Dislocated Buildings

McHenry Library Terrace - complete with smoker.

Today I lost the McHenry Library. Strange, especially since it’s a building that has such a large footprint (as the architects say) and I could swear I hadn’t moved it when I departed UCSC last August. Yet, I walked from Bay Tree Bookstore, took a right up the road, kept going even when it looked like it was going into the forest primeval, kept going until I saw the sign for McHenry and Classroom Unit 1 (clearly someone needs to step up and claim naming rights for that one), headed toward where I thought the footbridge was, and yes, it’s still there, and over the bridge and …no library.

However, I did manage to find the Earth and Marine Science classrooms. And another sign directing to the library back the way I had come. At that point I could see a silver something or other (roof?) through the trees, and hear the hum of something that was either a large hover craft or multiple air conditioners cooling a five story building. It was the latter.

Teeny, tiny sign which directed me back from whence I came.

Despite my dismay, I'm not particularly surprised that I lost the library. The entire campus of UCSC looks much like a state park. In fact, the signage on campus is of the brown painted wood variety, with engraved letters highlighted in white. Very Smokey-the-Bear-ish. So everything looks the same, and buildings are cleverly hidden in the natural environment.

That said, the McHenry Library has at least a couple unique features. The first is a terrace complete with smokers. Two of them as I passed by. And an ash tray, which implied permission to smoke less than 30 feet away from the entrance of the building. Or maybe the structure is cleverly designed so that the smoking area is 30 feet away, which would imply that someone intended for it to be there. At any rate, smokers in California are a dying breed (literally and figuratively) because they’ve been chased out of most public places, including bars (!?) and restaurants. Turns out that inhaling second-hand smoke is a health risk. Too bad. As a former smoker, I enjoy a good hit of second-hand smoke every now and again.

Speaking of smoke, the second singular feature of the McHenry and UCSC in general is that it is the archive of the entire Jerry Garcia and Grateful Dead archive, donated by the band in 2008. In fact, a couple years ago, right before I got my master’s from UCR, I saw an advertisement on the AWP web site for a chief archivist. Too bad I haven’t ever been a Deadhead or I would have applied.  In fact, UCSC was awarded a National Leadership Grant of $615,175 from the Institute of Museum and Library Services (IMLS) – the primary source of federal funds for the nation's museums and libraries. The grant enabled the UCSC library to digitize materials from its Grateful Dead Archive and make them available on The Virtual Terrapin Station web site. (Not up yet. I checked.)

My mission at the McHenry was to secure a temporary library card because writers and readers need those sorts of things. I also went to reintroduce myself to my friend Alex who helps manage the Media Center to finagle permission to check out DVDs. We aren’t supposed to be able to do that this year, even though our classrooms have no Internet capability so we can’t stream excerpts of video for our students. I guess that our administrators expect us writer types to retire to the classroom, draw the shades, light a few candles, trim our nibs and get our parchment stacks ready.

More to come about Santa Cruz and its numerous attractions. Maybe even some classroom drama.

McHenry Library camouflage.

Back in the Cruz

I have returned to where I started. The first blog entry on Run North / Go West featured a photograph of the Monterey Bay at Santa Cruz. I took it the evening before I left on what I now call my Western States Tour 2010. I'm back again, for the third summer, working with an academic summer camp for gifted kids.

The photo above is a view from the University of California, Santa Cruz campus, overlooking Pogonip City Park. The word "Pogonip" means icy fog in Shoshone, by the way, and yes, the park is covered in fog most mornings. But that makes for a fabulous walk or run on a trail that in places consists of so many layers of redwood duff footsteps are all but unheard, and sound is muffled in mist.

I have never professed to be a desert rat, and at times in this blog I have been downright hostile toward that inhospitable environment. The Coachella Valley seems to be dominated by those who profess to love the desert, but really love the desert climate in January and February. They don't love the desert, or they wouldn't waste precious groundwater irrigating turf. What they really want is their northern surroundings (green, lush, turf, grass) in an arid, temperate setting.

One of the neighbors.

The difference I find in northern California is that the people seem to really love their place. And it is regarded as place, not just space to fill. Conservation is real in this city. Environmentalism is real. And whether or not it seems like a movement or a thing to do or a lifestyle really isn't important. It's the way so many respond to this place - with a desire to keep it the way it is.

UC Santa Cruz campus is a miracle in itself. Founded in 1965, I believe. Reagan was Governor at the time, and arranged the place in separate colleges with no traditional quad, the idea being to avoid the demonstrations that eastern campuses were experiencing. The campus is truly in a redwood forest, confusing to navigate for newcomers because everything looks the same - like trees. Actually, like tree trunks, because it's not possible to see the entire redwood. I get a pretty cool deal here: room and board, on-campus housing.

