A quick drive up into lower Eureka for coffee. Seafood and stores selling bait. What's that over there why it's a shipyard. Boats and boat launches. Endless water gleans at us from the West. Holy Cow we have driven all the way to the other ocean (we'll not yet). The town is small and stinky (the pulp mill) and we soon abandon it and head South. I would later this summer discover on my own exactly how beautiful Eureka really is. With my Owl. Later.

Twenty minutes later we are passing back by route thirty six. The road looks like it leads up into Neverland. I guess it does. All sunny and lit now but thank you no, we are headed south. Just beside the entrance to thirty six here is a yard full of wood carvings. Great big statues of bigfoot made with a chain saw. Birds and totem poles from scrap Redwood lumber. Surreal images. This is an American Legacy. I do not know when it started. At the beginning I guess. It is as simple as this: Sell What Is In Thy Backyard. In Arizona you can buy little cactus babies and arrowheads and precious desert stones almost anywhere. Pecans in jars and scrumptious pies in North Carolina. Stuffed little gators down in Florida. At every country store in Vermont sweet maple candy and syrup. And in Northern California you can drive through a Redwood Tree every twenty miles or so. Or buy a burl. A burl is a Redwood Knot – like a bulb or reproductive chunk. Or buy a chainsaw sculpture of bigfoot bigger than bigfoot hisself. No harm in this. Take that stupid 'scorpion trapped in plastic' paperweight you bought in Texas and give it to a friend back home. It will become magical. And this gives the folks in Texas something to do in their spare time. That sense of local pride.

The Sun is hot here in California but welcome. The road rises and falls down through small valleys. Hillsides are golden with tall grass. To me this looked almost like Vermont. Except of course for the Paul Bunyon Trees and traffic. Towns just off the highway passing by in Secret.

"You know exactly where she lives?" I ask Trevor.

"Yeah. I'll know it when I see it."

I believe him. Two years before Trevor came here alone. He took a long flight from Connecticut to San Francisco and then took a midnight bus two hundred miles North to the little town of Legget. Arrived in the wee hours of the morn. I think this is a requisite for us. He spent a whole month with Kathryn in her little cottage in the spring rain. When he returned he brought with him a purple velvet bag of green and white magic stones for us all. And stories of California. And the bag itself was for a Gift for me. Hand made by he and Kate.

Kathryn is Trevors cousin. Though to know them as kids you would have thought them siblings. This happens in many families. I can see in my mind pictures of Trevor and his sister Jessica as little angel children and there's Kathryn the third elfin child in each picture. Her eyes dark and flashing like a cat caught smiling. Berry red hair in ever changing fire curling around her face. Jessica with angel blonde locks and Trevor's rosy cheeks. They look like sprites caught planning a goblin raid on the garden. Which of course they were.

Then as teens and young adults. Kathryn and Jessica flower children from another age – both ahead of themselves and twenty years late. Soul searching and conversing with the stars young. Witches and poets and the beat generation by age fifteen. Journeyed to live in the Redwoods by twenty. Her kingdom found. Whorling from another age Kathryn. An age she has brought with her. An age still accesible to only her. From which she can still produce clothes or tales or the here take this magic trinket you have secretly longed for. Her heartbeat like that of a Dragonfly and her speech like the buzzing of a honeybee. Not unlike myself in these respects. Though she and I never really close in all of these years. Like distant cousins. We had that kind of proximity.

In May I had planned to sail out into America again. I had wrassled with the idea of going to see old friend and warrior brother Jeremiah in the Grand Canyon. Perhaps I would go to Santa Barbara to see my Navajo friend Maggie Black Sheep who I had met in Arizona. Maybe Kansas City to see Sara. Or just Wander. But Trevor had wanted to accompany me on this trip. Wanted to go cross country as they say.

"Well," says I after telling him our choices "whadaya think?"

"I'd like to see Kathryn in California" he said.

I hadn't thought of this. It was the best idea of all. As far as you can go West. And The Redwoods. Where I had never been. Navigated by the memory of a sailor never sailed but flown. A romantic if extravagant idea. And last minute Jim Dove hey can I come.

And here we are.

