Those jumping frogs of Calaveras

The frogs are everywhere. Statues and artwork. Keychains and stuffed toys.

Aside from that, Murphys is a darned cute town. Forget the frogs. There’s enough going on here without them.

Murphys sits in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, an old goldrush town founded in 1848. Its 24-year-old founder, John Murphy, had a trading post and a mining claim, and did well. In less than a year, he collected more than $1 million in gold and then skedaddled off – like other young wealthy Californians tend to do – to the Bay Area.

These days, Murphys focuses on micro-wineries – with one or two on each block of this one-street town. In-between are art galleries, boutiques and an assortment of shops and restaurants.

We remembered Ironstone Vineyards from two decades ago, when it dominated the landscape. It still does, with good wine and lovely grounds overlooking vineyards about a mile outside the main town.

Since Mark Twain immortalized Calaveras County with his story about a jumping frog, we'll just have to endure the kitschiness that accompanies the charm. 

Big trees

I’m walking across the stump of a giant Sequoia and it feels like sacrilege. Here, in Calaveras Big Trees State Park, that appears to be the point. This tree was cut down years ago, taken as a trophy of achievement – man conquering the wilderness.

Like shooting a herd of bison, or punching a hole in the ozone layer. We did it, therefore, we exist.

Mark Twain made a jumping frog of Calaveras County famous. But I’ve leapfrogged over Angel's Camp, past the goldrush towns of Murphys and Arnold, and headed over the rise to the big trees.

Up, up and up to the 4,000-foot level where the redwoods and sequoias live among the dogwoods and sugar pines. It’s high enough to call these mountains instead of foothills, especially when we come to an overlook that displays the vastness of the Sierra Nevada.

We’re walking along the north end of the park where a number of well-maintained trails lead us through the forest. As the name of the park indicates, this is about the big trees.

I look up. And up. And up. Beautiful redwoods, their bark soft and thick, draw my eye. I can’t help but reach out my hand to touch. But it’s the giant Sequoias that command the scene, towering over the forest, each branch as big as an oak tree. No wonder; they’ve been here for more than a thousand years.

Like everyone must do as they walk along this trail, I wondered at how the world had changed during the lifetime of these trees. It's a meditative walk.

Down on the Delta

Water spills from the mountains, bubbles up from ground springs, and moves day and night across California toward the Pacific. Rivers divide and split again – first a river, then a branch, then a slough, then a riverlet – before joining together again in a steady flow from the Sierra through the valleys.

West, west, west.

A warm breeze steadily pushes at me, heading East. It’s what locals call a “Delta breeze.” The water streams the ocean breezes onshore for a hundred miles or more, creating its own weather system across inland seas dotted with islands.

Covering a vast portion of northern California, the Delta is unique, unchanging, rustic and relaxing. Backroads cut past alfalfa fields, vineyards and pastureland dotted with old oaks and fattened Herefords. Levee roads take me through small towns and past numerous marinas.

I get deliciously lost traveling the backroads, taking one offshoot and then another. Sailboats, houseboats, fishing boats bob and the river widens. I cross iron bridges and draw bridges and teeter on top of levees.

My road ends suddenly head-on into the river, but a small ferry waits. I debate this option, not sure what’s on the other side. But the day is young and the ferry is free.

This is clearly the winding road less traveled. The waters branch to the murky waters of Shag Slough, Cache Slough, Lindsey Slough. My solitary drive is along the top of a levee guarding Miner Slough from dusty fallow farmlands. Canals crisscross my path, carrying water in all directions except, it seems, into the fields. There is a stark beauty to the thirsty land, checkerboarded in colors of brown, tan and gold.

Before I know it, there is the Deep Water Channel heading north and I’m no longer lost. The Delta is huge and can’t be explored in one day. This is the California far from the interstates and highways. It feels real out here.

Paper or plastic? Neither, please

This question will no longer stump me – wondering which is best for the environment. Is it paper, which involves forests cut down so I can carry my groceries home, or plastic, which will clog the landfills and create plastic islands in the oceans?

Thank goodness the decision has been made for me. It’ll now be cloth bags and boxes. Gov. Brown has made California the first state to ban single-use plastic bags and stores will likely charge a fee for paper bags. 10 cents extra? No way.

Finally, finally, I’ll have the incentive I need to remember the cloth bags I’ve stocked in my car for years, and left there forgotten while I’ve gone inside the store.

While I applaud the move, there’s a part of me that’s worried about how we’ll survive without these bags. Those single-use bags are always reused at home, either to line garbage cans or to pick up dog droppings. Paper bags are our recycle containers. Will I simply purchase plastic and paper bags to fill the gap?

This seems such a simple habit to break. Surely, California – home of so much innovation – we can figure this out.