The Black Sage Journal

This piece first appeared in Issue 1, Volume 13 of bioStories Magazine . My pick-axe sinks deep into the tread of the trail with a satisfying “thunk.” The soil gives ground easily to the blade now that rain has finally fallen. It’s almost dark and I’m alone on the hill. The mountain bikers, hikers, runners, and dog walkers have retreated for the night leaving me with the coyotes and the crescent moon. I take another whack. The ground, heavy with blue clay that has been compacted by a parade of tires, feet, and hooves, splits to reveal the dark soil beneath. A promising sign. That wouldn’t have happened a week ago. Then, impregnable to the steel in my hands, the surface would have simply shattered like broken pottery. That all changed with the rain. Now the earth is malleable. It bends to my will. And to my axe. So I swing it until I can no longer see the trail in front of me.  It feels good to be alone in the local hills in fading light. Digging in the dirt, moving rocks, re-aligni...

  Image courtesy of Syriac Press The signal turns red just before we arrive at the intersection. There is no cross-traffic to trigger the light. It’s just shy of 6 a.m. and the gray streets are empty except for the occasional work truck festooned with implements of the landscaper’s trade. But municipal functionaries are failing if traffic is flowing, so I curse under my breath as we wait for phantom cars to pass. When the danger subsides and the light triggers green, we wheel into the parking lot and roll nose-first up to our spot against the chain-link fence protecting the fields of play.  We’ve done this a thousand times before. It’s the morning ritual. Every day, I awake at first light to the sounds of Joji grunting, snorting, sneezing, and shaking. When it becomes evident that these noises will increase in both frequency and volume if I pretend to ignore them, I give up and get up, pour coffee, grab the harness and leash, and start for the duck park. Although this Groundho...

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...

  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 ...

  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...

  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...