Rolling down route 101 nearing Legget in early afternoon. Beautiful road snaking through Redwood Groves dwarfing cars and trucks. Dry smell of the pine family. Sunshine and dry blue air. Trevor scanning the hills and trees for familiar signs. In some respect these little hidden towns look the same. Because you can't see them. Just for the hell of it ask for directions. An old restaurant turned youth hostile.

Six or seven ragged youths munching huge bowls of cereal around a table. The eldest looks like a young bigfoot. Furry and all smile.

"Legget?" he slurps around his spoon. "Two miles down. Just past the Carvings For Christ guy. You'll see the statue of" you guessed it "bigfoot." Ok.

The Legget exit up ahead. Though not really an exit. Sweet little road runs parallel to Route 101. Crisscrossing it like an "S" every few miles. It is on this little secret road that Legget lives. And right here is the heart: Market, Post Office and Restaurant. Don't forget Gas Station.

I can hardly remember seeing this little place for the first time because it became my home and heart. A Place in my Life.

Trevor's eyes glean with Memory. This is it alright. You can see that he is also Home in a sense.

"That way." He points up the hill. "Her house is up there a couple of miles."

Jim Dove has been quiet for a while now. Never really one to sulk this is a new kind of quiet I have never seen from him. As though perhaps he were broken. Or Broken Open. He cracks his elbows then wrists and smiles at the sky.

Up the small road and past the Drive Through Tree. Then past the Volunteer Fire Station and cross over 101. A straight stretch over two old arch bridges and into a dirt parking lot. Trevor squints up the hill into the trees. His face bursts into laugh. "There it is." He points.

Kate's little white cabin sits atop a small hillside community. It's red roof gives it an elfin quality. Two protective and gigantic pines stand guard. As we roll up the driveway, an old couple is working beside a dusty pickup truck. A few folks look on. They wave us to stop. Old woman smiles at Trevor.

"Well how-dy." She drawls with a Southern accent.

"You remember me?" Trevor asks out the window.

"Sure. Your Katies cousin. We remember you."

She and her husband are Kate's landlords. Herbert and Joanne from Oaklahoma. Come West many years ago like true Oklahoman's. They live right next door. Working in the yard here with other neighbors. Digging a new well it would turn out.

"Kate's away, you know" she says to Trevor. To us all.

Oh no. This is our own fault. We didn't tell her exactly when we would be here. Early Summer we said.

"Jes for a couple of days though. G'wan up. Make yerself at home." She waves us on. Joy! Up and around the little glade and park beside the house. We are here.

A bit about Destination.
I have often wondered while in a journey when it really will end. Right at this moment I guess the journey really ends if ever you make it back to where you began. This doesn't usually happen in stories though. Not many Epilogues are called Once Upon a Time. But maybe life is this way. I had once read that the only people who are truly Free are children and those of old age. This is because they are the only people who are not driven by desire. So in a sense, after escaping childhood and journeying into this world as an adult, we may one day return to some degree of innocence again. Round trip. And you can sit at the edge of May lilacs with iced tea in hand and say with a smile to your wife (or husband) of fifty years and the lilacs: We are here.

The cottage is small and beautiful. Six wind chimes giggle and tinkle at us on the porch. No lock on the door, Kathryn decorates like Queen Mab. Precious bits of this and that everywhere. Beads and color and clippings from postcards and paintings. Feathers and seashells and photos of beloveds. Redwood slab for a bar. White Christmas lights and the musky linger of incense. Juicy sun porch. There is evidence of at least one cat. Jars of herbs and instruments and ornate hand made crafts. Books and jewelry and fantastic clothes. The most overwhelming feature of her little cottage is the smell. It smells like Trevor's folks. Their huge and unending house in the forest always had a certain smell that was the smell of their family. I have known it for years. And here it is just like a place Familiar. Look a working gas stove and sink. Oh to coOk. I can hardly sit down anymore. Trevor is unfolding nicely and Jim stretches smiling.

