(Remember that you can click on any photo to see it full screen.)
Monday, 12/30/19
Five-fifteen in the morning. Ellen and I are on the move. It is dark, sleeting. Pavement coated with ice, no traction. And this is just walking from the car into Starbucks at 53rd and Lyndale, Mile #2 of a 630-mile day.
The first two hours are hard driving, slow going. Wet roads keep our speed down. The weather is still ugly with windchill when we gas up and switch drivers at 8:30, but at least it's light now.
We approach our turn from I-35 and Ellen says, "I-80 East, right?" "The other East," I tell her. Five miles west of Des Moines the RAV4 odometer rolls over 100,000 miles.
We make it to North Platte in good time after our rough start. We walk along the banks of the Platte River to stretch our muscles after our longest day on the road. The river is ice-free, swollen and flowing wild. Carol and I used to walk Rowdie here. Today, I miss Carol acutely.
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| "I-80 East, right?" |
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| My Trusty RAV4 |
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| A walk along the Platte River after the longest day on the road is just what we needed. |
Wednesday, 1/1/20
Nasty '19 is behind us. We toast the New Year with a champagne in our room in Grand Junction as the clock struck midnight somewhere over the Atlantic. The weather forecast is for a snow storm in the I-15 corridor in western Utah. We are on the road at 4:30 a.m. hoping to outrace the storm. In Green River, we stop for coffee and pick up a hitchhiker. His name is Sinclair. He and Pee Wee the Kiwi become friends quickly.
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| New Year's Eve Walk by the Colorado River, Grand Junction, CO |
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| Early morning, New Year's Day. Green River, UT. Must've been some party Santa attended! |
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| Sinclair joins Pee Wee the Kiwi for an adventure. |
In the wildest and most beautiful country of the trip, we follow our headlights into blackness. As Ellen sleeps, memories of Carol asleep in the passenger seat come to visit, uninvited. I embrace the sadness that the memories bring with them and in doing so dispel some, not all, of the pain.
Because of our early start, we beat the snowstorm and arrive in Las Vegas in plenty of time to take a good hike in Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area. Ellen wants to see the Vegas "Strip," so we drive into town for a good dinner and a walk to take in the glittery sights. I had planned to invest $40 at a Blackjack table, but the cigarette smoke in the casinos is intolerable. Las Vegas - "Been there, done that."
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| Red Rock Canyon |
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| Wild Times on the Las Vegas Strip |
SON OF A BITCH!
Santa Barbara, Friday, 1/3/20
On her one full day in Santa Barbara, Ellen wanted to hike. I gave her a choice of four hikes from my "Walk Santa Barbara" book. Three of the trail heads are right from city streets within a ten-minute drive from the Yellow House, my home away from home. I wanted to show off how quickly and easily we could get from a city neighborhood into the wilderness.
I added a fourth hike, without comment - the Bill Wallace Trail, sixteen miles out of town on the 101. This was the last hike Carol and I took together. I wanted to take this hike at some point during my stay, but I didn't really think Ellen would be interested. After four days and 2,200 miles on the road, I didn't think she'd choose to get in the car for the drive.
Ellen surprised me and chose the Bill Wallace Trail. It turned out to be a magical experience. I told her on the drive that it was the last place Carol and I hiked together. I pointed out where I took a photo of Carol amid blooming red poppies, the spot where Carol and I had turned around that day. After a pause,Ellen walked on, leaving me to reminisce a bit.
Up to that point, the hike had been a memory of Carol. Then I walked on, too. I needed to cover new ground, to create my own new adventure.
Ellen is a strong hiker and I never caught up with her. When I complimented her on her hiking strength later, she reminded me of a hike we all took in Arizona two years ago. Carol, Ellen and Wes moved far ahead as we climbed up into a desert canyon. Ben and I stayed with Julien, who is definitely a wanderer, never in a hurry. That day, Carol, Ellen and Wes named themselves the Intrepid Mountain Goats.
