The Thistles February 14, 2014

I’m a big fan of wild flowers, but I draw the line at thistles, the bane of my pasture.  This charming deep purple flower is saddled with an enormous base of stiff and prickly leaves, which understandably are left uneaten by the deer and horses.  Fortunately, thistles are not deeply rooted, and tenacity and a sturdy pair of gloves can be combined to upend them before they flower.

Typically by now, the grass has already grown lush and high, masking the young thistles before they erupt.  But in this season of drought, the thistles have gotten out of the gate ahead of the grass, and I can spy them in their near infancy.  I waited for the rain of the past week to end, and today, I launched my attack.  I donned my gloves and grabbed a shovel, a pitchfork, and a trowel and worked my way around the perimeter of the house and the fences, where the thistles tend to congregate.  After I removed the more monstrous ones manually, I grabbed the Roundup to spray clusters that were just beginning to peek through the ground.  Take that, thistles!  I’ll be back. 

Alone at Pi February 8. 2014

When I bought the land and built the home that I have come to call Almost Pi, my intention was twofold:  First, to spend weekends here with my daughter Annie, who was ten at the time, off the grid and succumbing to the slow pace of nature.  And second, as my thinking went, eventually to retire here and to share this home with a partner.  It is now almost ten years since I made this decision.  Annie with her friends, I with my friends, and together with our family, we have come and gone many times, hiking, feasting, and taking in the sunset over a glass of wine.  But Annie now lives in Seattle, the much-imagined partner has eluded me, and I spend most of my time here alone.

And though a solitary retreat wasn’t my intention, I have come to love my time here alone.  I spend the weekends reading and writing, thinking and looking, occasionally hiking or asana-ing.  I jump down to the library, if it is open, to access the web or pick up a DVD, grab a pastry at the Bovine Bakery, frequent the hardware store for supplies, browse the bookstore, or take in a concert at the Dance Palace.  But mostly, I am alone.   And really, it’s not so bad.  Cancel that: it is wonderful.

Rain February 8, 2014

Finally!  Rain!  It has been raining the past few days, and more precipitation is forecast for the future.  I was eager to get to Pi on this dreary Saturday morning both to check on the house in this, the first significant storm of the season and to bask in its grey tranquility.

As I drove up the final steep curve of Lucas Valley Road, approaching Big Rock from the east, a small SUV coming toward me spun out of control on the slippery surface, nearly crashing into me, but instead settled into the deep ditch on the hillside.  I pulled over in a turnout zone, flipped on my flashers, and jumped out to check on the driver.  He was fine.  I was fine.  With a few back and forths of his four-wheel drive, he maneuvered his way out of the gulley, thanked me, and drove on. 

Continuing even more cautiously toward Pi, I passed the Nicasio Reservoir to find it … wet!  Actual moisture, a few inches deep, layered itself onto the deepest parts of the basin.  Such a long way to go, but still, a start.

Now home and settled, I eat my lunch and watch the birds as they too seem to relish the arrival of rain, feasting on worms, playing in the pools of water, and preparing their nests on my studio’s eaves.  The swale now cradles a very large puddle and I can almost hear the lavender sighing, “Ah!”

The Drought January 25, 2014

California is dry, as dry as it has ever been since the state started keeping its weather records.  Typically by January, the Bay Area is swimming in rain and the Sierras are wrapped in snow.  Usually I can count off the months by the height of Nicasio Reservoir, and even by August I’m starting to worry about the water supply.  This year, there has been no replenishment, and the section along the Nicasio Valley Road is completely dry.  Even the old highway on the reservoir bed has been revealed, and Canadian geese have taken over where ducks and trout used to flourish.  Here at Almost Pi, there is no new grass, and I wonder how the horses and deer and other creatures can find anything worth eating.  No rain, and none forecasted.  Beautiful, unseasonable weather, but bone-dry land offering up kindling for the next wildfire.

Dusk at Point Reyes January 24, 2014

I drove out to Pi on this Friday night and arrived just past five as the sun was setting over the Inverness Ridge.  Three deer were munching on the scraggly grass, and the underbelly of the expansive cottony cloud cover lit up with pinks, corals, and oranges in every direction.  I unloaded my gear, flipped on the house lights, and headed downtown for a little walk and a few groceries. 

Almost every store, except the pharmacy and the market, had closed down for the night.  I walked around to witness a town I rarely see, consisting of only a few cars and a handful of people - scrubbing the Bovine Bakery, making a final transaction at the Wells Fargo bank, closing up the compost bin for the weekend.  The hiking boots and clippety-clack bicycle shoes of the typical tourist were nowhere to be seen or heard, replaced by the work boots of the local residents, who joined me at Palace Market to grab a few items for the evening.  I peeked into people’s homes as the lights turned on.  On the second story of a beautiful Victorian, a woman puts on lipstick; where is she headed tonight?  The Christmas decorations still linger on the large tree aside the bank. 

The town is so quiet, like the moment Annie and I first saw it nine years ago and decided to purchase this land.  I love it here.  

Christchurch, New Zealand December 31, 2013

You might be thinking that this post belongs in a different blog, but there is a connection, and it is one of the earth’s largest – the Pacific Plate.  Point Reyes lies at its eastern edge where it grinds against the American Plate, while Christchurch lies at the western edge, some 7000 miles away. Both regions, consequently, are prone to earthquakes. 

