Cornucopia - Preparation & Plenty

 

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

~ Mary Oliver, "The Summer Day” from New and Selected Poems, 1992

         

When it comes to travel and adventure, I’m a planner and organizer. I love it when I have everything dialed out—details researched, decisions made, lists created, piles gathered, bags packed—well before departure day. It’s probably obsessive, but it bolsters my confidence and sense of control when all my ducks are lined up. I’m free to be spontaneous in the midst of an adventure and enjoy the moment when I’ve allowed myself to be obsessive beforehand. 

Of course, this has also been my approach to my memoir writing project, Force of Nature: Three Women Tackle the John Muir Trail. To kick off entering the final leg of this writing journey—the very first steps of the challenging final leg—I'm sharing a chapter that didn't make the editor's cut. Stephen King calls that culling process "killing your darlings." This "darling" of mine is a bit of a prologue to the grander adventure story.

 

 

It was June 2006. I sat on the dark Oriental rug in my living room amidst mounds of the food and supplies that were destined to be packed into four shipping boxes. My food caches would be mailed ahead to specific pick-up locations along the two-hundred-mile trail. One cardboard box, already packed, taped, and addressed to Red's Meadows Resort, where we'd be on Day Five if all went according to plan, sat off to the side. It contained five days’ worth of meals—four planned days of hiking plus one extra day, just in case we didn't make the distance we intended.

I filled in the label on a second box, addressing it to myself at Vermilion Valley Resort, where I intended to pick it up on Day Nine. It contained meals for four days, one for each walking day, plus an extra. Red's Meadows and Vermilion Valley (known among hikers as Red's and VVR) were both commercial campgrounds situated on the border of the wilderness, a short hike off the JMT, and they would, for a moderate fee, provide caching services to JMT and PCT thru-hikers. When I finished addressing box number two, I set it next to number one and turned my attention to the third.

Picking up food cache at Muir Trail Ranch.

Container number three would travel to Muir Trail Ranch. Located halfway along the trail, at about the one-hundred-mile mark, Muir was more remote than Red's or VVR, so charged hikers more for its caching service. They also required supplies be packed inside a heavy duty, five-gallon, plastic paint bucket with a secure lid. It seemed they had a rodent problem, and plastic kept the wildlife out of the people food. I pulled the bucket to my side and began the packing process for the third time.

           I'd started a few hours earlier with several shopping bags filled with the food and supplies I'd purchased over recent weeks spread all over the floor. Slowly the bags' contents became mounds, which were sorted and organized into smaller piles.  

           Then I'd begun organizing the food, measuring and packaging individual portions into bags for thirty traveling and eating days. Thirty little bags of mocha or chai. Thirty of Gatorade. Thirty medium bags of nuts with dried fruits. Thirty of assorted powerbars. Thirty of cookies.  Thirty lunches. Thirty freeze-dried dinners, all pre-tested and chosen for cooking ease and savory flavors. Each of those placed into larger Ziploc bags, one for each of the five legs of the hike. Five little bags of hard candy.

All measurements and calculations were based on a three-thousand-calorie-per-day diet that included plenty of proteins (for keeping muscles strong) and ample fats and carbohydrates (to maintain consistent energy).

            “Three-thousand calories a day. Now that’s a lot of food!” I said aloud, though no one was there to observe me sitting like an island in a sea of Ziploc bags.

I'd learned when hiking I'm rarely very hungry at breakfast time and never in the mood for breaking out the stove in the morning cold, so I planned to eat a pair of protein bars. My chilly morning’s true pleasure came from a steaming hot beverage, so I’d put my efforts into measuring and pre-mixing various coffee ingredients into the smallest Ziploc bags.

For lunch, when I’d be starving, I planned high protein options with lots of carbohydrates. Summer sausage, spicy and fatty, was my favorite backpacking lunch protein, but once opened it would only last two days unrefrigerated. I’d eat it first, then alternate between the tuna and peanut butter.

