The sound of Bebop Jazz can be heard in the distance coming from an open window of an old 1920s cabin here by the lovely Russian River.
Miles and his friends have followed up from the city…
In the morning, at around 7, a murder of crows pass over. They perch on the branches of a probably hundred-plus -year-old walnut tree. The shaking of the branches by the crows cause the walnuts to come crashing down onto the cabin. Good Times.
Going deeper into the woods tomorrow. End of wifi, phone signals, and clothes. I am pleading with the forces that be that Mother Nature will keep the flames low, not switching to the west, keep still and humid, and not converge onto the town I am driving through on the way. Please be good winds and have mercy on the people and the wild beasts.
The Subterraneans will be kicking off the Norcal tradition tomorrow by clearing out the hacienda of all detritus and dirt and locking up. Driving away from the steaming anxiety-belt that is S.F. and going up into the pockets of wild, moss-green.
Smell those rodeos, redwood, and cedar. The bear, deer, coyote, hawk, raccoon, squirrel, fox, heron, rattlesnake, banana slug, and otter will greet us.
Scan the shores and walk trails. Lounge about in bursting hot-spring waters; naked, reading “Walden”.