Hot Sulphur Springs

What is without question the most memorable and enjoyable experience of the entire two-month bike trip through the Colorado Rockies almost didn’t happen.

Before I left Napa I'd plotted out a very specific route for these two months, with the intent to be very loose in the process, always open to change. Other than Estes Park, where it had been a necessity, I had no campground reservations, no place to be, no time schedule. My next planned destination was Winter Park, a ski resort town at the base of Berthoud Pass, about 50 miles away. My question this evening, as I sat in my campsite at Timber Ridge poring over the maps and guidebook, revolved around whether to ride straight to Winter Park, or take a side road to Hot Sulphur Springs. After my somewhat harrowing day fleeing ghosts and goblins and landslides, a soak in some hot springs or a swim in a hot pool sounded better than wonderful, and the guide book listed a free campground along the banks of the young Colorado River. I opted for the detour, and have been forever grateful for that decision.

I broke camp early the next morning, packed up and headed back downhill through Grand Lakes toward the next adventure. Twenty-seven miles later I took a right turn for what I expected to be an easy 10-mile ride into Hot Sulphur Springs over an essentially level highway. Quickly, I encountered a killer headwind. Then I realized I was losing elevation, which I did not want to do since I had to retrace this road the following day. I debated turning around, but felt committed to this course and finally decided to just go for it. I needed training in altitudes and grades, right? Right.

From my journal:
"So I rolled into this little burg, tired from the wind and wondering why on earth I was here. It's tiny. I looked around and found the baths and the campground, which is a flooded bank of the very angry Colorado River. Free, but not wonderful. Millions of mosquitoes. I had finally decided to ride back to Granby and when I stopped for a soft drink the people in the store convinced me to stay. So I went down there again and looked around and found a spot that would be manageable for one night, even though the outhouses were in a flooded marsh. The mosquitoes got to me, so I decided to stay in a hotel. The people back at the store guided me to the Stagecoach, where I got a serviceable room with bath down the hall for $12. The bath doesn't have a shower and the tub is filthy, but the toilet works. So I hustled back to the spa and soaked in a tiny sulphur pool which was hot, but cloudy, with some kind of particles that looked suspiciously like shredded skin swirling around in it thickly. After only a few minutes of soaking, the owners hustled us out of the pool because of an approaching thunderstorm. I eventually gave up and went to take a shower. [The guide book had mentioned a barn-like building housing a large pool with water temps ranging from 105 to 123 degrees. I think this may have been closed for cleaning. I do know it was not available.] The showers there didn't work either, so I went back to town across the wood bridge and stopped again at the store, cashed a check and bought some beer. Back at the hotel, the bar was open and I thought it would be much nicer to write and read in the bar than in the room. I’ll just have to transport the beer in the panniers tomorrow."

Nothing like a little more weight to haul uphill.

The bar was tiny, but definitely hopping on this Friday night. I took a seat at the end of the tiny bar, ordered a draft Coors, chatted with the bartender, watched a group of young men playing pool, and wrote in my journal, happy and content. One of the pool players, who I later described in my journal as "a young Adonis, a blond, long-haired John Travolta in a T-shirt and cut-offs", took a break to grab a swig of beer, looked at me with a big grin. "What are you writing there?" he asked. I told him, and after a few more questions and answers I found myself enfolded into their group, accepted as one of the gang, like it or not. Happy with my journal I was a bit reluctant, but they were such joyful, happy personalities that I finally let go of whatever hang-ups held me back and let myself simply enjoy the moment. They weren't flirting -- I had turned 40 six months previously and they were in their 20's -- they were just friendly and fun.

These guys, construction workers on a road building project I'd passed on my way into town, were ready for a good evening of fun and beer. The room was really quite small, the pool table took up most of what wasn't allocated to the bar and stools, so the scene was a cozy one. Adonis took his pool playing seriously, but the group was garrulous and he, in particular, had a seemingly endless supply of jokes that he told with great mastery of style.

He told one that was quite long about a Minnesota farmer named Olson. He'd obviously told it often, had the Swedish accent, the timing, the facial expressions down to a science. I can only remember parts of it, but by the time he hit the punch line he had everyone in the place rolling on the floor. It was without question the singular funniest joke I have ever heard. During the course of the evening he told it several times more, as other people wandered in and out of the bar, drawn by the laughter. With every retelling I laughed as hard as I had the first time. The word ‘hilarious’ does not even begin to do it justice.

I spoke to others who stopped in the bar before or after dinner in the dining room. One woman named Jean from Dillon wanted me to call her when I got there, although I never did. Her friend David from Seattle, who was with her, had a stroke a year ago and thought the hot springs might help. A local man’s wife had been completely paralyzed in an auto accident 15 years earlier and lost all memory in the process. She didn't remember having their two kids, or getting married, but they were still married. It had been hard, he said, but he found her a better person now than before the accident. Her personality had changed completely.

"This is a crazy place!" I wrote in my journal at the bar. "Really laid back, very local, very small. Here I sit at the bar, laughing with the local guys. I didn't want to be here, and I didn't want to be in a hotel, but one of the things I am learning already is to let things go and enjoy each experience as it comes, make the most of it instead of being upset."

How many times have I ─ have any of us ─ missed out on a potentially extraordinary life experience because of an inability or unwillingness to follow some uninvited shift in course with joy, rather than anger or disappointment? I believe I have finally learned that lesson, learned to approach whatever life offers with an open and joyful mind, but it took me over 60 years and during those 60 years I know I missed thousands of potentially wonderful moments. Fortunately, on this evening in Hot Sulphur Springs I opened to the joy of the moment.

I don't remember how late I stayed in the bar, but I do know I drank a lot of Coors (the guys kept buying it) and didn't have any dinner other than a few bar snacks and probably not a lot of lunch. They were still going strong when I left.

Although it's difficult to explain why, this evening without question lives in my memory as the singular warmest, happiest, most satisfying, most gratifying, finest experience of the entire two months. I will never forget it. With all the little roadblocks that pushed me to the hotel and into the bar, this evening was simply fated to happen!

I paid for all that fun the next morning, of course. Lots of beer, no dinner, 30 miles of uphill riding ahead of me and not a solitary thing stirring in town when I woke up early the next morning. With nothing else to do, unable to use my stove inside the hotel to cook breakfast, I packed up and left. If the thermometer I saw can be believed, it was 50° outside, but felt much, much colder. Icy cold. The coldest I'd seen yet and not even a cup of coffee to warm me up or fuel my body.

Without breakfast, I had a light case of the bonks all the way back over those 10 miles and 750 feet of elevation I'd lost the previous day. My complaining body had little strength, but I took it as easy as possible so I wouldn't deplete any more energy than necessary. To combat the jarring cold I kept stopping, pulling warm clothes out of the panniers until there were none left. I eventually wore my wool sweater under the nylon windbreaker jacket and pants, plus my wool cap and gloves. I suffered ─ from chilling cold, from lack of energy, from a fuzzy head ─ for well over an hour until I reached Granby.

Was the fun worth all the suffering? Absolutely! I had no regrets, but I could have killed for a cup of hot coffee.

