By Louie Ferrera

The word of Phil Lesh’s passing at the age of 84 came via a text message last Friday from an old Deadhead friend of mine in New Jersey. It was a bit of a shock as I wasn’t aware that Phil had been sick. Most of the musical heroes of my generation are in their late 70s to early 80s, when one of them dies it’s a stark reminder of my own mortality. I received numerous texts from friends and family that day offering their condolences on Phil’s passing, as if an actual member of my family had died. In a way, Phil Lesh was family.

I first became aware of the Grateful Dead sometime in 1973 when I was a high school senior. I had borrowed their double live album Grateful Dead ( also known as Skull and Roses or Skullfuck) from a friend of my older brother’s. The first thing that grabbed me about The Dead’s music wasn’t, surprisingly, Jerry Garcia’s guitar playing but rather the melodic, thundering, unbridled playing of bassist Phil Lesh. The bass player in a rock and roll band had traditionally been relegated to the roll of timekeeper, lub-dubbing alongside the drummer while the rest of the band shined out front. Innovators like Paul McCartney, John Entwistle and Jack Cassidy helped to change the concept of what a bass player could be and Phil was right up there with them. Lesh’s sound was like nothing I had heard before. As is the case with all true musical innovators his tone and approach were unique. Phil’s bass wove seamlessly between Garcia’s  interstellar improvisations and the one-of-a-kind rhythm guitar of Bob Weir to help create what’s now known as psychedelic music. Oftentimes it was Phil and not Jerry who was the lead player in the band. Jerry once famously stated, “When Phil’s happening, the band is happening.”I can personally attest to that statement. Having attended a couple hundred Dead shows, the times when the band was most locked in, when the music approached true transcendence, were when Phil was leading the charge. Some of the happiest moments of my life were spent in the company of Phil Lesh and the Grateful Dead.

It’s hard to overstate the importance of the Grateful Dead in my life. I can’t imagine what my life would be like today had The Dead not been a part of it. So many of the people who are near and dear to me can somehow be traced back to the Grateful Dead. At a Dead show in Oakland in the early 90s I met a wild, whirling dervish of a woman named Dannielle. We became fast friends. Several years later Dann introduced me to Carol, the love of my life and the mother of our children. How did Dann and Carol meet? Waiting in line for tickets to see…The Grateful Dead! In 1985 I was taking photos of the crowd inside a show at Red Rocks Amphitheater in Colorado. One of those photos was of a lovely, smiling woman named Michelle. The cycle of my relationship with Michelle went from friend to lover, back to friend and we’re still going strong nearly 40 years later. Through Michelle I met a like-minded group of merry pranksters, one of whom is Mitch, a brother of mine in every sense of the word. Mitch introduced me to Andy, another dear brother. Talk to any Deadhead and you’ll hear similar stories, how chance encounters facilitated by their love of the band altered the course of their lives. The thread of the Grateful Dead runs through us all.

Maybe you’ll find direction around some corner where it’s been waiting to meet you. (From Box of Rain)

Phil didn’t write many of the Dead’s songs but one of his compositions really struck gold. Box of Rain’s beautiful melody, odd chord changes and enigmatic lyrics by Robert Hunter in many ways encapsulates the entire experience of what the Grateful Dead are all about. Box of Rain was Phil’s signature tune and one of the most beloved songs in the Grateful Dead’s canon. If you were lucky enough to be at a show when the band performed it, well that was just about as good as it could get. Box of Rain was often played as an encore, the perfect grace note to a sublime musical experience. The Dead’s stage set-up remained consistent throughout the 80s and 90s. From left to right it was Phil, Bob, Jerry and Brent Mydland. If you wanted to get the full frontal force of Phil’s bass, you stood on the left side, which came to be known as The Phil Zone.

The Grateful Dead were so much more than just a rock and roll band. They were a lifestyle, a life force, a philosophy and to some, even a religion. Like the mycelium that spreads beneath a forest floor, the Dead’s influence was far reaching and touched millions of people in deeply profound ways, myself being one of them. While listening to that borrowed album 50 years ago I had no way of knowing how the Dead would come to enrich my life, what an important role they’d play in helping me to become the person I am today. So… fare thee well Phil. Happy trails wherever in the time/space continuum your beautiful soul is currently traveling. I love you brother.

