August 2019

  August first. The year is half over. Today is a day of birthdays and before I walk to the beach I make a few calls and then send some texts to friends who are celebrating and are far away from me. It is also Herman Melville’s birthday. I believe he would have been two hundred. If he lived. I open Moby Dick at random and read, “A Nobel craft, but somehow a most melancholy! All Nobel things are touched with that.”
  So true. He wrote that at his home Arrowhead in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. I visit there every year to soak up the atmosphere where the great man pondered such wisdom.
  And from I and My Chimney, also written in my home town, “All the world over, the picturesque yields to the pocketesque.”
  And there is yet another birthday today, Jerry Garcia. Gone now twenty-four years. Seems impossible.
  He sings;

‘’Some folks would be happy just to have one dream come true
 But everything you gather is just more that you can lose.”

 And then,

“There were days
And there were days
And there were days I know
When all we ever wanted
Was to learn and love and grow
Once we grew into our shoes
We told them where to go
Walked halfway around the world
On promise of the glow
Walked upon a mountain top
Walked barefoot in the snow
Gave the best we had to give
How much we'll never know we'll never know”

That one always gives me the shivers. So I don my Melville baseball hat and Garcia tee-shirt and head to the beach. Why not?  Later I read some more Moby Dick and listen to a few hours of Jerry.

 I saw Hunter Thompson in an interview one time tell a reporter that something that they were talking about was just a rumor. The interviewer asked, “How do you know it’s just a rumor?”
  And the good doctor replied, “Because I started it!”
  I’m reminded of this story because I once, or twice, told a tale about the last time I played golf at San Marcos Country Club. I was so disgusted with my performance that on the way home I stopped at the San Marcos Pass Bridge and tossed my clubs off, one by one, into the woods below. This was before they installed the suicide net. My putter I saved to hurl into the ocean at Hendry’s Beach.
  It was a beautiful day up on The Pass and it was quite the thrill to see my old clubs twirling through the air and landing in the live oak on the side of Stagecoach Road. A very satisfying experience and I felt refreshed and happy after the last club, appropriately my pitching wedge, sailed away before dropping hundreds of feet to earth.  I drove home a new man no longer a slave to the most frustrating of sports. When asked what I did with my bag I pointed to the door of the Tee Off and explained I cut it in half and we now used it as an ashtray at the front bench. You could go outside and indeed see the evidence for yourself. A fine story although not a word of it is true. But I got a lot of laughs about it over the years. I figured everyone pretty much knew I was full of shit. Although that sawed-off bag there at the door of the restaurant was pretty convincing.
  Forward about twenty years. A kid comes in to the Pickle Room a few nights ago. I didn’t know him. Looked about twenty-two. Friendly. After a bit he says to me, “Hey, you used to work at the Tee Off. Right?”
  “Sure did.” I replied.
  “You’re the guy who threw his clubs off the bridge!” He said, sincere admiration in his voice.
  “That’s correct.” I lied, keeping my legend alive at least for a little while longer. I didn’t have the heart to tell the kid the truth and ruin a good tale. He did seem impressed. So everyone was happy. There must be a lesson somewhere in all this but damned if I can figure it out.
  They real story of the last time I played golf is slightly less entertaining. I was getting ready to quit for a few years and played very rarely. The game truly didn’t agree with me. I got worse and worse. And then even worse. I could never beat my Dad or my brother Mide. In fact, no matter how much I drank, I never beat anybody in those last years of agony.
  The final indignity came in Palm Springs. I had gone down to help my friends, Pam and Mike Carpenter, look at a restaurant they were interested in buying. They decided against the purchase for several reasons including a ridiculous asking price. To celebrate we decided to play an early round, before it got hot, in the morning.
  Their house was on the course at La Quinta. After a big breakfast which included several Belvedere screwdrivers we were ready. I was feeling pretty confident that I could beat Pam (Mike I would never beat.) until she put the Belve bottle in my cart. I struggled through the first few holes, bogey bogey bogey, and then I finally started to collapse. As usual I became weaker and more erratic as we went along. At the turn after the ninth hole Pam suggested a cold one in the clubhouse as the morning was warming fast. It was already close to a hundred. I was sweating out vodka.  Mike was par, Pam a few strokes over. And me? Well, I had already hit two houses and stopped keeping score. My reply to the libation was that it was a great idea and I was done for the day. Golfing, not drinking. We retired to the cool comfort of the lounge and pissed away a few hours laughing and planing dinner.  I haven’t played a hole since. And I am proud of it. What happened to that set of clubs I don’t honestly remember. I must have given them away at some point.
  I hit some balls one afternoon on to a fairway at the Sea Ranch County Club from the safety of the backyard of the house we were renting. Again with Mike and Pam and Johnny, Pak, Joanna, and Kevin. It was great fun until the young marshal came over and in his quivering voice asked us to nicely to stop it. We obliged happily.
  And then a few years later I hit a ceremonial first drive at Ruben Soto’s tournament at Glen Annie. It went straight down the middle about 150 yards. There was applause and I felt a bit like Arnold Palmer at Augusta. I instantly commandeered the liquor cart and spent the rest of the day delivering drinks to thirsty players. Much more rewarding than playing.
  The good folks at Glen Annie were very generous in allowing me to drive the course until the tournament was over. Luckily, for me, they hadn’t heard about “the incident”.
  A few years before I was driving another liquor cart at a Tee Off event at the Municipal Course. I was asked to drive one of the girls, who was pouring shots at a tee box, back to the clubhouse.  She was a little tipsy and needed something to eat and somehow, it all happened so fast, she fell out of the cart. She seemed fine and laughed about it. I wasn’t going very fast. In fact, I was crawling up a hill toward the practice green. Well, a little while later her arm started to swell up and someone brought her to the hospital. She broke her arm in a couple of places.  I was, of course, given the blame, however I had witnesses (including Brenna) to my professional and skillful driving. But for years I was ragged on because our workman’s comp had to take care of the situation. Which is why you pay workman’s comp in the first place. Anyway, the last time I talked to her she was enjoying her time off in Hawaii. Good for her!
  Enough about golf!

