By Louie Ferrera

I just spent the past three days dancing at the center of a swirling vortex of bliss. Tie dye, rainbows and glitter burst forth from its center and up into the air creating a vortex of its own. There were hugs and kisses and smiles, dust and sweat and joy…so much joy! At one point the individual ceased to exist, we simply morphed into one massive, swirling organism of love. Is this some kind of hippie fantasy? A psychedelic vision of an unobtainable nirvana? A time trip back to Woodstock? Nope, just another weekend of music and magic courtesy of The String Cheese Incident.

The String Cheese Incident (SCI, The Cheese) had their humble beginnings in the early 90s as a Colorado-based quartet of bluegrass picking ski bums (a fifth member was soon added followed by a sixth a decade later). Like a snowball rolling downhill the band gradually gained momentum, building a large and dedicated fan base that is the envy of any touring band. Like the late, great Grateful Dead, Cheese fans follow the band on tour, never missing a show. A run of shows is a much anticipated and celebratory event where old friends gather and new friends are made. When The Cheese come to town jobs and responsibilities are put on hold. SCI is the vehicle and focal point, an empty canvas onto which we the fans and they the band create something new and original during every show. Once the last notes fade away, the canvas is wiped clean in preparation for the next day’s festivities. We are thousands of Van Goghs, each adding a color from our individual palette.

The emergence of the Jam Band scene coincided with the demise of the Grateful Dead following the untimely death of Jerry Garcia in 1995. SCI has been at the vanguard of that scene ever since, gathering up stray Deadheads and like minded travelers along the way who were looking for adventure and something different. SCI are musical chameleons who defy description. Throughout the three hour journey that is a String Cheese show, a straight ahead bluegrass rave-up can morph seamlessly into a furious techno jam then back into the bluegrass, like Bill Monroe on acid. There are latin infused melodies and West African rhythms, lightening fast guitar picking and seamless ensemble paying that is nothing short of telepathic. SCI plays original music but you never know when they’ll throw in a nugget by The Allman Brothers or Talking Heads. The band understands the value of a well placed cover tune. 

So, who the hell are these musical Merlins? Drummer extraordinaire  Michael Travis, percussionist and erstwhile rapper Jason Hahn, laconic bassist Keith Moseley, firey electric mandolinist and fiddler Michael Kang, bouncy, bearded acoustic guitarist Billy Nershi and keyboardist Kyle Hollingsworth, that’s who! Like all good bands, each member adds their own unique personality and playing style to the mix. With The Cheese, the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. Billy, Keith, Kang and Kyle write the songs and sing ‘em too. The vocal harmonies are solid; two, three and even sometimes four part. Billy is a Tony Rice caliber flat picker with a little Dickey Betts thrown in for good measure. His playing style is tasteful and original. Kang has taken the mandolin boldly where no man has gone before. Think Bela Fleck on banjo and you’ll get an idea of his virtuosity. The interplay between these two is furious and inventive. Moseley is rock solid on bass. His gentle anthem Joyful Sound is a staple of their live shows and sums up nicely the simple joys of making music for people. Kyle sits perched atop a riser surrounded by keyboards, moving easily between piano, organ and synthesizer. He’s the “funny headgear” guy in the band. Kyle’s easy-going stage presence belies the seriousness of his playing. Keeping this train on the tracks are the Dynamic Duo of Travis and Hahn. Michael drives the band on traps, he’s a whirling dervish, all hands and feet. Jason adds the seasoning with congas, talking drum, djembe, shaker, cowbell and the kitchen sink.

The guys in String Cheese are serious musicians but they don’t take themselves too seriously. This is a band that knows how to have fun. Their symbol is the humble jellyfish. Taken from the eponymous Billy Nershi tune on their debut album Born On The Wrong Planet, this song tells the tale of a rough morning after a night of marathon tequila drinking when Billy’s brain is “just a jellyfish in the ocean of my head.” Dancing through the crowd at every Cheese show you’ll find people wielding homemade jellyfish fashioned from colorful umbrellas, complete with flowing tendrils of flashing LED lights.

