February 2025

Driving Route 41 southwest in a steady rain. Listening to Arthur Fielder conduct the Boston Pops, great theme songs of the American west. One of dad’s favorite albums. Indeed, Don’t Fence Me In. 

 Housesitting in Santa Barbara for my friend Lee. A view from her window of mist on the hills. Lovely and peaceful. A different view of this city I think I know so well. (I don’t)

 An afternoon of solitude. My inner vertigo reminding me I am not at all like other people. I should be used to it by now. (I’m not)  

  Shakey sleep last night. Dreams of Taos, O’Keefe, Los Alamos. Maybe it’s the wine from last night causing this morning’s unease. Feeling useless and ineffective, slightly lost, slightly scared. 

  A walk around the zoo with Sebastian clears up my brain fog somewhat. Although seeing the snow leopard sluggishly lounging in the corner of her cage is disheartening. All the wildness of this magnificent cat diminished by this tawdry enclosure. (She, Kisa, would have to be euthanized a few months later.)

  The great Willy Gilbert hosts a private super bowl party at the Pickle Room, Gerry and I work it. Lots of old friends stop by to say hello. 

  Lee’s place is quiet and I spend each morning on the deck wondering why all the nonsense from the night before. For the past couple of days the balance has tipped more toward socializing than writing. Certainly part of the reason I left Santa Barbara a year ago was to be able to concentrate more on getting my books out. My endless struggle. 

  It is with no small amount of relief that I leave town a day early for my rendezvous at Sea Ranch with the Wus.

I make it to Carmel after driving through intermittent rain. I walk around town under slate solid clouds. The tide is coming in hard and frothy. I follow the walk south toward Tor House, my regular pilgrimage. A few blocks from the great poet’s stone tower, braving the scattered rain drops with their fragile magazine rack, are two Christians offering passersby flimsily pamphlets proclaiming that the answers to all life’s questions and mysteries can be found by accepting Jesus Christ. 

I’m sure that these two earnest and devout believers are clueless that just up the road Robinson Jeffers wrote this;

     God is a hawk gliding among the stars—

If all the stars and the earth, and the living flesh of the night that

    flows in between them, and whatever else is beyond them,

Were that one bird. He has a bloody beak and harsh talons,

   he pounces and tears—...

One fierce life…    

  A much different view of existence than an everlasting life of blissful worship. Jeffers’ view of nature, from what was then a lonely hand built rock house perched at Continent’s End, was much more realistic, brutal, and dark than the cartoon Jesus depicted in the handouts.

  I walk up to look at the house and tower as the rain picks up. They seem out of place these days surrounded tightly with beach houses and fairytale-like cottages. Not conducive to contemplating the wildness and mystery of the cosmos. 

  In Monterey I find a motel just as the storm hits. Tired from the past few days of high living in Santa Barbara I decide to stay in my room. I have some granola, nuts, chocolate and water for dinner. I am lulled to sleep by the thrashing rain. 

  Still raining as I drive through San Francisco. It’s windy and dreary, the views of the city are dull and forlorn. A deluge hits as I cross the Golden Gate. 

 The road to Bodega Bay is flooded in several spots and I detour through some back dirt roads past farmhouses and cow pastures. The going is slow and I get turned around. Finally I resort to turning on the GPS. Of course, I’m pretty close to where I thought I was. I hate to use that thing as a crutch, it blunts my sense of adventure and self reliance. 

  Tonight I’m staying at the Surf Inn and I walk down Highway One to the Surf Market and get a sandwich, a monster called the Lumberjack, and have another dinner in my cozy room fifty yards from the mad, wild and indifferent sea as it crashes and screams in the black night. Appropriately, I read more Jeffers on my kindle.  I wish I could come up with my own poetic vision. I’m feeling pretty close to clear headed. I understand I’ll never be 100%. Also, despair, however slight, lingers. How does poetry (mine) add to, cure, compliment, my wanderlust? Or keep my edges sharp?

The Wus will be here tomorrow.

  I have a few hours to squander this morning so I drive up on the mountain side of Highway One and look at some of the smaller houses for rent. It’s a different atmosphere than being down on the cliffs. More secluded up here with some long views of the coastline. It’d be a nice place to hide out and write. 

 I walk out to Black Point and sit for a while near where I flung Mide’s ashes. His sense of humor often comes back to me and today I smile at some of his remembered antics. Despite all his suffering he had a way of cheering me up. I miss that the most about him.

