By Louie Ferrera

It’s the first real heatwave of summer, the day is languid and lazy. The drone of my neighbor’s air conditioner, the jingle-jangle of the wind chimes when a welcome breeze blows through, the blip-blop of our fountains and the insect like buzz of a small airplane are all part of this dreamy soundscape. Hummingbirds have been scarce so far this summer but when one whizzes by to visit a feeder the sound is unmistakable: zivvv, click, buzzz.

All of our trees are now fully leafed out and impossibly, gloriously green so the birds are more often heard than seen. The Stellar’s jay squawks, this creature is the head avian honcho around here and always has first dibs at the feeder and fountains. Summer is when the western tanagers show up. The female is a drab yellow-green and barely stands out among the foliage of the trees. But the male, oh my! Its body is an electric, sunshiny, pulsating shade of yellow, the crown of its head the most brilliant hue of red/orange. The tanager declares, and in no uncertain terms, “Summer’s here and so am I!” Nature’s greatest mimic, the Northern mockingbird is a one bird band, singing all four parts in a crazy quartet of calls. A cabbage butterfly, an angel on the wing, zig-zags by investigating the in’s and outs of a tangerine bush.

At the peak heat of the day, our squash and bean plants wilt as if to say, “Enough is enough!” Our cat Ella has found refuge beneath the shade of the apple tree. Curled like a question mark she’s content to doze away the afternoon. The lawn needs a trim  but I think I’ll let it go a little longer. You see there are hundreds of white clover blossoms among the blades of grass and the honeybees are loving life, zipping from one flower to the next. The entire lawn is alive with them.

A day like this is the perfect advertisement for a cold beer. I grab one from the fridge then put it into the freezer for a few minutes just to make sure it is teeth cracking cold. I bring the bottle outside and it’s immediately coated with condensation, the golden contents obscured by thousands of tiny droplets. The first deep pull off of a beer on a day such as this is one of the great simple pleasures to be found in life.

There’s been lots of crazy weather lately around the country, not unexpected in these topsy turvy times of climate change. The headlines scream all types of hyperbole and terrifying warnings. Where I live, it’s simply summer and summers here get hot. When the temperatures climb into the upper 90’s I’m not going to panic. Right now a cool breeze is blowing, the sky is bluer than a newborn’s eyes and the fridge is stocked with beers. I think it’s time for another one

By Louie Ferrera

I’m pretty damn excited to announce the release of my new album Second Wind. This is my third album of original songs. My first effort, 2007’s Lifesongs was a stripped down, all acoustic affair. I played all of the guitar parts and sang all of the vocals. In 2010 I stepped it up a few notches with Late Bloomer. This was more of a collaborative record with drums, bass and electric instruments. I hired some solid local session players and called in a few musician friends too. The songs on Late Bloomer were more fleshed out and sonically miles above its predecessor. A couple of the songs even garnered a bit of airplay on the local Americana format radio station KRSH.

Second Wind is a genre defying smorgasbord of musical delights. When people ask me what kind of music it is, I tell them it’s “honest” music (with a little Neil Young and Gram Parsons thrown in). Impeccably recorded and produced by Sebastopol, CA studio legend Jeff Martin, this is my best sounding record yet. I brought in some of the top musicians in Sonoma County to help me out. Dave Zirbel dazzles on electric and pedal steel guitars, banjo and dobro. Bassists Chad St. Clair and Jeff Martin are rock solid. Former Tommy Tutone drummer Vic Carberry keeps things chugging along. Singer Amy Carlson, a hidden gem from the Santa Cruz Mountains, adds sweet harmonies throughout. Along with percussionist Dan Ransford and violinist Candy Girard, together we made a record that I feel is truly special. Everyone brought their A game to the studio; the recording sessions were fun, collaborative and at times downright magical.

The nine original songs on Second Wind run the gamut from the deeply personal (Mockingbird, Looking Back) to rollicking fun (Chuck Berry is Leaving the Solar System) and all points in between. My songs are like my children. To have watched them grow from seed kernels in my head to the fully realized versions that made it onto this album is incredibly gratifying, to say the least.

Second Wind can be streamed on Spotify or Apple music. You can also purchase a digital download from iTunes, just key in my name. I even have actual CDs. If you get one of those, you’ll see the gorgeous package designed by local artist Jeanette Robsahm and have something that you can actually hold in your hands, not just a bunch of ones and zeros. Message me if you want a physical CD and I’ll get one to you.

I put my heart and soul into this project and I think it shows. Give it a spin, share it with friends and fellow music lovers. Drop me a line and let me know what ya think. Enjoy!

“Everyone should be able to make some music, it’s the cosmic dance!”

Ruth Gordon in Harold and Maude

By Louie Ferrera

The Hog Farm Hideaway is a three day music festival held on a bucolic ranch in southern Mendocino County, California.  The following is my reflection on one particular morning there.

There are moments in life when you just get into the flow. Like a slow float down a lazy river everything you do seems effortless. I had one of those moments last Sunday morning at the Hog Farm Hideaway.

After a nearly sleepless Friday night, I slept soundly and uninterrupted on Saturday. It’s amazing what good sleep can do for you and no wonder that sleep deprivation is a common torture technique. I crawled out of the tent around 6:45 and into the warming rays of a just risen sun. Compared to last night’s controlled pandemonium during String Cheese Incident’s set and all of the other sights and sounds of a Saturday night at the festival, this Sunday morning felt particularly tranquil. All I could hear were the random stirrings of a few early risers like myself, the occasional chip, chip of a bird and the distant hum of a generator. I made coffee, donned my shades and sat in a chair facing the sun. I just breathed, soaking up its nourishing rays, feeling rejuvenated and ready for the promise of this new day.

My initial idea was to take a shower but I quickly jettisoned that idea when I saw how long the line was, and instead opted to catch the Banana Slug String Band’s set on the side stage of the main music meadow. My slow walk there had a very Oregon Country Fair quality to it. There were smiles of contentment on the faces of the people I passed. Everyone looked tired, but it was that “good tired” you get from doing something that you love (in this case dancing late into the night to you favorite bands). Smiles and greetings were given and taken with ease, we were all co-conspirators in this collective cosmic giggle.

I arrived just in time to sing along with the Slugs to River Song, songwriter Steve Van Zandt’s paean to flowing waters. I had tears in my eyes as the beautiful imagery and slow, waltz time of this tune always manages to tug at my heart strings. I was feeling particularly emotional today and grateful; grateful for a restful night and for this glorious morning and to just be here taking part in the peace and love vibe that enveloped us all.

I was happily dancing to the whimsical Kingdom of the Crab (Van Zandt sang the song dressed in a giant crab costume) when my errant left arm knocked the salsa container right off the tray of a girl dancing beside me. I apologized profusely, we both laughed it off and continued our “crabbing”.  In another situation there could have been angry words and recrimination, but not today, not here. After the show, I bought her an ice pop as a consolation. We hugged and went our separate ways.

As if my heart wasn’t full enough, by the time The Slugs set ended I was nearly bursting! What those guys do is simply magic. This Santa Cruz band that plays environmentally themed songs for children young and old had us “kids” in the palm of their hand throughout their all to brief 45 minute set. By now I felt as if I were floating on a cloud of love and began the slow meander upstream through this river of happiness to Ten Mile Creek.

One of the best features of The Hog Farm is this gentle ribbon of water that flows through the forest at the western edge of the festival site. What a blessing to have a place like this to cool off in after a dusty day of dancing. I shed my clothes and stepped gingerly into its refreshing waters. The various sizes, shapes and colors of the cobblestones at the bottom were clearly visible, small fish darted around my ankles, the green of the surrounding forest was serene and soothing. I immersed  myself, it was a baptism and a rebirth all in one. After the initial shock of the cold water my body adjusted. The water was only a few feet deep so I was easily able to lie here up to my neck and let the creek flow by me. There was a bit of easy conversation with a couple of other folks sharing this moment with me, otherwise I just breathed in the incredible gratitude that I was feeling to be here. I felt alive and filled up, I was in the flow.

By Louie Ferrera

There’s the family that you’re born into and the family that you choose. Almost everyone has the former but only the most fortunate of us also have the latter. Like all families, there are ups and downs, joy and conflict, we try and overlook the blemishes and burnish the bright spots because of course no family is perfect. A chosen family doesn’t happen overnight. Relationships develop over time, trust is built up, you go through cumulative experiences together and if these experiences are filled with love and joy, if you can truly be yourself around these people, if you’re allowed to fail as well as succeed, these are the qualities that form the bedrock of your chosen family. Growth requires a solid foundation along with love and acceptance.

