aerodynamic architecture, and its walls curve upward and inward, to form an elongated dome 198 feet high. The clam-shell doors were designed to reduce turbulence when the Macon moved in and out on windy days. The interior is so large that fog sometimes forms near the ceiling! Anyone unaccustomed to its vastness is susceptible to optical disorientation. Looking across its deck, planes and tractors look like toys. Along its length maintenance shops, inspection laboratories and offices help keep the hangar busy. Looking up, a network of catwalks for access to all parts of the structure can be seen. Two elevators meet near the top, allowing maintenance personnel to get to the top quickly and easily. Of course I never saw any of this, I only got to see it driving by on the way to or from wherever my parents were taking me. I am sure they had tours of the thing by the 1960’s, but my folks couldn’t be bothered. There is an aviation museum there I would very much like to visit, and now on my list of things to do in this life is to return to the Bay Area as strictly a tourist.

As a child though, not to villianize my parents too much, we did at one point get to tour the USS Midway. But that was an aircraft carrier and my father approved of that type of thing as he was a Navy veteran and former sailor.

San Francisco is just as exciting as I remember it, except with more urine. Being a liberal, groovy kind of place, home to legions of flower children in the Summer of Love, 1969, the homeless are in abundance, tolerated and therefore very aggressive. The streets are steep and narrow and the people living there really do walk, resulting in great glutes. After arriving, we checked in to the Donatello, a posh hotel on the corner of Macon and Post. We got a screamin rate and Alex boasted that the SF Giants stay here. I wondered why a local sports team would need to stay in a hotel. Don’t they live there? But, what do I know about sports? The gang started talking sports at many times in the trip and my eyes would glaze over and I would think about how cold it would be to dive in San Francisco Bay, or what was for dinner that evening. At one point they were talking about some athlete and how he was practically built for his sport (swimming, I think) and I asked who it was they were talking about. Vic, one of our partners who had come down from Canada for the trip, was incredulous and thought I must live under a rock. I just don’t pay any attention to sports of any kind with the exception of diving, and I mean of the SCUBA type. There aren’t any real celebrity SCUBA divers, with the exception of the Cousteaus, and there’s just so much you can get excited about there. Wow, that Jacques really hung in there. Did you know his boat was called The Calypso? People just don’t get jazzed en masse about the bottom of the ocean. There’s no SCUBA Super Bowl, and you don’t see guys sitting around on the weekend drinking beer, eating chicken wings and watching PBS specials about the ocean wearing the wetsuit of their favorite diver.

So I was odd man out there, until they started talking about fancy cars. Then I was even more glazed over.

We decided on sushi for lunch. I would have been equally thrilled if they said we were going out for dog food for lunch. But, the majority rules so off I went for Bay Area Sushi. Chris, another partner who had come from Denver, was my only ally on the anti-sushi front. We were outnumbered. We were told of a place up Post Street, and when I say up, I mean up. We hoofed it on a steep incline for a couple of blocks, and I have no idea how Rachel, the only other female in the group, managed with the high heels.

The sushi place was small and very San Francisco like. We sat at the bar and I needed instructions on how to go about ordering. I decided to try the sushi, as I had never eaten it thinking that raw seafood is really just fishbait. I think Chris stayed on the safe side and ordered teriyaki and I went wild and ordered a combo plate of three pieces of sushi and some deep fried veggies and shrimp. As long as it’s breaded and deep fried, I’m okay with it. The food looked wonderful, the presentation very nice, but I ended up letting my fishies swim to other people’s plates at the end of the day.

The others made their way back to the hotel to get ready for our tour of Giants Stadium and I took off looking for a Walgreens to buy a few personal items I neglected to pack. I had asked the bellman at the hotel where the nearest Walgreens was and he pointed out the door and said just up ther street. When he said that I assumed (!) Mason Street, aka, the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. I can’t believe cars without four wheel drive can even get up these streets. I mean, San Francisco was built before the days of the Silver Spade excavator and the leveling of hills. So the streets are verticle. I hoofed it up to the top of Mason and was completely out of breath. I am in pretty good shape too. I hiked rim to river back to rim at the Grand Canyon in one day. I cried, but I did it. This was grueling. All for some Secret anti-persperant. Crap. The drugstore wasn’t there after all. I came back down Mason and turned back on to Post and went that way. Still no store. I ended up ducking into a local general store and bought some Secret that had probably been on the shelf for 15 years. But at this point I was desperate. I was working up quite the sweat and things were at critical mass so I caved and took what I could get.

Ira, one of our partners, knows a lot of people. One of his connections is a PR guy for the San Francisco Giants. He managed to get us a private behind the scenes tour of Giants Stadium. I have already mentioned how excited I am about sports, but I went along because it was a go and what else did I have to do? I could have wandered down to the Castro and looked at the gay people. But I’ve seen gay people and have never been in a men’s locker room. Fine line, I know, so I chose Giants Stadium.

What can I tell you. It was a stadium. We got to go behind the scenes then out on the field. The best part was when it was over and we got to go to Fisherman’s Wharf for dinner. Of course it was a seafood restaurant, so screwed again and not in that fun spanky way. I almost didn’t order anything, but I gave in and got a pasta dish that was quite good.

After dinner I was beat and ready to hang out in my posh room at the Donatello. Some of the others opted to continue partying and the reports the next morning consisted of some lively moments in an Irish pub involving male cross dressers and an altercation with a homeless man.

After the meeting, and I’ll spare the gory details of a software workshop, we were treated to dimsum, which I like considerably better than sushi. We walked quite a distance to what was once a main post office in San Fran and is now some sort of inner city food court. I thought it was a heck of a schlep to go to the food court, but there was a real restaurant in there that did a dim sum brunch. After that we headed to the San Jose Airport where we were in high hopes of getting on an earlier flight. Greg, one of our team, managed to get to the counter fast and hopped the next flight. Southwest Airlines is a lot like riding a bus in the air. An Air Bus. Hmmm, must be the thought behind the hardware. Anyway, these were garden variety 727 aircraft and me, Alex, Ira, and Chris had to wait until 8:55pm for our flight as our 7:00 was cancelled because of some mechanical failure, and I suspect, low passenger count. Adam, the Southern California sales rep was going to meet us in Orange County the next day and Rachel, the Northern California sales rep departed back to Phoenix.

We arrived at SNA and got our next gigantic SUV and headed to the Hilton. When we got there we were pretty punchy and the desk clerk told me they were upgrading my room to a suite with a hide-a-bed. I started laughing and looked at the clerk and said that sounds like a punishment. Why don’t I take the dually out back and use the little tin shack with the crescent moon on it for the toilet? I mean honestly, a hide-a-bed? I took the room and it was luxurious, with the exception of grammas hide-a-bed. There was a formal dining table for 8 people, full kitchen, huge flat screen TV. I would have traded it for a comfy bed.

We did our gig at the Hilton, took lots of pictures and were off to Beverly Hills. Hollywood wasn’t far and I organized a little safari later that evening up Sunset Boulevard. I thought Adam would get a kick out the the Guitar Center flagship store and the “Rock Walk”. Then we could hoof it down to the Whisky -a-go-go where many legendary bands, such as The Doors, got their start. We hired a car to take us there and no shit, it must have taken him a half hour to drive us four blocks. The traffic was bad, but the driver was worse. I don’t think he really knew you could press the gas pedal and let go the brake. He dropped us off, took our $40 and told us to call him when we were ready to come back. We looked at all the famous rock star hand prints in cement then went in the store. I made for the acoustic section as I prefer to play the acoustic guitar and thus sought out my favorite brand, The Ovation. All they had was the cheap made in Korea models and I was disappointed. So I played a couple of them then the boys came back and we looked at the classic electric models ranging in price from $2k to $90k. I got them to stand in from the the guitar wall as if they were rock stars with attitude rather than the gaggle of nerds they really are. We left and I said the Whisky was just up the street, let’s go. We walked. And walked. And walked walked walked. Finally Greg asked, “Where in the hell is this place?” I pulled the address out of my pocket and told him. He looked at the address where we were and he said it was 14 more blocks. I sheepishly looked at him and shrugged. You’re talking to a hiker. We then flagged a cab and were dropped off in front of the infamous Whisky a go-go. I was grinning ear to ear but the guys were trying to get away from there as fast as they could. I was ready to go in and Greg said he’d like to get something to eat before drinking any alcohol. We walked up the street a little and and found Frankie and Johnnys Famous Pizza. While having pizza and listening to a no less than hilarious story of an internet date gone awry by one of the guys, I was informed of their reluctance to go into the Whisky. I said I knew we didn’t really fit in but I didn’t care and I was told that it’s “different” for woman. The indication was that as men, they would be seen as not belonging there by the multi-pierced/tattoed crowd that was there and would therefore end up legs up in the dumpters out back.

My Name is Hollywood

So instead of the boys risking an ass-whooping at the Whisky A G0-G0, we sauntered across the street to pay a visit to the Hustler Superstore. It’s an adult store based on Hustler Magazine and so you can guess what the inventory consists of.

