Richard Nichols travel, hiking, art and poetry

2011-12-13T10:45:00.000-08:00

faithful waiter

we were in a rock garden

mossy and green

moist sparkles of a million

dew drops on our wine glasses

waiting for dinner

the waiter finally came

greeting us

with laughter like a waterfall

then in a soft voice

took our order

we are not sure what we ordered

or what we would get

but he assured us it would harmonize

with soothing music

coming from the rocks and trees

bubbling up from the ground

reach beyond our expectations

and touch us deep in

unexplored territory

after a year

we were hungry

waiting all this time

for the promised meal

not noticing really

the passing of time

the slow changes

mosses drying out

then moist

leaves covering us

before the spring winds swept them away

the waiter stayed on

polishing tree trunks and leaves

speaking in a language

that sounded like growing plants

finally the meal arrived

the wait worth it all

waiting for the faithful waiter

2011-11-08T12:06:00.000-08:00

Europe/2011

A note: everywhere we visited has lots of information online, if you want more details.

After years of putting off visiting mainland Europe, Brenda and I committed ourselves to a 7 1/2 week journey to explore Italy, Slovenia and Croatia, with a stopover at the beginning and end of the trip to visit Brenda's family in Dublin, Ireland.

First is the story at the end of the trip, our last two days in Italy visiting Rome. After traveling for weeks we were getting tired. We'd been to Lake Como, Bolzano and the Dolomites, Venice, Florence, Lucca, Pisa, Cinqua Terra, back to Como, then to Trieste, Ljubljana (capitol city of Slovenia) , Pletvice National Park, Split, and Dubrovnik, all in Croatia.

So we are now in Dubrovnik, very travel weary after over six weeks on the road. We'd thought to fly from Dubrovnik to Dublin, giving us a few extra days in Croatia to visit some other places, but the flight was sold out. The only alternative was to take the ferry for 7 hours to Italy, then take the midnight train for 6 hours to Rome. That is what we did, all the while lamenting that we were tired and would have little energy for Rome. We got a room early in the morning and slept for 3 hours, giving 1 1/2 days to explore. As soon as we hit the pavement that morning we realized that we were in legendary Rome, the place where much of western thought and politics originated. When we saw the colosseum, the Forum and Palatine Hill, we were completely taken by it all. This was ground zero for over 1000 years of the Roman Empire.

The next day we were determined to get to the Vatican early to beat the crowds into Saint Peters Basilica. We are not Catholics, but still, the Vatican is ground zero for 1.1 billion. We wanted to see what all the fuss is about. When we entered the huge St. Peters Square fronting the cathedral, we were taken aback to see the place half full with perhaps 150,000 people already in the Square. We asked what was going on and was astounded to find out we had come upon a full blown mass to canonize, or give sainthood, to three deceased people, two Italians, and a nun from Spain. The person giving the mass was none other than the secular and religious leader of those 1.1 Catholics, Pope Benedict. Brenda was raised a Catholic, and neither of us have much good to say about the church, but we found the mass and the 300,000+ people attending to be quite moving in all its grand ceremony. People came to cheer for their favorite saint, wearing hats, waving flags, AND we got seats! When the mass commenced, with a brass band, several choirs, and several hundred bishops and others on the stage, the square became completely silent.

We managed to get into the line for the Basilica with not much of a wait. This Renaissance and Baroque monster is astounding. It covers six acres, and has the tallest dome in the world at 448 feet, and can hold 60,000 standing people. Inside the ornate decoration and art overwhelm, and holds one of the great sculptures ever, Michaelangelo's Pieta.

We visited a small church where the bones of 4000 friars are lines up and on display in six crypts, all the bones laid out in decorative arrangements.

There is something about Rome. It is crowded and fast, but it is special. Can't really describe it, but we want to go back.

The Cities

The cities feature the "old town" where a multitude of tourist flock. The old towns are surrounded by modern, unattractive sprawl on a massive scale. Venice is the exception, an island slowly sinking into the marsh upon which it was built. Everyone knows about Venice, the canals and the twisting narrow streets, and St Mark's Square and Cathedral. We found Venice a delightful place to get lost in, just meandering the streets, crossing over canals, and being surprised by a new view at every turn. We visited St Marks, and the Doge's (the governor of Venice) palace. Not to downplay Pisa, but more than one Venice clock tower is leaning. One day we wandered and found three interesting modern art shows. One show featured marble sculptures by a French artist named Fabre. The centerpiece of this fantastic show was a modern Pieta fashioned after the Michealangelo. (see the slide show).

Venice is crammed with tourists. In one out of the way bar, the server told us that 7 cruise ships a day discharge 40,000 people into the town. But just by walking a bit, we lost the crowds.

Florence features the huge Duomo cathedral and art by the greats of Renaissance art, including Michealangelo David, and the Boticelli painting, The Birth of Venus. We managed to get into both the Academia, full of sculpture including the David, and the Uffize, full of master works by Renaissance artists. (the Venus). As is usual for us, we walked all over old Florence, and had a room just a five minute walk from the Duomo.

We spent half a day in Milan. The immense Cathedral, the 4th largest in Europe, was built to impress. Its like a Gothic wedding cake, numerous spires with statues on top, 2000 statues inside, and 52 mammoth marble pillars holding the whole affair up.

Ljubljana, the capitol city of Slovenia, is the smallest capitol city in Europe of a brand new nation, only forming in 1990 after breaking away from Yugoslavia with only a few minor military skirmishes. The old city along the river is a wonderful place to people watch over a coffee or wine, a vibrant city full of young people. We took a day trip to Lake Bled from here (see the Nature section)

Split, on the Croatian coast, boasts an old town built right into the mammoth Diocletian's Palace (190 by 160 meters), built in the forth Century as a retirement home for the last Pagan Roman Emperor.

Dubrovnik, also on the coast, is a wonderful walled city full of narrow lanes and Medieval buildings, no cars and full of atmosphere (and tourists).

The massive mile long wall is a wonderful place to walk and see the city and coastline. As Croatia broke from Dubrovnik, the Yugoslavs shelled the city for 8 months, but the city resisted, and finally Croatia became a nation. All the buildings have been repaired and the city is thriving.

Nature

We enjoyed mixing city explorations with visits to more natural areas. We were invited to stay at the old Castelli villa by our friends the Laura and Emilio of Sebastopol. The place has been in the Castelli family for generations and the two villas on the property, right on Lake Como, were built in the early 1800.

Lake Como is surrounded by villages and towns. Our little village, Bellano, is off the tourist map, but nearby the famous Bellagio sits on a point. Lake Como is a glacial lake, formed by glaciers flowing out of the Alps, and it is surrounded by ridges and mountains. The ridges all around the lake are terraced for farming, grapes and olive mostly, cultivated for centuries, but most of the terraces are now overgrown and the many stone farmhouses are abandoned. The region is laced with ancient stone pathways connecting villages and farmsteads. The park above Bellano boasts 7000 kilometers of stone walls and many miles of stone paths. We were overjoyed to be able to walk these paths. Many of them have small Catholic shrines along the trail.

We walk in a wonderful region called the Alpe di Siuse, the largest alpine meadow region in Europe, in the Dolomite Mountains. We stayed in the small city of Bolzano, which has a strong German influence, because it was part of the Austrian empire until WW 1, when Austria had to cede the region to Italy. We took a tram high into the Dolomites only to be greeted by 6 inches of fresh snow, but the locals were on it, clearing the trails with a plow so the hikers could hike. After a great lunch at a hut along the trail, we made our way back to the tram and returned to Bolzano.

Cinqua Terra is a special place. The national park comprises 5 small villages along a stunning 7 miles of coastline. The villages are car free but connected by trains tunneled through the mountainside. Old trails, much like those at Lake Como, connect the villages and trails wind up the ridges past small villages and farmsteads. Many of the terraces are still cultivated in the stony dry soil for wine grapes. It was a joy to walk these old paths with stunning vistas of a wild coastline. Every evening in Vernazza, the custom is to take a bottle of wine to the harbor (2 minute walk from our room) and watch the sunset, accompanied by applause as the sun sank below the Mediterranean.

It took a long bus ride to get to Pletvice (PLEET-veet-seh) National Park in Croatia, and it was worth the ride. The main feature is a series of 16 lakes connected by many waterfalls. The lakes and waterfalls have been formed over the last 10,000 years by flowing through travertine deposits and building dikes and ledges. Our 12 mile hike through the valley was stunning.

Some interesting encounters

We got lost on trails on more than one occasion which led us to asked a local for directions. On one walk we got lost three time. In the two tiny villages someone managed to help up find our way without any english. The trail followed a clear path which ended at a farm. With no sign we were unsure of which path to take. We soon ran into the sheepherder who lived in the farmhouse. He seemed to be from another era with a ragged hat and red beard herding his sheep along the path. He took us to the right path, and indicted by picking a stone that we simply had to follow the stone path.

On a walking tour of Diocethians palace in Split, between stops the very informative guide told me privately that he was an out of work history teacher because he was a leftist and the Croatian government had turned very conservative.

We rented a room outside the walls of Dubrovnik from an older couple who recounted to us the shelling, the terror, lack of water and electricity and the 22 explosions occurring near their house in 1990, when the Yugoslavian army led by Serbs laid siege to the city.

A few Brenda comments

We very much enjoyed the fresh fish and produce markets in Slovenia, Croatia and Bellano. In Slovenia, you could buy fresh fish of all kinds from at least a dozen vendors. In these three locations, we had an apartment to stay in and could cook our own food which was a welcome change from eating three meals a day in restaurants.

The day we arrived in Vernazza (Cinqua Terra) a couple were getting married and we quickly learned that the custom is for the couple to go to a balcony in the town and toss down pounds of candy for the crowd to catch, this went on for about 15 minutes. On the same day we came across an art opening with lots of food and wine, and the fishermen were celebrating their careers as fishermen in the evening by walking through the village from restaurant to restaurant where food and drink were provided to everyone who came along with them, it was a very festive day.

ax the coppin

2011-08-21T17:09:00.000-07:00

ax the coppin

i want to ax the coppin

it stopped me cold

last time

close to victory

taken away by judgements

lacking

feeling bereft of

essential skills

of weaving or spelling

to get though the night

how could one be so foolish

so arrogant to challenge the word

ax? axe? coppin?

shit

i lost at scrabble again!

2011-07-08T18:03:00.000-07:00

Boston June and July 2011

picasa photos
https://picasaweb.google.com/richardnichols22/BostonJuneJuly2011

We were offered a house at Chestnut Hill near Boston College by our good friend Hanni Myers, who is the mother of our next door neighbor and friend Michael. We had two weeks to explore Boston and surroundings and we took full advantage of the opportunity, not stopping even one day for a rest. We explored Boston, walked hut to hut for 4 days in the White Mountains of NH, and took several excursions to places surrounding Boston.

Here are some of the highlights.
Walking Boston

Boston is called American's walking city for good reason. Its compact size, distinct, interesting districts and history going back to 1630 makes it a fascinating place to explore on foot. It reminded us in many was of San Francisco. It is old (for the US) history embedded in a thriving modern city. The aptly named Freedom Trail (see footnotes) was first on our agenda. The 2.5 mile route meanders past historic sites from the Revolutionary era such as the Old State House where the British opened fire on protesters in 1771, fanning the desire for self rule. The trail passes the Paul Revere house, a cemetary where Revere, Sam Adams, John Hancock and others are buried, and ends at Bunker Hill in Charleston, the site of the first major revolutionary battle.

We did the Beacon Hill Walk (footnotes), a place with magnificent old brick mansions, including the Nichols House Museum (1804). The Backbay at the base of Beacon Hill is another place filled with stately mansions for the 1800's, and the North End is primarily the Italian district, full of winding streets, brick flats and restaurants. We had a great and expensive Sicilian style fish dinner in the Daily Catch, a funky and basic place with only 18 seats, but what a meal.

Another highlight was a walk in the Emerald necklace, a connected chain of parks running for 6 or 7 miles through Boston, designed by Olmstead (GG Park and Central park)
www.emeraldnecklace.org/

Wonderfully, a trolley terminal was just a few minutes away from our house, and we never once used a car to get into Boston. The subway and trolly system (the T) is great. On one of our rides we engaged in a conversation with a group of charming and intelligent Turkish high school students here to learn more English.

We head for the White Mountains
www.fs.fed.us/r9/white/

We booked 3 nights in the historic Appalachian Mountain Club huts in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. The Whites are old, forming when the African continent collided with North America. They may have been more Like the Sierra Nevada at one time, but weather and glaciers have round them off to a vast (700,000 acres) series of 4000 foot mountains and ridges. We chose a 20 mile stretch called the Franconia Ridge. We stood atop four of the 40 mountain tops over 4000 feet. One of the goals of New England hikers is to climb all 40 peaks. Although our route seems short with days of 3,7,7 and 3 miles, we were completely flummoxed by the difficulty of some of the "trails". When the Appalachian Trail was laid out years ago contouring and switchbacks were out. The trail takes direct routes straight up the mountains and straight down! We were told that the seven miles from Galehead to Greenleaf huts was tough but we had no idea how difficult. The AT has few improvements such as steps, but instead passes over jumbled boulder fields. Our seven miles took 8 solid hours including one treacherous 1/2 mile that took an hour.
However, it was a wonderful hike, the rolling wooded mountains were beautiful the food was great in the huts and we met some great people, including several AT (2300 miles) thru hikers.

Excursion highlights

If you go to Boston, do not miss the JFK Library, easily reachable by subway. We also visited the JFK birthplace in Brookline, now a National Park on one city lot.
http://www.jfklibrary.org/
Birthplace
http://www.nps.gov/jofi/index.htm

Minute Man National Historic Park
http://www.nps.gov/mima/index.htm

In April 1775 The British sent 700 trained soldiers to Concord to confiscate the suspected store of arms the Colonial militias hid in barns. The first skirmish of the Revolutionary War happened at the old North Bridge, when the militia confronted soldiers guarding the bridge. The British did seize some weapons, but they had a major problem. They had a 20 miles march back to Boston. The Historic Park preserves a 5 mile piece of the road and some of the houses and a tavern that lined the road. The militias came from villages all over the region and ambushed the British all the way back to Boston. The walk along the road is well worth the visit.

from Paul Revere's Ride

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

-Longfellow

The Coast

We spent some time along the Maine, NH and Mass coast, and found some nice places.
Much of the coast is developed with extravagant mansions and private but we found some gems.
Glouchester was the first US port, and was a major fishing port. With the collapse of the fishery, with perhaps 100,000 fisherfolk out of work, many the old New England coast towns have turned to tourism, so that much of the old fishing port sense is gone. One great little find was a tiny "dive museum" run by one old guy who was a diver and has a great collection of diving equipment. He took donations, but really just wanted people to see his collection.

http://www.capeannhistoricalmuseum.org/history/gloucester_hist.htm

Maine
On the way back from the White Mts. We drove on back roads through south Maine. Very peaceful little villages with absolutely nothing going on. In the Coast we visited the Wells National Marine Sanctuary where we explored coastal forest, estuaries and the beach, as well as the Landholm farm buildings. Lotsa bugs, but very pretty.
http://www.mltn.org/trust_detail.php?t=1224

Also visited Halibut Point SP (Maine) and got a little insight into granite quarrying. The pit is full of water now, and the little museum tells the story.
www.mass.gov/dcr/parks/northeast/halb.htm

Let Freedom Ring (kinda)

Brenda and I braced ourselves to attend the Boston Pops Fireworks Spactacular, along with 700,998 other people. The music was great, the fireworks were by far the best we had ever witnessed, and the crowds were well mannered. It was a little over the top militaristic and patriotic for our taste, and the program was laced with advertising. That's where the "kinda" comes from. Let Freedom Ring To advertise, in other words. We both felt it tainted somewhat what should be celebrated: our personal liberties, our peacemaking, our generosity and the sacrifices many have made. And the flag waving, OMG!

