My Footprints

I’m a lucky guy. I’ve left my footprints on sandy ocean beaches and the languid back waters of the old Mississippi. I’ve hiked mountain trails looking for mountain goats and viewed spotted owls while traipsing through state forests up North.

The migration to California has been going on since the great depression and continues to this day. For the snowbirds, it’s like watching the seasonal migration of the wildebeest in a Disney nature film; clean, sanitized and kid-friendly. Despite its roller-coaster economics and progressive politics, California continues to attract old and young alike.

For some reason the state seems to hold fast to its long-held moniker that ‘whatever happens first on the coast will eventually move to the Midwest and then the other coast.’ Whether it takes the form of massive housing developments, movie magic, new computer technologies, solar initiatives, fashion trends or otherwise innovative, surprising new trends in all sectors of our lives, many of them seem to happen in California first. Perhaps that’s why I like the place so much. California speaks to me in a voice that is fresh, exciting and at times provocative.

Years ago, upon my return to the desert, I tried to capture the tabloid/soap opera drama of some of the folks I knew or imagined living here in the desert. The results were my ‘Debris’ trilogy of books.

More recently I’ve been lucky enough to have two of my plays produced here and another one (I hope) is in contention.

There’s a quote I love that goes something like this: “At some point in one’s journey, you realize it’s time to head back home. It doesn’t matter where you are in the journey, the Gods begin calling and you must return home.” I think there is something about that mysterious force called ‘home’ that calls to all of us. It happens twice a year for Sharon and I.

In Minnesota, there’s a new advertisement running from a local grocery chain. Their ads remind us that they are a local brand; home grown. ‘Born and Raised in Minnesota’ they like to say.

When I first saw that ad my first response was typical of someone who has been a ‘local’ home grown boy here all my life. “Like who cares?” I asked myself. Turns out upon some reflection, I do care, because to a degree, Minnesota also defines me and the person I’ve become.

I’ve always seen Minnesota as a nice state, a safe state, a pleasant place to live and a great place to raise kids. Three out of the four seasons are pleasant enough. But let’s face it, the winters can tough even for a lifer such as myself.

Our tenure in the state has been pleasant enough. We’ve raised our kids here, now watch two out of five grandchildren every chance we get. My career and extra-curricular activities grew in the state and my version of retirement takes place here six months out of the year.

But gradually my tenure in Minnesota became challenged by the West Coast drawing my other half. Now that I’m part-time Californian, my perspective about my home state has changed. I love California. It appeals to my restless youth, errant and wandering mind, free soul, sometime corrupt and tranquilizing imagination.

I have a long and storied history with California. It’s like Leonard Cohen’s Hydra calling me back once again. Its part delusional, part opportunistic and part magical. But mostly it’s a comfortable relationship that seems to bring out the flip side of me that a lot of folks never see. It is at once my friend, advisor, irritator and councilor. It forces me outside of my Midwestern comfort zone.

My venture (that I can remember) to the Golden State was in 1964. Fresh out of basic training, my first assignment was at the Presidio of San Francisco. Life at the Presidio was a Camelot-like existence that ended all too soon eight months later.

The second time to bask in that warm California sun came years later in 2000. Sharon and I were staying at a friend’s condo in Palm Springs. It was our first introduction to desert living. Thus began a twenty-year intermittent love affair with that diverse community and all of its surrounding amenities.

I live in two different worlds now and I’m comfortable in both. One is progressive, adventurous and sometimes a bit outrageous but always leaning forward. For half a year, I wear my Southern California flip-flops as comfortably as any other seeker. But I also live in the Midwest and I’m darn proud of that too.

I’m born and bred Minnesotan with a strong streak of California to taint my mind. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Both states have become home in more ways than one. They’re like a cradle upon which my imagination gives birth to creative, frivolous, silly and sometimes enlightened ideas, concepts and storylines. It’s the flip side of that routine called your average lifestyle. If ever there were a balance in my life, it would be called the Minnesota-California connection.

I’m home now for the summer but that warm California sun will soon be calling me back. What can I say; it works for me.

A Walk in the Woods

During World War II, a film came out entitled ‘A Walk in the Sun.’ it was about a squad of infantrymen who landed at Palermo, Italy and began a forced march across the countryside to their first objective, a farmhouse at some critical crossroads.

I took a forced march in the woods recently. Trust me here; there is a correlation between the two.

‘A Walk in the Sun’ had very little combat action but ran with poignant dialogue that truly captured the everyday thoughts of those infantrymen as they marched through the Italian countryside. It was at once reflective, insightful, and thought-provoking. It connected the audience on an emotional level with each one of those soldiers. Walking in the woods, alone or with a friend, and getting lost there can have the same effect. It’s like an elixir for your mind and soul at the same time.

Folks have been wandering this planet since the beginning of time. Walden and Thoreau, in their time, were able to capture the peace and serenity that accompanies this kind of soul-soothing venture. Long trail runs and mountain hiking can produce the same kind of mind-altering euphoric effect on the brain.

Back in the desert, I’ve taken my own kind of ‘vision quest’ a number of times climbing the mountains, finding a spot to nest in and then get lost inside my head.

The surrounding environment found in mountains and woods is much the same. It’s a quiet that can pound on your eardrum with its softness and penetrate your psychic with reflective thoughts that seem to come out of nowhere and get lodged there. Much like the girl back in college who taught me how to walk in the rain, solitary walking in the woods can have much the same visceral, cerebral cleaning effect.

When he was just sixteen, Brian and I did that in the Amazon basin. It was a wonderful kaleidoscope of running the Amazon in a narrow canoe carved out of a tree trunk, trudging through the jungle in the pouring rain, crossing raging river streams, and dodging rockslides.

