might be baloney

Thursday, August 16, started with oatmeal. 

Art made a pot of Coach’s Oats. This brand of oats came from a California based family who in 1992 used a breakfast gathering with friends as a starting point for creating their oatmeal. On this cool Mammoth Lakes morning, the warm oatmeal and all of the extras we added really hit the spot.

As usual, Art had us organized with all of the items we would need for this trout fishing expedition. 

My first fishing memories with Art go back to Mashnee on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Our in-laws used to make an annual trip there. Abby and Betsy’s father always towed his boat, and weather permitting, just before the sun rose each morning, we were out on the boat in Buzzard’s Bay fishing for bluefish.

That was many years ago, and Art’s love of pursuing fish has grown. He has experienced fishing from Cuba to Christmas Island, and many domestic points in between. At some point in all of this fishing, Art mastered using a fly rod. Today, no matter salt or freshwater, the fly rod is his trusted friend.

The ride down to Crowley Lake was uneventful. According to Wikipedia, Crowley Lake was created in 1941. This reservoir is fed by the Owens River and features the Long Valley Dam. Crowley is known for the quality of the trout that anglers pursue whenever they have the opportunity.

Art has become a regular here. He knows the attendant at the gatehouse, a number of the fishing guides, and this morning a key person, the dock attendant. Once we had the boat loaded, Art maneuvered us over to the fueling dock. This attendant could have been a stand up comedian. His experiences managing this section of the complex had given him many opportunities to interact with fishermen. His subtle one-liners made us chuckle.

Loaded with fuel, we were now ready to leave the marina. We quietly cruised through the “no wake” zone. Art had a location in mind. It didn’t take long for our speed to increase as we clipped along toward that spot.

Crowley’s shoreline is like reading a book. Every portion is a different chapter. No matter where my eyes scan, I could quickly fill the disc on my camera with photographs.

Flat grazing land meets the water’s edge with narrow ribbons of sandy beaches with the Sierras cast as a backdrop. At some points, the shoreline pushes up out of the water forming craggy rock formations, and occasionally these cliffs are sprinkled with the green of singular trees who somehow caught a toe hold and sprung to life.  Along less craggy areas, some banks reveal the hues of their creation seasoned by the whims of the California climate. 

Gulls, American white pelicans, and a quirky water bird, the Western Grebe are easy to spot. The Western Grebe when startled out of the water seems to like racing the boats of the fishermen as they rush to their favorite fishing spots.

With the boat properly positioned to Art’s liking, he takes the time to rig up the fly rods. Art knows that I’m exceptionally rusty when it comes to re-introducing me to the details of fly rod casting. But, Art is also a  patient teacher. He gives me a crash course, complete with demonstrations, and then turns me loose in the bow of the boat.

Pretty soon, Art is getting some gentle bumps, and those bumps quickly become a trout on the line. Art lets the trout have its play time. Using barbless hooks, trout caught at Crowley are catch and release. With experience on his side, Art grabs the net and gently lands the trout. The sunlight highlights the colorful skin markings of both brown or rainbow trout. l

For a long span of time, Art is consistently catching fish, and I’m being shut out. My line indicator is dead in the water, not even a bump. So, I need to create some excitement for myself, and there is no better way than to land my hook in the anchor rope. If I can’t catch fish, I can catch an anchor. Art helps me work through this little mishap.

Another span of time passes, and I continue to elude trout. I keep working on my cast, and of course I manage to get my line tangled. For a long, long time, I work to get this line back to normal. By now, I’m certain fishermen in boats close by are feeling bad for Art. They must be thinking, Art Babcock is a saint. Clearly, he has the patience of Job to have that guy in the boat with him today. He has been a complete disaster.

My luck doesn’t change, but in a long lull, Art receives a text from Abby. She and Betsy are driving down to Crowley for a boat ride. So, after a few more casts with no luck, we pull up the anchors and head back to the marina.

Once we have picked up our passengers, Art takes us on a ride that allows us to appreciate the coves and expanse of the lake.

When the tour is over, we regroup at the marina. We agree to meet back at the condo and make plans to drive over to June Lake for a brewery stop and lunch.

California Day 11 June Lake

It didn’t take long for us to ready ourselves for the drive over to June Lake. Nestled off of 395, June Lake is pretty little town grounded in a beautiful lake that quickly catches your attention.

Today, we are making a stop at June Lake Brewing, and we will have lunch from a convenient food truck—Ohanas 395. The food truck sits in a space directly across from the brewery. It is only a few giant steps to the brewery, and here is the best part—order your lunch, walk over to the brewery grab a beer, and the staff from Ohanas 395 will bring your lunch to you.

June Lake Brewing is the real deal, it is an energetic, funky little brewery with inside and outside space. The names of their beers captures it all for example—Sasquatchito XPA. We found a table outside, and within a few minutes our food arrived. I woofed down every delicious bite a combination of pork, chicken, rice, and maybe the best macaroni salad I’ve ever eaten.

While we were eating, four fighters from Pennsylvania found a table and soon their lunch arrived too. Their presence only served as a reminder about the predominately dry, parched land that is all around us, and that firefighters from across the USA come to help in battling wildfires.  

