Old Memories....Yosemite

I had never entered Yosemite from Big Oak Flat Road. That left hand turn from the Tioga Road onto Big Oak Flat took me through a section of the Merced River Gorge. The narrow two lane road skirted the edge of the gorge. Oaks arched out over the lanes, casting shadows pierced randomly with the dappled light of the late afternoon sun.

It had been fifteen to twenty years since I had last been in the Valley. I simply could not remember exactly how long. And when I finally entered the Valley proper I was seeing it from a completely different pesrspective than I had ever experienced. The road came in at "ground level", in contrast to the tunnel entrance on the Wawona Road where one first sees the Valley from an elevated perspective.

I can only describe the experience, upon seeing the Valley open up to view, as entering a roofless natural cathedral....breathtaking in beauty and majesty...overwhelming in size and power.

Across the Meadow:  Late Afternoon

My immediate goal was to get to the Ahwahnee Hotel and see if chance looked kindly on my wish to stay that night
in any, I repeat, ANY room available.

The Ahwahnee Hotel was built and opened in the 1920's. It is "real", in that the granite blocks and huge timbers with which it was constructed are not some Disneyesque imitation of the those materials. They simply don't build things in that manner anymore.The Great Hall and the Dining Room are remarkable for the grandeur of the design and space.





Mrs. Curry's Room...Top Floor

Thirty-seven years earlier, almost to the month, the first days of our honeymoon were spent at the Hotel. By some stroke of luck we ended up on the top floor in Mrs. Curry's private room....(she had passed on some years before, of course). The Curry family was involved in establishing many of the tourist facilities in the Valley in the twentieth century. The old lady was allowed to stay at the Hotel in her retirement. Access was by special key to the elevator. The picture to the left shows the small balcony and the bank of windows that came with the room.




The Dining Hall at the Ahwahnee

Many years later we stayed with the boys at the Hotel...and any subsequent vacations at Wawona always involved taking breakfast or lunch in the Ahwahnee Dining Hall.
Every Christmas season the Bracebridge Banquet is presented in the Hall. A program of entertainment and caroling, the production is a tradition started many decades ago.

Perhaps I shall see it someday....somewhere.....some time.






Upon walking into the lobby I stopped and took in the near chaotic scene...I thought "Lord! There are an awful lot of old people here." That, and tourists from France, Japan, Germany, Italy, Mexico and the Commonwealth countries....a babel of tongues. It was the first and only time on the trip that I felt daunted by the situation.

The clerk smiled an amused smile when asked if there was ANY room available at ANY price. There was none and I was offered the opportunity to put my name and phone number on a waiting list with twenty other names. It was hopeless.

But there was always the hotel Book Store....an irresistable attraction to one such as I. An hour later,carrying ten or twelve pounds of books, I emerged and looked at the sunset-lit sky.

I had no lodging for the night.....

SRH

Getting Out of Mammoth...

Bankside Flora on Hot Creek

I have intended to visit the blog and maintain the flow of my story for some time...Frankly, I was stunned to see that the last entry was posted over three weeks ago. I never spent that much time in Mammoth when we had the townhomes, so it is time to continue the journey and get over the Tioga Pass before the first winter storm forces its closure.

With that aforementioned Schat's coffee and bun in hand I rolled out of Mammoth in the Explorer and headed to Hot Creek just a few miles south of  Mammoth off of Hwy 395. This Creek emerges from the ground as a huge spring of ice cold water. In a sense there is no identifiable headwater as one generally finds with almost all creeks and rivers.....no high mountain canyon or watershed is its source. Snowmelt from the peaks to the west percolates through the alluvial fans that sweep out of the canyons and travels underground until channeled through the volcanic bedrock that opens up near the fish hatchery. Hot Creek is known as one of the most challenging wild trout waters in the West, and it was always one of our favorite fly fishing/catch-and-release fishing spots.

Some distance downstream numerous hot springs bubble up and flow into the cold waters, so much so that the water becomes almost tepid and will not support cold-water loving trout. At one point the hot springs bubble and hiss and steam like a collection of cauldrons cooking some witch's brew. People have lost their lives in these steampots......the most recent, to my memory, was a man who went into the hissing water to retrieve his pet dog.

I have many fish stories from the time spent on the banks of Hot Creek with my son Scott...who is a far better and instinctual fly-fisherman than I. Sentimental feelings welled up as I walked the edges of the stream...the occasional trout rising to a emerging caddis or mayfly...searching out the old holes and undercut banks. Some looked the same...most had changed to one degree or another. Scott, never one to conform, generally went into battle wearing a broad brimmed, tattered straw hat, shorts and tennis shoes, a t-shirt and a worn out fishing vest festooned with the clips, snips and doo-dads necessary to the sport. I always smiled when the wind would drive that ragged straw brim up like that of a Pony Express rider hurtling across the plains.

That morning the Creek was fished by just two individuals. I chose not to string up and cast my line. I would become mesmerized and lost to the world...that is the reward and the main hazard of fly-fishing. The Tioga Pass loomed some thirty miles to the north just out of Lee Vining. Traversing the crest of the Sierra would be long and challenging on that road.

Hot Creek...With Mammoth Mountain Looming on the Right

Lee Vining, on the western shore of Mono Lake, survives on tourist dollars in the season. The town was nearly empty, but for long haul truckers and a few retiree vacationers. It was October and, like Mammoth, it was going into hibernation. The first snowfall would close the Tioga Pass and shut off the tourist flow and cash.

Tioga Pass Road...Into the West

It had been years since I travelled the Tioga and I had forgotten how many miles and how long it would take to get over the Sierra to Yosemite Valley. It took a very long time; the drive made bearable only by magnificent glacier-carved scenery. At the highest elevation of the trip the ancient glaciers stood many hundreds of feet higher than the roadbed.
All about me were bald, bare granite domes and mounds with preserved glacial polished surfaces that had not yet exfoliated. Large boulders lay planted in seemingly inexplicable locations...abandoned in place by the glacial advance or retreat. Called "erratics", they give witness to the inexorable force of glacial flow. Many of these boulders were larger than a house.

With several stops, it took two hours to drive to Yosemite Valley. The shadows were long when I turned onto the road at the western end of the valley. I had no idea where I would spend the night, though I hoped that I might be fortunate enough to find a room at the Ahwahnee Hotel....a vain hope as it turned out......

