POOKIE’S ADVENTURES AS HE PUTS ON HIS SUMMER PANTS AND STRIDES INTO JULY. (July 10, 2023)

Remember the road you take to get there is often as important as the destination itself.

                Trenz Pruca

Yesterday evening, our weekly Zoom conference was scheduled to discuss the proposed development in Campus Commons, (renamed by me as The Enchanted Forest). The plan involved removing a historically significant structure, a Mid-century California commercial building, and replacing it with a high-density residential development. Unfortunately, I had missed the last four calls and failed to keep up with recent events. Consequently, I hadn’t contributed anything significant to the group, which left me feeling embarrassed. I even contemplated dropping out. However, Naida encouraged me not to quit and instead join the upcoming phone call. Taking her advice, I participated and realized that I had underestimated myself. I did have something, limited as it may have been, to contribute.

Later, before going to sleep, Naida and I engaged in a lengthy conversation about the captivating allure of Gregorian Chant. We even sang a few sections of the Mass together. Additionally, we explored the artistry of modern song lyrics, particularly in the realm of Rap. The following day, I felt exhausted, and apart from driving Naida on an errand, I spent most of the day sleeping. Nevertheless, I managed to stay awake until about 2AM to finish my latest Swords and Sorcery novel. You see, for individuals like me, immersing oneself in an enthralling novel that transports you to unattainable places is akin to embarking on a mosquito-free boat journey down the Amazon River.

By Friday, the temperature had soared into the low 100s in our beloved Enchanted Forest. Naida expressed concern about the heat’s impact on the two little hummingbird hatchlings nesting near the studio window. We checked on them, and they appeared to be doing well.

The two adorable Hummingbird hatchlings. (They look to me more like two figs in a small bowl)

That evening after dinner Naida came up to me in high dudgeon and said “I have just been reading your last This and That. You wrote that I said that tree was a California Coffee tree. It  was not. It was a California Pepper tree. Coffee beans grow on bushes.” I was embarrassed, humiliated, chastened, and abashed. I begged her forgiveness and promised I would correct the error in this post. So here it is:

The California Pepper tree. (Mia culpa)

Later, when the sun began its descent behind the southwestern horizon, we decided it was probably cool enough to walk the dog. The temperature had dropped from 105 degrees earlier in the afternoon to 96 degrees when we set out. Although it was nearly 10 degrees cooler than earlier, the air still felt stifling making it difficult to breathe. It was unusually quiet as we walked – no bird songs, and even more strangely, no sounds of automobile traffic. We didn’t see anyone else until we were almost back at our door. At one point during the walk, we became so exhausted from the heat that we rested on a bench longer than usual.

After returning home, we watched the movie “The Pale Blue Eye,” starring Christian Bale, one of my favorite actors. It is a mystery story set at West Point in the early 18th century. Bale plays the detective, and another actor who previously appeared in the Harry Potter movies portrays Edgar Allan Poe. Poe had actually attended West Point in real life. Although the movie didn’t receive much praise from the critics, partly due to its slow pacing and convoluted plot, watching it in a darkened room on a small screen while Naida recited excerpts from Poe’s “The Raven” at appropriate moments made the experience wonderful and mesmerizing.

On Saturday, the temperature in the enchanted forest reached nearly 110 degrees. We drove to the Nepenthe Clubhouse for the Saturday Morning Coffee because it was too hot for us, the decrepit ones, to walk. The attendance at the Coffee gathering was good, and as usual, I couldn’t hear the punchlines of the jokes. Most of the discussion revolved around preparations for the Fourth of July festivities and parade at the Campus Commons greenbelt. The temperature is expected to exceed 105 degrees on Tuesday. I gave a brief presentation on the status of the proposed development at 707 Commons Drive and provided a summary of the most recent Zoom meeting on the project. Then, we drove back home. Naida spent some time puttering in the garden while I sat in the coolness of the studio. It was one of those days that occur frequently for me now, where I feel closer to death than an active life.

That evening, I was feeling better, so we went out to dinner at Lemon Grass, a Vietnamese restaurant we enjoy. Even though the sun had already set, it was still around 100 degrees outside.

By mid-morning the next day, the temperature had already risen above 100 degrees and was set to reach a level comparable to yesterday’s scorching heat by mid-afternoon. So, we (Naida, I, and even the dog) decided to remain indoors until the evening, hoping that the weather would be slightly cooler.

I attempted to post things on Facebook. For the second time in the span of four days, I have been banned from posting anything for 24 hours due to sending restricted material. The first ban occurred when I posted a 1910 newspaper photograph depicting a women’s protest in Thailand, in which one of the women protesters in traditional Thai costumes had an exposed bare breast. There seemed to be no way to appeal the ban except by clicking on an option that said “appeal.” I did so, but almost immediately received a response stating “appeal denied.” This most recent ban doesn’t even explain which rule I may have broken or offer me a means to appeal. What can I do now?

