In our garden four perfectly round lemon cucumbers sit among a tangle of vines, the largest is the size of a baseball, two of them look like ghostly billiard balls and the third is just downright tiny. The two largest ones have begun to take on streaks of pale yellow as they ripen, These are strange fruit. I never knew that cucumbers could be pale and orb-like until Carol and I began to garden. All cucumbers are supposed to be green and tubular, right?
Lemon cucumbers are not widely available so if you want them you’ve got to grow your own. I’ve only ever seen them at farmer’s markets and even there they are pricey and hard to find. It’s best to peel lemon cucumbers before eating them, as the skin is tough and not very tasty however, a recent visitor of ours stood out in the garden and munched one down like an apple, peel and all. This variety of cucumber does not keep well so once you’ve picked one, you better eat it!
Among the mature fruit on our cucumber plant are several bright yellow, five petal blossoms and a few baby cukes the size of my thumb and smaller. This morning is blanketed in a peaceful layer of fog, the light is flat and diffused, the greens and yellows of this sprawling plant are deep and saturated, its tendrils wrapped wildly around a tepee of thin, six foot poles that were pruned last winter from our plum tree. The cucumbers dangle from the vines like Christmas ornaments, a yellow blossom is the star on top. From the tips of the uppermost leaves hangs a solitary drop of water, tiny crystal balls for the hummingbirds to gaze into. The design of these leaves is exquisite. The largest of them are the size of my palm and fingers stretched apart. Each leaf has three points, a long central point with one on either side, all three bend gracefully forward which allows the dew drops to gather at their tips. Each of these leaves sits at the end of a slender, pale green stalk.
Yep, these are cucumbers!
Over the past three months, this plant has provided us with many pounds of sweet, crunchy fruit, but as autumn slowly gathers steam, the vines are beginning to die back, the leaves yellowing and splotchy with brown spots. We sowed and nurtured this plant since spring and in turn it has given us all that it can give. My gratitude is deep.
Some cliches are just plain silly: A watched pot never boils, The bigger they are, the harder they fall. The list goes on. However, sometimes a cliche is spot on, like this one: A picture speaks a thousand words.
Since the invention of photography in the mid 1800’s, photographs have been instrumental in helping tell the human story. The stark black and white images of Dorothea Lang showed the human toll of the Dust Bowl in the 1930’s. The visceral image of that small Vietnamese girl, her body naked and burned, her face contorted in pain as she flees a napalm attack by US planes helped to turn public opinion against the Vietnam War in 1968. Apollo astronaut Jim Lovell’s dramatic photo of Earthrise from the Moon showed us just how fragile and precious our blue planet is. I could go on and on, my point being that one glimpse of a photograph can instantly evoke intense emotions and have a profound effect on the viewer.
There’s a 3×5 photo of our son that sits on a dresser in our bedroom. I look at this photo every day and it never fails make my heart burst with love. I remember where we were when the photo was taken, who we were with, how old our son was, the time of year…everything. One look at this photo and I’m right back there behind the camera. During the wildfires of 2017, this was one of the objects that I chose to take while we were evacuating our home. Do you haver a photo like this? An image that not only evokes deep feelings but also takes you on a journey down memory lane? A nostalgia trip like this is often fun but it can also release a torrent of feelings that you may not have been ready to experience.
My dear friend Kimmy passed away a month and a half ago and I’m still grieving over her sudden and senseless death. Last weekend Carol and I got together with a small group of friends, our mutual love for Kim being the common thread that runs through us all. They had just returned from Sacramento (where Kim lived) with a large box of…photographs.
It was a Sunday morning. The friend’s house where we gathered sits in the middle of a redwood forest at the end of a winding and barely paved road. The first rain of the season was falling, the trees and plants were shining and grateful, having finally been cleansed of months of accumulated dust and grime. The rain made quiet music on the roof as we took a collective trip down the memory lane of our lives with Kimmy.
