On Monday, February 4th, I traveled to Washington D.C. where I met 42 other Peace Corps trainees in the lobby of a Holiday Inn in Georgetown. The group was comprised of future Agriculture and Natural Resource volunteers and the overall composition was about what I had expected. There were 4 married couples: one in their twenties, one in their 30s, one in their 50s and one in their 60s. A day before arriving at staging, my Nana had given me an article on the rapidly increasing rate of volunteers over age 50. Now, about 7% of volunteers are over age 50 and that percentage will hopefully be increased to about 10% by 2010. The number of things an older individual has to change in his or her life in order to do Peace Corps is astonishing. One couple sold their house and set everything anew in their life. I can´t imagine making such a drastic change at such a late time in life; kudos to them.

The average age in this group is about 26, and most of my fellow trainees are between the ages of 21 and 30. It is a great group of individuals, all sharing many of the same interests, all bringing something interesting to the table. Our first "icebreaker" activity consisted of matching names on a list to past experiences and/or accomplishments. It was a great way to introduce ourselves to one another, outshining all other "icebreaker" activities I had done in the past. A few of the first people I met had the following experiences listed: Jason had worked with several large companies encouraging the use of wind energy, Katie had studied birds in Costa Rica, Levi had taught a wilderness education class in Colorado, Craig and Lucy had their own dairy farm in Wisconsin, and Gaby had interned on a congressional committee in Washington. All in all, I am really impressed with the group (Omnibus 99) and am looking forward to working with them more throughout pre-service training.

My bed was warm and the winter sunlight punched its way in through the blinds above me. Each new snowflake that rested upon the naked oaks sparkled in the brilliant morning sun and filtered through my window. It was hard to open my eyes but when I did the scene was magical. I was suddenly transfixed, yet I felt an ardent pining to get into the woods before the morning's first beauty had vanished.

I jumped out of bed, ran to my closet where I threw on an old flannel and dug up my new thermal socks out of the top drawer. I donned an old pair of ripped blue jeans, gray velcro boots, my winter jacket and a wool cap. I left the gloves behind knowing I'd need my hands to shoot photos and watch birds with my binoculars. I hurried out with a loaf of bread and a thermos of hot coffee.

The Nipmunk Trail has been one of my favorite places to enjoy Connecticut woodland. Although being rapidly encroached on by development, the trail still offers a hiker the enjoyment of passing through several habitats, including lowland marsh, riverine, and upland varieties. The trail's apex is at the top of a cliff with a lone boulder known as a wolf rock. In the winter, the vista stretches out across Mansfield into the hillsides of Willimantic. It is my favorite spot to reflect upon life.

On this trip, I saw very little life, although wildlife sign abounded. Deer, rabbit, squirrel and coyote tracks were spotted. The only bird seen during the entire hike was a red tail hawk at the marsh. I think I found its old nest in a birch on the opposite side of the marsh.

A golden silk orb-weaver (Nephila) waits patiently for its unfortunate victims. This spider is named after the color of the silk it spins, not the color of the spider itself. It is believed that insects like flies and bees are attracted to bright yellow colors and thus become entangled more readily. This spider was one of many (probably about 20) that had spun its web between the roof and railing of the building I slept in.

This wheel bug (Arilus cristatus) was found on a leaf outside our cabin. This bug truly looks like a metalic robot, with its long, slow-moving legs and a large hemi-circle on its back. Wheel bugs are true bugs, or Hemipterans, and can be found all throughout North and Central America.

My guess is that this is a Scarlet King Snake (Lampropeltis triangulum elapsoides) but I can't be too sure. There are many species of Coral and False Coral snakes in the tropics, the latter mimicking the lethally venemous former, and there is no sure way to tell them apart. In North America, one can get by with the phrase "Red next to black, you're alright Jack, Red next to yellow, you're a dead fellow" but this cannot be relied upon in the tropics. I kept my distance from this serpent.

This green spiny lizard (Sceloporus malachitus) made its home under and on the front porch of our cabin at Gavilan. This lizard is the southern-most representative of a genus that is widespread among the U.S., Mexico, and Northern Central America.

This Keel-billed Toucan (Ramphastos sulfuratus) was one of many that flit about the low altitude mountains of the Caribbean. Other species we watched were Montezuma Oropendolas (Psarocolius montezuma), Collared Aracaris (Pteroglossus torquatus), and White-crowned Parrots (Pionus senilis).

I made this photo upon returning home from a bird survey early one morning on the Sendero Uran. Stepping over muddy slabs in the trail, bouncing from slippery rock to slick roots, I gazed intently on the ground before me and was taken aback with this alien sight. No other animal in the world has a track quite like it - 4 toes in the front (most often only three show) and three equally-spaced toes on each hind foot. Central America's largest wild mammal, the Baird's Tapir Tapirus bairdii had happened upon this spot not long before I. Belonging to the Paridactly family, the tapir is a close relative of the rhino and horse, only it has a short, elephant-like proboscis that it uses to gather plants. Maybe it was returning from a regular bout of water defecating, an odd behavior that has perhaps evolved in order to better conceal their scent, reducing detection from predators like the jaguar Felis pardalis and puma Puma concolor.

My discovery that morning was a first here at Cloudbridge. Reforestation efforts have been taking place since 2002 and pioneer species have been rapidly colonizing areas that once were cattle pasture. The tapir is an animal that is very sensitive to human disturbance, so finding their sign is an indicator of ecosystem recovery and health. Not too sure what to think at the time, I snapped this photo (with a pencil for size reference) and hurried back to the casa to confirm the sighting.

I have been told that the season changes throughout a day here in Costa Rica. The early morning offers clear blue skies for only a short while until rising mist quickly envelops the cordilleran cloud forest. By noon or mid-afternoon the rain comes with fury, and the many rivers and creeks of this region rush and tumble down the steep slopes of the Talamanca to the Pacific Ocean. Night falls abruptly here - in one moment a gray-blue light fades to a blinding darkness and by morning's first light the skies will be blue again.

It's like a fantasy for any naturalist here in the montane cloud forest of the tropics. Life is teeming in every little nook and an organic aroma ceaselessly permeates my nostrils. Strange noises, frightening insects, musical chatter in the canopy, and structural forest diversity beyond comprehension all mark my first impressions of this region. I am ecstatic and overjoyed to finally be here.

The photo above is taken above the Cloudbridge waterfall in the Cloudbridge reserve near San Gerardo de Rivas, Costa Rica. The two men in the foreground are my roommates from Holland. We stay in a rustic cabin not far from where this photo was made.

Filtered light through hardwoods,

The humming of late afternoon in Autumn,

Wind stirs the branches of the boughing beech

And I ponder this burning aspiration

to capture the moment of

The old trail, never far off course,

Veering in perpendicular shadow with

Undergrown worry,

The old wolf oak is but a stump amid the grassy path,

And its limbs await the lumberyards.

I've known every corner of the solidago field,

The nodding nettle, teetering vulture,

Winterberry, lamb's ear, blackberry thorn,

Fallen white pine, the owl forlorn,

And all of New England's asters seem to agree

That when the air stirs under the cool whim of impulse

There is never a fairer time.

Where the jay brings in the blue day

And the foxtail hay seems to sway

Among the clovers as they sit at bay

Quietly watching the clouds drift away

And I make sure to sing, dance, laugh, and play

Skip on my way to the woodhouse to pray

With applejack brandy

And cold nose a snifflin',

The crows in the cornfield,

The lumberjacks chipping.

I'll make my way down this old weathered path

To the top of a hill where wildness once laughed,

And sit on a carpet of fern

Mesmerized

In the burning blue blaze of the beeches.

I was able to catch a fleeting glimpse of this shy family of Risso's Dolphins in the Santa Barbara Channel. Unlike other curious cetaceans, these dolphins won't often approach boats and tend to make themselves discrete whenever they can. This family dissappeared moments after my shutter fired. I lucked out with this shot.