I repeated that experience again in Costa Rica at the end of a long forced march through the jungle. We were three hours into a of non-stop jungle hike when we came upon a pool that had formed off of a river tributary to the Amazon.

My group of fellow hikers, without hesitation, promptly shed their clothes and plunged into the cool deep stream. The two women in the group were as quick to get rid of their soiled, sweat-stained clothes as the men were. The nudity was never an issue when the water was so refreshing and our minds were focused elsewhere.

When the kids were younger, I would sometimes take them into the woods to get lost. We’d stop by some fallen log and just sit there and listen.

At first, the kids couldn’t hear a thing but gradually they would grow accustomed to the quiet and slowly, ever so slowly, would begin to hear the wind, the birds, traffic far off in the distance and a myriad of other woodland sounds. It’s meditation on a soft blanket of moss surrounded by forest sentinels.

I still treasure those moments in time when I get to let go of my surroundings and let my mind and imagination float away, taking me along for the ride.

In These Crazy Times

The COVID-19 virus is spreading out across the globe. It has become a pandemic and is causing major health, economic and social upheavals. Grocery store shelves are empty and a lot of people seem on the verge of panic. California Governor Newsom had just declared that all seniors and those with underlining health issues should stay at home and not go out. Isolation and social distancing are becoming the norm. So what’s an old guy supposed to do in this time of crisis? Go climb a mountain, what else.

As I’ve written in a number of past blogs, mountain hiking has become my own vision quest. For others, it might be a walk in the woods, a stroll along the beach or a quiet spot almost anywhere. This vision quest thing is hardly a new concept. The Indians got it right a long time ago and we don’t give them enough credit for it.

Since the beginning of time, mankind has always had a spiritual relationship with solitude. The first ancients to walk this country found it in their mountains. They left their mark around and on those granite sentinels of the ages. Nothing much has changed over the course of time. Although much of the mythology and ancient teachings associated with mountains has been lost over time, some examples still exist today.

The Blackfeet have their Chief Mountain. The Potawatomi have their Chequah Bikwaki Mountain. More recognizable is Tse’bit’ai (rock with wings.) We call it Shiprock and it’s located in the state of Arizona.

Anglo culture named this fascinating formation after a 19^th century clipper ship because of the peak’s resemblance to a ship. Navajo legend believes that ghosts of the ancients are still buried on top of the mountain and must never be disturbed. Navajo police patrol the area to make sure their sacred mountain is never touched.

The Coachella Valley is surrounded by several mountain chains each laced with meandering hiking trails. These old mountain goat routes have imbued certain groups to seek solace, quiet reflection, exercise and release from their daily lives on their rocky trails. From desert rats to trail runners and even novice hikers, those mountains have been calling to us for centuries. The mountains provide a real sense of solitude especially in this time of crisis.

In Palm Springs, aside from the Tramway cable cars, the only way up the mountains is to walk.

Footpaths have cut through, circumvented, and traversed the foothills and mountains around here since the dawn of time. Long before the first whites came into the area, the ancients had been roaming the desert floor and traversing the mountains surrounding the Coachella Valley.

Something magical and almost spiritual can happen during a mountain hike. It’s a challenge to both the physical and mental state of being. Taken at face value, it can be an afternoon of hiking, climbing or finger-probing the rough crags and fissures of the mountain face. On a more spiritual level, it’s an assent into the vaulted realm of oxygen deprivation, aching muscles, sweat-drenched clothing and overall mental exhilaration…if your head is in the right place.

Palm Springs has an abundance of hiking trails for both the casual hiker and serious desert rat. A favorite of mine and closer to home is the South Lykken Trail. It’s part of the North and South Lykken Trail that stretches for nine miles and takes about five hours of moderate work to traverse the entire trial. The elevation gain is only about 800 feet and it’s considered a moderate hike by local standards.

I went up there with my kids about five years ago. Both are more athletic than myself. Melanie runs marathons and Brian eats Fourteeners for breakfast. But I held my own and we had a wonderful view at top.

There’s almost a culture among the small group of folks who hike those foothills and mountains all year round. They endure scorching summer heat and windy overcast winter days. Their skin looks like weathered copper or dried up old parchment. Most of them are skinny as a rail and lithe like an antelope. They’re the desert rats of the higher altitudes.

Following that elite group of desert denizens come another eccentric group of trail runners and new age meditators. They frequent the mountains like others hang out at Starbucks. Finally come the tourists, snowbirds, and occasional weekend explorer (many with families in tow.)

In the spring, the trail is accented with blooming yellow brittlebush and flowering cacti…and at times an abundance of rattlesnakes. These rattlesnakes are usually very difficult to see since their coloration blends in perfectly with the rocks and gravel on the trail. One bite and it’s off to the hospital for several vials of antivenin serum. It’s an expensive proposition at several thousand dollars per vial.

Adding to the excitement of rattlesnakes in spring and fall are slippery rocks, loose gravel, and rough footing. It’s not a climb for the faint of heart. Not quite like the Costa Rican rainforest but not that far from it either. (What I Learned from Howling Monkeys)

It’s as special place as you want it to be. Not exactly like trial running back home in the Minnesota woods but the same kind of methodical, slow easy practiced stroll that is tougher than most long runs. It’s a place to look at the craziness around us and take a deep breath to exhale all the nonsense and access the reality of it all.

Along with one’s dreams and meandering what-ifs, it’s a perfect place to escape inside your head and do some exploring. It’s a place to celebrate old age and hold on to the memories there.

This too shall past. Life is good.

Enjoy it while you can.