One Day, Two Volcanoes

It was a blustery, gray 57 degrees in San Francisco when I hit the road. Weather conditions that are sadly unremarkable. 150 miles north, it was 99 degrees—42 degrees warmer than the city I'd left behind. I stopped to stretch my legs at William Ide Adobe State Historic Park. 

So, who was William Ide? A midwesterner who made his way to California (sound like someone else you know?) amongst the wagon trains in the 1840s. In 1846, rumor had it that the Mexicans, who still controlled what was known as Alta California, were going to drive out the Americanos. Ide and about 30 others made their way to the Mexican military outpost in Sonoma, declared California an independent republic, hoisted a California Republic flag with a bear on it, and named Ide as president. His term lasted all of 25 days before the U.S. military annexed the land. 

Ide and his family kept a summer cabin near Red Bluff, on the banks of the middle fork of the Sacramento river. This is the main house, where the table is still set as if guests are arriving soon.

Farm implements behind a boarded-up shed.

The old woodshop

A bucolic river setting

Continuing north, the flat expanse of the Central Valley begins to buckle with the folds and crags of the Cascade mountains, which is really a chain of volcanoes. I tried to get a shot of Volcano #1, the blackened, dusty hillsides of Mt. Lassen, where noxious brews of sulphuric soup bubble and steam through cracks in the earth, and mountains of black sand from an eruption 100 years ago bake in the sun. Alas (or, a-Lassen), the mountain proved photographically elusive. This is the closest I came—it's off to the right, I promise. (I'm sure my dad is thrilled to know that I was taking photos while driving). 

So, sigh, the next best thing to being there:

The miles roll on, the elevation rises, and the brown hillsides speckled with Cal Oak give way to rocky foothills sporting the Douglas fir that built the economy of the Northwest. And then, turning a corner, the rounded hump of a mammoth, glacier-streaked mountain appears, making me squeal out loud. Who needs a picture of dusty ol' Lassen when, after winding your way north a bit, you're greeted with this beauty in the distance?

Ah, Mount Shasta, 14,179 feet. My latent inner Seattlite suddenly felt like the Sierras have nothing on the Cascades. Yosemite, Half Dome, you're beautiful and all, but you're old and unchanging. The Cascades are alive. Someday, who knows when, this hibernating Shasta monster is going to wake up, blow its top (again) and the landscape will never be the same.  

Shasta monster from my hotel window.