Another Month of the Pandemic, A New Swimming Pool to Try

We just passed the six-month-mark of the coronavirus pandemic this week. It's starting to feel like it's never going to end. 

Sometimes it feels like I'm drowning in anxiety. 

And the only thing that helps me come up for air is getting in the water. Even when it stresses me out. 

It's still better than life on dry land. 

The City of LA's aquatics facilities haven't reopened yet. The West Hollywood Pool has been demolished. And reservations for the Culver City and Santa Monica public pools have become increasingly hard to come by—especially when residents have first dibs.

So, I've returned to my routine from when I first moved to LA—which is to try any pool I can get into that's new to me, no matter where it is. 

Today, my swimming took me to the South Bay municipality of Torrance, California. 

Instead of driving 20 minutes to swim for 40, today I had to drive an hour to get to my time slot. 

It was slightly quicker getting back home—but I still questioned my sanity. 

After a week of swim session cancelations because of poor air quality—with smoke from the wildfires that are raging up and down the Pacific West and Northwest blanketing us in a milky-white haze and an orange glow—I was willing to drive pretty much anywhere, as long as I could find a pool that would take me. 

The Torrance Plunge is named after former Torrance City Councilman Victor E. Benstead, who served from 1952 to 1964. It was his idea to build the Plunge. It was even part of his campaign platform—the one that helped him get elected to city council. 

After he fulfilled his campaign promise, his fellow council members surprised him with the renaming. And the name has stuck since it was originally dedicated in 1956. 

Despite the pandemic, the Torrance Plunge offers the chance to swim laps in half the length of its Olympic size—and, as with the other pools during the pandemic, in a lane all to yourself. 

The west wall of the plunge—at the deep end—features a mural by artist Emily Bradley, which was unveiled late last year. 

But I didn't notice much of anything beyond the first blue sky I'd seen in two weeks. 

That, and the blue and white backstroke pennant flags above me, flapping in the ocean breeze. I stared at them as I counted to 25 and reached out my hand to brace myself against the wall behind me. 

So, where to next?

I'm open to suggestions. 

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In the Line of Fire at Yosemite Mountain Sugar Pine Railroad, Sierra National Forest

I had a three-day weekend for Labor Day, and I was puzzled as to how to spend it. I've been kind of maxing out my opportunities to explore the LA area from a safe distance; and I've been dying for a farther-flung adventure.

Especially because I've seen and heard about some friends traveling. And I'm just fine if we're all in the same lockdown boat. But I'm not fine if I'm missing out on stuff that others are experiencing.

Fortunately, I tend to thrive under restriction. Give me very few choices, and I'll make the absolute most out of them.

So, after deciding to cross Forestiere Underground Gardens in Fresno, California off my list, I honed in on the other bucket list item that was 1) in the same general direction and 2) open despite the coronavirus pandemic.



Less than an hour northeast of Fresno, I could ride the Sugar Pine Railroad! And, in fact, my timing was impeccable—because on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend, I could ride its narrow-gauge heritage rails twice, with the addition of the "Moonlight Special" evening train.



Located in Sierra National Forest near the town of Fish Camp, about 10 miles south of the Highway 41 entrance to Yosemite National Park, the Yosemite Mountain Sugar Pine Railroad has been running scenic passenger trains through federal land since 1965. It's still run by the same family that founded it.



It has restored and preserved the track and grade used from 1908 to 1924 in the logging operations of the former Madera Sugar Pine Lumber Company, which operated in the area from 1899 to 1931.



But now, instead of hauling logs...



...the railway hauls tourists sitting on benches carved out of logs.



The main rolling stock for the current railroad—known as "The Logger"—also features covered but open-air carriages, offering both comfort and safety. That's where I boarded my first train ride of the day.



When I'd arrived in the area, I could see that there was smoke in the sky and an alien orange glow cast upon pretty much everything—but because I'd been driving since 9 a.m., I hadn't heard about the local wildfire that was causing it. I had no idea how close it was getting, either.



But as we rolled past some of the salvaged equipment and train cars relocated to California from the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad in Colorado...



...like the No. 5, a two-axle diesel switch engine built in 1935...



...it wasn't far into our 4-mile journey that I realized something was very wrong, very close by.



I tried to focus on the magic of the oil-burning, steam-puffing locomotive as it chugged along the rails—but I did notice that I couldn't smell any sugar pines through my mask and bandana.



The only smell that got through my face covering was that of a campfire.



Plus, the sky was getting more foreboding as we got deeper into the national forest—though, at the halfway point of the loop, still only about 2 miles in.



There was plenty of orange/amber sky to see out there, given the lack of "old growth" trees that would otherwise form a canopy above. That's because by the time the Madera Sugar Pine Lumber Company shut down operations, it had cleared about 30,000 acres of trees. And because the company never replanted any, what's growing along the rail route now is completely natural, "new" growth.



It's kind of amazing that wildfires haven't impeded this self-reforestation process—although the 2017 Railroad Fire, which started across the highway from the YMSPRR station, did char some of its historic equipment.



