The Writer

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I write personal essay. I write to find out how I feel about something, an aspiration I learned from the poet May Sarton. I sometimes picture myself as a grizzled prospector leading a forlorn, burdened donkey into the trackless waste of basin and range country, looking for riches that might be only a few bright flecks in a stream.

These essays explore my world, from the hiking trails of California to the Java Sea and the Silk Road, from school days to retirement, from my backyard to my bookshelves. I invite you to read them—with this caveat from the Persian poet Hafiz:

Listen: this world is the lunatic's sphere,
Don't always agree it's real,

Even with my feet upon it
And the postman knowing my door

My address is somewhere else.

*The quote above about the fish is from Pablo Neruda.

Dec. 5, 2011: Annadel State Park

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As I start uphill from the Carissa Avenue entrance, I spy two large, handsome acorn woodpeckers poking around in a valley oak full of acorn holes, some filled, some empty. I have chosen a sunny, breezy day, silent except for the muted sounds of juncos, quail, and jays and occasionally a fat gray squirrel's hoarse chuckle. Lots of people are out today— bikers, hikers, and joggers, in groups and singly. A stag lopes down the trail ahead of me, and a doe browses in the shady Douglas-fir forest. No wild turkeys; I wonder where they are grazing today. Canyon Trail is becoming quite eroded, with lots of loose rocks, and because the past few days have been quite windy, the path is strewn with small branches and twigs covered with gray-green lichens and yellow-green moss. At the top I am treated to a panoramic view of the city of Santa Rosa and the hazy blue hills of West County. Lake Ilsanjo shimmers deep blue, edged all around with bright yellow tules. Near the lake, as I wander off-trail to get a better view of the mountain, I am enveloped in a strong smell of mint. I find I have been walking through a large stand of dried pennyroyal (Monardella). I didn't know the dead stalks could give off that wonderful smell of peppermint at the hint of touch. Stimulating and relaxing. I look up—the steep slope of Bennett Mountain appears as a subtle needlepoint design of green, red, and gold.

Annadel is one of the state parks slated for closing by July 2012, but Valley of the Moon Natural History Association, the volunteer group I have worked with for twenty years, is not going to let that happen. The members of VMNHA are working with the Parks Alliance of Sonoma County, California State Parks, and numerous community partners to craft a solution to keep three parks functioning: Annadel, Jack London State Historic Park, and Sugarloaf Ridge. The park aide at Jack London told me last Sunday that, statewide, parks make up only one percent of the state budget. He showed me a map of units to be closed and most of them are located from the Bay Area north to the Oregon border. Why do I feel this is a false economy and that politics plays a large role in the whole fiasco? The VMNHA docents are committed to keeping these beautiful and historic Sonoma County areas open to the public. You can find me one Sunday a month at the museum at the Jack London park and several times a month on Annadel's trails. Look for me.

October 27, 2011: Armstrong Redwoods State Natural Reserve

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            On a bright, sunny, perfect fall morning my friend Gay and I set out for a hike in the steep wooded hills just outside Guerneville. We parked near the visitor center where there is no fee. Several groups of school kids were just setting out on the paths winding among the redwoods, but we soon passed them and found ourselves alone in the silence of the trees. Then we began to climb, taking Pool Ridge Trail. After a mile or so we left behind the damp ferny redwood forest and entered an oak woodland and eventually came out into chaparral and grassy meadows. At the top, what a view of rows and rows of forested ridges. Misty blue Mt. Tamalpais floated on the horizon. 
Wildflowers are few at this time of year, but we did spy yellow madia, and the coyote bush was in full bloom with myriad fuzzy flowers, only on the male plants. Mosses and lichens crowded the shady trail and we came across a few clusters of mushrooms, all of them golden, some of them velvety and slimy at the same time, a nice clump of Naemataloma, and some white oyster mushrooms atop a dead stump.  In the meadows we saw churned earth, the destructive work of wild pigs.
We came down via East Ridge Trail, just as steep as the way up. What a workout. On the way home we treated ourselves to a stop at Nightingale Breads, a bakery in Forestville, and wandered into the art gallery on the corner, where we met the artist whose work filled the main space.