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| Trailhead |
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| In the distance, the Santa Ynez Mountains (and one Intrepid Mountain Goat) |
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| Santa Cruz Island, seen from the Bill Wallace Trail |
In the car, I told Ellen all this and how my joy mingled with my tears. I said, "I found joy up there where Mom and I were and, son of a bitch, it hurt."
Ellen burst out laughing and, with the delicious echo of her mother's quick wit, said, "If you ever decide to write a memoir about this, Dad, that's your title."
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| After the Hike in the Wild, a civilized refreshment at El Encanto |
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| Paul, Aidan and Cowboy stop by on their way home from Los Angeles while Ellen is still here. We all go out to dinner. Then they all depart for home and I settle in. |
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| Santa Cruz Island Hike. A visit to the Channel Islands has become a tradition I love. |
JERRY AND CLARE VISIT. THE FILM FESTIVAL STARTS.
Santa Barbara, Saturday, 1/18/20
Jerry and Clare arrived Tuesday. I cooked dinner for them the night they arrived from LA. On Wednesday morning, we hiked to Inspiration Point, then met Susan and her son, Aaron, who had driven up from LA, for a fabulous lunch at Mesa Verde, a vegan delight. It was great fun to see Susan. I sat next to Aaron, whom I don't know all that well and had a good time correcting that.
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| Jerry and Clare on the trail to Inspiration Point |
Thursday was cloudy, cool and rainy - perfect for the first day of the Santa Barbara International Film Festival. We filled the day with three movies, all of them five-star productions. Jerry and Clare left the next day. The sun returned. I turned my attention to seeing as many films as I could over the next week and did a good job of it.
SPONTANEITY - PAUL DROPS IN FOR A WEEKEND VISIT!
Paul called and suggested a weekend visit. How extravagant, I thought and tried to dissuade him. Then "California Marc" took over and whispered in my ear, And exactly why not? Why not, indeed? I called him back and told him to come. His brief visit really picked up my spirits. Had a great time. We took in the Final Night film at the film festival and got in a great hike.
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| Time to Decide |
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| Rattlesnake Canyon Trail - Paul embraces the day. |
THE PHOTO NOT TAKEN
Santa Barbara, Sunday, 2/2/20
High in the Santa Ynez Mountains, a few hundred yards short of the Gibralter Road, I stopped for a water break.
Nearing the end of my stay in Santa Barbara, I wanted to take one more hike. I chose the Tangerine Falls trail from my Walk Santa Barbara book. On a Saturday morning there was a fair amount of traffic on the trail, many friendly greetings, but this wasn't to my liking. I was here for solitude.
I came to a fork in the trail. To the right, the trail lead to the falls, starting with a long, steep descent. The falls was only a short distance. Everyone headed that way. To my left, a sign announced the west fork of the Cold Spring Canyon trail to Gibralter Road, 2.2 miles distant. The trail was calling my name. I answered that I was coming.
Now I had the solitude, the exercise, the adventure I sought. Higher and higher I climbed out of the canyon. All I heard now was the sound of my hiking boots pressing into the gravel of the trail and the sound of my own breathing, punctuated by the occasional songs of birds. The wind wandered, disinterested, through the canyon, touching my face, whispering in my ears.
Somewhere near the end of the trail at Gibralter Road, I stopped for a water break. I set my pack down, got my water bottle, a granola bar and a tangerine picked from the tree in my yard. I left my camera in the pack.
My eyes traced a path from my shoes and backpack on the ground to the trail that snaked a hundred feet or so until it disappeared around a bend in the forest, to the whole canyon spread out below me. In the distance, the details of the landscape faded until they blended with the glimmering surface of the Pacific. Santa Cruz and Anacapa Islands floated in a mist.
A cool breeze dried the sweat on my face and arms. I sipped my water and tasted the sweet tangerine. All was silent, except for the sound of my breathing.
