Summer garden has arrived

The summer garden has arrived:

Something about this picture takes me back to the east coast. California has endless charms, but summer is surprisingly not one of them.  California summers are brown and gardens are created out of what would otherwise be brown. In Pennsylvania garden's are carved out of the green. What would otherwise be green is replaced with a slightly more controlled green.  While nothing in this picture is nature, I think the hedge continuing into the live oaks (whose foliage gives us some measure of green year round) gives that impression.

Most visible in this picture are the beans (front left), potato (front center), sunflower (front right) and kale (back center). The garden has produced some food -- we've had bok choy and kale on a few occasion, shared a single cherry tomato -- but so far has largely been the green equivalent of "all light and no heat." I think that will change, but I worry that Nicole will miss the best of the harvest. Adding to my guilt is the recent realization that the tomatoes I planted (Brandywines), while being known as some of the best eatin' tomatoes, are some of the slowest to mature. 80-100 days for the fruit!

These tomatoes remind me of one of those 6 month old dogs you see, already quite large but with GIANT paws. The tomatoes are already fairly large, but they look like miniature giant tomatoes. If my gestalt is true, it looks like they'll be on the vine quite a bit longer.

Gardening '13 has not been without it's learning, or sometimes re-learning. Aphids of various shapes and colors, white cabbage butterfly caterpillars, leaf miners have all arrived.  The leaf miners destroyed our chard but seem not to be an issue at this point in the season (the beets have bounced back remarkably). The aphid issues have responded well to spraying them off with water. The cabbage butterfly caterpillars make for a fun, proactive, hunting expedition on the back sides of kale leaves, which seems to have kept them more than in-check.

Hopefully, stage 1 was building and planting, stage 2 was largely growing, and we will now be moving into stage 3... eating! I just hope it comes to fruition before Nicole leaves.

Beans

Changes are afoot! Everything has emerged in the garden with the exception of the verbena.

Square Foot Garden:
Brandywine Tomato (transplanted 4/27/13)
Verbena (Flower) (sowed seed 4/27/13)
Asclepias Incarnata ("Butterfly Flower") (sowed seed 4/27/13, emerged c. 5/5/2013)
Carrots ("Scarlet Nantes") (sowed seed 4/27/13, emerged c. 5/5/2013)
Flax (Flower) (sowed seed 4/27/13, emerged c. 5/5/2013)
Beets (sowed seed 4/27/13, emerged 5/2/13)
Bush Beans ("Royal Burgandy") (sowed seed 4/28/13, emerged c. 5/5/2013)
Bok Choy ("Pak Choi Green Stem Dwarf Hybrid") (sowed seed 5/1/13, emerged c. 5/5/2013)
Sunflower (sowed seed 4/27/13, emerged 5/2/13)

I also sowed some "yard long" pole beans with the marigolds next to the salad bed, and planted a purple potato in the SFG. 

Yard Long Pole Beans ("Red Noodle")(sowed 5/6/2013)
Purple Potatoes (sowed 5/7/2013)

I also applied Dr. Earth 3-3-3 liquid fertilizer to pretty much everything on 5/8/2013.  The plants in the salad table appear stunted. I think I was too stingy with the growing medium, and it's not performing very well. Hopefully some fertilizer will help.

Beans are a funny plants to watch sprout. They emerge looking like fully formed plants, with large leaves that pop out of the formerly sowed bean, which has gone along for the ride and is no longer in the ground where you left it.  Their emergence is similar in some respects to the sunflower we planted, which rose from the soil overnight to a height of about an inch, still wearing the sunflower seed like a hat keeping captive its own dicots. I'm sure the sunflower would've figured it out, but my impatience and uniquely human stubborn feeling that nothing could get by without my help caused me to cajole the sunflower seed (now merely a hard shell). The shell popped right off, which is different from beans, in which the remnants of the bean, halved, remain attached to opposite sides of the stem of the young plant looking like a vestigial organ. 

The problem is, some of my beans came up without any leaves whatsoever.  Just a blunt end of a sprout where the leaves should have been. That stubborn human feeling that "something must be done" caused me to assume that, with this problem, the plants could not get by. I ripped the bad seeds up and planted new ones.

Summer Garden!

