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empty armchair 3

Give It A Rest

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Sometimes it dawns on me that I’m probably an armchair adventurer.  You want the best trip into the wild?  Read someone else’s account, complete with beauty, hardship, awe, and maybe a little disaster thrown into the mix. 

Early on in this particular hike the heat and sun were getting to me.  Why had I left cooler Hollywood to head inland to the higher, and in the summer, hotter mountains? I was lucky I brought my hat and yet the sun was still making me squint and I was feeling the precursor to a headache.  I finally relented to using my sunglasses, but I always find they make my world feel completely different.  I like the idea of them, but I always feel a bit out of it when I wear them, and I don’t think they help with the headache.

As I’m walking I wonder what brought me out here.  What made me leave my apartment on one of my few days off to hike alone into the mountains during the heat of the day?  Then the summit feels closer, I can see the radio towers up top and they are closer than I would have expected.  I also notice a single track trail heading off into the woods.  I take the detour and relish the change in direction.

I am starting to enjoy myself until the bugs reach me.  My head is swarmed by small flies and gnats that are infatuated with my eyes and ears.  I had had a massage the day before and realized how tense I had been.  On the walk I am trying to relax however, the bugs make me crouch forward, ready to flinch.  Still somehow, I feel I should keep going, that I’ll enjoy the experience more in retrospect than if I simply turn around.  At least there’s some shade and I’m pretty sure I pass both bear and mountain lion scat. 

I haven’t seen any hikers in at least an hour and so am surprised when I come across a few older women.  They warn me of a rattlesnake and lots of poison oak ahead.  This only makes me more committed to going further.  I’m careful to avoid any plants and am on the look out for the snake that I assume will not be an issue.  I pick up a few dry pieces of grass to wave around my head to keep the bugs away. 

Finally, more of a rhythm.  I hear water and know there must be a creek ahead.  When I arrive I am surprised to find a pristine camp site, but as I near the creek the water seems shallow and the bugs make me think twice of going in.  Still I realize it’s early, I have plenty of water, and it doesn’t feel like time to turn back.  The trail is less defined and I’m hoping it will lead to the steep ridge I spotted earlier that looks like it might be passable with a little scrambling.  The terrain is dense with chaparral though and I can never tell if the trail is going forward or about to switch back again to climb higher away from the creek. 

Reaching the top of a different and much lower ridge, I’m blasted again with heat.  I try to figure out whether there are more bugs in the shade or heat.  I don’t think it matters. It seems impossible to escape them either way, and yet, I can’t seem to ever get used to them.  I’m always tense.  The sound of one buzzing toward my ear instinctually feels awful. 

The trail begins to descend again and I hear the familiar sound of water- now this will be a good place to take a dip and call it a day before turning around.  However, as I approach the creek I see it is barely a trickle.  It is less than three feet wide and no more than 8 inches deep.  Furthermore, it looks oddly yellow.  I wonder if the color is somehow related to the regions up stream that were burned during the great forest fire last year.  Still, I sit down to get the rocks out of my shoes and decide at the very least to put my feet in.  I move into the sun and realize after a few minutes, the bugs don’t seem to be around as much.  Could something so simple as stopping for a rest have allowed them to become bored with me?

I’m always amazed at how water that can feel so cold when you first put your feet in can start to feel fine and I’m convinced that I should attempt to sit in the creek.  I take off my shirt, face the sun and slowly lower myself in.  The water is so low it doesn’t even cover my legs, but it feels good.  I take another look at the creek and decide I should lie down. Now getting my back and chest wet sounds like torture, but I know that as soon as I turn around I’ll be as hot as can be once out of the trees.  So slowly I lower myself into the water.  I cringe at the cold, but try to relax telling myself soon it won’t be so bad. I lower more and more until all but my head is in the water.  Finally I put my hands behind my head and fully lay down.

 And there I am, six miles from the trailhead, in the middle of the national forest, lying down in a tiny creek. I feel like a reptile, a cold blooded animal whose top half is baking in the sun while my back is cooled by the water.  I have a Zen moment.  The intense cold, the insects, the comfort, the ability to relax are all one.  The absurdity makes it all worthwhile.  It also somehow makes it feel real.

