Berkshire Journal October/November 2017

  Culled from sketchy notes jotted late at night.

Again I find myself wondering what Dad would say about how I'm living. For example, what would he think about my $19 Glenfiddich at Puck's at the United Terminal before my red eye to Hartford? At least I could tell him it was a double.
  I have another scotch on the plane hoping it will allow me to sleep but I have no such luck. Or maybe just dumb luck. After changing planes in Chicago I'm even more wide awake and read all the way to Connecticut.
Mark picks me up and we have a good drive full of laughs. He's one of the funniest guys I know.
 16 Ridge Ave is as welcoming as ever. I don't know who was more excited when we pulled in the driveway, me or Mom.
 After a shower the three of us go to the Forge for lunch and it's like I've never been gone. The day whips by and after my traditional late night walk to the lake I finally fall into my old bed. Again I'm soothed by the quiet and stillness of this old neighborhood. It's grandly comforting. Thirty-six hours of being awake. Not my personal best but still rather impressive. I sleep like a stone at the bottom of the lake.
  The next few mornings I walk in the crisp autumn air. I'm still wearing the boot and brandishing my REI collapsable cane. A fine lightweight tool perfect for my rambles around Wojtkowski's woodlot. The ground is littered with leaves and I make a lot of noise rustling along the trail that leads to the country club. I see hawks and woodpeckers, black capped chickadees and crows. I remind myself to fill the bird-feeder in the yard. I'd like to see cardinals this week.
  Most mornings are windy and I wear my warmest fleece and gloves. Rain is forecasted in the next few days and Halloween is predicted to be cold. October has been mild but we are not lulled into false comfort. There will be frost by next week.

   For bar hopping I use Grandpa Ferdyn's old cane. It's been in the closet going on fifty years. What I remember of him was a gentle old man with white hair. He spoke very little English but was quick to smile. Dad said he was once the strongest man he knew. The cane is a relic, a simple stick with a curved handle. That it was needed by my grandfather I find interesting. I'm not quite sure why. I don't know a lot about him. He left Poland in the late thirties, before WWII. He had a farm for a while up on Mount Washington.
  I can see him slowly moving up our driveway on a cold day. He wears a farmer's coat. The leaves are down, it is this time of year. I am not much older than five years old. Michael is next to me. It is a world gone.
  So I shuffle off to the Forge with the old stick for support. Who could have predicted such future for a long forgotten piece of wood that lay unused and unneeded for most of my life? It gets me safely to my barstool. I would hope Grandpa Ferdyn would be amused by something he couldn't possibly imagine. I raise a glass to his memory, fading as it is. There are very few of us left who knew him. For most of us we stick around for a few generations and then we are not even remote thoughts in our decedents' lives. Think about that.

  One night I set my alarm for two am. I plan to watch the Orionid meteor shower. It peaks between two and three am. The meteors are debris left over from the last passing of Halley's Comet. Unfortunately the sky is not clear and occasional stars poke through the light misty clouds. Orion is barely visible. After fifteen minutes I see one faint, almost opaque, smear in the hazy sky. I shiver in the night and can almost smell Winter's approach. Moments later I'm back in my warm safe bed.

I decide after dark to do some solo bar hopping just to see what the city has become. Many of my old haunts are long gone; Jay's, The Branding Iron, The Emerald Room, The Linden Lunch and The Lantern. Luckily The Forge is still a safe sanctuary but I always save that for my last stop of the night out of tradition.
  I find two rather generic bars on North Street. Both lack the casual decadence and edgy energy of the old Lacos when Sam and Fred used to own it. Now there was a bar where on any given night the barely controlled mayhem made it a rather interesting room. If there's anyplace in Pittsfield like that now I failed to find it.
  I find another sterile place out on route seven in Lenox. I could easily be in any bar in any mall in any city in the country. And I know, I've been stuck in enough of them.
  The Hot Dog Ranch in its new location offers the feel of the good old days and I'm instantly made to feel right at home. It helps that my old friend Carl now owns the joint and the charming Nikki is behind the bar with a smile and a very generous pour. Finally a place I could sit all night. But I feel a nightcap at the Forge is appropriate so I drive past the lake for a final sip before getting back to Ridge and a slow walk to the water's edge to listen to the waves caress the sandy shore. It is both peaceful and melancholy, like so many other of life's ponderings.

We take the train to NYC for a concert (Springsteen at the Walter Kerr Theatre) and a few days of sightseeing. The ride along the Hudson River is beautiful on this cold rainy afternoon. The foliage has peaked but some bright yellows still remain although today they are dulled by the gray sky.  The contrast is subtle.
   I stare at the water mesmerized by train’s steady rhythm on the old tracks.  I'm too hyper alert to concentrate on reading so I watch the river go by.
 New York! It's been a while for me and I had forgotten the energy of standing on a street corner and watching humanity go by. I suffer from a touch of vertigo. But not so severe as to dull the excitement of feeling the pulse in the city's veins.
  As a reminder of the old days (for me) we stop into Sparks for an appetizer and a glass of wine. That hospitable old room is a friendly and comfortable haven. If I lived in NYC (which I never could) it would be my Pickle Room.
  Central Park has always held a specific charm for me. It is historic and majestic and contains within itself a multitude of riches. It is also romantic. On a morning walk and despite the cold, the paths are surprisingly crowded and I couldn't help but feel immersed in the life of the city. Shivering but not ready to leave we find a coffee spot to momentarily warm up before heading over to see Strawberry Fields.
  The first music I ever remember hearing was on a tiny plastic radio in the bedroom that I shared with Mide was the Beatles.  Specifically Hey Jude and Let It Be. Thus I became a lifelong Beatles fan. As did  Mide. Their music is so imbibed in my heart as to be a part of me, almost like a necessary organ. I know this doesn't make me unique and enough books have been written about the band's impact on music and culture that I'll stop here with my own critique.
  Naturally John Lennon's solo albums became a big part of the soundtrack of my semi-misspent youth. He planted what at the time seemed like very dangerous ideas in my soft and impressionable brain. I mean for a Catholic kid who was a Boy Scout and an altar boy to hear, "Imagine there's no heaven, it's easy if you try." Well....   My mind whirled like a tornado tearing through a mobile home park. That has been called the most thought provoking song ever written. It has never gone out of favor with those who crave a peaceful revolution.
  I was doing homework at 16 Ridge when it came on the radio that John had been shot and killed in front of his apartment, the Dakota, across from Central Park. I ran down the stairs, Dad was watching Monday night football and had just heard the news. Howard Cosell was the first to announce it to the nation. While Dad was not a great fan of pop music he was nonetheless slightly shaken. He knew how important this was to me. We sat in pretty much silence for a few minutes before I went back up stairs. My homework was left unfinished that night and I skipped school the next day to show my solidarity with a mourning world. For days after people drove with their headlights on as a sign of disbelief that life could instantly go so askew. 
  The memorial itself is rather simple. A round mosaic with the word IMAGINE at its center. Plants donated from around the world surround the grounds. Today the crowd of about twenty-five is rather boisterous but my own heart is solemn. We stay only a few minutes and I gaze toward the Dakota where Yoko still lives and can look down out of her window as world travelers pay tribute to her husband. I find that to be an act of courage as falling deep in love often is.
 On the ride back a few days later we have better weather. The sun is shining and today there is more orange than yellow in the trees along the river banks. The Catskills, Washington Irving's muse, loom hauntingly in the distance. Irving was fascinated by the mysteries of the hollows (sleepy) and secluded towns that caught his imagination.  The train rolls along and we share a bottle of wine as the dark silhouette of the mountains become more distant.
  I spot three bald eagles in the tree tops surveying the pools that swirl in the Hudson's shallows.  They have made a great comeback all through New England as DDT has ever so slowly been diluted from the environment. There are even eagles nesting near Onota lake in Pittsfield. Fran routinely sees them, as I did once, fly over 16 Ridge. A small wonder maybe, but to me a sign of progress. Knowing a little tiny spot in nature is becoming more wild is encouraging.

