Taos Teaches Us About Time

4/28/10 Taos, NM

This is midweek, a Wednesday; Taos awaits.  Off we go to find a good cup of coffee.  About a block north of our hotel is World Cup Cafe, a tiny place with excellent expresso and mochas.  Perfect to get our booties up the road further.  I think I am still full of elk burger from Doc's last night. No complaints though.  It's trying to be sunny, but soft cumulus clouds are tumbling high overhead but are no threat.

Again, I remind myself to watch the uneven pavement, to stop if I need to look around.  It's pretty tricky footing, and I don't know the town well enough for my feet to just know the way.

Up ahead and on the right is The Fechin House, home of the Taos Art Museum, so we go in and are wowed by a masterfully designed and constructed adobe home built in about 1930.  Nicolai Fechin arrived in Taos and set to work creating a one-of-a-kind home from the ground up.  He had learned woodcarving and drafting skills in his native Russia and then trained a few key workers in Taos to help him carve wood and plaster the walls.  The house is full of hand-carved lintels, cabinets, furniture, bannisters, railings, doors and window frames, varnished to a glossy shine.  The light quality in the house, to say nothing of the soothing atmosphere of its interior, is superb.  Fechin's art pieces, also terrific, are displayed on the walls as are other Taos artists' work.  He was a productive master craftsman and artist who made amazing use of his time.  From the amount of carved trim inside the house, he must have been constantly carving and cutting wood.  Nonstop.

We wander over to Ledoux Street and find the artistic heart of Taos. There are mocha-mud colored adobes with aqua, turquoise and royal blue trim shaded by tall green-bud trees.  We tour the Blumenschein Museum that's housed in a rambling low adobe.  Blumenschein was a contemporary of Mr. Fechin, both members of the Taos Society of Artists back in the 1920s.  This museum is both a display of the family's home as well as an historic collection of their art work.

The La Fonda Hotel, which anchors the Taos Plaza, is nearby, so we sit there and watch people for a little while and sip some cool water.  It's still sunny out, but a little breeze is kicking up and we decide to get back to our motel for a rest break.

There's not much in life a little slack time won't cure, I thought, although the irony of that thought was obvious after having visited the two museums filled with the work of some very prolific artists.  Hmmm.

Refreshed, we set out to find the Dragonfly Cafe, which we heard is consistently voted most wonderful of all cafes, and there are quite a few, I must say. You'd have to be pretty picky to go hungry in Taos.  My selection is buffalo burger this time, which has an herbed bun baked that morning and tender greens on the side.  Oh my, was it tasty.  The cafe is busy and bright with conversation, lively colors and art.

It's 2 PM and we're going to the UNESCO World Heritage Site north of town.  The Taos Pueblo is just around a few bends in the road, maybe two miles away.  But, the adobes are as old as the hills themselves and look like river mud rose up slowly but surely to make itself into adobe buildings, just as if the earth had given birth to them.  They appear ineffably organic, solid, rooted to the ground.  Indeed they are of the ground entirely and would eventually melt back to the earth if not attended to by the generations of people who have occupied the various homes within them for time out of mind.

A rushing stream flows downhill between the two main adobe structures.  The residents, whose forefathers have always lived there, never displaced as so many other native people were, strictly control access to the pueblo and limit photography and sightseeing to the large central dirt plaza and a few side alleys.

Many native artisans living in the pueblo open small shops during visiting hours and sell their goods.  So, by going indoors and shopping, interior spaces are able to be seen.  I want to inspect it carefully and examine every angle and view, but I feel intensely aware of the need for the folks living within to remain private and unmolested by intruders.

There's really nothing else like this place in this country.  We walk slowly around taking a few pictures, trying to imagine living there.  The folks we speak with in the shops are gentle, warm and polite.  I like them very much.  Their heritage is grand and timeless and makes me feel like a drifting tumbleweed in comparison.  I'm grateful to have been able to visit for an hour.

We shuffle off to our parked car and drive quietly away to the west.  I feel like my perspective of time has been wrenched and clocks are ticking differently now.  But, no, my watch still moves one second at a time.  I settle down and look down the road to what's ahead.  Another museum to visit, more to learn.

The Millicent Rogers Museum is an excellent collection of thousands of fine Hopi, Navajo, Zuni and other Native American crafts.  Ms Rogers was the daughter of a wealthy oilman.  She had deep pockets and, after coming to the southwest and falling in love with the region, began to collect pottery, silver and turquoise pieces feverishly.  Lucky for us, her own work as well as her collection are on display.  We browse the various rooms and galleries until we can browse no more; we are on overload.

Up past our eyeballs with Native American things and history, it's time to stare into space, so off we drive to the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge a few miles away, for a look at the muddy river and the distant mountain peaks. The wind is gusting pretty good now, so after parking our car we walk cautiously to the middle of the 510-foot-wide span and get a little case of vertigo and a big case of awe.  We toss a small-sized rock out to see where it might land and  are unable to follow it all the way down to the river 650 feet below.

The Rio Grande is a big river way, way down in a big ditch and we feel like puny ants up there on the bridge.  Little tumbleweed ants in a big old world that has been carrying on its business for an unfathomable long time.

It's twilight now, and we are indeed quite tiny, insignificant and bewildered creatures.

Back in Taos, we feel the call of a very special place and heed it.  The Mabel Dodge Luhan House is tucked away on a quiet and lovely hill.  It's a salve to our tired minds, a sanctuary of sorts, a balm.  Ms Luhan was a socialite who brought a few artistic geniuses to the area in her day and built her own home in the adobe pueblo style.  It's very quiet, still, and peaceful.  Just being there for a short while for a look around begins to rejuvenate us.


It's dinnertime.  We decide on Orlando's New Mexico Cafe just north of town and just love it.  Roasted onion enchiladas in blue corn tortillas and green chile sauce, with posole and pinto beans on the side.  It hasn't taken long for us to become chile addicts, so we savor the classic New Mexico green sauce with gusto.  Orlando's has also been topping the Best of Taos list for years, and we agree.  Good eats, for sure.

Taos began to work its spell on us the night before as the moon rose, and now with the moon again rising over the ancient mountains and age-old pueblo, we have a better sense of how we take up some space and spend our own time.  That's the best thing that travel teaches me, time and again.

The Road to Taos

April 27, Eagar to Taos.

We drove nearly due north and then angled northeast, back into New Mexico.  The drive took us through arid and "empty" high desert with the intention of taking a look at Zuni Pueblo whose small town is also called Zuni.  This is a medium-sized collection of brown-mud pueblo-style buildings.  A few door and window frames were painted the wonderful turquoise blue popular in this area, but mostly everything was the same mocha brown as the very dirt itself.

