Ziggy Stardust, cat chronicles

Newsweek ran an article on documenting kitty love. Or rather trying to prove that our aloof cats really do love us after all. They’re not just assholes, and we are not their servant-savants. Now, most quasi-scientific articles on cat behavior are beyond ridiculous—especially the ones that try to (dis)prove the cognitive abilities of cats. Markers of feline affection are even harder to map. Especially if you are prone to  use the behavior of sycophantic dogs as a reference point.

I was always interested in cat behavior, having had cats all my life. Our first cat was a Siamese, who decided that I need a protection and slept with me in the crib. My father was convinced she would smother me, my mother said no, leave her alone. She’s protecting the baby. And so she did. Much later, I also wanted to become a veterinarian, so I was always observing animal behavior. 

When it came to choosing my own kitten from my friend’s litter, this time I let the kitten choose me, not the other way around. The previous kitten I chose on looks alone. Luckily Frosty, a seal-point Saimese with white markings was a good cat. I was sold on Siamese-alley cat mix. You got the best of both worlds, blue-eyed beauty and street-smarts. And hopefully you didn’t get a crossbreed that sang the song of the Siamese cat’s tribe.

There were at least five kittens to choose from the clowder as the purebred Siamese mother proudly surveyed her mongrel litter. Luckily they mostly took after her with Siamese markings and tabby stripes. It was a hard decision, I wanted them all. 

My friend’s stepmother would not let us take our chosen kittens right away, she said they were too young at six weeks, so we interacted with them for two weeks when they came of age to leave the nest. Wise decision. Less trauma for them. My kitten was one well-adjusted cat. He was both adventuresome and trusting.

Most people choose their cats based on quirks and vagaries of beauty, not realizing that the cat too would like to make a choice as to whom he trusts and wants to interact with. Though it took me a while to find his name, Ziggy Stardust chose me. He fell asleep in my lap on his back with paws splayed. My heart melted.

At College of Marin I did a social experiment with my Siamese-tabby mix kitten for a psychology class, we were studying animal behavior. Konrad Lorenz’s imprinted ducklings was my inspiration.

I taught my beautiful blue-eyed kitten to come when I whistled, to lay down, roll over, and to fetch a piece of crumpled paper and return it to me. He performed brilliantly for the class and was unafraid of strangers. We all sat in a circle on the carpet,, and he wended his way in an out of all of us, curious to the end. It was interesting to watch him work the crowd and you could see my fellow students falling in love.

When I brought Ziggy back to school a few months later, he was terrified, and would not do anything at all, except for to hide and yowl. It was a long  miserable day at school for both of us. This was in the days before cat carriers were invented, so I carried him on the bus to and from school. No leash. No harness. He stuck to me like glue. I was his only hope. We were a bonded pair. I never put them in a stressful position like that again.

I trained that cat to do many other things as well. Perhaps the most unusual feat was to convince him to hop into a picnic basket so that I could lower him from the second story window to the ground so he could go potty. Then, after he did his duty, he would hop back inside the basket and ride the elevator back up to my window for his morning snuggle. 

Figby & Ziggy adored my grandmother, much to her chagrin, & she let them inside.

• See Figby & Pishkin a story about two brother cats, and a good example of nature versus nurture.

Pipevine swallowtails

Today was one of those days when a rare black swallowtail butterfly decided to cross my path, and flit in front of my car bearing down at 40 miles an hour. Nothing to be done, I saw it flutter to the road and I thought of how not only did I strike down a rare butterfly, I killed the only pollinator of an even rarer plant, the pipevine plant. Both, indelible images from the landscape of my childhood. The carrion-scented pipevine, or Dutchman’s pipe, with its heart-shaped leaves, is the only foodsource of the butterfly, the butterfly, its only pollinator. Their age-old dance is a deep symbiosis that I cannot even begin to fathom.

When I went to pick up my friend for his appointment, another black swallowtail fluttered overhead. I felt that for a moment, that maybe I was forgiven. I drove slowly along the road looking for the one I had struck down, thinking I could at least photograph it in death.  A memento mori. But it was gone, like the shadow of a leaf in the wind. California pipevine swallowtails are melanistic, and in the right light, their sooty wings are fringed with indigo jewels. In many cultures a black butterfly is a symbol of transition, renewal, or rebirth.

To ameliorate that sense of loss, call it unnamed grief, having an hour to kill, I hiked up the fireroad to the ridge above Terra Linda while my friend was in the hospital getting a procedure done. Lately, I’ve been keeping the doldrums at bay with routine and projects. It sneaks in when the pattern is broken. An old friend, Katelin died, and from that, there is no recovery. I walked along the ridge line, gazed back at the iconic shape of Mount Tam, and then north to the broad expanse of Loma Alta Ridge, Sleepy Hollow below me. I dawdled, and took photos of wildflowers and rock outcroppings of Franciscan strata, ribbon chert, and stray blueschist knockers. 

It wasn’t until when I was leaving, that unexpected stop after what you think is your final stop—I doubled back to see the place where an old house once stood on the ridgeline. Near where the front door might’ve stood, a liminal boundary to the east, there were two clumps of white freesias in the grass, that heavenly narcotic scent taking me back to another time, another place, when life was not as painful. Someone once said, let grief come in, and then let it go out again. I have not seen the ocean for over a year. Cease, surcease.

Still feeling blue, I headed back north to prepare for a Sierra Poetry Festival poetry reading for the California Fire & Water anthology reading with Molly Fisk. I joined a little late because I stopped off at Hick’s Valley to feed the Dolcini horses some apples, it was a necessary stop, if only for their soothing animal kindness, and gentle presence, as they snuffed and whuffled, and begged me to itch that one unattainable spot high on their necks for just a little bit longer. 

We breathed in each other’s breath in greeting. Theirs smelled of spring grass, and summer lawns. Mine, of coffee. Their soft eyes, like the deep lakes of the wings of those butterflies, held no judgement, no expectation, other than that of animal companionship. They crowded in, glad for the distraction. Sometimes I forget that deep connection with horses. The unexpected stop made me a little late for the reading, but was necessary for peace of mind.

Some 50 of us poets were electronically joined at the hip via Zoom. We read for the children, we read for the planet we read for the jetstream—that it might find its way back home; we prepare for what is to come. This year, the fire season will arrive too soon and already the hills are losing their greenery. As I listened to the poems, I was lifted out of the doldrums. After the reading, the blues slammed back in, wanting its due—that pound of flesh. But there are indigo skies on the horizon. It is all part of the dance.

There is always tomorrow for the reboot.

