By Louie Ferrera

We gradually make our way along the bluffs, a slow snake, we slither and wind. Limantour Beach gradually dissolves, consumed by the march of fog until it is engulfed in a cocoon of pure white. The trail describes a wide S as it makes its way upward and away from the coast. The transition from coastal to forest habitat is abrupt and we find ourselves walking along a narrow path through a dense and mysterious forest of mostly poplar trees and tangled underbrush. It’s late afternoon but the canopy is so thick that it appears to be evening. A dark, slow moving creek, its surface speckled with bright green splotches of duck weed, runs to our left along the edge of the trees. It’s as silent as a dream and completely still. We spot a small solitary bird flitting among the lowest branches of a tree just off the trail. Olive green with a suggestion of yellow dusting its breast, dark wing bars, white eye rings and a flat crest that sweeps slightly backwards tells me that this is a Pacific Slope flycatcher, a secretive bird of the forest that’s more often heard than seen. We’re granted a minute or so of its time, an eternity in birding, before it disappears into the impenetrable trees. The appearance of this bird feels like a blessing. There’s an unfathomable mystery to this spot. Our progress slows to a crawl. We don’t speak. I breathe in the deep green aromas that surround us and try to take it all in.

We continue on, the trees thin slightly and that’s where the flowers appear. These are a type of lily, with several six-petal blossoms running alongside a tall, thin stalk. The brilliant red/orange color of these flowers makes them literally vibrate against the green of the surrounding forest. Around a bend, the creek crosses the trail and runs beneath a makeshift metal plate bridge. All around are cattails, fuzzy brown hot dogs atop dense, sword-like foliage. A breeze suddenly kicks up and gives voice to these plants. A rustle and swish breaks the silence, the forest spirits speak. Just as quickly, it’s quiet once again.

As we emerge from the trees into a more open section of the trail we hear a strange and unfamiliar sound, like a cross between a braying donkey and a creaky metal gate. At that moment we look about a quarter of a mile into the distance and notice several large tule elk, well know residents of Point Reyes, grazing on a hillside. This strange sound continues intermittently for a few more minutes until we put two and two together: these are elk that we’re hearing. The brush is very dense along the right side of the trail but we can tell that there are also elk directly below us where the trail slopes downward.

The trail ends just beyond where our car is parked. We run into a starry eyed group of college freshmen, out here on  a pre-semester team building retreat. Judging by the smiles on their faces I can tell they have been touched by the magic of Point Reyes. We chat up the group leader for a few minutes, he’s a friendly young man with dreadlocks spilling out from under a backwards baseball cap. This is his first visit here and he too appears to be dazzled by the experience.

Over the course of the past forty years, I’ve spent countless hours exploring the vast wilderness of Point Reyes National Seashore just north of San Francisco in West Marin County. I always come here with no expectations, open to any and all possibilities that may present themselves. There’s deep magic here and a positive energy that permeates the air like a force field. While at Point Reyes I can feel the timeless wisdom of its many plants and animals, the towering trees, the gently flowing creeks, and the roar and whisper of the mighty Pacific. There is much to learn here and many corners of this wilderness that I’ve yet to explore. Every time I’m here, I come away with a deep sense of  fulfillment, aways yearning for more.

By Louie Ferrera

Throughout the years, the beach has been a consistent source of wonder and inspiration for me. The following short pieces all had their genesis on recent visits to Salmon Creek along the Sonoma County CA coast.

Barefoot

I love walking barefoot. With nothing between the soles of my feet and the ground I feel a rock solid connection with Mama Earth. By far my favorite place to walk barefoot is at the beach. I live a little over half an hour from the coast so when I want to have the ultimate barefoot experience, that’s where I head.

Whenever I sink my feet into sand I’m a kid at the Jersey Shore, running wild and free with my cousins and siblings; I’m wandering along a deserted Northern California beach; I’m in Hanalei on the island of Kauai with my wife and kids, as happy as I’ve ever been.

At the beach there are several different types of sand, each one offers its own unique barefoot walking experience. The sand closest to the surf is compact, cool and changeable. One minute it’s hard, my feet barely making an impression but quickly turns the consistency of oatmeal when a wave comes in. Sometimes I’ll just stand facing the water and let wave after wave wash over my feet until I’m buried in sand up to my ankles. Move a short ways up the beach beyond the surf line and that’s what I call the “Goldilocks zone”. The sand there is not too hard, not to soft, it’s just right. My feet sink into the sand perhaps a quarter of an inch and I can move along at a descent clip without getting bogged down. On a long walk I’ll often look behind from where I came to see my footprints fading into the distance like ties on a railroad track. 

Still further up the beach and that’s where the going gets tough. The sand there is completely dry and super soft, my feet sink in a couple of inches which makes walking a slow process. The warm sand does feel good on my feet but this zone can be unwalkable during summer.

