Why I Hike

1.  Because I can't run 12 miles.  Okay maybe I can, but it wouldn't be very pretty.

2.  It's easy to do.  Open your front door, step outside, tool around the block and you're walking.  Open your front door, step outside, get your ass to a city, county, regional, state or national park, find a trail and - Behold! - you're hiking.  Simple as that.

3.  The rewards are priceless, but the pastime is relatively inexpensive.  You don't need a long list of costly gear: a good pair of shoes or boots, some sunscreen, a nice wide-brimmed hat, a water bottle and...well, that's about it.

4.  Opportunities to become immersed in nature abound.  Depending on where you live, however, some of those opportunities are more accessible than others.  Here in San Francisco we are blessed with not only a world-class city but also with easy access to areas of true wilderness.  I realize that other city centers are a bit more "land-locked", and that for many people it takes a whole lot longer to escape the urban drone and lose oneself on the trail.  So look around.  Do some research.  Then get out there; get some dirt under the soles of your shoes, wherever "there" happens to be.

5.  It's exercise.  Duh.

6.  You see shit.  Flora and fauna.  Oftentimes the usual cast of characters, but sometimes a real treat, a real prime find, be it animal, vegetable or mineral, is just around the bend.  And weather - whether you know it our not - adds to the uniqueness of each trek.  Even if you hike the same trail over and over again the differences in outings can be significant.

7.  Because it's a great way to share quality time with other people, one that doesn't involve sitting around a table or at a bar drinking and eating.  I'm not dissing the camaraderie the kitchen and dining room can foster - in fact, I love it, plus I'm an excellent prep cook and pretty adept at opening a bottle of wine - but "Moderation in all things," someone once said.  "Including moderation," another added, which means you can always hit the trail with a cold beer under your belt, a practice one of my hiking buddies has mastered.

8.  It's rejuvenating.  Physically, mentally and spirtiually.

9.  Thinking happens.  Ideas are hatched, and discussed.  Dilemmas are contemplated, and issues, perhaps, resolved.  Corporations pay big bucks to reserve offsite venues for "retreats", but my friends and I have learned from firsthand experience that a few hours on the trail is a much more economical option.

10.  Because I was born to walk.  I was born a biped, programmed from the start to amble, hike, leap, march, meander, mosey, pace, pivot, promenade, saunter, step, stroll, traipse, tramp, trek, turn and wander.

To leisurely explore the simple pleasures of a peaceful, sunlight-dappled woodland trail beside a babbling brook is to discover my religion, to reaffirm it.  To blindly stride alongside the rest of the human race on hard, unforgiving concrete and tar and cobblestone is my penance, and to watch the world race by from the window of a car on those same synthetic surfaces, pure hell.

Don’t get me wrong.  There is nothing inherently evil about The Need for Speed now and then; nothing like a good old-fashioned, 21st century road trip to inspire a freewheeling sense of liberation and excitement.  There’s nothing like staring out the window of a plane, either, watching the mesmerizing patterns of Planet Earth crawl by from 30,000 feet above sea level.  The crazy corkscrew of rivers; the rigid, geometric squares and circles of cropland; the intricate web of roads; the swath of two dimensional colors during the day and the blazing constellations of city lights in the dark: they are hypnotic, no doubt.  But the giddying tempo of driving, and the cocoon of metal skin that somehow allows me to soar from city to city, from coast to coast, even from continent to continent, also keeps me unnaturally separated from the mysterious, innate rhythms of my natural being.

When I travel as I was meant to, by walking, deep within my soul I hear the regular inhale-exhale prayer of my own miraculous breath, spurred faster and faster by an incline on the horizon, and feel in my chest the ritual drum beat of my own miraculous heart.

I was perfectly designed to leave my lazy set of footprints on a sandy, cream-colored, half-moon beach, to step triumphantly on mountaintops and hopscotch gingerly on the smooth granite boulders of a stream, even to hurry back and forth on the wooden or carpeted or terrazzo floor of a restaurant.  I was meant to have achy feet, tanned feet, earn a living in shiny black Rockports, explore the world in mud spattered Tevas and Timberlands.  Go barefoot as often as possible.