As I get up to leave I’m in a remarkably more upbeat mood.  I know soon I’ll be hot again, and I’m willing to bet the bugs will feel unbearable once more, but in the moment and on into the future I know it’ll have been worthwhile to give the old armchair a rest.

-Martin-

Good Maurice, The Badd Llama

Who’s Guarding The Roost?

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Good Maurice, The Badd Llama

 “How many teeth does it have?” 

That’s the first thing my mother asked me after learning Jane had a surprise for her. As a messy blond kid my younger sister’s surprises included a humming bird, some snakes and several families of pill bugs, which she relocated to my bed. Steadily, these unexpected gifts grew in size. 

Thanks to Jane, now a farm-oriented business lady, we own goats, sheep and hundreds of chickens. 

“Do you really want to know?” I asked. 

“No, don’t tell me.” 

My mother likes a good shock, which must be why our home looks like Old McDonald’s petting zoo. Still, she had some initial reservations. 

“I have a feeling it will require a lot of care and will harm me,” she said. 

I wanted to ease my mom’s fears, but couldn’t since I knew nothing about llamas. Jane had mentioned getting one, but it seemed she’d considered taking in creatures ranging from Shetland ponies to hippos, so I didn’t take her seriously—until she wrote me the following. 

“… also don’t tell mom, but I am buying them a llama, b/c the coyotes have eaten too many of our chickens and I am afraid for the goats.” 

When Jane puts something in writing it’s a done deal. 

On one level it made sense. Our home is in a rural-ish suburb, just north of the Golden Gate Bridge, but close enough to open space for wild animals to roam comfortably. Coyotes had recently moved in, and we’d spotted them lurking around the goat pen and once my mother saw one bounding through high grass to pounce on an unlucky bird. 

A hole  in our fence was plugged with a tree branch, but that was a temporary solution. Jane wanted a more permanent fix for our wily problem, and she argued, what better than a lama?  

A dog, I guess, but my sister isn’t one for convention. Besides, she said, these South American camelids are badder and bigger than any dog. 

That’s what my mom was afraid of: a six-foot wooly beast that needs its “fighting teeth” removed to prevent ear ripping and genital biting (mostly of other llamas) according to the care manual. 

If there’s danger, Jane said, “The goats and chickens know to get behind them.” As for the coyote, she said, “it gets trampled.” 

A few days after the email, a truck pulling a large trailer drove up to the house and a woman from a dusty llama and schnauzer farm (the owners raised the llamas for pleasure, the dogs for profit) led the latest member of our menagerie to his new home. 

From a distance Maurice, or Banjo as we sometimes call him, looks terrifying and ridiculous. His ears arch like devil horns, his eyes look slanted and red.  

 He’s been shaved around his mid section, so that only his neck and legs are covered in dark brown, ocher-highlighted curls of wool—like a French poodle demon.  

On closer inspection, however, he appears much less imposing. Maurice is about my height—with maybe 100 pounds on me—but while he’s big enough to ride he’s shy. His face looks like a cute wooly camel and his deceptive eyes are actually large and black orbs. He spent the first few days in his new home whimpering.  

With lama pellets, we’ve slowly begun to gain this big softy’s trust, and he’s kept up his end of the bargain—there hasn’t been a single coyote sighting since he showed up. 

Yesterday, after my mom had finished corralling the animals and feeding them, I asked what she thought of Jane’s latest present. 

“It’s a good one,” she said. “But I’m all animaled out.  No more for a while” 

Now I’m wondering if I should tell her about the Indian runner ducks my uncle ordered her this summer, as a surprise of course. 

-Will

Milky Lookalike Portrait

The Zone and the Art of Goat Milking

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It took sweat, tears and getting peed on, but this month I learned how to milk a goat. It wouldn’t have been possible without a lesson I learned at eight years old inside a dim elementary school gymnasium, when I first experienced “the zone.” I’m sure you’re familiar with it—that mindset that transports you to a state of potent, yet effortless focus.