A few days of cleansing. The mornings have been foggy until the sun burns through around noon. The afternoons are hot and calm, perfect for walking the beach. The nights cool off quickly and the skies are clear. The moon is waxing and bright. I’ve spent a lot of time outside. But I’m getting antsy. I feel like I should be on the road. I’ve dreamed of Wawona the past few nights. I think if I can find a place to stay I’ll go up in a few days and scramble around. Most of the hotels I like are booked and since I gave away my tent I won’t be camping.  So I’ll see if I can find any last minute deals. I have a few days to figure it out.

                   Sierra Journal

  I woke early this morning and not too hungover from a session with Elliot, Sacardi and Bickmore and having packed a bag last night I am on the road by seven. I stop for gas at Kettleman City and then drive straight though to Yosemite.
Just past the turn off to Bass Lake near Westfall I shut off the air-conditioner and roll down the window.  Nowhere I’ve ever been smells like the Western Sierras once you hit 3000 feet above sea level. It’s a pleasant blend of sugar pine, cedar and dirt, ferns, sage and manzanita. I breath deep. Near Fish Camp I pass hills burnt from last year’s big fire. It is bleak and desolate.

  By noon I’m at the trailhead to the swinging bridge and ready to walk. I see the first two ravens of the day, raucous and playful, darting through the pines. I have Mide with me. Well, a small pill bottle full of his ashes. Even though it was only a tiny portion of him it didn’t stop me from talking to him on the ride up from Santa Barbara. I often hear his voice in my head. Today I told him of a particular dilemma thats been vexing me. I suspected he would laugh and say, “Don’t put up with it! You’re Tony-Fucking-Ferdyn!” He liked saying stuff like that. And he liked reminding me how great he thought I was.  I am not kidding about this.
  I lace up my boots and saunter down the trail planing on stopping at the small meadow were an old tree fell alongside the trail two winters ago. I figured that would be a good spot to drop Mide. I planned on keeping an eye on this tree for a long time. I’ve already watched it and waited for it to fall for thirty years now.  When I get there the tree is mostly gone, cut up into logs some of which have been hauled away no doubt to be used for firewood at the Redwood’s cabins. Oh wells, I nix that plan and am disappointed that I won’t be able to enjoy the years of decay that I planed to observe. Some of the character of that clearing has been diminished.
 I pass the swinging bridge and the swimmers lounging on the rocks. After that I won’t see another person until I come back. I stomp along leaving a small dusty cloud in my wake. I’d love to see a bear but I’m too damn noisy. Maybe I would if I slowed down and stopped singing out loud. Easy To Slip is running through my head. Go figure. I sing a few verses to Mide.
  The trail is flat and follows the river up to what Johnny Reilly calls The Tubs. It’s a shoot of water that fills a massive pool. For mid August the Merced is flowing pretty hard. It was a good snow year. I sit by the falls for a while emptying my mind of the detritus that has built up over the past weeks. There is no better anti-depressant for me than being alone in the woods miles from another human. It is me, water, blue sky, trees and a breeze that drys my sweat. Wawona Dome is visible through the dead branches of the sugar pines. I slow my breathing and listen to the river and the occasional bird calling for what I can only guess. I think of Mide and his long struggles. His courage. His capacity for endurance.  His humor. His grace. I am truly a better man because of him. I think of a million things to tell him. But we’ve already said everything that matters to each other. And for that I am grateful. Never let an opportunity pass to tell those you love how much they mean to you.  Mide and I were pretty good at that.