This moment. This place. My own magic island. My camera was in the pack at my feet. I left it there. There was a time when I would have taken the photo, several photos probably. Recorded the moment. I've taken enough photos to know that there are moments that can't be recorded or shared. (Nor should they be, I believe.) Not the wind. Not the ache of my leg muscles, alive with effort. Not the birdsong. Not even the panorama before me.
A photo can't capture the awe. The solitude. The wonder. The exhilaration. The gratitude I felt. The loss. The joy. The feel of the trail already traveled. The call of the path ahead.
So I left the camera where it lay in the pack. I let my eyes take the photo. The image formed in my mind, where I will store it selfishly and allow it to nourish me. Over time the lines and the colors will fade into an impressionistic memory. Good.
Later, when I began my descent, my right knee, so reliable on the climb, began to complain. As I descended farther into the canyon, the sounds of a stream flowing over rocks, frogs croaking and bird songs greeted me, announcing the imminent end of my trek. A family played in a shallow pool, children's voices mingling with the voices of their parents.
Nearing the end of my stay in Santa Barbara, I wanted to take one more hike. I chose the Tangerine Falls trail from my Walk Santa Barbara book. On a Saturday morning there was a fair amount of traffic on the trail, many friendly greetings, but this wasn't to my liking. I was here for solitude.
I came to a fork in the trail. To the right, the trail lead to the falls, starting with a long, steep descent. The falls was only a short distance. Everyone headed that way. To my left, a sign announced the west fork of the Cold Spring Canyon trail to Gibralter Road, 2.2 miles distant. The trail was calling my name. I answered that I was coming.
Now I had the solitude, the exercise, the adventure I sought. Higher and higher I climbed out of the canyon. All I heard now was the sound of my hiking boots pressing into the gravel of the trail and the sound of my own breathing, punctuated by the occasional songs of birds. The wind wandered, disinterested, through the canyon, touching my face, whispering in my ears.
Somewhere near the end of the trail at Gibralter Road, I stopped for a water break. I set my pack down, got my water bottle, a granola bar and a tangerine picked from the tree in my yard. I left my camera in the pack.
My eyes traced a path from my shoes and backpack on the ground to the trail that snaked a hundred feet or so until it disappeared around a bend in the forest, to the whole canyon spread out below me. In the distance, the details of the landscape faded until they blended with the glimmering surface of the Pacific. Santa Cruz and Anacapa Islands floated in a mist.
A cool breeze dried the sweat on my face and arms. I sipped my water and tasted the sweet tangerine. All was silent, except for the sound of my breathing.
This moment. This place. My own magic island. My camera was in the pack at my feet. I left it there. There was a time when I would have taken the photo, several photos probably. Recorded the moment. I've taken enough photos to know that there are moments that can't be recorded or shared. (Nor should they be, I believe.) Not the wind. Not the ache of my leg muscles, alive with effort. Not the birdsong. Not even the panorama before me.
A photo can't capture the awe. The solitude. The wonder. The exhilaration. The gratitude I felt. The loss. The joy. The feel of the trail already traveled. The call of the path ahead.
So I left the camera where it lay in the pack. I let my eyes take the photo. The image formed in my mind, where I will store it selfishly and allow it to nourish me. Over time the lines and the colors will fade into an impressionistic memory. Good.
Later, when I began my descent, my right knee, so reliable on the climb, began to complain. As I descended farther into the canyon, the sounds of a stream flowing over rocks, frogs croaking and bird songs greeted me, announcing the imminent end of my trek. A family played in a shallow pool, children's voices mingling with the voices of their parents.
NO EXPLANATION
I can't explain this next thing I will tell you. Sometimes on this solo journey, the weight of Carol's absence is almost unbearable. At the same moment, I feel her presence so close that it is as if the cool breeze on my face or the sun's warmth on my shoulders is her embrace.
