Geocaching, Sombreros, and Trundling, Part III

Miss Part I? Read it here

Miss Part II? Read it here

Full of Mexican food and high on life (or on sugar from the flan), we left the restaurant in good spirits and in the mood for adventure (aka trouble). I don’t remember how or why we ended up where we did, but I remember driving along a dirt path and seeing a bunch of discarded tires laying on the side of the road. The boys had a hankering to haul some of them up the nearby hill, and roll them down the side. So, we started gathering tires. 

Being as they were pretty heavy, we finally got the brilliant idea of roping them to the back of our vehicle and driving them most of the way up. Which is how we ended up driving the van up the side of the mountain, with 3 boys hanging off the back of the car, “riding” the tires on the way up. 

Once we were at the top of our destination, we occupied ourselves for a short while, flinging the tires off the side of the mountain and watching them roll all the way down. This easily segued into rock trundling, which is another favorite pastime of geologists, and is just a fancy way of saying “throwing small rocks and boulders down the side of a mountain”. We started small, finding individual rocks to throw, as heavy as we could lift. Then we started working together to dig out larger boulders and push them down the side of the hill. 

Don’t ask me why this activity is so entertaining. There is just something about watching the rocks gather speed and momentum and barrel their way down the side of a mountain, obliterating anything and everything in its path along the way. And the larger the rock, and the more effort it took us to get it moving, the more exciting it was when it flew down the hill. We would yell and cheer as they tumbled their way down to the bottom. 

Then, we discovered it – the mother lode of all trundling rocks. A perfect sandstone sphere, it sat there glowing in the rays of the setting sun, beckoning us. It must have been about 6 feet high and wide, and perched perfectly in a starting position at the edge of the cliff – all we had to do was loosen some of the rocks around the base. You could sense our excitement in the air. 

We got to work and suddenly realized this was going to be a much more arduous task than we first imagined. This rock wouldn’t BUDGE. Too much of the base was buried in the dirt, and no matter how many rocks we loosened, it seemed like it wasn’t helping. Too eager to give up right away, we kept at it. 

30 minutes later, we were still working on this stupid boulder, and had officially passed the point of giving up and were now hell-bent on digging this thing out. It was one of those situations where you had already invested too much time and effort to give up, and there was no going back. With the sun down and us quickly losing our light, we worked at a feverish pace, all five of us digging away. 

Occasionally we would stop digging and all push together, to see if we could get the rock to move. Every time, we would count to three, hold our breath, and push, anticipating the feel of the rock shifting under our hands. But, nothing. 

We worked until the last bit of sunlight was gone, and on a moonless night in the desert, it was pitch black out there. At some point somebody brought up the elephant in the room, which was even if we somehow finally got this rock to move, it was now too dark to even watch it roll down the hill. We didn’t even care. We were not leaving this mountain side until this thing moved. 

My arms aching, I took a break to hold the flashlight, while the boys hacked away at the bottom of the rock, the metal from their rock hammers flashing in the light as they raised their arms, sweat flying, and a crazed look in their eyes.  

Finally, it came time to test the rock again. This time, I inched my way up a neighboring rock, with my back flat up against it, and my feet on the boulder so I could push with all of my leg strength. We counted – 1, 2, 3…and pushed. This time I felt the rock give underneath my feet. There was a communal gasp from everyone as we felt the rock lift, then settle back into place. We were close! You could feel all of us now quivering with excitement and anticipation. I even recall hearing someone say the phrase “this is like foreplay!” We tore at the rock with renewed fervor, knowing the time was near. 

Finally, one last push. We knew this one was going to be it. In a moment of hushed silence, we pushed together, and felt the rock move forward and tip over. Then we saw one of the coolest things I can remember – the boulder striking other rocks as it charged its way down the mountainside was causing it to spark and was sending streaks of flying yellow sparks into the air the entire way down the mountainside. It was a magnificent sight we would have never been able to see unless it was pitch black outside. 

The darkness also intensified all of our other senses, and we could feel the vibrations under our feet and hear the boulder crashing into everything else, until we heard the final loud BOOM of it hitting the bottom, echoing through the desert canyon like a gavel. It was glorious. 

I have so many memories of geology trips, with plenty of others containing much more exciting circumstances than these. But they are still hard to compare with this first trip. The five of us had bonded over geocaches, sombreros, and trundling. We shared new discoveries and experiences together. It taught me that you don’t have to be in an exciting place to have fun – you can be in the middle of a dry desert, with shady restaurants and tire-littered dirt roads – but as long as you are with good friends, you can have a blast. 