In Granby at 9:30 a.m. a café was open and bustling with customers. I found a seat at the counter ─ the only place available ─ begged for coffee first then ordered a huge breakfast. With icy hands wrapped around the blessedly hot mug, I inhaled an aroma as luscious as nectar, made short work of that first cup of coffee and begged for more. My body sucked up that big breakfast as if it hadn't eaten for days ─ and in fact, it hadn't had much the previous day. I took a good break, thawed myself out, shed the excess clothes and eventually, satisfied and renewed, headed on to Winter Park.

Note: the excerpts from the story of this bike ride have thus far been presented in chronological order, so if you're lost about this one, scroll down to the previous entry on the subject for more context.

The John Muir Trail

Little did I know when my phone rang that lovely June day in San Francisco that my life was about to change. The Carter primary campaign and election were over, the state offices had moved to Los Angeles for the general election, and I was happily working temp jobs to pay the bills, very much a free agent at loose ends.

On the other end of the phone was a friend from the St. Francis Yacht Club, which in itself surprised me as I don’t think he’d ever called in all the years I’d known him. “Kitty,” he said, “how’d you like to go on a 10-day backpack in Yosemite?” I pointed out to him that I’d never been backpacking in my life but sure, why not! He went on to tell me that he’d supply everything, all I’d need to bring was clothes, hiking boots and any personal items I might need, also that a third person would be with us, a 16-year-old girl who was a neighbor of his. Then he dropped the ringer: “We’re leaving tonight.” Whew! Well, OK. Why not? A few days into the hike I figured out that another woman had probably cancelled on him at the last moment and he needed a chaperone, and I had a good laugh. The hike itself had been planned for months.

I rushed out and bought some hiking boots and socks, put together everything I thought I’d need in the way of clothes and toiletries and of course, my camera and lots of film. Jeffrey picked me up late that evening and off we went, arriving somewhere near Tuolumne Meadows a few hours later where we tumbled out onto the side of the parking area to try and catch a little sleep. Late the following morning, after a lengthy time spent loading all three packs, divvying up the gear and food, we set off up the Tuolumne River through Lyell Canyon. Thankfully, this canyon is long and mostly flat and therefore easier on my body than it might have been.

Nevertheless, before that day was over I fervently wished I were home. Blisters quickly appeared from the new boots, I didn’t like carrying the pack even though it was merely a large day-pack rather than a real backpack, and there was no way in hell I could keep up with my companions. Jeffrey had backpacked all his life, often in spectacular regions of the world, and even the teenager had lots of trail miles under her belt. They kept telling me to keep my own pace, that we’d meet up further along the trail. I was frustrated and unhappy, but kept most of it to myself. There was no way I’d ruin their vacation by wanting to go back home, so I learned to grin and bear it. I remember stopping for lunch and dangling my bare feet in the cold river to ease the pain. In those days, we drank water from the river just as it was, never treated it and it was wonderfully pure and delicious.

Sunrays light the sky from our camp at the base of Mt. Lyell.

Our goal for the day was Mt. Lyell, about 10 miles up the trail. At 13,114 feet, Lyell is the highest point in Yosemite National Park. My companions had planned to stop at several points along the trail and spend a day climbing one mountain or another. Lyell was the first of these. By now, my body and feet were all screaming but we had a good evening and set off early the next morning, up the mountain. The terrain here was an uneven minefield of huge, smooth, rounded boulders and I was really uncomfortable hopping from one to another. After about an hour, I told the others to go on ahead and I returned to camp alone, quite content to give my body and feet a good rest.

By the next day, I felt much better and while I still lagged behind the others as we climbed up and over Donahue Pass (11,056 feet), I was thoroughly enchanted with the spectacular scenery. Beyond Donahue, the trail leveled off once more through a beautiful alpine meadow and we could see the Ritter Range with Mts. Ritter and Banner, ahead far in the distance. My memory no longer tells me whether we reached Thousand Island Lakes and the base of Mt. Banner that night or the next day, but this was the next planned two-night stop.

The Ritter Range, just beyond Donohue Pass.  As usual, my companions were way ahead of me!

At the base of Banner we made camp along a little stream and my companions headed up the mountain the following morning. This time, I didn’t even try to go with them. Mountain climbing wasn’t my thing, I guess. Instead, I explored the area, took a little naked sunbath (rudely interrupted by a little chipmunk who nibbled on one of my toes), and generally relaxed. The afternoon passed and as it grew later with no signs of my companions, I began to worry. All I had to eat was trail mix and I didn’t know how to work the little stove. The evening chill set in, darkness fell and I eventually retired into the tent for lack of anything better to do and for warmth. All sorts of visions of one or another of them dead or injured on the mountain passed through my brain. What would I do if they didn’t return? By morning, I’d have to abandon camp and hike out to civilization to get help – I had maps and decided that the closest point back to civilization was ahead rather than behind. Not surprisingly, I was gripped with more than a little fear – mostly for the fate of my friends, also because I was in the middle of damned nowhere all alone with no experience in wilderness. Long after dark I heard cheery voices call out and greeted their safe return with much relief. Turns out they’d encountered some women camped up the river and had stopped by their fire for quite awhile to visit and have something warm to drink. I could have killed them!

Much of the rest of the trip was uneventful and specifics fade from memory. The hiking grew easier for me as the days passed. I never learned to enjoy hopping those huge boulders (encountered when we strayed off the trail) but the scenery was indescribably beautiful, the weather warm and sunny. Wildflowers of all descriptions blazed with color everywhere we walked. By the end of the trip, I was fully hooked and have never stopped my explorations into nature, whether backpacking, day-hiking, bicycle touring or even a jeep trip deep into rutted forest service roads in Idaho. Nature warms and envelops and welcomes me every time. It’s where I feel most at home.

Of course, I was also thankful that I’d made myself continue after that first day of hiking when I wanted nothing more than to go home. I never mentioned that to Jeffrey until the last day, when the two of us hiked alone up to Iceberg Lake. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked.

I am so glad I didn’t!

Robert Mondavi

It’s no secret that Robert Mondavi was larger than life and the Napa Valley’s greatest booster. His remarkable foresight, drive and ambition unquestionably made significant contributions to the fame and growth of this small winegrowing region of Northern California. His life was legendary, filled with more than a little scandal and gossip, envy and troubles along with great success.

I first met him around 1972, give or take a year. His winery was new – the first new winery to be built in Napa since Prohibition, and the subject of much talk. I worked in San Francisco for Honig, Cooper & Harrington, the largest ad agency in the City at the time, with major clients such as The Clorox Company and Levi-Strauss. I was a lowly secretary in the media department, but I happened to be dating one of the account managers at Clorox and thus became the only non-executive to attend a famed annual event. Each year after the media planning was completed for the coming year, the agency hosted the Clorox execs for a bash. In the year in question, they piled us all on a big tour bus and drove us to the fledgling Robert Mondavi Winery for dinner.