Days passed, fading from memory and slipping away from my life. However, during this time, I found myself plagued by recurring dreams. While most of these dreams disappeared from memory upon waking, there was one that lingered. It visited me for several consecutive nights. Naida, noticed the restlessness and turmoil that accompanied these dreams. According to her, I  thrashed about and exhibited signs of deep distress. Despite her concern, she hesitated to wake me, choosing instead to retreat to a safer distance until my turmoil subsided.

The dream concerned a house, but not my own.  I was a young lawyer. My office was situated within a vast warehouse, and I was fixated on a peculiar case involving the son of the house’s owner. For a couple of nights, this dream became a realm of horrors, as evidenced by my whimpering and frenzied motions during my sleep. Naida told me later that she contemplated intervening but ultimately decided against it, opting to maintain a safe distance.

In the dream, the son’s demise was gruesome. Consequently, the grieving parents made the difficult decision to vacate the house, leaving it abandoned and steeped in sorrow. As the dream unfolded, a peculiar idea took hold in my mind—I would acquire this house for myself. With three tenants already residing within its walls, and the parents being amenable to a low-cost sale, I envisioned the potential to transform it into four separate apartments through remodeling. Encouraged by this vision, I made the decision to purchase the house.

Initially, my relationship with the tenants seemed amicable. However, my illusions of harmony were shattered when the woman residing in the top unit filed a lawsuit against me, citing various reasons. As tensions mounted, her extended family joined her in negotiating with me, their presence in my office brimming with animosity. Yet, as fate would have it, a surprising twist softened the contentious atmosphere. We discovered that our respective families hailed from the same region in Italy. Just as this newfound commonality began to dissolve the hostility, I abruptly awoke, leaving the resolution of our differences suspended in the realm of dreams.

The dream left me contemplating its significance. Was it merely a product of my subconscious, an amalgamation of anxieties and desires? Or did it hold a deeper meaning, one that eluded my understanding? I couldn’t help but mull over the connections between the different elements of the dream.

Days passed, merging into the flow of my life. The dream lingered, teasing me about its meaning if any. Now the house, the people and the story are part of my life. The days that I do not remember are no more than dreams.

On Tuesday morning, July 4th, 2023, we walked to the Campus Commons greenbelt for the annual Fourth of July community picnic and children’s parade. We brought a blanket with us to spread out on the grass and sit on, which I did as soon as we arrived. While the attendance was pretty good, especially considering the number of dogs, the parade itself was less grand compared to the last time the event was held.

After the parade, a few women who often attend the Saturday Morning Coffee joined us on the blanket to talk with Naida. At some point, I felt the need to get up and walk around. As I tried to rise, supported by my walking stick, my legs gave out and I toppled over. I attempted to get up again, but my legs couldn’t support me, and I had to rely on the women to help me up. This worried me since it was the first time my legs proved too weak to raise me from a sitting position. After walking around for a while, I gathered Naida and the blanket and walked home.

Speaking of walking sticks or canes, I could never understand why we stopped using them regularly. I began using them 20 years ago for safety reasons, such as support in case of stumbling (I also thought they looked cool). They have saved me from serious injuries multiple times. Now, it seems like I’m starting to need one to stay on my feet.

That evening, we attended a Fourth of July barbecue at Sarah Naida’s daughter’s house. Sarah’s husband, Marc, was in charge of the grill. There were approximately thirty people in attendance. Along with food and drinks, there were various games such as ping-pong, croquet, and beanbag toss. Of course, there was also plenty of talking and laughter. Naida and I, being the older ones present, left early to avoid driving in the dark

The rest of  the night was filled with the sound of fireworks. It seemed that some were even set off in the alley behind our house.

The following day, I drove to the Golden Hills to have lunch with Hayden. He had recently returned from a vacation in Thailand and Japan, lasting about a month. As a gift, he gave me two colorful Hawaiian-style shirts that he had purchased in Japan, which I really liked. I’m currently wearing one as I write this.

We decided to go to a local pizza place that we both enjoy. We ordered Stromboli and sat outdoors at a table under an awning, overlooking the lake. While we ate, Hayden shared some stories from his trip. He was accompanied by his friends, Big Jake and Little Jake. Big Jake had traveled with Hayden to Thailand a year ago, but it was Little Jake’s first time leaving California. They had all graduated from high school together, and this trip served as their graduation celebration.

Hayden had never been to Japan before, except for layovers during flights to and from Thailand. He found it incredibly exciting and enjoyable. They slept in a capsule hotel where one sleeps in a small capsule rather then a room.

Although he had already shown me some photographs and shared a few more during our conversation, he mentioned that he had many more taken with a special camera. He promised to send them to me in the upcoming weeks. They had a fantastic time exploring parts of Bangkok that they hadn’t been able to visit when they were younger. Additionally, they spent a week at the house I had built in a small town in Southern Thailand and made a side trip to Krabi, including a day of snorkeling at Phi-Phi Island.

Upon returning from my visit with Hayden, while riffing through Facebook, I came across a post from my sister Maryann Petrillo, She lives in Mendocino and is the president of the West Company, a business development entity in the county. She received and then posted the following communication:

Hi Mary Anne, 

Let me know if you get this message.

