“But the fire crackles, the patch gets sewn, the creek gurgles and thumps outside–A creek having so many voices it’s amazing, from the kettledrum basin deep bumpbumps to the little gurgly feminine crickles over shallow rocks, sudden choruses of other singers and voices from the log dam, dibble dabble all night long and all day long the voices of the creek so amusing to me at first but in the later horror of that madness night becoming the babble and rave of evil angels in my head.”
~Jack Kerouac, Big Sur
On the shores of the Pacific Ocean, I spent last weekend with good friends that I haven’t been able to spend enough time with for a few years.
We watched the waves crash against the rocks–
heard the seals barking just around the next point– drove Highway 1 along its famous precipices and bridges–
camped at the feet of ancient redwoods (that no camera can ever capture)– climbed above those trees to see the sun setting over the ocean–
drank champagne out of aluminum cups as we sat around the campfire– ate lunch in a quiet cove on white sand before blue-green water.
In the tent at night, with the sound of the little stream not 10 feet away, I read Kerouac’s “Big Sur,” in which he describes one of the most desolate periods of his life that ever made it on paper, the deepest reaches of alcoholism three years after “On the Road” brought him more fame than he could ever deal with, that brought him to a solitary cabin on the coast to hide from the demons that he could never really hide from.
Actually, around 6′ 5″. And everyone else is just short, thank you very much.
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Brings back memories of the precious little time I spent on the coast in Mendocino County. Actually I spent a few days at Bodega Bay too, when we went to the Kate Wolf festival in 1998.
And, how tall are you anyway? In all the pictures you seem to tower over your wife and your friends.