Mammoth Revisited

Aspens and Mammoth Crest

That cold morning in Mammoth was to be my last in the town and environs till the next time I travel that way. I was up and out on the road before the rising sun had cleared the White Mountains to the east. The aspens had not yet blazed that blinding yellow and gold peculiar to them with the coming of Fall. The high ridges were still in shadow as I sat in my Explorer waiting for the sunlight to bathe them in reflected light. Setting up my tripod and positioning the camera became near impossible because of my shivering hands and body, but short stays in the heated cab of the Explorer let me overcome the cold and I managed to accomplish the normally simple task.

The picture was taken near the entry to Snowcreek Resort....the development that was built on that vast meadow swept by those howling winds mentioned in an earlier post. I believe it is the most beautiful and carefully planned of all the resort complexes in Mammoth. Our first townhome (I still remember the address...733) is now nestled among large aspen trees and mature foliage. We owned that home in the mid-nineties and it was exceptional....I still get misty-eyed when I see it. The second home, much smaller, and built some years after the other, is still remembered fondly, but it does not have the same place in my heart as 733. The reality is that second homes, while raising a family, prove more often than not to be difficult to use as first dreamed. Kids are in school much of the year, they have football practice in the summer, and work schedules and other day-to-day responsibilities leave little time to spend away as a family. The stays we had were often filled with chores and maintenance issues, and there is little break from cooking, cleaning up, washing clothes and the un-packing/packing up ritual.

From that morning photoshoot, I raced out of town, but not before stopping a Schat's for coffee and a roll, and headed up Mammoth Mountain to beat the 7:00 a.m. deadline for descending into the San Joaquin River Canyon...the site of Devil's Postpile and the beautiful San Joaquin River. The Ranger took my money and we talked a bit.....about the beautiful gold charm she wore (it had belonged to her mother), the weather, the road conditions ahead (there had been a surprise snow storm two days earlier). There had been no need to beat the deadline....there were no tourist crowds that required limiting access to the valley.

The San Joaquin River starts in the high country and flows to the West. The San Joaquin Valley is named after the River which used to water the flatlands, along with other Sierra rivers, and create vast waterways and wetlands before the land had been changed forever by the agricultural interests that now dominate the San Joaquin Valley. The river had always been one of our favorite fishing destinations. We ranged far up and down the current and always had success with dry and wet flies.

I did cast my fly line for awhile and caught and released several trout, but I spent more time walking the banks and taking photographs, and sitting in the shade writing in my journal. Forestry people were busy shutting the facilities down for the coming winter and the public restrooms were down to one outhouse, much to the consternation of the few visitors who had to line up some discreet distance from the door. The women seemed to be particularly aggravated about the situation.

I decided that I wanted to be over the Tioga Pass and in Yosemite Valley well before the end of the day, so I packed up and drove back to Mammoth. But first a visit to Hot Creek was necessary.

-continued-

The San Joaquin River

 

In the Gutter......

I walk around the block where the business is located in Santa Fe Springs nearly every afternoon. The one mile (or 1.5 miles via an extended route) is covered in just over fifteen minutes. I usually walk with my eyes turned down to the sidewalk or the street pavement along the gutter. This habit resulted in my walking into one of those "Help Wanted" posts that look more like a gallows than anything else. Specifically, I bumped my downturned forehead on the horizontal arm that hovered over the lawn at about 5'6" elevation.

CLUNK.....I found myself sitting on the lawn. Had I been hit with a baseball bat?...A 2 x 4? There was a distinct metallic clang at the instant just before I looked about from my sitting position. "How did I get there?" ....I looked up and saw the 3x3 arm of the "Help Wanted" sign post. "OK...was I bleeding?...."Where in hell did my glasses go?"....."How embarrassing...Did anyone see me?"...."What was that grit on my tongue?...Oh-Oh, I chipped my tooth."

All of the above happened in the course of ten seconds or less. I got to my feet, gathered my dignity and glasses and resumed my walk, all the while feeling for blood and for a big knot to appear on my forehead. They never did...not even a bruise appeared within the days following.

So, not having learned the lesson, I still walk with my eyes on the immediate ground in front of me.
I do avoid the areas along the path where those "Help Wanted" sign posts are planted. I like to see where I am treading and the lowered head position is conducive to pondering and meditating along the way.

Often, I will cross paths with several employees who are out for a jog or a brisk walk. For some reason these guys wear sweatshirts, hoodies, or winter jackets while jogging on the hottest of days.
I imagine they are sweating off the pounds. We always exchange the "V" for victory finger salute.

One of these men and I exchanged a quip when I saw a strangely colored wooden ball on his desk. He had picked it up while running...and he had many more oddities nestled in a tray with the ball; strange handtools, a railroad spike, screwdrivers, bits of metal, unusual screws and nails. I recognized a fellow observer of the gutter....and a collector of the detritus cast off into the streets in mysterious ways.

I have often thought that it may be possible to earn pocket change by dragging some type of mobile magnet along behind me with the express purpose of gathering the steel and iron bits I see littering the gutters. I would not only make a bit of cash, but I would be doing the good Americans who work in the area a huge favor by removing the vicious-looking nails, screws, and shards of metal from the paths of their vulnerable tires. I almost always kick the worst of the things over against the curb or pick them up and throw them into the bushes along the way. I can't kick them all out of the way...I would never get around the block, and then I might also be suspected of doing the St. Vitus dance.

I think it time to tell you what I have found, though the list is not all-inclusive:

Mobil Phones (broken), a fully charged land-line remote phone ("too far from the base"), a shattered iPod, a walkie-talkie type phone, circuit boards, bundles of corrugated cartons, functioning cigarette lighters, super-hero torsos and limbs (plastic only), shattered pill boxes, notebooks, combs (left on the ground), an empty wallet, playing cards, religious metals, a silver chain, a gold chain, tokens, license plates, hub caps, radiator caps, sandals, shoes, socks, shorts, a belt, a flattened cat that had attained the status of dried jerky, brochures for improving sexual prowess (in Spanish and English...and I did not feel the need to call), some empty tube of numbing ointment that prolonged one's ability to perform in bed, empty condom packets and the discarded contents of such (all concentrated on a short section of a particular street near the Fed-Ex depot), springs, car parts, washers of all size, fast food containers (predominantly McDonald's), dead birds, dead squirrels, dead rats, dead possums, hair nets, ear plugs, pens, pencils, nuts, bolts, sheetmetal screws, wood screws, machine screws, eyebolts,
a toilet seat, copper pipe fittings, a bottle cap collection (?), dolls, a child's car seat, metal stampings,
cheap costume jewelry, a bra, wire forms, hinges, a shotglass and so on and so on.