Several weekends ago a few of my friends and I camped out on a sandy beach along the Connecticut River. In the morning we pulled our beached boat back into the turbid water and raced out into the brightening day for a few hours of of wakeboarding. The rising sun had begun to sting my skin and I gazed up at the heavy boughs above the river's edge. I noticed a fleeting bird that had a big wingspan - probably 6 or 7 feet - and when noticing the unmistakable white head and tail on the dark brown body I was certain the bird I was watching was a bald eagle Haliaetus leucocephalus. The bird flew intently north until it reached a bend where it dissapeared behind the green leaves of looming cottonwoods. This was the first time many of my friends had ever seen a bald eagle.

More and more bald eagles are being spotted in Connecticut, especially during the winter when they gather along the Connecticut and Thames Rivers. This is a common trend throughout the entire country where bald eagles are making a remarkable comeback. This past June, America acknowledged an incredible conservation success when the the bald eagle was delisted from the Endangered Species List. In 1963 there were a mere 416 pairs existing in the lower 48 states. Today there are more than 10,000! There is argument about whether or not it was the implementation of the Bald Eagle Protection Act in 1940 or the banning of DDT in 1972 that spurred this dramatic repopulation, but it is clear that human intervention played a key role in this species' recovery.

This is one of very few positive stories we hear today in regards to environmental conservation. What is important is that we use the few conservation success stories available to us in a way that motivates us to further support measures that enhance and/or mitigate wildlife and other natural resources. It is a great feeling to be able to look up into the sky and see our national symbol soaring high above. It is now not only a symbol of freedom but a testament to human will and stewardship.

Santa Rosa and San Miguel Islands host southern California's largest population of northern elephant seals Mirounga angirostris. I can see the entire island of San Miguel from the top of China Camp, but it is still too far away to make out the tiny dots that line that island's expansive beaches. Instead, I gaze down upon Santa Rosa's own inhabitants; a crowded congregation of hundreds of lounging pinnipeds.

Hunted to near extinction in the late 1800's, the northern elephant seal has made a remarkable comeback in the Californias. Being the lazy, awkward, oblivious kind that they are on land, they are exceptionally easy to hunt and were prized for their rich blubber. In fact, Dave and I had to wait for a big bull to move out of our way so we could cross the road at Johnson's Lee on the south side of the island. It's as if they don't notice an encroacher until the very last second and even then it is still a question of whether or not they will move at all.

Protected under the Marine Mammal Protection Act (1972), it is illegal for humans to harvest elephant seals. As a result, their population has spread from a single remnant population on Guadalupe Island off of Baja California to several hundreds of populations along the northern Pacific coast.Males come ashore in late November and early December to establish territories that will be the basis for manifesting a harem. Males may be seen violently sparring with one another, landing fervent blows with their sharp canines, staining the water red with flowing blood. Winning the rights to a harem is not taken lightly and sometimes males will even fight to the death. Within each harem, one male will mate with hundreds of females. Females don't arrive until late December and early January and usually give birth to 1 - 2 pups between mid and late January. A female elephant seal will allow her young to suckle for the first few weeks. This milk is the fattiest and richest among all mammals. 4 - 5 days after the pups are born, the females will mate with the dominant male and soon thereafter head back out to sea.Probably the most fascinating facts about the elephant seal stem from its incredible agility in the water. Elephant seals are among the world's deepest diving mammals, averaging 1,000 - 2,000 foot dives and holding their breath for 20 minutes. Individuals have been documented diving up to 5,000 feet (over 2 miles) for up to an hour! These animals spend very little time at the suface, pausing only 2 -3 minutes before heading down for their next dive. Because they spend so much time in cold ocean water, their blood is shunted to their core in order to provide warmth to their vital organs. Therefore, when they come ashore to breed, they shed their entire outer layer of skin which has died from a lack of blood flow. This skin is replaced by a brand new layer when the blood returns to the surface. Females feed primarily on squid but males will feed on small sharks, rays, and bottom-dwelling fish. Recently, NASA scientiests have attached satellite transmitters to seals in order to record oceanic data such as temperature and density. Scientists say that this could be the frontier of providing an oceanic forecast for nautical adventurists.

So, it is now that I have the plesure of observing this rookery of ugly, slug-like pinnipeds while watching for eagles near the shore. I can hear their rude bellowing from miles away for their protruding rostrum most effectively amplifies their calling. I couldn't be much happier. The wind is only blowing occasionally (unlike yesterday when there were constant 50 mph wind gusts) and the sun is shining brightly. Yesterday I was on the north side of the island, exposed to the wind whipping around Point Conception. Today I am enjoying the southern warmth and I now know why the seals have chosen to sun bathe on this particular side of the island.

Eight thirty at this time of year brings in the blue light of evening and all the birds quiet their songs and go to bed. The heat of my fire seeps into knots held deep within the wood and a sharp crackle rings out into the night air. It is just me, for I have found no need for companionship here where the mountains meet the sea.

Today, I sat high on a bluff and gazed into the churning of the light blue water beyond the Pacific Coast Highway. There was a steady interplay of clouds and sun, and each new shift in light revealed a new side of Big Sur. A redwood creek soaking in staggered light; southern sea otters floating in lofty swells, anchored to mats of giant kelp; verdant hills of chaparral and wildflowers bathed in drifting fog.

Big Sur. This is where Henry Miller derived the inspiration to slice through conventional 20th century America and forever redefine literature. This is what drove him to first utter the word "Amen." Its divinity stems from an unseen touch of God - the touch that cloaked these ridges, valleys and cliffs in austere beauty - a beauty that strums the chord of life in every beholder.

Every moment that passes I have to remind myself that I am in Big Sur. I seek out each moment, each trail, each tidepool that this place can offer the wanderer in two days. Two days. Just two days! How can I ever run its course in two days? I suppose I can't. But what I can do is take this moment to realize I am in the heart of something magnificent. Something on the scale of profound art, where each run, patch, and sinew dances in its own peculiar way; where each object speaks the world of what surrounds it.

There is something that comes over me every time a vast untampered wilderness unfolds before my eyes. Reaching the roads zenith, pavement dropping out beneath the wheels, plummeting into the expansive utopia, the dizzying whirl of the ever-changing world bears down heavily upon me. Awestruck in the flooded wash, the rays of today's first light shine on over the holy unfathomable plain. And blankets of impenetrable dark forest sitting on the flanks of ragged peaks are perfectly etched on the horizon. A recurring emotion sweeps over my soul, like wind over the Gobi, lifting my demeanor to unearthly heights; a feeling of reverence locked in primitive impulse and desire; my palms sweating at the thought of the daunting wild.

It was about a month ago when I first contemplated this overwhelming emotion - this wholesome benevolence that changed everything around me. The light slanted on the western slope, softening the harsh reality; the paved road trickled to sand that soothed my aching feet and the calm, collected way of my fellow traveler spoke to me in volumes.

The voice of Brandon Flowers bit into the air as we sputtered east toward the mountains. The driving pulse of "The Killers" was behind us. Kolby and I both sang out unabashedly he doesn't look a thing like Jesus, but he talks like a gentleman, for the rush of the cool evening wind masked the off-pitched sing-along. The road was free of traffic and our minds full of questions; what's the best way to Visalia?, did you remember the stove?, where should we camp tonight?, think there'll be cute chicks at Buckeye? A litany of inquiries possessed us, one falling after the other like dominoes on a winding plank.

We had driven off into the night, away from the lights of the LA basin into the southernmost margin of the Sierra Nevada. Around one in the morning, the twisted road brought in the sights and smells of the foothills: dampened echoes of whitewater and the subtle sweetness of pine, pollen, and cedar. Rounding a bend we slowed to a stop, for the grace of a phantom stirred the foggy air collecting in front of our headlights. An elegant fox pranced off into the gnarled blue oak savanna and all that remained in the faint gray shadows were the spires of the whipple's yucca Yucca whipplei standing tall and proud.

