Uvas Road

Last month I rode to Mt. Madonna. I had planned to come back along Uvas Road, but I ran out of time (not to mention energy), and ended up getting a ride back from Morgan Hill. So last Sunday I decided to see what I had missed.

Open space, and likely to stay that way.

I took my road bike out on a cool, sunny morning, heading south on McKean. Along the way I saw what I thought was a depressing sign advertising a new housing development on the west side of the road. If the economy is picking up, I suppose we'll start seeing new developments like that. But I was wrong. This sign was just the opposite — it advertised the fact that the Pennisula Open Space Trust had, in fact, protected the property.

McKean bends around the Calero Reservoir, the first of three reservoirs I visited. The parking lot at the reservoir was full of trucks with empty boat trailers, but none of them appeared to be on the water. Odd.

Calero Reservoir, looking north.

On that earlier ride to Mt. Madonna I had stopped near the top of Mt. Chual and saw a dirt road snake down the mountain. That road eventually meets up with Casa Loma, which empties onto Uvas Road. So on Sunday, when I came across Casa Loma, I decided to explore up the road from this end.

A wavy barn on Casa Loma Road

The gate on Casa Loma Road

Coming from Uvas, Casa Loma is a short road to the Rancho Cañada del Oro Open Space Preserve. Past a first parking lot, the road turns into a rough dirt path to a second parking lot and the inevitable gate. On the map it appears that the road runs another half mile or so through open space, so it's a shame that not even bikes can continue.

The open space maps imply that the trails around here are open to bikes, so this should be worth a return trip on fatter tires. This isn't exactly an easy place to get to, but the parking lot had plenty of cars.

I headed back to McKean, which at this intersection turns into Uvas Road and runs through a sort of valley along Llagas Creek. The little whitewashed bridges that cross the creek from time to time are all dated 1923. I found myself thinking that there probably wasn't much around in those days, but then again there's really nothing much along this road now, either. And that's just fine.

At one point along this section I was passed by two new Corvettes, and then three sixties-era Corvettes. No idea where they were going, and needless to say I couldn't keep up.

A very full Chesbro Reservoir

Shortly afterward was the turn-off for Oak Glen Avenue, which runs by the Chesbro Reservoir. The reservoir seemed quite full — I assume that the bases of these trees are not normally flooded. I guess I'll have to take another trip down here this fall to figure out what "normal" looks like.

Oak Glen Avenue continues past the dam into Morgan Hill, but since I wanted to continue exploring Uvas Road, I turned around at the dam.

Chesbro Reservoir, with Loma Prieta in the background

About a mile further south on Uvas you reach Croy Road, and again I went exploring up the road. On that Mt. Madonna trip I had also seen the other end of this road, in a sense. Croy Road heads up to Uvas Canyon County Park, which has a trail that heads up to Knibbs Knob and on to Summit Road, where I saw its other end. There was also a report that our recent heavy rains had caused a mudslide across Croy Road, rendering it impassable and briefly trapping some residents. Well, that's worth a look.

Cows lounging next to Croy Road

So far the ride was basically flat, with some rolling bits. Croy Road isn't steep by any means, but has some mean little ramps and ends up climbing to about 1100 feet at the park. My legs were starting to get heavy, and since I wasn't sure what the road further down looked like I was a little worried about wearing myself out. It was on this section that I really started to feel tired.

The area of the mudslide, now cleared

The entrance of Sveadal

Croy Road follows Uvas Creek up into Uvas Canyon. The road ends at the park, but the canyon continues right up to the slopes of Loma Prieta (the Mt. Madonna post has a good shot of the canyon from Loma Prieta). Just before you get to the park, you run into something called Sveadal, a little resort run by a coalition of Swedish groups. The woods here are tall and thick, and the road narrows to one lane. Immediately after the resort is the entrance to the park, which is predictably lovely and once again absolutely packed, considering how difficult it is to get to.

According to the park brochure "uva" is spanish for grape, and all the things named Uvas around here (the canyon, the creek, and by extension the reservoir and road) were named for wild grapes that were once abundant.

After a little rest and a quick snack, it was time to head back down to Uvas Road, and then south to the reservoir.

Uvas Reservoir
Apparently that's Twin Peaks in the middle. Where's the other one?

By the time I was passing the reservoir I was pretty beat. When I got to the intersection of Uvas and Watsonville Road, I thought about where to go next. I could go south to Watsonville, which would likely mean that I'd need a car ride home. Or I could go north to Morgan Hill, and home from there. A quick check of the map confirmed that going to Watsonville meant riding over the mountains on 152, which seemed doubly unpleasant. So it was on to Morgan Hill.