In all the time I have walked those streets I believe I have never found cumulatively more than a dollar in small change.

I read many years ago that archeologists found a buried Roman town in a mountain valley in Southern France. There was no memory of it and no trace of its existence on ancient maps and documents. No one knew its name at the time of discovery.

Somehow, I see a connection between the street litter and this town.

SRH

Mammoth

Reflections of a Sunrise

I first visited Mammoth in my early twenties when I decided I wanted to ski...that would be in the winter of 1972. Over the next several years I became an intermediate skier at best....moguls always got the better of me, but when it was all just right the exhilaration of being the first to ski down a slope of new fallen snow is difficult to match. I forget the name of many of the runs, but the "Bowl" was my favorite. It was the back side of the main mountain, perhaps the blownout crater of the volcano. Upon first sight my companions pointed out specks at the bottom of the vast sloping field of snow. The specks were skiers, just barely discernible as human figures probably 3000' below. The one memory that most stands out was a fall that sent me tumbling, sliding and rolling for maybe two to three hundred yards down the slope. When my companions caught up with me, expecting to see a broken body, I was laughing at the fun of it all, not the least bit harmed.

Mammoth is a different place now because of commercialization and the growth of the second home sector. I remember clearly driving out to a vast windswept meadow just outside of town back in the old days. The wind literally howled and ripped the snow off of the meadow and into huge drifts along the road. I had no idea that the meadow, decades later, would be the site of a golf course and townhouse/condominium complex. We owned and sold two of those homes in the nineties. Kids grow up and lose interest in going to the mountains with Mom and Dad. I closed the last home alone, carrying away a few possessions in the SUV. Turning off of 395 at the Hot Creek turnoff I pulled the car over and gazed back at the mountain and the Minarets far beyond. Tears came to my eyes as memories and emotion swept through me. That was the end of an era in my life and that of my family's. I did not return to Mammoth for many years....perhaps ten or twelve.

The picture above is of the bluffs visible from the balcony of our second and last home.


I found Mammoth town was nearly shut down that October afternoon. The last of the tourists had headed home and the citizens were resting in anticipation of the coming November snows and holidays. The streets seemed abandoned, there were no waits at the few restaurants still open, and rooms were available at any house of lodging one selected. Mammoth was catching its breath. I had never experienced the town in such a state. It struck me how dependent the local economy was on the tourist trade. As it happened that coming winter was a bust. Snowfall was low, the economy was still strangling finances, the tourists did not come and many people were laid off......Pray for snow this coming winter.

I arose very early the next morning with two objectives in mind....to shoot the rising sun as reflected by the western ridges and bluffs, and the fall colored aspens.....and to drive into the San Joaquin River canyon before the road was closed to private cars at 7:00 a.m. It was damnably cold. My fingers were so numb that I was reduced to a fumbling fool with the camera equipment.

To be Continued

The Minarets from Hot Creek Road

 

Bishop to Mammoth....

Aspen Trees along  Bishop Creek

The drive down to Bishop was "ever-descending", for at a point in the road the whole of the Owens Valley stretching North and South of Bishop was revealed. It was breathtaking. Bishop appeared to be no more than a bug smear on the windshield. None of the landmarks were recognizable. I think I met only two or three cars on my way down and no one was visible behind or ahead of me on my side of the road. It was early afternoon and I wanted to be in Mammoth later in the day and find a room for the evening. A few more side trips around the neighborhoods of Bishop brought me into the Paiute Indian district.

I have no idea if the proceeds from the Paiute Casino trickle down to all the tribe members. That is the usual arrangement. However there is little or no evidence that any such flow of cash has improved the general condition of the reservation homes and environs.

The Paiute Indian War in the mid-1800's was a tragic conflict and it took the course of most such conflicts between the native Americans and the miners and settlers. The town of Independence was the site of Fort Independence....established and manned by U.S. Cavalry units expressly to subdue the Paiute bands that wandered the valley attacking isolated mines and ranches.

Tribes......We are all members of a "tribe". We don't think of ourselves as members of a tribe....but I think we are...... perhaps not in the popular sense or the strictly defined sense. But we belong to large groups of individuals loosely allied in classes defined by education, economic opportunity, race and culture, geography and environment. Passage from one's tribe to another is difficult if not impossible. Without overdrawing the analogy, that apple core demonstrated in a very real sense the difficulty in achieving transition from one "current", or tribe, to another.

When I was a teacher escorting my high school students on field trips I observed the boldest, most confident punks (they were punks with behavior problems) when in their social milieu, hesitate and virtually cower when required to enter a music hall or museum. They felt terribly inadequate and insecure when confronted with what to them was a different world. But then, I wonder how I would contend with Buckingham Palace and an audience with the Queen.

Not everyone thinks alike. Not everyone shares the same values. Not everyone has the same education...... Interests conflict. .......Ambitions are different.


I made preparations to leave Bishop...buying Sheepherder bread at Schat's, filling the tank at the Shell station, buying odds and ends at Von's and Target. Then on to Mammoth Mountain and the High Country and to a bed.

SRH

Red Foliage/Red Mailbox........Bishop

"Raglan Road......."

"On a quiet street where old ghosts meet,
 I see her walking now
 Away from me so hurriedly, my reason must allow
 That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay.
 When the angel woos the clay, he'll lose his wings at the dawn of the day."


These are the closing lines of an Irish poem set to song. It has haunted me from the first time I heard it sung by Luke Kelly. Others have tried, but he has captured the essence of the heartbreak contained in the words. He sings the song almost as a dirge, in a strong, direct and almost harshly masculine voice.



"I saw the danger, yet I walked
 Along the enchanted way.
 And I said let grief be a falling leaf
 At the dawning of the day."



"Well I loved too much; by such and such
 Is happiness thrown away."


You Tube has a video of this song performed by Luke Kelly.



The poem was written by Patrick Kavanaugh, noted Irish poet. There is a video of  Patrick reading
"Raglan Road" on YouTube. The personal story behind the poem is touching.

SRH

West of Bishop....High Country...and an Apple Core

The Only Sound Came From the Wind and a Stream

That long and "ever-ascending" drive took me to this vista looking west to the rugged peaks of the main Sierra ridgeline. Lake Sabrina lay a few miles further in the valley below. Campgrounds were closed, or being readied for closure by forestry crews as barricades and signs were placed before the entrances to the sites. There were probably no more than fifty people in the area....most at Lake Sabrina. I think this view rivals any other view that one could find elsewhere in the Sierra. This was a place where one felt alone and unconnected to the world of man. I wondered what it would be to die here surrounded by indifferent nature. But for my sense of self, I was no more than a deer standing on a bluff.



