Wild by Nature

Photo by Mr. Blue

The creative is the place where no one else has ever been. You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you'll discover will be wonderful. What you'll discover will be yourself.

Alan Alda (1936 - )

The day couldn’t have started any worse, after months of looking forward to a couple of days hiking the wilderness of the pacific coast hoping to indulge in some photography, I awake in my Monterey hotel to a driving rainy grey day. In my haste to leave town I forgot to pack any rain gear which was an inexcusable oversight. To my amazement Cannery Row in Monterey which is buried most of the time in mist, doesn’t sell rain gear. I can buy tee shirts and sweatshirt in sufficient quantity to cloth Los Angeles, but nothing to repel moisture, not even an umbrella. Knowing that it is common for the coast to be shrouded in fog and drizzle in the morning only to see the sun appear in the afternoon, I decide to wait it out and visit the Mission in Carmel, a beautiful old stucco Spanish mission surrounded by formal garden in full bloom. The setting was one of the best I have seen for photography with the worn and weathered ochre walls serving as a backdrop to the abundance of blooms in the surrounding gardens. Everything was glistening with the rain revealing the deep subtle colors of the materials, when the impossible happens, the clouds part spilling a soft angelic light across the mission, as if god was rewarding my decision to visit the mission. I reach down to pick up my camera and hold it against my eye while bringing the image into focus, an image which could be a postcard. As I slowly trip the shutter, the viewfinder flashes a warning without producing the anticipated mechanical sound.

It takes me a few seconds to process the problem, when the world crashes down around me. The very expensive and hard to locate camera battery has run out of power. I can’t belief it knowing I took the time to recharge both batteries the night before. All of a sudden I recall needing to plug my computer into the wall because the maid turned off the power cord attachment. The stupid bitch turned off my battery recharger and in the process drained both batteries of all power. I am crushed after traveling a couple thousand miles to be here at this moment with the perfect light and the perfect subject. Stunned I am completely without direction, do I head back to the hotel and wait a couple of hours to recharge the batteries, or do I blow off the reason I came and just wander the trails imagining what the scene would look like in a view finder? Having spent more than one trip trying to find a camera store, of which everyone has been obliterated by internet purchases, I abandon the idea of spending all day looking for another battery which is also likely not charged. I can’t recall being so disappointed and distraught, without knowing what to do next. Sitting down facing the mission steeple bathed in soft light I feel that this all seems like a cruel joke or a divine test that I’m supposed to learn something profound from, but all I feel is anger and frustration. Mindlessly I just give up and point the car south on the pacific coast highway toward Big Sur with the windshield wipers slapping away.

To punish myself for being so unprepared I pull into Point Lobos State Park and set out on the Cypress Grove trail with only a black hooded sweatshirt to protect me from the weather. Within a few hundred steps I discover the spectacular scenery which surrounds me. Undistracted with a camera or any other objective my senses are heighted by the elements. Rounding the point the entire rocky coast of the Pacific Ocean is revealed as the wind howls. The small wire guides preventing you from traversing the rocky wet slopes are shrieking as I fight the headwind. Bracing my body sea salt fills every breath which reminds me once again of my childhood along the Atlantic shores. The earth shakes as the waves pound the massive bedrock with a furious unrelenting determination just as determined is the granite to withstand the endless assault. Sporadic cypress trees yield to the power of the sea, seeking cover from the attack in the deep fissures of cliff face. Twisted and bent the limbs are worn grey covered on the seaward side with thick layers of brilliant colored mosses. The thrashing boughs release the scent of cedar into the swirling air, as I round the point the rain feels like bee strings on my exposed face. The footing is uncertain with gathering rivulets of water winding across the trail. The raw power and wildness of the landscape is humbling.

A windswept clearing opens before me, revealing a large rocky island sitting in a boiling sea of blue white fury. I can see the a rugged trail that leads to an open point where a large colony of sea lions have taken shelter, as their deep baritone bellows punctuate the rustling sound of the wet sage. Winds whips the sage and dwarf shrubs releasing a pungent spicy aromatic perfume of earth. Tears fill my eyes in self defense when I look forward at the open ocean staring into the transparent onslaught, as I am freed in this wonderful place devoid of humanity. Subtle calls of gulls drift on the wind as a spray of sea salt mix in the hazy mist being lifted from the crashing waves. Reaching the battlefield where land and sea meet a reverence of the power of nature overtakes me. Standing in silence I trace the range of blues from the waves mixing with the white foam then spilling over the black rocks creating thousands of ever changing tones in this monochromatic paradise. Slowly the energy required to hold my position unprotected on this rocky promontory begins to erode the distress of how the day began, no longer trying to consider what my options are, I allow the wind to rip the tension from me. I realize this is exactly why I’m come to this place to be humbled in its presence, to be a child before an omnipresent master. The rain has done me a favor, because I have the entire coast to myself, thousands of acres, mile after mile, I need not share any of this with a single person in the world, it is mine alone to behold.