At one point we wandered into the area where you must be over 18 to go in to. There was a plethora of DVD’s, some of which I would pick up and ask the guys, “Gee, what’s this one about?” Then there was the Wall of Toys. BOB’s in every size, shape, and color you can imagine. For those of you wondering, BOB stands for Battery Operated Boyfriend. Unlike most men, they are very reliable, however they don’t converse well and they’ll never get the dinner check (but then again, the same can be said for many men as well). But in a way it is liberating to know that they will never call or e-mail you either. That frees you up to do other things besides staring at your Blackberry. I picked out a hot pink one and told the guys that I was going to buy it and use it as my laser pointer tomorrow for the presentation. The smart ass remarks continued and we were in a heap on the floor. Laughing to the point of tears, and the sad part was we were acting like teenagers yukking it up and there were people around seriously shopping. I wanted the guys to stand in front of the Wall of Toys so I could get a photo as I did at Guitar Center with them in front of the classic guitars. They bolted from the area before I could get any incriminating shots. Actually, I respected the fact we were all working mates and only took one photo, and that was out front of Jenna Jameson’s handprints. There was a porno walk much like the Rock Walk and the Walk of Fame on Hollywood Blvd. Adam pointed to Jameson’s handprints and said, “Those are some nasty hands.”

After the Hustler store we headed to another hang out called The Red Rock (or something like that). Adam and Ira had one drink and decided to head back to the hotel. Chris, Greg and I decided to stay and get shit-faced. Some very pretty Hollywood type girls came in and Chris zeroed in on them and even coaxed one into dancing with him. I don’t remember a whole lot after that, except that I was told later that none of us knew where we were staying when we had to tell the cabbie where to take us. I think Greg text messaged Adam to ask what hotel we were at.

The next thing I know my phone is ringing and it’s time to head to the conference center. I am of course still in my jammies, have no recollection of how I got into them and don’t care to think about it. But, I was in my own room, alone, all my ID and things were there and I was really really disastrously late. I felt like my head was in a vice grip. I am notorious for never suffering hangovers, but this was the exception. I was a hammerhead. I didn’t have time to shower, barely time to brush my teeth, I just pulled on the first professional looking outfit available, threw the rest in my bags and headed out the door. I knew I looked as bad as I felt. I rushed to the SUV which was loaded and ready to go, they were waiting for me. Hells bells. This was gonna be good. Ira asked, “So, how ya feeling today, Hollywood”. Smart ass. Then Alex took to pounding the rap music at full volume and I offered him $1000 to shut the radio off. He told me he couldn’t hear me because the radio was too loud.

We got to the venue, I was all business, got it set up and was on at 9 am. I put my game face on and was bubbly, cheerful, informative and receptive to questions. I was “on”.Once I was through, I packed up my stuff, went in back where no one could see me and passed out. Much to my chagrin, it wasn’t over. We were to go straight to the taping of the Tonight Show starring Jay Leno right after we finished up the seminar. My head was about to explode and to top it off I was getting a sore throat. We parked at a restaurant across the street as NBC studios doesn’t provide for visitor parking. We had gotten VIP tickets from one of our partners who does some acting on the side. He’s played in many television shows and movies in bit parts and supporting roles. We stopped in at the restaurant and had a bite to eat. I was still feeling pretty rotten and desperately wanted a shower and a bottle of Advil. Chris told me a Bloody Mary would help, so I had one. I didn’t drink it all. It helped a little, but not as much as someone shooting me to put me out of my misery would have. As of this writing I have yet to touch another drink of alcohol.

The Tonight Show was fun. I could tell they’ve done this before. Jay Leno came out ahead of time and told everyone what to expect, to please laugh, especially during the monologue, and just have a good time.

After the show we finally went to our hotel. Our partner, Daniel, invited us over to his house that evening rather than going out to dinner somewhere and we were happy to go. We went to the hotel first and I can say I have rarely enjoyed a grooming experience so much, even after a three day camping trip. I changed my clothes, got lots of fluids in me, lots of Advil in me and went to meet the guys again. Daniel had a beautiful home in North Hollywood with a huge flat screen television and a nice dog.

The next day went without incident and we were once again at the airport awaiting a flight. Flying out of John Wayne airport in Orange County is always a treat. The main runway, at 5,701 feet is one of the shortest of any major airport in the United States, resulting in most passenger aircraft operating from the airport to be no larger than the Boeing 757. Because of the rich people living here, the area that lies directly South of John Wayne Airport is considered a noise sensitive area. The short primary runway, coupled with the local noise restrictions, can require a takeoff at or near full power (95-97% power). Some aircraft operating from the airport may cycle to full power while holding at the runway then release the brakes when engines are fully spooled up. So basically, the pilot just peels out making for an exciting takeoff. On operations from this runway a steep climb may also be required to allow for a power reduction at about 500-700 feet above ground level for quieter overflight over the city of Newport Beach. I know someone who lives in Newport Beach and I am glad he isn’t being disturbed by the noisy commercial aircraft from SNA.

And that was my trip to California. Next stop, I believe, is gong to be a foray deep in the heart of Texas!

Until next time, that’s all from The ScubaJedi.

For a full pictorial journal, click here.

Due the the overwhelming crazy high rent I was paying for my posh North Scottsdale apartment, I decided to economize and find a cheaper place. I was originally going to find a house to share with a pal, but I bailed on that idea, ticking off the pal. But, as I am a self-absorbed twit, I needed to live alone, with the cats.
As it turned out, the apartment complex across the street was cheaper, nicer, bigger, and they had a unit available in a choice location in the ‘plex. I was granted the privilege of -0- move in with the exception of cat rent. I pay an extra few bucks a month for cat rent. I mean, do people with out of control bratty kids pay extra for the destructive screaming zonkers? No. But my cat, who mostly sleeps all day is a damage risk I have to pay a premium for. It just isn’t fair. I mean, honestly, kids are far more destructive than a cat.
Anyway, I decided to move everything over that would fit in my car and leave the big stuff for the movers. My friend Bruce came over the day I got keys to the new place and commented that the apartments were so close that I could just get a couple of dudes to hand stuff over the fence. He may be right as far as the little stuff goes, but I have a leather sofa the size and weight of a Volkswagen I’m sure no one would be too happy about handing over a fence.
My new downstairs neighbor, Barbara, came out and met me. I apologized ahead of time for the thunderous noise the cat makes when all three pounds of her races across the floor. She said no worries, anything would be an improvement over the prior tenants. Apparently there were three young Scottsdale women living there. Barbara said she wasn’t really sure who exactly lived there as there were people non-stop in and out of there. She was pretty sure they were running a brothel out of the apartment. They flooded the place at one point in some freakish bathroom accident and damaged both units. As a result, I scored brand new carpet.
This past Saturday (Dec 6) I moved in as far as sleeping there. I moved my kitchen stuff over and Nunya came by on Saturday and helped me move my clothes and shoes. Shoes. More shoes. Shoes. I deleted Zappos.com from my favorites in my browser and have sworn off buying new shoes ever, ever again. Yeah, right, but it’s worth a try. I did find shoes I forgot I had and so far this week have worn two different pair I haven’t seen in two years.
Saturday night I went to take my first shower in the new place and lo and behold, no hot water! What a shock. I mean it. I took a bird bath and went to the office in the morning and gave them a bug list, the water heater topping it off. All day went by and no one came around to look at it. Finally, “Little Mike” came by to have a look. He was anything but little and is probably the cutest apartment maintenance man I’ve ever seen. He spent about an hour troubleshooting it before telling me the bad news that it needed a part. Bummer. He hgave me the keys to a suite unit that they rent out to temporary guests. It was very nice, but having to get up and go across the complex to shower, then come back is a huge drag.
The water heater was still broke on Monday and word from “Big Mike” was that the part was going to take two or three days to arrive. I had already moved the cats and have to be where the cats are so I used the guest apartment just to shower in until yesterday. On Tuesday, Cute Mike (I think he would like that better than “Little”, what guy wants to be called “little”?) got it all fixed yesterday and I went out and bought him a present. I was at the old apartment last night to pack up the china cabinet, the DVD cabinet and another bookshelf so they would be ready for the movers. I got into the liquor cabinet and fixed me a lemon drop martini, quickly lost interest in packing and ended up watching The Breakfast Club on HBO. So now my Friday night is already planned, no booze and all packing. Living the dream!

The ScubaJedi

The final diving trip of the year was once again San Carlos, Mexico. I was originally going to head down with my usual dive shop but they cancelled the trip due to some military-like skirmishes between drug cartels and the Mexican army between Nogales and Hermosillo. So I went with another group who provide transportation via a motor coach. It was very nice not to have to drive.

The checkpoints looked about the same with the exception of the small artillery units with Hum-V’s equipped with grenade launchers. I hadn’t noticed those before on other trips down. Also, because we were a group in a bus, we had to disembark every time so they could go through our stuff. It all went pretty fast though, and the gentlemen with the semi-automatics were friendly and cheerful.