On the right is the view from my balcony the first morning that I was here. Fog moves in shortly after dark, and dissipates by noon or so. Evenings are 50s or 60s - days have been around 80. Perfection. Even with the killer schedule (8:30 a.m. - 9:30 p.m.) it's worth it to be here. Oh - and I teach middle-schoolers, which is a mixed bag, but generally quite interesting. More about that soon.

And now...about Porn

Today I learned that I do not have to be concerned about my age. Not only does an 18-year-old have a crush on my soon-to-be 46-year-old ass, but Tod Goldberg has assured me that, "people still do porn at 46."

De'Bella, starting a new career in
porn at the age of 50. Who knew.

Tod Goldberg, Administrative Director of the UCR-Palm Desert
MFA in Creative Writing and Writing for the Performing Arts.

Getting my Bump and Grind on

Once more, it’s not what you think. And I’ve never been a first-thing-in-the-morning person - for that, anyway.

Not quite halfway up the B&G, trail in the foreground, Rancho Mirage beyond.

The Bump and Grind is actually a hiking trail on the border of Palm Desert and Rancho Mirage, quite close to where I live. While it is within walking distance (about a mile) of my place, I usually drive there because I get up later than I want to and end up rushing to get there before the day gets too warm. The hike has a 1,000 foot elevation gain (my ears usually pop a couple times on the way up and down) and is a good 1.8 miles up and 1.8 miles down, but I’m not sure if it’s that far from where I start. Takes me about 45 minutes to get up, and about 20 to get back down again.

Don’t ask me why the trail is named the Bump and Grind. Other names for it are The Mirage Trail, Desert Drive Trail, Patton Trail (because some people say it was built by General Patton’s troops), Desert Mirage Trail, and the ever-popular Dog Poop Trail. Actually, it’s not the Dog Poop Trail anymore because dogs have been banned from the trail in recent years to preserve endangered species habitat, including that of the Peninsula Big Horn Sheep. I’ve met a couple dogs along the way, but their people assure me that they speak fluent English and usually walk on two legs, so are not considered canine. Of course.

The cool thing about hiking in the Valley is that all the mountain systems are fault lines. The Bump and Grind is located in the San Jacinto range, where the Pacific plate slides under the North American plate. I’ve also hiked up onto the San Andreas fault, which sounds a lot scarier than it is.

But the B&G is an urban hiking trail, and since the distance is so manageable, those who crave a good cardio workout are regulars. I’ve also noticed that the women who I see into regularly on the trail have great legs and butts. Not that I’m looking that close, but, you know, I’m just sayin’.  I look at the path as a much more interesting extended version of a StairMaster. The vantage point from the top is fabulous – overlooks the whole valley. And even though the track is well-traveled, I can count on having large stretches to myself if I get there by 7 a.m. at the latest.

Teens and 20-somethings that (attempt to) do the trail are the most fun to watch, and usually easy to spot. Often I seem them in couples, sometimes by themselves with ipods plugged in their ears but still loud enough to hear 10 feet away. (Really quite annoying. I don’t get people who go out by themselves but have music blasting in their ears.) Today I saw a young girl, maybe 18, Latino, deeply tanned, white flip-flops, a belly button ring sparkling from between the waistband of her white low-cut short-shorts and a oversized cut-off shirt (Flash Dance, anyone?).  One hand resting on her jutting hip, she gesticulated with the other to her silent boyfriend, indignant, out of breath. She had just finished the first 10^th of the trail.  “I don’t get how people do this. I mean, old people!” Her hand swooped to encompass those of us in her vicinity. Uh-huh. I’ll kick your ass on this trail anytime, young lady.

Damn the Woman

New Zealand northland. Who wouldn't want to check this out?

Damn Elizabeth Gilbert.

In August last year, I posted “Exactly Not Like Eat, Pray, Love,” railing against how those three words have become a part of speech. A verb: “She’s doing an ‘Eat, Pray, Love.’” An adjective: “It’s an ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ trip.” I could go on. So today, when I mentioned to an acquaintance that I was planning to go to New Zealand for a couple months this year, and she remarked, “Ooooh – ‘Eat, Pray, Love,’” I couldn’t stop the sour expression – or maybe the eye roll – or maybe the look of disgust – that came over my face. It was obvious enough that she started to explain herself.

I shouldn’t get down on Gilbert. She’s not the first to do it. The woman who wrote the Tuscan Sun book, she played a part in this too. And the whole Shirley Valentine story. Bread and Tulips. All women who had a crisis and took off for awhile and inevitably, it seems, ended up finding true love.

Yeccchh.

Sorry. I’m just not down with that.