My father and mother, George and Georgene, were, perhaps, born to stumble into each other’s lives on the humid, summer shore of Lake Erie, already proud but unknowing owners of the two microscopic cells that would become their first child.  My mother’s parents, Pete and Diane, were likewise born to venture with bravery and excitement and trepidation across a rickety gangplank and onto a boat that would slice through the sea from Greece to America, then take their first steps in the New World.  My father’s family had already made the voyage.  Even further afield, their parents and grandparents and great grandparents were pre-programmed to trek from village to village, from hut to hut, from cave to cave, back through the narrowing generations in a reverse march of time.

Theories abound, but perhaps as long as four millions years ago our carbon-dated, unnamed ancestors were anxious, maybe forced, to try it for the first time; to climb down from the trees of central Africa and ease cautiously toward the future, from the green safety of the forest to the exposed and perilous savanna.  Besides a slew of similar DNA and the sometimes confounding awareness of my own existence, the reality I inhabit shares little with those early human beings, save the fact that we both learned to stand on our own two feet, then to put one in front of the other.

Like I said, I was born to walk.

See you on the trail.

Peter J. Palmer

Livin' la Vida Lobos

Here's a fact: There are oodles of places on the California coast that rival the beauty of Point Lobos State Reserve, which is located a few miles south of Carmel in Monterey County. Here's another fact: Many of those places are just as picturesque, just as jaw-droppingly dreamy and dramatic, but none are more so. The meeting of land and sea at Point Lobos is one of the loveliest on Planet Earth.

As the crow flies California is 840 miles long from top to bottom, but if one were to (and actually could) walk step by step along the entire shoreline -  on sandy, wind-swept beaches; inland around bays and lagoons and tidal marshes; atop mountains and cliffs and headlands; through forested ridges and wide open, seaside fields - once accomplished the pedometer would clock in at a whopping 3,427 miles. Yup, the coastal caress of California is not straight. (What?) Instead, it's chock full of ins and outs and ups and downs and easts and wests - intimate nooks and crannies alongside vistas so grand they'll take your breath away - and Point Lobos State Reserve has them all in spades.

Point Lobos is relatively small, as well. At just over 500 acres, compact, and many of the in-and-out or loop hikes can be enjoyed in 30 or 40 minutes (longer, of course, if you linger). Thus one might explore several of the well-maintained trails in a single day, especially during the late spring, high summer and early autumn months when sunset retreats toward the 9 o'clock hour in these parts. The entrance fee is $10 per car and includes a spiffy, fold-out brochure containing, among other things, the history of the reserve, facts on native flora and fauna, a list of brief hike descriptions, a very handy, well-executed map, and supplemental information on adjacent Carmel River State Beach (the gist of which seems to be: no matter how calm and inviting it looks, don't swim there).

A recent Rent-a-Sommie gig at Pebble Beach Food & Wine found me shacked up in Monterey-town for a slightly overcast but warmish April weekend. My work load for the festival was light, so after a tasty Friday luncheon featuring a luxurious, five-course menu paired with Portuguese wines I parked my Kia Soul rental car at Fisherman's Wharf and enjoyed a leisurely, three-hour round-trip stroll along Monterey Bay: south through John Steinbeck's romanticized (but now pretty touristy) Cannery Row, past world-renowned Monterey Bay Aquarium and into the quaint, seaside hamlet of Pacific Grove. Along the way there are loads of tacky souvenir shops and restaurants in the heart of Cannery Row, lots of historic buildings and plaques, and, at the south end, a handful of small, rocky, crescent-shaped beaches that are permanently fenced off as they are protected haul-outs for the endangered California harbor seal. Springtime is prime time, and I paused for a spell to observe the newborn pups as they made their way in the world: snuggling and suckling on mom, learning to swim with her in the shallows, noisily and awkwardly sparring with their peers. On the return tramp I parked my rump on a bench overlooking the bay and gazed west as the sun set: watched more harbor seals and sea lions cruise the calm blue waters, watched the offshore beds of giant kelp sway with the incoming swells, watched a group of gregarious, playful southern sea otters go about their aquatic business.