For our entertainment the operators provided violent guy flicks to watch, so I saw Ironman, Indiana Jones, Get Smart, and Deep Blue Sea. I was saturated with explosions, fighting, car chases, loud gunfire, and scantily clad women. I would have paid extra to watch something mellow.

We got to the Best Western Tetakawi (Matt, our 14 year old advanced student, thought it was Teriyaki almost the whole trip) and I found that I had a room all to myself! I not only got to ride down in comfort, but had a room all to myself. I couldn’t have been happier if I were twins. I got settled and headed down to a restaurant called Bananas where some of the group was having dinner and libation that evening. I sat with Matt and his father Todd, and then was joined by Suzanne, John, Steve, Steve, and Brian. Bananas boasts of the best hamburgers in San Carlos, so I decided to try one. I never sampled the burgers anywhere else in San Carlos, so I had nothing to compare it with, but it was good as long as taste and quality were not an issue.

The next day I was on the early shift and we left dock at 7 am sharp and headed out to the island of San Pedro for our hammerhead shark sighting dive! How exciting, I have always wanted to see a hammerhead shark in the wild. Now was my big chance. I buddied up with Suzanne, and we were going as a group out to the point where we would hopefully see some sharks. The water was somewhat chilly, but that was nothing compared to the quality of visibility, of which there was none. We descended and hit about 78’ at the most heading out to the point where the sharks were supposed to be schooling by en masse. Well, no sharks made it that day. They must have been taking the day off.

For the next dive we moved to the other side of the island where all the sea lions were. They were really excited about us being there, they love to play with scuba divers. There were a couple of big bulls there but they didn’t seem to mind us. The water was much clearer heading off the bow but was murky back in the cove, so we headed off the bow. There was one sea lion who was very interested in us. She was black with a tan snout, very unusual. We named her Mathilda. She followed up everywhere and hovered around so we could get some good shots. I thought she wanted me to pet her. We were down there a good hour before coming back to the boat.

I was really tired after that and went back to the hotel, got cleaned up and went across the street to Charly’s Rock restaurant with Suzanne and Yrena (don’t really know the spelling, but that’s how the name sounded). Yrena ordered something called seafood soup, and that is exactly what it was. They must have chopped up everything they could scoop out of the ocean that morning and put it in the soup. There were eyeballs and tentacles with suckers and all sorts of things I would deem cat food in there. She said it was good and I will take her word for it. Those two were going on the night dive and I bade them farewell after lunch and I proceeded to go back to my room and pass out.

I signed up for an extra dive so I was back at it the next morning. The seas in port were deceivingly calm but once we got out to open water the ocean started rolling. The Sea of Cortez is like a huge bathtub and if there is some weather at the end of it on the Pacific, it can wreak havoc. The waves were like swells, big rollers. The boat captain floored it and was hitting the swells head on and causing a very rough ride. I think it was the same boat driver as I had in Rocky Point on my whale ride (See blog Whale Riding in Rocky Point). I was every bit as nervous as I was for that ride. I moved to the front of the boat and held on to a pole with a grip of steel. At one point I started to cry. I looked around and everyone else was laughing and hanging around casually like nothing was wrong, yet this ride was seriously damaging my calm. Some of the staff was asking me if I were okay, if I was getting sick. Even as I write this I feel like I am rocking on the boat. The skipper turned the boat into a cove and anchored at Deer Island, much to the disappointment of Matt, who wanted very much to see the sea lions. I was just happy to get out of the maelstrom. I began to think they changed course because I was in such a state, and that made me feel bad because of Matt wanting to see the sea lions, and the outer island of San Pedro is better diving. We had to go back out to the rolling ocean to give Matt his deep dive for his advanced certification, and then we came back in. The dives nearer San Carlos are never as good as at San Pedro, but we did see some interesting things, such as a starfish with only four arms, a starfish with a jillion arms and a very weird sea urchin.

I went out on the afternoon dive as well. We stayed local and I was glad as I was getting pretty chilled at that point. On my Christmas list is a “Boat Coat”. I would like it in black, please, extra large so it will fit over me and all my gear. On the last dive it was getting dark ergo we brought flashlights. It was a quasi night dive. There were zillions of stinging feather hydroids all over the place and at one point I broke my “don‘t touch nothing” rule and went to pick up a beautiful shell, and grazed one of the hated ‘droids and it stung like an SOB. My thumb still itches. Therefore the “Don’t touch nothing” rule is back in effect. You never know what is going to sting the crap out of you down there.

We left the next morning bright and early, and got through the US border pretty easily. It was like going through the airport as we had to get off the bus, run our bags through a metal detector and x-ray machine, then we were free to enter the US and A.

For a full pictorial catalog of this adventure, check out this link.

Till we meet again,

The ScubaJedi

Every year I do a backpacking weekend to Reavis Ranch in the Eastern Superstition Mountains. Every year as I am trundling up the 5 Hills of Hell on the Insidious Mile I wonder why I do this. But that is on the way out. I call it the Insidious Mile because it is a deceivingly difficult stretch of trail and unfortunately the last thing you remember about the trail as it is the last mile. When you are hiking in on it, you don’t really notice just how much elevation you are losing. It starts at Trail 109, The Reavis Ranch Trail from the Roger’s Trough Trailhead in the Eastern Superstitions. From here you cross the junction with the Roger’s Canyon Trail number 110 and continue up another wall of hell called Graves Canyon, where there are switchbacks up a granite mountain to Reavis Saddle. Then it is smooth sailing into Reavis Valley across a grassy meadow past a Juniper of Unusual Size, through a swampy area and to the Ranch.

There were four of us, more had signed up but true to human nature, there are those who simply blow off commitments and choose to stand you up at the trail head by sleeping in. I have been leading hikes with Sierra Singles for a number of years and I am sick and tired of unreliable people. Any of you who sign up for a hike and decide to blow it off without notifying the outings coordinator (and you KNOW who you are), don’t bother signing up for any of MY outings as I will oust you from the list and dis-approve of you participating. Tough darts, flakester, go be unreliable somewhere else. The ScubaJedi has a very good sophisticated contact database and I track everything.

So my three GOOD friends and I headed off after stopping at my request at Denny’s to pig out on eggs and bac. We took two cars as the road leading to Roger’s Trough is rough and requires 4 wheel drive, or at the least, high clearance. Two cars are better than one in case one car doesn’t make it. Both vehicles were SUV’s and we made it fine. We geared up and headed in to begin the Insidious Mile to the junction of 110/109. We continued up the switchbacks stopping to pay our respects to Reavis at his grave. He was apparently found dead on the trail while hauling his fruits and veggies to market one fine day in 1896.

Reavis was known as the Old Hermit of the Superstitions. According to Tom Kollenborn (2000) Reavis was a well-educated man from back east who came out west to seek his fortune in the gold mines of California. He eventually ended up in Arizona and settled in what is now called Reavis Valley, an veritable oasis in the Supers where there is a year round artesian spring. This helps us backpackers of today in that we don’t have to schlep as much water to the site. How Reavis met his maker is a subject of discussion. Some say he died of natural causes, pushing 70 and hauling up and down those mountains all the time, some say a covetous neighbor who wanted the land caused him a mischief. Whatever the reason, his remains were found and he was buried on the spot where hikers today can stop and gawk.

I opted out of going up to the grave as I was just too tired. Besides, I’ve seen the grave many times and it never changes that much. There used to be clay letters spelling out Elisha Reavis but they have fallen by the wayside. You would have to go digging through he rocks piled on the grave to find them and that’s too ghoulish even for me.

We scaled the hill to the saddle, then cruised on down through the Very Grassy Meadow past the Juniper of Unusual Size to the Swamp. Once past the swamp you cross the creek and up to the valley. I was hoping for the Grand Skookums Campsite right there by the creek so no water schlepping would be needed but it was taken by a bunch of losers. Then we tried for Skookums Campsite number 2 and some young bozos had gotten there minutes before us and though started setting up camp in another location snagged the Skookums Site Number 2 before us. If some shithead hadn’t wanted to stop and waste time on breakfast at Denny’s, we’d have been there sooner and gotten at least the second good site. Needless to say we had to start hunting for a good site. I knew of one more quasi-skookums site where I’ve camped twice and cringed at the thought of having to schlep water from the creek. There is one really reliable spot to get water and that’s where Skookums Site 1 is located.

Luck was with us as no one had been the Quasi-Skookums for a while, it was a little overgrown but otherwise on good condition. The best news was not only was there a massive supply of firewood handy, but the creek was in high volume and right there by the site for filtering. No schlepping. I made a deal with my fellow campers if they would gather the wood, I would prepare the hearth. I friggin hate gathering firewood. I would rather schlep water.

We set up, got a cheerful fire going and hunkered down for the evening. I ate my usual hiker chow out of a bag, as did Willy and Will. What are the odds of two guys being on the trek and both being named Will? But there you have it. Nunya on the other hand brought steak and shrimp to sautee and savor as her evening meal. I just don’t have the wherewithal to cart that kind of weight in my pack. I am fine with meal in a bag from Mountain House. After dinner it wasn’t long before I was ready to snuff out for the night. I don’t know if it was the heat or that I am getting old or what, but I was very very tired. By 8:30 I was snug in my sleeping bag. It was cold at night and I zipped up all the way in.

