Did I say I'm terrified of fire?

The Highlands Resort--from the road
Guerneville California
Taken 1/29/07

Sur le pont d’Avignon,

L’on y danse, l’on y danse,

Sur le pont d’Avignon

L’on y danse tout en ronde.

And the evening and the morning were the first day, well, actually night. Friday I made a last minute decision to get away for the weekend. The Russian River town of Guerneville was a pleasant little mom&pop resort community when I was growing up. In fact, my own mom & pop even considered buying property there in the mid 1960s. They found many dilapidated cabins for sale at exorbitant prices and in the end choose to put their money elsewhere. By the time I came out in the late 70s, Guerneville was in the process of transforming itself into the premier gay resort town on the West Coast. Boy was I angry my folks had decided against buying.

Anyway, on Friday, feeling more and more trapped in Smith River, I knew that I had to do something. The town is almost exactly half way between San Francisco and Portland, Oregon, and Portland has been my city of choice for the past ten years. In fact, I haven’t even been to San Francisco since my thirty-year high school reunion in November, 1997. Cities, no less than people, are living beings and grow and change just as the people living in them do. I know where to go and how to have fun in Portland. At this point I feel I don’t know San Francisco at all. I did feel, however, that if I drove the 350 miles to Portland for a mini-vacation, I’d want to continue on the next 550 miles to Missoula rather than returning to Smith River. As I still have unfinished business in California, that was not an option.

So… San Francisco it is. But wait—what about checking out Guerneville. I haven’t been there since 1973 when there weren’t rainbow flags flying everywhere. Get out the Damron’s guide, look up “Russian River” and see what jumps out at you. Between the gay travel guide and some online searching I found that the Highlands Resort offered a Winter Special whereby if you pay for two nights, you can stay the third for free. I’d heard of the Highlands Resort along with two or three other gay owned resorts in the area, and since the on-line availability guide indicated that they had a couple of rooms still open, I called to confirm. I might even be able to take Gypsy as they have some cabins that are “pet friendly.” Calling the resort I spoke with Holly, who was very accommodating, but alas, the pet friendly rooms are taken for at least one of the three days I’d be staying.

Door and two windows of the Redwood Suite
Highlands Resort, Guerneville California
Taken 1/29/07

Plan B. Call Bear and see if he would be willing, on such short notice, to house and dog sit. This may be dependent on getting his computer on line using my wireless network. Friday was thus spent in a state of hurry up and wait as I was waiting for UPS to deliver the 400mm lens for the D80, the Post Office to deliver the leather jock strap (yes, indeed!) I ordered through e-Bay, and for Bear to come over to see if he had internet access at my place. Neither the Post Office nor UPS delivered, but Bear arrived, laptop in hand, around 2 pm to find me in quite a state. I was very concerned that “my” room at the Highlands was going to be taken at any minute, and we still had to check out Bear’s ability to connect.

His computer found my router immediately, and connected nicely with that, but could get no internet connection. Since the internet provider is Charter Communications, I called and explained the situation. Yes we knew the service was working. We already had one computer on line. We were trying to get a second on line. After ten minutes of getting nowhere—it’s Charter’s position that they provide service to a single computer. Period. Beyond that you’re on your own—the Charter rep gave me the toll-free number to call Belkin, the maker of my router. This seemed pointless to me as we were having no trouble connecting with the router, but as Charter wasn’t willing to do anything else, we had no choice.

Long and short, the fellow at Belkin was very pleasant, but not at all helpful, and it took fully half an hour to get to the point where Bear and I gave up. Bear could see that I was getting more and more frantic, and he graciously told me to make the reservation. He could run home to check his e-mail.

Back on the phone with Holly again, and I still had a choice of two non-pet-friendly rooms. Well, actually, she didn’t speak of either of them as a “room.” There was a cabin available where I would have a bed-sitting room and a separate full kitchen, or there was the Redwood Suite, which had a microwave, sink and what Holly called a “wet bar.” Feeling that being a single man, I didn’t need a full kitchen for my weekend getaway, I chose the Redwood Suite, gave her the appropriate numbers on my plastic, and reserved the room.

Bear left, I grabbed the new tele/zoom/macro lens, and headed out to Point St. George for some photography practice, as I noted in yesterday’s blog. Then on to see The Queen and finally back home to edit the photos and write the blog “England’s Rose.” As I was finishing up submitting the blog, I suddenly felt extremely ill. Head felt like it was in a vice, chest felt full to the point of exploding, and an attack of vertigo kept me in my office chair, unable to get up. When I did move, it was slowly and uncertainly, wondering where I would be when the vomiting started. Not a good way to feel the night before a long drive.

View from the hot tub
Highlands Resort, Guerneville California
Taken 1/29/07

The bed kept spinning all night, and I woke several times wondering if I should call and cancel the reservation. When I finally did get up, I was still feeling woozy—not at all up to par. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this bad. I went ahead and fixed breakfast—bacon and hard-boiled eggs as I wondered if too much carbohydrate on Friday had unbalanced my system. Still feeling as if vomiting was immanent, I walked into the bathroom and proceeded to lose the breakfast I’d just finished. That, at least, relieved the pressure on my chest, but my head still felt as if someone had put an ever-tightening metal band around it. As long as I moved slowly and made no sudden movements, I could get around, so rather than cancel the reservation, I packed my goody bag, my kit bag, my camera bag, my book bag, my computer case, and as an afterthought, some clothes.

Bear showed up around 9 am, by which time I had my stuff ready to put in the car, and so, saying good-bye to Gypsy and a heartfelt thanks to Bear, the Volvo and I hit the road.

Driving south was uneventful—just one quick stop in Crescent City for the ATM and another at Costco in Eureka for gas. A stop in Garberville got me lunch off the breakfast menu, most of which I was able to eat—and keep down. Getting back on 101, I stopped for a hitch-hiker who, in other clothes, could pass for Santa Claus. White hair, beard, belly—the whole nine yards, except for his two bags and guitar. How can you pass up a chance to travel with Santa Claus, especially when he’s carrying a guitar that’s held together with duct tape?

Santa rode with me all the way to Guerneville and we had a fascinating conversation about literature, the state of the world, the need for peace and understanding, and how he had advised the King of Nepal to accept a constitutional monarchy. I also heard how he’d counseled Muslims in Indonesia to love Jews, and how he had mentored Orthodox rabbis in Israel to accept the Palestinians. I didn’t say that Santa was all there mentally, now, did I. But who knows, he may have actually done everything he said.