I was toeing the free throw line to practice shooting, growing increasingly frustrated by a series of misses. Everything distracted me: the old building’s echo; dust particles in the light; my dad’s firm reassurances.  

After one particularly bad miss, he stopped me.

“Let’s take a break,” he said.

We walked outside to a tanbark playground and sat, looking at the dry hills for awhile. My dad asked if I was excited about the house we were moving into.

“Well yeah,” I said. “It’s got so much space.”

“Did you explore with your sister?”

“Around the house a little. The neighbor girl played tag with us.”

“It’s a good place for sports” he said. “Maybe we’ll build a basketball hoop there.”

“I think I want to be a baseball player.”

My dad laughed. “Come on. Let’s give it one more try.” He slapped my shoulder. I was feeling pretty good.

Inside, I stepped to the free-throw line once more, took three deep breaths, bent my knees and made my first shot. And my next one. Then I couldn’t miss. It was better than that; it was like the ball couldn’t even touch the rim. The walls reverberated with swoosh after satisfying swoosh.

 “You’re in the zone son,” my dad said.

The next shot went up, way wide. That was lesson number two about the zone—when you’ve got it, don’t think about it.

Over the next 17 years my family and an assortment of pets grew into our house, and I had plenty of opportunities to get into the zone. It helped me pull weeds in the garden; helped replant the flowers I mistakenly yanked, and helped me shoot baskets in the backyard. It also came in handy when I came home from college one summer and constructed a goat pen for some new residents.

 I can rarely recall needing it more, however, than earlier this month when my parents left for a summer weekend in Yosemite and I had to milk a goat for the first time. And not just any goat. Milky. So named by my sister for her whitish complexion, though she could have also been called “Kicky,” or “Obstinance” or “Stumpy” for a variety of her other traits.

“There’s no way that’s a goat,” my mom told my sister when she brought the scrappy looking creature home, believing for months it was a pig, and eventually a sheep.

But Milky proved her genetics when she gave birth to three very cute baby goats last month. To keep the milk flowing and our fridge stocked after the kids were weaned, my mom and dad went out every morning to milk her, until it was just me home alone.

My practice run the day before my parents departure ended very badly. I squeezed, Milky’s udder and nothing came out. I squeezed harder and she had bucked and rocked. I squeezed one more time and she peed on my hand.

“She’s never done that before,” said my Mom.

“Aaaahhhhhh,” I said.

“Oh well,” she said.

“Aaahhhahhh aahhha hahhhh,” I said.

My parents finished the job while I cleaned my hands off, thinking about the mess I would be in the next day. I returned to watch the last stages, and hopefully pick up a few tips from my mom. Milking a goat is not a difficult process. You gentle push the udder to guide the milk into one of the teets, clamp it with thumb and forefinger so the liquid doesn’t retract, and gradually squeeze down with your middle and ring fingers to push the milk out.

If you’re bad at this, it produces a meager drizzle of milk. If you are good, it’s more of a stream that hits the milking pan in a satisfying shower. For the experienced milker, it’s a 10 minute job; for the inexperienced one, it’s half-an-hour plus.

Probably the real challenge is getting the goat to cooperate, and handling the assorted goaty smells.

Before my mom left, she gave me some good advice.

“You’ve just got to get in the zone,” she said. 

The zone. Of course. But easier said than done.

The next day I should’ve done the milking at sunrise, but overslept and had to go to my sister’s house to help her build a fence. When I next looked at my watch, it was 5:35 p.m.  and I’d left Milky with a near bursting udder for an entire day.

She let me know about it when I finally got home with a bleating that started strong but faded to a whimper. I lured her onto the milk stand with some grain and fastened her in. I don’t know the exact consequences of not milking goats at the right time, but the way she wavered uncomfortably on her perch, it looked bad. As I started, the more she stomped and kicked, the more I started to feel the pressure. If I didn’t pull it together, my situation and that of the animal I was supposed to be helping, was bound to get worse.