"I'm going to the store" I say.
"Yeah. I'll go with ya." Says Jim Dove.
Trevor will stay here. Relax and unwind. What does she have for movies?
Jim and I go to back to the market. A three mile drive I would come to memorize. Maybe you knew I would buy eggs and bread and cream. Coffe and butter and two apples and what the hell else could a man possibly ask for? New pack of smokes for Jim and Trevor. They have movies. Hmm. Maybe later. Right now lunch.

And it was the best lunch of all time.

I used a coffee mug to cut the center out of slices of wheat bread. Then you fry the bread with butter and gently drop an egg inside. My family used to call these pop-eyes. Trevor and his clan calls them toad-in-the-hole. One for him and two for me. Jim will fry his own plus toast. Holy Cow we are in Heaven. But it is early still and what do we do now? Brew a little coffee right on the stove and extra cream. My little stomach is stuffed silly. Clinking of Herbert and Joanne digging in the yard. Gentle jingle of wind chimes. Ah. The appearance of a friendly and cautious male Siamese cat. What is his name?

Before our motivation can slip away entirely, we decide to drive down to the ocean. Trevor tells us about a local swimming hole in the Eel river but there will be time for that. Magic green crumbs in an abalone shell and a quick roll your own. A change of clothes and lighten the car up if we can. Back to the market.

Highway One runs along the Pacific Coast from lower Mendocino County up fifty miles or so toward Leggett. Then it reaches about twenty miles back into the land and reconnects with Route 101. The main road. Route 101 returns to the seaside about eighty miles North of this. There is between one seventy five to one hundred miles of preserved coastline between these two points. No road runs along the water. The San Andreas fault runs out into the ocean here and it is too unstable to build. A network of logging trails and dirt roads is all that allows humans to run through this wilderness. Sinkyone Wilderness it is called. For the Sinkyone Indians we stole it from. The place where Route 1 and Route 101 reconnect is about two hundred yards from our Market. An almost noteworthy location to California travelers.

Highway One is sister to Highway Thirty Six. It is all curves and bright yellow lines. Meticulously maintained even in the jungle. Up great hills and down mountains in switchbacks. Tough to move faster than thirty five miles an hour. This part of the trip seems like extra credit. Beyond the goal line somehow. And though it is only twenty miles or so to travel, it takes forever. We can see the hills in glimpses through the trees. Many hills make good secrets. A secret vale here for a barn and horses. Hidden meadow for a small school. Rainbowed flags flying on a clothesline. Where is the damn ocean?

Suddenly the road turns left and there it is in the distance. Stop and jump out of the car. The water is a great shimmering sheet of blue beneath us for we are at least a thousand feet above. White lace of foam along the shore. Prairie hillsides running right down to meet it. Quick let's get down there.

The next five miles curve in such a way as to defy our bearing. Seems we are going the wrong way. My brows are knitting in a furrow. Now just how and the hell can this be. Wait, what's that. Oh.

We rise up out of the forest and there is The Mighty Pacific Ocean. Silver as I remember and as far needless to say as you could see. To the North mountains run down and into the endless shinging sea. And away forever. To the south a grey string leading away must be Highway One. The road is just above the ocean and oh so close that you could accidentally drive into it. I am sure it has happened. And considering the alternatives, a romantic if brutal way to go. Small seaside communities grow like wild mushrooms at the base of the prairie hilsides. Just at the shore. These hillsides have watched the sea for aeons. Seabirds and mobile homes. Tents and people on bicycles. Flowers are different and so are the – who cares. Let's get to the water.

We park the car and lock her up for the hike down.

"Wait a minute" says Trevor. "We don't have anything to drink."

Precicely. A joke I have forgotten to tell. We three had at this point become almost Real Wayfarers but could not for the life of us remember to bring any water to drink. Here we are and water water everywhere but not a drop to drink. Ok. Not yet. Back into the car and South for a store or something.

The first campground we find has a hose but the water from it smells of chlorine. And the hand pump we found next was no better. Finally we found a quaint little seaside market. Country store we call them. Brown shake siding and long roof. It's a small deli and grocery shop and plenty of locally brewed beer. Sun dried sea hag at the counter is omnicient.

