The Ortega Highway

Every weekday, I travel thru the coolest road of the West Coast. The Ortega Highway known (or maybe unknown) by Caltran as Highway 74.
It is a two-lane road cutting right in the middle of the Cleveland National Forest. It is one of the few direct links between Orange County and the South of the Inland Empire. The portion I travel is roughly thirty and some miles although as the crow flies it is only ten or fifteen miles.
It is a road across some of wildest portions of Southern California.
My westbound trip in the morning is a very exhilarating ride.
The fun starts as you leave Grand Avenue in Lake Elsinore. Immediately you realize that something exciting is on the doing. As you climb on a steep straight stretch of the highway you can see, etched in the rock of the mountain in front of you, a succession of switchback leading to the pass overlooking the valley by a good two thousand feet. Traffic permitting that is a nice stretch of exciting alpine driving. At the right time of the early morning some of those switchback open to an unbelievable sight of a pure baby blue sky scratched by a couple of contrails and a few wisp of clouds reflecting the fire of the raising sun. Some other morning the fog will change the view of the lake below, the valley, the hills and mountains across it into a Japanese ink painting where the stroke of the brush represent mountains engulfed in wispy haze. The side of the road does at this point display the widest array of hearth tones covering the entire array of brown, rust, sienna and beige of the bushes rolling into inscrutable inner valleys. In the right season the witches’ brooms throw out the wild scream of a bright yellow. Splashes of red and orange dot the chaparral.
When the pass is reached the road race in a couple of wide curves in the direction of a thick oak forest, to cross the odd little village of El Cariso, populated by a very colorful bunch of free spirits. Small signs announcing to the traveling masses that Jerky of all denomination will be available at the general store punctuate the approaches of the village. It looks like an entire zoo has been sacrificed for drying. Maybe the only animals not offered are household pets, unicorns and dragons. The rest is fair game if I can indulge on the pun.
Across the street from the general store is a bar/tavern/would be restaurant: "Hells Kitchen" dedicated to the motor biking crowd. I found the place fun (at the great despair of my tender spouse) for two reasons: They pour a darn good pint of hard cider and the condiments bar in the dining room is inside a...coffin! Weird enough for me.
From there the road is starting a downward move in the land of the giants, Poking out of the chaparral are huge boulders of oblong shape and mostly upright. Images of ancient ritual amongst dolmen, menhir and other stone altars come to mind. The scenery there belongs to those upright boulders and no one else.
Out of the Giants Land you enter the descent into the canyon. If you ride a bike or an open car you can feel a noticeable drop in temperature and the oaks are again taking over. You are back into those tight and exciting turns where one can push the limit of its jalopy.
You now enter a construction area where only one lane of traffic is alternatively allowed. That is a nerve-wracking portion since at time one will drive literally feet from megaton carry style equipment, busy crushing rock, tearing rocks and drilling under the road. By the scenery is again totally different and one almost expect to see the helicopters of the opening sequence of Mash racing in the steep hills the bend. The second giants of the road poke those hills: Dasylirion. Those plants plant resemble a large throw of blade shaped succulent leave from whose center project a gigantic flower looking like a 9 to 10feet Lilly of the valley. Those are the lone sentinels of that portion of this magical road.
Crossing a narrow bridge you then enter the approaches of Ranch land, soon, after the only two straightaway portion of this road enabling passing the slow pokes crawling in front of you, you are driving along pastures where horses and cattle provide a drastic change. On one side one particular horse, a pinto, fully aware of his handsome image allow the admiration of the driving crowd. A few miles later, with a little luck you will be greeted by a small herd of Longhorns. And finally, almost at the end of that stretch you might in turn become spectacle for a pair of shy deer.
Then the magic is done and you enter San Juan Capistrano.

Wondering about a "Gun Guy" intimate moments.

Some events of the few past weeks have lead me to wonder a bit about this bizarre attitude toward guns so deeply ingrained in the fabric of our "American way of life".

The defense of a perceived right to bear arm at will is a highly emotional issue and both bitter and passionate arguments are made to ward any attempt to bring sanity to the issue

The phrase " They will take away my gun only by prying it from my cold dead fingers" has been thrown around a bit, usually at the end of a melodramatic speech in front of a definitively receptive audience of fellows "Sportsmen".

To be very honest, that has consistently puzzled me, since as the dirty old men that I am, my immediate thought went to the partner or spouse of the permanent gun bearing speaker who, at the time of intimate and passionate embrace must be pondering two vital issues:

1) Is a round in the chamber of the ever present shotgun/rifle?

2) Is the safety of the weapon on?

You have to admit that the concept of being on the embrace of a frenetically humping individual holding a gun possibly loaded with armor piercing rounds can be a bit disturbing.
In this case the concept of safe sex has tidily to do with condoms or all the other usual paraphernalia but basic shooting range discipline instead.
I guess that we are looking at one of the few occasions when premature ejaculation becomes a blessing!

Now I understand why, usually, the mates or partners of the average 'Gun Guy" are a rather nervous and jittery bunch, avid consumers of Valium and other compounds.

Wonder how humanity was able to survive for centuries, thru invasion, Genghis Khan, Attila and the rest without this reputedly indispensable weapon?

Well that's my thought for the evening. Now a nice glasse of a decent red wine will help convince me that those are indeed genial cogitations!

The opening blog

Still on training wheels!

Son Number one (Only one for that matter!, but that sounded good) has decreed that the Old Guy needed to have a Blog. So be it. I am supposed to plop my thought and opinions on that thing for a reason or another. Supposed to be liberating.

I can see where Son Number One is coming from in that issue, since until his two sisters got married and imported some additional male presence in the family, and he got himself also married and therefore extracted from the immediate contact with the opposition, we were both part of a male minority surrounded by three human females, and one dog of the same gender, totally dedicated to ignoring any kind of male interference or opinion whatsoever. The concept of being able to lay down a sentence without either interruption or correction is indeed very liberating.

Now the tough part is to find something worthy of publication, and that is where the crunch start. I feel a little bit like one of those rebel without a cause or even without a clue.

My life does not have any of the Indiana Jones moments worthy to record, I refuse to get started on the elections and the thought of opening a sentence on my opinion on the performance of out political leaders makes me nauseous.

Talking about my past experience could be an option, but experience has made me keenly aware that it was a very effective way to put an entire living room in a close proximity of the infamous Glazy Eye stage.

I could try talking about my dog, but at the advanced age of seventeen, good old Roxy is really not doing much more than sleeping, eating, drinking and the inevitable result of the previous activities. Not much to talk about there.

Commuting to work sixty miles each way from Murrieta, California thru the Ortega Highway, the amazingly stupid journey in the admirably inhospitable San Juan Capistrano and the rush of I5 to Irvine has lost a lot of its luster after N+ years and my job is something that I am trying to relax from not blabber about.

So here we are.

Well. at least I just discovered that I can expend a serious number of paragraphs on the heady subject that...I really have nothing to talk about.

All words...no substance.

Maybe that is the secret to avoid controversy...or is it?

I'll ponder that one for this weekend.