One of my chosen families had its genesis in 2001 when I first attended the Strawberry Music Festival. Our camp (soon to be dubbed Camp Tequila Mockingbird due to the copious amounts of the eponymous liquid that we’d consume over the course of the weekend) was a patchwork confederacy of teachers and environmentalists, dancers, do-gooders and dreamers. The love of music was the common thread that united us all. Many in our camp were musicians. The joyous sounds of mandolin, banjo, bass, fiddle and guitars, guitars, guitars would ring through camp from the first light of dawn into the wee hours of the next day. The musical lineup at the festival was often a star studded affair filled with some of the top names in bluegrass and Americana. Quite often we’d miss some of these bands performances however because we were too busy in camp making music of our own.

Strawberry happened on Memorial Day and Labor Day weekends and we never missed one. Like birthdays, anniversaries and holidays, attendance as a family member was mandatory. For over a decade we grew together, relationships began and bloomed within the confines of our little camp beneath the stars. Babies were born and flourished into childhood. My relationship with Carol was barely a month old when I introduced her to my friends in camp. Our twins were infants at their first Strawberry in 2004. The blissful times that we all shared are way too many to recount here. Gradually our camp expanded to include new members. Someone would bring a friend or new love interest. Some of these new arrivals would stay a short while and move on, others are with us still. I remember one sunny afternoon being deep into one of our furious jam sessions when I heard the sound of…an accordion!   Now when you hear an accordion you think polka, right? I doubt Bill Monroe had this instrument in mind when he invented bluegrass music. Well, eventually this guy drifted over and sat in on a few tunes. Turns out the dude had chops, and a cool wife who could pick it on mandolin. Bluegrass and accordions do mix, who knew? Mr. and Mrs. Accordion have been mainstays in our camp for a long time and have since brought like minded folks into our scene. The circle keeps getting wider.

Around 2012 a perfect storm of events forced Strawberry from its longtime home at Camp Mather on the outskirts of Yosemite National Park. Suddenly our little family found ourselves homeless. We carried on for a couple of years, holding our gatherings at several different locations around the Santa Cruz area, all of them wonderful in their own right, none of them sustainable in the long run. That’s when our friend Mike found Camp Loma.

Tucked into a remote corner of the Santa Cruz Mountains, surrounded by towering redwood trees and bisected by a happy, bubbling creek, Camp Loma was everything we could have hoped for. It had a fully equipped industrial kitchen, large covered dining area, a sunny meadow, ample camping space and even a pool (frigid in spring but the perfect place to cool off in when temperatures soar in September). Here we could freak freely and bask in the glow of love and easy camaraderie that we’ve created over the years. The Mockingbirds had come home to roost.

Like any new home, it took us a while to get the lay of the land and settle in. Once we ironed out the kinks, it felt like we’d always been here. Loma has no wifi or cell service so we can truly disconnect and interact with each other instead of our phones. We’ve created wonderful traditions: a camp wide bocce ball tournament, dress up happy hours and a kids vs adults whiffle ball game complete with good natured trash talk. One family member celebrates his birthday during spring Loma. Instead of cake, his wife whips up an enormous tray of Rice Krispy treats (remember those?). The kids descend like pirañas. There’s never any leftover. Of course, like a lazy river the tequila continues to flow. We celebrate anniversaries, marriages, births and birthdays. Last year a month before Labor Day Loma, our dear friend Kim Kenney passed away suddenly. Kim had been an integral part our family since the Strawberry days and her death was a devastating loss for us all. Loma was a place for us to share our collective grief and to celebrate the shining light that was Kim. The memorial we held at the center of camp was one of the saddest and most beautiful events I’ve ever been a part of. Loma is a microcosm of life.

And the  music? Simply stated the alchemy that happens when we’re playing together is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Music is such a personal thing, it can sometimes be scary to take chances and fully let go. Loma is a place where us musicians are free to bare our souls and let the emotions flow through our instruments. From intimate two person jams to massive sing-alongs around the campfire, there’s a place for all levels of players. At Loma, everyone has a chance to shine. Musically speaking I’m at my best here and have had experiences in jams that I can only describe as transcendent.

