Mr. Nunes’ bison bull calf, Lagunitas, ca. 1982 (photos)

While scanning my tear sheet archives, I stumbled across some poor scans of old photos…. If I ever find the negatives….Mr. Nunes feeding Nickel, the bull calf bison while a scandalized Hereford heifer looks on incredulously as he feeds her hay to the stranger. Lagunitas, ca 1982.

I wonder what the heifer thought of the bison? It looks like the only romance going on was with the hay. Old Man Nunes was so proud of his little bison calf. What was he thinking? (Besides the price of beefalo.) Bison are completely unpredictable and are bulldozers when it comes to fences.

There's a backstory, bison are part of the fabric of my childhood. When I was a kid, there was another bison—yes, we called them buffalo—in Nicasio right by the church. The only reason why Belle the Buffalo stayed put in the church pasture was because she liked the other cows. I used to save my buffalo head nickels and named them all Belle. 

Tuesday was bank day at school. I was in second grade. We had a little manila envelopes with rope ties and we were encouraged to save a nickel or a dime a week so I put all my most treasured coins, Indian head pennies, buffalo nickels, and liberty dimes in those little envelopes thinking that I would get the same ones back again later from Bank of America, in the old brick Grandi Hotel in Point Reyes.

Then one hopped up Saturday night some hoodlums came out and shot the poor buffalo for no reason at all. Or, so the story goes. We were all devastated. Or so I thought, you know how gossip misdirects itself.  As it turns out, she up and died for no real reason. That’s the official story. Maybe it was natural causes like age, or disease. But I suspect some guys did shoot at her. It was that kind of an era with loaded gun racks across back windows of pickup trucks.

So, when Nickel showed up, we were all insane with joy. I used to take my grandmother up to the ranch for a visit (today would’ve been her 130th birthday). It was a case of Meet the new family pet, Nickel. I wonder what happened to the little bison when Old Man Nunes died. He was fence-resistant as I recall. The bison, not Mr. Nunes. 

Now there are fancyass palaces on Portola Road (the fire road to the Lookout) once my own private Eden, and I can't imagine they'd tolerate a wayward bison.

Both Tony Senior and Tony Junior have crossed the rainbow bridge, and Nickel, too, I presume. I always meant to collect Tony Junior’s folklore. Too late. I heard that the youngest brother, Mel Nunes, who was a few years ahead of me in school, became a volunteer fireman for the Woodacre Fire Department—still lives at the ranch. Maybe I’d better pay him a visit before it’s too late.

SHAME WORN HAND-ME-DOWNS

My aunt brought home a cardboard box of old clothes.

It was like Christmas in July. My heart foundered

on the festive picnic of a gingham dress 

with puffy sleeves and ruffles framing a scoop neck. 

It made me feel so grown-up as I whirled and twirled 

like a dust devil dancing up a storm in the driveway. 

I wore a funnel of pleasure floating off into the blue sky. 

I wore it to church. I wore it to school, it made me feel 

like a princess with its full skirts rustling in the breeze.

I vaguely knew the girl from catechism, she was older,

she didn’t go to our church or to our school. 

But it was a tight-knit farming community 

so I was careful not to wear it to the other church 

where her family were parishioners. I was in 5th grade,

it was a time of transitions. At our annual church bazaar, 

as my grandmother culled clothes on the rummage table,

there she was, whispering to the others, pointing a finger

at her old dress. She made me feel so ashamed 

for wearing hand-me-downs. Thing is, there was 

no shame attached to old clothes—until she outed me 

and I put that dress away, never to wear it again.

6/28/23 Write On! Prompt. Terri Glass

Black Sabbath, or why I don’t drink much

I was born with red hair, bright as a new, copper penny, but it darkened to a shade of auburn when I was 12, and then it faded to a mousy brown when I was 16. I felt betrayed by my changing hair color, but I emulated all the clichés of being a redhead.