For dinners, I’d fire up the stove and cook hearty dehydrated entrees. I'd used Enertia brand before and loved their savory, no-mess meals. Hot tea would top off my evening meals. Between meals, I planned to snack on nuts, dried fruit, and more bars. Tangerine-flavored Gatorade and hard sugar candies mid-afternoon would give me that extra energy boost I’d need. I measured, weighed, counted, and packaged until I had ten sets of bulging plastic bags.

Making dinner on the trail.

Nine days finished, two shipping containers to go. Still arrayed across the floor on three sides of me, were twenty-one days’ worth of food in little organized piles. I’d carry six of those remaining in my backpack on the first leg. For leg three’s nine days of walking I prepped ten sets of meals for the plastic paint bucket going to Muir Ranch Resort. That left five for the final box being mailed to the packhorse service.

Just thinking of the packhorse service made me a little nervous. The location along the trail where we wanted the fourth food cache was nearly twenty miles away from any town or supply facility, so we’d arranged for a horseman to pack in our food and meet us right on the trail. Those arrangements were causing Cappy and me anxious concern. The other three advertised their services online, and we’d made arrangements over the phone, but the packing outfit had been difficult to contact. Our first calls went unanswered. When they did respond, their messages were garbled and missing key bits of information. The fee for a horse and rider to make the trip out to the trail was expensive, and meet-up directions were vague. The food drop was a necessity, however, so we were determined to make it work.

Packhorse & Cowboy after delivering food caches.

"We’ll meet the man on the horse without difficulty. I'm sure of it," I told myself out loud like an aphorism—things said aloud sound more certain.

I refocused on packing. Despite my concerns, I was excited. Packing boxes for mailing was a tangible step towards making my adventure dream come true.

I put the food in first, sturdy dinners in a pile at the bottom, then the more fragile lunches on top. I stood the bags containing protein bars around the outer edge, circling the stacked meals. That would hold them tight without jostling during shipment. On top, I placed my personal care and first aid supplies, with the softest bits—undies, socks, and shirt—on the very top. Last, I filled the empty space with crumpled newspaper and sealed the lid.

 

Cappy, Jane, and I planned to step onto the trail on Wednesday, July 19. I’d drive down to Tuolumne Meadows Campground in Yosemite’s high country early to acclimate, on Sunday, July 16. I’d mail my food caches two weeks before D-Day on July 5. So, I intended to have everything ready to mail before the Fourth-of-July weekend began.

 [First two photos were taken by my hiking partner, Caroline. Third photo was taken by "Zoe".]

Surrounded by Fools...

     It was supposed to be three days and two nights of rain, rain, and more rain, but I had not anticipated the magic that April Fool's Day would bring! When reserving the Hummingbird Cottage at Bear Valley Bed and Breakfast, in Olema, near Point Reyes National Seashore, several weeks ago, I had envisioned beautiful spring weather. I imagined walking in the warming sunshine on beaches and through fields of wildflowers while watching birds flit about. However, as Easter week and my personal escape plans drew near, the weather forecast was not cooperating, calling for a week of storm fronts, dark clouds, and nonstop rain. Unabashed, I packed books and my laptop, knowing I would be very satisfied to curl up with a blanket and hot tea, while reading and writing to my heart's content.
     Well, it was not to be! I was awakened on April 1 by sunshine beaming through the cottage's many windows imploring me to get up and get out and go exploring! Quickly, I did just that!
     
     Happy day! Feeling a bit Alice-in-Wonderland-ish, it seemed everywhere I looked foolish things were going on! Not wanting to be left out of the delightful nonsense, I convinced myself (not a difficult task) to jump right into the tomfoolery...

     Three-hundred-and-eight steps down and three-hundred-and-eight steps back up. Down is a lark; up is an invigorating aerobic challenge. The Point Reyes lighthouse sits near the base of la Punta de los Reyes, the Point of the Kings, a befittingly regal name for this stunning geological formation, which reaches well out into el Oceano Pacifico, the peaceful ocean. The lighthouse is approached from the cliff above by navigating a long, long, long, narrow flight of concrete steps (a bit like descending through Alice's rabbit hole, though the view is significantly more majestic). The wind roars, the waves crash, the white-capped, far-from-peaceful green water is streaked with stripes of foam.