But the goat did not seem to be in a cooperative mood. With each squeeze of her udders only a few drips of white fluid came out. My arms and wrists grew tired. A goat of her size typically yields three cups of milk; my efforts had produced a quarter teaspoon.

I stopped for a break and went to cut some rose branches.

“Alright Milky,” I said. “We can do this.”

I put her favorite food in front of her and took three deep breaths, then started again. The milk came out a little faster, the strain on my arms was less severe and then the sound of the milk hitting the pail became hypnotic.  And there I was—in the zone.

I squeezed Milky’s udder once more and nothing came out, this time because the bag was empty. Milky seemed content as she walked back to her pen and I returned to the house to strain the milk and have some with a bowl of cereal.

My mom and dad returned two days later.

“How’d it go,” they asked.

“Easy,” I said.

Really though, I’m not taking anything for granted. They’re headed out of town in a few days and I’m prepping for another visit to the milking stand and the zone.  

-Will

postscript:  Time has passed and Will is now a “semi” pro at milking Milky – look for the long video version of “How to Milk a Goat” under EntertainingYourself – Hip Hobbies. It’s sure to entertain – at least for a bit!  

Shoreline Lake

Sunny Spot: Mountain View, CA

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Shoreline Lake

 

SHOUT OUT to our fans in MOUNTAIN VIEW, CALIFORNIA.  This week you have the highest number of hits on the EntertainingYourself.com website.  We LOVE it and we wanted to find out what’s happening in your town so we did a little digging.  First – your weather for Thursday, 11/18/10 – 65 degrees & partly SUNNY & partly cloudy!  Pretty Great for November! A Sunny Spot FOR SURE!!!  Fun Fact – You have a place called Shoreline Park which includes 750 acres (wow) set aside for wildlife and recreation (hiking, biking, climbing, running – all favorite pastimes)!  Not too shabby!  You also have sister cities:  Iwata, Japan and Hasselt, Belgium!  We can’t wait to learn more about you!  Please let us know how you are Entertaining Yourselves in Mountain View!

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Jumping In California Style

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Bike Path

Santa Monica Bike Path

With less than two weeks to go until my first marathon, I decided to head to the famous Santa Monica bike path for one final effort to gauge my fitness.  Since most of my runs have been on hilly and mountainous trails I thought a flat run with mile markers would be a good way to find out if some of my ambitious goals were reasonable for this race.

From the start of my run I was chomping at the bit to get going fast.  Rather than a long warm up, and easing into an effort as I usually do, I felt almost paranoid to get down to business and begin my workout.

During the run I felt slightly discouraged despite hitting the mile times I wanted to be running.  My brain was saying “wow this is pretty hard, I couldn’t hold this up for 4 times as long. There’s no way I could run an additional 19 miles at this pace.”  Yet in the end I reached my goal and maybe even ran a little faster.  It was a strange feeling to have just accomplished what I set out to do and yet not feel satisfied.

After the run I went to get water, and all of a sudden had the idea to go in the ocean.  It hit me so quickly I almost went with out doing a cool down.  Sure there were questions like what will I do with my shoes?  Will I lose my car key if I jump in? But I decided to risk it and take the plunge.

Within minutes I was playing in the water and diving through the waves.  I couldn’t remember the last time I had played in the ocean like this and the feeling of surfing a wave reminded of summers from my childhood on Long Island.  Afterwards I retrieved my shoes, and lay out in the sun to dry.  Of course in a significantly better mood.

I came to the beach to run without even the slightest notion of swimming and yet going in the water turned out to be the highlight of my day.  After the swim I was able to see my run in a different light.  During my run I accomplished what I set out to do.  Sure it felt hard, but training runs usually feel much harder than races.  And with long runs in the days prior to this and hot weather I should have expected today’s run to feel hard.  What I was hoping for was this magical feeling that can occur in a run where you are able to surpass your expectations and have it feel effortless.  What I forgot is that those experiences rarely occur when in the mindset I was in when I set off.  Those special runs occur when you are completely relaxed, when you decide to have fun, or get the urge to go after it.