By Louie Ferrera

It’s ok to just sit here, right? It’s ok to watch the green fingers of the apple tree sway in tandem with the singing of the wind chimes, right? It’s ok to watch the sky-blue scrub jay hop from tree branch to lawn to fountain. It’s ok to marvel at the stillness and the golden glow of the light on this October afternoon. The breeze is just enough of a whisper to move the bird feeders, solar lights, wind chimes and sun spinners that have managed to bring some life back into our dead plum tree. I’m just watching them all as they dangle from the thin, lichen-covered branches, turning what could be a sad sight into a celebration of rebirth and repurpose. I give myself permission to simply sit here and observe, I have no other agenda. There’s a blue plastic hummingbird up there too. It has a tiny five-blade fan attached to each of its sides instead of wings and hangs from a swivel hook. When the wind blows, the bird spins one way while the fans spin another way. Sometimes it appears as if it’s about to break free, become animated and join its fellow hummingbirds as they zip and buzz around the yard.

If I look just right at the three Van Gogh cypress trees before me, the light on them takes on a hallucinatory and dream-like quality. I once had a dream with just this very type of light illuminating it. I don’t have words to describe this dream but I know the feeling and I’m having it now. You may see me sitting here and wonder what I’m doing. I’m not doing , I’m just being. When  I’m in this state, I find that I notice the little things: how the same hummingbird always sits at the end of the same skinny branch tip on the plum tree, how the magnificent Orb Weaver spider that’s called our backyard home since the summer comes out of hiding after dark every night and mends its tattered web, the fleeting alpenglow that lights up the Japanese maple tree at sunset, the departure of summer birds, the arrival of fall species.

It’s ok to not feel like the other shoe is about to drop, it’s ok to take a break from the feverish madness of Trump and the election, it’s ok to not think about the insane orgy of violence in the Mideast and Ukraine. My window on the world this afternoon is peaceful and green. Our cat is curled up like a question mark inside the last small pool of sunlight on our deck. She’s not worried about anything. Oh to be a cat. When Ella falls asleep in my lap her purring is food for my soul.

A folk singer-sage-poet that I used to listen to once said, “Life is short…but it’s WIDE!” There’s so much to see and experience in the brief time that we’re here. I try and wring every bit of living out of every precious moment but each day manages to slip by no matter how tightly I hold on. So today it’s ok to not do but to just be, hoping to slow the wheel down just a little and allow this golden afternoon to wash over me.

By Louie Ferrera

Q: When are 50 year old jokes the funniest?

A: When they’re told among the same three friends 50 years later

Of all the blessings in my life, and there are many, I count my friendship with Tim and Benji as one of the most blessed. And those 50 year old jokes? They’re just the tip of the iceberg.

Tim, Benji and I met in 1974 when we were teenage freshmen at William Paterson College, a small state school in New Jersey. We were part of a ragtag band of budding disc jockeys at WPSC, the campus radio station. WPSC was like a fraternity minus all of the nonsense of Greek life. It was an everyone is welcome, freak freely kind of scene where for the first time in my life I was being accepted for who I was. The friendships I began to make at the radio station were deep, I was part of a fun-loving and accepting family. It was here that the friendship between me, Tim and Benji flourished. I have vague memories of our first encounters: Tim walking into the radio station carrying a guitar case, Benji sitting next to me in our philosophy class. Tim, the tall and lanky dude with a ready smile, the most positive person I’ve ever known. Tim  has always been there for me, solid ground in unsettled times. Benji, the kind, lovable, teddy bear of a guy who’s more fun than a box of Slinkys. He squints and flashes a big, white-toothed smile when he laughs. Benji has made me laugh harder than any human ever has. Some of the happiest times of my life have been spent in the company of these two gentlemen. Our backgrounds are similar, middle class kids raised by hard working parents in suburban New Jersey. I had friends in high school but these two were different. Our energies complimented each other, our world views and sense of humor similar. Simply stated, we just GOT each other. 