Besides being a one-of-a-kind, impossible to define musical experience, the band creates something else, something that we all desire, something that we all need: community. Like it or not, modern American society is all about the “me” but, at an SCI show it’s all about the “we” where  possibilities are limitless; no wonder they titled one of their albums Untying The Not! While The Cheese are holding court, we’re not focused on our phones but rather on the band and the kaleidoscopic synthesis that occurs when like-minded people and mind blowing musicians come together. Despite what the media is constantly telling us, it’s not all shit!! Step inside the force field that is a String Cheese concert and you’ll quickly see that love and beauty, joy and acceptance, camaraderie and creativity abound and are alive and well.

I guess what I try and do is to take all of this goodness that I’m filled with after a run of SCI shows and put some of it out into the world. Here’s the deal: String Cheese you keep playing, we’ll keep coming and together maybe, just maybe, we can steer our troubled world in a more positive, hopeful and loving direction.

By Louie Ferrera

There’s a monster living in our backyard. It only comes out at night, catching and devouring its prey in an elaborately constructed trap. This monster strikes fear into our hearts; a primal dread that sends shivers up our spines.

Ok, this “monster” is actually just a spider, an Orb Weaver spider to be exact, who my daughter Denali and I have affectionately named Junior. A month or so ago we literally stumbled upon it. Junior has chosen to weave its web across a narrow pathway between an Asian pear tree and a jasmine bush. Denali and I were walking into our backyard when I saw her recoil and shriek in fear. She had walked right through Junior’s web! Judging by what was left of the web, we figured it was one of those enormous garden spiders that we’ve seen from time to time in our yard. Right then and there, we hatched a plan. After dark we would head out with flashlights in hand to investigate. What we saw both horrified and fascinated us. Junior had completely rebuilt its web and was sitting in the center of it waiting for some unfortunate insect to fly in. This was by far one of the largest spiders either of us had ever seen. From its huge bulbous abdomen to its smaller head, Junior was at least an inch and a half long. Add in the legs and we were looking at one big ass arachnid!

Junior’s web is a marvel of engineering, it measures nearly two feet across. Of all the beautifully constructed homes in the animal world, from bird’s nests to the honeycomb inside a bee hive, I find a spider’s web like this one to be the most exquisitely designed of all. I think it’s pretty special having such a uniquely beautiful creature like Junior make its home in our backyard. We’ve since strung caution tape across the walkway so that Junior can live in peace and we can avoid the horrifying experience of walking through his web again. A spider like this is best left alone.

I think there’s a little bit of arachnophobia in all of us, especially me and Denali. Her paternal grandmother was an extreme arachnophobe, so perhaps that’s where we get it from. There’s just something about spiders that evoke a kind of primal fear in people. Except for species like Black Widows and the Brown Recluse, spiders are shy and harmless creatures that benefit humans by eating insects that we don’t want around. So, Denali and I go out every night to check on Junior. We shiver and we laugh at our squeamishness but keep our distance. We don’t want to tempt fate.

By Louie Ferrera

Carol and I recently spent a week traveling around Colorado. Here are a few of my impressions 

Wildflowers

Crested Butte, Colorado is the self proclaimed “wildflower capitol of the world” and the Snodgrass Trail on the outskirts of town is its epicenter. It’s a lofty statement to claim to be the world capitol of anything but after experiencing the riotous outburst of color, shape, form and abundance that are Crested Butte’s wildflowers, I doubt that there’s anyplace in the universe that could begin to match them.

I’m a Californian, I’ve seen amazing displays of wildflowers, I know about wildflowers, but after Crested Butte I realize that I’ve seen and know nothing. We took photos, so many photos but photographs can’t even begin to describe what Carol and I experienced on the hillsides and ridge tops surrounding Crested Butte. It’s a vast canvas painted from God’s palette: oranges, pinks, yellows, reds, blues, purples, lavenders, whites and all shades and hues in between. Complimentary colors appear like magic; I never saw a shade of yellow without a shade of purple nearby. The predominant flower is a large, popsicle orange variety of daisy, in knee-high patches that cover entire hillsides. Mixed in are small, delicate, five-petal blue and purple blooms atop slender stalks. There is lupine and paint brush, wild rose and Queen Anne’s lace and of course there’s columbine, the Colorado state flower, larger and more spectacular than the kind that grow in my backyard. The sheer abundance and variety of flowers literally took my breath away! At certain spots along the trail, the colors went on as far as the eye could see. The feeling I had on our hike was similar to seeing the Grand Canyon or Yosemite for the first time, this wildflower display was on a scale that I simply had nothing to compare it to. These are WILDFLOWERS! It was awe inspiring. When Carol and I spoke to one another the only words we could muster were wow and amazing, whispering as if we were inside a cathedral.