An early photo of me and Kimmy
Many of these photos were from a period of roughly 15 years when Kimmy and I were closest and spent the most time together. The coffee table that we sat around was covered with a hundred or so photos, nearly half of them I was either in or remembered having taken: Me and Kim hugging, me and Kim laughing, me and Kim skinny dipping in a lake after High Sierra Music Festival, me and Kim slamming shots of tequila, me and Kim flashing those deep smiles you get when you’re spending time with someone you love. These weren’t just photographs, these are what’s left of the beautiful and joyous times that Kimmy and I shared. There will be no more. While looking at these photos, all of those moments came vividly alive again in my mind’s eye. It was like Kimmy was coming alive right then and there. I ‘d nearly forgotten how very close she and I had been. This was a deeply emotional experience for me and for my friends too. We hugged and laughed and cried. The rain fell, the trees shined. We each took a few photos but decided to keep most of them together so we could look at them again the next time we gathered. I was overwhelmed with sadness but filled with gratitude too. My friends had saved these priceless mementos which most surely would have otherwise ended up in the trash. Through the magic of these photographs is one way that Kimmy will always live on for me.
Have you seen Concert For George? It’s a film of the all star tribute concert that was put on in London to honor George Harrison after his passing. The most poignant moment in the film for me is when Ringo Starr steps to the front of the stage to sing “Photograph”, a song co-written by Ringo and George. Here comes Ringo, close cropped hair, dark glasses, grinning from ear to ear and flashing his trademark peace signs. The band kicks the song off, Ringo grabs the mic and begins to sing:
Every time I see your face it reminds me of the places we used to go. Now all I’ve got is a photograph and I realize you’re not coming back any more.
The narrow two-lane road that leads us in is a snake; a slithering S winding its way over the Santa Cruz Mountains. Civilization slowly melts away as we make our way through a tunnel of redwood, bay laurel and madrone trees, over dry creek beds, a cascade of small boulders and cobblestones, the last memory of water. A familiar sign materializes out of the green: Camp Loma… we’ve arrived. Soquel Creek, bisects the land and is still flowing, its waters clean, peaceful and clear to the bottom. The buildings, green and weathered blend into the forest. The grounds where we gather were once perhaps the home of an indigenous tribe who in ancient times worshiped the forest spirits. I imagine them dancing around a roaring bonfire, sparks flying up through the towering redwoods to become one with the infinite and unknowable stars.
The comfort and familiarity of this unique and magical place is welcoming and warm, it glows with all of the love and music that has happened here, that still swirls through the meadow and paths and hillsides, up the creek bed and into the treetops where owls call, bidding the night goodbye, where the chirps, twits and peeps of mysterious songbirds make a joyful sound as they welcome the dawn of a new day, where the slanting shafts of the rising sun paint the understory in brilliant brush strokes of pure light.
This is us!
I love our little corner of heaven. When only a handful of our merry band of fellow travelers are here it’s as quiet as a dream. With each new arrival the camp slowly fills, not just with people and tents and instruments but with love. Simply stated it is enchanted out here and fairly pulsates with the echos of countless blissful moments that we’ve shared over the past two decades. Each song, all of the smiles, every savory aroma, every child’s playful squeal, every ringing guitar note adds itself to the collective beauty. It all still resonates here and I gratefully breathe everything in. Camp Loma is a refuge from the madness that is life in America in 2022.
Night falls without a sound at the end of our first day here, dawn arrives with a whisper. We have just four short days together, each one of us in the moment and fully aware of the preciousness, beauty and the absolute rarity of what it is that we collectively brew up. We hug, we feast, we dance, we make love and deep music together, passing each other with smiles knowing full well that we’re all in on a little secret, an inside joke, a cosmic giggle. No need to wonder why or ask how it is that we are so blessed to be together here at our little camp beneath the glittering green. We just open up and freely accept it all with grace and deep gratitude. The less we know, the more we learn.
Where do you go when you die? At one time or another every human has asked this question. The fear of death is the fear of the unknown, what happens to you after you die is the deepest and most perplexing unknown of them all. Philosophers, shaman, mystics, artists, poets and priests across every culture in every corner of the Earth have all attempted to answer these questions: When you die, do you just cease to be? What happens to the sum of all your thoughts, memories and experiences? What happens to your soul? Is there even such thing as a soul? Is there an afterlife? How about reincarnation? After my death will I return to the land of the living as a sentient being like an elephant or a hummingbird? Is karma real? If I’ve lived a good and virtuous life will I return as a sunflower or a double rainbow? If I’ve been an evil creep will my encore be as a sewer rat or a cockroach?