Refraction Pond is back with a new mission: following my summer garden with Nicole! Mostly I'll be using this space to keep track of sowing, emergence, and harvest dates, but I'll mix in some ramblings as well.

This is the current state of the garden:

Right now it consists of a salad table (left, built with Nicole and Julia), a square foot garden container  bed, and a variety of containers.

Salad Table:
Lacinto Kale (sowed seed 4/6/2013)
Butterhead Lettuce ("Marvel of Four Seasons") (sowed seed 4/6/2013)
Cilantro ("Long Standing") (sowed seed 4/6/2013)
Thai Sweet Basil (Langkuri) (sowed seed 4/9/2013)
Vietnamese Balm (Kinh Gioi) (sowed seed 4/9/2013)
Japanese Radish (Hattorikun, for leaves) (sowed seed 4/9/2013)
Red Leaf Amaranth (sowed seed 4/9/2013)
Chard ("Golden Sunrise") (sowed seed 4/9/2013)
Bunching Onions ("Evergreen White  Nebuka) (sowed seed 4/9/2013)
Leaf Lettuce ("New Red Fire") (sowed seed 4/9/2013)

Square Foot Garden:
Brandywine Tomato (transplanted 4/27/13)
Verbena (Flower) (sowed seed 4/27/13)
Asclepias Incarnata ("Butterfly Flower") (sowed seed 4/27/13)
Carrots ("Scarlet Nantes") (sowed seed 4/27/13)
Flax (Flower) (sowed seed 4/27/13)
Beets (sowed seed 4/27/13, emerged 5/2/13)
Bush Beans ("Royal Burgandy") (sowed seed 4/28/13)
Bok Choy ("Pak Choi Green Stem Dwarf Hybrid") (sowed seed 5/1/13)
Sunflower (sowed seed 4/27/13, emerged 5/2/13)

There's also a cherry tomato and pepper plant, both transplanted 4/6/13, and the herb garden Nicole and I initially planted.

Almost everything is in the "ground," except for a few odds and ends. Now it's time for the plants to do the work...

Food

Food blog!

I've realized recently that food is a microcosm of my philosophy on life. I don't mean this in the sense that you can draw far fetched analogies between the two. I mean it in a literal sense. The things I enjoy about food are the same things I enjoy about life. 

New years resolutions. A few years ago I would've told you that I didn't believe in them. There seemed to be a conformity aspect to new years resolutions. Everyone would simultaneously resolve to improve their lives in the same predictable ways, and yet no one seemed to follow through with them.  I'm also a notorious grinch when it comes to new years (most anti-climactic ten seconds of the years--you count down and hope the world still exists at the end of your count down and nothing actually changed). Maybe it's the season, but the past few years I have started to think about the things that make me happy and why I don't do more of them.

This years I resolved to do more of my shopping at ethnic markets. In this area, that basically means Asian, Mexican and Indian markets. I've discovered that while safeway has two kinds of lentils: red and green, Indian markets have an isle dedicated to lentils (ok, so I've always hated safeway).  Discovering incredible diversity in a seemingly homogenous landscapes is one of the things I enjoy in life.  I've fallen in love with native grasses for the same reason. If you look at a grassland long enough, you'll find more species there than you would in a forest.

There's something deliberate about food. The time spent preparing and enjoying food leads to more careful observation. You notice subtle differences. You notice the diversity.  This week I've spent a lot of time making flat breads--in particular tortillas and roti. I've realized in doing so that my definition of difficult preparation differs from most. Tortillas, at least without an optimal grittle to cook them on, take forever. I mixed the masa with water, kneaded a bit and let sit for sometime then patiently pressed each one into a round tortilla and baked them individually on a pan on the stove. It probably took an hour, but it wasn't difficult. Difficult is when you can't produce a desired result regardless of the patience.

I've noticed the same deliberation running and biking. It's hard to get to know an area by car. One has to take the time to move about it. It has to require effort, it can't be comfortable.  I notice things--hills, distances--when I move deliberately at my own expense.

Things I've made this week:
Roti
Tortillas
Fish and beef tacos with crema from our local Mexican market
Carnitas -- from a pig my housemate and I butchered, braised in beer and spices
Otsa--a japanese-style buckwheat noodle salad with a soy ginger dressing
Cauliflower leek soup with avocado and fresh olive oil
Chana dal masala -- spiced lentils with tomatos and onions

Other delicious things I've had (but not made) this week:
Tom Kha soup with shrimp, rock cod, mussels and squid
A ridiculous assortment of curries and vegetarian dishes at Peacock in Cupertino.