     Pods of California gray whales make their spring migration northward toward their Alaskan feeding grounds. Hugging the coastline, they pass just below the Point Reyes lighthouse, where scores of bundled human observers, hair whipping in the wild wind and armed with binoculars, squint into the sun to spot the whales as they come to the surface to wave hello!

     Three midnight-black ravens play in the brisk, on-shore wind, beside the one-lane road taking me inland. As I stop to watch their aerial gymnastics, they morph into missiles shooting across the sky, wings tucked back, moving with the speed of the wind. Then turning-on-a-dime, in beautiful synchrony, the ravens face into the wind, wings spread and arched like three pairs of spinnaker sails, they surf waves of air that rise and crest above the headlands, hovering, slipping left, sliding right, a trio of black-paper kites without strings.

     Down at the lagoon, hundreds of fat and happy elephant seals, mamas with their babies, lie basking in the sun in the lee of the cliffs, out of the wind's reach. Singing their spring songs, their voices range from bloodhound hunting calls to the hoarse barking of dogs with laryngitis and the high-speed rat-a-tat of woodpeckers hard at work. The nearly inert colony's chorus rises from what appears to be a large collection of weathered driftwood logs thrown up onto the sand.

     Wild irises wiggle and dance along the trail's edge, as the wind whips along the rolling green hills that slide across the headlands. There are many wildflowers that take part in the day's dance, pink, yellow, orange, blue, and white, but it is the deep violet irises, trying vainly to stand tall and proud in the face of this constant breeze, that attract my attention. I attempt, also in vain, to catch an iris portrait, but none of them will stop jitterbugging long enough to pose.

     At precisely 5pm, hundreds of happy California cows, udders filled like giant water balloons, prick up their ears, sniff the air, and turn as one, like a school of ungainly fish, lining up single-file and to parade in their slow lumbering waddle towards some unseen destination. These "happy cows," and many more, make their homes at historic Ranches A through G which sit picturesquely within the park's boundaries doing their dairy business much as it has been done for a century-and-a-half.

     Hawks, kites, and kestrels, sit on fence posts and telephone poles. Normally serious and fierce in appearance as they scan the open green fields for prey, this evening they appear nearly comical. They look frazzled and wind-whipped, their feathers sticking up at odd angles. If only these normally distinguished-looking raptors had fingers and external ears, then they could tuck those wild feathers behind their ears to keep them out of their eyes, or slick them back with maximum-hold hair gel.

     Having had enough of the cold, blustery wind, I park in a small lot facing the lagoon, in the lee of the cliffs. Enjoying the scene, made more tranquil by the warm interior of the car, I am greeted by the parking lot's reigning ruler and self-appointed greeter, a studly seagull who hovers over my windshield, then slowly settles down directly onto the front of my van. By way of "hello," he pecks at my driver's side windshield, throws his head back, and lets out a series of "ack-ack" calls, perhaps taking possession of this new high-ground. We eye one another from just inches away and chat amiably through my open side window.

     Heading back to the sanctuary of the B-and-B, I see far to the west, the low cloud bank, hovering just above the distant horizon, that previews tomorrow's storm. The sun, still an inch or two above sinking into the ocean, is dipping behind the clouds, creating a pre-sunset pseudo-sunset, coloring the western sky pink and lavender, silver and turquoise, while sending golden "god's rays" streaking to earth.

     Waving whales, surfing ravens, singing elephant seals, dancing irises, schooling cows, disheveled raptors, a chatty seagull, and a sunset in broad daylight... followed by a hot cup of tea in the Hummingbird Cottage... The only things missing are a grinning cat and a top hat! There's an April-Fools, Griffin-in-Wonderland-or-Kings'-Point nonsense poem in there somewhere... perhaps if the Mad Hatter were here he could recite it for me!

