Autumn 2014

I woke just before sunrise to the sound of the waves. Autumn, so far, has been mornings of strong surf, odd currents and strange winds.
  Then I heard a lone boat engine making its way up the coast. It was soon followed by other boats and I walked over to Shoreline to see what was going on. It is the first morning of lobster season. Fishing boats, the serious kind, were fanning out from the harbor in all directions. The traps had already been set out and territories marked but today was the first day that they could be baited and the actual catching would start this afternoon and by tomorrow night local lobster will be being served in restaurants all over town.
 It's October already. But it doesn't feel it. After a record hot September it has not cooled off yet. The thermometer in my front yard has hovered above ninety almost every day since mid August. I try to walk the beach earlier and earlier every morning to avoid the heat. But it warms up fast and the air is tropical. We have been getting the warm air currents from the remnants of hurricanes that have been pounding Baja for weeks. Soon I'm sweating anyway. I miss the cool breezes and foggy mornings of early Summer.
  Also, this is only the second October in twenty-five years that I've missed being in the Berkshires. I am going for the holidays instead. But that doesn't diminish my ache for the Fall colors and crisp clear nights that refresh my mind after a long busy Summer. I try not to be too homesick but as usual at this time of year my heart is full of wanderlust and the road-fever is stronger than ever. Perhaps a drive out to the 395 towards Mammoth would help.

  While walking towards the marina this morning I realize I've forgotten my phone. I'm momentarily anxious. I'm out of touch with everyone; Carlos, Todd, who are here in town, probably less than four miles away from me. As are Glen and Libby, Bickmore and Gerard. What if they want to have lunch? Hauge is in Oxnard, but what if he's driving this way and I won't be home for over an hour? Will he wait in my yard?
  And back east, at Pontoosuc Lake Country Club, where my brothers are working, is it a beautiful day? Are they sending me pictures right now of the huge maples along the third fairway that are starting to turn orange? And Bruce, how is his day going? Did he decide to climb Greylock? Is Kelly missing me and texting me a picture of Arrowhead or the flowers in her yard?
  What if Michelle, my sister-in-law, is sending me a snapshot of my nephew Marcus and Mom smiling from the deck of Reily's?
  The Wus! What if the girls, Ellie and Juliette, are making silly faces into their mom's iPhone right now and saying, "Send the picture to Crazy Uncle Tony!!!!"
  I'm missing out on so much. Or maybe not. I gather my wits and and reach for my phone again just to be sure. It's still not there, it's on my kitchen table where I set it while looking for my sunglasses.
  I breath deep the salt air that today has a strong smell of tar to it. Oddly, it's a smell that over the years has become less and less unpleasant. And when, after being away from the ocean for a few days, I pull into my neighborhood and am greeted by a hint of that natural oily smell from the seeps just off shore I know I am home.
  "Ok." I think to myself, "No distractions for a while." I look up at the harbor, the Condor is slowly turning towards the edge of the breakwater with its passengers of whale watchers, followed by a kelp cutter and a few small lobster boats. The bustle of the marina keeps my attention as I continue walking towards the wharf. Stearn's Wharf is its usual chaotic scene of tourists inching their way over the thick creosote soaked planks stuck behind the giant delivery trucks that are getting ready to fill up the Harbor and Longboards Restaurants with everything from beer and vodka to steaks and fish, wine salt pepper eggs lobster broccoli spinach chicken pineapple toilet paper....  You get the idea, I could make a list twenty pages long. It takes a lot of stuff to keep those places stocked. I'm glad it's not one of my worries.
  A seal rolls in the surf a few feet from shore and eyes me with a mix of what I discern to be curiosity and derision. It barks and swims away under the pilings of the wharf.
  I walk under the pier continuing on towards East Beach. A great flock of Terns is feeding raucously. They hover over the water then screech and dive plucking tiny minnows in their yellow beaks before taking to the air and devouring their snack in flight. I watch this spectacle for twenty minutes or so and reach for my phone to send a bird loving friend a short clip of the wild scene. But I am stranded without my camera and instead keep some notes in my head so I can jot them down when I get back home. Just when I thought I was getting used to being unconnected.....
  An hour later I'm back in my kitchen and I, in fact, have no messages, I'm less important than I think I am. This inspires me to shut off the phone and go out in the yard without its interruptions and work on notes for a solid hour. Sounds easy enough. But how will I know when the time is up? All my watches have long since run down and sit in a drawer unneeded since I bought my first cell phone many years ago.
  I write and read for a while. I think the hour is up and go to the kitchen and check the clock on the microwave. Forty-four minutes. Not bad and I boldly go back outside and continue working for what turns out to be another half hour. I feel relaxed and not so anxious having given up constantly checking for messages and emails. I may be on to something here and vow to try for bigger chunks of time each day staying off the information grid.
  Later I try it again. I shut off my phone and walk over to the beach trying not to think about the texts that I may be getting. I feel like a character in a T.C. Boyle short story. A guy who frets about an obsession until the fretting itself becomes the problem. Should I get a safe with a self timer and lock the phone away for three or four hours a day so there is no way it can distract me from more important endeavors? If this were a Boyle story you could see the impending catastrophe approaching like a tsunami. I'd be the only guy in town unaware of a major disaster like an immanent hurricane or a sniper on the loose or, yes, even a tsunami barreling toward my humble beachside home. But in my real life the important news I'd be missing is where we are meeting for happy hour and who is going to be there. I quickly dismiss the safe idea.
  How did it get to this? There was a time in my life when I was very disconnected and that was normal. Starting in high school a few buddies and I would hoist our backpacks, say goodbye to our parents at the trailhead and then hike the Long Trail up the spine of Vermont for eight or nine days. We'd meet a few people on the trail but other than that we had no contact with the news of the world. We were the world. Many other trips followed over the years. Not only excursions into the Green Mountains and the Adirondacks to climb mountains but road trips to the beaches of The Cape or the coast of Maine or the lakes of New Hampshire. Rarely did we stop at a pay phone to check in with home. I do remember using the phone at the Adirondack Lodge to wish my father happy birthday before Bruce and I trudged up Algonquin Peak. But that was a special occasion.
  Another time I called home from a pay phone in front of the Salty Dawg Saloon on the Spit in Homer, Alaska, to check on Dad the day before he was having a heart valve replaced and I was about to climb into a float plane to the McNeil River where I would be out of touch completely. He sounded fine, not a hint of the nervousness I felt. The only way he could contact me for the next five days was to call the air service who could radio the ranger station at the river and one of the guides would get a message to me. Mom and I agreed that if I didn't hear anything then all went well. I was relieved the next afternoon when the rangers came to our camp with nothing but a dismal weather report.
  On one of those trips where I spent days on the back roads of New England having no real itinerary I came home to a death in the family. While I was exploring new trails and staying in tiny vacation cabins I missed a car accident, a wake and a funeral. There was simply no way to find me. That could never happen in today's world.
  A call that I didn't make collect, but used every nickel I had, was to my grandmother, Isabel, from Yosemite Valley. There is a pay phone in front of the post office and I called to tell her where I was. It was Nan who gave me John Muir's book, The Yosemite, after she visited there when I was still in grade school. The black and white photos of the massive waterfalls and rocky cliffs, as much as Muir's words, put a spark in my heart that has never extinguished. Her simple gift started a life long love affair for me. The Park has been my refuge for twenty-five plus years.
  I can still hear the excitement in her voice on that long distance phone call so many years ago. How happy she was to hear from me and how glad I was to say that it was because of her that I was visiting such an amazing place. A month ago when I walked by that same pay phone my thoughts reached back to her for a few moments and the mystery that is time dissolved and I saw myself a shaggy kid, dusty and sweaty after a few nights in a tent, staring into a future that I couldn't possibly imagine.
  I've driven across the country three times with no set schedule or roadmap. I sent postcards home to mom and dad but I rarely called. Maybe every ten days or so. And that was normal. I didn't feel out of touch at all.


 It's a Friday morning and I dig out a pocket notebook from a backpack, find a pencil, leave my iPhone on the table and go take a walk on the beach. Just like old times. The fog is moving off shore eventually to dissipate completely. I momentarily wish I could snap a picture of the blue water and grey mist to send Kelly.
  Before I take the dirt trail down to the sand I notice a squadron of dragonflies. At least that's what they look like. Ten or twelve of them flying in formation toward the shore. What do I know about dragonflies? Not much. They've been around for over two hundred million years, as long as sharks. So they are evolved pretty efficiently. They are the only insect that catches and consumes their prey on the fly. That's about it. I wonder, do they migrate? Where have they been all summer? Maybe they are here all the time and I just don't see them because I'm texting or talking on the phone. I have a dragonfly guide book packed away in a box somewhere. I have to dig it out before my curiosity fades.

  Days later my experiment with being less connected has had mixed results. I am a curiosity to other people walking the beach as I stop and scribble random notes in my tiny journal. I miss an opportunity to take a photo of a crow with one bright white feather. Not that it would have come out very good. Trying to take a picture of a crow even with a telephoto lens is often tricky. Same with ravens. The second you aim their way they are filled with wariness. I have a rather impressive collection of crappy Corvid pictures. Hawks and eagles are easier to approach.  Maybe it's because they are confident that if need be they could gouge my eyes out and are only waiting for an excuse to do so.

  This past weekend the weather finally cooled and we even had a night of rain. Not enough to reverse the drought but it was welcome never-the-less. I went outside and stood in the downpour for a minute. It was dark and the silhouettes of the mountains were hidden by clouds. By morning the sky was deep blue and the air sharp and clear. The ocean was white capped and clean. At low tide the sand was littered with kelp and driftwood. I picked at shark eggs, lobster tails and urchins.
Saturday I set my clocks back an hour. Sunset yesterday was at 5:03. An almost full moon rose over the water and the sun set quickly. Orion hovered above the ocean looking like a giant on the horizon. Hours later the constellation would be high in the sky and I took a quick look before going to bed.