I carried all the markers including packing a fierce temper, pale freckled skin that easily burned, and I have an unusually high tolerance to pain. The pain threshold is an interesting quirk, I remember coming to during all my operations— when I had my tonsils removed, I remember my doctor’s face with the convex mirror on his forehead. He said it wasn’t possible.

My oral surgery, my first knee operation, I remember them all. During one operation, I was struck with inconsolable grief and began sobbing, my anesthesiologist had to tell me to stop crying for what, I don’t remember. But I bore witness to all my operations, much to the dismay of my anesthesiologists.

I took to warning my doctors that I carried the redhead gene, but they didn’t listen, or didn’t believe me—until after my last knee operation, when I began to recant the playlist, as if it was a profane litany. It surprised me that my knee surgeon, who owned a race horse, was into the Scorpions and Black Sabbath.

Driving to work in floodwaters

Looking north on 101, at Petaluma Blvd. & Stony Point Rd. Used by psrmission, Scott Hess photo

How was your commute dear? Well, deep subject, I know. Laguna de Santa Rosa and Atascadero Creek were already flooded up to the berms of Occidental Rd. A few more feet and we’ll need amphibious cars. Lots of kayakers and Canada geese out cruising among the snowy regrets… 

Luckily Irwin and Llano crossroads were open—to a point. All the other smaller feeder roads are pretty much underwater. Todd Rd. was the only road—erm, make that a causeway—open, but just barely as you need to ford a lively stream by the slaughterhouse. Luckily I didn’t have to backtrack. I literally zigzagged my way across the llano, like a big game of water Tetris.

Best flooded road strategy is to ride the middle hump of the road, where you can see the dotted, or yellow line, which also requires playing chicken with oncoming cars. And when they pass you, it’s a ferme lá douche wall of water if your window was open like mine was.

Stony Point Road from Santa Rosa to Hwy 116 at Cotati was clear—but not the Rohnert Park Expressway. You’d need a snorkel. Maybe some fins too. 

But Stony Point Road south is an inland sea, a brothy mess well seasoned with eau de cow-cow. We were above waterline at the Redwood Penngrove exit, the offramp was innundated, but doable. However Petaluma Boulevard North was completely underwater. Lots of kleig lights. The cops were lined up, saying You shall not pass! One guy thought he’d try anyway. Didn’t get far.

Growing up in West County (both Marin and Sonoma), I have a large backroad database, which paid off during the wildfire evacuations. I wove in and out of flood zones via Highway 101, as I needed to get to Petaluma Hill Road, the fastest way to work. 

I slalomed my way back on the freeway again, running a newly obsolete red light, to navigate toward Washington Street. For the first time, I was grateful for all the massive retrofitting that Highway 101 underwent. Above the floodplain. The Petaluma River wasn’t too high, but wait for high tide, and Washington, and 116 would be real river roads.

Most of the small feeder roads are flooded in West Sonoma County and in West Marin too. Luckily, D Street-Red Hill Petaluma Hill Road was a breeze. Small landslides were rerouting water ditches. Why did the water cross the road? Because it was cross when the ditch ditched it.

At least the road south was clear, in a manner of speaking, but the potholes are so big, they’re stoned. Or the road is a vast jigsaw puzzle with several pieces missing. Especially in Hick’s Valley. Don’t hit those potholes, you’ll either bite your tongue off or get a whiplash.

But the Hick’s Valley chickens at Petaluma Hill Road looked like they were half-drunk, all piled up in a corner as if they were at a rave grunge concert. Not enough sense to come in out of the rain. 

There are three special renegade chickens that fly the coop (and the fence) every day. Every night they’re put back in the hen palace, a sort of Taj Mahal for chickens. Repeat this scenario the next day.

The escapee hens were happily commuting their sentence on the wrong side of the road. They like to hit up the tourists for free food. One of these days they’re liable to be flattened, or will have to answer the age-old question with their lives. Meanwhile the opportunistic vultures were lined up along the road waiting for the party to begin.