A bottle of water and some peanuts for Trevor's dinner. Slices of cheese two banannas and an orange. One big bottle of beer for maybe later and some jerky. Now this is prepared. Back to that parking spot. Where Route One starts it's way inland.

A good drink of water and that smoke. What planet is this? Salt air pressing into my ears. Park the car and the wind is cool.

The Sun is bright never brighter off of the water. There is a dangerous but short climb down some black rocks to the Ocean. Driftwood jammed in pinches between them. A curious plant looks like what we call Hens & Chicks growing from hanging soil. Pink and light green with yellow and purple flowers like a martian bouquete. Jump down to the black sand. Black as far as you can see. The waves break and lick the shore with it's endless silver tongue. We three walk to greet it. Then this moment:

Jim Dove to my South and Trevor to my North. Stock still in the glimmering Sun. We three lunatic travelers heading all this damn way West and now what? We can go no further. It is possible that this moment officially marks the end of our Journey West. My heart is heavy and my eyes sun blind. What a Life I Live.

Right. North that is. Follow Trevor.

So we turn right and walk the shore a bit. The soft grey beach is all starred with wet black stones. They grind and roar beneath the undertow. Pelicans glide across the sand ahead. Jim and Trevor suddenly searching in their own directions for precious keepsakes. And I am a moment alone with The Pacific.

I knelt down to the water and held my arms out wind snapping my hair. I said a quiet prayer (though loud enough) for all we had been through. And for what was to come. I leaned and pressed my forehead into the wet sand and cried. Just a little and sat up. Right beside the soft divot where my head had lain was a perfect stone. I hadn't seen it before. Smooth and round and black. Bearing a large singular perfect white circle. Trevor would come to call this The Universe Stone. I thought that perhaps it too had made a journey (that would have ended here) and we two met. I took this stone and still keep it to this day.

Jim Dove gathered a small handfull of beautiful ocean gems and sat on a big stone in the sun. Trevor had discovered seaweed bulbs. "You know" he said turning the slimy ball in his hands "this would make a perfect rattle." And it would. So he cut it's head off and brought it back to the car.

The scary but wonderfull lady at the Ocean Market (where we bought our water) had given me some advice.

"How do you get to the Lost Coast?" I had asked.

She smiled expectantly at me as if I hadn't finished my query. I thought maybe I had asked her a rhetorical question. Perhaps this is the Lost Coast. I couldn't think of anything else to say. She slowly reached under the counter as if to draw a weapon. Still smiling at me. A pen. She grabs a tear of paper and writes the following down: 90.41.
I look at the numbers and wonder what in the hell is going on.
"Usal." She says. Another customer smiles at her knowingly.
Now I am Lost. Maybe this is how you find the Lost Coast.
"That's the mile marker. You'd never find it on your own. Go back up One toward Leggett. That marks a dirt road."

It dawns on me that this is a moment of Great Fortune. I clench my fist around the piece of paper. Treasure Map from the sweet Sea Hag.

Trevor turns his seaweed bulb this way and that. Looking for something. Jim Dove sits in the back letting his eyes fill up with Sun. I am looking at the numbers in my hand and why not. Let's go see what Usal is.

This I later learned. There was at one point a small town called Usal just ten miles north of our Sea Market. It used to be a logging town. Great trees were felled and steam boats would bring the lumber thirty miles inland toward Garberville and Leggett. Two things happened to Usal. First the rivers were abused to the point that they shrank. Spots in the river where it once ran thirty feet deep dried up to a shallow six foot. Steam ships up river no more. Secondly, the San Andreas fault claimed eventually every structure in town. As though the Rain Forest swallowed it up whole. Please not here it said. What remains of the lumber town once known as Usal is more like a National Forest.

The Ocean dissapears behind us as we wend our way back up Highway One. Little white posts beside the road tell us the mile. I hadn't noticed them before. Perhaps they werent there. Like in a game where you have to talk to the Sea Hag first. Then the magic road appears. And look just up ahead. Mile marker 90.41.

A soft dirt road rises up into the hill. Up we go. Smooth but only one lane. So be carefull. Five miles she said. Five miles up the dirt road. Can't miss it.