Remembering Chicken Bill, aka William Muller

Chicken Bill Mueller at the Rancho Nicasio

William “Chicken Bill” Mueller was born in 1946, a Chicago native, he said is background was of Polish heritage, his mother’s maiden name was Irlowski. He said he got out of the Windy City by running off to join the military—probably Vietnam. Something about his draft card number coming up.

When he first came to Marin in the 1970s, he worked in construction with his friend Mike Vinceleone who owned a construction business in Larkspur. Both he and Mike were very fond of LSD. Bill also worked on the Escalle Estate Vineyards, mending fences, and running the backhoe. He said that he built many of the houseboats along the Corte Madera Creek. He also worked at a YMCA camp, and for Gort Jewelers in San Rafael. Bill was a diamond duster and dated the jeweler’s daughter.

He said something about a pimp and a pink Cadillac, and it sounds like at one point he was pretty flush, as he had credit card with $23,000 on it. I don’t know if that was debt, or value.

He got his moniker when he worked on a chicken ranch. Packs of dogs would go after his chickens. He said at one point, he killed 77 dogs, and was arrested, sent to Atascadero, and while there, he was found mentally unstable, and was drugged.

While in the asylum, he said that he learned law, fought his case to get out of prison, and won. But circumstances had drastically changed for him. The world he knew no longer existed. He lost his place on Juarez (when?) due to back taxes, etc., when he was sent to prison.

While in Santa Rosa, in 2017, he was in the Tubbs fire zone and lost everything. He said, “They made me leave in the middle of the night and I lost all my possessions. I had no papers. Nothing. I had a small trust fund, about 15k but lost it all in a bad investment.” I think what he was trying to tell me what is this when you lose all your papers you can’t prove who you are

It sounds like he lived in Forest Knolls on Juarez or Montezuma off and on during the 1970s onward. In 1977, he had a pet pig named Francis he said that the sheriff came and confiscated him…. He said that he lost most of his investment money, and any money from the sale of his property, was long gone. He was a veteran, and lived on a small VA stipend and SSI. Sometimes he stayed in Barb’s back bedroom to dry out, and take a shower, but most of the time he lived in a little camp he had created deep in the woods.

It was not easy interviewing Bill because he would never finish the story and then jump into another story, and if I tried to get him to backtrack, he would get cranky, so I just let it flow.

Trying to get Barbara Scott, who knew him best, to clarify the story was equally challenging, if not downright impossible. When Covid came along, Chicken Bill was looking in on her, taking care of her most basic needs during her year+ of isolation. If she needed heavy, lifting done or soil moved, Chicken Bill was there. He built a solar panel array for her little shed on the side of the trailer, and helped her in the community garden. Barbara left us in July of 2021.

I lost touch with Chicken Bill after that. Barbara was our only connection. Sometimes I would see him on his bicycle headed towards the San Geronimo foodbank, and we would stop and say hello, but then it was as if he just disappeared, evaporated into thin air. I didn’t see him anymore. And now I fear that they are both gone.

Fragments: Don Yurian, shooting dogs, the Weavers. I always meant to write up the story, but somehow I got distracted and now I can’t remember the thread, or the bits that I did not write down. I’ve been too far and too long from it. I would love to collect any stories you have of him and see if we can wave together a piece. Perhaps Angel? In May of 1997, according to my blog, I was at the Rancho Nicasio bar and a drunk asked me if I knew Chicken Bill, so it sounds like he was still living in Forest Knolls at the time.

This was fleshed out from my Feb 19, 2021 notes, on March 19, 2023.

Anne Kent Library roundtable on SF Drake history, 6/26 Rodoni roundtable notes

Marin County Library Drake Boulevard Learning Resources

A video of the recent public online learning session about Sir Francis Drake Boulevard is now available in both English and Spanish on the Library’s Drake History Resources webpage. Our Anne T. Kent California Room librarians were essential in gathering information to support the ongoing public dialogue and opportunity for community learning. Check out the Anne T. Kent California Room Community Newsletter for additional features and highlights about local history and available archival resources.

Red Tide

When I was young, during deep summer, when the red tide came in, we used to drive out to Blackie’s Pasture near Strawberry Point, and head towards Tiburon, following the shoreline to catch the rare bioluminescent lightshow, where the small waves lapped in, ethereally lit from within. And a decade later, after the bars closed, we’d drive out to Goat Rock, under full moonlight, to scribe our names and lost fragments of poems that would never otherwise be written, our deep confessions in the sand. The ocean as our witness. Our writing glowed with an unearthly light produced by the dinoflagellates trapped on the shore, waiting for the next wave to take them back home.

4/17/20

Teaching poetry at Juvenile Hall

California Poets in the Schools residency, Loma Alta High School, Marin Juvenile Hall, I met a dozen students once a week, on Fridays during the month of January.

Day 1, I Am poems. In my other life... The poetry of imagination.

After I introduced myself, and the California Poets in the Schools program, I asked students what poets they had worked with in the past, as this is an ongoing residency. I talked about my own teaching experiences.  

In the spirit of keeping it real, or how poetry was relevant to their lives, I also told the students a story about former CPITS poet teacher, the late Judith Tannenbaum's star pupil, Spoon Jackson, at San Quentin, that, though he was imprisoned behind bars for life, poetry gave him another life. The idea that poetry changes lives. What Spoon discovered through poetry was that all human beings have one foot in darkness, the other in light. (By Heart: Poetry, Prison, and Two Lives). Poems take on a life of their own, and can travel the world. Poetry is so powerful that it can affect change. I listed a litany of poets who changed the course of human events. Pablo Neruda, Bei Dao, Victor Jara. And of course, Martin Luther King’s famous speech is pure poetry.

One of the model poems I used was from McGrath School, part of the Napa State Hospital—the place where kids who were bounced from Juvie, or were sent to, before their final destination—prison. I wanted the students to glean the significance that though they were incarcerated, their minds weren't, that water could travel anywhere it pleased. Poetry was like that.

WATER 

From the hills I learned
how to flow like a snake
I flow all the way down to the ground,
to the ocean, to some universe
far away in another galaxy
in a black hole and I become
the cloud of stars. 

      Class poem, McGrath School, Napa State Hospital

We made "I am" poems, based on the four elements, and discussed the intersection of metaphor and imagination.

I explained to the students that a poetry framework was merely a teaching model, a jumping off point, should they get stuck, and more significantly, that they had permission to take the poem in other directions. During our group boardwork, that's precisely what happened. After the first three lines, the group poem took off in another direction, wanting a life of its own, but they voted to keep it as one poem. Radical change or thinking outside the box threatens them.

I am the lion of the sun.
The universe taught me
to count the stars of the galaxy.
When we create poetry,
we shoot for the moon
We swim in sorrow, drown from the pain,
hoping to float on the waves
to reach the sanctuary of land
saturated by the past.