When my work at the Grand Tasting on Saturday finished around 4 p.m. I drove south again, forked over $10 to a smiling park ranger and entered Point Lobos. The park is very popular - for good reason - especially on weekends, but luckily, as I approached, an employee was just taking down the "Lot Full" sign, which meant I didn't have to ditch the car outside and hike in to the coast (a pretty walk, but time consuming). Instead I leisurely drove the main access roads twice, an attempt to get the lay of the land and decide where I wanted to spend the next three hours. Turned out to be an absolutely lovely three hours, and I'm so glad I made the time.

I've got lots of pictures, so let's get right to it.

These first five are from Whaler's Cove, a unique feature of the Central California coast if there ever was just one, and an utterly enchanting place. The terrestrial part of Point Lobos is, as I mentioned, around 550 acres, but in 1960 another 775 acres was added, all of it submarine: one of the first underwater nature reserves in the US of A. Whaler's Cove and a large area of adjacent ocean are part of the reserve. Registered scuba divers and, I believe, a limited number of snorkelers can access the water at a concrete ramp; from there an underwater world awaits discovery - giant kelp forests, rockfish, sea urchins, starfish, sea otters, seals and sea lions, perhaps a passing gray whale. The parking lot has restrooms, picnic tables and several trailheads: one follows the gentle arc of the inlet, another climbs to a beautiful vantage point above the cove and northern portion of the park.  

Next, some photos of the spring wildflower bloom. The park is currently awash in all the usual suspects: the iconic California poppy, fields of Douglas iris, spiky Indian paintbrush, fragrant blue blossom, bushy bushes of Monkeyflower and much more. It's quite the visual and olfactory juxtaposition: the riotous technicolor of flowers, the deep greens of fertile forest, the mysterious blues of vast Pacific Ocean and expansive sky, a wisp of white fog, and myriad earth-tone hues of rich soil, massive stone and fleeting sand.

Below, some landscape shots from the southern half of the park. There is no way the Little iPhone That Could could ever capture the magnificence of the place, but there you have it. This part of the park has, in addition to great hiking, a pair of small, rocky, isolated beaches where one can supposedly walk in the water, perhaps swim (though you should check on the legality of that, and very seriously consider the frigid idea before you do).

And finally, if and when you do decide to visit Point Lobos, a hike that should be at the top of your list; that you should not miss, even if you only take one. I was driving toward the exit when I decided that - Hell yes! - I had time for one more walk: The Cypress Grove Trail. The park brochure lists it as "the favorite of many visitors", and as soon as I started walking I was glad for my change of mind and abrupt U-turn back to the trailhead. It is simply spectacular! A microcosm of all the park has to offer. The views are unsurpassed, both on land and out to sea. The chance to spot animals offshore - seals, sea lions, otters, birds, whales - is in your favor as the trail leads out onto a promontory of rock surrounded by water, and the loop winds through one of the last two naturally occurring stands of endangered Monterey Cypress trees. The orange stuff in the following pictures is a type of algae that finds a happy home on the gnarly, windswept Cypress trees and rocks.

I'll leave you with two artsy-schvartsy silhouette shots. Point Lobos is a Muse extraordinaire, nurturing the artist in us all - be it painter or poet - and there is a whole community (with its own website) devoted solely to the images she has helped create.

So make the trek and be inspired. Feel the ancient soul of Planet Earth where the worlds of land and sea and air collide. Discover the timeless magic of Point Lobos for yourself.

Hopefully I will get another chance in the not too distant future.

Until then, peace out.
Peter J. Palmer

Just the Ticket

Well hello there, Stranger. I feel as though you've missed me.

