SB Nation User Blog: Spazzy Mcgee

Caption Contest!

Spazzy Mcgee — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 21:35:03 -0000

Caption Contest!

Nestor DOES Deserve a Lot of Credit

Spazzy Mcgee — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 21:55:36 -0000

...for highlighting what a truly awesome place CGB has turned out to be. Thanks Avinash, CBKWit, Hydro, Rags, Twist, Fever, Berkelium, Danzig, and everyone else for making this a great place for an open, fun, lighthearted, argument-filled, hilarious way to discuss Cal sports. It makes the workdays go quickly, makes me question my assumptions about football and I have learned more about the game from CGB than I could read in any other source.

I'm glad you all value free speech and contrasting viewpoints as much as you do, because we've all seen what the opposite is like. Thank fuck I chose Cal.

Thanks again guys!

GO BEARS.

Jeff Tedford LiveChat With Jonathan Okanes, 7/28 10:30am-11:30am

Spazzy Mcgee — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 22:44:47 -0000

Tuesday, 7/28, at 10:30am Jon Okanes will have a Livechat with Cal head coach Jeff Tedford. As with the Jahvid Best livechat, let's aim to flood JO with as many excellent questions as possible. Personally, I would focus on questions outside the norm: there are sure to be plenty of average questions from other folks.

Post your questions for Jeff Tedford in this thread and, please, rec the best ones. We'll compile the best ones to ask right before the chat goes live.

Your California: Monterey

Spazzy Mcgee — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 09:25:05 -0000

Junipero (Spanish for "Juniper") Serra was an extraordinarily religious figure originally born in Spain in the 1700s. Having moved to Mexico to teach, he was charged with leading the formation of religious missions in Alta California (Spanish for "Alt California.") Having made his way first to San Diego (which is Spanish for--never mind) to found a mission, Serra slowly traveled up the California coast, eventually settling in what is now modern day Monterey. Close by, he started mission Carmel where he remained stationed as one of the more awesome titles in historical figurity, "Father Presidente" to the California Missions.

But Monterey County's history is not all sleepy and religious. A presidio was established just to the north to protect the coastline, but apparently it wasn't a very good presidio, because a pirate named Hypolito Bouchard completely tomfooled the shoreline Spanish garrisons by employing a new, cunning technique: attacking at night. Well, not really, he merely sailed his ship close to the shore at night: so close, in fact, that the cannons which the Spanish had cemented in place at 90 degree angles could not fire on his ship. So Bouchard mercilessly fired on shoreline Spanish homes with his Adjustable Cannons until the occupants fled, raided the homes, stole everything, burned them to the ground, and blew up the Spanish cannons too, just for snorts and jollies. No, I don't mean he fired off celebratory rounds, he literally blew up the cannon barrels by burying them halfway in the ground and THEN firing them. A lifetime supply of Badass Fuck Yes Points were earned by Bouchard that day, after which he sailed south and never returned.

Speaking of fires, some of you readers may recall from the news that in 2008 Big Sur was nearly engulfed by a massive series of wildfires burning nearby. Unbeknownst to me, these fires engulfed a good measure of the area I would be traveling through, as well. Which brings us to Junipero Serra Peak in the fourth installment of Your California: Monterey County

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A missionary in a foreign field

Monterey

Vital Stats:

Population: 401,762 (5.58 Sold-out memorial stadiums)

Major Towns: Monterey, Carmel, Salinas, Soledad

Highpoint: Junipero Serra Peak, elevation 5,853 feet (19.9 Sather Towers)

Location (Berkeley terms): South of SF

Major Landmarks: SOLEDAD SOLEDAD MY GOD SOLEDAD, Monterey Bay Aquarium, Pebble Beach

University of California Affiliations: Symposium was held at UCSC on the future of the Santa Lucia Mountains including UCB reps, also a bunch of papers were published on the archaeological history of the area.

Note: Joining me on the trip would be a new hiking buddy that I had only met a few previous times. While I include pictures of him in this report, I thought it best if I not reveal his name lest the world discover his True Candy Identity, so in this report he will be referred to only as Twix Bar.

The weather for the week had been unsettled, leaving me unsure as to whether my plan to tackle Junipero Serra Peak was a wise one. A 6-hour round trip drive plus another eight hours of hiking would be challenging under most conditions, but downright miserable in the rain. However, the rugged looking but folksy and down-to-earth weatherman on channel 2 told me it would rain Friday and not again until Sunday, leaving a full day to accomplish the goals.

So my alarm rang at 4:30am on Saturday, and at 5 I was out the door and fueling for the trip:

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To this day the British yearn for the deliciousness of Empire.

At 5:15 I was at Twix Bar's apartment in Berkeley, and at 5:20 was on the road. Oakland, San Jose, and Gilroy were soon in the rearview mirror as I jockeyed for position with a minivan who insisted on going 60mph, letting me pass, then stating indignation and passing me until the cycle repeated every ten minutes or so. The drive was fairly placid and farmy until, oh my god, here it comes I CANNOT BELIEVE IT YES, YES IT IS, IT'S HAPPENING, IT'S HAPPENING IN SOLEDAD! IN SOLEDAD! KIDS UNBUCKLE YOUR SEAT BELTS, LADIES THROW YOUR BRAS ON STAGE, DOGS STICK YOUR HEAD OUT THE WINDOW AND DROOL, BECAUSE IT IS HAPPENING, WHAT IS HAPPENING? IT IS HAPPENING IN SOLEDAAAAAD! SOOO LEEEEEE DAAAAAAAAAAAADDDDDD!

