Bottoms up

Jackie called me from the athletic club where she teaches yoga every Saturday morning. Good for me since my monthly bill reflects a hefty discount for employees and their spouses. 

We spend most of her club pay eating frozen yogurt at Bliss, a local dispensary that just recently decided to close an hour later on weekends. Keeping the lights on until nine makes Bliss the  cutting-edge place for night owls in a town where most people are asleep by 8:30.

Her call was about the Ojai Wine Festival. “It’s next Saturday, want to go? Should be fun.”

Like other activities conjured up by Jackie, it was meant to fill our dance card with enough events to keep me from dozing comfortably on the patio, wasting my life away with a book, a NY Times crossword puzzle, and Netflix.

I thought for a second. About all the things she’s arranged for us. About how any resistance is doomed to failure. About how my initial response to almost anything new is at best lukewarm. And about how much I enjoy the activity once I get there.

Having convinced myself that the wine festival was in my best interests, I said “Sure,” with as much passion as as I could muster.

The annual festival is organized by Rotary and the proceeds are used to help the community. So, while I blanched at the $100 per person price tag, I kept thinking “It’s for a worthy cause.” And maybe the wine. And maybe because Jackie paid for the tickets anyway.

The event is held at Lake Casitas. Instead of the usual entry, the one leading to the camping sites, car parking was about a quarter mile away. In an unpaved field populated by gophers, their holes dared me to break an ankle. We held hands as we dodged the holes and promised to care for whoever broke a bone first.

The festival runs from noon to 4, and we arrived at the entrance around 1. Glenda, my favorite retired Help of Ojai employee, was workingat the gate. She gave us a wine glass to sample the offerings of the wineries, beer joints and other mysterious libations. Glenda waved us in to join the hundreds of others who were already doing mega-sampling.

We spotted my doctor, Jim Halverson, standing in a booth labeled Information; we wandered over. Other festival goers were less inquisitive, so we had Jim all to ourselves. I thought that it was easier to visit him at the Festival compared to booking an appointment in his office. I thought, maybe next year he could hang out at the Festival in a booth labeled Consultations.

There were 30 wineries serving up their stuff. We rejected the idea of a systematic approach to be sure we didn’t miss one but rejected that idea in favor of just looking for the shortest lines. Our knowledge of wines ends with Sutter Home Rose with their bottles usually housed in the darkest corner of the wine rack at Westridge Market. Attractively priced (cheap), Sutter Home owns a permanent spot in our refrigerator.

Arriving at the front of the line, we are entitled to a one ounce pouring. Some of the wineries have a bottle top that precisely measures the delivery of the ounce, while others do it without the benefit of mechanical assistance. We often cheer the technically disadvantaged pourer in the hope of getting a bigger helping.

Getting that one ounce seemed like a lot of work for a small return. And sometimes you need to think big, so I calculated how much wine I could collect if I worked hard, and began my quest at the noon opening, and ended it at the 4pm closing.

I figured that it takes about seven minutes to start at the back of a line, move to the front of the line, and get my one ounce. Then get in the next winery’s line, drink the previous winery’s ounce while waiting in line, and then get the next ounce.

To get through all 30 wineries, I’d need 210 minutes or three and a half hours. That would leave 30 minutes to pee, snack on crappy kettle corn, and be wheeled out of the festival by the paramedics. I’d call that a successful day.

We fell woefully short of that goal. I doubt that we drank a full glass of wine. But we did eat crappy kettle corn and pee in the porta-potty.

We made our way to the exit a little after three. People were still arriving. If my calculations were correct, they could only get nine ounces of wine. Hardly worth the hundred buck ticket price, but maybe enough to get a buzz on and smile innocently at the Highway Patrolman when driving out.

Bottoms up

Gone fishin’

My son David is an avid fisherman who is at his happiest when wetting a line. I give myself some credit for that flaw in his character because I introduced him to the often-frustrating sport before he could think for himself.

Showing little respect for his aging father, and to punish me for this early indiscretion, David often includes me in fishing trips better designed for young men who have not yet learned the skills associated with the creature comforts of old age. I play along, smile and minimize any complaints just to keep my child happy.

In furthering his revenge, he called me a few weeks ago and announced, “Dad, I’ve booked three sessions with a fishing guide on Lake Casitas. Just you and him. You’re gonna love it.”

As his words sank in, I thought of the excuses I might employ in an effort to extricate myself from this intrusion on my otherwise comfortable existence. But my fatherly instincts warned me of the serious consequences of declining his offer, including my premature placement in any one of several undesirable Ojai nursing homes.

“All you need to do is call the Ojai Angler and set up the dates of the sessions. You’re gonna love it. Call ‘em now, before you forget.”

I expressed my lukewarm appreciation for David’s gift and silently wondered how long how I might delay that call until David’s memory matched the dwindling status of my own. Rejecting that misguided idea, I waited a respectable week and then called the Ojai Angler.

I spoke with Amy who informed me that my guide would be Marc. Teaming up with any guide is fraught with uncertainty and I silently wondered if I had a choice; the question was answered when I cruised the Angler website and saw that Marc was the owner, operator and only guide. I relaxed and accepted my fate.

The big day arrived with little fanfare and much trepidation. I was to meet Marc at the dock at 7am. At 6am my iPhone informed me that the outside temperature was a balmy 36 degrees. No problem, I thought; surely the temperature would rise to a more respectable level before embarkation.