Fast-forward a couple of hours to my second scenic ride of the day—the "Moonlight Special"—and that's when I chose to sit in a log right behind the No. 10 "Shay," completed in 1928. Lima Locomotive Works of Lima, Ohio constructed it for the Pickering Lumber Company, which used it for the West Side Lumber Company's operations in Tuolumne, California.



It didn't much matter to me if the locomotive drowned out the sound of our guide's voice coming through the speaker. I'd already heard the narration once that day. I just took all the sights in once again, for as long and as much as the remaining light would allow.



By the time we made our final 2-mile passage through Sierra National Forest at the end of the night, it was so pitch black out that I could see nothing ahead but trails of white steam and the flames from the firebox.

There was no moon to admire, no stars or constellations or planets or Milky Way. Smoke from the nearby Creek Fire—which was getting closer and closer as we progressed through the forest by rail—had formed a thick canopy above, blocking our view of any night sky and insulating us with the 100+ degree heat from earlier in the day.

On my drive back down the 41 to the gateway town of Oakhurst, where I'd planned to spend the night, I couldn't keep the red glow of the Creek Fire from invading my peripheral vision. Though I could see no actual flames, there was an unmistakable inferno blazing just down the way—how far or how fast, I wasn't sure.

Back at my hotel, and back with a cell phone signal, I discovered that what had begun as a small wildfire the night before had exploded into over 30,000 acres that afternoon. And nearby evacuations were underway.

I fortunately wasn't staying in backcountry, so I'd presumably have plenty of notice if I had to high-tail it out of there. I was prepared for a knock on the door or a phone call in the middle of the night to tell me to get out—though fortunately, those orders didn't come during my stay.

I woke up at 8:30 a.m. without an alarm, disoriented as to the time and place I was in—because it was a dark orange-gray outside, with every car using its headlights and every street light still on. I couldn't find the sun in the sky. And after getting myself ready to leave in 30 minutes flat, I found my car covered in fallen ash—ash that was continuing to fall, but now on top of my head.

The next day—that Sunday, the day before Labor Day—the Yosemite Mountain Sugar Pine Railroad closed for the safety of its staff and visitors, with the Creek Fire still expanding and advancing.

And as of today, the following Sunday, it hasn't yet reopened. The Creek Fire has grown to more than 200,000 acres and is still burning, although evacuation orders have been lifted for Oakhurst and relaxed to a warning for Fish Camp.

So, it looks like the YMSPRR will dodge another bullet this time around when it comes to fire season. But I sure am glad I got there just under the wire for this trip. And I hope they continue to ride the rails in Sierra National Forest for decades to come.

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I chose one of the worst heatwave days of the year to cross Forestiere Underground Gardens in California's Central Valley off my list.



But that was just perfect—because its creator, Baldassare Forestiere, dug it out to escape the scorching summertime heat. So, I got to experience it just as he did—and for the very reason he excavated the site in the first place. It's 15 to 20 degrees cooler down there!



An immigrant from Sicily, Forestiere had become an expert tunneler while working on Boston's subway system. But he hated the snow and cold; so, he fled to California for the promise of a warm, tropical paradise.



Around the turn of the last century, Central Valley land was dirt cheap—and given its reputation as California's breadbasket, and its seemingly healthy topsoil, it's no wonder that Forestiere planned to become a farmer and till the earth.



He close 80 acres of the Winterton Tract, a subdivision of the Fruit Vale Estate, just 7 miles from Fresno's city center. Only, after just a bit of digging, he hit a layer of hard rock formed by the Ice Age —and had to come up with a Plan B.



Already an expert "sandhog," Forestiere made the most of the situation and returned to what he knew best. With just a few hand tools, in 1908 he began carving out what would become a California state landmark and be listed on the National Register of Historic Places.



With all the inspiration he needed right inside his own head—and no written plans—Forestiere excavated 10 acres of what some have considered caves or grottos or even catacombs, using traditional architectural and engineering techniques of Roman arches (using wagon wheel molds) and domed ceilings.



For him, it became home—and that rock-hard material he hit, known as "hardpan," became a sturdy building material for walls, rooms, alcoves, and more.



Fortunately, Forestiere didn't have to give up his horticultural dreams—because his construction also included many planters that would contain herbs, fruit trees, and grapevines. Today, there's a vine that's over a century old and has lost only one of its branches out of its original three. It still produces big purple grapes.



In his underground orchard, Forestiere planted trees that bore tropical citrus like loquat, kumquat, and grapefruit.



And because he was something of a grafting genius, he even created a citrus-bearing tree that yielded both lemons and oranges.



There are now 2 acres "finished" and open for exploring and examining...

...with recycled building materials hiding in plain sight, like scrap metal and barbed wire...



...and mattress springs.



It's cooler down there not just because of the subterranean location, or the rock walls, but also because of the cross-ventilation. (And, being a devout Catholic, he built the underground gardens literally in the shape of a cross.)



Open-air skylights allow trees to grow towards the sun...



...and many of the arches line up so the air whooshes straight through.



Ultimately, Forestiere designed an entirely self-sufficient dwelling—where he could store rainwater and keep the fish he'd caught alive in a pond until he was ready to eat them.



