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.....