Pardey Larry - Bull Canyon: a Boatbuilder, a Writer and other Wildlife

Bull Canyon

Other books by Lin Pardey

The Care and Feeding of Sailing Crew

Books written with Larry Pardey

Cruising in Seraffyn

Seraffyns Mediterranean Adventure

Seraffyns European Adventure

Seraffyns Oriental Adventure

The Self-Sufficient Sailor

The Capable Cruiser

Storm Tactics Handbook

The Cost-Conscious Cruiser

By Larry Pardey

Details of Classic Boat Construction

DVDs

Storm Tactics: Companion to Storm Tactics Handbook

Get Ready to Cruise: Offshore Sailing, Part One

Get Ready to Cross Oceans: Offshore Sailing, Part Two

Cruising Has No Limits

Lins blog and photo album: www.linpardey.com

Lin and Larrys Newsletter and Cruising Tips: www.landlpardey.com

Lin Pardey

Arcata, California

Publishers Cataloging-in-Publication

(Provided by Quality Books, Inc.)

Pardey, Lin.

Bull Canyon : a boatbuilder, a writer and other

wildlife / Lin Pardey.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references.

LCCN 2010940098

ISBN-13: 978-1-929214-67-9

ISBN-10: 1-929214-67-7

ISBN-13: 978-1-929214-66-2

ISBN-10: 1-929214-66-9

1. Pardey, Larry. 2. Pardey, Lin. 3. Boatbuilders-

California--Biography. 4. Journalists--California-

Biography. I. Title.

LCCN 2010940098

ISBN: 978-1-929214-67-9

2011 by Mary Lin Pardey

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including scanning, photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Paradise Cay Publications

P.O. Box 29, Arcata, California 95518 USA

Phone: (707) 822-9063

Fax: (707) 822-9163

E-mail: info@paracay.com

Visit: www.linpardey.com for a Bull Canyon photo album

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

For Bonnie Masculine and Allen Zatkin,
unwitting but well-loved victims of their sisters writing habits.

Many of you have asked, When are you going to write about your sailing adventures on board Taleisin? As we worked building this bigger sister to our first offshore cruising boat, we finished writing the four-part series that told of the wondrous times we had sailing on board Seraffyn to explore the far reaches of the world. At the same time, we wrote two practical books on voyaging under sail. These led to a demand from both readers and editors for ever more information on the how-to aspects of cruising. But even as Larry and I worked together on these practical volumes, I always wanted to return to the sailing narratives that spoke of the more personal aspects of our lives. Yet for some reason, every time I tried writing another book describing the adventuresome and romantic aspects of life afloat, I found myself stalled. Then I realized the genesis of the voyages weve had on board Taleisin lay in the story you now hold in your hand. This story had to be written before I could talk of going to sea. So, though the action in this book takes place on land, I hope you enjoy Bull Canyon and see it as the prequel to Taleisins Tales.

We were navigating by dimly remembered directions the first time we drove into the forgotten canyon. Head out to Corona, then south for twenty miles and turn left onto the dirt track right across from the first eucalyptus trees you see, our friend had told us. Then keep bearing right until you get to the Lone Palm Ranch. After that its easy. Another mile and you reach the spot where the road has been washed out. Park there and walk along a couple hundred yards. The cottage sits on the bluff on the left side, overlooking the road.

It took us three hours of searching plus a flat tire to find the right dirt lane, to pick our way across ravines born of a hundred flash floods and to splash through the rocky stream meandering across our path. We failed to recognize the distinctly non-ranchy Lone Palm Ranch. And the washed out road had been repaired since our friends last visit so there was nothing to act as a landmark. It was only by luck that we finally found the cottage. By the time we had driven up the rutted driveway, we were covered in dust, tired, and hungry.

For the past three months Larry, and I had been looking for the right place to live. We needed a big yard for boat building and a quiet corner for writing. More important, we needed something affordable. This isolated spot, sixty miles southeast of Los Angeles, fifty miles inland, had sounded far from ideal when a friend mentioned it in passing. In fact, wed ignored his suggestion to check it out for weeks, until we needed a reason to take a day off. It was the perfect excuse to get away from the tiny borrowed Newport Beach apartment where we were staying, tightly jammed between hundreds of water-front homes.

We climbed out of the car, more interested in food than exploring. We spread a picnic lunch on the weeds that carpeted the flat area in front of the battered, deserted homestead. Texas Umbrella and Chinaberry trees shaded us, and as we ate and began to relax, we could make out what sounded like a waterfall somewhere nearby, a chorus of bird calls, the gurgle of a stream. It was almost an hour before we ventured into the cottage itself. Constructed sixty years ago from stone, the three-room home had stood almost deserted for eight years, only inhabited now and then by illegal immigrants as they snuck through these canyons to evade border patrols and search for work in the valley below.

We walked slowly through each room, turning to take in the views from deep-set casement windows, touching the rough stones of the fireplace. Instead of seeing the rat droppings and dirty straw that covered the floors, we noticed only the beauty of the old red, slightly misaligned floor tiles someone had laid without the aid of a straight edge or a lining string. We looked at the ceilings, and instead of being put off by the old beehives, dripping honey and water stains that showed the roof leaked in what could be called prodigious amounts, we admired the warmth of the dark wood beams, how they contrasted with the pine paneling of the walls that had aged to a mellow gold. We didnt worry then about the lack of electricity or heat; instead, we were lulled into a romantic haze by dust-covered but gracefully rotund oil lamps and the greystone, ashfilled fireplaces in each room.