Is the SuperBloom even a thing? Well apparently so. I say this in the context of showing my SuperBloom photos weeks later to people who are not from California. To be met with a “that’s nice” or a casual “yeah, looks pretty”. The challenge for these people (who herald from places with a lot of rain), is that the vibrant grassy hillsides and explosions of spring color in California are really not so unusual or impressive for them. That green green grass of home that we grew up with in the UK (also very apparent in the Pacific Northwest), well it’s green for a reason.

For a number of years, I think pretty much since we moved out to California in 2011, there has been a drought in this state. Maybe we didn’t realize it early on. As visitors from a much wetter background, we just relished the clear blue skies and lapped up the sunny days as totally fitting our expectations of the California vibe. Over the years, the terrain gradually got drier, the fields got barer and the barren sandy hillsides became the norm. We didn’t realize dry was a thing, to us it was just the way it was. And the desert is supposed to be dry, right?

Spring 2019 however, was bucking the recent meteorological trend. I know it’s all relative with the horrendous weather that some other areas were experiencing (I’m talking polar vortex and hurricanes) but California had… wait for it… RAIN! Big deal for SoCal. Headline breaking rain. The type of rain that ruins weekend activities, leaving you pining for the outdoors, your only option to ensconce yourself on the couch, eat comfort food, and binge watch some Game of Thrones re-runs.

I start with this rather long-winded introduction just to set the scene and to level set your expectations, in case you’re not quite as impressed as we were. After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. So anyway, this particular weekend trip had been a long time coming. One of the supposed benefits of the extensive rain we’d been experiencing was the expanse of wildflowers emerging across the California countryside, in particular the desert areas. And so it began… we were on a mission. A mission to find wildflowers. A mission to experience the California SuperBloom.

Plenty of cacti, but where are all the flowers?

First night camping spot, Anza-Borrego

First stop Anza-Borrego, the largest State Park in California. After a somewhat slow start on our first day, we did eventually find ourselves immersed in color. Overwhelmingly yellow – lemon yellow, butter yellow, egg yolk yellow – my limited research enlightened me that some of these were desert dandelions (hmmm), others desert sunflowers, and yet others brittle bush. A short hike took us even more up close and personal, with reds, whites and purples, and flowering cacti but I won’t even try to pretend I can remember their names.

It’s difficult to go anywhere near Joshua Tree National Park without paying it a visit. Visit we did, and JT in the spring, especially spring 2019, was a wonderful thing.

Cholla just starting to come into bloom

A ‘field’ of Cholla, or Teddy Bear Cactus, in front of a yellow-speckled hillside

Even the Joshua Trees were blooming

Camping amongst the lupines

Have pizza oven, will travel

One of the knock on effects of the SuperBloom is the additional food for the grubs to eat – leading to record numbers of butterflies. Actually a specific type of butterfly known as a ‘Painted Lady’ for its vibrant orange and black markings. We first started to notice the butterflies a week earlier on a local whale watching cruise. It seemed bizarre to see all these tiny winged creatures spasmodically flapping past us a few miles out at sea. My initial guess was that they were flying from the Californian Channel Islands to the mainland, maybe 10 miles in a straight line, which seemed kind of far for a butterfly to have to go without stopping.

Little did I know these butterflies were actually from Mexico, destination Oregon. Wait, what? A distance of over 3,000 miles! A journey that takes them right through California. What we’d seen out at sea were simply the brave leaders of the pack – the Mo Farrahs and the Paula Radcliffes of the butterfly world. A week later now in the desert, there were hundreds of the damn things flying past us, and while butterflies don’t really go in a straight line, they were unmistakenly heading north with a sense of purpose matched only by our SuperBloom endeavor.

Somehow a plague of butterflies is less freakish than a plague of locusts. But to give you a sense of scale, my subsequent google research revealed widely ranging number estimates – from 10 million to a billion Painted Ladies migrating north this year. That’s a lot of butterflies!

Final stop on the SuperBloom tour was Antelope Valley Poppy Reserve. We had actually been there 7 years earlier, thinking we’d wow my mum and dad who were visiting us from the UK at the time. With our very naive English outlook, we didn’t realize this whole thing about needing rain. So while there was the odd tiny splash of orange in the hedgerows around, at that time the poppy reserve itself was devoid of poppies. Not so on this trip, now this is what it’s all about. So mum and dad… these ones are for you!