Alternate route via Hick’s Valley Road has fewer potholes. Watusi cattle with their massive horns, on the ridge of Wilson Hill Road were like prehistoric silhouettes holding up the skyline. What epoch was I in, anyway? Chileno Valley Road is in good shape. But it had flooded near Helen Putnam Park. Spring Hill Road and Pepper Road were dry as was Meacham Road, but there are a few low spots that too will flood.

From the top of Wilson Hill you can see the old Laguna de San Antonio is back—stretching from the Laguna School to the far end of the valley. Yeah, about the name: don’t call it Lake Laguna, that’s an embarrassing Anglo cartographer’s error. See my segue below.

Nicasio reservoir is so full, it looks like it’s going to pop. Nicasio school was closed—no power. My last bottleneck hurdle, Nicasio Valley Road, under the redwoods, was open, TG. Otherwise I was fresh out of alternate routes. Some acacia branches are leaning on power lines across from 2100 Stuart Ranch at the old McBride place where the old fire truck lives.  

Made it to Forest Knolls in record slo-mo time, the potholes out there are the size of hot tubs. All the roads are flocked with tree limbs and pine/cypress/fir carpets. Power was out everywhere, I did what I could at work—at leas the stove worked. Chainsaws, and gas generators were sonorously whining their little hearts out everywhere. It was as if the little valley was collectively snoring or purring in unison. Like a big cat.

Chasing sundogs and sunbows again (photos)

A right-handed sundog hid behind a sunbow, refused to show its face, but the lake saw it.

Neither my eye or camera could see the left sundog, but Nicasio Reservoir captured it.

At Wilson Hill, a right-handed sundog hid behind a cloud, refused to show its face, it was a long wait.

Driving north to Two Rock, I had better luck capturing the right sundog hiding behind a cirrus cloud.

Chasing sundogs and sunbows again. They were elusive as sprites. A sunbow—aka a parhelic circle, is formed by ice crystals in the cirrus clouds, refracting light like prisms. I could only capture one sundog at a time, aka a parhelion, it was so bright. I thought I could capture them at sunset, but they disappeared. So much depends upon the angle of the sun in the sky and the time of day... and timing is everything. I took an entire afternoon off to chase the rare sundogs.

Since neither my eye or my camera could see all the sundogs at once, I resorted to using lake reflections to capture the left sundog. The lake was a vast mirror. But the sundogs were distorted by the cirrus clouds. They were way more intense than in these photos. The invisible left sundog was trapped on the surface of the lake. I had to use a bush to block out the reflection of the sun, and was nearly blinded for my efforts. The upper and lower sundogs remained invisible.  

Driving north over Wilson Hill Road to Chileno Valley, I had better luck capturing the left sundog hiding behind a cirrus cloud. It was a long wait but worth it when it reappeared. But as the sun set near Two Rock, the sky turned all dirty rainbow as if tinged with smoke, on both sides of the sun. Impossible to capture.

I am still searching for that elusive moment when the sky is covered with myriad rainbows and multitudes of sun dogs with long arms. I saw something like that once in the 1990s, the buttermilk sky was like a shimmering sequined dress made of rainbows and diamonds. I may have attempted a photo but in the days of actual film, we were much more stingy with our media. And knew what wouldn’t adequately record well on film.

For a better explanation of parhelia see my other post Facebook) or here on my blog: Chasing sundogs (photos) You can see the parhelic circle more clearly there. There is always one sundog on either side of the sun, connected by a circular rainbow. The parhelic circle extends from one sundog to its twin, which is part of a much larger arc. They are like angel wings of the sun. But timing is everything.

Chasing sundogs (photos)

Late afternoon sun, one sundog, and a sunbow—aka a parhelic circle, which is sort of like a fogbow, caused by ice crystals in the cirrus clouds refracting light, at Nicasio Reservoir, Elephant Mountain, and lake reflection. I could only capture one sundog, aka a parhelion, it was so bright.