I walk barefoot a lot so the calluses on the bottom of my feet are thick and tough. I can walk barefoot on pretty much any type of surface with little discomfort. However, there are the occasional thorn, cut or bee sting, tradeoffs I’m more than happy to make for the freedom of shoelessness.

Sea Glass

I’m continually fascinated by sea glass; the infinite sizes, shapes and textures, the process by which it’s created, the treasure hunt like quality of the beach combing required to find it. I understand the scientific explanations behind rainbows and shooting stars but still find these phenomena mysterious and magical. The same goes for sea glass. What began as a beer bottle or pickle jar is magically transformed into a glittering gem of color and luminosity scattered among the sand and sea stones at the low tide line. Of course this process never ends. Bits of sea glass are continually tumbled and tossed about by the surf until they become even smaller bits. A look at a handful of sand through a magnifying glass often reveals minuscule pieces of glass among the equally minuscule bits of rock and shell.

Sea glass colors are predominantly green and clear, with the occasional brown thrown in. Once in a great while I’ll stumble upon a rare color like dark blue or turquoise. I even found a red piece once. The shades of green run the full spectrum from grass green to olive and all points in between. I can tell the older bits from the newer ones by their opacity and smoothness. Occasionally there’ll be a raised letter or two on a piece of sea glass or the recognizable lip or bottom of a bottle, giving me a hint to their previous lives. A piece of sea glass never looks as brilliant as when I first spot it in the wet sand. The quality of sunlight at the beach gives it special kind of glow.

I have no idea how long it takes for the ocean to make sea glass. Is it weeks? Months? Years? How many times does a bit of glass have to be tossed about by the ocean until it’s opaque and smooth? How did these gems of glass get here in the first place? I’m sure there’s someone out there who can answer al of these questions, but like Iris Dement sings; “I think I’ll just let the mystery be.”

Wavespeak

Waves whisper

When they break upon the sand with a soft woosh.

Sea stones, silent and infinite, are given voice

Thousands click together with a sizzling hiss

As waves crash and retreat

Crash and retreat

Waves rumble

On a stormy day 

They roll in one after the other

Individuals blend together

A hypnotic hum of wonderful white noise

Waves crash

A storm at sea brings walls of water

Leviathans rise up through the churning cobalt

Pent up energy released with a terrifying boom

My body trembles

Waves roll

Silently

But if you’re close enough

You may hear a conversation

Between gulls and plovers

Sand crabs and harbor seals

Waves speak

The ancient language of the sea

And the sentient creatures

That inhabit her unknowable depths

By Louie Ferrera

I was catching up recently with an old friend during a lengthy phone conversation. After the initial exchange of  pleasantries, she posed the inevitable question, “What have you been up to?” My reply? “I’ve been busy, very busy.”

I’ve been busy watching the lilies. Planted as bulbs in winter, the plants have grown straight and strong, each single stalk sporting between eight and ten zeppelin shaped yellow blossom pods. We were beginning to wonder if these pods would ever bloom when the recent onset of hot summer weather forced the issue. A few of the pods began to show signs of opening at their tips, however, nothing prepared me for what I saw this morning shortly after sunrise. One of the pods had burst forth in a dazzling display of form and color. Six petals had fully opened, each sword shaped tip bent gracefully backwards revealing a bright pink flower outlined in pure white with six stamen at the center. These flowers will be a feast for our eyes for weeks to come as well as a feast for the bees and hummingbirds who no doubt have been anticipating this bloom as much as we have.

I’ve been busy watching the hummingbirds. Throughout the cool spring and early summer their presence had been limited to an occasional bird or two. But it seems that the heat has brought out the hummingbirds too. From the first light of dawn to the last rays of sunset these delightful birds are a constant presence, their zips, clicks and buzzes add a joyful note to the soundtrack of each day. We have five feeders scattered throughout our yard, each one seems to have an “overlord” and an “interloper”. The overlord stands guard over its feeder from a nearby perch. When the interloper tries to steal a sip, overlord zips over and chases away the intruder, both birds doing a crazy corkscrew dance of persuit and retreat. It’s like my own personal Nature Channel, only the voice of David Attenborough is missing.

I’ve been busy watching the other birds too. Spring was alive with the arrival of migrants like tanagers and orioles. Along with the year round residents (towhees, jays, titmice…) all of the birds were busy finding mates and building nests. There was a short period of calm as they went about their domestic business, so many of the birds were a lot less visible. Lately the action has picked up, most notably with the arrival of the juveniles. These youngsters behave much like human children, they’re curious and often allow me to approach them much closer than an adult bird ever would. I can tell they’re trying to figure me out. They’ll soon realize that they need to steer clear of humans.

I’ve been busy watching the bees, their hind legs thick with pollen as they crawl slowly across the lemon yellow and popsicle orange faces of sunflowers. When the clover is in bloom, our lawn is alive with bees too. As they fly from one blossom to the next, I can put my ear up close and hear sweet bee music.