     Dear Friend Meghan just sent me the following Tarot description of "The Fool." I just had to go back and add it in here as it's quite an inspiring look at the classic character of "The Fool," not so much foolish as creative... like he's a blank canvas together with a palate full of paints! Thank you, Meghan! What a pair of Fools we are!
     Basic Tarot Meaning: At #0, the Fool is the card of infinite possibilities. The bag on the staff indicates that he has all he needs to do or be anything he wants, he has only to stop and unpack. He is on his way to a brand new beginning. But the card carries a little bark of warning as well. Stop daydreaming and fantasizing and watch your step, lest you fall and end up looking the fool.

Lightning at Ten Thousand Feet...

     As we topped the granite ridge, to our dismay, the sky ahead was black and boiling with angry clouds. I don’t know what we expected to see, but we had hoped that the storm clouds would not be sitting directly atop the very pass we needed to cross. Not only was our forward motion blocked by this wall of weather, but it was moving so fast and furiously in our direction that we had no time for a retreat to lower, safer ground. Instead, we three had to play out the scene from a clichéd disaster movie, and hope that the event didn’t end badly. Later, we would each confess to visualizing the newspaper headlines about the bodies of three hapless hikers being retrieved and then being posthumously embarrassed at finding ourselves in such a ridiculous predicament.
     Scurrying back down the rocky path we had just labored up, we backtracked to a small patch of green a few feet lower than the tippy top of Donahue Pass and began preparing to hunker down to let the storm pass overhead.
     “Okay, girls, what exactly are we going to do here?”
     “I’m sure as hell dumping this pack and anything metal I’m wearing, and then I’m going to that grassy spot to lie down.”
     “It’s not much lower here than it is at the top!”
     Each of us has frantically tossed her new and treasured backpack unceremoniously against a rocky wall and is digging helter-skelter through the pack in search of any and all warm and waterproof clothing, scattering undesired items about on the ground. Donning long underwear, fleece and raingear top and bottom, gloves and hats, while abandoning metal-laced watches and glasses, we hastened to the deepest of the slight dips in the landscape. Positioned between a small snowmelt pond and huge piles of granite boulders, we ran down our lists of sage backcountry do’s and don’t’s.
     “I know we’re not supposed to stand under tall trees.” Not a problem here way above tree line. “But I also think we’re supposed to stay away from water and big rocks! So, should I be closer to the pond or the rocks?”
     “I don’t think it matters anymore; the storm is on top of us! Just get down!”
     Having spread ourselves out, each of us now curled up into the fetal position. Covering our heads, we did the best we could to protect ourselves from the pounding deluge, that thankfully waited until we had wrapped ourselves in our plastic clothes to begin its assault. Around us, engulfing us, the sky was black, turning the early afternoon to a nearly nighttime darkness. Lightning rent the clouds. Some high above us, leaping from cloud to cloud, making intricate webs of light in the darkness. Other, thicker bolts slashed vertically to and from the peaks that surrounded us on all sides. Counting the moments between flash and thunder was impossible, so simultaneous were they. Flash, BOOM! Flash, BOOM!  The light and noise went on and on and on. At the storm’s peak, came the whipping, icy wind, and the rain turned to pelting hail. Even as the clouds around us grew thicker, blinding us, wrapping us in mist and 10,000-foot-high fog, the ground became white with piles of hail.