Like an antique highway our dirt road bends in sharp curves around clumps of field grass. There is no way to see around them. Not a mile up the hill an old white boat of a car skids and shudders in the dust to avoid us. Old man with a big beard rolls down his window smiling. Young dark haired companion looks on.

"Where you headed?"

"Usal?" I ask as if he wanted a password.

"Sure. Just ahead." He motions. Then speeds off with his partner in a cloud of dust before I can say another word.

The road rises on. Now the sea is again below us to the left. One wrong move and we will plummet into her once and for all. But not today. Ahead is a forest.

The forests in Northern California can be called by definition Rain Forests. Annually Northern CA receives upwards of one hundred inches of rainfall. This occurs between October and May. And then it doesn't rain a drop all summer. The vegetation to be found in these woods is also a visual proof. Trees as big as ice cream shops. Tall shining ferns in starry clusters. Vines and undergrowth and hills which are really mountains.

The woods are cool and shady and there are plenty of Redwoods. The oldest one we saw was covered with layers of velvet green moss. It was gnarled and knobby and the road rose around it in a near circle. There are signs that say "Private Property Keep Out" but they don't look municipal. I wondered if it weren't legendary Marijuana farmers but I later learned it was hunting clubs that play with their firearms on their private property. A bunch of suit and tie guys with money blowing off machine guns in the woods for fun. You don't want to run into them all in a childlike frenzy during their weekend war.

Soon the woods thin and the meadow beside us looks like The Sound Of Music. It grasses golden all the way to the water thousands of feet below. We stop the car and get out to inspect a cattle guard in the dirt road. If you ever have seen one up close you know why they stop cattle from crossing. Because they will break their legs in their tracks is why. We gasp at the thought. Poor cow come to see this meadow breaks it's ankle like kindling. We know better than cows where they aught to walk.

Then the road drops back down a hill and around a few curves. Just like coming in. And then a bulletin board and some other cars. Pay here says the board three dollars to park for the day. Twelve to camp overnight. You stick your money in a little envelope and litterally stick it in a cement hole in the ground. The Usal Woodchuck tallies the receipts at night by candlelight. Sipping turnip wine.

Please says the sign do not drive on the beach unless you have four wheel drive. Excuse us? Driftwood fires are also fine. Again I wonder what planet this is. They encourage you to make fires and drive on the beach. I am afraid this will be polution central. Not that well kept a secret. But we give the Woodchuck three dollars and drive down to the water.

The little cove is protected by hills to either side. A flat low river snakes into the hills. It once was fifty feet deep they say. Now just a creek. A little outhouse stands at the base of a great hill to our right. Ahead an old fisherman stokes his fire which licks and snaps at the wind. His truck is open in back and his black lab is around somewhere. We park near him and lock it up tight. This is the Pacific Ocean and the Wilderness and the Rain Forest come together. My favorite sneakers and a sweatshirt. Got everything? Do we ever?

From plains walkers to desert rats and mountain men. Now we are sea birds. We look at the Sun for time. The most reliable watch of all. It says we have hours left to go before dark. And it promises us that if we are good it will drop right into the ocean for us like a peach. Goody. The beach is long and deep. Soft black (really sun greyed) sand and mist. Up the beach there is nothing but cliffs and meadows and coastline. Let's go that way. I ditch my sneakers behind an old driftwood log. Follow some deep footprints of hikers along the water. Sand turns to small black stones beneath.

There are points along the beach where you will get stuck during high tide. Cliffs run down into the water at jutting protrusions. A little wall here and what's behind it? More beach. Fascinating. And the tide is out but turning. So we must make it back here in time. The wet stones beneath my feet give way and grind beneath my steps. Wow look at the purple shells. Up ahead another cliff wall. Smooth black and shaped by children's hands. Wet with spray and the tide sneaking up to it's base. Sun hot in the sky we sneak around. More beach. Driftwood and purple shells and abalone bits all rainbow in the afternoon light. Stones beneath my feet are kneading my soles like bread. Best not to go too far or we will really be stuck.

"Holy shit. What's that?" I ask indicating some black basketball shaped object in the foam. It disappears. Trevor glances at me. There it is again. Then gone.