When we arrived, we were met personally by Robert, who greeted us with his characteristic warmth, poured us some wine, chatted a bit then took us on a personally-guided tour of the new facility. There was no action in the winery on a Saturday evening, but we followed catwalks and saw all there was to see, with Robert filling us in on all the details. Back in the dinner area music played, hors d’oeuvres were served and much Robert Mondavi wine was tasted. The big surprise came when we sat down for dinner. I have no memory of what food was served, other than that it was very good, but I remember some of the wines.

At some point during hors d’oeuvres we were served some Hans Kornell Champagne. As we tasted and enjoyed, Hans Kornell himself talked to us about his cellars and his wines. At the table, a different wine was served with each course, and while I don’t remember them specifically, at least 2 or 3 were Mondavi wines, including a wonderful cabernet, and as each was poured Robert spoke to us about that wine. I know there was at least one other winery and winemaker involved, and I’m sorry I don’t remember who it was. The dinner closed with some Christian Brothers Brandy, presented by none other than Brother Timothy himself. Thus was my introduction to the Napa Valley from the inside.

In 1979 I moved to the Valley and during the course of my seven years in the wine industry I encountered Robert often. He and his wife, Margrit, were always the soul of gracious kindness and courtesy and when they spoke to you, they were speaking to you, focused on you alone. We met at parties, at various Napa Wine Auction events, tastings, a private dinner-in-the vineyards hosted by the Mondavi Winery honoring a visiting Spanish winegrower, and a very special evening with a select guest list honoring the handsome young heir apparent of the Biondi-Santi winery in Italy. You may never have heard of this small company, but in any given year their best wines will hit the market at a higher price than say, Romanee-Conti or Chateau Lafite Rothschild. Their Brunello Riserva is cherished, and without doubt the best red wine I have ever tasted. But, that’s a story for a different day.

During the years between my first visit in 1972 and the time I moved away from Napa in 1986, Robert’s winery grew by leaps and bounds, became a virtual beehive of activity, a world-wide center of wine and food and hospitality. It bore little resemblance to the quiet, empty place where we spent that magical evening, although of course the iconic mission-style front stayed the same.

The last time I saw Robert was several years ago when I was visiting the Valley. I drove north out of Napa into the valley and just as I left the edge of town I spotted a familiar bow-legged figure walking along the side of the road, thumbing a ride. It took a moment for my brain to process what I saw, then I pulled over immediately, but not soon enough. Another car had stopped right behind me, closer. He was in his 80’s at the time, and I’ll never know why this giant of the local wine industry was hitching a ride along Highway 29, but I’m sure there would have been a good story to hear if I’d just been a few seconds faster. When he died last year I shed a tear or two, then went out and bought a bottle of his best Cabernet and drank a silent toast to honor this extraordinary man known around the world as Robert Mondavi. We called him Bob.

Uncle Bill

One of the finest parts of my time selling Ferrari at Modern Classic Motors in Reno was Bill Harrah, better known to those of us who loved him as “Uncle Bill”. Make no mistake, I didn’t ‘know’ him in any sense of the word – in fact, I don’t believe he ever spoke a word to me – but he was in the showroom almost daily. I got to know him mostly through observation and tales told by his bodyguards and the person who’d probably known him longest, the Ferrari manager Vern Keil. My only personal encounter with the great man was a near collision, as I rounded a corner in the showroom one day and ran smack into him. I, of course, apologized profusely. He simply walked away. Vern and others who knew the man told me he was not unfriendly, he was merely painfully shy. Hard to believe, but true.

I heard so many wonderful stories, but there are only a few that I really remember and those are the subject of this story. The first comes from personal observation. When I moved to Reno to work at MCM, workers were racing 24/7 to finish the new showroom in time for a scheduled opening party. It was quite an affair – rather formal (I wore a long black slip dress and sexy Bruno Magli 1940s style open-toed pumps) and elegant. Hordes of local dignitaries were invited, the showroom was beautiful and filled with a shining example of every make we would be selling (Rolls-Royce, Ferrari, Aston Martin, BMW, Peugeot, Fiat & Lancia) except Ferrari. Even though we were distributors of Ferrari west of the Mississippi, the new 308 GTB models were scarce and we didn’t have one to put on display. Mr. Harrah had a bright red 308 as his personal car and since it was on the premises, he ordered that it be brought into the showroom. And nobody said ‘no’ to Bill Harrah.

One of the features of the new showroom was an office for Mr. Harrah that was accessed from a private garage. He could stay in that office, which I never entered, or he could enter the showroom from a door he controlled. Another feature of the showroom was its design. Because BMW insisted upon its ‘own’ showroom, the layout consisted of two round pods connected by a low-ceilinged bridge. BMW had one pod, the lower-priced cars had another pod, and the bridge area was meant to hold a Rolls and a Ferrari. The Ferrari was moved from Harrah’s private garage into the empty spot on the showroom and all was well – until the fire alarm went off, blasting loud and clear throughout the showroom and shop. To make matters worse, nobody knew how to turn it off – after all, the showroom was barely finished in time and I guess this issue hadn’t come up. We had to wait until the fire department arrived to quiet the noise. What had set it off? Heat from that mid-engine Ferrari wafting upwards through the horizontal louvers over the engine to the sensors on that low-ceiling. It wasn’t a mistake we made again.

Another from personal observation played out over the next couple of months. Harrah was known as a stickler for neatness and cleanliness and insisted that the giant service shop be cleaned from stem to stern every Friday evening. The mechanics cleaned their own areas, tools were always put away, then a team came in to do the floors. Made of polished concrete, the floors were washed and waxed every week with huge, powerful machines. Despite a sealant and every other trick the cleaners could come up with, grease stains still showed and this drove Harrah up the wall. Yes, he did check it, every week. Finally, he shut the entire service department down for a week and had the floor covered with glazed Italian terra cotta tiles. Yes, a dropped tool could chip one, but the offending tile could be and would be removed and replaced. The tiles worked – an expensive solution, but he didn’t care. Money was never an object for Bill Harrah. The floors were still washed and waxed every Friday night, but there were no more grease stains.

Harrah always traveled with a bodyguard. When he was alone, the guard rode in the car with him, but when he was with his wife or others, the bodyguards had a little 246 Dino chase car. During his visits to the showroom the on-duty bodyguard would generally come out into the showroom and visit with us and we got to know them rather well. They weren’t goons at all – they were nice men who looked like anybody else, but I would not have wanted to get in their way.

The story of the chase car is fairly well known. When the 246 Dino was first released, Harrah ordered one for himself and one for the bodyguards to use as a chase car. Over time, it became apparent that the chase car was faster than Harrah’s car. A lesser man might have insisted that they switch, but Harrah didn’t. He kept the slower car and made a game of trying to outrun the faster one until his Dino was traded off for something else. When he died I was living in Beverly Hills, and I flew back up to Reno to commiserate with some friends who cared about him. Harrah’s personal cars were cared for at the old MCM, a tiny converted garage in downtown Reno. We visited that garage during my visit, and there the famous chase car sat, for sale. I would have mortgaged my soul to buy that car, I think, but my soul wasn’t worth that much and neither was anything else I owned.

