Hiking the Madrone Trail

By Aline Soules

I feel the bark scrape my upper legs, first one,

then the other as I climb over the trunk of a fallen tree,

its base buried beneath the road, the rest arching

down the hill like a hand reaching out

fingers pointing, tips touching the ground.

Fallen from age or downed in a storm, half-buried

in the soil beneath my feet, this tree limb

commands the scene. Each day, I’m drawn

to those fingers. Each day, the tree offers gifts.

A junco lands, flitters off.

A snake drapes across the middle finger to sun itself.

Has he always lived here, hibernated, found food?

A squirrel darts with an acorn between his paws, seeking a snag,

where an acorn woodpecker has made him a cabinet.

Spiders, ants, caterpillars,

insects, fungi, bacteria

the earth itself, me.

Sonora Pass, State Route 108, California

By Louise Moises

July, I drive my motor home on hot eastward route 108,

winding through small, colorfully named towns:

Soulsbyville, Twain Hart, Confidence,

Mi-Wuk Village, Long Barn, Pinecrest, Strawberry,

a road only open May to October. I leave behind urban sprawl

for peaceful mountain streams rippling with trout.

Brightman Flat Campground nests below minarets along the banks of the Stanislaus River, a respite after a hundred miles.

Across the river, up steep hillside, silent stands of dead trees,

trunks blackened from fire. This campsite saved from harm.

Here mixed conifers shelter aging picnic tables

and fire-rings, prohibited from use. I, a lone camper.

At dusk, long bodied bees skim over loose earth hunting

something; they don’t share their secrets.

Balmy summer night, no sirens or freeway roar,

only the river mummers.

In the morning, westward flowing Stanislaus glitters gold,

pines alive with chirps: wrens and warblers on wings,

woodpeckers toe their way up trunks hunting burrowed insects.

Tall, red-barked cedars cast long shadows on hot soil.

Between kissing pines, sun caught in needled branches

that last night held the moon. Good morning, high Sierra summer.

Back on the road, steep and narrow, winding through alpine meadows,

roadside lined with evergreens, across the Pacific Crest Trail.

No traffic here, where curve after curve marked in miles per hour,

some as low as ten, none higher than twenty-five.

My vehicle climbs in 2nd gear, pulling. I lean forward thinking to help.

The engine strains to reach the summit, 9624 feet,

where the picnic area beckons, a short hiking trail,

relief for the road weary. Then treacherous 26% down-grade,

winding, winding down towards tiny Sonora Junction,

Bridgeport and Highway 395.

AÑO NUEVO SANCTUARY

By Claire J. Baker

We follow sea-lion signage past dunes

to above a crowded ocean beach

in chorus of cacophony. A ranger informs:

among the throng, all the newly weaned

must soon find their own way into the sea,

accept the Pacific ocean as a haven.

Adult males mostly huddle together,,

gray monoliths full of flow, while females

tuck pups between shoulders--

out of tramping-danger, should males

become too frisky in territorial squabbles.

Our appetites, primed beside the sea,

we dive into trail mix, but we really want

to feed the wild not far below. Upbeat,

we tend to believe that sea lions

are far from endangered.

Historic Año Nuevo sanctuary

remains picturesque after a century

or more of breeding, birthing, resting.

This fair day, in season, we admire

lovable black snouts and five-pronged

flipper tips, those chubby metaphoric

fingers that tempt us to reach out and hold

generations of sea lions in mutual transcendence,

here on the nurturing California coast.

October Rain, El Sobrante Greening

By Deborah Bachels Schmidt

As the first gentle rains begin,

after months of punishing drought and fire,

I walk, for the good of my soul,

in the native plant garden.

The cool, humid air is spiced with duff.

Here the growing things

call on ancient, encoded wisdom

to gather rainfall, each in their own way.

Coral bells funnel splashes

to the hearts of their lobed leaves.

Yarrow traps moisture with its feathery fronds.

Narrow blades of fescue carry bands of droplets

set like cabuchons in a row bracelet.