The ruggedness of the terrain, the fury of the weather, the impenetrable cliffs make me struggle with each step, making me work to discover the secrets of the rugged coast. I needed the physicality of this trip to break down the idleness of my mind and body. Breathing hard I press on over the next ridge to discovery a bay more spectacular than the last, each revealing a unique profusion of wildflowers painted on the hilltops slightly out of reach of the beckoning waves. China Cove is a turquoise gem as blue as any Caribbean island with white pure white sand in an alcove hundreds of feet below the cliffs. Its shores are covered with seals and sea lions resting motionless sheltered in this bay as if on a European vaction. I open my mind to every sensation of smell, touch and sight to fully embrace the present, wanting to absorb the world in real time, not aware of a past or future, but to engage the moment. The sea is part of me and I am part of the sea indistinguishable from a wave, or the scent of sage, or the cry of the wind. Grounded I cannot conceive my own existence outside of the realm of nature, I am not more or less than a rock on the shore, or a wildflower clinging to the cliff, or a drop of foam swirling on the surging tide. I am the cycle of life which is without dimension in a place which is enduring and timeless, a place which has no concern for me, a place which has remained unchanged for centuries. The only awareness of myself are the Muscles in my legs that are burning as I continue climbing higher and higher into the cypress forest clocked is fog and dew, focused on pushing forward without direction, getting lost while being found. Sweat streaming down my chest is immediately chilled by the reoccurring blast of ocean air in each exposed gap along the sheltered trail. Resting to catch my breath I turn around to descend back to where I began.

During the day while driving south along the coast I frequently pull off the highway to inject myself back into the steeply dissected ravines and valleys snaking to the pacific. Each stop is a discovery more amazing than the last. A small beach access posting between two long curves implore me to escape the confines of the vehicle. Not more than four steps from the car I drop into a rolling field of wildflowers dappled with blues, whites, yellows and oranges as all vestiges of man erode. The highway disappears as a small trail circles toward a clef in the landscape. Suddenly a small rocky stream appears with crystal clear water bubbling over smooth worn black granite cobblestones. For the first I realize that Calla Lilies are native to the lowlands here as large white drifts buffer and caress the stream’s edges. A more beautiful scene could not be imagined as I slow my pace to once again become a child of wonder, allowing the cold water to lure me deeper into the ravine.

After spending an unmeasured amount of time examining each pristine white lily the roar of the ocean begs me to continue toward the opening in the cliffs sheltering me. Never in my entire life of exploring seashores have I seen an untouched wild stream exit to the roaring ocean. I am overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the clear water emerging from the stone riverbed then gently rolling across the white sand into the waves. Like a child I walk around the flowing waters examining them from each and every perspective, as if I was unable to understand its secret mystery. Almost my accident I look up to view a long stretch of shoreline beach only about 150 feet wide before it is overshadowed by sandstone cliff reaching into the sky, an endless perspective of sand receding to infinity. The far reaches of the shore are masked in a soft pearl mist generated by the pounding surf as it is pushed up the headlands. I turn around only to see another endless shore different in many ways but just as spectacular as the last. Whatever I was seeking, was discovered in this apex of my journey, this I what I was yearning for, the nourishment I was starving for washes my soul in abundance. There is no place to find, there is no need to look further absolute perfection is found in the wind and the rain as I plant myself firmly on the sand next to the stream. My life could end without disappointment at this moment, I could give myself to the sea and be satisfied knowing that this confluence of earth and sea exists and I have touched it, knowing that this place will remain unchanged for centuries where my spirit can return to my heart’s desire. Sitting motionless in the sand with the waves dancing for me I am content, the miles of climbing and hiking have tortured my body extracting a measure of surrender. I can see the arc of the chasm before me and I understand that this is truly living a life of extraordinary purpose. I have not capitulated to the droning grind of routine, but have ceased the opportunity to live for a moment which so few people can say they have experienced alone on a remote wilderness shoreline next to a pure mountain stream pouring into the ocean as the rain strings my face.