I woke up to Will making a new cheerful fire at the hearth. We we back on the trail out by 10:30 after a leisurely breakfast and mellow breakdown of camp. We went back out the way we came in and it takes about the same amount of time to hike out as it does to hike in. We saw three tarantulas on the way out, including one on the road driving out.

No apples in the orchard this year, so maybe next year. I plan on a spring trip in April and hopefully anyone signing up will at least notify me that they are not going to show up!!Dirtbags.

Until next adventure,
The ScubaJedi

Arizona Roller Derby has a new fan in The ScubaJedi. The amateur league is called Arizona Derby Dames and the championships were held at the Castle Sports Club in Phoenix on Saturday night, October 11. It was a flat track bout for who would become the reigning Roller Derby champs, the defenders, The Brutal Beauties, or the challengers, The Runaway Brides.

We arrived to wait in line outside the popular event. There was no shortage on multi-pierced, tattooed, spiked hair fans, and I have never seen so many ripped up fishnet stockings and striped socks in my life. I felt like an old square nerd in my University of Notre Dame sweatshirt. The deep blue sea is where the Scuba Jedi reigns supreme in slick black neoprene bodysuits with an air cylinder strapped on. But it was definitely the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd all about that evening.

Back in the olden days of the 1970’s Roller Derby was popular as a professional full contact sport. The players would wear uniforms and roll on a sloped track with railings where they would get slung over and go flying into the audience at times. Saturday night was amateur flat track and Willy, Yapper and I decided we would sit on the floor right on the track. We were risking getting wiped out but that was the chance we took to be in on the action. The players sported their own expressions of uniforms, wearing the team colors but with costumes as unique as their names, such as Sharon Fists (pictured bleow), Vanessa Velocity, and Phyllis Killer.
It took me a while and reading the program to figure out how to play once again. Not having watched Roller Derby in 30 years, I had forgotten how the game was played. What happens is there is a pack. They start at a given starting line on one of the long parts of the track. Two players from opposing teams are at the front of the pack and they are called the Pivots. Then they are followed by the blockers within the pack. At the rear are the Jammers. The Jammers are the players allowed to score and they score by getting though the pack once, catching up and going through the pack a second time scoring a point by passing an opponent. Getting through the pack is problematic as the other players, various Blockers and Pivots from opposing teams are trying to knock the Jammer down. Therefore helmets, knee, elbow and sometimes mouthguards are worn. The Pivots wear a cover on their helmet with a stripe and the Jammers wear a cover with a star.

The Brutal Beauties were in the lead all evening, wearing their signature hot pink and black colors. They were bigger and more brutal than the Brides, but the Brides came up in the second half leveraging their smaller statures for speed and strategy to overcome and win triumphant over the Beauties.

There was only one real fight causing a couple of spectators to be ejected form the venue, and I thought, how low do you get in life to be kicked out of the Roller Derby?

The evening ended with a raffle and we didn’t stay. Peter, who didn’t even know what a Roller Derby was being a simple farm boy from Cork, Ireland, stayed for the raffle as he had purchased a ticket. I know don’t if he won.

The season is over and we must wait until January to see if the Runaway Brides will defend their title as Arizona Roller Derby Dame Champions.

For more information on this exciting sport, go to:
http://www.azderbydames.com/

Until next time
The ScubaJedi

Oh yes, another illustrious adventure in the local lakes. Betty and I set off on the Diver Down for a morning of two tank boat diving. We did our usual stop at Starbucks to get good and jacked up on caffeine before heading out. Betty drove and dropped me at the meeting point, then went to park the car elsewhere because we were under the impression that Lake Pleasant members only were allowed to park near the dock. I found out otherwise as I was chatting with the El Mar Scuba guys waiting for the boat. They had four student completing their open water certification, a couple of guys doing some free diving, and there was Betty and me just looking to log some dives. We weren’t expecting Bonaire conditions, and it was, after all, diving.

I am not sure what the name of the dive site was, but it wasn’t too bad. Okay, it was heinous. The visibility was pretty nasty and the water got cold at about 45ft. We ended up diving to about 30 ft on the first dive, and I was able to work on those underwater nav skills which are not too shabby if I must say so myself. I was desperately over weighted on that first dive and ended up taking it down to 8lbs for the second dive.

The second dive we went out to a farther buoy and had to cross a dark trench over the Mines of Moria. It got really dark and really cold, I looked at my console and saw that I was at about 59′. I looked around for Betty and she was motioning to go up a little further rather than stay at that depth. She was getting a little nervous at the low visibility and darkness. I personally wanted to keep descending and see how deep it got. But, I certainly am not the dive buddy from hell who makes their divebuddy do things out of their comfort zone and causes things like, um, death. So we went up a bit. I kept thinking I was going to hit a wall or something.

I don’t know if Lake Pleasant is the shittiest diving on the planet, but I am sure it’s pretty close.

September 20, was international Project Aware Day for beach and water cleanup. As a scuba diver, I chose water cleanup. I went with N-Depth Scuba out of Chandler, AZ and rode the bus out to Saguaro Lake. It is reputed to be little more than a mudhole, but I was being overly optimistic in thinking it might be okay.

I didn’t have a dive buddy, I was out there pretty much on my own. I brought all my gear, wetsuit, fins, gloves (wasn’t taking any chances in picking up garbage) etc. N-Depth also arranged for a cookout as well. It turned out to be really fun in spite of the lake conditions. We had to sign in, set up our gear and in my case, search out a dive buddy. I met a nice man named Jim who had come out there on his own as well and we decided to be dive buddies. We grabbed a bag and went in. There was a sentinel at the entry point taking note of who went in to make sure that the same amount came back out of The Black Lagoon. I had some trouble getting my fins on, then trouble with a foggy mask. It was suggested that since I was in the water that I use spit. I have heard that spit works really well to defog a mask, but it has to be your own brand. So I tried it and it really worked despite grossing me out.

At first things were mostly okay, we were cruising along and picking up cans, bottles, plastic cups etc. The bottom is so silty that whenever you picked something up it was like a pyroclastic blast from a volcano and it caused visibility to be even worse than it already was. We came across two other divers and got separated. I couldn’t find Jim, so seeing as that I was only 15 feet down, I ascended and waited at the surface. Jim eventually came up and we re-grouped and went back down. I had taken a compass reading and was trying to head parallel to shore and go over to the pier. I guess I need an underwater nav class because we ended up out at the far buoy. We got down about 26 feet and it was cold and very dark. We came across a dead sunken tree and got all caught up in it. It was then that we decided it was time to go back. I tried to get turned around but it was really difficult to see anything at that point becasue we had kicked up all that silt. As we were only 26 feet down, we decided to go up and surface swim back.

We turned in our garbage, which included the seat from a boat, and got ready to eat lunch which was being prepared. There were about 60 divers and we collected quite a bit of trash. After lunch there were some drawings for some free stuff. I scored a new regulator bag. I was stoked as I really wanted a new one.

When I got home I felt the tremendous need to disinfect myself and all my gear. I brought my BC into the shower and was going to shampoo it, but I ended up just rinsing it.

That was not lake diving at it’s finest. But we were there to provide a service and do our part in keeping our lakes fairly clean. That is until the drunken redneck jackass boaters who don’t know what a dive flag means hit the lakes again to toss their garbage overboard. No, I’m not judgmental at all…..

The ScubaJedi

To see the complete picture album, click here!

Once again driving all by my lonesome to San Carlos Mexico. I don’t mind it so much as I like to listen to books on audio and I never expect any trouble at the border. This time I was pulled over to the side for inspection. The border agents with their guns were leering at me and speaking to me in Spanish. I was told that this is not the time to practice Spanish, so when they spoke to me I smiled a big stupid American smile and shook my head. They asked me to pop the trunk and I did, hoping they weren’t going to go through all my SCUBA gear. I especially did not want them to confiscate my dive knife, which I would inform them was a dive tool. A knife would be a weapon, right?

They shut the trunk and waved me on. I was just one of a zillion Arizonans who head to San Carlos for SCUBA. Being a female traveling alone though, I thought, I got away pretty easy.

The rest of the drive was uneventful. Once you get past the border, it looks like Arizona with more stray dogs. Also, when you go through the “towns” there are speed bumps, and stationed at each speed bump are people selling things. The speed bumps slow you down just enough to buy $50 pesos worth of home made tortillas. Made with real lard, the good stuff. Of course you roll the dice and take your chances on the safety of the product, as we don’t really know where or how they are made. The food and safety inspectors are few and far between in Mexico so it would seem.

We got to the hotel, checked in and my roommate was already there. She was a young lady getting her open water certification that trip. As is the tradition with Scuba Specialties, the greatest dive shop in Arizona, we all go to dinner together after getting settled in.

The next morning we took off for the Island. the seas were choppy and donning my various layers of neoprene was challenging. the water was going to be cold so I was going to wear all my wetsuits at once. It helps.

