| This space is always under construction and changing. Here are some excerpts from my books and some other writings. There are also sample chapters from Cosmic Coastal Chronicles which is in your local independent book store. E-mail inquiries about direct purchases. | 1 La Push at last Fr. COSMIC COASTAL CHRONICLES 2 REFLECTIONS ON A WHALE WATCH 3 4 PACIFICA IMPRESSIONSCOSMIC COASTAL CHRONICLES 5 Big Sur after El Nino 6 Shattering the Crystal Face of Godexcerpts from upcoming book Return to Fischer's Home Page | |
Henry Miller:
And from 101 to La Push is 14 miles, 14 miles of cut and standing timber, 14 miles of wildflowers and saplings reclaiming the freshly logged forest, bold intrusions of thick brush, a dark, slow moving river, and tremendous anticipation.
There were places to park at the first beach and the second beach, and I thought about stopping, but decided I'd go to the end of the road before making my decision. At the third beach I found the community, not really a town, but a fishing settlement, the real, working world of a group of Native Americans who cater to tourists in addition to pursuing their traditional occupation of fishermen.
Cars were parked, and I drove on. A store and rental cabins appeared, and I drove on. The road rose up and ended at something that looked like a school. From that raised parking place I could see a major part of La Push. Behind me, along the creek, were the houses and boats. The jetty went out almost to an island, steep sides with a thick stand of fir trees on the top. Looking around, all the coastal islands, and there were many, had miniature forests on their flattened tops, unless they were so eroded that they were jumbles of sharpened pencil points. The little wooded islands stretched up and down the coast. The sky was a dull, endless gray and blended softly with the ocean at the horizon. I looked down the rocky beach at the late afternoon surf, and it was dotted with surfers, lots of surfers.
Looking down the beach, I could see perhaps a dozen guys out. The dull gray waves were shoulder to head high and nicely shaped. They were also a couple of blocks south, so I turned the truck around.
Back past the stores and cabins I saw gravel roads leading through the trees, toward the beach. I drove among the high brush until I came out on the beach. I was driving on cobble size stones that seemed to get bigger the closer I got to the sand. Soon I could go no farther. Cars were parked all over, and huge drift logs blocked off the actual beach. I parked and got out.
People were camped all over, many of them surfers. There were tents, and there were people car camping . Surfboards leaned against logs and vans, and guys in trunks sat in folding chairs enjoying the warmth of the dull sun.
The surf looked good, not perfect, not really big or really small or really anything. It was just good shaped, head high, not crowded, get out and do it surf.
A short exchange with some of the guys who had been out charged me up. In a couple of minutes I was in the wet suit and ready. For an hour and a half, I had the surf I'd thought about for two years. It wasn't the best surf I'd ever had, but it was in many ways the most rewarding. It was all the romance and mystery of the far Pacific Northwest. It was a place that had waves when most places were flat. It was a Mecca for surfers from all over Washington; it was free camping on a perfect beach. It was forests that ended at the rocky shore. It was the promise of winter waves that were probably the size of houses. It was a destination, a place where one could be simply a dedicated surfer among dozens of dedicated surfers. It certainly wasn't the city beaches of Southern California or the Santa Cruz scene. This was surfing like it was in California back in the sixties, basic and uncrowded. The rides were short but fast, and by 6:30 the tide or the wind or both had changed to the point where there was nothing but a take off, almost a close out on every wave. I hung it up.
A parking spot right up against the drift logs was open., and I backed up until I almost touched the logs. Hungry from surfing and not willing to give up my parking spot to drive the dozen miles or so to the last roadside grill, I walked to the Indian store. They had some burritos, chips, fruit, beer, and all the odds and ends one would need to survive the night.
The twilight that lasts for hours was washing over the day. The last surfers, down near the massive, dark headland, were finally giving up and paddling in. The guys around me were standing around, watching the waves and talking surf. I finished my quick meal, opened a beer and joined them.