I’ve attached a long-ago interview with your brother, Joe, that the President of the board of directors of Jug Handle Nature Center just sent me. The article brought up very old memories as I knew John Olmsted, the founder of Jug Handle Nature Center (1968) and one of Joe’s inspirations for creating the Coastal Conservancy, quite well. I became one of the first naturalists at Jug Handle in the early 70s, and John O. was my mentor, too. 

After reading about your brother’s excellent work in developing land conservation models and his connection to Jug Handle in the early days, I can see why I was so blessed to have him as an advocate for my work. As I told him at our brief meeting in line at the Film Festival, his decision to engage me in creating interpretive panels for CA wetlands in 1983 began my lifelong career as an interpretive display designer. I’m sure the Mendocino Land Trust, for which I’ve done several panels, uses versions of Joe’s negotiating techniques for their land access and acquisitions. And there are many more examples of interpretive sites. I feel as if I’ve been sailing a little ship on a vast sea of his legacy for a long time without knowing what lay beneath the waters. This article was profoundly moving and enlightening.

Big Hugs to you, 

Eric

A version of the interview can be found at:

https://planningimplementation.wordpress.com/2023/07/08/in-the-beginning-an-interview-with-joseph-e-petrillo/

During the 1970s, when I first became involved with California’s coastal protection initiatives, I often complained about the dull and uninteresting informational displays found in the state’s public nature preserves, historic memorials, and parks. Despite facing significant opposition, as the director of the California Coastal Conservancy, I decided to take action. I began searching for an artist who could create engaging art combined with informative content that would capture the essence of the environment.

Eventually, someone introduced me to Erica Fielder, a young woman residing in Mendocino. To my astonishment, she had already proposed creating such signage in the county and considered herself an interpretive display designer, a profession I had never heard of before. Impressed by her work, we hired Erica to produce informational signage for the Conservancy’s projects.

If you’ve lived long enough to witness the artistic and informative improvement in signage for public environmental and recreational areas in California since the 1980s, then you should be aware that much of the credit for that is due to Erica Fielder’s efforts.

A thought during those days that pass with little else to exercise ones memory:

I wonder, at times, why it is that Republicans in Congress are so eager to reduce taxes and grant benefits to the Super wealthy. Most of the congressmen and woman, as wealthy as some my be, are not the super wealthy or billionaires. Do they wish some of that wealth would somehow trickle down to them? Or, perhaps it already has.

This morning, Naida came in from the backyard and excitedly told me that the hummingbird hatchlings had started to emerge from the nest and were perching on its edge.

With that happy news brightening our morning, we set off for the Saturday Morning Coffee. The weather was delightful as we strolled to the Nepenthe Club House—sunny with temperatures in the high 60s and a gentle breeze. The Coffee gathering was well-attended, with approximately 35 people in attendance. Unusually, they divided into four or five groups, which was a departure from previous gatherings. Naida treated us to a few piano riffs before our leader, Gerry (with a G), rang her bell to call the meeting to order. I managed to catch the first of the bad jokes, which went like this:

“A mushroom walked into a bar. The bartender shouted, ‘Get out, we don’t serve your kind here.’

The mushroom replied, ‘Why, I’m a fun guy.’”

As usual, once the announcements concluded, I left and went to sit by the pool, waiting for Naida to finish socializing. Approximately an hour later, she woke me up, and we walked home together. Later on, she started playing some jazzy tunes on the piano, while I sat in the studio, waiting to see if anything interesting would happen for the rest of the day.

A mystery or a miracle.

That afternoon, while I was taking my usual nap, Naida came upstairs and started talking excitedly. Since I didn’t have my hearing aids on, I could only catch the words “green” and “key.” I immediately got up, put on my hearing aids, and went downstairs. There, she informed me that she had noticed our spare house key, which we had placed inside a small metal turtle with a hinged top and hidden in the bushes, had started to turn green on one side. She assumed this was due to moisture causing the copper in the key to corrode. Today, when she looked at the key, she noticed it had become even greener on both sides. Upon closer inspection, she realized that the green color was not tarnish, but a lovely shade of green paint with small sparkling white flowers on both sides.

Neither of us remembered painting the key. We also contemplated the improbability of someone sneaking down the alley, discovering the key in the turtle, painting it, and returning it to the turtle just to surprise us. “It’s a miracle,” I exclaimed. “It’s a mystery,” she countered. Which do you think it is—mystery or miracle?

I then took the dog for a walk. There was more barking and snarling than I would have preferred, but aside from that, the walk was enjoyable. After returning, Naida and I watched reruns of the Lawrence Welk Show. Occasionally, we would sing along. We often watch the show. I may not be proud of it, but I refuse to be embarrassed.

On Sunday, the dog woke us up too early. We had brunch at Ettore’s, a place we really like. I ordered French Toast with apples. Instead of toasted bread, it came with a toasted pastry. It was delicious, and I even took a photograph of it.

Around 5 PM, after a nap, I went downstairs to the studio and turned on my computer. Naida was working on her memoir. We continued that way until it got dark, not speaking, neglecting to walk the dog, and skipping dinner until after 11 PM. During most of that time, I asked Chat GPT questions in an attempt to make it respond with nonsensical answers. I succeeded, but when I pointed out that it was spouting gibberish, it seemed offended.