The Heater in the Redwood Suite
Highlands Resort, Guerneville California
Taken 1/29/07

Once in Guerneville, having dropped Santa off on the road to Jenner by the Sea, I quickly found the Highlands Resort, met Holly, and checked into my room—the Redwood Suite. The suite is charming and romantic, more than large enough for me. Having slept in my parents’ full-sized bed for the past year, the king at the resort looks large enough to host a small party. The room is heated by a gas fireplace which can really put out the heat. It can also be disconcerting to wake in the middle of the night to see flames in the corner of the room. Did I tell you I was terrified of fire?

After a leisurely soak in the hot tub, and a delicious steak dinner at the River Inn Grill, I returned to the resort to watch Harold and Maude in the resort’s common room. It’s been a good thirty years since I last saw the movie, and it was great fun seeing the San Francisco Bay Area the way it was when I was growing up. Following the movie, I returned to the hot tub which I shared with three other men, including one originally from Avignon, France. He told me he’d never been on the bridge there, and that he felt the song was silly. Les bons messieurs font comme ça. Oh well. Back to bed, and the evening and the morning was the first night.

England's Rose

Goodbye England's rose,
may you ever grow in our hearts.
You were the grace that placed itself
where lives were torn apart.

--Elton John

White Rose Taken with new Sigma 70-300 tele/zoom/macro lens
Macro setting
Smith River, California
1/26/07

Gary told me that I should do whatever it took to see Helen Mirren in The Queen. So, being the good, obedient partner that I am, I did. It’s currently playing at the multiplex in Crescent City, and tonight I sat in the theatre and become completely lost in the story. I don’t think I’m giving away any secrets when I tell you that the movie is based on the week following the death of Princess Diana and focuses on the reactions of the Royal Family, principally HRH Queen Elizabeth II, and newly elected Prime Minister Tony Blair. Here and now I will echo Gary’s suggestion: Do whatever it takes to see this movie! You will not be disappointed.

Today’s blog will be short. I’m expanding my photographic repertoire and recently bought two more lenses for the D80 through e-Bay. The second of the lenses arrived today. (The first has not yet arrived, and I have no idea when it will get here as I cannot get the seller—a reputable camera supply house with a national presence—to give me any tracking information.) The lens that did come is essentially the same as the “long” lens I have on my Pentax film camera—a Sigma 70-300 mm telephoto/zoom/macro lens with a Nikon mount. It was sold as a lens for a Nikon film camera, but everything I’ve read indicates that all lens that fit Nikon film cameras will also fit Nikon digital SLRs. In one sense I was buying a pig in a poke, but I got the lens for such a good price, and I love the same lens on the Pentax, so let’s give it a shot, I said. If nothing else, I can always resell it.

Well, as I said, it was delivered by the US Post Office this morning, and I’ve been playing with it happily ever since. My first impression was that it did not focus as quickly as the other two lenses that came with the camera. Now, after taking over a hundred shots at Point St. George this afternoon, I think it’s working just fine. One of the first “macro” shots I took was of the primrose I bought for the back yard. Actually I bought four primroses, in four different colors, but the mouse that lives behind the washing machine ate the flowers before I got them outside. At this point, only the yellow has put out new flowers, so that’s what I used to test the lens. Yesterday I had taken the same shot with my 50-200 mm Sigma tele/zoom lens, but as it does not have a macro setting, I couldn’t get close enough to get a real macro, or close-up, shot. The new lens did just fine, thank you.

Primroses in Back Yard
This photo is larger than life sized
Macro Setting
Smith River, California
1/26/07

The movie started at 6:00 pm, so before heading to the multiplex, I took my new lens to Point St. George to see if I could get a good shot of the St. George Reef Lighthouse. The sky was overcast with a heavy haze, so while I got a better shot of the lighthouse than I’ve ever taken before, it’s a very gray picture. I won’t share it with you. BUT, next time the sun shines and the sky and ocean are blue, I’ll be back out there, camera and long lens in hand.

As I look back on the afternoon, it seems appropriate to combine St. George and The Queen. Instead of going down to the beach, as I always have in the past, I crossed the headlands and spent a pleasant hour or so taking shots from the cliffs. Again, since it was overcast and hazy, most of my pics came out quite gray in color, but I was having fun and getting used to a new piece of equipment, so what does it matter. I did have some company in the form of a small red-breasted bird who flew down in front of me and proceeded to dance around in front of my lens. It was as if he knew he had an audience and he was quite the performer. I took several shots of him until finally he ended up at the edge of the cliff, then flew off. I thought you might enjoy seeing the little fellow perched on the edge.

Bird on Cliff
Point St. George, California
1/26/07

Tomorrow I head south to the resort community of Guerneville on the Russian River. I plan to get lots of good shots of the area, including Fort Ross—the southern most Russian settlement in North America. I have fond memories of the tide pools in the Fort Ross area, so I’m looking forward to visiting them as well. I also look forward to the hot tub at the Highlands Resort, and three days in a gay environment. It should refresh my soul which is sorely needed at this point.

And for those of you who know my other artistic love, weaving, know that I haven’t given it up. I brought two small looms, one inkle and one rigid heddle, with me from Montana, and this past summer I bought a 10-harness floor loom manufactured by the FJ Ahrens Company in Oakland California. Ahrens is a big name in looms, but this loom has to be one of their early models. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I am weaving a set of tea towels on it, and just for grins and giggles, here’s a pic of the work in progress.

Work in Progress
Tea Towel on FJ Ahrens Loom
Smith River, California
1/26/07

I plan on writing while I’m on the Russian River, but I’m not sure if I’ll have enough internet access to actually post anything while I’m there. So, if you don’t hear from me for the next few days, that’s why.

Ta!

The Bridges of Bridgeville

The 1925 Bridgeville Bridge over the Van Duzen River
Closed to vehicular traffic today and replaced by the modern bridge whose shadow you see crossing the picture from lower left to middle right. If you enlarge this picture by double clicking on it, you can find my friend Carl on the bridge and one of the teen-agers, in a white tee-shirt, under the bridge.
Taken at Bridgeville, Humboldt County, California
1/24/07

In the February 2007 issue of Smithsonian (which arrived in today’s mail), travel author Bill Bryson reminisces about growing up in the Des Moines, Iowa of the 1950s. He talks about the number of children that filled the streets, the parks, the playgrounds, and he makes quite clear the fact that the children were outdoors playing all day long. What he implies is that it was safe for the children to be outdoors and on their own. In June, 1962, we moved from the rural community of Colusa, California, in the Sacramento River Valley to El Cerrito, a bedroom community directly across San Francisco Bay from the Golden Gate. This was the summer before I turned twelve, and for the next twelve years I lived in the San Francisco Bay Area. By the time I moved back to Montana in 1975, I had lived fully half my life in the suburbs of the City by the Bay.

