Weird and wonderful

An impromptu stroll after an afternoon coffee conjured up some interesting sights and a startling encounter with a ghost.

The wonderful:

Then, under the watchful gaze of a Victorian home’s owner, I snapped this photo. 

Here comes the weird:

The lady hadn’t moved and I realized I had come face to face with one of Sacramento’s notorious ghosts: Dorothy Puente.

She's the infamous landlady who killed her older tenants, buried them in her backyard and collected their Social Security checks.

She's a ghost, too, these days.

The current owner of the property has a creepy sense of humor, thus the dead-ringer mannequin and these signs:

Regatta blues

Jarring potholes. Cyclone fence covered with barbed wire. Across the train tracks I see dead trees, freshly cut and stacked, waiting to be loaded onto a seabound vessel.

I had heard rumors about rumors that somewhere out here there was a boat club. There was a lake. Somewhere out here people were having fun. Or so the story went.

I bumped past a sign that said “Public Notice.” I caught the word “no” but had to keep my eyes on the road. The potholes were vicious.

In the distance I see the Port of Sacramento, which is actually neither in the city nor county of Sacramento. It’s in the city of West Sacramento, which is in Yolo County.

Yeah, it matters.

I had heard a regatta race was set to be held today. UC Davis has its boat dock over here. Curiosity drives me on.

Finally, I see a sign of canoes or something. And a guy pulling junk out of the back of his truck and throwing it into a dumpster. This is notable only because he is blocking the road and I have to slow to edge past him. He turns and stares hard. Really hard.

Taking this as a good sign, I slide down my window.

“Yeah? You a member? This is private.” Turns out there are a few boat clubs that lease docks here. Private. Did he mention that, maybe twice more? 

We continue a bit of jocular banter of this sort for another 30 seconds before he allows me to drive on to the water’s edge. I'm just curious and want to take a look, I explain. He glances suspiciously at my back windows.

“Just don’t park or get in anyone’s way,” he warns, jutting his chin toward the empty parking lot. “If you want to join, we’re always looking for friendly people.”

I totally swear he said that.

The lake isn’t much but it’s peaceful and comes with a unique view of some large cargo ships at the adjacent docks. These ships take advantage of the narrow deep water channel that cuts through the California Delta, enabling them to sail from the Pacific Ocean through farmland and pasture for hundreds of miles until they arrive here. Giant cranes lift cargo containers of goods off and then lift others on. On and off, on and off. Wal-Mart is prominently featured on the sides of many containers.

Off the parking area, I see a few small boathouses and racks for equipment. A handful of sailboats are lined up on shore.

“You sail?” The guy is back, this time on foot and carefully keeping his distance.

I’m not technically parked since my car is still running and I left the door open.

“No, but I’d be interested in kayaking.”

“I hear kayakers put in from the other side.” He juts that chin of his again. “Over there.”

I follow the arc of his chin across the water and see no sign of a beach. He reads doubt in my eyes and doubles down with “I’ve seen kayaks out there.”

We’ve run out of conversation so I say goodbye. On the boathouse wall just a dozen steps away, there’s a bulletin board with a few announcements. A stack of flyers about something seems to be untouched. I bet there's information about the clubs, maybe how to join. Investigating further seems to be pushing my luck.

“Well, think about it,” he says.

Duck, duck, goose, turtle

Cosumnes River Preserve had me at the first minute we arrived. The view from its north parking lot was open wetlands, a boardwalk and a trail. I sensed an adventure ahead.

Lacking the sense to bring cameras to this bird sanctuary, we scrambled to get out our phones, reassuring ourselves that they took photos that were “just as good.” Note: they don’t. 

But that didn’t ruin the journey. Maybe we stayed more often “in the moment.”

The Preserve is about 10 minutes south of Elk Grove, just off of I-5, accessed by Franklin Road. Its 50,000 acres and 11 miles of trails are sandwiched between the wild roaming Cosumnes River and the interstate, sliced through by a rail line.  These are wetlands – marshy, reedy, filled with tangles of underbrush and scrubby oaks. Old oaks dot the landscape and rise to the sky.

There are two distinct areas here. The first, which beckons us from this north parking lot, is not to be missed. It’s a short boardwalk trail that lets us traipse dryly through the marsh area that is filled with ponds. This is where we see red chested ducks, wintering geese and a type of sandpiper. Other smaller birds flit through the thick reeds. When we stop and listen, there are constant rustles in the brush. There are more than 250 bird species that pass through this area and I’ll make sure I have a bird book with me next time.