It seemed we talked for hours, while the setting sun crept imperceptibly toward the horizon. I learned all about the surf at La Push, and how, with few exceptions, there was always surf here. I learned about how and when Westport, the place I'd stopped two years earlier, broke. Used as I was to driving an hour and a half to the coast, I was amazed that some of these guys drove three to four hours, around Puget Sound, through winding country roads, over ferries, and through tourist choked towns to get here. They came and hung on, cooking on the beach, sleeping in cars, and living simply in order to spend two precious days in the wonderful Washington surf.
Still, the waning day still refused to end, so I bid farewell, in the purple twilight, to the other surfers, and crawled into my sleeping bag in the back of the truck. The tailgate was down, and I could watch the fading sun, hidden in the thick clouds, extinguish itself with a sigh in the west.
I was still a thousand miles from home, a drive in a Summer rainstorm, a long haul through Oregon, a night in a rest stop on the California, Oregon border, a kayak trip at Point St. George, walks in the redwoods, a familiar swim in the Eel, a bout of kayak surfing in Pacifica, and a final, sad trip home. But at that moment, the future didn't matter one damn bit. That the surf would be small the next day, and that rain would muck up my urge to kayak that coast didn't occur to me. What hit me in the fading light was a song.
It was. a song from the "Fear" album by a wonderful new group called "Toad the Wet Sprocket." The song was, "I Will Not Take These Things for Granted."
And, watching the last light play out in slow motion over the endless Pacific Ocean, thinking of all I'd seen and done on this trip and a hundred others, I thought of the taking of things for granted, of how much of life is wasted that way. I certainly will not take any of these things for granted: perfect morning waves, redwoods damp with spring rains and musty fungus, otters playing in the kelp, moonlight flickering on dark bays, seals sunning on the rocks, verdant coastal hillsides, wildflowers in the spring, winter storms in remote canyons, shifting coastal dunes, laughing children at play, glassy surf at remote beaches, starfish among the kelp, clam chowder on the wharf, solitary, reflective beaches, wind swept coastal bluffs, snowy mountains, raging rivers, lizards scurrying on trails, perfect sandy coves, kayaking between storm tossed sea stacks, Carmel art galleries, carving stone along side the road, capturing some fleeting bit of beauty on canvas, kicking through layers of fallen forest leaves, tracing lines of eroded cliffs, sharing a beer with strangers, wading through cool rivers, sleeping under brilliant stars, deep silences of the heart, singing in the shower, dancing naked in waterfalls, looking down on cities, looking up at the universe, looking out for eternity. I will hold all these things in my heart, but I will not take them for granted.
With the waves of La Push, a summer closes, a book ends. And as winter fades into spring, I sense the promise of another summer, another chance to get close to something elusive and wondrous, to follow my own path deep into the mystery of it all, to spit in the faces of the morbid and rabid gods that plague and pain us, to transform the self with every shaft of light, to dance through the fields of pure chance, to bend the spectrum of knowledge with the prism of imagination.
I've never slept so well or dreamed so richly as I did that night. I drifted off with the knowledge that a pearl of perfection was at the core of every day, that the trials and tribulations of my life were simply games designed to add drama to existence, to life in its richness, its complexity, its perfection, its incredibly rich paradox: mortality and eternity locked in an embrace that is simply this moment, this moment that echoes down the corridors of space and time, this moment that is heaven, earth, matter, energy, god, you, me, and everything.
One Saturday the rains came and went and came again, and so it was with the wind also. I loaded my surfboard and my kayak on the van and headed toward Monterey.
At Marina, there was a howling on shore wind, but by Monterey it had subsided to a whisper.
The bay off Monterey and Pacific Grove was remarkably calm, given the intermittent rain storms. I pulled up at Lover's Point and put my kayak in the water under a spritzing rain.