The water was cold and murky, but it was diving. I was properly layered and only one wimp (Steven) wore a dry suit. I had on a 3mm hooded vest, a 3mm core warmer, and a 5mm full suit and gloves. I bobbed like a cork. It took 26 pounds to sink then I was overweighted. In tropical waters I use 10 pounds. I decided to dive head first to get down.

I hate to dive in head first, as my ears explode. I like to descend slowly feet first and clear my screetching ears properly. When I go head first I always forget as I am too intent on getting to the bottom my ears start hurting before I clear. Very bad.

I was the more experienced between my dive buddy and me and therefore elected to navigate. That was a challenge and it came to my attention that I really need more practice.

That first day we went to San Pedro Nolasco to the front (east) side of the island. There were no sea lions to be found, but the water wasn’t too cold. There were a number of large jellyfish floating around but I was assured they aren’t the stinging kind. I didn’t have to find out, I steered clear of them and they hang out at the surface anyway. You had to get really close to the bottom to see anything, and there was a lot to see. It wasn’t hard to get close to the bottom with 24 pounds of lead in my pockets either. I saw my first nudibranchs.

The second day we went around to the west side and there were a lot of playful sea lions. When I saw the first one I thought it was a shark as I only caught a glimpse of a large grey figure cruising by. Oh heck, let’s say it was a shark. Nice. There were more jellyfish and I avoided then as they are just plain icky.

There were a few Divemaster Candidates on board and they were doing skills in the water, as were the open water students. I think me and my dive buddy were the only fun divers there for no particular reason. We dove with divemaster Buck on the very last dive and he took us on a nice little tour. I was grateful that I didn’t have to monitor my compass and could just follow. It is tough stuff diving with that much crap, meaning layered like I was. I think next time in cooler water I am just going to stick it out with one wetsuit. I could hardly get back up on the boat with all that weight, and the immobility on the layers.

After getting back to the mainland, it was party time. No more dives, so more tequila. Steven, the dive instructor on the trip took us on a tour of his sailboat he has docked down there. There are a number of gringos that have real estate and/or keep boats there.

The next day was the long drive home. It went fast up until I got to the border. They always instruct us to take the commercial route to avoid going through Nogales. But on this day, there were about 8 hours worth of semi tractor-trailers lined up to go through. I was in no way going to wait that long. I weaved around to try and get to the head of the line but reached a point where there was no getting around the trucks. Before I would be boxed in and stranded, I turned around and headed back the way I came and decided to go through town. It was actually not that bad, I got to see the circus that is central Nogales, and got through the border crossing much faster. The border agent was incredulous that I was on my own. Apparently everyone but me thinks it’s dangerous to drive down there all alone.

until next time
The ScubaJedi
To view all the pictures from this adventure, click here!

There was a time before I was The ScubaJedi. Here is such an adventure. I am an avid hiker and adventurer as well and here is a true tale of adventure and escape from certain death:

Deliverance

According to the write-up on the Coronado National Forest website:

“Box Camp Trail provides some of the most dramatic views of any trail in the Santa Catalinas. It is also steep and rocky, and, as you might expect, the most rugged sections also offer the best views. Extending between the Catalina Highway in the vicinity of Spencer Campground and the East Fork Trail in the Sabino Basin, during summer most people hike from the top down. During the winter, use increases on the lower (warmer) end of the trail.”

We started hiking from the top, on a typical sunny/cloudy day in August. There were 10 of us total and as the trail moved through large ponderosa pines before dropping into the Sabino Basin below, we got somewhat spread out with faster hikers out front and more casual hikers going at a slower pace. But I am getting a little ahead of my story, and I like a story told well from start to finish, so that’s actually where I will begin.

I had wanted to lead what is categorized as an “A” level hike with Sierra Club. The hikes are rated from hardest being “A” to easiest being “D”. Box Camp Trail is a solid “A” hike with over 4000’ in elevation change and being over 9 miles long. The distance is debatable as I get a different number depending on who wrote the description. On August 19, 2006, the trail seemed to be over 100 miles long.

I never hiked this particular trail and didn’t want to officially lead a group of people through a trail described as being difficult with brittle rock littered with rubble. In some places the trail was reported as being hard to find. That turned out to be an understatement, but again, I am getting ahead of myself. I decided to do a pre-hike where I would get a few friends to come with me and check out the trail before offering it officially on the Sierra Club Events Calendar. I was only going to plan for three, maybe four people and to do the hike in a two-car shuttle, as recommended, because of the distance and elevation change. I spread the word in the hiking community and at one time had 20 people interested in going. The usual phenomenon that takes place is a large number of people will be enthusiastic about going and then the number will dwindle more toward the day of the event, and in this case it dwindled to 10 brave souls. That turned out to be a very good thing. I did not know what to expect on this trail, only what I read about in several trail descriptions from several sources.

We spilt up into three carloads to carpool from the Phoenix area. I drove my trusty Nissan, Dave W. drove his trusty Nissan, and Deb drove her trusty Nissan. Their Nissans were Xterras and mine a humble passenger car, the Altima. We drove to Tucson and re-grouped at the Sabino Canyon visitor’s center where another Dave, from Tucson, met us up. We got to the visitor’s center sometime after nine in the morning and told the ranger where we were planning to hike. He was very discouraging as in the past couple of weeks the wilderness area where we were going to hike had been hit with some torrential flooding and landslides. The lower half of the trail had been completely destroyed, we were told, and therefore closed off.

Never one to let much stop me, I asked for alternatives and as it turned out, there was an alternative trail that went left instead of right at one point and we could complete the trail ending at another parking area called Prison Camp, which was the site of a WWII Japanese internment center. The ranger made it sound like the alternative was a good trail however couldn’t give us much more information than that. I asked if there were trail markers and intersection signs that would point us in the right direction and he was pretty brusque in his answer that he just didn’t know. We were all experienced hikers and route finding ability a strong suit with us, which turned out to work in our favor. That and an accurate GPS.

We piled back into our respective vehicles and headed for the Prison Camp parking area.

We left my little Nissan at the Prison Camp parking area, which was mostly destroyed by the recent flooding. We could only park a little ways in and the ranger at the center had told us the drive went well back into the site area where there was a circular drive and we should park towards the back. Dave W, our Dave from Phoenix, was kind enough to purchase a topo map of the area which indicated that our alternative route would lead us to a dirt road leading to this parking area.

From here, we drove in the two Exterras to the trailhead at the top of the mountain. Everyone was in high spirits as it was lovely and cool out at the top and it was promising to be a beautiful day. The trail climbed a bit from the parking area and Deb and a few others, Steve, Mike, Kathy, Willy, and Dave from Tucson took off ahead. Nunya, Dave W, Bruce and I sort of moseyed along behind. Nunya likes to chronicle the hike in pictures and usually stays in back.

The trail in this area was easy to find and beautiful. There were tall ponderosa pines, ferns, wildflowers, and a babbling brook to accompany the babbling hikers. We encountered a couple riding mules on the trail and two other hikers with dogs who said they had come up from the bottom. I was silly enough to believe they meant the very bottom and therefore the trail was going to be a cakewalk. Stupid me.

There was a trail intersection with Box Springs Trail and when we consulted the topo map discovered we had only hiked about an inch and a half. We had a very long way to go and it was about noon by then. We moved on laughing and having a great time in the cool pines and taking in the beauty surrounding us. We broke out from the trees to a sunny rocky outcropping where Deb and the others were stretched out on the rocks having their lunch. We met up with them and sat down to eat as well. After a brief resting period and some laughs and group pictures we were on our way again. As usual, Deb and her faster hikers went on ahead and Nunya, the two Dave’s, Bruce and I were trailing behind. The trail started getting steep and rocky at this point and it did become challenging to find the actual trail. Between the absence of a defined trail and overgrowth in places, it got to be like a game to find the trail. Bruce suggested we start playing a trail game, which involved someone coming up with the title of a movie and whatever letter that movie titled ended in the next person had to come up with another movie title and so on. We played that for a while until trail finding became a real challenge. Notice that I use the word challenging where I really want to say pain in the ass.

We hiked down to a rushing drainage where we came upon Deb, Willy, Mike, Kathy, and Steve. They were as confused as we were about where the trail actually was. There was a beautiful waterfall suitable for a picture moment and a consult of the mostly useless map. I was becoming more concerned as the day was wearing on and we really didn’t have a clue where the blazes we were. We followed cairns down to an area where we were able to strip off the boots and wade into a little waterhole. That was refreshing and particularly for Willy, added some vigor to his step. Willy isn’t used to hot rough hikes in the wilderness. He is from New York City and is making a progressive transition into being a wilderness man. This hike was rough, and getting rougher. Dave from Tucson was also showing some wear at this point. As for myself, I was just starting to go into high whining mode due to mental exhaustion and my tendency to freak out in situations where I feel out of control, and I was starting to feel more and more out of control on this fine day.