FOOTNOTES

From the Freedom Trail Foundation
The Freedom Trail is a 2.5 mile red-brick walking trail that leads you to 16 nationally significant historic sites, every one an authentic American treasure. Preserved and dedicated by the citizens of Boston in 1958, when the wrecking ball threatened, the Freedom Trail today is a unique collection of museums, churches, meeting houses, burying grounds, parks, a ship, and historic markers that tell the story of the American Revolution and beyond.

We
***********************************************************************

HISTORY OF THE NICHOLS HOUSE MUSEUM
The Nichols House Museum occupies one of four connected townhouses constructed in 1804 for Jonathan Mason, successful businessman, real estate developer, and Massachusetts State senator. Historians suggest Mason built the townhouses to the east of his own mansion for his four daughters and their families. The houses' designs have been attributed to Charles Bulfinch by his biographer, Harold Kirker. Located at 55 Mount Vernon Street, the Nichols House is a fine example of a four-story Federal Period brick townhouse. The service wing (rear ell) and wood shed survive as rare examples of a mid-nineteenth century service area.
During the first quarter of the nineteenth century Jonathan Mason's daughter Elizabeth Mason Parker and her husband Samuel occupied the house. In 1885 it became the home of Dr. Arthur Nichols and his wife Elizabeth. Their daughter Rose Standish Nichols, noted landscape designer, author and one of the founders of the Women's International League for Peace and Freedom, became the sole heir of the property after her parents' deaths. Miss Nichols owned and cared for the house from 1934 until her death in 1960. She bequeathed her estate as a memorial to her parents. As specified in her will, the Nichols House has been open to the public as a museum since 1961. The house is a contributing resource to the Beacon Hill Historic District, listed in 1966 as a National Historical Landmark.

**************************************************************************
History of Beacon Hill
Before the Revolution, Beacon Hill was pasture land with a few notable exceptions, including John Hancock's country estate, which was demolished to make room for the western addition to the Massachusetts State House.

The South Slope was developed in the 1790's by the Mt. Vernon Proprietors for Boston's richest families, who by the late 1800's were being called Brahmins. South Slope streets were spacious and carefully laid out.

One of the proprietors, who also designed several Beacon Hill houses, was Charles Bulfinch. For a time, he was immortalized at 84 Beacon Street in the Bull & Finch Pub, which was the prototype for the television show, Cheers. The bar is now just called Cheers.

The North Slope developed more organically than the South Slope did. It grew up and down alleys and into nooks and crannies. Its residents were former slaves, sailors, poets -- people who were, as one wag put it, the morally emancipated. In the late 19th century, the North Slope became home to immigrants from Eastern and Southern Europe and many of the homes were remade into tenements.

The Flat of the Hill originally was part of the Charles River. After it was filled, it became home to blacksmiths, shoemakers, stables and later, garages of the homes on the South Slope. Now almost all these buildings have been renovated into living quarters.

**************************************************************************
Back Bay

is an officially recognized neighborhood of Boston, Massachusetts famous for its rows of Victorian brownstone homes, which are considered one of the best-preserved examples of 19th-century urban design in the United States, as well as numerous architecturally significant individual buildings and important cultural institutions such as the Boston Public Library. It is also a fashionable shopping destination, and home to some of Boston's tallest office buildings, the Hynes Convention Center, and numerous major hotels.
Prior to a monumental 19th-century filling project, the Back Bay was an actual bay. Today, along with neighboring Beacon Hill, it is one of Boston's two most expensive residential neighborhoods.

Faithful Waiter

2011-06-18T11:38:00.000-07:00

faithful waiter

we were in a rock garden
mossy and green
moist sparkles of a million
dew drops on our wine glasses
waiting for dinner

the waiter finally came
greeting us
with laughter like a waterfall
then in a soft voice
took our order

we are not sure what we ordered
or what we would get
but he assured us it would harmonize
with soothing music
coming from the rocks and trees
bubbling up from the ground
reach beyond our expectations
and touch us deep in
unexplored territory

after a year
we were hungry
waiting all this time
for the promised meal
not noticing really
the passing of time
the slow changes
mosses drying out
then moist
leaves covering us
before the spring winds swept them away

the waiter stayed on
polishing tree trunks and leaves
speaking in a language
that sounded like growing plants

finally the meal arrived
the wait worth it all
waiting for the faithful waiter

State Parks

2011-05-22T14:08:00.000-07:00

Saving California State Parks

My wife and I recently returned from a camping/hiking trip along California's magnificent north coast. Our first stop was at the absolutely most beautiful park in Sonoma County, Salt Point State Park. We enjoyed a quiet camp, and several days of great hiking, including one stretch along the California Coastal Trail. We moved up the coast stopping at parks in Mendocino and Humboldt Counties. These parks and all the other state parks, about 278 in total have put aside some of the best, most pristine, historically significant landscapes, for public enjoyment and resource protection.

The mission of State Parks is this in part:

"... to provide for the health, inspiration and education of the people of California by helping to preserve the state's extraordinary biological diversity...and creating opportunities for high-quality outdoor recreation".

So what did we find on our trip? We found beautiful landscapes, friendly camp hosts, closed coastal access parking lots, overgrown, damaged and closed trails, deteriorating campgrounds, high fees for camping and a lack of presence by State Park Rangers. Although still wonderful parks, the infrastructure supporting visitors and natural resources is in very bad shape. This is not the fault of State Park staff. One camp host told us that in the 20 years they had hosted, park Rangers were reduced from five on duty rangers to "one very pregnant ranger". Camp hosts clean bathrooms because maintenance staff has been severely reduced.

The blame for this lies directly in Sacramento, where the legislature has drastically cut Parks budgets for years and refused to raise taxes on the wealthy and corporations, and the blame lies with the voters, who refused to add $18 a year to vehicle license fees to fund Parks, while at the same time demanding services.

An important aspect of this situation is the local economy, which politicians seem to ignore. Parks generate economic activity in the areas surrounding the parks. After a good hike or bike ride people will stop in for a drink or a bite to eat at local businesses, people will stop at the local deli for food to take on a picnic. Shut the parks and you hurt the businesses, lowering tax revenues. Take away healthy forms of recreation and you create more possibility for health problems, driving up health care costs.

Here is what the scenario looks like. The parks get shabbier and shabbier, the visitation goes down along with revenues, trails get little use, campground don't fill so then there is justification to close them. Finally, if some have their way, the parks get closed and leased out to corporations, or even sold, and then just become a tool of making executives and stockholders rich, instead of serving the public.

This scenario seems drastic, but the only way to insure that we won't lose our wonderful State Park system is to adequately fund it. Will the citizens of California meet this challenge, or should we just kiss it all goodbye? Do we really want to loose our open lands, our source of oxygen, clean water, peace and quiet? Has our society moved so far down the path of consumerism, that nothing else matters? Will our kids get educated to sit in front of a computer, become faithful consumers, and never see the wonders that keep the planet alive? Will legislators continue to ignore the disaster? And finally, can the state close facilities that the people paid for and own?

Postscript: A public interest tragedy has occurred as I write this. On Friday, May 13, 2011, state government announced the likely closing of 70 State parks. The valued parks that we the public paid for and own are being taken away.

The Bakery

2011-05-18T16:03:00.000-07:00

The Bakery Richard Nichols 4.26.11
Helms Bakery was a Southern California institution, recognized by many because of the bright distinctive yellow trucks that drove the neighborhoods every weekday, loaded with fresh pies, donuts and bread. On an elementary school field trip I visited the bakery, and along with thousands of other children over the years, we were fascinated to see where all the goodies came from.
Paul Helms founded the company in 1931, and it remained a family-run business until it closed in 1969, finally failing because of shopping malls, supermarkets and cheap bread. It had a loyal employee base who were paid union scale because the company wanted to keep the employees happy and union free. Many employees spent their entire working lives at the bakery.
My father, in his later working life, got a job at Helms as a janitor. He'd been an expert in the tire recapping business, but both age and a shrinking demand for recaps ended that.
In 1960 I graduated from high school and attended Cerritos Junior College that fall. Helms had a policy of hiring college students with a relative working at the bakery, to fill in for vacationing employees. In the summer of 1961 I had my first job.
I was hired for the shipping department night shift. We spent the evening filling orders down long rows of racks for the delivery truck drivers, or Helmsmen, as they were called. Bread, donuts, pies, cakes and other items went into metal stacking trays on rollers. During holidays such as Thanksgiving, it was not uncommon to fill one order for a hundred pumpkin pies. When the orders were filled late into the night, we rolled the racks through swing doors to the dock to load freight trucks, which then delivered to the drivers in outlying areas all over Southern California. By the end of the shift, the huge hardwood shipping floor the size of a football field, which had bustled with the activity of two shifts filling orders for hundreds of drivers, was now empty and swept, ready for the morning shift, consisting entirely of women.
I worked at the bakery off and on for the next 7 years, full time and part time. I was in and out of college, taking breaks, then returning, going to four colleges. During one semester I took a full load and worked full time, keeping myself going with the help of "bennies" or benzedrine.

Much of my real life education, and fun, happened from working at the bakery.
The men who worked the night shift had families. In those days a factory wage was enough to buy a house. I brought home about $120 a week, and had more than enough. This easygoing bunch could have some fun. One pastime, when the foreman Happy, and the supervisor, Bill McGee. weren't looking, was to wad up an entire loaf of white balloon bread into hard golfball size balls and have a doughball fight. With all the pies and cakes around, it was easy to gain weight, especially when fresh cream was brought in from the back. Cream and cherry pie was a favorite. One of the women said, "Richard, you are getting fat," and when I looked down at my stomach, much to my surprise, I found that she was right, I'd developed my first paunch. After the shift ended at around midnight, some of use would go to the local bar for beer. One guy, Gary, got off earlier, and we often found him at the bar working on his twentieth (or more) beer. Somehow he always got home and was up the next morning for work, a working alcoholic. One guy worked all day doing yard maintenance, and then worked the night shift. I never understood when he slept. Another worker, fresh from Italy, was given a bad time because he ate so much garlic that he reeked of it. I liked him and tried to give him some cover, defending him against slurs. When I worked the late, late shift, getting off at three a.m., a group of us would have breakfast and hit the golf course at sunup. Nicknames were common. Larry was fine haired and balding, so he was labeled "onionhead."
I made friends with Ron Crozier, who ended up influencing my life more than anyone at that time. He was a graduate of LA State but was working full time at the bakery because he was supporting and taking care of his parents, who were both ill. Ron was four years older than my tender age of 20. Ron and I dated two women on the Day shift, Darlene and Virginia. Our dates consisted mostly of going to a bar to drink. A friend of mine David, met Virginia, and soon he asked me if he could date her because they had fallen in love. I gave my blessings.
Ron introduced me to marijuana and LSD (acid), jazz, and some kind of bohemian life. We spent many an evening passing around a joint of weak Mexican leaf, drinking beer and listening to Jazz. We also talked about what it was all about, about our angst, and about Buddhist philosophy. Sense of self and the ego seemed to be the main topics. Ron, more than anyone I ever met, could get under your skin and challenge your notions and ideas about life's meaning. The LSD sessions shattered our world view such as it was. The "doors of perception" were changed forever. Nothing is solid, and that is what we discovered as we melted into the rug or the chair. "E=mc squared" seemed real to us. Light became waves and patterns. In retrospect, the experiences were real, even if the conclusions were wrong or misguided.
I also met a young woman working the summer day shift in shipping. Carol was a very attractive woman with fine Italian features. I'd always been a little awkward and shy around women, but soon we were dating, and finally, at long last, I had sex for the first time. That first affair lasted for four months, but soon after her mother found out we were intimate, she kicked her out of the house, and then Carol kicked me out of her life. I never saw her again.

Mountain Grove, Part Three

2011-04-26T17:55:00.000-07:00

Mountain Grove Community, Part 3 Richard Nichols 4.19.11

Money was tight at Mountain Grove. Most of us needed to find some kind of work outside the community. We didn't need much, because we lived nearly rent free and had basic food - a vegetable garden, rice, and beans. If we wanted something else we had to buy it. Heidi and I were living together in a tiny little cabin, with just barely enough room for a bed, but we were warm and cozy, and the main house was just a few steps away.

Heidi got a very unusual job, for those times and in that region. An art class in Grants Pass, the nearest big town of about 20,000 residents, decided to do a nude study, but they were afraid the conservative community would come down on the side of indecent exposure. Heidi and the teacher went to the police chief, and cleared it with him. It helped that his wife was in the class. Another time, Heidi came into a little money, and after talking to someone we'd met about the ease of growing nursery stock, we bought 5000 plants and put them in the ground, with the intention of transferring them to pots later and selling to nurseries. The community was all for it, until they actually had to help do the work, then we had our first big whine in the community. Somehow city kids just weren't into it. We finally sold the stock at very little profit, and some of the trees are still growing out in the field.

I worked for the only commercial organic vegetable garden in the Grants Pass area. Chris was a quiet, hard-working guy, eking a living on 5 acres, with very little help. I mostly weeded, and ate strawberries when he wasn't looking. I made a few dollars an hour and worked several days a week for most of one summer. I also got a job with the town of Glendale, a mill town a few miles from Mountain Grove, with a population of about 400. I was the Assistant Maintenance Supervisor. The Head of Maintenance was the only other employee in the department, and I assisted him, thus, the assistant. We kept the water works (really just a pond up the hill with a funky chlorine treatment) and the sewer treatment facility in working order. But the plant released a good part of the sewage into the creek untreated, being a very old-fashioned system. We repaired streets, water lines and anything else needing work.

We saved money where we could. We were told by the local sheriff that a pile of gravel by the highway was free to take, so we filled up truckloads to use on the leach fields we were building. Several weeks later Norman and I were arrested for gravel theft and spent several hours in jail before being bailed out. People from the county road department had observed us taking gravel, and instead of telling us not to, they called the sheriff. The county DA decided to take us to court, convict and jail us, but we had something that would defeat that. The sheriff who gave us the OK, came to court and testified in our favor. The judge called a halt to the proceeding and ask us to pay for the gravel.