One final story – and I wish I could remember more of these. In between his many marriages Harrah was quite a ladies man. When courting a young woman he would always give her the car of her choice. Most of the time, that was easy to do. On one occasion, however, the woman requested a car that was no longer in production – I don’t remember what it was, but it was some big, flashy Detroit model from the previous year or two, and she wanted it with specific accessories in a specific color. Harrah set his auto managers to work trying to find the car in time for some specific occasion – perhaps her birthday. Finally, they located a decent car with all the right toys somewhere in southern Nevada or California, but it was the wrong color. Harrah ordered the car brought to the Harrah’s Auto Collection, which had one of the best auto body restoration shops in the world. Working around the clock, that team stripped and repainted the car the desired color and Harrah was able to present it to his lady love on time.

He was quite a man, well-respected and well-loved in Reno. He lived his life to suit himself, and while the casinos produced his fortune and fame, his first love was always his cars. The auto collection was the finest in the world, and I’m grateful I got to spend time there, see all those cars, before the collection was sold off after his death. I’m also grateful I got to know the man, if only from the outside.

Baruna

Baruna and Orient were so intertwined that I feel irristably compelled to follow up the last post with this one. In the hearts of many, the two yachts belong together. I was fortunate enough to sail on both of them in their later years, long past the famed duels.

Both were launched in 1938, both were designed by Sparkman & Stephens, both claimed illustrious racing careers on the east coast, both were sold to new owners in San Francisco in 1953, where they continued their duels and battles until each was sold to owners outside San Francisco; Orient in 1963 and Baruna in 1968. If that wasn’t enough to tie them together, the owners of the two boats (Tim Moseley, Orient and Jim Michael, Baruna) founded the Barient Winch Company in 1958 and introduced a revolutionary new line of sailboat winches to the sailing world. The name of the new company was a combination of the two boat names: BARuna and OrIENT. Moseley had developed the winches using Orient as his guinea pig, rather successfully. The company caught on fast and for many years Barient was the winch of choice for large racing yachts worldwide. The company has since been sold and put out of business by its new owners.

Photo of Baruna under sail on SF Bay, scanned from my SEA article. Photo by Diane Beeston. I apologize for the poor quality of these scans.

Baruna, a splendidly graceful 72-foot yawl, was considered by many to be the most beautiful S&S yacht ever built. In his history of Sparkman & Stephens, Francis Kinney described Baruna as "fast in light airs, fast in strong breezes, comfortable at sea and beautiful. . . . Every line was absolutely perfect. . . . She is so beautifully proportioned in her entirety, both hull and rig."

I met her in 1973 when she arrived in the Bay in sad condition, having been donated to the California State Maritime Academy Alumni Foundation. At the time, I was a photojournalist on San Francisco Bay sailing and had a monthly Northern California column in SEA magazine. Although my first introduction to the skipper was from personal interest and curiosity about the boat, I eventually featured Baruna’s story in the column and raised more than a little wrath from the person who had made the donation. I did not speak kindly of him in the article. I shall omit his name to avoid more wrath, but here is the gist of what I wrote at the time: during the time he owned her he had her stern removed and shortened by several feet, had painted her traditionally black hull white and painted red, white and blue stripes on her cabin top. At the time of her donation she was in Suva, in the Fiji Islands, and deteriorated to the point where it was unsafe to sail without considerable work, most of which was performed during a 14-day layover in Pago. She sailed under the Golden Gate on New Year’s Eve, 1972, over two months after leaving Suva.

By the time I met her, she looked more like Baruna. Her hull had been painted black once more, the striped cabin top had disappeared, all thanks to a dedicated group of volunteers. I became one of those volunteers, although I don’t remember any specific efforts other than using my column to generate donations of cash, services and labor. Barient, not surprisingly, overhauled all the winches at no cost.

From my vantage point on one of my outings on Baruna, scanned from my SEA article.

I had the good fortune to sail with the group on several occasions, and each was a treat to be savored. Oddly enough, the one specific memory I have of these occasions was sailing up the Oakland Estuary one day. A fellow passing by in a smaller sailboat yelled out “what kind of boat is that?” “It’s the Baruna,” I answered. “Oh.” he said. “A Baruna.” I’m afraid we all had a good laugh at his expense because of course she is not A Baruna, she is THE Baruna. There was and could ever only be one Baruna.

Like Orient, Baruna has gone through a series of owners since I knew her and, I understand, has also been reconditioned and is currently for sale. I closed my SEA article with the following paragraph, which still says it all about as well as I, at least, am capable of saying it:

“Recently, a typically noisy after-race gathering at the St. Francis YC watched Baruna sail in close to the club and tack out. As she approached, the crowd quieted to silence, and as she sailed away one old-timer seemed to speak for everyone present as he said, ‘It’s good to have her back where she belongs.’”

Orient

In her day, she was a bona fide queen of the North American ocean racing circuit. Sixty-four feet of sleek, traditional racing sloop, she bore no resemblance to her counterparts in this modern age but that beautiful blue hull once raced to victory after victory on both the east and west coasts. A later claim to fame is that she was used in the movie “Lucky Lady”, with Gene Hackman and Liza Minelli. Her name was Orient. She was designed by the illustrious Sparkman & Stephens, built of teak in Hong Kong in 1937, as exquisite a sailboat as one would ever hope to see.

A little research tells me she underwent a 2-year restoration around 2000 after being purchased as little more than a derelict by a Santa Barbara resident, Kathy Roche, who remembered seeing the gorgeous yacht under sail as a child. That's quite a story all in itself I suspect, but I haven’t been able to find out anything more recent or find a photo of her under sail. I hope she is still out there, sailing with all her former grace and beauty.

I met her around 1969 when she came to the St. Francis Yacht Club in San Francisco to participate in a race. By now, her ocean racing days of glory were past and she was a purely pleasure yacht out of Newport Beach, California, racing occasionally for fun. My own sailing experience at that time was somewhat limited, but I’d had my share of heavy-weather, gunnels-awash sailing on San Francisco Bay and that’s not bad training ground for sailors. Still, I’d never sailed on anything like Orient or sailed offshore.

Through a lucky series of events and acquaintances I ended up being part of the delivery crew on her return trip from San Francisco to Newport. There were five of us: the paid skipper, three husky young men and me. As usual, I was fearless and eager for this new adventure and wangled a day off work to make a long weekend.

We left the St. Francis on a clear morning and weren’t even outside the marina breakwater before someone put me at the helm and the men began setting sails. I stayed at the helm for some time, sailing her through the Golden Gate and out into the open ocean headed south. To say I was awestruck would be something of an understatement. My Sunday afternoons spent sailing on a clunky, solid, heavy boat owned by an east bay winery family had trained me well enough, fostered my burgeoning love for sailing, but where their boat was clunky and heavy, Orient was light and agile and I loved having the control of that big wheel. I probably stayed there for hours – the men were happy to leave me there and this was a long time before auto steering devices became the norm.

I don’t remember much more about that first day, other than that seasickness began to overtake my body, much to my chagrin. I’d never been seasick on the Bay, even in the roughest of weather, but as I was to learn on this trip and again on later trips, the motion of ocean swells is totally different from even the roughest choppy waves of San Francisco Bay. The skipper dosed me with meds but wasn’t convinced they would help because I couldn’t keep them down long enough. Eventually, they must have worked because the rest of the voyage was fine, from that standpoint.