 Now I’m sitting in one of the chairs at the lodge (Which now rents for almost $500 a night. A crime.) facing the Pacific and finishing my Lumberjack sandwich. Ellie has been tracking me and she and Pak show up just as I’m leaving to go to the house on Masthead Reach. We get there and the Kecheleys, Kevin, Marcie and Max, get there soon after. And then Joanna and Juliette.  We are all emotional. This is the first time we’ve been here together in years. And the first time seeing each other since our friend Pam passed away. Pam was the original instigator of these trips to Sea Ranch. It seems like a different life we all had back then, almost thirty years ago. As far away as those days seem Pam is etched so deep in our hearts that I half expect to see her coming up the trail from the tide pool, big oversized sweatshirt, hair whipping in the wind, crab bucket in hand, grinning like a wild woman. Momentarily as I stare toward the sea my vision blurs. I suspect Pam’s benign and loving ghost will hover over us all weekend. We miss her terribly. 

  After a walk and as it gets dark Pak grills New Yorks and we laugh at our old stories. Later we watch Venus and see a great shooting star. Max comments that Orion has a “comically large bow.” 

  More reminiscing, some good wine, a few tears for Pam. I’m amazed that the kids still think I’m funny. I feel loved.

  I’m in my usual room. It’s as cold, damp and dark as I remember it. Sliding glass doors lead to the hot tub. 

The Sea Ranch is still a place that restores me. There is something comforting about these surroundings; the shifting blocks of fog, crying oystercatchers, the purple wildflowers and little yellow birds. The mix of scents; pine, kelp, pollen and low tide fecundity. The whales we often see, the deer that wander through the yard, the birthing seals, an osprey clutching a snake, vultures drifting on the thermals, all add to the remoteness of this stretch of coastline. For all that is going on out the window and along the cliffside trails still my heartbeat slows. When I am not here my dreams often return me to the views of the blue horizon and massive swells as the tide shifts.

 This morning on a short walk with Ellie the crinkled shoreline vanishing in the fog in both directions affords a dose of solitude I desperately crave.  

  Back at the house the day slides along like so many days here in the past. We eat well, sit on the back deck, the kids fish. They catch some ling cod and cabozon, which has an iridescent and delicious blue flesh. Kevin sautéed it expertly. The afternoon turns windy and Pak and Joanna make sure we don’t go hungry. They make big plates of polenta fries, wings, clam chowder, (New England of course) Philly cheesesteaks and a few nice wines. The mind of Kevin entertains us as it gets dark and in the distance the surf slams against the rocky coast, Earth’s white noise. 

  Another day of beach combing, shell and stone collecting, and birdwatching. The dogs run wild in the waves. 

 We walk over to the Sea Ranch Chapel for a moment of meditation or reflection or prayer, each of us I guess are thinking pretty much the same thing. We all have people we are now living without and at times like this our thoughts turn toward their absences. We are not, however, gloomy in any way. In fact, we are full of smiles and reminded, just by looking at the kids, how amazingly lucky we truly are. 

  The day stays blustery and damp. Kevin makes a spicy chicken curry and we add one more epic dinner to our long list. Carpenter and I were going to write a Sea Ranch cookbook. He was going to explain the menus, ingredients and preparation and I was going to write about the guests, the dinner conversations, the music we played and wines we opened. It was to be a book about friendship and how we bonded over long, unrushed, many course meals. I should still write my side of the book in honor of our raconteur pal Mike Carpenter.

  We are all aware enough of how being able to be with each other and have this period of leisure when most of life is hectic and full of distractions. If that’s not good fortune I don’t know what is. 

  Already it is Monday and we spend the morning packing up. We take a walk out to Black Point before saying our goodbyes. Good times are both fleeting and difficult to cling to. 

  I’m lucky enough to be heading to the Wus for another day. After a lunch break in Napa, where I notice that Quintessa is still appointment only, Ellie hops in my car and we don’t shut up until we pull into her driveway. There's always so much to talk about. 

 Pak whips up a “simple” dinner. Hamachi, shrimp, tofu, soup, pasta and cookies. We are joined by Miss April and Deb. 

 A trip to Sacramento for me wouldn’t feel right if we skipped a morning of dim sum.  The Wus are treated like family at their favorite restaurant. We endure plate after plate of the most wonderful dishes. It would be embarrassing to list everything we ate, suffice to say we weren’t hungry for the rest of the day. That does not stop us from later having a snack of caviar and oysters. Joanna always has two kinds of caviar, the expensive kind and the really expensive kind.

