A legendary lunatic from back home named Mike LeClair had been preaching to me for years about Standish Hickey. A local swimming hole and pay to camp area. It boasts a beautiful stone cove and deep blue pool with a diving perch of over sixty feet. "Most people don't know how high sixty feet is." He insisted. "That's about three telephone poles. Think about it." He used to go on and on about having jumped from it one time. One time he said and never again. He implored me that I should jump from this precipice as he himself had once done. If ever I am out that way. That way. Four thousand miles and I am right here exactly.

So we pay a few bucks to park and walk the unbeleivably steep switch~back path to the river. Here are the locals in lawnchairs carried down and big umbrellas and shreiking kids and dogs We immediately head up river for solitude.

Long stretches of blue water that round the bend away from you. Up ahead three Redwoods like office buildings stand at that bend. Their gnarled roots like a mass of smooth sea cliff extend into the water. Small cliffs perfect for diving. Old and fallen Redwoods criscross the water in spots like petrified trailer trucks. It is half a mile away and takes forever to get there. This river is like any I have ever loved before. Silent in it's rush and all knowing. Smooth and patient and willing to teach. In her elbows she pools deeper and bluer than ever. Like a jungle river in National Geographic. Climb up the tangle of roots and dive back down. Jim Dove suffers for shorts. His jeans are wet and heavy.

"Tim, make these into shorts?" he pulls his sopping pantleg.

Sure I will. Let me have em'.

So while Jim Dove sits white assed and buck naked against a hot rock in the Sun I produce quick scissors (My magic what's in there pack) and make the propper alterations. Ah, much better now. Here keep those legs. You can make a bag later if you like. For yor stones. Up river you can almost see the other swimming hole. Only another half mile or so but we are pink from Sunshine so let's head back. Lemme just have one shot at that cliff there.

Trevor and Jim wait patiently while I pick my way across a shallow spot in the river. An obvious path cuts through the prairie grass and up the backside of the cove. The locals in their lawn chairs are oblivious to me. This isn't so bad. I can't imagine it took Michael half an hour to jump. Looks like the cliff is right around this bush and oh My God.

The blue cove below is gorgeous. Speckles of children at the waters edge. The water must be thirty feet deep down there but my feet have found a sudden root to the center of the Earth. Vertigo rising up through my loins. There is not a chance in hell I am going to jump. Not if I stand here all summer. Look again. Nope. Back down without hesitation. Trevor and Jim look on. Sorry guys.

Back at the house it is coffee and eggs and time for a nap. I prefer the quiet of my car when possible. So I'll be out there if you need. Thanks.

In dreamless nod I saw a figure walk by. Then a woman's scream tears the afternoon sky. Bolt upright. Kathryn has come home to find us three lunatics in her house. I can hear her squealing over Trevor inside. Flash of eyes in the window she sees me. Screams. How can I help but smile.

Inside Kathryn is all Sun and Fire and Gladness for our very Souls. She is more powerful than I can ever recall and her eyes are pure shine. She simply cannot believe we are here (though her calendar shows our arrival sometime in June) and so sorry she was away at an Aikido Training Camp with her supreme boyfriend Gregory. He is an already wonderful man whose face smiles at us long lost family strangers. She insists we make ourselves at home (good thing this) and is so sorry but she's leaving right away for a Blues Festival on a Lake and do we want to come? We are just too tuckered for this. But we can stay here until she comes back tommorow night and help yourself to anything. Which we of course will thanks Kate. And oh by the way the cats are Aengus and Honmi. Wow. We would not have guessed. And in a flash or a swirl (I cannot remember which) she and Gregory have vanished for now. Her cottage trembles like the happiest dragon for a breif moment as she is driving away. Wind chimes sing good afternoon. We are blessed and officially welcomed.

Slanted Sunlight climbs over the porch railing and in through the window. Having a peek at the three ragged wanderers in the little cottage. Two days and Jim Dove will be gone. I feel releived in some sense and saddened in another. The end is in sight. What to do. Rent some movies and walk. Drink coffee and smoke and remember Colorado? Hey, remember that guy on the horse in Pennsylvania? where do you think he is now? Probably still there. His horse trodding in the spring mud. Feeling confident that he is making good time. Looking ahead for the Indiana Corn Princess. It is as though we have pulled taught a great rubber band across the country and it is threatening to snap. To overwhelm us all at once this adventure we have not yet looked back on. Like realizing only at bedtime on Christmas Day that tommorow it will be over. A sudden last minute longing. I look around the room and know that Trevor too will be leaving in a few days. Even if I wanted to go home (which I don't yet) I couldn't. What will I do here all alone? The thought thrills and terrifies me. I think this is an excellent state. This will be our last night alone in the cottage. Clean a little out of respect and thanks. Jim Dove rummaging through his belongings. "Hey Tim want this?"