  It's harder and harder to stay out of touch these days. If you have a cell phone no place is off the grid. Most of Yosemite used to be not covered and Big Sur was a dead zone. Even Cambria and Mammoth were sketchy. Wawona had no service. All that was just a few years ago. Now my phone even works from the top of Sentinel Dome.  There's no excuse for not keeping connected. And people expect it.
  Gone are the days of driving out of town and having my whereabouts unknown until days later when I exhaustedly return from hiking, camping or just hiding out at Sycamore or Carmel.
  One of the last times nobody knew where I was was when I climbed Mount Dana. I am not purposely elusive, I just often don't know where I'm going to end up on any particular trip. I sometimes have a loose plan but last minute decisions are always an option.
  I decided to camp solo at Bridalveil for a few days and maybe just hike around the meadows, nothing too strenuous. Pouring over maps before sleep I decide Dana would be a challenge so I woke up early and drove though Toulomne Meadows to the eastern edge of the Park and parked at the trailhead. Dana is the second highest mountain in Yosemite at just over 13,000 feet. It's more accessible and a shorter climb than the higher Mount Lyell.
  I was on the trail before nine. Is was a typical high Sierra July day, cool with huge white scattered clouds that would build to thunderheads by late afternoon.
  Up and up I scrambled. Once above the trees and past a large plateau the trail steepened and followed a wide slope of loose shifting rock. My pace slowed as I plodded on higher and higher. My breaks came closer together and I could feel the altitude. I crossed patches of snow and had ravens for company. When I rested and drank water I admired the beautiful and tiny Sky Pilot that grew in the shallow rocky soil.
 Moving upward and looking to my left the Sierras drop off sharply to the deserts of eastern California and the Nevada border. To my right were the snow capped peaks of The Park and beyond. The air became cooler and finally after reaching the summit I put on a jacket.
  I was alone in the wind and sat looking at the surrounding mountains as the clouds gathered and the afternoon slightly darkened. I set my camera on a rock and took a picture of myself with the vastness of the high country behind me. I was alone and nobody on earth knew where I was. It was not a frightening or uncomfortable feeling at all. In fact, it was just the opposite. A powerful sense of calm overwhelmed me. Moments in deep nature for me are more transcendent than being in any church or temple, gazing at works of magnificent art or listening to sublime music. The wildness of my surroundings and the temporary solitude grounded me in a way that is not easy to explain. Being alone in the world is a rare occurrence and I savored the wonder of my emotions. But every great insight is fleeting and after my half hour of thin air contemplation I was joined at the summit by a few other hikers of good cheer and soon a small group of us like-minded wanderers were sharing the vistas and marveling at the beauty of our surroundings.
  It is easy to make friends on peaks and after a half hour of sharing stories of past hikes I said goodbye to the two retired grade school teachers from San Diego, a kid from the Bay Area and a business man from Europe who took a day off from meetings in Silicon Vally and scrambled up Dana in dress slacks, a sweatshirt and running shoes. He wasn't even winded. His home mountains were the Alps.
  I slowly made my decent back to the truck slightly dizzy from the altitude. At the trailhead I finished my water and made the decision to try to camp at Wawona. The afternoon drive back through Toulomne was relaxing and I stopped at Lembert Dome and Tenyna Lake and Ostrander Point. I was in no hurry. I planned on being back in Santa Barbara tonight but no one was expecting me. Before I went to check on a campsite I stopped at the Wawona Hotel for a very well deserved beer and as my luck would have it there were vacancies. Funky from a few days in a tent and hours on the trail I ditched my camping idea and bought another beer and a half hour later I was submerged in a hot bath, so relaxed I was barely able to stay awake.
  Refreshed, I had dinner in the old dining room and took an after dark walk up the South Fork but I was asleep by ten.

 Despite my best intentions to appreciate solitude more and deflect the distractions of the day life continues at what is often a hectic pace. There is work and friends passing through town, birthday parties and concerts, dentist appointments and jeep troubles, funerals and babies being born. I have invites to wine tastings and restaurant openings. My calendar is full of appointments that I boldly delete in an attempt to slow down my pace of life. The great poet of Provincetown, Mary Oliver, captures my feelings perfectly;

The Old Poets Of China

Wherever I am, the world comes after me.
It offers me its busyness. It does not believe
that I do not want it. Now I understand
why the old poets of China went so far and high
into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.

  Solitude and loneliness. There is a big difference. Solitude, if you are comfortable with yourself, can be a source of strength. It can fuel the brain and focus your thoughts. It can offer balance to a weary mind. It can help immensely with self understanding. I find without ample doses of solitude my composure begins to fray. I become anxious and short tempered. I become easily distracted by fleeting and unimportant thoughts. The only relief from a steady decline into irritability is several hours of sitting alone in the woods or walking deserted trails until my breath slows and ideas are again my own.

Jose Ortega y Gasset writes;
 "Man's genuine self is swallowed up by his cultured, conventional, social self. Every culture or every great phase of culture ends in man's socialization, and vice versa; socialization pulls man out of his life of solitude, which is his real and authentic life."

  Loneliness is different. For me it only creeps into my mind when I am missing someone. Generally it can be cured by getting in touch with those I love most. But there are those heart crushing waves of sadness and emptiness that come when I know that lost friends are gone forever and I have only my memories to fend off the loneliness that their passing has etched into my being. The consolation is that somehow I always dig deep and manage to overcome, if only temporarily, the sense of loss that is the cause of my severest loneliness.
  Hours of solitude honestly eases the sting of loneliness. Only by deep uninterrupted and focused thought can I begin to overcome the sadness that can flood over me in times when loneliness is just a short swerve away from despair. Depression also lurks off to the side. But I will leave that topic for another time and instead steer my thoughts to the beauty of this morning's sunrise. The sky is full of orange and pink clouds and the outlines of the islands are grey against the brightening day. The water is calm and the waves are gentle. Pelicans float silently in the quiet dawn as crows pick at the drying kelp. The tide is ebbing. I will be able to walk for a long time.

Summer 2014

June Gloom is here. And the last of the whales passed by Shoreline a week or so ago. I saw over thirty this year as they made their way past Santa Barbara heading north to the cold fecund waters off the coast of Alaska where they will fatten up on krill during the summer months. Almost every morning in May I saw at least two whales, usually a mother and her baby, making their steady progress up the coast. It seems this year that the Santa Barbara channel had greater numbers of whales passing through than in the past few years. Last year I only saw two or three. The waters of the channel are really calm and peaceful, pacific. And it's probably a good stretch to take it easy before they get north of Point Conception into the deeper and rougher seas.
  One morning I stood in the sand at low tide and watched a pair spyhopping. They lingered only a few hundred yards off shore and for an hour kept thrusting their massive upper bodies out of the water. They would hold their heads above the waves for a minute or so surveying their surroundings perhaps even seeing me gazing back at them. There was a girl down the beach from me standing on a rock that was jutting out of the water. It was just the four of us, two giant Grey Whales and two solitary humans on a misty morning looking at each other across a short distance separated by the waves but also by a deep chasm of incomprehensibility. Two worlds of experience separated by tens of millions of years of evolution. How on earth would we ever understand each other? Two little brains and two massive brains contemplating their own unique lives. I felt awe at the spectacle of seeing evidence of a wilder, more magnificent existence than I'll ever be able to understand. And what do they think when the see a puny creature staring at them from a boat or the safety of the shore? I imagine we are a mild curiosity, one of many, that catches their attention for a few minutes before the important work of migration occupies their days and nights.
  A few days later I saw one last whale. It was moving briskly up the coast less than three hundred yards from where I walked on the beach. I kept pace with this lone traveler for about forty-five minutes. I walk at about three miles per hour and I had no difficulty keeping the same speed as the whale. A few times we were so close and the morning surf so calm that I could hear it expelling its breath into the quiet still air. Today there was no spyhopping, just a straggler from the warm waters of Mexico making the long swim up the length of the west coast of North America. A weeks long journey and then a summer of gorging on plankton and growing strong for the return trip in the Fall. I probably won't see another whale until October.
  Even though this single Grey Whale was separated from other groups making their way north, scientists tell us that they are still communicating with each other with their songs. Their voices carry for great distances. It is thought that before the oceans became filled with the roar of cruise and cargo ships, submarines and aircraft carriers, our sonar signals and underwater tests of every imaginable type, that whales could hear each other thousands of miles apart and recognize familiar songs. Not only have we soiled the seas with garbage, but we have also polluted it with noise.
  We call them songs because they resemble long slowed down notes and melodies too grand and just out of reach of our limited musical knowledge. If we listen close enough and many times over the singing that can go on for hours can begin to resemble musical thoughts. Scientists have recorded many different songs and listened to them evolve over years as young whales learn the basic structure of the compositions/conversations and add to them their own slight modifications.  I've listened to these recordings and they are fascinating and have been called other worldly. But they are truly of this world, our world, and just because they are incomprehensible and mysterious to us does not make them haunting or frightening. They add a richness to the wonders of the oceans that should humble us and make us realize that we still have much to learn about our wild planet.
  I turn for home but not before watching for a few more minutes as this magnificent animal sends plumes of its hot breath skyward. It arches it's massive back above the water and takes a sounding dive and I walk towards my house.
Wislawa Szymborska says in a poem,

  Though hearts of killer whales may weigh a ton
 in every other way they're light.

  The few weeks preceding and just after the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, are typically days where a high marine layer of grey fog develops overnight and moves a few miles on to land and gives the city a damp solemn appearance. It's not a misty or low hanging fog but more of a cloudy rainy looking sky. But it rarely produces rain. Downtown and inland the skies clear by mid morning but up by my house on The Mesa, a block from the beach, the day can stay overcast until late afternoon. Although this year we haven't had it as severe as years past. Even my neighborhood is clear and fog-less before lunch. This condition is known along the coast as June Gloom and can be the cause of much dreariness and melancholy.
  But being from the Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts I laugh off the few weeks of morning grey. For a true funk caused by the weather I recommend Pittsfield from late November through mid March. These days that stretch to weeks of sub zero cold and a sun only visible as a low hanging dull disk behind thick snow clouds that dims to darkness by five pm can cast a perceptible pall of depression on sensitive dispositions.
  So I actually enjoy my dreary-air morning beach walks knowing that in a few hours the sun will be shining from a deep blue sky. Melancholy is a pervasive enough emotion that it's foolhardy to let the weather contribute to its power to catch me by surprise.

  There have been two confirmed Great White Shark sightings here at Leadbetter Beach, a three minute walk from my house, in the last ten days. There are warning signs posted in the sand for miles in each direction, from East Beach all the way to the Boathouse at Hendry's Beach, advising surfers and kayakers to keep away from marine life, like seals.
  At low tide I often see egg casings of the Great White so I know they're out there prowling for food.  They are still on the endangered species list even though it's thought that their numbers are increasing. And they have been around a long time, over four hundred million years. They are one of nature's masterpieces, perfectly evolved to swim and eat. They are at the absolute top of the ocean's food chain. They are so wild and need so much territory to move in that they only survive for a few hours in captivity.
  So these mornings late in June I scan the waves hoping to see this great fish that has survived the eons. I'm not sure what to look for, I guess the iconic and menacing dorsal fin slicing through the water. There have been lots of seals around but few dolphins. Sharks and dolphins rarely occupy the same areas. So I keep my gaze to the deeper water beyond the kelp beds hoping for a glimpse of the ocean's largest predatory fish.


   July Fourth starts out gloomy, then clears, then the fog drifts in just before the fireworks start. The thousands of people lining the beach are unfazed by the mist and the show goes on as planned. I spent the afternoon downtown and start walking home just as the first rocket lights up the sky over the wharf and marina. I stroll through the crowd as giant flowers of many colors illuminate the boats in the harbor. There is a long pause in the display and everyone thinks the show is over but after a fifteen minute delay the explosions continue as I walk the up the hill up to Shoreline and by the time I get to my house the sky is full of grey smoke and throngs of people exiting The Mesa. A half hour later the neighborhood is quiet and another Independence Day is over. Before bed I sit a while sipping a drink as a cool summer breeze blows the fog through my rose garden.
  July stays busy; there are concerts (Ringo!) and BBQs, house guests and dinner parties, wine tastings and birthdays. And of course, work. The bar stays steady all month, there is no summer lull in the action at the rail. People are out and spending money.
  So there is little time for solitude or writing or the longer beach walks that help maintain my balance. The hectic pace is tiring and by the end of the month I am anxious for a few days of peace and relaxation without the distractions of Santa Barbara.
  The Fiesta extravaganza, six days of parades and rodeos and parties that celebrate the Spanish cultural influences of Santa Barbara and brings almost one hundred thousand people to town the first few days of August is a perfect time for me to get away. And once again the Wus come to my rescue.
  They've rented a house in Yosemite at The Redwoods and Johnny Reilly and I take off early on the Saturday morning of Fiesta's craziest day. The city will be jammed full of tourists. All the major events of the week are over but the party rages on and downtown is full of drunken cowboys who seem oblivious to the fact that they are several drinks beyond their capacity. In the last twenty years I have escaped this ugly weekend all but three times by hiding out in the Sierras. By the time State Street is crowded with thousands of sombrero wearing revelers throwing confetti filled eggs at each other Johnny and I are sitting on a giant deck listening to the breeze in the pines waiting for Pak, Joanna, Ellie and Juliette to arrive so we can take a short hike to the river. After we splash around in the water our afternoon is quiet and relaxing. We snack and sip some wine. The peace of the Wawona Valley is intoxicating. The nonsense of Santa Barbara and its colossal street-clogging party slips from my mind completely.
   In the early evening, before dinner, we go to the Wawona Hotel to listen to Tom Bopp play the grand piano in the parlor just off the lobby. We sit out on the patio, as we have for over twenty summers, while Tom entertains with his charming and educational humor. He asks for requests claiming to know fifty percent of all songs ever written. He may or may not be joking. It's hard to tell.
  He gets on a roll playing old western songs like Green Green Grass of Home, Back in the Saddle Again, Tumbling Tumbleweeds and Don't Fence Me In. The latter, we learn, written by Cole Porter.
  The girls are entranced by the music and go inside to get a closer view of Tom. He is a living national monument recognized by the Park Service for his contribution to the culture of Yosemite.
 The sun starts to set in an orange sky. There are fifteen fires burning in the Park this weekend. The drought has made the Sierras frighteningly dry and the smell of smoke is in the air. Most of the fires are lightning strikes slowly burning in the high backcountry. But a few, like the one at the east entrance to the Park is threatening homes and structures. It's about forty percent contained and the smoke from that one has drifted south and is the cause of the beautiful sunset we are watching from the comfort of our wicker chairs as we sip champagne. Rain is predicted for the next few days which will hopefully give the firefighters a much needed break.
  But tonight because of the smoke the sun turns the sky deep hues of red and orange. Dangerously beautiful.
  Back at the house as the night grows dark, the smoke dissipates and the crescent moon and a few stars poke through the silhouettes of the tree tops, we eat outside by lamplight.

   The next day we take the shuttle to the Mariposa Grove of Redwoods and then ride the tram that gives a historical tour of the big trees. At the halfway point, the site of Galen Clark's old cabin in the upper grove, I disembark. The replica of Galen's one room home is now a tiny museum.
 I'm going to hike the trail back to Wawona. It's about five miles from the trees to the hotel and then another mile or so to our house. I plan on a leisurely three hours. I'm in no hurry and am in much need of some solitude in the woods. The tram fills back up after the brief stop and continues its tour leaving me at the trailhead to linger a few minutes taking in the wonders of the giant trees. I walk a few hundred yards along the trail and get to the last of the sequoias where the forest changes to sugar pine and cedar and I stop and listen to the silence.
  It's an easy hike, a gradual decrease in elevation. The late Mike Carpenter called it the drinking man's walk. It's almost all down hill and the trail ends at the porch of the hotel where cold beer is the reward.
  The last time I hiked this trail was with Mike. It was a pleasant afternoon filled with our usual interesting conversations about current passions and our contemplations of what makes our lives worth the while. Mike is deep in my thoughts as I saunter the dusty trail remembering and cherishing that day when our worries were few and we were young and strong. My pace today is certainly slower than it was then.
  Mike had measurably more energy and endurance than I ever did. He could out walk me, out ski me, and out climb me. He knew more about food and wine than I ever will and his reading list was eclectic and interesting. We never lacked for things to talk about.
  I try not to get lonely and I cherish my solitude but today as I walk deep in the pines and come to an immense hillside covered in manzanita with its unmistakable fragrance. I momentarily fluster with the knowledge that some things are gone forever and I will never completely recover from the major losses of my life. I am permanently wounded by them and they are part of who I am. The list grows ever longer of the loved ones who changed my life and I try to do them right by living with their wisdom and inspiration. If there is such a thing as immortality this is how it works.

   There is smoke in the air and I can feel it in my lungs. The smell mixes with the dust and pines and manzanita. The air gets heavier and the sky slowly starts to fill with thunderheads. Rain still seems a long way off but hopefully tonight it will fall and slow the fires so the fighters can get the upper hand.
  But I have spent many a summer afternoon in these mountains where massive ominous clouds formed and the air rumbled with thunder and lightning flashed but no rain fell.  After dark the clouds dispersed and when morning dawned the sky was clear and blue.
  I get to the hotel without seeing a single other hiker. I had the trail to myself for a few hours and relished in the peace and silence distracted only by the wild flow of my incomprehensible mind with its random thought patterns that constantly keep me amused. The miles of solitude were a precious tonic to counter what has been a hectic few weeks. A sure cure for ennui and sloth, for me, is to walk alone until exhausted, like Henry Thoreau, Ed Abbey, Bruce Wilk and Jim Harrison. Sometimes the cure isn't complete but it puts me in the right direction. After a day of solo trekking and uninterrupted meditation the world of people and work becomes tolerable again, albeit sometimes only barely. Time alone is a necessity for me and as I get older I require more and larger chunks of its restorative properties. Albert Einstien once famously wrote,
"I live in that solitude which is painful in youth, but delicious in the years of maturity."
 And Albert Camus,
"In order to understand the world, one has to turn away from it on occasion."

  The patio looks inviting but I continue on to the house passing though the covered bridge that crosses the South Fork which today is as dry as I've ever seen it. Back at the house the beer is buried deep in ice and JV has set out a hefty cheese and fruit platter. I take off my boots and the girls inform me that they are ready to go swim in the river. Off we go.
  Back from the water we we watch the sky grow even darker and it finally starts to rain. Slowly at first, big lonely drops for an hour or so then harder for a while and then steady all night. I wake after two and listen to the mild storm through the open window above my bed and soon I'm lulled back to a deep sleep that is pleasantly disturbed by the smell of Pak making breakfast.

  The rain has stopped and after breakfast Pak, Johnny and I take Ellie and Juliette to Sentinel Dome.  It's a cloudy dreary morning but the girls are excited to take a real hike and climb a big rock. Their eyes are wide with wonder as they look up at the huge stone and Pak tells them that soon we will be standing way up there.
  It's an easy trail, or at least a short one. Johnny's knee/foot/ankle is bothering him so he lingers by the parking lot as we make our way up the rocks. I've lost count of how many times I've made this hike. Pak always jokes that someday when we are old and weak we will still be able to crawl up to the top and nap on the wide flat summit.
  It is grey and cool and the views are obscured by low rain clouds. Half and North Domes are visible but Hoffman and Clouds Rest are hidden. Still it's beautiful to be high up in the mountain air. The girls explore the summit and Pak and I remind ourselves how lucky we are. Pak is so happy and proud to be hiking with his daughters and I'm honored to be sharing such a special morning with them.
 Yosemite Falls is dry and Vernal and Nevada Falls are running low. The drought in the Sierras is now in its third year. We can see two small fires smoldering, one up behind North Dome and one beyond Nevada Falls. Both are probably lightning strikes and right now pose no threat and are being allowed to burn out naturally.
 I tell Pak of a Summer ten years ago when I was camping in the Park and hiked up here just before sunset and waited on a rock ledge for the full moon to rise over the Clark Range. He has heard the story before, but humors me anyway. I was alone on the summit and even thought it was July the night cooled fast at just above 8000 feet and I pulled on a thick fleece. The moon, right on time, as the Earth spun, appeared to inch its way above the mountains and soon gave the illusion that it was so close that it was touchable. It glowed in the night sky with the Sun's reflected light and illuminated the massive granite walls and towering peaks. I sat for a long time in my reverie, until the moon was high above the Park. I could have stayed up there all night if the pull of the hot soup and whiskey back at the campsite wasn't so distracting to my unfocused brain. My unhurried walk by moonlight back to the truck took longer than it should because I kept stopping to marvel at the night sky. Back at my campsite I sat up watching the moon until I started to sleep in my camp chair. Only then did I finally force myself to crawl into my sleeping bag.
  Pak and I have threatened for years to spend a night up on top of Sentinel. We would travel light, just our sleeping bags and some fruit, cheese and bread. Like Muir. No stove or lanterns or tents. We would lie on our backs after dark and talk ourselves to sleep under the imponderable blanket of the Milky Way. Perhaps someday we will make it happen.

   The day clears and by late afternoon the sky is mostly blue and the smell of smoke is less obvious, the air fresher than yesterday. We are all pleasantly worn out after another fine dinner and a short walk with Ellie to look at the moon through binoculars. It is something she's never done before and we head back to the house with a new understanding of what's out there. One more piece of the puzzle of what the wide world, and beyond, is about.