Growing up Catholic I was taught that the church had it all figured out. You either went up (Heaven), down (Hell) or somewhere in-between (Purgatory). Heaven was the most beautiful place that you could ever imagine, you spent eternity beyond the clouds and among angels. Of course in Hell, the Devil himself is your eternal host, there you suffered and burned in the most sulfurous of flames. From what I can gather, Purgatory is some sort of way station where your “up/down” fate is decided.
I think that I may have seen the afterlife. Honest. Many years ago I had a dream, the details of which mostly elude me. Here’s all I’ve got: I was with another person or two, we were standing in an open space around some kind of signpost or pole, a wizened old man was there too. That’s it. In my mind’s eye, I can still somewhat make out this scene, but it’s gradually being consumed by the fogs of time. What I do still remember though is the feeling of the dream. I knew that I had died and this was what came next.
Some believe that everyone has their “time”, a predetermined moment when your death will occur, no matter what you do. I’ve had two experiences in my life that have lead me to believe that perhaps this theory is plausible.
About 25 years ago I was hiking in the rugged backcountry of Big Basin State Park in the Santa Cruz Mountains. I was peering through my binoculars at a bird while standing on a narrow trail that ran along a steep ridge. I heard a rattling/hissing sound, looked down and to my left to see a large rattlesnake less than three feet from me. It was coiled up in “strike” mode. I slowly took a couple of steps back and watched the snake slither away. I was six miles from the parking lot, this was the pre-cell phone era, there was no one around to help me. Had I been bitten, who know what would have happened to me? Maybe it wasn’t my time?
About ten years ago, I watched with horror as our then 8 year old son dashed across a narrow two-lane street in rural Sonoma County. He and his mom and sister had gone into a bakery and Sam was coming across to show me what he’d bought. To my right I noticed a car speeding towards Sam. I shouted at him to stop but he just kept on coming. Had he stepped off the curb a second or two earlier he would have taken the full force of that speeding car. This horrific moment still burns in my memory. How was he not struck and killed? My only explanation is that it wasn’t his time.
So, maybe you just die with no plan, no predetermination. Maybe you go peacefully or violently; after a long illness or suddenly from a heart attack or stroke. Perhaps you go out in a blaze of glory in a plane or car crash. Your death could be horrific in a mass shooting or gentle while surrounded by those who love you.
Someone very close to me has recently died, it has brought me face to face with death and forced me to confront my own mortality. A month ago my friend Kim died suddenly. She was a few weeks short of her 55th birthday and as full of life as a person could be. Now she’s gone. Her death makes no sense. We are still waiting to find out the cause of death. What was her death like? Where is Kim now? Has she been reincarnated? Will I recognize her in the knowing smile of a passing stranger or in the lilting call of a wood thrush? Is she in Heaven? Hell? Who knows? I certainly don’t.
Carol and I dropped our daughter Denali off at college last week. It was a momentous occasion and a watershed day in our lives. I don’t think Denali was able to fully grasp the enormity of this moment but Carol and I were hyper-aware of its importance. It was a bittersweet day for sure. I was so happy for our daughter and bursting with pride over everything she’s accomplished in order to get to where she is today. But I also felt sadness and a sense of loss. Denali would most likely never again live in our home full time.
Since Denali graduated high school in June, I’ve been doing lots of reflecting back, each memory a snapshot of a moment in her life. Long before I began publishing my essays in this blog, I dabbled a bit with writing stories for children, one of which recounts one of those snapshots: a special morning that Denali and I used to share when she was just a toddler. The other day I went back and reread that story, took its essence and completely rewrote it. Here it is.
Rocking Chair
Dawn is trying really hard to break, its pale light barely illuminates our bedroom. My wife Carol is asleep beside me, our cat Bugsy a black and white ball of fur in the crook of her legs. I’m drifting somewhere between the dream I was lost in and the new day that’s just beginning. That’s when I become aware of a presence at my side of the bed. “Daddy, I want to go in the rocking chair” you whisper. I peel the covers off, swing my feet over the side of the bed, gather you into my arms and down the hall we shuffle towards the living room. My feet make a soft swish, swish sound against the carpet, your head rests on my shoulder, your tiny arms are wrapped around the back of my neck.
Denali and me in the “rocking chair” days.
I plop down onto the rocking chair with you in my lap. This rocking chair doesn’t really rock like the classic chair with curved runners affixed to the bottom, rather it moves forward and backwards on hinges. For extra warmth I cover us with your favorite quilt, handmade especially for me by the grandparent of a former first grade student of mine. This is a county fair, blue ribbon quality piece of art decorated with motifs of musical notes and instruments.