Geocaching, Sombreros, and Trundling, Part II

Miss Part I? Read it here

After 2 days and 3 nights of camping and hiking in the desert, we were hot, sweaty, dirty, and tired. When we were finished packing up camp, our professor announced that him and the TA’s were taking one of the vans and that we were allowed to take the other on our own, in case we wanted to stay in town for dinner. This was probably an unwise decision on his part, if he had known us a little better – an invitation for us to get into more shenanigans. 

However, we set off, excited about the prospect of being on our own without supervision (hey, we WERE only college juniors, can you blame us?). Since I had spent a short time living in Barstow when I was young, I told the boys I had memories of a Mexican restaurant from my childhood, one with food so glorious it made you want to weep. Meals that tasted like there were beautiful Spanish women in colorful flowing skirts dancing on your tastebuds. I raved so much about this place, I talked the boys into going there for dinner. 

Since I couldn’t remember the exact location of the restaurant, we had to drive up and down the main strip of the city a few times before finding it. Luckily, it’s a small town. I swore that we would know it as soon as we saw it, because the restaurant from my memories was a magnificent pueblo-style building with bushes of gorgeous flowers bursting through every window, and hand-painted murals of Spanish art on the walls. So, when we finally pulled up at the small, run-down, faded building with the word “Rosita’s” feebly painted on the side, peeling off in places, that should have been my first hint that my 6 year old imagination might have exaggerated slightly. 

We were too hungry to complain, so we went in, sat, and ordered. That was when I recalled a vague memory of celebrating someone’s birthday in this same restaurant when I was a kid. I knew I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to potentially prank or embarrass one of my fellow classmates, so I told the table I had to use the restroom, and set off for the kitchen to speak with our waiter. 

After informing him one of the gentlemen at my table was celebrating his birthday and would like to be surprised later, I was halfway back to the table when I bumped into my friend Rob, who had a mischevious look on his face. Knowing Rob as the trickster of the group, I figured he was up to the same thing I was, so I let him in on my little secret. We agreed who the victim at the table would be. 

After our meals were settling in our stomachs, and everyone at the table was peacefully reclining in their chairs, I was all aquiver with anticipation for our “dessert”. When our waiter finally approached us and asked who the “birthday muchacho” was, Rob quickly pointed at our friend Jim. Jim, thinking this was entirely Rob’s fault, pointed the finger right back in Rob’s face. Luckily I was there to back Rob up, and there was a moment of blind panic on Jim’s face, as he realized he had been duped. 

Suddenly, a trio of costumed waiters appeared. One slapped a giant sombrero on Jim’s head, one was sporting a tiny guitar, and one a set of maracas. They proceeded to dance and sing the Mexican Hat Dance around our table, while Jim sat there looking ridiculous, the tiny pom-pom balls swinging off the edge of the hat and into his face. It came so far out of left field, that I thought I was going to pee my pants laughing. 

As their song came to a close, the mariachi wannabes told everyone at the table to lean in for a picture, and they snapped a Polaroid. I don’t know who has it now, but I still wish to this day I had a copy of that photo. Lesson learned: it seems like the more remote/random a restaurant, the more likely they are to have some silly tradition for celebrating a birthday. And the more friends you are with, the higher the chance someone is bound to rope you into dealing with it. Always carry your own camera. 

Stay tuned for Part III...

Geocaching, Sombreros, and Trundling, Part I

Halfway through my freshman year of college, I changed my major from Astronomy to Geology. The reason for this was completing my first physics course and realizing I would have to take NINE more. I’m not sure why I chose geology exactly, other than the fact that I liked volcanoes and shiny rocks and always had a rock collection when I was a kid. My mom laughed when I made the decision to switch and used to say I could never make up my mind between the heavens and the earth. 

It was a great decision, though. There is something magical about geologists – we are down to earth people who love camping and drinking beer. What’s not to love? On a side note, you should check out the Uncyclopedia's definition of a Geologist some time – it’s great (be sure to read the sections titled "Geologists in Popular Culture" and "How to Spot a Geologist"). 

Some of my best (and worst) memories are of my college geology field trips. There were only 4 other people in my major in my year, and they were all guys. I tended to prefer the company of boys at this point in my life, since I enjoyed living drama-free, so this was a bonus. Jeff, Jim, Ryan, Rob and I were immediately close friends, and our class trips were always a blast. 

I will always have a fond place in my heart for our first trip together – to Rainbow Basin outside Barstow, CA. As soon as the five of us were set loose on our own, our attention span quickly wandered from structure mapping to goofing off and checking out our surroundings instead. 

Our first major discovery was up on the edge of a thrust fault we had to hike our way up. Taking a rest at the top, we found an old bobcat lair that had been abandoned (atleast, we were pretty sure it was). Wondering how deep it went, the boys lowered me into it (I’d say they forced me to do it but I more likely volunteered myself). I could stand at the bottom of the hole with barely my head poking out. Threatening to leave me there forever, the boys scampered off and went exploring a few feet away. 