Llamas! Llamas on Watsonville Road

The last time I came to Morgan Hill it was dark, so I didn't get a chance to look around. The part of the town I had seen was the generic suburb, in which every store must be a national brand surrounded by a huge parking lot. Heading up Monterey Road, by contrast, takes you through a nice little downtown sort of area that actually seemed pretty quirky and livable.

Marginally interesting factoid: the town isn't named after a hill. According to the Wikipedia entry, it's named after a person called Hiram Morgan Hill. Who knew?

A water tower in Morgan Hill

I left town on Hale Boulevard, which evolves into Santa Teresa Boulevard. Before it makes that transformation it runs through many acres of nothing whatsoever. Actually, nothing but wind, wind blowing with gusto the wrong way.

But that cruel wind wasn't blowing air, or at least not entirely. It was stinky, which it turns out was probably because I was passing the Monterey Mushroom farm and the nearby "spent compost" heaps. Ripe stuff.

A whole lot of nothing north of Morgan Hill.
Nothing but wind, anyway.

Once you get through the endless nothing, the road turns northwest and heads through the suburbs. About that, the less said the better.

In the end it was about 64 miles, just over a metric century. The Garmin recorded about 1900 feet of climbing overall, which is mostly over the rolling hills. I was pretty spent when got back home, but it was a day well spent.

Mount Hamilton

About a month ago I rode my bike up Mount Umunhum, and then the next weekend I rode up Loma Prieta, with a side trip to Mount Chual.  I thought it would be clever if I rode up Mount Hamilton the next week, which would make all the highest peaks in the area in consecutive weeks.  But that weekend the road was closed for snow.  I tried the next weekend, but got a flat that ate up my slim time window.  The next weekend it was just too rainy.

The old telescope at the Lick Observatory

So that brings us to yesterday, when I finally got myself up there.

I've ridden up Mount Hamilton once before, so to change up a bit I was thinking about riding over the hill and on to Livermore.  I ride too slowly to get back in daylight, so I'd have to call for a ride from there.

It took me a while to get going on Sunday morning, and by the time I pulled into the parking lot at Alum Rock Avenue, it was about 11:30.  You know you're getting a late start when you see lots of people coming back just when you're setting out.

As I started I got my first surprise, which is that my little Garmin device was reporting low batteries.  It turns out I hadn't put it back in its cradle after my last ride.  I wondered idly how long it could continue in that mode, and then found out: a mile and a half.  After that it was blank, and I was blind.  In the grand scheme of things that shouldn't have made a difference, but I've grown to like watching the altitude change, and I like tracking the ride afterward on the computer.  Part of the achievement, it turns out, is accumulating that record.  It's the gamification of recreation.  Lame as it sounds, I lost enthusiasm, to the point that not too long afterward I actually turned around and headed back downhill.  Thankfully I came to my senses before having to re-climb too much, but in any case I've learned my lesson: the GPS thing lives in its cradle, always.

Motivation aside, I felt pretty good going up, and on that first section I actually passed a couple people.  That never happens.  It was overcast and pleasantly cool, but not threatening rain.

A hawk (maybe?) on Mount Hamilton Road

There's a portion of Mount Hamilton Road, let's say the mile following the intersection with Clayton, where there is frequently a bird of prey hunting along the hillside.  I say frequently; I think I've seen one each of the three times I've been up this way.  Maybe the same bird.  I stopped to try to get a picture and it flew all around me.  It was brown, had a wingspan of perhaps three feet, and was much closer than it appears in my pictures.

A fixer-upper on Mount Hamilton Road

Sunday was the first non-rainy day in a couple of weeks, and looking at the forecast I'm tempted to say that it marks the beginning of the long dry summer.  But on this spring day, after all the rain of the winter, the hills were lush and every shade of green.

When I got down to the valley, I did a (very) little exploring around Joseph D Grant Park.  By that I mean the area near the entrance kiosk, because as I came to realize, the entire valley and halfway up the surrounding hills, as far as the eye can see, is the park.  And that whole park used to be owned by Mr. Grant.

Joseph D Grant Park, from the East

Six months from now it will not have rained again, and this whole area will be a dormant brown.

The entrance to the park is at about 1600 feet elevation.  The next section of road climbs to about 2300 feet, to a spot called Twin Gates.  It's called Twin Gates, as far as I can tell, because there are two gates there. At first glance this doesn't seem to be the sort of notable feature worth commemorating with a name, but I know little of such things.

I stopped here and ate a sandwich that my wife was kind enough to pack for me.  Never before has baloney tasted so good. I sat around reading the map I had picked up at the park entrance, and learned that even up here, I was still in the park.  Thanks, Mr. Grant.