My goal was to whale watch, as they are running the coast this time of year. To that end, I angled out from the shore and out toward the open waters beyond the point. About a mile out the rain stopped, and a soft, golden light flooded in as the window shades of cloud rolled up a little. The hills and mountains that ring Monterey bay were lit from a low angle, causing a partial backlight and deep contrasts between ridges and valleys. The clouds rose slowly, like sticky taffy mist being pulled by unseen fingers. The land features were so clear as to totally confound the sense of distance and depth. I wondered then what some whale would think if it suddenly rose up and looked landward. Fremont peak looked like a massive, ragged tooth snapping the glowing sky.
I paddled out into an almost smooth, gunbarrel colored sea. As I passed boats, I asked the boaters if they'd seen whales. I kept moving west by north until I was even with Point Pinos and about a mile and a half out. There on the edge of Monterey Bay the sea became a bit choppy. That close to the water, and with added chop, it was hard to see features at water level, such as whales, which around about the color of the winter ocean. I pulled closer in to talk to some scuba divers in kayaks, and then I pulled out again, angling more back to the protected bay water. The buildings along the shore were doll houses, and there was a quiet and peace in the empty spaces around me. Little sea birds floated around me, and I looked out in all directions to a view unobstructed.
Suddenly I heard the sound of water being blown out under pressure, and I turned just in time to see a whaleıs tail wave gracefully in the air before disappearing under the water. Then I headed back toward shore.
Driving into Big Sur in the early Spring of 1998, when most of the roads were closed and the remaining ones open for only a few minutes at a time, was probably the orgasmic consummation of my long love affair with this voluptuous section of coast. The place had worked its charms of me since my first visit in the late 60s, but at first it was only a boyish flirtation, an excited rush whenever I had the rare opportunity to journey there.
It didnıt become a relationship until the 80s, when I lived close enough to make more frequent sojourns. In fact the turning point came when, living in the San Francisco Bay Area, I decided to drive down for a weekend. As appropriate to Big Sur, I arrived without an agenda, committed only to experience and enjoy.
I stopped at a little beach area, part of Garapata State Park, at the northern end of Big Sur. A small stream flowed under the highway, cascaded down some lovely, sandstone rocks, then over a waterfall to the beach. The colors of the low-growing, coastal plants drew me to walk down among the rocks, by the waterfall, and down to the beach. Among the stunning spectrum of colors, I spotted a tiny succulent clinging to the rocks, one Iıd never seen before. It was a dudleya, a low growing, grayish plant with little yellow flowers. Its delicate beauty and unusual color fascinated me, as did its ability to live in the tiny cracks in the bare rock. I wished one lived in my yard.; however, I was too much a conservationist to even consider digging anything up from a park, so I went about my wanderings, losing myself in the way the rocks fractured and folded over one another.
Walking out on the hot, bare rock above the waterfall, I noticed a very tiny dudleya that had somehow become unearthed and was lying roots dry and exposed, on the rock face. I didnıt know if it could be saved, but I knew that every minute would count in the mid-day sun. I grabbed the plant and walked quickly to my car. There was a milk carton on the floor, a victim of my driverıs thirst. I went to the side of the road and scooped up some of the sandy soil. Then I poured in some water from my canteen and propped it up between the front seats.
The plant not only survived, but prospered, growing lovely flowers and flourishing until one particularly brutal summer in my central valley exile. But, in those several years, it served as a constant reminded of the magic and beauty of Big Sur.
A decade later, my relationship with Big Sur had grown to a big, passionate, heady kind of love, and I courted her constantly. With the roads closed in many spots from the huge el nino storms, I saw my jealous opportunity to have her to myself. I knew the only possible way in would be through Fort Hunter Liggett and over the mountain, the very long way around.