I also worked in the timber industry. I was on a tree planting crew for several weeks, but the conditions were deplorable. The Foreman was a slave driving, demeaning idiot, and the pace of planting was brutal. Slogging up and down steep clear cut slopes in rain, and even snow, was not for me. I also worked on a logging "show" for all of two days. The trees in a burn area had been cut and I was on the "choker setter" crew that draped one inch cable around 5 or 6 foot diameter trees criss crossed in all directions on a very steep slope. A big pulley then pulled the logs up to a landing where they were loaded on a truck. The job was the most difficult, dirty and dangerous thing I ever did, and we had to drive two hours each way on dirt roads to get there. The next job was in the plywood factory feeding ply into a dryer. It was tedious work that I hated and they finally "demoted" me to cleanup man, which was liberating. It gave me the run of the factory on a jitney. Moving scraps of ply to a grinder and sweeping seemed like a vacation after being stuck feeding the dryer.

The community met every week, but the meetings were often full of angst and anger as we tried to work out exactly what we were supposed to accomplish, which was difficult to identify. Everyone was seeking something, but it seemed that no one was really very satisfied. David Young, the founder and Director, had a hard time communicating what we were supposed to do to the new age crowd, and his authority was constantly challenged. We struggled to bond and find a new way to relate not based on mainstream norms. Sharon started to writer intuitively and soon she was writing messages to the group that seemed to be from a guiding spirit. She and David started working together, seeking the guidance that would lead us out of the stuck place the community was in. Heidi and I were planning on getting married, and the message about that was that our ceremony would be the start of an enlightened period. After several months of this kind of guidance, a psychic was told about these efforts, and informed us that what we were getting was from malevolent entities.

While the messages came to a halt, the marriage plans went ahead and the whole community got involved. We were to have a new age wedding. Ruth wrote a song for us, Heidi made a shirt for me, and a dress for herself. Margo sang the song, and David presided. Our parents were invited to come to the March wedding. We used the four elements, of earth, water, fire, and air to demonstrate our commitment. The weather was cold and both Heidi and I wore long-johns under our clothes. The plum tree we planted was run over by a tractor months later.

Right after the wedding I went into a several months long depression for reasons I never understood. I sat in a chair in our cabin and took long walks, and refused to talk to anyone. It was difficult for Heidi and everyone else. Finding a way out took time, but finally I started working on the garden. I was in charge of the garden for several years and it was one of the successes. Organic gardening and healthy veggies brought me back from depression.

In our last year at Mountain Grove (1973) Members of Heidi's family had taken EST, or Erhard Seminar Training, in San Francisco. They suggested we take the course. Over a two weekend, 60 hour training, we got the boot-camp version of enlightenment, and upon returning to Mountain Grove, ended our four year experiment in alternative living, and moved to Oakland to open a new chapter. We realized, I think, that we were not going to change society by being communal, but could only change ourselves.

I never regretted my time at Mountain Grove. Heidi, Margo and Brian, and Sharon (now Ann) are still my cherished and close friends.

How I Met My Wife

2011-04-16T18:08:00.000-07:00

The Motorcycle, The Elks Club, the Mortician and Me

How I Met My Wife

One of the reasons I believe people are interested in how Brenda and I met is that my wife is native Irish, Dublin born, with a lovely Irish lilt in her voice, and she definitely carries the culture in her bones.

I always start the story by listing the elements that comprised a meeting of souls I had no way of anticipating. The story involves my brother who was a motorcycle gang member, a motorcycle accident, the Elks Club, Octoberfest, a dance band, a mortician, and my family.

One late summer day in 1981, my brother was driving his motorcycle with fellow members of the outlaw Vagos gang, a group fashioned after the Hells Angels. They were a gang of hard drinkers, dope dealers and thieves. The FBI identified them as an "organized crime syndicate." As the group of riders took the off-ramp from the San Gabriel Freeway in Pico Rivera, my brother failed to see the stopped cars, and rear ended one, sending him flying through air and landing on his helmetless head. I got the call at my house in Oakland from my distraught mother that my brother was in a coma, and I should come immediately.

I left for LA that same day and spent several months traveling back and forth to support my parents in their grief. Otherwise I had no desire to go back to LA except to see my parents. We spent many anguished hours in the hospital, with friends of my parents and members of the gang. I met one of my brother's fellow gang members, Chainsaw, and his woman, Country. Chainsaw was a classic biker type -- with grungy clothes, a big beard and stringy hair, leather and tattoos. Country was also a classic, good looking and sexy in a hard bitten, hard talking kind of way. As we talked quietly and companionably in the hospital waiting room, Chainsaw disclosed he had been in prison and had been out for several years. I offered him a cigarette, but he told me he'd given them up in prison. He also calmly disclosed that he was due to appear in court the next day to be tried for a murder he claimed he didn't commit. I saw a news article later reporting that he was found guilty and sent back to the pen. These were my brother's friends.

My brother persisted in the coma, and the doctor described the extensive cone of brain damage radiating from the wound, giving us little hope that he would ever recover. My parents were despondent to have lost a son, but in a way they had already lost him to a life of crime. He was in the coma for nine years before dying.

On one visit weeks after the accident, while we still held hope that he might recover, my sister Pat asked me if I wanted to go the Elks Club Octoberfest dinner. I asked my sister if there would be any eligible women at the festivities. She said, "Oh yes, but they'll all be over 65." I was 39, single and out of the market for a partner or dating, having had a string of short, failed relationships. But I decided to go. The only reason she was going at all was because her husband, John, was a mortician and manager of the mortuary at the Oakgrove cemetery in Glendora, and the Elks Club supplied a steady stream of customers.

The Monrovia (CA) Elks Club building, like many social/charitable clubs, has a large plain hall, a well-stocked bar with bartender, a stage and a kitchen. The cook had prepared a fine Octoberfest meal of Jaegerschnitzel and German potato salad, but the beer was unfortunately Budweiser. The hall was set in a festive German theme for at least a hundred diners, but only about 25 people showed up. The little dance band of piano, bass, guitar and singer, old guys with string ties and shiny suites, played some standards in a very ordinary way which only added to the disheartened feel of the festivities, with so few people in attendance. The band's attempt at a few polka numbers fell pretty flat. The dance band music was not very danceable. However, the food was excellent. I, along with my sister and brother-in-law and my father, had a good feast.

But I was getting restless and bored, and asked if we could please leave. But we didn't. John the mortician was a regular at Elks events, and was very sociable. He was my sisters second marriage, and I'd gotten to know him a little. He'd given me a tour of the mortuary, shown me several bodies he was working on. For me, seeing bodies laid out on metal tables was a little disconcerting. John was a heavy drinker, and obsessive about everything being clean and orderly. I always attached that trait to his job of handling cadavers.

Two waitresses served the little crowd of diners and John knew them both by name from previous events. As one of the waitresses cleared dishes, John the mortician and sociable guy that he was, suggested to the waitress and me, that we dance. The waitress, wearing a little party hat like a german mountaineering hat, seemed embarrasses and said she couldn't do that, she was working. I wanted to crawl in a hole, although I did take note of her slender figure and pretty face. After she left, I again broached the subject of leaving, but again, no takers. So we drank and talked. The dance band played on: tunes like Come Fly Away With Me, Blue Velvet, Twist, Queen of the Hop. Nobody danced and few listened.

Finally after one more futile attempt to leave, I noticed that the waitress who wouldn't dance was sitting at the bar, apparently off work. What the hell, I thought, it's boring sitting here, so I'll go asked her to dance now that she's off. Screwing up my courage, I went to the bar and asked for a drink, sitting down next to the waitress. After making some conversation, I asked her to dance, but she said, "No, I wouldn't dance to that band, their terrible, but I know a good place not to far that has good music."

So off I went with Brenda in her car, telling my family I'd be home later. Brenda and I danced the evening away, even though I lacked much dancing ability, at a country and western bar. We talked the usual where we were from, worked, lived, and I was smitten by her. She was lively, talkative and good looking. We enjoyed each other, I think I was falling hard even in those first few hours. The next day, a Saturday, we met again. That day in November I fell in love with the Irish lass with the lilting voice.

After one divorce and years of being alone, depressed at times, fairly aimless in my life, these strange confluence of events brought me to the most important event and transition ever, allowing me to grow up, commit to another soul, and experience life in a new and profound way

We carried on a long distance romance, Oakland and Pasadena, for nine months, and got married by a guy in a green suit at the marriage commission in Las Vegas, on our way for a camping trip in the Southwest. All this happened because of my brother's misfortune and our introduction by a mortician at the Elks Club Octoberfest.

Mountain Grove Community, Part Two

2011-04-06T19:01:00.000-07:00

Mountain Grove, Part Two Richard Nichols 2.29.11

In 1969 a short blurb about Mountain Grove in a new age publication, Vocations for Social Change, brought a lot of interest. Many people were looking for alternatives to what they saw as a failed society, Vietnam perhaps being the greatest symbol of failure. Starting in the mid sixties communes and intentional communities were popping up all over the West coast. College students, new graduates and young families were looking for an alternative.

In the spring of 1970, our little core group of people, Greg and Cindy, Muffy, Billie, Ralph, Dusty and myself, were meeting regularly to try to bond as a community and to be ready for an influx of people in the summer. We all felt a certain idealism, a feeling that we could do something special. We built several cabins, a covered outdoor kitchen with a wood stove midway up the valley in an attractive stand of trees where people would camp, started a garden, built a workshop in the big hay barn, all in preparation for the 100 or so people who would soon arrive to spend the summer camping and working on building projects.

All seven of us, in our innocence and idealism, would soon find ourselves overwhelmed.

David and the Board of Directors of the non-profit New Education Foundation, the actual owner of the property, had established some rules essential to a spiritual community. No alcohol and drugs allowed, and vegetarianism encouraged. The summer visitors would have to have money for personal expenses, while basic food was provided. Everyone was expected to work on a project. David was a very formal Englishman, a meditator, a follower of Krishnamurti, a teacher at Happy Valley School in Ojai, and a man with a vision of a community of spiritual educators. The very nature of the rules and his personality, and the nature of a bunch of idealistic new age kids, was bound to create conflict.

That summer many people came and went, and a few people became friends. A few people bonded. Heidi Hornberger arrived from UC Santa Barbara, Sharon and Norm came from Illinois. David's son Brian and his wife Margo came for a visit from teaching jobs in the East Bay, but returned home, only to return to live the next year. These are the people I came to know and love. I married Heidi, and we all are still very close to each other, although living far apart.

Steve arrived from Pittsburgh, driving a big truck with a motorcycle in the back, and an attitude, as well as an air of competence. People arrived from all over the country. The place exploded with activity. A big garden was planted, a septic system was hand dug by both sexes. Big burly college guys, and the waiflike and lovely Leslie labored side by side to dig the trenches. We built a sauna, two brothers put up a teepee, and Steve spearheaded the building of the Big House, a place that would serve as the community center, kitchen and classrooms. Although I was looked at as one of the leaders of all this, I was actually quite confused about how any of it would work out. Unknown to David and some of the core group, including me, some spoiled rice was fermented to make a potent hooch, and pot plants were planted in the little hidden meadows next to the springs. But the campers kept on the projects enthusiastically in spite of misgivings about what it was all about.

We had some unique experiences, mostly being city and suburban kids. Some people brought dogs with them, invariably city dogs, and these dogs had encounters with a particular forest critter that caused a lot of pain. The dogs, not knowing what they were in for, came up for a look at the wild porcupines, and found their noses full of deeply embedded quills. Nobody could afford a vet, so I, being the most experienced country dweller (of a whole year), took on the task of removing the quills. We tied the dogs head to a tree and removed the quills with a pliers. I got my first taste of public nudity when Greg and Cynthia coaxed me to undress at the swimming hole, and I ended up enjoying it immensely, especially the well endowed and extremely gorgeous Leslie, and the tall, lithe Heidi.

Meetings around the campfire were held regularly, and David tried to impart the vision of what the community would be. We would be a community of educators and workers, serving students who would pay tuition, as well as the children who lived at the community. But this formalized vision was in contrast to the free living, free love, pot smoking style of many of the communes in the region and our campers. Much of the campfire discussion was taken up with conflict and doubts, questioning David about why in a democracy, he was calling the shots and not the community. Finally, in a fit as frustration and anger, David spoke words that I will not repeat. Those words forever took away any chance that they would respect him or his vision. No amount of apology could heal the damage.

Heidi and I became attracted to each other, we made friends with Anne and Norm, and Brian and Margo, and moved into a little cabin together. I was 28, and it was the first time I actually ever lived with a women. The summer went by quickly, the big house was nearly done, the septic field was done, and A-frame house was being constructed, and a group of about 12 people agreed to stay the winter and make a go of the community.

Mountain Grove Community, Part One

2011-03-19T11:29:00.000-07:00

Mountain Grove Community, Part One Richard Nichols 3.15.11

In 1968 I was 26, and found myself with nowhere to go. I had escaped the draft and Vietnam, was out of college, took karate as a pastime, worked at the bakery, drank to much, smoked to much, and got fat on bakery goods, (pie with whole cream, yum!), and had a girlfriend I didn’t love. All of it felt very empty, I had no future and no prospects. My pal and mentor Ron Crozier, a co-worker from Helms Bakery, was a friend to Art and Gloria, who lived in a small house in the hills above Whittier Caifornia. I was invited to a party at their house and got to know. They announced they were going to help start an Intentional Community called Mountain Grove, a community of people with a common interest and a common goal, to be established on 400 acres of land in Southern Oregon. After I expressed interest, they suggested that I go and meet the founder, David Young, living in Ojai. David was a teacher, and a friend and follower of Krishnamurti, an internationally recognized spiritual teacher. The idea of the community was to establish a school based on Krishnamurti’s teachings. After my interview, I was invited to go to Mountain Grove and help Art and Gloria make a start. I have no idea what I said that qualified me to make this move, but make it I did. In the spring of 1969 my Dad and I packed my meager belongings, mostly books, into his station wagon and he drove me from Los Angeles to Mountain Grove, in Southern Oregon. I didn’t know until years later that my parents thought that I was mentally unstable, and my dad offered to take me to make sure I’d be OK. He stayed for a week, then left, and here I was to make a new beginning, to change directions.
The Mountain Grove property is nestled in its own little valley, with a year-round creek, several bottomland hay fields and meadows, and stands of second growth timber encircling the valley. The original homestead was placed up near the end of the high meadow, the house and barn derelict. All the signs of a classic homestead, dairy barn, chicken coop, old equipment, even an old oak icebox lay scattered about the place. Mr. and Mrs. Allen sold the land to the educational foundation and went into retirement. They had been on the place since the 30’s. Mr. Allen told me they left city life to raise their kids in a safe place. Mr. Allen built a huge hay barn and small house down at the end of the valley, nearer the highway, and that was home for the new green, recruits who were to explore the New Age ideas, and replace the outdated social and educational norms of mainstream America.
Art and Gloria and a single man had arrived 3 weeks before I did, and he had already departed, having been made very sick by a spider bite. We had some drawings for the main building that was to house the school, and immediately started to wonder how we could accomplish the ambitious project without money, and without any building skills. Art and Gloria began expressing doubts about the project. Gloria pushed to leave after having a nightmare, in which the founder David Young appeared as a demon. Art announced they were leaving and invited me to go with them, but to go where? I had left LA for good, and could think of no reason to return to LA, and so with spring approaching, but with gloomy rain most days, I found myself the sole resident of a beautiful valley, seven miles from the nearest town, and with not a clue what would happen.
For several months I lived alone, caretaking the property, while David Young, still in Ojai, kept teaching so that the mortgage payments could be met. I was living off funds I'd saved working at the bakery. My days were occupied cutting and splitting firewood, taking walks in the valley, and writing letters to David reporting on the situation. Mr. Allen would drop by on occasion for a visit, and taught me how to use the old Farmall tractor, hay cutter and the hay-baling machine. We also had a D-9 Caterpillar dozer used to dam the creek so water could be pumped to the fields. After using it a few times, tearing the earth and spewing diesel fumes, I realized the monster was more than we needed and sold it.
Summer was coming on and the wildflowers bloomed in abundance. David invited several people to come and check out Mountain Grove for the summer, and soon we had a little community of two young women, Billie and Muffy, and a young man, Tom, who had carpentry skills. We built a little cabin for David to stay in, and I planted a vegetable garden for the first time in my life. That summer we lived off the garden, and 100-pound sacks of rice and beans. One of the goals of Mountain Grove was to be vegetarian as well as alcohol and drug free.
The summer passed by quickly with a few people dropping in for short stays. I cut and baled several tons of hay, also a first, and sold it for something like 50 cents a bale. Old friends Brian and Paulette came for a while, but their relationship was in trouble and they soon left. At the end of summer everyone left, and I was alone again for a short time, when a couple arrived and announced they wanted to stay. This was a short-lived enterprise as I soon learned. They were there simply as a spot to land, with no interest at all in the project. Within a few months I was alone again, and spent a lonely winter caretaking the place. My occupations were firewood splitting, repairs to the buildings, taking care of the laying hens and reading. A letter I wrote to David Young reports “Greeting from wet, wet, wet Oregon It has rained almost every day… I have been watching where the water flows… it flows everywhere!” In the spring of 1970 a young, sweet couple, Gregory and Cynthia, and then Ralph, a carpenter, arrived. We made an attempt to get to know each other, and become a foundation for the community. We had serious discussions about being the core group of people that would establish the community and welcome a tidal wave of youthful idealists invited to come in the summer. And come they did in force. Part Two of this story talks about a collection of college students, spiritual seekers, pot smokers, new age idealists, the woman I met and married, the lifelong friends I made, and the effort we made at being a community.