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You had to be there. Because it happened.

I always get a crack out of places trying to "rebrand" themselves. I'm not making this up: recently Papua New Guinea tried ads with a new tourism slogan, calling itself the "Land of the Unexpected." Potential tourists didn't so much think of jungle expeditions and snorkeling from the slogan, but instead dying in a volcano or a plane crash, and tourism actually went down until the ads stopped.

Anyway, we drove right through Soledad. Shortly we stopped at the highway turnoff point in King City, where there was the deal of the century on motel rooms.

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This has William Shatner written all over it...sweetlips.

After another half hour or so on rural roads, the route turned onto Fort Hunter Liggett. I knew this because there was a sign telling me I was now under the command of a Sergeant Major. Also there was a tank.

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Not many people were around because Army had half-a-day.

I had to stop at the entrance station and both myself and Twix Bar were told to show photo ID, explain why I we were entering military property, and give the military agent vehicle license and registration. He very kindly let us pass but not before telling me best part of me ran down the crack of my momma's ass and ended up as a brown stain on the mattress. Also something about not knowing they stacked shit so high. Nasty things to say, I thought.

Anyway, so we kept driving, all obstacles out of our way, with no further problems, just the GTI, the empty open road and a yellow sign that said "Reduce Speed: River Crossing."

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Ha ha! Why I'm sure those jokesters at the base must have put that sign up to trick dipshit tourists and scare them off the base, there's not actually a river cro---

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--Oh.

I got out of the car to check the water. It was impossible to tell how deep it was in the middle, but the water was running smoothly and slowly over the road. And like most Berkeley grads the only experience I'd had fording rivers ended with the loss of oxen and the drowning death of Zeke.

We decided to go for it anyway.

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Zeke was expendable.

Ok so FINALLY, with just a few more minutes of driving, we would come to the trailh--MOTHER FUCK

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Again I got out to check the water, it looked shallow enough, we forded and THIS time we continued on to the trailhead as the foggy skies began to clear.

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We arrived at the trailhead. Though no fire damage was yet evident a sign in the trailhead register indicated the area had only recently (actually, ONE day prior) been reopened after a full year of fire closure. I did not know what to make of this at the time, it would turn out to be both a blessing and a curse.

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Like Desean in trail form.

We started out through a grassy area that had a ton of flowers and was ringed by interesting rock formations. Earlier, I mentioned that it rained the night before. This was evident as the grass all around was sopping wet with rain in the early morning.

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The fire closure was more of a curse at this point as the trail disuse meant it was horribly overgrown.

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Weed whacker is #11, right after the 10 essentials. DAMN YOU BOY SCOUTS.

Normally this wouldn't be so bad, but the rain on all the plantlife meant that in short order everything from the stomach down was completely soaked. After 5 minutes, to be completely drenched, with another 10 hours to go with drive time, was not a fun thought. I felt like such a wuss for even contemplating it...there was no WAY we were turning around from what basically amounted to a dewy meadow.

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Dewy....meadow

So we trudged upward. The trail reappeared and disappeared into thick grass, meandering when it should have been straight, straightening when it should have meandered around obstacles. It was slow going. Thankfully modern conveyances could be found to speed up our progress.

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Twix Bar contracted gonorrhea from the tractor.

Soon, fire damage became more prominent as we headed up into a forested canyon. Most of the trees were either badly burned and barely clinging to life, or completely incinerated, as though by lightning.

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There was a tree here. Then Jahvid Best ran by.

The fire had downed much shrubbery over the trail and left the landscape looking barren and dead. The only thing this was good for so far was getting very intrepid shots of Twix Bar.

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Not even Twist could out-intrepid Twix Bar even if he was intrepidding as much as he could intrepid with an electrified intrepidding machine.

As we climbed out of the canyon, a change was apparent. The plant life was more shrubby, and the animals more vicious-seeming:

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But this is where the fire proved itself to be a blessing. Rather than having to fight our way through thick, prickly, brambly brush for another three miles, the fire had very effectively cleared all the leafy interference out of the way. This made travel much, much easier. The summit also came into view, high above and nearly in clouds.

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Climbing higher, the trail abruptly entered a deep forest. The transition from oaks to chaparral to pines was striking.

Not only were we hiking to the highpoint of Monterey County, but to the highpoint of the Santa Lucia Range as well. Many have not heard of the Santa Lucias. That is because historically, they are home to more or less nobody. They are far from population centers of Socal and Norcal. They are stiflingly hot and dry in summer and surprisingly cold and wet in winter. Soils are generally poor, hillsides very steep, and fire incinerates the landscape every thirty years. As a result, plants have to be very specialized to live in such a unique place. This is so, as there are numerous plants found nowhere else in the world but the Santa Lucias. They are the southernmost range to contain redwood trees, but they also have yucca plants, a close relative of cactus.

What a wide variety of terrains and biomes and plant life translates to is that it is difficult to use. Loggers need monoculture stands to be profitable, ranchers need open meadows and tons of grazing room for their cattle, and miners need things to mine. The Santa Lucias provide none of those. As a result, the area was barely used from the very founding of modern California. Fort Hunter Liggett probably has the most acreage that isn't already included in Ventana Wilderness (which contains the bulk of the Santa Lucias), and even that is mostly used to train army people in carrying 100 lb packs up muddy slopes through the very vegetation Twix Bar and I were crashing through.