As large and beautiful and fast as she was, Orient was anything but a luxury craft. She’d been designed for no-nonsense racing speed. The main cabin had bunks stacked on both sides and that’s where the crew slept. The captain had his own quarters and there must have been an owner’s stateroom, but I didn’t stray aft enough to remember any details. The galley, unlike any other sailboat I’ve ever been in, was forward, in the bow of the boat. It was tiny and cramped and a slave to every bobbing motion of the sea. In rough weather, a tether kept the cook from being tossed around too much and left hands free, but certainly didn’t offer much sense of comfort or stability. I mention this because the second morning dawned with a storm and one of my strongest memories of the voyage is of trying to cook while being thrown around the space, bouncing off the cabinets for what seemed like hours. Eventually, the skipper took pity and did most of the cooking for that day. As I recall, he even served up a turkey dinner.

I spent as much of that day as possible on deck,took advantage of a momentary lull in the wind and rain to take this one photo. Even with the storm raging around me I wasn’t about to miss a moment of this adventure. The men were taking turns at the helm and working to keep the boat as stable as possible. I tried the helm once, but after about 10 minutes of fighting the wind and waves to keep the boat on course, my arms literally said ‘no more’. I simply could not do it, didn’t have the strength, but I can promise you that it’s an effort I will never forget.

We’d dropped the foresail, reefed the mainsail and were running on diesel power. I watched the men struggle with the huge boom, tying it off to one side for safety as well as stability. Waves crashed over the boat. Everything was wet and slippery and cold, visibility almost non-existent. The boat crashed bow-down into one huge wave and rose high on the next, over and over. At one point late in the afternoon an aircraft carrier emerged from the foggy murk, just off our port side, and glided past silently like a grey ghost. Beautiful to watch, but way too close for comfort. Watching her pass I felt as if I could simply reach out my arm and touch her – it was that close. Needless to say, we were dwarfed. We didn’t know she was coming until we saw her. I’m pretty sure Orient didn’t have radar, but no doubt the skipper of the carrier had picked up our radar reflector and knew we were there.

As cold and wet and rough and wild as that day was – and believe me when I tell you it was far rougher than my description might imply – I felt no fear, had no regrets about being where I was and found my love of sailing diminished not in the least. Nor did the joy of the adventure itself wane. I was in my element and if I could have, I would have spent a lot more time on the open ocean back then. I simply didn’t have the opportunity. By the following day, a Sunday, the storm had passed us by and we were sailing smoothly with the wind in warm sunshine, lolling in the cockpit and eating strawberry-rhubarb pie.

Newport Harbor is long and somewhat narrow, lined with marinas and yacht clubs and private docks and filled wall-to-wall with sailboats and other pleasure craft on any warm sunny summer Sunday. The easy thing for us to do would have been to drop the sails and motor through all that traffic to Orient’s dock, but that wouldn’t do. Orient was home and a proper entrance needed to be made. As we rounded the breakwater into the wind the men trimmed the sails and all sixty-four feet of sleek sky-blue hull tacked upwind through the teeming mass of smaller craft. Short tacks, back and forth across the harbor, moving with all her famous speed, charging ahead like the queen she was. Oddly enough, nobody in any of the other boats seemed to resent having to move out of her way. Instead, they waved and smiled, simply watched a sight sure to warm the heart of any sailor, and welcomed her home.

An Embarrassing Moment

I’ve had my share of embarrassing moments. When one has a tendency to live life on the edge, jump in head-first without thinking, a faux pas or two is inevitable.

There was the time when I was 17 and my senior class took a trip to Vienna, Austria. I attended a school for army dependents in Baumholder, Germany so this wasn’t much of a stretch. One night a group of us were sitting late in the lobby of the Prince Eugene Hotel awaiting a few of our more daring classmates who’d gone out on the town. Mind you, this was a formal place, ornate and quiet and staffed with good haughty men. The front doors were locked and when we saw our classmates outside I jumped up and headed to the door to let them in. Impulse. One of the formally-attired men came up, looked down at me with his most disapproving sneer, and said “You are the doorman?” Oops. That was pretty embarrassing, but I think it’s safe to say that the most embarrassing moment came in the spring of 1976.

I often say that 1976 was a big year for me, and it was. I had a mad, passionate relationship with the assistant conductor of the San Francisco Symphony; I went on my first backpacking trip – 10 wonderful days in the backcountry of Yosemite and Kings Canyon; I spent almost three incredible months temping as vacation replacement for the catering manager at the 5-star Clift Hotel; I moved to Reno and became a Ferrari salesperson and I jumped head first into the California presidential primary campaign for Jimmy Carter. Quite a year.

When I called to volunteer for the Carter Campaign they offered me my choice of two paid positions: office manager, or executive assistant to the campaign chairmen for California and the western states. Not surprisingly, I chose the latter. I always like to be right in the middle of where things are happening. The job was unspecified. We made it up as we went along and dealt with crises that arose. Among other duties I handled the money, fielded phone calls nobody else wanted to deal with and whatever else came along at any given time. I can safely say there was never a dull moment. Eventually, the two campaign managers and I closeted ourselves in a large corner office with three desks and a closed door, simply so we could escape the mayhem of the rest of the place.

Because of our enforced isolation, I rarely went into the bullpen area where the volunteers and office staff hung out, and I couldn’t even tell you which office handled the press or other necessary functions. I recognized faces, perhaps knew some names, but rarely did my path cross that of most others on a daily basis. We all had our jobs to do and little time for pleasantries. I always knew what was going on, who was traveling through town on what date, but I had no hand in setting any of it up and the dignitaries rarely visited the campaign office. They flew in for a speech or fundraiser and flew out.

One of our full-time volunteers was an extraordinary African-American woman, a graduate of Bryn Mawr married to the first African-American to receive dual degrees in law and medicine. Both of them were beautiful human beings. She always knew more about what was going on in the rest of the office than I did, because she answered phones, worked with the volunteers, happily accepted whatever menial chore might be asked of her. We became fast friends, always stopping to chat at some point of our long, crazy days. I think her name was Betty and I hope she’ll forgive me if my memory 33 years later is faulty. Other than Betty and the office manager, I really didn’t know any of the others very well and the volunteers came and went. I offer all this as an excuse.

One of the dignitaries who came through was Andrew Young, the prominent civil rights leader, activist and humanitarian who’d marched with Martin Luther King, been mayor of Atlanta and would later go on to even greater things. I knew he was coming, and because of Betty I knew that he would be staying overnight at her home. She told me that even in that day and age African-Americans often preferred to avoid hotels when possible. I filed all this information away and forgot about it, as I did with all the other dignitaries.