Exhausted, soaked I am torn between experiencing the ray few rays of daylight and the fear of hiking back in a wilderness in the dark. Lingering far too long the path darkens to grey soft shadows with indistinct edges as the mist consumes the light as a lover yields to desire. Realizing that only instinct will provide guidance in retracing a path to civilization, I detach my soul from the pounding surf, turning my back on the origin of dreams, but not without a mournful glance toward the last fading strip of orange light that holds the sea and sky from its union. At that moment I know that I shall capture every extra moment to return to these stolen seconds of bliss that exist in every landscape on every hill, shore, forest, desert, prairie, mountain and in doing so the arc of the chasm will close.

“The Promised Land always lies on the other side of a Wilderness.”

Havelock Ellis (1859-1939)

Gordon & the Party Pig

“What men call good fellowship is commonly but the virtue of pigs in a litter which lie close together to keep each other warm.”

Henry David Thoreau (1817 - 1862)

Deep in the Alaskan wilderness I have rediscovered a long forgotten masculine culture of vibrato, camaraderie and unabashed verbal torment. In my present lifestyle of receptions and committee meetings, the essence of the exclusive blue collar boys club has disappeared from my lexicon. I traveled to the fringe of humanity with my brother who had not been outside a house filled with small children in seven years only to find how rusty and atrophied our masculine social skills were. Rather quickly I picked up my old New Jersey swagger, while my brother seemed to require more time to shake off the stench of domestication.

Male culture appears on the outside to be a cruel, punitive verbal assault based on intense competition which attempts to exploit perceived weakness of the individuals of the group. Under the surface is a genuine sincere team building process in which each individual is challenged to exceed personal limitations in order to gain rank in the group. The primary tool in this process is humor, whether targeted at an individual or more commonly self deprecating and targeted at one owns weaknesses. The topics of ridicule haven’t changed since my youth and remain manhood, femininity, homosexuality, sexual prowess, physical endowment, physical ability, mental ability and the most dreaded attribute, the lack of dominance in your personal relationships (commonly referred to as pussy whipped). Within these topics most verbal taunts are fair game with the objective of getting the largest rise from the tribe. To the uninitiated the language can be shocking and exceptionally offensive which actually delivers a higher score whenever you can make this jaded group of male apes cringe.

Fishing for salmon and halibut in the ocean may sound like a leisurely excursion, but it is exceptionally strenuous and physically demanding. It challenges every ounce of your conditioning and fortitude. Typically the group arises at 3:45 in the morning for a large country breakfast of eggs, bacon and pancakes. The group gets fitted in waders and rain gear as the fishing equipment is hauled to the dock. The boat pushes off at 4:50 am for what can only be considered as the most spectacular one hour boat ride to the fishing grounds. Low hanging fog and clouds cling to the mountains as the sun rises burning openings in the cover revealing brilliant colors of red, orange and blue. The air is crisp as it chills one to the bone. Approaching the open ocean the boat encounters rolling surf which turns the vessel into a violent cement mixer. The violent thrashing of the boat requires everyone to brace themselves with considerable exertion as you are physically lifted 12 inches off the ground only to return to the vessel with a brutal pounding. The experience reminded of me of what World War I veterans must have endured while being shelled in the trenches. At the end of three days the heels of my feet were covered with bone bruises from the violent collisions with the steel deck of the boat, not to mention the constant aching of my knees, hips, kidneys and liver. I felt like I endured twelve rounds with a Mexican fighter that focused his attack on body punching. During a day of fishing one experiences this physical beating for about two hours in 30 minute increments as we reposition ourselves to where the fish are biting.

The vessel consists of our captain named Carrington, a first mate and five fishermen. Our captain was in fact our first mate during the last trip three years ago so we ready had a warm friendship with the skipper. The first mate is the boat grunt whose exertion exceeds everyone’s plus some. He is responsible for baiting hooks, hauling up the anchor, untangling knots, gaffing fish into the boat, gutting the fish and cleaning the deck. Our first mate is a sixteen year old named Gordon who is on his maiden voyage as a deck hand. We asked the girls that work at the lodge about Gordon. They said he was sensitive, quiet and frail. Our first question was “Do you think we can make him cry? Do you think we can make him quit?” The girls were confident he would hang in there and pass the male test. The way life on the water works is that the second you push away from the dock all laws of humanity are suspended and feudal law starts with the captain in charge.

The fishing boat is simple without any comforts such as seats or cushions. Typically everyone sits on fishing coolers or tackle boxes. The gunnels on the side of the boat are solid aluminum that extends only to slightly lower than your knee so that there is nothing to brace yourself with as the boat rocks and rolls in the open sea. Your knees and legs are constantly battered by the gunnels. This is not a trip for the girls, for the restroom is a five gallon plastic bucket that is placed on the forward deck. The easiest way to become the target of verbal abuse is needing to “hit the bucket”.