Sherwin Lakes Trail

After lunch and a bit of quiet time in Mammoth Lakes, we decided to drive over to the entrance to the Sherwin Lakes Trail and to take this hike.

Hats, water, and sunscreen were a part of our prep. I’ve read different reports about the length of this hike from 3.0 to 4.3, but I can confirm that the trail is a really good workout. 

Art led the way, and he was kind to us. He found good stopping points along the trail. True to every trail I have ever been on out here, the views and the scenery from broad vistas to a small wildflower, my eyes have never been disappointed.

We keep pushing along. Occasionally, we get a good glimpse of a helicopter dragging a bucket of supplies to firefighters embedded in remote access areas. With their rotor blades slapping the air, the quietness of the landscape is briefly interrupted.

The higher we go, the better the views are as we look back over the ground we have covered. We are making good progress, and at some point we discover a teaser. A small lake comes into view nestled off the trail. This is a disappointment for our legs and feet, but Art keeps leading us forward.

Like a kid on a road trip, I’m silently wondering inside when are we going to get there? 

Finally,  a subtle change in the landscape begins to take shape, and out in front of us is this lake basin, and instantly my mind is glad we made this hike. The lake and all of its trimmings are really pretty. My eyes are intrigued no matter where they scan.

The lake water is clear and cool. The shoreline is a combination of sand and rocky crags. The Mammoth Lakes trail system guide notes there are still remnants from an August 2008 fire, and I see the graying frames of trees that are still standing from that intense encounter. But true, to its unwritten promise, Mother Nature is slowly restoring the scarred land.

After a good rest taking in the beauty, we started making the way back down the trail. I always enjoy the hike up as I think my footing is more stable. But, mentally, I dread the walk down as I am more sensitive to a misguided step that could lead to a slide and a fall. So, I take a  turtle’s pace as gravity pulls me down the mountain. Art and Abby are out ahead of Betsy and me, but we eventually make our way back to the parking lot.

I’ve never been disappointed with any walk or hike in Mammoth Lakes. The hike this afternoon was perfect for working off that June Lake lunch.

Pretty soon we were back at the condo. Again, we quickly regrouped and walked over to the pool where a couple of hot tubs were also located.

I can only speak for myself, but I don’t think a hot tub ever felt better.

 My old body enjoyed the frothy soak. 

This was our third trip to Mammoth Lakes, but the first time I had brought my running shoes along with me.

I had resolved on Tuesday evening that I would go for a run on Wednesday morning. It seemed reasonable to follow the same path out to Sherwin’s Vista. 

The sun had been up for several minutes as I finally made my way out of the condo. Very pleasant, cool morning air awaited me. This was a sharp contrast to the warm, humid air I normally find on August mornings when I go for a run in Richmond.

For several months, somewhere in the area of my left hamstring, a muscle had not been happy with me. There was a fairly consistent tweak of pain. This nuisance prevented me from enjoying an early morning run. Not sure why, but gradually over the last couple of weeks the muscle had started to feel a tad better.

I can tell you I broke no speed limits on this run. Any creature could have run circles around me, but that’s ok. Often, runs for me are about taking in the scenery, and at Mammoth Lakes I wasn’t disappointed. 

The morning light slowly cast a broad brush stroke on its waking canvas. I made my way out to the end point, looped back around, and started taking in the sights again.

Not many people were stirring yet, the solitude was good for my always wandering mind. As my old body returned me to my stopping point, I decided to hustle into the condo and grab my camera. Abby had alerted me how the sunlight playfully panned across treetops and the creek bed with the Sierras as a backdrop. 

She was right, as I took several photos of the morning light into the backdrop Abby had described.

Back in the condo, their was a quietness, but gradually Betsy and Abby greeted the morning, and chatter started about plans for the day.

First goal was to revisit Horseshoe Lake, and we did. There was still some dampness along the trail from Tuesday’s midmorning rain storm. The rain in this section had momentarily interrupted the parched, dusty landscape. 

All along the trail we found picture taking moments. In one clearing was a singular standing stone fire place. It appeared like a small fortress with no indication that time nor intense Sierra weather conditions could intrude upon its mortar and stone construction.

A bit further along, Betsy’s keen eyes caught in the cover of the tree shade a perfectly tanned deer who was intently studying our every move.

But, it was the depleted shoreline of the lake that caught our attention as well. This lack of water revealed the normally hidden slope of the land now bleached into hues of tan, gray, and chalk.

From Horseshoe Lake, we made our way to the Twin Falls overlook, and eventually drove over to Twin Lakes. We did quite a bit of exploring around the picturesque Twin Lakes before deciding to have lunch at the Tamarack Lodge.

After lunch, we drove back the condo for some quiet time.

Eventually, we made our way to The Troutfitter where I purchased my out of state residence fishing license. Next, we headed to Vons a California based chain of grocery stores. Currently, the only grocery store in town, this place was hopping even on a Wednesday afternoon.

Outside the entrance at Vons was a wooden framed easel that displayed the latest wildfire updates from all of the agencies working to control and contain these fires. 

The updates contained a narrative explaining location and scope of the work, maps pinpointing the fire, and a few photographs. One photograph caught our attention as it showed burros loaded with supplies to be carried into remote locations for the firefighters.