Dirca

Yesterday, Cindy asked me to check to see if the Dirca on our property was blooming yet.  Western Leatherwood (Dirca Occidentalis) is a funny little plant that only grows in the Bay Area.  Despite it's persnickety nature--growing only where conditions seem to suit it best--it grows in abdundance on our property and across the street at the Jasper Ridge Biological Perserve. Belonging to a small genus consisting of three species, one which grows in Mexico and the other along the East Coast, Dirca is the only member of its family in our region.  It is slow growing, long lived plant. An individual 5 feet tall may be a centenarian. 

There's pretty much one person that studies Dirca.  It is our first bloomer of the season, budding  understated yellow flowers, beautiful and asymmetrical with their stigma and many stamens hanging well below their pedals.  The flowers appear even before the plant has produced leaves.  Its curiosity lies in its timing. Dirca has bloomed in October. It has also bloomed in January.  A theory has emerged that it may bloom after the first heavy rains of the season.  We had an unusual wet October, which is why I was out looking to see if it had bloomed.

The Dirca hasn't bloomed yet, although it is starting to bud out.  It grows in abundance on our property. They grow on the north face of a gulch cut by Bear Creek. The ground is so soft there that it's almost difficult to walk, and these plants have probably been visited by humans very rarely if ever since our house was built 60 years ago. I found some old, stately individuals as well as some young ones. Dusky footed woodrats have a reputation for pruning Dirca to build their middens, but I didn't find any signs of pruning. I did find some (very) old coke bottles and a rock that looks fire cracked to me.  This would mean there were Ohlone here once.

A lone black oak stands in the soft, moist soil at the edge of the gulch. I found this strange.

The Twin Paradox

My friend posted a video on my facebook wall today lamenting that she had resorted to cartoons to understand physics and still didn't understand.  I have enough hubris that I generally think I can explain anything in understandable terms, so I decided I would take a crack at it here as well!

Let's save the explanation of relativity for another day and just accept the result: an object moving very fast will experience time slowing down relative to a stationary object. The quintessential example is a moving train.  If I stood on a train platform and watched a train zoom by (one of those scary trains that doesn't stop at your station), I would notice that a clock affixed to the outside of the train was ticking more slowly than the watch on my wrist. For a person on the train, time is ticking away at it's normal pace. Time is also ticking away at its normal pace for me on the platform, but when I observe their time, it has apparently slowed down.

Fine, physics is crazy, but that's not a paradox--yet.  The paradox comes from another cherished concept in physics, in fact, another form of relativity. Galilean relativity is the idea that all reference frames moving at a constant velocity are equivalent--there is no physical experiment that you can do to figure out whether the train platform or the train is the one moving so long as neither experiences an acceleration.

So the paradox is this: we take two twins (twin A and twin B), leave one on earth and zip one away on a rocket at near the speed of light.  Twin B turns around after 5 years and returns home. Because of relativity, he's now much younger than his twin brother. But who is to say that the earth wasn't moving while the rocket stayed stationary? In that case, twin A should be younger!

The resolution of this paradox comes from the fact that twin B has to make a u-turn to get home. The act of accelerating means all bets are off when it comes to Galilean relativity.  Twin B is definitely younger. 

By the way, all of this falls into the category of special relativity.  Special relativity is Einstein's earlier, easier and mathematically cleaner theory compared to his General Theory of Relativity. The only difference (ok, so it's a big difference) is that General Relativity incorporates gravity.  Occasionally a nasty rumor arises in high school and undergrad physics classes that special relativity can't handle accelerations. Special relativity CAN handle any crazy acceleration you can think of, thank you very much. General relativity really does only add gravity.

Lauren, if you've made it this far, I should mention this isn't actually the paradox we talked about that one time. That was the EPR paradox, one of Einstein's big objections to quantum mechanics. Another blog, maybe?

I'm Wall Street. You're the fool.

I’m Wall Street. You can’t sell your house and you don’t blame me. That’s rich. You’ve chosen to occupy Main Street rather than Wall Street. Your faith in the American Dream remains stalwart. Individual liberties and freedoms will allow you to prosper. But you’re not prospering. That’s clear from your picture. Still, it doesn’t shake your faith.

