a.bird.named.jay: Where the seasons change with elevation

My heart is like a bird fluttering at the door of its cage as it creaks open, time for another visit to the great wide world. This week built on the momentum that I garnered over the month of February. I spent Monday out scouting filming locations for some social media content we're going to start producing for work. I spent Wednesday with my boss in the field, filming and soaking in the sunshine. I may or may not have sprayed sun-activated blond-enhancing spray in my hair before we went out there... Delighted with the new-to-me trail, I asked my dear co-worker, "Is it like that the whole way out, right on the edge of the ridgeside with those beautiful views?" "Yes!" she declaimed. I had asked her the wrong question - or rather the right question with the wrong qualifier, I would later discover. Convinced, I asked Jack, "do you wanna do something different this weekend? Let's go for a bike ride on Friday." And Jack agreed.

So this morning I got out of bed earlier than I have in weeks (months) with the prospect of a sunny bike ride ahead of me. It was in the upper 30s on the mountain, but I was confident that by the time we got down to the foothills it would be balmy riding weather. I pumped up the bike tires and we loaded them up in the back of the truck, breakfasted on burritos (made with yesterday's leftovers), and drove downhill. I don't think I will ever cease to be amazed by this place where the seasons change with elevation. We arrive at the trailhead a little past 8 in the morning - late enough that the early risers would be finishing up on the trail, early enough that we would get back before the late morning/lunch crowd started to come out en masse. It was perfectly comfortable to pedal in my hiking pants and ankle socks, my long sleeve wool jersey (lightweight) and regular cycling gloves, my helmet without the ear warmer that my mother knit for riding when it's cold. Jack wore a hoodie and shorts. It was a perfect, sunshiny, spring day.

We pedaled past wildflowers and green grass, and view after view of the Tuolumne River canyon. We passed 5 people and two dogs on our way out, only two of the people and one dog were going the same direction as us, all of them were on foot. Manzanitas were flush with pinkish blossoms like cherry trees and bees were buzzing the manzanita blooms, eager to get out while the sun was bright. It was altogether a lovely ride. We got to the picnic table about a half-mile in - my furthest point on the trail before today - and paused, checked our bikes, decided all was well and continued riding.

Manzanita in bloom - as the name suggests, the trees produce tiny, malic fruit.

The trail is a rail trail - an old railroad grade that has been converted into a biking and hiking path for the modern era. The sort of thing I grew up riding a lot as a kid. So I was over the moon with delight when suddenly we were paralleling ACTUAL RAILS AND TIES!!! A quick rack of my brain couldn't bring up any other times when there were old tracks on along a rail trail. "How cool!" I called out. The segment ended, we rounded a bend, and that was when I realized that I had asked the wrong question of my dear co-worker - or the right question, with the wrong qualifier. When I had asked "is it like this the whole way out?" I should have said "wide, and flat, and packed dirt?" Then I would've gotten a more accurate answer to draw the picture of expectation in my head. The rails and ties of that segment were lonely, the rails and ties for the rest of the trail were nearly continuous for the remaining 4 miles, with only a couple exceptions where there used to be a trestle but now there was a quick jaunt upstream and down to get across a narrow gully. The trail narrowed significantly when you were sharing it with a railroad, in some spots you actually had to cross the rails and ride over the ties (graciously back-filled with greenery and sediment over the years), and the tread itself seemed to grow rockier as we went on. Occasionally whole boulders blocked the path and could be ridden over or else you had to dismount and lead your bike over or around them.

You can see the old rails, overgrown in this section, to the left of the trail.

Even though the trail was perhaps not as optimal for leisure riding as I had imagined it to be, one could not help but pause periodically and take in the incredibly optimal views afforded by its position on the edge of the mountain and following up the canyon. At one point we paused to look down at the river far below, the morning sun angling just over the top edge of the foothill across the way and alighting upon dozens upon dozens of insects flying high and downstream - ladybugs, and who knows what else, glowing in the light as they blazed their own trails through the open sky. It was breathtaking. It was impossible to capture with my iPhone camera. It may not have been very possible to capture with my real camera, so I won't feel bad about having misplaced it somewhere in the house and not having taken the time to find it yet. Eventually the sun was high and warm enough that I took off my long-sleeve jersey and pedaled the rest of the way in a dark-colored tank top.

Canyon vista - note the old rail and ties at bottom of the photo

5 miles out, 5 miles back. The trail ended rather abruptly, with a little tail that appeared to head downhill - we opted to turn around at the 5 mile marker instead of exploring this. The whole point of riding a rail trail is to avoid hills, after all. The way back went quickly. Lulled into a sense of security from my uneventful ride out, I managed first to catch my wheel on a rail as I tried to cross it - landing with an oof! on both sides of my bike, right leg scraping across the teeth of my front chain ring, chest smacking into the ground, hands (gloved, thank goodness) slapping the rocky earth just shy of the opposite rail - which gleamed neatly right in front of my face. I laughed at myself, dusted off, got going again. Jack hadn't seen. :) A little further I tried to pedal over a boulder, and was unsuccessful. I tried, I failed, I tipped over into a neighboring boulder and got a scrape on my elbow. Jack, meanwhile, on his old Schwinn klunker, made it look easy as pie. When we got back within the first mile of the trail, we saw 4 more people, and then arrived back at the truck. We loaded the bikes and returned up the mountain, the winter sun already slipping behind the hill and plunging us into the realm of indirect lighting once again. Still relatively warm - enough that we leave the sliding glass door open with the screen in front for a little while; enough that we don't light a fire in the stove.