There is finally a frost and then after a night in the low twenties there is a morning of leaf rain. The sun is shining weakly as the trees shed leaves in a steady drop of color. There is no wind and after a few hours the woods are naked and somehow melancholy. It feels like winter.
  A few days ago I went up to the cemetery and Dad and I spilt our usual Bud Light. Actually I only take a sip and pour the rest out in front of his stone. "How could you drink that piss?" I laugh.
  One of the few lies I ever told my Father was when he would say over the years, "When I'm up there at Saint Joe's I don't want you wasting your time visiting."
 "I won't!" I'd promise. Nor did I want to. I didn't even want to think of him up there. But oddly enough, I visit every trip. I think he'd forgive me my fib to him all those years ago. At the time I meant what I said.

  Today I drive by the house on Berkeley Street where he was born and raised. As the Raven flies it's about a mile from the new section of Saint Joseph's Cemetery and I bet that if I climbed on the roof of that old house I could make out through barren trees the graves on the hill. He's so close to where he started out it makes me feel some sort of balance that on a certain level is mind cramping. Such a life of travels and work and family, love and sadness and massive responsibilities met with compassion and determination and to finally be buried so very close to where you started out..  Well, there's some sort of lesson in there but I'm probably not smart enough to figure it all out. But I don't think he would have wanted it any other way. Unlike me who wants my ashes scattered from Greylock to Sea Ranch to Yosemite. Born with a gene for wanderlust even today three thousand miles from my austere beach apartment and comfortable on the couch in Mide's old room my dreams are of Ireland and for some reason a place I've never been, Japan.

As always there is so much more as the three weeks flit by and my notes become more sparse.  A drive south county to the old cottage on lake Garfield. Drinks at the Lion's Den, another yearly tradition. A scramble around the summit of Greylock with Mark and Marcus. Two dinner parties at Hauge's. A bright Cardinal at the bird feeder. Wine and whisky. Fran's wonderful cooking. Late night visits with Mide where we sip 33 right from the bottle. Which we do again the day we say goodbye.
  My first visit back to the A since I sat there with Dad now eight years gone. My heart was in my throat but my company was beautiful. I couldn't ask for a better ear for my mind's bereft scratchy murmurs.
  The night before we leave for Hartford there is a violent wind and rain storm that wakes me from my already poor sleep. The windows rattle and in the yard the tree branches clack against each other. I'm awake now until dawn and listen to the rain on the roof tapping out its inscrutable koan.
  Finally it's time to say goodbye to Paulie. And of course have a good cry with Fran. Mark is bringing us to our hotel at the airport.
 I put Grandpa Ferdyn's cane back in the closet where it will sit for who knows how long. I wouldn't be surprised if years from now I'll need it again but for different reasons. Life is funny that way.

My Foot

I am spending much more time in the yard with its blooming roses and peach tree, the baby guavas and small lemon tree. Since I broke my foot and ankle and fibula I'm unable to take my five mile walks. I'm off the foot for three months. So the yard provides a sanctuary of sorts. I sit at the white cast iron table in the uncomfortable chair with my leg propped up on the other chair. I inspect the lemons, six so far, slowly turning yellow, read and write, drink tea and water in the morning then switch to something more hearty in the late afternoon. Thoreau exhorts us to take advantage of every accident that befalls us. He echoes Seneca who wrote "Let us bear with magnanimity whatever the system of the universe makes it needful for us to bear: we are all bound by this oath: To bear the ills of mortal life, and to submit with a good grace to what we can not avoid." So here I am basking cleverly in my fortune.
 Lauren has brought over an umbrella so I now have shade all day and am able to use my laptop outside. Luxury indeed!

    This yard has been the scene of many late night libations. Often after work I pour myself one and sit in the quiet dark either watching the stars or moon. There are also those nights when the fog rolls in and I put on my purple fleece before pondering life's mysteries in the cool damp air with something from Scotland warming me from the inside. On nights when the air is calm I listen to the surf repeat its endless music. I wonder why I haven't hung a hammock out here for those times when I dread going in to bed. Perhaps I will.

  This is a fine afternoon and early evening spot as well. It's as good a place to share a bottle of wine as any. My guests over the years have been many and this simple table with the iron grizzly claw I use as a coaster has been the scene of grand and far reaching conversations.
  The garden is also where I sit to talk on the phone, on those rare occasions when I do. Talking on the phone is not one of my strengths and I avoid it as much as possible, Fran being the major exception.

  The most intense phone call I ever made was while sitting near the roses. Although before the call was over I ended up pacing along the guava hedge as tears flowed uncontrollably.
  It was a sunny afternoon, the ocean only a slightly darker blue than the sky, when Fran phoned to tell me I had better call Bobby.  That because of a horrible turn of medical situations he had elected to remove himself from dialysis. Without dialysis I knew he would only have two, maybe three, days left.
  I sat for a bit in the sun rehearsing what I would say to my friend of more than thirty years. My mind numbed for a while and all my thoughts were a mush of incomprehension. I had no choice but to dial and wing it.
  Well, Bobby made it easy on me. "You talk to Fran?" He asked. I said I did. "Then we don't have to talk about my decision. Just know I'm at peace with my choice and know it's the right thing to do."
  I couldn't argue. Over the years Bobby had told me that when his time came, whether it was on his terms or not, he would be ready. We then talked for, I don't know how long, maybe almost an hour. We told stories about our adventures together and what it meant to be friends. We laughed about our foibles and struggles but without regret or shame. We reminisced about family and travels and all the times we had that made us feel lucky. There was much to be thankful for.
  Then the bravest friend (tied with Mide) I've ever had was ready to say goodbye. I asked if I should check in with him tomorrow not being able to believe that this was it. Bobby said no, that he'd be ok. I was at complete loss for what to say. Then he told me to be happy and listen to some good music in the next few days. That it would help me get through the sad stuff. Only Bobby would be more worried about me than he was about himself. He had accepted and was comfortable with his final days on earth. I could tell even over the phone that he was grinning that unique crooked grin of his. Quite possibly through tears. I know my face and shirt were soaked.
  We then each said "I love you." As only old friends can, and then we hung up. Four days later I was on a plane to go to the wake and funeral.

  In my Canyon Ranch tote bag I put my phone, iPad, a bottle of Rosè, two glasses, (you never know who may show up) books, cheese, bread, a Bluetooth speaker, corkscrew, water bottle.
 I loop the strap over my neck and slowly crutch myself down the five steps and negotiate the stone path the six yards to the table. I set up my command post and settle in for a while. I loaf and read and write. Sip wine, snack. I idly wonder how I ever found time to work and if I'll ever have the constitution to fully go back.

  A most decedent interlude. A visit to the Wus in Sacramento for too much wine and over the top food. The first night we enjoy the legendary hospitality of Joanna and Pak at their comfortable home. I've written about their food many times and this family style table was as memorable as any. Pak, as usual, kept our wine glasses full for several hours. The lamb chops were exquisite.
  We were slow moving the next morning but the Wus came to our hotel so the kids could have a swim. Pak went out for some Middle Eastern snacks which we ate poolside. But nothing too filling as we were off to a big dinner.
  Dinner was at The Kitchen, a pre fixe menu where you have your table for the night. I recommend Googling it because I'm not sure I can't do justice to the experience. But here goes. Six courses with wine parings. Breaks between courses when you are encouraged to wander into the large kitchen and avail yourself on such delicacies as oysters, fried olives, cheeses, smoked salmon, paella and much I'm forgetting. Main courses included chilled tomato soup with steelhead caviar and Dungeness crab, smoked pork tartare, seared scallops, roast sirloin with corn ravioli and more desserts than I could count. The chef continually reminds us we are welcome to seconds or thirds of any dish we please. Pak and I overindulged on the scallops. (Which I found an equal to a few weeks later at Toma here in Santa Barbara)
   Lauren and I augmented our experience by splitting a martini, Joanna selected some sakes to go with the scallops and I finished off with a scotch I had never had before. A nineteen year old Benriach. The entire evening was entertaining and unique. I'll tell you honestly it was quite a shindig rivaling that ten hour lunch at Carpenter's restaurant in Phoenix. But that is a story best saved for later.
  The next morning it was off to Berkeley to have lunch at Alice Waters' Chez Panisse, another rarity of a restaurant where we lingered for a large part of the afternoon. I simply had to treat us to a bottle of Domaine Tempier Bandol, a rather delicate rosé that I haven't had in years. In fact it was the last time I ate at Chez Panisse that I had a glass.
  I have spent my life immune to buyers remorse and this was no time to start suffering from such foolishness. Our food bill for the two days was what my old eating pal Chip would call a personal best. Something to be quite proud of.
  Although I have to wonder what dad would say about such blatant extravagance. I suspect he might think it was over the top. Lately, for some reason, I've been thinking about what he would have thought about my odd life in general. Stuff like my injury and no desire to go back to work for a while due to general sloth. My lived in and cluttered beach apartment. My monthly wine bill. Lauren. All the stuff I've accumulated. (Books, music, clothes) What I paid for a bottle of scotch recently, I can see him shaking his head in disbelief. However I don't think it was expensive enough for him to shit his pants. My fading lack of interest in our Red Sox and pretty much any other sporting event. Except maybe for woman's curling which I believe is off season right now. I thirst for his opinion on these and other strange occurrences that seem to come my way with a regularity that is perplexing.