Three full months into 2013 and behold my first post of the year. Finally. I could say that I'm not sure why it's taken so damn long, 'cause lord knows I've been tramping my way around the usual haunts and had the requisite fodder for inspiration: Hill 88 and Tennessee Valley in the Marin Headlands, the Steep Ravine Trail on Mount Tamalpais, the Batteries to Bluffs trail on the south end of the GGB. I could say that, but I know it'd not be the truth.

The truth is I was kind of bored. Not of getting out and working up a sweat, not of the time spent on hikes by myself and with friends. Not of the glorious seaside and woodland vistas that ease into view 'round every bend in the trail, not of all the fresh air and decompression, and certainly not of the erupting springtime wildflower bloom, which is just now hitting its stride in the rumpled hills and valleys of northern California. Okay, honestly...maybe I was just a wee bit bored with all the above, but only because I was walking the same set of trails, over and over again.

Truth is I was in a rut, and we all know how that feels. Be it in a job, in a relationship, with a cast of characters, with what's for dinner or with what dotted line on a map one chooses to follow, no doubt we've all been there before at some point in our lives. For me, all the usual beautiful was starting to become all the plain old usual. Which is why a few days ago - even though the forecast had called for rain - it felt extra special good to break from the usual, to shake it up a bit, to head south a ways and get a brand new hike under my belt. Turned out to be just the ticket.

I can't even ponder a guess as to how many times I've zipped by San Bruno Mountain: the isolated, hulking aerie of scruffy green chaparral that looms just south of the San Francisco city limits in San Mateo County. It's definitely more than 50, which, because it's on the way to San Francisco International Airport and I travel to Cleveland at least once a year, is double the years I've called the Bay Area home. Add up all the other reasons I've driven or been driven during the past quarter century and what would we find...100 times? 200? More?

San Bruno Mountain State Park is pretty compact, so to speak; certainly nowhere near as large and as wild and varied as Mount Tamalpais in Marin. The wide open summit rises to 1,314 feet compared to Mount Tam's 2,571', it doesn't have dense stands of coast redwoods nor the year-round creeks and waterfalls, and with only 12 miles of sanctioned trails one might exhaust the hiking possibilities in a single day. That said, it is lovely, more than adequately rugged, and well worth the time to explore.

The relative isolation of San Bruno Mountain harbors at least 14 endangered plant species and a handful of rare insects - butterflies, mostly. We saw no animals, save a few raptors soaring high above, but the rain held off as my hiking buddies and I pumped out the 3.1-mile Summit Loop Trail in an hour and a half. The hike is listed as strenuous in the park brochure and online, but it's perhaps more moderate+, with just a few breathy inclines at the beginning and at the end. It is, however, a delightful tramp; for our outing actually muggy and warm, and happily I soaked up the first time experience, the views great and small, the peaceful sound of the wind. Springtime is a superb season to visit the park, and on the trail we passed loads of brightly colored wildflowers: Footsteps of Spring, Douglas iris, blue-eyed grass, California poppy, San Francisco wall flower (a rare find), silver bush lupine, sky lupine, Indian paintbrush (including a yellow sub-species), wild lilac, rock cress, cow parsnip.

I have no clue what this is called, but it's funky good
and out in force atop the mountain.

And what of the views? Well, they are simply extraordinary: an unobstructed 360 rivaling anything, anywhere in the Bay Area! North to the "little boxes" of San Francisco, to my well-travelled stomping grounds of the Marin Headlands, to the familiar silhouette of Mount Tam; east to the expansive, slate gray waters of the bay, to Berkeley, Oakland and Mount Diablo; south to more tightly packed urban sprawl, and even further the dark, brooding mass of the Santa Cruz Mountains proper; west to the mighty Pacific and the Farallon Islands. Unfortunately I took only two pictures, and I will lament that decision until the next time I venture up the mountain, but the one below will hopefully offer a taste of the visual rewards, which are spectacular!

My hiking buddies for the day,
with the San Francisco skyline in the distance.