One of my favorite aspects of our gatherings is watching all of the kids grow. Before they were old enough to drive and to make decisions on their own, Loma was a place we took them to, they had no choice. What’s so cool now is, the teens and twenty somethings want to come here. Our kids start talking about Loma weeks beforehand and can’t wait to reunite with their chosen siblings. The exuberance of their initial greetings is heartfelt and beautiful to watch. They’re developing relationships with each other that will endure for years to come.

Next year we’ll celebrate ten years here. The kids have gone from diapers to high school and college graduates. We used to hide the liquor from them, now we do shots together. Great parenting, huh? The grownups get a little grayer every year and the lines around our eyes are from smiling. Growing up and growing old together at Camp Loma.

Breathe in the Buddha, weathered and worn but still flashing that beatific smile, he knows something that we don’t know. His once gilded body is now covered in bare patches, bleached bone white by years in the sun. Nothing lasts forever so one day our Buddha will be all white, his golden body just a memory.

Breathe in this redwood tree, a mere infant by redwood tree standards. From its humble beginning as a tiny seedling that sprouted from a patch of mulch in our backyard to its current height of nearly fifteen feet, this tree is a testament to persistence, it clearly wanted to grow here. Breathe in  the hundreds of pale green fingers of springtime growth that cover the tips of it’s branches. I feel the joy that our little redwood tree feels as it’s crown reaches skyward to catch the first rays of morning and the last pieces of the sunset. This tree’s trunk is straight and strong, it’s upper branches already a master of the wind dance.

Breathe in the sounds of this fountain, the centerpiece of Carol’s inspired new Zen garden that she recently created in the midst of a small triangular shaped bit of wasted space behind a shed in the far corner of our yard. Where there were once just weeds and rocks, old scraps of wood and the rusting bones of Sam and Denali’s first two-wheeled bicycles, has now risen a peaceful space ideally suited for quiet meditation. The fountain is solar powered and requires the sun’s rays to give its waters their voice. I close my eyes and breathe. This fountain’s song is a creek tumbling over polished stones as it makes its way through the forest, it’s the sound of the receding surf flowing back over thousands of shimmering sea stones, a symphony of aural psychedelia.

Breathe in the songbirds of spring that call our yard home. The brilliant yellow hooded oriole, the mockingbird, the tiny titmice and finches, towhees and robins, the zip, zip, buzz of the hummingbirds, the chattering call of the woodpeckers. Our fountains and feeders, trees and bushes offer our avian companions everything they need. If I were a bird I’d definitely live here! Our cat Ella is bemused by it all. She’s no threat to the birds and seems content to just sprawl on the deck in the sun and watch them go about their business. Living here for over two decades, we’ve become very acquainted with the ebb and flow of our birds throughout the year and their seasonal dances as they come and go.

Breathe in the chimes, they’re just pretty ornaments until the wind gives them voice and the music begins. Like clockwork the wind picks up every day in late afternoon and the songs of our chimes fill the air. From the high tinkling sounds of the smallest to the deep and sonorous tones of the largest, they sing together in harmony, celebrating the ebb and flow of the wind, the clean fresh air, the blue sky and foggy mornings, the blessing of this glorious green spring and the gift of another day.

Breathe in the cloud dance, a slow motion serenade across an impossibly blue sky on this serene late afternoon in May. The crows and ravens are black V’s as they and the clouds glide together with the wind. I spy a heart-shaped silver balloon sailing way up there with them. The last rays of sun illuminate a bright red heart at its center. Love on the wing. The tops of towering eucalyptus trees shimmer and sway as they join the clouds and the birds. I’m in shadow now but up there the sun is still shining, the tops of these majestic trees have the honor of bidding this day a final goodbye. Namaste.

The summer of 1969 was the summer of Woodstock. While the festival was unfolding at Max Yasgur’s dairy farm in upstate New York I was at the Jersey Shore on our family’s annual week long vacation. I was fascinated by it all.  Hundreds of thousands of young people converging in one place, grooving to the best bands of the time. It was an event for the ages. During the week of August 15-18 Woodstock dominated the news and was a welcome respite from the grim nightly body counts of the Vietnam War. I really wanted to be at Woodstock and pleaded with my mom to let me go. There was only one problem: in August of 1969 I was 12 years old. While I couldn’t physically be at the festival, I was there in spirit and that was the summer that I became a hippie.