  Now after a few days of the very finer things it's time for a short period of restraint. Cold water, granola, lentil soup, solitude, detox tea, a nap, that sort of thing. A head clearing. An immersion in nature would be helpful but that's some weeks off at best. I substituted a twenty-nine minute rendition of Dark Star from Europe 72 as I lie on my bed absorbing the sounds as a meditator would concentrate on chants. I, however, doubt my reflections are any more enlightening or soulful. But I'm not sure how to measure these things.
   A few days later the first hints of autumn are in the air. In fact, tomorrow is the Equinox. The day started out overcast and cool with slight scents of decay on the light breeze. Crows flocked raucously through the neighborhood. Later on the wind picks up and from my front door I can see huge whitecaps on the ocean. A steady wind catches the umbrella and knocks over the table. Luckily I'm retired to the chair on the stoop. The neighborhood quickly becomes dusty. I'm relishing a martini and flipping though Thoreau's Autumnal Tints. Thoreau and gin, odd bedfellows for sure. The sober naturalist combined with the slight feeling of euphoria brought on by the chilled Darnley's View (from London of course) with a hint of lemon is an elegant mixture. I round off the afternoon by putting on the Keith Jarrett Trio live at the Blue Note. The twenty-three minute magnificent version of Autumn Leaves completes the scene perfectly. I know it would be too much to ask for a burst of New England foliage. But I'll be back there soon enough.

   I'm stir crazy. Dare I brave the short walk to Shoreline on crutches. Well...  Of course I do. In my rucksack I put a book (Herzog by Bellow) and water, a sweatshirt and my iPad. It takes me fifteen minutes to get to Vicky's bench and I'm winded. But the ocean! It's the first time in a month that I'm able to breath in the salty air and watch Pelicans, dragonflies and sailboats. I'm euphoric. My foot throbs and I try to ignore it. Perhaps I'll have to take a Narco later, but for now I sit in the sun relishing my tiny slice of independence. I vow that the moment the road to Glacier Point is open next Spring I'm hiking the Panorama Trail!
  I crutch back home, it takes a little longer and according to my iPhone the round trip is .28 miles. A far far cry from my usual morning saunter of six or seven or the fourteen of the Panorama Trail. But I gotta start somewhere.
  Back in the garden I celebrate with a glass of rosé and read Bellow. It's an afternoon of birds. The crows are up to their usual antics, a hummingbird sits still in the peach tree, the California towhees rustle in the flowers and a flock of tiny grey birds work their way through the guava hedge before moving on up the street. The closest I can figure from Ken Kaufman's Lives of North American Birds is that they are Bushtits. No kidding.

 Lauren is at work so I make some ramen as the day darkens. The night cools and I put on Janos Starker playing Bach's solo cello concertos. I finish the rosé sitting in the dark yard as the music soothes my tired mind. The stars overhead, as usual, look on with total indifference. What could be more natural?

 Prolonged sedentariness leads to vivid dreams that stoke the fire of wanderlust. One morning I wake up with an aching need to be climbing Mount Carrauntoohil, Ireland's highest peak. Years ago I did it with Aidan Bradley's cousins and friends and Lisa and Brenda. Aidan called off due to a bum knee.
  There were about twenty of us in all. Carrauntoohil is in County Kerry a short drive from Killorglin, where we were staying for a few days before heading to Dingle.
  We met at the base of the mountain on a typical misty and blustery day. And while it was overcast visibility wasn't bad as we started through a muddy bog-like pasture before finally coming upon the trail proper. It rained off and on but nothing serious. The air was cool and heavy as we tramped up the slope.
  Our hosts let us Californians tag along and they were as full of questions about the states as we were about Dingle, Middleton, Cashel, the Puck Fair, castles, and all the charming taverns that slowed our progress when driving through the lush countryside.
 The summit was dreary under darkening clouds but a buoyant mood prevailed as we celebrated our accomplishment and posed for pictures next to the tall cross and then huddled next to rock windbreaks to keep warm. Being Ireland flasks appeared and a few toasts were made. We tarried for a while enjoying the vistas before starting the descent. Going was slow since the the rocky slopes were slippery from the rain. So we slogged along our cheerful way looking forward a cozy room and a warm glass. And Aidan read our minds because when we got back to the cottage he had a bottle of 21 year old Bushmills waiting. Imagine my delight. We savored a few sips while changing into dry clothes before heading to town for dinner.
  Such are my memories this morning as my foot throbs while encased in the heavy black boot that keeps me from twisting my ankle but makes me lopsided.

  I decide five weeks into this life-of-the-crutch that it's time to set them aside for a minute or thirty and attempt to hobble over to Shoreline using one of Ted Eksuzian's handmade canes. A relic from the old neighborhood that I've kept for more than thirty-five years. It's an engraved and polished stick from the woods at the end of Dove street where the Eksuzian house was at the road's dead end. One of Ted's hobbies was carving out ornate canes, walking sticks and staffs. He gave them away as gifts to everyone from friends, the neighborhood kids, people he met at stores or restaurants to several presidents of the United States. I own a modest collection. And now after all these years I have an opportunity to see if they are as useful as they are beautiful. I have adorned my stick by wrapping a tie-dye bandana around the handle to improve the grip as well as add a touch of flair. Letting my old freak flag fly as it were.

  I am feeling brave and strong and push all my foolish thoughts aside and slowly, yet deliberately, plod over to the park. It takes me ten minutes to cover the short distance to Vicky's bench. It's a beautiful day, cloudless and calm. There is no surf and no surfers. The ocean is flat and peaceful, pacific. The water is clean and clear. Visibility looks to be about ten feet, pretty good I'd say.  A few shorebirds float on the gentle tiny waves in the middle of the cove. The islands are in sharp focus.
 I saunter another quarter mile to a bench facing the islands and sit in the sunshine for a half an hour. My thoughts are scattered but for the most part calm. The foot doesn't throb nearly as much as I thought it would. But I'm not sure if I can endure five more weeks of looking at this ugly boot. Although I'm not complaining about all the sympathy drinks I've been sponsored. I hobble back home and wait for Johnny Reilly to pick me up for an afternoon of errands. And perhaps one of those drinks.

  I give the crutches another few days and then I switch to the cane permanently. It certainly feels like progress.  To be continued.....

Reminiscences, Existence, Loss and other Stuff

   It was from a late night talk so long ago with Anne Everest Wojtkowski that I first was able to articulate the strange feeling that I had even as a very young kid that somehow the world was simply to full to grasp. There was just too much out there and never would I get it all. I would never even come close to comprehending enough to be of any use to making the world a better place. She was perhaps the only real genius I've ever spent such quality time with when I was young, foolish, melancholic, confused, neurasthenic, thirsty, directionless...   All qualities, except young, that I still suffer from.
  Anne said to me that she had days where she was so overwhelmed by the vastness of being alive that she could barely get out of bed. I could certainly relate and hearing a confession from someone I respected so much helped ease the discomfort that being acutely aware can burden one with. Especially from someone who dedicated such a colossal amount of her life to work and rarely slept. She normally had boundless energy.
  And all these years later I still get vertiginous thinking about all the books I want to read, (and write) all the concerts to attend, art to view, places to see, girls to kiss, wine to drink, fires to sit by, mountains to climb...   And there is now that terrible realization that I've done more of all those things than I will do in the future.  Please don't detect any self pity or loathing here.  It's just how it all plays out. As Mary Oliver wrote, "Our time is more gone than not."
 And I agree and might add we are only truly free for such a short period.

