After a winter of losing most of our money trying to fish I made some calls and located a contract programming job in San Jose, California. I could have taken a commercial flight, but opted to drive instead. I'd done work in San Jose before and knew first hand the city had the most expensive hotels I'd ever seen. My own car would be cheaper than a rental and it would be easier for me to drive far from San Jose to get a reasonably priced room. Driving would take an extra four days each way and would be a grueling trip, but I had more time than money.

I reached San Jose proper January 11, 1991, Friday morning. This had been my plan as it would give me a few days to recover from the trip so I could start the job fresh. I was worried about being rusty, so wanted to have a rested brain when I sat down in front of the customer's computer. Since I'd left Atlanta I'd touched two computers: The first was the broken PC at the remote lodge I mentioned earlier, the second at one of the Japanese owned canneries. We'd sold our fish to a cannery in Kodiak Village but in the office I was told we couldn't get paid until their computer was fixed. A guy would be up from Seattle in a few days, so no big deal. To me it was a big deal because I had to pay my crew. So with a week's worth of fish stink on me I went behind the counter and sat down at the computer. The lady behind the counter tried to make me leave but I ignored her. It was a simple fix. It took me ten minutes to convince her to find the computer's operating system CD then about two minutes to fix the thing. Both jobs were so easy I felt like I hadn't done anything on a computer since leaving Atlanta.

Arriving in San Jose early I decided to go to the airport. Lance and I had visited the Wyse computer facility near there a few years earlier so I was familiar with the FBO facilities there. It was a nice place, well appointed with great pilot facilities. Most medium size FBO's had free sleeping or bunk rooms for pilots, so I checked their's out to see if I might pull off a free night's sleep there. Sure enough, they had the rooms and they were open and easily accessed. All I had to do was grab one after a few planes had arrived and stay out of the way.

As I was considering this two nice private jets pulled up to the FBO. The FBO employees rolled out a red carpet to both jets. I'd heard the term "roll out the red carpet" all my life, but this was the first time I'd seen it happen. So I was curious about who had arrived. I was not the only one. A crowd had gathered and were lining both sides of the red carpet. It looked like every employee of the FBO had lined up to greet the arriving VIP, as had whoever else was standing around. Like me.

It was clear who the VIP was since he was leading a large entourage, but I had no idea who he was. As he walked down the line he handed an envelope to everyone he passed. Before I realized what happened I had an envelope in my hand and the guy was gone. "Who was that," I asked a young fuel guy next to me. "Eddie DeBartolo, Jr.," he said. That was actually a name I knew because the DeBartolo family business was headquartered in Youngstown. Eddie DeBartolo, senior's large home and estate was on the same country road as my in-laws, so I had heard all about them.

The kid next to me had pulled a crisp new hundred dollar bill out of his envelope. "Why is DeBartolo here," I asked as I opened my own envelope. "He owns the San Franscio 49er's," the kid said. In my envelope were two tickets to a 49er Redskin game the next day, Saturday January 12th, 1991. I hadn't followed football all year so I had no idea the two teams were about to meet in a big post-season playoff game. After a brief discussion with the young fuel guy I gave him one of the tickets.

It was the first and only NFL game I had ever attended. The seats were amazing. They were three rows from the field, on the fifty yard line, directly behind the 49er's bench. The kind of seats you'd expect a team owner to have for give-away. The fuel guy didn't show. I would have offered the seat to someone in the nose bleed section but you couldn't get down this low without a ticket stub, so the seat next to me was empty for the entire game. I had brought most of my camera gear so I started taking photos like a pro. The games stars were future hall-of-famers, quarterback Joe Montana and wide receiver Jerry Rice. I was a long time Steelers fan (still am) so I didn't care for either team, but since I had an awesome seat from the team owner I pulled for the 49er's.

One of the cool things about the game was that every time the 49er's defense was on the field Joe Montana was on a phone talking to the offensive coordinator. That phone (with a cord) was attached to a pole about eight feet from me. It was so close I could hear Joe Montana's half of the conversation. I must have taken twenty close up photos of him on the phone. I also took numerous photos of Joe Montana and Jerry Rice on the sidelines. It was pretty clear the two guys were close from the way they interacted. The 49er's beat Washington 28 to 10. The only note worthy thing about the game was that a big truck involved in the half time entertainment got stuck in the end zone, which caused the game's restart to delay.

After the game I used a phony press pass I'd bought in a camera shop to get past the first layer of fans outside the team locker-room. There were hundreds of photographers inside the press area, which was surrounded by thousands of fans. After waiting nearly an hour for the player to leave I gave up and left. There was a single narrow driveway for cars to use and it had been kept open by the police, so I walked down it to get through the crowd. As I walked I removed my lens and had just cleared the film out of my camera. (In the old-timey-days we used actual film in our cameras.) I had my Nikon F2-AS body in my hand and was about to place it in my bag when I was startled by a honked horn.

