Writer's Retreat: A Journey Home Again

I left Camp Mattole, which had hosted the Lost Coast Writer's Retreat, driving south, the opposite direction than I'd come in on, past the minuscule community called Honeydew.  I felt light and content after resting and writing for six days.  The road I'd taken last weekend switched and bucked, and so did this one.  It's a characteristic style of road here, I guessed, perhaps a wry joke by road builders who might sit by on quiet afternoons to see if tourists end up in deep ravines or not.

Speed limit signs said 10 mph; many 180-degree switchbacks had to be negotiated carefully or I'd have launched into the sweet hereafter, off guardrail-less inclines.  The road climbed up and up for miles until I reached a level but still narrow vista point called Panther Gap.  I wanted to hear a screaming mountain lion or the mournful howl of a wolf, but since this was broad daylight and nowhere near a movie theater, the drama was all in the spectacular view.  Ridge after blue ridge played out to the southwest, the truly wild region bounded by the Lost Coast.

I saw very few cars.  On my own, driving in contemplative solitude, I was lost in thought.  California has few places left unspoiled by hordes of people, with far more places to be alone in Northern California than in the south.  A quick glance at a state map will tell you that.  This winding drunken road, called Mattole Road, had been described as beautiful and a great drive,  and so it was proving to be.  I was hoping I'd not missed a turn and wasn't exactly sure of the distance I'd still have to drive to get back to Hwy 101.  I felt excited to be exploring.

I began my descent which looped and turned sharply downward into a narrow tree-covered valley.  The road headed down into the redwoods, a remnant forest of old-growth trees.  Without any real warning, I was plunged abruptly into the depths of a very dense stand of the tall giants, just as if I'd actually driven straight into a sacred cathedral. It's called the Rockefeller Grove and is simply gorgeous, thick with tall living pillars.  The road allows no more than 25 mph and literally winds between the giant trunks of the redwoods.

I rolled down all my windows, slowed, and inhaled deep whiffs of the scented air, peering through the cool echoing gloom.  How wonderful, I thought.

I rounded a turn and saw a Toyota minivan driving slowly toward me with a white-haired woman at the wheel.  She was looking around and smiling, just like me.  A small truck was driving right smack behind her.  Just as the minivan was about even with me in the opposite direction, a terrible screaming voice shattered all peace for miles:  "JUST PULL OVER!"

It was the driver behind the minivan, turning herself inside out with frustration and an unholy rage.  As if they were a nightmare come to life; as soon as they'd materialized they were gone again, the tormentor and the tormented.  Just like that.  It was a shriek from hell that startled me severely.

I was left with a deep jolt of stunned amazement and a worming fear. There was no resolution to the scene that had exploded before me; it seemed to echo over and over, reverberating in an endless sound loop.

I parked in a lot, decided to walk.  A sign pointed to The Tall Tree (356 ft tall) amid groves of magnificently beautiful ancient giants.  Still, the notes of hatred, intolerance and ugliness in the screaming voice echoed on.

I had to look for a long time at the trees and think about what they'd lived through for centuries.  Not that I think trees see and hear, just that they endure, mostly by luck and amazing genetic resilience, the forces around them that take down other lesser beings.  The green canopy far overhead shrouded the tips of trees, vectors of energy connecting heaven above and earth below.

Would the screaming driver ever find peace?  What was that indescribably awful note in her voice?  I sat in the sacred space of the forest, as sacred as Chartres or Notre Dame and doubly grand, thinking about the concept of heaven, hell, eternity and what humans make of it all, how we create our own heaven, live in the hell of hatred and suffering we create for each other.

The trees stood quietly beside me.  I felt the cool shade and an enveloping calm.  I walked among them for a little while, grateful for the soft breath of nature on my face.  Just that morning I had awakened in a quiet, tranquil haven in the company of peaceful people.  Remembering that, I drank in deep breaths of peace and turned my attention to my surroundings.  Hikers passed by, chatting, striding along a quiet trail.  Visitors nearby murmured between themselves, looking up at bits of sky and sifting beams of light.

