Death Valley-Blooms, Ballet, and Blues

Our visit during the Death Valley bloom in late February left me feeling that we had hardly even been there. In twenty-four hours, all we did was buzz the main roads.  We saw a lot of yellow flowers, but what about all the others, that were yet to bloom? What about all those trails that we didn’t walk on? The views we didn’t take in?



About a week after we got back from that trip, Mark learned that his Reno-based BMW motorcycle group was going to Death Valley in March, and we were thinking that we should join them. But soon, that trip was canceled because all of the campsites and hotel rooms in and near Death Valley were booked. Word had gotten out that Death Valley was the place to be.



A little research led me to realize that only one campground at Furnace Creek takes reservations; all the others are first-come. Besides, there are plenty of places to camp just outside the park, on public land or in RV parks. We wanted to take another trip.

I said, “Believe it or not, I vote for going back to Death Valley. Now there are more flowers blooming at the higher elevations. Different flowers.  We could take a few days this time.”

Mark: “Okay. But let’s get into that good campground this time.” The Texas Springs campground at Furnace Creek, very close to the one we were at last time, but a huge step up in atmosphere.
We left home on Monday morning – it was painful to leave my beautiful daffodils, but I knew they would still be gorgeous when we returned – and headed south on 395.



The weather prediction was for high winds in the Eastern Sierra, and boy, they were not kidding. The wind was sweeping the salt flats at Mono Lake high into the air, the lenticular clouds looked like stacked spaceships, and our little trailer, with Mark’s motorcycle inside, was doing the shimmy.






When we arrived in Lone Pine, I was still hoping to camp despite the wind, but Mark seemed to have his heart set on getting a motel room. This happens. He didn’t like the wind, which aggravated his allergies, and he wanted a shower. I sulked, I’m not going to lie, but I eventually cheered up when we decided to have dinner at the Merry-Go-Round, a cleverly converted Chinese and American restaurant with surprisingly good food – which to me means freshly cooked, crispy veggies and not a lot of gooey sauce.
 

The next morning we left early, the wind still whipping, which it would until the next day. Even when it wasn’t that windy, there was sand drifting onto the road. It reminded us of the sandstorms in the Middle East!



Our strategy was to arrive at Texas Springs at nine or so, and snag a campsite as people were leaving. it worked perfectly. Every space was spoken for again by early afternoon. I have to say, the neighbors at that campground were extremely friendly. More on that later.








We settled in, and I took a little local hike while Mark napped. Can you spot him, right in the middle of the photo?



The Texas Springs topography is pretty dazzling, for a campground.  You’re surrounded by geologic formations created by volcanic eruptions and seismic upheaval, followed by erosion. Death Valley wasn’t always dry – about 4,000 years ago, there was a wetter period.  Even now, torrential rains can change the landscape overnight, and the winds that sweep across the shifting sands of the valley floor and up through the peaks are a constant force – like a sandblaster.



We were there to see the flowers, but first there were two sights on the must-see list.  We took the motorcycle first to Zabriskie Point, just up the road from Furnace Creek and an easy walk out to the viewpoint … 




… and rode the 13-mile road spur up to Dante’s View, which was a bit chilly at 5,475’ above sea level coming, as we were, from –100’ at Furnace Creek.  Death Valley is a land of extremes.



Looking down into Death Valley takes your breath away.




On the ride back down, we realized that we were riding through another spectacular bloom, similar to the one we’d seen a few weeks back – only this one, a couple thousand feet higher.  Because we had the sun in our eyes on the way up, we really couldn’t appreciate the color. But on the way down, with the sun shining into the flowers, not our eyes – wow.  



After Dante’s View, Mark wanted to ride more so we continued on Hwy 190 toward Death Valley Junction.  It was getting to be lunchtime, and I kept trying to convey to Mark that DVJ is all but a ghost town, with zero chance of finding a café, a market, or even a convenience store but on we went, until we had arrived.

Death Valley Junction doesn’t have any of those things mentioned above, but what it does have is an opera house, and a ballet performance season. Yep, you read right. Just as we arrived, the receptionist at the Amargosa Hotel – the only visible sign of human activity in town – was opening the Amargosa Opera House to a small tour group – $5 a head for a look inside. We bought in.



From the outside of the building, you could never imagine what is inside. Ballerina Marta Beckett arrived in the 1960s, passing by with her (future ex) husband, saw the theater, and decided to stay and dance ballet. Permanently.