There was one sundog on either side of the sun. See the vague horizontal band of light coming from the sundog? The parhelic circle extended from one sundog to its twin, and was part of a much larger arc. Poor iPad struggled, didn’t catch the sundog reflections in the lake. It was like being inside a large prism or Fresnel lens. 

Each ripple on the lake carried a small reflection of the sun and sundogs. Today it was a case of trying to take a photo of one thing, and getting something completely different and unexpected. Hence, the synchronicity. Sometimes you have to let go of the idea and go with the flow. Truth be known, I didn’t see the sundog right away, until after I had taken a photo, it was so bright.

What I originally meant to capture was the reflection, I was intrigued by the little ripples so like sketch lines. Sometimes you have to let go of the idea you’re planning to take a photo and go with the flow. Truth be known, I didn’t see the sundog right away, it was so bright. A rainbow is a symbol of an end of a rainstorm, while a sundog is a harbinger of more rain, or snow on the horizon.

I had a hard time capturing it. it was so bright. There was one sundog on either side of the sun. See the vague horizontal band of light coming from the sundog? The parhelic circle extended from one sundog to its twin, and was part of a much larger arc. Poor iPad struggled. Didn’t want to use my camera, as I once burned out the imager on my favorite camera taking photos of reflections one winter afternoon, late. I underestimated the power of the sun. So I may have just sacrificed my iPad camera. But sundogs are so rare.

Didn’t want to use my real camera, as I once fried the image sensor on my favorite camera while taking photos of late afternoon reflections at Schooner Bay one winter afternoon, when I underestimated the power of the low December sun. See how the sun blasted out the image when I tried to capture both sundogs? I could barely look at the iPad screen, so I was practically shooting blind. So I may have just sacrificed my iPad camera. But sundogs are so freaking rare…. ya hadda be there. So, a ew days later, there was another sundog. Chasing sundogs and sunbows again (photos)

Breaking the spine of the drought (drought journal) (photos)

before the deluge

Dec 11, 2021

Dec. 16, after the deluge.

Breaking the spine of the drought. Winter light on Elephant Mountain, the Nicasio reservoir is still way too low—even after last month’s deluge. And all those Mt. Tam reservoirs are overfull. The good news is that water will finally fill Kent Lake and spill over into Lagunitas Creek, which means an actual real salmon run after years of no fish.

The old bridge is underwater, but the old road isn’t 

But both Nicasio and Soulajoule reservoirs are still way too low… Haven’t seen Stafford Lake, but I suspect it too is still low. The drought ain’t over yet. Nicasio may be a shallow reservoir, but in sheer acreage, it’s huge, so, if there was a lot of rainfall all over Marin, it would have filled up fast. But it didn’t.

There is less than 23” of total rainfall in San Rafael, a little over 21” in Fairfax, and 11” in Novato. And less than 13” total rain at Dillon Beach. Not all the stockponds of West Marin have filled. Some are, yes. 

We have been more or less in drought mode since 2010-2011, with two exceptionally wet years in 2014, and 2016—hence all the wildfires. We’ve had more drought years than deluge years since 1975. See how the water is up to the old bridge, left of center. Now, we’re up to the usual low-water mark level of winter. No longer extreme drought conditions. But we’ve still got a long way to go to break the pattern. See that tree line above the water? That is the shore of the lake.

In a different dream (art, redux)

This was the desk portion of an old oak school chair desk, it was on my cousins’ porch in Nicasio, but someone drove a pickup right through the porch 4th of July, 2019, destroying it and the front of the house, and this is what I salvaged of the chair. 

This was the entire piece. The back of the chair too. I also had the rungs too, but they got separated from the rest. I repurposed it with chalkboard paint and pastel. I gave it a dream of a lake and a mountain. When my cousin moved everything out of the house for repairs, this piece got damaged along the way, the chalk image brushed off, so I reapplied it, but now it’s a different dream. Since the peace no longer exists with its other parts, is it a new piece or an old piece?

