What's This Blog About?

Pacific Grove is nearly an island - it is in the minds of people who live here - "surrounded" on two sides by the blue cold ocean. In a town that's half water and half land, we're in a specific groove where we love nature but also love to leave and see what the rest of the world is doing. Welcome along!

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

In a Strange Land

Pacific Grove has a couple of gems in its boundaries.  Mainly, there's Asilomar Beach State Park, way out over west there, elbow to elbow with the exclusive ghetto called Del Monte Forest.  I think you could easily say about one fourth of the habitable Monterey area (Pebble Beach, Tehama, San Carlos Rancho, Pasadera, Carmel Valley Ranch) excludes the other three fourths of its inhabitants either totally or only admits them if they hand over a wad of cash. 

Pacific Grove doesn't exclude anyone from gazing at its prettiness.  Because of that, visitors find it peaceful and tranquil and make plans to move here.  If they hand over a very large wad of cash indeed, they commence life as we know it:  Very quiet -- hushed actually -- and a bit eccentric.  Consequently, it has evolved into yet another kind of exclusionary enclave. 

A man I once knew described the little towns on the Monterey Peninsula as fiefdoms, each pointing fingers at the others and each one filled with folks who felt comforted to know that all the bad apples lived in those other towns.  A case in point:  Another man  I spoke with once said he'd moved to Pebble Beach because it was beautiful.  (It is)  He had lived in Seaside, a town that grew up next to Ft Ord catering to the needs of the Army soldiers training there.  Seaside isn't very beautiful but it has the most beautiful view of the Monterey Peninsula you'll find anywhere around here, especially on a clear moonlit night.  This man lived in Pebble Beach and no one would talk to him.  Neighbors, if they ever inhabited their homes (they could be a second or third home), drove into their garages, the doors closed and no one emerged for long periods of time.  He felt alone, existing in a strange void of not-neighborliness.  He left in disguest and went back to Seaside.  There, neighbors offered each other help and gave out their surplus vegetables to each other.  Kids played outside and life had a happy rough-and-tumble feel that he said was "a million times better than being in the Forest." 

Pacific Grove is somewhere in between.  You'll find both kinds of neighborhoods here.  Mostly, people will help you out and consider themselves unique, special, above average.  They'll share vegetables with you, but they gotta know you first.  You are not welcome until you've found your own friends and established yourself somehow.  It takes a long time.  People new to the area complain that California is unfriendly, people don't say hello, and they feel lonely.  I can see that it's true here.  It's not an attitude of blatant, obvious rejection so much as it is a strong hesitancy to venture a greeting, an approach to life and strangers that stems from self-distraction and abhorrence of chaos.  Be careful! it says.  No loud talking! especially in loud foreign languages.  Hush!  My quietude and isolation are paramount to my success in the world, and I require you not to intrude into it! I have paid a lot for the right to remain silent!  Hush!  

Pacific Grove is a pretty town, beautiful even, depending on what view you're taking in.  There is a bucolic peace here.  But, it's deceptive.  It's a twilight zone, an expensive,  even a timid one.  It sits between a cold deep bay to its north and a wealthy exclusive neighbor to its south.  East is Monterey, and I'll get to that another time. 

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Fall clouds, old memories

I live in a small quiet town where most people are very comfortable, sedate and generally unchallenged by the vicissitudes of nature or politics.  Killers do not stalk our town and gangs don't bother with us.  Well, the raccoons do, but they don't usually carry guns.  The wind blows every afternoon after 1 o'clock.  There is no summer and no winter.  Nothing changes.  It's ironic as hell that I live here.

When I was small and lived in Carmel Valley, I would come to Pacific Grove with my brother and sisters, all five of us stuffed into a green Chevy station wagon with fins and a punch-button radio, and visit my cousins here.  It's a 20-mile drive from there to here but it could have been a different planet, and we voyaged across some unseen chasm, a transmutation of life as I thought I knew it.  PG was as boring and dull a place to live as any kid could hope to avoid, even then.  They had sidewalks!  I could hardly imagine that and yet I saw it:  A life lived without hills, a river, trees; nowhere to run, sing out loud and hear the wind answer.  It was horrible.  Cement and a contained, restricted existence faced me, confined me.  I felt I was in a foolish place when I stepped out of the car.  Houses were suspiciously close together, claustrophobic.  Life seemed hidden, more uncertain; curtains were drawn; it was cold.

The feelings I had derived from a free-range childhood lived outdoors for the most part.  Carmel Valley -- in the village, as it's called -- is inland and much warmer than coastal towns are.  Seasons, moderate by mountain standards, are discernible by more intense temperature variations, and trees turn colors in time to them.  A river, beleaguered as it is, flows there and has shaped and formed the valley.  It roared, gurgled, whispered and shushed in turn, and I listened.   