The house you can’t sell is probably worth half of what it once was. Where did your investment go?

I pocketed the difference. I drove up the prices for years, taking a sip here and sip there. The housing market crashed. Pension funds crashed. Your house became worthless. I kept my money.

I’m Wall Street. Where do you fit in? What’s your role in these financial markets? You’re the fool. I can sit here and tell you that and it doesn’t even matter. There’s enough fools out there. If it weren’t for my limitless greed, I wouldn’t have to work another day in my life.

You fight for me on Main Street, on the airwaves and on Tumblr. You fight the regulations that would allow you to exercise your individual freedoms on a fair playing field. But you never lose faith in the power of those freedoms. That’s rich, too.

Compost

Compost, in all of it's biological complexity and symbiosis, is an extremely simple backyard project. The problem with compost is that there are so many blogs (like this one?) and webpages touting it's beauty and simplicity that it can be a bit depressing when your compost pile goes horribly wrong. Molding piles of wet food scraps surrounded by swarming fruit flies is not what you had in mind.

The Basics of (Hot) Composting:

Compost is the process of breaking down organic matter so that the nutrients contained within become water soluble and accessible for the plants. There's other nice side effects too. Compost can get hot enough to kill pathogens and weed seeds. When added to the soil, it increases the number of beneficial microbes and mychorriza (fungus that lives on roots), aids in water retention and serves as a mulch. The action of compost isn't due to any one thing--many different bacteria, fungi, and even little critters get in on the action. Looked at as a whole, it can summarized as an exothermic (it gives off heat), aerobic (requires oxygen) reaction, that takes in carbon and a little bit of nitrogen and pumps out methane and leaves behind something you can spread over your garden.

The Problem with Composting Advice:

Without a doubt, the most efficient compost pile is constructed all at once. For obvious reasons, this is called batch composting and has a distinct industrial flavor. You gather at least a cubic yard of materials containing the correct ratio of carbon to nitrogen, plop your enormous pile in your backyard, turn it every few days and in short order your compost will be done. This begs some obvious questions:

• Who produces a cubic yard of organic waste all at once, and then nothing for the next 3 months?
• Who produces organic waste in the correct ratio of carbon to nitrogen?

You might, actually, if you're composting scraps from a big vegetable garden and can compensate your extra nitrogen with leaf matter, but most of us are looking for away to keep our kitchen scraps from going in landfill.

The Problem with Kitchen Scrap Bins:

The question then becomes "Whats the best way to kind of batch compost, adding materials from your kitchen and garden as you go?" We'll get there soon, but for further inspiration lets look at likely downfalls in a backyard bin. You cannot just start throwing your food scraps in a pile in the backyard. (I promise, I tried, the fruit flies were bad but the rats were much worse.) Pitfalls can be broken down into three categories:

• Too wet -- compost piles need water, but anything leaving your kitchen is likely to contain way too much water. This has the effect of smothering your compost pile (which remember, needs oxygen!) and making it anaerobic. You can smell anaerobic. Not good.
• Too green -- likewise compost piles need nitrogen, but anything leaving your kitchen is likely to contain way too much nitrogen. This produces ammonia. You can smell ammonia. Not good.
• Too small -- Your too wet, too green compost pile hasn't been breaking down the way you want, but it has been breaking down (maybe by mold, maybe those rats are carrying pieces away). Your compost pile will never actually grow in size. You might think this is ok, until you go to harvest your compost and take a whiff of those anaerobic byproducts mingling with ammonia. Being exothermic, proper composting action releases heat which then speeds up it's own reaction. This is an example of a positive feedback. (Actually, fire is much the same way. Compost is just a little more mellow.) Too make this efficient, your pile needs to be insulated. What better insulation is there for compost than compost? Moral of the story: if your pile is big, it will insulate itself, trap the heat in, and make the reaction go even faster.
• The Element of Time -- Time, like water and nitrogen, is an element in compost. It can also present compost management problems in two ways. First, some food scraps compost much faster than others. The coconut shells that have recently found there way into my bin could be there for years. Short of some time consuming process of chopping everything up, there's no way around this. Secondly, if you're continuously adding material, some material will have been in the bin much longer than others at harvest time.

