where the river runs upstream

I guess it was our way of saying goodbye to west county.

We woke early and saddled up the car with kayak racks and straps, mounted the boats and headed off for the river. We paddled in silence towards the mouth, osprey and cormorants and creepy aquatic plants. The morning wind and the river currents pushed us downstream, but we were banking on the tides getting us back. We were headed to the mouth of the river: a giant, ever-changing sand bar separating fresh from salt water. The gateway was mesmerizing. We sat in the brackish in-between where the water was murky and brown from the ocean, green from the river and currents flowed in all directions. The swell beyond the bar was above us. We paddled out with the currents, then back in with a push from behind.

garden karma

We planted our garden early. We poked beans and lettuce and broccoli seeds into the rich soil and carefully selected early fruiting tomato varieties. We knew we would have to leave our garden behind. We outlasted our broccoli and lettuce. We pulled the plants and turned the soil, readying the pots for another crop. Our basil and beans are still producing, but the tomatoes didn't quite ripen up. I clipped the extra leaves to allow the light through to the green fruit below. I heaved the barrel into a sunnier spot when the light angles changed. But the tomatoes didn't ripen. Until three days ago when we plucked our first Sweet Million, then second then third.

But we're leaving in three days, and our garden had to go. We contemplated the options all summer long. Dumping the dark soil onto the herbicide dirt patch in the back yard and giving away the barrels hardly seemed like an option. Selling the garden also seemed like an unlikely prospect. Prematurely uprooting the garden seemed to betray the idea of a garden as a representation of life cycles on a micro-scale: seed, seedling, sapling, mature plant, fruit, seed. I just couldn't stand the idea of destroying the bean vines and tomato plants, pulling the basil, Swiss chard, squash and Okra before they were ready to harvest. So I thought about it every day.

Then it dawned on me. The whole garden could be transported with the help of a friend with a big strong truck, three friends with big strong muscles and a family that wanted a bigger garden. And so it was. Today our good friends came with the truck and the strong men and the want of a bigger garden. They loaded up first the squash, then the chard, basil, okra, tomatoes and lastly the beans and drove off down the road, all six barrels in tow.

Leopard lilies, tiger swallowtails and bears

After months of planning and very little preparation, the three of us slipped into the car for a 5 hour drive to the trailhead. It was Andrew's birthday backpacking trip. The same trip I missed 2 years back in order to deliver the totaled magnet Honda to my parents on my birthday. This trip two years ago left Andrew with bruised heels for roughly six months and black toenails then no toenails then flaky toenails until recently. Those toes still aren't quite normal.

We were up for 43 miles of hiking with 35 pound packs for 5days and were looking to gain and then loose 6,000 vertical feet to the top of Thompson Peak. We were in for some work.










Much of the Shasta-Trinity national forest has burned recently. Fire was historically a frequent occurrence, and some species of trees as well as herbaceous plants depend on fire. The USFS has done an amazing job of suppressing fire to the extent that should the forest catch fire, there is plenty of fuel to burn. Old growth and older trees withstand frequent low-intensity fires as their bark is fire resistant, leaving charred giants standing amongst the bright green new growth of the forest floor if it burns regularly.

As we hiked up we left summer behind and walked back into springtime in full bloom. Penstemon lined the path, honeysuckle sweet in the air, butterflies everywhere. We forded snow melt streams and swam in the ice cold lake that is fed directly by the snow fields of Thompson peak.

As I sat at the summit butterflies by the hundreds fluttered over my head, around me and down to the alpine meadows below. I could hear their wings moving clumsily in the breeze. Butterflies amongst granite crags at 9,000 feet.