I often think back to those days and wonder if life really was that much simpler, or if my parents were just naïve. I can remember riding my bike into downtown Oakland. My best friend Roy and I spent entire days climbing on the cliffs in Tilden Regional Park. We’d take the AC Transit buses across the Bay and spend a day wandering around San Francisco. We were in Junior High School at the time. In many respects I’m glad I don’t have children of my own. I’m terrified when Gypsy runs up to the edge of the cliff overlooking the Pacific. How would I react if it were my child about to throw himself into the sea? How could I even consider letting him ride his bike into any part of Oakland? How could I conscience him wandering the San Francisco streets alone?

The last time I visited San Francisco was ten years ago (well, nine plus to be precise—in 1997). That year I made eight trips to the City, mostly to see the SFBF as I refer to John—the San Francisco Boy Friend. The final trip was to attend my thirty-year high school reunion, with John, the SFBF, at my side. I haven’t been back to the Bay Area since then. It’s time for a visit. Besides, the 40-year reunion will be this year.

One of the trips ten years ago was made in the company of the Rev. Bob Varker, at that time the United Methodist Campus Pastor at The University of Montana. Bob and I traveled to San Francisco to begin the process of setting up a spring break experience for the students involved in Campus Christian Ministries. We were looking specifically to have our students work with the folk at Glide Foundation, an outreach program affiliated with Glide Memorial United Methodist Church in the heart of San Francisco’s Tenderloin district. One of our meetings was with a woman who had a teen-aged daughter. I expressed my concerns about the difficulties and dangers of raising children in the 1990s, and the woman told me I was right to be concerned. She added, however, that I was probably concerned for the wrong reasons. It seems that in the 1990s (and I doubt that things have changed much in the past ten years), the main danger to our children was other children. Children kill or maim other children to get their sneakers, their jackets, their jeans. It gives a whole new meaning to the term “peer pressure.”

Cleft in rock cliff above Swimmer's Delight
(Had the water been higher and the temperature warmer, I'd have been tempted to strip off and jump in.)
Van Duzen River flowing through Van Duzen County Park
Humboldt County, California
1/24/07

Since 1997, I’ve made fewer trips away from home, and since 2001, the only metropolitan areas I’ve visited have been Portland, Oregon and Seattle, Washington. I can’t say that I’ve seen very many children in either city. In Missoula when I’ve been out late at night, I’ve been amazed at the number of young people who are milling around downtown after midnight. I’ve heard policemen say that they’re afraid to go down certain Missoula streets alone after dark. I can only imagine what it must be like in larger communities.

For the past year, living in Smith River I’ve seen a few children and adolescents, but almost no one of high school age around town. In Crescent City, and to a lesser extent in Brookings, Oregon, I have noticed high school aged youth on the streets, and for the most part they seem to be wandering aimlessly, as the song says “with no particular place to go.” Visiting Arcata, home of California’s Humboldt State University, I’ve seen groups of high school aged youth gathered in the town’s central plaza—looking as if they are homeless. Now admittedly, I’m at the point of becoming an “Old Fart” if I haven’t already passed that point, but shouldn’t we be doing something to help our youth? Is it even possible to get things back to a point where our children are safe from each other—and our adults are safe from our children?

I don’t have the answers to these problems—problems that frankly impress me as being intractable. Somehow parents stopped parenting and left children to their own devises. I guess that’s the main difference in my mind. Certainly when I rode my bike into Oakland, it wasn’t because my parents didn’t care. Rather it was that most children’s parents did care and took responsibility for their children’s upbringing. Most kids my age knew right from wrong, and knew that our parents would be certain to correct us, should we cross the line. I’m not sure that parents today correct their children, or that children today expect anything from their parents. This worries me. And maybe I’m just out of touch.

Pampas Grass, considered a noxious weed here
Growing above the Van Duzen River
Near Bridgeville, Humboldt County, California
1/24/07

Yesterday, Carl and I drove off in search of photo opportunities, heading south to Eureka only to find the fog become increasingly dense the further south we drove. About twenty miles south of Eureka, we turned off US 101 onto California 36—one of the mountain roads that connects the coast with the Central Valley. In this case, 36 runs between Fortuna at the west end and Red Bluff in the Valley. We were quickly out of the fog as we drove through Hydesville, Rohnerville, Riverside Park and Maple Grove. We passed through a town whose name has intrigued me for years—Carlotta. Carlotta, unfortunately, was no Spanish dancer. She wasn’t even wearing red. What can I say. We stopped briefly at Humboldt County’s Van Duzen Park and even more briefly at Grizzly Creek Redwoods State Park. We finally stopped to eat our lunches in Bridgeville, a town with a population of 300 according to the city sign. I have no idea where they hid those 300 people. As I wandered around, camera in hand, I had the feeling that the entire town was “Posted—No Trespassing.”

What ties Bridgeville in to my theme of today’s children and youth is that the largest structure we saw in this town was the Bridgeville School. The school was bigger than all the houses in town combined. They must draw their student body from the homes hidden in the hills. We stayed in town long enough that the School released its inmates and I saw two items of interest—two scenes that reminded me of growing up in the 60s or of Bill Bryson’s 1950s Des Moines.

First, a couple of teen-agers came down the street, passed me where I was changing lenses at the car, and crossed the 1925 Bridgeville Bridge. After stopping for a while to thrown things off the bridge, rocks I presume, they wandered off the far end and made their way down to the Van Duzen River below. In time they were joined by other youth until a small group of them had gathered in the shadow of the bridge to break chunks of ice and smoke cigarettes. I have no idea how long they remained at these tasks, because we left before they did. I guess that in Bridgeville, instead of going behind the barn, you go below the bridge.

The other thing that caught my eye was a group of younger children walking down the only street in Bridgeville to go to the Post Office. What was noticeable was that there were five children and four dogs. The dogs were all on leashes, and the dogs were larger in some cases than the children. These were not Gypsy sized dogs. These kids all looked like they were having fun the way we used to do. (Well, I never smoked under a bridge, but I did break ice.) I would hope that such fun is available in towns larger than Bridgeville.