   Everyone is tired and relaxed and I retire early, relatively, to my room to read for a bit before sleep.
   I have The Letters of Seneca with me and Nature's God by Matthew Stewart. A book about the religious philosophies of the founders of this country, who influenced them and how their ideas developed. It's a fascinating read, beautifully researched and full of deep wisdom. It should be required reading for every senator and congressman. And for that matter every occupier of the Oval Office and Supreme Court judge. It would shine a light on their colossal ignorance of just what the thinking was behind the writing of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.
  As anyone who has read Madison and Jefferson, Franklin and Allen knows, these were not religious men in the sense that they were christians. They believed in a deeper order and reason was their guide. This book collects many of their best thoughts and relates them to the times that they lived in. We would do ourselves a great service as a country to revisit the thinking of the kindlers of the revolutionary flame. They were men of powerful intellect and not prone to superstition or religious nonsense. They were practical and reasonable thinkers. Our country has certainly strayed from their wisdom when it comes to religion.
  Sitting up late in the Sierras pondering the lives of the east coast rebels seems an odd combination. But Nature is Nature and the wild world as a guide is never far from my thoughts.
  I've often sat in these mountains and read Muir and Galen Clark and Gary Snyder. Their writings are perfect for high country winds and deep forests, raging rivers and sudden blizzards.
  Seneca, like Emerson and Lucretius, is always appropriate no matter where I might find myself. I open his letters at random and he reminds me, "Live according to Nature." That is synchronicity at its best. (Actually I'm a skeptic when it comes to synchronicity. Coincidence would be a more appropriate word.) As the night cools my room through the open window above the bed I fall asleep hoping the great philosopher's words will help focus my travels, directionless as they sometime seem.
  Our visit to Wawona comes to and end all to soon and Johnny and I are back in Santa Barbara wishing we had a few more days in the mountains. But we are happy with the quality time we were able to spend with the Wus and made tentative plans for our next get together, hopefully by Thanksgiving.

   A few days later I find myself as far from the solitude of the quiet trails that follow the south fork of the Merced River as I could possibly be. I've joined Todd H, Lawrence and Carlos for a trip to Dodger Stadium. Obviously not to watch baseball. Sir Paul McCartney is in town and with 56,000 others we are here to listen to him do what only he can. He sings and rocks and dances and laughs for three solid hours and we happily sing along with him often times with tears in our eyes. Sir Paul has all the moves and brings back memories of the best times of our lives to which he contributed the soundtrack.
   "I think we have a bit of a party going on here." He says with that sparkle in his eye. And he's right, we do, and we respond with a cheer that shakes Dodger Stadium to its foundation. And not for the last time of the night. He blasts through hit after hit after hit. And when you try to catch your breath he cranks up the energy another notch. And I Love Her, Something and Maybe I'm Amazed puts a lump in my throat. All My Loving, Hey Jude and Hi Hi Hi have us dancing in the aisles. Standing alone with just his acoustic guitar singing Yesterday and Blackbird puts a reverential hush over the crowd. It is not far off from mild hero worship.
  Let It Be. Well..... the last time I heard that song all the way through we were bringing Bobby B out of the church for his ride up to his family plot. He loved that song and chose it, I'm sure, for a number of good reasons. What he probably didn't plan on was now that when I hear it I have a hard time letting it play to the end. As Sir Paul sits at his piano and plays those famous opening chords I can't help but think of all the concerts Bobby and I went to together and how he would have loved being here tonight and how much I fucking miss him.
  Sir Paul is really unique. He is the only solo performer who can fill stadium after stadium anywhere in the world. He can get fifty thousand people night after night coming out to hear the songs he wrote. There might be bands that could come close, The Stones or Bruce and The East Street Band. Maybe, but if Mick or The Boss went solo that would be a different story.
 The Pope might be able to get that many people, or even more, to come out on a warm summer night. But he's making bigger promises than Sir Paul. It's one thing to sing along to pop songs but another thing entirely to expect the keys to eternal salvation. It's a tough job being Christ's representative on earth. And there will be others who will one day have the burden of that position. But once McCartney is done touring there will be no one to replace him.
  Plus I wonder if the Pope charged up to four hundred dollars a ticket just how many of the faithful would be waiting with anticipation at Dodger Stadium for His Holiness to walk out on stage?
  We didn't pay four hundred dollars for our seats in the first loge, but close enough. And they were worth every penny and I would do it again. Gladly.

  Mid August finds me in The Berkshires for a few days. A quick trip to say hi to Mom and my brothers and Bruce, Bill, Kelly Melle and Hauge. It's a low key visit with nothing planned except to relax. Of course, the poet Robert Burns has the final word on the best laid plans. The night I get in Hauge drops off a massive cooler of beer and Sambuca at Mom's house. A bunch of people come by for drinks and the stage is set for the rest of the week. Everyone brings wine. Kelly brings Veuve.
  I never have jet lag on the first night. But I took the six am flight out of LA after driving down from Santa Barbara after work. So I've been up twenty or so hours. I'm fatigued but running on adrenalin.
  The next five days are a bit of a blur. Time-wise not memory-wise. We hike up to Stony Ledge, sit on the deck, cruise the lake in The Hauge's boat, tour Arrowhead, shop for wine, (with Kelly) eat lobster rolls, sip whiskey with Mide, have nightcaps at the Forge, and each night crash in to bed late and exhausted but relaxed.
  The summer afternoon boat cruises are a long time tradition that take place on the hundreds of lakes scattered throughout New England. There are boats of all sizes slowly circumnavigating our lake, Pontoosuc, picking up and dropping off passengers at different docks as the day fades to eventing. Martinis are not inappropriate.
  Summer nights on Ridge Ave, at Mom's house, are so quiet after dark. A stark contrast to my busy neighborhood back in Santa Barbara. With the window wide open the night sounds are few and hushed. Someone walking up the street, a car in the distance, the soft rustling of the leaves when an occasional breeze interrupts the stillness. I lie awake and marvel at the silence.
 The days fly by and the next thing I know I'm in the air above Connecticut heading toward California.

   The calendar says summer is over but the weather does not. Labor Day weekend is hot and tropical. The heat wave durning the last two weeks of August shows no sign of cooling off. It's unusual for this time of year. Santa Barbara is hot and sticky as the the hurricanes that are hitting Baja send wet and humid air as far north as central California.
  On the Sunday of the three day weekend we trip up to Avila to see the San Luis Obispo Symphony perform seaside with the delightful singer Inga Swerengin and rockstar Jon Anderson.
  Avila is usually a sleepy little hideaway beach town where I've been going for years to slow down and walk the shoreline and sit at night in a hot tub of sulfur water under the sycamores. But today the town is jumping with music lovers. It is a rare treat to see Anderson play live these days. His old band, Yes, tours constantly but Jon has been selective in his appearances in recent years. So this is an important event for old Yes fans.
   Jon does not disappoint us. He pulls out some old classics and his voice is in good shape. His music always brings me back to my earliest road trips away from home during high school and college. While I was learning to be independent and exploring the Green Mountains of Vermont or the High Peaks of the Adirondacks the music he created with Yes was constantly playing on our drives and then as I climbed above the tree line his voice was in my head. I will forever associate that music with winding trails through dark forests and barren summits with views of Lake Champlain. With campsites beside deep cold springs and nights of brilliant stars. Wilderness and wildness.
 I can't believe it was thirty-five years ago since I first saw him play live at the long ago demolished Springfield Civic Center. And now all theses years later and after many concerts from Albany to Hartford, Saratoga and Los Angeles to my home here in Santa Barbara, his music still resonates with me and has never grown old. Those songs still maintain their freshness and can still surprise and move me, sometimes to tears. That's is the signature of true art.

   It was almost cool last night. I haven't been under a blanket in weeks. The nights have been still and hot. Poor sleeping weather and I'm feeling the fatigue from the prolonged heat wave. But there are tiny signs that Autumn is imminent. The crows are starting to flock together after months of independent scavenging. The Terns are skittish and soon they will be far to the south. The late Summer tides are the highest of the year. The swells are big and the surfers are out in packs. The pumpkins in my neighbor's garden are turning from green to orange.
  Any day now I will see the first whale heading south to give birth in the comfortable waters of The Sea of Cortez. These are cycles of life endlessly repeating as they have for ages and with any luck will continue long into the future. And we are just a small component that fleetingly shares in the flow of it all, playing our little parts for a very very short time. I try to pay attention.

Gualala

  Once I am driving along the Russian River near Guerneville the bustle of California changes perceptively.  The road winds through the coastal Redwoods and traffic slows to a more relaxed pace. Cabins dot the riverside and can be seen semi-hidden through the trees. Korbel Vineyards almost lures me in for a glass of champagne but I'm anxious to get to Sea Ranch.
  It's mid afternoon as I turn toward the coast. The marine layer is burning off and patches of blue are interspersed with the clumps of fog.
  At Jenner I take a right on Route One and the vistas open up as the road climbs the hills above the ocean. The water is dark blue with blinding bright whitecaps. The surf explodes against giant black rocks. Gulls and vultures and a single alert osprey patrol the shoreline. Seals bob their heads out of the water in the protected coves that I figure to be teaming with abalone, cabezon and urchins. It is a much more wild and majestic world than the peaceful protected harbor of Santa Barbara.
  California is so large, both physically and mentally. I've already been in the jeep for seven hours and have only seen a tiny portion of this grand and diverse state. My range over the years has been broad. From my base in Santa Barbara I often drift south to San Diego but mostly when my wanderlust becomes unbearable I aim the jeep north. When the winter snow piles up in the Sierras I take 395 along its eastern edge to Mammoth Lakes for what I consider the best snowboarding in the state. A side trip to Death Valley is a lesson in extremes. Death Valley is the lowest point in the United States at just over two hundred and eighty feet below sea level. Less than eighty miles away is the highest point in the lower forty-eight states, Mount Whitney, at 14,787 feet above sea level.
   On the western slopes of the Sierras are Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks and, of course, the jewel Yosemite. I feel as much at home around Wawona and Yosemite as I do anywhere else except maybe the Berkshire Hills of Western Massachusetts, my first home and the place where I will always be from.
  So from Ojai to El Sobrante, Big Sur to Napa, Oakhurst to Long Beach, Sacramento to Carmel, Cambria to Lee Vining, California is not only a vast state but with its mountains and beaches and long central valley, its big cities and tiny towns, super highways and lonely back roads, islands and deserts, it is also a state of mind. Saying, "I'm from California." Is a statement full of possibilities and a myriad of ideas. I can tell you how to get to California but once you are here it's up to you to try to grasp its many moods and nuances of personality.
  And today I am at the northern edge of what I consider my home territory, Gualala, the rustic and charming town near where we are staying in Sea Ranch.

