By Louie Ferrera

When I was 22, I decided to move from NJ to California. Two months later  my friend Kenny and I were on the road west, traveling to a place I’d never been, that I knew next to nothing about and knew no one. I made a life for myself and am still here. In the summer of 1995, I took a two month leave from my job and traveled solo to England, Egypt and Kenya. My plan was sketchy at best, I was governed only by what I had gleaned from my Lonely Planet guide books and by my energy and desire for adventure. It was the trip of a lifetime. A year and a half later I had quit my job, took out a student loan and went back to school to get my teaching credential. My 25 years as an elementary and preschool school teacher were some of the most fulfilling years of my life so far. Psychedelic drugs? Oh yea, I tried ‘em. Traveling around with the Grateful Dead? Check! Trips to Guatemala, Mexico and Costa Rica? Amazing! Becoming a dad of twins…at 47? The greatest decision of my life and a gift that keeps on giving.

These are just the huge, life changing moments of my life, times when I threw caution to the wind, stepped off the edge, so to speak, and took a chance. There have been many smaller ones, too many to recount here but important nonetheless in shaping the person I am today. However, I’m finding out that as I age, I’ve become less and less likely to take big chances like these. I still love a good adventure but more often than not, I now choose the safer, more predictable route. A recent exception was the two-day white water rafting trip on the American River that my family and I took last summer. Filled with unknowns and exciting but terrifying Class IV and V rapids, I spent a lot of time on the river out of my comfort zone, my heart pounding with a white knuckle grip on my paddle. In the end it was a freakin’ blast and an epic trip in our family history. But given my druthers, next time I think I’ll choose the mellow Class III float instead.

What is it about aging that has made me so cautious? The older I get, the more difficult it becomes for me to step outside of my comfort zone.  Knowing the specifics and having a solid plan before embarking on a trip helps for sure but there’s still that, “Oh man, what have I gotten myself into?” feeling. I often find myself worrying about what could go wrong as opposed to being psyched about the upcoming adventure. When I was younger, my desire for exploration and adventure usually outweighed any trepidation I had about a  trip. But it’s not just big things like travel, it’s also the little everyday things that I’ve become more cautious about, my inner voice says: Bring an extra layer, it could get cold, don’t forget your cell phone, drive the speed limit, check Google maps, check the weather…ughh!! Spur of the moment decisions have become increasingly rare too. The days of “grab a few things and go” are fewer and further between. Now it’s plan, think it through, cover the bases, try and limit the variables. When I was younger I didn’t have nearly the responsibilities that I do now, so that’s one reason for my more cautious nature. Back then I was more apt to say, “Let’s do it!” as opposed to, “Hmmm, let me think about it.” Youthful impulsiveness has given way to a more measured way of going about life. When you’re young, you’re bulletproof. Nowadays I check to see if my armor is in place before heading out.

Look, I still take chances but now they’re just smaller ones. I still love the spontanaity of a good adventure, the serendipity of an unexpected occurrence always adds spice to life. When Carol and I are out on one of our nature excursions, the funnest , most memorable moments happen when we decide to turn left instead of right. We wind up where we never thought we’d be but exactly where we belong. When I try and over plan, The Universe tends to remind me that it has other plans for me. Perhaps the answer is to simply strike a balance between reasonable chance taking and common sense caution. Carol and I now own a camper van and are in the process of planning a two week summer road trip to Colorado. I have no doubt that everything will go smoothly and as planned, I’ll be relaxed, excited and worry free (insert laugh till I cry emoji). Here goes nothing.

By Louie Ferrera

Here at Riverfront Park, the Russian River carries small pieces of the forest with it on its slow journey to the sea. Leaves, twigs, bits of fluff, bird feathers and who knows what else. The river’s main current flows close to the bank opposite me in an unending ribbon of forest detritus. The flow is lazy today, not exactly summer lazy but it’s getting there. Summer is magic and I can feel its approach in the warm breeze blowing upriver. Today is hot but not too hot. It’s a Goldilocks temperature, you know the story. The polarized lenses of my sunglasses allow me to clearly see the rocks and sand at the bottom of the river and to also make out the subtle gradations of color as they move from light green near the shore to an increasingly deeper shade of green at the center of the river. It’s that shade of green: soothing and peaceful and evocative, a deep green trickle of emotions.

When a breeze kicks up the mint green leaves of willow trees reveal their lighter undersides in a shimmering show of light and color. A solitary turkey vulture rides the thermals, it dips and dives in and out of my view. A Great Blue Heron, looking quite prehistoric, heads my way only to abruptly change course and fly back into the forest. Its otherworldly squawk is a cross between that of a duck and a crow. An occasional blip breaks the silence as some mysterious fish briefly pops to the surface in search of its next meal. I’ve seen no ducks and no otters, just the river and the trees and a few cliff swallows doing their devil-may-care corkscrew dance above me. This narrow, rocky beach, just downriver from the “bend where otters play” has such gentle energy. It feels timeless here, my own private slice of paradise. This spot is easily accessible to boaters floating downriver but you’ve got to know where the hidden trail from Riverfront is in order to get here on foot. The entrance to the trail is overgrown with poison oak, blackberry vines and thimbleberry. Today I nearly missed the trail even though I’ve been here many, many times. At this time of year it is all but invisible to the uninitiated. As soon as I arrive, off went my clothes and into the river I plunged. What a baptism! Refreshing and invigorating, my mind and body were instantly renewed. I had no towel but didn’t need one. There’s nothing quite like air drying in a warm almost-summer breeze. I see three pairs of boaters approaching and the dream state I’ve been in for the past hour has ended. With the spell broken it’s time for me to move on. 

On the hike back to my car I enter the forest and have transitioned into a different type of silence. Whereas the river silence is sparkly and filled with light and air, in here it’s much different. The light that filters through the canopy of towering second growth redwoods and bay laurel trees is green and dappled. The air is still, the sound deadened. It’s warm and womblike. There’s a primeval and unknowable quality to this patch of forest above the river. The late afternoon shafts of sunlight slant through the trees like golden spotlights, creating an alpenglow on the trunks of the redwoods. It’s mesmerizing and I just sit and breathe it all in. The Earth is beginning to exhale as another day draws to a close.