Travel in Madagascar is hard—very hard. To get anywhere remote requires hours of four-wheel-driving, down rutted-out muddy roads intended for ox carts, not motor vehicles. But the payoff is huge. I attended a circumcision festival in a tiny mountain village, after which the boys’ grandfathers each ate the foreskin—with a banana. (Yes, you read that right.) Then came the savika, an afternoon of bull-wrestling; I participated and cracked a rib.

To wrestle a 2000-pound Malagasy zebu bull, you sneak up beside the animal, grab the giant hump behind its neck, and hang on tight as the bull whips around in circles, trying to buck you off. Twice the bull paused, cocked its head to look me straight in the eyes, then—wham!—whacked me right under the armpit with its giant horn. Then it spun around again. And again. I only let go once the rodeo master looked truly terrified for my welfare. Later I found out I was the first-ever Westerner to have participated in this savika, and all the men of the village shook my hand. It still hurts to laugh ten days later.

Madagascar’s real mind-blower is the “turning of the bones” ceremony, when families exhume their dead ancestors to worship them, and give thanks for the blessings they have bestowed from the spirit world. Then the families rewrap the bones—as matter-of-factly as if they were changing bed linens—and pop them back into underground tombs, which I was invited to explore by candlelight. My host gleefully exclaimed, “That’s my grandmother! That’s my uncle and my aunt!” I tripped over a sack of bones and jumped backward in horrified embarrassment, hitting my head on the tomb’s low rock ceiling. Far from gloomy, it was a great party, more like a wedding than a funeral, with much dancing to accordion music and drinking of gasoline-like rum. It’s called the Famadihana, and families celebrate it every seven years. Few Westerners have seen it, but you will—at least on TV.

The television series is called, Lonely Planet: Roads Less Travelled, a 13-episode package of hour-long shows to broadcast this fall on National Geographic Adventure, which airs in Europe, Asia, the Middle East, Africa, Australia and Latin America—-basically everywhere except the US and the UK. Which is fine by me. I’m not convinced I want to appear on American television and lose the anonymity that permits me to remove my clothes at San Francisco street parties. There’s a reason you never spot celebs at the Folsom Street Fair.

BBC Worldwide holds distribution rights, once the series initially airs on NatGeo, so you’ll eventually catch it somewhere. Maybe on BBC America, or Discovery Channel, or maybe on the in-flight entertainment system of your next swank voyage aboard Virgin Atlantic.

How comforting to return home just in time for tomato season. Two hours off the plane, and I was at the Castro Farmers Market, bags heavy with heirlooms and basil. Such luscious foods Madagascar has not. Here’s my local-travel tip: Find the nearest farmers market and feast. It’s harvest time in California. Of such bounty, most of the world’s people can only dream.

Theme: Oasis
1. n. a fertile or green area in an arid region (as a desert).
2. n. something that provides refuge, relief, or pleasant contrast.
(Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary. 2009.)

Modern life can often feel like a trek through the desert. For this contest, we want you to write about a place that not only satisfies your thirst for a change of scenery, but goes beyond this, breaking the spell of everyday existence and providing the “refuge and relief” that we all crave, especially in the summer. Your oasis might be an urban park, a meal in a restaurant that you’ll replay for years, a swimming hole on a hot summer day, a romantic hideaway that you return to again and again, a museum where you lose yourself for hours… really any place of extreme beauty, culture, flavor, respite, or relaxation.

We’re Awarding 14 Writing Contracts:
• 1 Grand Prize: $10,000 contract to be a two-week writer-in-residence in New York City and write 30 Trazzler trips covering the five boroughs of NYC. Hotel accommodations (14 nights) provided by AKA luxury hotel residences. Round-trip airfare provided by JetBlue.
• 9 Runners Up: $250 contracts to write 10 Trazzler trips.
• 4 Editors’ Choice: $500 contracts to write 15 Trazzler trips.