This pueblo boasts one of the very oldest churches built by the earliest Spanish explorers.  If we wanted to take the requisite tour, we'd have to wait two hours until 1 PM.  Instead, we browsed the museum and art exhibit there, which is small but well done, bought a small seed bowl and then left.  The people were hospitable and warm, which left a very good feeling with me.  I would have liked to have stayed and visited more local shops in order to learn about the local artisans there, but we had miles to put under our tires.

Curious about a geologic feature we'd heard about, we drove further northeast across undulating land.  Buttes and mesas stood out in sharp relief the further north we went, and one in particular was of special interest:  El Morro National Monument.  Dating back to a few centuries before Christ, the top of El Morro was inhabited by ancestors of the pueblo natives who live throughout the region now.  It has a small water reservoir on top, 200 feet above the plains below, and afforded the people a safe haven and easily defensible home.  At the foot of the sheer cliffs is a large pool of fresh water that collects runoff from the rock above.  It's been an oasis dating to prehistoric times including Spanish conquerors, armies, explorers, expeditions and homesteaders.

People found respite from the arid world around them and inscribed names and dates in the soft sandstone face of the rock.  It amounted to thousands of bits of graffiti or, more accurately, a guest book of travelers.  The National Park Service has built a very informative and pleasant visitor center nearby.  For a stunning $6 you can listen to a 15-minute video describing the inscriptions and history and then explore the whole park at your leisure.

Some of the signatures rival John Hancock's and date back to 1530.  Of course, ancient petroglyphs outdo that date by a few millenia probably, and they are easily visible along the gentle walkway.

Leaving El Morro, we felt subdued but very impressed by the amount of human history the area was witness to.  We drove in relative silence and let it all sink in.

Ahead loomed the huge and busy city of Albuquerque, bright in the midday haze and glare.  It was time for a break and some lunch.  A landmark eatery awaited us:  Mary's and Tito's Cafe.  With help from our iPhone GPS, we drove right to the place, a very modest and just-folks cafe in a dusty and well-worn part of Albuquerque.  It's a long story as to how we'd known about it, but there we were and happy to be sampling what is considered some killer red chile, New Mexico style.  Delicious flavor, heavy on the red chile (must have used a whole entire tin full of it!); keep the tortillas and iced water coming.

With steam coming out of our ears and bellies full, we were now headed full-bore for Taos, legendary and fabled home to many fine artists and a World Heritage Site, the Taos Pueblo.  It was about 6 PM.  For now, we needed to rest, refresh and get our bearings.  We'd reserved a utilitarian hotel room at the Indian Hills Inn, which was more than fine for us at about half the price of most other hotels in town.  It's only two easy blocks south of the heart of old Taos, right on Hwy 68, the Paseo del Pueblo as it's called.

Believe it or not, we decided to eat again.  Mostly, we wanted to walk and move around, so we took off on foot for the plaza.  The altitude of about 7,000 got us huffing and puffing, and the uneven pavement along our route totally eliminated sight-seeing while walking.  You either look or you walk.  I was fine, but I had a few ungraceful strides here and there.  Yikes!

Doc Martin's at the Taos Inn beckoned to us with live music that echoed up and down the Paseo.  We were seated in a very warm, comfortable room with wooden beams, thick adobe walls and glowing orange candles in hammered tin dishes.  I had an elk burger with sweet potato fries - just delicious.  Full to my eyeballs, it was time to walk our weary selves back to the motel, which felt very good to do at the end of a long but interesting day of travel.

A ghostly full moon veiled in cirrus was lifting over the Sangre de Cristo mountains in the distance; it set off with the soft glow of lanterns and small pinpoints of lights in trees and shrubs along our way.  Taos seemed homemade and unpretentious, in the darkening night and promised us some good fun ahead.  But first, some sleep at the inn.

Flowing River, Lava Fields in Arizona

April 26; Eagar, AZ:

We were ready for a look around at the Little Colorado River nature trail a few miles west of Eagar. We were staying with relatives in an area in the far eastern midsection of Arizona at an altitude of about 6,500 ft. Juniper, willow, cottonwood, and low native shrubs dot all views, high and low, far and near. It's dry, high and ruggedly handsome country, and the people who live there are working folk who have been there for generations.

I learned that this is the biggest volcanic area in North America; 42 cones are visible in the area, many very easy to see. Others are only really discernible from high overhead where the outlines of calderas and collapsed cones come into view. Lava flows actually rival Hawaii's Mauna Kea's more recent flows in size. An area northeast of this region, called The Malpais, is essentially an enormous lava field with upraised crusts of black rock visible through vast tracts of land.

Eagar is bordered by Springerville; both towns are home to about 6,000 people, predominantly Mormons now. Back in the 1800s, the Clanton gang was notorious and raised hell with ranchers and townsfolk alike. They were cattle thieves, rustling cattle from ranchers in the north and selling them far to the south, then stealing from ranches in the south, herding them north and then selling them there. There was a shootout in Eagar after gang members rustled cattle and ranchers took off after them and a plaque marks the exact spot where two gang members were sent to the sweet hereafter in a hail of bullets. It is also known that the Hole-In-The-Wall gang rode through every so often and took shelter in rocky and remote areas.

The Little Colorado River, the focus of the nature trail, is running higher than usual due to late snows at high altitudes. The river's bed is not very wide in the Round Valley, but it twists and turns like a snake. Cottonwoods with tender green buds arched overhead along the riverbank and meadowlarks fluting from low shrubs set the river to music. Recently, winter's snows had flattened everything, and spring's flowers are not in bloom, but it was a fine day to be out exploring.

A drive further west to Greer revealed a higher, more pine-laden terrain and good views of pronghorn antelope grazing in open grasslands flanking the road on the way to the upland forests. In summer, the high country provides respite for Phoenix residents getting cooked in the heat. They've built a small community of lodges, summer cabins and lakeside homes, all empty right now. It's rich with wildlife like bears, coyotes, porcupines and beaver plus osprey and eagles. Greer is at about 8,000 ft, and everywhere is dark lava rock, jagged and sometimes crumbling dangerously on nearly vertical cliff and steep mountain sides.

We enjoyed a barbecue dinner that night and said our good-byes the next day, heading north and east, ultimately to Taos, by way of ancient indigenous peoples' villages, a few dozen casinos and two of the largest cities in New Mexico.