   I pull into the driveway of the house we are renting and no one is there. Pak, Joanna, Ellie, Juliette and Johnny must have gone for a stroll to the beach. The door is unlocked and I make myself at home and open a beer. Delicious and well earned after eight hours on the road.
  I go and sit on the back deck with its hot tub and views of other houses and beyond the neighborhood the fog is clinging to the tips of the redwoods. It is a peaceful scene and I begin to relax immediately.
  The moment I turned onto Highway One perched between the cliffs and meadows strewn with orange poppies and lavender irises alternating with groves of tall pines memories of past trips fill my mind.
  The memory that looms largest is that of Mike Carpenter, now dead almost a year. Mike was the one who first invited me up here to this place that was so special to him and his beautiful wife, and one of my oldest friends, Pam. I was lucky to become a fixture at the annual abalone dive that Mike and Kevin Kechley put together when the season opened in the Spring. These were week long events full of laughs and mischief, good conversation and fine wines and epic meals. Mike was without a doubt the best chef I've ever known. And that is a long list. Everything he did in the kitchen, whether it was in one of the many remarkable restaurants he ran or here at a vacation house in Sea Ranch or at my bachelor beach apartment in Santa Barbara, was a flawless work of edible art that he seemed to create effortlessly. I know he worked ridiculously hard to be as talented as he was but he made it look so easy. It was always a joy and a learning experience to be in the kitchen with him helping prep or just watching him put together a meal. When he got ready to cook and would start mulling around the pantry and refrigerator, a bottle of red wine would be opened and the party would move into the kitchen where the dialogue would range wide once the dinner plan was solidified. The group that met yearly not only had an appetite for exceptional food and drink but also had deep interests in music and literature, movies and politics, travel and history. There was also a mutual love of outdoor sports; skiing, biking, climbing, kayaking, snowboarding, fishing and the main reason for the gathering, abalone diving.
  I did not dive. I am not experienced enough to brave the heavy surf and rocky ocean floor where the abalone hide stuck in tricky crevasses. You have to free dive when abalone hunting. No tanks, just deep breaths until you find one and then while holding your breath and staying steady in the cold swells you must pry the giant snails off the rock with a thick iron bar. My old friend Tom Wojtkowski, who has dived around the world and is a great lobster diver as well as an underwater search and rescue diver said that trying to find an abalone and then dislodging it from its perch is harder than recovering a dead body at twenty-five feet. I don't think he was kidding as Tom is not prone to hyperbole.
  I find all the hard work (theirs) well worth it. Fresh abalone is one of the delicacies I rank right up there with a 61 Chateau Lafite or a few ounces of Jade PF 1901 Absinthe.
  Mike and Kevin would get out of the water with their two or three, three being the limit, abalone and we would walk back to the house and clean them and pound the thick hard flesh until it was thin and tender. Pak would do the cleaning, also insisting we eat a few slices raw. The taste is richer than cold Maine lobster with a subtle hint of the briny world of the ocean depths. Johnny and I did the pounding while Kevin and Mike hosed off their wetsuits and enjoyed a much deserved drink. Mike would then flash fry the slices in truffle oil. It only took seconds in the hot iron pan and our lunch was ready. We would sit around the picnic table in the fresh sea air and with tiny forks fill our plates from the heaping platter of the delicious and rare snails. A bottle of champagne that had been buried in ice all morning, Schramsberg, was the only other accompaniment needed. A simple and elegant lunch that would have pleased Epicurus.
  One morning after they limited out on abalone Kevin gathered a few urchins from the tide pools and back at the house Pak cracked them open, rinsed them in ice water and splashed a little soy sauce on them. It was by far the best uni I've ever tasted. Mike made a round of Tanqueray and tonics with limes from his garden. It was a simple snack that demanded attention from our taste buds. The richness of the uni and the sharp effervesce of the drink with the tart fresh lime juice was such a rare combination of flavors that complimented each other perfectly. I've told several sushi chefs that uni should be served with a tiny side of gin and lime but so far I've never seen it in a restaurant. Perhaps I am, or as usual Mike was, ahead of the curve and someday it will be a trendy pre dinner appetite enhancer at the world's finest sushi bars.

   My reverie is interrupted by Ellie who runs across the yard and up on to the deck, hugs me tight and excitedly starts telling me about all the wild stuff that goes on down at the tide pools. She found shells and rocks and saw crabs, starfish and seals and snails and little black fish. Her enthusiasm is infectious fierce. The rest of the gang shows up and Juliette and Ellie make us promise to take them back to the beach after a hot tub soak and a snack. Pak whips up some curry shrimp and shucks some local oysters and Joanna pops a bottle of white. Johnny puts on some music. We laugh and talk as the afternoon glides gently along. Marcy, James and little Abby show up and we marvel that somehow we are all together again for the second time this year. In January we were in Yosemite and now Sea Ranch. We toast our great luck.
  We walk down to the cove at the end of our street and the tide is at its lowest of the day. The pools, some a few inches deep and some several feet deep, are cold and full of wonders. They are full of crabs that range in size from so tiny that they look like pebbles with claws to fist size rock crabs that we've been known to collect and eat. But today we leave them to scurry from crevasse to crevasse on their mission to stay hidden.
  Bright orange and dull purple sea stars are scattered everywhere. Ellie tries to dislodge a few but they are stuck hard to the rocks. Their hundreds of powerful suction cups easily secure them from the prying hands of one curious little girl. But Ellie soon finds a loose one and it pops off into her hands with relative ease. We inspect this strange animal and notice it has captured a few hermit crabs and they, shells and all, are slowly disappearing into its center where its mouth and stomach are. Ellie gently places the star back in a pool a few inches deep and almost instantly it begins to cling and stick itself tightly to the rock.
  An osprey circles over us and we hope to see it dive for a fish. It's one of the wilder sights of the coast when with a grace that takes your breath away this powerful hawk swoops to the ocean's surface and grabs a fish that seems impossibly large and hard to carry. Today, however, the osprey continues up the shoreline in search of better hunting grounds.
  The further out onto the rocks we walk the deeper the pools get. Mussels cover most of them and in the water sea anemones are as large as softballs and seem to give off their own green-blue iridescent light. They look like they are glowing.
  A pair of oystercatchers hop from rock to rock. I'm fascinated by these black birds with their long bright orange beaks as they stare at me with equally bright and piercing orange eyes. They look cartoonish, a creation out of a child's imagination. Something Ellie or Juliette would draw. As I get closer they screech and fly off to another ledge where they pick at the mussels.

  Back at the house, the table full of food and champagne, we toast to the excuses for our celebration. Pak and Joanna's ninth wedding anniversary and Joanna's birthday. This is the place where they got married nine years ago. Looking out the kitchen window across the field we can see the big house where the reception was held. Mike prepared the food on that wild and rainy day and it was another one of his epic culinary performances.
  We open a bottle of Cakebread and share our memories of that party that lasted five days. James, Johnny and I were all in the wedding. We remember all the people who came from so far away to celebrate, all the laughing we did, all the beach walks and late nights sitting up because we were too excited and having so much fun that it would have been a sin to go to bed and call a halt to such a treasured time. And now sitting here again with the fog enveloping the house we can't believe nine years have passed. We are forever trying to figure out time and Pak says we must be doing something right because good times go by so fast and everything goes by fast for us. Our good luck is massive.
  The kids go to bed and we sit around the blazing wood stove sipping a rare bottle of Bushmills 1608 continuing our stories and creating new ones. It has been a long day and I feel the fatigue overwhelming me. My room is at the far end of the house and I say goodnight and go off to bed. I'm too tired to read and as often happens once I get in bed I'm a little wound up so I get back up and open the large French doors and step out onto the deck and look out at the foggy night. A light mist drifts into the room. My thoughts wander and I find myself thinking of Mike again. He loved this majestic coastline with its deep pools for diving and its cliffside trails where we spent afternoons sauntering and keeping an eye out for deer or coyotes. We often hiked up through the tall redwoods that blocked the sun. Even on the brightest days the trails were dark and cool. Once he and Kevin showed me some poisonous mushrooms that were growing in a damp patch of earth near a trickle of a spring fed stream.
   He would have ruled the kitchen in this house. It's a big room with lots of working counter space and an industrial stove that Pak is very pleased with. Is it possible to get sick of eating abalone? Probably. We tried hard but never did because Mike and Pak kept it interesting. During one Spring week we ate it raw, stir fried a few different ways, sautéed, grilled, in gumbo, and Mike even made a chowder that was beyond delicious. I remember Pak and I having a bowl at breakfast one morning, which meant we had abalone for five meals in a row.  Lunch dinner breakfast lunch dinner.
  That was the same trip that I picked Mike up at the San Francisco airport and he got off the plane with an unusually large carry on bag. He passed it to me and it weighed a ton seeing it held eight bottles of wine. Those were the days when airlines were more accommodating to the special needs of their frequent fliers and precious cargo like old magnums of Bordeaux were treated with respect. This is not the case anymore. I will forever remember the relaxed drive up the coast that day. We made a few stops, at Jenner and Thunder Cove, to keep our thirst at bay and enjoyed our usual far ranging conversation as we caught up on each other's lives. We got to the house where we met up with Tom W, Pak and Johnny. The girls and the Kechleys wouldn't get there until the next day. Somehow, barely, we managed to behave ourselves until proper supervision arrived.

  The dogs wake me up. Tilly & Arlo come into my room shortly after seven. They put their heads on the mattress and breathe in my face. I can tell they want to jump up with me, especially Tilly, but they are too well trained. I'm am a lenient uncle and before Tilly grew too old to make the leap I always let her up. This morning she is happy to sit bedside while I read for a bit and rub her head. She still thinks she's a puppy and is full of joy and enthusiasm. But her grey whiskers and lively intelligent eyes give her away. Her tail thumps the floor with pleasure.
  Pak has a big breakfast ready as we start what turns out to be a relaxing day filled more with the leisure pursuits of walking, beach combing, cooking and soaking in the hot tub than to the adherence of the flimsily plans we made the night before. We take a couple trips to the cove and again rummage around the tide pools. We clamber over the rocks and ledges sticking our noses into the clear depths.  Ellie finds a sea slug about ten inches long. I wish I had my copy of Between Pacific Tides with me so I could properly identify this beast.
  Tilly joins us out near the surf. She hobbles over the stones sniffing at kelp, mussels and anemones. Joanna says she will be sore and achy later but her curiosity is uncontrollable. In her beautiful dog mind she is young and strong. I try to warn her to take it easy but she looks at me like the silly human I am and continues her inspections of the shoreline.
   And sure enough, as evening comes on and I'm reading to Ellie by the fire Tilly gently eases herself down on her blanket in front of the warming flames. She quickly dozes off into her dog dreams. It is a scene Norman Rockwell would have loved.