After a refreshing swim in the estuary, my little jog around Morro Bay was a lot of fun. This is a classic laid back California beach town, with the balance just about right between traditional commercial fishing and tourism. And I could hear the barking of the seals in the harbor over the music in my headphones. Meanwhile, Darren explored a bit further on his SUP.

The cloud theme continued for the weekend. Saturday afternoon brought a walk from the campsite by the beach (at least I think we were by the beach, we could hear the surf even if we could barely see the sea) to the nearby brewery.

Prime spot!

The brewery is called Three Stacks and a Rock. Which just about sums up Morro Bay, from a distance at least. The Three Stacks refers to the trio of smokestacks towering over the power plant, oddly situated right in the center of town. And the Rock is the iconic volcanic rock that stands nearly 600 feet high at the entrance to the harbor. That said, we had yet to see the top of the Rock on this trip. Makes you even wonder if there even was a top… (like the Magic Faraway Tree with a whole world of different lands swirling around).

At least Darren was happy: warm enough to sit outside and tuck into a steak cooked on the bbq, but cold enough to warrant having a campfire.

Sunday morning brought no more insight into whether Morro Rock did indeed have a top. After a leisurely breakfast in the Basecamp, we headed to nearby Montana de Oro State Park for a hike. Again the weather came into play – not much point in hiking up a hill/mountain into the cloud. As always, Darren had a Plan B. The Bluffs Trail.

The Bluffs Trail skirted the coast, meandering through pretty moorland, with dramatic rock stacks littering the ocean. I was mightily impressed with this section of the coast, so much so that we cut the walk short and I changed into my running gear instead. The air was heavy and humid, but the scenery just breathtaking as I ran from one rugged bay to the next.

As we headed back towards Morro Bay, a promising patch of blue sky appeared and by the time we reached the harbor, it was almost sunny. And so it was back out onto the water, this time in a rented double kayak, for another look at the seals, the sea lions and the adorable otters.

Aha… finally, we get to see the top of the Rock

Enjoying a paddle and checking out the otters

The view from the pub is actually quite similar to the view from the kayak!

Back at camp, we had a chilled out evening in our little home on wheels. Along came the blue sky we’d been waiting for all weekend, and we strolled along the water’s edge at the beach, with egrets, curlews and flocks of arctic terns for company.

Happy that the sun had made an appearance, revealing Morro Rock in all its glory, it seemed only right as the sun dipped low in the sky that we could see tomorrow’s cloud already gathering on the horizon. The fog would be back tomorrow for sure, but for now, we made the most of it as the sun set into the dark line of cloud above the ocean.

Surveying our surroundings for the night, we felt mightily pleased with ourselves. This is the kind of view you’d pay an arm and a leg for at a posh hotel. Instead, we were comfortably ensconced in our Basecamp, perched on a hilltop with breathtaking 360 degree views of the iconic rocks of Sedona.

When you bag such a perfect boondocking spot, you don’t expect to have it entirely to yourself. Indeed there were a couple of other RVs and one brave soul in a tent also camped out. But that’s ok – with friendly neighbours and plenty of space, we’re ok with sharing.

With trail runs/biking and hiking already under our belts for the day, we sat back and relaxed with our kindles (and maybe a beer or two), enjoying the peace and relative solitude.

And then this happened…

The pink jeep disgorged its hoard of vocal tourists, phones in hand, eager to swarm all over our personal paradise in their efforts to get the perfect picture. After much shrieking, whooping and hollering, they jumped back into the jeep and they were off. Breathing a sigh of relief, there was some eye rolling between us and the RV neighbours. With a resigned shrug, we were politely informed “That was nothin’. Just you wait until sunset”.

And so it was… for the next two hours, a steady stream of intrusion. The occasional sound of silence in between visitors was broken by the thrum of a distant engine and the telltale advancing cloud of dust. One of the cool things about the Basecamp is that we can see out, but people outside can’t see in. I took up residence by the window, like a meerkat on official watch duty and it became quite the entertainment for the afternoon.

As sunset approached, the party really got started. Prize for the loudest went to the tour group of quad bikes trying to out-rev each other as they jockeyed for position.