If there had been any doubts about the quality of the trip, entering Fort Hunter Liggett would have dispelled them instantly. No sooner did I make the turn and pass the unattended guard shack, then the meadow exploded into my senses. The meadow extended to my right for perhaps a quarter mile, before starting to climb the oak studded, gentle hill. From the edge of the road to the first rising of the hill, the meadow was bathed in bands and swirls of brilliant yellows and oranges, deep violet and rich, vibrant hues of blue. Poppies and lupine fought for dominance. At the point where the flowers wind among the scattered, freshly leaved oak, the lupine won, creating a wide and meandering river of blue blossoms.
And beyond the last flowers there were more flowers, the dusty pink and lavender pastel tops of the lush, deep grasses that undulated slowly in the breeze. These were screened by a soft haze of the millions of tiny, flying and feeding insects.
The fragrance was overwhelming. It was a chaos of incense and perfume, syrup and honey. So thick and full it was, that breathing was like drinking some magnificent merlot. The air was so redolent of blossoms that it seemed to take a physical shape, spiraling in and around, creating an ecstatic vertigo.
These are not wildflowers; theyıre mildflowers. The wild isnıt in the softly rioting meadow, but in the spirit it releases from the human who wears his civilization like a suit of armor. Once the flowered fields wash over you like a Bay of Fundy tide, your spirit breaks its chains, sheds its clothing, and bounds like an exuberant Icarus into the sun-filled sky.
Less than two miles further, and over a one lane bridged creek, the meadow becomes less flowered and less open, as giant oaks start to gather. Suddenly it is a true old growth oak woodland. Trees with trunks like ancient pillars, twisting and spreading to interlocking canopies that anchor the sky, their gnarled, wooden arms reaching to embrace the totality of the heavens. Each of these ancient giants are covered in new-leaf green, each robust and healthy, ready to outlive our great, great grandchildren.
Over the thickly wooded mountain and the summit; suddenly a view of immensity. Dark, steep, wooded mountains fall away for miles, down, north, south, ridges, and gullies, cascading over and over, downward and onward, like folds in a flowing gown. And stretched out beyond the range of the best peripheral vision, the pale pacific, flecked with flashes of white. The mountains drop like waterfalls to a sea that seems to go on forever, beyond the planet, beyond the galaxy, beyond the edge of the universe.
With the closed roads, this is a Big Sur in celebration, rejoicing the assertive reemergence of the native, harmonious life. The road is an empty reminder of the late era of man, an era quickly forgotten as the richest spring in years feeds, nurtures and reanimates the subtle Big Sur population. Small mammals stroll brazenly along coastal bluffs, hawks circle scant yards above the ground. the ferns, grasses, vines and poison oak hurriedly obscure the human trails, while the deer make new ones of their own. A solitary human stands in the middle of a deserted highway and shouts in exultation.
As I walk waste deep in a green tangle, Iım thankful that I love poison oak. It reminds me of the difference between my world now and the one I was raised in. Los Angeles is devoid of poison oak. There are neatly trimmed lawns, neatly weeded flower beds, the little lemon tree and slender pine placed on either side of the yard, the well shaped hedge that marks the property line. The only touch of the wild is the bit of crab grass that clings tenaciously to a corner of the lawn. In L.A. there is no explosion of waving lupine, no clumps of coast monkey flower, no spurts of wild iris, and certainly no spreading stands of poison oak.
The beaches are deserted. One or two cars sit in the camp ground. You can park in the middle of the road, get out and take a walk along the highway, and never have to look up or back. Rather than the drone of automobile engines, there is only the passionate chorus of bird song, the buzz on insects, and the crashing of the waves.
Sand Dollar Beach is as perfect as any place or thing can possibly be. Like an imaginatively used pallet it emerges from the flowered bluffs. The great, dark, monolithic block appears first, then the walls of both points, and then the beach, a sensual and primal meeting of land and sea. All you need to turn the most casual relationship into true love is to walk, hand in hand, down the trail to the beach on a perfect, people-free spring day.