One of the few residents is Jack English, 90 years old, who lives in summer on a tiny parcel of grandfathered land, without electricity, in the middle of the Santa Lucias. Be sure to check out this photo essay about him from the Merc. I liked this quote from English:

"I like this kind of life, anyway. It's not that I don't like people, I do. I just don't like swarms of them. California's remarkable stream...it's got everything. Only one problem: everyone's found out about it."

But rather than run off to Oregon or Colorado as so many other retiree Californians do, English remained in the geographical center of the state, hiding in the Santa Lucias, returning even after fires raged through. Mercifully these fires spared the pines near the top of Junipero Serra Peak:

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Most of them, anyway

Shortly, I found myself looking at the highpoint benchmark.

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At the summit I found the remains of a lookout tower and nearby cabin for whatever ranger or soldier who was assigned to the job.

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This is what happens to beds when Mike Stoops has sex in them.

I found the invisible flooring a little disconcerting and inconvenient, but Twix Bar loved the place so much he refused to come down.

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"He who live in house with glass floors should not um...live in house with glass floors."

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He could see his ma from up there.

The view was pretty good. Cone Peak was off to the west, Ventana Double Cone to the north, and valleys to the south. The east was still clouded over from the previous night's rainfall. After 4000 feet of climbing, the air was colder than expected. There was no register to speak of, likely torched in the fires.

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After a while we headed down. We passed a sign we had missed that would have indicated the trail where we had wandered upward searching for it in the growth earlier that day.

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SANTA TRAIL. LUCIA OUT. SANTA CREEK. ARRO. LOS PADRES N.

Maybe it was translated directly from Spanglish. Anyway, we found our way down to the bottom and signed the trail register, forded the rivers, left Hunter Liggett, and drove back.

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Because our mommas wanted us home.

GO BEARS!

Your California: Napa County

Spazzy Mcgee — Fri, 29 May 2009 08:44:24 -0000

It was a Sunday, and I was bored out of my mind, with a subtle hint of apricot. I had woken up with notes of cinnamon, much too late to do the 16 miles required for Discovery Peak in Alameda County. I ate lunch and found it to be about 1. The scent of bark and mushrooms permeated the 75 degree, sunny day as high clouds and light breezes wasted on by. Ridiculous.

Something in my laze-encrusted brain told me to get the fuck up and go somewhere or life might not be worth living, with a nice cheese assortment. My first option was Mt. Vaca, highpoint of Solano County with tones of peppermint, but you can drive to within a half mile of the summit. Weak.

Or I could opt Mt. Saint Helena, a light, dry summit located above the Alexander Valley, just north of the Bay. That’s right, in this, the 3rd installment of Your California, we get road rage at the wine tasting crowd in the very heartland of self-aggrandizing douchebaggery: Napa County.

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Here we see a Self-Aggrandizing Douchebag in his native habitat, in full summer self-aggrandizing mating plumage. The correct protocol to follow if you see one in the wild is to approach it slowly, say something like " '96 Chardonnays sure were oblique, weren't they?" and then commence with swift, repeated kicks to the testicles.

Napa County

Vital stats:

Population: 124,279 (1.72 Sold-Out Memorial Stadiums)

Major Towns: Napa, Calistoga, Yountville

Highpoint: Mt. Saint Helena, elevation 4,344 feet (14.2 Sather Towers)

Location (Berkeley terms): North of SF

Major Landmarks: Napa Valley, The French Laundry, Old Faithful, Petrified Forest

University of California Affiliations: Napa families love UC Davis. Also, Robert Mondavi funded a cool new all green winery.

In order to collect background information on Napa County, I decided to read some short publications from the Napa County Historic Society. So I picked up the following thrilling titles (not making these names up): "Dr. Edward Turner Bale and His Grist Mill," "George Yount: His Fur Trapping Years," "Napa Water Supply," "The Lawley Toll Rate Road" and finally, the page turning thriller: "Centennial Anniversary of Rutherford." Frankly the titles were so titillating you could not have made them more titillating if you had put them in the titillatometer and set it to "extreme titillate."

Anyway, to summarize the history of Napa County: Dr. Bale invited George Yount over for a bowl of grist, and Yount was so disgusted he turned to trapping animals to get good meat to eat, but he was awful at it and only ended up trapping the useless fur. So, he gave that up and as a hobby, regulated the water supply by discouraging settlement via a toll road. This went on for a hundred years or so until he went senile, changed his name to Rutherford, and threw himself a big 100th birthday celebration. Or so I gather.

At some point, local Napans, tired of the silliness, invented wine. This in turn causes people to bathe in scalding mud, put cucumbers on their face, and then charge San Franciscans hundreds of dollars to do the same.

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I wonder what would happen if I went over for dinner and was like "actually, can I get a Coors?"

Which brings us back around to today's goal: other than attaining the highpoint of Napa county, it would be to do so without having to hike in the dark. Having left my apartment at 1:30, I estimated a two hour drive to the trailhead at Robert Louis Stevenson State Park, and at least four hours of travel time to complete the ten miles and however many thousand feet round trip. There would be little room for getting lost or taking my time.

Which made, well, the entire drive a maddening descent into something less like road rage and more like road armaggedon. It was my fault, of course, that I had waited until the afternoon on the first really nice-weather weekend of the year to go. This meant every cigar toting, collar-popping, knit-sweater-loosely-around-the-neck-wearing guy and his wife and their moms were going up to the wineries and taking their jolly sweet time, too.