Jim's old sleeping bag from when we were just kids. Military green and red flannel inside. Broken zipper and stuffing showing. Old and cotton and big and bundly as a sleeping bear. Sure I want it. I'll take her good care.

"How bout these?" He says.

Big waterproof brown boots. No thanks, the bag will be fine though I am sure the boots will be a bitch on the bus.

Pack his stuff in the car and then The Last Supper. Eggs you know. Let's watch that movie again. There is a tender excitement in the air for tommorow. But no way to slow the time and we are soon fast asleep.

It is hard to say precicely what happened the next day. You may imagine the morning of coffee and sun and nervous jitters. And I am sure we walked and perhaps swam at the river. The next thing I knew for sure, we were headed toward Ukiah.

It is sixty miles south on Route 101 to Ukiah. The great medevil Forest stays behind and ahead long grassy plains roll and tuck. There is an ominous sense of finality in the car. The music that has given us life tugs at us. Tall soft grasses are on fire with sunset. Sonoma County ahead is wine country. Fields of white trellises ordered and curling across in neat rows. Grapes plumping in the California twilight. Vinyard workers rolling in white pickup trucks the dusty trail home. Broad mexican noses and black eyes of sun. Dust motes like crazy insects in the wind. World fading to gold as twilight approaches. The twilight of our Journey.

Ukiah is the first town we have seen in a few days with a population greater than two hundred. There are three exits to the highway and a main street with store fronts. Comercial stores and plazas. Many gas stations and old buildings and blocks even. Hotels. Good for us. Up and down mainstreet selecting accomodations. An old mexican woman bicycles up the sidewalk with groceries in her tin basket. Dusty men dark brown back from a day in the fields. Warm shot of orange sundown over the hills right to the West. Best to hit a grocery store first. I'll be but a moment. I have never seen a more wonderous variety of beans. Dried peppers purple and yellow and red of every size and shape. Stuff I had never seen. Better stick to what I know. Cheese and peanut butter and oranges. Some bread and bursting green grapes and ok some spicy human crunch. Orange juice and milk. What's this lovely brown speckled stuff, oh it's wheat linguini. Best snag some of that.

Our hotel is lovely as always and we are glad to be here. The room is long and the brown paneling refuses to allow the room any real light. It is loungy with big orange vinyl chairs and an indestructable circular card table. Love to throw my wallet and change and keys into the big plastic and free of charge cup. How clever. No one will ever think to do this at home. The groceries of ten dollars is a mighty feast. Trevor and I will keep the oranges and crunch and linguini for days. They have can you believe it cable television. Kick back and check in on the real world.

Seems like time flies. These last weeks have been full and memorable. Each day fraught with adventure and danger and miracles. A day is just a day but if you are careful it can be a week. A lifetime. I guess it's how you spend it. Or waste it. Time that is. Watching the news is a grim reminder that our time has been breif. Things change slowly and surely the world Jim Dove is returning to hasn't changed as much as he has these past days. As we all have. Where to store this Alteration of Soul?

We watch a new show. Ours is a new show. Everything is about to change and it is good to face it head on. The cheese is always the first to go.

Night came fast and Trevor was the first to go. He rasped in slumber oblivious to the television's squonk. Jim Dove and I sat at the round table under a hanging lamp. I let him take what he would of the remainder of our produce. Jim was as aloof about leaving as if he was simply going home across town. To crash and maybe call me tommorow afternoon and hang out. I was wondering if maybe we were making a mistake. But I knew that was just my way of not wondering what I was going to do when we he was gone.

I remember telling him "you know you will be telling this tale you know. When you get home. People are gonna ask you what happened and some even won't, but. You'll be telling these stories. I don't know when I'll be back."

He knows.

But the words when I'll be back are light like I too am crashing across town. Like I'll be back at four thirty. Or later, I don't know when.

