We’re past the halfway point of our volunteering gig here in Mendocino on the Northern California coast. Three and a half months done, one and a half months left to go. Both of us agree that this is the most beautiful place we’ve volunteered, with all of the moist green, the redwoods, the headlands, the ocean, the rivers, and so many gorgeous wildflowers, plants, and blooms everywhere.
I asked Marika, “Could you live here?”
“Too cold,” she said.
“Too isolated and hard to get to,” I said.
But boy, are we enjoying it all while we’re here.
This past month, we had a very different work schedule. Instead of working at the Ford House, we were scheduled to only work at the two campground visitors centers. And it was every weekend.
At first we were both upset. How come no one else was scheduled at the campgrounds? How come we didn’t have a single shift at the Ford House? And why were we the only ones working every weekend?
And then I remembered that the new couple was still in training so they can’t work at the campgrounds yet. After a bit more whining, we agreed that we were fine working wherever we were needed. And I sent a note to our boss, asking for at least one shift at the Ford House the following month.
And then I cracked myself up, because, when we first interviewed for the job, we were told we’d probably be working at all three places, and we had both hoped we wouldn’t have to work at the Ford House and learn stuff and have to do tours.
Of course, we actually had a lot of fun working in the campgrounds. It was more relaxed, less busy, and we didn’t have to be “on” as tour guides. Many campers had come to escape the inland heat and fires. One family had been evacuated and was waiting to hear when they could return to their home.
We answered questions about the trails, sold lots of merchandise, and, my favorite thing, we engaged with kids about nature, and swore several in as Junior Rangers.
And we even worked a shift at the Ford House because the new people were sick. So it all worked out. As it always does, if we just allow it. This month, we’ll be working a mix of weekdays and weekends, at both the Ford House and the campground visitors center. Win Win Win.
When we’re not working, we’re still finding new beaches, new vistas, and new restaurants. We have checked out a lot of the local art galleries, and finally, the Mendocino Art Center has reopened. Established in 1959, it was a magnet for artists from the Bay Area to come up to Mendocino in the 1960’s, and still hosts exhibits of well known as well as local artists.
We walked around the sculpture gardens and inside the gallery, but the best part was talking with some Native artists in one of the studios. They were working on the tiles for the mural that will be installed in the new bathrooms near the Ford House.
We spoke to the three artists, each from different bands of the Pomo tribe, and asked them what they would like us to share with our visitors about the Pomo Indians. They said, “That we are resilient, and we are still here.”
The man, the oldest of the three, shared stories of how his people were moved from one piece of land to another, and explained that the difference between the words reservation, reserve, and rancheria is the size of the land, though not necessarily livable land.
One morning we joined Mary, one of the Ford House docents, for a very informative walk along the Headlands. She told stories about the Ford family, and pointed to the remnants of the wooden structures and chains from the apron chutes, then showed us photographs to bring it all to life. We learned that the Portuguese were excellent woodworkers, and she showed us where the Chinese herb shops were located. Afterwards, Mary and Marika made a plan to go birding together.
At least once a week we explore someplace new. We took a walk across the Pudding Creek Trestle where people leave locks, like in Paris, and listened to live music at the local Forest Fest.
We walked through the cemetery in Mendocino where the Ford family is buried, and explored the marina side of the Noyo River Harbor.
I’ve also taken myself into town alone a few times. I wandered through a wonderfully musty used bookstore that’s been in business for twenty three years, and revisited a few thrift stores. One morning I took myself for a walk along the Headlands, then picked up pastries to bring home to Marika.
One afternoon after I did the laundry, I stopped at a park that I had noticed on the map. It was a wilderness of tall redwood trees tucked into the middle of Fort Bragg. I walked a few yards into the park, but was met with the loud banter of school kids, so I turned back. On Marika’s birthday, we went back for a full exploration.
We followed the wide dirt path from the parking lot down to the floor of the forest, then followed a narrow side path along the slow running Pudding Creek. We walked over exposed tree roots that crisscrossed the path, and took pictures of the flowers along the banks.
And then I saw her, a fully hollowed out Redwood tree, taller than I could see. I found my footing down to the base and stood inside the tree with my back leaning against the bark. I looked up, then closed my eyes and just breathed. The sounds of the world muffled and I could only feel warmth and peace and love.
I feel that same peace when Tillie and I walk through our backyard forest cathedral. It is quiet and still, yet humming with energy. Especially when the fog hangs low and drips from the trees onto the path. My lungs love the moisture, and my whole being feels hugged in the presence of all of the magnificent trees.