"Wait" I say. We hold stock still. It appears again. It is sure as God a Sea Lion. His head looks black and silver speckled and his eyes are big liquid pools like your favorite dog. Not twenty feet away and checking us out right back. We squeal with inner glee. Down into the foam again and reappears fifteen feet down shore. We are really interesting. He checks on us periodically for the rest of the day. I check on him and his ethereal clan all summer.

About a mile up shore (is that right? Like up river?) we turn about and head back. The stones by now though as smooth as silk to the touch, have fooled my feet into thinking they are glass shards. I ache for my soft sneakers and why the hell did I leave them? Not next time you can bet.

Each of us has been splashed fairly well from the knees down. The ocean plays with you. Like a Lion Cub might play with a Banana Bug. Smack smack swat isn't this fun. But it is fun today and my pockets are full of treasure. Back up the beach.

Up near the car a couple is sitting astride a huge driftwood log. The man is bearded with shoulder length hair, woman is slight with wind blown locks and her face all black sunglasses. The man motions for us to come over here. I wonder if he really means us? Jim Dove thinks so. There he goes. Trevor ignores them and walks down the beach. I cannot resist it. Follow Jimmy.

Anywhere you go there is local flavor. Tradition and culture and snacks you don't want to accidentally order at the diner. Usually it is a taste too gamey for anyone other than real locals. What's for lunch around the world. Roasted bugs for some and yum raw liver for others. We are all prejudiced by our local standards. This is Ok. It makes it harder to understand any other culture but it is what gives us our individual flavor. And all places are different. So we must not judge lest we be judged. Pass the sheep's balls.

The man on the driftwood log points at Jim with the butt end of a smoldering number. A fat marijuana cigarette if you will. Jimmy smiles and sits in the sand in front of him. The man is a young old man of the sea. Big black cop sunglasses. His cheeks and arms are pink to tan. Hair brown gone gold at the tips from Sun. Tank top and crows feet to Tuesday. His wife is a sea sprite facing us but following the surf with her gaze. In the foam a lone Sea Lion has been assigned to watch them. She and the Sea Lion watch each other.

He looks at us with asking eyes. Careful what we say he is the Spirit of California incarnate come to test the worthiness of our Souls. This is how my mind works folks.
"You from around here?" he asks though he knows the answer.
No we sure aren't. I sit beside Jim in the sand. The smoking number is yellow burnt and oily. Smells pungent. The young old man of the sea nods.

"We drove from C'netticut" chokes Jim. He nods again. His name is Jacob. His wife is Rain. Somehow over the next half hour he brings us up to speed. He tells us about Usal and the lumber industry in Northern CA. How this place came to be protected. He informs us about the pot culture still there since the sixties. To prove it and possibly for effect he produces a big square piece of Tupperware full as you please with day glow green herbs. No big deal he says. He says that he owns a boat shop and that we just missed some migrating Blue Whales to which Rain breaks her gaze free of her Sea Lion and smiles at him. They like us. Maybe because we are mooning over every word they say like attentive grandchildren. Though they are not twenty years older. Look here comes someone.

An older gentlemen in a Hawaiian shirt and bicycle cap approaches. Why look it's the old guy who almost ran us off the road. What's that in his hand?

"Howdy." He nods to all of us. "Got a light?"

I think he knows Jacob by the glance they share. He motions for a light and lights his own. Jim and I are in trouble we know. Way the hell out of our league.

"I'm Grizz." Says the old guy. Honest to God. As in Grizzly. Maybe he is the Bear I have waited to meet.

So Jim and I sit stupefied while Jacob and Grizz tell tales just for us. A great white had killed a surfer near here last year. It lives just off the point up shore. Where Jacob dives for abalone. Grizz has some sea kayaks and takes them thirty to forty miles up and down the beach. Maybe he will bring some down here tomorrow he says thoughtfully with glances at us. He and Jacob don't know each other. But they do. You see? Jacob muses that maybe he'll bring his boat down tomorrow and dive for abalone. Glances at us. All I have to do is bite this silver worm. God knows I want to but I can't. I don't know where we'll be tomorrow. And let's face it, I'm a little afraid. So much at once. Yesterday we were clunking around in the desert looking for rattlesnakes and today Grizz wants to take us sea kayaking. My thinking was that these opportunities would present themselves again. Which they never exactly did. But I love Grizz and I would see Jacob and Rain again many times this summer. But later.