Sometimes lacking an audience, she painted one, populating the walls with all of the characters of a medieval kingdom. The result is enchanting.  Marta retired from dancing a few years ago, at age 85, but now another ballerina, Jenna McClintock, who at age 6 saw Marta dance and was inspired to become a ballerina, has left life in the city to step into Marta’s shoes.






The story of Marta, Jenna, and their impact on Death Valley Junction is too rich and compelling to go into detail about here. It’s a story that, today, is alive with new energy, and new people with hopes and dreams for the town. Please take the time to read this wonderful write-up by Nevada Public Radio - Dancer in the Sands. Perhaps the next time Mark and I visit DVJ the restaurant will be open and we’ll  take in dinner and the ballet. Meanwhile, we settled for a couple of still-cool beers what we’d brought along.


That evening, back at Texas Springs, we had cocktail hour with our neighbors, with whom we’d discovered we had something in common – sailing.  They’re cruisers who’ve “swallowed the anchor” and are now living the RV life.
“I cried for a year,” the wife, Mary, admitted when I asked if it was a hard transition, husband Paul nodding confirmation. “But now I love it.”


After dark, at another campsite nearby, two men took up guitars and sang the blues as the full moon came up. It just doesn’t get any better.

Next day, we decided to make the Titus Canyon drive – Mary and Paul had said it was spectacular. Since it was a dirt road, we opted for the truck, not the motorcycle, and it was a good thing. The NPS web page about Titus Canyon says you can do this drive in 2-3 hours, but I can’t imagine doing it in less than 3 hours. We had perfect weather and, yes, we did keep stopping to take photos. But we could have stopped much more; there are several hikes that sound tempting. It’s a rugged 27-mile drive, mostly one-way, over two passes and through two canyons.



We retraced our last month’s drive on the Beatty Cutoff to get to the Titus Canyon turnoff, just before Rhyolite, which can be seen in the distance as you approach. I was thrilled at the many displays of blooms on the Beavertail cactus, also known as Prickly Pear.



After a few miles of driving across the flat, dusty plateau, we came to Titanothere Canyon, named after a huge rhino-like fossil found there in 1933. I kept commanding Mark to “STOP!” so that I could jump out with my camera and take pictures of Desert Paintbrush framing the ruddy mountains in the background. I was thinking all flowers, but as we rose higher and higher toward Red Pass, I began to realize what a treat we were in for.This drive is truly spectacular, just for the mountains alone, and the flowers were the icing – and decoration – on the cake.

 

As we crested 5,250’ Red Pass, it was a little scary to look down at where we’d just been.






We descended into Leadfield and stopped for lunch. This ghost town is one of those “boom-and-bust” stories that makes you wonder – how could people think this was a promising place? Supremely isolated, almost impossible to get to without 4-wheel drive – did they have that in 1926-27? – 300 people came there to mine a lead deposit which turned out to be a dud.






They left behind some very picturesque buildings, including the one we lunched at. You can explore the shacks and the mines – although the latter comes with some risk – but we were satisfied with the view from afar. Something tells me we’ll be back through there again some day.







At last, we entered Titus Canyon – which becomes so narrow, I nicknamed it “Tightass Canyon” – down, down, down we went, past the spring and the petroglyphs, as the road closed in until we wondered if our truck would make it through.







We’d been in a similarly narrow canyon, or wadi, in Oman, and we recalled that day, when the walls rose up vertically around us, so high we couldn’t see the top. It also reminded me of the narrow siq you walk through to enter the mystical, magical city of Petra, in Jordan.



About three miles from the end, there’s a parking lot and the road becomes two-way. We knew we were getting close when we began to see people with cameras and day packs walking along the road. If you don’t have half a day to invest, this would be a good option for getting to see at least a portion of this part of Death Valley National Park.

We emerged at about 2:00 p.m. and it was another half hour to our campground We were tired and dusty. There is a beautiful pool at Furnace Creek Ranch, which is available to campers for just $5 and includes use of the shower, but there were two problems with that, for me. First I’d forgotten my bathing suit (IDIOT! NEVER AGAIN!!) and second, there was a line for the two showers. So we deployed our outdoor shower enclosure, and treated ourselves to our own hot shower. What HEAVEN!




Then, a little motorcycle ride over to the Furnace Creek Inn, for happy hour. I had a house special Prickly Pear Margarita, and it was one of the tastiest margaritas I’ve had outside Mexico.