   So what do I do when I feel that the world is too much to comprehend? Walking helps. And driving. Movement in general. The train to San Diego once brought me back to earth on a day when nothing made sense. Air travel is less effective.
  I try to up my game by increasing my morning walks from four miles to six or seven. It usually takes almost two miles just to slow my breathing and rearrange my thoughts so that my mind coheres and abstractions and anxiety fades. Somewhere Emerson lamented that as one gets older mornings are met with a certain level of depression. He seems to have a point. But I combat the mind-fatigue that hinders my focus upon awaking by getting moving as quick as I can. Most days it works. The sooner I find myself sauntering near the beach the easier it is to think right.
  I've had a period lately of early rising. No matter what time I get to bed I'm up before sunrise. And I'm not usually well rested. My sleep patterns are askance. The mornings have been misty and I stroll to the harbor accompanied by the mournful fog horn, the sound from which mysteriously seems to come from everywhere. Somehow this is both comforting and melancholy. Why this is I don't really know. But like most mornings I have more than enough other whys to ponder.
  Why, for instance, am I not on a few month break someplace peaceful finishing my book?  I honestly can't come up with a decent answer to that one.

   Entropy was another word I first heard up at the house on 85 Ridge ave.  It took me a long time to understand what it meant. And after years of meditating on it I'm perhaps a little closer to understanding the basic idea. It's a subtle concept. It explains how a closed system ultimately reaches its maximum state of disorder. (And to think that our universe is a closed system is a mind numbing thought.)
  And all change is the result this transition from order to disorder. This is what the second law of thermodynamics talks about.
  My physics teacher friend unleashed a lifetime of contemplation for me with that one fascinating word, entropy. I can't remember what book she was referring to that afternoon but Anne was passionate about the concept.
  As the Buddha so famously muttered, "All compound things are subject to decay." Which is as real to me as my own heart on those mornings when I wake up shaky and feeling like I'm rusting from the inside out.



  Nature abounds with metaphor. If one only looks close enough. Or sometimes the metaphor crashes down when you least expect it. When I pulled into the driveway at the house in Wawona this past July the first thing Ellie told me was that the old tree along the path to the swinging bridge had fallen.
  I've had my eye on this dead tree for close to thirty years now. The first time I saw it, with its rotting trunk and needle-less crumbling branches, I surmised that it most likely wouldn't make it through another winter storm. Little did I know. I found myself saying the same thing year after year after year. Stubbornly that old pine held its ground. And I began to wonder if that smooth grey trunk would outlast me.
  In a way it will. It takes a tree about as long to decompose as it did to live. Most of these pines live a hundred or so years. I'm guessing I'll be long gone by the time the forces of nature return that massive slab of wood back into its original mineral components. I imagine it has at least fifty years of slowly decaying away to look forward to. The odds of me walking that dusty path fifty years from now are zero. But such is existence.
  So early the next morning Ellie, Emma, and I go to inspect the remains. The giant fell parallel to the trail where some year in the future when bacteria and the elements have left nothing but a slight mound of nutrient rich soil Spring flowers will bloom more abundantly where the trunk now lies.
  But for now it is still mostly hardwood. Eventually time and decay (ENTROPY!) will complete an eons old process. Life and then death and then new life sprouting out of the detritus that was once a grand and majestic tree that saw many turnings of the seasons.
  It is odd that I was flooded with thoughts of my own mortality on that beautiful morning while hiking with two of my best friends' young daughters. The girls are laughing and energetic without worldly cares. They are smart, happy and witty. And me musing darkly about extinguishment. Of course I kept my brooding to myself and told the girls stories of past hikes and all the sights we were going to see in the next few days.
  After an afternoon of lazy lounging and a massive dinner accompanied by exquisite bottles of wine my mood shifted. Gone were the thoughts of my own final days as our conversations swelled around our mutual love and appreciation of life's more generous offerings. We laughed late into the night as corks popped at regular intervals. Pak kept all our glasses topped off until one by one we drifted off to our rooms.
  The last half an hour it was just Pak and I and, like always, we rehashed our good fortunes. When I finally made it to my room, the same room that I had last year, I had a pang of loneliness. The bed seemed slightly too big and too empty.

   A few days later we are hiking down from the top of Sentinel Dome. Six kids and seven adults. Pak and I are the last in line.  Our group is scattered in front of us. It is a pristine day and the views from the summit were splendid. We lounged on top for almost an hour.
  Pak and I talk about our old plan to spend a night on top of the dome. We know it's against park regulations but for some reason we feel an exception could be made for us. We have lost track of how many times we've made this hike. I'm guessing it's close to twenty.
  Pak and I know how to leave no footprint.  We wouldn't need much for our camp; light sleeping bags and ground pads, a tiny stove for soup and tea, nuts and fruit, water, a fleece, a headlamp and not much else. We've been talking about this for years and one day it just might happen.
  Pak then reminds me that this would also be a good place to have our ashes spread. We've talked of this before as well. This is also probably against park policy but I imagine it's unenforceable.
  "Me first I hope." I say with all sincerity.
  "That would be unbearable." Says Pak with deep emotion.
  We walk in silence for a minute and once again I am struck by how lucky I am to have such a friend.
  So I commit to having half of my ashes flung from that summit to mingle with (in the far future) Pak's. I'm pretty sure we are both serious.
 And the other half? I always wanted them somewhere on Mount Greylock. On the trail between Stoney Ledge and the summit. Mide has talked about having his ashes spread up there too.
  I expect someone (Joanna? Ellie?) to hike the Appalachian Trail (or better yet, the Hopper Trail) and on a secluded bend in the path in an appropriate grove of hardwoods to cast what's left of me to the mountain air. And also I'd like to leave a small vial for Ellie.  I'd also like her to have the old iPod with thousands of songs on it.
  But as I've said, I hope this is a long time from now.

These are the tears of things,
and the stuff of mortality
 cuts us to the heart.         Virgil


We, Los and me, were speeding across the desert on the way to Vegas. Los likes to keep the X5 right around 95 or so which means we were making pretty good time. We were looking forward to our traditional lunch at Spago and meeting up with Julie and Makima. Grace would be flying in tomorrow too.
  We had tickets for Dead and Company at the MGM. All of a sudden my phone started lighting up. Gregg Allman RIP.  Whew...  I had to catch my breath.  As I've written elsewhere celebrity deaths usually don't affect me. Garcia, Vonnegut, Hitchens, Lennon, (I was unable to go to classes the next day.) Harrison (Both George and Jim) all shook me for different particular reasons. And now I have to add Gregg to this list.
 The Allman Brothers was the first rock concert I saw. They played the now torn down Springfield Civic Center. 1979. Enlightened Rouges just came out and the band was riding high. That album has been part of my life's soundtrack. Those songs bring me back to a wild time in my life.
 Over the years I'd caught the band whenever I could; SPAC, Hollywood, The SB Bowl, the Arlington, and they never failed to live up to their reputation.
 We drove through the heat of the Mojave in silence for a while. Then I played some ABB and inadequately tried to explain to Los what it all meant to me. Like he always does he tolerated my rambling stories.
I'm generally an optimist. I always think there's going to be one more glass of champagne, one more sunset, one more kiss, one more concert. But I'm also a realist. All things must pass and usually they pass too soon. Now that voice is gone forever. That unique sound of soul/rock/blues will never be heard again. But at least we had it. And loved it because is satisfied the sadness and melancholy in our own hearts of sorrow.
 The day went as planed, pretty much. We wandered the Strip, had a late lunch, took a break in our 51st floor suite at the Encore overlooking the pools and the Wynn.  Then we met Makima at the MGM for the concert. It was opening night of the tour and the energy in the casino was electric. The show was solid. But "the moment" came during the encore, Knockin on Heaven's Door. A few minutes into the song the big screen behind the stage showed an old picture of Gregg singing, his long blond hair hanging down. There was a collective sigh from the audience. And then I looked around and saw many many tears, my own included. I would guess that ninety percent of the people at the MGM that night had seen the Allman Brothers. The band, all of who knew Gregg, never flinched. In fact, Oteil, the bassist, was the ABB's last bass player. It was a beautiful eulogy.

  All these things are a continuation of a love story. And as Gregg used to sing so beautifully,  "Sail on. Sail away..."