So there you have it. Lesson learned, for now: Shake it up, Palmer; break out of that rut; do the Hokey-Pokey somewhere new for a while. It will make a return to the usual all the more rewarding, for as they say: "Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

San Bruno Mountain State Park
Area: 2,378 acres
Summit: 1,314 feet
Hours of Operation: 8:00 a.m. opening, closing depends on the time of year
Day use fee: $600.00 per car
No pets allowed

When you're ready to make the drive and discover San Bruno Mountain (once again, now is a great time!) here's a link to the official park website:

http://www.co.sanmateo.ca.us/portal/site/parks/menuitem.f13bead76123ee4482439054d17332a0/?vgnextoid=cb7bc8909231e110VgnVCM1000001d37230aRCRD

This picture, of course, has absolutely nothing to do with our hike,
but I just love daffodils - $5 right now for 30 stems - love them even more
when my apartment is clean.

Peace out.
Get out.
Happy Spring.
April Fools! (The day use fee is only $6.00 per car, not $600.00)
See you sooner than later, inspiration willing.

Peter J. Palmer

Out Building Snowmen

I have lived in San Francisco for just shy of 25 years, but every time I catch the United Airlines flight from SFO to Cleveland, Ohio, I still say I'm going home. Home to mom and dad, to the family members still living there, to longtime friends, to the old stomping grounds.

So what is it: Home? Is it 15401 Macauley Avenue, the tiny 3-bedroom/1 bathroom house where for 25 years my parents raised seven rambunctious children? Is it the elegantly modern ranch-style on Wonetta Parkway, bought and remodeled so my parents could live with grandma Big DeeDee after her husband died? Is it 1090 Orchard Park Drive in Rocky River, the house I now visit when I return to Ohio?

Home is 52+ years of memories new and old. It's found in much of the artwork strewn about my apartment in San Francisco. It's the jar of Turkish red pepper flakes in my kitchen cupboard. Home is enjoying that first morning cup of coffee with mom, she snuggled up in a lifelong procession of favorite bathrobes. Or the last and final cup of the day, which in her case can be 11:30 p.m. Home is the lingering sound of  my father shuffling out from the bedroom every morning and saying, like clockwork, as he takes in the scene at the kitchen table: "Computers, computers, computers..." Or watching as he walks about and turns off all the lights. It's teaching my Bay Area friends how to play Four Square 2,000 miles from where I first learned. Home is, most assuredly, the traditions with which I grew up. Home is grilled cheese sandwiches and stuffed cabbage, Greek walnut cake and sourdough waffles, English plum pudding and oxtail stew. A Canadian Club manhattan, no bitters and just a touch of cherry juice. My sister Anne's baklava and my sister Thea's raspberry ribbons, no matter where I happen to eat them. Home is the scent of freshly mowed grass the world over, of lilac bushes that perfume the air on a warm, still night. Home is violent summer thunderstorms and occasional tornado warnings, blizzards and heat waves. It's the breeze off Lake Erie, off all freshwater lakes. Fireflies, anywhere and everywhere. It's the sound of my brother Art's voice, calling from New York City on Christmas Day or any other day; an email video from Ed, my sister Susan's devoted husband, chronicling some new development in their son Matthew's continuing recovery from the tragedy that took her life. Home is white ducks as pets and purple living room walls. It's some of the most spectacular sunsets I've ever seen: fantastic finger paintings of blazing red and pink and orange. Home is the smile that lights my soul every time I think of Stephen, our youngest brother. Home is my 50 year old Christmas stocking with the sequin "P" on it, now tucked away for another year in a box in a closet in the City by the Bay.

Home is apparently where I go to build snowmen.

*  *  *

The logo I designed for my mom and her business partner Donna. CCX, as we fondly call it, was founded in 1986 and became northeast Ohio's largest holiday arts and craft fair. The two women owned and ran it for 25 years, then 2 years ago sold the whole shebang. (They never did use the logo.)