My usual tendency was to arrive at the office early and retire directly to my office, usually with one of the campaign managers. Rarely was anyone else around at that hour but since campaign headquarters were in Atlanta, our west coast hours left us way behind the beginning of every day. On the morning in question I followed routine, but found myself in need of staples, or some other mundane bit of office supply, so I wandered down the dark hallway and into the dark bullpen area in search. Nobody else was there and the lights hadn’t been turned on and I didn’t bother because the big, old double-hung windows gave enough ambient light that I could see what I needed to see. Normally, I’d have asked the office manager for supplies so I didn’t know where they were and had to poke and pry into cabinets, totally focused and needing to get back into my office. At some point I was vaguely aware that another person was in the shadows of the room, but in my focused frenzy and because I was used to strangers milling about, I didn’t pay any attention to them. Until I heard a voice behind me say, “Hi, I’m Andy Young”.

This got my attention. I spun around, looked up to a smiling face and a hand reaching out in friendship. All manner of thoughts raced through my mind, not the least of which was utter chagrin at having ignored his presence in the room. I was also a little star-struck and I believe some groveling was involved as we shook hands. He was kind and gracious and beautiful and we shared a few moments of private conversation there in that dark room.

My most embarrassing moment? No doubt. But at the same time one of the most incredibly special moments I ever experienced. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

The Ferrari Kid

I was born for Ferrari. I just didn’t know it until I was a teenager and I never saw a real one until I was 25 years old. It was lust at first sight.

Some of my earliest memories revolve around sitting on the front steps of the old house on Main Street in Cedartown, Georgia “counting cars” with my grandfather. I was very young – pre-school -- so the simplicity of the game matched the simplicity of my age and our lives. In a small town in the deep south in the late 1940s, we had to find our own diversions where we could. With the delight and glee that can only spring from a child’s purity, I would shout out “Ford!”, or “Pontiac!” or “DeSoto!”. As far as I can recall, no tallies were kept so I really can’t tell you where the term “counting cars” came from. That’s what we called the game, nonetheless. In the dark evenings we’d progress to guessing what make the car would be by the sound of its approach. I don’t recall what percentages of those guesses were correct, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was spending that time with my grandfather, who was the light of my young life.

I also can’t say if these evenings fostered the love of automobiles that was to permeate my life, or if the fascination with autos fostered my interest in the game. I do know that I continued a fascination (my mother would have called it an obsession, no doubt) with the American car that didn’t waver until I was 16 and uprooted once more to follow my career Army father to yet another new assignment. This one was particularly cruel because it presaged my senior year in high school, a time when most of us are unusually vulnerable. It was also particularly interesting because it was my first overseas assignment. We would be going to Germany where, although I didn't know it at the time, my father would be a key player in the first of many nuclear-armed Nike missile sites that would form a shield against the dreaded Soviet Union. In my first act of rebellion against the discipline imposed upon me by my southern birthright and also by my military existence, I tried to refuse to go. I tried to stay with family in south Alabama.

None of this worked, so in the summer of 1959 I found myself in the small town of Idar-Oberstein, Germany. My father was stationed in Baumholder, a very large military base in a very small German town. I’m quite sure I was still pouting and unhappy and refusing to even consider enjoying this new land that surrounded us. Fortunately, that didn’t last long. We would spend Sundays driving and exploring our new surroundings. Mostly, I remember long stretches of thick woods and narrow, twisting roads broken up by quaint taverns or villages. I do remember quite clearly seeing my first “sports car” parked along the side of one of these roads and feeling my heart go right up into my throat. Lust! This was a new experience. Up until now my love affair with autos had been limited to American behemoths, because that’s all I’d ever known. I suppose there were places in America where cars such as these were seen, but certainly not in my existence, which was limited to army bases and small southern towns, for the most part.

The car that started it all. Mine was black, but photo is not scanned. 190SL photo courtesy of automotivetraveler.com

When we passed this sleek little car I had no clue what it was, but I knew I wanted one. I don’t recall if it was that day or on a later sighting that I isolated a chrome circle with three prongs on the the car. Had I even heard of Mercedes then? I’m not sure. I know I didn't recognize the logo and I asked around until I discovered what manufacturer that mark belonged to. A little more research proved that this first love was a 190SL, a classic blend of sleek lines and rounded voluptuous curves in just the right balance. Many, many years later I would own one of these, but for now it was simply the beginning of a lifetime obsession with European sports cars that eventually led me to the conviction that the ultimate of the genre was the legendary Ferrari.

Fast-forward about 10 years and I was walking down Van Ness Avenue in San Francisco one Saturday, on a break from a part-time ‘job’ at British Motors. That, perhaps, is a story for another day. Parked on the curb in front of the Porsche dealer was a sleek bit of gold that stopped me in my tracks. Until this day, I had never seen a real, live Ferrari and I stood on the sidewalk with my mouth gaping and eyes wide as I drank in the sight and bent over to take a peek inside. I jumped like a scalded cat when a voice behind me said “Like that, do you?” I turned to see an attractive older man, who turned out to be the owner of the gold beauty, a 330 GTB. His name was Al and he sold Porsche. Right away, we had things to talk about aside from the Ferrari and soon became friends. I can’t recall with any detail my first ride in the car, but I do remember walking from the bus stop to my ‘day job’ in San Francisco one morning early and hearing a high-toned car horn blowing insistently behind me. Since my southern mother had tried to teach me to be a lady, I ignored the insistent and continuing sound until I saw the car and realized Al had come by looking for me to say good morning. And I do remember the first and perhaps only time I was allowed to drive the car. I remember much more about this car and Al, but their purpose in this story is that they introduced me to the world of Ferrari for real, rather than fantasy.

Fast forward another few years to around 1973, when I was living in Newport Beach, California. Those were the days of the gas crisis, long lines, fuel shortages and theft by siphoning. I had spent a weekend in San Francisco and that Monday morning was driving to work with a close eye on the dwindling gas gauge of my red Datsun 240Z. I’d intentionally left it low while I was out of town, and because of the lines thought I’d take a chance on getting to work then fill up later, when I had time to wait in line. The car had other ideas and sputtered to a slow halt along a stretch of lightly traveled four-lane road that was, naturally, the only portion of my commute that took me outside a densely populated area. I steered off to the side of the road and sat there deflated, wondering what the hell to do now, when in the distance I spotted a car stopped and backing towards me. I watched its approach with some combination of incredulity that somebody was actually stopping to help and a dawning bit of disbelieving astonishment as the car neared enough for me to see the Ferrari logo on its rear.

I couldn’t move. I was dumbfounded and speechless and seriously wondering if I’d moved into some fantasy world where things like this might happen. They sure didn’t happen to me aside from fantasies and dreams. But there it was right in front of my car, big as life, prancing horse and all staring me right in the face. Then a tall man who I later characterized as a cross between Burt Reynolds and Clark Gable unfolded himself from the Ferrari and started walking back to where I sat trying to take it all in. All I could think was "holy shit, this can't be happening." But he was here, he was real and he was outside my window wondering if maybe I was afraid he was an ax murderer.

I forced my body to move, rolled down my window and after a bit of conversation he piled me into the Ferrari and off we went in search of a gas station, where he filled up a gas can and returned me to my car, primed the carburetor and made sure the Z was running well before he left. If all that wasn’t enough, in the course of our search for gasoline our conversation had shown the unlikely coincidence that he and I lived in the same apartment building in a huge singles complex in Newport Beach. We dated and became friends and he had many wonderful Ferrari stories to tell. I never drove his car, which I believe was a 365 GTC, but we had some wild rides in it. I remember going out for ice cream and flying down a stretch of Newport Highway at about 130 mph.