The ride back to camp was just perfection – warm and soft like a cozy sweater, and golden. If we hadn’t had a cocktail, we would have ridden longer.



Back at the campground, I went over to tell our neighbors, the musicians, how much I’d enjoyed their music. Come to find out, yes, they were professionals. “Do you ever watch Ice Road Truckers? Deadliest Catch? That’s my music.” We were listening to composer Bruce Hanifan.



After dinner, we found ourselves gathered around their campfire while they once again played and sang under the full moon. As the night drew to a close, we sang an improvised “Death Valley Blues” which (as I vaguely remember) I ended with a verse about the “Titus Canyon Blues.” Something about mountains so high, and canyons so deep, we might not get out alive. But I gotta get back there somedayeeeeeee …

The talent agents have not called yet.
And, there is one last photo, below. For some reason, Blogger won't move it up no matter what I do.
Google is in control.

Carnevale di Venezia

I’m reminded of this because it’s Carnival in Venice.




Back in 2009, we went to Italy in February. One of our stops was Venice, where we had a fabulous suite at the Hotel Monaco & Grand Canal, overlooking the gondola dock right next to San Marco Square.











I was enchanted by the Murano glass chandeliers throughout the suite.








Being a not-very-seasoned world traveler at the time, I had no clue that it was Carnival until I saw the costumed people posing around San Marco Square. What a spectacle!

 





It was pretty surreal, walking among all the costumed, masked people who were out there posing for photos, never ever saying a word. I kept wondering – are they real people? It was almost creepy.






And February was not the best weather – it was rainy and very cold. I had to buy a leather coat and boots in Rome, just to have something warm to wear. Back then, I wasn’t sure about the stylishness of the boots – Mark said they were Gestapo boots. Now, everybody has them. But how many people can say they bought theirs in a little shop in Rome?


When we decided to live in the Middle East, we were determined to take a trip to Italy while we were over there – in our minds it was closer than it was in reality. Some time when the weather would be warmer, we thought, and things would be blooming. But it didn’t happen.


There is hope. We have our Italian sailing friends who we met in Abu Dhabi; they go back home to Italy – Marco is from Tuscany, Paolo from Torino, and Emiliano from Mantua – which is halfway between Milan and Venice. I’ll dream of reuniting with them in Italy.

Meanwhile, happy Fat Tuesday and Carnevale, wherever you may be. 

Joy of Sailing

Last summer, Wildcard went back into the water after some rather extensive retrofitting, including structural strengthening of the keel box that allows the keel to lift for trailering, and a new, more efficient rudder (both designed by Rodger Martin.)



The carbon and fiberglass work was done by Tom Omohundro and crew at Solution Marine in Minden, Nevada. This was very handy because it’s only a few miles from our house, and Mark could be involved in every step. Plus, he became great friends with Tom and now he goes to hang out at “work” for a few hours every day, making little carbon doodads.

The refit took several months, after which Wildcard spent a couple of weeks getting new bottom paint at Bay Marine in Richmond, CA before finally splashing and returning to our old slip on C dock at Richmond Yacht Club. It was a long but important process, because we wanted to fix all potential problems before venturing out ocean racing.



We tuned up with a couple of club races, and our debut was the Jazz Cup over Labor Day weekend, a mostly downwind race that starts in San Francisco Bay near Treasure Island and, after a very short upwind leg, turns northward for a (usually) downwind run through San Pablo Bay, under Carquinez Bridge and into Carquinez Strait (gateway to the Delta,) finishing in front of the city of Benicia.




We sailed a good race despite a critical error at the beginning (we hoisted our “Big Red” spinnaker on the short hoist halyard), and took first in division and third overall. Part of the reason we did well was that, with the help of our guest tactician Jeff Thorpe, and regular tactician Peter Cameron, we managed to stay in the “good water” – aka shallower, with less current moving against us –  and off of the mud – unlike some of the other boats.


Unfortunately, San Francisco Bay is silting in. What used to be a shallow spot off of Pinole is quickly becoming a mud flat, and dredges are a common sight in the channels and marinas around the bay. Boat always go in into the shallow area trying to get out of the current and the ones with deeper keels get stuck. The boat on the left is trying everything to heel the boat over while moving forward into deeper water. They did get off, eventually.