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CBKWit commuting to work

In addition, just past the Carquinez bridge, I had the genius idea of turning onto SR 29 "Sonoma Blvd," because it seemed like it would head where I was going. It did, but not before going through every stoplight in Vallejo. And holy crap, even midday Sunday, Vallejo is terrifying. I can see why Jahvid Best is so freaking fast...

After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I arrived at Robert Louis Stevenson State Park, which was set up so that local citizens could admire the natural beauty and splendor of Robert Louis Stevenson. There is only one small picnic area and one trail, to the summit of Mt. Saint Helena. I left the car at 3:30 exactly.

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Absolutely NO dogs or water faucets of ANY KIND allowed

After a short while I came upon this odd rock formation. Apparently this was the spot where Stevenson honeymooned with his wife, who also brought along a kid of hers from a previous marriage. Awkward!:

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Stone books, even in their day, were highly inefficient.

Eventually the narrow, eroding trail intersected with a wide, flat, well maintained dirt road. Normally I dislike hiking on roads (dry, hot) but since it was fairly late in the day and the temperature mid-70's, I did not mind.

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I shortly came across some rock climbers practicing belaying or sashaying or clambaking or whatever it is that takes them three hours to go thirty feet. Although I write cynically towards rock climbers because I always characterize their activity as too slow, too deliberate, too expensive for me, and besides I could just walk around the back of the rock to the top, deep down I think I'm just jealous of their ability to have the patience and gear for the undertaking.

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Wearing helmets on the ground is for winners.

The road plowed onward and slowly upwards. Locals tell me the tiny round globe is where Tedford goes after every loss.

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The solitude and howling winds ease the pain of defeat. So does the black tar heroin.

Views started to open up to the south. It was slightly hazy.

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Want a second opinion.

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You're also lazy!

Finally, I reached the top.

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There were a bevy of communications towers on the summit.

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This would also make an awesome treehouse

Also up there was one lady whose hair this photo does not do justice to. I swear it looked like she was wearing a show collie on her head. Like you could hide a baby in her hair. I tried to make it look like I was taking a picture of the view, but you can't really tell anyway. Lame.

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I also took one of the most scenic dumps of my life:

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The view certainly was commodious.

Mt. Saint Helena is a pretty decent summit; it stands alone rather than along a similarly-heightened range of mountains. This gave it an island-in-the-sky type feel and the views were very nice. I could see south to Diablo and East to the Sierras. I'm sure that on a clear day I might see Sacramento in between and San Francisco to the south. In spite of the haze, I admired the far off scenery.

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North

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Northeast. The N.E.C. always produces the Div 1-A pot growing champions.

...And returned to the car. I even jogged a bit of the way down to make up time as the light was fading, but didn't need to. I got back around 6:30, still with plenty of light to go around.

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This time, rather than take the same road back, I cut across the valley to 101:

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Reminded again, that no matter where you look, California is blue and gold.

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GO BEARS!

Austin Hinder Commits To Cal

Spazzy Mcgee — Mon, 25 May 2009 18:24:21 -0000

Austin Hinder Commits To Cal

Welcome to Cal, Austin!

Your California: Mono

Spazzy Mcgee — Wed, 06 May 2009 07:57:23 -0000

White Mountain Peak sits atop (get outta here) the White Mountains, the highest and westernmost of the Great Basin ranges. It requires a left turn at The Boonies, a right turn once you reach Nowhere, then another left when you reach The Middle. To get to the trailhead, you have to cross-and I am only partially joking-the moon, and ascend a to a breath-stealing height of close to 12000 feet, higher than the large majority of the actual county highpoints.

It is in the rainshadow of the Sierras, so it is very dry. It is high elevation, so there is not much oxygen. And since it is nowhere near the tempering breezes of the Pacific Ocean, it is also cold. There is also lava, and dinosaurs, and locusts, and ...and... welcome, welcome indeed to the highpoint of Mono County, the second entry in the 55-part county highpoint series: Your California.

Mono County

Vital stats:

Population: 12,853 (.18 Sold-Out Memorial Stadiums, or 1.08 Haas Pavilions)

Major Towns: definitely none.

Highpoint: White Mountain Peak, elevation 14,241 (46.3 Sather Towers)

Location (Berkeley terms): near Tahoe

Major Landmarks: The Whoa Nellie Deli, Mammoth Mountain, Bodie State Historic Park

University of California Affiliations: Barcroft White Mountain Research Station. Research from many different fields use this facility. This telescope was erected in 1963 to study the temperature of foreign bodies with IR.

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lol erected

Mono County is located high on the western edge of the Great Basin (just south of the Great Faucet and near the Great Soap Dispenser), and immediately abuts the Sierras to the west. Every spring and summer, snowmelt from the nearby mountains fills the local streams, which drain into Mono Lake and supports an ecosystem of birds which feed on something called Brine Shrimp.

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Delectable with a creamy béchamel

However, much of Mono County sits above 6000 feet, while the city of Los Angeles, three hundred miles due south, is nary above sea level, making the (comparatively) water-rich land the only easy way southern California could slake its ever-growing thirst for swimming pools and awful tasting tap water.

In the 1940s, the rapacious Department of Water and Power of Los Angeles built canals which drained inflow to Mono Lake to feed into their in-place systems from earlier in the century (which will be the topic of another entry). Without significant inflow and dry Nevada winds leading to intense evaporation, Mono Lake’s level began to fall. It took until 1974 for a group of folks from UC Davis to realize this, and eventually they sued to stop the LADWP. The lake’s level has slowly begun to rise since, and the shrimp, though not thriving as they once did, are more delicious these days than they were in the 70's.

