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.