Into the Gorge

To my left a rushing stream tumbled through rocks and down a gorge on its way to some of those ditches that watered Bishop. I stood on the banks and stared at the water rushing by for a long time. All my life I have been fascinated with water tumbling along a streambed. One of my earliest memories is my pretending to fish with a safety pin tied to a string. That particular "stream" was running in the gutter along the curb in front of my house. I was probably three years old. I had hopes that just maybe a fish would come down stream. I can see that clear water and the glinting pin as if I leaned over that curb just yesterday.

The "Eddy" Swirls in the Lower Left

I purposely ate lightly on the trip, ignoring the clock that so rules our lives in telling us when it is time to eat, whether hungry or not. While standing above the stream pictured above, I ate an apple, gnawing every bit of flesh from the core. When finished, I tossed the core into the stream aiming for the white water, but falling short, the apple fell into an eddy swirling adjacent to the rushing current. The apple core bobbed and swirled within the eddy, making a counterclockwise circuit that carried it just to the edge of the main current where it met the pull of the two forces...the eddy pulling it back and the stronger current tugging it forward into the main stream. Over and over again the core was pulled back into the eddy. It never did escape the little cove in which it was trapped.

We are all caught up in the pull of our present lives.....a type of spiritual gravity that is a product of our environment, our genetic makeup, our upbringing and exposure to experience, and our education.
I saw in that apple an analogy to those who struggle to leave the pull of their own life's eddy in a search for a better life, or in the search for knowledge of self and soul. Poverty, lack of education and of opportunity, ethnicity, language and parentage are some of the forces of gravity that pull one back from change and growth and personal happiness. Transcending that pull and entering into a different current is not easy. It requires the conscious choice to change and an effort that could try the soul.
Think of the gang member, or the minority student, or the poorly educated  individual who wants to
rise above his or her current status. The societal barriers are immense. Or think of the person who finds that the job, or a marriage, or the social group is unfulfilling. Change is a huge challenge.

All this in a lifeless apple core. The damn thing disappeared from sight, perhaps lodging between stones or washing up on the bank of the stream. That is an end no apple core could want.

SRH

A Day in Bishop....October 2011

The "High Country"...I love that expression...it is fraught with rugged and romantic meaning to me:
Clear and open vistas, streams, wildlife, snowfields on the high peaks, meadows, silence, wildness, chill at sundown, bright stars and the Milky Way, sighing pines in a breeze, fluttering aspen leaves.....and perhaps a sense of aloneness, a facing of oneself and a sorting of what is important.

Like most travelers to the Eastern Sierra, I passed through Bishop on my way to Mammoth and the fly fishing streams and lakes of the "high country".  Bishop represented the near-end of the journey. One could relax knowing that some portal had been passed through....the trip was almost over. Perhaps a stop at Schats and almost always a topping of the gas tank at the Shell station constituted my acquaintence with Bishop.

Turn Left at Mumy Lane off of W. Line

But I had always wanted to spend time exploring the immediate countryside that surrounded Bishop. There were the treelined lanes that started in town and stretched straight out into open land and usually ended at a ranch or simply died out in the sagebrush. Fall colors had begun to paint the trees in yellows, golds and reds. I found several of the treelined lanes off of West Line Street and walked for several miles up and down Mumy and Reata Lanes. A number of "ditches"...streams of crystal clear water...crossed under the lanes, bringing water to the croplands and grazing fields to the east. Each ditch was identified as to owner, though I wondered if any of them were still alive because the ditches looked as if they had been flowing for decades. These waterways played, and still do play, an important role in the development of Bishop. They existed long before the suburban sprawl that has grown up around the perimeters of the town, and represent the result of the complex water-rights issues that had to be worked out by early settlers.

West Line was also the road to the high country lakes west of Bishop. I had time and I had always wanted to visit those lakes. Lake Sabrina (Sa-brine-ah as the locals call it) is the largest and closest.
Taking a left, I drove up an ever-ascending road into golden aspens and pines. But that is another story.

SRH






"Ditch" Water Passing Under Mumy Lane

The High Country West of Bishop (From Reata Lane)







"My Trip".......Sierra Vignettes from 1964

Mid-June, 1964


The stark grandeur of the Sierra rising up out of the Owens Valley stunned me. I had never seen such a thing in person. Nature, and the wonders it presented on that trip, formed an impression that has lasted to this day. I had always been intrigued with the idea of being a Forest Ranger. It seemed a romantic and rugged way of life. And though I had been accepted to Loyola University and was to start classes about eight weeks hence, I resolved to look into the Forest Ranger opportunity as a transfer to Humboldt State in Arcata in my sophomore year. As it happened, I found the curriculum at Humboldt dauntingly science-oriented and I decided to go on at Loyola U.

I have never lost my enthusiasm and joy at seeing those landmarks I discovered for the first time in 1964. They are like old friends and represent some sense of permanence and continuity in the world.

The standouts are......

Red Rock canyon with its multi-hued mud towers arrayed like some ancient fortress; the scene of many an early cowboy movie and completely accessible back then; with names and graffiti carved into the lower columns, some dating back years....

Red and black cinder cones dotting the valley floor; some overlapping others. Ancient lava flows, now frozen, gushed from those cones and flowed for miles. The highway had to be cut through those flows. The basalt palisades just before Little Lake rose almost two hundred feet above the floor of what had been the bed of the ancient glacier fed Owens River on its way to southern Death Valley to form a number of lakes.

The "Hubcap Capitol of the World" in Pearsonville. A vast junkyard of old cars with racks of hubcaps arrayed for hundreds of feet. Hubcaps, back in those days, were made of metal and mostly chrome plated. Pearsonville is no longer the hubcap capitol of the world. It looks forlorn and abandoned now, there being no evidence of management.

Owens Lake, dry and glaringly white in the afternoon sun. At that time the minerals and salts of the lakebed were "mined" in ponds where briny water evaporated under the hot sun and left crystalline residue that was scraped up and bagged for shipment to chemical processing centers. The different colors of the crystals were startling...reds, oranges, browns, ochres and greens. I remember fierce winds raising monumental clouds of salt and mineral dust over the lakebed as we drove south on our way home,

The "Ghost Trees" that dotted the valley floor north of the Owens Lake. The valley floor had once been fed by the Owens River all the way to the Lake. Once that water was diverted by Los Angeles, the stands of trees that grew along the river course and its tributaries began to wither and die. Many were still standing, but dead and bare. They disappeared over the years and I sometimes wonder if they were a figment of my imagination.