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Mono Lake from Mt. Dana

To get to the trailhead, take 120 through Yosemite (4 hrs) and go south on 395 until you hit Big Pine (2 hrs). Take a left on 168 in Big Pine, and then a left again on White Mountain Road (1hr). Pass the Bristlecone Pine forest, then go nearly 20 more miles on bone jarring dirt road that is passable with 2WD (but it sucks…another hr). It takes a long, long, long time.

After the forest, you’re essentially driving on an enormous, bare pile of rocks ten thousand feet in the sky. There is only space above and flat rocks all around you. There was not enough snow to glaciate this area in the last ice age, so what you get are scenes like these:

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Sea of Tranquility

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Sea of Serenity

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The Big Sea (get it? OMFG GET IT?)

We didn’t reach the trailhead until 10am, and oddly, despite the cars, we'd see only one other person the entire day.

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After a mile or so we reached Barcroft, and it was deserted but for some extremely out of place looking sheep.

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Toto I don’t think we’re in New Zealand anymore…

There was, however, a free telescope, focused on nothing, in the middle of nowhere, that allowed us to look at more or less nothing in the middle of somewhere else, but UP CLOSE. It was like we were THERE. I'm sure if I was French and thought deeply about things and smoked I'm sure I could come up with some theory about how our presence telescopes into the visions of others lives along with truth and beauty as it relates to the meaning of post modernism, but I'll leave that to Twist (please don't kill me for making an art joke.)

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Just as I thought. There are things over there.

Hey! It’s the observatory from the historic picture shown above! The true dedication of scientists never ceases to amaze me. When given the choice of an astrophysics PhD or MBA for grad school, what person said "No, I won’t use my gigantic brain to land a plum job at an IB firm, smoking fine cigars and sitting on swanky leather furniture and eating $40 lunches. I’d much rather work in a rusty, cramped, freezing, ten-foot metal boob straining my eyeballs to look through a telescope at nothing in particular, ten hours from civilization, at three in the morning. That’s the life for me!"

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A hard knock life...

Continuing on, I ran into some CSU players conditioning for fall.

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Ramouflage

They immediately saw I went to Cal, went into a huddle, and decided the best play was to run off in terror. Hagan was down the slope, though, and they ran RIGHT by him.

Up to this point the climb had been fairly level.

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As flat as old soda. Which is a beautiful name for a girl. Or a boy. But especially a girl.

But after about five miles the trail took a turn for the upward. Which is really when the elevation started getting to me. Having trouble with the altitude has always been maddening to me, as I tend to have two walking speeds: "off" and "full." Full speed at 13 thousand feet starts to get slower, and slower, and slower. You feel woozy constantly as your brain is starved for oxygen.

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Pretending there's an In n Out at the top makes things easier. Until you get there.

Worse, your body’s fight to provide enough oxygen to the brain means it is starving the parts of your body you need to move: your legs. This means it feels as though your walk in the park has turned into a walk through tomato soup. Then beef stew. Then jello. Then oatmeal. In addition, you have to breathe much faster to obtain O2 so if there is any type of air pollution or dust, your lungs swell up and make you hack. The last half hour I remember feeling like I had a terrible flu.

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Almost as high as the visitor seats at the Coliseum...

Near the top, we ran into a giant snowfield. In August.

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Anyone for a rock flavored slurpee?

Finally, the summit station.

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I called. It led to a sweepstakes center in Fullerton. I may have already won...

Highpoint of Mono county achieved. The views were huge but hazy, spanning the entire range of the Sierras. I felt if I had a hanglider I could go for days.

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Dear god someone set up a zipline…

All that was left was to re-enter earth’s atmosphere and drive down to Bishop.

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Olympus Mons

I remember on the road back down these bizarre birds would basically sit on the side of the road until the car came within about twenty yards of them. Then they would BOLT off in flight, then swoop back around onto the road, missing the car by what had to be inches, every time. It was freaky, until one bird misjudged and WHAM, right onto the hood. That thing was deader than a pile of rocks, and I tossed it off into the bushes.

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Earthrise.

The day ended, as usual, with blue and gold:

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GO BEARS.

Your California: Intro and San Benito County

Spazzy Mcgee — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 09:15:03 -0000

We like California.

We either grew up here, or went to school here, or for whatever reason, think it's a pretty cool state and place to be (JShufelt can go cry and drink his ~~rain-infused pee~~ Oregonian beer). But aside from rather opaque terms like "Norcal" and "Socal" and "Tahoe," very few Berkeley students I know seem to have much of a sense of place when it comes to California. Mike Mohamed's hometown is Brawley, CA. Off the top of your head can you tell me anything about Brawley, other than that it sounds like a good place to walk into a saloon and punch people for no reason? When you're driving south on 5 and you look west from Kettleman City, do you wonder what is beyond those hills? Are there In n Outs out there, too?

We all see references to California dozens of times a day in the news, on sweatshirts, on uniforms, but what is the place behind the word? WHERE do we really live? I decided to find out, county by county.

San Benito County

Vital stats

Population: 52,234 (.74 Sold-Out Memorial Stadiums)

Highpoint: San Benito Mountain, elevation 5,241 (17.07 Sather Towers)

Location (Berkeley terms): Between Norcal and Socal.

Major Landmarks: Pinnacles National Monument

University of California Affiliations: The Parkfield-Hollister Electromagnetic Monitoring Array, which seeks to connect the interrelated geomagnetic properties of electromagnetic impulses, small plate movements, huge earthquakes, and, (duh), BART. (?!)