 The warm fuzzy glow of a happy reminiscence is not what I am about here.  I developed a taste for knowing what grows wild because it was powerful and alluring.  I felt the weather changes and seasons. I explored everything out there, beyond the door, by pulling things up, tearing them apart, watching things live and die.  I learned, like kids do when they have been shoved out the door with no money, that what grows does just fine on its own.  All that I could get my hands on or watch day after day fascinated me and made an impression on me.  As far as I could grasp it, God was there in the dirt, up in the trees and flying around in the sky and I was running around in the middle of it all.  It was glorious and amazing and intoxicating.

When I returned to the valley after a visit in town, I was happy and knew I was home where I belonged.  I was very fortunate and am now grateful beyond measure to have a deep well of wild memories to draw on. 

Here in the Groove, we are a quiet, dull bunch.  The raccoons chittering and screeching at night remind me I need to stick my hands into dirt, turn rocks over, listen to rivers.  I growl about seagulls strafing my car outside, but they, too, remind me of what is real, and it ain't cars. 

I saw an unusual sky this morning.  Clouds looking like the fourth movement of Beethoven's Ninth were charging in from the north and the wind was gusting leaves across the roadway.  It's wild out there, thank you God, and I want to stay that way. 

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Lunch at Zocalo


It's time to celebrate!  It's my last night shift tonight.  I was playing substitute all this month and now I'm done.  Back to evening shift and a much more normal sleep cycle.  Whew! 

Also, my daughter got herself a new job.  Just when things were looking too tight and too dismal to handle anymore.  Whew again!  

The weather forecast for today:  super hot - in the 90s at least - but as I'm sitting here at my keyboard, the sky looks gray, there's a chill in the air and not a bead of sweat anywhere in town.  So, it's Pacific Grove's version of hot.  You need a light jacket and a brisk walk to warm up, but that's okay.  I'm in a celebratin' kinda mood.  So, how about a nice zingy plate of Mexican fare to ward of the chill midday air and enjoy the good news?  Ah, Zocalo! 


We walked down to the Groove, past the Holman Building, and right on into Zocalo, our favorite Mexican restaurant around, by far.  They serve home-made tortillas, delicious ablondigas soup (meatballs floating in delicious broth), dark rich mole sauce and even have lobster tacos.  Something for everyone.  My choice today was a side order veggie burrito for $5.95.  Very tender tortilla wrapped around beans, cheese, steamed veggies, all seasoned lightly and steaming hot.  He had chipotle chicken tostada for $9.95 with tender local lettuce, whole pinto beans, queso (cheese) and fluffy rice.  As usual, we were licking our plates clean at the end of the meal and felt satisfied and happy. 

A Mexican friend of mine who waits tables at another local eatery says Zocalo is her favorite Mexican place, too, and believe me that's a pretty good recommendation.  Coco has told me her mother was from Old Mexico and "could cook anyone under the table.  I didn't even know what a pancake was until I was a teenager.  She always made old-school hand-made Mexican food."  So, go to Zocalo and enjoy a nice casual but authentic meal.  It's just right. 

Monday, September 21, 2009

A Rose, Hope and Love


I dug my hands into the big bag of potting soil and inhaled the scent of it. 

With both hands cupped and filled to overflowing, I piled my bucket up with the fragrant soil and walked over to my little climbing rose in its redwood planter.  They say the rose is the symbol of love, the divine feminine, the eternal mystery.  But, you have to keep the vine healthy first before there can be a bud or a blossom.  I have no buds on this little vine.  She is struggling to find her place in life.  I imagine in my mind's eye a vine loaded and heavy with blossoms, petals floating to the ground on the morning breeze.  She looks gloomy though, unhopeful, a little discouraged. 

I water her, I feed her, I look for things that may harm her:  Little green caterpillars that eat her tender leaves and little mites that sap her strength.  Still, in spite of my ministrations, she is struggling to hold her own.  I keep hoping, and I am still learning how to grow a rose. 

She's meant to be a climber, to send tendrils to the wires I've strung and beyond to the fence where she can spread her vining branches.  There is opportunity for her; she senses it is there at the tips of her tender growth tips.  

I spread the soil into the planter and tamp it down, patting it firmly. It feels good. I've added a special ingredient, too, that combines pest resistance and nourishment.  I water it in and let her know how much I want her to grow and flourish.  She hangs her leaves and looks wan and listless, stressed.  She nods and waves her pale leaves halfheartedly, but I feel encouraged for her.

My hope for this little rose has taken on a more symbolic tone.  In terms of reality and practicality, I know she will find the right time to bloom, will do well.  In terms of my vision for her, I see in my mind's eye a green vigorous vine thriving, successful, fulfilled.  My vision has to do with love and belief, my hope that an imagined reality can guide the expression of her potential. I see what can be, not what is. 

Isn't that what we do though?  Move in a world full of ugliness and tedium with a vision of some beauty and joy in mind - try to match something in our world to that vision and celebrate when even a small match is made? 

I could have given up on her, cut her back, criticized her failure as a vine, her difficulity coping with the stress of living, but that says more about me than it does her.  I'd rather hope for her beauty while I love her all the while, look forward to her strengthening vines and sturdy growth and then her beautiful flowering glory. 