Without nature to heal us, will we survive ourselves?

Lost Coast Writers Retreat: Endangered Treasure

Subsequent days at the Lost Coast Writers Retreat (see my previous posts) blended seamlessly one to another for a five-day-long span of time.  Presenters each day had unique approaches to their craft and gave us plenty to think about.  It was up to us to make the tools our own if we wished.  My intention was to write as much as possible and listen to suggestions and feedback about my work; I don't currently have a writing group, so that was a new dimension in writing for me and very eye opening.

Jim, one of the staff members spent a great deal of time in conversation with me and others and gave objective responses to material I'd written.  I felt my confidence wax and wane, but it was all due to pressure I was putting on myself.  Staff members kept a neutral hands-off approach unless asked to give feedback and coaching.  That's not to say they were not warm and kind-hearted.  Calm generosity of spirit as well as respect allowed everyone to be at ease.

Daryl Ngee Chinn, poet and teacher, read his work and the work of other poets and then gave prompts for us to use as a starting point for our work, but he did set short time limits on writing.  At first, this seemed to be intimidating, but it proved to be exactly what I needed to produce quick-response imagery and emotion.  Later, we literally made books with Daryl and Linda (the angel in disguise), who belongs to a bookmaker's guild in her area.

Jeff DeMark, storyteller and comic, presented a work-in-progress as well as his thinking process as he created a new routine; we gave feedback to him as he worked out loud.  Odd, but I had never considered comedians and storytelling actors to be writers first, but it's now obvious to me.

Jessica Barksdale Inclan, novelist and teacher, spoke about setting scenes in story and was able to zero right in on what was going on - or not - in our work.  Her high energy and vivid use of imagination was very stimulating.  She gave us one-to-one time for half-hour workshops in the afternoon.

Noelle Oxenhandler, memoir writer and teacher, talked about finding a unique situation or picture and using it to prompt new thinking about things we had perhaps passed over before.  Her contention is that you don't need to have dramatic sweeping sagas to tell an intriguing tale.  She, too, was very perceptive in her feedback and allowed us plenty of time, had lots of patience.  Her unique prompt is this:  Find a photograph and ask:  What's in the picture?  What isn't in the picture that has happened "off camera?" What question do you have to ask yourself because of this?

Finally, we said good-bye and parted company.  I had slipped so easily into the routine of the camp that I really could have continued for a whole month.  It was good to have a community, a colony if you will, of creative, thinking people around me who had every intention to write, converse and play without contentiousness.  I grew up without much TV or commercialism around me, so it was like going home again in the best possible way.  I came away feeling more self-directed, more engaged in the creative world of writing and definitely filled with plenty of new ideas.

Sadly, this workshop retreat is threatened with extinction due to lack of funding, but I believe that if word gets out to enough people who will then support the Redwood Writing Project, it will thrive.  It's too valuable a treasure to let fall by the wayside.  The core staff is highly dedicated to seeing it continue. I look forward personally to returning and encourage anyone who has any writing aspirations whatsoever to attend.  If for no other reason than to escape to a lovely nowhere for a week, you will never regret it.

Camp Mattole: Retreat!

With a bugle at my lips and riding a fast horse, my retreat into the mists of The Lost Coast would have been no less dramatic than it turned out to be.  I watched Ferndale recede in my rear-view mirror, drove 35 miles on a twitching and nervous tail of a road to the middle of nowhere.  There, I was cut off from all radio, newspaper, internet, TV, and cell phone access.  No one really knew where I was or when I would be seen again.  Cell phone service was sketchy in Ferndale, but as soon as my car faced west and I began the drive, it ended for good.  I was on my own, I thought.  No looking back anymore.