More of the Same

I haven't had the flu in years. And I never get a flu shot. But the way I feel this morning I suspect I'm not as invincible as I once thought.  Driving for five hours is no help either. But once I get to the cabin and Pak hands me a bowl of hot spicy soup and I sprawl out on the couch in front of the fire I regain a tiny amount of my faded energy and am able to be entertaining enough to Ellie and Juliette that they fail to notice my weakness.  But it's apparent and I spend most of the next two days being waited on and napping close to the fireplace.
  Joanna and I have had a long running discussion on Nature's healing power and being in the woods is certainly soothing on many levels but it generally works better on dis-ease than disease.  The snow covered path and overflowing rivers and wind in the top of the pines eases my heart a bit but my cold maintains its grip on my head none the less.  So it's back to the fire and hot broth and a warm glass of Glenmorangie.
  A day later we're in the Valley lunching at what, to me, will always be the Ahwahnee Hotel.  The Wus leave for Sacramento and it's too early to check into the Lodge so I read in the bar for a while drinking beer. I wanted to sit by the big fireplace in the great room but there was a cooking seminar going on which held no interest for me. So the newly renovated bar it was. It's comfortable and I sat by the window with a view of the Royal Arches. My head ached, my throat was sore and my nose runny. Despite the past two relaxing nights in my warm and tastefully appointed master bedroom at the cabin I was still exhausted. Two beers made me dizzy.
  I check in and take a short nap before dinner. I leave the door to my tiny balcony ajar so I can listen to Yosemite Falls across the road. I wake up shivering and crank up the heat. It's already dark but I feel I should eat and slide over to the Mountain Bar. I say slide because a sole has come off my trusty old Solomon slip-on boots with the thick treads.  They've served me well over the years and it is with reluctance that I toss them away. I'm left with a pair of fleece lined Sanuk slippers to negotiate the icy paths in the Valley. They are warm but have zero traction. Earlier I checked the mountaineering shop to maybe buy something new but find nothing suitable. Pak agrees not to waste the kind of money that the Valley stores can get away with. I'll just have to slide around for now.

  At the Mountain Bar, even though my appetite is weak, I force a sandwich and one more beer. Not my usual dinner at the Mountain Room because a full dinner is not appealing, as much as I enjoy the food there and the comfortable service.
  The big fireplace in the middle of the bar is blazing and hypnotizing and I feel like I could nod off in my chair.  The bar was full when I got there so I sat at a high-top. When a few seats opened up I was too wiped out to move over for a whisky and to flirt with the charming bartender (Suzy?) like I have in winters past. I wave to her on the way out and have every intention of stopping back later after a hot shower for my customary nightcap. But the shower finishes me off and I climb into bed before nine and read a few pages of American Philosophy by John Kaag.  I fall quickly asleep with the ideas of Emerson and William James bouncing around in my brain. Pondering the good life is as good of a way to nod off as any and often facilitates pleasant dreams. But tonight I'm dreamless. Perhaps it was the NyQuil.

   The next morning I slipper over to the Falls and find the path to the bridge is closed due to high water. It's chilly in the shadows of the cliffs but I am feeling a bit better. A lovely ranger explains the dangers of the frazzle ice that has overflown the riverbed and made the trail impossible to hike.
  I'm still not really hungry and forgo breakfast in the big cafeteria. I'll grab something on the road. I'd like to linger, and I do for a bit stopping to gaze at El Cap and at the spot where Muir and Teddy first camped, but I have to be back to work tonight to do the monthly inventory. A thankless and boring job.
  I stop briefly at the shamefully named Big Trees Hotel and write a few notes. My thoughts on the drive from the Valley have been tinted with sadness. And, yes, dis-ease.  I'm fearful that as I leave the sierras I may be overcome by noia. A weariness in my, for lack of a more appropriate word, soul. I hesitate to get back to driving fearing a long rumination on ...   What?   The last few weeks or the next few.
  The month ahead is going to be busy; work, guests and a scattering of commitments. The immediate future holds no time for relaxation and not much for writing. (My book is coming along slower than ever.) I admit to myself as I pass the park gate that I'm as burnt out and restless as I've been in a long long time. Now more than ever I'm in need of a sabbatical. But it looks like it won't come until March. If not then, perhaps April.
  Driving southwest it takes a while to focus my thoughts. I'm thinking about an old friend who recently passed away. He lived a good life, full and rewarding and he enjoyed the finer things that hard work provided. But I know for a fact that if he had a choice he'd opt for more time. His death was sudden and unexpected. He left golf games unplayed, cherished time with his grandkids unspent, afternoon conversations with his friends unfinished, vintage bottles of wine unsavored. I can't help but think that too much was left undone and am frustrated by the unfairness of it. Even though it's an old and not unique story that doesn't make it any easier to fathom.
  I drive on with a cloud over the jeep and for a while even the music on the iPod is too morose and I liberally skip songs and then actually prefer no music at all for a while, just the sound of the air rushing by and the tires on the road. Neither of which ease my dark thoughts.
   Somewhere between Kettleman City and route 46 I turn the music back on. Row Jimmy starts up and I nudge the volume higher. Such a good song and my mood lightens. Did Jerry really sing this one for me long ago at the old LA Forum with its muddled sound and dank musty atmosphere? I think he did. Or there's always the possibility it was my altered state that made me think that that one line was meant for me at a time when I needed it most. The iPod shuffles up a few other old gems; the ending from Wakeman's Journey to the Center of the Earth and Methany's Are You Going With Me?  Then Neil Young sings Come a Time, a song that whisks me back to a hot and humid night at Tanglewood sometime in the early eighties. Next The Allman Brothers belt out Come and Go Blues. These are all songs I've been listening to for thirty-five plus years. Songs that have lived with me through all of it. Hard years, good patches, lost loves, travels, faltering relationships, blues and victories, tears of happiness and tears of rage, losses from which complete recovery is impossible. Somehow these pieces of music have created a haven where a bit of solace and hope is allowed to emerge.
  The drive down the coast becomes less foreboding even though work looms and I'll be counting liquor bottles for three hours before I make it home to bed. A glass of whisky as I take inventory is not out of the question.
  My flu fades slightly in the next few days and my morning walks are shorter as I'm still a bit weak. But my energy is slowly returning. As usual I notice entropy and decay every where.

  Another Sea Ranch interlude.

  I miss the big storm by a day. It's raining lightly as I turn on to highway one at Jenner. The Russian River is the color of toffee, and the light brown color of the runoff reaches a quarter mile out in to the ocean finally mixing with the dark blue waves. There are small mudslides along the road and one larger one that closes a lane and requires flag men.
  As I get closer to the house I notice the strong smell of fresh cut pine and see many fallen trees. Victims of yesterday's deluge. Road workers are busy sawing up the larger trunks and emergency crews are working on downed power lines.
 When I get to the house the sun comes out for a bit but dark menacing clouds are offshore and look to make landfall within the hour. The power is out but Pak has his camp stove at the ready. The Wus, once again my vacation comrades, travel in style and are prepared for most situations.  Pak contemplates buying a portable generator to keep in his truck.
  The rain indeed hits hard but we are warm by the wood stove.  We have hot soup, good red wine and fine discourse. Later after dinner we sit in the hot tub as the rain tapers off and a few stars shine through the dispersing clouds. The night turns cold. Pak & I sip whisky, Joanna a tequila. My heart rate slows.
  The next four days we see all of the usual Sea Ranch wildness. The waves are the biggest I've ever seen. Anywhere. We watch whales and osprey and oystercatchers. Deer walk though the field across from the house. Turkeys are in the meadow by the intersection of our road and highway one. An old Tom displays his feathers like he's auditioning for a Thanksgiving Day greeting card. Seals sleep on the rocks as vultures scan the shoreline before catching thermals and floating with a strange grace high into the sky and disappear toward the hills.
  We take walks, the kids scurry around the tide pools collecting shells and stones. They discover limpets and crabs, sea stars and a sea slug. All very interesting and exciting stuff. Nina, the dog, gallops like a horse up and down the beach.
  One afternoon walking south toward the lodge we turn on the path and come upon an old man sitting on the deck of his modest grey house just dozens of yards from the cliff with a grand view of the rolling Pacific. He is reading in the late afternoon sun a wine glass on the faded wood planks at his feet. "You aspire to that." Joanna says to me. And I agree.
  Like always, we eat well, drink well, talk well and rest well. Darkness finds us in the hot tub sated and tired. But also, like always, we feel it a sin to break off our conversation and go to bed early. So we sit by the fire as it glows enchantingly and Pak tops off our glasses.
  Before going to my room I step outside and look at the full moon which is just a dullish splotch of grey trying to penetrate the low clouds. Shakespeare called the moon "O sovereign mistress of true melancholy."
When I do finally get in bed I'm too worn out to read and leave the window open a crack and fall asleep quickly to the sound of the thundering waves.