Pie Town, New Mexico

April 25 - Pie Town, New Mexico (backtracking to the beginning of this journey):

Early in the morning before the sun had any idea of arriving in the east, we flew to Phoenix and from there to Albuquerque. The difference between Pacific Grove and the high desert is water. Flash floods and droughts, as well as the constantly arid climate are quickly evident as soon as you step outdoors in the southwest. Spring has been lush and eden-like this year on the California coast; locals here in New Mexico are telling us the same is true here, but at this altitude only slight blushes of green are showing up across high plateaus and on the flanks of hills. The Rio Grande, however, is flowing bank to bank. We crossed it immediately south of Albuquerque, a swollen brown flow of muddy water.

The Coronado Trail paralleled our route west to the Round Valley in eastern Arizona. The conquistador was looking for fabled cities of gold and encountered Apache indians who were trying desperately to defend their pueblos (so called by the Spaniards, a name that has stuck ever since) as well as the Zuni and other local peoples in the 1500s. Up until that time, indigenous people had lived for thousands of years in relative peace. The Spaniards found the area very difficult and disappointing, to say the least, as there were no cities that held vast treasures of gold. Modest amounts compared to what was produced in California eventually were mined in various "rushes" later in history, but enough raw materials were available to keep the Spaniards looking for more.

Yankees from the east began showing up a few centuries later. They were eager to claim land and begin running cattle and used a route called The Santa Fe Trail further north to meet trains that were eventually built to haul cattle to Chicago and points east. It seemed like wide open territory to early settlers, free for the taking, and it still looks that way now. Enthusiasm began at at a fever pitch and gradually fizzled out in the face of marauding Indians and severe natural conditions. Homesteads and shaky-looking ranches with caved-in roofs and raggedy fences can be seen now, dotting the area. For us as travelers in an air-conditioned and comfortable car going 80 mph, it seems mind-bending to imagine plodding through the area in wagons and on horseback. For us, open vistas and vast distances were no problem and "to hell and gone" hardly fit. But, that was the eventual self-description of ranchers back in the day.

History - even though what were were traveling through was mile after mile of juniper-dotted rolling high mesa land - whispering to us from every wash and rocky outcrop. We were headed to eastern Arizona to visit family for a day and a half, and the route we used was Interstate 60. We'd seen Pie Town on our map and decided it would be our first destination. It's where we intended to pick up our contribution to the night’s dinner.

About 30 people (more or less) live at this little bump in the road just west of the Continental Divide at 8,000 or so feet. We rolled up to the front of the Pie-O-Neer Cafe, fronted with a collection pink flamingos and a large welcome sign. The inside was a little oasis of good humor and friendliness that was infectious. The place is one large room with a wood-burning stove made from a 50-gallon steel drum set on its side with a stove pipe going up through the roof. A few booths and tables lined the room on either side and a long formica-covered bar lined the far end. We sat there and looked around at the memorabilia and signs. "The buck never even slows down here" was my favorite.

We chose Chili Stew and were handed a steaming bowl of bits of pork in a savory broth that also held chunks of tender potatoes, green chili and pinto beans. It's a delicious, very local comfort food. Our young pretty waitress turned out to be from Florida by way of New York, happy to have found Pie Town. The owner and her partner also play music with other local musicians (who must be scattered in the hills because not much else was around that we could see) and uses her grandmother's pie crust recipes to produce absolutely perfect pie crust, for which she is justly very proud.

We traded pie lore and recipe wisdom; pie makers feel instant kinship when they discover one another, and she was truly abuzz with happiness. She showed us her grandmother's treasured recipe book, all the way from Illinois, and seemed to have boundless energy as she moved from kitchen to counter table and back.

A traveling jewelry salesman was at the far end of the counter and traded a piece of pie for a necklace. From the taste of the pie and the quality of his jewelry, he got the better end of the bargain. A few local folks arrived who hadn't seen each other for a while. They greeted each other with great warmth and good humor and settled in for conversation around one of the round tables at the other side of the room. There were no TVs, no blaring radio, no intrusion on the calm pace of life. A large shelf - maybe 10 feet long and 5 feet high - held hundreds of well-worn books. It goes without saying that this was a place you are welcome to rest your feet and stay awhile.

At the end of each day, the Pie-O-Neer sends people on their way with piepourri, a five-piece collection of pie slices that were made during the day. Most pies are made from local fruits, but products come from much further away including Oregon and Washington.

They had just pulled a fresh pie from the oven when we arrived and insisted on letting it cool down for a while before we could taste it. New Mexico apple pie. Wow. It's a double-crust pie with two kinds of apples, pine nuts and chile pepper blended with just a hint of sweetness. We bought the whole thing to take with us and finally said good-bye.

Clouds looked like white rabbits running across the blue sky. Austere beauty that struck the heart like mallet quieted us for a while, but we were content. The Land of Enchantment works its magic in many ways, large and small. Tiny little Pie Town charmed us for sure. We'll find our way back again for wonderful pies and genuine heartfelt hospitality.

From the Road to Taos

Back in the clutches of virtual reality (wifi), I'll begin posting again regularly from our various hotels as we get to them on this vacation.  I'm in Taos now and have been traveling around the eastern area of Arizona and now into the New Mexico area including Zuni, Albuquerque, Santa Fe and Taos.

Being a shorehugger from the Groove (specifically), my lips are dry and cracked from the dry air.  The land is anything but lonesome, but certainly the elevation is high, mostly above 4,000 ft.  I'm thinking about Edward Abbey, Ansel Adams, conquistadores, native people, coyotes, lava, volcanos, continental shelf uplifts and all the forces of nature and god that are so evident in every direction.  History goes much deeper here, with conflict, boom and bust literally written in stone at times.

It is wild and unruly country that grabs you by the throat and grips your heart.  Even so, the folks currently living and abiding here are friendly and warm, each and every one so far.

So, beginning tomorrow, I'm back in the writing groove again.  Much to tell, and much more to see.  Loving it all so far.

On The Road To New Mexico

Time to travel again.  I'm off to New Mexico, hittin' the road for a week beginning tomorrow, living in a southwest groove for a while.  I'll do my posting while out on the dusty trail, and I'm really looking forward to it.

Meanwhile, back here in Pacific Grove, Spring is cool and soothing outside with all kinds of things growing and looking healthy, including children yelling and playing at the neighborhood school playground.

Badgers and Whale Poo

In a strangely redeeming way, marauding badgers and pooping whales are heroic.

In Idaho, where any form of life that competes with human hunters for game and grazing rights is shot on sight, badger populations have been eradicated wholesale.  So have wolves, coyotes, bobcats, mountain lions, foxes, feral cats and dogs, and any other "varmint" on four legs.  Consequently, prey species have run amok at times.