If I hope, I can love.  If I love, I can hope.  The two things are indivisible and without them, the blossom never can come to fulfillment, and the mystery can never be expressed.  My vigilance is now allied with her own vigor and resilience, and the potential for beauty is undeniable.  The manifestation of her gifts and glories is yet to unfold.  I am eager to see it but willing to be patient and give her lots of time now. 

I wash my hands under the flow of cool water from the hose and stand back to see the little rose growing in its box.  I think she has already taken strength from the freshened soil and water.  She already looks more hopeful. 

The sun dashed a few diamonds amongst her leaves; droplets of water left by the watering hose began to dry in the midday warmth.  The moment lingered as I thought about what I had decided to do:  Allow for time to express the fulfillment of potential in a rose.  There's no rushing that sort of thing, you know.  Patience, now, patience.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Mrs. Delish's cupcakes and a new kind of Hero

Over to the Groove I went, off to the Farmer's Market, the first time in a while, having been prevented by my work schedule for a long while.  Before I knew it, I had loaded my bags with tomatoes, sweet basil, plums, crimini mushrooms, squash and tilapia.  Strawberries are still looking good, so I bought a three-pack of those.  Wow, are they fragrant.  And, as I had hoped, they are amazingly delicious. 

I reacquainted myself with Mrs. Delish's who sells cupcakes to hungry passersby.  I love that she packs up your cupcake for carrying in a smart little box to keep it from squishing.  I noticed she's selling more variety now.  The chocolate with green mint frosting is the top favorite of little kids, she says.  My new addiction is the dark chocolate with vanilla frosting with toasted coconut on top.  Taste reminds me of a Mounds bar - my childhood favorite candy bar.  It was rich with dark chocolate flavor and just enough sweetness for balance.  Three bucks and you've got a little bit of heaven in a cupcake paper. 


Next door to her was a young guy selling three kinds of gourmet sandwiches.  I bought a half of a Tuna Caper:  "A logical twist on a common offering.  The capers add a satisfying briny element that makes this comfort food even more comfortable.  Lettuce and tomato are standard." Italian ciabatta bread tops it off.  Not one to limit myself to just one flavor, I also bought a half of a Goat Basque Hero:  "Goat cheese mousse topped with red fire-roasted peppers, Spanish olives, Marcona almonds on sour dough." Two entirely different but equally tasty flavor sensations.  I prefer the Goat Cheese Hero - the almonds add a nice crunch and I am a sucker for fire-roasted red peppers.  He's working on a web page and just getting his business off the ground. 

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Leaving the River (rogue river part VII)


The fifth day on the river is our last and we have mixed emotions.  One emotion is:  I stink!  You spend time on a river and pretty soon you smell like one.  Actually, much worse than this one did. 

I showered once at Horseshoe Bend.  We had set up an area discrete from the main camp area; it was a gravel-covered bench about 50 feet above the river's surface, set back maybe 50 also from the bank.  A long rapid tumbled downstream and created a rushing zen backdrop.  It was totally private from our camp, out of earshot and obscured from view by a large rock outcrop.

Obviously, the usual way to shower is to take off all your clothes, rinse, soap up, rinse again and you're done.  There had been no rafts on the river for an hour or two, definitely none during the time it took to get the sun shower bag hung on the rock and prepare my supplies.  Off go the clothes and I begin to soap up.  I should have bet money:  Round the bend come three rafts and I am standing there not dressed.  Definitely naked.  In the middle of nowhere. I am now the most interesting scenery they've seen for a while.  Can't a bear turn up on the opposite bank and distract them? Shit! (River speak for:  Where did they come from?)  Well, what are my choices now?  Dance?  Wave? Scream? Not much I can do; I turn away and pretend I shower every day on large exposed river bends.  La dee dah.  Ho hum.  Right.  They have the good sense to keep to their rafts and float away.  Chalk another one up to my excellent luck. 

Two days after the showering-naked-on-a-river-bank incident, I am stinking ripe again.  I have no intention of going home except that I want to smell better than this.  A hot shower beckons me back to civilization; all else repels me.

On this our fifth and final day of meandering and doodling on pools, bobbing up and down on riffles, we have settled into new ways of moving.  We have aches, blisters, welts and bruises, but we are still singing.  Last night, we camped on a bend by a slow-moving pool.  Downstream we hear but don't see another camping group.  Upstream, we had floated past a group of men already camped.  At just past twilight, our group begins to howl at the moon.  There's no TV; what else do you think of doing when the moon comes up?  The two neighboring unseen groups hear our howls and echo them.  Howling goes on for a while and gradually fades out.  Everyone is satisfied.  All bears and wildlife, aside from we humans, are long gone, probably holding their ears and shaking their heads.  But, we're satisfied, feel a little wilder, attuned to a different sense of time.  We sleep like rocks.

Next morning, I see Tom up on a ledge above the kitchen area with his tent over his head, shaking out the dirt, singing, "It's not unusual to be in LOVE with anyone!"  His coffee has worked wonders.  He's channeling Tom Jones and seems full of himself.  An actor in LA, Tom has performed on stage as well and can mimic a poodle's bark and his Russian landlady's accent with stunning accuracy. I wonder if he'll be pounding his chest and swinging on vines next. 