  On the way home I spend a pleasant afternoon in San Francisco. I meet my great friend Margaux for lunch at a hipster bar in a sketchy neighborhood where I'm offered drugs three times walking a block from my car. Seems like the old days.
   Margaux and I get caught up, it's been a while. Then we are joined by Darcy and Lawrence who are looking for an apartment in the city as Darcy just accepted a job up here. They will be missed terribly in ole Santa Barbara.
  The next night back behind the bar it takes me a few hours to reacclimatize to this, growing smaller and smaller, part of my life. It could be any night of the last few years in the dark room with golf pictures on the wall and I'm beyond weary of the company. It's hard to feign interest in the same old stories.
  I have a few mornings of early walks in the cool windy air. I watch the sun rise from Ledbetter Beach. I watch a whale less than forty yards from shore gracefully navigate the choppy waves. A great blue heron spears tiny bait fish near the breakwater. Pelicans are flying north in their V-shape formation. Standing on the cliff by One Thousand Steps they are at eye level. Red dragonflies patrol the flowers near the path by the park. Dolphins frolic just beyond the breaking waves. Noisy crows perch in the palms. A solitary seal eyes two girls in micro bikinis as the tide slowly recedes. Beauty abounds whether or not I am there to see it.
  Summer is looming and my calendar is becoming more cluttered than I care to think about. Although I am trying hard to sift out the more mundane invitations and keep my obligations as few as possible. As always, I daydream about getting away from the mountain of distractions that has become my routine in Santa Barbara. But I do sense a shift and although I can't see the light at the end of the tunnel, at least can see the tunnel.

BBOL

  I bought a new day pack. More of a haul bag. From Marmot. Just like the one Pak has but mine is black.  Pak's is dark yellow. Sometimes when my wanderlust becomes borderline unbearable just the idea of a new rucksack or piece of luggage calms me for a few days. I completely understand why several old loves constantly needed new purses or handbags. Filling a bag (or purse) with stuff and hitting the road is a sure cure after you've felt like your freedom has been compromised.
 I didn't really need a new bag, I have one for almost any occasion. But I envisioned (in a dream) a new situation where I'm in Yosemite and need to carry not only my own jacket, water bottle and book but feel the need to also shoulder the gear of my beautiful walking partner.  Included is a bottle of Howell Mountain Cabernet, (Madrigal) my two plastic wine glasses, an ah so and my emergency flask of Glenfarclas.  In my dream I didn't pack any food.   I am rarely swayed by those fleeting and ephemeral fragments that my mind conjures up just before I come fully awake but this was a stronger sensation. Hence the purchase of a sack that is slightly larger than my Patagonia and also quite bit smaller than my old green Golite.
 My Dana pack is gone, traded away a while back to Pete for a bottle of Seasmoke Southing. We were both very happy with the deal. Pete did some wandering and I drank the wine with a dark-eyed girl who gave off an air of mystery.
  I gave away my Kelty D4 with the metal external frame, a pack that had many miles on it. All those years on the Long Trail in Vermont, the High Peaks Region of the Adirondacks and the many climbs of Mount Greylock, it held up great. First I lent it to a kid who toured Europe with it, a friend of my brother, and it performed like a workhorse. I then brought it to California where it didn't get much use so I gave it to a guy who was going to trek around Mexico. Last time I saw it, and him, was on State Street here in Santa Barbara and he had it loaded with dope the fragrant scent of which surrounded him like a pleasant sweet mist. It's fun to think about that forty year old frame-pack south of the border full of pungent weed riding on the back of an old mistake.

  So this afternoon I loaded up the new bag just to take a test spin around Shoreline Park but it started to rain. So I had to put off the inaugural run until later and instead brewed some black tea and am currently sitting at the window watching a large congregation (murder) of crows weather the squalls. I'm flipping through the Big Sur hiking book. Another symptom of wanderlust is an addiction to maps and trail guides which at times can be a soothing tonic. I'm itching to be on the road but other obligations are keeping me in town this weekend. It is no joke that when I wander I feel so much more alive.
  This rain is supposed to last a few days. It's being called a once in a ten year storm. The famed and feared Pineapple Express where warm air from the south pushes moisture over a large swath of California. It's also known as the Atmospheric River. I'm suspecting a bit of hype here as these are the same forecasters who predicted ten of the last four storms. But it's coming down pretty hard here and the snow reports from the Sierras are encouraging. All roads into Yosemite are closed.  We badly need a massive snowpack this winter to start to make a dent in the damage caused by the last several years of drought.

  This would also be a good weekend to be soaking in the sulfur baths at Sycamore. Or the grand hot tub at Sea Ranch that I shared with the Wus two weeks ago. We had three clear and cold nights steaming away the hours gazing at the Milky Way. We shut off every light that could be seen from the tub including light from the hot tub itself and after our eyes adjusted the night sky was ...   Well....  I've never quite be able to describe my emotions when so much of the Galaxy, and indeed the universe, is unveiled to my humble and weakening eyes. We are simply not evolved enough to completely comprehend the distances we can see from our tiny yet, as far as we know, unique vantage point. And no matter how many times I hear that the light hitting my eye from all these stars at this remarkable moment has been traveling anywhere from tens to thousands of years or more at a speed of over 186,000 miles per second my mind simple clogs up. PER SECOND!!  And the wonder I feel that after that light from those stars traveled all that time to be caught by, of all things, my eyes is simply a fascinating sensation. Just because we are insignificant specs in the grand turnings of the cosmos is cause enough to rejoice in our condition. There's a magnitude of luck here that can be called, without exaggeration, astronomical.
 And there is a grander version of wanderlust very unlike my puny desire to drive a few hundred miles in my old jeep to stay in a comfortable hotel up in Big Sur. It's that of humanity's desire to travel out to the planets and stars. To want to find what is out there in the universe besides us. And it's more than simply wandering, it's a pilgrimage to travel to the unknown with a desire to learn and to have a healthy reverence for the magistery of creation.
  From the hot tub on the deck of the grey house we marvel at the meteorites and meteors and find it difficult to articulate our wonder. Mostly we're just old friends telling old stories and feeling rather grateful for our time together.
 The temperature outside is below thirty but the water is one-hundred and two. We sit with just out heads sticking out, our arms occasionally reaching for our tumblers that sit on the edge of the tub. After they are empty we scurry inside to dry off, pour another sip and warm up by the fire.

  Sea Ranch holds many many memories for us. From those early trips with the abalone dives and raucous dinner parties where Carpenter spoiled us with his exquisite food. (The memory of him is overwhelming this weekend. He's in our hearts for many reasons. We shared uncountable laughs up here and have moments seared in our hearts that remain among the best times of our lives. Joanna, with her talent for recognizing what is important, has brought a bottle of wine (the Madrigal) that we long ago shared with Carp. We raise our glasses to the life of our very special friend. He influenced us all. I know I am a different person for having known him. So we do our best to carry on in a manner that our lives, at times, reflect whatever wisdom flowed from him to us. Even though not all of it was useful. As with all good friendships there was also much nonsense. But I digress.)
To the Wu's incredible wedding week and subsequent anniversary trips to the random getaways where we just relax and enjoy our continued respect for the time chance has allowed us.
  I understand why people, though not me, believe in ghosts or think that places may be haunted. I always think of Carpenter more up in Sea Ranch and the other day sitting on a huge piece of driftwood watching seals and oystercatchers his presence, if only in my heart, was undeniable.