We thought we were at the point where we needed to find the eastern trail that would lead us back to the Prison Camp car park. We decided at this point it might be a good idea if we all stuck together as none of us had a clue where the trail was at this point. Deb was excellent at finding the cairns and we were just going from cairn to cairn. Daylight was going to become a problem soon, or lack thereof. Also, water supplies were dwindling for everyone. Nunya and Deb had headlamps and Dave from Tucson had a little flashlight. Willy, in his infinite wisdom, had brought along a GPS and had marked where the Prison Camp car park was and that literally saved our lives. He was feeling more than a little exhausted and so I took over the GPS monitoring. It made me feel a little better to have control of that as I could see that we were indeed heading in the right direction, but the mileage was at nearly 4 and a half and daylight was dwindling fast. We ended up bushwhacking down to the basin where a fast moving river was. In looking it up later, this was the river we were to cross just before we hung a left to the East Fork trail which led to the Sycamore Reservoir Trail, which led to Shangri-La, also known as the Prison Camp car park. There were no trail indicators or anything to reassure us where we were. The scramble down the escarpment was an insidious, steep, and in my humble opinion dangerous trip to the river. But we had seen a definite trail on the other side of the river, the GPS was pointing to it and cross-country was the fastest way to get to the river at this point without taking the time to hunt for more cairns. Ordinarily, I would have been having the time of my life, as it was truly a beautiful area. The rapid running creek, large trees on the shorelines surrounded by dramatic mountains made for a majestic place in which to be. But it was on this scramble to the river where I pretty much lost it and started to weep. I thought all was lost, we were all going to die and it was my entire fault for organizing this little safari. I guess mental exhaustion, physical fatigue and the feeling of powerlessness overcame me and I just needed to release. The others were wonderful and assured me it was not my fault.

Dave W flushed out a large angry rattlesnake as we approached the river, so we had to navigate around it. That was the first of two rattlers we saw that evening. The river was gushing, but there were plenty of dry rocks to step on to get across. I was thinking that the forest service, in their infinite wisdom, should just come out there and stock it with crocodiles to make it even more of an “adventure” than it already was. We crossed and found a real trail and began to follow it. Steve decided that he would run ahead and hopefully get out before dark so at least one of us would live to tell the tellin’. We once again got spread out. Willy and Dave from Tucson were suffering pretty badly by now and Nunya, Dave W, and I hung back to make sure we were all okay. Bruce sort of hung out in between groups, and would stay at more treacherous parts of the trail to help us out when we came to things like, oh, major landslides that took out the trail in parts. The trail was climbing as Mr. Ranger at the Sabino Canyon Visitor’s Center had promised it would. Oh, what’s a little uphill for a bunch of seasoned hikers like us? After the trip down the Cliffs of Insanity I had very little uphill or downhill steep going in me. I was highly motivated to make time and get out before dark, but I began to accept the fact that that was not going to happen. We were going to be stuck out there in the dark; there was no getting around that. We climbed and climbed and scrambled over rockslides and at one point I fell on a slide area and saw my life flash before my very eyes. Mostly I could just see myself going ass over applecart down the rockslide only to land broken and near death 1000 feet below. Bruce was there and gave me a hand up. I tried remaining jovial about it and remarked that my butt created a shelf for the others to use to get across. Bruce was ever so kind to brush the dirt off my ass, and I told him he got that feel-up for free because I was too tired to slap him.
Everyone made it across that landslide and we crested the saddle. There was, by crackie, an actual trail sign at the junction. Deb’s group placed an arrow made from sticks on the sign to indicate their direction. I knew we needed to head for Sycamore Reservoir and it looked like we were on our way. The trail was still obvious and I was optimistic that we just had to walk easily out of there. Silly, nutty, naïve me.

The water situation became grave. I was completely out, as was Willy and Dave from Tucson. Bruce had a bit of water stocked up but he had filled some containers with river water just in case. I thought, what’s a little giardiasis when you’re thirsting to death? So at the next stream crossing I filled up. The water did not taste bad at all and I was confident that it was clean. The runoff was fairly fresh and the water was running. Mom always told me that running water was okay to drink. She also gave me ex-lax when I complained of a headache once when I was little. But, you had to know my mom. By now everyone had river water in his or her various water containers. The trail remained obvious and even though it went in and out of the creek many times, we always managed to find it. Then it got dark. Like, really dark. There was a glade of large trees and then the river bent around after that. I was steaming on ahead and by now walking in the water fully shoed with my non-waterproof boots because I could care less how wet my feet got. I had other problems.

We eventually stopped to make an assessment of our predicament. We could see we weren’t far from the road as we could see cars driving by. But while it was still light out we could see that it was a steep climb to get to that point. But how did one get to the road? I took the headlamp and went looked around for the trail that must be on the banks of the creek somewhere. In the meantime, Nunya decided to pitch camp. She had a fully stocked backpack on her as she was training for a trip in the Sierras next weekend. What a woman! When I got back, the tent was up and we built a fire. We decided we would just have to remain there till daylight. Dave from Tucson indicated that he just couldn’t go on. None of us had cell signals, so there was no calling for help. It wasn’t so grave, though, as none of us were injured or damaged in any way, there was plenty of water (thank you creek) and we had each other. Bruce volunteered to go look for the trail once again, if no results he would make for the road. We had no idea what good that would do, as we did not know which direction we should really be heading. The GPS wasn’t pointing to the road, but we thought at least we might be able to get some help. We took down our GPS coordinates, wrote them down on a scrap of paper and gave them to Bruce and wished him Godspeed. After he took off, we decided to entertain ourselves and see how many people we could get into a backpacker tent. So Nunya got in, followed by Dave W, then me, then Willy. The four of us spooned and got very snuggly and as comfortable as you could get. Dave from Tucson was lying down in the sand outside taking some much-needed rest. The four of us in the tent were giggling and getting comfy when Bruce returned announcing that he found the trail! There was a sign about a quarter of a mile back indicating that the parking area was 1 mile away!

So we packed up the camp and headed for the trail. Naturally, it was all uphill. Dave from Tucson would fall behind and we would wait for him calling out to make sure he was okay. He did really well trundling along in the dark. Bruce was up front with the headlamp and flushed out another rattlesnake. It was a little one and didn’t even rattle. It slithered into the underbrush and didn’t bother us, and we didn’t bother it. I was so tired I was ready to extend my hiking staff and flick the serpent into the brush just to get it out of the way.

Across the ravine and towards the road we began to see signal lights and were sure it was Deb and company. I thought they were in the parking area as the only car there was mine and I had the keys. So it was seriously damaging my calm when we would continue to climb and seemingly go in the opposite direction of the signal lights. But according to the GPS, we were right on track. We crested a saddle and there was a wilderness sign. It told us jack squat, just like the rest of the signs we encountered. The original sign at the beginning of that trail we were on indicated a mile to the car park. That turned out to be wildly inaccurate. The GPS was spot-on as it turned out. From here we followed an old road down to the old Prison Camp area where there were a number of tents pitched. Apparently some trail crews were camped out to work on the dreadful trails out there. They have a lot of work ahead of them. They told us that Deb and her crew had been by and told them about us and had hitched a ride up to where Deb’s Xterra was parked. When we piled in my Altima, we drove out and there was Deb and company coming down the road. We all hooked up again and everyone had a different story.

Kathy had gotten separated from the others and ended up losing Deb after the switchbacks, down by the stream. She got off trail (not intentionally) and scrambled up a hill to get a better view to look for anyone. She then returned to the stream and couldn’t see any of us coming over the hill. She figured we must have gotten ahead of her. So she just followed the water for a while, crisscrossing it a few times and following footprints. When she came to a waterfall and/or dam, she knew she was lost. She told us she had to scramble up the hill on all fours and that hiking method would become her primary means of crossing as the steep cliffs continued! There she caught a glimpse of car lights coming down the hill to the left.

For the next few hours Kathy headed that way. Because it was dark, she had no way of knowing the best way to traverse. Fatigue caused her to stop frequently, and this is a normally strong hiker. She ended up going up and down two big hills and on the last ascent she caught sight the car lights and flashlights. Kathy yelled and they responded, but there was still quite a ways to go and she had to keep stopping. Steve shone his light on her and then came out to meet her. He then directed her back and went on a search for us, though we never saw him. Who knows where we all were at that point? Kathy was quite surprised that it was only the three of them at the top. She had assumed that everyone was out by then. Mike met her near the top and got her safely back to the car at 10:30pm where she did nothing but sit and drink water and coke for the next hour. That was amazing. Had I been separated from the others with no lights nor knowledge of where the trail was I would have cowered into a space and cried like a little girl till morning.

Deb and Mike had bushwhacked up to the road and flagged down a Good Samaritan and got a ride up to the trailhead. They had called 911 for us but then called it off as we were delivered.

Nunya, the Daves, Bruce and I stopped for food and coffee at the Village Inn, and then headed for home. I got to bed by 5:30 in the morning.

From Nunya (Nunya’s) Experience:

The Hike of Insanity…. you hear about them, you wonder if it will ever happen to you… wonder no more. The Catalina Mountains – Sabino Canyon, Tucson – we were told at the Ranger Station that the trail we had planned had been rendered impassible by the prior weeks flash flooding, rock slides and avalanches, but that there was an alternate route we could take. They were wrong.