Fishing is accomplished for the most part while standing with heavy tackle to overcome the sea currents. The captain notes on the sonar “Ho’s (Coho Salmon) at 195 feet.” We drop the weighted line to 210 feet then immediately reel it up allowing the bait to spin and flash silver as you pull through the school tempting the salmon. The physical exertion is continuous as you drop the line and reel it back up on a shifting unstable platform. It did not take long for my forearms, biceps, shoulders and back muscles to begin to burn and cramp. The first day the captain did not know I was left handed so I had to reel in a crossover position with a right handed reel. For it, I garnered my share of attention as I heard “What the f--------. You work that reel like a girl.” At one point my forearm cramped so badly that for the next 45 minutes the cramps would return whenever I bent my elbow. The following day the captain took my left handed reel in order to pull the line up for another fisherman and remarked “Damn your one tough son of a bitch! I can believe how f------ hard it is to work a reel in reverse and you did it for an entire day.” There was only one standard male response to such a compliment “F---- you. You're just a pussy.”

All of a sudden the reason you have endured all the pain and discomfort becomes apparent as a thirty pound king salmon strikes your bait and the fight begins. King salmon will struggle some as you pull them up from 190 feet of water, but all of a sudden they realize they are approaching the surface and takes off like a rocket. The reel screams with a shrill whistle as the salmon rips off 300 or 400 hundred feet of line and all you can do to hang on to dear life as they head for the sea floor or tail dance across the surface on the horizon. After the run concludes you begin to slowly pull the fish back toward the boat reeling two feet at a time using every muscle in you upper body. After 10 minutes as the fish approaches the boat again and teases you with a fuzzy glimpse of silver when the reel screams again as another 300 to 400 feet of line is ripped off. The largest salmon I hooked ran four times and took about 45 minutes to get in the boat.

King salmon won’t allow you to stand on one place on the boat and reel them in, they run in every direction even under the boat so you are constantly lapping the deck attempting to keep your line perpendicular to the vessel. You may end up lapping the deck eights times crawling over and under the lines of the other fisherman, anchor and propellers. You can’t imagine how exciting it is when three fishermen are working king salmon at the same time screaming running around the boat trying to keep the lines untangled. About half the time they spit the hook out and the fight is prematurely over. Finally you are able to get one in the boat to the sound of the guys congratulating you “Not bad for a girl with a peg leg! If I didn’t know better I’d think you were gay.” There you stand drenched in sweat as every muscle is burning from exhaustion and the senses in hyper drive. In some instances I’m so spent that I’m unable to lift the fish up on the gaff in order to get the obligatory photo. The limelight pales quickly as you reach into the cooler for another beer and immediately drop the line for another round.

When the fish are hitting the captain is controlling the activity, yelling instructions to the novice fisherman. He is usually responsible for getting the big fish in the boat. Halibut over fifty pounds are so dangerous that they are shot with a shot shotgun before they are pulled into the boat. The tail slaps of Halibut are so powerful that they can easily break leg or even kill someone. What could appeal to the male mind more than fishing, beer, cursing and shooting something with a gun? In the process of running around the boat with a gun attempting to subdue a 127 pound halibut the captain tripped over some bait buckets and screamed “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the Hell are you doing? Clean up this f------ mess.” A short time later one of the fishermen was working a king salmon while the captain was in the cabin. During a forceful pull of the rod the salmon spit out the hook rocketing the eight ounce lead counterweight at the boat at a horrific speed. Before anyone knew it the lead counterweight slammed into the top of the metal cabin with the sound of a grenade exploding surprising everyone aboard. Suddenly a voice erupts from the cabin “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing?” It didn’t take the group long to pick up on the theme of this trip “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing?”

It probably didn’t help that Gordon didn’t take to the sea well and in a short time he was seasick and chumming off the bow. This was all the more reason for the boys to help young Gordon to work on his weaknesses and offer some support helping him become an esteemed member of the tribe. “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? I need my hook baited”

Poor Gordon not fully familiar with male rituals actually attempted a reply “I’m sorry I’ll be there after I’m done vomiting.”

Needless to say it provided too easy of a retort “God Damn it Gordon!!! You can vomit later there are Ho’s waiting for me”. The entire group took some pride in educating Gordon on the male rituals of manhood. After Gordon disposed of breakfast we offered some manly support “Gordon you look like shit, you better drink a beer.” That consoling gesture was followed with “God Damn it Gordon, my f------- grandmother can vomit better than that.” The male equivalent of “Go walk it off.”