      Class Poem, Loma Alta HS

During a lull period where no one was writing, and no one wanted to share a poem—even though they get cellphone time points when they do share—and we had 20 minutes to go before class was finished, I asked them what secret animal lived inside them. (Someone had given me a stack of calendars, and I always have a few backup lessons in my go-bag.) I held up wild animal calendar photos. They all wanted to have copies, soon they each had their totem animals on their desks. The guards were on instant alert, in case there was anything sharp, like staples. The kids don't get to use regular pens, because pens can be weaponized. I thought of the song, Pretty Boy Floyd: Some rob you with a fountain pen.

Since I had worked at Napa State Hospital, I knew the drill. No staples, count the pencils at the end of class. No contraband. I wasn't allowed to bring in a cellphone or my iPad in with me, which meant I had to rethink a few of my teaching tools. The security guards let me bring in one pen, but I had to check it both coming and going. To enter the lockdown system, you pass through an electronic metal detector gate, and three locked doors. The covered outdoor halls are lined with chain link fence, and for a moment, you're stranded in the hallway, like a caged animal, dependent on the the guards to answer the doorbells, in order to get to the next level. Sometimes they were lax. Fear bubbled in my throat each time I went through the checkpoint system, and renamed itself claustrophobia.

One guard wanted to make sure the kids got adequate time to read, even though I had already asked students to read several times, at 10:20, and again at 10:30, no one volunteered. The teacher had stepped out of the room. I was annoyed by his interference. Other guards, and there were several, were much more engaged. so it was odd—perhaps a bit of a turf war. The animal calendar photos saved the day. The kids wanted to keep them. W., a bilingual Latino, clearly the most productive and prolific of the group, really gets poetry. He is willing to share and add comments. El tigre really resonated with him.

J. didn’t write at all, at first. she was openly hostile when I was working the floor (teaching poetry is sometimes like stand-up comedy where a recalcitrant audience needs to be warmed up), but at the end, she came around and did an amazing spontaneous rap poem about growing up in Oakland without electricity. The candle and the match became a metaphor shedding light throughout the poem. It was stunning, I told her to write it down, and that when she got out, she could should get involved with poetry slams. I told her she should look up Brennan deFrisco when she got out. I hope she does.

Three Latinix girls wrote endlessly about personal angst and pain in their journals. They were shy and didn’t want to share. I let them be. J. had trouble focusing and developing ideas in general. Ditto that with D., R., and T. T., an Anglo, and also the youngest, volunteered how much he hated poetry. I had to laugh. And I shared my story about hating poetry too. But I also told him how it unlocked my dyslexic brain so that I could learn to learn. And how it let me travel the world. One staff member, a guard, wrote an amazing I Am poem that became a Day 2 model.

I AM LIKE WATER 

I am the blood of my ancestors
with the heart of a warrior
I am like the grain of rice
being able to grow in any season
From my experiences,
I learned how to live
Being lost, I learned to grow
I cry from thoughts of my past
I am the humble beginnings
new life from the obstacles
I am thankful because I know the bottom…
I don’t need to speak of it. 

      Staff/Anon

Day 2. Personification of feelings, deepening the metaphor. Feelings. If poems.

I typed up and copied the group poem from last week to share during the introductory editing process. And surprisingly, the students decided to split last week's group poem into two parts and developed more ideas for each of them. So now we have two group poems.

When we create poetry,
we shoot for the moon
We swim in sorrow,
drown from the pain,
hoping to float on waves
to reach the sanctuary of land
saturated by the past.
We are the light and life
of the universe. 

      Class Poem 

I am the lion of the sun.
The universe taught me
to count the stars of the galaxy.
Books taught me of the universe.
But el norte lado taught me
the oral tradition, the knowledge
you will not learn in school. 

      Class Poem

Today we focused on poems based on personification of feelings, with William Butler Yeats’ quote, Love is like a lion’s tooth, and other personification examples of emotions. I used several stellar lines written by Laura Walker's 4th grade Berkeley poets, about simile and metaphor, using "If and Then" as a bridge. The idea that If never happens. But if it happens, then there is an alternate reality. Writing is In My Heart by Ryleigh Norgrove, a 4th Gr. Alexander Valley ES, was the model poem. 

If I were a caged bird
I would try to break free
like the wind through the trees. 

      Da. 

If I was a river,
I’ve been moving slow, not fast
I’d be healthy and clear,
Not filthy and dark. 

     Ju.

We also discussed the idea of writing alternative poems to our other life. Nancy Chery's In the Parallel Universe, and Side 32 by Victor Hernández Crúz were the model poems. We never got to Billy Collins'' Litany, but that’s OK because I wasn’t sure I wanted to use it either. A little too Kahlil Gibranish for me. Billy Collins runs hot and cold.

The students seemed to enjoy making group poems on the board. The first day's group poem, "I am the lion of the sun," came out of that process almost spontaneously. We talked of metaphor, and I told them how I can’t teach metaphor, but I can teach them to make simile. Basically, I’m trying to show these young poets that the transparency of teaching poetry is not so much about following the rules as it is about that spontaneousness that happens when you think you’re doing the lesson. In other words, it was OK to go off script. And that the poetry frameworks were merely there to help them—should they get stuck.

I introduced editing during the board work of their class poem, Perfect River, an If/Then poem, and lively discussions on linguistics and line aesthetics, and imagery arose. How could sharks eat the night stars? It doesn't make sense. I used those moments as teaching moments. 

PERFECT RIVER
If I was the perfect river
I would be full of fish
Big white sharks
eating the stars
out of the sky.
Have you ever seen the stars
leap out of the water
and eat the moon?
If I was a river,
I’d be moving slow,
not fast.
I am the perfect river
and I’ll never stop
flowing into your heart.
I’ll flow all the way down
to the ocean of love. 

     Class Poem

Some students were really locked into the idea that poetry had to make sense, had to be literal, had to be true. Or that it had to rhyme. Which is interesting, because when they read their poems aloud, they are, in essence rapping their poems in iambic pentameter. I pointed out the role of iambics and memory. The first poems before there was writing. The origins of storytelling and myth. The handprint stenciled on the cave wall. 

They delved deeper into metaphor—an interesting aside, was that they began to spontaneously delve into the concept of spiritual awakening. I need to be careful because I didn’t want them to get into a fiery God and brimstone act. We did not get to the love is like poems which I had hoped to do. Surprisingly M. and D., the two Latinix girls wrote animal poems, and also turned in their poems (which is a voluntary process—they leave poems on top of their desks if they want me to read them).