Debi dances by, a grin bigger than the bright sun lights up the universe.  She's listening to ACDC on her iPod and packing her dry bag between sashays to and from the boats, hauling her gear and humming. 

Stewart, one of our oarsmen, hands out fake flower leis.  We are a happy mob of stinking river floaters and love the river like the mother that she is.  We load into the four rafts, one ducky and two kayaks and ease into the slow current, looking back at the river bank.  It looks empty, bereft in a way.  I think it's my sense of nostalgia already taking hold, changing reality into a sepia-toned reminiscence.  I feel like sobbing into a beer for a moment, yielding to the melodramatic possibility of perhaps never coming this way again.  That would be a tragedy.

We vow to return, to return to all rivers, any river that will take us back.

The river has a last very technical rapid to throw at us - the most challenging for our oarsmen.  They scout it and cinch down our gear more carefully, then check their life insurance policies.  Well, I remember I have one anyway. When they are satisfied about the route between some gigantic snaggling horrors of boulders, we shout and commit ourselves, plunging headlong on the sloshing roller coaster.  The giant green tongue licks us forward a bit to the right, Chris hauls hard on the oars to get us immediately left, we wheel right again and the raft bucks.  The crests of waves slap the boat and dash water in our faces. I hang on to whatever I can grab, hold my breath and scream at the same time, amazed that it's possible.  I think about my whistle, forget all over again what the signals are.  I imagine myself underwater, trying to blow one long or three short, and I see the dinosaur-sized rocks standing guard left and right, crazy big water piling up against them.  The swishing roar is intoxicating.  In a minute that stretches out all the way to this very moment, the river's wild heartbeat thunders in my ears and she sings her wild song, the same one we'd howled the night before.

A few more riffles separated by long drifts through deep green pools define the rest of the day.  Finally, we've reached the take-out and work commences again.  All the "shit," as we've all come to call it, is hauled out and loaded up for the long drive back to Merlin, upriver.  The day is hot and the river seems more distant even though she's right at our feet.  I feel her rhythm and pace, know her destination, see her flowing away from us, on and on, a wild thing. 

Smiles, promises, good-byes and we're gone, cast to the four winds, driving to our separate jobs and ordinary life again. I feel torn away and adrift in a different way, far less free, stinking and tired.  Happy, grateful. 

The Rogue water is flowing still, and moves me yet.  Our stretch of five days, more or less, is an interchange of time for energy; it charges up my soul as it has not been charged for a long while.  Pray for rain and for the river.  She needs our understanding and care.  In turn, she gives back a hundredfold to every one of us who knows her and, in ways we do not or choose not to acknowledge, she caresses us all. 

Thursday, September 17, 2009

River bank crew (Rogue River part VI)


We sling our heavy dry bags to and fro from boat to bank and we all take a hand in camp chores including setting up the "kitchen" and tents. Kevin sets up The Groover, a necessary but unglamorous job. The Groover, aka crapper, stinkpot, pooper, potty, etc., is required by the permit to be brought along; all solid human waste must be removed from the river environs. We take only pictures and leave only footprints. Poop not in the wilderness, maties!

The kitchen consists of a long narrow table on which sits a camp stove powered by a propane tank; a lower and equally long table is covered first with the meal preparations and then the food and utensils as we eat. Chris rigs a clever washing system that's comprised of two buckets, a bulb pump and a faucet made of copper tubing. One hose pulls water from the clean bucket through the faucet and then into the gray-water bucket. You step onto the bulb to pump water out of the faucet and wash your hands - just like downtown. A long mesh bag is slung under the cook table which holds the drying pots and pans, plates and utensils after they're washed. Each raft holds a large cooler and a very large aluminum chest containing packaged foodstuffs. They're packed to bursting.

Life on the river is a peculiar mix of luxury and austerity: We bring as little as possible in clothing - garments that dry very quickly, even shielding us from ultraviolet sun - but as much as possible of all manner of food and drink.

Spotting a choice camp each midafternoon, we haul ashore, scout the camp area, claim tent sites and then set about food preparations. To a person, we attack the food with gusto, having floated quietly on the river for a few hours. Pupus (extravagant predinner snacks) are prepared and consumed very quickly. Then drinking commences and explorations are undertaken.

Rogues, Roguettes and Raids (Rogue River part V)


Two young rogues are with us - Dan and Chuck - and one roguette, Laurel, who is quiet on the face of it but proves to be a wickedly adept paddler in the ducky. A ducky is a deceptively named inflatable kayak that requires quick hip action, deft paddling and fast reactions. She surprises us with her nerve, taking on the best the river has to offer with aplomb, earning our admiration, making it look like she's born to it. Dan and Chuck, two immortal young daredevils who fling themselves off the highest climbable precipices overhanging deep pools of the river have boundless energy. Dan tops all feats with a towering backflip from a 45-foot-high slab of volcanic rock. Gasps, shouts of encouragement and applause echo off the cliffs.