The Mattole Road is the highway builder's equivalent of the flight of a butterfly, going up, down, sideways, inside out to get from here to there and beyond.  In the circumstances of getting lost on purpose, I could not have taken a more zig-zaggy road; the twists and turns made me drive as if by the seat of my pants.  I saw giant bulls with rolling eyes grazing on the treetops - or so it seemed. I saw islands in the distant mist, hills furred with golden grasses and flanked by bristling redwood forests.  Bouquets of flowers, millions of them, danced at the side of the road.  On I drove.  I had no choice.

I had decided months before to put as much of modern life out of my mind and get back to the simplest living possible.  Work, media, oil spills, war, poverty, overpopulation - all the negativity of all that junk - felt heavy and dispiriting, sickening really.  (Run for my life! Retreat!)  It felt like I needed to shove it all aside and flee, jump the sinking ship and save my soul.  I looked around and found exactly I was looking for:  The Lost Coast Writers' Retreat.

Ask the universe in no uncertain terms for something and you will get it.  In exact measure; no more, no less.

It took one hour and a chunk of another to go 35 miles.  Then, I spent a week going nowhere but up.  I was at Camp Mattole hard by the Mattole River in Humboldt County, seven miles from the Pacific Ocean as the crow flies.  It's halfway exactly between two little what'sitcalled towns where a collection of our fellow citizens live, part of a scattered and remote population partly made up of "farmers." I hardly saw anyone as I drove.  

The intention topmost in my mind and the stated reason for the retreat was to, well, retreat!, but also to learn more about the craft of writing from other writers and teachers who love literature and writing.  I wanted to meet people who care about the written word.  I got lucky and found about 20 such folk.  The perks? They also love good food, acoustic music, conversation, nature, rivers, and a few other things I enjoy.  Lots of common ground, tons of it, almost for the first time in my life.

I think that's called finding your tribe.

The camp is an outgrowth of The National Writing Project.  These days, the local chapter of that group calls itself The Redwood Writing Project, and carries on the work locally in Humboldt County.  They develop teachers to use best practices in their profession in order to teach students about writing.  A teacher who can write better can teach better, they say, and can teach writing using new ideas and appreciation for the craft.

They know it's a lot of work to formulate a concept and communicate it through words. As with all other art forms, good writing is nuanced and leaves plenty to the imagination, spurs more ideas, pries open our minds and nudges us to think.  Teachers who have experienced this through writing of their own then pass it along to their classes.  

My car rolled to a stop. Tall redwoods, a long clearing covered by a lawn that was dotted by small wooden cabins, spread out before me.  There stood a large building with a broad deck and wide steps, surrounded by the lawn.  Down below me, beyond a stand of pines, oaks, and redwoods flowed a gurgling gentle river whose sweeping graveled banks beckoned and invited exploration.  Tranquility and beauty smiled from all sides.  The caretaker walked up to me with a big grin on his face, his dog Rusty at his side, and said, "You're early, but it only means you have the whole place to yourself to enjoy.  Help yourself!"

Later, after I'd napped, walked and left stress and worry in my car, I began to meet staff members as they arrived followed by other campers.  Dan and Vinnie, apparently in the Poet Mobile, came first and said hello.  Dan travels throughout several school systems in Humboldt County and beyond, teaching poetry in the schools.  Vinnie teaches in a middle school and writes poetry, sharpens his wit quietly and listens very attentively, I found later.

Jim arrived, said he works as a mediator and has taught many levels of school in his career, and is retired from law.  Linda and Will came next, two kind people who have taught for a combined 60 years between them.  She photographs, makes books and could very well wear a halo.  As a matter of fact, I'm going to bet she does.  Will is a luthier and writes songs as well as teaches in a middle school.  Guy and Cindy have also taught for over 60 years. He's retired now and sings his way through life with a rich baritone voice and a love of almost everything. Cindy, with penetrating blue eyes and a kind, supportive nature, teaches yoga and writes poetry as well as teaching recalcitrant kids to be human.  Bob, who teaches teachers all the time now, loves riding trail horses and is the de facto leader of the staff, having been with the RWP the longest.

I had asked, and I was beginning to receive - almost immediately - help with my ability to see myself as a writer.  Now the fun would begin.