Day 3

Since I actually typed up some individual student poems from the week before, I individually asked each student before class if it was OK to share that their poem. They each said yes, giving me the verbal permission I needed. If one student had said no, then, I would've changed my lesson plan, and not used the handout. They are also careful never to use last names. 

And most students did either change their poems, or added onto their first draft. I  introduced the idea that a first draft could be a separate poem all on its own, and that it was OK to change the poems because they would still have both copies after I added their edits and changes. But they were a little anxious about the process.

I introduced the concept of editing again, for Brian Kervin’s upcoming editing class on February 7. There is a Marin student poetry contest on Feb. 14. We did lots of revisions on the typed poems from the previous week. And we did some great boardwork. We didn’t get to the love poems again, the I Am poems prevailed, a spillover. I reintroduced the idea of In my other life as part two of the poems during freewrite, after the board poems. I always attempt to pick up the threads of the week before, as an ongoing process.

Some kids are willing to do freewrite, most are not. We created more board poems again at the end of class, after students shared their own work. D. seems to really like the group board work process. He doesn’t do very much on his own. W. is the most engaged student I have met in a long time. U., from Guatemala, who spoke no English, sat next to W., so W. could translate what I was saying. He was suddenly engaged. I told him of my travels to Guatemala and he wrote a poem about his village, asked him what his name meant, and said of course, Ulysses, the famous Greek hero. He beamed with pride.

R. is very thoughtful, I like his silence. T. wrote something today too, very surprising. He still doesn’t really want to share. Said he was unfairly incarcerated, he didn’t do anything wrong, a litany of denial they all share. The substitute teacher was enamored of the idea of If and Then poems and began to recite spontaneously a Rudyard Kipling poem based on If. She really enjoyed the class and it was fun to have her there, unlike most subs.

Day 4 Heart poems

It was much harder today to begin the class because most of the kids whose poems had been typed up, were gone as in matriculated from the program—including my star pupil, W. There were five new kids and that significantly changed the dynamics of the class. Wi., an African-American, wanted to take over the board poems completely with gangster talk. It was the first time we had to invoke the appropriateness clause. Three guards called him on it. I was glad for the back-up. Wi. wanted to completely take over the board poems, and no one else got a chance to say anything. However, the teacher was thrilled that he was coming out of his shell and interacting. Oh!

We revisited last weeks end-of-class board poem, a derisive poem about breakfast. In essence, it was a list poem. Some of the kids began to defend breakfast, but it was a fun mini-comparison exercise. I told them they could do freewrite riffs on it, or develop their own ideas from the board poems if they didn’t agree where the poem was going.

This morning
I ate rubber eggs
stinky as fish,
bread as hard as rock.
Frozen OJ like Antarctica
Pancakes taste like Playdoh.
Milk smelling
like rubbing alcohol.
Cleaning supplies,
like our cleaned up minds. 

     Class Poem

We finally got to Dorianne Laux’s heart poem—on the day she was named a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets. I told them about other CPITS poets who’ve gone onto national, and international fame:  Jane Hirshfield, Juan Felipe Hererra, Molly Fisk, who also quoted yesterday in the New York Times. Students are amazed that one could ostensibly win money, or become famous via poetry. Which brought me back to that upcoming Marin student poets contest Feb. 14, with a $200 prize. To the students, that was 200-karat money. Everyone wanted to enter a poem.

We finally read the Laux Heart poem, which I wanted to introduce last week, so we could lead into Hikmet’s Things I didn’t Know I loved,  but there just wasn’t enough time. I asked them what lines or images resonated. I wanted students to personify the heart, or the soul, and or life—or something less than concrete, in order to be able to talk about it in abstract terms, and yet relate it to their own lives. 

I sang a stanza from the Canadian songwriters, the McGarrigle Sisters: Some say the heart is just like a wheel…. saying that song lyrics is where poetry and music intersect.  I also tell them that the hardest thing I can do in public is to sing, that I’m terrified. But I do it anyway. You could feel a palpable shift in the air. We just deepened. And now it was time for me to go. The next poet to take over. I wrote Josef Conrad’s famous line about the Belgian Congo, heart of darkness, on the board, and told the story of how the novel came from that metaphor. And the students wrote an amazing class poem on the board.

HEART OF DARKNESS 

A heart of darkness
Takes the patience of greatness
Throughout the day
It brings on phases of freedom
Itching for poetry
It wants a door of iron, a path of fire.
But don’t get wired.
Inside the heart of a soldier
Too much on my shoulders.
An American dream. 

      Class Poem

Since we still had some time left at the end of class after students shared their poems out loud, they wanted to do another board poem. R. kicked off the first line it was great. I had him write his own line on the board, next step to owning it. Then Wi. decided he wanted to write the second line and we went nowhere fast. So I never got to do my closure speech with them. But having them write on the board was priceless. We covered a lot of ground, but the Laux poem didn't generate the response that I had hoped for. I had to remind myself that sometimes closure happens after you're gone. The board poem was my closure.

Mt. Tamalpais from Corte Madera, from an old photo, acrylic 6x8” (art)

I have four pieces I can live with, I need two more by Thursday.

Miracle Mile, sans elms, under a glaring sun, a nightmare

All the historic elms are gone from the Miracle Mile, once an old railroad bed, now a main artery that connects San Rafael to San Anselmo, so now it is an afternoon nightmare to drive with the westering sun hovering over Mt. Tam, blinding us all. The trees got Dutch elm disease in the 1970s, from a non-native wood boring beetle. We went to great lengths to save them, never knowing that the sudden oak death, too was festering on the horizon. Elms also once lined much of Sir Francis Drake Blvd, some still stand at the San Anselmo-Ross border, Shady Lane, and Ross Ave. But disease ravaged most of them. Massive elms were the quintessential shade tree of Marin. They even lined the main road out of Novato that became Highway 101 at Olompali. Now most of the trees are gone. Felled by an imported disease. After George Lucas bought Amazing Grace Music, once an old gas station on the Miracle Mile, he rebuilt it, and also redid the center divide from United Market to the hub. A curious mix of native and non-native species. He did a great job converting the old gas station into a viable space and Amazing Grace Music certainly is a venerable business worth saving considering the alternative was to level it. He also bought the old drugstore next to the San Anselmo Police Station and razed it, and turned the lot into a park—replete with a fountain statues of Indiana Jones and Yoda. Al least he kept all the old trees intact there.

added & revised 10/2021

Marin watersheds

1898 tourist map of Marin replete with trails and creek names.

The creek where I grew up one has many names, and I even wrote a poem about all the name changes. I realize that all those names represent a slices of history. Who came first who came second who came next. Of course the Miwok names are lost. The creek I grew up on, was once called the Arroyo de San Geronimo, which runs from White's Hill/Woodacre to Shafter's/Inkwell where it joins Lagunitas Creek. We called the whole thing from Woodacre to Shafter’s, Lagunitas Creek. But we were wrong.