Currently, pelicans are becoming a nuisance at lakes where fishermen want to fish, dammit.  So what are they going to do to control them?  Reintroduce badgers.  I'm thinking that once pelicans are obliterated, the badgers will be escorted to the door and their furry rear ends booted out again.  So there you go, a redneck conservation plan, plain and simple-minded.

Next, we turn our attention to the ocean.  There, as you know, whaling ships have been prowling for a few centuries, taking whales for meat, blubber and various other useful products.  In the past, say, 40 years or so, the Japanese, and a few Scandinavian countries have turned whaling into a scorched-earth industry where huge whale processing plants, aka ships, haul in every whale they can get their hands on and turn them into cat food and sushi.  Yum.  It's still happening in spite of laws restricting catches to those needed to perform "research."

A worrisome new problem has emerged.  The oceans are slowly and steadily becoming more acidified.  Reefs are dying and other species like krill are struggling, badly in some cases.  The situation is now being studied around the world.  If the oceans die, we are dead, so this is a big problem.  One solution is to dump huge quantities of iron into the water to neutralize the acid.  It would have to be done consistently and repeatedly for years to come, possibly forever.  That could get expensive, you know?  No one's really happy with that idea right now. But wait, what about the normal balance of life?  What about what the whales' role is in it all?  

A few smart people sat down, as they do a few times a day, and one of them connected a few dots.  The solution?  Whale poo.

Whales and what whales add to the ocean -- poo (technically called feces, but you can also call it a lot of other things) -- exist in smaller numbers than they would if people were not harpooning them around the world on a daily basis.  No whales, no whale poo, not good, excrementally speaking.

Here's the simple loop that has been trashed by trawlers and whalers:  Whales eat krill, which are iron rich.  The whales digest the krill and then poop.  The poop releases iron into the ocean water that consequently neutralizes the ocean's acidity.  In non-acid water, krill populations remain robust and abundant, the whales have more krill to eat, they poo, the ocean is neutralized....and you see how it goes.

We are a species that is relatively new to the whole planet -- relative to insects, micro-organisms, fish and so on -- and we keep finding ourselves the clumsy kid in the sandbox.  We have barged around knocking things over, smashing the furniture, crushing everything we touch.  We keep discovering we've ruined things to a point of no repair or that we need to spend a lot of time patching up the stupid messes we've made.  Indigenous people who lived in nonindustrial times took the time to listen and look at what was going on around them instead of watching TV, so there was less intrusion on checks and balances in the natural world.  We don't do that, so we keep creating acid rain, acid oceans, dead zones, gyres of plastic and creating Superfunds to clean up after ourselves.  Here we think we are so darned smart.

So, the lesson is:  Whale poo is your friend and badgers would never have let the pelicans raid the fishponds in the first place if we had been paying attention.  Awesome.

Song

Peace reigns in the heavens today, and soft petals are floating down with curling contrails of delicate perfume winding and bending, playing like a dancer's hands.

Standing in solitude on a granite rock lying among the supple grasses on this hill is a singing bird.  He is no bigger than a laugh, no smaller than a smile, as light as air with black diamond eyes.  His song is a cascading ripple of sound played on a silver flute, and the notes fly on the light breeze up past the treetops, lifting through the dissipating storm, over all the hills and then the mountains where stars gather at twilight to relay the notes of his song to shooting stars.  His feet hold him to the rock even as his heart is inclined to lift with the song straight up the winding contrails of perfume.

Soft breezes run across the grasses and strum them in rippling waves of shushing air and then climb up into the emerald and peridot oaks.  Just like they had six hundred years ago, after six hundred other birds sang their spring love songs, budding for the two hundredth time, the oaks waved and bent lightly, motioning with their arms for more music, applauding and wondering when they'd ever heard such loveliness ever, ever before.  And it was always so, these trees, this rock, and this bird and his song.

Mean Kid Winter

Winter is roaming the streets outside, like a mean kid looking for a dog to kick, pissed he's not still in Alaska and wants back, now dammit!  Cranky kid with short sleep and a bad sense of humor.  I think I heard April whining in the dark last night before Winter returned.  

I'm cold.  Trying to speak with a cold lethargic mouth produces linguistic novelty, so I play around with it.  I answer the phone:  "Huhwoh.  Yef, I amb.  Thoh, than wu."  The jaw is moving, but lips are not.  Is this what Botox feels like?

I'm looking at my hands, clay imposters of what used to be agile and nimble.  I wonder:  If all the blood in my hands and feet has left and gone, where did it go?  Probably Mexico, maybe Hawaii.

Some of my furniture is made of wood.  Surely something will burn well.  A bonfire in my livingroom seems totally reasonable.  Hey, a nouveau form of spring cleaning!  If summer warmth ever does come around again, I'll have plenty of new space to decorate.  Logic, pure and simple.

Meat locker is not the way you like to describe your own home, but this place was built in the architecturally dismal era of the early 60s when stucco, single-pane aluminum windows and no insulation at all were good ideas, I guess.  One inefficient wall heater, designed and built in some god-forsaken gulag on the Russian steppes out of left-over scrap metal, is all I have to ward off the chill.  I wonder if I should keep a window open, though, in case the thing is giving off toxic fumes.

The air temp is 52 degrees today, but the wind-chill factor, with a furious gusting and snorting wind coming straight down from the tundra, is -47.  I swear.  Well, in my mind I swear, because my lips are frozen into one numb incoherent blob now, and I can't speak anymore.

I have one saving grace:  My laptop sitting on my knees is keeping me warm - another reason to keep writing.

Rolling Cinnamon Memories

The baker begins his work in the darkness of predawn, knots his apron and walks to his large wooden table.  He has turned on his ovens already, and is thinking about the tasks ahead.  He sets to work.

A large bowl is pulled from a shelf, set on the table and warm water filled to a level that, if measured by a less-practiced cook, is exactly 6 cups.  Yeast granules from a bag in the pantry are measured in by two handfuls and some sugar added to nourish the yeast.  It begins to foam and swell in the warm bath.

Nearby, a small mountain of flour is dusted liberally with cinnamon and sugar is added, then stirred by hand until a consistency that the hands know is perfect is achieved.  Eggs are cracked one-handed and then beaten in a second bowl.  The creamy pale yellow foam now rests after it is set aside.  A well is made in the flour and sugar mountain and the yeasty soup, foaming and fragrant, is poured carefully into its center.  Quickly, the baker's hands scoop and fold the mass together, keeping it moving steadily with strong, deft movements of arms, wrists and hands.  He leans into the work and his mind notices texture, warmth, and fragrance but is thinking ahead to other tasks he has ahead of him.  