I could look up the latin and common names of all these flowers and bore you by listing them, but what would be the point of that? Seeing these flowers is not about naming and categorizing but rather just being among them and letting their beauty wash over you. I felt great joy but small and humble too. I was just grateful to be here. I have no idea who or what “god” is but I do know that among the wildflowers of Crested Butte, I felt the presence of the divine.

Aspen Trees

The trunk of an aspen tree is bone white and telephone pole straight. The surface is marked by dark concentric rings that run the length of the tree and darker circular spots scattered among them. An aspen’s heart-shaped leaves are two-toned, the underside being several shades lighter than the top so when a breeze kicks up a shimmering light dance occurs. Countless millions of leaves flicker in time, their swishing sound is similar to that of waves receding from the shore. It is quite the experience to hike through an aspen grove while this dazzling show of light and sound is on display. In Colorado entire mountainsides are covered solely in aspen trees.

Waterfalls

waterfalls, waterfalls, waterfalls!

roiling ribbons roar

the hillside sings

Birds

As an avid birder, seeing a familiar species while traveling is like running into an old friend. On one of our hikes in the mountains a diminutive kinglet flashed its ruby crown for me and I briefly heard the unmistakable summer song of the elusive Swainson’s thrush echo through the aspen forest. A dipper did its river dance, bobbing up and down and under the water’s surface in search of aquatic insect larvae. For me, spotting a new species of bird  is one of life’s simple pleasures. In Colorado I added the spectacular Lewis’s and red-naped woodpeckers to my life list as well as the brilliant mountain bluebird, broad tailed hummingbird and blue grouse, the latter skittering through the underbrush with four babies in tow. The next time I visit Colorado, these too will be old friends. 

By Louie Ferrera

Some things never get old. Snorkeling with Hawaiian Green Sea Turtles is one of them.

When I’m underwater, turtles usually appear out of nowhere, gliding into my view frame when I least expect them to. I’ll be checking out the coral or some colorful reef fish when out of the blue, literally, here comes a honu (Hawaiian for “turtle”). Honu can fly, did you know that? They propel themselves through the water by way of the graceful, wing-like motion of their front flippers, it is truly poetry in motion! I sometimes imagine a turtle breaking through to the surface; its flippers become wings as it lifts itself from the blue of the sea into the blue of the sky and beyond.

This species of turtle is endangered and thus federally protected. It’s always a thrill to see a honu from the shore, especially when it comes to the surface to breathe. Their faces are oddly human-like. But to really experience these majestic creatures you’ve got to get into the water with them. If you’re lucky enough to encounter one while snorkeling, stay at least ten feet away, these aren’t zoo animals. My most memorable honu meetings and the ones I always hope for are when we get to swim together. The turtle will either be swimming below or beside me. I try my best to keep up with it by way of my puny human propulsion. If the turtle is moving at a leisurely pace this tandem swim can last a minute or two. During these brief encounters I can feel honu’s energy; this creature is ancient and wise and knows more than I’ll ever know. And just as suddenly as it appears, the turtle is gone, it simply melts into the blue at the limit of my visibility.

While on the beach in Maui, I always see fellow tourists getting super excited over the sight of a turtle, they’re calling their friends over and snapping photos with their phones. I’ll sometimes engage these folks in conversation, usually this is their first honu experience. The joy on their faces is still the joy on mine… every time I see a turtle. Like I said, some things never get old.

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.

By Louie Ferrera

Crow

How black is that crow sitting way up there near the top of that Dr. Seuss-like eucalyptus tree? So black that it looks like negative space; like a perfect crow shape has been cut out of the blue sky to reveal the blackness of outer space beyond. Black licorice, my favorite kind,  a chunk of obsidian, a coal mine at midnight, Crow is that black! I peer through my binoculars and can see its iridescent feathers glowing as they reflect the rays of a rapidly setting sun. The tree is perhaps 200 feet tall and Crow is perched maybe 20 feet from the top. Like the Maltese Falcon, like a gargoyle atop a New York City skyscraper, Crow gazes down upon us earthbound creatures. What is it thinking? Are its motives altruistic or does Crow have something more sinister in mind? Crow occasionally lets loose with one of its vocalizations which is a cross between a ratchet and a gargle; it’s creepy and causes me to shudder.