I’ve been busy watching the tomatoes; the pendulous Romas, the pumpkinesque  Early Girls, the perfectly spherical cherries. The latter are always the first to ripen. To bite into a Sungold tomato, aptly named for their sunshiny orange color, is to taste summer itself. I crunch into their skins and the warm, sweet-tangy flavor fills my mouth and nourishes my soul. Many of these tomatoes never even make it into the house. All of the other varieties we planted are still green, but a few have begun to take on the first blush of color, promising a summer of fresh, organic salads. With the bounty of veggies we’ve planted, that salad is but a short walk from our back door, waiting to be created.

I’ve been busy watching the days unfold. The soft yellow light of dawn, the bright white light of midday, the alpenglow of sunset, the purple light of dusk. When it gets dark enough, the various solar lights that we’ve placed around our yard begin to randomly blink on. The globes, lanterns and strings of LED lights add an air of enchantment to the evening.

I’ve been busy watching the moon go through its phases. I understand the scientific explanation for this phenomena but I still find it mysterious and magical.

Like I told my friend, I’ve been busy.

By Louie Ferrera

By now the anticipation level was pretty high. Think kid in a candy store. Think six year old at Christmas. Over the past week I’ve tried to keep my expectations in check but sitting here at UC Berkeley’s Greek Theater, the scene of so many evenings dancing to the Grateful Dead, I’ve reached the point where I just couldn’t wait any longer. In 15 minutes Neil Young would be taking the stage.

It’s hard to overstate the impact that Neil’s music has had on my life. I was 14 when Deja Vu came out (I still have my original vinyl copy). There’s not a dead spot on that album. I loved it all but there was something about the Neil Young songs Helpless and Country Girl, that really grabbed me back then. The high pitched whine of his voice, the inscrutable lyrics, his unique approach to acoustic guitar playing, the distorted tone and manic electric guitar solo on Woodstock all set Neil far apart from the other parts of the CSNY equation.

In the summer of 1974, I caught a show on the big CSNY reunion tour. This was the first time I’d seen Neil Young live. What really stuck in my mind that night was Neil’s brooding presence and the way he stalked the stage. It was evening and he was wearing sunglasses. His songs brought a dark biting edge to the show. Neil was part of the band but I could tell he had one foot out the door, prowling around the edges already thinking where his next musical journey would take him.

That fall I entered my freshman year of college. I had always wanted to learn how to play the guitar. Fortunately I quickly fell in with a kind and welcoming group of friends, all of whom had varying levels of proficiency on guitar. We had many common musical interests and Neil Young’s music was one thread that ran through us all. Denise and Carol had worked up a unique arrangement of Old Man, Laurie could sing like Joni Mitchell, Tim, Ben and Bruce were all solid pickers and singers. I was determined to play and sing like them so I went out and bought my first guitar, a Yamaha steel string model for $90. My new friends showed me some chords and gave me a few pointers on how to play. They tolerated a beginning hacker like myself and it was their patience and friendship that gave me the encouragement to keep playing.

However, the learning curve on guitar is steep. I had to really be committed in order to get over that hump. What eventually got me there? The music of Neil Young. I was 18, I had my own guitar and a copy of Neil’s seminal album Harvest. This is the perfect record for a beginning guitarist. The chords are basic folk type chords that could all be played in first position, the melodies and arrangements fairly straight forward and easy to follow. I basically locked myself in my room and played along with Harvest until I could play all of the songs. Needless to say I was obsessed and driven. I copied Neil’s percussive acoustic guitar style. I wanted to play like Neil, hell I wanted to be Neil!

There’s no end to learning on guitar, but I remember when I could comfortably get all the way through Heart of Gold without any mess ups as being a key moment in my musical development. I’ve been playing guitar, performing and writing songs ever since. I’ve recorded three albums of original material. One of the musical highlights of my life was playing to a packed club in Santa Cruz as part of a tribute to Neil Young. I led the band as we closed the show with a rollicking version of Rockin’ In The Free World. Music is a deeply integral part of who I am. Neil Young’s music continues to inspired me and has been a thread that’s run through my life. I am eternally grateful to him for that.

So, it’s a warm summer evening, the setting sun casts a pink glow on puffy clouds that dot the darkening sky. Towering eucalyptus trees frame the lawn at the top of the amphitheater. The place is packed. Tiny blue lights line the stage which is set up like a living room. There are four pianos, an old fashioned weather vane and a faux fireplace circled by a running set of trains. The stage backdrop is lit from below in a fiery orange hue to match the sunset. It’s weird and wonderful and as it should be and here comes Neil. He strides onto the stage in that slightly stooped, shambling style of his. He’s dressed like a train conductor from the 1800s. The long narrow brim of his cap obscures his eyes so I can only see his face from the nose down. His denim jacket is blue and pinstriped and appears to have white paint stains on it. His t-shirt reads: “Support Local Music”. Jeans and sneakers round out this unique fashion statement. The place is going nuts but I can only sit there and breathe it all in. One of the most influential people in my life grabs his 12-string Taylor acoustic guitar and begins to sing.

‘

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.