I don’t know what time I am going to run during my marathon next week, but I do know today’s run was certainly nothing to be discouraged about.  And I was reminded that even when pursuing one’s goals, there are always hidden opportunities waiting for you.  I suggest you let go and jump in.

-Martin

valley_picture

Hawk Camp: The Worst and Best of Times

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I love camping – despite the fact it almost always involves some measure of discomfort, misery and danger, either real or imagined.  And if you survive, those are all good things because camping pushes you out of your comfort zone, shows what you’re capable of and, hear me out…provided you keep your sense of humor and an eye on the BIG picture, it’s one of life’s greatest opportunities for Entertaining Yourself –and others too –with the stories you bring back.

When things do go wrong, (as they inevitably do when nature’s in charge), sometimes the situations get so ridiculous you begin to wonder if you actually lived through them, saw them on TV or just remembered them from a dream.

I discovered this for myself at the ripe old age of 18 when my girlfriend, Bijani—a name with Persian origins meaning hero— suggested we have one final romantic getaway before leaving for college.  Hey, it was the summer before freshman year – a time full of promise and new experiences – so without hesitating (or truly thinking about what we were getting ourselves into) I said “Absolutely!”

Our destination:  The remote Hawk Camp, which overlooks Gerbode Valley in the Golden Gate National Recreation area.  Bijani knew enough about the Parks to call ahead for a reservation, and I knew that camping would give me the opportunity to impress her with my handiness at directions – especially since the Park is just a short distance from my house.

Full of enthusiasm, we planned a dawn start, hoping to arrive at the campsite with plenty of time to scope out the area.  In fact, it was 10:00 a.m. when two sleepy teens backed out of my girlfriend’s driveway, which probably explains why, somewhere between her house and the park, we got lost. Not badly exactly, we just couldn’t for the life of us find the trailhead.

“What were you telling me about a natural sense of direction?” Bijani chuckled.

Oops…this was not going quite the way I planned…but I thought it best to be a good sport. “Ok”, I smiled, “we can ask for directions.”

Three parking lots, a couple of off ramps and onramps, and one visit to a ranger station later and we had a map, (as well as a clue) about where to go.  It was 90 degrees, Bijani’s car had no air conditioning, but hey…we were young and our readiness to laugh at anything, plus a sing along session to “Tainted Love” and other 80s classics, saw us up to the point where we unpacked the car in high spirits.

Yes, it was already 1 p.m., still, we had the whole bright afternoon before us and the prospect of a leisurely, satisfying hike. What did a dusty, steep fire road matter? We had glorious sunshine and coastal shrubbery surrounding us, as we passed the time doing what a pair of kinda nerdy high-schoolers like to do: discussing our friend’s lives and Star Wars trivia, and arguing about whether Hobbe’s description of man’s condition as “nasty, brutish, and short” was right (at the time I argued it wasn’t, but after our trip was over, I wasn’t so certain anymore).

We continued climbing, but the higher we ascended the foggier it became and the less helpful our map seemed; it dawned on us that we hadn’t seen a sign for Hawk Camp since we first started. Now a cascade of fog greeted us as we crested a hill, only able to see the fuzzy outlines of nearby brush and what looked like lunar landing equipment.

“Where are we?” Bijani said.

“A weather station?”

“What’s there?”

From the haze a shape approached us rapidly, and a biker gradually materialized before us.   “Thank heaven,” we thought, “someone who can help us!”

“Excuse me.” Bijani said after he stopped for a drink of water, “do you know where Hawk Camp is?”

He wasn’t from the area, he told us, remounting his bike and slowly riding off. “Sometimes what you seek is right before you,” he said over his shoulder.

“Thanks… I think,” Bijani said, and we laughed.   A real life brush with a Philosopher…or a jerk…I wasn’t entirely sure, but at least we knew there was human life out there so we couldn’t be too far off the mark… could we?

We decided not to “look ahead” but to follow our own inclination to turn around, descending back into the sunshine where we found a sign for Hawk Camp, hidden behind some chaparral (which for those of you who haven’t spent much time in the woods of the Southwest, are thorny bushes not really fun to be close to.)  Back on track, and with only a few burrs in our clothing, it was now 4:00 p.m. and, starving, we stopped at a small rock outcrop for a well deserved snack.