The eggs are beaten into the mixture and then huge dollops of soft creamery butter glistening in the warm kitchen are folded in, kneaded into the now-elastic dough.  A softly spreading ball lies resting on the pale wood.  Flour is dusted with a series of gentle flings across the table top and over the dough.  Immediately and without hesitation, the dough is rolled out to double-arms' width across the surface, a floured rolling pin shoving the dough ahead in waves, then to the left and finally to the right.  The baker looks critically at his work and, satisfied, reaches for a large box of cinnamon and another of raisins.

Handfuls of raisins scatter from the baker's fingers to the yeasty softness, and then the cinnamon is dusted very liberally and evenly over the whole vast plain on the table.  It is sienna brown, a miniature landscape dotted with the tiny raisin boulders.

The slab of dough is sliced into sections and rolling begins.  Again, his hands sure and strong, the baker takes an edge and doubles it over onto itself.  With hands flattened he moves the dough into a long cylinder and lets it rest.  Each section of dough is rolled quickly, each cylinder perhaps the width of his hand high.  The dough is left to rise while other work is started in more large bowls around the warming kitchen.

Returning to the now-risen dough cylinders, the baker grips a long sharp knife and cuts each one into sections again, placing each one side by side on pans glistening with oil.  Every pan is rapidly moved to the oven where the rolls bake, rising and yielding their aroma to the room, the whole bakery and the town outside where dawn is just beginning to glow over the eastern horizon.

Younger bakers have arrived in the kitchen and set to work rapidly, each with many recipes to complete before they can be arrayed on plates in the display case or boxed up for delivery around town.  A radio is playing a soccer match in England.  The cooling rack by the door to the front of the bakery is filling steadily with aromatic pastries and breads.  The ovens are constantly checked, emptied and refilled with more products.  The work is fast by home standards but goes like clockwork for the kitchen crew who have made an infinite number of danishes, rolls, loaves and cookies.

The baker seizes a stainless steel bowl again and pours into it a drift of powdered sugar to which he adds cream and a dash of vanilla.  The frosting is drizzled across the warm cinnamon rolls, still in their large pans.  Each roll is cut from its brother and then placed on platters or settled into boxes with lids cocked open to allow steam to escape.  The baker takes a few seconds' pause, cocks his head slightly and a smile lifts the corners of his mouth very briefly.  Then, he returns to work.

The bakery door opens at 7 AM and customers drift in in ones, twos and fours.  They are sleepy, a little disheveled but still peacefully relaxed.  Coffee is poured and orders for cinnamon rolls, berry danishes, croissants, cinnamon brioche, cupcakes, cookies, macaroons and all other sweet delights move from racks and platters to boxes and plates on the small counter next to the busy cash register.  Murmuring voices, music, shuffling feet and polite courtesies fill the air.

An old man in a green jacket buys one of the large cinnamon rolls and takes it on its plate to a small table still vacant outside.  He sniffs the cinnamon aroma with nose held close to the pastry and his mouth waters.  He remembers his boyhood in Milwaukee before the war when the bakery there made just as fragrant rolls and he could buy one for 10 cents.  His coffee is black and hot, just the way he has always loved it, and his fork bites deep into the yielding softness of the cinnamon roll.  Its flavor sets his mouth to watering in a way no other breakfast food does.  The memory of it is half the enjoyment.  He does this every Saturday morning.  His wife, sitting across from him and smiling at his delight, picks up the outer edge of her cinnamon roll and gently uncurls part of it, then tears off a section, bites into it gently, still smiling.  She likes to uncurl the sweet bread little by little until at last she reaches the heart of it, the piece where the baker started.

The customers gradually drift off into their day with cinnamon and yeast fragrances trailing after them.  The quiet pleasures of taste and experience, layered upon lifelong-memory layer, pleasant sensations and sweet moments are furled by the strong hands of the baker.  The products of his work are eventually gone, but the delightful lingering recollections are with his patrons forevermore.

Contemplation

We are interested in conflict.  It's almost as if an absence of strife would negate love, too.  With nothing to overcome, with no enemy to prevail upon, how do we know, in contrast, what we love?  Is there cause for celebration if we have not conquered something, overcome difficulty, denied death?

Competition and conflict, large and small, between unseen forces or those right before our eyes, drive us as people.

Can there be war without love, or love without fear?  Which one really defines peace?  

French Toast on the Coast

This is the weekend of the Sea Otter Classic at Laguna Seca, a weekend-long festival of all things bicycle related.  We have seen flocks of cyclists around town, riding in small bunches, twos and threes, and they have been blessed with premium conditions including very light wind and mild sunshine.  Though the hills of the area are furry with green grass and bushy green trees, wildflowers are not growing in the profusion of the previous year, but cyclists have been blessed with eye candy like never before.

Although the Classic is a lively and kinetic circus -- mostly silent in comparison to what happens at Laguna Seca during car-racing season coming up -- we chose to set aside that sort of fun in favor of a deep breath of loveliness at Nepenthe for brunch.  The drive sparkled with beauty.  In my mind I relived rides I've made in the past on bicycles to and from Big Sur and generally tend to think of the drive in terms of both the difficulty and challenge it presents for pedalers.  The stretch from Rio Road to Big Sur is just under 30 miles and always seems much prettier going south, mostly because there is a tailwind and the earlier morning light on the textured mountainsides is more interesting.

There are few places you can go in California (or the world) that set your heart to soaring like the Santa Lucia range does as it stretches with wild abandon above the ragged coast.  The restaurant at Nepenthe opens at 11:30, but the Cafe Kevah was open when we arrived, which was just as wonderful.  Our appetites were in full roar by the time we arrived, and the aromas and sounds of a bustling kitchen put an edge them.

The cafe is entirely outdoors and affords a view of infinite waterline draped in a soft misty gauze bordered by the knees of the continent cloaked in green.  The food was delicious and we did not think it so simply because were in the lap of paradise, struck dumb with bliss.  Big Sur generally tends to be expensive because all supplies must be brought quite a distance from major trucking routes, but service and culinary artistry has improved over the years to match what people expect in Carmel.  Cinnamon brioche french toast was $10 and my very large cappucino was $5.50.

We took a tour around the just opened restaurant on the terrace above the cafe and then into the Phoenix Gift Shop just below, both of which are unique in a New Age style.  Well worth a visit to either one or both.