Smith Creek

From Twin Gates the road descends a couple of hundred feet to Smith Creek, which normally trickles but today was roaring.  From this bridge, the road goes relentlessly up to the observatory.

What people tell you about the climb up Mount Hamilton is that, because you can see the observatory for such a long time, the climb seems even longer than it is.  I suppose that's true, but I felt it much less on this climb than my first.  Still, I found myself looking up at the observatory, seeing the roads criss-cross up to it, and muttering curses under my breath.

A long time and several restful stops later, I finally made it up the steep driveway to the observatory.  I went inside, got some M&Ms for strength, listened to a docent talk about James Lick and the old telescope, and went back outside.  By now the weather had closed in.  It was damp and cool, and of course I had long since cooled down.  Happily, a student was raising funds by selling hot chocolate, and that helped a bunch.

Some deer hanging out near the Lick Observatory

Lots of snow remaining on Mount Hamilton

A mere 47 miles to Livermore.
Not happening, not today

After a long time walking around the grounds, looking at the sights and taking a few pictures, it was time to set off.  In fact, it was 3:30, and the overcast sky made it seem later. I rode around the mountaintop for a bit, and saw a sign that ended any thought of going on to Livermore.  I'd never make 47 miles in daylight, and I didn't want to ride through unfamiliar territory with spotty cell coverage at night, dressed largely in black.

The Lick Observatory

Looking down on Mount Hamilton Road from the observatory.
The docent claims that, depending on how you count, there are
perhaps 365 turns on Mount Hamilton Road.

So after bundling up against the cold, I headed down.  The first section down to Smith Creek was bitterly cold.  I welcomed the end of that descent and the start of the climb back to Twin Gates.  After that it was pleasantly cool, not cold, and apart from almost running into a bunch of wild turkeys, the rest of the ride was uneventful.

I know this ride is about 40 miles, and I know I was out about 6 hours, in total.  I have no bogus climb or calorie numbers because my 305 went on strike.  Whatever the calorie count was, I'd have to subtract 250 for each of the two packets of peanut M&Ms I had at the top.  They were worth it, though.

Loma Prieta and Mount Madonna

Looking for a nice, long, full-day bike ride, I decided to follow in the footsteps of some other riders and see what the road between Loma Prieta and Mount Madonna held. It looked like I could get there and back in about 65 miles, which is a long ride for me on a mountain bike (especially considering the climbs), but in the range of feasible.

Yesterday dawned clear and warm, and I hit the road at about 9:30. I went through Los Gatos, smelling and envying breakfast at Southern Kitchen and becoming aware of the kerfuffle about Dittos Lane. I went up the Los Gatos Creek Trail and past the Lexington Reservoir. From there it was up Old Santa Cruz Highway to Summit Road. The defining characteristic of this part of the ride was that I was frequently passed by road bikes (not in itself unusual), all of whom were women.

It takes me a good two hours to get up to Summit Road, and I got to the Summit Store right around noon. Perfect. The Summit Store was busy with bike riders, Girl Scouts selling cookies, and a weekend motorcycle gang (who bought a lot of cookies, I noticed). I had a lovely sandwich (a Full House, with turkey, avocado, bacon and mayo) and a rest. It looks like I spent a half an hour lounging on the patio.

Well rested and with a worryingly full belly, I started up Loma Prieta Avenue. Despite the beautiful day, and the many riders I'd seen so far, once I left the Summit Store I didn't see another bike rider for the entire rest of the day. Odd.

I've described Loma Prieta Avenue before, but to recap: After a mean bump at the beginning, the road is straight and increasingly steep. The steepness is emphasized by the straightness of the road, I think -- you get the impression that if you stop pedaling, you'll roll back to the store. After climbing from 1600 feet at the store to about 2000 feet the road starts winding, and you see a sign telling you that the road forward is unmaintained. Up to this point the road has been on a ridge, but now hugs the southern flank of the hill as it climbs to 2400 feet and the end of Loma Prieta Avenue.

A short dirt track takes you from the end of Loma Prieta Avenue down 100 feet to Mount Bache Road. In my case, I was joined by a pair of barking dogs for most of the trip.

The naming of roads, much like their maintenance, is lackadaisical up here. I ran into a utility van trying to find a residence on Loma Chiquita Avenue, and Google Maps was telling him it was near this intersection with Mount Bache Road. This particular Loma Chiquita was, he said, a map phantom, so I told him that there was another Loma Chiquita that started near the Loma Prieta summit, past only two "no trespassing" signs. Lots of roads up here are called Loma Prieta something or other, and as we'll see, Summit Road is a popular name.