I had alway wanted to learn to play the guitar. I had one as a kid but never stuck with it. The radio station was chock full of creative people…and guitar players! Both Tim and Benji played. Well, that sealed the deal, I just had to hang with these guys. Soon after befriending them I bought my first guitar, a $90 Yamaha. A couple of really talented guitar players named Denise and Carol also worked at the radio station. Along with Tim and Benji, these four tolerated a know-nothing beginning hacker like myself. They welcomed me into their circle and basically taught me how to play. My appetite for music was voracious. I played my new guitar until my fingers ached and was driven to succeed.

Playing guitar together quickly became the basis of the friendship between Tim, Benji and myself, the bedrock upon which everything since has grown from. Making music with another person is a unique form of intimacy, musical expression is deep and very personal and not something that I share with just anyone. The deeper the three of us went musically, the stronger our friendship became. We played guitar together every chance we had and soon became a fixture at parties and around campus. We were never a “band” per say but nonetheless christened ourselves BLT. Our musical styles complimented one another: Benji the hot shot lead player, Tim solid and steady on rhythm. I played rhythm too but also took the lion’s share of the lead vocals, not necessarily because I was the best singer, but by virtue of the fact that I always knew all of the words. The longer we played together, the more our repertoire grew. We were deep into the country/folk rock scene. We worshiped at the altar of the Eagles, Neil Young was our God. We’d get stoned and play and I’d lose myself in the ecstasy of it all. Our favorite place to play was on the second floor landing inside the stairwell of the student center. It was like playing in a cathedral. Our $200 guitars rang out like Martins and for that brief and beautiful time we were Crosby, Stills and Nash.

We graduated in 1978. A year later I decided to strike out for the west coast and seek my fortune in California where I still live today. Through periodic visits, letters and phone calls, texts, Face Time and Facebook, Tim, Benji and  I have managed to maintain our friendship. The fact that we’re still going strong half a century later speaks volumes to the depth and resiliency  of our bond.

My most recent trip found all three of us together for the first time in over a decade. From the moment of the reunion it felt as if no time had passed, we simply picked up right where we left off. The jokes were still funny, the love still strong and the music flowed through us like a river; effortlessly, timelessly.

By Louie Ferrera

The hike I went on today was all about feathers. It seemed like everywhere I looked, there they were: A 12 inch long, steel-grey wing feather from a Great Blue heron, a tail feather from a crow; coal-black and broadly rounded at the end in two heart-shaped humps. I saw a turkey feather and one from a jay, bits of down from who knows what and a jumble of feathers from all parts of a quail’s body marking the spot where this bird met its end.

I’m not sure if there just happened to be a lot of feathers lying around or if I was just tuned into them, probably a little of both. Either way once I began noticing feathers they seemed to be everywhere. I wore the crow feather in the back of my Giants cap which elicited smiles from folks I passed along the trail. My favorite finds of the day were the trio that accompanies this story. The black one with spots is from a hairy (or downy, I can never tell the two apart) woodpecker. The multi-hued one was found along the rocky shore of a river so I think it belonged to a spotted sandpiper, a small shorebird that I had seen before at that spot. I’d have to consult an ornithologist to ID the solid grey feather.

The perfect, beautiful symmetry of a bird feather is a true wonder of nature. I love the way the individual parts of a feather radiate out from the central rib and sweep upwards to a taper at the end. When I hold a feather in my hand I can feel the energy of the bird it was once attached to. If there are gaps in a feather it can be restored to its previously unbroken state simply by running your fingers along its length, I think that is just so cool!

Throughout human history bird feathers have been prized and in some cultures thought to bestow magical powers on those who wore them. In Native American culture, eagle feathers represent courage, strength and healing. Colorful feathers have been particularly sought after, leading to extinctions or near extinctions of many birds as they’ve literally been hunted to death. One such bird is the quetzal, the national bird of Guatemala. Quetzals are extremely rare and confined to isolated pockets of undisturbed jungle in Central America. On our family trip to Costa Rica in 2018 we were fortunate enough to see a Resplendent Quetzal while on a guided hike through the Monteverde Forest Preserve. It was a brief but memorable glimpse, the quetzal’s ruby red breast flashing in the sun, its nearly one meter-long emerald green tail feathers trailing behind it as it flew from the tree tops. My favorite bird feathers can be seen a little closer to home: the dazzling, iridescence of the hummingbird. With the right combination of sun and light our year-round resident, the Anna’s Hummingbird, lights up like a jewel in a yuletide display of crimson and emerald.