Most Overrated Attributes: Has anyone from Abercrombie and Fitch actually been to Hollister? This is what it looks like:

via www.linngroveiowa.org

Nothing says "My Ass Smells of Agriculture" like Hollister Booty Shorts

Anyway, as we all know from our elementary school history class, the discovery of gold spurred the development of California. Miners came by the thousands, swung their pickaxes and swished their pans and eventually came up with pounds and pounds of gold nuggets, which they would, if Scrooge McDuck is any indication (and he is), fashion into coins and use as swimming pools. Their joy was short-lived, however, when they found out that in 1850 Cash4Gold hadn’t even been invented yet. So they dropped everything, built some railroads, shot some movies, etched some nanodoped silicon wafers and badabing badabang here we are today.

Now I know your first question, is, of course, "why won’t you shut up?" To which I will respond only: "Nam." Next question. "But how did they get those nuggets? It isn’t like gold was just lying all over the ground." You’re absolutely right. However, gold, really, is not particularly difficult to mine, provided you have some water, the ability to crush ore-bearing composite and one key ingredient: Mercury. Here is where San Benito County shines.

You see, in the last 40 million years or so, Plate Tectonics became too friendly with The Maharg and developed a drinking problem, which resulted in widespread Mineral Vomiting, to use the technical geological term. A few huge earthquakes and the San Andreas fault later, and the rocky esophagus of San Benito County is a smorgasbord of carcinogenic minerals found in high concentrations, including the creatively-named and rare Benitoite, serpentinite, mercury, and naturally occurring short-fiber asbestos. (Fun Fact: the Clear Creek Management Area, which I would later visit, recommends you not visit from May to November as dust storms can raise the airborne asbestos levels to greater than that which the EPA recommends.)

The New Idria Mine (located in—get this—New Idria) was the second largest mercury mine in the US, with only its cousin to the north in today’s Almaden Quicksilver County Park producing more tonnage. Previously, mercury had to be shipped from huge mines in ~~Moria, by dwarves~~ Europe, by ship, which was time consuming and costly ~~and Sauron always managed to take a cut, that shit.~~ In any case, the relatively close source of mercury made large mining operations vastly more efficient and thus spurred California’s growth immensely. I thought I’d check it out.

My day began early and heavy on the caffeine. I was bound for the ghosttown trailhead of Idria, California, which is named for Idria, Slovenia. Whia ia pria unoriginia ifia yia aia mia. As I drove east on 580 towards the 5, I was struck by how different this was from the usual trip east: no heat, no smog, no Friday afternoon traffic, no mayhem. I’ve been on the same road dozens of times but it felt like a completely different place this time around. 120 miles away, the Sierras were very clearly visible as the sun rose behind them, which means if I had a powerful enough laser and a mirror I could communicate with someone in Nevada without the use of electricity. Or something.

via farm4.static.flickr.com

Who DOESN'T want to contact Vegas by Laser?

After exiting the 5 at Panoche Road, traces of civilization started to fade. In my neighborhood, most people have clubs on their cars to protect their property. These folks have wire and some uncut wood to protect theirs. Also, I got to wondering how this road might have been before they filled in the potholes.

via farm4.static.flickr.com

Moral of the Story: Protect YOUR Car with Wire and Uncut Wood

A little later on, we passed a one-room schoolhouse. I did not know these existed outside Little House on the Prairie series. Then I realized for the past hour I had passed a whole series of little houses on a prairie.

via farm4.static.flickr.com

UC Little Panoche Valley. Majors Offered: Desolation and Loneliness. And MCB if you're Asian.

Soon thereafter, I turned onto New Idria road, and with it, the end of the line in terms of American land-use: Built-up cities, suburbs, exurbs, rural agricultural communities, rangelands, the desolate and the forgotten, the militant property protectors and anti-government,

via farm4.static.flickr.com

It says: "Ask About Our Libertarian Discount." Also note the website is an offshoot of www.garlic.com.

and finally, the deranged and bored (note the bullet holes in the last 2 signs):

via farm4.static.flickr.com

Praise be to Bak Bak I asked the GTI salesman about its stream-fording capabilities.

Naturally, after encountering this sign, I expected the road to improve rapidly, now that we were no longer under the cruel thumb of the Soviet USSA and her evil big gubmint road building subsidies and private citizens could be relied upon to upkeep infrastructure at the right price. To my great astonishment, the road didn’t so much improve rapidly as it did degrade completely. Which meant, to my delight, we had arrived in New Idria.

via farm4.static.flickr.com

Population: Him

I was all set to explore the buildings, but all of them had signs warning of something called Hanta Virus. I had read about this in a book before, and as I recalled correctly, it’s kind of like having the flu, except then your organs fail and you die. Just then I realized it was getting kind of late, so I boldly rolled up the windows and kept driving.

But not before I mailed my taxes…

via farm4.static.flickr.com

Neither rain nor sleet nor Hanta Virus

And played some ball to warm up for my hike:

via farm4.static.flickr.com

This is what happens to hoops Dennis Rodman doesn't like.

Shortly after town, the road ushered me up into a canyon. I did an awesome Austin Powers 36-point turn on what little road there was left, parked, and was off. The weather was perfect: 60s, bright sun. The 4x4 trail wound up and out of the canyon, past some very popular OHV areas (you could tell by the proliferation of tire tracks, crushed beer cans, and spent shotgun shells), and by a small, mineral-blue man made lake (with a lovely vacation house and ~~dry~~verywetdock attached).