Kids and Dogs
Bridgeville's One Street
Bridgeville, Humboldt County, California
1/24/07

Songs, Songs, and more Songs

My peer review group, Eyefetch, has a contest going currently to fit a photograph to a song title. Talk about finding a subject that’s just right for me. I used to be known as the man who had a song for every occasion, and boy did I come up with some great combinations. Then I reread the contest rules and found that even though the contest is running through February 4^th, we’re only allowed to submit one entry. Having picked at least a dozen photos/songs, I was a bit taken aback, but came up with one that just does it for me. It matters not what the judges decide. I know mine’s a winner. And I’m modest too.

The song for this period in my life has to be Willie Nelson’s On The Road Again. (And you thought I was going to suggest his other hit, Cowboys are Frequently, Secretly Fond of Each Other.) As Gypsy and I set out yesterday morning (Sunday, the 21^st), Willie was singing so loudly in my head that I had to stop at Crescent City’s best music store, WalMart (sad, isn’t it) and pick up a CD. The CD got put in the back with Gypsy’s box, her flea/tick ointment, her treats, and my new stick of deodorant and there they all are, a good 36 hours later. The CD that went into the player as we headed south was the Mamas and the Papas, and what a sobering thought that three of the four are now dead. What a loss.

In high school I went to a Mamas and Papas concert at the Berkeley Little Theatre. I loved them then, and I love them now. There’s real musicianship in those songs, and pretty much every one of them speaks to me. Ya know that in our Missoula Gay Men’s Chorus concerts I’ve channeled Cher, Peggy Lee, and the Merm. Well now I want to channel Mama Cass. Sing for your supper indeed! Dream a little dream of me!

California Dreamin'
Crescent City Harbor
Taken 1/22/07--such a winter's day!

For the second week in a row, Gyps and I set off for Shelter Cove. For the second week in a row, we didn’t get there. But oh the sights we saw. A beautiful, clear day, promising highs in the 50s, with blue sky, blue water, mirror like reflections in the water, and me with a camera! To get to Shelter Cove the “easy” way, you drive to Garberville on US 101, then turn west and cross the coastal range to reach the Pacific. This is still considered the “lost coast” as it is the only part of the California coastline not easily accessible by road. California Highway 1, repeatedly voted the most scenic highway in America, begins a few miles south, and US 101 which last saw the coast when it crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, doesn’t hit the coastline again until it reaches Eureka. So this one section of coastline in northern Mendocino and southern Humboldt counties lies in relative obscurity—the Lost Coast.

If you read my post concerning the trip to Petrolia last week, you’ve already been with me to part of the Lost Coast. The powers that be at Shelter Cove are trying to make up for the remote location with lots of advertising. If you do a Google Search on “Shelter Cove” you’ll come up with pages of web sites—which is exactly what I did before heading out. It was a bit disconcerting to see that one of the main features listed for the area are the number of realtors available to show and sell you property. Almost as disconcerting were the number of amenities listed that are within walking distance of the airport. Airport? Airport??? Apparently in an effort to make the Lost Coast a little less lost, the developers have put in an airstrip so that you can fly your private plane up for a round of golf, a visit to the tide pools, a stay at a B&B, and then fly back home again.

There was a link to sites for area artists, and one that caught my eye immediately was the link for Arcanum Ranch Pottery. http://www.humboldt.net/ArcanumRanch/enter.htm Well, with a budding ceramic collection from my days at UM’s School of Fine Arts, I had to go visit these two men who had moved from Los Angeles in the late 70s to build kilns and fire clay in the woods of northern Mendocino County. So, figuring that I’d meet some interesting men, buy some beautiful pottery (I looked at every page in their web site—they make beautiful pottery), and get some good seascapes at Shelter Cove, Gyps and I headed south. As the Mamas and the Papas sang, “Since it was sunny and Sunday….”

The surfers were out on the south end of Crescent City, but I said, “No. They’ll be there some other time.” The view from the Vista Point was breathtaking, but I said “No, there will be other breathtaking days.” The waves at Wilson Creek Beach were awe inspiring, but I said, “No, dammit. You’ve got miles to go before you shoot.” Crescent City, in case you’ve forgotten, is fifteen miles south of where I’m living. Eureka is eighty miles south of Crescent City. Garberville, where I would leave US 101, is sixty miles south of Eureka, and Shelter Cove is twenty-three miles west of Garberville. This was to be a long day’s journey—and as it turned out, a long day’s journey into night.

On past Klamath, cross the river, climb the hill and down to Orick. The elk were out in force in Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park, but I drove on. I was on a mission. On past the beautiful long beach south of the Redwood National Park Visitors’ Center, and back into the roller coaster two lane/four lane/two lane/four lane that is US 101 in this part of the state. Heading down the last slope toward the Big Lagoon (yes, that’s what it’s called), I thought I caught sight of a kayaker near the shore. Well, how often do I get a chance to shoot a kayaker around here. So, with Gypsy protesting, I put her in her box, grabbed the camera, and headed toward the shore. Click—one shot, click –second shot and the kayaker is paddling like mad. You’d think I had a gun instead of a camera. I look for another vantage point, and find a trail that leads down to the shoreline. Once there, I spy the kayaker up ahead, and take off in pursuit. Click, click, click, and he’s paddling like mad again. Damn. You’d think he was doing something wrong. All I wanted to do was capture him in pixels. Long story short, none of my kayaker pictures are going to be prize winners, but it was so beautiful out that my camera caught several other images that please me.

Back to the car and on south and WHOA! I’ve often seen a crane or two where the causeway crosses the Big Lagoon, and since I’d already stopped once, well why not. I’m setting my own schedule aren’t I? There’s no one I need to account to. I have no appointments set up. So pull the car off on the shoulder, grab the camera, and stalk the wild crane. Who’s very camera shy. Just like all the cranes I tried to photograph up at Smith River. But wait, there’s a great blue heron, a GBH, just standing there trying to look inconspicuous. And since the sky is so blue, and the water is so blue, and the mirror-like surface is reflecting so beautifully, I got this shot, which I call Blue on Blue. (Bet you thought I was never going to get back to those song titles, didn’t you.)

This is the photo that I couldn't load last night.
Blue on Blue
Great Blue Heron hiding in the Big Lagoon
Humboldt County, California
Taken 1/21/07

On to Eureka, and wouldn’t you know it, the bit of Humboldt Bay that’s right behind Target was another mirror—with two bridges being reflected beautifully. So into the Target parking lot to grab some more pictures—this time of a bridge over (un)troubled water. Oh, and I stole a couple of red pickups while in the Target parking lot. Grabbed a few more car shots in downtown Eureka, and after a third stop in town—this time for gas at Costco, we continued on our way toward Garberville.