   Then next morning I'm up early and take a walk north on the trail that runs along the cliff. The tide is at its highest and the many coves I inspect are unreachable. Seals float in the kelp and eye me with curiosity and a bit of wariness. Oystercatchers balance on the tips of the rocks that just barely stick out of the water. There is a fine foggy mist in the air and soon I'm wet but my pace keeps me from getting chilled. I pass only one other person in the hour and a half I'm out. If it wasn't for the occasional chimney with grey smoke rising straight up in to the windless sky you would think Sea Ranch was deserted. The peace of this place is pervasive. I daydream about spending a year here just reading and walking and writing. I imagine I could coax the occasional visitor for those rare occasions when I fear I may overdose on tranquility.
  Back at the house Ellie has a fire blazing and smells from the kitchen stir my appetite. We enjoy a relaxed breakfast, a bottle of champagne adds to the overall luxury of the morning. We all agree we are spoiling ourselves and may possibly have reentry problems in a few days when we have to be back at our jobs. But Pak assures us, in what is a reoccurring discussion, that these are the most important of times because of the memories they create. We can hardly argue with his wisdom as he tops off our flutes.  I can't help but grin at my dearest of friends.
  Slowly, a plan for the afternoon takes form. We pile into the truck and drive down to the Sea Ranch Lodge to have a celebratory bottle (or two) of Korbel, the local favorite, in the room where Pak and Joanna were married and James, Johnny and I sported sharp tuxedos. When we walk in it seems like only a few days ago we were just here helping Pak stay calm in the moments before Joanna, stunningly radiant, stepped into the room lighting it up with her beautiful smile. I will never forget that moment.
  We get a big table in the bar and pop the corks.
  The staff at the Lodge is wonderful and they enjoy our stories of that incredible day nine years ago when the sky opened up and poured down rain on us. The wind blew hard off the ocean turning the surf white and frothy. After the ceremony we crammed into the atrium as the rain pounded on the huge glass windows loud enough to drown out our voices. And then the day started to slowly clear. Occasional patches of blue sky appeared out over the sea. The sun poked out every now and then. Pak and Joanna took a walk while the party moved to the Norman House for the reception. I waited at the bar and then chauffeured the happy newlyweds to a party that went on until almost sunrise. When we pulled into the driveway a roar from the house greeted Mr. and Mrs. Wu. The cheering lasted several minutes and then the night spiraled away. We ate Mike's lovingly prepared food, laughed and danced and smiled until our faces hurt. It was a party so unique with such a diverse group of fun and interesting people that it will forever stand out as a day that will never be equalled. Those us us who shared that day are bonded together by a thread of happiness.
  We tell our stories and have our flashbacks as we finish the Korbel. Then we walk the path from the Lodge that juts out to a sharp point with a cove on each side. Seals glide though the water and we scan the horizon for whales. The day has taken on a lovely warm quality with our happy reminiscing. We feel lucky beyond words. And we truly are.
  We cruise up to the market and buy a gorgeous piece of local wild salmon. It's late in the day and the oysters are sold out. We replenish out beer and pie stash. Back at the house Joanna loads up the table with snacks and Pak fills plates with appetizers. A fog wall hangs over the water and the sun sets bright orange into the mist. Our celebratory mood lasts all night.

   Later in my room with the doors open to the cool night air I jot a few notes and try to read. I have the letters of Seneca with me. Also Peter Matthiessen's new novel. I preordered it weeks ago and then was saddened to see he passed away a few days before the book arrived in the mail. I met him at a reading at the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History. He read beautifully that night from his book about cranes. He was elegant and witty and his books have meant a great deal to me. So I'm anxious to read his final written words.
   I wake up in the middle of the night shivering, the doors are still open to the fog. I close up and go back to sleep until Tilly sticks her nose in my face. The house is warm. Ellie has a fire going and James has started coffee. This morning I walk south. I find that short trail that is like a tunnel through the trees that opens to a field full of poppies and a cove where mother harbor seals are nursing their babies. The little ones are only a few feet long and whiter in color than the adults. Dozens of others bask on the rocks or feed in the deeper water.
  On a grassy outcropping I come across a group of vultures. I startle them and they slowly, one by one, flap off to a point further out on the rocks. I look down at the beach and notice the object of their interest. A dead baby seal has washed up on shore. Soon the carcass is surrounded by the giant black birds with their featherless orange heads which are "designed" for sticking into rotting flesh and not collecting bacteria like the feathered heads of other birds would. A near perfectly evolved feature for the gruesome task of picking apart a corpse.
  The vultures hop and dance around the tiny seal jostling for position all trying to skewer the choicest and tenderest pieces of baby fat. The other seals lying nearby seem not to notice the feast that will soon reduce the pup to a pile of bones that the high tide will wash away. In fact, when we come back later in the afternoon there is no sign of the ominous birds or the remains of the seal. The cove is peaceful and even more seals are napping in the sand. Other little babies are snuggled close to their mothers. Signs on the path tell us to be respectful and silent so as not to disturb the fragile newborns.  We quietly watch the scene from the top of the stairs that are closed off until the seals move on later in the summer.

  We make a earlier trip to the store today in order to make sure we get some oysters before they run out like they did the last few days. We buy three dozen and the minute we get back Pak starts opening them. They are fresh and crisp and taste like the clear clean waters of the north coast. After a while Johnny takes over and Joanna opens a bottle of Korbel. Champagne and oysters again, imagine that.
  The kids, Pak and James and Joanna ride their skateboards down the hill in font of the house, Marcy plays with Abby, Johnny naps on the couch and I sit in the back yard brooding about my options for the summer. What's next?  I wonder.
  The afternoon cools and I put on a fleece. Pak starts the coals and before we know it it's dinner time. Pak grilled the salmon perfectly with lemon and just a hint of oyster sauce. It is delicious. We linger over our empty plates savoring our last dinner of the week. The time, as always when we are together, flies by.
   Tonight is a lunar eclipse. It's called The Blood Moon and I'm eager to see it. It starts before midnight and lasts over an hour. The kids go to bed and everyone else sits in the raised living room. I pace myself and take a walk around the neighborhood.
  Again my thoughts turn to Mike. We shared many a walk together. Not only here in Sea Ranch, but in Yosemite and Napa, Santa Barbara and Palm Springs, Arizona and Lenox, Massachusetts.  I miss our talks that we had on our rambles. Mike's mind was always in high gear. He always had a book he wanted to tell me about and then give me when he finished. We regularly passed books back and forth. His reading tended to lean towards subjects that fueled his healthy skepticism of politics and our shared disdain of organized religion. He could also talk at length and with a superior knowledge of his passion for food and wine. We often planed meals as we walked.
  Mike was in his way our ringleader. It seemed it was usually his idea for a hike or a last minute ski trip.  He was the one who usually chose the restaurant where we would go to dinner. We just naturally followed his lead. He had a grand appetite for so many of life's interesting pursuits and he had the energy to match his curiosity. I miss his wit and sharp ironic sense of humor and his grasp of and his ability to explain the absurdities that life deals us with mind numbing regularity.
  I have in my desk a pile of postcards from him and Pam. They are from Paris, New York, Arizona, Rome, Hawaii, England. There is always a sweet note from Pam on the back and one word from Mike, "Viola!"
  Last time we talked we made plans to meet up. We had both recently lost our fathers, his just weeks before. We agreed we needed a break someplace relaxing. We said we'd talk again soon. We never did. I still haven't completely digested the enormity of our loss and trying to come to grips with it has been particularly confusing and painful. His last email to me was a short note thanking me for my friendship.

 I finish my walk with an eye on the moon. Earth's shadow is slowly passing over the lunar surface. I read a few weeks ago that the scientist Bill Nye was ridiculed in Texas for teaching that the moon is dark and doesn't give off its own light. It is reflected sunlight that we see. But, the bible says otherwise so people stormed out of his lecture. However, here before me tonight is the evidence. I watch the moon go from a bright white light to a dark red-orange orb that seems to hang lower in the sky than normal.  It looks more three dimensional now that it's in the shadow. The stars look as if they are burning brighter now that the moon glows darkly in the sky. I've been joined in the yard by everybody.  We see several meteorites in the blackness of our thin protective atmosphere. Before the earth stops blocking the sunlight and the moon begins to brighten again the fog blows in and our view is interrupted. An hour later I look outside but now the fog is even thicker obscuring the sky completely.
   I remind myself that the universe goes about its workings with absolute indifference to our meager plight on this one tiny blue planet.  Our wars and prejudices, our loves, hopes and petty concerns are met with a cosmic silence that is profound.
   I read for an hour and I find an appropriate Peter Matthiessen quote from an interview he gave a few years ago;

 "It is its very evanescence that makes life beautiful, isn't that true? If we were doomed to live forever, we would scarcely be aware of the beauty around us. Beauty always has that element of transience that is spoiled when we draw clumsy attention to it."

   It's our last morning and we can't seem to shake the sadness that another trip is over and we won't be together again for, at the soonest, a few months.  We clean up the house and pack our stuff. We take one more walk to the cove, it's a windy cool morning yet we linger anyway. The ocean is choppy and white capped.
  On the way back to the house Ellie says, "You know you can come live with us." And Juliette yells, "Yea! And uncle Johnny too!"
  I tell them that I'll have to ask their parents if it's ok and they are encouraged that there is a possibility that I may move to Sacramento. They tell me that I could be their babysitter. That it would be fun and we could practice card tricks. I promise them that I will think about it and no doubt I will on the long drive back to Santa Barbara.
   We sit a while on the back deck, putting off our departure for another half hour. The hot tub is covered and the BBQ grill is put away. The house has an empty and deserted feel. We wish we had another day or two and it seems that just as we finally became truly relaxed it is time to go back to work. But we are thankful for the time we did have, fleeting as it was. Johnny takes one last group photo and then we are off. The other part of our lives await. I plug in the iPod and hit shuffle, Black Throated Wind blasts from the speakers. As good of a road song as there is. I give Sea Ranch one last look. Bobby sings, "Throw me to chance, and oh watch me dance!" And down the highway I go.




 

Wawona, CA

Part One

  Wawona has been, and still is, a place of refuge for me. A place I go to slow down and gather my self. To think things over. To ponder my next move. And after being there a week, or even just a few days, the world starts to look and feel different. Hours of walking the sage and manzanita lined trails along the south fork of the Merced River and slowly the important themes of my life start to come into better focus. Wandering around the Upper Mariposa Grove of sequoias on a quiet winter morning my mind becomes more clear and the pettiness of everyday life dissolves away like mist.
  It's been twenty-five years since I first stayed here. Eksuzian and I had just camped and hiked in Sequoia National Park for a few days and then found ourselves exploring Toulomne Meadows on a pristine summer weekend. We climbed Lambert Dome and stayed in a park tent a hundred feet from the powerful Toulomne River. Not even in the Adirondacks or on the side of Mount Mansfield in Vermont had I ever seen so many stars.
  We planned on staying in The Valley the next night but being July it was a mob scene. We had a beer in Curry Village and decided we had seen enough of Yosemite and the summer crowds. We pondered going back up Tioga Pass and spending a few more nights in Toulomne but instead made our way south to check out the Mariposa Grove. The elegant Wawona Hotel caught our attention first and we stopped for a drink. We sat on the famous porch for a while and Eksuzian inquired about a room and as luck would have it there was one left in the main building. We took it and had our first hot shower in days. We spent a lazy afternoon reading on the porch and resting from our miles on the trail. We had dinner in the dining room and then sat up late into the night sipping bourbon by the grand fountain. Eksuzian even splashed around a bit.