Interestingly enough, though the lake was completely devoid of cover, usually a prerequisite for bass and sunfish, I saw fish swimming in the lake. I went down to investigate and noticed they were goldfish. Really.

via farm4.static.flickr.com

Maybe when you flush them down the toilet, this is where they end up...

As we marched onward atop an empty ridge, I noticed how little plant life there was in some places. In the Bay Area, even seemingly barren hills have a grassy cover. But when I looked closely at the soil, it was evident that _nothing_ was growing, not even lichen. On top of that, it was very clear that no one had been here in a while; even the main jeep road I was on was free of tire tracks, and the ground was very soft, like walking on shag carpet. I left moon style footprints.

via farm4.static.flickr.com

The ground may have felt like shagpile, but that doesn't mean I like orgies.

So lets recap up to this point: I had just driven past an hour of fences made before the invention of the saw, through the Disunited Unstates of Freedom Libertaria and Fuck You, through an abandoned mercury mining town condemned to die by some kind of plague, came across a crystal clear blue lake filled with goldfish, and was currently walking on poisoned soil that felt like cotton balls. I thought things couldn’t get eerier. They did.

But before so, the business of the entire trip had to be conducted: attaining the highpoint of San Benito County. I hiked onward and upward, past obvious remains of mines and hillsides that were completely denuded of cover. Finally, after 7 or so miles, we reached the top of San Benito Mountain. I checked out the register (basically a long term sign-in sheet found on many summits), read through some of the more interesting entries:

via farm4.static.flickr.com

What up its a beautiful place here. even though all the fuckin Biking and old Mining is Ruining This place into a wasteland bestroying [sic] more vegetation intel [sic] Theres none. left and we have huge Asbestos and Acyli clouds over the valley: improve the Air a little bit Dawg There go visit Indra [sic] its a creepy place where people never come Back Because Theres a Crazy Cannibal who lives there With a machete Dont go in the house’s hell Kill ya.

Admired the view…

via farm4.static.flickr.com

Hey Maw! Git off the dang roof!

And added my own entry:

via farm4.static.flickr.com

I left the summit for another rather barren ridge road leading to San Carlos Peak. We noticed these very odd structures across the canyon. What they were or why they were there will remain a mystery. We just assumed the most logical reason, anyway: this is where Dennis Rodman's alien craft landed.

via farm4.static.flickr.com

I can only guess that his ship rebounded after hitting the dirt for the first time.

After another two miles or so, we climbed a short way up the SW nose of San Carlos Peak to the summit. It was highly nondescript, with shrubs and a squarish outbuilding of sorts. The view to the valley was muted by haze, but we could still see the Sierras off in the distance. Here’s where things got more interesting. Instead of descending the SW nose, we chose a more direct route off the NW slopes. This involved a lot of skidding and butt-skiing on slopes, but as we descended the flanks, we came across a flat area at the end of a road, and in the middle was this:

via farm4.static.flickr.com

Much as with the Detroit Lions, there is no light at the end of this tunnel.

Up to this point, all the old mine adits and prospects I had encountered on the hike had been filled in. In fact, every mine I have ever come across in my many years of hiking has been filled in or otherwise destroyed. The local mines had all shut down when commodity prices went belly up in the early 70s, so nothing had been in use for 30+ years. To find an open shaft like this is highly unusual, rare, and dangerous (mix OHVers, beer, shotgun shells, and a deep hole that was likely full of carbon monoxide and orcs…) But I was getting ahead of myself, right? It was probably only 20 or 30 feet deep; I’m sure they’d filled in the rest of the shaft. There was only one good way to find out (<--watch with sound).

Think about how fast a rock falls. Even though we threw in multiple rocks and they likely hit against the ladder, there is clearly rockfall for 21 seconds, and possibly until 31 seconds (we heard a distinct "ping" at 31 seconds; either another rock had broken loose from the sides, or the mine shaft bent lower down, encountering more metal. My friend and I were stunned and a little freaked out. When you’re literally hundreds of miles from real civilization and you come across a hole that we estimated to be 300-500 feet deep into the heart of a land itself that has largely been abandoned and forgotten, with a hundred pitch-black sub-shafts and adits that lead to nowhere, a very primal fear of the unknown creeps into the back of your brain. We threw some more rocks down and then bravely got the fuck out of there before the skeleton army (or worse, Nestor) came out of the shaft and made us part of the undead (or worse, made use read Bruinsnation).

The rest of the hike was largely uneventful, except we found evidence that Nuss from CougCenter had been tracking us the whole time:

via farm4.static.flickr.com

Either him or Samantha. She sleeps with EVERYBODY.

And some very, very distinct contrail shadows:

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Somewhere, up in the stratosphere, someone is wondering what the deal is with airplane peanuts.

And before long we were back at the vehicle.

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It was white when I left.

And so there I had it. Fourteen miles, 6 hours, 4000 feet, some goldfish, virii, soil poison, libertarians, bball hoops, stick fences, Laura Ingallses, and a giant hole leading to the very bowels of hell later, and we were back at the car, with only the drive home and the scenery of rural CA to pass by.

via farm4.static.flickr.com

One highpoint down, 54 to go.

Go Bears!

What is Your Favorite Image in Sports, Cal or Otherwise?

Spazzy Mcgee — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 07:13:39 -0000

(But bonus points for Cal).