Dave's New (and untested) Deep Litter Method:

Hopefully, over several posts, I will track the progress of a method of composting that I've converged upon with several iterations. The idea is to view the capacity of your compost bin not by the size of the bin but by the amount of carbon in it. If you follow this paradigm, an empty compost bin has no capacity to compost, whereas a bin nearly full of leaf litter has tons. This is very much analogous to bedding for pets or kitty litter. A little box with no kitty litter in it doesn't have much capacity to keep your house from getting smelly.

That's pretty much all there is to my method, I'm starting with a full bin rather than an empty one. I'm calling it a deep litter method after the deep litter method used in raising animals. How will I add to a bin that starts almost full? To paraphrase Abahram Lincoln, the brave microbes which live there will compost far faster than our poor power to add or detract. I'll bet dollars to donuts that my bin shrinks rather than expands, no matter how many kitchen scraps I add. Early returns seem good. I started the bin 4 days ago and the top of the bin (where I've added food scraps) is rockin' at 145 degrees while the other parts of the bin seem to be hanging out around 105 degrees.

I'll delve into more detail concerning the construction and management of the bin later, as well as discuss how this method deals with some of the problems listed above. I'll also report on some results. Unfortunately, there's more to life than backyard agrarianism. Back to real life...

Consider the wallet before dialing 911

Thomas Freedman used an article by the CBS Sacramento affiliate discussing a new requirement that residents pay for 911 calls in his in his latest column as a segue into a discussion of America's "lean years". Residence are given an option of paying $48 a year for unlimited 911 service or $300 per call. While the discussion of lean years is interesting, Freedman never returns to it. I find this issue a little too jarring to move on so quickly. Though most people would intuitively feel like paying for the use of 911 is a bad thing, it's worth unpacking the subtleties in order to understand who is really most affected by this change. But first, some obvious questions:

• Do non-resident also have to pay if they dial 911? One would assume so, but the article doesn't actually say that. This question is particularly relevant in Tracy where a veritable web of intersecting major highways exist. (As an aside, these are extremely high speed merges with many confused drivers. For some reason I've also gotten a lot of heavy downpours in Tracy. It's never seemed safe.)
• If multiple calls are placed to 911 regarding the same incident, is each caller charged? Again, when you think about the frequency of highway accidents in Tracy, this starts to seem like a racket.
• What if the caller isn't the one in distress?

This last question deserves a little more fleshing out. In the case of a horrific car accident, someone would still call (one would hope). What about weird screams, people that just don't look right, those sorts of things? These are cases where 95% of the time it turns out to be a false alarm, but sometimes not. A good friend of mine once called 911 after witnessing an altercation on the side of the highway, would the risk/reward analysis be the same if there was an exorbitant cost associated with it? A man stumbling on the street who "just doesn't look right" may just be strange, or they may be having a diabetic emergency or acute Valium withdrawal, both life-threatening.

Surely this new policy is born out of severe budget woes. It's likely, though, that the answer to the "why 911 and not something else?" question is related to a mentality of frustration associated with the response to none emergency situations. Professional EMS providers get frustrated responding to relatively minor calls. City officials likewise bemoan the amount of money spent on these calls. This is a mental trap, however, that we shouldn't let ourselves fall into.

The National Outdoor Leadership School provides a conceptual definition of risk that lends insight into this issue. They define risk as the product of the probability that something bad will happen and the consequences of the accident. Risking a toe-stub while walking around barefoot (likely accident, minor consequences) and riding in an airliner (extremely unlikely accident, near certain death) are both low risk activities. Going for a serious bike ride is a considerably higher risk activity. If only 5% of EMS calls are life-threatening, this is still an extremely high likelihood (if you participated in an activities with a 5% risk of death each day, you'd make it an average of two weeks before kicking the bucket). Since consequences are, by definition, life-threatening, every 911 call is extremely high-risk.