The headwaters of Lagunitas Creek is Lake Lagunitas on Mt. Tam. All those Marin reservoirs including Kent Lake, are filled by Lagunitas Creek, and its sibling, Carson Creek.

Was a time the old name of Arroyo de San Geronimo Creek was applied all the way to Pt. Reyes Sta. and Tomales Bay. I found it on an old Rancho map.

After Samuel Taylor set up the paper mill, the bit of creek that ran from Shafter's pool to White House Bend was eventually called Papermill Creek, and just to confuse things, also Lagunitas Creek.

A. Van Dorn’s 1860 map of Marin labels the stretch of creek that goes from Woodacre to Pt. Reyes Sta. in its entire length, as Arroyo de San Geronimo. The paper mill is marked on the map but the creek wasn't yet called Papermill Creek. Probably Arroyo de San Geronimo morphed into Papermill...but Lagunitas Creek was one ridge to the west, not in the San Geronimo Valley.

The creek that ran from Woodacre to Shafter's was NOT called Lagunitas Creek though it runs through the town of Lagunitas (more on that later). As kids we called the creek San Geronimo, Creamery, Forest Knolls, Lagunitas, even Papermill Creek, depending upon where we were located....same creek, different names, depending on one's whim.

The map above predates the construction of the reservoirs, and you can see that the long north-south creek following the San Andreas faultline, where Kent, Alpine, Bon Tempe, Phoenix, and Lagunitas are all located, is clearly marked as Lagunitas Creek.

Today's town of Lagunitas didn't yet exist, it was a 1910 subdivision. Some say that the real Lagunitas was where Shafter's RR spur and water tank, along with the Log Cabin were located, at the sharp bend where Arroyo de San Geronimo joins Lagunitas Creek. Lagunitas Canyon had several logging camps, hence the name, Lagunitas. But there’s more to that story because there was also a Lagunitas above Ross. Kent Lake wasn't yet there....

1875 NPCRR picnic and campout at the Shafter's RR spur and water tower at the Inkwell,
where San Geronimo Creek joins the MOUTH of Lagunitas Creek. Note the use of the word "mouth." As in terminus.

Facebook friend, Steve Tognini wrote: Don’t forget that the section from the inkwell to Pt Reyes station was called Daniels creek after it was arroyo San Geronimo and before it was Papermill creek. Also, early on Lagunitas creek in Lagunitas canyon ended at Carson creek and that junction down to the inkwell was called Big Carson. Lagunitas canyon and the community of Lagunitas in that canyon consisted of Lagunitas ranch, Lagunitas dairy, Liberty ranch and resort, Lagunitas gun club, Malliard cabin, Kent cabin, Masons cabin, shafter/Howard sawmill, possibly a Malliard saw mill and the logging community.  It’s this community that voted for Lincoln in 1864. This is also the area where the little lakes existed and where the Lagunitas name originated from. Once the dams pushed this community out the name migrated down into the area it occupies today.

I said, Niice Steve. Yes, my family used the Big Carson name, and though I know where it is, I didn't understand why. Makes more sense now.

Pretty much all of Marin voted for Lincoln.

It seems our concept of where creeks begin and end is on really shaky ground. It sounds like our definition has also shifted. And that there is a huge uneasy conflation of all the Lagunitases into one thing. 

A revelation that Lagunitas Creek spilled into Big Carson creek that ended at Shafters, and another creek name was introduced at that junction. Daniels creek. I guess it didn’t last long before Daniels Creek succumbed to Papermill Creek. Who was Daniels anyway?

I always found it puzzling that some kids called San Geronimo Creek—Papermill Creek—as there was no papermill in the SGV. So renaming the Forest Knolls Lodge Papermill Creek Lodge is a weird misnaming that happened in the 1970s. It was always the FK Lodge, founded in 1907, when I was growing up in the 1960s.

I suspect June Berensmeyer, who, to the consternation of local valley folks, often muddled valley history, is ultimately the source for renaming the Inkwell as a plural entity.

According to my grandmother, the San Geronimo Valley, there were vernal pools from Flanders field and at the Woodacre turnoff, and at Dickson Ranch, and the Dougan/French Ranch, and on the back side of the golf course for starters. Even more pools during my grandmother's time. So we do come by the name fairly.

But I’d bet in Lagunitas Canyon there must have been another string of little lakes where the dams are now.

Steve said I read an article from the magazine Outdoor Monthly, 1875, I think, it’s on the SGV Stewards page, that describes hikers dropping into Lagunitas canyon from above and walking past the “little lakes”. If the name originated in Lagunitas canyon, and I believe it did, then it follows that the little lakes would be in the Lagunitas canyon. Our town of Lagunitas did not exist in the SGV as a place until much later so I feel that likely removes the valley from consideration for the location for the lakes. Pretty evident that names changed and moved from place to place. I think it key that we remember that Lagunitas canyon was the first place that held that name.

I said, Steve Tognini  yes, that story makes sense....except there were also many vernal pools, my granny loved seeing them from the train. And of course, she said that’s how Lagunitas got its name....
Some modern map resources on watersheds, since some people don't know their watersheds, or where their local creeks drain to:

http://www.marinwatersheds.org/resources/maps

Full-sized download, here: 33 megs, 6165x4904 pixels -- which works out to 16x20 inches if it were printed at 300 dpi.

From a Facebook post

Indus Arthur, Renaissance Pleasure Faire, photo, 1984

I posted some photos of the Renaissance Pleasure Faire on Facebook’s Lost Marin site. My post was wildly popular and soon I had hundreds of hits—and so many wonderful comments emerged as people began identifying each other, and sharing the post. I wanted to capture a slice of oral history so I asked people for their stories. One viewer took umbrage because I had asked people to tag themselves, or their friends on my posts. I asked, so that I could credit the Ren Faire actors, and also so they could have a copy of the photos for their own archives. Her rage—it toppled my house of cards. She started maligning me, calling me a stalker because I wanted people to share their stories.

In frustration, and dismay, I took the entire post down rather than leave the negativity up. Katelin Stuart said don’t rent space to them in your head. But it was too late. The reason why it was so distressing was that because for 35 long years those slides were locked away behind cellulose, never before seen by the world, and I was so excited to finally have a scanner that could scan those slides and negatives, and I thought Lost Marin would be the perfect venue to do a wild release of those photos... But Carrie Smith wanted to equally share my photos—while berating me, the photographer, for wanting to know performers' names, and of their Ren Faire stories... Kill the messenger.