We carry weaponry aboard our rafts. We are Americans after all. These consist of large day-glo orange and yellow machine-gun-shaped water rifles that shoot fairly accurately up to 15 feet away. Other rafts wield water cannons, pump-action single-shot blasters very accurate at the same distance. Bucketsful of water and oar swats are other options.

Skirmishes are short and strategy consists of filling a gun in a quiet moment and taking aim. Mostly, attacks are quick, 15-second blitzes followed by screaming, laughing and entreaties for peace.

On the fifth day, we are becalmed, drifting.  A nearby raft presents a big fat opportunity, a sneak attack. We grab our machine gun and fill it with river. Pumping quickly, a lucky couple of well-aimed squirts hit their mark and we high-five. Dan, riding in Chuck's raft has no countering weapon aboard. Feeling immensely superior, we float on. Suddenly, flying nearly overhead and to my right, Chuck leaps from his raft to ours. Shit! (river speak for "where did he just come from?') 

Landing like Spiderman on the forward section, the dastardly pirate grabs our gun. Damn! Before we can react, he is gone and we realize we've been stripped clean and are now sitting ducks. Chuck shouts and waves the booty overhead, and the other boats applaud his daring raid. Summoning our pride, we wait for an opening and heave a bucket of water on Dan. Oops, maybe this is a mistake. Nailing the cliff-diving daredevil with 2 gallons of cold river water without warning - well, now there's provocation. He smiles, feigning surrender, appears nonplussed. It proves to be the smile of the fox plotting to raid the hen house.

We float on. I try to imagine myself leaping from raft to raft like Chuck the Pirate but realize my vest (aka puffy orange corset) would render me sausage-like and unable to do much more than an awkward splat from the side of our raft into the river. 

We forget the incident and begin to look for a camp.

Mistake!

Dan has slipped silently into the water and slithers like a snake to our raft,  just like a commando, with a fully loaded machine gun of water. Chris is caught off guard and seems confused but - turncoat! - admires Dan's daring raid.  We take our punishment full force and are soaked to the bone and hoist the white flag. There is no contest. Youth prevails and we limp away like drowned rats.

Curious, those comments

Those who commented were helpful.  Somehow I've done something so that when a comment comes to me, it shows up twice.  This could be problematic when I have legions of fans, but until then, I'm okay with accepting only one of the two comments.  It does make me feel like I'm seeing double, though.

Thank you for responding.

Now, on to real writing.....

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

COMMENTS?

At the request of a frequent reader, I have tried to explore the comment function here on Blogger in order that your comments are shown and/or received.  The process is this:  You register on Blogger or another list, you read a blog entry of mine.  You click on the "comments" radio button below the entry and another screen pops up.  You write your comment and click on the drop down menu which shows the list you have registered with (Blogger for instance).  You should also see a box below that shows a word written in wiggly font that you have to duplicate.  After that you hit enter or something like enter and it should then be sent to me so that I can take a quick look and make sure the comment is appropriate for human consumption.  Then I approve it and it's attached to the blog entry. 

What I'd like you to do is make a comment after this now so I can test to see if the process is working.  If I receive no comments at all, I'll try to hunt down further help so that I can make the process work properly. 

Thanks for reading.  I'm bummed that the comments you have tried to post have been lost.  I hope I have fixed it.  I'll keep you posted. 

Okay, now comment!  

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

River and We 16 With Coffee (Rogue River Part IV)


What is crucial to life as you float down a river? My mind eddied off to the left and contemplated it all, considered the meanderings and left them, floated back and left them again. The arc of the sun from the eastern arising to the western setting encompassed the entirety of the universe as we then knew it. All of what is important in life fit within that arc and exactly that - nothing more mattered.

We had left our watches back at the put-in camp out of necessity. Few of us owned a waterproof timepiece that would stand up to a minute or two of light splashing, never mind a true soaking, but that was just as well for it nudged us toward the goal we had hoped for: Getting our senses back. We needed to reacquaint ourselves with the arc of a summer day.

I awakened each day at predawn never sure quite what had opened my eyes. Most likely it was birds. Osprey chirping, eagles' dry shreep-shreep-shreep and the unholy prehistoric graaaaaak of a blue heron. I went for slow walks along the river or up around camp to see what might reveal itself, and I simply sat by the graceful curling rapids and listened to the river in all its range of sounds. Underneath all was a steady heartbeat indistinguishable from my own.

We were pleased to no end to discover that one of the oarsmen, Tom, was a devout and highly obsessed coffee brewer, a barista in disguise. He arose almost as early as I every morning and set about preparing his special brew with what turned out to be characteristic precision and care. Attention to detail matters, Tom and I agreed. He had purchased Peets coffee in advance in a very delicately blended mix, estimating almost exactly how much each of us would care to drink each morning. Starting with the large red speckled tin coffee pot that was set to boiling, he brought out filters, cream, organic sugar and a tea assortment for those unable or unwilling to savor a cuppa joe. Carefully pouring the hot water through the exactly measured grounds in the filter suspended over the coffee urn, Tom could not and would not be rushed or distracted from his crucial chore. This was not coffee to be gulped and ignored just to get a caffeine hit. Banish the thought! This was a special nectar whose full rounded rich flavor exemplified the joys of eating outdoors in a wonderful place.