My Ferrari of San Francisco Auto Sales License

By 1976 I was living in San Francisco once more and it was quite a year in my life, for many reasons. One day in late summer I presented myself to the owner of Ferrari of San Francisco and told him I’d like to sell Ferrari. He was fine with that, since he didn’t have to pay me anything, but I’d have to scare up my own contacts because anyone walking in the front door belonged to his existing salesperson. I didn’t care – I just wanted to be there, to hang out with these cars. I got my first auto sales license and thought I’d reached big-time. One day I offered to wax the cars in the showroom – there must have been 4 or 5 used classics that he thought needed help, and I took the paste wax he gave me and began applying it to each in its turn, which worked out quite well. I really didn’t know what I was getting into or how difficult it would be to take all that dried wax film off the cars. I found out soon enough and in fact think the realization set in about half way through the first car. Leaving the stuff on the cars wasn't an option, so with the thrill of rubbing those fabulous cars dwindling rapidly, I struggled for hours, as the men stood around watching and laughing at their little joke before finally stepping in to help. I was exhausted!

This opening led to me working with them setting up and staffing the Ferrari booth at the San Francisco International Automobile Show that fall and from there to becoming a real Ferrari salesperson at Modern Classic Motors in Reno, NV, the legendary holy grail of Ferrari on the west coast. MCM was owned by Bill Harrah and had imported and distributed Ferrari west of the Mississippi for many years. In December of 1976 they were opening a new showroom and I opened it with them. I also latched onto a gig delivering Ferrari and Rolls Royce in and out of California and a few multi-day trips with brand new Ferraris to places like Denver and Phoenix. If you’ve never been turned loose with a brand new Ferrari, unlimited expenses and no time schedule, you haven’t lived.

I never managed to own one – or to like one of the owners well enough to marry them – but my memories will last a lifetime and my heart still goes right into my throat when I hear that unmistakable growl of a V-12 or the tight whine of the newer mid-engine V-8s. I'm a Ferrari Kid for life.

Naked Wood Nymph

I’ve never been one to see ghosts, find fear much of anywhere. Had I been that kind of person, I would never have attempted this lengthy bicycle journey alone in the first place. But there are times…..

On the morning after my Cave Woman trip to Grand Lakes, I traveled back down the hill a short distance to some kind of National Park Service recreational facility, planning to do some hiking and exploring. I spoke with a ranger, who pointed out some trails, offered suggestions.

Leaving the bike safely locked, I headed uphill for several miles through the forest and past some rusting, abandoned corrugated metal mining shacks, over a series of switchbacks that eventually brought me into the sunshine at a narrow dirt road that had been cut into the side of the mountain. The plan was to follow that road for awhile until I reached an intersection with a trail going back downhill, forming a loop that would take me back to my bike. You know what they say about the best laid plans!

Still feeling the exhilaration of the previous day, hot and sweaty from the hike and the sun, I walked along the road gazing with great longing at the tiny stream that flowed alongside. I don’t think it was natural – memory says it was no more than a shallow trench dug into the mountain beside the road with a mere trickle of water. I’d gained a lot of elevation by now. The road formed a steep cliff along the mountainside beyond which there was nothing but endless trees and mountains as far as the eye could see. Finally, I stopped for lunch then stripped off my damp clothing and gave in to the urge to cool off in the stream, take a bath in the cold water, dry off naturally in the warm sunshine.

Lying naked in the sun on top of the world. What a feeling of freedom!

Refreshed, I dressed and continued walking down the road for about a half mile when I realized I’d left my sunglasses on a rock, returned to find them. Everything that happened after that was a little crazed.

After finding my glasses I returned to where I’d left my pack and continued along the flat, exposed trail until I reached a site where a huge rockslide – seemingly recent – had pushed boulders and trees thousands of feet down the cliff. The road looked recently bulldozed, and with great trepidation I walked on, hoping to pass that section quickly. It looked as though the earth could move again at any moment and bury me under a new pile of boulders down the hill. A storm was approaching and I was anxious to get off the mountain before rain and lightning came along.

Finally, the threat of impending lightning, thunder, rain and rockslides got to me and I turned around and ran back beyond the threatening cliffs, and further. I must have run a mile, at that altitude. Then I hurried along the road, anxious to reach the trail downward so I could have more protection. It seemed an eternity, but finally I started downhill, cutting through the woods across switchbacks whenever I could see the trail below me. That’s a real no-no, and I knew better but was too panicked to care.

It really was quite ominous. I could hear the thunder, clouds darkened the sun, and the forest was totally silent. Each time I stepped off the trail for a shortcut, I felt as if I had stepped into some enchanted forest out of the hobbit world. I kept waiting for trees to move and attack me, or for some vile creature to give chase. I never saw another living creature the whole time, nor heard anything except the thunder and the rushing of waterfalls down the mountainside. It was eerie, strange. I was a bundle of jitters.

It took me almost two hours to reach the valley. My moments of fantasy, seeing myself as a naked wood nymph dancing in the sunshine, were short-lived. No ghosts or landslides appeared.

During this two-month solo bike tour of the Colorado Rockies I kept a detailed journal chronicling the experience. I wrote a few new introductory paragraphs for this story, but the portion of the story that continues from "after I found my sunglasses" was lifted verbatim from the journal entry written that same day.

Cave Woman

The road was rough and I was going fairly fast and looking at the scenery. Suddenly, I looked ahead and saw a rounded asphalt depression about two feet in diameter, with a rough knob of asphalt at the far end. There was no time to avoid it, all I could do was grip the handlebars tightly, raise up off the saddle, and ride it out. The bike literally left the ground – both wheels, just like a skier coming off a jump. It landed with shimmys, all the weight bounced, but it didn’t go out of control as it might have. Scary. Funny. All at the same time.

This little incident took only seconds – takes longer to describe it – and thus began my first day of travel. I’d left the top of Trail Ridge Road headed for Grand Lakes 22 miles below, coasting down the steep hill at a good clip not paying much attention to where I was going, distracted by the incredibly beautiful, vast environment of snow-covered granite peaks and deep green forests. It’s astonishing just how much can go through one’s head in such a short time when faced with an urgent situation, how the brain can evaluate and make a decision in mere seconds and the body will follow. Over 200 pounds flying through the air with nothing to land on but two skinny bicycle tires is quite a sensation, I’m here to tell you. Terrifying for a few seconds, a huge relief when I realized I was in one piece. When I pulled to a stop to check things out, the only damage was that a pannier had come unhooked on one edge and was hanging a bit crooked. Everything – including me – could easily have gone flying in all directions and that would have been the end of the trip. Fortunately, it’s merely a humorous memory.

My bike at the top of Trail Ridge Road, 12,183 above sea level, the highest pass in the state.  This is the kind of scenery that detracted from my cycling!

I’d begun the day in Estes Park and while my original plan had been to ride the bike up and over Trail Ridge, I realized the day before that I simply was not ready for this yet. Not physically, not mentally, not emotionally. So I’d caught a shuttle bus to the top and started off on my planned adventure.