Manzanar, the "Re-location" center for the Japanese-American detainees during WWII. All that remained in view from the road was the stone guard-house that stood at the entrance of the center.
A bit north was a large hangar type building that served as a hall for the detainees. Manzanar has been made into a monument and tours are now conducted for visitors. Forty-eight years ago it was a desolate and forgotten place...but not forgotten by the people who were forced to live there for years.
On the western edge of the reserve there is a white obelisk towering above the camp cemetary. There are only two graves still marked by stone monuments. In one of them lie the remains of a two year old child. I found it touching to see hundreds of small paper origami birds and ornaments windblown through the sagebrush and desert terrain....all left by visitors. Many had faded messages handwritten in Japanese or English.

Olancha....on the map, but really a gas stop and a few commercial establishments, the Ranch House Restaurant being the only notable one. The inside is still hung with the pictures of Hollywood stars who had stopped in for food while shooting on location in the nearby mountains. I remember the huge cottonwoods shedding the "cotton" from their flowers in such quantity that the roadside looked buried in snow drifts.

Independence, Lone Pine and Big Pine.....Small towns that were stops for tourists and served local needs. My impression is that Independence and Big Pine have diminished markedly as businesses faltered or the old owners retired. They were charming in my eye back then. They still are.

Bishop....the metropolis of Owens Valley with several traffic lights and a modest golf course. Home of Jack's Restaurant and Schat's Bakery, or Bakkery, as they liked to spell it. We stocked up on Sheepherder's Bread, the best bread I have ever found as a base for a peanutbutter and jelly sandwich.
So a tradition was born....I never fail to stop tat Schat's for Sheepherder's and other baked goods.
Jack's Restaurant was old when I visited it on that trip forty-eight years ago. I believe some of the same waitresses are still working there today. They are a sassy bunch, but get the job done.

Sherwin Grade...back then this section of 395 was the death trap for any car, for that matter most cars, that had any issues with overheating. I wonder if any cars existed at that time that did not have cooling challenges when climbing mountain grades. That overloaded, swept-fin Plymouth we were in certainly didn't meet the challenge. We had to resort to the aforementioned canvas waterbag slung over the front bumper to refill the radiator while parked alongside the road. Sherwin Grade climbed around 2000 feet up from the valley floor along a tortuous route that tested all vehicles. It is now a four lane road and is an easy drive in modern vehicles.

Tom's Place....A landmark stop that has stood at the top of the Sherwin Grade for a very long time. My father stopped there as a boy when taken to the Sierras on family vacations, so I felt some kinship with his experience of the place. A restaurant, a bar, a grocery store, a sporting goods store, and a bait shop.....all under one roof. The gas station pump was outside next to the hitching post. And one could spend the night in one of the small cabins across the road. Tom's Place had it all.


This marks the end of my trip though the past...of my introduction as a teenager to the Eastern Sierra.

Going forward I will recount that October, 2011 trip.

-Continued-


Red Rock Canyon



The Eastern Sierra

What People Notice.....

I first grew a beard in my mid-twenties to mark a change in my life. That initial growth was dark with tinges of auburn. At a point going forward many people that entered my life never saw me without a beard and mustache. My dear wife only knew me with facial hair, as did my two sons. I will never forget the look on their faces, and the tears that flowed down the boys cheeks, when I walked out of the bathroom after shaving my beard in preparation for a minor surgical procedure. "I want my Dad back!!" and "Tell Dad to grow it back!!" and "You look weird!!". I did grow the beard back, but some time later (I don't remember when) I decided to reduce the full beard to a goatee, trimmed close and by then gray in color. The darkness had long left those whiskers.

I shaved my chin around five weeks ago. There was a reason for doing so, but I was free of the hair that had marked a memory and a time. I wanted to present a different face to the world. I will admit it took me some time to adjust to the face in the mirror. The clean chin didn't bring youth back; maybe I'll achieve that by shaving the mustache some day soon.

Anyway, I was amused at the lack of immediate notice that people took of my "new" look. I told no one what I was going to do, so as I walked into the office the morning after, I received only a few puzzled looks. After a number of "You look different this morning..." comments, several gasped "You shaved your beard!!!" Others took several days to figure it out. I just laughed each time the revelation came through. What struck me was the fact that so many didn't have a clue what I had done, yet they, in time, realized something about me didn't fit the old image. Sometimes I had to tell them.

As to my new look?......Several of the "girls" in customer service agreed I looked like a movie star. I think they were mostly sincere. When asked "What movie star?", one came up with Charlton Heston.
I thought a few seconds and said "Thank you, but I need to warn you I am not immune to such flattery". I checked it out that night in the mirror...I don't think I look like Heston at all..... Maybe some other rugged Hollywood type as yet to be identified.

SRH

A Full Moon rising....August 1st

Through the Eucalyptus Tree

The rising of the Full Moon is a special event to me. I think most never give it more than a glance. It really is a very strange presence in the sky...held there by earth's gravity... reflecting the sun's light and illuminating the landscape. I expect it to flood light into my bedroom early the morning of the 2nd. Occasionally it is visible through the bedroom window as it sets into the west. The last time that happened the moon took on the color of burnished 24 k gold.



Perhaps this post will remind others to look up and wonder.




30* above the Horizon


SRH

                                                                                    

August First ...

Three weeks ago today I began my preparation for the hernia repair and not without misgivings. Physically, fasting and drinking no liquids after a certain hour, it was not a challenge. I had essentially been on a very low calorie, near starvation diet for three weeks in order to lose weight and ease the surgeons job. I lost ten pounds in that time. However, in dealing with the doctor-predicted difficulties I would experience in recovery, I couldn't help but have some second thoughts about going forward with the procedure. But one is swept along by events and I knew that it was best to have the hernia repaired...if for no other reason than to rid my physique of that "Alien" bulge.

As it is, I am in disbelief at how well I feel. I stopped the hydrocodone over a week ago, went to Tylenol Super-Strength, and stopped the latter on a regular basis several days ago. I took my first mile-long walk on Monday at a slower pace than usual and felt some fatigue afterward. But each day I feel more "normal".