HENDRY'S BEACH
Hendry's Beach is a semi-remote place to walk, only a few minutes drive from my place in Santa Barbara. There's a parking lot and a decent restaurant, the Boathouse, here on the edge of the continent. From there you can head north or south and walk for as long and as far as you'd like. Carol and I always headed north with Rowdie, avoiding the off-leash beach that lies in the other direction.
North is where I headed this year. Tall cliffs offer the feel of remoteness. Ancient, dilapidated staircases lead from the beach to homes high above. They look as if they haven't been used in decades.
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| Guard Serpent, Hendry's Beach Cliffside Home |
You have to check the tide charts if you want to take a walk here. At low tide, you can walk forever up the coast. If you walk too far as high tide approaches, you could get yourself into a pickle.
There are shells and rocks to be gathered, if that's your thing, and always ample opportunities for a good photo or ten. Hundreds of shore birds bustle about the shoreline, offering dogs the thrill of the chase. Or you can just walk, listen to the surf and your thoughts. When I finally drove here for a sunset stroll during my last week in town, I was thrilled to be back. I had forgotten how magical a place it is.
One evening, I absently began to gather all the flat stones I could find and stuff in my pockets. A plan began to form in my mind. The stones had a purpose that I had not understood at first.
I walked barefoot along the water's edge, allowing the waves to wash over my feet. Soon I was alone, far from the parking lot. I built a cairn at water's edge, knowing that later in the night the incoming tide would probably topple it.
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| Low Tide, Hendry's Beach |
Then, my pockets still sagging with stones, I walked to the base of the cliff and searched for a place to suit my purpose. Soon I found it - a boulder with a flat enough top surface and a full view of the western sea, tucked away from the searching eyes of any future beachcombers who might venture this far.
I built another cairn, a memorial to good times for Carol, me and Rowdie.
In the distance a few lonesome campfires dotted the beach. Stars appeared above me, one by one. The western sky was still alive with clouds backlit by a wild, red western sky, the day's closing act.
I faced the sea and did my Tai Chi. When I finished, I turned and looked at our cairn. I whispered good-bye. I began my solitary return, the campfires showing the way.
On my second morning, I am in the car early to wander the Point Reyes National Seashore on my own. I leave the house under blue skies, but as I drive toward Drake's Beach fog rolls over the hills, the road, my car. I know my way around here from previous years, but the cloud that envelops me brings an air of mystery, not to mention near zero visibility. I don't know what lies over the next hill, around the next bend. Like my life right now.
From the speakers, Edith Piaf sings, Je ne regrette rien. I have no regrets. A wire fence appears in the mist by the side of the road, a bird perched on it. I pull over and stop. Immediately, all is silence. I roll down the window, not wanting to disturb the bird. The bird sings to me.
I drive on, the only car on the road. A barn comes into view. Outside the barn, a man is shoeing a horse. A woman strokes the horse's head. Then they are in my rear view mirror, then gone.
At Drake's Beach, a spot Carol and I had visited to see elephant seals years ago, I encounter several of the immense creatures lounging on the beach. Taking my spot on the foggy beach at a safe distance from the seals, I face the sea and do my morning Tai Chi. Carol is close by, her presence palpable. Also, I soon learn, is an elephant seal, just paces away, a bit too close. It is partially hidden by a large log. Still, how could I miss a three thousand pound behemoth?
Back in the car, I head for Estero Trail for a morning hike. Pink Martini's vocalist sings Finis la Musique. The end of the music. Dylan asks how many roads a man must walk down before you call him a man.
When I arrive at the Estero Trail trailhead, it feels like a different day. The sun shines bright in a cloudless blue sky. The chill is long gone, and I shed a layer of clothing before I set out. This is new ground for me to cover; Carol and I have never visited this place. The melancholy that accompanied me earlier has dissipated with the fog. As I walk the trail, I whisper a prayer of gratitude.
