From
1829 to 1834, 22 million brick were laid by slaves to form Fort Pickens.
In the fall of 1861 a civil war exchange took place, that being the Fort's
combat history. From 1886-1888 Geronimo, deported from Arizona, was imprisoned
at the Fort. Technology progressed there in 1898 with eight 12 inch mortars
being able to lob 700 pound projectiles at invading ships who never came.
Disappearing 12 inch rifles were also installed. In 1903 generators provided
electricity. All for a potential enemy who never came.
- the newest addition to the Orlando family. His trials include strenuous
training and a good deal of discipline since, in effect, he began as an
overweight three and a half year old puppy who knew only a cage, food,
and water.
a
recent California transplant from Buffalo, New York, although she had lived
and worked in California previously. Met her at McDonalds. She splits house
utilities and pays rent besides, which makes her situation doubly expensive.
That's
the trail to the left, and of course in my situation, there's the symbolism
of the sign talking to me. Disregarding the "right way", this day I outdrove
the rain from Carpenteria, got in 20 miles of biking, then drove all the
way to Phoenix that evening, and slept at the rest stop half way to Tuson.
which
was followed by hiking into a different canyon where the trees were quickly
far below, yet the pinnacles of the National Monument were still far above,
many of them, I'm sure, identified by being elevated to human stature.
The
Asians with cameras set for the event quickly left this less than spectacular
sunset, partially shrouded by the distant clouds, which the locals referred
to as the next pineapple express bringing in the rain from the Hawieian
Islands.
But
I did get to see redwoods in the forest, not huge, but the aura enthralled
me.
Then comes the first night
of the drive from California to Florida - a cabin at the ocean. 
I
had a candle for heat but the cabin was too big, thus at 9pm after trying
to sleep since dark, I lit the first load of wood which I first had to
carry down from the shed. My cabin was the farthest from the shed. Flashlight
in hand, the first load was carefully navigated down the path which was
intermitantly dotted with a step slipery from the rain. About 1am that
process was repeated since the first $4.00 load quickly burned. The half-price
$15 cabin rent could have been quickly equaled by the heating bill.
The coast at Mount Tamalpias,
just north of San Francisco, is rugged, with little beach. The cabins are
way down from the road. And I had the cabin closest to the ocean. This
storm was another pineapple express, and the waves through the night sounded
like pineapples cannoned against a nearby wall. You could feel the sound
energy equivalent to a 30 MPH car being driven directly into the rock cliff.
And in the twilight, some type of duck was gingerly riding the swells,
perhaps just for the fun of it. For me, hypothermia would come quickly.
The conditions are harsh, as
my brakes can attest. The ride down the mountain ended at a stop sign for
which I barely stopped. And the smell of burnt phenolic was in the air.
Fortunately the smell was not from the clutch pads. And down from the road
to the cabins, and the next morning winding out of the park, my gearing
was used to provide as much of the braking as practical.
I hiked from the cabins up
to Highway 1, the beyond, following a creek. The climb to the highway was
"up". 
And
the climb up the creek trail was enthralling in spite of the light rain.
I quickly took the first cross trail heading for the Highway at the beach
town, where I would take the highway back up and then down to the cabins
for the night.
That next morning, at the north
foot of the Golden Gate Bridge I setup for biking, but the rain came again. 
By
the time I paid the toll it poured, yet, just as quickly, let up enough
for me to buy some travelers checks in downtown San Fransisco. "No Visa
and no out-of-state checks," was the tune the previous day. The sun even
peeked out and then it poured again. By this time I stopped in Pacifica
which had the first readily accessible McDonalds in the people packed San
Franscisco area. Within a half hour the sky to the west was clear blue
and without a cloud. The 35 MPH wind from the north helped in my journey
southward.
The wind had not let up one
bit as I set up to bike at the Half Moon Bay, a coastal plain which saw
its first roads in 1855, a toll road to the Bay area in 1866, and a railroad
in the early 1900s. The weather report had gusts reaching 45 MPH. I first
biked the trail into the wind, making the anticipation of the downwind
return a delight. This area was not unlike Florida - except for the mountains
in the background, the area was flat and oriented for tourism. Grocery
prices were high and the locals complained of the large tourism operations
"ruining" the area. I quess they just want people to drive in, eat lunch,
and one-stop at Dunn Mehler's Sculpture Gallery on the ocean front. And
of course, see the off-limits Army coastal defense installation at Pigeon
Point at the top of the Bay for all to see. Similarly, the dozen oil rigs
in the Santa Barbara channel. The perfect scenery? Only if you ignore,
for me, some major distractions.
South of Santa Barbara lay
Carpinteria, where they mined asphalt from the tar pits at the coast. A
bike ride there took me through a nature preserve looking down on a protected
beach for seals. The beach would be in the literal shadow of the oil rigs
maintenance pier if the sun would ever be in the north. The bike "trail"
went through the maintenance employee parking lot and I continued north
to see tar oozing from the ground high above the ocean -- petroleum products
for the taking. Thus the economic realism of the dozen oil platforms in
the Bay.