SRH

"My Trip"...Vignettes: 1964

I wrote of those "vignettes" of that high school post-graduate trip as being as fresh in my memory as if the experiences that produced those memories happened within the last few months. Virginia Woolf called those recollections a result of  "moments of being".....when our very consciousness is focused on the moment at hand and the experience becomes part of our whole...it becomes part of what we are. All the other moments are ordinary and pass by without notice or impact on our lives, though they are part of the time-journey of our lives. However remembered, accurately or not, the moment of being becomes indelible. I think that they form the basis of our growing wisdom of life. Their nature is not always good and they can be hurtful. One's life experiences come out of one's environment. Those memories (pleasant or unpleasant) are formative.

The backdrop to the memories of that youthful trip up the Owens Valley was the clear and intense light that almost blindingly illuminated the landscape and made all seem other-worldly when contrasted to the smog-bound Los Angeles vistas I grew up with. One could see forever. There was no haze, unlike what one might encounter in the present day.

Standing as if ghostly milestones, shuttered cafes, gas stations, motels and ranches in various states of decay dotted the route. Many were adorned with faded "For Sale" signs bearing phone numbers with obsolete area codes.  Most of these structures are no longer evident now but for an occasional stone fireplace or foundation. I believe the prosperity of the Valley had been drained away with all the water that went to Los Angeles, and once the aquaduct had been completed the thousands of men employed to build it were gone, the ranches and farms failed and then closed and lay fallow, and there was little recreational traffic heading to the high mountains. Hence there was not the customer base to deliver the revenue these small businesses needed to survive.

Little Lake (now no trace), Olancha, Lone Pine, Independence, Big Pine and Bishop...like beads on a rosary...all sleepy stopovers or small towns in 1964. I knew an old man, full of colorful stories, who claimed he saw a gunfight on  Main Street (395) in Independence when he was just a young boy. It could have happened. Who knows? All these towns are fated to a symbiotic relationship with the Sierra to the west. In a sense these places are like pups suckling at the teats of an indifferent mother.
The Sierra gives life to these towns because, other than serving the needs of the tourists that travel through, there is not much else the population can do, hemmed in as they are by the Dept. of Water and Power.

To be Continued...
SRH

Looking North on 395 in Olancha

"My Trip"

While I am still in the Owens Valley, just awakened in my Hindu cabin, and getting ready for my first full day in Bishop, I want to go back to that aforementioned time when I was just a seventeen year old high school graduate discovering the Eastern Sierra for the first time. That was in June of 1964 and I remember vignettes of that trip as clearly as if those discoveries of the "Range of Light" had occurred just last month. I stated in the previous post that not much had changed in the Owens Valley from that time to the present, but actually much has changed. The looming backdrop of the mountain range to the west is the same and will be for millennium to come. The changes I speak of have taken place over the last forty-eight years and if one could capture the slow pace of those changes in time-lapse photography I think one would see two seemingly contradictory trends.....the disappearance of man-made and natural landmarks, and the addition to the landscape of man-made features. Fortunately, suburban spread with its commercial sameness, the most feared man made blight in such a natural setting, has been restricted to areas outside of the Owens Valley. Lancaster, Palmdale, Rosamond, Ridgecrest and some of the surrounding land around Bishop.


Cascading Stream Flowing to the Alabama Gate



Looking South to the Mouth of Red Rock Canyon

The Highways, 14 and 395, have been widened for most the route through the Valley. Before that improvement I witnessed many near-misses as drivers passed others seeking to gain any yardage they could in the race to wherever they were going. I have also come upon the aftermath of several fatal collisions as sleepy or inattentive drivers passed over the centerline or took too close a chance in passing another. That trip forty-eight years ago was made in a 1960 Plymouth over those two-lane roadways. Many of the freeways in Los Angeles did not exist at the time and I have no idea exactly how we escaped the gravity of Greater Los Angeles, but it seemed to take forever. Those were the days when it was common for travellers to hang a canvas water bag on the front grill of the car...just in case of a "boil-over" while climbing some grade and we had several... we did have to resort to those bags and some bottles of water to cool off the radiator while climbing the Sherwin Grade outside of Bishop. I never see those bags anymore.

We were four "greenhorns" packed in that Plymouth....with army surplus camping gear, ice chests full of hot dogs, hamburger, eggs, bacon, butter...the peanut butter and jelly, bread, candy and whatever pre-granola snacks we chose were stuffed into cardboard boxes jammed amidst the cheap fishing gear, wicker creels and salmon eggs. We probably looked like the Kingston Trio in workboots. The Beatles had only just come to the United States a few months earlier and their growing influence had yet to take full hold of the teen population. Short hair, straight legged pants and Levi's, Pendleton shirts and Keds were the things to wear in our world.

Bob, Craig, Clem and Steve...newly minted mountain men.

 Clem died of cancer in his mid- thirties, leaving two teenage sons and a widow. I was surprised to find he lived no more than five miles from my home. I had not seen him for many years.

Craig disappeared after receiving notice he was under investigation by the "Feds" for using the U.S. Mail to defraud what were probably gullible potheads. He had come up with a scheme to advertise in and sell out of the back pages of comic books what he called "Magical Moire Panels" guaranteed to produce "Psychedelic Patterns on Your Bedroom Wall". The kit consisted of two "halftone" negatives that when placed atop the other produced the moire patterns (look it up in Wikipedia). Of course, the customer had to provide some light source to project the images onto a surface...the instructions as how to do so not being included in the kit. When asked if he had tried out the concept to see if it worked, Craig said anyone with brains could make it work, he just hadn't tried. Ironically, several customers wrote letters that they thought the kit was very cool and they ordered another. Others, the brainless ones, complained to the "Feds". I never heard of Craig again.

Bob became a CPA for Price-Waterhouse. He had the honor for some years of holding and delivering the locked briefcase containing the Oscar results. He was a character and often I did not quite believe his self-described exploits. But more often than not he was telling the truth and actually never lied about any of them....exaggerated would be a better word. We stayed friends for some time after high school. Bob joined the Naval Reserve to avoid being drafted and going to Viet Nam. He was in a group of randomly picked new reservists that was sent to Marine Boot Camp to become a Medic. He ended up in Viet Nam anyway and saw some of the worst combat there.

"The Trip".....to be continued

SRH

"My Trip......."

Dear Readers.....

I found the following tucked away in the blog archive file....an account of my October solo trip through parts of California....or at least the opening passages of what was meant to be an account of that "adventure". I need something to write about, so I will take up the effort anew, for there were some experiences and personal observations noted in the mentioned journal that I would like to share.
My cancer surgery occured just a little more than four months prior to that trip.
..........................