Pond turtles sun themselves on logs and rocks until we get to close and they dive for cover. We see their noses poke up from the pond, waiting for us to get clear so they can claim their spot again.

The second area took us down a series of well-maintained dirt trails. Over here, we were led across dry land, through small groves and grassy meadows, toward the river.

The lists of mammals, amphibians, fish and birds that make this area their home are enormous. Lizards, mountain lions, otters, bats, deer, squirrel. We were charmed to see several cottontails grazing lazily, letting us approach within feet before darting away. What does poison oak look like again? We have a discussion about our ignorance and stay on the trail.

We reach the river and watch the slow-moving dark waters that hint at its depth. I know this is a dangerous river that is one of the few undammed left in California. The danger comes because it is thus uncontrolled and a Sierra rainstorm can drive the water quickly downstream to this delta location, swelling the river over its tidy banks. The river can become a massive moving lake that threatens houses miles to the north.

The trail circles back along a river slough and we pass by a large Visitor’s Center. We hesitate but will go inside on another day. It’s too beautiful outside and we can’t bring ourselves to stop even for a few minutes.

It’s my favorite type of place, one that you can’t experience all in one visit. I have a list of things to bring next time: camera, binoculars, picnic, bird and butterfly book.

We’ll find the other trails and check out the visitor center. With the sun and rains bringing out the wildflowers and so then the butterflies, there’s something new on the horizon.

Meanwhile, I'll educate myself on poison oak.

Clean up in aisle 3

I've been here nine months and am settling in like a native. There's still at least one place where I feel like a tourist: the grocery store.

It's not the emphasis on organic, vegan, wheat-free, free-range, grass-fed products, although there's certainly an abundance of those at my neighborhood stores.

It's the shameless, exhibitionist showcasing of alcohol. Aisles and aisles of it.

After years of living in a state where hard liquor can only be sold by the state (at inflated prices), it still seems strange to see whiskey, bourbon and vodka lined up next to the milk aisle. I'm used to the feeling Idaho instilled in me, that buying hard liquor is for the depraved and soon-to-be depraved.

Plain brown bags are used to  carry out your purchase, and you can read the tsk-tsk in the clerk's eyes. In recent years, when the question has arisen in the libertarian-leaning Legislature there about whether the state needs to be in the alcohol business anymore, people use the old-fashioned argument against it: temperance.

Libertarianism is described as being maximum freedom and minimum government, but that doesn't apply when puritan standards come into play.

Meanwhile, wanton, free-wheelin' California is over here just kicking up her heels.

 Pretty displays and a wide selection makes me a fascinated tourist down these aisles. I keep feeling like I'm shopping for lingerie in the middle of the ice cream section -- so overexposed. Here, temperance is just a word learned in history books. I feel like such a naughty libertarian these days.

Quenched

We were anticipating a Santa Cruz getaway when the skies opened up and tossed bucketfuls of water down on our very thirsty California. Through gritted teeth, I thanked the rain gods for ruining our trip even as the downpour saved the state from drying up and blowing away.

I’m not ungrateful. Just terribly guilty of not participating in the required group mantra of “We need the rain.” I know farmers need the rain. And cities. And me. Still, there’s literally nothing I can do to make it rain. Or vice versa. If I remark that the rain ruined my weekend plans, I promise that won’t stop the rain from falling.

You have to be careful around here about how you speak about rain. It’s the sacred cow of California. No matter when it falls or how much it gives you, the required attitude is gratitude.

Curse the wind. Curse the sun. Curse the fog. But never ever curse the rain.

I grew up in farm country so I’m not ignorant of the water issues California is mired in. This isn’t the fault of the rain. Its simple supply and demand. One of these has gotten out of control. Guess which one. And it has nothing to do with turning off the tap while I brush my teeth (which I do, by the way).

We took a quick run up to Folsom Lake a couple of weeks ago to look at the damage the drought has wrought. It was shocking to drive past the massive dam and see the lake’s remnants. It was a hike to travel from the lake’s former waterline down to the existing one. The drought had even exposed ruins from a town that was purposely submerged when the dam was built in the 1950s. Now shells sit next to dusty concrete foundations.

A water war in California has been simmering for decades, with political grabs for water rights boiling over at various times. As long as we overcommit our water resources, statewide prayers for rain will continue.

Frankly, I think the rain gods are tired of it all.