My Private War

2011-02-20T17:11:00.001-08:00

My Private War Richard Nichols 2.22.11

In 1960, the year I graduated from high school, the prosperous, cold war years of the 50's closed. The turbulence of the 60’s, the growing youth rebellion, drug revolution, the Vietnam War and protest, assassination of the Kennedy brothers, ML King and Malcolm X, seemed impossible, a stark contrast to the conservative 50’s. But within a few years the United States was in a war in Vietnam, the draft was in place, and I was the ripe, right age to get drafted. I enrolled in Cerritos Junior College, found part time work at Helms Bakery, was introduce to pot, LSD, jazz, and a more bohemian life.

College, getting stoned, and working at the bakery are other stories. This is the story of my own private war.

In the 60's a powerful motivation for staying in college was military draft deferment. I was not training for a job, because I had no idea at all what I might do for a living. My strongest motivation was fear, fear of the military, fear of going to war, fear of being at the mercy of people I didn't know and would probably dislike. You would be told what to think, when to eat, sleep and go to the bathroom, how to march, how to salute and how to shine shoes and weapons. The idea of it all terrified me. So I stayed in college and kept those deferments coming. Moving around to several colleges, failing, dropping out, coming back, working, drinking, getting stoned, girlfriends, kept me occupied for the years between 1960 and 1965. While the youth rebellion, sit ins, and war protests grew in strength, I was lying low, trying to stay out of the war.

In January 1966 I received a draft notice, and most importantly, a deferment until the end of the school semester. This began my own private war against the draft, and against the machinery designed to grind you down and make you miserable. This small war lasted two years. My question was, "How do I get out of this?” Fortunately the draft resistors group, the Central Committee for Conscientious Objectors (CCCO), was helping young men with the draft. After some serious thought, and a heightened sense that I was about to become cannon fodder, I took the dive into the deep end and asked to be sent the "Handbook for CO’s". In the meantime the draft machinery was rolling. I received notice to report for a pre-induction physical in a downtown Los Angeles location.

In the lineup of young men herded like cattle, one young guy had a tremendous sore on his private parts. The response from the doctor, if that was what he was, was to get the hell out of there. I was standing in a line, now dressed, waiting for some other examination, maybe teeth, ears, or eyes, when I noticed a young man sitting at a desk in an office with the word "psychiatry" over the door, with an old guy behind the desk. I caught the drift of the conversation - the draftee was faking homosexuality, and the Army would fix that.

If anything, the miserable experience of lining up with several hundred young men, stark naked in a cold warehouse like structure, and being probed, poked, bent over, and snarled at, and given a "1-A" classification (fit for induction), strengthened my resolve, albeit the resolve was modified somewhat by fear.

In the spring of 1966, my friend Michael and I decided to consider moving to Canada, to avoid the draft, but after a visit to Vancouver, we decided to stay home as U.S. citizens. But that is a story in itself.

By June of 1966 I'd read the CCO Handbook, and filled out the forms to file as a conscientious objector. The questions on the form included "nature of belief", "source of beliefs", 'use of force", actions and behavior", and other questions. I answered the questions in a personal way, not attempting to connect myself to a group such as the pacifist Quakers, but simply depended on philosophy to make my case, such as "I desire as a responsible human being to not cause suffering but to pursue unity with my fellow man".

The bureaucratic process rolled on. The local draft board turned down my request for reclassification in late 1966. I immediately requested a hearing with the board. I appeared before the Board well dressed and well mannered, but was greeted by a panel of snarling old men. The message was, "You are going in the Army and they will straighten you out”. One of them pointed out that I had mud on my shoes and the army would teach me how to keep them clean. I was so flummoxed, so utterly without words, that I did not point out that the mud was from the draft board parking lot!

I still had one more move. I appealed the decision to the State Appeals Board. This started a year long process of a Justice Department (FBI) investigation into my background. A hearing was scheduled before a hearing officer, and two reports were filed. The first, in 1967, was a report on interviews the FBI conducted with my friends, neighbors and co-workers. Much of the report was taken up with my appearance, "long hair, dresses strangely", lacking church attendance, my moving around to different colleges and my grades. Most people said I was of good character. The report concluded, after citing various court cases, that the timing of my application demonstrated an attempt to get out of serving.

I also spoke with a hearing officer at the Federal Building in April of 1968. He was fair with me in the informal hearing. The interview was more like a friendly chat. He concluded that I was sincere in my beliefs, but that they did not fit the criteria. I was refused CO status. The final report was filed with the local Draft Board March 18, 1968, four days before my 26th birthday. I turned 26 without hearing anything further, and I was free. The cut off age for draftees was 26.

And yes, I did file for CO status to get out of the military. The legal process saved my ass, and nothing else, and I’ve been grateful ever since.

My Grandparents Lived in Santa paula

2011-02-15T11:48:00.000-08:00

Richard Nichols 2.15.2011

My Grandparents Lived in Santa Paula

My mothers family moved from Waco Texas to California in the early 1930s. My grandfather worked for Union Oil Company and the family moved because of work in the oil field in the South Mountain area above Santa Paula, in Ventura County, about 70 miles north of Los Angeles. In those days Santa Paula was a small town and still has that feeling despite the inevitable growth of Southern California. Oil production (much diminished) and citrus have been the economic engines of the town. When my mother was young the family lived up in the hills near the oil wells, and came down to Santa Paula for school.

My father rode the rails out to California from Missouri during the depression, and being an enterprising man, soon found work in Santa Paula, in a tire recapping shop. My parents met at a baseball game played by the local semi-pro team.

I was born at Whittier Hospital in 1942, and lived in Whittier, Pico Rivera and Montebello. During childhood my parents took us to see my grandparents several time a year. For my entire life now, I have returned to Santa Paula and Ventura to visit: my Grandparents as a child, my Aunt and Uncle later, and my sister.

Some of my earliest memories are of trips to Santa Paula. In the late 40's, before freeways, Los Angeles was still a big city, and my dad would drive the big black (so it seemed) Chevy across the LA basin, on surface streets. There were a few special places that we always badgered my father to drive by. The Wrigley Mansion was one. This grand 'house" of 16,000 SF was built by the gum magnate in 1929 on Orange Grove Drive in Pasadena for his wife so she could watch the Rose Parade in comfort. He died in the place only a few years later. We drove slowly by the mansion and sometimes circled for a second look, and commented on the huge size and elaborate exterior, green lawns and palm trees gracing the grounds. We also clamored to drive by a spooky looking overgrown mansion with castle like towers. We always said it was haunted or that a witch lived there. Another attraction, and must do, was to drive across the narrow bridge spanning high above Arroyo Seco.

Out into the countryside, we drove through the tiny hamlet of Thousand Oaks. We often stopped along the two-lane road at a place called Jungleland that kept exotic animals used in Hollywood movies. The elephant was brought out at noon to be fed, and if the timing was right, we watched the spectacle. It is all gone. A six lane freeway bisects the valley of the thousand oaks, and 130,000 people live in the city.

Turning toward Santa Paula at Castiac Junction with a gas station and cafe called Sam's Place, ( now Magic Mountain amusement park is nearby) the road took us down Santa Clara Valley, full of thousands of acres of citrus and avocado ranches. The dry rugged mountains within Angeles National Forest define the valley, and the home of the Sespe Condor Sanctuary is in that country. Even today the citrus industry is thriving and the valley is much as it was 60 years ago.

My grandparents lived in a modest old frame bungalow on Park Street lined with other bungalows. The little front lawns were not fenced so the lawns were a playground and the neighbors were friendly. My Grandmother was the main attraction. She simply glowed with warmth. A hug from her was like being hugged by an angel. Her kitchen was always full of the smells of cooking, always something good to eat. I can't remember what all that good food was, but I suspect that peach pie was one of the treats, because there was a peach tree in the backyard full of juicy ripe fruit. I adored my Grandmother like no other member of my family.

The street dead-ended at a hillside, and at the end, a man kept fruit trees. He kept the birds from the fruit by shooting them with an air rifle. My dad and I would often take the steep trail up the hill and I played and ran among the fragrant Eucalyptus trees.

My grandmother got sick in 1950 when I was 8 years old. In those days people who were ill often stayed at home. Grandma was in her bedroom, and our family was gathered in the living room. In the early evening my sister and I were sent three doors down to the neighbors house to have a treat, or some such ruse to get us to go. Later on in the evening a terrible indescribable feeling came over me and I dashed tearfully out of the house and down the row of lawns. The lawns, the little concrete walkways, and the houses flashed by in my panicked sprint. Back in my grandparents house in the little living room, everyone was in tears. The room suddenly felt oppressive. My warm and sweet grandmother had died just moments before.

In recent years I've gone to Park Street to see that little house, the container and symbol of the warmth of a loving grandmother. The house that meant so much to me as a child is still there, but now stuccoed over and characterless, all sense of bungalow gone, the peach tree is gone, and the small lot covered in asphalt.

Silver Lake

2011-02-07T17:33:00.000-08:00

My first story for the memoir class.

Silver Lake Richard Nichols 2-1-11

Every summer for two weeks, during the late 1940's and early 50's, starting when I was 8 years old, my parents packed up the car and off we'd go camping north of Los Angeles on the east side of the Sierra Nevada Range, at Silver Lake.

Silver Lake is one of four lakes along the 2-lane road called the June Lake Loop. The road traverses a deep valley, in a region scoured by glaciers 10,000 years ago. The lake at 7000 feet elevation is bracketed by peaks of 10 and 12 thousand feet. The stream feeding the lake, Rush Creek, originates high in the mountains and flows down in a series of falls and cascades before reaching the old fashioned hydro power station built in 1915, and still in use.

photo: Rush Creek basin and the peaks high above Silver Lake

We camped in the willow thicket along the shore, in a US forest Service campground, with pit toilets, water and a table, but no asphalt, no numbered sites, no gigantic RV's, and all for free. It felt like home, that we had arrived. My little brother and I would forget the days, and only have fun, living for the sun to rise so we could run, and explore and fish. We spent most of our time fishing for the rainbow trout that the Fish and Game Dept. stocked into the lake. A lovely gravel bank, a small peninsula, was formed by a small creek, with the clear blue lake diving deep, where the fish lurked. Any time the fish truck unloaded, the fish arrived at what we called the "pier" about an hour later, and for days the fishing was good. On some days, we'd catch a limit of ten in the morning, and return in the afternoon to catch another, this time illegal, limit. A few time we'd rent a little row boat and fish in the 'hotspot" but the fishing was really just as good at the pier. The little rustic store by the lake would freeze several limits for us to take home. My mother was stuck with cooking for us hungry fishermen, and did it is good spirits, although I think she got tired of it.

On occasion we'd explore the surrounding country. Rush Creek gushed through the valley, before running into the scenic and salty Mono lake, full of brine shrimp and flies and millions of visiting birds. Trout were abundant in the stream and sometimes we'd explore the riffles and pools for the whole day. Sometimes we'd hike a few miles to a lake higher in the mountains. The first time we went to Parker Lake up in a small glacial valley, an older man was hiking in and at every turn he'd say, "just around the next bend" which it wasn't. The 3 mile hike seemed endless, but we were treated to a wonderful little lake full of small native trout, surrounded by steep ridges, aspens and pines. From Silver Lake, we could peer up into the high country of the Rush Creek drainage. It seemed so mysterious and far away, with mountaintops and ridges rising above 12,000 feet. I always wanted to go there.

Silver Lake was heaven on earth for me, and I always wished I could stay forever. One year storm clouds gathered over the mountains a few days before we going to go home, and my dad announced that we were packing up "now", to avoid getting drenched. Soon after we were packed and driving away from heaven, the storm struck, and a fierce rain fell.

In 2006, at age 64, I had the pleasure of backpacking the entire 218 mike length of the John Muir Trail. The trail starts in Yosemite Valley and terminates on top of 14,500 foot Mount Whitney. This is an accomplishment I couldn't have imagined doing 20 years ago, or 60 years ago as a child. The trail leaves Yosemite National Park at Donohue Pass, and then traverses the beautiful and scenic upper Rush Creek drainage, full of creeks and meadows, beautiful forests, surrounded by peaks, just as I had imagined it might be as a child. It took over 50 years to make it to that place.

In 1950, the word environment (meaning surroundings, environs) was not in common use, and the environmental movement was years away. The Sierra Club was a group that went into the high mountains, risking their lives, in our imagination. We didn't know that Los Angeles was embarking on an endeavor to ship all the water from Rush Creek to LA, thus drying up the lower creek and starving Mono Lake. My parents never knew nor mentioned any of it. But I credit my family for taking me to experience a majestic landscape, and I know that the reason I became involved in the environmental movement, love to hike in natural places and work for protection of our planet for the last 30 years, is because of my parents. I don't think I ever thanked them for this gift.