To say we were satisfied with our drive into the redwood- and pine-scented arms of the Big Sur valley and up to the angel's aerie of Nepenthe is a silly understatement.  It's inspiring, refreshing, and today was beautiful beyond compare.

Bodice Ripper, Part Two

We last left Helga rushing into Bob's arms as he sat astride his snorting charger.  That is, not his muscle car but his actual horse.  He didn't have a muscle car yet.  They wouldn't be popular for another six or seven centuries.  Bob, (Roberto Centoothian The Third and Nearly Knighted), had spurned Helga after her eager leaping dash across the henyard.  He realized that she had been fooling around with goulash and another man, Urgundheind.  In spite of his lust for her tenderized white flesh (for she had just an hour earlier soaked rather luxuriantly in a natural hot spring behind the henhouse), he made up his mind once and for all.  He was blinded with sorrow and, of course, lust.  He was a pretty lusty guy, having lived all his life on horseback and on bounding mains.

With rage, he yelled, "I trusted you!" Just as if he were a character in a James Cameron epic movie.  

Her eyes welled up with tears that hung quivering on her long eyelashes, ready to drop to her expansive bosom, where they should have crept ever so slowly to her cleavage and then disappear between her twinned torpedoes, but they just hung.  Not the torpedoes; the tears.  Quivering.  Just like her expansive bosom.  He had a certain fascination with her bosom, but he managed to keep his eyes on the little mole on her cheek.

"I never meant to hurt you," she said, chin trembling, "I can't live like this!  I've told you that, but you didn't believe me.  I don't love Urgundheind.  He means nothing to me.  It was just a fling, a romp in the straw.  You were gone for so long, saving wenches, er...damsels in distress.  I was bored with the chickens.  You can only take so much of all that cluck-cluck-clucking all day long.  I'll go insane.  I really will.  Don't leave me!" she wailed, but the wails were useless.

He jutted his chin defiantly and looked as chiseled and as dashing as any man has any right to look in a ripped shirt with his chest waxed and wind tossing his hair to and fro.

Helga saw him up there on his white horse and got lusty, as she usually did when she saw him like that.  Her bosom started heaving all over again and the pink of her cheeks increased.  Her lips were parted and her eyelids lowered.   She tried all her feminine wiles.  She went at him with everything she still had at her mildly advanced age.  She even tried a little shimmy with her left shoulder and winked.

He saw this and became enraged, disgusted, and then distracted by the horse who was gathering its haunches under itself, readying for a dramatic charge across the hilltops.  He was a charger through and through.

Bob the Nearly Knighted turned his eager charger southward toward Waterloo and off they galloped, dramatically, handsomely, with cape sailing off behind, also dramatically.  He resisted the urge to turn around and wave his gauntlet at Helga one last time in a sad farewell.  He was sure she took him for a fool, and he was having no part of it.

Then he realized he couldn't have waved his gauntlet anyway even if he'd wanted to.  He checked everywhere, in every pocket, every secret leather pouch. The gauntlet was nowhere to be found.  He even looked in the glove compartment.  In those days, saddles had glove compartments, and so in an effort to maintain a link with days of yore, we have adopted the custom forward to this day, which is why even Dodge Chargers are outfitted quite neatly with them.

Bob stopped his charger, his actual horse, to think for a moment and try to recollect in the midst of all his sadness and bitterness where he might have left his gauntlet.  A man needed his entire kit as well as his wits about him if he were to stride into battle or even away from an unfaithful woman such as Helga.

Bob's heart was sinking as he sat there with his brow furrowed.  The realization struck him that he had last seen the errant glove in the hand of the unfaithful and devious Helga the Betrayer and yet excellent preparer of crispbread and cheese.

"Oh, God, what next?" he groaned. The horse screamed and struck the ground with his shod hooves, striking up sparks that lit the twilight and reflected off of Bob's well-oiled bronzed and muscular arms.

He realized that as he had reached for her hand to help her to his saddle, before he had realized she was playing him for a fool and making goulash for Urgy (as Bob called him when they were both boys growing up in the tiny mountain village of Steininfrank), she had grabbed his gauntleted hand, but it had slipped off in her grip:  Whoosh!  They don't make gauntlets like they used to, he thought, and his was probably a one-size-fits-all model.

Feeling shock and awe, just like W had hoped the Iraqis would feel when he foolishly invaded their country for no good reason, after the deeply alarming realization that she was a two-timing strumpet, he had galloped off without retrieving the glove.  It was probably still gripped in her soft pink hand even now.

The wind was blowing hard and his cape whipped and snapped about him.  His horse pawed the ground  and sparks flew up as it struck the hard flint underfoot.  Like a lightbulb going off, but it was sparks this time, Bob had a new idea.  He would go back for the glove!  Why hadn't he thought of that before?  He loved his mind, its complexity, its ability to zero in on just the right course of action.

"Let's go horse!"
 
The horse stood stock still, its ears cocked backwards toward Bob and its eyes rolled skyward.

"Go forward, horse!" Bob flapped the reins a bit and nudged the suddenly stubborn beast in the ribs with his heels.  The horse stood as still as a Greek statue, like those carved in bronze and set on a marble pedestal in the Louvre where the public wanders by and admires them while they check their pamphlets for further information.

"Come on, horse, let's get going!  I have a gauntlet to retrieve!"

Not a budge from the stubborn steed.

"Horse!  Go!"  The finer points of horsemanship were not part of Bob's list of skills.  He had never learned how to make that little clicking sound that cowboys make when herding cattle, and besides that, cowboys hadn't been invented yet.  It was just the past the dark ages, almost light out, and most people in that region ran sheep, not cattle.

"Okay, I'll give you a new contract?" He asked the horse hopefully.  No movement.

"New name?"  The horse whinnied loudly and tossed his head up and down.  He snorted.  That is, Bob snorted.

"God!  That's ridiculous."  The horse neighed and began to gallop away, tail flying in the wind.  "God?  That's your moniker?" He had to hang on with all his might for the horse was really going like the wind now.  Off they flew back to Helga who held the gauntlet in her right hand even still, and schemed with a very dark heart, and Bob wondered about the meaning of God.    

Running on The Coast: The Marathon

Big Sur isn't very far away.  About 35 miles or so, maybe 40, down the winding rock-encrusted coast.  At the end of the month, the last Sunday, a whole host of school buses fling open their doors at 5 AM, gather up a horde of humans and bring them all the way down to Big Sur where they are released.  Then, the horde faces north, the direction from which they have just come, and they all run back.  From the time they begin until exactly 12 noon, the coast highway echoes with the soft, rhythmic plop-plopping sound of running shoes on asphalt, murmuring voices and heavy breathing.  At one-mile intervals, music wafts in the morning salt air rising from the shore far below.