Back at the condo, Art had arrived. He brought with him some grilled tri-tip from Agua Dulce. We caught Art up on our activities, and Art and I made plans for an early Thursday morning trout fishing excursion at Crowley Lake.

After a good night of sleep and an oatmeal breakfast, we gradually pushed ourselves out of the condo. We had some exploring to do, plus we needed to continue our altitude acclimation.

It is a short drive from the condo up into Mammoth Mountain. In winter, this area is known for skiing, snowboarding, and cross-country skiing. Over the years, the Mammoth Mountain folks have done a nice job shifting the summer use of this terrain for assorted skill levels related to mountain biking.

On this Tuesday morning, the parking lots for Mammoth Mountain were packed. It took a while to find a parking spot.

 As we walked toward the visitor’s center to purchase our lift tickets, I was amazed at the license plates. Not everyone was from California. A lot of those vehicles were outfitted with bike racks and mountings for other recreational gear.

The grounds were a flurry of activity. All sorts of play stops designed  for children to burn energy.

We purchased our Senior Scenic Ride tickets, and worked our way through a short maze to the entry point for the gondola ride. The friendly and helpful staff were able to even get me loaded properly on the gondola.

Mammoth Mountain tops out a 11,053 feet. Without question, the gradual ride up the mountain provides many scenic views. 

As we are pulled up, we can see the construction site for a new zip line attraction. That zip line promises to barrel brave souls down the mountain side at speeds upward of 60 mph. I will not be one of those brave souls who tries out that zip line someday.

At the top, we find our way off the gondola, and start exploring a bit. The terrain up here is very sparse. Our footsteps plant down on rock, crushed stone. No matter where I look, I have the desire to take a million pictures. I note the well worn trail where mountain bikers have passed by us during our exploration.

A nice visitor’s center, complete with a restaurant is a part of this mountain top experience. The visitor’s center provides information about a number of topics related to this mountain. 

It is interesting on this mid-morning excursion that puffy cumulus clouds are present and building. In fact, when we reach the base of the mountain, we overhear an employee talking about a reported  lightning strike not far from us.

With Mammoth Mountain behind us, we start the walk back to the car. Horseshoe Lake is our next stop. No matter where I scan my vision the landscape continues to capture my approval. This terrain is such a contrast to our Blue Ridge Mountains back in Virginia. 

The ride over to Horseshoe Lake is short.  I guess in some ways, Horseshoe Lake has become one of the poster children for what  unseen carbon dioxide gas (CO2) can do to a lake basin and the forest of trees surrounding it. 

In the 1980s, scientist began to research why this landscape was drastically changing. Eventually, they concluded that CO2 was seeping through the complicated layers of substructure. 

A key piece of this research came from sampling tree roots and soil from dying trees—they contained significant levels of CO2.  The researchers at the United States Geological Survey have an excellent Fact Sheet (#172-96) about this discovery.

A little dubious about whether to start our hike because of the cloud cover. The hues of the gray sky had become darker, but we decided to head out.

We were not very far out on the trail when the first drops of rain started to fall. In our minds, we thought this was a light, short lived shower—we were wrong.

The rain started to come down harder. Luckily, a few yards ahead of us was an abandoned restroom building. We scampered for the front side that had a roof line. That pitched out roof gave us a bit of cover.

This was not a torrential rain, but its flow was enough to soak and chill a person. About the time Abby thought out loud, “I hope it doesn’t start to hail,” it started to hail. White frozen pellets started pinging down. We noted that the air temperature had also dropped.

As we continued to wait out this stubborn rain shower, we saw a couple of soaked lady hikers trying to make their way back to the parking lot. We called to them to join us under the roof line, and they did.

These two friends one from California and the other from Louisiana didn’t linger with us long. The chill of the rain and the drop in temperature had taken them by surprise. They waited for a perceived let up in the rain and started out for their car again.

We continued to hang around. Occasionally, pellets of hail would mix in with the rain. And at one point, thunder rumbled behind one of the distant ridges. That rumble broke the quietness from the falling rain.

Somehow, we determined that the rain had let up, so we decided to hustle out toward the parking lot. About the time we left our cover, some more hail pellets christened our departure.

Although we were wet, we made it to the car, and Abby started the drive back into town. I’m sure all things dry at Horseshoe Lake appreciate that steady shower of rain. Even a drop of rain would be embraced in this thirsty wilderness.

We were heading to the Mammoth Brewing Company for a midday beer. It was interesting to note that the further we inched toward town the gray, coolness of the rain was quickly replaced with sunshine and warmer air.

At a prime corner location on Lake Mary Road, Mammoth Brewing Company has carved out a nice niche with their quality beers, food, and hospitality. They are a local and region favorite. Unique among craft brewers, they also serve wine.

After quenching our thirst, we head back to the condo. 

Later in the afternoon, our plan is to take part of the town loop out to Sherwin’s Vista.

To take the hike out to Sherwin’s Vista, we don’t have to drive. We can pickup the planned asphalt trail just a few steps away from the condo.

It’s not long before we have entered the main part of the trail that includes a tunnel under Old Mammoth Road. At times parallel to the trail, a crystal clear brook babbles from time to time. There are plenty of cutouts where access is easy for fishing. 