To my conservative parents and others of their generation, the word ”hippie” had very negative connotations. Where they saw a ragtag confederation of dirty, drug taking, draft card burning bums, I saw beautiful and free young people with flowers in their hair who dared to dream of a better way to live. To a young boy on the cusp of coming of age, the allure of the hippies and everything they represented was powerful. 

Luckily at the shore that summer I had an ally in my cousin Patty. We were hippies together, much to the chagrin of our parents. In order to gain their approval, we assured our folks that we were “clean hippies”. We promised to take baths and brush our hair, however we did walk barefoot everywhere and wore colorful strands of “love beads” around our necks. Meanwhile I was engaged in a near constant battle with my mom over the length of my hair. Long hair in the summer of 1969 was a political statement and an outward show of solidarity with the hippies and mom was having none of it! However, I persisted and somehow managed a bit of a McCartney-esq coif with bangs sweeping across my eyebrows. My cousin wore her hair in the classic style of that era for girls: long, parted down the middle and falling past her shoulders.

Ten years later I ended up living in Northern California just a few miles south of San Francisco, the flashpoint from where the hippies and the counterculture as a whole sprung from. I’ve tried to live more of an alternative lifestyle and to hold the essence of the hippie ethic in my heart. Well, I can proudly say that I’m most definitely still a hippie. I never made it to Woodstock but I did manage to write and record this song, it’s called I Wanna Be A Hippie At Woodstock. You can give it a listen at the bottom of this story.

Our hyperdrive, instant gratification, attention span of a flea culture has recently become more so: there is now a clock in a baseball game. Up until the start of the current season, there were no time limits in baseball, the only major sport without a clock. Since its inception in the mid 1800’s a baseball game unfolded at a leisurely pace. The pitcher took as much time as he needed to throw a pitch, the batter stepped out of the batter’s box whenever he felt like it. A game could last two hours or four hours or… as Hall of Fame catcher Yogi Berra once famously stated; “It ain’t over ‘till it’s over.” Outside of minor tweeks to the rules, baseball has remained basically unchanged. However, our culture has done nothing but change. We’re living in the age of smartphones and Google and “Hey Siri”, everyday life unfolds at a dizzying pace. The popularity of the NBA and NFL have grown dramatically as these sports have become faster paced with more action and scoring, reflecting the times we live in. In contrast baseball, where a game could theoretically go on indefinitely, has become increasingly out of step with the times. Attendance and television viewing were both down. Baseball wasn’t attracting the younger crowd. “Gotta speed up the game, keep pace with the times,” they said. Hence the pitch clock.

In order to speed up the game a pitcher now has :15 to throw a pitch, :20 if there’s a man on base. If he fails to do so, an automatic ball is called. A batter is allowed one time out per at bat. If he exceeds that or is not ready when the pitcher throws the ball, an automatic strike is called. The pitcher is allowed to throw over to a base three times while a runner is on. If he fails to pick the runner off on the third attempt, a balk is called and the runner advances one base. So far the effects of the pitch clock have been dramatic. The length of an average game has been cut by over 20 minutes. The overall pace has increased, the game moves along. I’ve been to a couple of games so far this season and watched many on tv. Gone are the endless throws over to first base, the constant dance of pitcher and batter as they take turns stepping in and out of the batter’s box and pitching rubber. I was quite skeptical at first but I must admit I’m enjoying the way the games now move along. However, a big change like this comes with a cost. Something has been lost here.

In everyday life we are always concerned about time. Am I late? Early? Gotta get there, can’t waste time. We’ve become a society of clock watchers. A baseball game was one place where time had no importance, one place where I didn’t have to watch the seconds tick away. While at a game I had all the time in the world because there was no time! Thankfully, there’s as yet no clock on the time of the game as a whole but with the pitch clock, games are now shorter, their length more predictable, it almost feels like the games are timed. My main issue here is, like it not, I now have to be aware of the time at a baseball game. Yes, things move along quicker, but a game now feels rushed. Prior to the pitch clock, nothing felt hurried about a baseball game, it unfolded at its own leisurely pace. While at a game, I’d just relax, it would be over “when it was over.” Now there’s a time restraint in a game that has never had one. But we’ve gotta get the game in, spend less time at the ballpark, get out of there quicker so we can do….what?