The forest was made of incense - dense, swollen mats of cedar. Then, in a flattened recess above 6,000 feet, the Giant Sequoia Sequoiadendron giganteum loomed forth in a gentle magnificence. We rounded another bend in the emerald forest and saw the quiet giants for the first time. The four citadels lined up across a forked road - two on each side and two on a dividing island - like illustrious knights on the gates of a fortress. No man-made entry sign, however regal, would trump the outspoken beauty of these four relics. Undoubtedly, they are the heralding trumpets of Sequoia National Park.

As we made our way high into the Giant Forest the trees began to grow in size and in number. I opened the sunroof and turned my head to the sky awing at the sheer volume of each tree. The cobalt blue sky defined each lancing needle amid their knobby clusters and I could tell the world up there was different. From below, the trees took on an ethereal glow, basking in the filtered light from above. The bark is unlike that of any other tree I have encountered. It is a lightly whiskered red amber that feels no different than the cork of a wine bottle. It is almost friendly, inviting one's hand to land softly upon it, drawing one into timeless conversation.

I laid down next to a big tree in the Congress Stand and gazed up into its massive canopy. A few moments had passed when I noticed I had begun to breathe a little easier and think a little clearer. I could feel the living presence of this behemoth - vividly recounted its 1300 year history and growth from a seed no larger than a grain of barley. Beyond the brilliant contrast of flowering dogwoods Cornus florida, I stared into a charred hollow at the mighty tree's base and wondered when it would ever topple. These trees are virtually indestructible and fall only at the mercy of their own weight. Signs of fire, like this charred hollow, and lightning high in robust limbs are ubiquitous. It is no secret that these pillars have stood the test of time.

"But of all living things sequoia is perhaps the only one

able to wait long enough to make sure of being struck

by lightning."

John Muir, Our National Parks, pg.277

I rest my head against the mossy ground and think about the tree's roots in the soil below. They are shallow and lack the strong foundation a central taproot provides other trees. Hence, when the tree reaches a certain volume, it is no longer able to support itself.

I asked Kolby if he would stand in front of what is known as the General Sherman Tree so I could get a photograph with a reference point. This 275 foot tall, 2200 year old monster has a remarkable 37 foot diameter base! It was named after the American Civil War's General William Sherman and is the only living memorial in this country. This tree's claim to fame is that it is the biggest tree in the world by volume. Many coastal redwoods Sequoiadendron sempivirens supersede this tree in height but no other tree in the world can attest to its overall volume. Every year, the General Sherman Tree puts on the equivalent volume of the average full grown, 60 foot oak!

Kolby stood at the bottom, straining his neck to look up into the robust branches of the canopy. He snapped several pictures looking up at the beast from below and then informed me of the time. It was nearing five in the afternoon and we still hadn't purchased our permits to get into the backcountry. It was time to head to the ranger station.

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The next two days spelled out a fantastic experience, albeit my first, in the backcountry. Our starting point put us at the head of the High Sierra Trail in a pristine montane meadow surrounded by sequoias. We sat in the shadows of the surrounding forest and watched a mother black bear Ursus americana cross a rotting log with her two frisky cubs close behind. Making their way across the meadow, they headed towards where we were sitting in a covey of fir. We cautiously kept our ground, moving farther away at every advancement, but it was still the closest I have ever been to a wild bear. Black and orange butterflies fluttered about in a gentle breeze, douglas squirrels Tamiasciurus douglasii chattered noisily among unseen hollows and mule deer Odocoileus hemionus browsed in thickets of quietude.

Our bags were packed and blue skies summoned us into the unknown. Along the trail were countless vistas of the snowy sierras, multitudes of wildflowers in bright pinks, oranges, blues, purples and reds, the hyperactive western skink Eumeces skiltonianus and basking side-blotched lizard Uta stansburiana. The raspy cry of the steller's jay Cyanocitta stelleri rang out in serene groves of pine while mountain chickadees Poecile gambeli, dark-eyed juncos Junco hyemalis, and California towhees Pipilo crissalis darted in and out of California redbud Cercis occidentalis and various manzanitas Arctostaphylos spp. Several times we were pleasingly startled by the bright flashes of a western tanager Piranga ludoviciana or the ephemeral flash of a white-headed woodpecker Picoides albolarvatus.

The hush of evening fell sooner than expected. The shadows cast by conifers grew heavy on the land and it was time to find a spot to set up camp. A grove of white fir Abies concolor looked pleasantly hospitable, for there were several soft, flattened areas where we could pitch our tents and an old fire-pit showed us the site had been used before.

Kolby tended to the fire while I headed down to the nearest stream to get water for drinking and cooking. The light had grown dim and I had donned an elastic head lamp to keep my hands free for collecting water. An hour earlier we had overshot the campsite by a good half mile and I remembered crossing a substantial stream not too far beyond the fir grove. Turning my headlamp on, I hiked back up a hill I hadn't remembered coming down. In the distance, I could hear a subtle booming, a rich-bodied, repetitious drumming with a deep resonance and warm timbre. It started softly and slowly, growing louder and faster and resided back into the soft, slow drumming, like a heartbeat thumping in the crepuscular glow.

It didn't occur to me until after the bottles were filled and iodine tablets were administered that the mysterious booming had come from a male blue grouse Dendragapus obscurus. These grouse are sometimes referred to as "hooters" because of the deep, resonating hoots that have been heard up to a mile away. Males use these hoots as a means to call females into their territory. Blue grouse won't tolerate anything other than pristine montane habitat where humans are merely visitors and if anything matched this description it was the forest in which we were in. As far as the eye could see there was coniferous forest, rock and snow. The only demolition sites were young meadows at the bottom of avalanche chutes and the purple skeletons of blight-ridden trees. I was happy I could hear the gurgle of the creek, the incessant hooting of the randy grouse, and feel the shining presence of the first evening star. A sudden complacency washed over me and that feeling of true being was present yet again.

Back at the campsite we boiled water and added two packaged meals to the pot. I quickly changed out of my boots and stinking socks into my warm smart-wool socks and moccasins. I threw on an old worn sweatshirt over a comfortable long sleeve for the temperature was dropping rapidly. Kolby pointed up through the dead lower branches of the firs in front of us and wondered whether the moon was falling or rising.

"Well, it must be rising," I said. "Doesn't the moon always rise at nightfall?"

"Actually, no" responded Kolby. "I'm pretty sure it varies. Here, I'll take this stick and place it here at the edge of the moon's shadow. If the shadow moves to the right of the stick the moon is setting and if it moves to the left of the stick it is rising."

Kolby got up to place a stick over the shadow. Ten minutes later, the shadow had moved slightly to the right, an indication that the moon was setting.

We voraciously scarfed down the hot stew and proceeded to rinse our pots with water and put them in a bear bag along with the rest of our food. At this point it was well into the evening and we still had yet to find an adequate tree limb to hang the bag from. For the next half hour (a thirty minutes that felt like an eternity) we stumbled through the uneven terrain looking for the best place to hang the bear sack. Over by the rushing brook I had collected water from earlier we finally found a tree that worked nicely. I crouched down on the far end with one end of the string (the anchor) and Kolby stood on the other end with the thirty pound sack in his hands. Then, we counted to three and heaved the sack high up above the rickety branch. To our surprise, the sack hung neatly over the withered bough without the slightest sign of it snapping. The bear bag was secured at a height of twenty feet well out beyond the trunk where a bear could possibly reach it. We sluggishly lumbered back to the campsite and turned into the warmth of our tents.

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A light wind blows in from the west up a serpentine corridor formed by the Kaweah River. To the east stretches the interminable barrier of the Great Western Divide, a series of ragged peaks cloaked in the riches of a warming alpenglow. I fight off the encroaching whims of vertigo for I stand on the brink of a 1200 foot precipice known as Moro Rock. It is a monolith of sorts, jutting out incongruously from the surrounding landscape like a lone boulder in a hayfield. Atop this exfoliated chunk of granite, I look out at the vast surrounding landscape and admire the gallantry of that big ball of fire setting in the west, bathing the sky in red like a blood-strewn battlefield. A rufous hummingbird Selasphorus rufus busily buzzes over the listless bunches of penstemmon clinging to the cliff side. White-throated swifts Aeronautes saxatalis sing their loud, insect-like melodies as they whirl, dive and soar, dancing in the evening wind gusts. I dig my nails into the lichen growing on the rock beneath me, and like some child completely out of tune with reality, hope that the bustling frenzy of these birds doesn't send me head over heals into the engulfing canyon below.