Montebello Hills

2011-02-06T11:40:00.000-08:00

I lived in Montebello from about 1946 to 1956, ages 4 to 14. I have fond memories of a small town just before and during the massive sprawl that took place after WW2.

Montebello Hills February 2011

by Richard Nichols

In 1946, when I was a young boy, my family moved to Montebello (beautiful hills) in Los Angeles County. I remember the small town feel, before freeways and malls, where the main street was lined with every kind of shop, a cherry coke could be found at the corner drug store fountain counter for 5 cents, and the art deco movie house showed Flash Gordon and Superman on Saturday, and the city park and plunge was a short walk from home, and you got a haircut from Jack the Barber.

The high school football players were heroes, and the neighborhood kids played hide and seek or capture the flag in the streets until called in to dinner. We walked home from school through tree lined streets, along the main street, past the fire station, and you knew the Captains family and played with his son. The Rio Hondo River was still free flowing, and a place of mystery to explore, full of willow thickets, and dirt cliffs, and not the concrete channel it became. My friend Jerry, a few years older, made up mythic tales about gangs fighting in the riverbed for domination, and secret coded notes.

On weekends my dad took me up into the Montebello Hills overlooking town. The 1200 acres of hills was then a productive oil field. Except for the oil rigs, it was a laced with pepper trees, cactus, rocky gullies, and desert sages. We went to a place shaded by pepper trees next to a gully full of rocky outcroppings. We'd spend many a quiet Sunday after church at that spot, my dad resting under the trees while I roamed about looking for lizards and horned toads. One year I got a BB gun for Christmas, and took it on one of our forays into the hills. Down in the rocks I spotted a lizard, and taking careful aim, took a shot. I came closer to the lizard and saw the BB embedded in the back, blood oozing out around the edge. This profoundly shocked me, to see the result of my action, the lizard suffering a terrible wound. That was the last time I ever shot at anything.

Friends and I often explored the hills on our own. One time we were determined to pick "cactus apples" (also called "prickly pear"), the bright red fruit of the prominent cactus in the hills. We'd heard they were good to eat, so we wanted to try them. Unfortunately, I didn't know that the fruit needed special handling, so with the first attempt, my hands were pierced with tiny, painful spines. When I arrived home after an uncomfortable walk, hands stinging, and tearful, my mother carefully removed the spines.

When I was given a used bicycle, after pining for one for so long, I rode the bike up into the hills, and started a thrill ride back down the steep, rough asphalt road. Speeding down, the front wheel started to wobble. Over I went, skidding on the asphalt on the side of my face and arm. I sat there in the road, and asked my friend to go tell my Dad I was injured. He came for me, and everything was intact except my pride and a wide swath of skin on my arm and face.

Over the last 60 years Montebello has changed. The open space in the hills is down to 488 acres, the hills are ringed by malls, freeways and housing tracts, and the oil company wants to develop what is left. The Montebello Hills Task Force of the Sierra Club is determined to save the only open space left in Montebello. I hope they do, so that little boys can have adventures, learn about cactus apples and lizards, and learn to love the land.

the last christmas cookie

2011-01-09T17:13:00.000-08:00

the last christmas cookie

tasted like an eon of time had past

and our tiny blue planet

a speck in a band of space

still floats out here

one cookie among many

or maybe the last cookie

eaten by a small creature

on a large planet

the cookie speckled with blue and gold glitter

dusted with snow and sand

watered by thunderclouds

fed by glaciers

maybe it really is gods last

christmas cookie

and all the saints and holy men

prophets and sinners

are waiting for a chance to take a bite

until there is no more cookie

and we will have no more

but only the crumbs

floating in space

crashing later

into some unknown sphere

perhaps one on fire

absorbing the very last hint

of planet earth and the humanity that used to

inhabit this little thing

this little speck

how then is anything important

why not do what inspires

why not create

why not make christmas cookies

so that we all can have a bite

Kauai November 2010

2010-11-28T17:13:00.001-08:00

Kauai

We visited Kauai Island in early November and wanted to share our impressions and pictures. We spent 14 days kicking around, mostly hiking and strolling, and we had a few unique experiences.

Remember that Kauai is in the state of Hawaii, and modernism is here with a vengeance, but it is still a rural place of 55 thousand population and everyone is spread out along the the 65 mile highway that runs along the coast for 3/4 of the island. Most of the population is in the county seat of Lihu'e, (population 5600), with several major chains including Costco, Walmart and Home Depot, and the small towns of Wailua and Kap'a, which have grown together in a 5 mile long strip of commercialism. Also to remember, these towns are where most of the regular working class people live.

We stayed in a wonderful 5 acre compound of accommodations at the Rosewood B&B, inland on a rural road above Kap'a. Started out on the little 100 SF room, and the owners moved us into a big house for the same price. The fanciest digs we have ever had.

http://www.rosewoodkauai.com/

The traffic in the area of the towns mentioned above was pretty bad, especially during commute, but the drivers were the most courteous and thoughtful we have ever encountered.

Hiking

We hiked and strolled every day. Highlights were the Na Pali (the cliffs) trail that led us to a waterfall after 4 miles, and the trail high on the mountain that looked down upon the Na Pali coast 4000 feet, and then led to the incredible and vast Alaka'i Swamp trail at some 4000 feet, and 1000 feet below Mount Wai'ale'ale, one of the wettest places on the planet with average rainfall of 450 inches a year (that about 38 feet). One thing to beware of: the red clay trails are as slick as a greased pig on ice after rain.

Other highlights included taking several 8 mile hikes along the sweet soft shoreline on the dry side of the Island, and sauntering along the mellow beaches at Anini and Hanalie.

Hindu Monastery

http://www.himalayanacademy.com/

We read about it in Lonely Planet, but nothing could prepare us for what was to come.
We signed up for the weekly tour of a Hindu Monastery with 21 monks in residence, most of them of European descent. They are semi-cloistered, interacting with the outside world through the tours, and the internet. They publish books, a magazine, have a fine website, maintain 400 acres, grow veggies, and are building, or having built, a huge hand carved granite temple! The original founding guru had a vision over 20 years ago, and now the vision is almost done. The granite pieces are being carved by several villages in India and shipped here where the temple is assembled and finish carving is done. Check my pictures and the website.

Mary Oliver finds us

We were in a little thrift store in Wialua, and right on top of a pile of books was a hardback Mary Oliver, the wonderful Pulitzer Prize winning poet. We enjoyed reading her work out loud in the evening.

Beaches

We enjoyed strolling along several picture perfect beaches, notably Anini Beach and Hanalei Bay. But we we only had a few hours on beach reading/swimming/snorkeling time.
A highlight for me was snorkeling along side a 300 lb. sea turtle, a green I think.
For those who like to hang on the beach, this is the place.

Weather

What can we say about the weather except 80 degrees every day, soft trade winds, a little warm rain.

Fruit, lots of it.

Farmers Market: loaded with lots of veggies and fruits. Stick a shovel handle in the ground and it will grow shovels. We went several times to stock up on fresh tasty fruit.
Rosewood, where we stayed, had avocados, oranges, starfruit, macadamia nuts, bananas, all for the picking.

Hitchhikers: Hitchhiking is fairly common. We picked up four people, all locals, most escapees from the mainland, livin the easy life, poor but happy. One native guy married into the Carol Burnett family, and was a musician who has toured, but also sold real estate. Broken down car no problem, just thumb it.

Down at Na Pali coast 4000 feet

falls on the Na Pali

ahh, the beach

Hindu granite temple

the woman in red

2010-11-05T12:41:00.000-07:00

the woman in red - dedicated to senator rand paul

the woman in red

the woman with the blond wig

pushed down to the curb

surrounded by the flowers of kali

thugs longing for power

their leader longing to

grab for the ring

the white shoe descends slowly

slow motion slick and innocuous

an image designed for effect

to find the neck

of the woman in red

exposed to abuse

the shoe

mashing down insistent and hard

finds the woman in red

she lies quietly violated

not resisting

the masters meanwhile

nod knowingly

that the crushing

of the woman in red

is only the beginning

new assemblage (junk) art

2010-10-29T19:01:00.000-07:00

Here are a few recent assemblage pieces

Evolution Lake.

2010-10-18T19:30:00.000-07:00

Evolution Lake, along the John Muir Trail in the central Sierra.

Cemetery Walk

2010-10-03T11:16:00.000-07:00

I had the pleasure of playing a character in the Cemetery Walk produced by the West Sonoma County Historical Society. Thomas Wilton was a businessman in Sebastopol from the the 1860's, and died in 1915. But he had a secret life, so read on to find out what it is.

Standing by the tombstone of Thomas Wilton and George Andrews.

"I celebrate myself, and what I assume you shall assume. For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loaf and invite my soul, I lean and loaf at my ease... observing a spear of summer grass." [Looking up at the audience] Whitman wrote that. [Turning slightly, touching the "A" on the tombstone tenderly and sighing]

George loved Whitman… Despite his rough exterior, George Andrews was a well-read man. We spent hours discussing Whitman, Symonds, Carpenter and Wilde over brandy and a couple of good cigars.

It's been 25 forlorn, lost years for me -- since he passed away. I miss him every day. George was more than a business partner and next door neighbor. He was a mentor to me and the best friend I ever had in this world. He and I were cut from the same cloth but, in our case, "on the bias" -- completely against the grain.

From a very early age, I knew I wasn't like my proper New England raised mother or my very proper English-born father. Of my six siblings I only felt close to my older brother James. After he made his way to California in 1853, I followed.

James was always an adventurous one. He was the captain of a ship on Lake Champlain before coming here. I guess I've got a little adventurer in my blood, too. On my way to California from New York State in 1854, I walked across the Panama Isthmus to catch the steamer "Golden Gate" bound for San Francisco.

My brother and his wife were good to me up there in Placerville but, being a 49er was a tough way to make a living. Hard-scrabbling every day in the heat and cold -- all for a few flecks of Earth's most tempting offering: Gold. "Nuggets, dust, gelt, glitter", call it what you will, gold can drive a man out of his mind quicker than whiskey.

Those nine difficult years of struggle gave me two things: The small stake I used to go into business and George -- two important things that changed my life profoundly for the better. I will always be grateful.

George and I found each other panning gold near Placerville. He was 18 years older than I, born in Connecticut. I was in awe of him. He'd been so many places and done so many fascinating things!

We thought Sebastopol, where we were completely unknown, was the perfect place to start our life together. I came first to set things up, get a feel for the financial opportunities and find places for us to live. George arrived later and, over the next few years, we partnered several successful business ventures.

George had worked in a saloon up in Eureka and he showed me how to operate a one. We became Wells Fargo agents and sold dry goods -- all of which supported us quite satisfactorily.

All the while, we were forced to hide our true selves from the world around us. During the 1850s in California, those found guilty of a relationship similar to ours could be sentenced to from five years to life in prison. In England as late as 1834, it was a hanging offense.

How I envy your modern society. So open and accepting. So much less judgmental than in my time, "our" time… Neither George nor I could ever have imagined a concept like "Gay Rights" would exist one day -- not in our wildest dreams…

After George died in 1888, I followed the trial of the playwright Oscar Wilde in England. Such a brilliant man… He wound up serving two years in a notorious prison and after he was released died penniless. And what was he guilty of, I ask you? Of loving someone? Is that a crime? Love?

A passage written by Oscar Wilde has always struck a chord deep within me:

"Society . . . will have no place for me . . . but Nature, whose sweet rains fall on just and unjust alike, will have clefts in the rocks where I may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will hang with stars so that I may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in great waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole."

Thanks for dropping by. Have a lovely evening. I'm going to stay here awhile longer with George

2010-09-09T17:53:00.000-07:00

to perla batalla, formerly backup singer to leonard cohen

perla speaks of the church of leonard

kindhearted praise for the master

then sings the cohen poems in a voice

as clear as the rim of a flower touched by dew

as clear as a call of love in the forest

as clear as the fallen tree giving back

its essence to the family

passionate beyond the gates of forgiveness

perla sings honestly

the heart

perla sings with a heart so big

that the flowers the trees the people

know with certainty

it is the church of perla

it is the church of us

2010-07-19T19:51:00.000-07:00

Global Vomit

some black gooey stuff

emerged from the bottom

under emerald water

trapping an entire civilization

in it's fragrance

it's convenient charming essence

of self propulsion and frantic travel

it fooled us all

the wealthy and impoverished alike

accepted the inevitable

oil cracking to gasoline

tranforming our lush world

addiction rules the land

now we feel the pangs of remorse

as the vomit rages across air land and sea

taking life and livelihood at will

defiling and dishonoring everything it touches

we, back in the drivers seat

check the rearview mirror

for what is to come

in a forest

2010-06-27T21:08:00.000-07:00

in a forest

we walked among the young
redwoods sprouting defiantly at human folly
rising out of the clamor of armored greed
chainsaws and cables
recovering in pain and sorrow at the loss
of old scarred steeples branching innocent
reaching up and down for the life of mother
airwatersoil

we two humans felt sorrow at our own folly and waste
taking in all the forest offered

over the ridge a breeze rises
as we descend into a basin untouched
old redwoods offering comfort and forgiveness
breathing with us for us
very tranquil
very still
very comforting
very at home now
very happy
grateful these old beings still stand
up into the air
waving home to marbled murrelets
to jays and squirrels
chipmunks beetles and worms
canopied life
forest floor rot

June 2010

A wonderful spring hike

2010-04-04T12:16:00.000-07:00

Brenda and I took a great hike on the Palisades/Oat Hill Mine Road trails. The 11 mile one way walk started high on the flank of Mt. St. Helena and traversed across the Palisades which overlook the town of Calistoga and the Napa Valley. A combination of wildflowers, views, rugged terrain and good company made for a great hike, one which we highly recommend.

2010-03-29T19:25:00.001-07:00

falls/shankill gate - Belfast, Northern Ireland

the murder stopped

while the fence remains

the gate swinging freely now

open to christians and catholics

reminding to never forget

what happened there

murals go to the heart of it

2010-03-12T15:03:00.000-08:00

africa - based on a news article

mc'donald's hit africa today

and when it did the earth there

shook with fear

that the animals

would no longer browse

the giraffe

would no longer trim the top

of graceful trees

or leave nourishing dropping

wildebeests and zebras

would no longer graze

a lush carpet and run

rest and sleep on the

expanse of plain

in complete harmony

with the grasses and weeds

pollution takes many forms

and while animals don't really

eat junk food

even the thought

of proximity

makes for the sickness

of not knowing

what you eat

mc'donald's hit africa today

sadness encompassed the continent

people trembled and feared

what it might mean

-richard nichols

jan 2010

Mexico January, Febuary 2010

2010-02-23T17:20:00.000-08:00

Brenda and I spent a month in central Mexico.

