A fall color explosion in Yosemite

Recently, Fred and I stole away to Yosemite National Park, hoping to see some fall color. I've never been to the park at this time of year before, and I certainly wasn't disappointed. Brilliant yellow leaves were popping out everywhere; warm sunshine-filled days made the sky a vibrant blue.

Inspired by a friend's recent trek to Half Dome, we set out for Vernal Falls along the Mist Trail. Three hours straight up convinced us to come back by a more moderate route, so we returned on the Muir Trial, which you see at left. It was so beautiful that I stopped short in my limping tracks several times to haul out my camera. After a "refreshing" rain, the skies cleared, revealing a starry field I hoped to capture digitally.

Up well before dawn, I fiddled around trying for an acceptable exposure. I did have moderate success painting the cliff face with my flashlight (see left). What an awesome scene -- and unbelievably comfortable for late October.

With the recent rains contributing to the runoff, even Yosemite Falls--usually quiet at this time of year--put on a spectacular show for us. And Mirror Lake was filling up.

The only hardship was staying in the "heated" tent cabins -- the only affordable accommodations in the valley available at the last minute. It was rather chilly at night. Good opportunity to cuddle up!

All in all, it was a wonderful respite. It was so invigorating and inspiring, I'm afraid I went a little crazy:

(Of course it's fake -- you think I'm insane?)

Visit YouTube for a slideshow with more of my images of Yosemite in Fall, complete with music. Enjoy!

A tightrope act worthy of kings

Every night on the zocalo, if you're not too distracted by the many musicians, soccer games, vendors and the yard-of-beer dispenser, you may see a world class tightrope act performed by Jose Esqueda Ochoa, who also sells souvenirs from a cart. Our last evening in Veracruz I asked his name and story, and this is what he told me.

Jose learned his trade 49 years ago from his father, with whom he said he worked in an Italian circus for years. Jose has also spent years harvesting crops in the south in the U.S. (He claims in some way to be related to the Flying Wallendas, though Tino Wallenda didn't know him; he says Esqueda is a common name in the circus.)

Whatever his lineage, I'll let Jose's work speak for itself. All I know is that Jose peformed religiously every night--once to a near-empty plaza during a rainstorm at 2 a.m.

Watch the video on YouTube here. After you see it, tell me what you think!

Life on the Zocalo

We stayed at the Hotels Colonial and Imperial right on the zocalo, a fantastic choice for exposure to local culture. Every day around noon or so, the square freshly swept and washed, the vendors begin laying out their wares on blankets and carts. Indians with blusas, wooden spoons, hand-painted bookmarks and other merchandise bound to their backs patrol the area.

In what was to become our regular practice, we stopped at the Grand Cafe del Portal for a lechero. The espresso comes in a tall glass, to which is added a healthy amount of steamed milk, poured from an impressive height by a skilled waiter. See the process here:
(I apologize for the quality; had the wrong setting! I have another video, but this was the best show.)

The zocalo is, well, intense. Several cafes line the square in front of each hotel. On any given evening, there may be four or five bands vying for attention. When fully employed (they only play when paid), the cacophany is at once exhiliarating and overwhelming and intoxicating. Something NOT to be missed.

By the end of our stay I had come to love the intimacy of the Indian children pressing on us at midnight trying to sell us a macrame bracelet. The first night, while we were still trying to be cool, "No, gracias" was our standard reply. But by night four I think we had purchased just about everything in their inventory.

Mindi did get one girl to crack up when she mimicked her pitiful plea. (These children are well fed and cared for by their parents, who work nearby and watch over them. ) So she sent over her little sister, who was determined not to break character:

One night around midnight, one girl persisted in her quest to get us to buy a bracelet. I didn't really want one, but I relented and slipped her a few small coins to get her to leave. "Shh!" I said, putting my finger to pursed lips, warning her not to tell anyone.

Three minutes later, four or five younger children descended on our table and serenaded us with their simple, childish song. "Copera, copera" (or something that sounded like that), they requested.

"No copera," I insisted. Their sister shouldn't have told, I reckoned. The youngsters soon evaporated into the night. I never saw those little ones again.

Heck, I should have given them something. They deserved it.

Avoiding gunplay and other noble vacation goals...

So, my dad invites me and Mindi to go to Veracruz with him and of course I say yes. I've learned not to get too freaked out by reports of violence, so hearing of beheadings and car bombings in the tourist area didn't dissuade me from hopping the midnight flight to Guadalajara.


I must say, we seemed to step into Mexico the instant we got in line to check in at the Sacramento "International" Airport. Everyone -- and I mean everyone except one other white lady -- was speaking Spanish. Lots and lots of babies on the flight.