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It was only the next day when we heard the same song again - he doesn't look a thing like Jesus, but he talks like a gentleman. The Killers had served as our soundscape for our first retreat into the sequoias and now, after our long trek into the backcountry, the song blares once again through our brazen speakers. All the mental pictures I had taken in Sequoia National Park now flash brightly in my mind. We had talked about refraining from looking at our collection of photographs until several days of being home from the mountains. This would allow us to develop memories unskewed by the results of tangible photographs. What really matters is the memories our minds can strike up impetuously without the aid of pictures. Maybe I will light the match of memory and reclaim every charished moment without the looking glass of digital invention. The anchor points of this trip are sure to be a revelation, bringing me back in every possible way to the serenity found in the groves of the giant trees.

To watch the golden swallowtail die In the mid-afternoon heat: An ardent sadness, Calm, collected and resolute. A slow fade of color, A trickle of languid sorrow, Dismal, drooping antennae Speaks the fervor of looming death. Such delicate beauty, Cloaked in profound mystery, Fluttering wings one last time, Encompassing all that is sublime. Melting yellow veins on asphalt, Succumbing to a restless world, Where we all are at fault.

It was the perfect day out on the water. A thick layer of fog stretched out across the mainland and the clear mountaintops of Ojai and Santa Barbara could be seen rising above it all. The winds were calm and the swell rose up no more than two feet. The conditions were just so, it was hardly a guess as to what we intended to do. Chris, Kim and I hopped into the F-250 pickup truck, double-checking to make sure we had everything: Lunch? Check. Binoculars? Check. Gasoline? Check. Telemetry? Check. As we pulled out of the Navy Site, I had a feeling we were forgetting something – a flashlight.“There’s no way we’ll see anything in there without a flash light,” I said. “We’ve gotta grab a flashlight.”We stopped the truck. Chris hopped out and ran inside, returning with a foot and half long metal flashlight – trooper style. We knew we couldn’t get out on that flat-as-glass water and deny ourselves this unforgettable side-excursion simply by lack of illumination.A 9:00 am we had made it down to Dave Mills’ tool shop at Prisoner’s Harbor. This is where the 12-foot rubber bottom zodiac is stored that is used to conduct eagle surveys along the shore. Chris backed the bumper up to the head of the trailer and Kim and I jumped out to tend to our usual prepping duties. After opening all 4 air chambers around the boat, I plugged in the foot pump and began putting air into the rubber vessel. Kim looked over the engine, plugging the hose to wash it clear of any residual salt water and checking to see it the water pump was working. Like Andy (another IWS seasonal) always said, “If it ain’t pissin’, ya ain’t fishin’.” This is one of the most important keys to maintaining the engine. We loaded on the gasoline jugs and attached the fuel pump. It was time to go.I backed the trailer up on the rocky beach ensuring that the truck was in 4 low. There is no boat launch at Prisoner’s Harbor and the beach quickly erodes from the pounding surf, forming an insurmountable byrme. Therefore, it is necessary that the beach be bulldozed regularly. I looked into the rearview mirror and the beach looked good and flat. Chris inserted a few plugs into the back of the boat and Kim removed a bolt from the trailer’s extension. 2 large rocks were placed in front of the trailer’s hind wheels and I then pulled the truck up a few feet to extend the long metal rod. This would give us more space between the truck and the boat; so much in fact that the back wheels of the truck barely have to touch the water.As aforementioned, it was a calm day on the water and the launch was particularly easy. I remember one day when the waves were crashing a little more malevolently than we had hoped. Somehow, Dave Rempel (our supervisor) got the boat caught perpendicular to the back of the trailer and the waves began crashing over the side of the humbled dingy. It was a long, uncomfortable day thereon out for Dave.So Chris, Kim and I set to sea with a cold breeze on our faces. We all simultaneously reached for sweatshirts and windbreakers, as it is always colder out on the water. We passed the usual sites of the rocky California coastline: harbor seals Phoca vitulina sprawled out in clustered communes, western gulls Larus occidentalis, cormorants Phalocrocorax spp., brown pelicans Pelicanus occidentalis, and black oystercatchers Haematopus bachmani casting clamorous shrieks off of breccia rocks. Kelp snakes up from the bottom of the ocean; sometimes I can see the bottom – a good 40 feet – with the bright orange flashes of garibaldi fish Hypsypops rubicundus and beneath them, prolific gardens of spiny sea urchins. We pass Arch Rock, an eroded granitic slab very much worthy of its name, and slowly crawling about its shadow in the splash zone are the conspicuous keystone predators of the intertidal, the giant starfish Pisaster gigantea. Up high on the vertical cliffs above, I notice the resinous charm of a hundred mighty live-forevers Dudleya spp., a stonecrop so vivid in color and enduring in strength. Beside them are the stretched woody branches of island buckwheat Eriogonum giganteum and what seem like grotesque, decaying carcasses of the late Coreopsis. Above all the bluff scrub on a sheer granitic face is the aerie of a cackling peregrine falcon Falco peregrinus whose two downy chicks wait patiently for their next meal.Beyond Diablo Point, where the waters are more exposed to offshore winds, it is naturally much choppier. Slowing the boat down to prevent from getting wet, we look ahead and can see the cliffs of Cueva Valdez. Our primary reason for coming out to this point is to get a sighting on two courting bald eagles that have been consistently spotted using this territory. The other reason for coming out isn’t exactly work oriented, but I suppose it could be seen as a brief afternoon respite. I will certainly remember it as one of the most thrilling experiences of my life.From Cueva Valdez, Painted Cave – the largest known above-water sea cave in the world – is a mere 15 minutes westward. Earlier in the year, the idea to take the boat inside the cave had surfaced but it had always been shot down on account of either high swell or lack of proper illumination. This time the conditions were right and we were well equipped. Our journey into the cave was pending. Ragged bends in the coastline conceal this magnificent sea cave for it is not noticed until it is too late: mysterious forces seem to suck one up into it, exerting a prodigious negative pressure that draws up all of that around it. It is like the gargantuan mouth of a whale and we seem to fulfill the roles of the humbled souls of those that met their fate aboard the Essex.The cave’s front entrance towers over us a height of 60 feet. It may as well be the regal gate of a medieval castle of which an alluring princess waits inside. Its walls are dusted with colorful lichens that give the impression of carefully crafted murals – the hallways and chambers of this castle have been graced by Nature’s art – and indeed it is well deserved of its name.Our boat floats in on the gentle swell; we have now shut off the engine and have reached for the two wooden oars. I gaze out into the darkening abyss – a long tunnel etching its way into the rock an astounding 1227 feet – and begin to hear the lugubrious barking of California sea lions Zalophus californianus deep in the confines of the cave. I wonder if instead, this sound is the echoing moans of the ghosts of those lost at sea, and as the gentle swell picks us up and propels us deeper into the darkening vices an eerie chill runs down my spine. The walls begin to close in around us and we push off with the oars to avoid impaling the boat on the sharp, jutting rocks. Looking down beneath me, I see what at first looks like the reflections of exposed rock on the surface of the water. Upon closer inspection, I find that I am gazing into the rocky bottom of the cave. I am amazed at the clarity of the water; I have heard that this area is a mecca for divers because of this very reason. Apparently, the waters in this region of the Pacific are clearer than anywhere else along the coast from Alaska to Patagonia.As we draw nearer to Painted Cave’s inner chamber, the cacophony of congregated sea lions grows greater and the sickening smell of rotting fish is a sure sign we are getting close. It is as if the moist, rotten breath has lingered extensively and condensed – like morning dew – on the rocky promontories about the cave. Droplets fall and collect on the lens of my sunglasses. It is a strange, stinking world we have entered.Rounding the bend into the darkening chamber, the smells and sounds seemed to crescendo to a climax of frightening intensity. We had reached the whale’s wretched stomach and all the amplified guttural groans were all too real. The penetrating beam of the flashlight momentarily seizes my growing trepidation and soon many pairs of glowing eyes and shearing canines are strangely revealed. At once, as if an alarm had sounded, the entire rookery makes a sudden plunge into the inky black water around our boat. Swarming like killer bees, the sea lions make it clear that they disapproved of our presence.We make a rather rapid exit from the chamber so as to give some reprieve to the feisty pinnipeds. One tempestuous soul follows us closely as we push off the sides toward the light. He doesn’t let up until we are well out of the chamber. Never before have I encountered such an aggressive group of sea lions. In Baja, I snorkeled with big bulls alongside their pups and never felt even the slightest bit of aggression from them – only playful curiosity. I wondered if these were a devilish clan of sea lions. Why else would they live deep in the dark refuge of a cave?We left the formidable jowls of Painted Cave and set our bow towards Prisoner’s. In the far-off distance we could see humpback whales Megaptera novaeangliae hurling their bodies up out of the deep blue void in front of us. The ocean was alive. I could feel it breathing in each gentle loft of the swell.