For me, finding and identifying feathers is one way to deepen the nature experience. Seeing a bird through my binoculars is one thing, finding its feather is to hold a little piece of that bird in my hand. Today I was a collector, other days I’ll just observe and leave them for someone else to find. It’s a good policy to spread the wonder around.

By Louie Ferrera

Research has shown that the most effective way to conjure up an old memory is through the sense of smell. Well, the researchers never got around to my house because for me it’s always been music.

Growing up in a house where music was always playing in the background; on the radio, on the stereo or my mom singing, my brain is hard wired to respond to music. Mom once told me that when she listens to music she feels it throughout her entire body. Like mother like son. For her it was Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald, for me it’s Neil Young and The Beatles. My connection to music is as visceral for me as it was for mom.

There’s a direct line in my brain from music to memory that’s always open and just waiting for a song to bring it to life. Hearing that song at the right time will literally bring me to a specific moment from my past. I’m not only there, but I feel the memory and everything associated with it. Sometimes it’s a very specific moment in time that I shared with a friend, family member or lover, other times the memory will be of a more general period in my life when I was happy, sad, content, searching… Either way the effect is immediate, like a switch has been flipped in my brain. I’m amazed at how a sappy love song, by of all people Alice Cooper, can conjure up such a sun burnished memory for me.  My song memories run the gamut of human emotions; sad and melancholy, blissful and elated, unrequited longing. I try and go with whatever comes up and ride it out, feeling the emotion as deeply as I can. I rarely put on a song intentionally to re-experience the moment it reminds me of. Like seeing a shooting star or an unexpected spotting of wildlife while out in nature, I think song memories are most effective when they’re least expected. They can come from anywhere and at anytime; on a Spotify mix, at a concert, while grocery shopping or even just a snippet of song heard through the window of a passing car. It doesn’t take much to flip my song memory switch.

I won’t bore you with my song memories, after all they’re my memories and won’t have anything to do with any experience you may have had with a song, unless of course it’s a shared song memory. I’ve got several of those so if you’re reading this perhaps we were along for a musical ride together sometime in our past.

Song memories do occasionally change. Has this happened to you? Typically for me the song and the memory are inextricably linked but it has happened when I’ll have a new experience with a song that will supplant my old song memory. Like all memories, song memories fade too. A one-time vivid memory I have with a song can get washed out like the colors on an old Polaroid photograph, the memory is still there but its intensity diluted, the song just doesn’t have the same power that it used to. However I’m also finding that some of my deepest song memories grow stronger with time. I said I wasn’t going to bore you with any of my specific song memories, but indulge just me once here, ok? 

From the first notes of Al Green’s Let’s Stay Together, I’m immediately transported under the canopy of a mixed redwood, oak and bay laurel forest. The light is dappled and green, the air warm and pleasant on this July afternoon. There’s an impossibly beautiful woman in my arms wearing a wedding dress, we’re surrounded by all of our closest friends and family. Carol and I twirl gracefully as the strains of Let’s Stay Together echo through the forest. Everyone is smiling, we’re as happy as we’ve ever been because we’re beginning  our life together. Like I said, my song memories are powerful!

By Louie Ferrera

I get the feeling that someone or something is watching me. Am I being paranoid or are those just imaginary glances from behind the green facade of the forest? The canopy in here is thick and nearly impenetrable, what light that does make it through is green and dappled. Walking down this trail feels like I’m swimming underwater, all that’s missing are the fish and the frogs. The tree cover is very dense, redwood and bay laurel trunks stand shoulder to shoulder like silent sentries, stretching as far as I can see. In here it’s womb-like and soothing but also tentative and a bit spooky too. Try as I may I can’t seem to shake the feeling of being watched. I tell myself that those glances are only imaginary. By definition a facade is a kind of cover, a device by which what’s underneath, the “true thing”, is hidden or obscured. Is the green facade of the forest hiding something from me?