  I look up again into the vastness. I don't know the constellations. Yes, Orion, the Big Dipper.  But that's about it. I carry around a star chart but rarely use it. And there's one on my iPhone as well, but when I try to identify other constellations I get vertiginous while staring straight up with a book in my hand. And I'll pick out one and then the next night the sky looks once again completely new and I struggle to remember what I learned. And honestly, for someone who loves bears as much as me, the Big Dipper looks just like a ladle, and not Ursa Major. Perhaps I suffer from a lack of imagination. Or I am too ignorant of Greek mythology to remember who is who which makes me unable to recognize these old gods in the night sky. However, my wonder remains undiminished. The important thing to keep in mind as I stare into space is that every atom in my body was forged in an exploding star. I am literally space junk. Just like you and everybody else. This makes the silly stories of the escapades of long dead gods seem rather insignificant, although mildly entertaining.

  Carl Sagan said, "We are a way for the cosmos to know itself."

  I shiver in the freezing air. My flimsy grey fleece is not quite sufficient enough to keep me warm. The dew has turned to frost and I can see our footprints from the tub to the door.  It's seems strange that from stars that died, who knows how many billions of years ago, and spread detritus through out the galaxy that some of that junk now makes up my oh so fragile and unsure heart. These are the thoughts that keep me awake for a long while.
   There is a lull in the Atmospheric River. The rains, not much here to begin with, have let up for a bit. It's dark but I grab my new haul sack and walk around Shoreline Park. The night is damp with a cool wind off the water. The clouds occasionally part and a few random stars become visible. It's a comfortable fit although it's not as full or as heavy as it could be. At the far end of the park I resist the urge to take a pull from my flask. After all, this is just a test run, what we used to call a "shakedown". Before any eight or ten day trip we'd take a weekend on the trail to get the feel for any new gear. Happy with my decision to pick up the Marmot I saunter back home for a cup of green tea and an early night. I'm due for some much deserved rest.
 This morning the cove at Shoreline was a frenzy of pelican activity.  Thousands of birds, not only pelicans but gulls and terns, congregated a few hundred yards off shore to feast on what must have been a monster bait ball. The birds stretched over a mile down the coast. At any one time there were hundreds of birds in the air waiting to dive into the school of, most likely, sardines. There was a lot of screeching and splashing. Dolphins could also be seen cruising the outer edge of the floating birds.
  The Great Bait Ball.  My brother Paul says we are all just part of the Great Bait Ball of Life. BBOL he calls it. That's what he texts me when some one we know dies or otherwise is consumed by tragedy. BBOL! There's no escaping the reality that we are all frantically swimming and trying to avoid the giant beak coming from the sky that has its eyes firmly focused on our pathetic attempt to remain safe. "It is", as Paul says, "just a matter of time."  And he's right of course. We may endure temporary periods of comfort and tranquility and peace but eventually we all meet the same general fate. Just another link in the food chain whether we feed pelicans or grizzly bears, worms or bacteria, it is the maxim of Nature that life lives on life. We are destine to become dinner for the first grateful opportunist that can figure out a way to eat us.
  Hours later the flock had dispersed a bit. I took another walk later in the afternoon as the tide was going out. The noise had lessened and the water was calmer. I gather that those sardines from the bait ball that hadn't been consumed escaped to deeper water. Most of the pelicans bobbed stoically on the gentle swell. I checked on them again after dark and ninety percent of the birds were gone.

 The Atmospheric River has returned. It's pouring this morning and I have to postpone my walk. I sat out on the covered stoop and enjoyed the steady rain. It's a cold rain, too. I wore my heaviest fleece and still felt a shiver.
 I forgo the Twig Room tonight, that bastion of tolerance where civil discourse prevails and the sturdy group of regulars hold court and ponder the world's troubles with grace and elegance. Or so we like to tell ourselves. Though sometimes the discourse stoops to gossip and sports; the Mensa Society we are not. It's a rare night where the jive remains elevated and the subjects hover around literature or music.
 But they can certainly do without my input tonight, clever and poignant as it may be. They will survive without me.
  Instead I sit by the window and continue to listen to and enjoy the rain, the wind and the low clouds. Every now and then I put down my book (Welcome to the Universe) and step outside. The cold air is refreshing. I heat up some chili and don't play any music preferring the rustling of the palm fronds in the front yard. Simple pleasures.

Sometimes my ability to concentrate is very very fragile. Disturbances are endless.  It's amazing how delicate my mind can be. I can write solid for twenty minutes and then suddenly I'm thrown off. A sore throat coming on or a skipped heartbeat and my train of thought derails. The simple distractions; the iPhone ringing, my neighbor's leaf blower, that asshole next door who has to start his motorcycle ten times a morning just to let it idle for a while, the never ending invites to lunch or dinner, the allure of the Pickle Room, the hawk that sits in the tree across the street, all cause my brain to shift speeds. And the memory of what ever muse I was writing for fades away for now. Sometimes it takes days to calm my thoughts enough so I can sit in peace to focus myself and actually refine the jumble of ideas that have been slowly taking form in my mind. The dream of having a huge chunk of time to just write and think is gaining momentum and may not be that far off. After all, if not soon then when? All paths seem to be pointing toward a realignment of my priorities. I'm cautiously optimistic about the next few months. Realizing that only I have the power to change my trajectory is liberating. "So," asked the blue-eyed girl from her bungalow in the Berkshires, "now what?"

  Yosemite here I come, not until next weekend but having a trip planed cheers me up. The thought of getting out of town actually lowers my blood pressure. Travel is almost always soothing with the exception of actually being in a commercial plane. And maybe that's only because I remember what it was like twenty years ago. It's was kind of like being in a bar.  Especially that red-eye from LAX to Boston. It was five hours of drinking and smoking and flirting with the stewardesses. In fact it was not uncommon to be offered a cocktail while still on the runway. It was also a rarity for the stewardesses not to join us for a beverage. And they were clever enough to give us a slice of hope that when the plane landed that there was the possibility of continuing the escapades.  But it never happened (Well.... That one time) and as we stumbled out toward the terminal offering an invite to our charming and well traveled new friends we would inevitably get a well rehearsed but sincere farewell, "I wish I could, but I'm off to Miami."
 Air travel was more civilized then.
 The act of packing is not a chore for me. Other friends dread it but I find it invigorating. It means I'm one step closer to sating my wanderlust. Choosing the right clothes for the destination eases travel anxiety and fuels the anticipation for the delight of new experiences.
   I narrow down what cold weather gear to pack. I try to go light but am not always successful. It's only four days but I'd hate to be caught with a fleece that is too heavy, or too light. So I stash both.  And then add a third, you know, just in case. Might as well bring a down jacket as well. And the Mountain Hardwear shell for the slopes. And a vest is not out of the question, I'll decide which one at the last minute.
  Again, it is with complete understanding when I think of a dear traveling companion who would have a separate suitcase with seven pairs of shoes for a weekend getaway. It's just pure fun to entertain so many options and I always loved how she managed to wear them all without pretense or indecision.
  Well....  There is much to do in the next few days. Choose the wine, work, oil change, order a fresh duck, tune up the snowboard. Wawona is deep in snow and the Wus and a warm fire await. At this time tomorrow I'll be cruising along route 41, music loud and my thoughts, hopefully, achieving a modicum of clarity as my heartbeat steadies. To be continued.....

Random Musings 2016

A few days ago a large piece of the cliff along Shoreline Park sheared off and crashed to the beach. It's a massive pile of rubble with some boulders as big as my bed. It easily could have covered my jeep two times over. The slide didn't reach all the way up to the top of the cliff so it's unnoticeable from the path. Only when I was able to walk the beach at low tide did I see it. And now after several days the high tides have washed away most of the smaller loose debris leaving only the heavy rocks and a fading black scar part way up the wall. Evidence of the irreversibility of time.

  I imagine a day when these cliffs will be worn to a smooth sandy beach. Of course I won't be around to see it. Perhaps in ten thousand years or so some evolved version of humans may be found surfing the gentle breaks of what ever form the Pacific Ocean has taken. But who knows? Scientists who spend their time calculating the odds for humanity's future are not overly optimistic that we are going to have that kind of longevity. The deck, as they say, is stacked not in our favor.

  Then there is that massive looming earthquake that's predicted to cleave off a significant portion of California and cover these lowlands with water that may happen between now and then. Hell, it could happen today according to the experts. In fact, the city of Santa Barbara has erected tsunami warning signs all along the busy waterfront areas like the harbor and Stearn's Wharf.  Just in case the fault slips anytime soon we know to scurry to higher ground. These blue and white signs, if nothing else, offer a false sense of security. Someday, I fear, they will be laughably ineffective. But if I'm lucky, as usual, I will already be living at 4000 feet in the Sierras when those inevitable waves roll up State Street and turn the Arlington Theater in to a waterfront venue.



