Sea Otters

We drove out to the coast this morning, under bright sunny skies. There was frost to scrape off my car window before we left and the breeze was chilly but we found ourselves in a seaside heaven, at a restaurant with a glassed in patio, on pilons over the water.

Lunch of freshest grilled sand dabs, lightly painted with a ginger teriaki glaze, watching pelicans diving and hearing the bark of seals.

The sea otters were so big, I thought they were seals but their playful spinning and waggling feet-flippers made me question that assumption. I left my meal to hang over the railing and watch them dive and come up with mussels, which they cracked and ate, using their fat tummies as tables.

There was a brief territorial dispute when two otters surfaced a few inches from one another. Those who were done feasting swam up the mouth of the river and let themselves be swooshed back down into the ocean estuary.

Replete

Lake San Antonio, California, Saturday Evening, January 16th, 2010:

At the very instant that the wind cries "Uncle" and lays spent, surrendering its feeble efforts to keep sky and earth apart, an owl takes up the song of night, punctuated by the discordant cry of a woodpecker winging home moments before curfew. The hollow echo of a fish splashing one last time from the lake water below our cabin is a reminder to believe in things we cannot always perceive.

Deer graze on the fresh waterside shoots of grass, their graceful movements robbed of fine detail and reincarnated as living silhouettes.

Tonight we will sleep beneath the realm of eagles and dream of knowing golden eyes and the marvel of flight.

Back in the Saddle.

Gary Cooper is a really odd name for a young palomino riding school horse. No matter. I am still having a hard time transitioning from saying "Good Dog" to "Good Horse". Maybe I should just call them all "Dahling" as one of my girl friends  recommended long ago in a conversation about amours of the two-legged variety.
When my foster dogs were finally (after 6 months) situated in great homes I had a doctor look at my poor ankle. I knew I had twisted it months previously but I had kept up the-five miles a day, tired dog is a good dog-regimen which is my recipe for success for animals and children alike. I was O.K. walking off the stiffness every day but I was awake most nights with pain. I was supplied with a leg brace, ibuprofen and told to sit and stay for three weeks to allow the tendon to begin the healing process.
I went to all my Christmas parties wearing my nice supportive, flat and surprisingly fashionable riding boots; cleaned and polished for the occasion, of course. Now, after six  weeks, I am beginning to have whole days without noticing a twinge in my ankle. I'm off the pills. I started walking again; although it is not as motivating alone. The greatest thing is that I once again can snatch some time to ride.
There is a picturesque horse barn at the top of the hill, a couple of miles from my home. Situated next to an open space preserve, surrounded by their own vineyards, they cater to private livery horses, a vaulting team, Western trail rides or lessons and English Riding Instruction; with wine tasting available for good measure.
I had ridden there before but the one instructor I like (she's German) only had mid-week, mid-morning openings and I am supposed to be trying to earn a living too. In addition, the school horses were over-bitted to keep them safe for all comers. I am uncomfortable trying to ride on the bit when a horse has a hugely strong contraption to worry about. I had given up and started riding elsewhere. The lessons fit my schedule on a Sunday morning, the bits were mostly snaffles and the teacher had some knowledge to impart. The negatives were the lack of a covered arena, so no shade from our California sunshine, and a group of horses that, although well-fed and only worked a couple of hours each day, had seen better days. Nacho, my designated mount, was responsive and rewarding to ride but often slightly lame at the beginning and prone to stumble for no apparent reason. He fell to his knees a couple of times over the months I rode him and I became wary and was sitting deep in the saddle trying not to get myself killed. The foster dogs came along and the decision was made for me as I no longer had the time for both. Even though I have a couple of rides to my credit, I have been hesitant to go back to where I feel guilty about riding the horses.
There are other barns and equitation centers around. Not many give instruction to those who are not interested in buying a horse. There are a few good ones that I cannot afford. $90 for thirty minutes is beyond my budget. Life is all about choice and compromise and sometimes luck.
I started the week with stressful thoughts about business, the economy, clients etc. and couldn't go home on Monday evening feeling as twitchy and negative as I was feeling. I let my car pass the turn off for home and drove up the canyon to at least breathe in some horsey air.
There was a lesson in the arena and I stood and watched as dusk fell, surrounded by the sounds and smells that are so familiar to me and yet mostly missing from my current life. I went into the office with the notion of reading the notice board. Sometimes a horse owner needs someone to share the load and will propose a part lease; again not a perfect solution but I am open to suggestions. The notice board was not there, the office recently repainted. "Hello" greetings with the friendly gal behind the desk who did not need any explanation when I said "I was stressed and needed some Horse". It is like being adrift in a wide shipwrecked ocean and being thrown a life raft. "I know what you mean" she said. "Hang out. Go say hello to the horses in the barn". I feel the tension dissolving between my shoulder blades. Maybe I won't cry or bite someone today after all. "Does..T? still teach here?" "Does she have any openings that fit my schedule?" "Friday at 5pm? Great!"
All week I looked forward to getting back into the saddle. Gary Cooper happens to be ridden in a snaffle and I think we can both help one another and make some progress. I had to lengthen my stirrups a hole to accommodate my gimpy ankle. I might ride without stirrups entirely a few times just to avoid irritating it all over again. I already ride longer than you would expect if you saw my short legs so no big deal. This coming week we're planning some turns on the forehand and serpentine work. G.C. needs some balance support and I have "repressed muscle memory" issues to work through.
An offshoot of the morale boost that I got from planning something just for myself was the incentive to plan something else. We are booked into a cabin by a lake Friday and Saturday nights with a pontoon boat at our disposition. The locals are supplying a map so that we can find where the migrating Eagles are nesting (with safety instructions on staying well clear). I hope to see something wonderful that I have never seen. If not, there will still be lake views, deer, quail and unspoiled Nature. Not too shabby a downside. A definite win, win situation and I'm riding on Thursday so I won't miss a thing.