  Why bring him to Yosemite? He always wanted to go and loved my pictures and stories of the mountains I climbed and the trails I hiked. After Bobby B visited here for that famous party he told Mide that there was a lot he could do and see from his chair. Bobby, of course, was also an expert on navigating the world with a handicap. He got Mide excited about a trip and we talked about it for a few years until the contingencies of his situation just kept setting him back. He continued to ask for photos from my visits but sadly we realized a trip was unrealistic. I wonder how many times he had to admit to himself that there was so much he could never do. He was a realist for sure and kept most of his disappointments to himself.
  I get up too quick and have a slight bout of dizziness. Typical for me these days. I continue up the trail and spot a large boulder easily visible from the path. It looks like a giant gravestone. “Perfect!” I say to Mide.
  I make my way up the hill to the granite rock. Its easily twice as tall as I am and maybe twelve feet long. I circumnavigate it a few times and finally decide to pour Mide out on the  side facing the forest. I do it without ceremony and then lean against the cool stone and cry for a minute.  It has been a very long year. I go back to the pool and dunk my head under the small rapids of the ice cold Merced River.
  An hour later I’m back at the jeep, hot, sweaty and dusty. I take my phone off airplane mode and text Mom, Paul, Mark and Kev. They are all bittersweet and Kev tells me he is taking Mide to Japan in the Fall. Bravo I say!
 In my cooler I have beer and club soda buried in ice. I opt for a soda and drink it in about eleven seconds.

  I stop by the Wawona Hotel to check on a shuttle to the Big Trees for tomorrow. I plan on taking the “Drinking Man’s Stroll” from the grove back to the hotel but I’m informed that the shuttle is broke down and won’t be ready until late afternoon. I’ll come up with another plan later.
  I head back to Fish Camp, stop at The General Store for water and, believe or not, a few Lynchburg Lemonades. Perhaps the altitude is affecting my rationality. The Narrow Gauge Inn, where I’m staying, is rustic but charming, quiet and clean. Unfortunately the restaurant is closed for the next few days. I’m disappointed because the menu looks great. The closest place for food is The Tenaya Lodge Lodge a mile up the road.
  Outside on my patio I drink a beer, read some Rexroth and jot these silly notes. I’m tired and hungry. All I’ve had to eat so far today are two Laura Bars and some trail mix.
  I always thought that Fish Camp would be a good spot to live for a year or five. But, the surrounding forest is dying and drying out. It is only a matter of time until there are bigger fires. I drove through the result of a fire from last year and the destruction wasn’t pretty. It looks like it missed some houses just barely. Now I might think twice about settling down and buying something up here.
  In the past I have not been impressed with the Tenaya but I don’t feel like driving to Oakhurst. So I brave the bar and look at the menu. The bartender, Anthony, is attentive and personable for how very busy he is. He recommends a light local IPA that is quite good. I order salmon with roasted potatoes and cream spinach. I am pleasantly surprised. The fish is cooked perfect and Anthony’s service is excellent. I’m too wiped out for a second beer and instead decide on a nightcap on my patio. I pour a liberal tequila and sip it in the dark. An almost full moon rises above the trees. The night is quiet and cool and I absorb the silence that I have been craving for months.
  Inside I read another Rexroth poem and fall asleep before eleven.