Learn more

Show your children these magnificent winged creatures, and watch their eyes light up. Then tell them how this ranch is the reason there’s not a freeway up the Marin-Sonoma coast.

I won’t be posting again till late summer: I leave next week for Australia on a media tour, then I’ll be in Madagascar for a three-week TV shoot – at the furthest place on the globe from California. Pray for me. For some Father’s Day travel ideas, watch me on TV this Sunday, June 21, at 8am on the Susan Sikora Show, KBCW Channel 44/Cable 12. Happy summer!

If the parks close, they’ll get trashed—there’s no way to stop determined people from breaking into an open space. The existing threats are bad enough, but if this goes through, vandalism will be rampant and the threat of wildfires will increase exponentially, as unmonitored trespassers will inevitably light campfires. Extra and expensive law enforcement will be required in the long run. Then if the parks ever reopen, there will be huge clean-up costs. It’s far easier to maintain something than it is to clean it up. Take action now.

Parents need inexpensive places to take kids—especially during recessions—and state parks provide an invaluable educational and cultural resource. It costs $354 for a family of four to visit Disneyland for a single day. It costs $5 for a state park. The parks also draw overseas visitors, who inject vast sums into our broader economy.

There is a solution. A $10 vehicle-licensing fee would raise $282 million for the parks. In exchange, the public gets free access to all state parks. This had been proposed by retired legislator John Laird, but Don Perata killed it. Take a look at the last year’s plan: it’s time to resurrect it. Contact your state representative now.

The land belongs to the people. Stand up and claim what is ours. In the wise words of Joni Mitchell, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. Let’s not find out.

For more on the story, check out what Frommer’s has to say, based on my report on 71miles.com.

The beauty shots begin in the foothills along Hwy 120, east of ugly Oakdale (the last chance for reasonably priced gas). Spring’s green grass has lately turned the color of lion’s fur, the color of summer. Century-old oaks dot hillsides where sheep and cattle graze—an image straight out of Virgil’s Eclogues.

The thing about the Sierra’s west slope is, you never know how high you’ve ascended until you reach an overlook, like this one, far above the Tuolumne River canyon. So subtle is the western rise, the only way to clock elevation change is to track the flora: oaks yield to pines, brown grass yields to green. Then you top out, the sky opens up, and distant blue ridgelines come into view.

Granite, trees, and water—the hallmarks of the Sierra. Now within the boundaries of Yosemite National Park, I pull off at mileage-marker 11 on Tioga Rd. Yosemite Creek cascades over granite slabs, bound for Yosemite Falls, the world’s fifth highest waterfall. Lying on a log wedged across the middle of the creek, I close my eyes and let the water’s roar surround me.

At Olmstead Point (mileage-marker 37), I skitter up a granite slab, sit tucked against a wind-gnarled foxtail pine, and watch the shadows play on Half Dome. The chiaroscuro of late-afternoon on the Sierra Crest is mesmerizing. After hurtling at break-neck pace across California, it takes time to apprehend such vastness, to expand my mind to accommodate grandeur. Yosemite is like that, mind-altering…trippy.

Tuolumne Meadows lies brown and muddy. The wildflowers have not sprung—summer comes late at 8800ft above the sea. Were it August, I’d scamper up Lembert Dome and watch the late-day sun paint the meadow orange. Instead I press on toward Tioga Pass—the highest stretch of pavement in all California—and plunge 3000 feet in 10 short miles toward Mono Lake. I’ll tell you more about that in a coming post.

If You Go: Staying in Yosemite Valley is the obvious choice. I recommend a simple rustic cabin with bath at Curry Village. Most rooms at the generic-motel-style Yosemite Lodge overlook a parking lot, but they have more amenities than Curry Village. The Ahwahnee is one of America’s great national park lodges; even if you don’t stay here, come for lunch in the grand dining room (dinner is overpriced). The Victorian-style Wawona Hotel feels like an old New England inn, but it’s far from Tioga Rd. The secret to scoring a room on short notice at all in-park properties is to telephone multiple times per day and ask about cancellations. You’d be amazed how often rooms open up. Alternatively stay at Evergreen Lodge, a compound of smartly decorated woodsy cabins near Hetch Hetchy Reservoir. I l-o-v-e this place.

