A couple of days ago, I gave you just a hint of our recent road trip in our quest to squeeze out the last pleasures of these fine fall, halcyon days in Northern California, as winter approaches.

It is coming, isn’t it?

It’s the first week of November and I am still running around in shorts and a t-shirt, and we really, really need the water.

If you’ll stick with me a few moments, I will get to The Saga of Poor Joe and his run-in with wily creatures of the woods.

But first, what would a good travel trek be without a foodie feature?

While tooling around Lake Almanor, we stopped in at the rustic Cedar Chalet Bakery, a couple miles south of Chester.

When I say rustic, I mean, if you did not know what sugar-laced delights awaited you within, you would drive by and think,

“What a sad, old, dilapidated place. I wonder how long it has been abandoned.”

But, best not to tell a book by its cover, nor an old bakery building by its faded, rusted sign.

Not only were the sweet treats worth a stop, but I am pretty sure the old guy telling tall tales at the counter may have been the uncle of The Stranger (Sam Elliott) from The Big Lebowski.

After a few miles of hiking along the scenic, wooded Lake Almanor Recreation Trail, it was time for some serious boating on the lake, and by serious, I mean once we three guys got out maybe 100 feet from shore, we killed the engine—which at one point we were pretty sure was on fire—and quaffed a good number of beers.

This was followed shortly thereafter back on terra firma, once we rejoined the good women in our group, and we went on to imbibe a number of bottles of good wine.

So, yes, you could say a good time was had by all—once we ascertained that the boat was NOT really on fire.

The next day had us, and by us I mean me, making a serous tactical navigation error of a gargantuan degree, when I decided to return back to Sacramento via Yuba City.

I certainly could have been suffering a dulled sense of sound judgment—which I am sure had everything to do with the liquids consumed the previous day and evening—since I had heard of a great gathering that was taking place in Yuba City, yet chose that path home, anyway.

While I did hear something on the news about some gathering of the Sikh’s (an entho-religious group, if you are unfamiliar), I am pretty sure I did not know that would be 75,000 of them gathering.

I can’t say that all 75,000 of them were heading south with me on Highway 99, but let’s just say, this was not the place to be for anyone with any anxiety around headscarves.  Based on the occupants of the nearby cars—the many, many nearby cars, all traveling at maybe 5 miles per hour, or less—this was clearly a fine family event for all ages.

We finally got home and decided that the weather was just too nice to unload the kayaks, so it was up to Lake Natoma—after a slight detour up to Apple Hill for yet more sugar-laced bakery goodies.

This brings us back to The Saga of Poor Joe.

Joe was with us on The Great Lake Almanor Boat Adventure, which consisted primarily of a few moments of concern as we ascertained the source of the smoke billowing out of the engine compartment of Steve’s ski boat, which was followed by a great deal more time spent on congratulating ourselves for the alert action that was taken (opening the engine cover) and subsequent swift and well planned emergency response (turning off the engine).

And what would self-congratulations be without the consumption of alcoholic beverages.

During all this self-congratulating time, Joe regaled us with an encounter he had earlier that day, which left Poor Joe in a somewhat debilitated physical state.

Now, you have to understand that Joe is truly a Man’s Man. That was clear the moment he drove up in his massive four-wheel drive Ford pick-up with a burly, knobby-tired dirt bike motorcycle lashed in the truck bed.

Joe’s a physically fit, good looking guy with medium-length, light-brown hair that falls nicely above his masculine-featured face, someone that you might expect in an ad for some adventurous outdoor activity, which in Joe’s case, would not be a reach.

Joe is into numerous extreme outdoor sports, including kiteboarding and skydiving. 

(Beware the kiteboarding models on that link—Tab 3…not that I looked at them.)

And apparently, Joe also likes guns. And that is where his story got interesting.

Joe had gone out to the woods with a woman that morning, who, like Joe, gets a kick out of things that go bang.

These things are typically identified by a descriptive number, rather than by name, so when you mention 12 gauge, 30-06 (read as thirty-odd-six), or 9 mm to someone who is into recreational shooting, there is no confusion.