This afternoon, we encounter some cross country runners who travel to Mammoth Lakes to train because of the altitude. Clearly, doughnuts and twinkies are not a part of the training menu for these lean runners.

The sky in places has some clouds building, but I don’t think we’re in for a second rain shower. Since our arrival, we have noticed a fairly steady trek of helicopters hugging the side of the mountains. We learn these choppers are ferrying supplies into firefighters in remote locations.

For me, the beauty of the Sherwin’s Vista trail is its openness. I can see for miles in any direction. Plus, even in the dryness of this parched landscape, some plants display very pretty blooms. 

Gradually, we make it to the end, and we circle around and start the walk back again. As we get closer to town, we make a quick stop at the recently renovated Mammoth Creek Park to checkout the children’s playground. This playground is a National Demonstration Site “for meeting best practices in design and program offerings.”

We’ve had a good day from Mammoth Mountain to Sherwin’s Vista. At some point tomorrow, Art arrives, and fishing for trout will become a focus.

Every November as the world turns us closer to Thanksgiving Day, my bones feel a pull. That is a pull south to the northern sections of North Carolina’s Outer Banks.

For years, our family spent Thanksgiving around the small town of Duck.  With the passing of my father-in-law in the spring of 2013, that annual excursion came to an end. But, the memories of those stays in Duck still pull at me.

Driving down US 460, the small farming communities fade into fall sunlight. But, large fields of bright cotton standout in that landscape. Peanut farmers and their wares  are abundant on either side of the highway, and cars still fill the parking lot at the always popular Virginia Dinner.

Once across the North Carolina state line, the land continues to flatten out. In many instances yards and some shrubs have faded to hues of khaki after being frost bitten. But, the sturdy green of collards growing in some small gardens are brushed in along the way.

That quiet pull to the Outer Banks is also tied to surf fishing. I always fished, from early in the morning to late in the afternoon. I fished a lot, didn’t catch much, but helped to keep the local bait shop in business for another year.

Even as I’m writing this, my mind is pulling me down to the beach to set up my fishing spot. I can smell the salt air, hear the smack of waves against the wet sand, and see the sun slowly rising up out of the Atlantic.

I cherished that quiet time. My daydreams might have been broken by the sound of shore birds scouring the ocean’s surface for a wayward fish. I marveled at the effortless glide of the pelicans. Secretly, I wondered what it would be like to drift away with them.

That Thanksgiving after 9/11, I wondered about those families who had lost a loved one in that senseless act of terrorism. I can only attempt to imagine the challenges they experienced.

This year, I wonder about those in our country who were impacted by two mean hurricanes, and now the tragedy of the massive wildfires in California. Recovery for some Americans in these extremely challenging circumstances might not even be possible.

Along with those natural disasters, I can’t forget the senseless acts of violence created with firearms. Again, more lives are altered throughout America.

I don’t know about you, but there are times that I want to scream out at God, “What are you doing up there? Aren’t you tired of all of this suffering? Help us!!”

Maybe God thinks we are beyond help. After all, God has a long history of helping people out. Then after a period of time these people become distracted. They lose their fear of God and move away from his teachings. Sadly, at times, I haven’t been immune from that path either.

In Gavin Edwards’ book The Tao of Bill Murray, he shares a story about Murray taking his sons out to Roosevelt Island. This tiny island is in New York City’s East River. Murray wants to get a sneak preview of a monument being constructed that focuses on Franklin Roosevelt’s Four Freedoms:  freedom of speech, freedom of worship, freedom from want, and freedom from fear.

It’s the last one—freedom of fear that consumes a lot of my thinking. I’m not free from freedom of fear. It too is in my bones. I worry that our country can’t or won’t figure things out, that our differences will consume us, and  then it will be too late.

On November 19, I heard a few minutes of an interview with author David Grann whose latest book is The White Darkness. This story is about Henry Worsley who in 2015 set out to walk across Antarctica alone. Worsley, a retired British Army officer served in the Special Air Service (SAS), an elite unit of commandos.

This unit of commandos had a quiet little motto from a James Elroy Flecker poem. The words were “always a little further.” For Worsley in his trek, those words were painted on his sled. David Grann states from his book that Worsley used those words like a mantra:  “Always a little further… a little further.”

Those words to Worsley meant keep pushing, pushing a bit further. Those words were in Worsley’s bones, and I think I need them in my bones too.

I can’t let my bones be discouraged by fear, and in truth nor can any of us.

Those people impacted by hurricanes, wildfires, and senseless shootings need some hope in their bones, not more fear.

The only way to make that happen is for all of us to remember:  

“Always a little further.”

This Thanksgiving, may I be thankful for all that I have been blessed with in my life. 

But may the good Lord give me the resolve to always push a “little further” for those whose bones are filled with fear and loss of hope

Week one was behind us.

This morning, Abby, Betsy, and I were getting ready for our drive to Mammoth Lakes. Art was heading out to work. He was planning to drive up on Wednesday afternoon.

As the day progressed, the house was scheduled for a break. Parker, Brandi, and Tyrell would be flying back to Hawaii. Ashley was returning to San Francisco where she would regroup, and then drive to Bend, Oregon for some vacation fun with friends.