Hike Table Rock Trail, in Robert Louis Stevenson State Park. The views of Napa Valley from Mount St Helena may be prettier in autumn when the vineyards change color, but springtime puts the beauty right at your feet. Literally. Look for purple lupine and popcorn flower poking up through the lush grass. The 2.2mi (one-way) trek begins at the south-summit parking area, off Hwy 29, north of Calistoga.

Bite into the season’s first ruby-red strawberries at Swanton Organic Berry Farm, on the San Mateo Coast. Pick your own—a great Saturday activity with the kids—or buy a basket at the old-fashioned self-service stand, which also carries homemade pies, strawberry lemonade, and terrific preserves. Swanton is the ideal stopover after a day exploring the beaches of the San Mateo Coast, or while driving northward from Santa Cruz on Hwy 1.

Spot newborn snowy egrets in the treetops of the Audubon Canyon Ranch. One of the Bay Area’s most sublime natural wonders, hundreds of egrets and great blue herons are courting and nesting in the treetops of the Audubon Canyon Ranch, in West Marin. If you’ve never seen these magnificent birds up close, now’s your chance. Read more.

I’ll be back in the States this May. Till then, happy travels! —John

No car? Fear not. Take Muni to Baker or Ocean beach. Baker Beach is often warmer and always sexier—you can tan nude at the north end (pack a slingshot to ward off the slack-jawed boys spying from the cliff tops). Ocean Beach’s saving graces are easy access and close proximity to the super-cool Camera Obscura and Louis’ Restaurant, the greasy-spoon diner with the million-dollar views.

Weekend traffic is horrendous in Stinson Beach, but not on a Thursday. Sprawling for three miles, Stinson is one of Northern California’s rare long, sandy strands. And it’s a primo spot for a beach party: not only are there freestanding fire grills, but alcohol is permitted on the beach (no glass). One caveat: Make sure your passengers aren’t the sort to get motion sick on tortuous Hwy 1.

If you can’t deal with bridge traffic or carsick friends, head south. Grey Whale Cove (aka Devil’s Slide) is California’s only state-sanctioned nude beach, and has sugary-soft white sand with stunning vistas. If bare breasts make you squeamish, continue two coves farther south to the locals’ favorite, Montara State Beach (aka McNee Ranch). Though it’s close to Hwy 1, the sand is long and wide, and at low tide, you can comb critter-packed tide pools.

Southern San Mateo County beaches have the most variety. Among the best: Gazos Creek State Beach is ideal for long walks down sandy strands—and it’s usually empty. If you long for New England-style beaches, those compact crescent-shaped rocky coves, head directly to Bean Hollow State Beach, the only dog-friendly beach this side of Half Moon Bay.

Gay boys and grlz have one (fabulous) choice: San Gregorio, the big daddy of Northern California gay beaches. Normally it’s sopped in by fog, but not this week. Head north of the state beach parking lot—way north—to the private lands where nudists have built driftwood shelters. (There’s an exclusive private parking area down a toll road on private property, but its location is the province of the gay underground. Ask your ‘mo friends, or park at the state beach and hoof it north.)

The best beach for off-leash dogs is Fort Funston, at SF’s southeastern edge. When you tire of playing fetch, you can watch hang gliders take their lives into their own hands. The best beaches for barbecues are in San Mateo. Read my tips on cooking over an open fire. It’s easier than you may think.

Beach days are rare. We live at the westernmost edge of Western civilization, at the very margin of land and sea, but we get so caught up in our day-to-day dramas that we forget to recognize what’s around us. The time is now. In the words of Horace: “Seize the day! lest the years imprison us.”

More beaches, hotels, restaurants, and hikes in San Francisco