Spring. Is there a more glorious time of year? The other seasons all have their upsides. Summer: the heat and sunshine, the lazy river and the ocean, barefoot days and a cold Mexican beer just when you need one. Autumn: the golden glow of the vineyards as their leaves turn, the quality of light as the Earth begins its tilt away from the sun, cool nights, crisp and fogless days. Winter: rain…finally, fires in the fireplace, bare trees, short days and frosty mornings. But spring…oh dear, sweet spring! Rebirth and renewal, the Earth begins to warm, trees bud out, hillsides painted with broad brush strokes of green, baseball! Spring is about hope, a fresh start, a clean slate. On the perfect spring day life’s possibilities seem unlimited. There’s nothing that I feel I can’t accomplish, I’m limited only by my imagination.  I look out upon this spring day from my  backyard and see a shifting psychedelic mosaic playing out before me.

The birds are changing shifts. The tiny yellow-rumped warbler that I’ve watched flit around our feeder all winter has been replaced by the rufous hummingbird. This diminutive bird is a temporary visitor as it passes through our area on the way to its summer home in Washington and British Colombia. I see it for perhaps a week at most. The ephemeral nature of this bird’s presence in our backyard makes me appreciate it all the more. The same goes for the western tanager. Unlike the rufous hummingbird, we get to see the tanager all spring and summer. The male’s bright yellow and red coloring appears as a flash of brilliance among the green of our fruit trees. My favorite spring visitor is the hooded oriole. It arrives like clockwork every year between the end of March and the beginning of April. Its electric yellow-orange feathers are hard to miss. This bird nests atop our neighbor’s fan palm tree. Spring really hasn’t begun for me until my initial spotting. This year the oriole showed up on April 10…right on time!

We had a record breaking rain year here in California. All things green are rejoicing from this wonderfully wet winter. The trees have been cleansed of months of dust and grime and literally pulsate in the sunshine. The hillsides all around us are greener than I’ve seen them in many years. The wildflower bloom has begun and promises to be one for the ages. I can feel the Earth’s gratitude after so many so many months of nourishing rain. Our grapefruit tree is heavy with golden orbs of fruit, each one a miniature sun. The word yellow was surely invented to describe the teardrop shaped fruit that hangs from our Meyer lemon tree. The snowy blossoms of our Asian pear  and cherry trees happily gather the sun into their hearts. Bright pink apple blossoms burst forth into even more snowdrifts. There is yet more sunshine in the brilliant yellow flowers of our African daisy bush. We planted this many years ago from a one gallon container. It’s now nearly six feet high and as many feet around. Our winter carrot crop is in and they’re crunchy and bursting with flavor.

Our neighbor’s Japanese maple tree has leafed out in all its glory. The subtle hue of its thousands of light green seven-pointed leaves dance before me in the late afternoon breeze. Twenty foot high columns of pink jasmine snake upwards and engulf two 30 foot tall cypress trees. Thousands of delicate blossoms are poised to fill the air with their sweet, heady aroma.

The air surrounding me is alive with the breeze and the song of the wind chimes and the blip-blop from the trio of fountains on our deck. At one time or another nearly every bird that calls our yard home pauses to bathe or drink here. We’re beginning to prepare the ground for our various vegetable gardens. Is there a more life affirming smell than that of freshly turned soil? Soon the seeds and starts will be sown, tiny green shoots reach skyward. We carefully nurture this new growth, to be rewarded in summer and fall by a bounty of fresh organic veggies.

Nearly seven years ago we planted a foot high redwood sapling behind a shed in the corner of our yard. The sapling is now a twelve foot tree and from my vantage point on our deck is visible above the peak of the shed. Growth, renewal, beauty…spring!

By Louie Ferrera

Rain, rain, rain! I’m so delighted to be experiencing actual winter weather for the first time in a long time. Too much of a good thing you might say? Never! The news media is doing its level best to try and rain (pun intended) on our parade. Hyperbole like “atmospheric river” and “bomb cyclone” do nothing but ratchet up the level of anxiety that most of us are already feeling in these uncertain times. I try my best to tune out this kind of fear mongering.