 

  Driving to Yosemite Forks this morning Bickmore texts saying he is also on his way. We rendezvous at Johnny’s and then have dinner at the Snow Line. Another late night telling stories and I am the first to go to bed. Johnny and Bick are still late night guys. 

  A cold morning drive to Yosemite Valley where we make all the usual stops to take pictures and stand in awe of the rocks and hawks and waterfalls. Like we always do, we make our visit early before the traffic becomes annoying. On this winter morning we have all the views mostly to ourselves. We linger at Sentinel Bridge, Yosemite Falls and the meadow across from El Cap. 

 Later in the afternoon when we get back to Johnny’s we see on the news that some laid off Yosemite employees have hung an American flag upside down from the top of El Capitan to protest the massive and ignorant job cuts that are taking place in our national parks. It’s a travesty for sure, a policy based on stupidity and arrogance. And like most things Trump, it is being done with utter incompetence and cruelty. His ineptness astounds me.    

  If we hung around slightly longer in the valley this morning we would’ve seen the massive distress signal three thousand feet above our heads. I applaud the rangers and climbers who love Yosemite so much they are willing to risk the repercussions for committing this wonderful act of civil disobedience. What comes next for the Park is anybody’s guess. But the people I’ve talked to who live near here, including Johnny, are not optimistic. There is a menacing hue to the future. We’ll see soon enough. 

Bibliography

The Snow Leopard – Peter Matthiessen

The Double Axe – Robinson Jeffers

Discography

Pops Roundup -- The Boston Pops

Travelogue 2025 -- Part Two --- California

   Driving out of Santa Barbara to Yosemite Flats. The Marshall Tucker Band sings,

I must keep moving on

And not remember what went on

‘Cause time’s is all I have on my side

‘Cause time’s the only cure

Of forgetting you, I’m sure

And the miles between us will help to turn the tide

I’m traveling down the road

Somehow I just don’t know

I got to save my soul 

From loving you      

Then, near Lemore, Dylan,

 I’m thinking about that

girl who won’t be back no more

I just don’t know what I’m

gonna do

I was alright ‘til I fell in love with you.

 A theme of sorts, I guess. But why now? Must be the mysteries of a wounded and weary heart.

  

  It’s a fine drive with on and off light rain, mist and wisps of fog. My odd feelings about the next chapter, the autumn chapter, of my life come and go. It would be nice to make a difference in this world and I feel my only possible contribution will be that someone reads something in one of my books and perhaps decides to search for their own enlightenment. To ask some of the big unanswerable questions and come to realize that the quest for meaning is really the meaning after all. Or something like that.   

  It is early afternoon and past Oakhurst I spot Johnny’s car at The Snow Line Saloon. It’s nice, after a year, to be back in this warm room with blazing fire, cold beer, a big burger and interesting company. No TVs, nobody on cell phones, old stories passed back and forth, girls shooting pool, rock and roll playing just loud enough. Johnny has made a lot of friends up here and we sit chatting until dusk, and then head up the hill to his house where, as usual, we snack, turn on the big fireplace, I sip a nightcap, Johnny brings me up to date on the goings on in Yosemite Flats.

  I fade first, Johnny is still a night owl, and goes to sit outside for a while. The sky has cleared. Since moving up to the Sierra foothills he has become a stargazer and moon viewer. (Sitting back on Ridge Ave tonight in front of my own pellet stove fire while typing up my journal notes it cheers me thinking about Johnny out on his deck right now, with a fat slice from the Yosemite Pie Co, looking at the Big Dipper and listening to night birds.)

  I have a modest book collection in my room here, and still on the nightstand from last year is Harrison’s The Shape of the Journey. A volume I bought for a wild mind, although our idyll ended before I saw her again. The great poet writes,

    The brain grows smaller and beats

    against its cage of bone

    like a small wet bird.

Precisely, I agree before falling asleep.

This morning I hiked up past the spot where the old decaying tree finally fell, and past the swinging bridge, to the tubs where the path down to them is so overgrown that I missed it. I only realized it when I came to the giant dark stone where I spread some of Mide’s ashes. I took the opportunity to catch him up on my travels. I know he would have enjoyed The Hard Rock Casino being a lifelong enthusiast of heavy wagering. 