And what else did we say to one another? Well, you know. Whatever.

Sleep comes quickly.

New England still has Country and County Fairs like they have forever. American festivals of harvest. Prized cows and chickens and rickety unfolding amusment park rides. Knock down the bottles for a teddy bear and cotton candy. Horses and farm equiptment. Tents and booths selling crafts and tasties. And pretty girls our age we had never seen. Girls from other high schools. And locals of course.

So Trevor and I and company were all at a Fair one autumn. A fair we had all been to pretty much every year. Fried dough and clam fritters and multicolored flashing lights from the electric rides. Searching faces in the crowd for a compadre or pretty girl or what have you. Trevor and I leaning on a fence by the horse pen. A group of local boys walks by. Maybe just younger but meaner than us. Trevor says something to me as they are past and the one to the back turns about.

"What did you say?" he demands. Rushes to Trevor.

"What was that?" he means it. Right in his face. You know until just now it had never occurred to me that I was actually present as in part of this scene. What did I do at this point? Nothing. I stood right there as though I we're watching television. And just then a flash to my right.

Jim Dove is suddenly up against the kid trying to get between he and Trevor. The kid's alarmed but still shouts at Trev.

"You talk to me" Jim commands him. The kid ignores Jimmy and keeps yelling at Trevor who at this point is really no longer there. The way I am. Jim shoves the kid back a bit and the kid finally swings at him.

In one swift motion Jim gets his left arm around the kids head and cinces him in a lock. Then he punched him I don't know maybe six times in the face. Upper cut well controlled. Not to maim or kill or hospitalize, just a This Means No rhythm. Then he shoves him off and the kid slinks away. Into infinity never to be heard from again. Trevor is championed and I am still gaping and we stand there a few moments stunned.

I had thought of this story when Jim first wanted to come with Trevor and I out West. Not that we would need that nature of service on our Journey (hope not) but it was the adventure that most stood out at the time as pertained we three.

Our room is still dark in the morning. Pack out the car and separate Jim's stuff. The day at Usal he had the best haul. Great big abalone shells and the best stones. Treasures for those back home. He had white driftwood and an urchin shell like a spiny brain as big as two fists. This in a white hotel towel was packed in a box with a Great Book of Literature and a Journal that I didn't know till much later he had kept. All of which the bus line lost.

"Sure you don't want those boots?" says Jimmy.

"No thanks. Too clumpy I won't wear em." Though that's no comfort to his impending Journey. Grab those oranges. C'mon, more gas station coffee and where is that bus stop?

We have a few hours to go before Jim's bus arrives. And we three agree to leave him early and head back into the Forest instead of up downing Main Street till noon. Young girl with long black locks glides by on that bike. It is the old woman of dusk from last night. She must be born again young each morning. Heading out into the golden hills and curling rows of grapes.

Vague directions lead us to a side road that heads to the highway. Here a lone bench sits Sun faded and beat beside the road. All yellow grass and gravel framed. We park and look about disbeleivingly. This must be it though. I am trying to think of something profound to say. Trevor helps Jim stack his duffle and shoulder bag on the bench. Last minute rummage for everything.

"Tell a good Story." Sayeth I to Jim. Best I could do.

"I will." He smiles. He is so damn calm I almost don't beleive it. I can't imagine what he is in for. I have heard some cross country bus stories. Not good ones. But in a few days he will be home. And ever nearing with each mile at that.

A necessary hug and one from Trevor. Indian Braves. Kiss your mother and your sisters if you have them. Shake hands and pat people on the shoulder. This is the easiest way of not feeling sorry later. And it is good for all Life On Earth.

Got everything? Books and water and oranges. Two hours to go hey no problem he says. Who is this guy we are leaving behind? You know there is no indication that this is a bus stop. Slam the back hatch and consensual nods. Grinning at me the bastard.

Spin the car about and back up Main. Wave to him the figure becoming a dot. St. James. Rendered from his old line of thought by exhaustion and mountains and miles of Sun. Broken open and clear headed and all peacefull within. In an utterly useless state for life back home. And going around one more time like your crazy friend who jumps the fence and hops back on the roller coaster from the exit path. With no warning. His adventures from here on are in another Volume of this Tale. But I will tell you this. He left me those godamn boots.

And then there were two.

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