A bit after 9, we were organized. We started packing up the car. We said our goodbyes, and started the drive out to California 14 north. A quick stop was made to fill up with gas, and then we were back out on the 14 looking to eventually make the connections to US 395.

In this dry, oven baked, arid land, we quickly left behind Palmdale and Lancaster. On both sides of the highway parched land was the view. Wind turbines, solar panels, a new vineyard, mothballed jet planes were familiar sights along this route.

The highway  was two lanes, then four lanes, then back to two as we continued to work north. This would be our third trip to Mammoth Lakes. Today, Abby had some new stops worked into the plan.

The width of the valley is catching my attention more this time. It is flat and wide, and the valley rolls to the foundation of the hills and mountains to the left and right. We drive for miles without passing through small outposts, and once in a while a singular, speck of a residence will be out in the distance. Talk about being lonely and desolate.

And yet, the terrain changes in subtle and not so subtle ways. Take for example our first stop for the day— Fossil Falls.

As we approach Fossil Falls, the rock formations and the color of these rocks change. Most writers note immediately two unexpected features about Fossil Falls—there are no fossils and no rushing water.

Fossils Falls was created by a lava flow, thus the black, charcoal color of the preserved rocks that set it off. Of course, this all happened a long, long time ago, and over that time water and wind sculpted the rocks and chasm where the falls once flowed.

The Owens River and a lake once fed the parcel of land. Also, on this same plot, unless your eyes are so taken by the lava formations, you can’t miss staring at Red Hill. This is a cinder cone volcano.

Fossil Falls is worth the stop. Everywhere I look, I’m amazed at this creation. 

Back in the car, we rumble over the washboard dirt road surface out to the main service road.

It didn’t take long before we were back on 395. Abby pushed us north heading toward Lone Pine. 

Coming into Lone Pine, the speed limit drops, and traffic crawls like a tortoise out in the desert. We park at the Museum of Western Film History. Take a short walk to the McDonalds ( Sadly, no In-N-Out in Lone Pine ) for a bit of nourishment, and then back to the museum for a tour.

Abby and Art are members of the museum, so their guests are free. Admission fee appears to be a minimum of a $5.00 donation. 

If you were like me, when I was growing up, I enjoyed watching cowboy movies and television shows with a western theme.  Many of those productions were filmed just outside of Lone Pine in the Alabama Hills. Those hills proved to be a good home for all things related to filming cowboys in their encounters with bad guys, cattle, pretty girls, and depending upon the cowboy star singing about those experiences.

The Museum of Western Film History is packed with everything related to these productions. If you had a favorite actor or actress who appeared in these movies and shows, chances are you will find a reference to these people.

A car especially rigged for filming on location in that rugged terrain is one of the first pieces to catch my eyes as we entered the museum.  Outfits, saddles, movie posters, guns, and assorted video clips really capture the people who molded and shaped the film and television production.

It is amazing to see all of the marketing and product endorsements for the cowboy star, Hopalong Cassidy. Someone was really sharp in developing his celebrity power.

The museum curator even has a small film clip of Herb Jeffries, an African American, who created a cowboy character named the Bronze Buckaroo for African American children. Jeffries was also an acclaimed singer in Duke Ellington’s band.

The rich history of Lone Pine and the Alabama Hills contributions to this business is nicely portrayed in a short film documentary. The piece skillfully captures the key players and their stories, and it is very impressive what transpired here over many, many years.

I had a tough time departing the museum as the displays really held my attention while taking me back to my childhood too.

Back in the car, we drove toward Bishop, and a stop that I had always wanted to make at the Erick Schat’s Bakery. Since 1938, the bakery has been famous for its Sheepherder Bread. We made a mid-Monday afternoon stop, and the place was packed. People were eating fresh made sandwiches, and everywhere I looked baked goods were prevalent and being purchased in abundance.

We helped the local economy with the items we bought. And once we arrived in Mammoth Lakes we enjoyed these baked treats throughout the week.

With our purchases properly loaded into the car, we kept pushing toward Mammoth Lakes. Pretty soon the familiar turn off appeared, and within a few minutes, Abby had us at the condo.

Once we were unloaded, we opted to shake off being in the car most of the day by taking a long walk through parts of Mammoth Lakes.

Moving these old bones around felt good, and like always the scenery was good too. When we made it back to the condo, Abby and Betsy started tossing out ideas for Tuesday. From what I heard, I sensed Tuesday was going to be busy.

Sunday was to be a transition day. A couple of departures were to take place.

Around mid-morning, Rachel and her family were being picked up by Garth’s sister to spend a few days in the San Diego area before flying back to Texas. Later in the afternoon, Elizabeth would be heading to LAX to catch her redeye back to Raleigh.

Early mornings in Agua Dulce are tranquil and cool even in August. Occasionally, I hear a rooster crow, a turkey gobbling, crows cawing, birds chirping, crickets, and a horse or cow greeting the day. But, the sounds of Los Angeles are miles away.

After breakfast, Betsy, Elizabeth, and I took a walk to the entrance of Vasquez Rocks. A Los Angeles County Park made famous by its spectacular rock formations. Those formations also caught the eyes of film and commercial production companies as the park has been a set and backdrop for countless films and commercials.