It startled me so bad I dropped my expensive camera. When I turned around I am sure I wore my angry face. The single car behind me was a shiny black Porsche 911. It had a vanity plate that said "Rice" something. Something like "Rice-1", but I can't remember. In the driver's seat was a laughing Jerry Rice. Joe Montana sat in the passenger's seat. Rice might have thought it was funny that I'd dropped my camera when he honked his horn, but Joe Montana seemed horrified that they might have caused me to break my camera. Joe Montana rolled down his window and apologized, asked if the camera was okay and offered to pay for any damages. Before I could respond the crowd began to close in on the stopped car so Jerry Rice hit the gas and sped away.

I know its an insignificant story, but it always made me feel good about Joe Montana. No hard feelings to Jerry Rice. I'm sure it was funny. He was after all still high from the excitement of a game well played.

The job took two weeks and was uneventful. When it was complete I took my photographer instructor's advice and drove east to Yosemite Valley National Park. John encouraged me to go to Yosemite to get some shots of their Cinnamon Brown Black Bear. He made it seem like a simple thing to do. You know, "If you're anywhere near Yosemite, stop in and get a few shots of their cinnamon brown black bear." So when I stopped at the park entrance to pay the entrance fee I asked the park ranger where would be the best place to find one of their cinnamon brown black bears. The ranger explained that he wouldn't know as there hadn't been a confirmed sighting of one in seven years. He said he'd worked in the park for twelve years and never seen one himself. He wished me luck and I drove off deflated, thinking John had sent me on a fools errand.

About two miles into the park I saw movement down a long narrow opening in the woods. I stopped on the road and pointed my binoculars at the spot. It was dusk and getting darker by the minute, but in the back heavy wooded corner of the field it was nearly too dark to see. But I could make out a bear moving around the back edge of the opening. It was far too dark to make out its color, but didn't seem like it was the black color of the black bears I was used to seeing. The bear slowly moved back into the woods and I drove on feeling smug. Were it not for my experience living in Alaska I would have never spotted that bear in the dark recessed narrow field. That alone made me feel good. But in my gut I knew I'd just spotted the elusive North American Black Bear that was cinnamon brown in color.

That night I camped in Yosemite Valley. It was dark by the time I pitched my tent so I didn't get a good look around. It's rather odd that I didn't know anything at all about Yosemite, but I had no expectation as to what I'd see when I woke the next morning. Having toured Iceland, driven the ALCAN Highway, explored much of Alaska, including the wild seas of Kodiak Island; after all this I thought I had already experienced the most beautiful places on earth. I was mistaken. Yosemite Valley is like nothing I had ever experienced. I could not possibly describe its beauty with words no more than a single photograph could. I can only say that I was totally enchanted with Yosemite Valley. I still am. As I write this I can smell the mist from its huge waterfall, can still be awed by its vistas and peaks, and I can still feel the peace of its fast running streams and the dear that frolicked in the grass. I love Yosemite Valley as I have loved no other place on earth. In 1990, the year before I visited, Yosemite Valley had had three million visitors. I can understand why they came.

Kids, sometime in your life you must make this trip. I am sorry that I never took you there myself.

So, back to that bear. I knew from that crooked old guide in Alaska that bears are territorial creatures of habit. Armed with this knowledge I went the the spot I'd seen the bear an hour before sunset. I located a dead-fall inside the woods at the back of the long narrow field, sat my Nikon 600 mm F/4, then mounted my Nikon F2-AS on the lenses. I pulled moss from the dead-fall, some nearby grass and wiped my self well with this natural cologne, then settled down and waited.

Forty minutes later I heard the distinctive sound of a bear working its way through the woods. A hand full of minutes later I could smell him. That was the first difference I noticed between this bear and Alaskan bears. You could smell an Alaskan bear before you heard it. A few minutes after I smelt him, I saw him, He was still in the woods so I could only see his silhouette and couldn't make out a color. When he stepped into the open meadow the waning light caught his fir and I could hardly contain my excitement. It was brown. Cinnamon brown. As soon as I realized this I took my first shot. The bear froze and looked directly at me. He'd heard the motor drive advance the film. He couldn't see me but he kept looking for the source of that foreign sound.

I sat frozen until he continued moving forward. Once he seemed distracted enough I removed the Nikon F2-AS and replaced it with another body that didn't have a motor drive. I took another shot, then slowly advanced the film manually. I kept shooting like this until I realized that the rather large cinnamon brown North American black bear was coming straight towards me. He was moving at a snails pace as he nosed the ground for things to eat, but he was headed straight for me none the less. I wanted to keep shooting but it was time to go. As quietly as I could I shouldered my large camera bag and picked up my tripod with the big 600 mm lens mounted on it, and walked backwards towards the road. Slowly. Quietly. I watched the bear the entire time I retreated and not once did he seem to notice me.

There was a phone at the Yosemite Valley Lodge so I went there to call John to tell him I had seen the bear. "Of course you did," he said. "They're easy to find." I wanted to argue that, but the truth is that it had been easy. Even in Alaska I couldn't hope to find a bear that easily.

I stayed in the lower forty-eight for more than a month, did what work I could find, then drove home.