Indus Arthur, Renaissance Pleasure Faire, Agoura, CA, 1984

The photo that set off the imbroglio was of Indus Arthur, a beautiful harpist, which ignited a FB war in the Lost Marin group. The reason was completely lost on me. It was like a bully scene right out of Animal Farm. Sadly, Indus died in December, of 1984, a few months after my photo was taken. Complications of skin cancer, and a brain tumor.

This may be among the last photos ever taken of the stage and screen actor, Indus, who, like her grandmother, was named after a river in Tibet. I remember that we talked about our grandmothers. I had no idea that Indus was a popular TV star—none of that mattered, we were in a time out of place, in a backlot of Paramount Ranch, in Agoura.

The photo was a moving tribute, or so I thought. I had spent the afternoon talking with her, a lovely soul, both ephemeral, and fey. Did she know she was dying? That this was her last gift to the world, this harp music? She died so young, she was only 43. She is buried somewhere in a secret location in Los Angeles.

But Carrie Smith wouldn’t let it go, she objected to my asking people to tag themselves, or my even knowing who Indus was. Then Carrie waged war on me, she began tagging her equally obnoxious friends, dragging them into the fracas. Where did all this anger and rage come from, over an old photo? Clearly Carrie (aka Mrs. Owens, Dickens’ cook for the Dickens Faire) had some deep-seated anger management issues, but for some reason, she came unhinged when I asked for people to tag themselves. It was the last straw, too many other negative things going on in my life. I saved the vitriolic conversations thinking I might someday use it, but it’s so depressing. And I so wanted to honor those actors who brought us such delight during the heyday of the RPF.

Apparently Carrie, thought I was a stalker, or worse, because I was asking people to tag themselves in the photos of themselves. But it’s not my job to explain her aberrant behavior. Get out of my head. I had merely asked people to tag themselves so that THEY could keep my photos—and/or share stories from the Ren Faire days among themselves. After all, that was the whole point of the Lost Marin Group. Here I thought that it generous gift from the past. No strings attached. The cadre of Ren folk even objected to my use of the word Ren Faire, took umbrage to the term Ren Faire, and to the rather endearing term, Ren folk... All of this tempestuousness is so ironic as the Renaissance Pleasure Faire’s actual web address is renfaire.com

Suffice to say, it was a total bloodbath. So, rather than leave the negativity up, I deleted all 36 photos. Most folks were thrilled to see the photos, one woman even tagged the Patterson sons... but I didn't want to leave an album of my photos up, as a chronicle their bad behavior.

From a Facebook post

Phyllis Patterson RIP – She changed my life! JoshWillTravel blog, a good inside peek into the Faire.

Bread & Roses award for volunteer service

My connection with Bread & Roses began when I landed a job through my childhood friend, Micaela Wall to clean the Mill Valley office for Mimi Fariña in the late 1970s.

When Mimi discovered I was also a calligrapher, she put me to work making all the signage for the big benefit concerts (1979-82?) at the Berkeley Greek Theatre. I was promoted to calligrapher-in-residence and chief hooverer. I still have all the vintage B&R T-shirts designed by Stanley Mouse, and my backstage passes. (They all mysteriously shrank! Hmmmm.)

When College of Marin classmate Robin Williams spotted me backstage after a concert (we survived Jim Dunn's theater bootcamp together), he gave me a bone-crushing sweaty hug, introduced me to Eric Idle, of Monyt Python fame, who reminded me of a Siamese cat, and local comedian "Big Mike" Michael Pritchard. I can't remember a thing—other than I laughed so hard I wet my pants.

In the long run, the annual B&R weekend benefit concerts proved costly to produce (but they were memorable—a musician's wet dream) so Mimi began producing local benefit concerts in Marin. I moved to Sonoma Co. We lost touch. But Mimi did write me a glowing letter of recommendation.

Fast forward, about a decade later, I met musicians Neil O'Neill and Wendy Worsley, who, coincidentally, were performers for B&R. Which led me right back to B&R. I was the background roadie getting Neil ready for concerts, etc. Sadly, Mimi got cancer, and stepped down from B&R... The end of an era.

Then, ca. 2004, B&R staff asked Neil and me to sing in the holiday concerts for the old folks. I think I missed a few years due to viruses (no sharing colds with the old folks).

Also, beginning in 2004, Neil and I volunteered at the B&R booth at the Kate Wolf Music Festival, and we've attended that festival off and on since then.

I mentioned to one of the B&R coordinators, Lisa Starbird, that I used to work for Mimi way back when, and she immediately put me on the Appreciation list, as a form of documentation. And now I'm actually getting an award for something like 40 years of service! OK, so I missed a decade, plus change, and was incognito for another decade...but I was always rattling around in the bushes.

I'm floored and flabbergasted and honored to be getting this award this afternoon at the annual B&R jam. So, if I hadn't whined to Lisa that I wanted my own invite to the annual B&R Jam, vs always being Neil's plus one, this award recognition would've never happened.

So many fantastic folks I've met through B&R: Peter Mertz, Jeannie Bogardis, Ken Harrison, B&R coordinator Marian Huebler, Brenda Laribee, and Dennis McIntyre, have been my steadfast and stalwart connections throughout all this. So many dedicated folks at B&R. I am honored to be among them. If not for them... Just wow!

Who knew that hoovering and spit-polishing Mimi's B&R office so many years ago would lead to all this? Give us bread and gives us roses. And vacuum cleaners too. It really was a Hoover.

Hiking up Loma Alta Trail (photos)

I wrote a blog about hiking up Big Rock in 2010, the last time I went up that ridge trail. It took me ages to recover—because I wore rubber crocs with holes in the bottoms. Not very bright of me, I know, to hike nearly 15 miles in crocs. But I was mesmerized by the trail. It led me ever onward. And I never went back.

I realized that I prefer to hike up the trail on the western side of Big Rock, the Loma Alta Trail, but I never seem to get around to writing about it, other than this lone 2010 post: Long Way Home—Hiking Loma Alta Ridge.

I injured my left knee in 2013, which put an end to hiking up the ridge. My right knee, having to bear the brunt of the work, also began to fail. An attempt in 2015 was too painful. I despaired. Last year, I noticed my knee was healing—despite the fact that my doctor wanted to give me a new knee. The cortisone shots have paid off. But it took long enough.

I am fussy when it comes to footwear. But I wouldn't get far in my latest version of rubber crocs, or flipflops. So, wonky sneakers it is. Maybe I should dig out my old hiking boots but I can't stand the weight of them. Besides, my knees are compromised, to say the least. The weight would just exacerbate my knees.