We ventured out to enjoy the last of the sun, bagging ourselves a prime spot perched on the back of the truck. By this time we were surrounded by maybe a dozen jeeps. The temperature plummeted and we responded with fleeces and woolly hats. Others responded by wrapping themselves in rugs. We glanced at each other, eyebrows raised – this merited a closer look. There was some murmuring and holding hands going on. Followed by what looked like sleep walking (think mummy impression, arms held aloft, eyes closed). Turns out they were here for the Sedona vortex (some hippy energy field thing). Pure class. And an unforeseen extra dimension to our evening’s entertainment.

And then… Boom. The sun was down and as quick as the circus had started, it was over. Like mice, they scurried back to their jeeps, leaving nothing behind but a fading trail of red lights heading into the darkness. And we were back to the cosy confines of the Basecamp. A home cooked pot of chilli. A bottle of red. And the wilderness.

Given the size of the Basecamp, you’d think it would be pretty difficult to lose stuff. But lose stuff we do. All the time. It started with socks. Darren’s socks to be exact. Bit of background… you know how when you go into some people’s houses, you take your shoes off at the door. Well it’s like that in the Basecamp. And it goes without saying that when you’re camping, especially winter camping, you want to be cosy. So we have some very special fluffy, warm, snuggle up socks specifically for this purpose. The basic premise: you take your outside shoes and socks off. And you put your cosy socks on.

To be fair, I actually lost my cosy socks before even setting foot in the Basecamp. (The advantage of writing this a week later in Miami is that they’ve now turned up – in my laptop bag of all places – doubling up as flight socks!). So Darren was way ahead of me, quietly smug in his cosy socks as the overnight temperature plummeted. But in the morning it was a different story.

So the obvious place to put your ‘normal’ socks when you put your cosy socks on is in your shoes by the door. But no… that would be too obvious. Takes all the fun out of it. Instead, we have a prolonged ‘hunt’ in the morning for where Darren’s other socks went. After looking in all the obvious places, we were both in agreement that someone must have broken in in the night and stolen them. In desperation and with no easy sock alternatives available, he had to keep his cosy socks on instead. It was only after our second hike of the day that, feeling a tad warm, Darren peeled off his cosy socks… only to find the missing ‘stolen’ socks underneath. Yep, he’d been wearing them the entire time. Mystery solved.

And this brings me to the glasses. Not the wine/beer glasses, more the type that sit on top of your nose and enable you to see. Pretty difficult to lose, right? I mean, you take them off when you go to bed. You wake up in the morning and put them on. Easy peasy. Or not as the case may be.

There’s a saying that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Not so where glasses are concerned. A week on and we’re still no wiser. So you know what it’s like, a few beers out on the town and you come ‘home’ (well the Basecamp feels like home and it IS so home!). You collapse into bed (and we had great forethought, we’d made the bed up before we even went out. Get that for organized). You wake up in the morning… and that bit where you reach for your glasses… doesn’t quite work out as planned. No glasses.

You accuse the other half. You feel around aimlessly. You shout and curse a bit. Eventually, you resort to the spare glasses so at least you can actively join in the search. Two hours later (I am serious here) of virtual solid searching, and still no glasses. I’d like to say that we found them later and they were in this really obvious place… But this is now a week on and um, still no glasses. It really is a mystery.

Moral of this story… when you’re traveling, you need to build in an extra 2 hours a day of time specifically just for ‘looking for stuff’.

Addendum: nearly 2 weeks on and nope, still not found the glasses. Maybe what happens in Vegas really DOES stay in Vegas!?

It was 2:30 in the morning when I first felt it. Something tickled my hand. I peered over at Darren in the darkness, wondering if he was feeling amorous. But no, dead to the world. I put it down to my creative imagination and dozed off.

Half an hour later something nuzzled into my hair and ran over my head. This time I was surely not mistaken. I sat bolt upright and announced to Darren: “We’ve got company!” Groggy from sleep, he stirred slowly and asked how sure I was. “Well… given that it’s got me twice now, pretty damn sure.” The only thing I wasn’t sure about was whether it was a small desert mouse or a large hairy spider.

Darren leapt into action and armed with a torch, he started poking around the deepest darkest corners of the Basecamp. There, under the bed, sat a cute iccle mouse, blinking innocently back up at him in the torchlight. Well it’s one thing to be sat around like butter wouldn’t melt, it’s something else if it takes a liking to chewing through wires. Not to mention that I didn’t relish the thought of it dancing on top of me as I slept.

And so began Operation Get the Mouse Out of the Basecamp.