 Walking back toward the Pine Tree Market I pause often and look around at the landscape that has changed so much in the last fifteen or so years. The spruce beetle has done an amazing amount of damage and then the fire of a few years ago burned through here. It has become rather desolate and I can't imagine that there will be much restoration in my lifetime.  The view looking up at Wawona Dome through the burnt and branchless trees that are still standing is a reminder of the forsakenness that is never far from each of us.  

 The Wawona Hotel is still closed for renovation and there is work going on today. I walk the patio, the scene of so many summer evenings sipping martinis and listening to Thomas Bopp play the piano and sing Cole Porter songs as the alpenglow on the dome slowly fades to dark. 

  I look in the window and see the progress of the construction. There’s no timeline yet as to when the hotel will reopen. The front desk and adjoining parlor are dusty and the furniture is covered in white tarps. The walls are bare of the paintings that have hung there for years. 

  Back at Johnny’s, where I feel very much at home, I read for a while, then we have an early dinner and another night of telling our old worn stories. 

  Up early again. I hike out to Mariposa Grove and wander around the lower trails stopping often to admire particular trees. On this cloudy winter morning I am the only person here, which is what I prefer. I marvel, as usual, at the Grizzly Giant, and sit at the bench near its base savoring the air full of forest smells, birdsong, and wind brushing the treetops. 

  Our afternoons are taking on a pattern; late lunch, a visit to the Snow Line or Oak Room, dessert back at the house, sitting at the fire, then Johnny goes out to stargaze and I to bed to read.  

Saturday morning and I walk around The Grove, Johnny’s neighborhood. There is a pond up the street with a small waterfall and a trickle of water crossed by a footbridge. I stop and watch the ducks and something up stream catches my eye. Sleek, furtive, and black, a fisher slips quickly between fallen logs and streamside rocks to disappear down the gully. A beautiful sight of something wild and rare as well as a sign of clean fresh water and prime habitat. Once again Nature makes my heartbeat accelerate, my desiderium for pure experience is rarely sated but this brief flash of the fisher certainly adds luster to my morning and, if only momentarily, quashes despair. 

  I walk a trail past the conference center enjoying the raucous birdsong; finches, juncos, nuthatches, and I catch sight of a giant, elegant pileated woodpecker. I find a torn up bee’s nest that looks like a bear ripped it out of a hole in the ground. Sure enough, a few yards away a bear shit sits proudly in the middle of the path. The Grove is a wild place!

  Our usual afternoon, early dinner, a glass of red wine and then reading in bed before ten. Tomorrow it’s back to Santa Barbara for me. 

  Sunday night – Lemon Tree

A long day. Bobby McPhillips memorial at Harry’s. Lots of old friends celebrating his contributions to our own lives. Some good stories that included golf and travel, fine food and old wines, and Bobby’s general zest for good times. He sure had more than his share. I will mostly miss his very, very unique sense of humor. 

  After we exhausted the bartenders at Harry’s we moved over to The Tee Off and continued our reminisces about our gone friend. Believe or not Gerry and I go to Chuck’s for a nightcap and to see Amanda before he drops me off back at the Lemon. Wound up, all the socializing has left me frazzled, I sit out on my veranda for some fresh air. HP comes over for a drink, the perfect person to take the edge off my jagged nerves. I’m thrilled to see her!

   Morning. A million crows (I wonder if my old friend Maynard is among them) outside my room loudly proclaiming their existence. A single red tail hovers above.  

 Walked Shoreline and past my old apartment. The tide is low on this clear windless afternoon. Pelicans dive for lunch, shorebirds scurry along the surf line. The bike path is busy. The normal bums are at the picnic tables by the Shoreline Cafe. I guess all is as it should be. I really haven’t missed Santa Barbara. My friends, yes, but the city with its influx of tourists? No. 

  After a couple of days of socializing I am more than ready to flee to the quiet of Yosemite Flats and I plan on leaving mid morning tomorrow to arrive in time to meet Johnny for lunch at the Snow Line. 

  

  The Snow Line is always full of characters; retired ranchers, bikers, park employees. We talk with a long white bearded guy, Willard, who spent some time in Santa Barbara County and he remembered with real joy the beauty of the trails, the hawks, the great monarch butterfly rest stop at Ellwood, the dolphins and whales that passed the cliffs every spring. He obviously has a great love of nature. He takes off his jacket to reveal a MAGA shirt. Just goes to show you never can tell and bolsters my theory that sometimes how you vote doesn’t truly reflect the type of person you are. People are just uninformed, or worse, badly informed. Last summer in Pittsfield I remarked about Trump’s many bankruptcies and was met by incredulous disbelief by my friends who watch Fox. Anyways….