(For full disclosure, I should mention that I was not present at the morning’s outing, so I did not exactly witness what transpired or how the vicious, diabolical creatures of the deep, dark forest conspired against Poor Joe, but the information contained herein are the absolute facts—at least based on my over-active and vivid imagination.)

As Joe was fondling his gun—in this case, a 9 mm pistol—a wild animal running by caught Joe’s attention.

An animal that is feared throughout the untamed, sometimes dangerous wild forest.

Feared, but only if you happen to be an acorn, that is.

The animal was one of those tiny, cute-as-a-button chipmunks.

Doing what any manly-man with his weapon in hand and in the company of a woman in the woods would do, Joe took off running, hell-bent, after the beast, all-the-while running and gunning, spraying and praying.

Here was Joe, rapidly clamoring through the forest, fleetly navigating the hazard-strewn woods, jumping over down logs with great aplomb, dropping empty clips and reloading while at a full-on-run, all with perfect poise.

Just until the he was taken down in one fell swoop by the wild.

And it was just that, he fell under the excruciating pain of a severe foot-owie. 

(No, it was not by self-inflicted gunplay.)

While the cute little critter was last seen trotting off into the woods, huffing and puffing, grateful to be still breathing at all, Joe was left to crawl back to his manly-man, super-sized, four-wheel drive Ford pickup truck, collecting his empty clips and spent cartridges, and trying to dream up a manly-man story of survival against nature’s wrath that left him barely being able to return with his life—if not his ego—still in tact.

After chronicling his near-death experience at the hands (tiny little claws?) of the wild forest inhabitant, Joe must have noticed that Steve and I were only able to quell a guffaw by quaffing yet another cold brew, to which Joe exclaimed with great bravado,

“Hey, it was a really big chipmunk!”

And apparently, a really fast one, too.

Time change or not, with the wonderful weekend weather we were treated to, how could anyone not find something enjoyable to do outside?

We loaded the kayaks, a fine bottle of 2005 Bogle Phantom red wine, my favorite 12 year old Balvenie Doublewood Single Malt Scotch Whiskey, plus a few beers, and clothes for weather that would range from frosty at night to almost 80 degrees in the afternoon, and headed for the hills.

Yes, our provisions were heavy to the adult beverage category, but if I learned nothing else from spending my formative years in the Boy Scouts, it is “Be Prepared.”

The liquid refreshments serve multiple duties of: relaxation enhancement (until you become so relaxed it puts you to sleep), pain reduction (after those hours of kayaking), warming agent (should the layers of clothing prove insufficient), and in a pinch, a fire starter (but, please…not the Scotch).

                        Clear, cold water along the shore of Lake Almanor, Plumas County

Hopefully, by tomorrow I will have put the toys away, unpacked the dirty laundry, hauled out the empties and put a few more words to paper.

Until then, the pictures herein will have to suffice.

The picture above serves as the requisite beautiful nature scene and the one below just hints of a tall tale just around the corner of a new acquaintance, who apparently makes the women swoon, the men jealous, and the tiny forest creatures nervous.

How do they do it?

Blog daily, that is.

And some even manage to do it with considerable wit, humor, and technical expertise (if you are into fly-fishing) plus a plethora of warped imaginative, unique custom design graphics.

(Although, the picture at left happens to be the result of my warped imaginative efforts.)

Many of you will appreciate the devotion to post daily as a true labor of love with little opportunity or expectation of riches commensurate with the hours devoted to the task.

All I know, I would like to become more regular.

(And please, no suggestions to consume a plethora of prunes.)

My reader has requested as much and I would like to oblige.

“Dammit Jim, I’m a Wannabe Travel Writer, not a real one.”

 

I have many, many (trust me, you don’t want to know how many) pictures of our 2009 Spain Adventure, with not quite as many, but an adequate number of, sensational stories and tall tales with which I hope to regale my reader.

After traveling over the course of a number of trips to many of the iconic capital cities of Europe, I have done more than my share of obligatory museum tours.