"My Trip"

"Mentioned in the previous message was my solo trip to the Sierras....a needed respite from the
demands placed on me by others and by the many roles I fulfill in life. I thought it a good idea to visit places that are in my heart and to further explore them without the encroachment of the needs, expectations and desires of others onto my own. It was a short trip of six days, and too short, really, to see what I wanted to see . But it was a good trip. Packed into the car were the things I thought I would need to enjoy the days ahead and to take advantage of the recreational opportunities offered by the mountains. As it is, I never fished or did any serious hiking...never made a campfire...and never got back to Bodie.

I fell in love with the Eastern Sierra and Owens Valley when I first saw it at the age of seventeen and one-half, after my high school graduation. That was over forty-seven years ago. The Owens Valley hasn't changed much in that time due to the stewardship of the Los Angeles Water and Power Dept. Cursed by some and thanked by others, the DWP,  in essence, owns the watershed of the Eastern Sierras for hundreds of miles. That water is sent south to the Los Angeles basin. But that is another story.

I covered approximately 1300 miles of California geography and kept a written journal throughout the trip. That journal is the seedbed of some of the topics I will write of  in the coming days."
..................

July 26th

California is a big state. It is a beautiful state. It is a land that bespeaks power and greatness in its physical geography and in its resources and its human industries. Much of it has been transformed...for good or for bad... by the exploitation of its resources and by the spread of its cities. But it is still a magical place in my mind. If only the once numerous grizzly bears still roamed the plains and mountains. Those bears were the inspiration for the bear flag we fly over our institutions. It is no accident or flight of fancy that the California Grizzly adorns that flag. It was feared and respected by the early Californios . It was a reality and a presence that had to be taken into account as the human population swelled and the lands were converted to ranches and farms. They were hunted to extinction. I don't think there is a soul alive today that saw one of those animals, the last having been killed in the 1920's. Richard Henry Dana wrote in "Two Years Before the Mast" of a report he heard that a traveller had been attacked and killed by a grizzly not far from the port of San Pedro. The last Grizzly killed in Southern California was no more than twenty miles from San Juan Capistrano in Trabuco Canyon....in 1908.

So "My Trip" began with a late morning departure from Whittier, across the San Gabriel Valley and over the Angeles Crest Highway to Palmdale. I was shocked to see the extent of the fire damage in the mountains along the Crest Highway. Called the "Station Fire", the intensity of the burn has sterilized the mountain soil and wiped away untold acres of brush, trees and habitat. I don't expect to see a recovery in my lifetime.

I had resolved to stop where I wanted and when I wanted in order to see places I had always felt a need to explore. There was no hurry. Bishop was my destination and I expected no problem finding lodging with it being the off-season. I never did make lodging reservations throughout the trip...that was part of the adventure.

I stopped at Red Rock Canyon, at Fossil Falls, and at the hidden ponds and canals that carried the water of the Owens Valley into the L.A. Aquaduct at the "Alabama Gates". Olancha was beautiful with the slanting sun highlighting the golden leaves of the ancient cottonwoods that line the highway.

I reached Bishop well after nightfall and found a cozy little motel made up of  individual cabins. The proprietor and his wife were immigrants from India. We discussed his family, where in India he was raised, and how much the modernisation of India is impacting the people and the economy. He wondered if the economic advances were costing the Indians dearly in lost tradition and fractured families. He noted that now many Indians could afford a car, something unheard of when he was a boy, but the cost of gasoline and maintenance, and then the lack of infrastructure to support the glut of cars, made it a zero-gain tradeoff.

I slept well in that quaint cabin that night.

To be Continued--

SRH

Update and Renewal

I have cause to resume my Journal. Perhaps it is mere whim, but I sense a need to do so. I wonder if anyone still comes to the site and, with expectation, or is it curiosity, looks to see if there is anything new? I imagine I have disappointed a good number of followers.

My last post was in mid-April of this year, when I marked the one year anniversary of my two surgeries and the subsequent return to health over that year of recovery. Mentioned was the need to repair a minor hernia that had developed along what I call the "faultline" of my earlier abdominal incision. Such hernias are called "ventral hernias" and can be the source of discomfort at best and of pain at worst. My hernia caused neither, but was quite visible through my clothing....I called it "The Alien". Few said they noticed it, but I think they were being nice...kind of like not remarking that one's fly is open.

Upon touching base with my Cedars-Simai surgeon to see what could be done about the hernia, it became known that I had slipped through the cracks and had not been back for the six month tracking tests and scans that should have been conducted last December. So I was promptly scheduled for an MRI, a CAT scan, and several workups used to detect the presence of abnormal levels of hormones and other indicators of carcinoid tumors.While sitting in the Cancer Center waiting room a wave of emotion swept over me and tears filled my eyes. It all came back.
But there was nothing to do but go forward with the faith that I was in good hands.

As it all turned out there was no indication in any of the tests that the cancer had returned. I really had not expected to hear that it had, but it was a relief to be told I was clear of the disease.....for now.
Dr. Wolin wrapped up his report with the statement that it was likely the cancer would return in the future....most probably in the very distant future. A regular six month schedule of scans and imaging will be necessary. This was sobering. My resolve is to live a life of healthy exercise, diet and spiritual
wholeness. There is really no alternative.

Concurrently, the issue of the hernia was addressed with Dr. Miguel Burch, a highly recommended "non-invasive" surgeon practicing at Cedars-Sinai. I needed no persuasion to agree to the hernia fix. I was told that the recovery would be extended and uncomfortable. There was a need to install a large mesh fabric panel within the abdominal wall to contain all the hernias; there were many small ones and one very large one ("The Alien"). The mesh panel is about the size of a piece of copy paper and would take many sutures to secure it in place.

Two weeks ago today that surgery was performed. I was released the following Sunday afternoon.
Sue stayed in the room with me and at night lay on a small foldup cot in the corner trying to sleep through the constant intrusions of the nursing staff as they conducted regular checkups on my vital signs and gave me medication. I ate no solid food for 84 hours, "subsisting" on one ounce of water every hour the first day after the surgery. Later, I was served a liquid diet of chicken broth, apple juice, cranberry juice, frozen lemonade and tea. I can't stand apple juice and don't like cranberry juice and the iced lemonade was too sweet, so I slurped some of the thin broth and drank the tea. Only on Sunday was I served more solid fare....with a sendoff feast of meatloaf, mashed potatos, coffee and something else (I can't remember). The meatloaf and potatos were hot and not bad. My stomach welcomed the incoming fare and I could just hear the thud as the swallowed mouthfuls plummeted to the bottom of my very empty stomach. I was famished.

