It never fails. Even after a relatively short immersion in wild nature, I am transformed. When I started up the dusty path from the trailhead, I felt constricted in a calcified shell of modern containment; irritable, burdened, and somewhat prickly
Amid the trees, the dry, sage-like aromas of the lower canyon trail transform. Here the air is not only cooler by several degrees but suddenly tinged with mossy notes and a scent of green-tea, catapulting me to other places and other wanderings.
I admit to a conflicted relationship with Big Sur, the vast and sparsely inhabited coastal region immediately south of Carmel, California. It is a land of dramatic hillsides and cliffs meeting the sea, a narrow winding highway (often closed for rockslides, or undriveable due to thick fog), an untamed wilderness. As the rugged and raw threshold
I knew the trail would be crowded on New Year’s Day but I went regardless. After a quiet morning at my studio, ensconced in the southerly window seat, watching a calm blue sea through the ornate framework of tangled cypresses, a cup of tea beside me and a book on my lap, I decided that