I’ve been in forests before, in the pines in Northern Arizona and Colorado, the colored oaks and maples in the east, even the magic fairy forests on the Oregon coast. I’ve liked them, but I’ve never felt hugged by them like I do here in the redwoods.
Redwood trees are the tallest trees in the world, growing as tall as 350 feet. Surprisingly, their roots only grow six to twelve feet deep, but they intertwine with the roots of the nearby trees to provide incredible strength and stability. Redwoods also share nutrients through their roots with nearby trees. No wonder I call them Mother Trees. And when a Redwood tree dies, new trees grow in a circle around that tree, sometimes from seeds, often from the stumps and roots of the old trees.
When we’re not out exploring, our days off are filled with laundry, food shopping, TV time, neighborhood walks, beach romps, and dog park ball playing. That is, until Tillie tore a big chunk of a back toenail off at the end of July. She was on restricted activity for three weeks, with just walks around the neighborhood with a baby sock protecting her bandage.
She was more than willing to let us change her dressing daily, and she now lets us Dremel her nails every few days to avoid another incident. And now that she is all healed and back to full on fun, we are back to the beaches and dog parks at least every other day.
Meanwhile, my body has gotten bigger and softer since we got here, and I hadn’t been on my bike since the end of May. The neighborhood just felt too small, and too hilly to enjoy a lazy ride. And so I stopped.
A few weeks ago I noticed that my ankles were popping, my upper arms seemed even weaker than usual, and it was becoming an effort to walk up the RV steps. So I made a commitment to myself to get back on my bike. Not for a required amount of time or distance, but to simply get back in the saddle.
That first day I rode two times around the circle, with one hard climb up to the office. The second day I did the same, but without the hard hill. On day three, I turned my bike pedometer on because I was curious how many times around the circle made a mile. Three. Most days since then, I’ve ridden at least three circles around. Sometimes several times. Most days I even remember to turn on my bike pedometer, because I like to see my commitment, like proof.
Riding takes me deep into my head thoughts, and also completely out of them. I can rerun an uncomfortable conversation, or focus on the burn in my thighs as I climb up the hill. But lately, I’ve been able to let it all go, and just feel the rush of the air as I cruise down the hills, and lean into the turns to do it all over again.
I ride the same loop every time: out our driveway and onto the street to the left, toward the maintenance yard. I say good morning to the workers as I peddle up the slight incline and curve to the left at the water tower. On the straightaway I shift gears to pick up some speed in preparation for the hill up to the auxiliary parking lot. I gear down as I climb to the top and then turn around.
The first few times I noticed that I was always turning to the left at the top of the hill for the turnaround, that I felt less steady and sure when I turned a tight right. So I’ve been practicing turning right each time, and now, it’s as comfortable as turning left.
I fly down the hill, turn left back onto the main road, and then left again, up the hill to the employee parking lot next to the office. Sometimes I stand and peddle because it feels so good. And then I coast down the hill and turn left, circling into the maintenance yard again. I ride past the workers and peddle hard on the straightaway past our campsite as I enter the blind curve, listening for any trucks that might be coming down.
When we first got here, I avoided this stretch of the circle because the road past our campsite narrows to barely wide enough for one car, you can’t see around the corner, and sometimes the workers drive through kind of fast. And, after the turn, it’s a slow but steady uphill climb to the road where the office is.
But I got tired of only doing half the circle, so I tried it. Each time I approached the curve, I’d squeeze the brakes in anticipation of the slight bump in the road around the corner. And then I’d have to work pretty hard to get up the hill.
I noticed that my body clenched before the bump, so I reminded myself to drop my weight low into my seat and relax my arms to absorb the impact. After I got used to the bump, I tried slowing down as I approached the curve, but without using my brakes, and I began to trust myself and my riding skills. Now I fly around the corner at 15 mph, lean into the bump, and easily gear down to peddle up to the top of the hill. And it feels so good.
The metaphors are not lost on me. So I’ve been noticing where else in my life I’ve been avoiding blind curves and bumps in the road, and how I can tenderly and lovingly move toward them and through them. And it seems like the right time, with the Jewish New Year beginning next week.
There is a Jewish community in Caspar, just four miles north of us. For the first time since we’ve been on the road, I will participate in the Tashlich ritual, at the beach, owning my less than loving behaviors, forgiving myself and others, and letting it all go.
The following Sunday we are going to a special meditation related to Shmita, the every seventh year practice of letting the land rest. I’ve never heard of the practice, but being outside on someone’s land, chanting and meditating, sounds like a beautiful way to let go of the old, and and open up to the sweetness of the new year.