After a few moments of silence you would hear the mindless banter “I’m having so much f------ fun with you girls that I think I’ll commemorate the experience when I get back to port by having a little butterfly tattooed on my ass.”

“Oh yeah, I think I’ll have my nipples pierced for nipple rings.” Someone else jumps in.

The captain offers his insights “Why wait until we get to shore, I’ve got some big Halibut circle hooks. We can do it now if you like.”

“That would be nice. Do you think you could hang some of those big 16 ounce lead weights off the hooks too?”

Gordon decides to wade into the conversation. He opens with “Yeah we could call you nipples hooks.” It was a fairly weak retort by male standards which is countered with the standard “F--- You Gordon. You decide to get a pair of balls from the tackle box? Why don’t you go chum up some more fish.”

We all had to smile that Gordon began to step up and play with the boys. He was starting to earn his stripes. We were pushing Gordon to come out of him shell and take a few swings at the plate. Gordon struggled the most at pulling the anchor from the ocean floor which required some substantial upper body strength. The first three of four attempts he was relieved by the captain with the now routine “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? Pull harder it will build your shoulders.”

Over the three days Gordon developed a comfort level in understanding the male banter and playful joking. Only once did we really catch him off guard where he did not know if we were joking or not. During one of Gordon’s attempts to pull the anchor from the ocean floor someone yelled at him “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? Take off your shirt so we can watch your muscles ripple.” Gordon immediately froze and stopped pulling on the anchor chain. Slowly he turned and looked at the group with an expression of surprise and confusion. It was priceless, for a second we crossed over in Gordon’s mind from joking about being homosexuals to actually being homosexuals. By the end of the three days Gordon was a cherished member of the tribe. He had stood his ground and been pushed to the point of total physical and metal exhaustion as had the entire tribe. Although all the attention did not relive Gordon of hearing “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing?” well into the night.

The fishing would conclude about 2:30 pm each afternoon and be followed with another spectacular hour drive back to port. Exhausted and bruised we would climb the dock as Gordon with the help of three high school students would fillet and vacuum pack the fish. Not more than 60 minutes after hitting shore the fish was in the freezer. Most of the time the group would barely drag themselves to the store for something to grill and replenish the stock of bourbon and beer.

The most memorable evening was with Carrington and one of his friends that brought along the Party Pig. Apparently this guy would raise pigs and then slaughter them for the pork. This one particular pig was the runt of the litter and would not fatten up fast enough so it became a pet, at least for the short term. While I was taking a shower I kept hearing some raucous partying downstairs occasionally mixed in with a squeal. I didn’t think much about it until I arrive downstairs to find a small twenty pound pig drinking beer. It was at that moment I wished I had a pet Party Pig myself, for it was the star of the show. Someone would place a bottle of beer open on the floor and the pig would squeal while running to pick the bottle up with its mouth, tilt it back and guzzle the entire contents in the blink of an eye. Men in the wilderness are so easily entertained. No one could leave a beer unguarded on the floor because the pig would run over and drink it. What was really funny was that they needed to cover the pig’s eyes when ever someone opened a beer or else the pig would freak out and rush who ever was holding the beer.

During about 90 minutes the pig drank six beers keeping up with fishermen and mountain men alike before waddling over to a corner of the living room and passing out. At which point the owner which was on the verge of passing out himself picked up the Party Pig and went home. I began to think about the financial opportunities of having a personal Party Pig. I bet you could make three to four hundred dollars a night in the bars. “Oh yeah you think your so tough? I bet this little twenty pound pig can out drink you!!” It’s a sucker bet. Just think $2500 a week or $120,000 a year trotting the Party Pig around the bar scene. The only down side would be the travel required since the Party Pig would gain a reputation rather quickly and you would need to travel far and wide to hit bars where the legend of the Party Pig was not known. I can hear it now “Don’t mess with the Party Pig, he’ll kick your ass.” Eventually the evening concluded with a familiar rant “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? You can’t even out drink a twenty pound pig.”

It did not take long to decide that 3:45 AM is coming quickly and my body is shutting down. It is time to call it quits but not without a warm felt goodnight. “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? You should be asleep so you can keep up with us homos tomorrow. Hell I bet that even that little Party Pig could kick your ass out on the boat tomorrow.”

The Wilderness Boys Club 2007 Edition. Photo by God Damn Gordon

“It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson