January 4th, 2010 Blue moon December 2009 ends with a bang in the Santa Ynez
Our trip to Santa Barbara began and ended with a 32 hour train ride on the Coast Starlight. We spent hours reclining in comfy Barcalounger window seats collecting mental snapshots. Wooded foothills gave way to industrial compounds and backyard trash heaps in every whistle stop from here to Paso Robles. When you leave in the morning, sleep sets in around Klamath Falls and ends shortly after Sacramento.
After we left the bay area fog, constant sunshine whet our appetites for our arrival which was still six hours away. You begin to understand why California is mentioned only in north and south designations after you’ve rolled through the central valley. Even the cows run away from the train as if its presence was the only daily disturbance.
After San Luis Obispo the rails finally angle closer to the coast and the Pacific rises to meet us. The rolling oak savannah soon opens to the Santa Ynez Mountains on the horizon. Christmas night found us in a real bed in our destination city: Santa Barbara.
Rick and Becka met us in the morning for a leisurely tour of State Street, the main shopping drag, then it was out to the hinterlands to take in a wine tasting at Blackjack, and Danish pastries in Solvang. Home for the next few days was a bungalow near the Los Prietos ranger station. From here we explored Rick’s “office”: more than 440,000 square miles of the Los Padres National Forest.
Rick masterfully relates tales of mountain lion encounters, and the habits of screech owls with the same steadfast passion of a zoological historian. Throughout the next few days we learned how to identify the difference between bobcat and fox tracks, between cougar and raccoon scat, several species of raptors and how to catch a blue-bellied lizard in a weed noose. I’m tellin’ ya, this guy does the Forest Service proud.
Every day was filled with hikes in the forest, every night with movies and popcorn. Was I in heaven?
Sunday, the West Camino Cielo Road took us to one of an infinite number of vistas overlooking the coast from Goleta to Montecito. We hiked across the sandstone mounds to a place known as Lizard’s Mouth. The rock face juts to a point and a hook, then hollows out beneath to form a convincing mouth. The boulders here form narrow, person-wide passages and short tunnels, a veritable playground for any day-hike enthusiast.
Monday morning Rick took me on a tour further west on the Camino Cielo for a road inspection. The Santa Ynez Mountains are generous with their gifts.
The nearly 100 mile views in every direction give you the Channel Islands to the west and Lake Cachuma to the east.
Tuesday we loaded up the truck and drove east on the same road. Always the consummate tour guide, Rick would stop to show us important landmarks. The western slopes of many of these mountains bore the blackened scars of the Jesusita fire from last May.
Just past the top of the ridge the pavement ended and real adventure began as the truck lurched and bobbed on the narrow forest service road all the way to the Pendola ranger station. 
The ranger’s cabin exhibited a splendid natural history museum-like setting and I couldn’t help but mug with one of my favorite critters, Tyson, the bear infamous for biting the ear of his opponent, but still losing the fight.
Then it was on to Mono Debris dam for a tailgate lunch and a walk through the bat-guano infested innards of this cute little dam with just a trickle of water flowing over its arching side.
The back country of the Upper Santa Ynez reminds me of biblical landscapes from Hollywood movies, thick with craggy rock faces, gnarly oaks and ghostly white sycamores.
We made our way across the Camuesa Road stopping every now and then to move a boulder to avoid hitting our heads against the cab ceiling if we drove over it. When the side of the road widened to a flat spot big enough for a play field we stopped and got out the big guns, for real.
I held a hand gun once and it terrified me. It was ugly—protester-in-Chicago-during-the-’68-Democratic-National-Convention ugly. I never thought I could touch another one, but when Rick pulled the 22-caliber, long barrel, bolt-action “varmint rifle” from the back of the truck, I stood back and reassessed the situation.
A dozen bottles of Gatorade and three propane tanks from old camp stoves stood suspiciously as lost soldiers in the distance as the twenty-twos went flyin’. After the necessary instruction on posture and aiming I tried a few shots. By the fourth shot I must have channeled Sarah Palin on her first moose shoot, because I hit one of those juicy red bottles. Lord, hold me back. 
The shot echoes zipped through the canyon, and ricochets like shards of glass spat at the ground. Steve hit one of the propane tanks and sent it into a fizzy dance. My new acquaintance with firearms was barely sinking in when Rick pulled out the Winchester.
The night before he’d told me: “It can take down a buffalo. Squirrels tend to explode.”
I was dutifully respectful. I watched, make that listened to Rick take a shot. Rather than cutting a slice through the air like the twenty-two, the Winchester commanded the sky with a boom that vibrated the soles of my feet inside my hiking boots. The hole it left in the already spent propane canister was easily five times bigger than the varmint rifle’s.
Then it was my turn. I summoned my expectations, took aim and pulled the trigger. I couldn’t tell you what I shot. I stood there for half a second, realizing my eyebrows had leapt off my forehead like a cartoon character and resettled in a higher position. My attitude instantly shifted from—I could get used to this, to—I now fear God.
I handed the Winchester back to its rightful owner so he could take a few more shots. Then it was time to collect our targets, pick up any stray casings and head back home.
Wednesday night we spent back at the Pepper Tree Inn after a tour of the Mission Santa Barbara and the exquisite county courthouse with its Spanish and Tunisian flourishes.
New Year’s Eve would find us back on the train headed for Seattle trying to avoid catching the year end crud from the other passengers, which I’m sorry to report wasn’t successful. I sit at home now with troubled sinuses sitting out another soggy morning, dreaming of Santa Barbara sunshine.
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