To say the routes in the area were impassible is not totally accurate, but to say the area/trails/routes were obliterated – yes. What the 10 of us hiked into was beyond comprehension, and it made my prior weekend Class 3 & 4 rock scramble seem like a walk in the park. The intensity and duration after one point became so bad, that photo taking was abandoned for survival.

I was also conditioning for an upcoming backpacking trip, and had a loaded backpack of basic camping essentials (35+lbs which later felt like 70) – both a curse and a blessing because 6 of us made use of the contents, and having it certainly zeroed out my stress in considering our options. Handling that backpack down and up the treacherously precarious embankments of loose rock and terrain in Marine Boot Camp/Navy Seal fashion (and without being sore the next day), removed all shadow of doubt that was I conditioned ‘just fine’ for anything!!

Exhaustion and fatigue were the first issues to deal with within the group, followed closely by running out of water. Since my water pump still needed REI repair, we had to put our fears aside and drink the rapidly flowing creek water untreated – hopefully without side affects. The options were death now or diarrhea later – we drank the water.

With the aid of a GPS, we bushwhacked following no visual trail, but some precariously set carins – eyeing a trail in the distance that we knew would lead back to the vehicles. Once reaching that oasis trail point, we quickly found our danger had in no way been alleviated. Multiple creek crossings with the extensive flood damage and avalanches had successfully destroyed normal means of locating what was left of the trail. Four of the stronger hikers had went ahead to bring back fresh water, only to face the same fate as the 6 of us left behind – being in the canyon in the dark, with no trail to follow and steep treacherous terrain to scale. Everyone felt emphasis on the danger and drama as calmly and quietly as could be done considering the circumstances. Dangers of rattlesnakes, mountain lion type animals, bears and other biting things paled in comparison to the terrain we faced.

It is my understanding that one hiker (Kathy B) also became separated from the leading 4, and managed to find the trail in the dark and essentially alone, and exit the canyon around 10:30pm. This can only be attributed to an act of God assisting her. Even with the 6 of us eventually locating the trail with the aid of my headlight and a GPS – knowing how to follow it in the dark with all the damage and no GPS was a miracle she should be highly commended upon. The other lead 3 it is my understanding, went through the creek canyon floor and scaled the cliff in the dark (with one headlamp) to the road – an option we 6 had to abandon for safety reasons.

Teamwork between the remaining 6 was amazing, everyone doing some little part to make it as easy as possible. The camaraderie, the courage, and no one gave up – it was truly an experience we hope to never be faced with again, but will laugh over sushi later this week on how we fit 4 exhausted hikers in a 2 person tent.

From Steve’s Experience:

Since we all had the same basic experiences until we arrived at the creek, I will start my version from this point and bring it forward.

As Willy, David, and I traversed the final descent, which led up to the creek, I heard the Siren’s Song beckoning me into her arms. She proclaimed that she lacked all modesty, and was naked and waiting impatiently for me. God, I am such a sap. I sprinted down the final terrain only to find a fully dressed, back pack carrying, mortal laughing at me and swearing that she HAD been naked (beneath her clothes). Arriving at the creek at approximately 1700 hours, I removed my footwear and submerged my fat little body into the water in order to cool off. When the group resumed hiking, I decided to move ahead to the front of the parade. Therefore, I sped up my pace to a more comfortable rate, and met up with Deb and Mike (henceforth known as DaM). After we met up with Kathy, I decided to forge ahead at an even more comfortable pace, since I was confident that I could make it out safely before sunset, and therefore be able to contact someone and let them know that there was a group of hikers still in the area. After leaving DaM and Kathy, I had a couple of interesting experiences, including taking a ride in a landslide area. This occurred when I attempted to run across an area that had suffered severe erosion, and whatever I landed on took off down hill with me on it. I turned to face the direction of travel, saw what appeared to be a safe area to exit the ride, and hopped off when I reached it. After this, I arrived at the intersection of Bear Trail [?], Sycamore [?] Reservoir, and East Fork Trails. Since I wasn’t sure which way to go, I ran down Bear Trail for a ways, turned around and ran down Sycamore Reservoir, then came back and ran up the highest summit in the area, which was back down Bear Trail. I did this in order to try to get telephone reception, hoping to contact a fellow Sierra Clubber in order to get directions and let someone know about the situation. At this time my phone completely locked up, and I couldn’t even turn it off. Since I didn’t want others to follow the markers that I had left behind, and hoping to get directions from the next group that came along, I ran back to the trail marker just as DaM arrived. After consulting with them, I followed Deb’s wise advice, and followed Sycamore Reservoir trail out. She pointed out that, just as I had observed when we pulled into the Prisoner Camp parking area, this trail seemed to lead to a riparian area.

As I reached the riverbed flats, I decided that the only reasonable route to take was to the right, since we had parked at a low area, which was most decidedly a riparian area, and then immediately started an uphill climb in the vehicle as we headed up to the trailhead. Since the area where the road traffic had appeared similar to the uphill area from Prison Camp, and the area on the other side of the hill appeared to most likely be the riparian area, I stayed in the creek bed until I arrived at what appeared to have been a dam. From here I backtracked far enough to get away from the swiftly flowing feed waters, and then crossed over the creek. From here I followed a very old footpath until I encountered a VERY old iron sign that proclaimed that the parking lot was only one mile away. With a high degree of elation, I headed in the direction that the sign had pointed me. After about a mile I arrived at an area, which probably served as a parking lot when I was still wearing diapers. The only sign here was one announcing the area as part of the Arizona Trail. So I ran. At one point I encountered a hissing speed bump of the reptilian sort who was coiled up in the middle of a single-track footpath. Landing my right foot within inches of his (or her) smiling face, I performed a pirouette in the path and called the bastard every name in the book but a white snake. Eventually I arrived in another creek bed where I found horse prints, and I followed this. And I ran some more. Several miles later I entered Prisoner’s Camp, which had been severely damaged from the floods. At 1900 hours I encountered a wonderful group of friends who perform trail maintenance. Having just run out of water, they re-hydrated me, listened to my (our) woes, then loaned me a whistle. I ran to the top of the nearest mountain, and then blew (suck is just an expression) for several minutes. I continued until right at sundown, and then went back to their camp. Seems that the universe was working in our favor, since they were not scheduled to camp there, but their van had broken down right before they got to the Prisoner’s Camp parking area. After further re-hydrating me, they then proceeded to feed me a wonderful dinner of rice and chicken with peanut butter sauce. As the group leader said, “Hard work is the best seasoning for food” (Edward Abbey). After a couple of beers and a slice of chocolate cheesecake (not really), we did dishes using a system wherein there are four dishpans; one for pre-clean, one for soap, one for rinsing, and one for sterilizing. Four people line up and start washing dishes, then the next in line says move (or something like that), and everyone moves down a place and lets someone else enter the line. By 2030 hours we had finished doing dishes, someone gave me a rain poncho, which replaced the one I gave away on Mt. Humphreys’ last Sunday, and I was just getting ready to thumb my way up the mountain to get Deb’s Xterra, when headlights appeared in the parking lot. When I heard DaM’s voice, I was thrilled. Two of my newfound friends went out to greet them, and upon my arrival, we left with the good Dr. and his wife (the kind couple that picked up DaM from the side of the road. (Deb, road walking is okay, but DON’T start street walking, okay). We got the Xterra, stopped at some crazy lady’s cabin, tried to use a broken phone, saw the lights of hundreds of stranded hikers, then finally arrived at mile marker 8, which was where DaM, had entered the road. We were really excited at this point since we had seen a single headlamp down in this area, and had heard a verbal response when we called out. Moving down to a slightly lower area, which held promise for an easier egress route, I headed into the valley with the aid of a 4D Maglite, which the good Doctor had loaned us. It was especially fortuitous that this area provided us with a slightly flowing, gently sloping creek bed in which to travel. After going down into the valley, I heard a single voice, and since it wasn’t a voice that I normally hear in my head, I felt fairly confident that it was one of our party. I told her (Kathy) to not move, and just call me in. When we finally connected, she was visibly shaken and exhausted, but she still refused to give up. I located the creek bed, sent her up it, and then proceeded down into the valley to locate the individual that was wearing the headlamp, since Kathy reassured me that she was not in possession of any type of lighting. How she made it that far without lighting is beyond me. What an awesome individual, and an inspiration to me. Leaving Kathy, who I knew was capable of taking care of herself, I delved deeper into, and eventually crossed, the valley while holding the Maglite over my head in order to illuminate the trail well enough to run. Coming back, I stopped about halfway up, and shined my light down into the valley. It was at this time that I saw a set of eyes down by the lowest part of the stream. I yelled out to not move, and I headed back into the valley. As I approached, I lost contact with the eyes. But when I arrived at the approximate location where they had been, I found some really big cat prints. At this point I headed back up to the car, since I figured if there were any hikers down here now, their bones would eventually be located. On the way up, I did panic for about ten seconds when I could not tell which mountain was which. Talking myself down, I left the creek bed that I had decided was my best route out, and I gained a little elevation. When I saw that the scar in the mountain, which was a result of the two-lane road, which had been built into it, was where I had thought it should be, I resumed my ascent out of the area. After deciding that the headlamp we had seen was either a phantasm, or more likely one of our group, we headed back down to Prisoner’s Camp, where I ran out onto a high area in order to try to guide the group in with a flashlight. Finally, we gave up, and called 911. We had decided that the light was possibly part, or all, of our group and they had decided to use GPS, which gives distances usable to crows, to lead them to their destination. As we were leaving the area and heading down to leave a note on the vehicle parked at Prisoner’s Camp, we noticed the same vehicle leaving the parking area.