Mexicana Airlines is a great company and the flight was uneventful. We retrieved our rental car and got some rudimentary directions into town and headed out. The instant we left the airport we confronted about six vehicles stuffed with armed soldiers. Vehicles were posted at the exit and entrance to the highway, and several guarded entry to the facility we were passing.
"Are we supposed to stop?" I asked Mindi. We slowed to a crawl, trying to get the attention of the soldiers standing on the side of the road. The officer posted on the road had his back to us and did not turn around.

It was quite intimidating, being from California and all, to see regular patrols of soldiers with their trigger fingers poised on their automatic rifles. I gulped mightily and stopped.

We looked pathetically at the group of soldiers and shot a questioning glance. They laughed and waved us on. Turns out that was the entrance to a military base, so not too unusual. (Except we didn't see another such show of force the rest of our trip.)


I do have to apologize for not having a photo of all this. It just seemed more prudent not to do anything questionable.


After taking the possibly more direct, but slower, route into town suggested by the rental car company, we finally got to the zocalo in the old city center of Veracruz. That I do have a picture of:

Young mothers need our support

Last week I accompanied a photographer friend of mine, Brooke from Brooke Imagery, to Sac State to take portraits of some young mothers and their children. Here you see one of the little guys confronting a rather belligerent rooster who escorted us around the Arboretum. He was fearless! (The boy, not the chicken!)

It was nice to see these young women taking their responsiblities seriously and doing their best to rear happy, healthy children. Certainly, they are learning to do the hardest job on the planet--parenting.

Fortunately, they have the support of a great organization that helps foster youth get established after the system cuts them loose. Connections for Youth, Inc., is a Sacramento-based non-profit established by Samantha Olson. Check them out on Facebook. Good work, Sam!

A strange sight on Carmel beach

So far it had been a lovely trip to Carmel. Mindi and I had enjoyed fabulous massages at Le Spa. Full of margaritas and chicken chile relleno with mole sauce from Club Jalapeno, we sauntered down Ocean Avenue until, drawn in by the scent of a thousand bubblebaths, we discovered Lush, the best little soapery this side of Paris. (OK, so it is a franchise, but I'm absolutely hooked on the Godiva solid shampoo bar. It leaves my hair so volumized and shiny!)

So, we were feeling giddily pampered as we strolled down to the beach, sinking luxiously into the sugar-like white sands as we made our way down the dune, until -- EW! What was that?! A dead deer washed up on the beach?

"It's a male," a teen boy declared as we crept upon the swollen animal. "We watched it wash up."

The crowd of youngsters joined us in our inspection. It was, indeed, a male, though the evidence thereto was rapidly diminishing in decomposition. Felt still covered both points of the young innocent's antlers; its tongue dangled loosely in the sea.

The boy and a friend came over to pose for me by the poor thing, mocking a posture of conquest.

We met the girl's father the next day manning the Gallerie Rue Royale, where we were drawn in by Todd White's Night Life collection. The girl blew in noisily past the father, her cell phone trumping his request to keep it down.

The beleaguered gallery manager greeted us wearily and we revealed that we had met his daughter the previous night. He said he'd heard about us, and noting that we were a mother and daugther enjoying a getaway together, he asked hopefully, naively, what to expect of the abyss of adolescence that lay before him: "How long till I get my daughter back?"

We laughed. "How old is she?"

"Thirteen."

We laughed louder. "Oh, about ten years," I replied.

The poor soul visibly caved. He shared his concerns about the coming years, of which there were plenty, his being a retired physician and all. We offered our best strangerly advice and slipped out of the gallery, thankful to have those years behind us.

Now it's just good, honest hardheadness that comes between Me and the Min. At least she comes by it honestly.

Lunch at Nepenthe

Our trip to Carmel in June was humming lazily along as we lounged on the patio of Nepenthe restaurant in Big Sur. I wondered why my beet salad came on a bed of bread crumbs.

While I was trying to summon the will to reach for my fork, BAM! -- a blue jay swooped in, snatched a bread crumb and was gone in an instant. Evidently I had ordered his favorite dish.
I was ready for his next pass, and he was kind enough to smile for my camera. I thought it was hilarious, though Mindi wasn't so keen on dodging birds between bites of crostini.

After lunch we stopped at one of my favorite spots on the coast: Pfeiffer state beach, a 2-mile crawl off Highway 1. My dreams of dramatic sunset shots blew away with the sandstorm, but not before Mindi obliged me with a roll down the sand dune.