As we were walking down the partially shaded long service road from Abby and Art’s house, we kept hearing an unrecognizable sound. At one point, I stopped and looked up at the canopy of the eucalyptus trees we were under. As I scanned the foliage, I noted that the trees were in bloom, and that sound was coming from bees swarming the blooms.

By the time we made it back to the house, Garth’s sister had arrived, so it was time for goodbyes. We have always enjoyed Rachel and Garth and their children. They are a really special young family who have put down good community roots back home in McKinney, Texas. 

Somehow, it appeared they were able to get packed up and on their way without a bit of forgetfulness.  Goodbyes are tough on grandparents, especially grandmothers. Even though Abby shed a few of those traditional Cloud family tears—she handled the departure well. 

The morning pushed by pretty quick, and then we had a nice surprise. Ashley came around taking orders for lunch from the California famous In-N-Out Burger. 

Started in California in 1948, this chain has an established following in its home state, up and down the Pacific Coast, and parts of the Southwest. 

Packaging of their food has also been noted with Bible verses being printed on wrappers. On our wrappers today was printed the following from Revelation Chapter 3, verse 20:

 “Look! I’m standing at the door and knocking. If any hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to be with them, and will have dinner with them, and they will have dinner with me.”

Bible verse or not, one thing is very clear—the food is good, and the chain continues to be successful.

Later in the afternoon, time arrived for Elizabeth to head to LAX.  I rode along as Art drove her to the Flyaway in Van Nuys. The Flyaway is a bus service that transports passengers to the always busy airport. Clearly, the advantage for Flyaway customers is leaving the driving to LAX to someone else.

It was good to have Elizabeth with us for a few days. She and Ashley are close in age, and they have a good bond as cousins. I know they enjoyed catching up with each other.

After Elizabeth purchased the bus ticket, we said goodbye, and she settled in for a short wait.

On the drive back to Agua Dulce, I noted the tanned, brown landscape. The drought, relentless summer heat, and lack of rain fall just zaps the life out of anything green. I marvel at the plants that because of deep roots or location near almost dry stream beds somehow manage to hang on and survive. The chance of late fall and winter rains are months away. Hopefully, this rugged parched terrain can make it without the wrong incendiary spark.

Once back at the house, the shade and pleasant breeze was a good setting for playing bocce. Art, Abby, Tyrell, Betsy, and I played a few games of this simple yard game.

 A bit later, Art grilled salmon and some fresh summer corn, and we had a delicious meal sitting  around the pool.

As the sunlight faded away, we started looking for stars to appear. Slowly, the blue sky transitioned to darker shades, and in this high desert landscape with limited light pollution, the stars started to clearly pop out of the sky with a few planets leading the way.

Just happened that Sunday, August 12 was the night for the Perseids’ meteor shower. But none of us were willing to stay up for this viewing, although one  stray shooting star did streak through the sky.

Slowly, we cleaned up outside and headed in the house.

As I have found on each day of our California trip, I’m ready for bedtime when it arrives.

Let’s get the confessions out early. 

I have been a fan of the music Brian Wilson created with and without the Beach Boys for a long, long, long time.

My first record purchase was a Beach Boys’ single, a Christmas time song, “The Little Saint Nick.”

After all Brian has lived through, I still find it amazing that he outlived his younger brothers, Dennis and Carl.

And perhaps even more puzzling to me is why Brian, at 76, is still out on the concert trail.

I can’t imagine he needs the income. Maybe touring is an escape for him as there is a wife and five adopted children at home.

But the more I think about my questions, I’m driven back to one constant in his life. No matter how good or bad living was for Brian Wilson, there was always his best friend the music—it never deserted him.

On Friday, November 2, when he shuffles out on stage at the Dominion Arts Center, (maybe with assistance back problems), Brian will be surrounded by a band of musicians who love him and his music. He’ll also have in tow his long time friend, one of the original Beach Boys, Al Jardine, and another former Beach Boy from a couple of years in the 70s, Blondie Chaplin.

Brian and the band will run through a set list of well-known songs. Maybe if the audience is lucky, one or two less known nuggets will be performed.  There might be a break before they launch into the landmark album Pet Sounds, and somehow, the band will find the energy for a few more songs during the required encore.

Remarkably, Al Jardine’s voice still sounds as young as he did in 1965 singing “Help Me Rhonda”. Al’s son, Matt Jardine is in the band, and Matt hits all of the high notes in the background and on some leads that Brian’s voice can no longer handle. (Although on this tour, it appears that Rob Bonfiglio is pinch hitting for Matt. Rob is Brian’s son-in-law.)

Blondie Chaplin an accomplished guitarist, and sometime back up player for the Rolling Stones is part of Brian’s show for his playful energy. You can count on Blondie singing the lead vocal just like he did back in 1972 on “Sail On Sailor” one of Brian’s chestnuts from the Holland album. And when the focus of the show does shift to Blondie, he’ll charge up the hall with his stinging guitar licks.

By 1965, Brian had given up touring to stay at home to write and produce songs for the Beach Boys to record when they came off the road. Once Brian fully jumped the Beach Boys’s ship, he worked to establish himself as a solo artist.