This town once turned its back on the creek,

but young and old together

have restored the bank, replanting natives,

setting nesting boxes in the redwoods

for tree wrens, sparrows, chickadees.

Eagle Scouts made the wooden signs

that line the gravel path,

naming the plants in English and in Latin:

pink currant, coffee berry,

festuca, phacelia, frangula.

This is the earth healing,

given even half a chance,

holding out green hands

to receive the benediction of water.

Grasses open their blue eyes.

Fringed lavender blossoms weight the yarrow stalks,

and ironwood flowers in a foamy spray.

From high overhead in the walnut tree,

golden, pinnate leaves spiral down,

shimmering past my wet face,

and a white-crowned sparrow sings.

Foragers

By Sam Hersh

The solar system lines up

as King tides bless

December and

Psilocybes sprout

from the usual places

Death caps cluster

at the eldest oak

near a spread

of Witch’s Butter

and Oyster mushrooms

My Las Trampas go-to

spot for chanterelles – gone

a geocache installed there

plain as day, lured throngs

to record Killroy was here

Tramp like boar

by the earth churn trail

at your own risk

Boots slur, paws imprint

the slick clay sludge

By the spine of deer

Your may hairs stand and say

"Lions, tigers and bears"

Not to worry, I tell myself

There are no tigers here

On Highway One, with Keiko

By Denise Lapachet Barney

She watches intently

As we pass through small coastal towns.

I chatter about the magnificent view

Shrouded by the fog.

She asks what is growing in the fields.

I try to answer:

Strawberries

Broccoli

Artichokes

Pumpkins

I point out surfers in their wet suits.

She is surprised, because the morning is cold.

She asks about the “sea elephants”

We saw on a previous visit,

But they are further south

Than where we are going today.

At Pescadero we turn inland,

Heading to the redwoods.

She asks, “What is ‘Pescadero’?”

And jots my answer in her notebook.

This trip I show her bright yellow banana slugs,

Holding one in my hand for pictures.

She gets close, but will not touch,

Grimacing when I kiss it.

On the way home the fog has lifted;

The Pacific Ocean sparkles.

But she is fast asleep.

Upstairs to the Land of Good Shoes

By Alyza Lee Salomon

This is a true story.

1996, grad school at Sonoma State U.

Late on a chilly November afternoon,

I made my last dash into Nichols Hall,

but a long-legged prof crossing my path

reached the elevator ahead of me.

Following him inside, I couldn’t help

but recall a half-life ago back in ’64,

at home in Maryland watching the evening

news about UC Berkeley students

demonstrating for free speech.

My daddy pointed at the TV and yelled,

“Look at that man standing on the car!”

I’d seen him on this more rural campus,

but never up this close.

No way was I going to embarrass

him or me with this anecdote

of ancient history. Say something

about the weather, I thought,

but Mario Savio rescued me:

“Those look like very comfortable shoes!

I wish I had shoes like that!”

Well shut my mouth! Now I felt

on equal footing with the tall, grey,

activist hero turned philosophy

and math professor. Mumbling

something about how long it had

taken me to break in these

dusty brown maryjanes,

I smiled my appreciation as we exited

through the automatic door.

Heading down different corridors,

feeling redeemed and uplifted,

I so wished I could have smartly

done the same for him.

The next week I read in the paper,

Oh my word! that he’d died. Oh no!

So I belatedly thank you, Mario Savio,

for lifting me with your compliment.

And thank you also for the many

miles you trudged in others’ shoes,

and for fighting the good fight

and all the lives you thereby elevated.

May your generous restless spirit

now dance upon rainbows

with happy winged feet

in the fabled land of good shoes

where vehicles and office hours are of no

use to the saints and righteous souls

The Road to Oakley Goes By Neroly

By Dave Holt

When I’m depressed, I soothe my soul

by looking for something outside myself,

something to love.

I love that promising rain cloud over Antioch,

the wild dance of giant sycamore leaves,

that thinnest of new moons on the horizon.