I got out our olive bread and cheese (real campers have to think healthy, so we didn’t bust out the Twinkies, even though you always see those wrappers in parts of the park you wouldn’t expect).   Mmmmm…I could all but taste the delicious combo, warm from being in our back packs…but just as I ripped off a piece, ready to take that big first bite, a sharp, slobbery something chomped my hand. I heard a yelp in the distance: “No Bobo, No Bobo!”

I found myself wrestling with Bobo, a generously proportioned yellow lab, who was alternately tearing bread from my hand and biting it. Victorious, the dog scampered off with the entire loaf still partially inside it’s now ragged bag.  A jogger in full spandex ran past. “Sorry—he doesn’t usually do that. Come back Bobo, Come back.”

Bijani and I looked at each other in stunned silence for a second. “Who is this person???” we thought.

“Don’t come back,” I yelled, and we sat down laughing again. We only had one loaf of bread left for tonight and tomorrow morning, but we had some other provisions and good company goes a long way.

An hour later, we spotted the last sign for Hawk Camp, following the arrow along a narrow trail to a somewhat dejected gathering of cedars. Not quite the setting we were expecting, but hey…we were on our own and so far, our adventure had been <mostly> fun.   It was nearly 6:00 when we finally unloaded on a bench near our allotted campsite. It’d been a long day and both of us just wanted to set up and eat an unobstructed meal.

Already the coastal fog was rolling in and the sun grew weaker and weaker. This was the real test of the positivity we’d maintained all day. As we struggled to erect the tent, a strong wind picked up, snapping one of the supports and threatening to blow the whole shelter away. After a pitched battle lasting nearly two hours, we stepped back to admire our handiwork, which would have passed for the Hunchback of Notre Dame’s less attractive cousin. It was almost completely dark.

We gave up on exploring, settling into our sleeping bags to realize that not only was the ground slanted,  but moisture was condensing on the campsite’s trees, falling in large drops exclusively on our slouched tent, and filling it with water to kiddy pool levels.

“We could move,” I whispered.

“Too tired,” Bijani replied, turning away.

I’ve heard adversity brings people together, and at that moment, I felt like I could read Bijani’s thoughts. She was thinking: I hate you for bringing me here.  And then I thought…hey, this was your big idea…and then I thought…well, actually, I was too exhausted to think anymore and I fell into a deep sleep, the kind that is easiest when you are young and you are trying to escape life’s pressures!)

We woke up wet, exhausted and hungry, and silently, we drained our tent. I figured we’d return home, Bijani would break up with me and I’d probably catch pneumonia.  But then something amazing began to happen, even as we were hauling our waterlogged clothes and supplies, our spirits rose with the sun, and increased the further we got away from Hawk Camp.

“Well,” Bijani said as we retraced our steps on the fire road, “at least we have a good story.” I realized she was right!  I already couldn’t wait to call up our friends and tell them about everything that had happened; we’d be the life of the next party.  Or not… it didn’t really matter because at least  Bijani and I were laughing about it. And in the end, I guess, that’s the best thing you can hope for from a camping or any other experience.   Of course, one good tale per adventure is more than enough and for this excursion, we were both happy to have an uneventful trip back to the car and home. But the next time a friend called to ask me to go camping…you know what I said… “Absolutely!”   Hey..sometimes you’ve just got to go ahead and jump-in!

-Will-

goat3

Don’t Knock It If You Haven’t Tried It!

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Just over a year ago one of my younger sisters did two things that surprised me. One: she got married. Two: she bought a pair of goats. At 21 I wasn’t sure Jane was ready to start her own family, much less a herd, but then, she’d surprised me before.

Still, goats? People actually raise them outside commercial farms? The answer, in Northern California where I live and indeed many other places in the US, is yes. After spending some time with these curious creatures, it’s easy to see why. For one, as my sister says, “they’re just so cute.”