Bridge Over (Un)Troubled Water
US 101 Bridge, North end of Eureka, California
Taken 1/21/07

South of Eureka, 101 follows the Eel River. I love the Eel River. I have loved the Eel River ever since I first started driving 101 back in the early 70s. One of my “One of these days” things is to stop and swim the Eel River—although I’ve been told it’s too polluted for safe swimming. It’s so beautiful, and there were so many spots to stop and grab a shot or ten, but I was really beginning to feel a time crunch. Not to mention feeling hungry. My intention, remembering the restaurant shortage in Petrolia, was to stop in Garberville, fill up the tummy, then head west to the coast.

Lunch turned out to be a Black and Blue Burger (what a dish for a leather queen) with a side of cole slaw. I recommend the burger—blue cheese and Cajun seasonings—you know, blackened. I don’t recommend the overpriced and under seasoned cole slaw. But Deb’s in Redway, where I got the B&B B is a great fun place, with lots of pictures of James Dean on the wall, 50s rock on the sound system, a group of people in their Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes behind me, and in front of me the view of a rather large, odd shaped building across the street with what appears to be an enormous Christmas wreath in the shape of a Peace Symbol attached to the front of the building. This it turns out is the Matteel Community Center, of which nuff said at this point.

The road west from Redway (2 miles north of Garberville) is better than the road from Ferndale to Petrolia. The latter, you may remember is a twenty mile drive that will take you the better part of two hours. The road from Redway to Thorn Junction is fifteen miles that will take one hour. Much better. I stopped once, just outside of Redway, to snap a few pictures, including this one in my new series—The Volvo Gets Around. Note the size of the tree growing out of the top of the car. That’s not a particularly large redwood. These are big trees.

The Volvo Gets Around--Redway, California
Look at the size of them knockers, er Redwoods
Taken 1/21/07

Long story short, I eventually found my way to the Arcanum Ranch, saw beautiful pottery, admired the hand-built wood fired kilns that are no longer used. Got my hands black on the new propane fired kilns that are used. Met two wonderful men. Got invited to stay for supper—which I did, and drove home in the dark with Linda Ronstadt singing away. What I didn’t do was 1) get to Shelter Cove; 2) buy any pottery (forgot my checkbook and the guys just aren’t set up for plastic); 3) visit the Trappist sisters at the Redwood Monastery just down the road from the ranch, and a favorite of Thomas Merton who used to come and meditate in this area. I’ll write more about the men, their home and their pottery later. I’ll even put up some pictures of the place and the work—when I go back with my checkbook. Which I will do. Count on it.

Chocolate Fuchsias

Crescent City as seen from the Endert's Beach Overlook
Redwood National and State Parks
I did it! My Two for One Shot
Both Battery Point and St. George Reef Lighthouses are visible in this shot
1/15/07

It’s been a strange day—one of those hurry up and wait kind of days, and yet I feel good about the way things have turned out. Financial concerns kept me awake most of the night, fighting battles that are ultimately unwinnable. When I did give up the battle for sleep and got up to face the day, I felt as tired as I’ve ever felt in the morning. Knowing that I would be meeting my friend Bear at 10:00 a.m. I worked to get my on-line business done quickly, all while fighting still, this time to stay awake. A long, hot shower helped, but pulling the Volvo out of the garage and heading down 101, I still worried about being awake enough to drive.

Because of my fatigue, I spent little time doing the one thing that always revives me—photography. As you’ll see in the details section below, I took only twenty photographs today—and shot only ten subjects. In all modesty, however, I’ll say that three of the shots are among the best I’ve ever taken, and they are pointing me in a new direction.

I’ve mentioned before my project for 101 Gulls. Today I went through the pictures I’ve taken, both with film and digital cameras, over the past several months, pulling all the shots of gulls. Admittedly not all are gallery worthy, but I was amazed to find 144 pictures of gulls in flight, gulls in the water, gulls on the beach, gulls in the McDonald’s parking lot. Perhaps instead of 101 Gulls, I should go with a working title of A Gross of Gulls. I certainly haven’t stopped taking pictures of gulls, and culling the lot will reduce my take considerably, but I feel well on the way toward the completion of this particular project. I was also able to “steal” a couple more red pickup trucks while waiting for Bear at the mechanic’s shop.

Frozen Fuchsia
Taken in the back yard
Smith River, California
1/15/07

At home this afternoon I took the camera into the back yard, just to see what might be available. Most of the flowers are gone, thanks to two nights with killing frosts. Just when I’d gotten used to seeing roses, azaleas, fuchsias in full bloom in January. One fuchsia hung on, severely frost-bitten, but open. I aimed the lens, clicked the shutter, and was amazed at what I saw. I submitted the shot for my Photo-A-Day shot at Eyefetch, but I’ll share it here as well. I’m also going to have it enlarged—up to 20 x 30, because this is an image that I like. I have titled it Frozen Fuchsia, and I learned something thanks to spell check. I’ve been spelling the word “fuschia” but spell check kept correcting me. In an effort to prove spell check wrong—how silly of me since spell check wants to change my last name to “Superman”—I grabbed the dictionary. Spell check, in this instance at least, knows best. It seems that Linnaeus who gave us so many names, named the plant for Karl Fuchs. Something else I learned from the dictionary is that the fuchsia is a member of the evening primrose family. I had never thought of the two together. In my defense, all I can say is that if you go to Eyefetch and look for photos with the label fuschia, you find quite a few. Fuchsia, on the other hand, only brings up two images. I’m not the only one misspelling the word it would appear. Even such luminaries as the British government’s Department for Environment, Food, and Rural Affairs (DEFRA) has a website where the URL spells the word “fuschia,” although it must be noted that all text uses the correct spelling: http://www.defra.gov.uk/planth/pestnote/fuschia.pdf . MDAR, the Massachusetts Department of Agricultural Resources spells the word incorrectly not only in its URL, but throughout the article: http://www.mass.gov/agr/gardening/flowers/fuschia.htm I feel so much better now.