My big toe is recovering from my latest jaunt up the Loma Alta Open Space trail. The nail is turning the color of purple irises. I had washed my trainers, running shoes, or tennies—whatever you want to call them—and they shrunk. The toes curled up like elf shoes, but I wore them anyway. They were fine going uphill, but not for going back down again.

Fields of fil-filaree, fil-filaree, fil-fil-filaree.

Loma Alta Open Space Preserve, near Big Rock, Lucas Valley, is part of the Bay Area Ridge Trail. At 1592 feet, this “tall hill” is one of the highest points in Marin, separating the San Geronimo Valley, where I grew up, and West Marin from urban Marin, or "town" as we called it. It also divides the four major watersheds of Marin.

Looking north from Loma Alta

The quickest way to the top of Loma Alta is via the steep Gunshot Fire Road off White's Hill, just outside Fairfax. But the gentle grade from Big Rock is the most rewarding approach—especially if you're on the hunt for rare wildflowers as there are vast tracts of south-facing serpentine meadows.

I did not make it to the summit of Loma Alta this year either. I had already started the morning off compromised: a coughing fit, from that dread virus 2.0, threw my back into a spasm, so it was hard to draw a full breath. There were some rough moments, but I worked through it. No chance of mountain-goating this go-round. I was content with that, slow-poking up the hill. My knees were holding, but I still had to come down the mountain too.

When we got to the first cattle gate, near the top of Loma Alt, my new hiking companion, whom I had just "met" on Facebook, suddenly stopped, and said she didn't want to go any further, but told me to go ahead.

I woefully eyed the crest of the hill, so near, yet so far. I rounded the cheek of the hill to hit the bushes for a wee loo break, and was startled by a serenading meadowlark. I finished my business, snapped a quick photo of the lark, and hoofed back down to the fire road to also take a last photo of Elephant Mountain. My spasm had eased up when I was walking, but because I had stopped, it slammed me again. Breathing was a chore. But the view took my breath away.

A meadowlark fo sorts, a horned lark?

My new hiking companion at the cattle gate, was champing at the bit, and decided I was taking far too long on the ridge. She bolted down the mountain—leaving me alone on the hillside, with a gimpy knee and a bent ski pole—the lyrics to a Beatles song rampaging through my head. TIming is everything. When I later looked at the time stamp embedded in my photos, less than ten minutes had elapsed. I was the fool alone on the hill.

I tried to catch up to her, but my knee determined the snail's pace. I caught up with her in the parking lot at Big Rock. Apparently it was a migraine setting in. She was also miffed because I didn't immediately turn around when she shouted at me (I didn't hear her).

A misunderstanding, a slow knee, and that photo of Elephant Mountain (below) have cost me a potential hiking partner. Unfortunately the experience didn't set a good pace for the rest of the journey. At least she didn't abandon me at the parking lot. it could've been worse.

The iconic Elephant Mountain, aka Black's Mountain.

Shockingly my repaired knee held up fine (despite the fact that it took some abuse, I had to take it slow coming back down off the mountain), but the rest of me didn't fare so well, nor did my new camera. Close up is not its friend. I have no decent photos of many other species I saw: woodland stars, bluedicks, blue-eyed grass, yarrow, goldenrod, or popcorn. The photos posted here are what I could salvage from the remains of the day.

I originally posted some of these photos on the Marin Native Plants group page on Facebook. So this blog is a bit of a rehash. Or a draft. I didn't want what I had learned to disappear and sink back into the void.

Panorama looking west towards Bolinas Ridge; Mt. Barnabe, and our hill, dead center.

Botanist, photographer, and retired science teacher Doreen Smith, who hails from Bristol, UK, coordinates the Marin Native Plants group on Facebook. She also coordinates the website for the Marin chapter of the California Native Plant Society (a non-profit organization dedicated to the conservation of California native plants and habitats). Doreen was instrumental in helping me get the correct Latin names. My knowledge is spotty, at best. All mistakes are my own.

And of the few Latin names of plants I do remember from the 1970s, most plants have changed their taxon address. So, I'm all in a muddle. I joined the Facebook plant ID groups just so I could update my knowledge base. Such as it is. Slow going, but I've "met" many nice people, especially Doreen, and her husband, Vernon Smith. Sam Gilbert and David Greenberger are also knowledgeable folks. Mrs.Terwilliger, or Mrs. T, as we called her, may no longer be with us, but they are the next generation.

Lupines, poppies

Tall Silver bush lupine, or Silver lupine (Lupinus albifrons var. collinus), a perennial lupine named for its silvery leaves, California poppies  (Eschscholzia californica), and their close cousins, some lovely hairy cream cups (Platystemon californicus), some little red clovery bits, some yellow vetchy, or lotusy bits, and vast lavender swaths of invasive longbeak cranesbill weed (Erodium botrys), so thick, it looked like heather.

Sky Lupines (Lupinus nanus) poppies, cream cups.

Sky Lupines, poppies, cream cups, popcorn.

The small lupines are Sky lupines (Lupinus nanus), poppies (Eschscholzia californica), and their close cousins, cream cups (Platystemon californicus), with vast swaths of filaree, or invasive longbeak cranesbill weed (Erodium botrys). I feel like I should break out into a Robin Williams routine: Lupinus nanus nanus nanus.

Cream cups, Platystemon californicus

Cream cups, poppy cousins, Platystemon californicus

Lupinus albifrons var. collinus, a perennial bush lupine.

Lupinus albifrons var. collinus, see also Wiki

poppies (Eschscholzia californica)

poppies (Eschscholzia californica)

Owl's clover. Castilleja densiflora

The owls have it.

There is another purple owl's clover that is similar, Castilleja exserta, but the nested owls are much smaller, and it's more tufted like Indian paintbrush.

So the beaked yellow owl's clover is butter-and-eggs! I kind of thought so. I found a link that gives a different Latin name, also yellow owl's clover aka butter-and-eggs, is it a different species, or reclassified?

One yellow fellow among the purple owls.

The plant ID groups frowns upon using Wiki links but I find them useful for finding out about common names and folklore. Calflora, the wildflower bible is rather dry by comparison, but it's less likely to lead you wildly astray than Wiki. So, whenever possible I defer to using Calflora links. Wiki links are added as secondary backup.

Castilleja densiflora and the yellow Triphysaria versicolor. Wiki entry for butter-and-eggs. Wiki entry for Owl's clover.  Another link from Wildflower.org.

We never called these owls Indian paintbrush—only the tall red ones. There's purple owl's clover, purple Indian paintbrush, Indian paintbrush, escobita, formerly known as Orthocarpus.... Will I ever get it straight?

You can see why it's called butter-and-eggs

Leptosiphon androsaceus.