The term “bird brain” connotes simplemindedness, but for birds and especially crows this is a complete misnomer. Birds possess great intelligence. The corvids (crows and jays) are among the smartest in the avian world. It’s with this in mind that I wonder what Crow is up to. I’m pretty sure that it has a nest somewhere up there. Crow and its friends noisily chase away any bird that dares to come near. Even the Red Shouldered hawk, a large and powerful predator, is no match. Don’t mess with Crow!

Jay

Scrub Jay is the undisputed ruler of its backyard domain It glides from tree to tree like a blue arrow with the confidence that no other bird would dare challenge it. Smaller birds quickly scatter when Scrub approaches the feeders. With staccato jabs its pointed beak probes the seed well. Seeds fly as Scrub searches for its favorite morsel. Oak titmice and chickadees eye the feeder with envy from a nearby tree, waiting until Scrub has had its fill before swooping in for their turn.

One of our deck fountains doubles as a bird bath. Scrub and its avian underlings make ample use of it for drinking and bathing. Of course Scrub is “top dog” here as well. I love watching it dip its beak in and out of the water, taking imperceptibly tiny sips until it has quenched its thirst.

Scrub is blue and it’s a jay but it is not a Blue Jay, that distinction belongs to a jay that lives east of The Rockies and bears little resemblance to Scrub and its cousin the Stellar’s Jay. The blue shade of Scrub’s wing, tail and head feathers is deeply saturated and particularly vivid when viewed in the bright, flat light of a summer afternoon. Scrub jays are one of the more common birds in our area. I find it a stunningly gorgeous bird who’s beauty is not diminished one bit by its familiarity. I can imagine the reaction of someone who has never seen a scrub jay.

Chickadee

The Chestnut backed chickadee is a feisty little bird. It flits around our yard with urgent purpose, zipping from tree branch to feeder to fountain like a sprite on too much caffeine. Chickadee is curious to the point where I could almost give it the human characteristic of being friendly. Hummingbirds will sometimes dive bomb me but those are fleeting encounters. However with Chickadee, I can often get within a couple of feet it. Sometimes Chickadee will even approach me! These visits can last a minute or two and have an air of magic to them. I’ll look at Chickadee and it will look at me. I’ll say something like, “Hey there little bird” and it responds with a soft click or chip. I wonder how it perceives me? Birds are smart creatures and we can never truly know the mind of an animal so anything I think about Chickadee’s level of awareness is pure conjecture.

Chickadee appears to be a happy bird, but then again all birds seem happy to me. I mean, wouldn’t you be if you could fly? There’s a metal fountain on our deck that’s about two feet high. The water cascades down a series of five faux seashells, each shell is a mini bird bath and the perfect size to fit the body of a chickadee. Nowhere in our yard does Chickadee appear happier than when it’s bathing in one of the shells. The top tier is its preferred spot. Chickadee will land, dip its beak, flap its wings and wiggle its tiny body, creating a corona of water droplets in a display of unbridled avian ecstasy.

Chickadee’s colors are a series of broad brushstrokes in earth tone hues. A dark brown head gives way to a broad cream colored band across its eyes, ending in a black chin. Its back and sides are a deep, rusty brown, its wings dark with white bands, its breast white. Chickadee isn’t flashy like an oriole or a tanager, its beauty is more subtle. This bird is easy to observe, allowing me more time to appreciate its unique combination of colors and patterns

I can’t recall for sure exactly when I first heard the Allman Brothers, or who turned me on to them, all I know is their music has been part of my life for over half a century.

The Allman Brothers, it seems like they’ve always been there. It was sometime in high school when I first heard their seminal album Live At Fillmore East, a record that has become the benchmark for all live albums since. In the early 1970s, WNEW-FM was the progressive New York City rock and roll radio station that we all listened to. This was well before Spotify was even a glimmer in its creator’s creator’s eye. WNEW was where you turned when you wanted to hear new music so that’s probably where I first heard The Allmans. Their music was unlike anything I had ever heard before. It struck a chord deep within me that still resonates today. The sweet, twin-harmony electric guitars of Duane Allman and Dicky Betts, Berry Oakley’s thundering bass, the rock solid tandem drumming of Butch Trucks and Jaimoe and of course the Hammond B3 playing and the soulful and gritty vocals of the incomparable Gregg Allman combined to create a brand new genre of music known as “southern rock.”