We learned to be patient, and patience was rewarded. After we had been on the river only one day, for the most part we looked like a pretty motley crew and we were not ambitious nor full of urgency in the slightest. Morningtime found us gradually assembling near the brewing coffee with a distant, unfocused and vaguely unconcerned demeanor. We shuffled and murmured and smiled and remembered we had no idea what time it was and did not even care. We were entropied motes floating, loosely assembled in time and space with one bond between us: A warm, aromatic cup of perfect coffee. We took sips between long gentle inhalations of morning air and then gradually formed a novel idea that breakfast might be nice to have.

So, two of the group were handed likely cooking implements and foodstuffs for the meal. Breakfast was made. We sat again by the river in our camp chairs and stared again at the flowing water, taking long drafts of coffee, savoring what was put on our plates. It seemed that breakfast was reinvented, rediscovered and marveled at as if we were emerging from a coma in a new century.

The several cups of caffeine began to take effect in many ways: Suddenly awakened kidneys went into full gear, heart rates rose noticeably and minds were now alert. Murmuring changed to shouts and songs. It was time to go downriver again. Pack and prepare, assemble and load. Of one mind, we were 16 river floaters with all gear dry bagged, bodies sunblocked and wrapped up again in our stiff, awkward vests and oarsmen taking up position on their respective cooler boxes amidships. We were rogues on the Rogue and having none of this softened pace. Take us down 'er, men! We are ready for what she may have for us!

And ever the river flowed. It always seemed to be something more than a river and yet was only a river. It was simply water flowing down grade to the ocean, of course. But it was free and set us free again, held a mystery deep within itself - green, liquid, reforming constantly and endlessly. Beside it and now riding it again, we were of a mind: the day was in full blaze and the rapids awaited once more. (To be continued)

Monday, September 7, 2009

Remembering the Rogue (Part III)


We exist in a world of air-conditioned bubbles of metal and glass, computer-generated graphics, recorded sound, virtual reality and flash-frozen food.

A river that runs its course between high volcanic cliffs under a blazing sun or a vast expanse of stars and planets is none of that. It flows. Rushing and tumbling, thundering or lapping, it always flows.

You ride the river, you swim in it, you sit by it, you hear it, feel it, see it. And it always flows. Its energy is constant and abiding. It makes allowance for your presence and moves on. And after you have left it, you continue to feel it, sense it and be moved by it. Your dreams change, your balance changes. It has a pulse that drives your own.

Off the raft, on shore, kitchen in place, we shook out our chairs from their sacks and sat and stared at the river for the rest of the day. We moved from here to there on the river bank and back again, but we always heard the water in all its range of voices, and we never tired of staring at it, listening to it. To say it was magic is too simple. It captured our attention from a time long before we came to its banks and stayed with us long afterwards. It was, above all else, powerful and demanded respect. The river was always flowing under us or past us, around us.

Soon enough, we were sleepy and went to our tents and sleeping bags, slept like rocks on the shore. The whole night, constantly, the river flowed. We were soothed like babies by the shush and gurgle of water against rock and sand all night long. We had found our place in the universe, were made to feel small and knew it was right and good. An infinity of stars and a singing river will do that to you.
(To be continued)

Sunday, September 6, 2009

The Big Green Tongue


It took a day or so until I heard it: No engines, no weed whackers, no leaf blowers. I was sitting on the front of the raft and heard gurgling, lapping, splashing and the occasional creak of an oar in the oar lock. Nothing else. Blissfully, wonderfully peaceful and silent.

The more I heard silence, the more I loved it. It took less time than it takes to read this sentence to realize that it was the sound of heaven to me. I breathed it in and looked around, hoping the giggling smile spread across my face didn't look like it felt: Caught farting.

Before the silence, however, there had been a lot of screaming.

Just before that had been an quick interchange: "When do we get to our first big rapids?" I asked Chris.

We had been floating downriver in lazy circles, like a leaf in a little pond blown by a breeze. Chris, the expedition leader and oarsman, had been telling jokes and looking around, smiling absentmindedly at the distant tree tops. He seemed sleepy, finally relaxed after loading up all the "shit" - boaters' talk for gear - that had taken several hours. His sleepiness was infectious; I contemplated tipping over in my life vest and taking a little nap in the sun. The best I could do with the vest though was flap my arms and shuffle my feet around a little bit. I accepted the ungainly puffy orange corset as fair exchange for the bliss I was feeling.

I asked the question casually, dreamily, believing we had a long while of floating and sunning ahead of us. Chris had let the raft float sideways, frontwards, and then backwards, unconcerned with guiding us in a one-way fashion.