     I keep my face covered, like I do in scary movies, peaking out between my fingers in momentary bouts of bravery, slamming closed my finger-shutters with each repeated round of Flash, BOOM! I still see plenty, enough to scare me to my core. “What am I doing here?” I think loudly, “What are three smart women doing in this predicament? We know better than this!”
     Prayers, pleas, and promises flow like charged liquid from my mind. I urge them upward and outward, hoping they will penetrate the ion-filled sky and find a sympathetic reception with the powers that be. I visualize a golden igloo of protective light arched over and around us three, as we huddle, vulnerable, on the small patch of green in the sky. Repeating my words like the mantra that never ends, I hold the image steady in my mind’s eye, the wildness of the weather battering the glowing dome protecting us.
     So cold, I am shivering uncontrollably even in my layers of fleece and plastic, and my teeth are chattering. “Has it been an hour? How much longer will I be able to stay here?” I wonder.
     I wiggle and rub my extremities in an attempt to get my body temperature up, but to no avail, the shivering and chattering go on. The weak link is my feet; I am still wearing my Tevas with socks that are sopping wet. I had changed from hiking boots to sandals when we crossed the creek early in the sunny morning. It was the first of several crossings that second day of our long trek, and a rather daunting first crossing, with the water coming up nearly to my hips. Abandoning the boots had felt wonderful at the time, but that decision, and the subsequent one to not take the precious time to change back to boots in face of the on-rushing storm, now proved a problem.
     It suddenly occurred to me that there was the minutest of pauses between the flashes and the BOOMS now. The storm appeared to be moving ever so slowly northward. We were still wrapped in clouds that sat on the rocky pass and cloaked the peaks to the point of invisibility, but the violence and the wildness was moving slowly away.
     At precisely the moment those thoughts filled my cold-slowed brain, a voice rang out, “Let’s go! The storm’s not on top of us anymore! Let’s go!”
     Galvinized, our three bodies leaped up like one, and moved with focused energy to the waiting packs. In mere moments, we had packs on. In the same way that distraught mothers lift cars off the crushed bodies of their children, the very packs that we struggled to hoist and buckle earlier in the day were suddenly light, nearly airborne.
     Faster than we could have imagined possible, we scuttled across the broad granite pass, and began finding our way down the other side. Frozen feet were impossibly sure-footed, rock-hopping downward from one massive boulder to the next. The trail was invisible, no cairns marked the rocks, and vast expanses of the downhill slope were covered with snow. Our feet did not care, they fairly flew, so eager were we to “get down off this damn mountain!”
     Halfway down to the green Alpine meadows below, I had to stop. I could not feel my feet; they had been completely numb for well over an hour. Now that the immediate danger of the lightning and thunder had passed, and my adrenaline surge just about used up, they were beginning to feel like clumsy clubs or stumps, and I was fearful of stumbling in the rock maze we were crossing. While Cappy and I sat on the wet rocks and began the slow process of changing from sandals to boots and dry socks, Jane, who had been wearing her boots all day, scouted around for some suggestion of a trail.
     Within minutes, and well before our bootlaces were tied, she caught sight of a muddy, brown line cutting through the meadow not far below us. Amazingly enough, we were right on track, our basic sense of direction had led us nearly to it. Breathing a collective sigh of relief, we pressed forward, with dry feet, toward the flat green spot still another 1000 feet below us. Despite its considerable distance, being able to clearly see our destination buoyed our spirits.
     John Muir Trail, Day 2, July 20, 2006.