Running is what we humans do, when we aren't walking, squatting or lying around.  We are meant to run. Modern life insists that instead of running we sit, lounge, recline, and shuffle from cubicle to car to Barcalounger.  The organizers of the Big Sur International Marathon decided that whoever has the will and desire to spring off their La-Z-Boy and use their legs as they were intended would be rewarded in  magnificent style.

They stop all traffic on the gorgeous coast road, provide zillions of enthusiastic volunteers to ply the sore muscles and lagging spirits of runners with massage, snacks, drink, medical attention and encouragement.  They find musicians and haul them down to strategic points along the 26.2 mile route to play fine, heavenly music; a grand piano plays at the bottom of a long descent that culminates at the base of the Bixby Creek Bridge, for instance.

The runners must still head home, like homing pigeons in a flock that wears high-tech gear instead of feathers.  The course is extraordinarily difficult for a marathon, far hillier than it has any right to be, but the event fills up immediately when it's announced.  The prestige and sense of achievement is undeniable.  Friends and relatives have run it, some many times, and they all talk about how hard it was to do, how they suffered, wonder about their own sanity.  But none of them regrets it.  I took part in the 10-mile walk one year, an adjunct to the actual marathon, presented at the same time on part of the same course.  It, too, was difficult.  My feet were tired beyond the normal understanding of that word, but I was elated.

You can drive along the coast in your car, but, as usual, you will be missing a lot of the sensory experience that slower, human-powered travel affords you.  Get out and walk for a little way (be safe, of course).  Or ride your bike.  The coast will feel wilder, and I'll bet so will you.

The event will be happening next weekend, last weekend in April.  Probably the most unique thing that happens in the area, the most human of all things, running wild, for the good of our souls.

Cinnamon and Coffee

With limited time today and many appointments to keep, I decided to go out for a walk early and watch the town wake up.  All I had to do was follow my nose.  I headed west from home to get to the downtown area.  Turning a corner, cinnamon took me by the nose and led me to Pavel's Bakerei.  It has a curved glass front and inside are three shelves holding plates of delectable pastries and goodies, many of them as big as a baseball mitt.  I reached in my pocket and -- to my relief -- I had left my money at home.  That was a close one.

Down forest past two boutiques, one called Chartreuse and the other called Biba; past Hazara Oriental Rugs, around the corner and west again on Lighthouse Avenue.  Next, I passed Maurizios Cafe, not yet opened, and then Juice N Java on the corner of 19th Street.  Quite a few groovers had settled in already with their favorite cuppa Joe and a scone.  Nice.

Over across Lighthouse is Holly's Lighthouse Cafe, which is a charming blue-checked-table cafe well loved by locals.  The early birds were scrutinizing the menu and refilling mugs of coffee.

On my side of the street, I passed more businesses that would swing their doors open about 10 a.m. or so.  Others are only open for dinner.  The Red House Cafe had just opened, and for probably the only time I've ever seen it like that, it was empty.  But, at 7:30 in the morning, I just had to wait for an hour before hungry breakfasters would be queuing up for tables.

I walked on, trying to keep my pace up but always distracted by changes.  One notable change:  The grand mansion originally built by Dr. Hart that had subsequently been occupied by Maison Bergerac and then The White House On Lighthouse has finally been purchased after standing empty for a couple of years.  It's enormous and will require quite a truckload of cash to refurbish.  I'll be very curious to see how that will come along and if it will be used commercially again.

Finally, before turning down toward the ocean for a roundabout loop, I detected the aroma of breakfast cooking at Toasties on the corner of Central and Lighthouse.  By far, they have the fastest service around and they keep your mug full.  It's a great place to go for a hearty breakfast, but you may have to wait a little while midmorning on weekends.

I'll tell you more about dairylands, the original 100 acres and other layers of the town.  Walking is a great way to get around town, especially in the morning with cinnamon and coffee wafting through the air.

A Riot of Color

The sun is cooling her heels just now,  set on getting to Hong Kong soon.  I'm on the couch, halfway between vertical and horizontal, debating the merits of staying alert vs draping my carcass over a few pillows and watching TV the rest of the night.  I had a brief idea about getting up and over to Asilomar to wave good-bye to the sun, but, no I'm not going to.  I'll send an email and wish her well.

I saw some surreal color down in my neighbor's yards on my way home today and stopped for a few shots of magenta and gold.  Gorgeous.  Spring is a riot of color, assaulting my eyes at every turn, and I love it.  Mostly, there is a heavy green fullness to the oaks on every hill this year, after the many showers that have soaked way down to the deepest roots of the trees.

It makes it very hard to think of going to work and sitting indoors for eight hours.  Shouldn't I be out in the world instead of locked inside?  Is that what's best for us all?  I think I am always a better version of myself if I can fill my lungs with fresh air and walk for miles out in the world, not cooped inside.  It's a conflict that no one of us has solved for good in any of our modern lives.

Pupping and an Inscrutable Clerk

Today was horrible.  Houses were pretty and flowers were beautiful.  Everywhere were clean sidewalks and neatly kept homes where people were quietly safe, well-adjusted and productively useful.  A lady was gently brushing oak leaves off her car, littered there by the tree overhead.  She looked content with her chore.  Another young woman was pushing her baby in a stroller; both were attractive and seemed to have no worries or concerns.  A dog on a leash sniffed a fence, didn't even lift his leg on it, looked so benign that I thought he was stuffed.

It all gave me a feeling that I was walking in a strange sensory deprivation zone.  The day was featureless and, well, plainly okay.  Sedate and peaceful to the point of tedium.

I was rather upended by so much of nothing wrong, to the point that it felt that something was actually awry, but I couldn't imagine what it was.  There was absolutely nothing going on.  Everything was fine. I wanted to scream.

I went back home and sat staring out the window for a while, my mind dulled, completely uninspired.  

I went for another walk later in the day, down to the post office, where the iconic symbol for the day emerged:  A very formal, emotionless but polite Chinese clerk waited on me.  I've seen him several times before, and he is always in tip-top form when at his station, always gives the ultimate in efficient, careful and perfectly regulated customer service.  He never makes a mistake and always treats everyone exactly the same as everyone else without even an iota of variation.

"May I help you at this window, ma'am?"

"Yes. I'd like to send this by certified mail."

"Would you also like to have delivery confirmation?"