"Now!" He took the oars in hand and looked over his shoulder and to the rear.

"Now?" We were going backwards, and now I heard it. The voice of the river had deepened, intensified. Oh. I am sitting on a cooler imitating a beachball and we are heading toward whitewater. Going backwards. Chris rowed and we remained backwards. I sort of laughed, but it came out like a squawk. Shouldn't we be going forwards? Shouldn't we be able to see where we're going?

I remembered my lesson from earlier: Stay out of the way. Also: Blow the whistle long to alert for something or another. Hmm...confined to a 14-foot raft with several hundred pounds of gear, my husband and an oarsman with an odd sense of direction, I wondered where I could go. Over the side? Too close to the rapid now for that. When was I supposed to blow the whistle?

Now we were slowly turning to our left and swinging around. I could see the rapid finally, a long jumbled series of splashes, stacks of water piling up like little hills frothing at the top, rocks sticking out of the hills and smoother glassier water here and there. It looked like there was no good way through it. The safety talk about not pointing at rocks and whistling recurred to me. There were rocks everywhere and a cliff on one side of the river. I really needed to point at something, and it became an urge so strong I could hardly overcome it. I became so conflicted between the need and the admonition that I just waved my arms around and squawked again. Now I was a large orange chicken, I thought. Squawking.

"Hang on!" Chris called out. To what? I looked around and reminded myself this was what I had come here for, prepared for, dreamed of. Whitewater fun! More squawks. I grabbed my vest but, no, that didn't really make sense. I grabbed my husband, but that made less sense somehow. If I was going to be jettisoned from the raft by a wild bucking river and I grabbed my husband on the way out, he would land on top of me and squish me. Not to death exactly, but two big orange beachball imitators like us would not make a pretty picture thrashing around in the river. We'd be left for dead. The rest of our party, frightened to approach, would look aghast and mutter a few prayers for our souls as they floated past. Maybe one would play a bagpipe. Or a banjo. Both. Dueling bagpipes and banjos.

Chris was now talking about "the big green tongue" of the river and I looked with a sudden stillness of heart at what he was aiming for. The water that had been swirling coyly and gently had gathered itself with an intention of purpose that rivaled any soccer mom driving a minivan in a crowded parking lot. The surface had become green, smooth and now moved much more rapidly into a long v-shaped stretch. It looked like green honey; it was liquid but dense and full of power. The tongue of the rapid.

The current grabbed the raft and hauled it down the tongue, which licked over and around a lot of submerged boulders, each one forming its own tongue of smooth water, pouring over the tops of them. On the far side of the rocks, each one in turn, was a hollow of backflowing whitewater that roared and splashed. We dipped up and down, up and down and each white wave dashed me with a bucket of cold water. I grabbed something to hang onto, probably my camera strap, nothing useful, and graduated from squawk to scream.

Suddenly, we were through and back into calmer water again. "What class was that rapid?" I asked with adrenaline raising my voice. I was ready to tell all my friends back home about my harrowing escape from death. "Class II or so, maybe III. That was a nice little one." Somehow disappointed not to be dead or mangled (odd huh?), I imagined bigger rapids. The classification goes up to Class V, which is where rapids take rafts and throw them up into the treetops at the river's edge. Class VI is Niagara Falls.

Instantly addicted to the sound and motion of a wildly kicking river, I straightened up and looked downriver for more. I felt my confidence return and made plans to become a river guide, outdoors woman, whitewater legend. Yeah, this was where I belonged, on a raft in the western wilderness, ready for any challenge, riding free. I spat dramatically, feeling like Annie Oakley and considered a cold beer.

Then, I looked down and saw the spittle on my knee. Yuck.

After a couple of hours of bucking bronco water interspersed with mellow pools of peace and serenity, we hauled ashore for the day and set up camp. (To be continued)

Friday, September 4, 2009

Remembering the Rogue, Part I


I learned a lot of things on the Oregon river called the Rogue. Most of all, I learned that humans can hardly go anywhere without a literal ton of things. River guides call it shit, so I will too. "We got to load all this shit on the raft or we aren't going anywhere." "Man that's a lot of shit!" "Where do they get all this shit anyway?" Like that.

I took all my REI prizes (see previous post) and headed north, gathering with my tribe on the banks of the Rogue. It was hot in a way that volcanologists who scoop red-hot lava understand, and metal was dripping off my car by the time I got to the gathering spot. My body, which is usually shivering and clammy in our local fog at this time of year, puffed up immediately to twice its normal size and I looked like Mrs. Tomato Head. But, I was thrilled to be joining the ranks of adventurers who seize the day and sally forth into the wild blue yonder. I was overdue for sallying.

The river was beautiful and seductive from the moment I saw it shimmering in the blasting heat. It made cool delightful noises and I wanted to jump into its arms immediately. Instead, I gaped at the massive tonnage assembled next to our four rafts. "Man that's a lot of shit!" Chris the Expedition Leader strode around making sense of it and cursing it in turn. He's been down a million rivers and had a very clear idea of what was supposed to happen in the next few hours. I had only the one idea: Get it all onto four rafts and go float on the river. That idea simplified quite a bit to the point where my idea was: Stay out of the way.

