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.