All over California reservoirs are full, the ground is surated, rivers and creeks once again sing songs of joy as they make their way happily to the sea. Trees and bushes, finally washed clean of dust and grime, once again have that glorious green glow to them. The vernal pools behind our house will soon be alive with the nightly chorus of frogs. Street side ditches in our neighborhood are filled with water and anxiously await  their first populations of tadpoles. It promises to be a banner year for amphibians. The sounds of rain are back too. The rat-a-tat of raindrops on our backyard deck’s roof and the whoosh of rain through the trees is literally music to my ears. And the mud! I love the squelchy sound it makes beneath my feet and the evidence of nocturnal creatures that’s left in it. We’re still conserving water though, as old habits die hard, but right now I don’t feel so guilty wasting a bit now and then. A long, hot shower is a simple pleasure that’s nice to indulge in.

Rainy day hikes have been rare these past years so I’ve been taking advantage of this gloriously wet winter by getting out in it as often as possible. The smell of wet earth, the green glow of the forest after a storm and the sounds of running water are all seasonal gifts that will vanish as soon as summer rolls along so I’m squeezing as much joy and appreciation out of them as I possibly can. And the rainbows…oh my! There have been so many this winter. I never tire of their brilliant hues and fleeting, mystical beauty. When I was teaching first grade one of our units of science study was weather. One day I told my students that I was going to make them some rainbows. It was a brilliant sunny day, we went outside and gathered around the dark outer wall of our classroom. I proceeded to pull a crystal out of my pocket the size of a ping pong ball. The sun shone through this crystal and cast hundreds of mini rainbows onto the wall. The collective gasp from the  kids is one of my most cherished teaching memories. Whenever I see a rainbow, that’s how I feel…every time!

The snowpack in the mountains and rainfall totals are off the charts but this wet winter is not done with us yet. Here in California, winter rains mean spring wildflowers. The daffodil and hyacinth bulbs that we’ve planted are all blooming; their bright yellow and vivid purple brushstrokes are everywhere. Next up the tulips and freecias  will add their colors to the palette. Springtime is on the horizon. I can picture in my mind’s eye the Monet quality of the impending wildflower blooms. Hillsides everywhere will literally explode with color.

I’m well aware that the unprecedented storms of this winter haven’t been all fun and games. High seas, crashing waves, mountains of snow and drenching rains have wreaked havoc on many communities. Familiar landscapes may never be the same. My heart goes out to all those who’ve suffered. The news media is keeping up its drumbeat of doom and gloom. “The drought is not over!”, they warn us. That may or may not be true but it’s hard to think drought while looking  at the scene being played out right now outside my kitchen window: lashing rain and towering eucalyptus trees bending like rubber in the wind. Let it rain! I’m digging every drop!

By Louie Ferrera

Point Reyes National Seashore, Valentine’s day 2023

The last raindrops drift away, they splatter our windshield with kisses of winter. Grey skies give way to blue, a patch here, a patch there. By the time we begin our hike the storm clouds have retreated to the south until above us the azure sky rings like a bell. 

Suddenly, Great Blue Heron is there, silent sentry on the edge of a small pond just off the trail. This stately bird, tall and proud, is commanding a space among the aquatic plants and newly green grasses. It stands statue still, the feathers on its back overlapping until they come to a perfectly rounded end just above the tops of its impossibly long legs. The “blue” of this bird is really a seamless blend of light teal-to-grey and all points in between. A thin tuft of coal black feathers sweeps back from the top of its head like a 50’s Elvis hairstyle. Now the heron coils its neck and with a lightning strike it hits the surface of the pond, coming up with a small fish in its bill. I feel blessed to be given such a prolonged period to observe this bird. We continue on.

We surprise two grazing deer. I notice one of them has two small bumps above its eyes, the faint beginning of antlers. Deer are a common sight here but I never take that for granted. Deer are proud and graceful, gentle and wise. 

Like perfect Christmas ornaments a pair of songbirds land atop a lupine bush. The western meadowlark’s breast feathers are streaked in the most lemony of colors, its song is a joyous greeting to all who hear it. The spotted towhee’s bright red eyes glow from its black head feathers. The rest of its body is a mulit-hued painting of rusty red and deep black peppered with white spots. A northern flicker is the next avian wonder to greet us. Its rounded head and long, pointy beak characteristic of the woodpecker family. The flicker has a black, heart shaped patch at its throat which gives way to a black spotted grey body. Rusty tail feathers rounds out this striking bird.