In bygone eras, athletics were defined by personal competition: one person or group striving to better another via physical strength and ability. It was not until the turn of the 20th century until sports, organized or otherwise, took off in popularity among the general public. Furthermore, as time passed, sports and the spectacle of athletics became ever more present in the everyday lives of regular people, where we find ourselves today. Athletics are a multi-billion dollar industry, in every country in every corner of the world. Multiple media networks exist solely to provide sports-related information.

via www.lostmag.com

Didn't that guy get a Web Gem last night?

How did the simple concept of physical competition get this far? My theory is: the advent of media imagery first made possible by photography at the beginning of the 20th century enabled people to connect with athletics far more than times prior. Regular people could now live vicariously through their athlete heroes because they could see their struggle on a daily basis through photographs. The sports fan could put themselves in the place of the athletes in the photographs, and seemingly form a bond with someone who "shared" that struggle.

via i.cdn.turner.com

Oh God my neck.

But truly great sports photographs do more than show a physically gifted person on the field. They tell a story about. So, CGB, what is your favorite image from all sports? Why? What does the image tell you or make you think? Has it affected your sports fandom? Do you just like it because it looks cool? Dig it up on Google images and post it... (Also, don't feel like you have to have a long writeup or anything...just post!)

Anyway, here's my favorite.

via img25.imageshack.us

Kinda odd, I guess, since I have never been nor ever will be a Bulls fan. But I find this classic capture from the 1988 slam dunk contest to be as representative of an athlete as I've ever seen.

For starters, the photo itself isn't technically amazing. It's not like this was difficult to take, or the photographer got a one-in-a-million lucky shot. He was just in the right place at the right time to make the capture. But what I love about the picture is that it basically encapsulates what was Michael in the early stages of his career. Already having wowed people with his dunks, smoothness, and seemingly endless airtime at UNC and the pre-championship Bulls, he was just starting to make his name as a star in the NBA. Look at the crowd; each face is transfixed on Michael. There are no lights in the background, and the image fades to darkness as the distance from Michael grows. The anticipation is palpable; the crowd looks like they're watching the rise of a 4th of July firework that's still 100 feet from exploding.

When I see the picture, I almost feel like I'm watching a movie, only it's slowed down to the point where motion has stopped. I can imagine what happened before, and what's about to occur. One might question why the photographer didn't snap the picture as Michael was driving the ball through the hoop; slam dunks are what the fans came to see, anyway. I think that he didn't do so lends itself to the photo. After all, just as Michael had yet to become the greatest to play the game, and the the Bulls had yet to become the dynasty they are now known for, Michael had yet to slam the ball home. But with all the obvious potential energy from the time stopping, 3-point-line jumping, gravity-defying athlete about to be unleashed on the hoop, the fans, the city of Chicago, and the game of basketball itself, the crowd didn't need to see him slam it home.

They could already see what was coming.

Cal Sports Mount Rushmore

Spazzy Mcgee — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 20:23:49 -0000

Ragnarok: So, our Cal Football Mt. Rushmore would be Andy Smith, Pappy Waldorf, Jeff Tedford, and Pete Elliot? Maybe Joe Kapp instead?

Carp: and no stub allison? coach of our last NC team in 1937?!?!

Ragnarok: man, i didn’t even recognize him as ‘leonard’. good point, screw elliot and kapp.

CalBear81: A Tougher Question. If you were going to pick a Mount Rushmore of Cal players, rather than coaches, who would you pick?

BearsNecessity: Kapp, White, Lynch and Muncie?

Spazzy McGee: -Muncie +Roth

Carp: wasn’t Muncie the best Cal RB evair (in terms of career stats)? and not that I can name any, but shouldn’t we also include a Rose Bowl/NC winner or two?

CalBear81: Not Joe Kapp. If we’re talking about a coaches Mount Rushmore, not Joe Kapp. You can’t help liking him but, as my late father liked to say, "As a coach, Joe Kapp makes a great cheerleader." To be fair to Kapp, when he was hired at Cal he had virtually no coaching experience, and he was apparently chosen in the hope that he could turn around the disaster of the Roger Theder years though sheer enthusiasm. It worked for the first year (1982, "The Play," and all), but it all went downhill rapidly (after going 7-4 in 1982, he was 13-30-1 in the next four seasons).

My Mount Rushmore picks would be Andy Smith, Pappy Waldorf, Jeff Tedford and either James Schaeffer (1909-1915) who had a career record of 73-16-8, or Leonard "Stubb" Allison (1935-1944) whose career record isn’t as impressive (58-42-2), but who is the only Cal coach other than Andy Smith who ever actually won a Rose Bowl.

TwistNHook: Marshawn. Marshawn. Marshawn. Joe Ayoob.

Carp: should we do something larger than a Mt Rushmore, given that Cal’s had ~80 players/season for a long time? There aren’t even 80 presidents I don’t think, so Mt Rushmore works for them.

CalBear81: But limiting it to four on offense and four on defense will make for nastier fights. (P.S. We’ve had 43 presidents. Obama is called the 44th president because Grover Cleveland’s two terms were not consecutive and he therefore gets counted twice.)

TwistNHook: Is that why the Simpsons had Grover Cleveland spanking Homer on two non-consecutive occasions?

TwistNHook: Excuse me, not Homer, but Grandpa Simpso.

________________________________________________________________________

So, CGB, who's on your Cal Mount Rushmore? Who should be on it? The four greatest athletes in Cal history? Someone who took Cal to the Rose Bowl? Someone who won a Rose Bowl?

Grandpa Simpso?

Should it include non-athletes? I'm sure there are some nobel laureates who would certainly deserve to be chiseled in stone between His Lynchness and Chuck Muncie based on their contributions to Cal...

Let's hear it.