Fame by William Stafford

My book fell in a river and rolled
Over and over turning its pages for the sun. From a bridge I saw this.
An eagle dived and snatched the slippery volume.

Now somewhere in the forest that book educates
Eagles, turns its leaves in the wind,
and all those poems whisper for autumn
to come, and the long nights, and the snow

My Lovely Daughter chose this poem to illustrate for a school project many years ago. I am happy to have discovered it through her.

Tonight Lovely Daughter and Keeper Husband are camping, somewhere in the Northern Woods with strangers (or new friends) whom they met online in a chat group for those who have Jeep Wranglers.

I have the GPS coordinates so that I will know where to start looking if they don't show up on Monday.

I wonder if she will see eagles soaring or come across a poetry book in the forest.

Rain - You want us to do what?

Yesterday was a day of lashing rain, exuberant wind whipped trees and frothy sorbet yellow, pollen rimmed puddles.
This being brash and media hungry California, it was impossible for us to slide into an autumn season of gentle precipitation. Hell No! We went from Heatwave and Wildfires to Typhoon, Flooding and Mudslides as quick as a blink. We had 6-8 inches (15-20 cms) of wet stuff from the sky in a twenty four hour period, with high winds to match. I loved every minute of it!
Itsy bitsy dribbly rain is annoying. You don't take it seriously; it's too much trouble to put a coat on; you get surreptitiously dampened; glasses useless, hair flattened, shoulders shivering in cold clothes for the remainder of the day. Bah Humbug.
Give me a rip roaring horizontal torrent and I'll show you my happy face. I have pink wellies with daisies on. I have Gore-TeX rain wear and a leather baseball cap from The Territory Ahead, ever so slightly accented with plaid. If I'm going to get wet anyway, I might as well enjoy being outside when I pretty much get the place to myself. Joggers, cyclists and even squirrels were noticeably absent from the landscape. Just me and some very wet dogs.
Number One Dog, Diva, was a puppy during our first go round with El Nino. I was in shock: When we moved to California from Europe we arrived at the beginning of a seven year drought. I thought it would always be like that. So, you weren't supposed to wash your car and lawns were considered antisocial; You could plan a barbecue or trip to the beach with the certitude of warm, dry surroundings. I didn't even own a raincoat.
I think the El Nino climate kicked in early in the spring one year, or maybe it came to my attention then, because we procured our First Canine, who was an adorable, teddy bear sized puppy with needle sharp teeth and a need for exercise. Diva grew up splishing along trying to catch the bubbles she and I kicked up in the gutters on our walks. As wet from below as from above, "What the Hell? I'm English-What do you Expect?" When it's time to go out, we go out. Weather? What's that?
Yesterday morning I leashed up The Foster Dogs for their usual 45 minute constitutional and opened the door, ready to set out. You should have seen their faces. "You want us to do what? In the Rain?" was expressed as clearly as if they had spoken. We went out anyway, of course, and after a block and a half of near paralysis
they must have reached down into their inner Collie-core of hardy Scottish herding dogs and they got with the program. Big fluffy Marks and Spencer's bath towels were used for doggie massages upon our return and I made good use of the hot shower for myself. It's not exactly roughing it; we were never in danger of hypothermia; we didn't have to hack down branches to build a temporary shelter. Between the morning and afternoon outings with separate sets of dogs, I filled a washing machine with clothes and towels. I had a smile on my face all day and from the look on the faces of the few car drivers who slowed to make clever comments to us, like "You're going to get wet, you know?", we amused some other people too.

Camargue - Living a Dream- part I. Nature

Visiting the Camargue Region of Southern France was a dream of mine for a long time. I had heard and read about the wetlands on the edge of the Mediterranean where white horses, black bulls and pink flamingos lived freely in natural surroundings. The marshy delta, created by the great Rhone river spreading out and dividing in the flatlands before spilling into the sea, had been saved and protected from development. 85,000 hectares of National Park.

As if that were not enough, I learned that there was also a historic link to Gypsy Culture with a yearly festival in honor of Sara, Patron Saint of Gypsies and Sainte Marie, the namesake of the town Ste Marie de la Mer.

In May of 2007, with my French husband and a couple of American friends, I made it to Camargue, timing our trip to coincide with the Pilgrimage of Gypsies from all over Europe.

The hotel I had chosen, outside of town, was made up of thatched-roofed, white-walled round huts, built in the tradition of the herdsmen, or Guardians of Camargue, scattered around a flat property, interspersed with waterways and clumps of reeds. I had asked for the accommodations furthest from the rest, on the edge of a briny, inland lagoon, where there were perpetual movements of feeding flocks of Flamingos and other water fowl. There is something mythical about the presence of a wedge of hundreds of white swans in the early dawn light; first the noise and then the sight of them flying in to land, en masse, preening, feeding, conversing; a whiteness of swans. The contrasting fat black moor-hens, or coots, adding their toc, toc, toc percussion to the sound-track of the rising day, as they called to their punctuation-point chicks to hurry up.

The horses of the Camargue are sturdy descendants of Spanish Barbary Stock. They are taller than I had expected. Born black they turn white as they mature into adulthood. In May there were many white mares with black foals at heel.

I did participate in the cliche of riding a white horse through the ponds and lagoons, which foamed around our horses knees as we gently eased through large groupings of flamingos. I don't regret a minute of it.

My blissful moment was experienced at a greater rate of speed than would normally be desired as our guide had told me that my steed enjoyed lying down and rolling in the water any chance he got, so forward motion was very much on my mind. Giddy-up Silver!