 Ironically, in 2000, his release of Live at the Roxy Theatre was the pivot point for restarting his career. Some members of the Los Angeles based band The Wondermints became permanent members of Brian’s touring band. 

Fans who attended Brian’s concerts were in for a treat with these gifted musicians. They could perform live note for note even the most challenging of Brian’s arrangements. Here we are 18 years later, and the core of Brian’s band is still anchored by founding members of the Wondermints.

Over the last several years, I’ve had the privilege of seeing Brian in concert three times. And while I wasn’t disappointed by those performances,  I’m wondering how much longer can he continue to tour? Some of the dates on this current tour were rescheduled as Brian needed immediate back surgery late this past spring.

Toward the end of July and into August, Brian returned to the road, and performed a handful of shows in the states and overseas. At the Victorious Festival in Portsmouth, England on August 25, someone backstage shot video during the playing of “God Only Knows”. This performance captures the audience affectionately singing the entire song along with Brian and the band. 

The Chicago based horn player, Paul Von Mertens, who serves as the musical director for Brian’s band, reports that: “God Only Knows” always gets a big reaction. Once in Glasgow, the audience kept singing after the band finished the song. That was very moving.”

Maybe that video clip explains why Brian Wilson still tours. People continue to love him and the music he created.

Without question Brian has endured a lot of emotional turmoil. 

Perhaps in trying to figure it all out, his stability is linked to a line of lyric from the Beach Boys’ song “Add Some Music To Your Day”:

“Music when your alone is like a companion for your lonely soul.”

Clearly, music has been the companion that has sustained Brian Wilson’s soul for a long, long, long time.

If you never attended a Brian Wilson concert— go. 

I’d wager your soul needs it.

I was up early on Saturday morning. In a few hours, we would be packing up cars, rechecking the cottages for personal items, and driving back to Agua Dulce.

At the dining room table, I was checking e-mail on my computer, when another early riser, Ashley, joined me. She was firing up her computer to add the finishing touches to her project for the graduate class she was taking. With a piece of cold pizza from last night’s dinner, Ashley sat down and went right to work.

It was a while before the rest of the house guests started to stir. But when they did, starting the initial phases of packing was first on the list. Progress was made, and a small group of us started the walk to Jack’s Bistro and Famous Bagels for our second visit. The restaurant was busy, but the hostess found us a table near the entrance.  This allowed us to get a good luck at the large, black and white historical photos properly displayed along the walls.

We placed our orders, and it wasn’t long before the food arrived. Conversation subsided as our breakfast choices captured our attention.

After breakfast, the priority was clearing our belongings from the cottages and packing cars.

Abby took the lead in making sure we had our assignments, and it wasn’t long before the staggered departures were taking place.

Parker, Brandi, and Tyrell were heading to Ventura to visit with some of Parker’s friends. Rachel, Garth, and their children said goodbye to the beach and were soon on the road. Ashley and Elizabeth were thinking about making a couple of stops in Carpinteria before heading out.  And the old folks, Abby, Art, Betsy, and me would be the last to leave insuring that all was well with the cottages for their respective owners.

Pretty soon, Carpinteria was in the rear view mirror, and we were out on the highway winding our way past the Pacific coast landscape. 

Traffic was moving easily, and before we knew it, we were in Santa Clarita. 

We had an important stop at the kennel to pick up Lucy before arriving back into Agua Dulce.

Lucy was happy to be picked up as it sounded like all of the dogs in the kennel were barking their goodbyes to her.

It was good to arrive back at Abby and Art’s home. We unloaded, and prepped for a quiet afternoon by their backyard pool.

At the pool, Charlotte and Grayson were enjoying the pool time with their Dad supervising.

While watching all of this splashing and jumping, my old brain reflected back to a bumper sticker I had seen on the back of an SUV at an intersection in Santa Clarita, it said:  “Have A God Day.”

In world that seems to be in unrelentless turmoil every day, I wonder what that bumper sticker might mean to a person anymore? 

What is a “God Day”? 

Is it a day when all goes well for me?

 Is it a day when the world appears to be in less chaos with itself? 

Why is it that we are seemingly more uncivil with ourselves in our daily living?

Is it because we don’t have many “God Days” in our lives?

Our daughter, Elizabeth, has a keen eye. On Wednesday, I had talked with her about rising early on Thursday morning and walking around Carpinteria taking photographs.

When I checked on her around 6:20, she passed on my invitation. So, I organized myself and armed with my Canon Power Shot, a hand me down from our son-in-law, Doug, I left the house for the walk.

I was particularly interested in tracking down a weather beaten table and chairs outside of a local business that caught our eyes on Wednesday morning’s jog. As I passed by the merchants on Linden Avenue some were closed, but those offering coffee and food were getting ready to open.

At the top of Linden Avenue and Carpinteria Way, there is a narrow median that divides the street. At the beginning of this median is a flagpole that proudly displays the United States and California State flags. This morning there is no breeze so both flags are still catching some shut eye.

I make a left on Carpinteria Way. Seems like the table and chairs I want to see were further down the street, so I keep walking.

At some point, I note a gentleman walking toward me on the sidewalk.  He sees me coming and for whatever reason, this gentleman decides to remove himself from the sidewalk and walk along the street.