Photos, see more at http://picasaweb.google.com/nichols70/MexicoJanFeb2010#
sunset at Malahque
temple in San Miguel de Allenda
temple buried in lava
copper worker
A pissed off Hidalgo, father of the insurrection against the Spanish

HIGHLIGHTS

Everything went very well. The bus system works, the food is delicious, rooms are inexpensive ($23 to 45) and clean, the people friendly, the colonial town a treat to visit, and we loved the authentic artesian crafts, and this part of Mexico is safe, as is most everywhere. We also met some interesting people. We were walking on a country road where a young woman with a baby gave us directions to a lake, and then later invited us into her house for a chat. Patricia is a sweet and kind person who was raised on the family farm, and she kept giving us things including a hand embroidered cloth for wrapping tortillas, (which she also offered). In Patzcuaro we ran into a retired Catholic priest from San Francisco, who entertained us with his hysterical critical views of the church and the pope. For several days we hung out with French Canadian Ellen, having dinner, and traveling to see the buried in lava 17th century church. The mask maker Philipe Horta plyed us with tequila, and shared his home and mask making for an hour. Also, in Santa Clara del Cobre, a copper working family invited us into the work area behind their home and shop, where they hand made beaten copperware.

First stop was Guadalajara (pop. 4 million) and after 3 days of checking out the colonial center of this huge city, seeing the temples, old civic building and the wonderful Orozco murals, we moved on to the small town of Tapalpa, high on a mountain range, in a big valley, surrounded by pine trees. Very relaxed after the busy city. Then it was on the hot humid coast. Manzanillo is a big port city, very busy, but we stayed in an old colonial hotel in the heart of the old town, and enjoyed fresh fish dinners and a walk on a long beach. We walked through the grounds of a luxury golf resort, and a had a good laugh at the fake beach and swim up bar.

We spent several days in Malahque, where the main thing to do seemed to be hanging out on the beach and drinking, mostly sun baked Canadians populated the place.

After a brief visit to Puerto Vallarta, which we found to be a bit to touristy, we moved on the coastal village of Sayulita, where old friend Coral, has a house. This laid back surfer town was very mellow and fun, and we had a good visit. Coral's house is in the jungle, and she and Jon have made a very cozy place to live. A walk on a nearby beach took us by mangrove swamps with crocks, and a big destroyed hotel, victim of a quake in the 90's.

From the coast we went inland to Guanahuato, a colonial era silver mining town, a colorful and interesting town to be in. One evening we went to the regional symphony orchestra and playing the music of Elgar, Puccini, and others, plus a great piece by a Mexican composer. We took a bus on dirt roads to view the geographical center of Mexico, Christo Rey, on a mountain top, where an 80 foot statue of Jesus sits over a temple. It was impressive, the faithful were there in droves.

Several days in San Miguel de Allende, the famous American ex-pat community, found us wandering around the old colonial town for several days, checking out temples and enjoying the botanical garden on the edge of town.

Next stop was Patzcuaro in the Michoacan highland.

We planned to stay only a few days, but liked the town so much that we finished our trip there. This colonial town has a vibrant indigenous culture. The Purepeche people have been in the region for centuries, and inhabit villages all around the big Lake Patzcuaro. In the 17th century a benevolent priest helped them recover from Spanish conquest by establishing communal farming and developing crafts. To this day each village has a specialty, mask making, beaten copper utensils, weaving, enamel ware. and many other colorful items. Around the lake I counted 2 dozen extinct volcanic domes. The current hotspot is 70 miles away, where a dome started in 1943, and buried several villages and a church, before going quiet in the 50's.

We left Patzcuaro for home. On the 20 hour journey we used in order: taxi, bus, bus, taxi, airplane, airplane, BART, and our car.

radio music

2010-01-17T11:45:00.001-08:00

radio music

the radio station

playing old vinyl

old fashioned sounding

folk from the past

then this angelic voice

fills the car

who is that we say

what modern darling of music

has this voice

who has this passion and beauty

the voice of the decade

we wonder who it is

perfect pitch

perfect passion

perfect person

the announcer speaks then

I Dreamed A Dream he says

then we know

transcending appearance

transcending station

transcendent Susan

Wine Competition

2010-01-09T16:28:00.000-08:00

Brenda and I just finished a week as volunteers for the San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition, held at the Cloverdale Citrus Fair. This is the largest wine competition for U.S. wines in the country.

Here is a piece from the Home Page:

"On January 8th, 2010, the San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition concluded the annual week of judging at the Cloverdale Citrus Fairgrounds in Sonoma County, California. Over five days, 63 professional wine experts within the media, restaurant and hospitality, education, winemaking and retail wine industries tasted and evaluated a world-record breaking 4,913 entries, a number that maintains the competition's status as the largest competition of American wines in the world.

Consumers can look forward to tasting the Sweepstake Award Winners, along with hundreds of additional wines, at the 2010 San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition Public Tasting, February 20th held at Fort Mason Center's Festival Pavilion in San Francisco. The Public Tasting is an annual celebration allowing wine lovers to compare their favorites to the top picks announced at the judging while enjoying great food and breathtaking views."

The effort to pull this off takes months of work, culmination in over 100 volunteers converging for 4 1/2 days to serve wine to judges and take care of many other tasks. My job on a team of three was to open and pour wine for one of the 14 panels, serving as many as 12 flights (a group of 10 or 12 wines) every day for 3 days. Brenda did this last year, and this year headed up the crew that cleaned glasses and put them back into circulation.

Care and concentration to get the right wine in the correct numbered glass, kept us riveted to the job. The coding of the bottles (because the tasting is blind) took a number of weeks to get codes on maybe 15,000 bottles in over 100 categories. The dedication to getting this done without ANY mistakes is remarkable. The sweepstakes culmination Friday takes only 2 hours to reduce all those wines down to 5 sweeps winners. 44 judges each tasted over 110 wines (4900 glasses).

You may wonder why anyone would volunteer to be on your feet running around all day, trying to keep from spilling wine, or making any mistakes. There are two reasons: if you like wine, then being around this is very educational, and, secondly, we get wine as a reward. Not just any wine, but premium well and thoughtfully made wine. Brenda and I brought home over $2000 (retail price) in wine for our work.

And the Winners Are…

The 2010 San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition Sweepstake Winners are:

Sparkling	J Vineyards & Winery, Russian River Valley J Brut Rose
White	Keuka Spring Vineyards, Finger Lakes, New York 2008 Gewurztraminer
Pink	Bray Vineyards, Shenandoah Valley, Amador County, CA 2008 Barbera Rosato
Red	Graton Ridge Cellars, Russian River Valley, Paul Family Vineyard 2007 Estate Pinot Noir
Dessert	Watermill Winery, Walla Walla Valley, Washington 2008 Late Harvest Gewurztraminer

photos

backroom pouring team with a flight ready for judges

our station #9 of 14

Panel #9 ready to taste a flight

Sweepstakes (3 photos)

Winter hiking

2010-01-04T18:51:00.000-08:00

We've been taking some nice hikes in the home territory, and found some great photo subjects.
Mount Saint Helena from Sweetwater Springs Road
Mushrooms from the Sonoma Coast and Sweetwater Springs.
Natural drapery on Porter Creek.
The little dewdropped white sweety is from our garden.

The rainy season brings us some wonderful things,

Joshua Tree

2009-12-30T20:35:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Brenda I and I had a wonderful time at Joshua Tree National Park in mid December. We stayed at the classic funky, comfortable 1950 era motel in 29 Palms right outside the park, and every day we walked about 10 or 12 miles for 5 days. The weather was superb, warm by day, cold at night, with clear blue skies to greet us every morning. We did a combination of new and old hikes and enjoyed every step. Our friends Max and Jean from the area took us on a nice hike on property owned by the Wildlands Conservancy, who are working hard at saving 100's of thousands of acres of desert land. The population is rapidly growing in the southern deserts, and they want to conserve as much as possible. The area around Victorville and Apple Valley, only a few years ago was nothing but mesquite flats, now filled with endless malls and housing tracts, and this in a place with little of its own water and temps in the 100's all summer.

But Joshua tree NP is a wonder of a desert. I invite you to look at pictures from a few years ago during the spring bloom and pics of our recent trip.

Dec 09 album
http://picasaweb.google.com/nichols70/JoshuaTreeDec09123009738PM#

Spring trip 08 includes J Tree, Tucson, New Mexico and Texas deserts.
http://picasaweb.google.com/nichols70/DesertSpring08#

2009-12-02T19:36:00.001-08:00

under the hotel

marquez the great
caught me in his grip
of brilliant prose

of dusty bones and the gold of centuries
of dignitaries lost to the ruin of time
pickaxe busy on the tombs
moving the rested
tearing apart the foundation
of culture of church and terror

bulldozers moved in then
wiping all trace
readying the hollowed ground
for first class comfort
distracted tourists
unaware that the tombs
once rested below their feet
now gone
the bones of centuries

Nevada

2009-11-25T17:49:00.000-08:00

This poem was recently published in the Sonoma County Peace Press - my first ever published poem. I've since thought about the poem, and realize it had a lot to do with optimism, and the hope that our new president would be able to deal with very complex issues. Most of us would agree, I think, that he is up against powerful forces, and it will be very difficult for us to change the American obsession with power.

Nevada
dedicated to Dan Frank and Lynn Hamilton, who spent a month in Nevada working for the election of Barack Obama, and told me their story.

dust blows incessant into the cracks
of a nevada trailer
parked desolate
gravel and grit
huddled like a beetle
in a mound of shredded posters
and demented memories

two people wonder why are we here
a tortured man in angles of disposition
invites them into the trailer
his gun for varmints he says
I don't like that fella in washington
the one like orwell he says
the one who must leave

yes we are here for that they say
the tortured man smiles
a smile of mysterious regrets
we can do this he says
we can find the damage
we can fix it he says.

two people reach across
something uncrossable
something filled with the impulse
of altered understanding
and say yes yes we can fix this

- richard nichols

2009-11-17T17:28:00.000-08:00

Dorothy Chases the Rainbow Over Howth Head

on howth head

by dublin bay

we circled around from south to north

the sun beating on our backs

rain spraying our faces

when the rainbow appeared

just past the lighthouse

staying with us

emerging out of mist

always receding from us

never reachable

always beautiful

dressing the sky

Dorothy, the rainbow is elusive

the rainbow always recedes

the funny people in Kansas

on Aunt Ems farm

remain to remind you

that you are who you are

and over the rainbow

is only your dream

of something you already have

buddha at the bar

2009-11-06T16:52:00.000-08:00

Buddha at the bar

the buddha knocked one back

at the darkened bar

slapped the counter and called for another

the scotch was new to the buddha

"it tastes like the dust of many paths" he said

"paths we have followed and neglected

places we have smelled, the scenery of fallen leaves

barren trees, mountains bereft of people

cities and villages, ocean and sky

flowing rivers and polluted lanes

anger and joy

it tastes like everything"

others in the bar looked around

observing the buddha in his traveling robe

wondering what he meant

when the buddha left the bar

the other patrons called for the barkeep

"what was he drinking?" they asked

I'll try a glass"

IRELAND 2009

2009-10-28T10:51:00.000-07:00

Ireland October 2009

Find an album of photos at: http://picasaweb.google.com/nichols70/Ireland2009#

Brenda and I spent three enjoyable weeks in Ireland being with family, walking the Wicklow Way, walking around Dublin City, and visiting Belfast and the Giants Causeway.

The Family (left: in the Dalton kitchen)

We were offered a loft bedroom by the Dalton family, Brendas niece Bernadette and Niel and four kids. We had a blast participating in the hectic life of a family on the go, the twin boys Jeff and James in College, the twin 10 year old girls Julie and Nicole going off to school, and Niel playing housedad (after 30 years with the phone company), and doing DJ gigs for charity and for pay.

Bernadette is a working mom training personnel at a bank. It was a hurricane that we greatly enjoyed. We helped with girls homework, and played games with them and stayed up late chatting.

Singing pubs are an old tradition in Ireland, with many people getting up to sing a favorite tune. We went with brother Eamonn and partner Eileen. Brenda sang and Eamonn played harmonica and sang, and I drank a lot of Guinness, which should only be consumed when in Ireland. The singing pubs are dying out because only older folks seem to go.

left: Brenda and Eamonn dancing

Flanagans is a lively old place on historic O'Connell Street close to the General Post Office (scene of the 1916 uprising). We meant sisters Lori and Phyllis, and Eamonn, and sister in laws Bridgett and Ina for lunch one day. The three hour lunch was filled with funny recollections of times past, and lots of gentle teasing.

Brendas old friend Mary and her husband Jerry, from the teenage years, invited us over for dinner and some good crack about the old days.

Our last night was spent at niece Ann and Andys place out in the country. We got a look at a 12th century ruins, had a lovely dinner, and a chat. Next day Ann took us to the airport, where she asked her Air Lingus co-workers to take care of us on the plane, so we got roomy bulkhead seating and free wine. Thanks Anne.

Glendalough

The Wicklow Way

Our Wicklow Mountain walking trip took us from the edge of Dublin to Shillelagh, about 80 miles total, in six days. The going was easy, walking over ridges, into river valleys, through moorlands and past historic places like the 12th century monastic city of Glendalough. We got drenched one day, but it was dry otherwise. The welcoming B&Bs and hostels treated very well. At the Woodstock B&B in Roundwood Village the owner sat us down to tea, soup and bread and talked with us for an hour nonstop. Warm, friendly and talkative sums up the Irish character. When a group get going in conversation it's called "good crack".

It's Not the Pants, It's the People, or how I lost expensive rain pants, and the pants found me.

After a 15 mile day of hiking, we checked out 17th century Glenmalure Lodge and decided to hitch to the next hamlet of Greenan and get a B&B. The driver overshot the place and we got dropped about a mile past, so we started walking back along a pleasant country lane. At the intersection, after not liking the BB, we thumbed to the nearby town of Rathdrum. Our angel, Ann Marie, dropped us right at the hostel. She told us she had walked all over the Wicklow Mtns. so understood what we were doing. She agreed to take us back to Glenmalure in the morning. In the hostel I discovered I'd lost my good rain pants. The kind proprietor helped me find phone numbers of several places I might have left them, and let me use his cell. But no luck.

Ann Marie picked us up in the morning and we had a very nice chat. So off we went walking to Moyne, 15 miles away. We found the last room available in the area at the Kyle Farmhouse B&B. It was really a nice, comfortable place and a working dairy farm at that. At dinner, served by the owner, she asked if we were Richard and Brenda, because if so we had a phone call. This was a mystery, because no one could know where we were. On the phone was Ann Marie , and she asked if we found my rain pants, because she had just found a pair. Astounded, they were indeed my pants. Their dog had brought them into the house. She then told us that her husband

saw us the day before in Greenan in front of their house, looking confused. We must have stopped there, where I dropped the pants. So Marie Ann, we discovered, had come to our rescue. To finish off this act of kindness, she brought the pants to us at Kyle that very night.

The moral to this tale is simple: the pants were not important, but the caring people were, so thank you Ann Marie for your simple act of kindness.