The Native Americans both revered and feared the redwood forest. Perhaps it’s those people’s ancient spirits that I’m sensing. When European invaders arrived here they took one look at those majestic trees and could think of only one thing: how to saw them down and use them for their own purposes. I have no conception of that kind of mindset, it’s like shitting on the Mona Lisa. Trees are living things, they have a spirit, an essence. The wisdom stored in an ancient redwood is beyond human capacity to understand or quantify. Perhaps the forest facade is obscuring the imaginary glances, the spirit, of those long ago clearcut trees?

The glances of animals are anything but imaginary. Animals don’t need a facade, they can hide in plain sight. A deer’s ability to camouflage is akin to magic. One minute it’s there, the next minute it has literally melted into the forest. The only thing that reveals a deer’s presence is movement and a deer can stay still for a long time. Who knows how many times I’ve been watched by coyotes, bobcats, foxes or mountain lions? I’ve never seen a mountain lion but I’m certain one has seen me. So it is entirely likely that this green facade surrounding me is hiding the not so imaginary glances of forest animals. The birds, insects and other minute forest dwellers know I’m here too. We humans are so clumsy and oafish the way we trample through the domain of others. The facade is real, the glances not so imaginary. I move about with trepidation, my senses on full alert.

By Louie Ferrera

The fog is quiet as a dream. Sunny mornings sing, foggy mornings whisper. The sky today is a grey blanket, the diffused light deepens the infinite shades of green and colors become more saturated. The air is absolutely still. A couple of tiny songbirds occasionally fly across my field of vision, zipping from feeders to trees and beyond.

The times we’re living in are on hyperdrive and becoming more difficult for me to make sense of every day. It’s nearly impossible to shut out the noise. A morning like this is one time when the static and background noise fades away and my head is actually clear enough to think…or not to think, I can just be. Today I’m not waiting for the other shoe to drop, the playing field is even and my mind is calm. A foggy morning like this is the absolute best kind of morning ever. 

A Townsend’s warbler, a regular autumn arrival, has just shown itself to me for the first time. I’m watching it bathe in one of our fountains right now. This is a sure sign that a new season is waiting at the doorstep. The air feels different today too but perhaps I’m just breathing easier and deeper. The summer heat has been so blistering. The impending arrival of autumn and the dream-like gift of this  cool and soothing morning is the reward for enduring those infernal days. Beautiful birds are everywhere! The only way to really observe them, to actually be among them, is to sit motionless with the silence and peace and let the birds come to me. The white breasted nuthatch, simply stated, is a gift from Gaia. The Wilson’s warblers, titmice, chickadees, towhees and finches are all miracles on the wing. And where would we all be without those feisty and heroic little sprites, the hummingbirds? The reality of their existence is almost too fantastic to believe. Hummingbirds go into a state of torpor (near death) every night only to be reborn in the morning. They are the only bird that can fly up, down and sideways and hover like a helicopter. There are seven different hummingbird feeders around our yard, we always keep them filled.

Other sounds gradually fade in as the morning goes on: the chatter of our resident grey squirrels and the owl- like “hoo, hoo” of a mourning dove, the slight tinkling of a wind chime. The rising sun is securely tucked in under the fog blanket and the sky gradually brightens. Traffic sounds are now audible in the distance as the rest of the world begins to awaken. Our cat Ella is outside now so the birds are a bit more leery. She usually leaves birds alone and seems content to just sit back and observe them, swishing her tail inquisitively The spell of this unique morning has been broken and I awaken from a dream state feeling renewed. I breathe in the last wisps of peacefulness to tide me over until the next time.