Never before in my life have I felt so alive – so squeamish to the pinch, so calmed by warming zephyrs. Often, I’ll close my eyes in hopes of forming sensory memories dominated by smells, sounds, and feelings, neglecting my sense of sight that so often overrides all other perception. For now, it’s only the errant wind on my face, the subtle smell of blooming buckwheat, and the long rapid trill off towhees. Life is calm and collected here; if I were to have the audacity to bring with me the slightest worry of ordinary concern to this spot on top of this ridge, I should well deserve a harsh rebuking from all of those enduring the many platitudes of life cooped up in 9-5 offices.My work schedule this year has been surreal, allowing ample time to explore the plains, foothills, and mountains of life – literally and figuratively. I have 8 days on/6 days off working on the Northern Channel Islands as a field biologist tracking the movement patterns and nesting success of a population of bald eagles Haliaetus luecocephalus reintroduced here in the early 1980’s. Ever since the 50’s, the pesticide DDT has had detrimental impacts on many marine-dependent birds. Brown pelicans Pelicanus occidentalis, peregrine falcons Falco peregrinus, and bald eagles are a few of the species that were hit the hardest. DDT breaks down calcium deposits, which results in birds laying thin-shelled eggs and accidentally breaking them during incubation. In 1978, Dave Garcelon founded the Institute for Wildlife Studies (IWS) in an attempt to restore the bald eagle to the islands of southern California. For over 25 years, Biologists with IWS have been removing the contaminated eggs from wild nests and replacing them with dummy eggs. The real eggs are then brought back to a facility where the eggs are cared for in artificial incubators, the chicks are hatched and then fostered back into the nests. These nest manipulations have been done only on Santa Catalina Island where historically DDT levels have been the highest. Many birds have successfully fledged from the 5 nests on this island and have dispersed northward to the Northern Channel Islands of Anacapa, Santa Cruz, and Santa Rosa. These are the birds I routinely monitor.This year the program on Catalina was extremely successful with a record-setting 11 hatched chicks. 7 of the eaglets hatched after being incubated in the lab and the remaining 4 hatched in the wild. This was the first year Biologist Peter Sharpe refrained from removing eggs from the 2 nests that have been consistently showing lower levels of DDT within the past few years. As a result, both Pinnacle Rock and Seal Rocks nests were naturally successful for the first time in over half a century! This certainly is indicative of lower concentrations of DDT in marine sediments around Catalina.This past week the eaglets had reached the age of 8 weeks. At this age, they have grown nearly the size of their parents and are still unable to fly. It is the perfect opportunity for Biologists to band and mark the birds in order to keep track of their future movements. First, we attach a leg band that includes a personal identification number. 2-patagial wing-markers are then clipped into the upper wing (an orange tag is used for Catalina birds and a blue tag is used for Santa Cruz birds) and a GPS transmitter backpack is mounted around the neck. Lastly, measurements are taken and blood is drawn for later sex determination.All of the nests on Catalina are located on rocky pinnacles adjacent to the ocean – some are not the easiest to get to. The combination of steep approaches, loose substrate, and dive-bombing adult eagles make a few of the hikes downright treacherous. Karen, another research assistant working on the project, apparently lost her footing twice while scrambling to Pinnacle Rock. Luckily, her backpack broke both falls. The helmet on her head also provided ample protection. Pete actually required that helmets should be worn at a few of the nests not because of falling rocks but because of vehement eagles. Earlier this year, Pete was clipped in the back of the head by K-33, the assaulting male at the Twin Rocks nest. The attack was kept low profile so as not to unravel a bad reputation for the bird we are trying to save.Fortunately, this year it wasn’t necessary for me to deal with Pinnacle Rock’s ghastly approach and Twin Rocks’ ill-tempered male. I helped with banding the chicks at Two Harbors and Seal Rocks. These two nests each have their own unique attributes: Two Harbors is up on an exposed ridge above an isthmus (some say the ridge resembles a pregnant woman lying on her back with the nest located at the tip of her chin). Seal Rocks is on an east-facing cliff, nestled in the shadow of a scrub oak Quercus pacifica. Its approach is steep and loaded with loose rocks but upon arrival, it feels as if one is climbing into the recesses of a tree fort.We had safely scrambled down to the Seal Rocks nest where Pete had in his arms one of the 2 chicks. He quietly passed the frightened bird to Steffanie, his assistant, and proceeded to get the second chick within his grasp. In order not to scare the eaglets off the nest, Pete approaches slowly with a curved stick. He uses this stick to apply support to their backs so as to prevent them from taking a long tumble downward out of the nest. This pressure also guides the bird closer to him, whereupon he uses his free hand to grab it above the talons.Once Pete had hold of the second bird, he passed it my direction, instructing me to put my index finger between both legs while using my surrounding fingers to control each individual leg. Once I had a firm grip, I tucked the bird under my left shoulder (like a feathered football), ensuring that both wings were properly folded inward. I immediately took a seat on the most comfortable and secure place I could find. This happened to be in the shade of the oak tree where a strong wind had recently gained intensity. Around the corner, boulders blocked the wind and a rocky slab sat in direct sunlight, so we quickly moved in that direction, walking slowly along the precarious ledge.Jess Dooley, a researcher who has been working on this project since 2001, told me to find a spot where I’d be comfortable for a good half hour. After all, I’d have to hold this bird tight as it suffered through the torments of such necessary harassment. After I had found an adequate sitting spot (hardly comfortable), Jess began taking measurements on the bill and talons. After that, she extended the wing opposite my armpit, injected a needle into the brachial artery, and began pumping it to draw blood. She took her time stitching on the GPS transmitter backpack and attaching both orange wing markers.Banding bald eagle chicks on Catalina Island was a new and exciting experience for me. Never before have I been that close to something so wild. However, it is unfortunate we have to taint their beauty by attaching these big, gaudy wing markers and cumbersome looking backpacks. It’s just not the same as when we first arrived at the nest to find chicks that were completely undifferentiated from the surrounding wilderness. I look forward to the day when this population of eagles no longer needs human support and can fly freely without these accouterments that so vulgarly detract from their beauty.