Dozens of them.

Viewing hundreds of pieces of art—including many originals of some of the most famous and priceless paintings in the world.

And walking at least a marathon’s worth of miles.

Of course, the old adage, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” is never truer than trudging through countless display rooms and sometimes confusing interconnecting mazes of hallways.

“Haven’t we already seen this room…twice…???”

Truth be told, I really am not a person of culture.

More often than not, I would rather be doing my other Wannabe Travelwriter activities, such as SCUBA diving, ocean sailing, downhill skiing (soon…soon), pretending to fly-fish, lake kayaking, mountain biking, windsurfing, desert camping…you get the idea.

But, my much, much better half likes company on her museum tours…and after 30 years of marriage, well, I mostly get it. 

So, it’s off to tour we go.

But, while I may appropriately be accused of often being dumb, I am not completely stupid.

I did sneak one museum tour on to my wife’s list that, before she knew it, got me closer to my beloved vat of vino, the wonderful wholesome wine, the gleaning of the grape.

Truth be told, if there is a promise of good eats and alcohol I will even do the March of the Multiple Museums.

(What sacrifices I make for the sake of marital bliss.)

Over the past few months, I have succumbed to the wiles of Ingrid, over at the Travel Channel, with a willingness to post weekly updates on Bourdain’s No Reservations travel food and drink escapades across the globe.

While I have been tapas-crawling my way across Spain, I have to admit that sometimes I have been imagining myself as a shorter, hairier, less good looking, much less rich version of Anthony Bourdain.

After numerous glasses of the local alcoholic beverage and a willingness to try food items definitely not on the menu back home, I attempt to wax poetic about my sense of place, and wonder what happened to my film crew.

So, I was somewhat crestfallen when I got an email that Ingrid has left me—and before we were ever really together—and someone named Wendy sends me the latest Bourdain offering. Crestfallen not only because I already miss my pretend virtually affair with Ingrid, but because the latest Bourdain creation is just that…a comic creation, as in not real.

Somehow Bourdain, or the Travel Channel Brain Trust got the brilliant idea that a cartoon of outlandish proportion would be entertaining to those of us who enjoy watching Tony travel the world to exotic places.

Now, the email appears to be legitimate, and I am pretty sure it is too early for an April Fools joke, but unless this is something specially presented just for Halloween this weekend, well, I am not sure what in the hell they were thinking.

Hopefully, Bourdain will find his way back on the road again soon. Otherwise, I wonder what Andrew Zimmerman is eating nowadays.

(Hmmm. Looking at the picture, apparently the same thing I am eating over in Segovia, Spain, just outside of Madrid.)

File this under the category of, “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

USAToday ran a story this morning about the ongoing luggage lunacy associated with commercial airline travel.

Yeah, yeah, we all know that between ever-increasing baggage fees and the fear of lost luggage, most of us are packing our stuff onto the plane with us, ever vigilant to keep separate our little clear quart-sized baggie with liquids, creams, and gels under three ounces.

While we certainly are experiencing this situation first-hand as we fly from Sacramento to Dallas, and then on to Madrid, plus a stop in London, I am not exactly sure what’s new news here that promulgated this press announcement.

I know that I prefer that my personal belongings accompany me, onboard, so that I might welcome them once I arrive at my destination, sans holes ripped in the bag, gashes in the plastic corners, and fresh oil stains on the material of my checked-in luggage—all of which I have experienced more than once, which includes any damage caused by the Baggage Handler Luggage Toss Olympics that I have previously reported on.

(Thank goodness I don’t travel with a musical instrument, eh, Dave?!?)

Apparently, the airlines are unwilling or unable to keep everyone in line with whatever their current policy might be,

“Check-in and gate agents are told to police bags; templates for carry-on sizes sit at ticket counters and gates. But “airlines are taking a hit in staffing, and that leads to (less) enforcement,” says Caldwell, whose association represents 50,000 attendants at 21 U.S. carriers”

The article mentioned proposed legislation to regulate the maximum size of carry-on luggage (I thought we already had rules on that) and a hilarious suggestion that TSA become The Enforcers.