By Louie Ferrera

One of the readers of this blog recently commented on how much she enjoys the “deep dives” I do when I write about music. This got me thinking; in pretty much all of my essays, I really do dig in and get to the heart of the matter, I “go deep” as it were. After four and a half years of blogging, I decided that It was time for a bit of a makeover. So… welcome to “Deep Dives”, different name, same thought provoking and heartfelt reflections on love, music and nature. If you’re new to this blog, scroll back and check out some of my past essays. If you’re a regular reader, thanks so much for your support, it means a lot. Now go ahead and dive in!

Cheers!

Louie

By Louie Ferrera

I put a smile on my face and I keep it on all day.

Joy

Keawakapu Beach is a mile long slice of paradise in the little town of Kihei on Maui’s south shore. It was Day #2 of our recent two-week trip to Hawaii and Carol and I were just settling into our Tommy Bahama chairs for a morning of sun, sea and sand. I looked to my right along the surf line and saw what appeared to be a ray of sunshine making its way towards us. As the sunbeam drew closer,  it materialized into an elderly woman decked out in full yellow regalia. Her dress was the color of Vincent’s sunflowers over which she wore a thin long-sleeve lemon yellow shirt. Her wide brimmed hat was pale yellow with a crown of brilliant yellow artificial flowers circling the brim. This unique fashion statement was topped off by a small yellow felt purse decorated with the face of a chicken and worn slung over her shoulder. Her skin was leathery and deeply tanned, a large pair of sunglasses covered her eyes, her face was lit up in a beatific smile. Sunbeams seemed to literally be shooting out from the top of this woman’s head. It was clear to me that Ms. Sunshine could give zero fucks about what people thought of her and that she does what she wants. I was so taken by this woman, she exuded such a blindingly happy glow of positivity and was practically vibrating with love. Ms. Sunshine sauntered past us and on down the beach with a weaving, sashaying dance of a walk. I was left with the type of afterimage one gets from looking directly at the sun.

Two days later, I’m at our same spot on the beach and here comes Ms. Sunshine again. Her outfit was the same one as the other day except she had swapped out the yellow dress for a salmon colored model. This time I stopped her and we struck up a nice conversation. Her name is Joy. She appeared to be in her late 70s-early 80s. She had lived in Berkeley in the 1960s (wow!) and relocated to Maui 15 years ago. Joy loves walking up and down the beach and engaging tourists like myself in conversation. We found common ground in our mutual sunny outlooks on life  and the fact that I’m a twin dad and her father was an identical twin. Our conversation was easy, both of us feeding off of the positive energy we were putting out. After a few minutes we shook hands and she went on her weaving way. I was a little richer and a lot happier from this shooting star-like encounter.

So much fear and negativity permeates our society nowadays, it’s like a millstone around our necks dragging us down. There needs to be like a million more Joys in our world spreading their message of hope and positivity and reminding us that it’s not all shit, that there’s still goodness in the world. Doomsayers like the malignant monster Trump and his followers thrive off of fear and negativity. Like the Death Eaters in the Harry Potter books it makes them stronger. Joy and those with an outlook like hers are the antithesis of the MAGA mindset. They and consequently we, grow stronger by putting love and hope into the world; giving a smile, performing a random act of kindness…whatever. It’s like what Marvin Gaye sings in What’s Going On?, Only love can conquer hate. I believe that Joy is the embodiment of this sentiment, she’s doing it one person at a time. Strolling the beach and making personal connections by way of her radiant outfit and equally radiant personality Joy is bringing people together, perhaps helping someone feel less lonely and reminding everyone she meets not only that there’s love and goodness in the world but also of the love and goodness within themselves. Joy is paying it forward, saying: I give freely, take this from me and pass it on.

I firmly believe there’s a way to find common ground with almost anyone. If more people believed that, perhaps there’d be less suffering and hatred in the world.  Some may see Joy saunter past them with her outlandish outfit and sunny smile and may think she’s just a goofy old lady. Not me! Joy has an important job to do which she appears to take quite seriously: to spread the word of love and the importance of squeezing every bit of living out of every precious day that we’re granted here on Earth. Keep your eye out for the Joys of the world, there are more of them out there than you think.

You can come up with unusual solutions when you’re sitting in the love vibe.