Saturday, 2/8/20
On to Alameda to spend some time with friends Mark and Shirley. Over the next three days they prove to be excellent hosts. We explore the island together. I discover the Oakland Museum of CA. It is three museums rolled into one - art, history and natural sciences. Mark and I have time to cover Art before closing. I wish I had time to come back. Another day, I explore far and wide on my bike.
Although I have no need to visit San Francisco, Mark wants me to experience the commuter ferry, a quick way to downtown 'Frisco, no traffic jams, no parking hassles. I'm happy to agree. We walk the streets of downtown. I get a few photos and a very expensive cup of coffee. Then we are back on the ferry and home in time for a good lunch at the 1400 Bar and Grill.
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| A Cairn for Carol and me and Rowdie, Hendry's Beach |
POINT REYES
Tuesday, 2/4/20
On the road again. This sums up the remainder of my time in the west - Point Reyes, Alameda, San Luis Obispo, Palm Springs, Tucson, Scottsdale, Santa Fe. On the road, stopping at each place, like a local train, for only a few days.
I am heading for Point Reyes to visit friends, Elisabeth and Gene. I enjoy the long ride up Route 101 as it curves through fields and hills of the central coast. The 101 drops me in the middle of San Francisco, where Siri refuses to give me directions. Signs point to the Golden Gate Bridge for awhile, then stop appearing, leaving me lost in downtown rush hour. The driver of a double-parked Comcast truck sets me straight, and in minutes I am on my way, crossing the Golden Gate, high above the bay. Over the bridge into Marin County, I manage to get lost again, and end up taking the Mount Tamalpais road to Point Reyes. It is a twisting, turning, very scenic route. And also a very slow one. I arrive after dark at Elisabeth and Gene's lovely home in Inverness with its view of Tomales Bay.
I am heading for Point Reyes to visit friends, Elisabeth and Gene. I enjoy the long ride up Route 101 as it curves through fields and hills of the central coast. The 101 drops me in the middle of San Francisco, where Siri refuses to give me directions. Signs point to the Golden Gate Bridge for awhile, then stop appearing, leaving me lost in downtown rush hour. The driver of a double-parked Comcast truck sets me straight, and in minutes I am on my way, crossing the Golden Gate, high above the bay. Over the bridge into Marin County, I manage to get lost again, and end up taking the Mount Tamalpais road to Point Reyes. It is a twisting, turning, very scenic route. And also a very slow one. I arrive after dark at Elisabeth and Gene's lovely home in Inverness with its view of Tomales Bay.
It is good to be with my friends again. They welcome me warmly and listen as I talk about Carol and about my grieving. Gene, like me, has embraced Buddhist thinking.
The next morning, I am treated to a drive in the stunningly beautiful National Seashore with Elisabeth and their friend, Carlos Porrata, a retired Park Service ranger who has made himself an accomplished wildlife photographer.
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| Carlos finds a subject. |
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| Ranch Road, Point Reyes National Seashore |
MORNING FOG
From the speakers, Edith Piaf sings, Je ne regrette rien. I have no regrets. A wire fence appears in the mist by the side of the road, a bird perched on it. I pull over and stop. Immediately, all is silence. I roll down the window, not wanting to disturb the bird. The bird sings to me.
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| Morning Serenade |
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| Yesterday |
Back in the car, I head for Estero Trail for a morning hike. Pink Martini's vocalist sings Finis la Musique. The end of the music. Dylan asks how many roads a man must walk down before you call him a man.
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| Point Reyes National Seashore - Morning Fog Lifts |
When I arrive at the Estero Trail trailhead, it feels like a different day. The sun shines bright in a cloudless blue sky. The chill is long gone, and I shed a layer of clothing before I set out. This is new ground for me to cover; Carol and I have never visited this place. The melancholy that accompanied me earlier has dissipated with the fog. As I walk the trail, I whisper a prayer of gratitude.