The end.

And they lived happily ever after.

Oh yeah. Then there was the guy at Circle K that gave me a large cup of coffee. What a great day. Life is good. Friends are better. Adventures rock. Deb, take those rocks out of your backpack, you sicko, rockaholic.

Lessons learned:

Learn the trail names that you are going to be using.

Only travel as the crow flies if you have wings.

Look at the maps, but read the landscape.

Rock cairns are technology also, and therefore are no substitute for experience.

I am notorious for taking random trips to places like San Carlos, Mexico, Grand Cayman and Bonaire. These are the benefits of making good money and having absolutely no responsibilities. What can I say. It’s all fun and games till the money runs out, believe me. I manage to pay for these trips with extra earned money from contract work or what are called “Adventure Bucks” earned from hosting events with my former singles club in Phoenix, a club that boasts of adventure and was founded in the year 2000. Recent changes have occurred within the club and yours truly, The ScubaJedi, was unceremoniously voted off the island by the current manager, who is a complete tool. Hereinafter referred to as The Tool. The Tool told me that he wanted longer term members out of the club, so he was terminating memberships of those long term loyal members as they were dragging the club down with their negativity regarding the club. Makes sense, huh? People rejoining the club and paying the high membership fees because they’re not having any fun and they hate it. Turned out it was me and one other woman singled out and booted out compliments of The Tool. He’s basically a liar and a bad person. Those are outstanding traits for the head of a social club, right? Oh well, maybe he’ll come down with amoebic dysentery or something really appropriate like that . Moving right along….

Anyway we had a trip to Bonaire for, as you may have guessed, SCUBA. We were going in conjunction with a sister singles group, Tucson Fun and Adventures. There were 8 of us from the Phoenix going and several (lost count) from Tucson. Three of us from Phoenix were fairly experienced divers and three were beginners. Two of them were first time divers save their certification trips. One guy, Charles, who will be mentioned many times in this blog entry, got his scuba certification just for this trip. He signed up for it not knowing it was a scuba trip. When he found out it was primarily for divers, he said, “Well, I guess I’ll go get some scuba lessons.” I thought he was an exceptional sport about it, and he turned out to be a very good sport about a lot of things.

The plane arrived at 5am on Sunday morning. Too early to do anything except sit and whine about how muggy it was and slap various insects away from our bodies. I think most people lost about a quart of blood on this trip, and Charles even more than that. Eventually we checked in and anxiously awaited the breakfast cafe to open for some much anticipated coffee. The cafe at Buddy Dive is like everything else in Bonaire pretty much, open air with a nice view of the Leeward side of the island and Klein Bonaire. Betty, Sally, Lori and I decided to have some food and wait until we could get our keys to the room (apartment) we were to share with the two guys from our group, Charles and Kirk. It was a three bedroom condo, one small dungeon-like bedroom downstairs and two palatial grand en suite bedrooms upstairs. I foolishly envisioned the boys taking the downstairs room leaving us princesses to our girls privacy upstairs, ah, but that was not to be. Curse my metal body, I just wasn’t fast enough. I left the cafe to go see if the room was ready and get a key. Just as I was making my way back to the office, Kirk and Charles were headed to the condo, keys in hand. They rushed in and claimed the master suite with the private bathroom and balcony for themselves. I was pissed. In retrospect, I should have camped at the desk, snagged the key first and bolted like Flash Gordon to the condo and laid claim to one of the good rooms. So I, being shy and conservative as many will tell you, did not want to be with the boys upstairs so I threw myself on the sword and took the dungeon. Whomever wanted to share with me could, and as fate would have it, it was Lori, who considered herself screwed (and not in that fun spanky way) to be stuck downstairs as well.

I tried not to let it damage my calm, but I was already fit to be tied in having to share with strange (and I mean strange) men in the first place. The Tucson organizer of the trip was fairly presumptuous in thinking we’d be cool about sharing co-ed, I thought. I can’t speak for the others but I was not happy about it at all. But, I tried my hardest not to let it harsh my mellow. After all, I was in a world class diving destination. But, it did spoil my mood. I wanted it to be perfect with all the trouble I’ve been going through with work lately. But that’s another blog.
We got settled in and then went to get signed in at the dive shop and obtain our diving permits. The entire island of Bonaire is a marine park and they require diving permits. It costs $25 and they give you a little plastic disc to attach to your diving gear so they know they got your $25. There really aren’t any scuba police down there in the depths watching and writing tickets.
We had to attend an orientation regarding the care and awareness of the marine park, then we got a tour of the facilities and were sent on our way to do whatever we wanted, which in our case, was diving.

We checked our weights and went for a dive, and I ended up going to 114 feet to the bottom of the trench off the reef. It’s easy enough to do as wall type diving lends itself to just going deeper and deeper. I gaged 114ft and decided that was deep enough for the moment and headed back up. It’s pretty easy diving in Bonaire, the entire island is a protected reef and there is a lot of shore diving. When you come up the wall and get to the top of the reef you’re pretty much at your safety stop and can linger there for 3 minutes and look at the octopus. We found an octo living in a little bit of coral near the Buddy pier. When I first saw it it was surrounded by all these divers and I thought for sure they were going to get inked. At least I was hoping tosee a bunch of curious divers in a lively moment of confusion in a cloud of octopus ink. That would have been picture worthy.

And so the trip went. We dove, drank, ate, bitched, laughed, slept a little. Charles, was itching to go somewhere else besides Bonaire. He wanted to go to Venezuela really bad. He wanted to charter an airplane to take him and anyone else who wanted to to South America. Fortunately, he spoke to the dive shop manager, Augusto, who was from Venezuela and wouldn’t even go back there himself. He told Charles that he would most probably be dead before he left the airport. That changed his mind and so he began concentrating on Curacao or Aruba. He wanted to hit all the ABC islands.

Charles was the one who had to get the diving certificate before he came on the trip. He turned out to be a really good diver, and I hope he continues to dive.

I got back on deck, Kirk and Charles were already there, and then the others were making it back. Lala came back on deck and gave everyone a lecture about the virtues of looking at your gauges once in a while when diving, it helps. I look at my gauges constantly. Or rather, my diving computer, as it tells me everything. Such a gossip.

We had two days of two tank boat dives and two days of one tank boat dives. The shore diving was spectacular and one day Lori, Betty, Sally and I decided to hop in the van and take a ride down the coast and do some shore diving. We decided on a site, The Hilma Hooker, which is a 300′ vessel scuttled in 1984. We dove and swam to the reef which dropped off to a sandy area and another reef across a deep channel of sand. I didn’t see any ship anywhere. But I did get to see a nice eagle ray glide past in the channel. So we paddled around for a while till the air ran out and came back to shore. Coming out of the surf, Lori remarked, “Wow, that was a great wreck”. When I went back to the shop and told Lala we couldn’t find the Hilma Hooker he thought I was retarded.
We went back another day and snorkeled out to the buoys and descended the lines to the wreck, so we ended up finding it after all.
The last day we went shore diving, Charles had rented a motorcycle and was tooling about the island. He came upon us at a dive site to stop and say hi and that he was having a great time. Later that day, he was in the hospital getting his face stitched up. Wrecked the motorcycle, cut himself up pretty bad and broke his foot. Only the day before he had a close call with a scorpion fish in a mangrove that took a shine to him. He had gone on a kayak snorkel outing and met with some mischief that day as well. Scorpion fish, in case you’re wondering, are poisonous.
Earlier in the week, Betty and Lori declared that they saw a shark. No one believed them as seeing a shark in Bonaire is about as likely as seeing a polar bear wandering the Superstition Mountains east of Phoenix. but they stuck to their story. Everyone else was pretty convinced that they say a tarpon, which is a large fish.
On our last dive together, Lori and I were cruising down the reef at Buddy Dive and there was a huge tarpon just hanging there. I looked at Lori and made the shark gesture, she looked at me and made the f*** you gesture. I laughed so hard I flooded my mask.

Later on we took a sunset sailboat cruise, which was really nice.

We took a day long surface interval before flying out and did some touring of the island. We pretty much stuck to the South Farthing as we were lost in the area the first day we tried to find the Hilma Hooker. There is a lot of garbage washed up on the beach around there and it’s kind of a shame that no one picks it up. There was an amazing amount of flip flops.

So that was Bonaire.

The ScubaJedi