We survived yet another harrowing journey into California's bastion of conservatism known as Southern California, San Diego to be semi-exact, Scripps Ranch to be overly exact. Temperatures ranged up to 105 F going down and coming up. I recall rolling down all the windows at a rest stop and saying "Here's what 105 degrees feels like kids, check it out." Weather like that seems to wilt everyone, and to make some angry. I saw a homeless guy hanging out under the sparse shade of some tiny tree in Oceanside, mountain bike parked nearby, looking about ready to kill the next suit in a luxury SUV that gave him an awkward eye. The kids took it well and the sunset coming home, viewed from the west side of the Altamont pass, near all the windmills, was spectaclar and very red.
Later last night, back at our shack, the full moon shone with unreal lustre and temperatures remained in the seventies. I contemplated what a full moon hike would have been like as I unpacked the luxury SUV. Just then, little Gumbo says, "But, don't you want to go for a walk?" The little freak must have read my mind, or maybe we just think alike, but I couldn't say that I didn't. We had a nice little hike that included a lovely stare down session with a sizable buck that quivered and whose eyes and nose glistened in the brilliant moonshine. Sure feels nice to have a moon-loving son like Gumbo.