I offered back of the chair with the horses on it to Geoffrey Davis but he never replied. What is significant about the Paleolithic horses is that they were pacers, most horses trot diagonally but amblers, or pacers move both legs on the same side.  The only other horses that do that naturally are Neolithic horses, such as the Icelandic ponies (which have some Irish lineage) and the archaic horses of the British Isles including the Kerry bog pony, Dartmoor, and the Exmoor pony. The extinct tarpan would be related. Can’t use the word breed, here as it predates the concept. I wrote more on Kiger mustang pacers here.

I made this Angel assemblage from the rest of the old oak chair, and other detritus from the yard. it lived outside the Nicasio house like a guardian angel until the contractors finally came to repair the house last year. Now it solely exists as a photograph. It rests on a piece of sheetrock from the 1940s. It was one of the walls that was smashed in. When the contractors discovered that it was made with asbestos, the entire house got tagged and bagged for hazardous substances. The beginning of the end of the Nicasio house.

I write in order to learn—what I am currently interested in—and I never know what will catch fire. Suspect my dyslexia has a lot to do with my eclectic interests. But I must admit anything to do with horses has my unabiding attention—weird ideas come to me and then I follow them. See where they will lead. Most of these convoluted essays stem from Facebook comments. I write one thing, and then discover something related, and so on. And then it won’t let go of me. I am possessed once I am in the throes of writing  Most people just roll their eyes at this stuff.

Few folks know that Petaluma was once the hotbed of racing trotters. I think the famous stallion Kenilworth was a trotter. Not sure if he was a pacer. That information is hard to track down unless there’s an action photo. There were also famous trotting/pacing thoroughbreds, not just Standardbreds, and I remember reading that one famous racehorse who was a pacer, can’t remember who I have to go look that up. Like Healdsburg’s Black Ruby, the world’s fastest mule at the trot. So the larger question begs, was she a trotter or a pacer? Inquiring minds want to know.

Three views of Elephant Mountain (drawings)

An augmented beer story

A bit of an augmented beer drinking story, The last time I heard Black Sabbath was when I was forced to listen to it full blast while hung over, my cousin’s misogynistic boyfriend decided we needed to be punished for going out and drinking the night before without him at the Rancho Nicasio. 

Robbie, who owns S-Car-Go racing cars, decided it was funny to feed us Jagermeister boilermakers. Gawd knows what kind of beer—but with Jagermeister, does it really matter? It could’ve been a Grasshopper Nyquil with bubbles. I slid off the naugahyde barstool and it went south from there. I remember looking up the nostrils of the bison head mounted on the wall, thinking they needed dusting.

I was done and spun after two or three rounds. I cannot drink hard alcohol. My idea of living dangerously is an expensive chardonnay. Like Murphy-Good. My cousin has more fortitude, so I don’t know her final count but she soon joined me. I am terribly plebeian, I prefer unvarnished stout over beer. Preferably Guinness from Ireland. Murphy’s is too sweetish. Guess I’ll have to try a Beamish. Lagunitas is OK. But Guinness is as good as ten mothers. And gawd knows, my mother, a friend of Timothy Leary’s, was intergalactic. Positively orbital. But a Jagermeister boilermaker defies physics and good taste.

Luckily all we had to do was follow the dotted line on the road to get back home as she lived across the town square. Calling Nicasio a town is generous. It’s not even a crossroad, but a bend in the road. The dregs of an old racetrack. Walking across the baseball diamond was out. Mud. 

I do remember some hands and knees were involved with direct road contact because the paint on the double yellow line was smoother than the roadbed in front of her neighbor, painter Tom Woods’s house. I remember we were sniggering like raccoons by then. I guess it was a good thing there was no traffic as I doubt we would’ve been able to rise up off that road in time. Barrel rolls and dos-e-does were out. A good thing Tom didn’t have a shotgun. 