My Tribute to Georgia O'Keeffe
Taken in the back yard
Smith River California
1/15/07

On other fronts, if you haven’t read anything by Joanne Harris, please, please run to your nearest library, local bookstore, or failing that, Barnes and Noble on line and check her out. My first experience reading Harris was Five Quarters of the Orange, which takes place in post war France and involves all kinds of secrets about who did what with the Nazis. Quite in keeping with my own doctoral work. Five Quarters was such a tasty orange, that I quickly followed it up with Blackberry Wine, Coastliners, Holy Fools, and her collection of short stories, Jigs and Reels. Waiting patiently on my bookshelves are Gentlemen and Players and Sleep Well, Pale Sister. I have thoroughly enjoyed everything I’ve read by Harris, and I look forward to the two that remain as yet unread. But Harris’s work is probably best known because of a wonderful movie made in 2000, starring Juliette Binoche, Judy Dench, Alfred Molina and Johnny Depp. For my money, any movie with Judy Dench is a must see. And so, tonight, I watched Chocolat. The novel, like all of Harris’s work in my opinion, was riveting. The movie is pure bliss. I don’t choose to own many movies. Frankly, there aren’t all that many I care to watch repeatedly. Chocolat, however, will find a place in my personal library. This is a movie I could watch nightly. As a student of photography, I was immediately taken by the cinematic magic. Each frame could be printed as a fine art photograph. The story weaves its way into your heart, and the chocolate! Oh how I want the recipe for her hot chocolate served with crushed red pepper. If you haven’t seen this movie, get it now. You won’t be sorry.

Toward the end of the movie, the young village priest, Père Henri, gives what apparently is his first self-written homily. It’s short, to the point, and heartfelt. It’s Easter Sunday, and Père Henri says that he doesn’t really want to talk about Christ’s divinity, or about the miracle of the Resurrection. Instead he wants to talk about Christ’s humanity. In the end, rather than measuring our goodness by what we deny ourselves, Père Henri says, “I think we’ve got to measure goodness by what we embrace, what we create, and who we include.”

My advice to you, as you move through your days is simple: Embrace, Create, Include.

And Gary, if you’ve read this far, Happy Anniversary. Thanks for the past Eight years. I’m looking forward to the next eight at least.

Weather: Blue skies, sunshine, highs in the 50s

Mood: Tired, content—even happy

Photographs taken: 20—but they were GOOD ones!

The Lost Coast

How many of these signs did I see?
Did I have chains? Nope.
Did I need them? Nope.
Oh well
Taken 1/14/07 at Honeydew California

I’ve visited places more remote than Petrolia, California. East End, Saskatchewan comes to mind. So does Rovaniemi Finland, Nevsehir in Turkish Cappadocia, and Okunakayama in Iwate Prefecture, Japan. But I took the train (albeit a coal fired steam train) to Okunakayama, and a regular FinnRail Pass got me to Rovaniemi, the capitol of Finnish Lappland on the Arctic Circle. I rode a tour bus to Nevsehir, and the only reason East End was so remote was that we took the back way in, driving north and west from Chinook, Montana, instead of the more direct route north and east from Havre, Montana. Petrolia, however, is only thirty miles by road from the Victorian Village of Ferndale—itself some eighteen miles southeast of Eureka. The Mattole Road (named, presumably for the Mattole River which flows alongside part of the highway) is roughly a semi-circle connecting Ferndale, Capetown, Petrolia, Honeydew, and the Roosevelt Redwood Groves of Humboldt Redwoods State Park. It is not a road for the faint-hearted.

In fact, I would not recommend the Mattole Road if you are at all acrophobic, prone to motion sickness, nervous about having large bovine animals on the road, or overly fearful of driving on roads that have no shoulders, no guard rails, and extremely steep drops. This was my Sunday Drive today. It’s only thirty miles from Ferndale to Petrolia. Allow a good two hours—more if you can find any spot wide enough to get off the road to take some pictures (or throw up, if need be). There were some remarkable vistas—I think. Gypsy wasn’t saying, and frankly, I didn’t dare take my eyes off the road. The few times I found a wide spot, I could see beautiful sights that were practically impossible to photograph because of the brush, trees, power lines, cows, in the way. Add occasional snow, ice, and the possibility of black ice to the equation and you have a fun day at the wheel in store. Let me back up, I would not recommend the Mattole Road. Period. (And you should know how much I love to drive.)

Leaving US 101 at Fernbridge for the five mile drive to Ferndale, always referred to as “The Victorian Village of Ferndale,” you cross the coastal plain and drive through the valley formed by the final stretch of the Eel River as it reaches for the Pacific just south of Humboldt Bay. Immediately upon leaving Ferndale, you begin to climb. And climb. And climb. Did I mention the signs warning you to carry chains? Around a bend and, whoops, was that the Pacific down there? But you’ll never know unless you have a navigator along, because you don’t dare pull your eyes from the road.

Yes, that is the edge of the road at that cow's rump
There is no shoulder on this road. None!
Mattole Road, Humboldt County California
Taken (through the car's windshield) 1/14/07

I must admit that I didn’t do a good job of keeping track of mileage on this section. It just seemed to go on and on. Of course I was driving fifteen miles an hour. The road, for the most part, is paved, but I quickly learned that when I saw a “Humco” sign warning of loose gravel, it really meant that the pavement ends. As for the “Humco,” well I can only surmise that some bureaucrat decided that it took too much paint and too many man-hours to paint “Humboldt County” on the road signs. Eventually I climbed out of the trees and reached a point where any available vista to the West included ocean while any vista to the East included mountain ranges seemingly without end. Then I went around a bend in the road and every vista included ocean—to my right, to my left, directly ahead. It was quite a ways below me, but it was there in every visible direction. Somehow I knew the road was going to have some pretty steep descents.

Coming out on the flats, I passed a sign saying “Capetown.” I had no idea I’d gone so far, and frankly, I expected Capetown to have more than two buildings. I missed the road that would have taken me to the Cape Mendocino Lighthouse—possibly because I have two area maps, one of which puts the lighthouse at Cape Mendocino and the other puts it at Shelter Cove, some 40 miles south. Eventually, I did reach Petrolia, and boy was I ready for lunch.

Driving into town I passed a building with four pickups parked in front and a picture of a burger painted on its façade. There was no sign other than a neon “OPEN” sign, so I continued into town intent on enjoying a wonderful Petrolia meal. Stopping to snap a picture or two of St. Patrick Catholic Church, I read the historical marker noting that the first producing crude oil wells in California were 3 miles east of town. So that’s where they got the name. Across from the historical marker was a large building with a Post Office sign. Normally the US Post Office is closed on Sundays. This building was apparently open for business, but there was no sign other than the one for the P.O. I chose to get in the car and drive around town a bit—not that there was much town to drive through. I did find a second church, the Petrolia Seventh Day Adventist church. Not your normal choice for the Protestant church in a two-church town.