It was a Monday evening down on Harbor Boulevard and the day’s haze still hadn’t quite burned off. I was greeted at the train station – a heap of stones beside an open, empty parking lot – by Donovan, one of the Institute for Wildlife Studies’ new fox technicians. Being young, cool-headed, and excited about many things in life, Donovan's presence has been quite agreeable to me and I have been able to mesh exceptionally well with this new addition to our working team. We share many of the same interests and some of them, like our agreement to split the cost of a hotel room at the local Motel 6, are expediently convenient. So, Donovan’s inclination to pick me up at the station relieved me from the bi-weekly burden of toting my bags 3 miles across town to the hotel. That night, we picked up our groceries at the local Vons grocery store and talked for a while about real fear and its jarring capabilities. The morning came in through the window and the ringing of my alarm sprung me out of bed. It was 7 am. My head hurt and my throat was dry. We gathered up our gear and headed out to the harbor where the National Park Service boat lulled about in the calm morning water. Our heavy bags, loaded with warm clothes, food, and field gear, were placed into an open duffel bag that had been tethered to the head of a crane. It is a Tuesday morning ritual to load our luggage into these heavy-duty burlap sacs and watch a Park Service employee use the crane to perilously swing bags into their on-board positions. I greeted the day’s crane operator, Earl, with a nod of the head and an undecipherable morning grunt. Earl is the classic Park Service maintenance worker: late sixties and strong like a locomotive with bushy gray eyebrows and a neck made of alligator hide. He has big calloused hands that tell the story of a thousand mechanical toils and he is never seen without his NPS gray/green baseball cap.There always seems to be little talking on these mornings back to work. No one feels the need to strike up any kind of substantial conversation on the dock. I’d just as much keep it this way. If there is a query or two, they usually inquire about one’s whereabouts and happenings the prior week off; there are even times when many new, untamed stories unfold as the boat pushes offshore toward the 4 rocky islands strung across the ocean like pearls on a string. I had mentioned to Donovan that I had been eagerly anticipating reuniting with our head boss while on the island. I had spent a good amount of time with Dave Garcelon (IWS’ founder) the previous season when he joined us on Catalina to help with the fostering of the eaglets. Spending time with Dave is not only enlightening and thought provoking, but it moves me to the point where I can feel his passions welling up inside of me. It’s never a surprise to me that I end up talking to Dave for hours when he is present; he is an intriguing man who vigorously conveys his enthusiasm for wildlife biology. This time, Dave had come to the island to assess the health of the newly born captive island fox pups (Urocyon littoralis). Indeed, his eyes lit up when he spoke of the miniature gray puppies and he loved to repeat the story of what he found when he lifted up the lid on two of the den boxes: a third, hidden fuzz ball, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Its sensitive black eyes innocently staring up at the strange human faces around it and squinting at the harsh light of day. At just over one week old, the face of the baby fox resembles not its mother or father, but more so the sleek, blunt-nosed profile of a ferret. When Donovan and I stepped off the boat at Prisoner’s Harbor on Santa Cruz Island we hopped into our respective trucks and drove up the sinuous dirt road to our quarters at the Navy Site. The air was dry as a bone, filled with billowing dust from our trucks, and fields of fennel passed us by on either side. Fennel (Foeniculum vulgare) is an invasive weed that was first introduced by settlers in the mid-1800s. Its flavorful aroma strongly resembles licorice and the root can be boiled and eaten directly or used as an Italian spice. The weed most likely rapidly established itself because of the presence of non-native animals. The introduction of domestic goats and pigs resulted in the unexpected decimation of many populations of native plants, which opened up vast areas of land for fennel to explosively colonize. In fact, fennel is so incredibly dominant on the eastern portion of the island that this region actually feels desolate and ugly, as if a fire had ripped through the hills, leaving behind only gray, brittle skeletons. One of Santa Cruz’s most redeeming factors is its diversity of habitats. Just when I feel I have gotten an overall appreciation for the island, I stumble upon a fantastically new world around me. Walking westward, the gray, flaking fields of fennel discretely fall behind me, yielding to the dark green canopies of bishop pines (Pinus muricata). Nearer the sound of crashing waves, the pines subside to windblown coastal bluff scrub, a habitat that harbors a multitude of resilient plants and animals. In other areas, I walk along grassy hillsides where, within the undulating hills, nothing can be seen but wild oat, Italian rye, and foxtail. I cannot neglect to mention the desert maritime scrub habitats that can more commonly be found on the southern islands of San Clemente, San Nicholas, and Santa Catalina, but bands of cholla, prickly pear, and tall prickly pear can be encountered in patches. I once got a little too close to the knobby arms of the cholla and learned from first hand experience why people call these plants jumping cholla. It seems as if one gets even within an inch of the almost caustic succulent, its spines will jump off the cactus and bury themselves deep into one’s flesh. When a cholla spine is dislodged from the skin, it is not just the spine that comes away, but the surrounding flesh as well. To say that being stabbed by a cholla spine is unpleasant would be an understatement. Once out of the desert scrub, I find myself halted to a dead stop amidst the coastal sage scrub, a habitat that is named after its most conspicuous component: California sage (Artemesia californica). Other plants in this habitat include black sage, silver bush lupine, coyote brush, and California ensenia or brittlebush. Coastal sage scrub grows in thick, unnavigable patches along south-facing slopes on the island. I have gotten caught in a few areas where a machete would have been useful. It could be said that a categorical breakdown of Santa Cruz’s ecological communities could last forever, but to keep things curt, I will limit this description to just one more habitat. As I make my way down a hill into one of this island’s many canyons, I discover that Santa Cruz contains more fresh water than any of the other Channel Islands. Moreover, when I explore the island’s riparian areas, depending on the time of year I may find anything from a trickle of water to a rushing, effervescent cascade. Stepping among the rocks, I might look down and spot a Pacific Tree frog (Hyla regilla) that has quieted itself upon sensing my thunderous intrusion. Ferns abound under the elongated trunk-like arms of coastal live oaks (Quercus agrifolia); orange bush monkey flower, penstemmon, and Humboldt lily sparkle in filtered sunlight and a tiny island fox eloquently prances atop fallen leaves. Meanwhile, the tinkling of water calms my nerves, and I think that if all of eternity could be wrapped up in one place, this would be it: an ineffable sublimity closely resembling Heaven. Donovan and I have now climbed to the top of a hill where the Navy Site sits in incongruity with the land surrounding it. For the past 25 minutes my eyes have feasted on dust and fennel, but meanwhile my mind has taken me on a trip through many of this island’s natural wonders. I’m excited to lace up my boots and set off into the untamed tunnel of richness – this living laboratory that is so forever changing that I feel as if I have not spent even a day in it.

The island has been shrouded in fog for most of the morning, but now the thick marine layer is dissipating rapidly over the north ridge. It’s as if a curtain has been pulled for the first number of a Broadway show and all its thespians have revealed themselves in simplicity. Christy beach is the scene, and I sit on a grassy bluff looking out over the Great Blue, counting the seconds between each tumbling swell. The surfing would be good today if I only knew how to surf. If this weren’t California, it’d be alright if I didn’t know how to surf; I’d just get in the water and try my luck on the longest board I could find (for beginner’s sake). But this is the California Current – the rushing chill – where a tincture of ice is ever-present in each momentous spell of upwelling.

Last year I wearily dragged a surfboard behind me after spending time in the frigid waters of Shark Harbor on Santa Catalina Island. I shook the water out of my ears, trying to rid myself of the cold seeping into the marrow of my bones and looked back at the crashing waves. I remember feeling an intense pain in my right ear all throughout the next day and wondered how people could actually derive even the slightest amusement from such an inclement experience. Maybe it’s because they’re well equipped with not only a wet suit, but also booties and a hood. This is huge! If I could get my hands on these two accoutrements I’d gladly head out into the frosty tides!

The giant bladder kelp (Macrocystis pyrifera) beds that line the shores of the Channel Islands say something about the uncomfortably cold currents here in southern California. These towering brown algae can only tolerate water temperatures between 55 and 60 degrees Fahrenheit and will die if the waters are any warmer. In 1997, an El Niňo event warmed the waters to such a degree that many of the kelp forests perished and brought with it a decline in many of its associated species. California Sheephead, Garibaldi, Seňorita, and various species of bass no longer found refuge in the dense, underwater sanctuaries. Beaches began to suffer greater impacts of erosion due to the absence of these offshore buffers and the uprooted holdfasts of the 200-foot serpent tongues drifted with the passing tides.