The next morning, Naida went to the backyard to check the Hummingbird nest. It was empty, and she worried that the dog might have eaten the birds. Later, I went for a walk, and it was glorious. The weather was sunny with temperatures in the high seventies, but it felt cooler under the shade of the big trees in the Enchanted Forest. It was a refreshing change because, for the first time in a while, I didn’t feel any pain in my body, nor did I have a runny nose, itchy eyes, or wheezing with each step I took. This rare feeling made it seem like a completely new experience. Perhaps only older people or very young children can relate to such a sensation, where almost every experience feels new.

I walked nearly two miles, pausing at the lake to observe a line of geese paddling across the water. Then, I made a stop at the Nepenthe Clubhouse to collect a parking pass. This pass would allow my son, Jason, to park his car overnight when he arrives to spend the next weekend with us.

While my body often feels even older than my 83 years, my mind still feels youthful. Well, maybe not youthful, but rather, immature. Perhaps not even immature, but more like disconnected. Hummingbirds, mysterious keys, French toast, and bad jokes have consumed my attention for the past week or so. I feel like a three-year-old again, holding a bobby pin and wondering what would happen if I were to stick it into the holes of an electrical socket. I suppose I should be grateful that my body has become so feeble that it wouldn’t be worth the effort to find out.

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Pookies Adventures Continue in the Enchanted Forest and the Big Endive by the Bay.

A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN THE ENCHANTED FOREST:

These are gloomy days. Moody skies cover the Enchanted Forest as the winter storms pass over the Great Valley. Threatening they may look, but they leave behind only a ceaseless cold drizzle and little silver droplets on the branches of the trees — the only bright spot in the muted and silent landscape. I assume the storms reserve their wrath for the mountains depositing layers of new snow to the delight of skiers and those who fret about reservoir levels.

My mood is bleak also. There are three daggers aimed at me now. My cancer of course, but also an enhanced threat of infection and a shut down of my ability to pee threatening irreparable damage to my kidneys.

Naida had a bad cold. We walk around the house with masks on, wash our hands constantly and I try to avoid touching places she has touched as though…well, as though a dread disease lurks there — which of course it does. As Rosanna Rosannadanna says, “It’s always something.” And, at my age, that is probably truer than ever.

My daughter Jessica is in San Francisco, thanks in part to the government shutdown and to attend a funeral she is hesitant to talk about. I am very excited to see her. It has been a long time, perhaps two years, maybe more.

(Note: As I type this, I am also watching a movie about Giant carnivorous rabbits attacking a town in the western US. This has got to be the nadir of my existence.)

During the past few days, a lot of the usual annoyances of life sped by — towing my car and the rush to get it out of the pound, confusing discussions with pharmacists and medical professionals, and so on. Naida remains sick, Trump remains not my president, life continues as it usually does until it doesn’t, and I find myself unusually bored. But, tomorrow is another day (Scarlett O’Hara).

On Sunday, my daughter Jessica arrived. She drove up from San Francisco to see me. Seeing her after almost three years made me very happy. It has been too long. She looks well. She’s recovering from a series of concussions she experienced playing soccer over the years. The concussion injury to her brain caused several perception and other problems. We talked about our various maladies and other things. He Who is Not My President’s governmental shutdown has had one good result, my daughter, furloughed by the shutdown, was able to return to California and visit with me.

It is now Tuesday night. What I wanted to write here since that time has passed on from when I thought it important or at least depressed enough to think so. It appears another of my medicines had caused an allergic reaction that resulted in me wanting to simply give up. It has passed.

I don’t often give up. Not giving up has always been important to me. In the almost incessant fights I found myself in during my youth, I would not give up no matter how badly I was beaten. And, I was beaten most of the time.

During my years as a trial lawyer, I asked only to be assigned cases no one in the office would touch because they believed those cases were losers. I still managed to amass the third longest string of consecutive victories at the beginning of a career in the history of New York (while also losing my marriage because of my obsession).

I refused to be daunted by opposition from the medical profession and my own colleagues in setting up NY’s Mental Health Information Service that reformed NY’s mental health hospital system from the horror it inflicted on my mom and innumerable others. It became the model for the nation. That agency still exists today.

There was no option for me other than the approval of California’s Coastal Program as it was expected to be, and the successful establishment and financing of the innovative California Coastal Conservancy no matter the cost to me (another marriage) and to those that worked for me. That occupied 13 years of my life.

The same can be said for the law firm on whose management committee I served and obsessively fought against often unanimous opposition to alter the economic and social mores of the firm for the benefit of the workers, women attorney’s and the firm as a whole by, among other things, demonstrating that the health and profitability of the firm did not depend solely upon the efforts of those with the largest books of business who inevitably end up plundering the firm for their own benefit. The health of a firm depended as much upon the lowliest of paralegals and junior partners and that balanced practice groups are necessary in order to weather the effects of the various business cycles and that those groups adversely affected by a business cycle should not be punished by those groups benefiting from the cycle (e.g., bankruptcy and real estate often operate on opposing cycles).