  Many other visits followed. I was introduced to The Redwoods by John Reilly. The Redwoods is where you rent cabins and bigger homes up Chilnualna Road, which is behind the Wawona Hotel along the Merced River.
  It's one of the two places in The Park where there is privately owned property. The homes range from one bedroom rustic cabins to modern houses with dishwashers and hot tubs and satellite TV.
   The Redwoods is about forty-five minutes from the Valley floor. And it is a much more relaxed and tranquil place than the tourist packed villages of Curry and Yosemite. After a day seeing the amazing sights, the rocks and waterfalls of The Park or climbing Half Dome or walking the Panorama Trail, Wawona awaits with its peaceful and quiet charm.  On summer evenings with achy leg muscles the perfect tonic is to sit in the hot dry air listening to soft breezes in the tops of pines as the glow slowly fades on Wawona Dome.

  There was a winter many years ago when Pak Wu was unemployed and I was underemployed and that allowed us to meet every other weekend or so during the end of January and early February. It was also a winter of big snowstorms. Even Wawona, at four thousand feet, had deep drifts.  We rented a series of tiny cabins that overlooked the river and spent our days snowboarding and skiing at Badger Pass. On one memorable day it snowed heavily and continuously from morning until late into the night. It was a great afternoon on the hill. The flakes were big and fluffy and there was no wind. We had fresh powder on every run and we hated to go home when the lifts closed at dusk.
  That night Wawona was quiet and white under a foot of snow. Most of the houses were empty on this stormy weekend and with dark windows and the side roads and driveways un-shoveled, we felt like we were in a ghost town. Only a few chimneys had smoke rising from them and after a night walk to the river we looked back up the hill and our cabin was the only one on the riverside that had lights on.
  Because of the heavy cloud cover it wasn't really cold and Pak and I sat outside bundled up in our down jackets and pondered our luck as we watched the snow slowly falling before going in to sit by the fire and sip whiskey.
  The next morning it was still snowing, but not as hard, and Badger Pass was even less crowded and the powder was even deeper. Sharing the mountain with more ravens than people spoiled us into thinking that we owned the hill and we made runs until we were exhausted and famished.
  After a day in the cold high country air and once the fireplace warmed the cabin we were about knocked out. Pak made a big dinner, his usual multi course masterpiece complete with a soup and then a rice bowl and then several stir fry dishes. Then sated and after cleaning up we could barely keep our eyes open to watch the fire.
  The next day before leaving we made plans to meet back here in two weeks and before checking out booked another cabin. The snow had slowed to light flurries but the Wawona Hotel being closed for the winter and with the front porch buried, looked somewhat like the Overlook. Sleepy, cold and haunting. I had to keep the snow chains on all the way to Oakhurst.

  A few weeks later we were back doing it all over again. Gliding down the mountain, taking snowy hikes up to the Mariposa Grove, walking up and relaxing at the Lower Chilnualna Falls and then, wind burned and winter tanned, sitting by the fire devouring Pak's food. This time he showed up with a cooler full of live Maine lobsters. I couldn't think of a better way to squander through his severance pay.
  Two weeks later we did it once more and those hours and hours of just the two of us up on the slopes or strolling the woods gave us ample time to plan and contemplate the future. Our conversations were wide ranging. Years later nothing really turned out the way we thought it would. Some parts of our lives are more amazing than we could've imagined. Some brilliant plans fizzled to nothing. We've been more lucky than most. And sitting here again tonight, almost twenty years later, with a bottle of whiskey and smelling of woodsmoke, we laugh and marvel at the twists and unexpected turns of our unique paths.
  We are here yet again this January of 2014. We have one of those well appointed houses with all the amenities. It is Pak and Joanna and their beautiful kids, Ellie and Juliette, James and Marcy and their baby Abby. At three years old Abby is the newest member of our group of mountain rats. John Reilly is here, the one who started it all by bringing Pak and I on our first extended trips to Wawona. He showed us all the local trails and the deep hidden pools in both the Chilnualna and Merced rivers. He's been coming here since he was a kid, Ellie's age, and now he tells his old comfortable stories to the girls, instilling in them, perhaps, a love and an appreciation of this place that is etched so deeply in our hearts.

   The Upper Mariposa Grove is a very peaceful and quiet place on this late winter morning. Before everyone gets to The Redwoods and we can check into our house I've walked up alone from the parking lot at the Park's south entrance, about four miles. There's not a lot of snow and the air is still. There is not a cloud in the sky. I'm the only person for miles. The slope of the grove faces south but the upper grouping of trees fills a large flat area that resembles an alpine meadow except the flowers are hundreds of feet tall and thousands of years old. I spend a serene hour thinking about the slow growth of these massive trees and what's gone on in the world since they were seedlings.
  Down in the Valley there's a cross section of a sequoia and you can count the hundreds of rings and see the years of famous events like WWII or Columbus "discovering" America, the signing of the Magna Carta and the Battle of Hastings. And to think these majestic trees, the largest in the world, were cut to make toothpicks and grape stakes. Such an inglorious end to a powerful existence.
   There is a replica of Galen Clark's cabin that is a tiny information center, of course it's closed this time of year, and I sit on the steps and try to imagine living up here in solitude for an entire winter. Clark was the first tourist to wander into the Grove in the mid 1800s and he became its caretaker as well as an official guardian of Yosemite Valley. He came here as a young man in his thirties with health problems expecting to die but hoping the mountain air would prolong his life by a few years. The Sierras agreed with him because he lived to be just short, by a few days, of ninety-six.
   When John Muir found his way to Yosemite Clark had already been here for years and the two bearded mountain men became great friends. Together they fought to keep the Park wild and protected.
  They spent nights together in the Upper Grove sitting by a fire and planing for the future and preservation of Yosemite.
  Clark brought Ralph Waldo Emerson up to the grove and the sage of New England named a tree Samoset after a Massachusetts Indian who befriended the first settlers at Plymouth. Today the tree is unmarked and I would love to know which one it is that Emerson so admired that he felt compelled to name it. In his journal he mentions an inscribed plaque but the few rangers I've talked to are unfamiliar with it. I plan on doing more research next time I come here.
  That same day Muir was deeply disappointed that Emerson's entourage strictly forbid the philosopher to camp out in the cold woods with him lest he catch cold and then be unable to complete his lecture tour. Emerson was disappointed as well and called Muir a modern day Thoreau.
   A pair of ravens is keeping an eye on me as I sit enjoying my solitude, the tranquility of the grove is almost overpowering. I'm tempted to walk back to my jeep and grab my sleeping bag and ground pad and spend the night under the looming tree where the ravens now sit and quork at each other, or maybe at me. After all, I have disturbed their sanctuary with my heavy breathing and noisy clomping through the shallow patches of snow. Or maybe they are just sounding off for the shear fun of it. Their exuberance is infectious. A few minutes later they fly off and their calls become muffled and soon I'm in silence again.
  My daydreaming is interrupted by a loud whacking sound. I look around for the source but it seems to be coming from everywhere and it echoes through the grove. Then I see the bird, a Pileated Woodpecker. It's big, well over a foot tall, and beautiful. It has a jet black body and white at the head and neck. It's crown is a natural red that stands out sharply against the light rust colored bark of the Sequoia. The bird pounds at the tree with its sharp grey bill and I watch, fascinated, for about fifteen minutes until with a graceful hop into the air the bird on a two foot wingspan glides through the trees disappearing into the woods on this peaceful winter afternoon.
  I continue up about a mile to Wawona Point. I wonder why I'm breathing so hard until the sign at the stone ledge overlooking Wawona Dome informs me that I'm at almost seven thousand feet. I live at sea level so I shouldn't be surprised that I'm panting in the thin air. I rest for a few minutes viewing the silence of the valley.
  The air starts to cool and I put on my fleece and check the time. Everyone should be at the house by now, all settled in. Johnny will have the fireplace roaring and Pak will be making appetizers. The hot tub will be steaming and Joanna will have a bottle of wine breathing. I had better get moving.

   The night goes as expected. We are all so happy to see each other, it's been a good long while. It's been years since I've seen James and Marcy and I've never even met little Abby. Everyone is comfortable and relaxed when I finally get there. Ellie gives me a tour of the house and shows me my room. Pak is opening oysters, small sweet ones from Japan, almost like Kumamotos only slightly larger. I wash them down with a Guinness.
  It's Marcy's birthday and James baked cupcakes that the girls decorate with frosting and sprinkles while we older kids celebrate with glasses of Mumm Napa.  
 The big table is set for dinner and the first of many courses, halibut cheek baked with soy sauce, is delicious. Other dishes follow; pork loin, and rice, and a spicy vegetable curry. Dinner is relaxed and accompanied perfectly by a bottle Duckhorn Merlot. We happily spoil ourselves.
  The hot tub beckons and we move out to the deck. The night is clear and the temperature dips below freezing. One of the reasons I moved to California was so I could sit outside year round in a hot tub. That and I wanted to see Bob Weir sing Estimated Prophet near the Pacific Ocean, but that's another story.
 It's a pleasure that never gets old, sitting out in the woods soaking in the dark. Everyone goes back to the fire and Joanna tops off my glass before leaving me alone to watch the stars though the branches of the pines. I enjoy the quiet of the night, the breezes of earlier in the day having stopped and the cold air is still. How long later I'm not sure but my glass is empty and I dry off shivering before going back inside.
   Time flies and soon it is one am. The fire is almost out, just glowing coals. I'm too tired to read or take notes; the hike, the cool night air, the food and wine and the hours of conversation have all chipped away at my energy.

   One year I was lucky enough to bring my parents here. It was early summer and the usual crew joined us. It was our well practiced week of morning hikes and afternoons of reading and relaxing before big dinners out on the deck overlooking the Merced River. We had a day in the Valley to see the sights and a trip up to Glacier Point where we were lucky enough to see a Peregrine Falcon dive down the cliff at an impossible speed. Mom and I watched that display of grace with an awe that took our breath away.
  The previous winter had record snowfall and the rivers and waterfalls were flowing higher and faster than I'd ever seen. It was also a summer where the wildflowers bloomed late and the field by our house was a purple blanket of lupine. Dad loved walking around looking at all the flowers he was unfamiliar with. This was a long way from the lilacs and dandelions of western Massachusetts.
  One night we went down to the Wawona Hotel to listen to Thomas Bopp play the piano. He's been entertaining in that little room off the lobby that opens out on to the porch for well over twenty-five years. He is a national treasure in his elegant suit and bow tie. His repartee of show tunes and old historic Yosemite camp songs is a delight to listen to. He encourages sing-a-longs and, of course, Dad knew the words to all the classics; Cole Porter, Richard Rodgers & Oscar Hammerstein, Johnny Mercer, those wonderful songs that somehow transcend time. What usually happens is we go early to listen to a few songs and have "the one" drink and end up entranced for a few hours. On the summer nights we spend with Thomas dinner gets moved to later and later and we end up back at the house eating outside by candlelight. It has become a tradition.
  Dad's hip had been bothering him and he was scheduling surgery when he got back home so his walks were short and he spent his mornings in the sun puttering among the flowers and reading the paper.  One night we were talking about the artists who were attracted to the Valley and Dad mentioned that he hadn't painted in many years. The next day Joanna found a artist's sketch pad and pencils at the nearby market. So for the first time in a very long time while we were taking a morning hike Dad drew pictures of the house and river. I still have them. I don't think I ever saw him more relaxed than I did that weekend. A few months before he died he told me that it was the best vacation he had ever had. It certainly holds powerful and wonderful memories for me. To be able to show my parents a place I love so much was a special experience for us all.