Trevor is a sea spirit down shore. Conversing with the Pacific Ocean and her Secret Kin. He is not missing any of this. What is going on in his Sun flecked noodle I wonder? Jacob and Rain have to go. Go home and pay the babysitter. Grizz vanishes back into thin air. Jim and I alone on the driftwood marvel at California. Here comes Trevor. The Sun says we still have two hours to dark. Ok. Say, let's climb that there cliff beside the car.

Back at the car we scrounge for provisions. Oops we are almost out of water again. No surprise. But what about food? No problem. We have an apple and an orange and some couscous from the road. And some wheat crackers of Trevor's from the store. With out stomachs so small from the road this is a bounty. Except of course for the water but who cares. Look at that hill. All golden grassy and alive dancing with many breezes. Up we go.

From a photograph you would think these sunny meadows soft. I can see Heidi spinning barefoot circles to the clouds. Romantic fiction. The hillside can be most accurately described as prairie. The ground is a firm packed dirt like clay. Sharp and stony and solid. Only sharp grasses may insist through. And so steep that you could fall and tumble all the way down. It would be most unpleasant for this to happen. A thought that hadn't occurred to us from the bottom. But something has evidently been up here you can see a gentle path implied in the grass. It moves diagonally in little switches around the hill. My legs burn with fire and try to catch your breath. We have bitten off not more than we can chew but more than we bargained for.

At the top we can see patches of dark forest. A burst of pine and shade. Steeper still. And just ahead there are two deer watching us climb intently. They hold still until we are just too close for comfort. Bolt and bound away to the safe pines above. Head to where they were sitting. It is a dream.

Four feet from a sheer cliff some hundreds of feet above the water. The Sun approves. The grass and green clover is matted where the deer had lain. A choice spot for any creature the area is thick with wild spearmint. I lay in the soft flat grass and look, the tops of the spearmint have been just nibbled off. I nibble at one. We plunk down to rest. I could not have imagined the beauty around me. What can one say. Those deer have the right of it. Just to lie here a moment.

Puff of cool air against my cheek. Blue light comes into my eyes. I suddenly wake up. Trevor and Jim look at me like a patient they have been monitoring. I fell asleep right at the cliffs edge. Mr. Sun is fat and jolly and sleepy too. Below us clouds in white and blue layers mimic the ocean. Patches of color far off in the water indicate depth and heat. The deer our hosts still watching from their cover. What are they doing they wonder. Jim Dove and Trevor are Sunshot orange. My throat is thick with sleep but I am otherwise blissfully happy. Pick some mint and let's go make a fire and cook a little on the beach. What a long day this has been – will be in my Memory.

The trip back down the hill is more treacherous than up. Our legs are trembly and tired. Slip a little and the deer are glad to see us go. They can have their minty overlook back. That little red spot below slowly becomes our car.

And here our last encounter with a stranger today.

We are rummaging around in the car for our food and cookery.

"I'll go ahead and start a fire" I say. "Meet you on the beach."

Trevor waves me on and Jim is fidgeting with something. I turn to walk down the beach and right beside me and in step is a girl. Late teens she has a red flannel vest and brown blonde hair. Straight and shoulder length. Hands in her pockets thoughtfully. I consider it to be destiny that she is right here. So Ok.

"Hey," I say to her just as if she is with us "what are you doin?".

"What am I doing?" she smiles incredulously.

"Yep" I say. "Wanna help me make a fire?" We walk together to the water.

Her name is Mara. She is from Salt Lake City but not completely blonde. This is because she is half Navaho. I can see that in her brown hawks eyes. She drops to the sand cross legged and digs absentmindedly in the dark sand while she talks.