That night we out-competed the legendary town drunks, Sinead’s late dad, Bill Dinsmore (who had a breathalyzer ignition switch in his car), and Rich Gallagher, also grounded by the law, still rode his trusty steed, a dilapidated bike. A good thing the county never figured out how to attach a breathalyzer to the bike. It was a long walk back to the ranch.

And for what it’s worth Captain Kirk, or rather the actor, once stood in her yard pretending to drink from the well. It was a terrible B-grade movie, a Village of the Damnedish variation, I can’t even remember the name, not the Superman version ( that was her house too), but the Drady’s horse was in it. Poor Superman, felled by a horse. Enough to make you take to green drinkiepoos. Anne said it was called The People. More like the Pibble.

TG I was praising the porcelain god that night. It could’ve been worse. The couch was my Murphybeddish friend. The skittish kitties all decided we need some extra TLC that night and curled up around us like fat little mufflers, purring up a storm of chainsaws beneath our chins all night long. 

It was not a Pliny the Elder moment. Or was it? It was an eruptive experience, but no volcanoes were harmed in the process. Thank Guinness. Slaínte agaibh.

Signed, the beamish lass from Lagunitas.

(What is the half-life, or is it the half-lie of a story, anyway? But every word of this yarn is true, I swear to Gawd.) I think I’m channeling Eddie Stack, or is it Eddie Izzard.

Guerrilla photobombing the wildflowers

To see the flowers go to Facebook

Easter Monday: I was botanizing on backroads while driving back & forth to work today (I’m a care provider.) Most pix are from Nicasio, or Hick’s Valley, West Marin. Since I can’t park the car—or risk getting a ticket, these are all stolen roadside shots. Guerrilla photography at its worst—no time to compose or focus. And my camera is losing its ability to focus so I snap madly & hope I get something. I was pretty numb by Easter Sunday, with SiP, is sing my family, and taking photos of wildflowers helped pull me from the darkness. I mean, who can resist a wild goose guarding his buttercup kingdom....


“The true and durable path into and through experience involves being true … to your own solitude, true to your own secret knowledge.” —Seamus Heaney – born this day. My old friend’s last words were “Noli timere.” Go raibh maith agat, mo chroidhe. Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine.
More pix here of Sonoma County flowers

UNSEASONABLE SNOW, IMBOLC, 2019, rev.

A poem so extensively revised, from a few fragments, I think I should move the creation date to now. Well, revision does it mean to see it again

After the deluge, an unseasonable snow
left a carapace of black ice on the roof of the car
and on the translucent petals of the impatient jonquils—
their papery white petals translucent as glass.
You could almost hear them ringing like small bells.
Yesterday, it was barely cold enough for the snow to stick
but it whispered in a strange, silent tongue on the ridges,
unlike the droves of rain that broke the drought.
During the night, the temperature plummeted,
archiving traces of fallen snow—scattered clumps
of snowflakes frozen on the windshield left calling cards—
delicate patterns etched in ice that refracted the morning light
into prisms of iridescent hues.
This cold snap, a reprise in the death knell
ringing in the toll of mass extinctions.
As I drove north on country backroads,
the grizzled pates of the coastal mountain ranges
transformed by St. Brigid’s pure cloak,
fair stole my breath away.
Welcome spring.

2/4/19
rev. 2/4/2020

Near miss at the lake (photo)

A good thing I was channeling Jerry Downs, thinking of how I would compose my photo.

I think I might have just sidestepped fate. A near miss. Or at least the avoidance of a head-on collision. I was getting ready to pull into my usual pullout by the lake where there was a faint cellular signal where I could pick up my email (zero reception in Nicasio), and to take a morning photo, but a huge semi truck was coming the other way.

I don’t know what prompted me to change my usual daily pattern, other than I was thinking of taking a photo and what photographer Jerry Downs had said earlier about having the patience to wait for the exact right moment to take a photo. So, by chance, I pulled off the road to the shoulder to wait for the truck to pass—just as a pickup stuck behind it, was passing it with a vengeance. Talk about right moment.