Light slowly begins to fill the room. With sunrise on the way, the promise of a new day is before us. Color needs light however so right now everything appears in varying shades of pre-dawn grey, adding a dream-like quality to the scene. The soft hum of the furnace and the squeak, squawk as we move back and forth in the rocking chair are the only sounds. Some mornings we share a bowl of crunchy breakfast cereal while I read you a story but today is simply a “snuggle up together and listen to the quiet” kind of morning. You’ve got your favorite pajamas on, the ones with feet and pictures of kittens on them. Your body is soft and warm next to mine, your long auburn hair smells of the baby shampoo from last nights bath. After a few minutes I hear your breathing change and notice that you’ve fallen back to sleep.
I cherish these morning with you and savor each moment knowing full well that in the blink of an eye you’ll be grown up and about to strike out into the world on your own. But right now the world has shrunken and everything is exactly as it should be while we’re together here in the rocking chair.
I had to run to Safeway the other day to pick up a few items. If I’m in a hurry I sometimes use one of the automatic checkout kiosks, yea they’re dehumanizing and one of the many manifestations of our increasingly impersonal society, but when I want to get out of the store in a hurry, I just grin and bear it. Yesterday was not one of those days so I chose a checkout lane with an actual person behind the register.
The sudden passing of my dear friend Kim last week is still fresh in my mind and weighing heavily on my heart. I went through this checkout lane hoping for a bit of real human interaction, I wanted the chance to put some light and kindness out into the world like Kim always did. Kim had a way of making a complete stranger or someone she had just met feel like a long lost friend. Her manner was so gentle and accepting, Kim would hold them in that intense gaze of hers and and there would be no doubt that she was totally present. So with Kimmy in mind, I got into the queue in Lane #4.
Ringing up the sales was a pleasant and personable middle aged woman named Linda. Her short grey hair framed a round face, smiling blue eyes looked out from behind a pair of wire rimmed glasses. Linda had struck up a conversation with the guy in front of me. He had placed two large boxes of Popsicles onto the conveyor which prompted Linda to tell him that she also liked Popsicles but what she really loved were those 100% fruit juice Outshine Bars. She was going off on how she couldn’t get enough of her favorite flavor, tangerine/pomegranate. Linda’s manner so reminded me of that knack Kimmy had for bringing a stranger so easily into a conversation. I immediately joined in, sharing my love for Outshine Bar as well. While Linda bagged the guy’s groceries, she and I continued chatting. I told her that one of my passions were those coconut fruit bars that are often found in Mexican markets. I had a few Mounds and Almond Joy bars among my items so she proceeded to sing a line from that old tv commercial; “Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t. Almond Joys have nuts, Mounds don’t”. I just cracked up!
As I was putting my groceries into the canvas bag that I’d brought, I told Linda how much I enjoyed our brief conversation and how nice it was to have had a real human interaction instead of a cold encounter with Siri. She smiled, wished me a god day and went on to the next customer in line. As I walked away I heard Linda immediately strike up the banter with the next person in line.
The world desperately needs more light, more love, more opportunities for meaningful human contact, more Lindas. With the pandemic finally receding in our collective rearview mirrors, there’s really no longer any excuse for not getting to know people, for not lending a smile and a kind word to a stranger, for not bringing someone out of their lonely bubble of isolation and into the light. This was a Kimmy moment for me. With her spirit in mind I tried to do my part to bring the light, to bring the love. Get out there yourself and spread the love.
The fragility of life came into pinpoint focus for me last week when I learned of the passing of my dear friend Kim Kenney. How could such a shining beacon of light and love be extinguished so quickly? I last saw her two months ago at a three day music festival up in Mendocino. For Kim and I it was business as usual-we hugged, we laughed, we swilled tequila, we danced wildly to our favorite bands, we simply reveled in each others company. Before getting into my car to head home after the festival Kim and I shared one more deep and heartfelt hug, already looking forward to our next hangout at Camp Loma over Labor Day weekend. How could I possibly have known that this would be the last hug that we’d ever share?
Life is beautiful and heartbreaking, blissful and sad, filled with incredible highs and fathomless lows. This thing that we call life hangs by an oh so slender thread, a tether that can be severed all too suddenly. If ever I needed another reminder of just how precious and fragile life is, Kim’s passing has been the ultimate wake up call.