Bobby Sand Mural, The Falls

Belfast, Northern Ireland

A three hour bus ride took us to Belfast where we stayed at the home of Brendas niece Norma (Eamonns daughter), while she was away. We spent a day walking around Belfast City center, and then walked out to the nearby districts of Falls Road (the Falls) and Shankill Road (the Shankill). These two roads, separated by only 1/4 miles near the city center, is ground zero for what became known as The Troubles, the urban and rural widespread battle between Catholics (who wanted union with Ireland and equal rights) and protestants, who wanted to remain in the UK and keep the catholics at bay. Into the middle of the war the British army made things worse. This war between the Unionist Irish Republican Army and loyalist Ulster Defense Association and various splinter groups, and the British army went on for 40 years, only winding down through hard negotiating in around 2000. Down the middle of the two areas the British constructed a massive fence to keep the combatants apart. The place is peaceful now, but the murals depicting the troubles abound.

The Giants Causeway

This World Heritage Site is an impressive formation of basalt columns rising out of the sea and along the cliffs for two miles. We spent several hours walking around before getting the bus back to Belfast. The pictures tell the story.

Howth Head (as in hoe)

Our last walk was the 9 mile loop around the head. The train drops you off at the trailhead and the loop brings you back. The rainbow we chased was a highlight, as was the atmospheric weather and pretty scenery.

Brenda chasing the rainbow

Ireland

2009-10-22T02:54:00.000-07:00

Brenda and I return from Ireland in a few days and look forward to posting a narrative of the trip.
Highlights include visits with Brendas family, walking in Dublin City, a six day walk in the Wicklow Mtns, a visit to Belfast and the wonderful Giants Causeway, as well as a walk in the areas of Belfast that were at the center of the 40 year old The Troubles between Catholics and Protestants, recently ended.

see you, R&B

Ireland

2009-10-02T16:07:00.000-07:00

Wicklow Way

We are getting ready to visit Brenda's home country, Ireland. We'll visit family and friends, walk around Dublin, and spend a week walking on the Wicklow Way, an 82 mile long trail in the Wicklow Mountains. We start in Marley Park, on the edge of Dublin, and will average 11.7 miles a day for 7 days.
We will be stopping in villages and stay in B & B's and hostels.

This is the house Brenda and her 12 siblings were raised in the East Wall, Dublin

We also plan to to go north and spend a few days walking the Giants Causeway on the coast.

Giants Causeway

http://www.wicklowway.com/index.php

2009-09-28T18:23:00.001-07:00

tea room for fools

the tea room for fools

was full and bustling with

noise and the language

tied into bundles of brittle sticks

laced together with bluster and lies

of carved down memories

of actions taken and untaken

wished for and hated

in regretful conviviality

the tea room for fools

awash in chamomile and mint

was full of wise profound thinkers

wondering what to say next

feeling the next move, the next thought

like a chess piece in molasses

fiddling with endless reverie

posting muddled poems on the internet

full of the chatter of erotic binges

full of anger and desire

full of poetry and songs

full of the life of the tea room

the tea room for fools

John Muir Trail, Sept 09

2009-09-14T11:46:00.000-07:00

Colby Meadow, looking towards Muir Pass and the Goddard Divide

evolution creek

high in the mountains

clear as a window water

at our feet

flowing its secret words

speaking some language

to the rocks and trees

moving with effortless gravity

toward a destination

downstream the water now slacked

against willful walls

demanding a halt to the words

the magic work done

serves other intention

to power the colossus

serve fields unadorned

suffer unkind toxicants

and disappear finally

into the exhausted soil of the valley

NOTE: click on photo at right to see all 55 photos of the trip

John Muir Trail 2009 by Richard Nichols
Introduction
I backpacked the 220 mile long JMT several years ago with my friend Jon Bryfogle and wanted to return with Brenda on this spectacular, scenic and difficult trail. The plan was to walk from Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite NP to the end atop 14,595 foot Mount Whitney.
We had a wonderful time, taking 8 days to cover the first 100 miles. In the first four days we increased our miles, going 11, 12, 13, and 14 miles. We were feeling really good on day 8 as we ascended into Evolution Valley, and approached the 100 mile mark. We looked forward to camping at scenic Evolution Lake that evening. Sometimes stuff happens unexpectedly, and it did. In an instant, Brenda developed a strained tendon and could not walk further. We set up camp and in the morning turned around, disappointed that we had to stop, but thrilled that we walked and enjoyed those glorious 100 miles. We had adventures, we made friends, and we had hard earned fun.
We Get Warmed Up
Our friends Stan and Sharon Bluhm generously hosted us at June Lake in the Eastern Sierra, (near Mono Lake) so that we could get acclimated. The first day, we did a 9 mile hike high on the ridge behind the cabin, and the next day, after a docent led tour by the Bluhms at Mono Lake, we went up high to Tioga Pass and took a lovely hike up to and beyond the old mining area of Bennettville. The next day we took the local bus up to Tuolumne Meadow, and off we went.
Day One - Tuolumne Meadow to the end of Lyell Canyon, 11 miles

The West fork of the Tuolumne River is called the Lyell Fork. It a long wide glacially carved valley with the creek falling over rocks and meandering through meadows for 10 miles. On the west side the rounded Mammoth Peaks loomed over us. The nice easy trail went fast and we climbed up 700 feet of the 2000 foot climb to 11,000 foot Donohue Pass. We found a fine campsite and settled in for the night. The usual routine throughout the trip was: set up camp, eat, read and usually in the tent at dark, or about 8 PM, where we either read or quickly fell asleep.
Day Two - Lyell Fork to Garnet Lake, 12 miles (23)

top: Garnet Lake, below: 1000 Island Lake

We were up early every day and on the trail by 7. This day we faced the first big climb, the 1300 foot ascent up Donohue Pass. As you climb the south end, the Cathedral Range comes into view with the remnants of the 10,000 year old glaciers clinging high on the face of the ridge. As we topped the pass, the Ritter Range came into view, dominated by 13,000 foot peaks Ritter and Banner. The water draining off the north side of the pass ends up in San Francisco, while the south side water ends up in Los Angeles, a testament to the thirsty and far reaching nature of water politics in California. The trail then descends into the Rush Creek drainage, the only easterly running water on the JMT. After the valley traverse, we made a short climb to Island pass before dropping down to 1000 Islands Lake, with it backdrop of the Ritter Range. We continued on to its twin, Garnet Lake and found a campsite on a cramped ledge above the lake, and were treated to the best sunset of the trip.

Devils Postpile

Day Three - Garnet Lake to Reds Meadow, 13 miles (36)
From Garnet Lake we had several ascents and descents past pretty lakes, then began a long 8 mile down hill through forest to Reds Meadow. We walked with three 20 somethings for a while, and Brenda kept up with them and chatted while I fell back. We took the side trail to have a look at Devils Postpile. At camp that night I gave B her trail name — the Gazelle! At Reds we pick up food, set up camp, and had a hot shower at the hot springs. We got clean, and also washed our clothes. We went to the Mule House Cafe for dinner, before turning in. We met Steve a Dena at the campground where they had clothes spread out and drying. We had a chat with this friendly couple; he an architectural photographer and she a civil engineer.
A note here: the tendency is to see the same people hiking, so that we got to know this couple and others as we went along.
Day 4 - Reds Meadow to Purple Lake, 14 miles (50)
After a hearty breakfast at the Mule House we set out for a long hike that included an uphill climb through a burned forest and then a long dry traverse along the contour and uphill at about the mid 9000 foot elevation. This area is covered with pumice from the Mammoth Mt. volcano, which is in sight on part of the trail. The mountain is now a premier ski and mountain biking area, but it is a sleeping giant. We again ran into Steve and Dena at a creek crossing, and got a thunder clap and a few drops of rain. We made camp on a pleasant spot overlooking Purple Lake, and looked forward to the Silver Pass climb the next day.

Silver Pass

Day 5 - Purple Lake to Silver Pass Creek, 12 miles (62)
We left Purple and made the quick 400 foot climb to pretty Virginia Lake, then dropped dramatically into Tully Hole, 800 feet below. Descending down Cascade Creek, we know we had almost 2000 feet up to get over 11K Silver Pass. We made the climb in good time, stopping for a rest and a cooling foot bath before passing Chief Lake where we had camped before. Views looking back to the Ritter Range were obscured by the smoke from the Yosemite fire. Over the pass we hiked down a broad granite valley and found a campsite along the creek, overlooking Mono Creek 800 feet below.
Day 6 - Silver Pass Creek to Vermillion Resort - 5.5 miles (67.5)
We made it down to the morning ferry with the intention of returning to the trail on the afternoon ferry. We ended up staying overnight in a trailer with a big view of the mountains, washing clothes, showering, resting and eating in the cafe. We enjoyed talking to hikers and the odd collection of resort employees. The waitress, Olive, was a classic fun loving, big living young woman. We bought a bottle of wine and enjoyed relaxing and watching the sun go down, knowing that we had much more hard hiking ahead.

Day 7 - Vermillion Resort to Rosemarie Meadow, 12.5 miles (80)

After a good breakfast we paid the bill and took the morning ferry. We knew what was coming, 50+ switchbacks climbing 2200 feet up Bear Ridge. After that, we descended 700 feet into the Bear Creek drainage, stopping finally at a camp in Rosemarie Meadow. Anxiety about climbing with a pack atelevation was reduced by the fact that we were doing well. Also, my minor foot pain problem was gone.

Rosemarie Lake

Day 8 - Rosemarie Meadow to South Fork San Joaquin River 14 miles (94)

We walked uphill into the Rosemarie Lake basin and were rewarded with a beautiful lake surrounded by granite mountains. From the lake we made the short climb to 11K Seldon Pass. From Seldon the trail dropped past pretty lakes, and forest, before making a steep switchback descent into the San Joaquin and Muir Trail Ranch. Here we picked up our food mailed weeks before, and sorted out getting 10 days of food into the bear barrels. After sorting and discarding, and picking some items out of the discard barrels to make our food more compact, we got everything in. While there we met Steve and Dena again, last seen at Reds Meadow days before. We got back on the trail and made it well up the trail. We knew that hardest was yet to come. We camped along the river near a group of three and had a little social time. We had last seen them at Reds. After describing what I did, Betsy the botanist said she had my coastal hiking guide.

Top: Muir Pass from McClure Meadow. Below: Evolution Creek

Day 9 - South Fork to Colby Meadow 7 miles (101 on the JMT)

We were up early, eating only a nut bar, and out with expectation about making it to Evolution Lake, one of the prettiest in the Sierra. We made the 700 foot climb into Evolution Valley, skirting the cascading creek, and soon made our first wet ford. At McClure meadow we had lunch as we gazed up at the high mountains and Muir Pass.
We made it another mile, and in an instant our journey came to an end. Brenda developed a severe leg tendon problem and we had to stop and make camp, luckily nearby and in a nice spot. Brenda crawled into the tent to rest, while I walked back to the Ranger station a mile back to see if a ranger was around. Ranger Dave said if she absolutely could not walk then rescue would be by helicopter of horse.
Day 10 - Colby Meadow to Blaney Hot Springs, 11 miles
Brenda and I talked out all the options and decided that getting to the trailhead at Florence Lake 15 miles back was the only option. In the morning Brenda could walk with the aid of some painkillers, and we started back. Shortly we ran into an angel in the guise of Mary, who we found out was heading down and driving out the next day, She offered a ride, so that worry was relieved. In camp that evening we offered her tea and dinner (freeze dried) and found out something about her. We talked for hours that evening and on the car ride. She runs a non profit in Winters called Center for Land Based Learning, which teaches kids and farmers about sustainable ag. Her program reaches into Sonoma County including Analy High and laguna Farms.
She is also the chair of the Yolo County Planning Commission. Mary is a practical visionary, with a great deal of knowledge and skill.
Day 10 - Hot Springs to ferry landing, 5 miles (117 total miles)
Brendas leg was improving, so we made good time to catch the 9 a.m. ferry.
We took six hours to get to the Sacramento airport, and talked about all sorts of things with Mary, from Valley farmers and farming to health care reform to Coastwalk California. After lunch in Merced, we arrived at the airport and rented a car, then headed for June Lake, arriving at 9 that night, so we had a long day. Left camp at 6 a.m. and arrived at June 15 hours later. We slept and then drove home the next day, Brenda following me in the rental car to Sacramento.
Reflections
We really enjoyed the hiking, the people, the scenery, and looked forward to continuing. The leg injury was sudden, with no indication until it actually happened. My sense is that we were carrying too much weight, because we carried food for 10 days, and I think that stressed the tendons. Next year, when we finish the last and toughest 100 miles, we will reduce our pack weight as much as possible, and have food dropped for us at the five day point. At our age, not being overloaded is very important.
Although we were disappointed, we found the trip very enjoyable, the scenery and the people were the best. Being out in nature for that long becomes a meditative experience, one that we cherish.

Golf and Weeds

2009-08-25T20:11:00.000-07:00

how golf and weeds got me started

the day emerged

with the usual

a round of golf

fervently played

with amateur gusto

then on to the weed attack

the chore for the season

the weeds free and wild

the tractor stubborn and noisy

we find ourselves involved

what ever it is we do

we do and do again year after year

we find loquats for free

come and pick ganesha said

and a computer desk

asking for a new home

african music entertains and energizes

vivid with a human beat

while the desk finds it place

loquats find a glassy home

we dive for golf balls

or write a poem

the african music just keeps coming

the images keep flowing

putting a period on a sentence

the friends of the buddha

call and ask

are you here

can you hear

do you care

high school comes roaring out of the past

flying high on mildewed gym socks

and worn jock straps

and the glare and anger

of the boys dean

deadly serious and uncompromising

the covered walks and railings

where we sat and watched

the world and the girls go by

commenting yet not participating

except the golf team

a working class effort

of rusty putters and pathetic egos

the revered coach dead you found

after a search

and junior varsity basketball

you made one from the corner

everyone gasped

because you seemed so uncertain

about a shot you could make

yet not convinced

the racist teacher

commenting on mexicans

tearing and ripping

a brain splattered on the rocks

the sea washing it clean by now

a long gone ghost

haunted maybe by attitudes and beliefs

tainted by the habits of

long lost monks and nuns

the flag flying on the card

in the corner and on the pole

would you ever get it

now 50 years later

baskets are easy

golf shots a breeze

the evening quiets

limbs go slack

a tree whispers breezily

a cat lurks in the weeds

buffered by the memories of birds and gophers

like everything else

it needs its place to rest after eating

a place of repose

a place to finally call an end

of the hunt and the worry

John Muir Trail

2009-08-24T13:47:00.000-07:00

Brenda and I are soon leaving to do the John Muir Trail. We will be starting in Tuolumne Meadows on Aug 30 and finishing at Mt Whitney on Sept 17, taking 19 days to do 197 miles, averaging about 10.3 miles a day. We will climb 9 10K to 12K passes, and top out at 14,496 Mt Whitney. Overall we climb about 40,000 feet. I'll take lots of photos and we will keep a log so I can report on the trip on this blog.

We wish for good health and good weather. Wish us luck.

photos: Evolution Lake, Le Conte Meadow, graph of the last half of the trip

kno1

2009-08-21T17:55:00.000-07:00

Sometimes pictures have stories, or maybe they always do. The picture in this entry has a story anyway. I'd just gotten a new camera, a pretty good point and shoot, and also a new computer, a mac, with great picture management qualities. I had been taking a camera along on our walks, my wife and I are pretty avid walkers both to get some good exercise, and because we love to be in nature as well as man made environments, and I look for interesting thing to shoot.