Darren’s strategy: open the main Basecamp door and coax the mouse out. “Anything I can do to help?” I offered supportively. “Yes – open the door and tie it back”. I paused and thought about that for a moment. That would mean going outside into the freezing night, not a terribly attractive prospect. I snuggled further under the covers. “Erm, I meant anything I can do to help from here?” Darren muttered something under his breath and opened the door.

There was some scuffling, much crawling on all fours, and some darting around in true Tom and Jerry style. I’m pretty sure the mouse didn’t walk out the door, but it was nowhere to be seen. We were getting tired of the drawn out game of hide and seek, and concluded it must have gone out the same way it had got in.

No sign of him the next day either. Regardless, the morning was spent googling how to get rid of mice from an RV!

We unfortunately didn’t get a picture of our little furry friend. So here’s some pictures instead of a very photogenic Alabama Hills. Nestled in the foothills of the Sierras and basking in the shade of Mount Whitney, this is classic Western country. In recognition of that, the main road through Alabama Hills is called Movie Flat Road.

“Let’s do that thing where we cycle around the vineyards” he said. “It’ll be fun” he said. I have to admit, I was a little on the hesitant side. The last time we toured the wineries around Paso Robles by bike a few years ago, I had a bit of an incident involving me, the bike, an ungainly somersault over the handlebars, and the pavement. I casually touched the scar on my chin. “It’ll be fine”, he said.

Unfortunately, I had to wave my beloved cruiser goodbye as we didn’t have much room in the truck for those handlebars. In went my road bike, with its low handlebars and unforgiving seat position, its skinny feel-every-bump-in-the-road tyres and that tiny sadistic saddle.

Some of the roads around Paso are not exactly designed with cyclists in mind. Winding narrow roads with soft shoulders and no passing, not to mention a few dodgy drivers on the road as the wineries opened and the tastings began. But I wasn’t taking any chances – I had an answer to that: out came my bright yellow fluorescent jacket. At least the drivers would see me! Darren had a different answer: a shortcut road to avoid the busier highway. What he failed to mention was that this ‘road’ turned into a dirt track riddled with potholes and loose gravel and most certainly not designed for road bikes.

Good for jeeps and 4x4s maybe!?

By some divine miracle, I remained upright and made it to our first winery, Cass, without incident. By this time, I was in need of a drink! Included in our tastings was the Cass reserve which we had to agree was delightful. That is, until we realized it cost $125 per bottle. Not that delightful.

What a contrast to our previous Paso Robles bike tour. Last time, we’d been cycling in 105+ degree heat in the height of summer. This time, we were treated to a crisp but sunny day, a strange mix of autumn turning into winter. Row upon row of vines displayed foliage of crimson and gold, clinging on to the last remnants of Fall.

There was a reminder that we weren’t too far past pumpkin season, with the most bizarre line up of halloween scarecrows.

Meanwhile, the wineries themselves were getting into the festive spirit. Christmas trees and decorations were aplenty, lending a happy holiday feel.

Even the vines were sporting their best Christmas decorations, shiny strips of tinsel-like shards gracefully flapping in the breeze. Well, maybe that was just to scare the birds away, but I like to think they were decked out in their Christmas best.

With some wine tastings, followed by some wine and some more wine, the cycle back was a breeze.

There might have been some muttering under breath going on there

Before venturing out to the winelands, we had joined up to ‘Harvest Hosts’. This is a network of small businesses – mostly vineyards and small farms, that allow RVs and camping trailers to stay overnight on their property. What a great idea! On this, our very first Harvest Host outing, we had parked up earlier and the Basecamp was nestled in a small grove of olive trees at a family run winery outside Paso. A welcome sight after the last long slog uphill on the bike! Additionally, we made sure to pack our independent speakers financial tool kit for added convenience and security during our travels.

You’re not obliged to, but the done thing is to buy a little something from your hosts. On this occasion, they were unfortunately closing early and as they were unable to stay to do a tasting for us, we asked to buy a bottle instead. We were immediately presented with a bottle of wine, thrust apologetically into our hands as a welcome gift, and they wouldn’t take a penny for it. (I don’t think they’ve quite got the hang of this Harvest Hosts thing yet…).

Relieved at not having to ride any further, we uncorked the bottle and relaxed on our ‘patio’. Under the last fading rays of the sun, we raised a toast to having survived the cycling in one piece and to our new Harvest Host friends.