Listen: Love your friends, love your family, forget about petty differences, don’t hang on to stuff, get to know your neighbors, be kind, be caring, find a way every day to put some goodness out into the world, take chances, don’t postpone joy, hug your kids, tell those closest to you just how much you love them, and tell them often. Above all, live life like there’s no tomorrow because there will come a time when tomorrow will not come…for all of us.
Experiencing the passing of my dear Kimmy is devastating and has forced me to look unflinchingly at my own mortality. Death is harsh and final. Throughout the entirety of human history the question “Where do I go when I die?” has been asked by everyone who’s ever lived. Now Kim knows.
So, maybe she’s at a String Cheese Incident show. It’s midnight on New Years Eve and the balloons are always dropping. Or perhaps she’s at the Greek Theater dancing to the Grateful Dead. The band is deep into one of their 2nd set jams and Kim is riding Jerry’s crystalline guitar notes out among the cosmos. Or maybe she’s just at Camp Loma and we’re all there too, basking in the collective love that we create whenever we’re together. Wherever you are my dear friend I hope that it’s a place filled with as much joy, love and light that you put out into the world while you were still among us. Rest in peace Kimmy. I love you.
On July 27, Carol and I celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary. How did I end up with this amazing woman as my life partner? More on that later.
Twenty years is a significant milestone so we wanted to do something extra special to mark the occasion. Initially we thought about having a big blowout, complete with a live band and all of our closest friends at a site in the redwoods. We quickly realized that the logistics of putting on a party like this were more that we were willing to take on, so Carol and I opted for something a little more our speed.
Since our kids came along eighteen years ago, opportunities for us to spend time together away from familial responsibilities have been few and far between. We also wanted to go somewhere new so the usual places (Point Reyes, Mendocino, Santa Cruz) were out. A couple of months ago one of us suggested the Seattle area. Being the travel agent of the family, Carol started researching places around Seattle and stumbled upon Vashon Island. We did some cursory reading up on Vashon, found a place on VRBO, booked our flight and were ready to go.
Our travel day was seamless. We landed at SeaTac airport, got our rental car and soon found ourselves on the Fauntelroy Ferry over to Vashon Island, a mere 15 minute ride across Puget Sound from the Tacoma area. As soon as we parked our car on the boat, Carol and I headed up top to enjoy the ride. The day was absolutely stellar! A cool breeze blew the hair back from our faces, salt air filled our lungs. Off to the starboard side of the boat the awe-inspiring sight of snow covered Mount Rainier dominated the landscape. It’s easy to see why the native peoples of the Pacific Northwest so revered this mountain. The power and energy emanating from Rainier was palpable.
Majestic Mount Rainier
Vashon Island is a heavily forested, peaceful world upon itself. There’s no traffic, no traffic lights, no freeways, no sirens, no crowds, no homeless camps and except for an Ace Hardware and a Subway, no chain stores. The downtown is comprised of small local businesses. There’s even a vintage single-screen movie theater. Most places were closed on the Monday that we arrived, on the other days nothing opened until 11:00am. We had stumbled upon something beautiful and increasingly rare in modern day Generica: a “real” place. The densely populated urban centers of Seattle/Tacoma are within sight of Vashon Island but they may as well be a thousand miles away.
The drive out to our place took us along the coast, up and down rolling hills and through the forest. Our aptly named Forest Cabin is situated at the end of a long gravel driveway. Nestled beneath huge broad leaf maple trees and towering madrones, this was the ideal place for Carol and I to unplug and reconnect with each other. The dappled light that was filtering down through the forest canopy brought to mind a similar location twenty years ago.
We were married in the midst of an enchanting place near our home in Santa Rosa called Griffith Woods. A small creek meanders through this predominantly redwood, oak and madrone woodland, the air is alive with the sounds of mysterious songbirds. On that day when Carol and I promised to love and honor each other for the rest of our lives, the dappled sunlight that played upon everyone and everything is a sight I will always hold dear in my memories of our wedding day. The light at our place here on Vashon and the light at Griffith Woods reach across time to embrace each other.