  I’m up by six and take a quick shower and head to Mariposa Grove. There is only one other car in the lot this early. Its chilly and I throw on a sweatshirt. I take the loop trail, the long way, to the Upper Grove. It doesn’t take me long to warm up as I steadily saunter up the hill.
  Once again I’m alone at the the Upper Grove. It’s a very serene spot where there is a replica of Galen Clark’s cabin. He spent his summers here keeping an eye on the trees and entertaining tourists, including Ralph Waldo Emerson. Emerson even named a tree Samoset after the Native American chief who greeted the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock. I’ve never found this particular tree. It’s not marked on any map and the few rangers that I’ve asked didn’t know where it was.
  I sit on the steps of the cabin for a while, maybe a half hour, and just look at the trees and listen to the breeze through the woods. This is a wonderful place for reflection being surrounded by the thousand plus year old redwoods. I think about a winter day several years ago when I also spent an hour alone soaking up the peace of this majestic spot.
 I have always used the woods as a cure for my melancholy and anguish. It is why I haven’t needed prescription pills, religion, meditation, alcohol, (much) yoga, therapy, self help books, prayer or drugs. Although I have dabbled with most of them. Five hours alone on a mountainside and then the companionship of friends or a lover seems to do the trick for me. Not always a total cure but it’s usually enough to shift my focus.
 In a few hours there will be a bunch of people up here. But for now it’s just me and I ponder how quick my life flies by in comparison to these old redwoods that have seen the seasons change for hundreds and hundreds of years before Galen Clark even wandered into their magnificence. I would love to camp here some night. I’m sure its against the rules but I’m confident I could figure out a way.
  Some of the oldest trees in Mariposa are almost two thousand years old, perhaps older. And they are still dropping cones with little tiny seeds. I pick one up and put it on my thumb. It’s as light and fragile as a dust mote. But it is entirely possible that two thousand years from now one of these seeds will be alive. Think about that.
  Making my way down to the Lower Grove I stop and sit on a fallen redwood and listen to an amazing chorus of birdsong. I spot a nuthatch but the other singers, although loud, remain hidden.  I finally encounter a few more strollers and by the time I get to the Grizzly Giant there is a small crowd taking pictures and milling around. I scamper the last mile to my jeep. I’ve decided to go climb Sentinel Dome. It’s still early and I hope to beat the crowds there, too. There’s quite a bit of traffic but I leave most of it behind when I make the turn on to Glacier Point Road.
  There are a few people on the trail but I’ve seen it way worse this time of year. I take my time and pace myself.  My heart (which plays tricks on me) is beating from the exertion and the altitude. But not like it beats in Santa Barbara with its tinges of anxiety and the minor chest pains that accompany it.
  Like always, I’m on top before I know it. Sentinel is deceiving that way. It looks more menacing than it is. There are about twenty people on the wide summit so I go to the east edge and sit on a rock. Nobody bothers me at all and from my perch I look out at Half Dome and Cloud’s Rest, Vernal Falls and the high country all the way to Mount Lyell. I wish the Wus were here. I loaf in the sun and from my comfortable stone bench I can’t see the group on the summit. My heart slows back to normal, what ever that might be, as I gaze at the other domes surrounded by grand meadows with patches of snow. I could take a nap I’m so relaxed. But the views are too intriguing. I always carry a book up here (Rexroth today) thinking I’m going to read although I never do. The thin air and far vistas are just too stimulating. I pull out my phone, still on airplane mode, and see it’s already noon. I take a few pictures for Mom, drink some water and eat some trail mix. Even though I’m reluctant to leave I make my way, leisurely, back to the road.
  I stop at the Wilderness Station in Wawona which used to be the artist Thomas Hill’s studio and is now also a gallery displaying his work. I listen to two kids getting a backcountry permit and a bear canister. They explain their plans to the ranger with great excitement. They’re going to climb Half Dome and Cloud’s Rest and aren’t sure how long they’re going to be gone. They remind me of Hauge and I, or Eksuzian and I. It’s been a very long time since I just went off with a backpack and only a vague itinerary. Instead of inviting myself along with them (they prolly don’t have enough food for me) I go to the hotel for lunch. It’s wonderful to see the old sign back. No more Big Trees Lodge. It is once again the Wawona Hotel!
  The restaurant is famous for what I’ll call “relaxed service.”  And today is no exception. My burger takes forever but I have a nice table by the big front window and I people watch while waiting for my food.  I again have my book with me but never open it. I get a text from Amanda which makes me smile.