I love sunsets that soak up the land’s palette of color,

dusty straw oat grass, brown sandy soil,

peach yellow, carnation pink, orchards of fruit,

purple plum sky of dusk over grape vines.

I love country roads at twilight, Byron to Bethany,

a wooden California tank house on a farm for sale,

empty fields once flourishing with famous Brentwood corn,

now a museum, old machinery by the roadside.

Disc harrow, cultivator, grain drill, beat-up boat trailer,

abandoned Grand Torino sinking slowly into cactus weeds.

I love the someone who wants to display their historic artifacts.

Crossing Southern Pacific railroad by way of Sand Hill,

past the old cottage industries of Empire Road:

a fruit and strawberry stand, a recycling center,

Honey Bees-wax, Mex-Stone Sculptures, all pushed out by malls.

Across the Canal, Sidney Flat to Somersville,

I love old ways of life, wistful witness to their dissolution,

heart-yearning for landscapes disappearing.

When I’m down and sulky, I ease my troubled mind

by looking for something outside myself to love,

like that dark cloud promise of rain to wash the land

Briones, California

By Carole Dwinell

Looking out my front window at the Briones hills
I see the miniature terracing of wildlife footprints
Seeking dinner very close along these foot paths
No bending, stretching to reach that green meal
It is just before summer, now a green celebration
The resident deer, our treasure on four wild legs
eating their breakfast, a lunch and all night dinner
That is California spring green, a prepping for gold.

My California

By LeeAnn Pickrell 

fresh roast coffee
small batch chocolate

a cat, not a dog,
rolling and lolling in the sun

El Niño, La Niña, tides and phases
of the moon, layers on and off

gray sky and green hills in January
plum blossoms in February

mixed-up Augusts in leggings and boots
dashing across streets

climbing hills, riding cable cars
long walks ending with cappuccinos

black turtlenecks, poetry
angst-ridden laughter

Northern, not Southern
upside down, inside out

rain on the rooftops
rhythm of hip hop

extremes of drought
and bomb cyclones

million-dollar bungalows
and homeless encampments

stock options and fentanyl
Yimbys and Nimbys

labyrinthian red tape
anything or anyone goes

protests and marches
idealistic and cynical

my state on the edge
of the continent

Untitled

By Nathaniel Vilfort (College)

In the golden state
Where the ocean meets the land
California dreams

Mountains rise high
Redwood trees reach for the sky
Nature's beauty shines

From Hollywood stars
To Silicon Valley tech
California thrives

Surfers catch the waves
Sunsets paint the sky in hues
Of orange and pink

Wineries abound
Vineyards stretch for miles and miles
Wine flows like water

In San Francisco
The Golden Gate stands strong
A symbol of hope

Yosemite's grandeur
Waterfalls cascade with grace
Nature's symphony

In the desert heat
Palm Springs oasis awaits
Cool waters refresh

From San Diego
To the northern Redwood coast
California calls

So much to explore
In this diverse land of dreams
California dreams

In the golden state
Where the sun always shines bright
California dreams

Cozy Cove, Pt Richmond, CA 2023

By Ellen Woods 

I swim-walk at The Plunge   in shallow end   mindless steps
water surrounding me   holding me up in this pool of endless blue

floor to ceiling mural on west wall    beside me with every lap
leggy Great Egrets   an occasional Heron   Little Blue

I hate walking on asphalt   my balance wobbly
sinister sidewalk graffiti   swastika cancels stars on red white and blue

I need to feel the earth   I head to Vee and Nan’s Wurster beach bungalow
Vee greets me   Nan’s in Memory Care   sadly expected   not out of the blue

sand is firm   malleable   waves spill over   lap against the shore
steps outside her door water meets land   her back yard azure blue

we traverse the expanse of the inlet once again   friends for fifty years
when loss threatens to overwhelm we wander Cozy Cove to chase the blues

I roamed the woods as a child   a canopy of green held me then
now the ocean calls   like heaven   shimmering   lustrous blue