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A Lonely Campaign

When they turn the pages of history When these days have passed long ago Will they read of us with sadness For the seeds that we let grow? We turned our gaze From the castles in the distance Eyes cast down On the path of least resistance -A Farewell to Kings, Rush (1977) 5:27 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon in August. It’s 95 degrees out, but the concrete street corner of the busiest intersection in the city feels considerably warmer. It’s the height of rush hour and cars buzz busily by from all points of the compass. Bob stands alone on the corner. He is tall and appears to be in his sixties, but he looks youthful for his age so it’s hard to tell. He wears baggy shorts, a white t-shirt, HOKA running shoes, a sun hat, and sunglasses. Over his head, he hoists a hand-made poster scrawled with the message “No ICE!” The opposite side of his sign proclaims, “No Kings!” in carefully printed black marker. An American flag adorns the upper left-hand corner of both sides of the placard. For the p...
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How to Die Like a Wolf

  10:09 p.m. on a Saturday night. I’m preparing to leave town for three weeks when my phone dings signaling that I’ve received a text message. When I pick up my device, I see it’s from my friend Eric. The two of us have been friends for a good thirty years now. Shared outdoor interests, common world views, and an appreciation of good craft beer made us natural compatriots. But it wasn’t just that. I have common interests with most of my friends. What made my relationship with Eric unique was his ever-present enthusiasm and willingness to actually “do stuff.” If I asked him whether he wanted to ride mountain bikes, the answer was always “yes.” Did he want to go hiking? “Of course!” How about we go to Lone Pine to camp? “Let’s go.” Hey, we should go to the Beer and Bluesapalooza festival in Mammoth. “Ok, I’ll get the tickets.” Whatever the situation, if it directly or indirectly involved outdoor recreation, Eric was all in without hesitation. In fact, if truth be told, at least half ...
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The Real Real

  South Bakersfield and I’m on the wrong side of the railroad tracks again. I’m not lost and I didn’t take a wrong turn. It was a deliberate choice to come here. The smattering of dhabas that punctuate this broken stretch of road home to trucking companies, taco stands, and skeezy bars brought me here. The magnetism of roadside dal, paneer, and curry is a potent, epicurean draw. In my blue collared shirt, green club tie, and mustard-hued dress slacks, I’m an anomaly here. Moving amongst husky fellows in oily jump suits, leathery farm hands, and dark, exotic men chattering away in Hindi , I feel like I’ve breached exclusive space. Like I’m not good enough to be here. Or perhaps it’s the opposite. I realize how egotistical that might sound, but I don’t know how else to explain the social discomfort from the flipped script. But no one gives me the side-eye. I’m invisible. And even if I wasn’t, it wouldn’t really deter me. I’m on a pilgrimage of sorts, a personal Kumbh Mela to the sa...
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Coyote Ugly

  This piece was first published in Volume 25 of Sky Island Journal . An encounter with a coyote one evening on a local trail was both the inspiration and a reminder of the burden I've been carrying around for a number of decades.  Coyote Ugly The canid materialized from the brush and onto the fire road in front of me like an apparition. Until he emerged into the clearing, I hadn’t noticed him. He moved invisibly through the gray-brown chaparral, his muted coat the perfect cloaking device for one whose existence depends upon stealth and surprise. Standing perhaps twenty yards distant, he was large and lithe as coyotes ought to be. I immediately paused when I saw him. Not out of apprehension, but instead awe and admiration. Coyote yelps, barks, and howls are commonplace in this place, but the boisterous culprits usually prefer to remain anonymous and unseen.  The coyote briefly paused too and looked my way. Not out of awe and admiration, but instead apprehension. The hoots...
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Hammers and Hoes

  Mitch Robbins : Danny was embarrassed to tell the class what my job is. Barbara Robbins : They’re nine. They get excited about the guy who gives them change at the arcade. You just happen to have one of those jobs that’s difficult to… Mitch Robbins : …believe that a grown man does without losing his mind. I mean, what is my job? I mean, I sell advertising time on the radio. So basically, I sell air. At least my father was an upholsterer, he made a sofa or a couch, you sit on, it was something tangible. What can I point to? Where’s my work? It’s air! ~City Slickers I’ve decided that I like physical labor. Swinging the pick axe until I’m panting hard and my shoulders ache. Shoveling dirt until sweat drips from my face and stings my eyes. Ripping up sod in the cool morning air. Attacking militant weeds, edging an unruly lawn, re-staining a weather-faded fence, and fixing non-functioning fixtures. I really don’t mind doing any of it. In fact, I quite enjoy it. It’s an expedient to a ...
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The Noisy Man from Tuttle Creek

  Friday Night. It’s a beautifully warm evening at Tuttle Creek campground in the Alabama Hills. The encroaching night has taken the edge off the day's sweltering heat. Stars blink brightly above the eastern escarpment of the Sierra Nevada. The waxing crescent moon hangs in the darkening sky. Across the dirt access road, in campsite no. 3 sits a solitary old man reading a book. A motorcycle is parked at the entrance to his site. He waved to us as we pulled in and then again as we walked back to the camp entrance to register our site. We waved back at him. After we set up and got situated, we crossed the road to offer him a beer. It seemed like the neighborly thing to do. Not knowing him or his tastes, we gave him options. A nice craft beer from a local brewery or a mass-produced can of suds from Trader Joe's. He contemplated his choice for a moment before reaching for the can of craft beer. He held it lovingly in his hands as we began to talk. He was 71 years old with a comfort...
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Poetry is Dead

  That rangey boy  with wild hair and eyes, scampering across golden fields, ducking in and out of hollows, scooping up polliwogs  in the ditches that lined the gravel lanes. An uncorrupted spirit,  exuberant in the dream world of freedom and ideas.  That boy was a poet.
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