I dressed as though I was heading to the snow laden slopes at Mammoth Lakes. A base of wool socks, thermal underwear and a sweatshirt was covered by my thickest winter jacket. My head was encased in a scruffy wool hat that came down over my ears. Gloves completed the costume. I wondered if Admiral Byrd had had it so good in 1926 when he came within 80 miles of the North Pole.

The trip to the lake brought me to the dock at 6:45 where the temperature had indeed changed; it was now 32 degrees, four degrees colder than when I was in my warm bathroom wishing I could stay there. I scanned the lake in search of an iceberg or, at the least, an ice floe with a polar bear on it. All I found was Marc.

A happy young man with a boat of his own. Fishing gear neatly arranged on top of the immaculately cared-for deck. An experienced guide with thirty years plumbing the depths of Lake Casitas. All in all, a setup that screamed fishing success.

Completed in 1959, Casitas is a reservoir that supplies drinking water to the Ojai Valley. I ingest several glasses of the lake every day and ponder what it would be like if the lake dried up; a thought that becomes more troublesome with the current drought conditions.

The lake harbors several varieties of fish with largemouth bass topping the list of most desirable. Planted when the lake was finished, bass are not regularly stocked as they are omnivorous, eating many of the lake’s other denizens including trout which, due to their inability to fight back, are regularly restocked.

Every angler is often reminded that Casitas is known for its production of trophy bass. In 1991, Robert Crupi landed a monster 22 pounder which was the third largest one caught in the U.S. One’s salivary glands work overtime just thinking about the possibilities.

Marc put the boat in overdrive, the wind blasted, and I pulled my jacket over my face as I wondered how long it would take for frostbite to dissolve my nose.

We cruised to our first stop, which looked to me like every other stop. Marc unsheathed a rod and explained the finer points of bass fishing. “You hold the rod like this. There’s a plastic worm at the end of the line. Toss the line as far from the boat as you can. Let it sink to the bottom. Then reel it in verrrry slowly. When you feel a tap-tap, give the rod a stiff yank and hook the fish. Boat it.”

Simple enough, I thought. My first cast landed ten feet from the boat in a spot the opposite of what I had intended. “Maybe there’s more to this than I thought.”  My second cast was longer but still off target. I decided to forget about targets and just assume that I was in the right place.

I reeled in slowly, attempting to mimic an earthworm crawling on the bottom. This procedure had three advantages. First, more time was spent in the water than untangling faulty casts. Second, I didn’t have to do much casting. Lastly, I could close my eyes and recover lost sleep while I waited for the tap-tap.

Twenty minutes passed without a tap-tap for either Marc or me. Certain that somewhere else was better, we took our icy seats and gunned the craft to our next stop; it looked no different than the first stop. More casting and slower reeling produced the same result, no tap-tapping.

Sensing no need to be totally vigilant, Marc offered me a bottle of water. A dangerous act when given to a man who makes frequent visits to the toilet. Marc assured me that we would stop at one of the lake’s floating toilets to relieve the pressure and, good to his word, our next move took us to one.

The floating toilet is the lake’s solution to keeping people from peeing in it. Meticulously maintained, I wondered if we could just play out the balance of our four-hour safari by sitting on the platform and gazing at the beauty of our surroundings.

Marc said this was a no-no and we headed to the next look-alike spot. More casting, worm hardly moving, and no hoped-for tap taps.

As though god had heard my prayers, Marc announced that our time was up. He apologized for the absence of the bass and extolled the views of the lake and the surrounding mountains. He slipped up a bit when he told me that yesterday’s client had actually caught one fish, a fact that made me wonder why he thought today would be any better than yesterday.

I could have bitched but thought better of it. I silently congratulated myself for never uttering a word of complaint. Instead, as though consoling Marc, I said we’d get ‘em next time.

We rocketed to the dock in much warmer conditions and I congratulated myself as I exited the boat without falling in the water. I walked back to my car and thought about the benefits of engaging a guide; no boat of my own to care for topped the list and somehow made the day much more enjoyable.

I called Amy and booked my next outing.

Thank you David…I’m gonna love it.

I’ve been hung

Now that I’ve got your attention.

On Wednesday Sweetie and I saw the inside of city government.  Well, the building anyway.  We spent most of the day at Ojai City Hall, a venerable property that was donated to the city many years ago and is the seat of power in our fine city.

We were there hanging my photos.  With Roger’s expert guidance and help, we spotted twenty-five pieces throughout the building.   They’ll be there until March 12 for all the world to see.   I’m grateful to the Ojai City Arts Commission for their gracious invitation to display my work.

The photos are focused…pun intended…on Lake Casitas and on the oil wells near us.  Sweetie and I have been doing a project at Lake Casitas for several months.  I thought that the old lake should get more respect.  Seems like she’s only thought of as a place where out-of-towners drag their RVs and beer to.  Or her water that sometimes yields big bass to fisherman…at least that’s what they tell us. 

 The oil wells are the result of months of work trying to make them look alive and vibrant rather than the rusty. ratty old things that they are.  We tried to get some other venues interested in an exhibit devoted to them.  Most said “Oil wells, who’d be interested in those?”  Or they didn’t respond at all.  Must have been the shock.  The director of the Santa Paula Oil Museum looked at me, her eyes glazed over and she said something like “Why would the oil museum want to show pictures of oil wells.”  I couldn’t think of a good response.

Anyway, you’re all invited to our exhibit.  If you want some free food, come join us on Thursday, January 22 from 5pm to 6:30pm at City Hall.  Sweetie’s cookies will be the highlight of the show, I’m sure.  Sorry, no booze unless it’s in a paper bag out by the trash bin.  It’s a public building, so they only allow alcohol in the Mayor’s office…I think.