Timber Ridge Campground lies just over 12 miles and 3,283 feet below the 12,183 foot summit. I knew it was there, had every intention of passing by and continuing down the hill, but curiosity pulled me in to investigate and I felt captivated immediately. This was what I’d been looking for in a campground but hadn’t found in Estes Park: level, wooded with spacious private campsites nestled among the trees. Because of the late snow melt that year, this campground had just been opened for the season and was virtually empty. Totally peaceful and serene. I decided to stay, fully realizing I had no food and would need to ride on down to Grand Lakes to do some shopping. I didn’t care. My energy was high, my legs strong.

I chose an isolated site among huge trees, set up my tent, unpacked the panniers and left them inside the tent, then headed downhill with a small, lightweight daypack I’d brought along for hiking. Although essentially all downhill (about 450 feet elevation drop) the road was nonetheless a series of ups and downs over rolling hills through 10 miles of deep forests.

I was flying! For the first time since I’d arrived in Colorado over a week earlier I was really, really riding the bike with deep pleasure, my heart soaring, my legs pedaling furiously with the sheer joy of it all. No pain, no weight, no struggling. Just me and my bike doing what we did best and rejoicing in every moment. Filled with energy, bursting with an overwhelming sense of ‘I can do this,’ I wanted to sing and shout to the world. But I didn’t – nobody would have heard me anyway.

After 45 minutes of flying down the mountain I found a supermarket in Grand Lakes, bought food for a couple of days and, with 10 pounds on my back – another new sensation that required a bit of balance adjustment – I flew back up that mountain almost as fast as I’d flown down. An hour of pedaling fast and easy in mid-range gears and I was back at the tent. Exhilarated. Stimulated. Joyous.

All that stayed with me through the evening. My body felt great from the exercise, my mind felt great from the accomplishment of getting over Trail Ridge and getting to Grand Lake for food. I felt remarkably self-sufficient, in a pioneer sort of way, that I could choose an isolated campsite and still supply myself with food from a hilly source 10 miles away. The caveman syndrome, I guess – or in this case, the cave woman.

Magic

There was magic in the air that night.  You might say it was merely a gathering of friends and neighbors in a pretty room to taste some very nice wines, and you would be right.  But it was more than that.  The friends and neighbors were the finest vintners in the Napa Valley; the pretty room was the elegant grand hall at the Far Niente Winery; the very nice wines were a dazzling selection of rare and precious burgundies from the remarkable cellars of the House of Leroy.  Oh, yes.  Madame Lalou Bize-Leroy, her husband Marcel and her daughter Perrine were also included in the friends and neighbors, for although their home is France, they are friends tied by a common bond of winemaking.

There was a murmur of quiet anticipation in the Hall as the guests arrived and joined the crowd.  Madame Leroy was in the cellars, with her wines.  The treasures.  She had brought with her 25 red and white burgundies, from a youthful 1978 Meursault to the last flight -- a 1949 Musigny and a 1949 Richebourg.

A formal white cloth had been laid the length of the great hall, each place carefully set with arcs of glasses.  When everyone was seated and the preliminaries finished, the first wines were poured while Madame Leroy presented a slide show of the vineyards and towns where the wines were grown.  She spoke in French, for she was nervous with this group and unsure of her English.  Her words were translated as she spoke, as she tasted each of the wines in their turn and offered her own opinions of them.

Magic is the only word for it.  The energy of the event spilled electrically through the room holding all in its spell.  The spell of being present at such a momentous affair, not really earthshaking on the surface yet momentous, nonetheless.

Around 1982. Written then.

David's Hat

It was a marvelous hat, and David was its destiny. It became a part of him the moment it landed upon his head. It was leather -- thick, supple brown leather, with a style which might have been a cross between the sophisticated black satin top hat of Fred Astaire and the exaggerated glory of the Mad Hatter. Its brim turned up at a rakish angle on the sides, and down in the front. It was tall, flaring outward at its crown and laced with the leather stitches of its craftsman.

I had a Halloween party at my house that year, and of course David would wear the hat, for it was new and thus inseparable from him. Their group staged a wonderful entrance, one at a time. David's wife, JoAn, wearing a white leotard and a fuzzy tail, ran up the stairs into the party shouting to all who would listen, and hid in the crowd. David was next, wearing the hat and wonderful, elegant, vested Mad Hatter costume, shouting for the rabbit. Where did that rabbit go? David's friend Tony charged up dressed as the King of Hearts and Tony's wife, with her long blond hair, finished the scene by chasing up the stairs behind the others dressed as a demure, bewildered Alice. Of course, by then everyone was in thrall and in hysterics. David played his part to the hilt all evening, sipping his wine from his china teacup and glowing under his hat.

Afterwards, the hat simply became a necessity for David. He wore it everywhere, and picked up a vibrancy from its presence which radiated to all who were around him. David now has a large collection of outrageous hats; they have become a trademark, an expected part of his personality. This old leather mad hatter holds its special place among the newcomers, however, for it was the first.

Iceberg Lake

We sat upon a ledge with our backs to a stone wall, our feet dangling above the rapids that sang over the rocks below.  The wind blew hard -- a frosty snowborne wind cutting through the rocks and canyons of this private place at the crest of the earth. We had picked our way from the trail to this narrow shelf, seeking some sliver of protection.  It was July, the sky sparkling blue, but we were many thousands of feet in the air in a wilderness which does not know true warmth.  To quench our thirst we captured an icy liquid which just moments before had been snow.  There is no finer water in the world.

We were at Iceberg Lake, a sparkling alpine lake at the base of a glacier and the Minarets: rocky stone outcroppings reaching into the sky and standing like sentinels guarding paradise.  The rapids below our narrow ledge ran from a still pool formed from a waterfall flowing from the lake. Despite the roar of the water falling and churning and echoing off the stone, all was peacefully serene, as on that day no other humans had hiked the rough mountain trail to reach this place, and it was ours.

The lake is small, as lakes in that region go, and dotted with two stone islands from which it takes its name.  But it is surrounded by steep stone slopes covered with wildflowers.  The glistening glacier and the Minarets reflect in the still blueness of the water, so it is more beautiful than many of its larger neighbors.  On one slope a goat-path of a trail runs through the loose rock.  It crosses the ridge at the far end of the lake to yet another lake, but we did not follow it to the crest.  At the point where the trail leaves the foot of the lake, where we are sitting, a carpet of small pink wildflowers covers an entire section of the rocky slope.  They are nowhere else.  Just here on this slope in this spot, and they are exquisite in their fullness of color and in the perfection of their tiny blossoms massed by the millions on this private stretch of the Sierra Nevada.

We had been 10 days in this wilderness, hiking from place to place. Tomorrow we would hike back to civilization, to hot showers and good food.  But as we sat on this rocky ledge and ate our cold lunch we did not want to leave.  We spoke of the beauties of this wilderness and the time we had shared with these wonders of nature, and it was with regret that we knew we must return to our homes. 

There was a sadness as we last looked upon Iceberg Lake and its glories, then turned for the hike back down the mountain to our camp many miles away.