By Land and By Sea...

   
     Point Reyes National Seashore, located just north of San Francisco, is a vast collection of coastal environs, broad sandy beaches, high grassy bluffs dotted with dairy farms, steep rocky seacliffs, lagoons, marshes, and small bays ringed with docks of fishing boats. The park is crisscrossed with an array of trails that traipse, meander, and robustly climb through its windswept lands.
     I especially enjoy the hike, really more a stroll, out to Kehoe Beach. The 1.2 mile trail skirts the edge of Kehoe Marsh with views of its many resident or visiting water birds and shore birds. Ducks and mudhens and other swimming and diving fowl float alone and in great groups on the smooth water that sits in a bowl surrounded by rolling grass-green hills. A variety of little flitting birds sit atop and hide amongst the branches of blackberry bushes and other shrubs that line the shore and climb the hillsides. Occasional birds of prey float effortlessly above on the air currents, watching for rodents in the grass.

     At the west end of the fresh water marsh is a small wooden bridge that crosses over the narrow outlet to the sea, allowing one access to the wide white beach in dry shoes. The water is brackish, as it is actually both inlet and outlet, changing directions with the tides. Below the bridge, the water is absolutely invisible, masked by millions of bright green leaves of floating waterplants, like the water itself is green and growing. A slender and elegant great blue heron on the other side of the green water is so immobile as to disappear into the sandy spot where it stands.
     West of the bridge, where the water of the narrow inlet/outlet slips between rolling sand dunes, a colony of seagulls stands inches from the water of the outer salt water lagoon. Every five minutes or so, on some silent communal cue, they take to the air like a school of flying fish, wheeling overhead, calling, before settling again a short distance from where they stood before.
     The trail widens where it emerges from the dunes onto the broad sand beach and becomes a dozen lines of footprints fanning out, all heading towards the sound of crashing waves. Along the trail, I have encountered only half a dozen humans, all moving back towards the parking lot. Arriving at the ocean's edge, I see only one lone speck of a hiker far down the beach.
     As far as I can see to the left, as far as I can see to the right, waves rise, curl, crash, and slide up the smooth sand. There are four, five, even six rows of gray-green waves, lined up, one behind the other, marching toward the land. After leaving foamy remains of themselves on the pale shore, each wave retreats, rejoining the vast ocean. I stand for half-an-hour or more, watching the repeating comings and goings, listening to the loud, crashing, rhythmic breathing of the sea.
     Upon closer inspection, the beach is not made from a fine-grained powdery sand, rather it is vast collection of tiny polished rocks the size of rice and peas. Each shiny rock is different from the rest, and together they are a rainbow of colors, red, green, blue, inky black, crystal white, orange and amber. I find myself on my knees, picking up the prettiest ones, until my hands are filled to overflowing, and I can hold no more. As the sun begins to make its way toward the horizon, I place my miniature rock collection into my pocket and head back to find my car, in a slow-paced race with the approaching dark, and retreat once more to my peaceful little bed-and-breakfast cottage.
     I found there to be an interesting contrast between the marsh, so teeming with wildlife, and the beach, so seemingly devoid of it. The marsh provides a microscope-like, closeup view of the bubbling and oozing life process. The creatures populating the sky, ground, and water of the that habitat produce a feast of sights, sounds, and constant movement. By contrast, the only visible signs of life on the beach are California brown pelicans passing by, cruising in formation over the cresting waves. The shoreline's vast dimensions create a spectacular setting for the eternal battle between land and sea. The marsh is a study in biology, whereas the beach is a geological study, both beautiful and fascinating to observe, but very different.

Junky Art...

     Florence Avenue in Sebastopol is home to a crazy assortment of fanciful characters. Nearly every front yard along this quiet residential street is host to a whimsical piece of metal sculpture created by Patrick Amiot out of odds and ends of metal junk. This neighborhood is, in fact, Amiot's home, too. His yard is filled to overflowing with metal characters, while other yards each showcase a solitary favorite.
     In the vast majority of neighborhoods this could never happen. In modern suburban areas, neighbors might have complained about the "junk" and turned their backs on this idea and its perpetrator. Homeowners Associations around the country have CC&Rs that would literally outlaw such playful beauty. But not this small town's residents. They embraced their hometown artist and his quirky creations by joining him in displaying his happy art.
     Firemen in yellow hats and their black-and-white spotted dogs hang out the windows of a red fire truck. An old fashioned milkman delivers his bottles to one house. Plates piled with noodles balance in the arms of a diner waitress in her apron. A bikini-clad surfer girl rides a breaking wave on her surfboard, while a statuesque soccer player kicks his ball across a green lawn. A voluptuous mermaid reclines smiling in an ivy bed. The Mad Hatter holding a tea tray stands next door to a scampering White Rabbit checking the time. A menagerie of dogs and chickens adorn cars and trucks made from a miscellaneous collection of crazy parts and pieces one might find at the dump.