But that was all two weeks ago. My recovery, which I was dreading, has been remarkably pain free and the great discomfort I feared has not materialized. It is too good to be true. A physial examination by Dr. Burch yesterday confirmed the success of the procedure and my overall good health. I had lost about ten pounds in two weeks and a half on a very low calorie diet recommened by Dr. Burch.
I will continue the regimen with the goal of losing another ten pounds.

This surgery and the other procedures performed just a little over a year ago add up to four times I have had to go under anaesthesia and endure a recovery of body and of soul. So I am weary of the routine. All indications are that I will not need to undergo any such procedure in the future.

Life is short....... Life, like some gusting breeze, can sweep the most unexpected of trials and tests into our individual worlds.

There will be a Full Moon on the night of August 1st.

SRH

Anniversaries

April 12th and April 14 marked the anniversaries of two of the procedures that initiated what I have come to realize and accept as a life-saving, or life-preserving, series of events. My desire was to write of this on those two dates....I did not forget them, I'll have you know...but the good people at Google acquired the blog site some time ago and the e-mail address and password had changed without my knowledge. It is just one of those "internet things" we all put up with from time to time.

No....I did not forget those two dates, indeed I have anticipated them for some time as markers of the passage of time....a full year. So exactly one year ago this hour I was in a recovery room...Intensive Care, I think, with tubes and monitors festooned about my body and nurses hovering over my bed pricking my fingers to test blood-oxygen levels, making sure the Foley catheter was properly inserted (it hurts going in and coming out), checking drug levels and pain relief meds.....and so on.

The truth is I have a very poor grasp of any timeline of events and experiences through much of my recovery that stretched from mid-April through June of last year. I think I still have my wits about me, but often I find myself with furrowed brow wondering if some event, or meeting, or whatever, happened before, in-between, or after a particular surgery. Only vignettes remain clearly in my memory....images I dredge up from the darkness that reflect some reality of the past.

Sue gave me a bound-in-ribbon packet, last Thursday, of letters and cards from wellwishers, friends and my family. I had never seen them. Tears came to my eyes as I read them, one-by-one. I retied the ribbon around them and thought for some time of the impact those days of worry and fear had on so many. I did not fully understand that until I read those notes and letters.

I am healthy....I am active....I am working...I am happy. I am not fearful or anxious about the future. I look both ways before I cross the street...... and I eat healthfully and modestly.

The only residual issue is a modest ventral hernia that has developed adjacent to the incision made to remove the carcinoid tumor. Patching that up will require minor surgery. Perhaps my stomach will look flatter than it presently does.

My last entry to the blog was in early January.....over three months ago. I will continue to write. I have missed the blog. Many follwers have probably stopped looking. I understand.

SRH

Sad News....

Sue received news over the weekend that her cousin, Alexis, had succumbed to the cancer he had been fighting for several years. Alexis and his lovely family lived in Mexico, but they spent much of their time in the United States and the children, now all accomplished adults, were schooled in the U.S. and/or Europe. Alexis was somewhat of a mythical figure in the Rovzar constellation of stars. His illness and the battle brought him to a better place in respect to family and faith. He was a good man, not perfect, but a pilgrim on a path in search of something greater than he had ever sought before. While his alloted time was short...and all knew that....his passing was still a surprise. He was only sixty years old. His beautiful wife and children will miss him sorely.

Of late, we have met, often by chance, acquaintances and old friends we have not seen for years. I am surprised by the striking incidence of cancer among these people.. One of our dear friends is starting another round of chemotherapy after undergoing a second surgery to remove tumors. Another had prostate cancer, while several breast cancer survivors are among the group. Of course, I am in that group as well. How many more are there?

SRH

Some Thoughts

There are innumerable personal blogs on the internet. This blog-site alone must have tens of thousands. I have visited many and found that they have been apparently abandoned like so many storage units full of personal effects forgotten or useless to on-going life. Some are serious, some are frivolous, some were started to celebrate a life's experience like the birth of a child....but they are all personal and reveal something of the blogger.

Having the opportunity to view my Journal as a published work allowed me to grasp the fullness of the experiences of the last nine months. I am happy that I recorded my thoughts in this Journal. The past recedes quickly in the memory and becomes a shadow of the reality of those experiences that fill our lives. Writing a journal preserves the thoughts about and the impressions of the experiences of a life. Writing can be a way to heal our hurts and can lead to a path of growth. The very act of putting our thoughts in words demands introspection and clearer thinking than we may be used to.

We all have a story...and in the telling we can find ourselves.

I have resolved not to abandon this Journal. I am still coming to terms with my cancer and heart issues. I wonder if that state of understanding will ever be. And "What's Next" is a process of self-realization. There is no end to that process. It is continous growth till death.

SRH

A Christmas Present.......

It has been almost two months since my last posting. In that time I have intended to print the Journal using my copier and place the pages in a three-ring binder. I even bought the binder and printed several of the messages to see how they would look. I never found the time, or made the time to accomplish the task.

Unknown to me, Scott and Sue set about to have the Journal published as a hardbound book using some publishing software they downloaded from a service specializing in self-publication. On Christmas morning, after opening presents, Scott asked me to go to the back room and take a look at the computer screen. I was sure there was some internet purchase on backorder. Instead, I sat down to an image on the screen with the words "Simple Gifts" hovering over it. Scott opened a "page" and I immediately saw the title of one of my blogs and realized that what I was being shown was a "copy" of the published Journal. A surge of emotion brought tears to my eyes and I wept openly. I couldn't help it. I cried intermittently throughout the morning because of the memories.

The books were on backorder and finally came on New Year's Eve day. They were real books...I had actually been published (LOL). Anyway, the books were beautiful and tastefully done. I think the "most special" feature is the dedication written by Scott Hamrock in which he explains the significance of the cover image. That image is a ghostly and abstract photo of my heartbeat as it appeared on one of the heart monitors hours after my surgery.....a "new" heart beating strongly and out of danger.

Here is what he wrote:

I honestly think that there is no better image to put on the cover. It speaks to the message of the journal, Dad's journey, the truths he has uncovered...it even echoes his love of music and evokes
images of the mountain ranges he found himself in on his little sabbatical. The fact that it is an
abstract treatment of his new heartbeat is intrinsic to the many meanings it conveys: it is ethereal, mysterious...and fleeting. Finite. But with it he has returned to a truer version of himself. And that is the simplest gift of all.

Yes...the simplest gift of all.

Stephen