Watsonville and the Monterey Peninsula
from Loma Prieta Way and Summit Road

So it was that I went from the end of Loma Prieta Avenue to Loma Prieta Way, which climbs quickly from 2300 to 2500 feet and then levels out for a bit. After the level section you climb 500 feet in a mile, after which the road is level at 3000 feet until the junction of Loma Prieta Way, Loma Prieta Road, and Summit Road.

The spring at Loma Prieta?

At this point the rational thing to do would be to continue on Summit down to Mount Madonna, but if I've come up this far I'm not going to bypass the peak of Loma Prieta (or as close as I can get, anyway). Plus I had an ulterior motive. So it's up Loma Prieta Road to (near) the peak, then around the west side of the mountain. Although it wasn't hot I had run out of water, and I entertained the idea of refilling at the little fountain that, in my imagination at least, is the source of Los Gatos Creek. I want to be the sort of person who's that resourceful, but frankly even before I got there I had decided that I wasn't thirsty enough to risk it, and in the event the water was barely trickling out.

I've been up here twice before. The first time, I turned around and headed back home. The second time, I rode over to Mount Umunhum. This time, I wanted to explore the trail that leads to the other two peaks/antenna farms up here: Crystal Peak and Mount Chual. These three peaks are the tallest in the Santa Cruz range; Mount Umunhum is number four.  Google Maps labels this road Loma Prieta Road (again); Bing Maps doesn't include it at all.

Snow on Loma Prieta Road

The trail begins at the northwest corner of Loma Prieta and bends around its northern slope. It therefore is shaded, and retained a little snow from the recent storms.

Silicon Valley from just in front of Crystal Peak
Umunhum is on the left; Mount Chual on the right

This road offers an unobstructed view of the valley that you don't get elsewhere on Loma Prieta or Umunhum. Unfortunately it doesn't give let you access to any of the peaks; they are all fenced-in antenna farms. So that's four for four: none of the highest four peaks in the Santa Cruz mountains are legally accessible.

Looking east from Loma Prieta Road.
The trail at right is Summit Road.

After getting as close as possible to Mount Chual (and fixing a flat along the way), I headed back to the intersection with Summit Road, and then down Summit Road toward Mount Madonna.

Or at least I had assumed it was down. Summit Road rolls a bit, but hovers around 2900 feet for miles. My legs were wobbly already, and this just took the life out of them.

Burned trees on Summit Road

Summit Road has some nice views, and proves it is indeed on a ridge by offering views both north and south. One reason those views are so clear is that this area is still recovering from the huge Summit Fire of 2008. The fire, the effort to contain it, and the clean up have left scars up here that apparently will take quite a while longer to heal. Of course it doesn't help that similar fires recur so often.

Summit Road is mostly a washboard dirt road, with occasional stretches of crumbling semi-pavement and deep, water-filled holes. Even on the flat parts, it's hard to maintain much speed.

Bogus restrictions on Summit Road

Immediately past Maymens Flat Road, one finds an entrance to Uvas Canyon County Park, heading toward the amusingly-named Knibs Knob. Less amusing is the gate across Summit Road claiming the road is private and, in particular, forbidden to bicycles. There is every reason to believe that restrictions like this are generally bogus, but this one is unusual in that it was actually struck down in court. Or so the story goes, anyway. Nonetheless the unwelcome signs remain, and if there's an authoritative source for the court case, I haven't found it (Update: On a great long-time Santa Cruz rider's blog I found a copy of the decision in the appeal, which confirms the openness of the road but with very specific, narrow reasoning). As for the specific restriction on bicycles, well, that just can't be right. I trundled along.

The radio tower, finally in close-up

Before you even start down Summit Road, you can see a skinny radio tower rising up in the distance. I knew the road passed by the tower, but the problem was that it never came closer. You can see it from everywhere, and it's always in the distance. It's like climbing Mount Hamilton -- you can see the Lick Observatory forever, and you just never get any closer.

Summit Road, finally in the woods

Past the tower, you finally get to the sort of rich wooded area that you hope for on these sorts of rides. The road bends around a bit and finally starts dropping -- you lose 500 feet in a mile and a half. Shortly after you pass through the signs marking the end of the bogus private road segment, the road becomes real -- paved, a line down the middle, and roughly straight, right down to Mount Madonna County Park.

White fallow deer in Mount Madonna County Park

The park itself looks like it probably has some nice trails, but I couldn't tell because they're off-limits to bikes, and my legs were shot anyway. In fact I was too exhausted to really enjoy the beauty of the park itself, although I remember the strong, very pleasant scent of pine that dominated.

I rode up to what I think is the high point in the park, where I found no view (accessible to a bike, anyway). I did, however, find a pen full of something called white fallow deer. A marker explained why this park has captive deer; apparently they were fashionable exotic pets at one point, and these animals are the descendants of some deer given by William Randolph Hearst to the estate of Henry Miller (presumably the cattle king, not the writer).