ALAMEDA
Saturday, 2/8/20
On to Alameda to spend some time with friends Mark and Shirley. Over the next three days they prove to be excellent hosts. We explore the island together. I discover the Oakland Museum of CA. It is three museums rolled into one - art, history and natural sciences. Mark and I have time to cover Art before closing. I wish I had time to come back. Another day, I explore far and wide on my bike.
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| The Oakland Museum of CA |
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| San Francisco, as I saw it on my bike tour of Alameda |
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| Downtown 'Frisco from the commuter ferry |
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| Mark at our lunch spot after a morning across the bay in 'Frisco |
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| The 1400, Alameda |
SAN LUIS OBISPO
Tuesday, 2/12/20
Carol
and I discovered San Luis Obispo in 2012, on her last spring break
before she retired. In one week we fell in love with SLO and for six of
the next seven years we spent January here.
I am in SLO for three nights, sticking my toe in the water, seeing if it's safe to be here, alone. This was our special place. I am not ready to spend a month here.
I'm staying in an Airstream, the only place in town that I can afford. The Airstream is very cool but tiny. I'm glamping in the city. I like it. Great location. I'm in the host's backyard in a residential neighborhood only two blocks from downtown.
In my short time here, I will visit places that are important in my heart. Laguna Lake, where we took many early morning walks with Rowdie. Black Horse Coffee, where we read the Sunday NY Times on the patio, Rowdie nestled at our feet. The tiny but excellent San Luis Obispo Museum of Art. Dinner at Luna Red, one of our many favorite restaurants. Dining alone, I order a glass of champagne and toast Carol. Chin chin, Carol. South Hills Open Space, a great hike literally right out the back door of our home when we stayed here. Wolff Vineyards. And Bishop Peak.
BISHOP PEAK
Thursday, 2/13/20
Each year, our culminating activity was to hike to the top of Bishop Peak, one of the most strenuous of all the many hikes we took during those years. In the last couple years, we joked that we had to do this hike "just to see if we can still do it."
Today, the last full day here, I hike Bishop Peak. This is the one thing I have to do.
It's a beautiful climb, the view changing gently as the path wraps around the mountain. Early on the hike, on the east side, I walk through a forest, cool relief after the first half mile in the sun as I leave the neighborhood and the RAV4 behind.
I emerge from the forest on the south side of Bishop Peak. Below, the city of SLO spreads out across the valley. Cerro San Luis nudges up against downtown and neighborhoods, another remarkable hike for another day.
Now the work begins, the warm-up complete. The map shows I’ve gone more than half of the 1.7 miles to the peak. Now, in full sun, the trail is unsparingly up up up. The footing is uneven and dangerous to the hiker who does not pay attention. Here lies the challenge Carol and I sought.
I make it to the peak, probably a little slower than last year. I sit on the bench labeled, “End of Trail.” I have a photo of Carol sitting here and waving last year, on our last climb together. End of Trail.
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| Bishop Peak 2019 |
Now that I'm here, I'm in no hurry to leave. I take my time eating lunch - a ridiculously huge and delicious meatloaf sandwich from the High Street Deli, a tangerine, a Coke.
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| A Favorite Source for Trail Lunch |
I take my time, taking in the vastness of the landscape that extends all the way to the Pacific. Gratitude, wonder and calm fill my heart. Hikers come and go. Greetings are exchanged. I wave to a nine-month old in a frame pack he has ridden to the top on his father’s back. A guy with a sense of humor arrives and asks no one in particular, “does anyone know where the end of the trail is?”
Along the hike, I had stopped to gather a half dozen flat stones. Now I search for a suitable rock to build a cairn. It must offer a small flat spot to serve as a base. It must be exposed to the expanse below where, when morning fog clears, the Pacific Ocean comes into view. It must be in a spot out of the way and of no interest to the hikers looking to scramble over the pile of boulders leading to the summit.
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| Here it is! Up Here! |
I find my spot. I build our cairn. For you, Carol. For me. I hiked for both of us today. I can still do it.
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| Cairn, Bishop Peak |
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| Cairn Close-up |
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