A lifelong bachelor, he'd cook the food he'd grown or caught on his wood-burning stove...



...and wash it down with the wine he'd made himself and stored in bottles in his wine cellar, seated on modular furniture that was built into the walls.

Perhaps he'd be listening to his radio, too—the same radio that's still tucked away in a niche. (He eventually had electricity, but no indoor plumbing.)



During the winter, he'd keep the drafts out by covering the skylights in glass and lighting the fireplace. He also slept in his "winter" bedroom, which wasn't as exposed to the elements as his "summer" bedroom.



Forestiere never meant to keep his underground gardens all to himself. In addition to inviting family and friends over while his unusual palace was still being completed, he'd intended to eventually open it up to the public as a kind of daytime resort or even, as he called it, an "underground hotel."



To accommodate visitors arriving in cars, he built a sloping automobile tunnel using a construction tool called the Fresno scraper, pulled by two mules. Because this revolutionary tool (invented in Fresno, of course) could move quadruple the volume of earth compared to manual excavation, it influenced the later designs of bulldozer blades and earth movers.



Although Forestiere never completed his motorist entryway—and never officially installed the valet service—some of the attractions he'd built for them to see on their way in are visible now on the guided tour visitors can take.



Located 20 feet below ground, there's the Tree of Seven Fruits, which once fruited lemons, sweet lemons, grapefruit, cedro, and Navel, Valencia, and sour oranges.



Only the oranges remain.



There's also the tri-level aquarium—a cemented pond with observation areas above it, at its surface, and below it (where Forestiere would often sit and watch the fish that were "too pretty to eat" swimming above his head through the former glass bottom).



After Forestiere died at the age of 67 in 1946, his underground gardens were targeted by vandals—though his younger brother Giuseppe tried to keep a watchful eye.

With no offspring to speak of, Uncle Baldy may rest in peace knowing that his great-nieces now own and operate his sculptural masterpiece, 40 years in the making, as a tourist attraction and cultural monument—preserving it as much as possible and restoring when necessary.

Now that I've experienced it firsthand, I wonder why more people don't carve their own dwellings out of the earth and live more sustainably, like they do in Tunisia and other desert environs. It seems like a nice life.

Especially when it feels like hell above ground.

Forestiere Underground Gardens's Photo Policy dictates that photos are only permitted for personal enjoyment. Photos may not be copyrighted, watermarked or sold either through web albums or other commercial or online venues (YouTube, Instagram, etc) without consent of the owners. Therefore, the photos on this blog post are not for sale and cannot be licensed for reprint or other commercial uses. 



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Amusing Myself With 19th Century Pneumatic Technology at a 21st Century Bank Branch

"You're everywhere!" people say to me, in response to my pandemic amusements and adventures.

"Yeah," I respond, "But I'm pretty much just in my car..."

I'm now choosing my on-the-road meals based on the nearest drive-thrus. And if I'm not shopping online, I'm picking up items curbside—rolling down a back window or flipping my hatchback up so the store clerk can toss my purchase in and I can drive off without ever getting out from behind the wheel.

I'd thought that making bank transactions would present a challenge—because although I'd found a drive-thru ATM, some banking just requires a real, live teller. Besides, I haven't been thrilled about those touchscreens and buttons that have surely been contaminated by god-knows-what.



And then I found a drive-up teller at a bank branch in Beverly Hills. And to my delight, it had one of those pneumatic tube transport systems for the cars one lane away from the teller's window.



I so clearly remember these from my childhood—when I'd be sitting in the backseat of my dad's car, marveling at those cylindrical containers that carried cash, checks, receipts, deposit slips, and whatnot to and from the driver's side.



It felt like something straight out of The Jetsons. And even though it was created in the 19th century, and is utterly mechanical, it still kind of does seem like fantasy futurism.



Today on my bank run, I could've lined my car up for the teller window—but the car queue for the tubes was just about as long, so I decided to try to relive a little nostalgic bit of my childhood.

There was a difference this time, though. I got to operate the pneumatic system myself—unlatch the cash-carrying cartridge, stuff it with my documents, snap it shut, place it back on the loading dock, and hit the red button.

That's what triggers the plexiglass door to descend and the whoosh of pressured air to transport the carrier up through the conveyor and to a destination unseen from the driver's seat.

Thirty years after I last encountered pneumatic banking (probably), I couldn't quite figure out whether I was supposed to stay at my tube station or proceed to the one in front of me to get my receipt. I hadn't been paying close enough attention to what the cars ahead had done—and for a moment, I felt crippled by the lack of human contact.

With no one behind me, I drove forward to the next docking station and pressed the red button, accidentally sending an empty cartridge to the teller.

Assuming I'd made a mistake, I backed up to the station I'd originally used for my transaction. And then I hear a voice come over a speaker system and say, "I already sent it to the other one."

Was I supposed to go to the other one? Or did the teller send it there from afar because she'd seen me pull up to it?

I don't actually know. And I was too rattled to ask.

Is the carrier sanitized between each use? Probably not. Is it any cleaner than an ATM? Probably.

But if I could catch something from a pneumatic tube, well, I guess that was one risk I was willing to take from inside my car.

At least for today.

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