Time spent in the car today with large salivating beast traveling to and from Palm Springs Kennel Club dog show: almost 7 hours
Total distance covered: 325 miles
Value of resulting 3-point major: priceless
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Friday, January 06, 2006
Devil Winds
It's Jan. 6, the Christmas tree's still up, and it's hot. I don't mean unseasonably warm. I mean 92. I mean we had to turn on the air conditioner today. It's dry, too. My skin is stinging, and no amount of lotion seems to help for long. In Southern California, there's only one explanation for these meterological and dermatological phenomena. The Santa Anas are blowing.
Last night they were shrieking; the house was shivering and everything not nailed down outside was banging around. Our kitchen weather center at times registered 40 mph, and a few particularly fierce gusts no doubt kicked it even higher. It was way too noisy and way too reminiscent of Oct. 26, the night of the fire, for either of us to sleep. I knew it wasn't rational, but I'll admit it, I was flat out scared. Bob kept reassuring me; he also kept stepping outside to sniff for smoke.
I used to love the Santa Anas. They cleared the air and brought a few days of warm weather in the middle of a rainy winter. But now I understand why generations of Southern Californians have called them devil winds. For sure, they play a big role in the story of "the wildest fire." Here's an excerpt about the Santa Anas from my manuscript. (And you thought I wasn't working on the book, didn't you?)
"It was still warm when we left the restaurant around 10 that night. All week it had been into the 90s inland, an unusual occurrence in late October—except during Santa Ana weather. Santa Ana winds are a fabled Southern California phenomenon, sweeping in several times each winter through the mountains that separate Los Angeles and San Diego from the vast deserts to the east. And when they come, they do not come gently.
Santa Anas blow hot, dry and strong, sometimes for days, raising temperatures and tempers in their wake. By definition, they’re at least 25 knots (nearly 30 mph) in velocity and often gust to 50, 60 or more, especially at night or early in the morning when onshore ocean breezes subside.
Because they carry so much heat, most people think Santa Anas originate in the deserts, but they actually begin much farther away, as a high pressure system over the Great Basin, that vast plateau sandwiched between the Sierra Nevada and Rocky Mountains. Whenever a low pressure system off the Southern California coast coincides with a prevailing northeast wind, a huge atmospheric pinwheel starts to spin and tumble toward sea level. Picking up speed and heat as it descends and compresses, then drying as it warms, this enormous mass of air eventually collides with the corrugated topography of coastal Southern California, where it surges through narrow passes and canyons and out to sea.
Just such an episode inspired these memorable lines by mystery writer Raymond Chandler in “Red Wind:” "It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen."
Aside from triggering bar fights and domestic violence, Santa Anas can also damage structures and endanger travelers caught in high surf or wind shear conditions, not to mention gusts stiff enough to tip over RVs and tractor trailers. But Santa Anas are most notorious for feeding wildfires—lowering humidity, drying plants to tinder and literally fanning the flames. Especially in October, the last month of Southern California’s long, rainless summer season, when vegetation is already brittle dry, a Santa Ana can whip a random spark into a major conflagration. It's no coincidence that nearly every catastrophic wildfire documented here occurred during Santa Ana conditions."
Last night they were shrieking; the house was shivering and everything not nailed down outside was banging around. Our kitchen weather center at times registered 40 mph, and a few particularly fierce gusts no doubt kicked it even higher. It was way too noisy and way too reminiscent of Oct. 26, the night of the fire, for either of us to sleep. I knew it wasn't rational, but I'll admit it, I was flat out scared. Bob kept reassuring me; he also kept stepping outside to sniff for smoke.
I used to love the Santa Anas. They cleared the air and brought a few days of warm weather in the middle of a rainy winter. But now I understand why generations of Southern Californians have called them devil winds. For sure, they play a big role in the story of "the wildest fire." Here's an excerpt about the Santa Anas from my manuscript. (And you thought I wasn't working on the book, didn't you?)
"It was still warm when we left the restaurant around 10 that night. All week it had been into the 90s inland, an unusual occurrence in late October—except during Santa Ana weather. Santa Ana winds are a fabled Southern California phenomenon, sweeping in several times each winter through the mountains that separate Los Angeles and San Diego from the vast deserts to the east. And when they come, they do not come gently.
Santa Anas blow hot, dry and strong, sometimes for days, raising temperatures and tempers in their wake. By definition, they’re at least 25 knots (nearly 30 mph) in velocity and often gust to 50, 60 or more, especially at night or early in the morning when onshore ocean breezes subside.
Because they carry so much heat, most people think Santa Anas originate in the deserts, but they actually begin much farther away, as a high pressure system over the Great Basin, that vast plateau sandwiched between the Sierra Nevada and Rocky Mountains. Whenever a low pressure system off the Southern California coast coincides with a prevailing northeast wind, a huge atmospheric pinwheel starts to spin and tumble toward sea level. Picking up speed and heat as it descends and compresses, then drying as it warms, this enormous mass of air eventually collides with the corrugated topography of coastal Southern California, where it surges through narrow passes and canyons and out to sea.
Just such an episode inspired these memorable lines by mystery writer Raymond Chandler in “Red Wind:” "It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen."
Aside from triggering bar fights and domestic violence, Santa Anas can also damage structures and endanger travelers caught in high surf or wind shear conditions, not to mention gusts stiff enough to tip over RVs and tractor trailers. But Santa Anas are most notorious for feeding wildfires—lowering humidity, drying plants to tinder and literally fanning the flames. Especially in October, the last month of Southern California’s long, rainless summer season, when vegetation is already brittle dry, a Santa Ana can whip a random spark into a major conflagration. It's no coincidence that nearly every catastrophic wildfire documented here occurred during Santa Ana conditions."
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Note to Self
At Starbucks, kid's hot chocolate and quad-shot espressos both come in the same tiny short cup. So next time, double check before handing them out at the drive through.
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