  I sit next to another character from one of my stories. An old white haired guy with piercing eyes and a gentle knowing smile. He explains his new hearing aids will be delivered soon so he’ll be better at conversation again. I hear him say he was 24 in 1961. He has a good strong laugh. People stop by his stool and ask how he’s doing. “Fine”, he smiles. Yet in his smile I see wistfulness and melancholy. His eyes sparkle when the lovely bartender checks on him. He has not lost his ability to appreciate beauty, a sure tonic against sadness.  So, I conclude, there is hope for me. 

  The big conversation at the Snow Line today is the new Yosemite Pie Company. They’re selling out every morning by eleven o’clock. 

  The next morning I’m there early; one apple, one blueberry. They indeed live up to the hype. The next few nights it’s pie as we sit by the fake fire recapping for the millionth time our many escapades.

  This morning we took an early drive around the Valley. And I always say this but after a year away every waterfall, peak, cliff, meadow, snowfield looks completely new to me. The subtle changes in light refreshes every vista.  Even after thirty plus years of visits I still find myself in awe of what is the mystery of beauty. Why these rocks and trees and water move me so hard is an unanswered question. It’s the unexplainable that touches me most deeply. 

  We loop out the west gate and stop for lunch in Mariposa.   

  An easy day today. Up early to bring Johnny to Fresno airport. He’s going to Portland to go through his father’s stuff. Norm passed a few months ago. 

  I walk around the neighborhood, read, nap, eat leftovers, skip the Snow Line, take a hot bath, a slice of blueberry pie and then to bed early.

  2/3  – I’m in the Valley by eight, it is cold and misty as I walk up the renovated path to Bridalveil Falls. The wind blows the froth down hard on the viewing platform and I’m wet in seconds. It’s an exhilarating chill and I shiver with delight.   

  Walking over Sentinel Bridge toward Camp 4, it’s cold, and there is the faintest layer of fog in between the river and the lower falls, the sun won’t peek over the cliffs for another hour or two. Camp 4 is deserted, closed for the winter. I wonder where the climbers hang out this time of year. I guess Lower Pines. 

 Continuing on to Yosemite Falls I finally shake the dampness. At the bridge looking at the lower falls there is a bright rainbow that fades into the jumbled boulders at both sides of the chasm. The white water growls behind the spectrum. There are few people here early on this winter morning. The usual yapping tourists, of which I have been guilty of being on occasion. So I shouldn’t judge too hastily or harshly. I feel the same awe as they do no matter that I’ve been here a hundred times. It’s precisely why I keep returning every chance I get. 

  I loop back to the car and go park at Curry Village. I walk up to Happy Isles, named by Muir, and take the trail up on the right side of the Merced. A new stroll for me. This is the site of the 1996 rock slide where almost 70,000 tons of granite broke loose from just below Glacier Point, and crashed here at Happy Isles. These massive rock walls look eternal, and even when we contemplate our brief time here we fall for that illusion. But like earthquakes and volcanoes, every now and then the reality of the temporariness hits us full on and we should shake with fear at how amazingly fragile and tenuous our hold on existence truly is. 

  I climbed Half Dome that same week and it was eerie walking the trail to Vernal Falls. Every surface, even the undersides of leaves, was covered with a layer of fine grey dust. Our voices fell dead as if we were in a padded room. Birdsong was muffled and the river sounded dull in the thick air. 

  Today, however, the sky is a faded blue and the calls of ravens carry with ease from high in the pines across the loud choppy water of the Merced. I explore this new spot for a while, finding many good rocks to sit on at river’s edge as I trudge up the trail. I look up at Glacier Point and wonder when the next hundred thousand ton piece will come crashing down. Best guesses say it could be any second or perhaps in a few thousand years. Nature will always keep us pondering.

  Turning around I walk back down, my next destination being Mirror Lake.

The lake is full and clear with winter runoff. Half Dome reflects perfectly and when I turn my gaze there is distinctive Mt Watkins dominating the far side of the lake. Named after Yosemite’s first photographer whose images helped galvanize support for the nascent park. I add it to my list of mountains to climb.

