Creeks

I have a special affinity with creeks. As a young boy, I would spend most of my summers, and many other weekends at my gramma's farm. Her property was on the edge of the Nipomo mesa, with a creek at the bottom of the steep side of the mesa.

 Often alone, I would explore that creek for hours. I knew every log and pool along that short stretch of creek, and would climb up into the oaks and cypress trees that lined the creek. I drank the water, caught frogs and snakes, watched the birds flitting through the willows, and only left to eat dinner or visit my gramma's cookie tin.

 I often thought of myself as an Indian, tracking small mammals, sneaking up on my uncle as he worked the bottom land around the creek, and sometimes found arrowheads and bowls of my adopted "ancestors."

 I still love every shady, boulder-lined creek ecosystem I walk along, and I never will forget my creek roots.

A Love Song

When I first laid my eyes upon you,
I felt right at home,
up on the wide open potreros,
I felt it down to the bone.

I've climbed up on her rocky peaks,
and I've been down in the oaks on her floor,
but the best parts of her are the ones that are,
just too difficult to explore.

Now the sun is setting behind my back,
and the full moon is rising up ahead.
The canyon's changing colors in front of me,
bring my ashes here when I'm dead.

Yes, this is a love song to a canyon,
and I know that wherever I may roam,
She'll be waiting for me here oh so patiently,
for my return to home.

Mesa Springs

I went on a two night backpack a few weeks ago, to Mesa Springs, on the southwest shoulder of Mt Abel, near the Ventura and Kern County lines. I was with my friend Doug, a former Cal Poly employee, now retired, and a long time backpacking partner. The area was surprisingly (at least to me) heavily wooded with Junipers and Pinyon Pines.
A very large grassy potrero jutted into the wooded areas where Mt. Abel finally started to flatten out. The views toward the west were stupendous of the rugged mountains I usually backpack in, along the Sierra Madre Mountains and the San Rafael Wilderness. I could actually see the rock of Lion Canyon from our vantage point.

We stayed at a campground with a fire pit and a table, and got our water out of a large spring-fed wooden barrel, about 100 yards north and uphill from our camp. We debated about it for a second or two, but then just dipped our water bottles into the barrel and drank it without filtering.

Doug and I and my brother, went on our first solstice trip in 1990, to a place called Condor Cave. I remember being ill-prepared for the cold, and pictures of me in denim pants and jacket reinforces the preparation woes. ---I have all the "cool" gear now. I've become a gear head, a group of backpackers I used to make fun of, until I had enough money to spend on gear---and I appreciate being comfortable in the backcountry. I've done my share of cold and hungry.

Doug and I have spent a great deal of time in the backcountry, a lot of it to Lion Canyon, but also to White Ledge and several places along the southern side of the Hurricane Deck. On one memorable trip to White Ledge, we split up for the night and spent about 24 hours alone. I really liked that, and have since spent many nights alone. Once it was three nights alone in Lion Canyon. It was the first day of Spring, perfect weather, wildflowers covered the potreros, and for four days and three nights I only saw one group of backpackers heading east into Pine Corral. One morning I discovered Mountain Lion tracks, just 50 feet from my fire and tent.

We hadn't been out together for a long time, so it was very nice to be with Doug around a fire again. We talked and laughed a lot, drank a flask of Jack Daniels, had other implements of destruction at our disposal, and had a great time. I'm looking forward to getting out with Doug again.

2010 Winter Solstice

Since 1990, I have been backpacking into the remote backcountry of Santa Barbara County on or near the first day of Winter. This past December would have been my 20th anniversary of the trek, the most recent trips into Lion Canyon. The rain, though, would have it's say.

Over eight inches of rain was reported in central California between Dec 18 and the 22nd, and left any road we normally take into the trailhead a muddy mess. We held off as long as we could the final decision of going or not going, but finally relented and decided to stay the few days around the Solstice at my friends Dave and Sherryl's house.

We had a great time. We ate like kings, drank wine around the fireplace, went on long, sometimes wet day hikes, saw an amazing rock art site, and played our guitars late into the night. It was one of the best solstice celebrations in near memory.

The only thing it lacked, and I'm sure most of us felt this way, was the living outside. Sitting on the ground around the fire, passing a flask, feeling how cold it had become, even a few paces from the fire. Nothing more, in my opinion, can connect you to the landscape than not being able to go inside for several days. I feel relaxed and at ease, very comfortable and confident in my surroundings, and I realize I missed this feeling very much.

The nice thing is, though, Lion Canyon will still be there the next time I hike in. Our inside solstice celebration is a great memory, and will be cherished as a most appropriate celebration of my 20th anniversary.

God

I saw God once. I was at Lion Canyon, sitting on some precipice, looking off into the distance, when a cone of light shot out of my chest. Right out of the middle of my sternum was a cone, widening as it went further out, and going out as far as I could see.

Inside the cone everything was connected by strings of light. There were no separate things. Everything was one thing. Everything was one thing. Everything is God.

And I didn’t just feel love. I felt loved. It was peaceful.

I think that’s where we go when we die, into the strings of light. Maybe we’re born because God has plucked one of those strings, and it’s us, resonating at a different frequency for 75 years or so, then we slow down and meld back into the strings of light.

The shamans and the wise men and the wise women and maybe the homeless guy arguing with the fire extinguisher all have learned to change their frequency and are resonating with the universe, like the well played string of a nice guitar.

The Mosque

All this hate I see in the protesters against the mosque being built "600 feet from ground zero" worries me. Heck, even George W told us we are not at war with Islam. It seems though, that no one who is against the construction really believes that. They've managed to lump every person of Muslim faith into a potential terrorist.

The loss of our liberties is especially worrisome. The first amendment says in part "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof". If we don't abide by that, what's next?....

• No freedom of speech? There goes all the blogs and most of the internet.
  
• No right to bear arms? Our rights are not just for the far left, ACLU-loving tree huggers, they affect the far right too.
  
• Do we get to choose where a synagogue or temple or Mormon church can be built?
• Should we not allow black people, or people from Louisiana, for example, to vote?

We can not allow an act of terrorism to erode our liberties. If we do, then (and I dearly hate this phrase), the terrorists have "won".

Gramma's Creek

When I was a young boy
Down at my Gramma's creek
Laying under the willows
Listening to the water speak
Catch me a snake
And a tadpole or two
Gonna' climb that big oak tree
Right up to the blue.

With my brother and my cousins
Down at the creek
We swore we were Indians
Man, you should have seen us sneak
We knew every pool, every turn, every log
And right over there was the skull of a dog.

Playing football in the dirt
Climbing that old mulberry tree
There was just no other place
I would rather be
Jumping in the hay barn
Since who knows when
Going back to Gramma's house
And her cookie tin.

Sunday dinner at my uncle's
Watching TV till eight
Man that Marlin Perkins
He sure was great
Walking back in the dark, though
Wasn't always that fun
The slightest little sound
Would set us off in a run.

Sprinting past the hay barn
And the chicken shed too
You just knew there was some ghost
Bearing down on you
But the back porch light is on
Down at my Gramma's house
Wipe your feet boys she tells us
The peach cobbler is out.

Now I long for those simple days
Down at my Gramma's creek
Laying under the willows
Listening to the water speak
I would cross over the creek
On that big rotten log,
And keep my eyes open
For the skull of that dog.