“Where the (carry-on) policy needs to be enforced is when we show our boarding pass and ID at the TSA checkpoint,” agrees security adviser Jim Princehorn, 60, of Rochester, N.Y.”

Wait…now you’ve got my attention.

I just hope that if TSA is tasked with counting and measuring carry-on luggage, they just never install scales on the conveyor that feeds their X-ray machines.

Between my 21” rolling, carry-on bag, plus my “computer bag” which contains enough electronics to build a uranium enrichment centrifuge, and plus occasionally a third bag containing my massive stack of unread magazines from home that I tote across the planet with the best of intentions to actually read and dispose recycle them, not only do I—technically—often have too many bags, but I may be carrying more weight onboard than they allow for my checked bag.

Yes, I can count—I know I am technically violating the published airline carry-on luggage policies, but…doesn’t everyone?!?  

And, worst case, if they insist on a “gate check-in” of my bigger carry-on bag, well, I just avoided the check-in bag fee, and I am a little more confident that my bag may get on the same plane as I do.

Some airlines are trying another method of speeding the boarding process.

“Virgin America is letting economy passengers without bags (just personal items) board ahead of others in San Francisco to see if that “makes the boarding process faster and more seamless,” says airline spokeswoman Abby Lunardini.”

I know that my Senior Sand Dollar Adventures Copy Editor has begged for years for a similar policy but at the other end of the flight. Judy would have all of us who have over-stuffed the overhead bins with over-sized and over-weight bags, sit quietly until those people (yes, you, Judy) could efficiently and effectively walk off the airplane, unencumbered with everything they own.

All these carry-on/ check-in bag issues have resulted in a new manner of queuing for boarding the plane. As one guy, who apparently doesn’t particularly enjoy the elbow-jostling at the boarding gate says,

“Retiree Bob Heavenrich of Ann Arbor, Mich., hates what he calls “gate lice” — passengers who clog the front of the boarding area, impeding others, so they can rush the plane when their zone is called. The goal: Get bags in bins and avoid having them taken and checked at the plane door.”

I prefer to characterize myself as simply “hovering” in the general area of the front of the boarding lines as I attempt to spy the printed zone number on the boarding passes of my “competitors” who are also milling around in a like fashion, in this new form of close combat, physical exercise, while I intently listen for my time to board.

I have become quite adept at timing the call for the next zone number by watching the boarding line and the furtive glances of the airline attendant.

Of course, my wife—having much higher standards for appropriate social behavior—patiently waits her turn and takes her chances with available overhead storage.

Hmmmm. Where’s her sense of sport in the game???

I’ll simply end with the closing quote from the USAToday story that really says it all,

“A note to fellow passengers: “Sorry, but I didn’t write the rules,” Swicegood says. “I’m just playing by them.”

Amen, brother. (Now get the hell out of my way…I’m looking for a vacant overhead bin.)

“Title your story with a numbered list of things to do or see and it will help sell your travel article.”

At least that was what Doug, the writing instructor told me a couple of years ago in a semester-long college course for wannabe writers on how to get published, primarily, in magazines.

(Historical note: a couple of years ago there were probably a lot more magazines to get published in. Besides, it’s not that I’m not good enough or too lazy to make the effort, there’s just all this blogging, and Facebooking, and Tweeting to be done.)

Scan a rack of magazines and you will likely see dozens of examples, such as,

“10 ways to guarantee that sexy blonde at the bar will go home with you tonight.”

or, in the case of a travel-related story,

“20 secret beaches that no one in the world knows about.”

(I used to see that last one a lot about windsurfing locales and I would wonder, really…how many secret beaches are there left?)

The concept of these lists became a lot more popular with the publication of 1000 Places To See Before You Die book and TV series and the movie The Bucket List.