Normally I would’ve just turned in front of the semi truck to park in the pullout by the lake, and thought nothing of it. I had plenty of time to make the left turn, the semi was slow, but I was in no hurry. Besides, I was admiring the stray wisps of morning fog curling catlike through the hills—dreamily composing a camera angle in my head. So, on an impulse, I pulled off the road right onto the bike path.

The pickup spotted me too late, slammed on its brakes, skidding into my lane just where I had just been driving, smoke billowing from the tires. But by then, I was safely off to the side of the road. I just sat on the shoulder, stunned—and popped the clutch. My poor car juggered to a stop, and turned its head as if to look back at me questioningly, like my old horse. Really?

The air is laden with black smoke, the acrid odor of burnt tires and hydraulic fluid. Black skid marks indelibly annealed to the road for months to come. A grim reminder of melted tire tracks right where I had just been driving. It all happened so quickly, there would’ve been no time to second-guess, or even to avert an accident. It was a fluke. Or Karma. Certainly cars were involved. Some cosmic April Fools joke?

Earlier, I was dwelling on the precariousness of life, and the importance of living each day as if it were the last. Fully, in the moment, as it were—I was feeling that mortal coil of time having outlived both my parents.

Meanwhile, the pelicans and grebes carry on with the business of trolling for breakfast, breaking concentric fish circles on the glassine lake, making solemn vees on the surface of the lake as they bear down on their quarry. As if a V for victory. A cormorant skims the surface of the lake, stitching the mirrored surface with its wings. Gathers in the view. In the cattails, a pair of monstrous pale bass break the surface, they lip and taste the air, splaying their tails, they are entwined in that oldest dance of the world. Life goes on.

I’m still sitting by the side of the road, shaken, trying to get up enough nerve to move down the road....as if there were a tiny capsule of protected timelessness here. I’m shaking so bad that I’m uneasy about driving north. 

The rain has arrived. I’m watching the osprey who are building a nest somewhere inland, they fly up the path of the inlet, the lake is their ley line. Earlier I was dwelling on the precariousness of life, as I’ve been living each day as if it were the last. Fully, in the moment, as it were—feeling that mortal coil. I think I’ll just sit here a while longer and shake. Maybe cry a bit.

I must admit that I sat by the side of the road and contemplated my navel for quite some time afterwards. Ironically, I was channeling photographer Jerry Downs in my head, wondering how he’d render the lake and tule fog in a photo as the light was rather flat—so that misplaced moment saved me from a potentially gnarly outcome. One time when being pokey and admiring the view paid off....

The door prize: I found a rare white Fritillaria too. Right across from where I was parked...the bladder wants what it wants, you know... I had to pee something fierce after that scare, I’m surprised I didn’t crap, my pants. I went up the hill and found this rarest of flowers—an April Fool door prize? Not every day one finds a an endangered species with a Plant Rank: 1B.2. I drove around the lake to the spillway, and suddenly the clouds parted, and it was as if I were inside of a painting by Turner.

4/1/19

Dear Deer (Deirdre) of the Sorrows (photo)

Dear deer of the Sorrows. Last night she recognized the sound of my car and then refused to move. Nearly a head-on collision. Nearly the end for her. Right in front of the church too. Where is that young buck Naoise when you need him?

Photo is from 2018. Deirdre the deer is a little hussy, has twins every year without fail. She pops down the roses as if they were cotton candy—much to the chagrin of my cousin Sinead. Doesn’t even savor them. (Her cheekiness finally got the best of her, later in the year, now she hobbles from a run-in with a car, her latest set of twins dutifully mincing along behind her.)

Two pastels, Elephant Mountain

Two pastels, Nicasio oak & rock

Chalk pastel. I usually work wet, so this is a learning curve.

Oil pastel, same place, same day, different mediums.