One population that will be unevenly affected by this change is geriatrics. A doctor giving a lecture in our EMT class last week quoted his father saying "being old is not for the timid." Although their bodies maybe frail, old people tend to be tough as nails. They don't complain of pain until it's serious and, for a variety of reasons, resist going to the hospital. To make things worse, symptoms of life threatening conditions in geriatrics are more subtle than in younger people. While a 40 year old having a heart attack might complain of crushing chest pain with pain radiating down their arm, the most common symptom of heart attacks in older people is shortness of breaths. Other symptoms include back pain, general malaise, even toothaches. Abdominal pain in geriatrics could be caused by constipation or an upset stomach, or it could be a deadly GI bleed. The point is that these are symptoms that could be confused with "just growing old". In a population that's on an ever dwindling budget, older patients may think twice about spending $300 on a 911 call for nondescript symptoms similar to their daily aches and pains.

The beauty of our 911 system is that it's prepared to handle any type of emergency. While people may not realize that 911 is prepared to handle emotional and behavioral emergencies, it is surely prepared to deal with them. If you see a glowing yellow liquid flowing into a storm drain, you can call 911. If your neighbor hits their head, you can call 911 even if they want none of it. If in doubt, you can call 911. That is, unless you're in Tracy, where you should probably think about it first.

Pinnacles

James’s parents rented a modified Jeep SUV with an extra row of seats in place of a trunk—what my British uncle would call a “people carrier.” And we filled it. The whole Mack family went: mother, father, sister, girlfriend. Even his girlfriend’s dog went. I had proposed the trip to Pinnacles, suggesting that we might see Condors , so I went too. The National Monument is also an honest 2 hour drive from Stanford, an ideal distance for a day trip.

California Condors appear, at least superficially, like glorified turkey vultures. Their most obvious distinguishing feature is their size. They are the largest birds in North America. Their wingspan stretches nine feet. More subtle, though more useful for identification, is their shape. Turkey vultures fly with their wings forming a “V”, almost as if their chests and shoulders are not strong enough to support their lift. Their clumsy shape causes clumsy flight—they rock back and forth never quite seeming to find their balance. Condor’s, with their square flat wings, look like little Cessna 172’s. To propel themselves, they flap their wings in a slow curl, tips first reaching inward. They are graceful in flight, finding thermals and soaring to heights greater than 3000 feet. A streak of white, like a mini-wing, serves as a final confirmation of the identification.

Condor’s also reflect the general thesis that the more specialized and adapted a species, the more prone it is to extinction. In 1986 only 22 of these birds remained in the world, all of them in captivity. The main culprit in their demise was the pesticide DDT, which was brought to public’s attention by Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring. The truth, however, is that these large creatures are fundamentally delicate. Their size alone virtually guarantees a smaller population and their digestive systems are vulnerable to damage by a number of agents. Recently they’ve suffered problems with lead poisoning which paralyses the smooth muscle of their stomach and causes the bird to starve to death.

The largest conservation effort ever dedicated to the preservation of a single species is the reason that California Condor’s haven’t gone extinct. State, federal, local and private agencies have supported the birds with a tab of $35 million dollar since World War II. The result of these funds are the 350 birds currently in existence—an even hundred thousand per bird—188 living in the wild and all of them bred in captivity save one recent hatchling. Not everyone has agreed on the cost/benefit analysis of the effort. Each bird is tagged with a number and a radio beacon and its location monitored daily. When a bird dies, the park service learns of its death the same day. Adding to the difficulty and slowness of the comeback is the fact that they reach sexual maturity after 6 years and average only one chick every other year after that. Condor’s stay with their mate for life but will find another if their partner dies.

Given their unlikelihood of surviving Humanity, there is a certain irony in their post-apocalyptic facial appearance and choice of habitats. They live the sorts of places that might have been on the short-list for the filming of “Mad Max”: Pinnacles, Baja, the Grand Canyon. Pinnacles is the jumbled remains of the 250 mile journey these rocks have undergone through the motion of the San Andreas fault. The rocks themselves are breccias, angulated detritus lithofied into conglomerate. Their origin is volcanic. Their ground-up feldspars imbue a bright pink to the rock. The jumbling has created caves, not in the sense of hollowed out limestone karst but boulders that have fallen together and sealed the gaps from light. Water moves between the rocks causing waterfalls and slides within the caves. It is an ideal habitat for bats, whose breeding habits occasionally call for the closure of the caves.