As a member and later Chairman of California’s High Speed Rail Commission during a period when it appeared to be foundering, I put it back on track so to speak, by pushing through its EIR, changing its tendency for locating its stations at the edges of the cities to bringing them downtown where they would revitalize the communities, developing the concept of the HS network as a backbone transportation system for California whereby multiple regional transportation systems could connect to the downtown stations and service the entire region; and finally fighting against the rapacious efforts of the four of five large engineering firms who sought to control the process for their own benefit and who, I believe, can be blamed for much of the criticism HSR has been subject to since I was removed by Governor Schwarzenegger over the issue.

On the other hand, when I lost (most often a marriage), I usually ran away and started again and again somewhere else. From New York to Pennsylvania, to Rome Italy, to back to the US, to San Francisco, to Thailand, to The Golden Hills and now to the Enchanted Forest. In each place, often penniless, I licked my wounds, struggled with despair, indulged in excess and dreamed of renewal, a new life somehow somewhere, and ultimately I moved on. There was, however, even during these times always something I could not give up on, first Jason, then Jessica and now HRM. I may not always have been successful in their view, but I tried and they kept me more alive and happy than I am sure they believe I have benefitted them. But no more now, they are grown (perhaps not HRM) and despair now is reserved for those times when the pains and discomfort of my various maladies become too much and instead of not giving up, I sometimes long for the peace of oblivion.

Talk about depressing things, the HAC just towed our automobile again. I left them a nasty message and threatened to sue them.

B. UPDATE ON THE MYSTERIOUS ORB.

For those interested in the odd adventures of the Mysterious Orb, it has moved slightly from when it emerged from the bush behind which it had been hiding to show Nikki the way to our house. It has now rolled on a short way and appears to be intending to hide behind another bush to await for whatever the orb waits for next.

It moved from its hiding place behind the smaller bush on the right where it had hidden for a few weeks to the center of the space where Nikki saw it. The Orb has since then moved on toward the bush on the left. Whether it will choose to hide behind that bush or proceed on up the alleyway, I can only guess. I await the next episode in the adventures of the Odd and Mysterious Orb.

The Mysterious Orb —Photograph Taken From Our Garage.

Today about four days after the above was written, the Orb made its decision and is now well hidden behind the bush on the left.

A few days later, during an early morning walk, I passed by the alley where the Odd Orb was hiding. I noticed one of the Turkey Gangs pecking around that part of the alley near where the Orb was hiding. It got me thinking. Do you suppose it is the Turkey Gangs that are moving the Orb around? The birds are big enough to do so. If so, why? Another mystery.

C. OFF TO THE BIG ENDIVE ON THE BAY.

First, we bailed the car out of impoundment. I grumbled and plotted revenge on those I believed targeted me specifically. On the drive home in response to my complaints, Naida said, “I guess we know now that there is a wicked witch in the Enchanted Forest.”

Then we spent some time on our computers doing last minute things. Finally, we and the dog set off to the Big Endive on the Bay. We arrived at Peter’s house in late afternoon. My daughter arrived soon after. We had a pleasant evening reminiscing. Jessica planned to leave on Friday to go back to Washington DC. I will be sad to see her go I do not know when I will see her again.

The next day I met with my doctor and received the first glimmer of good news in at least the past three months. He said that cancer had shrunk enough to bring the possibility of an operation to remove it before the board of surgeons. They then efficiently scheduled all tests and my infusion to occur the remainder of the day.

That night we had dinner at a local Italian Restaurant that I used to enjoy when I lived in that neighborhood years ago. It used to cost about $10 for the same meal I enjoyed that night. Now, that same meal cost me $70. Nothing had changed but the wealth of those that now live in the neighborhood.

Later, Hiromi and my granddaughter Amanda arrived at Peter’s house for a visit.

D. BACK TO THE ENCHANTED FOREST.

We returned to the Enchanted Forest on Friday. On Saturday I drove into the Golden Hills to drive the Scooter Gang around. While we were driving HRM turned to me with a big smile on his face and said, “Pookie, I have a girlfriend.” How does one respond to that? I settled on, “Good for you” and high-fived him. Now I worry.

Among the books I have read so far this month was James Lee Burke’s most recent Robicheaux and Purcell saga. The boys are getting old — and they know it. They still, however, act like adolescents while Burke places in their minds the sorrows and sadness of aging heroes approaching their end. Although, the novel takes place by Bayou Teche in Louisiana and Monument Valley Arizona, the epilogue has Dave, Clete and Dave’s adopted daughter Alifair recovering from their efforts and injuries in a motel in Bodega Bay California and traveling up and down Highway One for entertainment.

Alas, I just got word that Lucia’s bar in Sacile, a place I always considered the happiest place on earth, is no more. It has succumbed to the downsizing of the nearby American military base and the Italian economy’s multi-year depression. Lucia is now working as a barista in one of the other cafes in the town. This is all so sad.

I am losing my hair as a result of the chemo. Great gobs of hair flitter down from my head often falling into my food as I eat, making it even more unappetizing than usual. It all amuses me. If it continues I will become the first person in my direct ancestry to go bald in at least five generations. My head looks like it is covered with down.

hemothera

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A Morning at Spring Ranch: The Continued Unfolding of California’s Coastal Plan.