I’ve often sat, looking out at the vast, mystical ocean wondering why I’m not watching California sea otters (Enhydra lutris nereis) playfully floating on their back atop glassy waters, using rocks to break open obstinate urchins. It was in the 18th and 19th centuries that these charming mustelids were over-harvested as a result of the fur trade and it wasn’t until 1938 that a remnant population off of Big Sur was discovered. This small population has now expanded its range due to preservation efforts and can be found from San Nicholas Island in the south to Aňo Nuevo Island in the north. San Nicholas Island is in fact, one of the Channel Islands, but it is relatively remote, and the remaining islands have yet to be graced by the presence of the sea otter. Without the predatory influence of the sea otter, sea urchin populations burgeon and graze heavily on kelp forests. Thus, an ecological trophic cascade ensues, where the otter’s absence ultimately leads to the demise of the entire kelp forest.

Nowadays, urchin fishermen have fulfilled the sea otter’s role. On our occasional journeys around the islands in our 8-foot zodiac motorboat, we have seen a good deal of urchin boats and their divers out around rocky shoals. Out of three species (the green, purple, and red), the red sea urchin is what is most sought after and it is found in the deepest water. Predatory control of these rapidly multiplying Echinoderms is also instated by the spiny lobster (Panulirus interruptus). Different from its Atlantic counterparts, the spiny lobster has no front pincers and defends itself by thrashing its muscular tail and whipping its pair of serrated antennae. It also feeds heavily of California mussels (Mytilis californianus), which vacates rocky areas and makes them available for colonization of organisms like the giant kelp.

I wonder if an overwhelming human presence can ever really take the place of what's inherently natural? Does man's presence in the urchin fishery adequately fulfill the predatory niche of the sea otter or does it leave something to be desired for the top-level predators like the orca that depend on healthy populations of marine mammals? We can always decorate our words and attempt to justify such an endeavor, but there is always the great risk that our actions will take a toll that bestows no reparation.

The Southbound passenger train was running late out of Ventura so I passed the time sipping coffee over the pages of my newest read, Goethe's The Sorrows of Young Werther. I kept tabs on the sun as it grew closer to the hills and I found comfort in knowing that the days were only getting longer. The captain's voice came over the loud speaker and announced our arrival in Glendale, a neighborhood among the rolling suburbs East of Hollywood. It was just then that I noticed the first gleams of light from a brush fire out on top of a far ridge. It seemed to be under control (for the most part) as helicopters hovered back and forth, dumping tons of fire extinguishing debris over the orange blaze. I marveled at the fierce power of wildfire and remembered the brazen embers falling last month over the beloved Hollywood sign. It appears to be no rarity in these parts.

My train arrived in Los Angeles a little later than I expected and I towed my luggage in the most uncouth way out to the Metro Red Line and up to the city street at Vermont/Sunset. Riding the escalator up to that municipal hamster box, I was greeted by an unexpected change in temperature. It was if I had been gulped up into the bowels of summer's inferno; I had left California's cool coastal breezes and ventured into the muggy swamps of the southland. I could hear Sunnyland Slim and Little Walter wailing the blues away on their harps, paving their way down Highway 61. I began to sweat.

I passed the usual sites on my walk to Jimbo's new apartment in Silverlake: the glassy windows of the Children's Hospital of L.A., a looming leviathan of a crane sitting in the vacancy of a Von's parking lot, a sordid, strung-out fellow in blue sweat pants, and the neon green lights of the Vista cinema. The further I walked, the hotter it became. It was if I was walking into the center grate of an oven and some devilish cook was slowly closing the door behind me. I was within 2 blocks of the apartment when I diverted my eyes west toward the Hollywood hills where a spectacular fire raged in the brush. Suddenly, I could hear the hum of several helicopters, and in the glimmer of the fire's light I could make out the incessant plume of fire retardant being dusted across the hillside. Every minute a new tree would catch fire, igniting as if someone had thrown a Molotov cocktail in an act of pillage. It was a diabolical scene that mysteriously rendered itself just.

As I write, Catalina Island burns in the night and by tomorrow it will probably have reached the outer limits of Avalon. A town like Avalon is a fire's threshold, reaching a defining boundary that ultimately defies containment. Each little wooden cottage is but a tinderbox waiting in quiet ignominy, enthusiastically willing to feed the biting beast.

All of California is subject to Nature's mercies. It is an unforgiving landscape - seismically active and ready to burn - and yet people continue to build their million dollar homes on the brink of precipitous cliffs and among the tangles of chaparral brush. Just this past January Suzanne Somers (a cit-com celebrity and middle-aged beauty) lost her Malibu mansion to the stampede of fire. Over the years, thousands have lost their homes in mega-quakes along the San Andreas fault and others have fallen victim to coastal erosion.

I leaned heavily on the railing of the apartment porch and stared up at the fiery hills. I thought about Southern California's population explosion and how it's no surprise to see new homes built in particularly vulnerable places. In the case of the Griffith Park fire madly raging above me, it would just so happen that only a few buildings were destroyed. But in time, I surmised that future fires might hold greater heat and fervor; that more people will be affected by these searing storms and that fire will hold us back in a way we never imagined.

Spring has fallen on the Channel Islands in subtle undertones of warmth and color. Transient rains bring shades of green to grassy hillsides and the dull heaviness of winter seems to have lifted. A brilliant array of colors blesses the twisted wilderness; orange petals of the California poppy fall to the ground, turn to gold, and warm the heart; purple lupine grows abundantly in the shade of island oaks; red and yellow monkeyflower could mystify the sorcerer; the bright white inverted bells of the morning glory ring in the new season's splendor.

Perhaps the most stunning of all island blooms is that of the Giant Coreopsis (Coreopsis gigantea). These enchanting members of the sunflower family grow along steep cliff sides and in some areas grow so prolifically they appear to drape coastal bluffs in an amarillo blanket. Charming bouquets of yellow are supported on long, candelabra-like branches above hundreds of thin, lobe-shaped leaves. I've seen this species' mainland counterpart, the Sea Dahlia or Maritime Coreopsis, and it is dwarfed substantially in size and number by this insular masterpiece. Without the intense competition for resources that these plants experience on the mainland, the island species grows freely and uninhibited and as a result exhibits a phenomenon known as island gigantism. In many parts of these islands, Spring has painted pictures only before seen in fairy tales and hallucinations.

On Santa Cruz Island, I look out over No-Man's Land Canyon and can hear the cheerful song of the western meadowlark (Sturnella neglecta). I can always hear that series of descending gurgles so characteristic of this grassland bird, but at times I have had the pleasure of watching a lonely suitor perched on one of the island's many barbwire fences, proudly advertising himself to females. He puffs up his bright yellow breast, points his beak skyward, and rapidly flaps his wings above his head. A drab, mottled female flutters in from some undisclosed location and lands beside him on the fence. Maybe one day I too will find a woman.

Another Springtime novelty is the bright blooms of the California Lilac (Ceonothus spp.). Purples, whites, and yellows shimmer among robust, aeromatic bushes - the smell reminds me of honeysuckle. Hummingbirds heed the fragrant waft of sweet nectar, their seemingly motorized wings creating a sound not unlike an over-sized bumblebee. I try to snap a few pictures in hopes of later identifying this marvel of nature and wonder how to tell the difference between an Allen's and an Anna's. I am overcome by a feeling of great hope and wellness; learning the secrets of nature strengthens my soul, bringing me closer to home in a way that I don't quite understand.

Spring harbors an energy and vivacity so necessary for human motivation and creativity. Like a bear waking from a deep winter slumber, I stretch my arms widely, yawn, and squint my eyes in wonder at the penetrating brilliance of a new day. Serotonin zaps my blinking brain - traffic lights pulsating in reckless abandon after that thick winter freeze. My libido seems to have peaked in a way that has the potential to turn dismal dames into voluptuous vixens and all of the barren, infertile plains bud to a blissful, nourishing sustenance.

The island is now a vivid bouquet, a rolling landscape to paint my dreams with. Drifting fog leaves a splash of dew on the fragile petal of a Mariposa Lily and a I briefly catch the fiery black and yellow glow of a darting hermit warbler. I soak in the moment knowing that it will be gone all too soon, but I remember that in this moments' absence I will be reveling in the presence of a new one.