Channeling the clouds on Elephant Mountain

This morning the mountain was completely enveloped in fog. It was a transcendental experience watching the lake emerge from the flat planes of the pewter mist, and the myriad possibilities of fog and light emerge and recombine minute by minute. I never grow tired of watching it. Why did I never find the time to seek out and observe such beauty? It fair takes my breath away. It seems I am channeling the master cloud painters Frangonard, Watteau and Turner—with the clouds posing like that.

Black/Elephant Mountain is made of Franciscan strata and pillow lava, volcanic extrusions from under the sea—a child of the San Andreas Fault. Meanwhile, down the valley, in the distance, I could hear the call of a flock of Canada geese on the move, and a cow bawling for her errant calf. The cacophany of wild geese grew nearer—They were accompanying a lone bicyclist, blithely unaware that the wild geese gods were overhead protecting him on that empty stretch of road. The redtail hawks are flying low, zoning in on the chickens that are digging for worms in the pasture. A flash of red against the green grass, and the intense yellow of mustard. Somewhere, just out of sight, the bald eagle is circling. Leaping bass make concentric coinage on the surface of the lake. Grebes bob on the ripples, tree swallows crochet the air. I may be living somewhat feral existence well out of my comfort zone, but I am doubly blessed when it comes to a matter of light and fog on a lake at dawn.

The bicyclist and his entourage of wild geese.
They followed him all the way around the lake.

Black morph hawk (photos)

I disturbed a hawk who was eyeing the La Franchi freerange chickens in the field across from the Nicasio Reservoir. Somehow I don’t think the Alsatian guard dogs will be able to keep this fellow at bay. What kind of hawk, it’s like a Mexican hawk, brown all over. Cooper’s hawk comes to mind. Not a red tail. Darker. Not striped, so not a red shouldered hawk, more like a red tail hawk, but melanistic. There are several dark hawks along Nicasio reservoir. I have many photos of them. He was upset with me because I was too close to him—and his  coveted chickens....he turned around on his post to give me a baleful stare. If looks could kill. I was shooting from inside the car but clearly that didn’t fool him. He stood his ground. Geoff Davis said, Yearling redtail—only ONE stripe on tail feathers, immature and hungry and been wet. I thought maybe his fishing expedition failed, and he was trying his luck in greener pastures.

Nicasio Reservoir, bridge, photos

The old bridge, drowned creek bed, and retreating reservoir. I keep circling my quarry, looking for the quintessential bridge photo. This one’s close. I will make a drawing of it, I think. There’s more water in the Nicasio reservoir this year than in years past, the old bridge is just beginning to show itself this week. It usually shows up in October if it’s a dry year. The Canada geese and pelicans patrol its shores, the box turtle is busy sunning himself on the cement pylon of the old bridge, and the deer come down en masse to drink along the old roadbed. The coyote, however, is late to the potluck.

Spiderwebs and fogbows (photos)

The mad eye of the sun at dawn rising from the mist, wild geese conversing among themselves while grazing on the dew-laden first winter grass of the season.

The field was covered with myriad globe spider webs, drowned in dew, each one unique, the rising sun turned them into a vast crochet fest of dainty handkerchiefs or lace anticamassar prisms on the deep armchairs of the lake reeds. I remember how my aunts would cover their heads with lace hankies before entering the church. Ah, Sunday morning, what tangled webs we weave...

I’m in love with the monstrous globe spiders, such amazing creatures. There were so many webs, I wanted to run amok but I had to stay at right angle to the rising sun in order to see them. Just like rainbows....the closer you get, the more you change their angle, the mor elusive they become.

 I also saw a fog bow, a first. I thought I was imagining things, it was like the intense wings of an angel. I expected to see a vortex of light. Truly a Turneresque moment. No color, but an increased intensity of light. Of course, I searched for the best vantage point, and wherever I went it followed me. I realized that I was my own best vantage point. So I followed it to the old shoreline of the lake until I found what I liked. Truly a metaphor for the rest of my days....