I urged James to call the park prior to the trip to check on the status of the Condors. I had seen them on multiple occasions, both in Pinnacles and across the coastal range in Big Sur (an easy enough trip for a Condor but far more difficult in an automobile) but always by accident. I’ve never set out with the specific goal of finding a species and been successful. I’ve stumbled across plenty of gopher and king snakes, even a few rattlesnakes, but to go out looking for them on the most perfect snake day in the spring causes your odds of finding one to fall drastically. Also of concern was the fact that the best spot in the park for seeing the birds is the High Peaks. As the name suggests, the hike to the location is somewhat strenuous and exposed to the sun. All of this turned out to be moot, however, when the Condor’s appeared soaring over the ridge at the entrance of the park within minutes of sitting down for a picnic.

With the California Condor (as well as the Western Bluebird and Yellow Billed Magpie) added to the life-lists of all in attendance we decided to take a short hike and explore the caves. It occurred to me while fumbling for my cell phone (for use as a flashlight) that we were probably at the limit of what James’s parents were comfortable with. The comfort limit, I decided, was the optimal place to be with the curve rising gradually on one side and plummeting quickly on the other.

As someone reasonably knowledgeable on issues of local natural history and ecology, I wanted share some information that would make the experience more meaningful for James’s family. It turns out that it’s fairly difficult to achieve this, striking a balance between too little information and sharing every disconnected morsel you’ve ever learned. The line between the two declinations is probably a story or a stimulated sense—subtle features that fit into a greater picture interest people, and things with physical beauty, aroma or taste tend to delight. Several wildflowers filled the latter group. There were milkmaids (Cardamine Californica), which are beautiful but seem tamed and almost afraid to offend, Shooting Stars (Dodecatheon sp.) whose flowers are upright in the normal sense of a flower, but whose conical shape makes them appear geometrically as facing downward, and Blue Witch (Solanum Umbelliferum), a toxic member of the nightshade family with 5 pedals fused nearly identical to a potatoes’ flower.

There is a pleasure in finding things out, as Richard Feynman said, that I experienced in learning a new species. I was surprised to see pine trees at the monument. Lena mentioned that they reminded her of ghost pines. I climbed a rock for a better vantage point to key the species out and did so as best I could. Keying plants is like those “Choose your own adventure” books. A series of questions are presented (“ Are the leaves alternative? If yes, proceed to 8.”) Some of the questions are difficult (“Cones stay on the tree for greater than 2 years.” I didn’t have that sort of time.) When I had finished keying the plant out I landed on Ghost Pine and it occurred to me that Lena should be more confident. The final identifying feature was massive clawlike scales and that certainly fit the bill. The cone is large and heavy and the individual scales have a chestnut-like texture. With the name in mind I looked back at the tree and did find something ashen and ghostly about it. It seemed to fit in a post-apocalyptic environment, an environment suited for Condors.

Gardening

A brief pause occurred this weekend in the otherwise 8 days of solid rain. The ceasefire afforded me the chance to reestablish my garden. In recent months my garden had floundered and finally got to the point where I could no longer claim to have a garden. Part of me was hesitant to plant anything with the possibility looming that we could get kicked out of our house in a few months. (How sad would it be to miss a harvest by a few weeks or plant a perennial knowing that not long after it establishes its roots some piece of construction equipment hell-bent on razing Shakedown St won’t even pause for the poor plant’s demise?) I decided, however, that in my case having a garden is a conduit towards present happiness that is independent of expected future harvest. It is also a bellwether for mental health—like reading and cooking—though it may not be entirely clear where the causation lies.

Gardening has evolved with me. In much the same way that medicine has done more harm than good until relatively recent ages, so it was with my treatment of plants. The first time I ever took an interest in anything botanical was when I decided with my childhood neighbor that it was imperative that we remove some of my mother’s Rhododendrons. We had decided, based on absolutely nothing, that they were diseased and to prevent a pandemic that would overtake the yard, they had to go. My mother was not pleased and, for a long time, my gardening acumen improved little. I still feel slightly guilty when I think about the Astilbe and Columbines that I mistakenly removed as weeds in High School.