We unpacked, settled in then set off to explore our surroundings. A clawfoot tub sat just outside our cabin underneath a small cedar tree. It had running hot and cold water and even a showerhead. Strung beneath two massive maple trees were two hammocks. Carol and I would spend much time over the next few days at both of these places. A chicken coop sat on the other side of the hammocks. Several large birds roamed freely about and were the recipients of all our food scraps. A two minute walk from our little haven brought us to a bluff lined with more towering madrones and patches of huge white daisies. We surprised a bald eagle that was perched atop a snag. Dominated by Mount Rainier, the view across Puget Sound from here was breathtaking. It was one of those moments when I was simply speechless, breathing in the beauty and grateful to be alive. Over the course of our three days here we saw porpoises and harbor seals, osprey, Arctic Terns and Great Blue Herons all from our spot on these bluffs. On this first night we watched Rainier slowly be consumed by the alpenglow of sunset, the windows of the houses on the opposite side of the sound burned with the firelight of the setting sun.
We were in the Pacific Northwest, of course we ate salmon!
There was much to explore on Vashon Island and Carol and I just managed to scratch the surface. One of my favorite things about this trip was our lack of a plan. We knew next to nothing about Vashon so we just let each day unfold on its own. This made for some wonderful discoveries. One day we decided to explore the west side of the island and happened upon Fern Cove. The pullout on the side of the road was wide enough for just a few cars. A short hike through the forest along an enchanting little creek brought us to the cove. It was a minus tide so the vast mudflats were exposed and easy to walk on. We watched an osprey atop a tall cedar tree devour a fish. A Great Blue Heron patrolled the shoreline, its long slender neck periodically shooting out to catch small silver fish in its beak. A pair of belted kingfishers chattered and flew about. Terns and gulls squawked and wheeled overhead. Ravens poked through the mud for clams and other morsels. Osprey were everywhere, their telltale whistles proceeding them. A lone hiker, walking stick in hand, moved slowly across the flats.
And so it went for three beautiful days-exploring, relaxing, reconnecting. Carol and I couldn’t have picked a better place to celebrate our love and twenty years of marriage. It was hard to leave Vashon. Watching the island recede on the ferry back to the mainland, we vowed to someday return to this very special place. Oh, to answer the question of how I ended up with Carol? I guess you could say that I hit the jackpot!
This stretch along the Russian River, just over the hill from Riverfront Park, at times seems like a river otter highway. It’s a rare occasion when I don’t see an otter or two while I’m here. When I least expect it there they are, but always from a distance. My encounter today with otters was definitely out of the ordinary and unlike any that I’d had in the past.
I was relaxing on these flat rocks a few feet from the edge of the river, it was late afternoon. The group of kids who had been making quite a racket downriver from me had just left. Finally it was quiet. Having just returned to my chair from a refreshing swim, I was drying off on the rocks, digging the solitude and watching the green river on its slow slide to the Pacific. My eyes were closed, my body gratefully soaking up the warmth of the sun when I heard a soft snuffling sound similar to that of a pig. I opened my eyes to find four river otters, their furry heads and puppy dog like faces looking directly at me, from the water just off the edge of the rocks not ten feet from where I sat. Their natural curiosity as intelligent animals must have gotten the best of them, they just had to come and see what this naked human was doing in their house. We looked directly at each other for perhaps 10-15 seconds. I was amazed at how human-like their eyes are. As soon as I made a slight movement they dipped below the surface of the river and were gone. The coolest thing about this encounter was that for those brief few seconds the otters and I had a real connection. I can only wonder what they were thinking. A moment later they reappeared along the opposite bank of the river. I always bring my binoculars when I come here so I was able to watch them for several minutes as they frolicked among the willows and water hyacinth; mom, dad and the kids out for a late afternoon foray. I marvel at the sleekness of their bodies, nature’s perfect design for water travel. I watch them glide effortlessly, disappearing in a flash, only to reappear a moment later further downriver.
Today’s encounter filled me with joy and wonder. I felt blessed to have been chosen by this otter family for an up close and personal visit. This was a magical experience for sure at a place where magic is a regular occurrence.
My most memorable moments in nature have been those that were the least expected. A case in point was on a secluded beach along the Russian River today.