 

One morning, we hiked along the bluffs above the ocean at Spring Ranch.

Spring Ranch is a Coastal Reserve on the coastal bluffs just south of Big River created by California State Parks and the California State Coastal Conservancy. Visiting it should be on your list of things to do whenever you travel along the Mendocino County coast.


It is an excellent example of the type of project I had in mind when I wrote the Conservancy Concept into California’s Coastal Plan, shepherded the legislation through the legislature and administered the agency during its formative years. It not only removes the land from the vagaries of regulatory conflicts but also begins to push back the impacts of prior land uses, ranching and the like, through restoration. At the time the Conservancy was proposed, restoration of environmental resources was not a high priority of the State and in the case of wetlands opposed by many in the environmental community as well.


The Reserve is long and relatively narrow, stretching from PCH to the ocean for several miles. This type of public acquisition, small narrow units, as well as the purchase of undeveloped subdivisions along the coast was frowned upon by the State because of management and cost issues. Yet, we believed they were necessary if critical coastal resources were to be preserved and the goals of the Coastal Plan achieved. I am pleased to see that, in part through the efforts of the Conservancy, up and down the coast these objectives are now fully accepted by most governmental agencies and local land trusts as they go about the unending process of protecting and restoring California’s precious Coastal Resources.


The several entrances into the Reserve are a little difficult to see from Highway 1. Once you find them you are in for a treat. Strolling down the path across the coastal terrace you reach the bluffs where the path follows the cliffs rising above the ocean and continuing through a magnificently restored cypress grove. There are a few benches along the way where you can sit and watch the tumultuous surf crash on the rocks and, if the season is right, see whales migrating and seal pods roaming the waters and hauling themselves onto the rocks to sunbathe.


The Reserve is an excellent counterpoint to the more urban Noyo Headlands Park a few miles north. You should visit both if you are in the area, and don’t forget to stop also at Point Cabrillo Lighthouse and park and the Mendocino Botanical Gardens two Conservancy projects in the area I am quite proud of. And, of course, end your trip sipping the wines at Pacific Star Winery while sitting on Dad’s Bench watching the sun dip into the ocean.


When we drafted the Coastal Plan over 40 years ago, we saw it not as a final product but as an ongoing process to preserve and restore the irreplaceable resources of California’s Coast. I am delighted to see The State Coastal Conservancy, an entity dear to my heart, and those that labored working for and with it, continuing to take a significant role in that endeavor.

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When Papa Joe’s Life Changed: John Olmstead, The Pigmy Forest and the Birth of the State Coastal Conservancy Concept.

Transamerica building, downtown San Francisco, CA, USA. Photo taken from Coit Tower. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

On the Edge: Stories about the Creation and Early Years of California’s Monumental Coastal Protection Program.

In the Beginning: an oft-told story.

In the autumn of 1972, I was a card-carrying, pot-smoking, alternative lifestyle living, unemployed, hirsute Hippy San Franciscanus. It was about noon on a glorious fall day. I was wandering about in downtown San Francisco wondering what I was going to do about lunch. I was just passing the newly built Transamerica Building on my way to North Beach, hippy central during those times. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a very tall, very skinny, bearded man emerging from the forest of columns supporting the somewhat pyramid-shaped building. He was rapidly approaching me.

He dressed more or less in the style of my cultural sub-group. That is, he was not wearing a business suit or clothing purchased from any retail store not dealing in second-hand garments. His outfit was accessorized with a red bandanna around his neck and an aluminum Sierra Club drinking cup dangling from a rope belt tied around his waist. He grabbed my arm with his long skinny fingers and Moses-like, but in a surprisingly squeaky voice, said:

“You must help save the Pygmy Forest.”

Now, the societal fringe movement to which I belonged at that time was very sensitive to anything that could be considered a portent of an emerging transcendental experience. Here, the sun was at its zenith and I was standing at the base of an almost pyramid and detained like the wedding guest by the ancient mariner. Clearly, a portent portended. So in the polite idiom of the denizens of New York where I was born, raised and had so recently left, I answered:

“What the fuck is a Pygmy Forest?”

“Come with me,” he beckoned with a long bony finger.

The tall skinny apparition led me through the columns that made up the base of the pyramid and into the sparsely furnished lobby of the newly completed building where several large easels were set up in some sort of ad hoc exhibition. My guide introduced himself as John Olmsted. I was later to learn that he descended from “The” Olmsted, the high school dropout from Connecticut who became a journalist and in the latter stages of the Nineteenth Century parlayed his journalistic abilities and his political connections to win the competition to design NY’s Central Park becoming thereby one of the most successful landscape designers of his generation.

John stood me before the easels and proceeded to explain all about something he called an “Ecological Staircase,” and about the “Pygmy Forest.” Now, at that time, I was vaguely familiar with the word “Ecological,” at least enough to know it had something to do with nature, but what it had to do with staircases had me mystified and curious. To explain it, he had a large chart set up on one of the easels. The best I could make out was that logically it had something to do with “The Pygmy Forest,” and that John was going to connect it all up for me.

