Freezing Coastline

This past Saturday I had the opportunity to drive down to Montana de Oro in the morning before the sun had much of a chance to warm things up for the day. The drive out to the trail was spectacular and the faint smell of campfires filled the cool, moist air giving the winter a whole new dimension. Just last week the temperatures here in SLO were averaging around 75 degrees and I was wearing shorts and tee-shirts all week long. That attire applied to this week's weather equals hypothermia!
As my sister and I started out on the trail, the familiar smell of sweet grass and coastal shrubs filled the air. The only warmth provided was given by the direct light of the sun. The breeze was very cold. The trail winded down through the grass and spilled out on the cliffs, dropping off down to vertical wet shale beneath.

The wind was whipping up the sides of the cliffs providing the perfect draft for hawk and seagull to ride upon effortlessly.

As we walked along the cliff's edge and looked out onto the sea, low cumulus clouds cast innumerable shadows on the water, giving the ocean an even more rugged feel. This picture was ever-changing as the wind pushed clouds in and out of the sun's view, making for a very thermally dynamic hike. At the water's edge, creative rock formations channeled water in and out of the area, creating tide pools for some, and providing a source for "anger management" on others where waves were free to crash in any which direction. One corridor provided a very straight, ever-narrowing route by which the water could travel. Because of its violence upon entry, the white water seemed to be purer than usual. In fact, if taken out of context, it looked as though an avalanche were approaching the shoreline in a perfect tone of white. A very sad and battered log had somehow made its way into this corridor and was stuck underneath some of the rocks at the end of the water's path. It flowed in and out and in again, not really minding the mundane nature of its activity. I doubt if that log will ever find its way out of that gully - it's trapped there by the constant force of white water slamming it against rock and slowly deteriorating it into tiny chunks of bark - death by solitary confinement and torture.

As I looked up after pointing the log out to my sister, I saw something that made me do a double-take. Could that be snow in the distance? At first it was hard to tell because a few gray clouds were hovering over the top of the distant range, but a short minute later, the clouds retreated, revealing a healthy covering of snow on the coastal range mountains just east of Cambria.

I did my very best to take pictures of it by changing resolution, aperture values, lighting options, and the above was the very best that I could come up with. A bit difficult to make out, but nevertheless, SNOW! I felt as if I were transported to the Oregon or Washington coastline for a moment, and enjoyed the unique sight.

More hawks and gulls danced along the updrafts as I meandered back to my car, looking back every minute or two to make sure that the snow was still there.

Air

Wednesday's class this past week was spent on a hike up to Rockslide Ridge - a place that I hadn't yet had a chance to get to over the years. Our time was absolutely gorgeous:

















Air is a strange substance: Invisible, but visible. Necessary, but destructive. Able to be both cold and warm, it does not suffer. It cannot be traced, but can only be spotted. It's through the transparent lens of this cool breeze that I am able to see the beauty of the hills that surround me. On this day in particular, one can, with good enough vision, see all the way to Santa Barbara. Granted a little more elevation, the channel islands would be easily visible to the naked eye, though almost 100 miles away.
Air is a channel - a medium. Light is able to travel through paths of empty space as well as non-empty space. Its heat is transmitted through the winds, but is not dissipated within it. Really, we live in an aquarium - an aquarium of air, or perhaps an "airium" would be a more appropriate term. Walking on the bottom of our sea, we don't see the sea around us. Our gills constantly filter out the good from the bad and an ancient cycle is once again repeated. In one sense, we are all little "SpongeBob's," going about our business, soaking up what we need to, squeezing it out when we become bored.
How is it that though it cannot be seen, its forces can be observed even on my own body. It can be FELT, and TASTED, but cannot be seen. How then can I trust it? Is it real? Perhaps it's just a big hoax, but it can't be. It resists my body when riding a bike, I can feel it entering and leaving my lungs, I can smell something like parsley by means of it... and so I know it is there by faith and nothing else. Sight, I suppose, could be just as relative as any other sense. But I do not nullify the existance of a book because I cannot taste it! For the same reason, I cannot nullify the existance of air because I cannot see it.
Air is a strange substance: Invisible, but visible. Necessary, but destructive. Able to be both cold and warm, it does not suffer. It cannot be traced, but can only be spotted.