The wind is picking up now. As we approach Abbott’s Lagoon I see the surface is alive with tiny wind whipped waves. The color of the water is a deeply saturated shade of royal blue. Now the wind is really alive! We walk along the shore of the lagoon, this section is closer to the ocean and has  small whitecaps on it. A few brave ducks are being tossed about like bath toys. Now we come to the edge of a long stretch of dunes. An old weathered plank of lumber sits astride a giant tree trunk, weathered bone white by who knows how many years on the beach. Carol and I each climb onto an end and a teeter-tottering we go! Now we’re children, innocent and free we giggle with joy, breathing in the salty air and the wind and the blessing of this day.

The full force of the wind hits us as we leave the relative windbreak of the dunes. Now there’s just ocean and sky and an endless stretch of sand as far as we can see in both directions. We are the only ones here. Walking up the beach takes more than a bit of effort as this wind seems to have other plans for us. A strong gust kicks up and we’re nearly blown backwards, but we happily soldier on, grooving on this magnificent show that Mother Nature is putting on for us.

The sea is angry today. The surf is churning with white mountains of sea foam. One by one the waves roll onto the beach, there are no sets, no break between waves. The constant white noise roar of the wind and the surf fills the air. The air is alive and so are we! Mounds of sea foam, like whipped cream, like cumulus clouds come to rest on land, accumulate along the surf line. When the wind hits these mounds they are transformed into dancing sea foam faeries that break apart into individual bits and are blown up towards the dunes. They grow smaller and smaller as they travel until they literally disappear into the sand, it’s like a magician’s wand is waved and “poof!”, they’re gone!

Next we come across what at first appears to be a triangular piece of sun bleached driftwood about three feet on either side. Upon further inspection we find that this is actually a bone. Only whale bones are this big. It looks ancient. It’s been a very long time since this whale has plied these waters.

Sand is blowing low along the surface of the beach, it looks like smoke or the “sands of time” effect a filmmaker uses to show a character as they move back and forth through time, it’s surreal and magical. And the light…oh my! The quality of the light here today is dreamy and hypnotic and like in a dream, all edges are blurred. I feel almost hypnotized.

We see a small A-frame structure made from driftwood up along the edge of the dunes. Tattered buddhist prayer flags hang from the roof and dance wildly in the wind. Inside is a small rectangular box. I open it and find a journal. There are two years worth of writing among its pages. I read a few of the entries and am touched by the deep emotions expressed by the writers. The energy here seems to bring out the poet in folks. I leave a brief note myself, giving thanks for this day and for sharing it with the love of my life on Valentine’s Day.

We soldier on until we tire of fighting the wind. On the way back our bodies become sails, we move effortlessly with the wind now at our backs. Those sea foam faeries are everywhere, they dance across our feet on their way to oblivion. We turn into the wind and get sandblasted! I bend over at a crazy angle and the force of the wind keeps me upright. We’ve been here for hours now so the low angle of the sun makes this wild landscape look even more trippy. Our shadows, long and spindly, trail out before us. It’s easy to lose track of time while I’m here as this place seems to exist outside of time.

The lagoon is again within sight, its color has deepened in the late afternoon light to a cobalt blue. We cross a short wooden bridge, pause for a moment and that’s when we see the otter. A healthy population of river otters lives here and one of them has decided to come up onto the dunes just opposite us. With childlike abandon, this beautiful animal rolls about coating itself with sand. It sees us but we are just far enough away that it barely pays us any notice. With our binoculars we can get up close and observe the subtle colors of its fur, its large feet, perfectly adapted for paddling, its dark eyes and puppy dog-like face. After about ten minutes our otter friend slides back into the water and dives under, disappearing from view. We just stare in wonder, marveling at what we were so blessed to have witnessed.

Simply stated, Point Reyes National Seashore is a magical place. Out here at Abbott’s Lagoon in the far northern part of the park there’s always an extra dose of enchantment in the air. The convergence of sky and sea, windswept dunes and eternal beaches, otters, herons and songbirds and that unmistakable feeling that something unknowable is afoot fills my heart with joy and wonder.

Our hike comes to an end with the perfect grace note of sunset. Our star, the source of all life on Earth, dips into the blue Pacific and day is done. Namaste.