   By the time I get up at eight the kids are awake and Pak has breakfast cooking and the fire is warming the big room that is an open living room, dining area and kitchen. We linger over our plates then slowly gear up for a walk to the swinging bridge. It's a easy stroll on a big wide path. We stop and take pictures at a tall dead tree that somehow still stands. Twenty-five years ago I looked at it and said that I was doubtful it would make another winter. Yet here it is looking as if it will topple over any second, its base littered with dead bark and branches. I never make a trip to the Park without walking out to check and see if it has fallen. I'm always pleasantly surprised to see that it has weathered, like me, another year.
  While everyone is relaxing in the sun on the big rocks just above the swinging bridge I continue up stream. California is in what scientists are calling a five hundred year drought. The snowpack in the Sierras is seventy-five percent below the average this winter. Badger Pass isn't even open yet and it's already late January. The water level is so low that for a while I boulder-hop up the middle of the Merced. I scramble but it's slow going jumping rock to rock in mid-stream so I climb up to the trail that leads to the deep tub that we swim in during the summer. At the tub I sit on a ledge that is usually a few feet underwater. The pool that fills from a fast narrow channel that the water has carved into the granite is less than half full. During the dry hot afternoons in August we dive from rocks into the cool fifteen foot deep water. Today I could almost wade across the shallow pool.
   I sit for a while watching and listening to the water. At this spot several yeas ago I saw a Golden Eagle. It was the biggest bird I'd ever seen and it glided down the river at the level of the treetops. It hardly flapped its wings and was soundless above the roar of the river.  
  It's after noon and I make my way back to the house. It takes me over an hour because I ramble more than hike. Wawona Dome looms over the valley and I vow to climb it this summer. There's no trail to the top but yesterday looking down at it from Wawona Point it looked like an easy enough hike from the trail at the Upper Chilnualna Falls. I've hiked to the upper falls many times and from there I calculate it might take me another hour to reach the top of the dome.
  The upper falls are four miles from the trailhead near our house. The hike up is an annoying series of short switchbacks that gives you the illusion that you're climbing steadily but after forty-five minutes of frustrating back and forth you can look straight down and see where you were and it looks like you covered no ground at all. Gazing down at the winding trail I always think it would have been easier and shorter to make the path a direct climb rather than the constant zig zagging. Like the trail up Mount Marcy in the Adirondacks or Mount Mansfield in Vermont. Eastern trails seem to get right to the point without all the meandering. Here on the west coast the trails were cut with pack horses in mind.
  On this abnormally warm winter day there are hints of the summer aromas; cedar and manzanita, dust and pine. Wawona in summer smells like no place else I've ever been. The dry air and gentle winds mix the scents of trees and flowers and water.

  Back at the house Pak is at the stove making a curry dish, cheeses and breads are laid out and the beer is cold. The kids are in the hot tub and Johnny has rekindled the fire. The afternoon drifts away as we talk and laugh and tell stories. Ellie and I practice a card trick for later, Juliette and Johnny play games out on the deck. Abby naps, Joanna naps. Pak ponders the contents of the fridge.
  The sun sets on the dome and the temperature drops.  Steam rises from the hot tub and smoke rises from the chimney.
  No one is really hungry for a big dinner so Pak fills the counter with appetizers; sautéed mushrooms, fish balls, (true) spicy noodles, a shrimp soup, fried tofu and sprouts, sliced pork loin, and we all make little plates and sip wine. James opens a bottle of whiskey.
  After dark we walk down to the river and look at the stars and in our own particular way contemplate the mysteries of our lives, the world and the universe. It's hard to put into words our feelings about our connections to the transcendent without sounding trite and even slightly confusing. Our lives are certainly not trite, they are full and rewarding and if there is a deeper meaning for our existence it remains elusive. It is enough tonight to know that we love and are loved and, at least for now, we are lucky to be healthy and comfortable. None of us are arrogant enough to believe it will always be this way. So we agree we are grateful for all the wonderful moments that are fleeting and impermanent. Our strengths lie in our appreciation of family and friendships that we know sustains us on our journeys.
  Is it the incomprehensible cosmos, night air and stimulating ideas that intoxicate us as the river softly flows by in the dark? Or could it be the whiskey? Orion looks down on us without comment.

  Back at the house the wood stove gives off its heat and we are lulled a bit after being out in the cold. We sit quietly talking in front of the fire until I find my eyes closing. It's almost two am when I get up and go to bed. Pak, Joanna and Johnny are not quite ready yet for sleep and I go to my room leaving them watching the glowing coals. Much later I get up for a glass of water and Johnny is putting another log on. He spent the night fireside enjoying his solitude and the beauty of being in this place he loves so much.

  At eight my personal alarm clock, Ellie Wu, wakes me for breakfast by peeking in my room. We eat, pack and straighten out the house in time for checkout.
  We caravan to the Valley and at Inspiration Point say goodbye to James, Marcy and adorable little Abby. The rest of us go to the Ahwahnee Hotel for a light lunch and then a short stroll around the grounds where Joanna takes some pictures of the girls pelting me and Johnny with slushy snowballs.
  It's time for everyone to leave, the Wus back to Sacramento and Johnny to Santa Barbara. We are a bit melancholy and Ellie again asks if I can come live with them and sleep in their camper. I promise I'll think it over. It truly is a fine offer. We all hug and soon I'm standing alone in the parking lot.
  I've decided to stay another night, there are rooms available at Yosemite Lodge. I spend the afternoon missing everyone, even Johnny who I will surely see at The Twig Room tomorrow evening when I get back home.
  I drive over to Curry Village and park then hike out to Mirror Lake. In all the years I've been coming here I've never taken that walk. It's a beautiful day and in less than an hour I'm at the lake looking straight up at Half Dome and across the stream bed at Mount Washburn. The lake is really no longer a lake but more of a swampy meadow. Like all small natural bodies of water eventually they fill up with sediment and where a hundred years ago you could row a boat or dive off a dock you are now standing in a grassy marsh. There used to be a hotel here and in winter ice blocks were cut and stored for chilling summer cocktails. Today I sit on a rock in a tee shirt amazed at what a difference a few short generations make. Would Muir or Clark even recognize this place. The mountains are unchanged, for now, but the dry lake might present a mystery to them. Where did all the water go?
 I have a relaxing dinner at The Mountain Room and then grab my binoculars and walk out to the field across from Yosemite Falls to look at stars. The moon is not up yet and the sky is dazzling. I look for the Andromeda Galaxy but without my star map I'm unsure of exactly where it is. I'm pretty sure the cliffs obscure my view of it. Tonight I have to be content just knowing it's out there hurdling towards our own galaxy and someday, unimaginably far off in the future, the collision will be explosive. Too bad there will be nobody to view it. The earth will have long before been incinerated by our sun. Imagine that!
  The night cools and I go back to the bar and sit by the fire and warm myself with a Macallan 12 year and read from Alan Lightman's new book, The Accidental Universe.
Refuting the mysticism surrounding our myriad beliefs in immortality he says:
  "Although there is much that we do not understand about nature, the possibility that it is hiding a condition or substance so magnificent and utterly unlike everything else seems too preposterous for me to believe."
  I wish I had that quote memorized last night at our talk by the river. It was what I was inarticulately trying to say.

The next morning I walk the path to Yosemite Falls. The ice dome that usually forms in winter, between the upper and lower falls, this year is not there. Or it's so small I can't see it over the cliff. On the bridge near the base of the lower falls I look up at the trickle of water gently making its way down the rocks. I have been here in early Spring when you couldn't even walk on to the bridge without the watery cold blast instantly soaking you to the bone. It was like being in an icy wind tunnel.
  But today all is calm and I shed my jacket and climb the dry stream bed up to the pool at the bottom of the falls and I sit in the sun for a while marveling at the walls towering almost two thousand feet above me. I've never been here before either, the water usually being too high and the rocks too wet and slick to navigate safely. The only remote danger today is if a slab of granite breaks off the cliffs and crushes me like a bug. It's unlikely even though I'm surrounded by evidence of past rock slides. The myth that mountains are forever is just that, a myth. Some day even these solid stone walls will wear down to rolling hills as pastoral as the Berkshires. But not anytime soon, certainly not in my lifetime.
  From the pool I enjoy an unusual view of the Lost Arrow Spire. It sticks up like a massive finger of stone looking as if will flop over if the wind picks up. It is like a giant version of the dead tree back in Wawona, defying gravity, at least for now. The forms of the park repeat themselves in familiar shapes. Towering trees and pinnacles, rock domes and ice domes, rushing rivers and snowmelt streams. The same patterns played out large and small, some more fleeting and temporary, some seemingly eternal. The wind carved ice sculptures and tiny rivulets gone in a season, the trees will fall in a few generations, the rocks will shift and slide over eons.

   I walk over to The Ansel Adams Gallery and look at the pictures taken by the master whose eye for the delicate nuances of black and white was sublime. There is always a different photograph that catches me off guard and makes me see The Park in a new and refreshing light. It's why I keep coming back. I will never exhaust the surprises offered up by my slightly changing perspective as I look at the familiar views time and again. There is always more to see if you look at something long enough.
  On the way back to my jeep I pass by Galen Clark's grave. He dug it himself, aware that time is indeed fleeting. Someone placed two red roses on top of the stone. They are bright and fresh and seem out of place on the dark granite rock with the worn and faded inscription, his dates of birth and death barely definable after only a hundred and four years.
  Reluctant to start the drive home I walk out into the field across the road from El
Capitan and scan the three thousand foot face with my binoculars. On a warm winter day like this I expect to see climbers but the wall is empty. After a half hour of sauntering around the meadow and looking at the rocks and cliffs I climb into the jeep and aim for the ocean. Six hours later I'm standing in the dark at Shoreline Park. The crashing of the swells at high tide are thundering across the cove.