And just today I was perusing the October National Geographic Traveler magazine—which I lust to be published in my dreams—and in a huge font, the cover story is advertised as 50 Places of a Lifetime. They go so far as to even provide an actual checklist as if you were in the grocery store picking up a carton of eggs, a gallon of milk, and a magazine off the check-out line that promises how to get a date with a sexy blonde at the bar.

But, of course, the travel checklist is a little more involved than that, and a hell of a lot more expensive to pursue (unless maybe you marry that blonde and end up in an alimony situation down the road).

Personally, I eschew participating in an almost competitive form of world travel.

Well, most of the time.

On our 2009 Tour of Spain adventure you have been following my wife and I (you are all up to date on my posts, right?) as we traverse the beautiful Spanish countryside and visit numerous iconic landmarks, between many bottles of wine and plenty of plates of pintxos (tapas).

One stop provided me an opportunity to compare writing notes with one of the world’s most respected writers, as I rubbed shoulders with Ernest Hemingway in his old haunt at the Iruna Cafe in Pomplona, where his classic book, The Suns Also Rises, takes place. (And as you can see, I did not let him get a word in edgewise.)

And, I would not be considered the true adventure travel writer that my homemade business card promotes me as, if I did not don a colored scarf and run down the narrow streets ahead of the dozens of angry, massive, dangerous long-horned bulls.

It just happened to be nine months ahead of them. (We were there in October and they run in July).

Hey, I said I was a wannabe adventure travel writer, not a suicidal ex-wannabe travel writer.

When compared to home, Spain is an interesting preponderance of compelling differences.

Or, in other words, it ain’t home.

                                     Evening river scene in Sevilla, Spain

Our 2009 Tour of Spain is in its “final throes” as our ex-VP once claimed in a massive underestimation of reality.

Or, in other words, it’s almost time to come home.

During our almost three week tour, I have developed a list of observations, likely of no interest to anyone but myself.

Or, in other words, this may be more boring than normal.

O.K. here goes, and in no order of significance or relevance.

Why is it we saw numerous people dutifully picking up their dogs’ poo yet witnessed numerous men peeing in public against a building and onto the sidewalk?

Why is it that it appears that the vast majority of the dining populace insists on smoking a cigarette before-during-and after a meal, almost to the point of taking a toke between bites of their bocadillo (sandwich)?

Why is it these people choose to not have dinner until sometime after 10:30 p.m. and why—or how—do these people seem to require virtually no sleep, whatsoever? It is certainly not the volume of caffeine they consume (read on).

Why, if they take their mid-morning and mid-afternoon coffee interludes with friends as much as a social event, as a consumption of caffeine, do they serve the coffee in a cup so small that it is gone within one gulp?

                          La Concha beach, San Sebastian, Spain

Why are many Europeans so much less prudish about nudity and sex, whether it is on public beaches (yes, in these pictures) and in art galleries?

                               La Concha beach, San Sebastian, Spain

And, in a case of a reverse travel observation of foreign affairs, why is it that inevitably an overly loud person—or persons—in a public place will be an American?

As I have commented before, I think I finally figured out the attraction to travel as largely—at least for myself—an adventure into the exotic.

Or, in other words said again, it is different than home.

And as a final observation, how in the hell do these people look so damn healthy given the pounds of processed meat they eat, cigarettes they smoke, gallons of wine they drink, and apparent lack of sleep?

I guess I will do a concentrated analysis during our final days here through intense emulation.

Or, in other words, drink more wine and eat more fatty foods.

I don’t need to take up smoking…I am probably in-taking the equivalent of three packs-a-day just due to second hand smoke.

                                     Circus poster, Madrid, Spain

My diet on our 2009 Tour of Spain, beyond red wine, can be seen in the pictures below:

Local tapas bar: those are individual hanging hams, hooves still attached, with drip cups.

Many of them.

My “dinner” there tonight consisted of a plate of jamon (ham).

That is all that was on the plate they served me. Slices of ham.

Local Granada bar-b-que scene from today.

Got meat?

I have convinced myself that the red wine will counter the effect of all the saturated fat, or at least I will not be in a mental condition to give a s#!t.

Cheers from Spain.