Snowman 2012, following a solid 3 inches the day after I arrived in Cleveland. It took me two hours and got so big I couldn't lift the abdomen section by myself. Luckily my niece Eleni and a friend came to the rescue. For days afterward my knees were sore, and my butt was too.

My sister Molly celebrating her 12-12-12 birthday, the last one this century. Her art teacher buddy Mike made the present; not sure what was inside, but I think it was some stuff he had borrowed from her.

Birthday dinner for Molly (12-12-58) and Thea (12-13-57) on the night I arrived: crispy butternut squash gnocchi with kale pesto, plus a hefty side of steamed broccoli and cauliflower.

A year+ reunion: Our band of four intrepid travelers to Quito, the Amazon and the Galapagos Islands in 2011.

Out to Lorain, Ohio, for my sister Anne's and her husband Itri's annual Christmas party on December 23, 2012.

Me and Anne, the hostess with the most-est. It's an intimate affair: 120 or so family, friends and acquaintances, including a slew of high school and college kids (present and past).

This year the three Navy Seals were in town from San Diego: Niko, Taner and Zach, obviously dressed in their finest west coast duds.

The shindig in full swing.

Anne in the basement, not for beer pong (although she did almost make her first and only throw) but to check on the shenanigans.

 Shenanigans like this.

 Nieces Samantha, Eleni, Stephanie and Allison.

Christmas Eve at mom and dad's house. For as long as I can remember the tradition has been New England fish "chowdah", prawn cocktail (we called them shrimp back when), smoked salmon with the fixins, sometimes oysters and crab, Christmas carols, Greek walnut cake and kourabiethes, and always a house full of love and good tidings.

George and Ginger Palmer at the start of the festivities (she with her 1940's era enamel colander).

Dad: the master of his smoked salmon domaine. Let's just say it's a complex affair.

The smoked salmon makes it's debut with Myia, Allison and Samantha.

The goods. And it was!

Sampling the 2012 New England fish chowdah: Eleni's boyfriend David, with my niece Myia. By the way, I made it this year, and with minimal angst as dad looked over my shoulder the entire time.

Niece Samantha with the veggie offering: endive spears and white bean schmoo, made with Olive Scene olive oil (of course), Turkish red pepper flakes, scallions, parsley and minced red pepper.

Dad and mom with his sister, my Aunt Ruthanne, a part of the Toledo contingent in town.

My mom's Christmas presents: hand made pottery from an art class she's taking. We all received one.

Christmas morning always finds us at sister Thea and hubby Pete Z's house in Cleveland Heights for coffee, presents and the traditional candied fruit roll.

And now that everyone's of age, mimosas.

Mom and Allison at the Zimmerman house.

Dad with his holiday favorite: the candied fruit roll. He now asks for it several times a year (over and over again); to no avail, tho, as Thea is in charge. And quite adept: It was the tastiest version I've ever had.

Christmas dinner with Itri, my sister Anne's husband, carving the traditional standing rib roast. Also on the holiday menu: Aunt Mimi's mashed potatoes, Uncle Pete's caramelized onions, crispy Brussels sprouts, saffron rolls, the traditional Green Mold of our youth (lime Jello, cream cheese, crushed pineapple and mini marshmallows), and Mrs. Fligner's delicious spinach casserole.

Nephew Kemal, mom, and a surprise bottle of 1978 Bordeaux: Chateau Mouton Rothschild. No idea where she got it or how long she's had it, but the wine was pretty darned tasty, and much older than most people at the table.

The morning after snowstorm #2: seven inches in seven hours on December 26, 2012.

A snowy hike in Rocky River Reservation, part of the Cleveland MetroParks.

My parent's neighbor Rosemary out doing her civic duty (for mom and dad).

Nighttime shot of the blizzard (almost) on 12/26, with Stevie's tree and the week old snowman/snow-shrimp/snow-larva/snow-alien.

Another shot of Snowman 2012, in better days.

*  *  *

Home, as they say, is where the heart is.

Happy New Year, each and every one!

Peter