Chris gathered us around and gave us a safety talk. "One whistle means something. Three whistles mean something else!" At least that's what I remembered three days later. "Don't point at obstacles in the river, point to where there's a clear spot. If you see a rock in the way, don't point to it, point somewhere else!" Hmmm...this was going to be a lot tougher than I'd imagined. Mostly, because when you're a passenger in a car and the driver is heading straight for a truck, you tend to want to scream and point to the grill as it bears down on you, not point at a tree nearby or a distant cloud.

Next thing I know, we are shoving off and piling into the rafts. I'm wearing a straight jacket. Well, they are quaintly called life vests, but you are forced by the confining thickness of the jacket to walk like Frankenstein and cannot bend at the waist at all. You feel impervious to almost everything, bumping off of other people and trees like a large ball. You jump into the river and get pulled out again by the shoulders of the jacket as if you were a large flounder flopping helplessly, kicking your legs ineffectually and hoping the person hauling you in doesn't strangle you with the jacket because you forgot to retighten the upper buckles of the jacket the last time you decided to breathe. The technique is supposed to be simple: You jump in, swim, pee in the river while pretending to watch an eagle fly overhead, swim over to the raft and ask to be helped back in. On three, your helper grabs the shoulder pad area of the vest, leans back to counter your weight and hauls you up and over the side. You slither up into the raft and resume your post in the bow feeling refreshed and content.

I was confident and happy to be riding in Chris's raft on the first day. Until he abandoned ship. Between rapids on the Rogue are long stretches of deep slow-moving water that nonetheless need some guiding hands on the oars to negotiate effectively. Just as I was beginning to develop a deep calm, Chris let the oars go slack and simply dove off the raft into the water. Just like that. Hey, come back here! Certain that we would soon be swept off an enormous waterfall or bashed up against an unseen rock, I began to calculate the time it would take me to row to shore, secure the raft and call for a new guide.

Cell phones - if you are silly enough to think yours will survive all the water and dirt - don't work in the river canyon. I realized I was exactly and simply another piece of luggage on the raft. I don't know how to row, can't get myself through a rapid, didn't really have a clear idea of where I was exactly and was wrapped up in a rented life vest feeling like - and looking a very close approximation to - a beach ball.

Just before I got to the squeak stage of anxiety (which preceeds the whimper stage), Chris hoisted himself back into the raft and took up the oars. "Man, that's the best thing on the river. Just jump in and cool off. That pizza oven wind is blowing. Can you feel it?" He grinned and laughed, rowing heartily toward the distant roar of rapids. (To be continued)

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Hummingbird musings

A calendar page has turned and we are in September. At last, summer is here in the Groove. As summer arrives, the leaves float lightly from the sycamores and sail across the streets, landing with a scratchy shushing sound. They whirl up again dryly as tires rush past.

It's beautiful here when it's summer/fall. Warmth so long anticipated is a lulling tonic. Riots of bougainvillea blossoms splash color against the adobes of Monterey and clapboard sides of the Victorians here in the Groove, almost too violent a color to take in. I squint sometimes when I see them, but the intensity of the colors please me.

I coddle three rose bushes in my little garden, hoping for an occasional spectacular blossom. They are very fussy and hold out for more pay; I have to hand pick insects off of them, fertilize them just so, groom them in particular ways. In contrast alyssum and Santa Barbara daisies are like Catholics; they breed prolifically and scatter themselves everywhere, requiring an occasional squirt of a hose now and then. They bloom in any soil. Unlike Catholics, who usually smell like garlic - at least the ones I know do - alyssum is as fragrant as honey.

There's a keen little hummingbird that has set up shop in a nearby Monterey pine. It aims its little needle-like beak at a distant flower bush and flies pell mell toward it like a fighter jet. Licking nectar from any flowers that have it on offer, I can't imagine the energy that's needed just to hover as its tongue gathers its fuel. Wings hum at 200 beats per minute I've heard - a blur. Hummingbirds are ferociously territorial. I wonder if they have ever thwanged themselves like darts into fences by accident. Probably not.

I was rummaging around in a potted plant a few days ago when our hummingbird decided to check me out. He flew to within three feet of my head, wings beating like mad. He moved to his left a few feet for a better view and then to his right. Maybe my skin lotion was interesting; maybe not. Rather I think it was the fact that my garden hose was on and he smelled fresh water. I felt intimidated by his rapier beak and my skin seemed very vulnerable to a stab attack if he so chose. Bored, he returned to his high perch in the pine and carried on with his territorial rapid-fire squeaks and chirps, sounding like a tiny rusty hinge up there.

Now that the sun's rays are slanting at a lower and lower angle every day and we feel her heat all day long, we are smiling more, walking less briskly, looking for hammocks in which to swing idly in the afternoon. Summer crowds are finally gone and we in our specific summer/fall groove can drink the sweet wine of patience rewarded.