My first truly well-considered garden was outside my apartment in Escondido Village. Escondido Village is part of the graduate housing at Stanford and, though some have tried, there is not a patch of dirt to call your own. The inspiration came through a New York Times article linked to instructions on how to build a “salad table.” The concept was simple: 4 inches of compost mix held up by hardware mesh and window screening for drainage elevated to a height of 3 feet. The revelation was the tremendous diversity that could be grown in only 4 inches of something less than soil. My table included bunching onions, radishes and a variety of salad. The term salad, of course, could loosely be applied to any leaves that were intended to be eaten raw. My favorite surprise of that summer was a red leafed amaranth. Allowed to grow to its full extent, the plant would have reached upwards of 6 feet and shed thousands of seeds—useful when ground into a traditional flour. My plants, neatly groomed and confined to their shallow home had a soft green leaf with red radiating outward from the center. Understated--being one of my favorite attributes--its colors intensified for any passerby inquisitive enough to turn over the leaf.

With no premeditated intent, the garden and the containers multiplied. I was a little self-conscious of its appearance. For some reason, although I’m not exactly sure why, I was concerned that the university would have a problem with it. For geometrical reason, the hose also ran through the house and out a duct that was intended to ventilate a drier. (Since the units no longer came with driers, the duct was now available.) I was worried my roommates would object to the hose running across the kitchen floor. Instead, I was astounded by the positive comments from those who walked by. In particular, an older Chinese gentleman would frequently meet me outside and, though he didn’t speak a single world of English, manage to convey his criticism of my technique. (Coincidently, his criticisms reflected my mother’s, who always accused me of being too harsh on the plants. This gentleman would have preferred that I snip around the outer leaves of the greens instead of lopping off the whole top. I still lop off the whole top.)

Moving into Shakedown St (a house, don’t let the name fool you) gave me the chance to establish my garden in the ground. One of the subtler aspects of a garden that is somehow partially lost when it is containerized is the emotion that a particular plant conjures up—each plant’s emotional avatar being slightly different. Describing these emotions would be akin to describing the color green, but I can say that it is a meld of an increased knowledge of the plant’s botany and lifecycle as well as an intimacy in the finer details of the plants appearance and touch that get recorded and brought to life with, say, the smell of a tomato plant. When a plant’s affection is particularly strong, it can persist as nostalgia for an entire lifetime. Such is the case with the smell of a tomato plant—which somehow reminds me of the passage of time.

In the course of maintaining these Shakedown gardens, I discovered a surprising affection for two plants in particular: garlic and potatoes. For one thing, these plants excited me simply because I had never thought to grow them before. The intrigue with potatoes lay in the mystery. I was forced to tend to the above ground plant, watch it grow and, indirectly through the course of care, cover its bounty from my vision. (Potatoes require mounding around the base so that the tubers avoid expose to sunlight. Sunlight produces solanine, the toxic substance present in nightshades that made Europeans hesitant to eat spuds in the first place.) Digging them up when it was finally time was a simple boyish pleasure. Garlic, on the other hand, seemed far more stately than its onion counterparts. A member of the lily family, with many other bulbed and cormed plants, garlic seemed to possess a grace common to the more oft-admired lilies. I also liked the idea that I could still be eating from the harvest months after pulling the plants out of the ground.

The decline of this garden started this past summer after several successful winter and summer seasons. I’m not sure why, but my motivation seemed to dwindle while that of the slugs, gophers and birds reached an all-time peak. I would occasionally muster up some inspiration, plants a few seedlings only to have them removed entirely by a Stellar’s Jay or evaporated over the course of several nights by the local gastropods.

This past weekend I gathered enough inspiration to not only plant a garden but also fortify it with bird netting and pellet sized booby-traps for the slugs. Hopefully this will lead to success. I still went outside this morning half-expecting my new plants to be gone or severely damaged. Contained in my fortified vegetable garden are peas, broccoli, Chinese cabbage and chard. I also planted some non-edibles on the theory that caring for something with no material gain attached to it is good for the soul. (Although, last time I planted something with no economic value, it was an Astilbe that my roommate removed as a weed—poetic justice for all, except the two Astilbes.) Among these are a rush, a grass and a sedge. I have taught several classes of sixth graders the difference between these superficially similar families by quoting the poem “Sedges have sides, rushes are round, grasses have nodes and willows abound.” Now I have an example of each. The grass is Festuca Idahoensis. Festucas, or fescues, are my favorite genus of grass because their bluish gray shades remind me that California’s grasslands used to be dominated by these colors. I cheated somewhat with my non-edible plants, buying Foxglove that is nearly ready to bloom, but I need some early successes for positive reinforcement. Early successes would be a great bellwether.