      Amiot makes all this metal and plastic trash come radiantly alive with personality and energy. The sculptures seem to be only momentarily frozen in mid-stride, mid-dash, mid-sentence. Their eyes, made of turn signals, pie tins, and mirrors, sparkle, and their faces smile with genuine delight. Arms and legs, created from kitchen utensils, vacuum cleaner attachments, and old hand tools, gesture and stride. Vacuum cleaner tanks, buckets, funnels, engine parts, and toasters contribute to bodies and heads. Vehicles are constructed from lawn mowers parts and yard tools, pots and pans, children's toy parts, and more.
     My son, Dean, and I visited Sebastopol, 50 miles north of San Francisco, in the wine country of Sonoma County, on our way towards Thanksgiving festivities last fall, after each spending some restful days at the coast. We strolled up one side of the Street of Art and down the other, stopping to point and laugh aloud at each yard. We scrutinized each piece, attempting to identify the disguised components, and picking our favorites. Dean took numerous photos along the way. (The pictures shown here are both his.)
     On our way out of town, we were surprised to see more large pieces of Amiot's junk sculptures about town, dotting our path, like the whole town has adopted Amiot as their "favorite son." We stopped to do a bit of wine tasting in neighboring Glen Ellen, at BR Cohn Winery, and were pleasantly surprised to be greeted at the entrance by four more of Amiot's objects d'art, four "classic cars" with canine drivers.
     What a joy to stumble upon such happy artistic expressions! We had an hour or more during which we were lost in time and space, laughing and chatting, being inspired and delighted by whimsy and creativity. Now that's fun! Florence Avenue enthusiastically brings to life the axiom, "One man's trash is another man's treasure."

"I'm a junk artist and I think that's really my job is to let my feelings go with the junk." said Amiot. "The way it started was that I had this desire to do something other than my clay, so I decided to make this giant fisherman. I just put it right in front of the house and figured, well, if there was a city ordinance that tells me to take it away, that'll be fine. To my amazement, people actually enjoyed looking at it. People slowed down and waved. So that was the beginning, and then came another one, and they eventually started to go onto other people's front yards -- on my street, of course -- and then after six months I sold my first one." -- Patrick Amiot in an interview with "Spark" and KQED

Aerial Acrobatics...

Driving along a two-lane highway in Colorado's Rocky Mountains north of Fort Collins, my son, Dean, and I experienced an up-close-and-personal view of a Golden Eagle in flight. We had just dropped a friend off at the Shambhala Mountain Center and were heading back down the mountain towards the Denver Airport where Dean would catch a flight home to California. Low grass and brush spread out on both sides of the mostly empty roadway, with clusters of evergreen trees standing between us and the rocky peaks a short distance away. The expansive summer sky was a faded blue; billowing clouds were beginning to build over the mountains in anticipation of an afternoon thunder and lightning display. Our plan was to get out of the high country and down into the city before the storm began.
     Off to the left a large raptor appeared low in the sky, flying parallel to the road. We slowed to admire its graceful flight. It appeared to be hunting, and we hoped we might witness its soundless dive for prey in the field. The large, dark bird sailed smoothly downward and swooped across our path to land beside a dark mound of roadkill in the middle of the road ahead of our van. We slowed some more. The large bird-of-prey looked up, directly at us approaching, and once again took to the air. Logically, Dean and I presumed the bird would fly off to the side and wait for the van to pass before returning to its roadkill meal.
     Perhaps, this individual bird had not before encountered cars. Perhaps, it thought of us as competitors for its food. Perhaps, it couldn't comprehend our size and speed. For whatever reason, it made a nearly fatal misjudgment, and in doing so, performed a death-defying feat of flying skill.
     When the giant raptor rose into the air, it flew straight upward. Pumping its broad wings powerfully, it climbed only about 100 feet before stopping mid-air in a complete stall, like a plane in airshow. At the peak of its stall, it paused weightless, before rolling backwards, talons over beak, in a tight, slow-motion back-flip, then spun back around to face the spot on the road where its roadkill lay, and dove like a missile, plummeting downwards, wings tucked tightly for speed.
     I hit the brakes, as this was all playing out unexpectedly in the middle of the road just feet in front of our vehicle. The bird abruptly changed directions once more, a moment before it would have landed. It twisted and turned in flight, heading directly towards us on a collision course. Within seconds, its gaping black beak and wide dark eyes were inches from the windshield, its broad talons and golden belly in full view near the glass. Powerful wings, wider even than the car, made one last, huge thrusting stroke through the air above the van's hood, wingtip feathers brushing the glass, propelling its body up and over the slanted windshield and roof of the van. That last muscular beat of wings, together with the lift created by the still moving van, swept the bird up to safety and out of sight.
     