By this time the sun was heading down, and I had officially checked off the last goal of this ride. So it was time to head home. I had originally planned to ride up Uvas Road past the reservoir, and back home. But I knew that would mean a lot of up-and-down, so it would take a while. And if it got too dark and I wanted a ride, it had little cellphone coverage and was difficult to get to by car. So at this point, still in the park, I asked my wife to come and pick me up in Morgan Hill.

The intersection of Summit Road (number two)
and Mount Madonna Road (number two)

So that's the revised plan -- ride down to Morgan Hill. First, I retraced my steps out of the park, to the intersection between Mt. Madonna Road, Summit Road and Pole Line Road. This is another example of the haphazard road names around here. The road I've been on all afternoon is sometimes called Summit Road, but other times Mount Madonna Road. In fact at one point, the labels on Google Maps cycle several times through Summit Road, Mount Madonna Road and Loma Prieta Way. So the road I want here is also called Mount Madonna Road, but is perpendicular to the one I just came down. It's hard to miss, though -- a huge tree is in the middle of the intersection.

Mighty Mount Madonna Road

Mount Madonna Road (this version, anyway) finally drops off the ridge that I've been on all day. It's a skinny dirt road that drops from about 1700 feet to below 500 feet in less than three miles. I think the grade is about 8.5%, but of course I was descending so for me it was negative, and no problem. On this remote little stretch of dirt I saw no other bikes, but three cars. I hope they were sightseers and not just lost, following lines on a map that seemed like real roads.

A thin waterfall near Mount Madonna

If they were sightseeing, then this was a nice road for it, probably the prettiest little stretch on this ride. Near the top, the road is enclosed by woods and therefore permanently damp. At one point there was a stream falling down the hill in a series of waterfalls. Unfortunately most of my pictures of it were blurry in this dark little corner, but it was quite pretty.

Mount Madonna Road bottoms out on a bucolic road called Redwood Retreat, which follows a stream called  Little Arthur Creek to Watsonville Road. By the time I got to this intersection, it was 5:30 and dusk. Watsonville Road has plenty of traffic, a small shoulder, and all the cars had their lights on. Meanwhile I was drained, riding along this (slightly) rolling road with short bursts of pedaling and as much coasting as I could muster. I cursed the occasional headwind. I rolled into Morgan Hill, found a cheap taco place to grab a bite, and waited for my wife to rescue me.

In the end I was out for almost nine hours, which might be a record for me. I rode 56 miles, and the Garmin says I climbed 5300 feet. I don't know how accurate that is, but it felt like twice as much.

Mount Umunhum

On Friday the newspapers were coyly suggesting that it could snow on the Santa Clara Valley floor, and if not there certainly in the mountains. Above 1000 feet, we'd surely be seeing the white stuff.

Last week, I learned the lesson that when they close the road to Mount Hamilton, they close it for bikes, too. So this weekend, with the same goal of just seeing some stinking snow, I decided I'd ride up the nearest big hill: Mount Umunhum. Umunhum got some snow last week, and it tops out at close to 3400 feet, so surely it would be pleasantly snowy, right?

View Larger Map

Of course not. Mount Hamilton probably got snow; at least the road's closed again. But when Saturday dawned clear and cold, the Santa Cruz mountains were as green as ever. Overnight it was pretty cold, probably cold enough, but there just wasn't much moisture.

Well, boo hoo. I was left with a lovely cool-but-not-cold day in late February on which to have a nice long ride. I put on two T-shirts and a windbreaker and set off for Umunhum on my mountain bike.

Umunhum is notable because of the huge cubic monolith on its peak. You can see it from all over the valley, and that incongruous and literally unnatural bit at the top stands out like a pimple. As it turns out, the cube is a six-storey concrete support for a long-gone radar dish. It is among the remains of an Air Force station that looked for Soviet ICBMs from 1957 until 1980. When I first moved to the valley, rather close to the mountain, I made it a goal to one day, somehow, ride my bike up there. It took me a few tries, but eventually I made it (as far as one can reasonably go; more about that below), and I've ridden up a number of times since then.

To go up Umunhum, you first ride up Hicks. In my case, I was riding from the north, from Camden. Hicks runs next to Guadalupe Creek and climbs gradually, but you hit a notable hill climbing up to the Guadalupe Reservoir. The hill is steep, but probably climbs less than 200 feet. Whenever I'm climbing it, it's hard not to think that if I find this little hill difficult, how am I supposed to deal with the remaining 2500 feet?