Further north, past the slides that ripped the roads right off the side of the mountains and are now only passable periodically and with the help of hundreds of earth shifting vehicles, Molera Park stands empty, deserted, ghostly quiet, as in some post apocalyptic film, where the last human surveys his silent domain.
Walking to Molera Beach at Cooper Point was like walking it when the state first bought the land and had yet to make a park of it. Walking the trail through a towering, verdant canyon erased a quarter century of human tramping and plodding. This wasnıt a park for people, but a dance parlor for bumblebee and lupine, an aerodrome for song birds, A tanning booth for lizards, a conspiracy of unsavory thistle.
Gaining the headland trail involved bushwhacking the trail, a trail that had been devoured by the greedy appetite of nature. The first violet iris on the trail stood like a gun site against a Big Sur of dreams, a Big Sur quiet, thick, verdant and still. The Big Sur river, alive with glowing emeralds, flowed full and proud to the cove, blue-calmed despite the raging wind that pushed white caps from behind the point rock to the horizon. The rock was a packed rookery, the pocket beach below the headlands was awash with musical pebbles in the rising tide. The main beach was filled with driftwood from slivers to huge trunks. Near the river, at the edge of the driftwood, someone had made a driftwood tent, a place to lie, perchance to sleep and dream while gazing at the little waves lapping the shore.
Biking Highway One from Molera to Fullers was the great opportunity to really see the rich tapestry of Big Sur. Without traffic one can ride down the middle of the road, swerving from side to side to take in every nuance of scenery. In a car there are stretches of meadow, thickets of brush, and clumps of forest . From a traffic-free bike, there is magic at every curve. Each tiny creek has grown waterfalls. The river is so cleansed that the bottom gravel rattles as the mountains sweat their excess water. Each little meadow is a labyrinthian mystery, a winding road to wonderland. Every mature redwood has a hollowed out place in its base that has that lived-in look of a small, comfortable den.
Locals are standing in the parking lots of closed or partly opened businesses, stretching arms to the sky, celebrating the place as it was the day they arrived. No one is in a hurry, everyone takes the time to smile and greet, conversations happen any place two people meet, even in the middle of the highway.
While waiting for a section of road to open, one can lie naked in the tall, sweet grass between the road the and the cliff, watching humming birds dart against the backdrop of spreading oak branches, alone for miles, alone for hours.
Iım painting a picture on the porch of the Phoenix Shop at Nepenthe. The view is making me delusional and slightly manic, and one of the people in the shop is an artist and is discussing the view and the care of good brushes. Some sort of weird rapture is setting in. Iım assured that Iım OK, that humanity has the ability to rise up and perfect itself, that the world is both an aesthetic and pragmatic work of art, and that joy and wonder will endure.
Almost without taking a breath or blinking, Iım in the car again, my eyes tracing the full, rich, sensuous curves of this fecund coast. I remind myself that it isnıt the Spring of 98, but the Spring of 99. The road is long since repaired, and the rains have been gentler. The season of renewal still wraps me in its arms and sings me to flights of ecstasy. Iım working my way slowly through the erogenous zones of this wild and free land. My watch is left behind somewhere, and the petty stresses and obligations of mundane living are caught in a tree somewhere near Point Lobos. Looking around, I see that nothing is exactly as it was thirteen months ago, but then, nothing will ever be like it is this moment. I know this coast like the inside of my eyelids, but still I see a million things Iıve never seen before. As always, I consider myself the model of self-restraint when I can drive this road without pulling over, stripping naked and running--gibberishly screaming --into the brush.
On the car stereo is the absolute harp-like clarity of Loreena McKennittıs awesome vocals, embracing each note as if it were the pivotal point of experience. Iım thinking that if Big Sur could sing in a human voice, it would be very much like this, and if my written words could sing, I would want them to have this voice.
I remember someone saying, ³I have my faith to see me through.² If ³faith² is an absolute conviction without benefit of direct experience, how much greater is this moment than all the prayers of mankind.