What is it? Not gillia tricolor, or gilia or splendens. It seems different than bird's eye gillia you see in deep summer. Nearly 40 species in California alone! I found: Leptosiphon rosaceus, (which, despite its name, is not pink!), and  Leptosiphon androsaceus, (Wiki) which seems to be the right plant. A little searching and I found that it was once aka a Linnanthus, a phlox. Aha! That much I recognize.

I learned the Latin names of these plants so long ago, and so many have been renamed! It's like starting out from ground zero. Or worse. I think I would be better off if I didn't know some of the old school names. At this point, I'm lucky if I can remember the common names. Poco a poco. False babystars, or Stardust (I do love the common names).

Doreen Smith noted that "the Wiki article has a picture of "L. parviflorus "French hybrids"a cultivar. The name has been revised for many years from when the two spp. were considered the same. i think Plantsusda still has them confused."

AUGH! Yes, the Wiki photo is a red herring. Which is why it's a good idea to cross recvference from several sites: Calflora.org, calscape.org, inaturalist.org. If you can make it to the first bend in the road, there' a very thick patch above the bank.

 A rather pale example of Phacelia distans

 They were all pale Phacelia distans

Nemophila menziesii, Calochortus umbellatus.

Pale Baby blues eyes (the white-eyed kind!) (Nemophila menziesii), and an endangered pink Oakland star-tulip, Calochortus umbellatus, like the kind you see on Ring Mountain (Wiki). Sorry about the lack of definition, my camera was not cooperating. Perhaps it was blinded by their beauty, despite teh fact that it was partial shade.

Doreen Smith said: Oakland star-tulip, Calochortus umbellatus (CalPhotos) and plain old Nemophila menziesii (Wiki). Like with wild iris, you can't go by color alone to ID either of these flowers.

Another botanist, David Greenberger said: This is regular old Nemophila menziesii var. menziesii. N. m. var. atomaria is typically all white and it will always have black dots running from the center out across the petals.

The Calochortus genus contains four distinct floral syndromes -- cat's ears, mariposas, star tulips, and globe lilies. C. umbellatus is truly a star tulip (spreading petals that lack dense trichomes) and not a mariposa lily (showy, bowl-shaped corolla typically with dramatic spots).

Nemophila menziesii, Calochortus umbellatus.

Larkspur and buttercups

Red Columbine, Aquilegia formosa

Red Columbine, Aquilegia formosa, aka Scarlet, or Crimson columbine, Sitka columbine, Western columbine. The flower of Columbkille, with its five doves.

Bowltube, Ground, Long tubed iris. Iris macrosphon 

I thought this was Iris douglasiana but I couldn't find a definitive link. And I sure can't key out the flowers. Since I couldn't find an ID for the purple iris, it threw me off. It was much lower to the ground than a Doug iris. I was not expecting two subspecies of Iris. Doreen Smith says it's Iris macrosphon. It loves serpentine soil. Apparently finding any blue-flowered Iris douglasiana is uncommon in East Marin.

Iris douglasiana...and spider.

Doreen Smith says It is the local (Lucas Valley) variant / color of Douglas' iris.

She also said: There is a "complete" plant list for Marin Chapter of the California Native Plant Society website. Only a few spp. are not yet mentioned on that pdf. The Big Rock to Loma Alta trail's populations of Leptosiphon androsaceus are magnificent this year.

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And then there are the weeds, the interlopers. The bane of native plants. Oddly most are from South Africa, or the Mediterranean.

Filaree, (Erodium botrys), and poppies

  Erodium botrys

Filaree is a cranesbill. AKA longbeak stork's bill, Mediterranean stork's-billl and broadleaf filaree. Filaree is more lavender than the Geranium molle (common cranesbill). Long-beaked cranesbill, or stork's-bill gets its name (Wiki) from the shape of the carpel, which resembles the head and beak of a stork (the Latin Erodium is derived from the Greek. Not native to California; it was introduced from elsewhere and naturalized in the wild. Lovely weeds!

Lysimachia

Doreen Smith said: Lysimachia (was Anagallis) arvensis, Scarlet pimpernel, an alien weed. This was a rather well-behaved invasive weed. Only two clumps. Not like the cranesbill (Erodium botrys) which was everywhere. 

The origin of the name pimpernel comes from pympernele [1400–50]; late Middle English, derived from Middle French pimprenelle, Old French piprenelle; Vulgar Latin *piperīnella= Latin piper pepper + -īn- -ine + -ella diminutive suffix. —Wiki

Rosy sandcrocus, Romulea rosea

This one looks a bit like pink blue-eyed grass. I'd never seen it before. Charlie Russell says it's Rosy sandcrocus, Romulea rosea, (Wiki) a non-native from South Africa. Invading Romulans from South Africa? Sort of like Sparaxis tricot, or harlequin flower. Beam me aboard, Scotty.

Romulea rosea is a herbaceous perennial in the family Iridaceae. It is endemic to the western Cape Province (Western Cape, Eastern Cape and Northern Cape) in South Africa and is naturalised in Europe, Australia, New Zealand and California in the United States.[1] [2] Common names include Guildford grass, onion grass and rosy sandcrocus.  Wiki

More on Romulea rosea. And the best revenge is eating those weeds.

Buttercups, Elephant Mountain in the distance.

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After Loma Alta, my hiking companion wasn't ready to call it quits, so we took a jaunt over to Mt. Burdell, but her migraine ad not eased up, so she was not up for another hike, so we detoured the backroads out to Abbot's Lagoon in Point Reyes for an odd, hurried visit. My cousin met us enroute for coffee at Tobey's Feed in Point Reyes Sta. In hindsight, I should've bailed then and there, but I didn't realize how awkward it would all become.

As we headed home again to the East Bay, my hiking companion's migraine got the best of her, her meds weren't working, and she just wanted to get home and didn't want to drive on the freeway (I get it), but she dropped me off at the El Cerrito BART Station. Whoa Nellie!

I was a bit shocked as my new hiking companion had originally offered to pick me up at home, so I expected a ride back home as I was on foot (and very tired). Our place, though near Highway 580, is not near a BART station. Also, after paying up for gas, I only had $2 to my name. The Magical Mystery Tour coda was pulsing through my brain: they're coming to take you away....

My partner Neil wasn't home and I didn't have taxi money to get back home from BART, and it's too far to walk. My abandonment issues intensified. A sour note to an otherwise glorious outing. If we ever go hiking again, I will meet her at the trailhead in my own car.

Luckily my friend Dulcie, who was catsitting in San Pablo, was home, and she came and got me. Chips and dip, a bottle of wine and a sleepover on the couch with the cats nicely finished off the remains of my day with a flourish.

More of my Bloggy bits:

Hiking up Big Rock Ridge

Long Way Home—Hiking Loma Alta Ridge