The confluence of the mighty
Rincon and Guadalupe creeks

The reservoir is a local high spot, and the road generally falls toward a pair of bridges where the Rincon and Guadalupe creeks meet.  On this day, both were flowing heavily. The road here makes a sharp turn, which marks the start of the climb. From this spot, Hicks is quite steep all the way up to the intersection with Umunhum.

The last time I rode up Hicks I was on my road bike, and I struggled. This time, given the cool temperatures and the low gears of the mountain bike, I didn't have too much trouble. To put that in perspective, I still ended up zig-zagging across the road occasionally, but didn't feel the need to stop and catch my breath.

Hicks tops out (at about 1400 feet) at the intersection with Mount Umunhum Road, where there's a little parking lot serving the Woods Road trailhead. On this beautiful day the lot was nearly full. Here's a tip: if you ever find this lot full, there's a large parking lot across Hicks in Quicksilver park. It's a little walk, but then that's the point, right?

Umunhum Road needs a little love

At this point I ate one of my horrible little food pellets (made slightly less horrible because it was a chocolate chip Clif bar) and pulled off my windbreaker. Then back on the bike and up the crumbling road.

A little more history is in order. The Lick Observatory on Mount Hamilton was constructed in the 1870s. The materials had to be hauled up the mountain by mules, so the road couldn't be too steep. The Almaden Air Force Station, by contrast, was built in the 1950s, and diesel trucks don't complain as much. The Umunhum road could therefore be steeper, and steeper means cheaper. Actually it's not quite was steep as the north side of Hicks, but it's still pretty steep.

On this lovely cool day, the climb was hard but not exhausting, and I made my very slow way up without stopping.  Except for pictures.  No, really, just for pictures!

One of the signs warning about lots of
construction work going on. This one was near the top.

Near the start of climb, there were signs indicating that since clean-up work was starting on January 24, 2011, that there would be an increase in truck traffic. Maybe there would be some visible change near the top? Answer: no, no sign of any work, except of course those, er, signs.

Midway up the mountain (about 2300 feet) is a gate that marks the end of the line for cars.  Well, most cars -- residents, rangers and operators of the communication equipment on the top of the mountain can pass. As I took a moment at the gate to eat another half of a food pellet, a resident (I suppose) came down. I asked about snow the previous night, and got a shrug in response.

There's a section shortly after the gate, starting roughly at the intersection with Barlow Road, where the road is especially steep and almost entirely exposed to the sun. I would guess that it runs about 5 miles, but somehow on the map it's only about 500 meters. I have many memories of riding up this thing on warm days, my head threatening to explode in the heat, collapsing in the scant shade of each of the lonely trees on the side of the road.  This time, not so bad. A cool day and perhaps slightly better conditioning, and it's only steep, not miserable.

After that ramp the grade moderates and the road curves around a bit. Among the curves, you run across the first of several signs indicating that you must not, under any circumstances, proceed any farther. This is reinforced by the existence of a creepy (under the circumstances) collection of mobile homes and trucks and tents and whatnot off the side of the road. The first time I saw these signs, I turned around. The next time, and every time since, I rode right by. My justification for doing so is approximately this: the views near the top are spectacular. One could argue that the road is a public easement, regardless of whether it crosses private land and whether one has valid business beyond it.  But the real reason is because it's there.

Bona fide snow, at the 3000 foot
level of Umunhum Road

A ranger had passed me on my way up, and just as I was passing Barlow road he came back down. So I didn't much worry about being caught in no-man's land.

The end of Umunhum Road

The section past the signs runs up the eastern side of a ridge, and is surprisingly long,.  Eventually it crosses over, at about 3300 feet. At this point, Umunhum Road turns to follow the other (western) side of the ridge, and two dirt tracks head south on either side of it. Umunhum Road continues for a few hundred meters until it meets a gate, which is where I stop. My bogus justifications for coming up this far probably apply to the portion beyond the gate equally well, but so far I've never crossed it.

View from the gate on Umunhum.
Mount Thayer is the tallest point, in shadow. On the
ridge are radio towers and the Air Force Station.

Near the gate you are rewarded with expansive views toward the south and west. The foreground is a steep drop into Austrian Gulch and Lake Elsman. The middle ground is the Summit Road area, and in the background are specks of Santa Cruz and Monterey Bay. Toward the west you can clearly see the serpentine trail heading up Ralph's Mountain, and the ridge leading to Mount Thayer. As that ridge turns toward Umunhum you can see the communication towers and the sad ghost town that was once the Air Force station.

The fact that the view faces south, and I'm normally here in the afternoon, means that I'm always taking pictures into the sun. If I were a better photographer I'm sure I could capture more of what you can actually see. For example, the bay was dim but quite visible, whereas in my shots you really have to zoom in to see it at all.