On our holiday visit to New Zealand, Annie and I spent one day in Christchurch to witness the revival of a city devastated by an earthquake in 2011.  Setting aside the marvel of the “cardboard cathedral”, whose ceiling is supported by massive cardboard dowels, and a “restart” shopping area, colorfully constructed out of shipping containers, the city brought to my mind photos of Dresden bombed during WWII.  Block after block of the “downtown” area were reduced to empty lots now inhabited only by wild-flowers and native plants.  What buildings that remained were empty, boarded up, and slated for destruction.  One large theater was completely stripped in half, exposing all the seats to view.  Several architecturally important facades, including that of the theater, were stabilized by stacks of shipping containers, filled with water, to prevent their tumbling forward.  Three years out from the earthquake, the city is still in shambles, with its residents frustrated by how long it is taking to rebuild their once beautiful city. 

It was a sobering thought for someone who lives on the San Andreas Fault. 

The Burrows October 28, 2013

What a difference a week makes.  Since my last visit to Pi (on Monday the 22^nd), about a dozen deep, wide burrows have appeared on the pasture close to the house.  Much, much bigger than the ubiquitous gopher holes that I have come to ignore, these burrows lie to the south of the driveway, some are right in front of the deck, and still others have appeared within the lavender along the fence. I have yet to spy the industrious critter(s) responsible for them, but I suspect either a badger (readers of this blog will recall the excitement of seeing one last year) or a coyote.  Only Kerry the dog knows for sure who is living down there, as she barked at something during the night, but she’s not telling. 

Perhaps the digger is seeking underground water.  This year, the pasture is bone dry, nothing but dirt; the Nicasio Reservoir tells the tale: it is a now mere puddle.   With none of the typical grass to obscure the holes, I can’t be sure that excavation isn’t an annual process.  But these enormous burrows are actually a bit scary; the sandworms from “Dune” come to mind, and I get the sense that the entire pasture could collapse at any moment.  I worry, too, that the horses will stumble on them and injure themselves.  Such is coexistence with wildlife, and I hope I can  identify the animal with whom I happily share this land. 

KWMR and the Pencil Sharpener August 31, 2013

I was already of big fan of KWMR before the pencil sharpener came on the scene.  At Almost Pi, I am off the grid of communication mostly by intention – no phone, no internet, no TV – and a bit by serendipity – no cellphone service, yet I never feel lonely because KWMR is always with me.  I owe my avidity to my sister Mary and her husband who, troubled over the prospect of Pi’s isolation during an earthquake, presented me one Christmas with a bright red, hand-crank LLBean radio.  Now, on Saturday nights when I’m cooking after a long hike, I’m at Rick’s Jazz Café; while gardening on Sunday mornings, I’m in the cathedral of Sacred Music; other times I’m slipping imaginary coins into the Silver Dollar Jukebox or relaxing in the speakeasy of Happy Days.  KWMR’s kaleidoscope of music connects me to its broadcast booth, only a ten-minute walk away, and I can almost feel the pull of its electromagnetism over the quiet pasture.

Several months ago, the KWMR weekly e-letter sported a drawing of a pencil sharpener and soon thereafter, another e-letter posted the question – I paraphrase – “What is it with the pencil sharpener, anyway?”  “Indeed!” I wondered.  

Apparently, the station staff, after some debate, decided to mount its new pencil sharpener on a post supporting the covered landing just outside their office.  An ardent user of the wooden-clad graphite myself, I gathered up all my stubby pencils and headed down to Mesa Street to give the sharpener a whirl.  The manual X-ACTO, much like the one my dad had down in his basement shop, shaved beautiful points.  There was also a little bucket of brand new, bright yellow Dixon Ticonderogas, stamped with “KWMR” in red letters, for the taking, and I added one to my collection.  Now, I look forward to my weekly sharpening outings, and soon, I’ll get up the gumption to knock on the door and say, “Thank you.”  Or maybe even, “Can I volunteer here?”

The Hawk and the Hammock August 26, 2013

It was the perfect afternoon for a read and a snooze on the hammock: warm with a slight breeze and fluffy clouds drifting by.  I grabbed my book, donned my sunglasses, and gathered up Annie’s comforter and pillow, and in bare feet I tiptoed past the horse poop through the mown hay to curl up for an hour or two.  Out in the field, I could see back behind the house to the eucalyptus trees lining Route 1 and to the cypress trees delineating the pasture boundaries.  The intense greens of these trees, the blue of the sky, and the white of the clouds found homes in my little nest formed by the white cotton rope of the hammock and the pulsating blue and green squares of Annie’s linen, as though the palette in the enormous dome of my surroundings had distilled itself down unto me.  

And there above the eucalyptuses was the red-tailed hawk.  I often hear his screeches and sometimes spy him perching on the fence.  But these trees are his home, his jumping off point, and every time I am the hammock, I see him resting there.  Clearly, I need to spend more time in this special spot, looking upward.

The Fabulous Fox August 25, 2013

It had been a little while since I’d seen the bobcat, and no egrets, herons, badgers or coyotes have shown up lately.  I was beginning to despair of the lack of local wildlife.  Yet while I was catching up on my journal at midday, a quickly darting animal caught my eye.  A fabulous fox swiftly ran toward me, his luxurious white-tipped black tail outstretched behind him.  Without slowing down a bit, the fox darted under one fence and then quickly leapt over the lowest rung of another. 

“The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.”  What a specimen!