     That was a Golden Eagle! 
     That was amazing!
     What just happened?
     I'm not sure I believe what I saw!
     I did not just dream that. That back flip really happened, didn't it?
     What was he thinking? How did he miss hitting us?
     It's a good thing there were two of us to see that. No one would believe it otherwise.
     I'm not sure I'd believe it myself, if you weren't here with me to confirm it for me.

Aquila chrysaetos, the Golden Eagle

 
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

~ Alfred Tennyson

Close Encounters...

     Speaking of bears, I have a favorite spot in the high country of Yosemite, just off the road between Tuolomne Meadows and Tioga Pass. There's a gravel turnout just big enough to accommodate one or, in a pinch, two cars. I make a point of visiting that spot during every visit to the park, always in time for sunset.
     A few yards from the road is a small, still pond, surrounded on three sides by thick pine forest. To the east towers Mt. Dana, a reddish rocky peak that looms above the line of trees. Just as the sun settles below the horizon, unseen downhill to the west, its last warm rays skirt the treetops to illuminate Dana's naked crown, turning it crimson in an optical phenomenon known as Alpenglow. Viewed from the western edge of the pond, Mt. Dana's flame-colored peak is reflected in its every detail in the mirrored surface of the pond, a scene capable of creating awe in any observer. The intensity of color lasts only a few precious moments, so every year I arrive in plenty of time to set up my camera and tripod hoping to capture the three-dimensional beauty onto a two-dimensional print. Each year I attempt the feat; each year it eludes me. It has become a bit of a quest now, an ever elusive pursuit, to get the perfect photo.
     Several years ago, while I was intently focused on setting up my gear, I sensed a presence approaching from behind me. I turned to find that an older gentleman had squeezed his car in beside mine and was walking towards the pond. He paused near the water and stood silently watching the peak and its reflection. After some time, he spoke. He told me how he had come to that spot every year for decades, always on his last night in the high country, always alone. He described his ritual solitary hike around the perimeter of the pond, yet he made no move to begin that annual walk. After some silence, he told me that age had gotten the better of him. He didn't think he had the stamina, the strength, to make the walk that year, that perhaps, unknown to him at the time, the previous year's trek had been his last. I offered him my hiking poles and/or my company for his walk, but he declined. Then he bid farewell to the pond and returned to his car, heading east towards the park exit. His melancholy longing hung in the air long after he departed. It felt as though I were the recipient, the heir, to his pond and his ritual and his story. When I looked up, the Alpenglow was quickly fading. Without taking picture one, I packed up my gear and returned to camp.
     One year later, I returned to the exact same spot, set up my camera, and awaited the post-sunset light show. Again, I was totally absorbed in the process of composing and adjusting camera settings in anticipation of capturing the elusive perfect Alpenglow photo, when I felt, rather than heard, a presence behind me. Turning, I saw, emerging from the woods fifty feet away, a breathtakingly beautiful cinnamon-colored bear. Backlit by the last of the sun's now horizontal rays filtering through the tree trunks, the bear seemed to glow. A fiery halo emanated from his furry shape. He paused near a fallen log, and we observed one another for several moments.
     The bear and I spent ten or fifteen minutes together that evening. I was never frightened. I was aware and cautious, but not scared. I watched him intently, amazed at his natural beauty, his air of confidence, and his peaceful calm. He moved forward, walking very casually, then inspected the log closely, finding some tasty bites under its rotting bark that kept him busy scratching and eating for some time. Satisfied, he wandered past me to get closer to the pond's edge, where he paused to drink, before setting off to walk around the perimeter of the pond.
     Once again, I missed the peak of Alpenglow color and the perfect photo, but at one point, I did have the presence of mind to swing my tripod-mounted camera around to get a shot of the bear by the log. The camera was set for bright light, however, and I was shooting into the dark forest, so the resulting picture produced a smudge that looks more like the shadow of a ghost than a bear.
 
     Both Celtic and Native American traditions honor the bear symbolically as a powerful mystical force and a protective spirit. The bear is believed to be a shape-shifter who can move between the human and natural worlds, and as such, represents the merging of intuition and instinct that guides one to inner wisdom. It is quite an honor to receive a visit from the spirit of such an illustrious clan.