Looking southwest from Umunhum.
From front to back: Ralph's Mountain, the Summit Road
ridge, and the rest of the Santa Cruz mountains

When I started off on this ride I thought I might, if I felt particularly good, head from Umunhum to Loma Prieta, reversing an earlier ride. I did feel quite good, but on the way up my wife called to say that some tickets we bought a long time ago were (surprise!) for that evening. So I couldn't stay out indefinitely, nor could I return too zonked for a night out. So I decided just to explore this side of the road a little.

On the earlier ride I had taken the eastern trail, which looked good on a map but turned out to be an overgrown and almost impassable foot trail. This time I rode down the other ride, which is a fine, single-lane dirt road. It bends around for a few hundred feet and offers excellent views to the south, encompassing a snow-covered Loma Prieta and the bay. Eventually it comes into view of a mobile home. This road is marked as private, and having no need to tempt confrontation (or even inconvenience the residents), I turned right around.

The Loma Prieta ridge from Umunhum.
Monterey Bay is barely visible in the background

The weather radar dome and monolith on Umunhum,
from the road on the way down

Time to head downhill. I put the windbreaker back on and started down. The air, pleasantly cool until now, became piercingly cold as I gained speed and reduced effort. My ears were frozen, and I felt like I might get an ice cream headache.

A little way down, at the "no trespassing" signs, the same ranger who had passed me twice so far was parked, talking to a pair of riders and some hikers. I don't know what they were talking about, but one would guess it was something about not being allowed to go any further. Then here I come, riding out of The Forbidden Zone. Awkward. The ranger stopped me, asked me where I'd been, and explained the rules. Despite the signs that were terse, clear and numerous, I claimed to have misunderstood. He let me go with a smile. I'm not sure he could have written me a ticket, but in any case he was quite nice and could have been much more of a pain.

I rode back the way I came, which meant that it was downhill almost the entire way. Apart from dodging around a few cars that couldn't maintain the sort of speed I was carrying it was uneventful. In the end it was about 24 miles, with 3200 feet of climbing. The top was about 3300 feet, and I start at 250, so with a little intermediate climbing I think the Garmin may have shorted me. But it's been overestimating my climb recently, so it's only fair.

Grant Park

Mount Hamilton is covered with snow.  I wanted to ride up and see it, but the road is closed.  To be fair, the reason I knew about the snow was because I had heard about the road closure, so it's not like it was a surprise.

Looking south from Mount Hamilton Road

So the plan was to ride up to Hamilton, on the assumption that either bikes were either explicitly or implicitly allowed. It was a beautiful day for a ride. Although I haven't ridden much lately, I felt good going uphill and was keeping a reasonable pace. Or so I thought, anyway -- I was getting pretty regularly passed, which means both that I was going slowly and that there were lots of people taking advantage of the first dry day in a week. A snow plow passed me on the way up.

A first glimpse of Hamilton with snow on top

As you get near the top of the first hill, you can start to see the observatory.  Actually, you can see the observatory from anywhere in the valley, but over the last few days it has been hidden by clouds and fog, so I hadn't seen it since it snowed.  I was expecting a little clinging frost, but obviously it's much more heavily covered than that.  At this point I was pretty excited about getting up there.

At Joseph D. Grant Park

After topping the first hill and riding down into Joseph D. Grant Park, I found the road not only closed but blocked by two actual live humans.  Where are these budget shortfalls I keep hearing about?  In retrospect I suppose I was depending on institutional apathy to allow me to ride on a clearly closed road.  I don't know whether to be disappointed by the fact that they were vigilant.

As close as I got to Mount Hamilton

I took one last picture and dutifully turned around.  On the way back, I decided to head over Quimby rather than back the way I had come.  Quimby had a "closed" sign and an "icy" sign, but I ignored them.  Thus I have bracketed my civil disobedience: I'm apparently willing to disobey signs, but not ignore people.

Silicon Valley, from Quimby Road

Quimby is much steeper than Mount Hamilton Road, and tops out 300 feet higher (about 2200 feet as opposed to 1900 feet for this part of Mount Hamilton Road). I once tried to ride up the other side of Quimby on my road bike, but it was too steep and I turned around.  As it turns out, it's just as steep going down, too.  After many days of rain and damp spots in shadows, I wasn't altogether keen on going fast down this hill, which meant that I rode the brakes horribly.

At the bottom I didn't want to ride through bland suburban roads, so I skirted the hill on Mount Pleasant Road, then worked through some neighborhoods back to my parking spot at the start of Mount Hamilton Road.  I should have had something like 5500 feet of climbing over 40 miles, but ended up with only 2600 feet over 19 miles.  Still, can't complain too much.