"Isn't that redundant?" He waited for me to clarify my question, but I was at a loss.  He embodied inscrutability.  I didn't want to blither idiotically, but his silence seemed to encourage it; however, I held my tongue and quieted down.  He saw that I was ready for his explanation.  

"It adds a signature to the routine that the delivery person has to use when the parcel is delivered, ma'am."

"Well, no thank you, then."

"Very well.  Will there be anything else today, ma'am?" He asked, waiting for the next direction from me, confident that he could complete anything without fuss.

"No, thank you.  Here's my card."  His bearing was imperturbable, distant, efficient.  I wanted to tip his boat over, stick a rose between his teeth and turn on some sizzling Latin music.  Then, I imagined he could probably read my mind and considered me to be a lunatic.

"Debit or credit, ma'am?"

"Debit."

"Staple your receipts together?"

"Yes, please."

"There you go. Thank you. Have a very nice day." He handed me my card and receipt folded neatly together and bowed his head to me.  I listened carefully for the sound of a gong, muffled in the distance, but all was quiet and well under control.

I left the sanctuary/post office, walked down to Central Avenue, past the Centrella Hotel, downhill to the rec trail and then east along the waterfront for about a mile.  The ocean was blue, the sky was also blue, houses were neatly painted and birds circled picturesquely.  I found myself sighing a lot and wondering if there was going to be anything at all interesting about the day.  

Over near Hopkins Marine Station, signs and fencing had been placed warning away the public.  Okay, here we go, I thought.  Maybe a dead body had been found or a ship ran aground.

Nope, it was pupping seals.

I played with the word:  Pupping.  People don't pup; we aren't found to be pupping.  I was able to breathe normally again.  Something interesting was afoot.  It wasn't exactly mayhem, but it was better than the rest of the flatlined town had presented.

Pupping happens every April.  A few particular beaches that are small in size and well defined by rock outcroppings become home base for female harbor seals.  Dozens of pups are born and spend the next two months or so in the confines of the beach with their moms.  Crowds always gather.  It's Nature in full view, wildlife that's usually hidden in dark places.

The female seals were lying side by side on the beach sand, speckled torpedos with fur.  Only two pups were visible today, both curling up their flippers and lolling around in the soft sand near their mothers, clearly enjoying themselves in the sun.

A day that was nearly ruined with perfectly ordered uneventfulness was saved by wild animals lying around with their newborn babies.  Not earth-shattering, but it saved a horribly fine day.

ADD + Food = ?

Seems like every time I'm near food or even smell food cooking in the remote distance, memories are dredged up from past meals or time spent with special people in their kitchens.  I think I have a nose like a wolf, able to detect roasted garlic from halfway around the globe.  The connection to food is intense, unending, fascinating and incredibly distracting.  Being ADD is bad enough, but combine distractability with any connection whatever to food, and, well, I think there's a new 12-step program out there waiting for me.  


When I was in high school, I had to keep a journal for one of my classes.  The instructor would collect the journals and look them over, commenting on our writing and reflecting on lessons learned.  Even then, young unformed person that I was, I was very focused on food.  The final comment from the teacher at the end of the semester was, "I enjoyed your writing, but I thought you were leading up to a big barfing finale."   Hmmm....odd, but heartfelt I guess.  


I guess at heart I must be some version of a food writer, but remain closeted.  It just annoys me to death to hear food snobs critiquing chefs' work on Food Channel shows when what they have just eaten is ridiculously, exquisitely fine food (Iron Chef) prepared in less time than it takes me to tie my shoes.  


I am more along the lines of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, gluttonous to no end and happy to dive head first into vats of chocolate and slather my face in marinara sauce.  Slurping pasta noodles quickly so they hit my face before they slither into my mouth is my version of entertainment.  What can I say?  Food Slob, that's me.  


I imagine myself to be a sophisticated analyst of world politics, but a good tomato salad with mozzarella and splashed with olive oil distracts me from offering my opinion.  Or, I fantasize about writing a thought-provoking treatise on environmental issues like plate tectonics' effect on geophysical alignment of nuclear polarity (huh?), but a hunk of gouda cheese plated with autumn pears diverts me and I go into paroxysms of delight.  It's hopeless, but I'm happy.  


I just have to find my audience.  


Now, where did that little plate of strawberries and creme fraiche go off to?  

Salve for the Soul

I wondered if the timing belt on my car was going to break or if it was going to rain or if I should go on a diet and worried that the music store I was driving past would go out of business because everyone was buying music online now, including me.  Too much of nothing important.  I was far from a panicked and jibbering mess; more of a low-voltage worrier on a slow static fizzle.

Time to get out on the road, go heal myself.  I needed just what I'd planned for the day:  A wildflower walk way up in Carmel Valley, far from the cold coast and throngs of people.

So, I drove east 12 miles to Carmel Valley Village -- hugged close between two ridges of hills and cut clean by a jostling little river -- and then onward another 15 miles to the gate of Hastings Natural History Reservation where I would join 25 other restive people in need of a good soul-soothing walkabout in nature. 

Hastings is a vast tract of 2,700 acres of hardly-touched land draped in trees and brush where bright, interested, and curious-minded students from UC Berkeley look very carefully for long periods of time at patterns that emerge in nature. Over and over again, since 1970, they've discovered that what nature -- God, if you will -- has been doing routinely, is exquisite in detail and complex beyond imagining.

This was a rare walk led by the caretaker and manager of Hastings, Dr. Mark Stromberg, a guy so well versed in the studies and goings on all over the Reservation that he seems almost weighted down by all of the knowledge. A group of people and I, ready to listen and look closely at whatever would present itself, walked with Stromberg up hills, along trails, under spreading oak.  Nothing was too mundane to notice.   No vista went unseen, unappreciated, and all musings were attended to.

Life felt grounded here. God moved in closer to me with each deeply drawn breath, and I remembered the possibility of angels.  They could have been right amidst the lupine and shooting stars sprinkled in the grasses, bobbing and dancing in the cool waves of spring air.  

Wildflowers were everywhere, mostly very tiny, requiring me to walk slowly and look with my eyes open and my mind swept clean of worry and distraction.  It was a balm and a refreshment.    

I knew long since that a hillside forest of trees is my cathedral, my sanctuary, where communion takes place.  I felt immensely grateful and a little amazed I'd had the good sense to plan ahead and give myself the chance for renewal and respite in a unique natural landscape.  

A quote from Steve McQueen states my feelings and values very succinctly:  "I'd rather wake up in the middle of nowhere than in any city on earth."  Amen.