To get to this secluded spot Carol and I had to hike about 45 minutes from the parking lot at Riverfront Park. It was a Tuesday afternoon so our car was only one of about a dozen. The ability to avoid weekend crowds is a fringe benefit of retirement. Today is warm and sunny and bright blue. We head down a wide trail, sticking to the edges where the sun angles through the redwood forest, providing us with plenty of dappled shade. We walked in silence, the shuffling of our feet through the dust and pebbles the only sound. Bird life abounds along this trail, the distinctive call of the Spotted Towhee was a pleasant accompaniment to our hike. We saw no other people. This trail circles the glittering gem of Lake Benoist, its cobalt blue waters ringed by emerald green water hyacinth. At the far end of the lake is a spur trail which connects to a second trail that eventually leads to our spot along the Russian River. This spur is overgrown with blackberries and it’s easy to miss even if you’ve walked here many times like I had. We gingerly picked our way uphill through blackberries and poison oak to the second trail. After a hundred yards or so we were looking down on a lazy bend in the river; green and languid on its slow slide to the Pacific Ocean 22 miles to the west of us at Jenner. From here the trail enters the dappled cool of a redwood forest. I looked down into a small eddy below our trail and noticed a half dozen torpedo shaped fish pointing motionless upstream. These were some of the largest fish I’d even seen in the river, several of them looked to be at least three feet in length. Our destination was just up ahead. We half slid, half walked down a steep hill using redwood saplings as handholds and made it to a small rocky beach. This spot is hard to find and not widely known. It was ours for the duration of the afternoon.
Tiny bits of fluff and detritus from the surrounding forest was sprinkled atop the river’s surface, otherwise the water was clear as can be, the sandy bottom clearly visible. Closest to the beach, the water was alive with small darting fish, the current barely perceptible. A slight breeze gave voice to the trees, the air was peppered with the peeps and chips of unseen songbirds, otherwise the quiet was absolute. We settled in, ready to sink into the solitude of this place. Carol and I were hitting the “pause” button, taking a much needed break from the din and insanity that is the world in 2022.
Diving into the cool, emerald waters of the Russian River was a baptism, cleansing for body and soul alike. I sank in up to my neck, positioned myself at eye level with the current and just allowed the river to flow past me. While floating on my back, the view was all blue sky and towering trees. We brought no books or cell phones. Our conversations were minimal which allowed us to have our own private dialogue with the natural beauty surrounding us.
Tiny miracles kept popping up. A raft of twenty nine ( I counted ‘em) mergansers appeared seemingly out of nowhere. These are such stunning looking ducks, their head feathers glowed like copper in the afternoon sun. They were in no hurry as they swam upriver past us. A belted kingfisher announced itself with a distinctive chattering call. We watched it hunt from its perch in a willow tree. The bird and us were both rewarded when one of its dives yielded a tiny, black fish. How cool to witness the predator/prey relationship in real time. An osprey gave itself away with a high pitched “cheep, cheep”. We spied it nestled like an ornament atop a redwood tree just downriver from our beach. We almost always see a river otter or two in the river here. In the back of my mind I was expecting to see one today, which is exactly why I think we didn’t see one. I’ve learned that it’s best to enter nature with an open mind, an open heart and as few expectations as possible. Be open to the magic and just maybe you’ll be there when it occurs. Which brings me to the eagle.
It was this close!
A year or so ago, reports of bald eagle sightings around the lakes at Riverfront Park started coming in. On a couple of occasions, Carol and I were fortunate enough to have seen this majestic bird soaring high above us or sitting atop one of the redwood trees that line the west end of the lake. These were distant views however, brought closer with the help of binoculars. Our encounter today with a bald eagle was a bit more personal.
Having just awoken from naps, we were deep into the Zen like quality of our day when the silence was broken by the rush of wind through wings. Carol and I looked upon at that instant to see a huge bald eagle flying directly above our heads. I had no time to grab my binoculars but didn’t need them. This bird was maybe twenty feet above us. It was so close that I could see its powerful wing muscles pumping and make out details in its feathers. It’s pointed yellow beak, pure white head, yellow eyes and coal black feathers were all in motion. This bird flew with intensity and purpose. In a matter of seconds the enormous power from its nearly three foot wingspan carried it past us, up above the trees and into the forest. This encounter was short, it came and went like a dream. Carol and I were speechless. We sat there and just let the magic of this once in a lifetime encounter wash over us.
Indigenous cultures throughout the world have always believed that encounters with certain animals were a portent of things to come. Whether that was an event to anticipate with joy or dread depended upon the animal and the circumstances of the encounter. Bald eagles are powerful birds. Our experience today was a powerful one for sure, the meaning of which I may never know but that’s ok, I’m content to just let the mystery be.