  Back at the Narrow Gauge I slam a Lynchburg Lemonade. A guilty pleasure. It goes right to my head and I’m momentarily dizzy. Again I feel like a nap but instead I go out on my balcony, sit in the wooden rocking chair and finally get some reading done. I write a few notes as well.
  At 5:30 I drive back into the Park to hear Thomas Bopp play the piano in the parlor of the Wawona. When I walk in he says, Nice to see you!” I’ve been coming here for thirty summers to listen to this national treasure. The room holds great memories. I remember the first time that Ellie and Juliette heard him play. He sang a few kid’s songs. After Reilly’s house burnt down Thomas sang songs about fires in the heart. Later that night he sang songs from old cartoons. Often he’ll play an entire set of Cole Porter, including the rare unsavory and risqué verses. And there was the night, two actually, that Dad sang along to every song. I’ll never forget his wonderful voice. He sang softly and Thomas could barely hear him from across the room. But I heard him just fine. And I’ll never forget it. Later Dad went up to the piano and told Thomas a few stories of his own.
  Entertaining as always, Thomas tells tales of old Yosemite, old song writers and the history behind some famous show tunes. He plays a bit from an original piece he’s working on. It’s a historic song about the Park’s good ole days.
  I sit in an old stuffed chair for a few hours listening to interpretations of Noel Coward, Louis Armstrong, Cole Porter, Gene Autry and Fred Astaire. I sip a martini and absorb the luxury that is Wawona on warm summer nights. It could be 1935 in that old room that smells slightly of woodsmoke. A breeze flows through the open windows carrying the scents of trees and the flowers in the meadow.
  Thomas takes a break and I thank him for all the pleasure he’s brought me over the years. He’s a wonderful talent.
  I make my way back to the Tenaya and order a BLT and a Belvedere on the rocks. The lovely bartender recommends a double. “Why not!” I agree. Again the food and service is good and when she suggests another double I don’t hesitate. The bar is busy and I chat with the travelers. I come up here to Wawona so often that I don’t feel like a tourist. I liberally give advice about what to see in the Park. I, however, keep the quiet trails behind the Redwoods selfishly to myself. I finish my second drink and as tempting it is to have a third and enjoy the company I figure it’s smartest to get back to my balcony and comfortable rocker for my final nightcap.
  I have to laugh, a double Belvedere over ice is $23. Almost fifty dollars for two drinks. Not even close to a personal best. But I imagine what Dad would think. I can hear him now, “You’re shitting me?”  His favorite reply when I told him things like that. After all, he hated to pay more than two bucks for a Bud Light.
  Although Mom reminded later on the phone that back in the day Dad spent his fair share on good whiskey.
  Out rocking in the night air I couldn’t be any more relaxed. Nature therapy has cleared my brain of the garbage that builds up in Santa Barbara. I need to be off the grid for at least a few days a month. I listen to the breeze in the cedars. I could almost fall asleep out here sitting up. But I don’t. I crawl into bed sated and exhausted. I smile at another one of those texts before I’m sound asleep.
  In the morning traffic is streaming into the Park. I decide once again to skip the valley. I don’t need the crowds. I’ll come back in the winter when it is quieter, lonelier, and more peaceful. But I’m reluctant to go home. I spend and hour or so reading and writing on my balcony before I get on the road.
  By the time I’m passing Fresno I calculate that I can be in Cambria for a late lunch. So I make for the coast. Cambria is fogged in and cool. A big switch from the ninety plus degrees of Fish Camp. But it’s a refreshing change. I have lunch at the delightful Robbin’s, the scene of many a fine dinner party. Then I walk over to Moonstone beach and walk the entire boardwalk. It takes about an hour and a half. The tide is high and the beach is pretty deserted. I linger for a while on a bench and read a few pages of Rexroth.
  For fun I check for a last minute hotel room. Nothing under $275. Ridiculous for a Wednesday night. I pass. I drive by Mozzi’s and it takes great fortitude not stop in for an icy beer.  It’s one of my favorite bars on the coast.  Once called Camozzi’s and owned by my friend Ed’s family.
  Back in Santa Barbara, also in the fog, by eight o’clock. I pop a beer and walk through the mist to the beach. Good, as always, to be home but my wanderlust is still just under the surface and I wish I had a couple of more days on the road. Sitting here at my desk I plot my next trip.

  The month ends on a sad note. Another friend gone way too soon. And now my phone holds yet one more number that I’ll never call again but am too sentimental to delete. My same old thoughts run though my brain on these moonless nights when sleep is still far off. We are, a famous poet once wrote, more gone than not.  And it’s true, much is behind us and our fragility is more pronounced every day. Yet forward we go, smiling in the face of uncertainty. And, if only temporarily, keeping entropy at a safe distance.