My older brother Ray and I were rabid fans of The Allmans. We wore the grooves out on Fillmore East and its follow-up Eat A Peach. We even indoctrinated our six year old brother Steve by requiring him to stand and salute during Duane’s blistering slide guitar solo on “Mountain Jam.” In the 70’s for us, it was all about the Allman Brothers. 

I was too late to the party to have seen the original lineup with Duane and Berry but fortunate enough to catch the band a couple of times as they reinvented themselves with keyboardist extraordinaire Chuck Leavell. The band wasn’t ready to hire a replacement for Duane after his untimely death in 1971, as a generational talent like him is irreplaceable. Instead they chose to carry on as a quintet for a couple of years, then adding Leavell who brought a jazzy element to their sound. In 1973, the Allman Brothers released Brothers And Sisters. This record was an absolute blockbuster. It featured the Dicky Betts penned top ten hit “Ramblin’ Man” and vaulted the band into rock superstardom. Needless to say, Ray and I wore the grooves out on this record too! During this period the Allman Brothers consistently sold out stadiums and large outdoor festivals. Towards the late 1970s, the band began to loose steam. Personnel issues and drug problems sidelined the band in the 1980s and by decade’s end, they were all but counted out as has-beens.

Down but not out, the Allmans came roaring back in the early 90s. Leavell departed and guitarist Warren Haynes was brought in. The original twin guitar sound was back. This new iteration of the band was what old fans like myself had been waiting for for years. The guitar interplay between Haynes and Betts was faithful to the original magic of Allman/Betts with a new twist. Haynes’ style was edgier than Duane’s but still a nice compliment to Dicky’s melodic, country flavored picking. Of course, no one could sing the blues like Gregg. The band was poised to forge a new path forward. Their live and studio albums from this period are vibrant and filled with furious jams, inventive guitar interplay and original songs every bit as good as those from the band’s heyday With new energy and new life, the band’s live shows were once again a must see.

In 1993, The Allmans were headlining an outdoor festival with venerable jam band Phish. I attended this show with more than a bit of skepticism. I hadn’t seen the band since the mid 1970s. My memories of the Allmans of that era were cherished. Could they ever match the magic of the band that I had loved back then? From the first notes of the show I realized that the band was indeed back. The Haynes/Betts combo was dynamic, adding a fresh element to the band’s sound and Gregg was in fine voice. I left that show as a reborn Allman Brothers fan.

All of these memories are swirling around my head as I read about the passing of Dicky Betts. The death of yet another musical icon of my generation serving as a stark reminder of my own mortality. After band founder Duane Allman’s untimely death in 1971, Betts gradually evolved into the Allman’s defacto leader. His songs “In Memory Of Elizabeth Reed”, “Southbound”, “Ramblin’ Man” and “Blue Sky” were all staples of their live shows in the 70s. The shimmering, soaring instrumental “Jessica” has become one of the most beloved of classic rock songs. Lesser know Betts gems such as “Just Another Love Song”, “High Falls” and “Pegasus” are sprinkled throughout post Brothers and Sisters albums Win, Lose Or Draw and Enlightened Rogues. With Duane no longer up on stage beside him, Dicky had to handle all of the guitar parts himself, in the process honing his sound into one of the most distinctive styles in rock. His combination of sweet, melodic flat picking and stinging slide work is as recognizable as Clapton or Hendrix. Throughout the band’s 90s resurgence Dicky kept the quality songs coming with “Seven Turns” and “Nobody Knows”, the latter becoming a vehicle for some furious Betts/Haynes guitar fireworks.