My ears popped as I stormed up the 62 from Palm Springs towards the little town of Joshua Tree. The road took not a turn and the desert around me was rapidly changing color -- the effulgent hue of dawn washed away with stark white light. There it was, beyond an old, beat-up shotgun shack to the East, that grotesquely picturesque icon of the high desert. Spiny and contorted, it struck me not as the beckoning biblical prophet that the Mormons saw, but more-so recalled an image from the creative imagination of Dr. Seuss, such as in his classic "The Lorax."

Phantasmagoric. This was the word. This was what summed it all up. A shifting series of phantasms, illusions, or deceptive appearances, as in a dream or as created by the imagination. Yes, that is the definition straight out of Webster's. And it fits perfectly! By the time I had reached the dilapidated town of Joshua Tree, I had been swallowed by a forest of the glorious yuccas and was astonished. I drove passed a saloon with broken windows and felt a whim to park the car, adorn a cowboy hat, secure my holster and load my revolver. I would then walk into this old wreck of a place, nod my head to the mustached man behind the bar, and quaff a vat of whiskey. I let my imagination ramble. I had more important things to see, I thought, as I banked a hard right onto Park Drive and pulled into the West Entrance Visitor Center.

I had made it my goal to hike to all 5 desert oases that can be found throughout the park. The ranger who supplied me with maps and suggestions about the area had confirmed this idea with a subtle warning about the lurking dangers of the desert. As I headed back towards the door, I caught a glimpse of a book on a nearby shelf. The title read something like "Water: Its Life-Taking and Life-Saving Potential in the Desert." What a paradox! How treacherous in the form of an inundating flash flood, all the while God-sent as it trickles from the rim of a canteen, quenching an unyielding thirst. Back at the car, I grabbed my Nalgene and threw back half the bottle; I wasn't about to succumb to an insufferable death.

Joshua Tree National Park opened up in front of me: Boulders of Impermanence, Endless Basins and their Bone-Dry Associations, A Western Sky So Impenetrably Blue, The White Popcorn Blossoms of the Joshua Tree. Each unit of the desert seemed to speak for itself, and all could be heard clearly; nothing was cluttered. Rock climbers scaled the walls of 70-foot monoliths, birds like the western scrub jay and the cactus wren buzzed about, and the sun glared ferociously, sucking every ounce of water from the breaking soil. In my mind's eye, I could see the trap-door spiders lurking vigilantly in their lairs, and tiny brine shrimp, yet to be born, awaiting the far-off rains in some dried-up pothole. What an amazing world!

I stopped to claim a site at Ryan Campground, a fitting resting spot with magnificent boulders strewn about and hardly an RV in site. It was an act of spontaneity -- good tidings beckoned -- and I erected my tent in a copse a yuccas. I was by myself and had planned on a long weekend of reflection and soul-searching, but it didn't exactly end up that way. At the site next to mine, a hefty fellow with a goatee was struggling with his tent. I offered him a hand and in turn, he offered me great company, ceaseless outdoor "tricks" (such as how to tie a better double knot, how to more efficiently pour a jug of water -- 'put a friggin' hole in it', and how to use a folded map to pick up a hot mug of coffee), and a brilliant array of photography advice. The guy would succeed at telling a dead man how to die.

Thus, my intended weekend of solitude became something much different from that. The first day I was able to hike to two oases on my own, but that night I became so intellectually hooked, so curious, so perplexed, as to the makings and the workings of this soft spoken character Kolby. Kolby had with him three friends: Chris, Alex, and Stephanie. That night we stared in awe at the rings of Saturn -- almost moving through the high-powered magnification of a telescope -- and watched Jupiter rise over the mountains. At this moment, Joshua Tree National Park smiled at me. I realized that a new face is revealed here at night; the sky, with a billion stars scintillating, is vast and unfathomable.

At 2am we walked out into the desert, where away from the warmth of our blazing fire, I needed 3 layers to keep warm. Kolby set up his camera, opened up the aperture for a 45 minute exposure, and talked about the art of photography. He told us about his travels around the world, the many faces of life he has seen, and his inspiration to turn his art into something with the capacity of provoking change. Meanwhile, he "painted" the Joshua Tree in the foreground with a flashlight -- in order to bring it forward in the picture -- laughed at something, then quieted his voice in response to the howls and barks of a chorus of coyotes in the distance. "This place is spectacular," I remarked. Indeed, they agreed.

I spent the next few days exploring slot canyons, bouldering along the monzogranite slabs, searching adobe relics, shooting photographs of the bizarre world around me. I did end up hiking to one more oasis, and in place of the fourth and fifth oases I had missed, I substituted the hikes of two nearby mountains. So no, I didn't meet the goal I had set out to achieve, but such is life. It's really a beautiful thing. Why is it always presumed a bad thing -- a negative thing -- to not necessarily meet our goals. Goals change as life unfolds. Each instance has the capacity of completely changing our future; completely changing our minds or pushing us in different directions. Nothing is permanent or set in stone. As long as goals exist within us, we will all be okay, regardless if they are changing.

I left Joshua Tree with a new appreciation for life. I've heard that one thing leads to another, and I don't deny it. I'm not a believer in fate or destiny, but I do have an inclination towards a spirited working in the world. A garden of jumping cholla cactus hung in the fields before me as I crossed through the Colorado Desert in the southeastern corner of the park. The sun fell fast behind me, as if it carried the weight of the world, and it mixed with LA's impending smog to give off a radiant glow of violet. I thought of the time I had spent with these new-found friends of mine and all that I had learned. What forces helped me decide to come here, right at this time, and in this very moment revel in the beauty of it all? Maybe none at all. But maybe I'm happy just thinking about it.

Crawling Along the Stegasaur's Back,

The aeromatic sage seeping in my jeans,

My boots wet from morning dew,

The lazy sway of tobacco trees,

And the broken rock from under

A fog so thick I'd swim in it -

No boundary from it and the ocean,

A fleeting bird with a rattling cry,

Merely invisible to the naked eye.

The waves,

They call me down to the burning shore,

Beckoning in hope and naked splendor,

While the kelp mats drift within the swell of

Mother Earth's quiet ferocity.

There are moments when my imagination falls short on a desolate plain, sputtering like the worn-out engine of an old jalopy. But at times, my imagination shines without confinement, and too often I am mentally somewhere else and unable to note what has just occurred. Like a dream, where I wake and swear to remember its every detail, it soon fades to some distant, irretrievable location. I was tired of forgetting, neglecting, and ignoring the possibilities of the human mind, and upon the suggestion of my mother, I began documenting each dream in the pages of a leather-bound journal. It was in those pages that I began to see what I was capable of. It wasn't necessarily about discovering something about the significance of those dreams as much as it was about playing out the dreams on the page. I became fascinated with the power that writing has in developing us as intellectual beings.

Thus, this blog is in no way an attempt to promote self-righteousness or to develop an inflation of self worth. It has been created solely in the pursuit of exploring thought, opinion, and desire in a way that motivates and encourages positive action. How can we see the dreary, patterns of monotony that we live out each day in a new light? How can we find gold in the dustpan of life? Writing is a means of salvation; sifting through a perplexing accumulation of static soup that builds in the brain; overcoming that mute idleness that confines us like mummies wrapped in dirty rags. Not only can writing help define who we are emotionally, spiritually, politically, etc., but it can help us make important connections with others. This is my motivation for joining the blogging universe.

Starting a blog encourages writing and thinking more often. After all, our thoughts are what define us as individuals, and they will always be with us. However narcissistic and egotistical blogging about oneself may seem, my intentions are philanthropic. I encourage any reader to post questions, comments, reflections, pictures (whatever it may be) at any time in hopes that we may learn and share with one another. Maybe we'll capture moments of beauty that will be forever captured on one page? Maybe ugliness will surface? Maybe we'll come a little closer to the truth, if there is one at all?

So, these writings will become my new dream journal. Dreams that manifest themselves in the waking state -- that unearth the zest in everyday life -- and hopefully, gather the thoughts of others in a tumbling snowball of enlightenment. More importantly, each entry may act as a positive guiding force, gradually creating new and better ways to stand up and live.