Seeing no alternative, I turned the Volvo around and headed back to hamburgers and pickups. Whoa, apparently the California statute outlawing smoking in public places got lost on the way to Petrolia. All three men at the bar, and the woman tending bar, were smoking, and filling the rather large room with the residue of their Marlboros. The sign behind the bar offered Fettuccini and a couple of other dishes, but plainly stated “No Hamburgers.” I told the barmaid that I was looking for lunch and was told “I don’t think he’s cooking today. It’s Sunday.” When I declined the offer of cold beer or strong whiskey, claiming the road as my reason, I was directed to the store. “The women there are real good. They’ll let you use their microwave and won’t charge you for it.” Great, just what I wanted for lunch.

The store turned out to be the large building next to, or perhaps containing, the Post Office. Apparently Petrolia is so remote that no one feels the need to put up a sign. The locals all know where everything is, and there are no visitors. I will give them this. The women at the store were “real good.” The nearest restaurant was two hours away, they told me, but I could buy things and cook them in their microwave. Thanks, but no thanks. Outfitting myself with a bag of baby carrots, a couple sticks of string cheese, a can of V-8, and a Dagoba Milk Chocolate/Chai bar (WHAT???), I hit the road again. Pondering a freezer case that contained soy burgers and soy hot dogs, I decided that all the old hippies hadn’t disappeared, they’d just moved to Petrolia. Then I remembered the Seventh Day Adventist Church. Ah—a town of religious vegetarians. How lovely!

Fasten your seat belts. It's gonna be a bumpy ride!
Mattole Road, Humboldt County, California
Taken 1/14/07

Seeing a sign for Lighthouse Road, I turned West and once more found myself driving on one of those Humco Loose Gravel roads. Punta Gorda Lighthouse had the distinction of being the most remote lighthouse in California. Today it’s in ruins, or so I surmise. The maps say “Ruins” but the advisory sign at the beachfront parking lot said to allow a half day for the hike, and frankly, I’d already spent more than half a day just getting to this point. Well, dammit, I’d come to take pictures, and so far I hadn’t been able to shoot much. Let’s see what Mattole Beach is like. Hmmm, the first thing I saw looked like a maypole. Just past the maypole, someone gathered beach stones and laid out a labyrinth. What was I saying about aging hippies? Looking both to the north and to the south I saw not one other person on the beach. This is what is known as California’s Lost Coast—and I know why.

Back to Mattole Road and on south to Honeydew. The fifteen miles from Petrolia to Honeydew is better than the road north, but that means you take the curves at twenty mph instead of five to ten. Honeydew had a bar/restaurant/store. Oh I have no idea what it was. Again there was no sign, just a bunch of old geezers sitting on the porch and lots of cars parked in front. OK, not all the aging hippies went to Petrolia. Apparently a goodly number hang out in Honeydew.

At this point I had to make a choice. Turn left and stay on the Mattole Road back to US 101 between Weott and Redcrest, or continue south on the Wilder Ridge/Ettersburg Road toward Shelter Cove. Sorry, Charlie, I’m already wondering if I’ll make it home tonight. I don’t need to head any further south, so east it is, and once across the river, I’m climbing again. The road climbs steadily for eight miles, again at 10 miles per hour. You pass the occasional privacy fence, and remembering that the number one cash crop in Humboldt County just happens to be illegal, you don’t ask any questions about these fences. What is particularly bizarre about them is that there are no gates, and no roads or driveways anywhere near the fence. I have no idea what they’re hiding, and frankly, I don’t want to know.

After eight miles of climbing you reach the ridge line, and my GPS receiver said we were about 2500 feet above sea level. This is the boundary of Humboldt Redwoods State Park, and as you descend the east face of the ridge, you see for the first time today guard rails. Not many, granted, but more than you’ve seen so far on this road. After descending another seven miles, you reach the actual redwood groves. The road has now become a one-lane/two-way thoroughfare through the redwood forest. Where before you feared meeting a dually pickup because there was barely room for the Volvo and the pickup to pass, now you fear meeting a Honda Civic. There is no room to pass. Should you see an oncoming vehicle, you find the nearest point to get off the road—or hope that they do.

Twenty-three miles after leaving Honeydew, I’m back to US 101 and have the choice of taking the freeway or the older “Avenue of the Giants.” Thanks, I’ve done my sightseeing today. I just want to get home, and it’s only 150 miles away. I’ll take the freeway.

Get out your magnifying lens or click on this to see it full sized.
I know that when I go camping I always take along two cows and at least three goats.
(See second line under caption ANIMALS)
Also, does the last line mean that I can camp at 501' outside the campground?
Taken at Mattole Beach Campground, Humboldt County California
1/14/07

I don’t recommend the Mattole Road—from either direction. Would I go back? You betcha! I’d love to camp at Mattole Beach. I’d love to hike to the Punta Gorda lighthouse ruins. I want to find out where the Cape Mendocino Lighthouse really is. But I think I’ll wait for summer and a convertible. I love the Volvo, but it felt too big. Next time, I’ll take the Saab.

Weather: Blue sky, sunshine, temps ranging from a low of 28 to a high of 50

Mood: Great. Tired, but great. This is what I love doing.

Photos taken: 67. There weren’t any places to get off the road and shoot.

Snow on the Beach

High Seas as seen at Clifford Kampf County Park
Smith River, California
1/12/07
(and yes, there was snow on the beach)

It never ceases to amaze me how depression can steal your life. I’m sure that anyone who has gone through a period of depression will say this is an understatement. It’s my excuse for missing the past two days’ writing assignment. And yet, the children’s verse comes to mind:

The world is so full of a number of things
I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.

--Robert Lewis Stevenson
A Child’s Garden of Verses

Certainly as I’ve wandered the back roads and beaches of Del Norte County the past couple of days, my eyes and heart have been gladdened by a “number of things.” I’ve even managed to capture a fair share of them in my camera’s memory. Returning home, or to Mother’s home if you will, I have been brought back to the realization of how empty the house is without her. The person who taught me to see; the person who urged me to write is no longer here to share in the wonder of life around us. There is a very real hole in my world right now, and I have no idea how long it will take for that hole to be filled.

I remember spending one Mother’s Day weekend at the Flathead Lake UMC Camp with members from the Stevensville MT UMC and other parishes in our sub-district. The weekend was billed as a clean up time, preparing the camp for the summer season ahead. Sitting around the campfire Saturday evening, I said how truly appropriate it felt to spend Mother’s Day in this wonderful setting. As a small child I had walked at Mother’s side on that very ground—while Father fulfilled his duties as head of the camp. Mother and I would investigate rocks, water, the jig-saw puzzle pieces of Ponderosa bark. As I think back, we were looking at the very things I love photographing now. The waves on the Pacific are a bit higher than those on Flathead Lake, but it’s the same spirit moving it all.