Today was a picture perfect spring day; breezy, blue and beautiful. Poor Man’s Whiskey, a favorite local Americana band was giving a free outdoor show as part of the Sebastopol Apple Blossom Festival. Carol and I spent nearly two hours among a crowd of smiling, happy people dancing to this joyous band. The show was about to end, but they had time for one more song. The guitar player began to play an instantly recognizable pattern of chords as the band launched into a raucous version of “Jessica”. The crowd erupted and we moved as one in a celebratory swirl. The band jammed, we danced, and all was right with the world. For as long as there are moments like this, the music of Dicky Betts and the Allman Brothers Band will live forever.

By Louie Ferrera

Mitch, Andy and I are as close as friends can be. We’ve shared  countless blissful times together over the course of our more than three decade friendship. Our annual boy’s weekends are much anticipated touchstones in our lives. The following is an account of one such day on a recent trip.

It was a day unlike any of the other days that we’ve spent together throughout the ten year history of our boy’s weekends. We were in the flow, moving like a well oiled machine through the streets of beachside San Diego. We were in love with everyone and everyone was in love with us.

It’s 8:00am and the guy behind the counter of the mom and pop market near our rental is all smiles. He beams at us as he rings up our sale (one stick of butter). There’s something about his sunny attitude and this brief encounter that sets the tone for the day. Across the street is a coffee shop that occupies a narrow storefront between two larger buildings. Andy needs more coffee so we head over. I hear “Go Giants” and look down to see Maddy a Bay Area transplant who notices my Giants cap, recognizing me as a kindred spirit. Her brilliant, toothy smile and bright blue eyes are framed by perfectly straight copper colored hair that falls past her shoulders. Maddy was at one of the most legendary games in Giants history: Matt Cain’s perfect game in 2012. She was ten, I was watching the game with my family in Hawaii. The energy around us among the small gaggle of customers waiting for their coffee is vibrant, all things seem possible. The barista is Maddy’s friend, she’d dispensing caffeinated drinks with purpose and a smile on her face. Mitch chats up a guy whom he has a Sayulita, Mexico connection with, it’s one of those small world things. Andy gets his coffee and we cruise back to our place, buoyed by the promising start to our day. We can feel that special things are in store.

Once back home, we team up to make the perfect breakfast: cheesy eggs with Italian sausage and English muffins. When the clock strikes 10, out comes the tequila. Glasses are clinked and shots are consumed as we toast to another day of brotherly love and adventure. We light a “Goldilocks” joint; not too weak, not to stoney but just right and float out the door with no agenda in mind, our only plan is to put our good energy out into this quiet, overcast morning and see where it leads us.

Everyone we encounter becomes a supporting player in our little movie: the guy in the market and the folks at the coffee shop  and now our Uber driver. He’s a grizzled but jovial fellow of around 60 with a thick eastern European accent. A weathered Padres cap is perched at a jaunty angle atop his head. His Prius is still chugging along at 425 thousand miles. Mitch, Andy and I slip into our routine, playing ping pong with quips, jokes and good natured abuse. The driver slides right in there with us, his joyous cackle of a laugh fills the air inside his little rattletrap of a car. 

After a short ride, we wash up in Ocean Beach (OB). This funky little beachside community is like a Berkeley by-the-sea without the darkness and anger. The main  drag is peppered with thrift stores, curio shops, dive bars and locally owned eateries. A “freak freely” vibe permeates the air. Our first stop is a surf shop where we pick up two new cast members. Lizzie and Michaela are sweet, funny and full of life. We get into this absurd routine with them about Mike’s Taco Club. Mike’s is a taqueria down the block that we had tried on a previous trip. It’s a mediocre eatery and the epitome of “gringo” Mexican cuisine. We couldn’t figure out why it was so crowded. Mike’s has been the butt of our jokes ever since. But Lizzie and Michaela love it, especially the “Cali burrito” with french  fries inside. None of us could figure out why  Mike’s is called a “club”. The girls know all of their lines and so do we, it’s all so hilarious. Older gents like us rarely get to interact in any meaningful way with twenty-somethings like these two girls. Their goofy energy and willingness to go along with our silliness pushes us forward.