After a few moments, I heard a voice say “hey guys, someone left a box up here” and the boys came back carrying a small Tupperware container. Curiosity outweighing their desire to leave me in the hole, they got me out and we gathered around the plastic box. Upon opening it, we found a small notepad, and a collection of odd-ball objects. After flipping open and reading the notepad, we learned we had just discovered our first geocache. 

Geocaching is basically treasure-hunting for adults. It is an outdoor recreational activity where you use GPS (Global Positioning System) to hide and/or seek containers located on public land. These “caches” are sometimes filled with fun objects and can be used as a “trading post” – take an object, leave an object. 

For five college students, this was a discovery magnificent to behold. An entire world of fun had just opened up for us. We all took an object from the box, but having nothing to leave, we scrounged through our school supplies and pooled the following bootleg items for the next lucky finders: a ruler, a couple pens, keychain, stickers, and hand lens, all courtesy of the USC Geology Department. Which of course, is how we came up with our official Geocaching Team  Name: Bootleg Tour. Thus began a legendary mission and beautiful journey to discover as many geocaches as possible on our geology field trips. 

To Be Continued...

Read Part II here!

Wear Your Sunscreen, Kids...

This weekend it was about 110 degrees in Bakersfield. Luckily I didn’t stick around for it – I got the heck out of dodge and went to the beach where it was a beautiful 75 degrees all weekend. But it did remind me of a story…

I didn’t wear my first real bikini until I was 15 years old. I’m sure I had worn them when I was a baby or a little girl, but those don’t count. I’m talking about, itty-bitty, triangle-top, string bikini. Mine was blue with white-polka dots and it had a tiny Winnie-the-Pooh on it.

It was the summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school, and I was on summer vacation with my best friend, Jessica. It was our last hurrah together, since my family and I would be moving to Bakersfield that fall, and we would be separated. They had invited me on their family trip to Mammoth Mountain, and I was pretty darn excited.

Since Jessica and I were the epitome of obnoxious teenagers at this point in our lives, all we were interested in doing while surrounded by the glory and splendor of the mountains (besides doing our hair and makeup), was tanning by the pool. So that’s what we did. And of course, like a typical teenager who doesn’t need to worry about her skin because she has naught a wrinkle yet, I wore no sunscreen. In fact, I’m pretty sure I was slathering oil on my body like a 50’s greaser.

(Here is a picture of me in the offending bikini. Please don't be creepy because I posted a pic of myself in a bathing suit.) 

A few hours after our tanning session, I already noticed that my skin was feeling uncomfortable and was turning a startling shade of red. Especially the tender skin around my…uh…décolletage…that had never seen the sun before. A few more hours, and I noticed skin puckering and swelling. This could not be good.

I’m not sure what happened overnight, but by the time I woke up the next morning, the blisters on my skin had hardened and cracked in places on my chest. I became aware of this upon trying to roll over in a half-asleep state in the early hours of the morning, and practically falling out of the bed in pain. My movement only made it worse – some of the cracks had started to bleed. It was AWFUL. Most nights I could barely get to sleep, and would just lay awake in bed, moaning in agony.

(Here is a pic of me trying to get into a jacuzzi a day or so later. You can see the look of immense pain on my face, and that was just from the hot water on my burned legs. Please notice the magnificence of that tan line from my shorts, by the way...)

Now imagine me trying to explain to my best friend’s parents what was wrong with me and why I was in so much pain. Of course her mom wanted to look at it to make sure I was really ok, so that added to the awkwardness. Since anything more constricting than a baggy t-shirt was painful for me to wear, I had to go bra-less for the duration of the vacation.

(Here's a closer look at my chest. Still hard to tell, but that white spot in the middle is where only one layer of skin peeled off. The darker red areas are where about three layers came off. Ouch.)

As soon as I got home from our trip, I visited the doctor (another awkward moment), who proceeded to tell me that I had suffered third degree burns on my body and yelled at me for not getting it taken care of sooner. He then gave me an ointment that I had to smear on my cleavage several times a day, that smelled like a bad mix of motor oil and old people, and stung when I put it on. The whole thing was very traumatizing and painful.

(To emphasize my point, here is another pic of me in immense pain). 

Luckily, there was no scarring, and I haven’t had any skin cancer scares or anything like that. Needless to say, I learned my lesson: Fair skin + High Altitude Suntanning – Sunscreen = Burned Boobs. I’ve been wary ever since, about exposing any skin that hasn’t seen sun for a few months. I can’t imagine how the people in the nudist camps do it.