In November, the midwinter series began. If we wanted to, between the J70 Prime Number and Wildcard, we could sail pretty much every weekend, both days. But then we would never get to be home in Nevada, and my bruises would never get a chance to heal. So we’re focusing on two series: the Manuel Fagundes Seaweed Soup Regatta, held the first Saturday of the month November through March at Golden Gate Yacht Club in San Francisco, and a two-weekend event in January and February at Corinthian Yacht Club in Tiburon.

Getting the crew together has been both a challenge and a joy. At first, after having been gone for four years, I was worried about whether we could find enough crew – and it is hard, getting eight or nine people and putting them into jobs on the boat. It seemed like we were always short handed for those first races. Mark isn’t great at reaching out, so it fell to me to think of people to contact. After scouting around our yacht club without much luck finding regular crew, I decided to contact some of my old “boyfriends” – the crew I used to sail with back in the day, before I met Mark.



Back in the 1980’s and ‘90’s, my friend Lori and I sailed with crews that was mostly if not entirely male, in our 30’s to early 40’s, and mostly if not entirely single. Back in those days the racing was close, and the regattas and the parties, as I remember them, were bigger, and man, I looked forward to those weekends on and off the water. Those were some good times, and those guys were my best friends. The times we had.

Now, some 20 years on, we are all married. All the guys married women who don’t sail, and their chances to go sailing have diminished. So, I thought, why not see if any of the old crew can come out and sail on Wildcard with us? So I asked a few who are still living in the area. They said yes!











And suddenly, here we are, sailing together again! We joke about getting old, we joke about how much we used to party, and we can still sail together like it’s been no time at all.








Which brings us to the first weekend of the Corinthian Midwinters, in January. The weather prediction was rainy with no wind, then some wind, maybe a lot of wind, and then back to no wind. We drove “over the hill” from Gardnerville to the boat at Richmond Yacht Club on Thursday, so we could get everything ready and deliver the boat to Corinthian on Friday and get a good space at the dock. We’ve gotten pretty good at sleeping on the boat, so we planned to stay for the weekend – but we booked a hotel for Saturday night because it’s no fun to sleep in the boat when everything is wet.





What a glorious one-hour cruise from Point Richmond to Tiburon! The sun was out, the sky was crystal blue …
 




… the herring were running in the bay, and birds were everywhere.









We went for a walk and came across this artist who was just packing up for the day. For a second, I thought we were in Europe! I was impressed with his painting of the San Francisco Yacht Club harbor. His name is Shpend and you can find him on Etsy at de Santis Fine Art.



The next day, Saturday, dawned gloomy as predicted. The race committee chose a long course – a “Bay Tour” that would take us to a mark off of Fort Point at the south tower of the Golden Gate Bridge called Blackaller, then along the city front and around Alcatraz to a mark, then around a second mark, and back up toward Sausalito, around a mark in a notoriously windy place called Yellow Bluff, and finally back to the start/finish line at the entrance to Raccoon Strait, between Tiburon and Angel Island.

After a promising first leg, the wind went wacky. It was coming from the west, then no, the south, then no, east, wait, north, and all in pockets with spaces of nothing in between. We were sailing toward a the mark which was  just beyond Alcatraz, while other boats in our division were heading to Pier 39, and still others looked like they were trying to sail to the South Bay. Smaller, slower boats were coming up from behind with wind and catching us. The wind would die, and come up from another direction. We dropped our spinnaker, put up the jib, then switched sails again.



Sailboat racing in no wind can be amazing, interesting, fascinating and beautiful. We cracked open some beers and watched the entire fleet, with colorful spinnakers, converge on the third mark behind us. Boats of all sizes, somehow, ended up arriving at the same time.




There we were, too, trying to keep the boat moving, get around the mark, and get away.







An hour or so earlier, we had seen an orange pilot boat heading out toward the Golden Gate Bridge, so it was no surprise when we saw the bow of a huge ship on its way toward us. It was hugging the north side – our side, the side where all the racers were. That meant that it was headed for Richmond or beyond, not Oakland. The entire fleet was scattered in the shipping channel – in the ship’s path – except us. We were off to the left, south of where the ship would pass.



Usually boats under sail have right of way over boats under power, but according to maritime law, commercial traffic has the right of way over all other traffic. There have been several instances, over the years, of racers getting into trouble for sailing too close to ships. When a ship captain sees that there is traffic in his path, he issues five or more blasts as a warning that he doesn’t understand its intentions or that there is danger. In other words, “get out of my way.” These huge ships are not maneuverable; they turn slowly and take miles to come to a stop.