Honestly, I wonder if the time has come for me to head back to Montana. Sitting here in the house my parents bought in 1976, even if the title is being changed over to my name, I cannot escape their presence—no matter that it be a benign presence. Little by little I’m making the place over in my image. But it may be a case of too little, too late in many respects. And I have a home, a partner, friends who love me, waiting up in the frozen northland.

What I don’t have in Montana are these wonderfully awe-inspiring seascapes. Set me down on the beach, even at 36 degrees, and I can happily watch the sea, find dragons in driftwood, pick up stones and shells, and catch the birds as they glide past, appearing to move effortlessly. The occasional hunky surfer dude doesn’t bring me down, either.

This morning dawned, again, clear and cold. Bright blue skies overhead and frost on the lawn. I headed out to the Crescent City Harbor to get a morning shot of the Coast Guard Cutter and Battery Point Lighthouse. The CalTrans reader board over US 101 said “Carry Chains. Snow Ahead.” I wasn’t terribly worried about snow on the road—there was barely any snow along side the road, at least by Montana standards. What did worry me was the thought of black ice on the highway as the temperature was fluctuating between 32 and 37—prime territory for black ice, and the road was wet enough that ice was a very real possibility. Still, just as at home, take it easy became the watchword as I headed south on 101.

Crescent City's Coast Guard Cutter, with Battery Point Lighthouse in the background
Crescent City, California
1/13/07

Stopping first at the Harbor, I got my morning shot of the Coast Guard cutter with the Battery Point Lighthouse in the background. I’ve taken this shot before—several times—but never with the morning sun cooperating with me. This scene always makes me think of the hymn Melita.

Eternal Father, strong to save
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bidst the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep:
O hear us when we cry to thee
For those in peril on the sea.

--William Whiting, 1825-1878

Deep sea fishing is the most treacherous job in America. Every time the boats go out there are those in peril on the sea. Stop for a moment and send good thoughts their way.

While at the harbor, I was also able to get several shots of gulls, both on land and in the water, including one of a gull just taking off from the water leaving a hole in his wake. I submitted that picture to Eyefetch (www.eyefetch.com) under the title “Hop, Skip and Fly.” A few pics of the sealions resting on the docks and a couple of surfers braving the extreme cold, and I resumed my south-bound drive.

With a stop at the vista point just inside the National Park boundary, I was able to confirm and record that you can, indeed, see both the Battery Point and the St. George Reef lighthouses from one vantage point. Unfortunately, I wasn’t at the right vantage point to get both in my lens at the same time, but I was able to capture both. I’ll get the shot of the two for one yet! But what beautifully clear shots of Crescent City and the Pacific I was able to get.

Over the hill and down to the Wilson Creek beach access. Lots of great shots here, including a terrific shot (if I do say so myself) of a wave breaking against the rocks. I submitted that one to Eyefetch as well, but I saved the shots of the gulls in flight for my project: 101 Gulls. With the alphabet book done, I need a new project, and fortunately I’ve thought of three. I’ll share them as they progress, but they involve gulls, kelp and other flotsam, and red pickup trucks. Yep, red pickup trucks. Why not?

My main objective this morning had been to catch the harbor scene, but a secondary thought occurred. On the north bank of the Klamath River, just as the river enters the Pacific, there is a rock formation that looks like an old woman, sitting on the hillside watching the mouth of the river. The Yurok people indigenous to this area say that when the Great Spirit decided to add human beings to his creation, two of the spirit people choose to take material form in order to assure the well-being of the Yurok tribe. Both spirit women took the form of rocks. One sits at the south end of the river mouth and is called the Sister. The other sits on the north bank and is named Oregos. I had shot Oregos with film and with the L3 digital, but the day I was out with the Pentax SLR and film, I wasn’t able to get very close—taking my pictures from the overlook on the old coast highway. When I came back with the L3, I parked on the side of the river, and hiked out the sand spit to its northern end where I was able to focus on Oregos just across the river. The weather, however, wasn’t terribly friendly. There was a heavy mist in the air and by the time I got back to the car, the mist had turned to rain. While I was able to get several good shots of driftwood on the sand, Oregos had drawn a foggy veil around her. With the bright sun, clear skies, and cold, crisp temperatures, I was sure that today was the day for a good shot. Indeed, not only was I able to get several clear shots of the spirit woman in her present incarnation, but I saw something I’d never seen before—her companion raven. (Now if I blow the images up significantly, I can see that all I’m looking at is a trick of the shadows, but can you see a raven in this pic? Hint: It’s perched at Oregos’ feet.)

Oregos, Spirit Woman guarding the Klamath River
Seen here with her companion Raven
Mouth of Klamath River, California
1/13/07

I missed the pic of the day as I was playing hide and seek with a seal who had swum up the river. The sand spit separating the river from the sea is quite wide and has a good ridge on it. If you’re at river level, you can’t see the ocean. And as I was watching the seal surface, spy me, and dive back down, a handsome, hunky surfer was catching the waves on the ocean side. I wish I’d seen him in action, because I can’t quite picture what he was really doing. As I walked along the sand, a machine looking like a Montana jet ski on steroids, came howling into the river’s mouth. It held two guys in dry suits, one of whom was carrying a surfboard. I asked if they’d been doing some kind of cross between waterskiing and surfing, and was assured that indeed that was exactly what they’d been doing. A buddy had built a fire on the beach, and they headed over to warm up a bit. Alas, they were done for the day, so the only shots I got were of them bringing it home, as it were, on the jet ski.

Heading home myself, I stopped at the Sweet Street Café in the town of Klamath where I had an Indian taco—the first I’ve had in over a year. It was great. I explained to the woman running the café that I’d been photographing Oregos and hoped that I hadn’t offended anyone by so doing. She assured me that people had been photographing the same image for countless years and no one had ever asked permission. With that in mind, I bid you adieu, and suggest that you look for the spirit guides guarding your own lives. Wish them well, as I do my own.

Hunky Surfer Dudes returning from Jet Ski Surfing
Mouth of Klamath River, California
1/13/07

Blessings.

Weather: Blue Skies, Sunshine, Temperatures in the 30s.

Mood: Contentment—verging at times on joy (when I look through my lens and it appears that I’m in the middle of that wave!)

Photos taken: 240 including countless gulls and 5 red pickups