As we are just about to pass each other, I note he has homeless traits. He is overdressed in clothes and is carrying other items with him. And, as we pass each other, I can detect the need for a shower just like on days when I have depleted my deodorant from working in the yard on a hot, humid summer day.

Eventually, I cross over Carpinteria. I start to recall a number of the places we saw yesterday.  Just outside a custom framing shop, I see the table and chairs I’ve been looking to photograph.

The table and its six chairs are scrunched in among some plants and a tree. I have a sermon assignment to write for World Communion Sunday on October 7. Recently, tables have become of interest to me. I’m sure this one could tell some stories.

I snap a couple of photos and start walking again. I decide to walk back down Linden Avenue checking out the store fronts and some tall palm trees on a side street with a significant tilt at their tops.

In front of the parking lot for the grocery store, Smart and Final, is a common sitting area/bus stop. I note as I’m walking by, the gentleman I perceive as being homeless is sitting there by himself.

I stop at the corner to take a picture of the tilting palm trees. Then, I’m thinking to myself, I’m going to walk back up the street on the other side, and if the gentleman is still sitting there I’m going to buy him something to eat from the bakery I had passed earlier.

Sure enough, he is still sitting there.

So, I head to Reynaldo’s Bakery. It is loaded with all kinds of Mexican pastries. I’m overwhelmed by the selection, but opt to purchase a couple of Mexican sweet cakes.

I pay and walk across the street and approach the gentleman.

And I immediately make a mistake as begin my communication with him. I start with “good morning,” and then I ask him, “how is he doing?” He immediately responds, “I’m homeless.”

At that point, I think I said, “I know,” followed by “I brought you something to eat.”

He looks suspiciously at the Mexican sweet cake, and then I learn my second mistake. This homeless gentleman asks for coffee, and I explain I don’t have any.

At this point, I’m too disappointed in myself to think about getting some coffee, and I walk off— thinking to myself you just failed trying to be hospitable to a homeless person, you have a lot to learn about being a so called Christian.

Muttering to myself, I walked back toward the house, thinking about my mistakes in trying to be helpful.

At the house, I said nothing about my encounter, and I latched on to the group that was walking to the Lucky Llama for breakfast.

California Day 4 Carpinteria:  Train Ride by Bill Pike 

After breakfast, everyone was heading toward the beach. When I arrived, the junior lifeguard trainees were back for another grueling day, and the dead Sea Lion had been removed.

Abby and Art’s three year old grandson, Grayson, had been intrigued all week by the Amtrak and occasional freight trains that would rumble through Carpinteria. So at 11:20 this morning, his parents, Rachel and Garth, had purchased tickets for the family including Grayson’s older sister, Charlotte, to take the train up to Santa Barbara and back.

Even though the Amtrak California Surfliner was running a bit late, Grayson contained himself until the train arrived. When the train showed up, the family boarded, and I’m told Grayson enjoyed every click on the track up and back.

After they boarded the train, I walked back down to the beach. And, it wasn’t long before, our daughter, Elizabeth, and Abby and Art’s daughter, Ashley, had developed a plan for their fathers to take them to lunch at the Rincon Brewery.

Located on Carpinteria Way, this craft brewer was named after the famous Rincon Point a long time favorite spot for surfers to catch Pacific waves.  Our food and the beer were good.

From lunch, we regrouped, some returned to the beach, and Abby, Art, Betsy, and I worked our way to the local farmers market and the grocery store. Hamburgers were going to be grilled out, and we were picking up fruit and vegetables to support the meal.

A portion of Linden Avenue was blocked off. This shutdown allowed farmers and an assortment of vendors to set up on both sides of the street. Farmers markets have always interested me, no matter their size or location. I admire the diligence of our farmers.

This market was really special. Maybe the quality of the produce can be attributed to the strong farmer presence in the region, but table after table had top-notch displays of grapes, avocados, peaches, plums, strawberries, tomatoes, peppers, leafy vegetables, oranges, melons, and even full stalks of celery.

Once we finished at the farmers market, Abby made a quick stop in the Smart and Final grocery store for a few more cookout items. Then, we reorganized all of our purchases and made sure they made it to the cookout house.

At some point, I took a shower, and then you guessed it— before making the walk over for dinner, another gathering took place at Island Brewery.

California Day 4 Carpinteria No Fog=Sunset by Bill Pike

At the end of a perfect sun drenched California day, there is nothing like a grilled hamburger with all the trimmings. The dinner came together well, and even better, no gray fog had blocked the sun.

After dinner, we all walked down to the beach. Turns out others in Carpinteria had the same idea.

For the first time since we had arrived on Tuesday, I could clearly see the outlines of the Channel Islands offshore in the Pacific and the oil wells in front of them were also more pronounced.

The sun was starting its departure. That, “Lucky old sun” was not going to gracefully disappear into the ocean with its mysterious green flash. No, on this evening, the sun would slip down behind the Santa Ynez Mountains.

There was a flurry of activity with our families. Photos being snapped, and group shots were organized. And as all of this was taking place, the sun continued to slowly, and silently slink down.

Inch by inch, the sun started to hide behind the mountains. Then in the second of an eye blink— the sun was spun away by the earth, gone until tomorrow morning’s sunrise.