Skyline

For the first time I can remember I had MLK day off of work. So after being lazy on Saturday and Sunday, I resolved early on Monday to head out on a long, clear-the-head sort of ride. I decided, for no special reason, to take the road bike up to Saratoga Gap, and then ride down to the summit area on 35. Looked pretty good on the map, anyway.

Table Mountain, from about midway up
Congress Springs Road

Although the weather report promised a warm day, Monday started off in thick fog. I started the ride in a jacket that I was sure was overkill.  I haven't used my road bike as much as I had hoped to, and once again was glad to be in the world of low rolling resistance. To get to the base of the climb in Saratoga, I took Blossom Hill to Los Gatos, then Route 9 into Saratoga.

The climb itself started out well enough, but I soon found that I was having to stop for breath. I haven't been riding much during the holidays, but I didn't think I was in this bad a shape. The problem, I eventually realized, was that I was on the road bike. I normally ride a mountain bike, and climb in a low gear and a high cadence (relatively high, anyway -- I still go very slowly). On the road bike, which doesn't have such low gears, I was trying to spin too fast. So the solution to my problem was: pedal more slowly. Brilliant!

The road was wet in the shaded sections, and I must say I worried a bit about the folks descending. I was climbing with my little Garmin thing showing the (highly approximate) altitude, and was trying to remember whether the top of the ride was at 2000 or 2400 feet. It turns out to be above 2600 feet, and those last few feet were agonizing.

There is nothing of intrinsic interest in Saratoga Gap. It's a crossroad where Route 9 meets Skyline, and where you can catch several mountain bike trails (from what I understand, anyway). But there's nothing actually there, apart from a parking lot and a guy selling soda and hot dogs from a cart. My reward for making it this far was a couple of sodas. The normal reward for a climb, the view, is hidden from all sides here.

My stay at the gap was short. I finished my sodas and headed along Skyline to the southeast, toward Summit Road. I knew that Summit Road sits at about 1600 feet, so I figured Skyline must head generally downward. I had the endpoints right, but didn't realize that the road climbs up to about 3100 feet before heading down. The slope here was very gentle, though, so while I was going slowly it didn't really register as a climb.

Skyline, between Castle Rock and Saratoga Gap

Skyline peaks near the entrance to Castle Rock State Park, and the road here is wide and pretty busy.  Near the entrance people were trolling for parking spots.  I puffed on by and gratefully began my long descent, past the Christmas tree farms and on toward Summit.  There are a lot of Christmas trees growing up here.

One of the skinny rural roads

After the intersection with Black Road, Skyline becomes the sort of one-and-a-half lane road that I love riding on. These are old roads, not particularly well maintained, but lightly used. In most spots two cars can pass, but their tires would likely be off the road to either side. At one point a trash truck came along and I almost had to get off the road to let it pass. Often the road skirts around the bigger trees. These are quiet roads, with character. Suburbanization hasn't quite reached them.

Looking south from Bear Creek Road

All along Skyline I was hoping to get a view northward, toward the valley. As far as I could tell, there's no such thing. There are a few nice views to the west and south , but none to the north or east.

Skyline meets Bear Creek Road, where it changes from a quaint county road to a two lane, no shoulder, high speed annoyance. I turned right and continued downward, now heading past vineyards rather than Christmas tree farms. The intersection is at about 2200 feet, and knowing that Summit is at about 1600 feet, I was surprised to descent below that point. Ah well, a little more climbing in my future. By the time I blew through 1300 feet, I could smell a rat. Clearly I should have taken a left on Bear Creek Road, not a right. At this point I could either turn around and climb 800 feet to reverse my error, or just continue down the road to Boulder Creek or Felton, and call my wife for a rescue. My legs were pretty burnt but I wasn't entirely worn out yet. I headed back up the hill, lamenting my stupidity. Not for missing the turn, mind you, but for not stopping to check the map earlier.

The plaque at Mountain Charlie Road
and Summit

Shortly after my missed turn, a little farther along Bear Creek Road, I turned onto Summit Road, which was again that pleasant rural road. Just before the bridge over I-17 is the intersection with Mountain Charlie Road. Mountain Charlie was, like Jones, one of the builders and operators of a private toll road from Santa Cruz to San Jose. There are lots of accounts of travellers in the 1850s and 1860s spending the night near his cabin, which apparently is about a mile away.

From here I went home over the Los Gatos Creek trail, standing much of the time because parts of my body were more sore than my legs, if you get my drift.

At the end of the ride, the Garmin showed just short of 60 miles, 5400 feet of climbing, and a whopping 9000 calories. Those last two numbers are undoubtedly inflated, but I was certainly worn out.