The pale green neon sign of Pacific Shores has just been lit, signaling that it’s finally noon and opening time for one of OBs oldest dive bars. Inside it’s dark and deserted. We’re the first customers and are greeted  from behind the bar by busty and bouncy redhead Anna. We settle onto our stools, order a round of Bloody Mary’s and the banter begins. Anna is funny and sharp witted and slips right into our routine. She knows how to handle goofy drunk guys like us. No celery? No problem. Mitch heads to the store to buy a stalk while Anna fixes our drinks; her saucy attitude, crimson hair and low cut, bright red tank top fuels our imaginations. Next up is Joe. Into the bar he strolls looking dapper in a rumpled grey suit with a wide, pale blue tie and a matching triangle of  handkerchief peeking out from his breast pocket. His sandy colored hair spills out from under a natty straw fedora and reaches to the middle of his back. His electric blue eyes are alive with mischief. Joe is an attorney celebrating a successful morning in court with a glass of white wine. He’s a regular at Pacific Shores, he and Anna chat amiably. Joe lives most of the year in Argentina and was once a stand up comic. He’s a raconteur supreme and keeps the stories and one-liners flowing. If I were in trouble, I’d definitely want this guy beside me in court. I just take it all in happy to be a supporting player. We stay for another round of bloody’s, blinking in the bright, early afternoon light as we exit the bar.

The flow that we’re in right now is simply incredible. Neither of us want to say anything about it for fear of breaking the spell. We’re in love with everyone and everyone is in love with us has become our mantra for the day. Over the course of our more than three decades friendship, Mitch, Andy and I have built up quite a repertoire. Being out in public and roping strangers into our movie is what we do best. People pick up on our camaraderie and love for one another and are all too happy to join in on the fun. We cast a wide net and shine a light on everyone who falls within it. Today everything feels effortless. We’re good vibe merchants, our mission is to spread the joy.

By now we’re really floating and decide it’s time for a cannabis booster so we stroll the three blocks to the beach and light up. The ocean is slate grey  and calm, a derelict pier juts out from where we sit. The surf is mellow, a handful of surfers swish back and forth across the face of small waves. On this overcast day, usually sunny San Diego is subdued and the perfect fit for our stoned state of mind.

With the booze and the weed comes the munchies so to a highly recommended sandwich shop we go next. Pomo is old school OB, an unassuming little box of a building. This no frills eatery serves up scrumptious sammies that we would soon devour. Mitch never looked up from his meatball sub while Andy and I were digging on authentic Italian “hoagies”. While waiting for our order we strike up a conversation with sweet young Chula. She’s all dreadlocks, olive skin and 100 watt smile with a personality to go with it. She’s got two guys in tow, Andy makes a connection with one of them who it turns out has spent some time in Bend, Oregon where Andy lives. This comes as no surprise considering the charmed and serendipitous nature of our day so far. We banter back and forth with Chula and her boys, they slip effortlessly into our movie. We are magnets for happy people and loving vibes and continue on, high on the symbiosis of it all.

It’s been like 20 minutes since our last cocktail so our next destination is the North Shore Tavern, a watering hole recommended by Chula. In contrast to the dark dive bars we usually frequent on our trips, North Shore is airy and modern with large doors that open to the outside. My canine loving companions spy a booth of thirty-somethings enjoying drinks with their dog in tow and head over to introduce themselves. Instead of playing pool (we only manage one drunken game) we spend the better part of the next hour and a half drinking and laughing with this merry crew half our age and become fast friends. California native Jordan, a chill and smiling young man with a scruffy beard and an unkempt head of hair is flanked by sisters Natalie and Erica who are transplants from Kentucky. Erica’s riveting, dark-rimmed blue eyes and angular face are reminiscent of Meryl Streep. As it turns out, Jordan was once a student at a middle school where Andy was once assistant principal. The rapport flows and so do the drinks. All three of these young folks are bright and witty,  the conversation never lags. Their pal Lilly shows up later, her goofy persona and ready smile adds an extra dose of silliness to the proceedings. After numerous selfies are dutifully taken we say our goodbyes and let the wind take us where it will.

By now it’s late afternoon and I’m feeling ready to dial up the Uber and head back to our rental. However Mitch has other ideas and suggests we take one last walk down to the beach. We get there and voila, there’s Jamm, a quartet of young guys putting on an impromptu concert from the back of their pick up truck. So we get stoned again (why not?). These kids are really playing their hearts out. The three of us exchange stoned smiles and get into the groove with the band. We hear a familiar riff and just like that the band is into the Grateful Dead gem Help On The Way. No one is singing so I jump up there. The guys in the band give me nods of approval, I grab the mic and sing a couple of verses before they noodle off into another jam. Can this day possibly get any better?