John then pointed to a photograph of what appeared to be one of the ugliest plants I had ever seen. Had it grown in my garden, I would have pulled it out by its roots hoping I acted quickly enough to prevent it from infecting the rest of the place. To John, however, the sight of it seemed to have instilled in him an almost religious ecstasy.

He enthusiastically explained that the stunted monstrosity was a full-grown tree. My excitement at that revelation was muted.

Unperturbed by my lack of response, John continued with his presentation.

According to John, it seems the ground around a place called “Jughandle Creek,” located somewhere along the coast in Mendocino, a county lying about 100 miles north of San Francisco,  had, over the eons, risen and fallen beneath the ocean. Each time it rose the incessant waves carved out a ledge. About five or so times this happened sculpting the land to appear to the imaginative obsessive as a giant staircase — hence the “Staircase” to which Ecological was appended. It was all beginning to make sense.

John explained that the ground on the top of each step (for some reason that I have forgotten), became packed as hard as cement. Over the years, the soil settling on top of that cement became more and more hostile to just about any living thing except for flesh-eating plants, these benighted trees, and illegal marijuana farms.

Apparently, the roots of the trees could not push through the cement-like hard-pan causing the stunted growth of these three-foot-high monstrosities. “Natural Bonsai,” John crooned. They did not look like any bonsai I ever saw, but hell, who was I to argue with the crazed hippie descendant of “The” Olmsted.

The looming tragedy that prompted John’s hysteria which resulted in the exhibit and my selection as a potential acolyte, was a developer’s plans to build a motel right in the center of the first step of John’s beloved Ecological Staircase, thereby ruining it for future generations of, I assumed, people like John, as well putting the nearby forest of stunted trees at risk.

Although I suspected that any tree that could thrive in that soil was a match for any developer, I nevertheless heard myself say those eternally fateful (and often regretted) words, “That’s awful, I used to be a practicing attorney, what can I do to help.”

About two weeks after my almost mystical encounter with John Olmsted in the shadow of the TransAmerica pyramid, I found myself traveling to Mendocino and Jughandle Creek with my friend Jeanne McMahon. I  smelled the beginnings of an adventure and it intrigued me — if strolling among flesh-eating plants and stunted trees with a tall, skinny, obsessed hippy could be considered as having the makings of an adventure.

I do not remember how we got there. I did not have a car at that time and neither did Jeanne. I guess we hitch-hiked which was the preferred mode of travel for those of us eager to join the counter-culture (you know “On the Road” and all that).

Jeanne was a freckled-faced, relentlessly positive young woman from Dubuque Iowa who, in the late sixties, like many others had left the mid-West farm belt to join the nationwide migration of those eager to experience “what’s happening” in California. She walked with a spring in her step, her face resolutely pressed forward toward whatever new experiences life, she was sure, would lay at her feet.

A few years later, she decided to go to medical school to become a doctor. She went back to school to acquire the proper science credits. She was successful and was admitted to medical school. To celebrate, she and a companion decided to go camping and hiking for a few days in the Trinity Alps a few miles north of Mendocino, an activity she loved.

While hiking, she slipped and fell off a cliff.  Her friend ran to find help but was not able to bring it back in time. Jeanne died alone and in pain as most of us ultimately must. Her friend and I accompanied her body back to Dubuque for burial. Two weeks later he drowned while swimming.

But that was then in the future and now it is in the past. That day we were off on our adventure blissfully and thankfully ignorant of our futures (John himself died a few years ago after a long illness).

John lived in a little cabin (Actually a two-story Victorian type of thing, but I always thought of it as the cabin) in the redwoods along Jughandle Creek. A sign affixed to the cabin announced “The Jughandle Creek Conservancy.” Inside, John and a friend had just returned from mushroom hunting and had laid on the table before them an incredible collection of dirt-encrusted bizarrely shaped fungi that they both were obviously enthralled with. They invited Jeanne and me to join them in sampling their earthy delights. We declined.

After a while, we unrolled our sleeping bags on the porch outside and slept soundly lulled to sleep by the rustle of the wind through the redwoods and the periodic hoot of an owl on the hunt nearby.

The next morning, John took us on a tour of the “Ecological Staircase.” In some ways, that hike changed my life as much as anything ever has. Never before had I experienced anyone that seemed to have such a passionate love of nature, or of anything really; musicians or those sexually bewitched maybe excepted. Perhaps those who met John Muir or explored the marshes with Mrs. Terwilliger (“Spend the day at home and you’ll never remember it. Spend the day outdoors with me, and you’ll never forget it.”) may have been equally affected as I was during this walk. For me, it seemed both revealing and somewhat disquieting.

I grew up on the East Coast in and around New York City. I could be included among those who that passionate cynic Don Neuwirth said get nose bleeds when the soles of their feet are not in contact with cement. To us the “Woods,” as we called it, was somewhat forbidding and dangerous, a place approached with care and where possible avoided (I to this day believe all “woods” to be inhabited by ravenous bears and rogue biker gang members).