 I continue on the Valley Loop Trail that passes under the Royal Arches. In spots water runs down the slanted face and in other places it drips on me from small overhangs. The sound of running water is so soothing as I walk toward the Ahwahnee. I stop in but it’s too early for a beer. Taking a break I sit in front of the huge fireplace and scratch out these notes. I have a quick look at the old photos in the Winter Room that always makes me nostalgic for a time long gone that I would have loved to have lived through. Although I realize all times are the best times and I appreciate my own era for a very long list of reasons. 

  I visit the Ansel Adams Gallery and I notice a menu from the Ahwahnee from a long ago banquet is posted on the wall and offers eggs “as desired”. 

  On the path near the post office I meet a hippie mountain girl who gives me a rare and deadly smile. We chat for the briefest of minutes (What did Einstein tell us!) as she pierces me with her clear eyes. She has a tiny nose ring. Don’t they all. She walks away and I will never see her again. Another one of life’s little jolts of random joy that often break up the dullness of routine.

  I stop at the old payphone near the post office (I think it’s the same one) from where I called Isabel on my first trip to the Valley. 1989. She gave me Muir’s The Yosemite when I was nine, nineteen years earlier. I cherished that book – still have it in fact – and dreamed of seeing the rocks and waterfalls and wildlife, and when I finally did I loaded up the phone with all the dimes I had to tell Nan where I was. 

  On the way back to Johnny’s I pick up a few snacks at The Pinetree Market and leave a copy of An Invisible Means in their little lending library box. 

  I watch sunset from the porch as the sky clouds over. My phone tells me I walked 11.3 miles today. Skimming Harrison, I read,

The breathing in the thicket behind the beech tree was a deer

that hadn’t heard me, a doe. I had hoped for a pretty girl.

  Early morning – I pass into the park noting no ranger on duty to collect entrance fees. A result of Doge’s ridiculous job trimming. 

  I am the only car at the Mariposa lot and I hit the trail in the cool air. I’m wearing gloves and fleece hat as the sun begins to poke through the trees. I pass through a patch of Mountain Misery and the pleasant scent brings to mind my friend Aileen who taught me the name of this fragrant shrub, also called Kitkitdizze and Bear Clover. In no time I’m at the Fallen Monarch and trudge up the Peripheral Trail to the upper grove. All of a sudden I’m full of energy perhaps, or in spite of my long hike yesterday. I haven’t seen another person yet. I take a look at the Fallen Tunnel Tree and then a rest at the Galen Clark Tree. This is, after all, very near where his cabin was and I wonder about all the nights he spent here. His dreams must have been powerful being surrounded by such a wonder of Nature. 

  Sleet starts to ping off my down coat and the wind blows heavy as I hike up to Wawona Point. Clouds whip quickly through the valley just nicking the top of Wawona Dome directly across the Merced. My newly acquired, and recurring condition of vertigo overwhelms me as I peer over the steel rail and gaze down an old rockslide. The wind howls even harder and its loud rush through the trees is thunder like.

  I follow the Guardian Trail back down to the replica of Galen’s cabin at the edge of the upper grove and lean against the wall taking refuge from the wind as the air gets colder and scattered waves of crispy flakes blow by. I absorb the solitude I constantly crave. Mountain chickadees zip around the small meadow with a reckless intensity. I feel my heart expand as I take in this scene of what can only be described, poorly, as coming close to understanding my connection to something greater than my meager attempt at this one life. The sequoias hardly budge at all in the heavy wind. They stand silent and powerfully gorgeous as they have for over a thousand years. They are impervious to the sleet that stings my face as well as indifferent to my meaningless anxieties, fears, heartbreaks, and unsteady future. Somehow this is empowering to me. 

 I walk to the edge of the grove to start the hike back down to the car. I’m shaky. I’m pulled back into the grove. By what? Well, that’s the question. I’m overwhelmed by a sense of gratitude and experience something soulful or spiritual. Horrible words with bad and misleading connotations. I am not crediting any god. My feeling is more luminous and transcendent. There is an element of ecstasy. 

  I can’t get myself to leave this peaceful place. I walk off the trail (for shame!) and into the heart of the grove placing my palm on one of the ancient trees. I’m in tears. I know how transitory it all is. How fleeting even the lives of these redwoods are. My brief time here (in the grove and …) is magnificent and beautiful precisely because of its painfully short duration.   

  After a time, five minutes? An hour?  I’m not sure. I almost come to my senses. I notice it’s getting colder and windier. I shiver for a moment and with terrible reluctance go back to the trailhead. 