She has a two year old daughter. Father owns a nice little company back home. Family doesn't approve of the husband – father of her daughter. He has been absent for a year or two in fact. And her older brother has problems. She is forever helping him and her family gives her grief over this. So she finally had enough and took the daughter and ran away with the recently returne husband. All the way to Usal I guess. Husband and daughter are back at the campsite. She took a walk to clear her head. I think she is coming down from something.

At this point she has dug a perfect fire pit (without any attention to it) and started the brightest little fire of bone dry driftwood. It paints watercolors on her face. I like her. She says I remind her of her brother. She is a possible lost cousin or sister or something. Another Lost American Warrior. And so as I understand it is her husband. Full blooded Navaho their daughter must be gorgeous.

Trevor walks right by us and down to the waters edge. Then up shore to a high rock to watch the Sun set as promised. Jim Dove comes over cracking driftwood over his knee and listening to the rest of her story. I slip off my sneakers and stick them by the fire. Where they will stay for days. You'll see.

So Mara and her husband are staying at the Indian Reservation near Ukiah. Living in a tent she says somewhat ashamedly.

"Pretty much homeless right now" she says letting a handful of sand pour out of her fingers like water. Dark circles under her eyes.

"Us too. Pretty much right now." And I meant it. My God she is at the end / beginning like us.

She is ready to start the first day of her new job in a few days. Working as a cocktail waitress third shift at the Casino.

"I hate the idea." She says. "But we need to do something. Everything will be ok in a few weeks. We'll have some money." Her husband talking through her. Reassuring strength. I tell her that she is two steps ahead of me. A place to stay and a job. She laughs. We are all lost children.

During all of this I missed my first Sunset at the ocean. The Great Peach in fact working North around the beach so you would have had to climb a stone to see it. Which of course Trevor does. Mara throws some sticks on the fire. Her eyes flash with power. She asks if I will come see them sometime on the Reservation. Tells me the name of the casino and maybe I'll see her there sometime. At the time I was sure I would. And she suddenly stands and has to go. I would never forget her all my life.

"She's pretty cool" says Jim when she is gone. She sure is. And here's Trevor just in time for food.

In a few minutes the water is boiling and we are ready to eat. Let's try that couscous again. Look there at the shore. It's Mara and must be her husband. His long black hair shadows his face. He looks sulky but they are far away.

"Hey!" she yells to us. "This is my husband!" she holds his shoulder. I wave stupidly. "Hi!" I yell. He looks at us and they keep walking. The sky behind them twilight dark. Maybe I should have ran down to meet him. If I were there again I would. Couscous cooking. Dark is coming. The wind starts to pick up. Maybe we can camp overnight. I have the tent and we do after all have an apple and an orange. This little dish right here should do us nicely. Wind disagrees. Fire whips and snaps at me. Wow. Maybe we should start to pack up. Not fast enough boys.

The wind off the water starts to roar. Sand in clouds races across the beach. Stings against arms and face. Fire is almost out. Sand in the couscous. Damn. Abandon ship.

Back in the car we are shivering with Sun and cold and sand bites. No camping for us I guess. I later considered that Mara's husband being a Warrior of sincere impeccability sent this Wind to chase us away. Mad at us for talking with her. They have had a tough time and I accept his windy reproach. Good luck and I never saw them again.

Saturated with our first California day we crawl out of Usal and back down the dusty mountain road. Our cheeks are pink from glare and wind. Cuffs are wet and bunched. I can feel the salt in my hair and sticky hands. Turn the heat on. Oh for that hot shower. Smudge a last little bit of Sage from our breakdown. Where did I put my those sneakers?

Route One is glad and so am I for pavement under the wheels. And in Holy Silence we make our way all the way back up the snaky road to Kathryn's cottage.

Back at the house we light a few lamps and put some music on. Burn a little incense (Nagchampa it says) and though we are tired some dark coffee anyway. And you know I'll have eggs. That hot shower from God and a video tape of cartoons that pleases us like children. Roll our the sleeping bags on the happy floor and the wind is silver through the porch chimes. Here's that cat what's his name? Pour our treasures on the floor for inspection. Shells and stones and stars. Look at this one. My Universe Stone. Oh look at yours. Today was such a June day. It is all I can stand. My eyes are full of the Sea. I feel soft and everything goes dark.

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