  All of a sudden it's Spring.  Whales are making their way north and are easily viewed from the cliffs at Shoreline Park or the Wilcox Property. I'm seeing several a day. The whale watching boats hover so close to shore that I can hear the spectators cheer when they spot a spout or see a tail above the rolling surf.

  It seems as if overnight the jacaranda trees near my house have exploded purple, my guava shrubs are blossoming and the white petals decorate my yard. The peach tree is bearing small but sweet fruit. There are poppies everywhere. The mornings are full of birdsong. I believe that there are crows building a nest in my front yard palm tree.

  I've had a bout of insomnia. Several nights of tossing and turning and then I find myself wide awake at five am. I read some and then walk. I've added a few miles to my morning rambles. Training for Yosemite in July when I plan to climb a mountain or two is what I tell people. But I'm also trying to tire myself out and perhaps even slow my racing mind, as usual.

  As busy as my thoughts have been lately they haven't translated into any real focused writing. My work comes in fits and slow paragraphs that on a second reading seem cumbersome and repetitive. Like normal, I'm juggling a bit much and I wonder if I'll ever balance it all out. It seems unlikely that I will.



  I suspect that we all have personal inner calendars. We have our own collection of dates and anniversaries that are unique to us. We have times of the year that evoke memories of past life events that have never lost their significance and have remained seared in our hearts for whatever reason. We have dates that are holidays for one. Holidays unlike Christmas or Thanksgiving or Passover.  I remember dates of my own past that are meaningless to almost everyone else. On these days I toast to my thoughts and let the importance of the event usually go unshared.

  Sometimes it is natural occurrences that resonate with me. The solstices and equinoxes seem more meaningful than Easter or Christmas. Although we all should now know that those religious holidays were purposely piggybacked on to the time of year when pagan festivals were celebrated in order to convert the uneducated to the new religion that came to town.

  Somehow, I still feel it's more interesting to contemplate the fascinating way the earth moves and tilts causing days to have shorter or longer periods of light and darkness than to believe in two thousand year old myths.

  The full moon closest to late July or early August has often found me alone watching it rise. I always hope to be on top of Sentinel Dome on that night. And a few times I have been lucky enough to be sitting on that rock at close to eight thousand feet as the earth spun and the moon looked impossibly large and seemed so close that I could almost jump on it. The hike back to the jeep under the glow of mountain moonlight put a lump in my throat. There's a good chance that this summer will find me watching the July full moon from that magnificent vantage point.

  Other events on my yearly datebook are more melancholy and tinged with great loss. There is a day that is the birthday shared by two late friends. Both added to the richness of my life by quantities that can't be measured. They were born on the same day a year apart. They met through me but lived on opposite coasts so they were never very close, although on those rare times when we were all together we had evenings of great fun. And here's the rub, what it means is probably nothing. I believe that coincidences are just that. They are not significant in any mystical or meaningful way in the grand workings of the cosmos. They are just two events that happened, randomly, at the same time. The fact that it is a coincidence pretty much only for me makes it no more magical than if the whole world shared my life. (Which thankfully isn't the case.)

  So here's the other coincidence, they both died on the same day a year apart. Smarter people than me could probably calculate the odds and I suspect they would be lower than I imagine. While these things are not common they are not that impossibly rare either.



  I was packing my bags at Sea Ranch when I heard the news of the passing of the great writer and poet Jim Harrison. I was momentarily stunned and slightly paralyzed. He seemed immortal to me for some reason. There was simply too much of him and to think that he would suddenly not exist was rough to comprehend. I am not prone to weep at celebrity deaths. But this one gave me a negative jolt. I have made it a habit to meditate on the transience and fragility of everyday life but no matter how much I think I grasp these concepts I often find myself struggling for meaning when something as common as the death of an old poet shocks me. What possibly could be more common?

  His body of work has been a massive source of inspiration to me for twenty-five years. I have ravenously devoured his books and my copies are battered and highlighted. Anytime I need to shake feelings of languor or ennui I pull one of his books from the shelf and have at it. It rarely takes long before the raw power of his words begins to energize me. The grand scope of his vision, wether it be in his poems or novels or essays, is so full of a pure lust for existence that it almost never failed to restore my equilibrium and give me an inner strength that I often forgot that I had.

  After an afternoon of reading Jim's poems I would be ready to face the mundane again. And face it with an eye toward beauty. I could actually see better with Harrison's words bouncing around in my skull.

  Long before I read him I was firm believer in the restorative power of nature and food.  So when I came across his essays in Esquire I sensed a kindred traveler. The fact that at times he seemed to encourage overindulgence only fortified my own desires for a greater relationship with nature and a tendency to overfill my plate and perhaps top off my glass one time too many.

  To think that he died at his desk working on a poem somehow makes the loss slightly more bearable on some gut level. Any other method of the extinguishment of his powers would seem unfair. Hopefully some day these final poems will be published because his pristine last volumes had not been diminished by age. In fact I felt his later poems bristled with the energy that should come from a younger mind. Such was his ceaseless determination to understand his own thoughts and share them with his devoted following.

  My drive home from Gualala that day was melancholy and contemplative. It's a wonder to me that we can be so alive even as our hearts falter as we come to grips with the momentariness of our meager trajectories though a mostly confusing world. Jim Harrison had a philosophy to combat this malaise and I quote him often. "I crave the substantial in life."





   It was a long long time ago when I first heard Neil Young sing Out On The Weekend. A song so full of heartache and longing that there was a day when I found it hard to listen to. It simply hit too close to home. But like I said that was many years ago. And in the ensuing decades life's crooked traverses have proved interesting. Now when I come across that old tune I can sing along without a tear forming in my eye although the old wound still throbs just under the surface of my seemingly unflappable appearance of stoicism. We all carry with us much that is left unfinished and dangling.

   In the years since that song first touched me I have weathered many other setbacks (what could be more un-rare?) and heartbreaks. And when I ponder on the nature of life's propensity to let people come into my orbit and sear my heart for a while and then have our feelings fade off like the morning mist on Pontoosuc Lake the pathos can be disconcerting. I try not to dwell on what might have been different because it wasn't. The mystery of free will looms large when I try to gaze backward in time.

  Leave it to Neil to give me a flashback on this beautiful autumn morning as the wind whips at the trees causing a colorful rain of dead leaves.



  Another song that struck me with a tinge of nostalgia recently was Travels from the live album of the same name by the Pat Metheny Group. That was an album that Bruce and I would play at our house during the cocktail hour as our guests arrived before dinner. It's an album full of inspired improvisation with moods ranging from joyous to contemplative to heart  scratching.

  Travels is a mellow reflective song that for me really does evoke feelings of covering distance both physical and inner. I even sense a certain amount of road weariness in the crisp guitar notes.

  As another poet wrote for his friend to sing; "Mama mama many worlds I've come since I first left home."



  I cleaned out a desk a few weeks ago in order to give it away. Seven or eight years of clutter a good portion of which I pitched.  There were postcards and letters, old bills, notes to myself, pictures, clippings from news papers, a few love letters, concert ticket stubs, a key I'm probably not allowed to use anymore, menus and old journals. The journals were the most, and the least, interesting.  Not much depth to some of my old random thoughts. The usual brooding about time and melancholia. My old themes.

  Minor flickers of infatuations that now seem absurd. In fact some of the names draw a blank. More evidence of the fickleness of my heart.

  I found a list of books I wanted to read and was amused that I got to almost none of them. Even though through all these years I've never been not reading.

  So the desk is gone. Along with another bag of clothes donated to a thrift shop.  And, a box of books I left at Sea Ranch. The house we rented had a fine library that I contributed to. CDs I'm passing along one by one.  Lightening the load little by little. Too much stuff can be distracting. For me anyway. I see clutter everywhere and I am already filling another bag of clothes that I haven't worn in years. And I'm giving an old sleeping bag, almost unused and like new, to Homeless Dave.

  As 2016 comes to an end I look to the coming year with an eye towards simplicity and a lion's (or possibly a raven's) heart.