Our penultimate Uber of the day takes us away from OB and to a nondescript Ethiopian restaurant near downtown. The dining room is a completely unadorned box of white cinderblock walls. A huge tv sits in one corner playing Ethiopian music videos. It’s a surreal scene. After a short wait,  a delicious platter of vegetarian entrees and injera bread (injera is to Ethiopian cuisine what tortillas are to Mexican) is placed before us which we hungrily devour. After dinner we head home, happy, sated and elated.

Have you ever had a day like this? If so, then you know how very rare and precious they are. Every decision we made today was the right one. Actually, it was more like the decisions were being made for us and we were just along for the ride. All of the people we interacted with today seemed to sense that they were part of something special. They picked up on our happiness and added their own positivity and good vibes to the mix until we were all part of one big feedback loop of joy. Hopefully, dear reader, you’ve gotten some sense of how effortlessly special this day was for me and my two brothers from other mothers. But in the end, you really just had to be there.

By Louie Ferrera

In a world thoroughly trampled on by humans, “secret” places are hard to come by. A couple of months ago I found one such spot just off the trail here at Riverfront Park

Riverfront is one of the more popular of the regional parks in Sonoma County. The location of my secret spot is just a short distance off of a heavily traveled trail. This trail is wide, 15-20ft, and circles picturesque and oval shaped Lake Benoist. The lake is ringed by willows, bay laurel and small oak trees which provide excellent habitat for a variety of songbirds. The lake’s surface is typically placid and glass-like, broken only by a handful of ducks or the occasional angler in a self propelled boat.

I was strolling this trail on a cool and overcast afternoon last February when I heard the distinctive squawk of a Great Blue Heron. I looked up and watched it disappear into the forest to the left of the trail. Then I saw another, and another. After watching four or five of these majestic birds fly into the forest I decided to do a little bushwhacking and investigate. The further I walked, the more birds  I saw and heard. I soon found myself in a small grove of second growth redwood trees, each one 100 feet tall or more and each one topped with one or more huge osprey-like nests, only these weren’t osprey nests, they were heron nests. I had stumbled upon an extensive Great Blue Heron rookery! I tried to do a count and came up with at least a dozen nests, all of them large enough to fit a human infant. This spot was the center of frenzied activity. Birds were everywhere above me, coming, going, making a racquet and building their nests. I had the feeling that no one but myself knew of the existence of this magical place. I was truly in awe and felt blessed by my discovery. Some of the nests were occupied by what I assumed to be female herons. Were they getting ready to lay their eggs? Had they already done so? When do heron eggs hatch anyway? I’d get my answer a couple of months later.

Fast forward to today, April 6 . It’s a glorious blue sky day, cool and clear. The willows and oaks are all leafing out, the signs of spring are everywhere. There are no birds or anglers on the lake. Its coffee colored surface is smooth and glass-like, marred only by ripples from the occasional breeze. I’ve got my binoculars in hand, doing a slow crawl down the trail and observing birds. I breathe deeply of this clean, crisp air, reveling in the beauty of a fine spring morning. When I arrive at the spot off the trail where I found the rookery, I decide to head into the forest for a look. The bird activity wasn’t as frenzied as it was back in February but I did see several herons flying above me and activity in the nests too. But what really catches my eye isn’t above me, but at my feet. Young thimbleberry, poison oak and ferns dot the forest floor and are covered in white splotches of bird poop. Everywhere I look there are partial shells, pale blue and the size of chicken eggs. My guess is that after the young herons hatched the moms did a little housecleaning and tossed the empty shells out of the nest. The air is alive with the duck-like honking of young herons. I could feel the energy of all the new life that surrounded me. It was pretty spectacular! I realized that I was witnessing something that not very many people ever get to. I take a few minutes to explore, collecting a nearly intact empty shell as a souvenir. I’m not sure if the herons perceived me as a threat but I didn’t want to take a chance on stressing them out so I hightailed it out of there and continue my walk around the lake.

I may or may not really be the only person who knows the whereabouts of this rookery but what I do know is, while I was there today listening to the young birds and wandering among their discarded shells, it felt special and like a place out of time. For now, it’s my secret place and I’m going to keep it that way.