Tomorrow en route to Madrid on National Spain Day (I can only hope there will be drinking involved in the celebrations.)

Our 2009 Tour of Spain is going well. The weather has been fantastic and the people very friendly.

One thing you figure out real quickly when you visit Europe is that there is a lot of really old stuff here. And you know what that means?  There is history to be learned.

I love history, except for all those facts and dates about stuff that has already happened. But it makes for beautiful scenery.

And that brings us to today’s visit to the famous Alhambra in Granada, Spain.

No, don’t run off—I’m not going to bore you and go all history on you.

But, you can’t escape the fact that the U.S.A. actually has its origin at this amazing site: it is where Christopher Columbus met with King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella to plan the sailing venture that started it all for us.

Yikes! That was history…I will try to watch that.

In addition to appreciating the unbelievable place that Alhambra is, I could not help but do a little people watching.

Will someone please explain to me this obsession of taking every damn picture with your self or other family member in the shot?

Are these people afraid that their friends back home won’t believe they were there?

Sometimes they make the kids take the picture.

Or, will these people not remember they, themselves, were there taking these pictures.

And sometimes they do it simultaneously.

And sometimes they just do it themselves.

Me, I take pictures to show the place I am at.

If I want to see myself I will just look in the mirror (and swoon).

“Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

You might recall that quote from Christopher Walken in the compelling movie, A Man On Fire.

But in the case of my wife, the exact opposite was closer to the truth. It was hotter than hell.

If you recall our last episode, I was giving my wife a complete and thorough “tour” by rental car of the frenzied urban streets of San Sebastian, Spain. The town, which is an amazing conclave of the proud and sometimes spirited Basque people, is also a location of a complicated city grid layout, street signs so small they cannot be intended for drivers,  and a satellite-driven Garmin GPS map guide, which provides detailed voice turn-by-turn directions that informs you that you just turned down the wrong street, often as you circle the ubiquitous roundabouts as you attempt to just get out of the circle.

Recall the constant “recalculating” of our street navigation that got me in so much trouble, as documented in my previous post.

So, it should be no surprise that my wife—my Basque wife—must have been carefully plotting her next move to take great vengeance upon me (as was the Samuel L. Jackson line in Pulp Fiction), which only took until the next major stop in our 2009 Spain Adventure.

Once we turned in the rental car—the source of my wife’s navigational consternation—we switched to train transportation for the remainder of our trip. After a night in Zaragoza, we were on our way to our next town to tour, Sevilla.

My wife, who I must credit, laid out a wonderful three-week Spanish trek in a manner befitting a travel agent with absolute acumen. Except for the walk from the Sevilla Santa Justa train station to our hotel in the iconic, busy barrio section of town.

While our family could be featured in a Google advertisement with our use of all things Google, this time it apparently lead to a heated situation in Sevilla.  I don’t know; maybe you can blame it on Google Maps. (That’s my wife’s story and she is sticking to it.)

What was supposed to be a quick nine minute walk from the train station to our hotel turned into something somewhat longer. Like an hour and a half longer.

Imagine our forced march in stifling temperature and humidity, while dragging our over-stuffed rolling suitcases, with over-weighted shoulder bags hung over my neck. The bumpy urban streets were undergoing such massive amounts of reconstruction; I questioned if I had missed the news of a recent 8.0 earthquake.

I even whipped out the Garmin, which only served to bring back jaded memories of our rental car driving experiences. And a GPS designed for driving doesn’t much appreciate walks across non-drivable areas and traverses on wrong-way streets.

The odd thing was, even after we found our hotel and compared the local maps to the Google Maps printout, we could find none of the roads that Google listed. It was almost like we were in a different city.

Even before we exited the train station, I think my first clue should have been that—contrary to the famous movie line by Dorothy to her dog, Toto, in The Wizard of Oz—maybe we were in Kansas, anymore.

Luckily, part of my weighty burden was a bottle of Rioja Alcorta wine, which was opened even before the suitcases.

Half a bottle later, my misery was mostly a memory.