We waited for the blasts, but … silence. It was eerie There was very little wind – although the boats over there had more wind than we did – and we didn’t see how they could all get out of the way. But somehow, miraculously, this huge ship just passed through the entire fleet without incident and without a single blast.

Later, we heard that one of the skippers hailed the ship by radio and said, “Captain, what are your intentions?”

“I intend to hold my course.” He saw a narrow path as the sea of boats parted, and instead of carving a left turn, as he usually would, he waited until all the boats were clear. Nice.

Our advantage of being well above the ship evaporated as the wind coming through the Gate died, and a different wind came up from the north – to the advantage of the bulk of the fleet below us. We were stuck in the doldrums between the two. The 4:30 time limit was approaching and we had no chance of making it to the finish, even though they had moved it to the mark at Yellow Bluff. Sadly, we started the engine. At least we could be one of the first back to the dock – and the free beer.

And that’s the joy of sailing.

Wildcard travels–San Diego Bound

 

Let’s just pretend that it hasn’t been months and months since the last posting. Since then, we’ve been to Cyprus for vacation during the 10 weeks back in Abu Dhabi, and then we came home but soon we went to France – Paris and Strasbourg; Mark went on to spend a couple more weeks in Abu Dhabi while I stayed on for some “alone time” with Paris.

 

 

Then I went to Alabama, where I met up with my Abu Dhabi besties Donnette and Terry, and then on to Baltimore for my niece’s wedding – where I joined a girl band called the Temptresses with my sister Mary. Mark stayed home and worked on the boat.

 

 

In July, Mark and I went on a road trip to Nashville and Memphis; we went camping in Montana, Wyoming, and Utah; we went to my 40th high school reunion in Michigan, (where a lot of people said they had read and enjoyed the blog!) and since then we’ve been traipsing back and forth to the San Francisco Bay Area as we finally got Wildcard back in the water.

Jeez, so far this sounds like a Christmas letter …

All of these trips had very blog-worthy moments, (we caught a Paris pickpocket with Mark’s wallet in his hand and ejected him from the train!) but I could not find enough  time to write and maintain the quality that I have come to demand of myself. I have a folder full of barely-started blog posts.

But not writing depresses me. So, I’m going to try something different: not so much editing, not so much scrutiny. Not so many photos. Not so many links. I’m going to try for shorter posts. Because, while I am writing for you, dear imaginary reader, I am also writing for myself – the older me, 35 or 40 years from now, who wants to remember all the cool stuff we did.

So: Wildcard is back in the water!!! We spent a ton of time and money on her, and maybe someday Mark will grace us with a recap of the process. But suffice to say, all her problems are fixed and we have a jewel of a boat. Just as we were paying the final boatyard invoices to paint the bottom and launch the boat, Wildcard’s sister ship in Los Angeles, Celerity, was finishing first in the Transpac Race from San Diego to Hawaii. This was heartening, to say the least.

 

We raced our first big race a couple of weeks ago. The Jazz Cup starts off of Treasure Island in SF Bay and finishes 26 miles later at Benicia, in the Carquinez Straits which is the gateway to the Sacramento Delta. We had our old friend and Quantum Sails pro, Jeff Thorpe, on board, along with a crew that was … well, we’re good but we were very rusty and our bowman was rather unfamiliar with our setup. First spinnaker set, the halyard was fouled and we couldn’t get a full hoist. But we recovered and, long story short, we won our division and placed 3rd overall in the 94-boat fleet!

 

Now, we’re preparing to drive down to San Diego with our OTHER sailboat, the “little” one, the J70 Prime Number that we own with our Aussie partner Peter (who appears in an early blog post when he came to visit us in Abu Dhabi.) When people’s eyebrows go up I say, “It’s not 70 feet, it’s 7.0 meters! About 22 feet.” We’re sailing in the J70 Nationals, and we were the 50th boat to enter the other day. We expect to be racing against some of the very best sailors in the USA, and probably the world. Olympic class guys (I use that term in a non-gender-specific way.) But that’s what we love about sailing – what other sport is there, where you can be out of shape, even drink during beer the competition, and go to awesome parties where you rub elbows with the best of the best?

 

 

So … stay tuned, because Wildcard – and her little sister, the J70 Prime Number – are back, and we are traveling.