As we walked along, John pointed things out like a tour guide in the Sistine Chapel. He would stop, dip his hands into the mulch of the forest floor breathing in its earthy smell then urging us to do so also. At times, he tenderly touched this or that shy plant explaining its particular remarkable attributes. I soon realized I was experiencing someone who appeared to be speaking about his beloved.

To John nature was nothing less than a symphony of renewal. I, on the other hand, could not go quite that far, the smell of the earth although pleasant still possessed the faint odor of decay. Where he saw in a green shoot pushing up through the browned fallen leaves the miracle of regeneration, I saw only the catabolism of the dead.

And yet, and yet, I could not resist his infective enthusiasm and hoped, no wanted it all to be true.

Or, I suddenly thought, was this in fact just another example of something I once read, of, “…our peculiar American phenomenon of seeking guidance or redemption within nature.” From what could John be seeking redemption? Not being “The Olmsted?” Something that happened during recess in grammar school? A secret life perhaps?

Among the stunted trees, John explained how the nitrogen-depleted soil encouraged the plants in the area to evolve to trap insects from which to obtain that chemical so necessary for life.

As we trudged along, we passed through the towering redwood forests that grew where the hard-pan had been broken at what could be called the staircase’s risers, crushed by the incessant geological forces as they thrust one step above the other.

As we walked in the silent spaces between the giant trees, John referred to it, as many do, as nature’s cathedral. Like a cathedral’s columns, the massive trunks climbed up to where, far above, sunlight filtered through the branches as it does through a cathedral’s stained glass clerestory windows. Far below, in shadow, the ground revels in silence.

But, in reality, even I knew the trees grew that high in order to expropriate the sun’s energy at the expense of everything below.  Just like, I assume, the builders of the great cathedrals sought to expropriate the grace of God, leaving the few worshippers scurrying about in the gloom and quiet below. Whenever I visited one of those grand churches, although I enjoyed the brief respite from the vicissitudes of existence offered by the silence, I, nevertheless, soon found myself longing for the excitement and distraction of life’s bazaar outside.

As we turned to go back to the cabin for lunch, I was a bit relieved, fatigued from scrambling across the wild terrain and somewhat overwhelmed by my sudden immersion into the intricate mysteries of nature. I guess, we usually simply absorb our momentary experiences with Mother Nature in unthinking contemplation but, wandering about with John, however, was more like a post-graduate course in ecological transcendentalism. It was made even more exhausting by exposure to a lover’s passion that you, the observer, could not really share.

Still, unless one is simply hateful or irredeemably cynical one usually hopes the lover succeeds and perhaps thereby you gain some vicarious empathic connection to what you could never experience directly.

Watching them plod on ahead of me, Jeanne determined to wring all that could be wrung from her experience and John, in the lead, shining like Gandalf the White, I felt a chill and I thought about redemption.

We all seek redemption for something. For me, perhaps, it was absolution for that morning long ago, hearing my wife screaming over and over, “My baby, my baby is dead,” while I tried to breathe life back into that tiny purple and red-splotched body and failed. Or later, feeling nothing but anger at the stares of the mourners and the somber burial on some forgotten hilltop?

Could an innocent excitement about the future and a lovers enchantment redeem anything?

I followed them back to the cabin.

Back at the cabin, we ate a lunch of elaborate home-made trail mix and some locally grown fruit while John explained how to, “use the techniques of the private real the estate market to protect resources.” It seems he had managed to cajole many of his neighbors into selling him relatively low-cost options to buy their land. He raised the money for the purchase of the options from various endeavors including peddling “Jughandle Creek” Christmas cards. His goal was eventually to sell the options to the California Department of Parks and Recreation. Unfortunately, the Department did not see Jughandle Creek with the same urgency and significance as John.

Nevertheless, John’s approach of using the private market to preserve nature impressed me a lot since, among other things, it indicated some creative thought regarding getting something done beyond simply pressuring the government to figure it out and do it. This approach affected some of the implementation policies that several years later I wrote into California’s Coastal Plan.

Since I had already been hooked, I spent the remainder of the afternoon discussing, planning and plotting our strategy for preserving and protecting John’s beloved Staircase.

It was clear to me that John was a lover and while he, like any lover, believed he would fight to preserve from harm every strand of his beloved’s hair, he was not, a defender. The difference to me was that the defender operates more or less by the following rules:

1. If the conflict is severe, damage is inevitable. (The lover often can neither conceive nor tolerate the slightest harm to his beloved.)
2. You cannot protect anything if you are dead. (The lover, on the other hand, swears he would give his life for his beloved, but in fact rarely does, and because of that is prone to rash and foolish decisions.)
3. The opponent has to know right down to his shorts that he is in the battle of his life.
4. The defender will be disposed of the moment those defended believe the threat is past. Any songs that will be sung will be sung only about the lovers or those who merely survived the enemy’s rout.

(If this all sounds a little Seven Samurai and the Magnificent Seven, it is.)

Anyway, eventually, over the following month or so, we began the defense using all the traditional methods; protests, demonstrations and the like (John had many allies and supporters he could call on) and I joined in. Then came the litigation.

John Olmstead years later but still partial to funny hats.

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