That's what we were doing, taking a walk in our little town of Sebastopol in northern California, just 50 miles north of San Francisco. We walked so much in our town that we know just about every street, shortcut, tree, interesting building, little secret places, bits of nature, gardens and empty lots. There is a former lumberyard right across from the 10-year old town plaza. The yard has had several business incarnations since the lumber business went down, and the one just before the present tractor sales and repair place (Sebastopol still has some of it's agricultural heritage left, plus a lot more suburban and rural dwellers with gardens and lawns), was a furniture and upholstery place run by the Basso family. The entire area east of the plaza is an industrial area full of old corrugated building and some interesting businesses such a closed apple packing plant, the Art Center, and art foundry, an exotic juice place and a movie house that used to be a distillery. While walking among the old buildings, we happened to walk down an ally called Brown Street, right behind the old lumberyard. Four loading bays open onto the alley. As we walked, it was hard to miss the graffiti covering the bay doors. I was immediately attracted to the bays and took photos of all four doors. The interesting thing to me is that quite a bit of graffiti had found a home in this out of sight place. On top of the graffiti 3 letters and one numeral had been rolled in big blocky shape, as you can see. They are K,N,O and 1. I took the photos and off we went to continue walking.

Later, I found that the Sebastopol Center for the Arts was having a show and called for entries in any media. I decided to put the photos together into a coherent (to me anyway) piece and submit it. To do that I enhanced and brightened the photos on the basic mac photo program. I then cut a matt and enclosed the photos in plexiglass held together with small nuts and bolts. The title of the piece reflects the letters KNO1. Interestingly enough, when I matted, the piece I had to do in upside down, and so inadvertently placed the letters backwards. The bays were just the opposite. But so what, let's go with it.

I'm please to say that the piece was accepted into the show, for which I am grateful.

Postscript: the letters were painted on to indicate what stuff got delivered to what bay, but in this world of impermanence, the bays have been painted over.

Listen

2009-08-19T19:28:00.001-07:00

"be open to catching bits of conversation" - advice from a writing teacher

listen

"my brother and sister settled the family feud finally"

we talk incessantly in nature

when the wind is blowing

and the voices become faint

the wind and the words

overpower the birds

and the wrestling of weeds

"it was on my chart"

on the trail up

brokeoff mountain

the ragged edge of eruption

the chart that nobody knows

and everyone guesses

the charting of a life?

or the pulse coursing

and being charted?

"the little boy died on the mountain"

lava rocks sharp and unyielding

taking a life in a jumble of confusion and terror

while hikers watched in helplessness

we talked about it

imagining the pain and sorrow

the agony of adverse nature

"stop that and get over here"

a little boy and a little girl

run free happy gleefully

through the camp among the trees

unbounded by air and sky

and the dirt of a forest floor

the parents finally stop it

"can't wait to get home"

through the central valley

back roads all the way

longer but better

we bought fruit off the tree

and melon from the vine

enjoyed the ripening fields

and the river roiling nearby

"the last leg"

we roll down the road

then the gravel driveway

finding our place the same

"it is nice to be home"

the garden

2009-08-14T15:47:00.001-07:00

The garden is bursting. Need I say more?

Good compost and some Brenda dedication

brings us abundance.

Lao Tzu

2009-08-14T15:33:00.001-07:00

an old book

An old copy of the Way of Life

appeared on the shelf

in the bookstore by the bay

fresh from 1962

a discolored receipt still in the book

it is from the past lives

then we read it stoned and sober

strange all these years later

it means more now than ever

so simple and complex

a molecule only

a simple maze

a bump in time

a speck and less

in all of it

Lao Tzu speaks

still and quiet

A lovely walk

2009-08-12T15:56:00.000-07:00

Brenda and I walked one of our favorite hikes the other day. Starting at Goat Rock Rd. on the Sonoma Coast we walked up Willow Creek, up the Pomo Trail and Red Hill Trail until we were 1000 feet up. Then it was down to the shoreline and along the Kortum Trail to return to the car. It was a relaxing 8 mile day. We are "training", sort of, for the 200 mile John Muir Trail, which we will start on Aug. 30.

pictures: old barn on Willow Creek Road, Clarkia, fog rolling in along the Russian River, Gopher snake

Lava Beds and Lassen NP

2009-08-08T16:12:00.000-07:00

We recently returned from a trip to see our dear friends in Ashland Ore, and on the way back camped and hiked at Lava Beds National Monument and Lassen National Park. I lost my camera on the trip so borrowed a few generic photos off the internet. In 3 days we hiked 30 miles: 10 in the sweltering heat at Lava Beds, a 10 miler to the top of Brokeoff Mountain (it is what it says, a fragment of a huge volcano that blew out long ago), and a meandering set of hikes that added up to 10 miles. The Lassen Peak trail was closed because of a tragic accident in which a young boy was killed by a rockslide. I also explored a few lava tube caves.

Photos: Brokeoff Mtn, Lassen Peak, Lava Beds

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle

2009-08-07T17:21:00.000-07:00

Brenda and I have been reading "Animal Vegetable Miracle" by Barbara Kingsolver. It is the wonderfully written story of the Kingsolver family moving to a family farmstead and learning how to supply healthy food from their own efforts, and from the efforts of those in the locale.

It speaks strongly to the issue of sustainability and goes into some detail about the true costs of imported food, as well as telling the family story of living fully in the community.

Here is a link

http://www.animalvegetablemiracle.com/

2009-07-22T10:38:00.000-07:00

for morley - teacher, wise person, singer/songwriter from new york

morley elevates a stand of pines

roots to the the highest tips

and the people who sit beneath

lifted by sheer love

roots tremble

hearts open

fearless and free of self

radiant clear eyes

morley sings to reach in

under the gnarled shudder

and the cresting fear

to find the ease and glide

the quiet place bowered

by deeper colored flowers

by words and tunes

meant to uncover the heat

in the soil

meant to say the truth

of the trees and people

gathered in concert

World Music Fest 2009

2009-07-20T11:56:00.000-07:00

Photos from top:

Jackie Green and Tim Bluhm

Fishtank Ensemble

Morley

Issa Bagayogo

We had an immensely good time at the World Music Fest at the Grass Valley Fairgrounds.

We listened to many kinds of music from Taiko to banjo, blues, Afro-rock, folk-rock, guitars and a saw. Much of the music these days is a fusion of traditional with the modern, thus you have African traditional music paired with a keyboard and a synthesizer, for example. Among our favorites were headliners Indigo Girls (folk rock), Issa Bagayogo (Mali with the synthisizer), Fishtank Ensemble (gypsy, fiddle, punk, wild vocals, and the saw!) Old Blind Dogs (hot celtic), Marcus James and the Wassonrai (Delta blues and african village music), Handful of Luvin (young blues rock group from Seattle), Jackie Greene and Tim Bluhm (hard driving blues, Tim is the son of our freinds Stan and Sharon) and the radiant Morley, who brings us joy from New York with her jazzy, bluesy original songs (and great vocals) about healing, hope and the highest love. We also danced alot!

Sonoma Coastwalk 2009

2009-07-11T10:14:00.000-07:00

Brenda and I led Sonoma Coastwalk for a day on beautiful clear blustery day, as we explored some of the scenic Sonoma coast. Naturalist Pete Levegue kept us entertained as we examined crabs and seaweed

the plug

2009-07-11T10:05:00.000-07:00

the plug

the campground bathroom

set among the dunes and cypress

state park grey

quiet and serene

made refuge for two boys

plugged in and enthralled

with the electronic world

on the little screen

oblivious to what awaited outside

the sand tumbling down the dune

the wind moving it grain by grain

trees advertising climbing

waves beating a summons

that is not heard

wanting the boys to come and play

freely with abandon

severed from the web that binds them

holding them in and unaware

-richard nichols

july 09

2009-07-02T17:23:00.000-07:00

emerging clearly

never before did it emerge so clearly

clear as a petal on a pond

soiled leaves rotting in the forest

rocks disintegrating grain by grain

dew drop on a clover reflecting a

100 year old redwood tree

the hills singing praise for wet winds

dark ponds finding completion

as the grains from the rocks

the leaves and needles and the petals

fill the pond

smothering the water in a brown

symphony of muck and rotting bark

later becoming a meadow with flowers and trees

the bottom sinking in layered glory

to become a rock

emerging as a shelf beside a quiet pond

to disintegrate again

and join the trees and leaves and flowers

once again in a reunion of ancient glory

in the pond under the redwoods

richard nichols

june 09

Point Reyes backpack

2009-06-20T20:05:00.000-07:00

Brenda and I had a great time on the Point Reyes backpack with a crew of 6 Coastwalk folk.

pelicans soared

high in blue above the falls

splashing water wetting our feet

Garden Walk, Sebastopol

2009-05-30T19:40:00.000-07:00

Sebastopol Walks conducted a backyard garden tour on May 30, led by Kathy Oetinger and Nick Kishmirian. We broke the record for attendance, 93 people arrived and took the 4-mile walk with seven gardens along the way. Thanks to Lucy, Rick, Erik, Kathy, Nick, the Kallens, and the Gurneys for letting us experience their wonderful gardens.

nature's way

2009-05-29T19:53:00.000-07:00

nature's way

a nature's way "crunchy" wrapper

sits on the trail

singing its nature-adverse song

for the wretched soul

the one who thought to be whole

and wholesome

but instead scorned the green-leaf glade

the solid hoodoo

the gravel torn from mountains

beneath his feet

who dropped the wrapper

satisfied and content.

-richard nichols

april 2009

Tomales Point Day Hike

2009-05-27T10:24:00.000-07:00

We took a 9 mile r/t day hike out to Tomales Point in Pt. Reyes NS. The lupines, poppies and native thistle are stunning right now. We saw and abundance of pelicans, cormorants and elk.

Salt Point State Park flowers, Sonoma County CA

2009-05-25T19:57:00.000-07:00

We spent 3 days in April camping and hiking at Salt Point and were treated to stunning wildflowers on the coastal bluff as well as some of the best hiking around. It was fun to have our friends Don and Lynn join us overnight and take a wonderful 10 mile hike the next day.

painted assemblage

2009-05-05T09:31:00.000-07:00

no sur

2009-04-27T14:47:00.000-07:00

2009-04-26T18:32:00.000-07:00

a backpacker lament

the magazine
moldy in the corner
told of local trails
trails up mountains
across ridges
and young blonds
making coffee
on the ground

how to do everything
in youth, with vigor
in cities, and in the
country

What about us?
old and sore
10 miles seems easy, no complaints
we have
essential outdoor skills

the magazine rots

steering wheel

2009-04-26T11:40:00.000-07:00

purple wire

2009-04-26T10:31:00.000-07:00

the king and i

2009-04-26T10:25:00.000-07:00

the king and i

the king and his queen
adorn the cities, towns and villages
the rural roads winding
through rice paddies villages jungles
and polluted streets of Bangkok

pensive poses
a benign hand raised in blessing
in kindly attention to the poor
a finger pointing at some
eternal unknown
thought or bright idea

always present in the moment of passing
caught forever in the
timeless pose of benevolence.

the king revered
the king a god
the king larger than life
on kingly billboards
ragged dirty signs
adorning the fences and buildings
of lovely ravaged Thailand

emerging from a sea of anxiety

2009-04-26T10:21:00.000-07:00

seascape - 2000

2009-04-25T17:57:00.000-07:00

guatemala

2009-04-25T17:54:00.000-07:00

new world order

2009-04-25T17:51:00.000-07:00

mad dog

2009-04-23T19:44:00.000-07:00

a poem a day

2009-04-23T19:41:00.000-07:00

a poem a day

probably won't happen

but the urge and the

solid blue well of thought

and ideas

of word with meaning

and thoughts with depth

sweep from some unknown territory

pilfered from reality

stolen from god

written in haste

written is sincerity

written fearing the best

and wanting it

wanting to tell it all

wanting to say the words

wanting to finally

tell the spider and the monkey

and the human

they are not a mural on a wall

they are not ideas

they are not images

they are not smashed statues

rusting and dusty

they don't have to fear the dragon

or the deep black of space

they are beautiful

they belong

even in a poem

written on the lame.

-richard nichols

spiral - 2007

2009-04-23T19:38:00.000-07:00

self portrait - 2005

2009-04-23T19:36:00.000-07:00

pink - 2004

2009-04-23T19:34:00.000-07:00

frog call 2009

2009-01-19T13:50:00.000-08:00

tree frogs sang every winter behind our house. As of January 2009, they are silent

frog call

deep regrets nor wonderment
will bring back the chorus
of frogs singing with sexual intent
out the window

cheering lustfully loudly lovely
we slept through it
never feeling lonely
or longing
for more than the frog calls
and good sleep

now we wonder
are they gone forever
will the mud erupt again
wet with feverish calls
with the excitement of surrender

have we banished them
at our peril
have we destroyed
a cherished sound
of the frogs
in the mud
in the pond
in the rain
in the back
are they gone?

Nevada

2009-01-19T11:31:00.000-08:00

Nevada
dedicated to Dan Frank and Lynn Hamilton, who spent a month in Nevada working for the election of Barack Obama, and told me their story.

dust blows incessant into the cracks
of a nevada trailer
parked desolate
gravel and grit
huddled like a beetle
in a mound of shredded posters
and demented memories

two people wonder why are we here
a tortured man in angles of disposition
invites them into the trailer
his gun for varmints he says
I don't like that fella in washington
the one like orwell he says
the one who must leave

yes we are here for that they say
the tortured man smiles
a smile of mysterious regrets
we can do this he says
we can find the damage
we can fix it he says.

two people reach across
something uncrossable
something filled with the impulse
of altered understanding
and say yes yes we can fix this

- richard nichols

shoulderbone - 2008

2009-01-18T15:22:00.000-08:00

floating boy

2009-01-18T15:09:00.000-08:00

floating boy

a boy floated into a restaurant
a soft breeze at his back
his jacket flapping gently
as everyone watched then stood
the waitress reached and touched him
lightly on the shoulders
whispered you can fly
her soft touch guiding him
his feet touched softly on the floor
i didn't know he said
i was only hungry

irish girl at the elks club

2009-01-18T15:07:00.000-08:00

irish girl at the elks club - for brenda

motorcycle gangs and morticians
conspire with drunken elks
turning tragedy into bright reality

a brother wild with a fantasy life
theft rage speed
lays now quietly in a coma

come to dinner
the dinner at the elks club
we'll dance to the music
of aging polyester musicians
a combo longing for fame
and the perfect note

a mortician drunk on friendliness
the pretty waitress with the lilting accent
the funny hat
exchange a greeting
why don't you dance
you should dance
dance to the combo
he says

shrinking embarrassed
the lilting voice says no I'm working
can we go now but we don't
restlessly the combo plays on

the waitress sits placidly with her drink
and the company of a cheerful bartender
timid yet guided by the force of everything
finally and purely
we fall in love at the elks club bar

-richard