When it comes to running, I’m one of those people who needs a goal, something to aim for, to make me run. If I don’t have an event planned, I struggle to force myself out for a run, especially during the week after work. It was over a year since the last main event I’d done (13.1 mile run as part of a relay team doing the Half Ironman Santa Cruz), so the intent behind signing up for the Santa Clarita half was less about achieving a PB and more about making me run regularly.

Make me run, it did. Although with a few nagging ankle and knee issues (not to mention a modicum of laziness), I was going into the Santa Clarita half marathon a tad undertrained. Which left me very unsure of what my goal time (and therefore my pace) should be. I plumped for 2 hours 5 minutes, thinking that any time between 2 and 2h10 would be respectable, and anything under that would be – shall we say pie in the sky.

I like to set off a little behind the pacers, to give me a bit of leeway. With the adrenaline pumping in the first mile, I sailed past the 2h10 and 2h05 pacers and by 2 miles in I found myself smack bang between the 4h marathoners and the 2h half group. My strategy: tuck into the pack to reduce the effect of running into the wind and stick with them for as long as I could. As hills are not my strength, I knew I would lose pace on the long steady climb from miles 6 – 9, which would give me a long shot at only dropping back as far as the 2h05 pacers.

Sure enough, the first sign of an incline and the 2h pack dug deep and maintained pace, while I gritted my teeth and kicked myself for not training harder. Over the next 3 miles, I gradually dropped back but most importantly, I could still see them up ahead. And as we started the descent with 4 miles left to go, I thought maybe, just maybe, I could catch them.

I don’t think the pacers realize what a fantastic job they do. I didn’t need to worry about looking my watch or checking my pace, I just had to leg it. I just had to stay focused on the 2 girls way ahead of me, their 2h signs held aloft, and to oh so gradually reel them in. No mean feat – my heart was racing, my lungs were on fire, my feet felt bruised and pounded to a pulp and my legs… well my legs were screeching, screaming, yelling at me to slow down (“2h05 you said, what do you think you are doing, this is ridiculous, we don’t have to do this, let the pacers go – they’re better than you, they’re quicker than you, you’ve got nothing to prove. Just… slow… down”). They don’t let up whinging those legs of mine. 3 and a half miles they kept that up for, as I continued to push them and they brought me within spitting distance of those pacers.

Within the last half mile, there are two bridges. Which means two hills. Short but steep, it was at this point my thighs sneered at me “told you so – you know we don’t do hills”, as the energy drained from my body, and my poor exhausted legs refused to propel me in an upwards direction. Meanwhile, the 2h pacer girls disappeared off into the distance.

Rounding the final corner, I saw the official clock still said 2:00 and some seconds, spurring me into a final surge over the finish line. Luckily for me, I had that buffer of starting a little way behind the pacers… my official chip time: 1:59:49!!! 13th out of 83 in my age group. Ecstatic!

Another one to add to the collection 😉

I felt I’d earned my reward: an afternoon at the beach with the Basecamp (oh, and Darren) :-). The running conditions earlier had been ideal (unless you’re solar powered like me) – mostly overcast and cool. But now down at the beach it had turned into a gorgeous autumn day, sunshine and blue skies galore. Carpinteria (near Santa Barbara) is a great spot to camp because you not only have the beach right on your doorstep, you also have a smattering of drinking establishments close by.

Almost a sea view… Basecamp on the left, ocean on the right!

In true post-event style, the beer and medal pic is a must do. After our initial beer toast in the campground, we quenched our thirst at a local cidery. (Not sure that’s a real word, but I’m sure you get the picture). The Apiary is a cider and mead tasting place, simple vintage décor, and quite refreshing as a first stop.

Think we’ll save the yoga for another visit

Beer tasting (and yahtzee) followed at Brewlab, after which we grabbed some take out beers from Island Brewing. Out came the camping chairs on the beach, and we chilled out with beer and nibbles (including British crisps, courtesy of Sue, oh yes!), watching couples strolling and dogs frolicking at the water’s edge as the sun dipped towards the ocean. 

After sunset, the temperature dropped quickly and it was back to the cosy BC to rustle up a hearty one pot chili, which totally hit the spot. But the combination of a 4am start, a little run earlier in the day and a few beers, meant we could barely keep our eyes open. Game over and lights out.

P.s. I’m writing this the next day and I can barely walk. And those damn legs are quietly mumbling smug I told you so’s…. Maybe I should pay a bit more attention to them next time!