When brought up on a small family or “hobby” farm, goats assume many characteristics of a family dog. They love running around (you can walk them on a leash); they enjoy human company; and they’re perfectly content just to hang out with you while you read a book. The breed Jane picked, Nigerian Dwarves, even look like larger dachshunds, only with broader muzzles and perky ears.

Of course goats don’t bark or fetch, and they have their own peculiar quirks. It’s widely rumored, for example, that goats, given the slightest opportunity, will eat anything, especially your clothing—that’s not exactly true. They certainly do like to nibble (their mouth being a primary means of gathering information about the world around them), so if you’re wearing loose garments or if you have shoelaces, they have difficulty keeping themselves from taking a nip. Don’t worry though, goats only have a bottom row of teeth, meaning they can’t really cause any damage, unless your clothes are made of leaves.

It’s also widely reported that goats are great climbers, which is something I can confirm. I’ve seen kids (baby goats) less than a week old dance over hay bales, wood piles, and rocks that even the most intrepid six-year old humans wouldn’t tackle. For goats, it’s all about flair, as they buck, turn and spin while leaping through the air.

Life with these animals is not without challenges, however, and my sister did extensive research into proper goat grooming, what makes an ideal environment and techniques for raising them. Perhaps their greatest needs are a space to roam around, and a place to turn in for the night. To build a goat pen at my parents’ house, my father conscripted Jane’s husband, Ben, into a kind of modern-day bride service. It was hard work, but after several weeks of sawing, hammering and digging, my sister’s goats had a home on par with many New York City studio apartments, albeit situated in one of the more rural parts of a San Francisco suburb.

This manger made it possible for Jane to purchase a soon-to-be mother goat, as it would now have a safe place for its young. When new kids were born, to accustom them to humans, we began bottle feeding them after a week or so. There’s not too much more adorable than a tiny goat wagging its tail as it drinks a bottle of milk from your lap, something my mother, who we’ve nicknamed the goat whisperer, does remarkably well. These days, it’s not unusual for us to be eating dinner, with a goat neatly folded in my mother’s lap, quietly observing the goings on at the family table.

My sister’s family herd has expanded to include about 20 goats and two shepherding dogs, some of whom live with her and her husband at a farm-house fixer upper they rent, some who remain at my parents’ house. In the end, the real surprise wasn’t that Jane was ready to start her own life, but rather how pleasant, and well, normal living with goats seems now, and how hard it is to imagine a day here without them.

-Will-

Carving Urban Fresh Tracks

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“It’s made out of old tennis shoes?” The look on most kids’ faces was priceless. And I admit that when offered a skateboard to “try some tricks” the surface began looking awful hard for shoe rubber… But it’s true, Nike teamed up with Paul Rodriguez (aka P-Rod) and the LA84 Foundation to build a new kind of skate park, made out of recycled materials including old shoes.

The vibe at the event was awesome. I showed up over two hours before the grand opening and there were already over 200 skaters as young as age 5 skating around. Before the park was officially unveiled, skaters killed time by meeting new people, doing tricks for their friends, or waiting in line to be one of the first to get P-Rod and the rest of the Nike Skateboard Team’s autographs (some came over 5 hours early just to be first!).

The event took place on “go ride a skate board” and which happens to fall on father’s day. Fittingly, the event officially kicked off with a humorous speech by P-Rod’s father Paul Rodriguez Sr. As he switched off between English and Spanish for the widely Latino/a community, Paul shared stories of his son growing up in the nearby neighborhood and what it was like watching his son become a professional skate boarder.

When the park was finally opened for skating, literally hundreds of kids rushed the park to say hi to P-Rod and ride the new ramps, stairs and rails. Order was maintained through sheer awe as the pro riders started doing huge tricks over the stair gap.Some riders watched, while others ventured to different areas of the large park to create their own skate sessions for family and community members to watch.

Seeing all the young skaters that came out to this event made me realize how important places like this are for kids. This park in particular was created to look and act like real street skate spots rather than a cage filled with ramps. While older and hardcore skaters will continue to seek additional street spots, for younger and new skaters this place offers a legal and safe place to practice and hang out, which ultimately will attract and keep more youth in the sport.

-Martin-