Joy

By Louie Ferrera

Yesterday was as picturesque a bluebird sky day as there could possibly be, the temperature Goldilocks perfect. Summertime, and the livin’ is definitely easy. It was Multiples of Eight Day (8/16/24), a day not to be repeated for another hundred years! Carol, Denali and I celebrated this momentous occasion by driving out to Point Reyes for an adventure. We parked at the Coast Trail trailhead, laced up our hiking boots and headed out. Whenever I enter the mystical forcefield that is Point Reyes National Seashore my body buzzes with anticipation as magic always seems to be at foot. The light here is different than anywhere else and the air is always tinged with possibility.

We began our hike along a narrow, sun-splashed trail that offered little shade. Our path was lined with coyote bush, lupine, wild cucumber, blackberries and delicate, orange monkey flowers. A few bay laurel trees provided the occasional pool of shade. A soft breeze cooled the sweat on our bodies. After the initial climb we crested a hill and were rewarded with sweeping views of the endless blue Pacific a mile or so to the west. Being midday, the birds all seemed to be taking their siestas, save for the ubiquitous turkey vultures and red-tailed hawks riding the thermals high above us, describing slow, lazy circles against the azure blue.

Down, down we went, the breeze becoming stronger and the whitecaps more visible the closer we got to the sea. The trail ended at the bluffs overlooking the southern end of expansive, crescent-shaped Limantour Beach. It was an easy scramble down to the sand where we plopped down and immediately tucked into our Jersey Mike’s sub sandwiches. A group of Heerman’s Gulls were our companions, they plied the surf line digging for creatures in the sand. This is a handsome bird; two-toned grey with white stripes on its black-tipped tail feathers and a ruby red tip to its beak. White gulls with black wing tips wheeled overhead. The surf was gentle, the vibe sublime.

After cat naps we decided to continue our hike. The view along this stretch of the Coast Trail is breathtaking! The dun colored hills above the beach standing in perfect relief against a cloudless sky, the sweeping curve of Limantour Beach visible all the way to Chimney Rock, the westernmost point in the park. We took our time and enjoyed the view. Denali heads back to school this week so we wanted to have one more outing with her before she took off. Not every 20 year old wants to spend time with their parents but Carol and I have nurtured a close and loving relationship with both of our kids. A day like this is the reward for that nurturing.

In a half mile or so the trail veers away from the bluff and begins to wind gradually uphill and inland. We enter a short section of deep forest and deeper mystery. The tree cover is dense, the color mint green and soothing, the wind moving through the leaves like a whisper. We spy a large, round hole about ten feet up the trunk of a trailside snag.  I bet if we staked this tree out, an owl would fly out at sunset. We emerge from the forest to the stunning sight of montbretia (falling star) flowers growing along one side of the trail. With everything so far being muted browns and greens, the brilliant scarlet of these iris-like flowers literally vibrated. Any hike I do at Point Reyes is always a journey, complete with some kind of wondrous and unexpected event thrown in. We had ours today at a tiny pond at the end of the flower patch.

The murky, brown water of the pond was ringed with duckweed, tiny water striders skated across its surface. All around was the green of the forest. Carol spotted what she initially thought were fish. Upon further investigation these “fish” turned out to be California Newts, lots of them! We watched in wonder as these creatures glided just below the surface, rising occasionally to nip at an insect then just as quickly disappearing again. Newts move awkwardly on land but in water they are graceful swimmers. We were mesmerized by this newt ballet. There were many tiny fish swimming about as well. Of course eagle-eyed Denali spotted the snake, a tiny reptile about three inches long and as thin as an earthworm. It zig-zagged its way through the water to the shore where we picked it up, taking turns holding in the palm of our hand. Snakes are shy and elusive so a  close encounter like this doesn’t happen very often. This was a classic Point Reyes moment where time seemed to stand still. We bid goodbye to the newts and the snake and continued on our way.

The last mile of the hike was a slow ramble, the trail widening and opening up as we climbed out of the forest. At the end we saw a laminated sign tacked to the trail sign. It described in detail how one month ago a mountain lion had killed a deer at the Coast Camp (we walked through the camp on our way to the beach). A stark reminder that Point Reyes is a truly wild place in more ways than one.