Shit expert

I’m out hiking with my dog Andy. At the first sign of critters ..the aroma of shit ..Andy’s got his nose to the ground. He signals me by sticking his tail out and cocking his left leg up. Can’t be just any piece of shit though. It’s gotta be fresh .. meaning less than a 15 minutes old. And it’s gotta’ be a critter like possum or rabbit (not just another dog or cat). Now Andy’s whining and it looks like he’s got the shakes so I go over and ask him what’s wrong. He looks at me like he’s just seen (or smelt) a ghost. I look at today’s droppings. Way too big for a raccoon but a bit too small for a deer. That leaves ..Bobcat! Andy looks at me like ‘BINGO’ ..and we haul ass outta’ there. I don’t underestimate his sense of smell. It’s been ‘genetically tuned’ to pick up the scent of shit left by critters he hunts ..as well as critters that may be hunting us. Sure enough, the first person we run into tells us that there’s been a bobcat sighting in the area.

Borderline

There’s an electric fence blocking my way today. It’s not much of a fence; the kind you’d unfold to keep a baby safe. Not hard to collapse and walk over. The sign says ‘animal enclosure’. Sure enough, goats are grazing on the other side. I get the picture but I’m still pissed. Where’s the herdsman, I’d like a word with him. There are too many fences around here already. I have every right to pass through without fear of getting my nuts zapped stepping over another one. I climb to Franceschi where I sit and plan my next move. Should I contact the planning commission, city council or the coastal commission ..? I tromp back down thinking “another fucking ambush on the way to sanctuary ..just when I was starting to feel safe again. I don’t know where the boundaries are anymore but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some son-of-a bitch goat farmer get in my way.” I reach bottom where I run into my neighbors Matt and Richelle. I explain the situation. They tell me not to worry ..it’s a temporary thing. The County rents goats from farms in the Santa Ynez valley. They eat the underbrush from the canyons. They’ll be movin’ on in a day or so. I experience a sudden drop in blood pressure and begin to feel my grip loosening from around the neck of an imaginary goat farmer.

A way out

The trail that goes into the canyon where I live has become impassable. Where shrub oak and other vegetation aren’t blocking it ..new fences are. I feel trapped and a little panicky. It was always comforting to know I had a way out. I have to find another. I try one bordering the canyon by the County Bowl, but about three-quarters of the way up I run into another barrier. They’ve expanded the bowl out to the edge of that canyon. The only way I can go any farther is by sliding back to where I started. Now I’m on Lowena Road where I see Levi waxing his Harley. Lucy charges me to lick my face and see if I’ve got any dog treats. I sit and chat while Levi works. After listening to tales of the next apocalypse ..he tells me where I can find another trail that’s more serviceable than the one I was just on. After a few false starts, I come to the end of a steep winding road where I find a clearly marked trailhead. A few steps in and I’m climbing a steep, tightly-wrapped switch-back trail, marked by stones piled like stupas. I arrive where the two canyons meet up top. I’ve been here before and know where I can catch a flat dirt road that loops around a hillside and takes me to Sylvan Park ..where the trail to Franceschi begins. I’m stoked and start howling like a madman ..just to listen to my voice echo through the canyons. Then I hear a voice inside my head scream “shut the fuck up” because I’m inside the perimeter of bobcat territory where calling attention to myself could be a life-shortening act. I follow the road to Sylvan Park and climb the ancient stone steps that take me to the trail that takes me to Franceschi park. Now I’m sitting on the ruins of a wall surrounding a botanical garden where I can look out and watch boats sail passed the islands on their way to China, and I’m like “Yes! I have found a way out. Yes ..!!!” 

View from Franceschi

Halfway house

I tremble I tremble I tremble I tremble 
They're gonna eat me alive alive alive
If I stumble stumble stumble stumble 
They're gonna eat me alive alive alive 

I’m sitting on some old stone steps about halfway up to Franceschi when the rain comes. I hike back to APS .. slide down the muddy hillside by the County Bowl ..and surprise Ron and his dog Murphy at the bottom. It’s not raining down here. We go up and down Figueroa Street to the high school. I see some pathways I haven’t seen before. Ron looks like a man on a mission so I make a mental note to explore them on my own next time around. I hose down my overalls and parka ..throw them in the dryer ..wrap myself in a cotton bathrobe ..sit down with a cup of tea and watch my hands tremble while I try and hit the right letters on the keyboard of my PC. This may take a while.

Little boxes

Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky. Little boxes, little boxes, little boxes all the same. There’s a green one and a pink one and a blue one and a yellow one. And they’re all made out of ticky tacky and they all look just the same.

Thoughts and impressions are arriving in packages that are way too small today. I need a bigger picture. I put on my Merrells and find the shortest path up to Franceschi. I start on residential streets because the canyon would be too tortuous today. I pass by stately homes and funky California cottages. I concentrate on loosening the suspension joints in my hips ..and experience a more cushiony ride. The street gives way to a woodsy trail bordered by pine, oak and eucalyptus. Feels spongy. I reach the top of Franceschi where I get a panoramic view of the coast ..from Rincon to Gaviota ..then out to sea where white clouds are beginning to roll over the tops of the islands. South of me the fog has already breached the coastline and filled Sycamore Canyon. I inhale .. like a wave crashing ..and exhale .. washing away the debris. No quarrels or nagging doubts here. Like water seeking it’s own level ..I listen to the narrative in my head expand to fill the space available ..both inside and out. Calm and undisturbed. I throw the packaging material over the edge and watch it sail away.

Little Boxes by losttimeblues

No substances required

I step out, close the door, look at my watch - 4:30 pm - plenty of daylight left. I walk past Señor Jim’s place ..struggle up an overgrown canyon and reach the trail to Franceschi park where I can see the waters of the bay below, pale blue ..and the fog, pearly white, rolling inland and up the mountainside directly ahead of me. The trail goes into it and I follow ..getting that magical feeling my head is in the clouds ..revealing possibilities I don’t ordinarily see (no wonder my teachers warned me about this). Apparitions of the Indians that used to live here re-appear (as always) ..reminding me that I’m just passing through. My neighbor Amanda steps out of the fog ahead ..shrugging and going “it’s a reoccurring thing” ..before disappearing behind. Now I’m wondering who, or what is going to happen next. Julie is waiting with the weimaraners she rescued. She hands me a tennis ball and I throw it and it goes ‘poof’ and disappears. Lotus chases it and disappears too. I look at Julie and she tells me not to worry ..he’ll reappear somewhere down the line. Then she disappears. I hike out of the fog ..slide down the hill next to the county bowl ..a natural amphitheater I’m lucky to have as a neighbor ..then walk past Marlena’s place and head home, thinking: sometimes foreign substances aren’t required.