   A mile or so down the path a loud SNAP pulls me slightly out of my trance. A massive sugar pinecone lands at my feet. A wakeup call of sorts perhaps. The clouds are only slightly higher than the treetops. The damp air carries the clean scent of evergreen. 

  It’s another few miles before I see the first hikers making their way up the trail. They are a cheerful couple and obviously thrilled to be among the sequoias. Their enthusiasm reminds me never to become complacent just because I’m able to be here often while for most this is a trip of a lifetime. 

  They are dressed for an assault of Annapurna, but it cheers me remembering my own first trips to the sierras geared up with enough layers to keep me alive even on the moon. 

  I imagine them smirking at my shabbiness as they move uphill. I have on, of course, good boots. Garmont. And Vermont wools socks, a gift from Paulie. My Carhartt jeans that are often scoffed at by purist gearheads, are utilitarian. A Patagonia base layer under a very worn army surplus drab green zip-neck shirt. My REI orange jacket, old grey fleece gloves and a Tractor Supply cap completes my ensemble. Maybe I look slightly goofy, but I am warm and dry. 

  Back at Johnny’s the sensation of … temporariness... The impossibility of grasping it all.  The weight of the unwritten poem, the un-kissed girl (saw her yesterday) the unopened wine…   the unread book.  It’s all out there somewhere. 

  I sit on the stoop watching the rain. Birds sing!   

  2/5/25

What was that moment of clarity yesterday? Satori? Transcendence or exhaustion? A brief connection to some sort of wisdom? All the bullshit of life flushed away when I touched that 1500-year-old tree. Being alone with wind and old growth slowed my inner turmoil. Was I close to dying? I don’t think there was much of a barrier between here and nothing. It wouldn’t take more than a millisecond for it all to be over and for me to be gone for eternity.   

  I didn’t feel as fragile as I normally do. There is strength in non-existence. Power in extinguishment. Will it be a relief when everything is finally over? 

  What did I touch yesterday, just a sequoia? Or something more? A slight glimpse of reality perhaps? 

  Of course, the simple answer is that I have a deep sense of belonging when I’m here in the sierras. And combine that with being checked out of the news, culture, and society, well, the mind whirls. Fresh mountain air, a breeze of slight sleet, altitude, sobriety and physical exhaustion is a wicked combination that can cause the senses to shift. And yet… 

2/5    Wawona. I hike up to the swinging bridge from the hotel parking lot. Mist hovers low and creeps through the pines capturing the silence of the morning. The mountain misery is overly fragrant. Across the river is a view of the house we stayed at with Fran and Tony, almost thirty years ago now. Again, time’s mystery baffles. I can hear dad as clearly right now as I did on that July morning when he marveled at all the wildflowers he had never seen before. And I can vividly relive mom and I trying to catch our breath after we watched a peregrine power dive toward the valley floor as we leaned over the railings at Glacier Point. I feel lucky that my mind can hold such long-ago moments with a freshness that invigorates me.

  After last night’s rains the river flows madly. I cross the bridge and wander back pausing briefly at that spot where for years I watched an old cedar decay and a couple of winters back, finally topple. It has since been chopped up for firewood and hauled away. And like Fran and Tony on that riverside deck, another ghost living on in my thoughts and dreams. 

  The lower Chilnualna Falls are flowing hard shooting spray as far as the trail and the cool water feels good on my dusty face. The rock where I usually write or nap is slick and wet from the frothy air. 

    At the Pine Tree Market I notice my book that I left in the lending library is gone! A sign that this small, tucked away community has a hunger for something new, although don’t we all. I buoyantly saunter back though Wawona Village to my car. 28 miles walking in the last three days. Tonight, I pick up Johnny at the Fresno Airport and tomorrow it’s back to Santa Barbara for a few work obligations.

Bibliography 

The Shape of the Journey – Jim Harrison

Galen Clark Yosemite Guardian – Shirley Sargent

Discography

Tenth – The Marshall Tucker Band

Time Out Of Mind – Bob Dylan

Tales of Topographic Oceans – Yes

5 Haiku

 

Tired and weary

Walking the mountainside path

Aimlessly lured on

Clouds dissipating

Night sky immeasurable

Perpetual change 

Wandering the land

one more typical dustup

I fume and sputter

Our mythical depths

A melancholy idyll

This life’s groundlessness

As it flew by me

maybe it was an omen

or just an owl 

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