Why is it that we women still have this whole Cinderella thing going on?  And you women – don’t you dare say that we don’t. I still have a smidgeon of it left, even after my five year stint as a low-end facsimile of a trophy wife. (Quite frankly, my ex-husband didn’t have near enough money to justify his bad behavior, and I think that many women who have escaped similar relationships would say something akin to that.) I’ll be the first to admit that I was enchanted by the car, the ring, the new life, the idea of being taken away from all that dragged on me. I believed that a relationship would make me feel better.

When someone makes a reference to That Book (as I have come to call it), I can’t help but think about how she ends up with a guy. And it smacks of the Cinderella thing all over again. Go through pain, go eat a lot (going to Italy seems like the international version of pigging out on Ben & Jerry’s while watching “An Affair to Remember”), fill the spiritual vacuum, and then skip off with a new love.

I understand that I’m over simplifying it, but why is it that women don’t see the formula and resent it? Or maybe I should ask, why is it that women see the formula and don’t question it? I am so saddened by that.

Lugg-dogg, on whom I lavished affection.

Amazingly enough, this is the first time in my life that I can recall, that I do not want a man to take care of me. The first time. Really. And I’m 40-ish. (Full disclosure – I am receiving alimony from my ex.)  But I'm not getting rich off of it. And I don’t have some sort of high-powered career into which I pour my unsatisfied yearning for a relationship, or a pet on which I can lavish my affection, (although I have done both of those things.)  No. I just want to be by myself and do my own thing, not search for the next hostage.

My desire for travel is wanderlust. A desire for adventure. Curiosity. A compulsion to investigate. A search for a worthy topic.

Exploring.

What I am interested in doing is finding a place that I like, where I can put down roots. Not the place where he is, or where he’s going. And if someone comes along after that, or not, either way is absolutely fine with me.

To be fair, I think that Gilbert wasn’t looking, either, when she was in Bali. It just happened, as many good things do when you aren’t out looking for them. Sort of like chasing a dog – running the opposite direction is a sure-fire way to attract its attention. But it concerns me that this book has hit such a chord in the feminine psyche. Are women so terribly unsatisfied with their lives?

On another topic. I was told the other day by someone that my writing is good, but she finds reading it like listening to a singer who has fabulous technique – just not an emotional connection to the art. No heart.  I have had time to consider that comment.

Boy, that pisses me off.

Enough emotion?

Pisses. Me. Off.

Because I do not agree.

I’m not sure that my writing is technically excellent – perhaps it is.  It’s just the way I write. I may not write breathlessly confessional pieces, or the sort of sap that one would find in “Chicken Soup for the Martian’s Soul,” but I write what I think, what I believe, what I feel and what I experience.

In 1994-ish, at the beginning of my Hundred Years of Therapy, I was working as a temporary admin at Marion Merrill Dow, a pharmaceutical company that had once been Marion Laboratories, and had been purchased in what would be the first of many hand-offs. It was the new fashion to do “visioning” (another word that should NOT be used as a verb) exercises and come up with statements and intentions, blah, blah, blah. I decided to come up with one for myself.

I will see the world and write about what I see for the enlightenment, enjoyment and education of others.

That’s the crux of it. There’s more, but I can’t remember it all, but I do know that it has something to do with Vikings, but it’s not really important. I only put it down here to set the record straight. That’s what this blog is for. Nothing else. I write about what I see, and if you like it, great, and if you don’t, feel free to kiss my ass.

Water, again

Santa Rosa Mountains - part of the San Andreas fault runs here. Barrows' office overlooks this range.

Okay, it might seem as though I'm obsessed with the topic of water. But southern California considers itself the center of the Universe for so very many reasons, and water for the masses is just part of the deal out here. As Mark Twain said, 'Whiskey is for drinking; water is for fighting over.' Anyone from the western and southwestern states can tell you that.

I've been writing about water on and off for the past two years, and have been fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of Cameron Barrows, who is head of the Conservation Biology department at University of California-Palm Desert. He's also a teacher and lecturer and researcher and writer of articles.

Cameron Barrows’ office at UCR-Palm Desert looks across toward the shadow hills, really the San Andreas fault. In the foreground is the unfinished landscape of the UCR PD campus, its development all but halted because of California state funding issues. In the midground, Interstate 10 which runs all the way to Los Angeles, and finally ends in Santa Monica at the Pacific Ocean. Directly across the 10 is a yellow eyesore, square with a red tiled roof, that is called The Classic Club, so named because it was to be the new home of the Bob Hope Chrysler Classic golf tournament. Pros played the course one, maybe two years and hated it. Too windy. Interstate 10 goes straight over the San Gorgonio pass, through which some of the strongest and most consistent winds in the nation blow – the pass is lined with wind farms, chargers in perfect formation, arms swinging.

On the other side of the ugly resort and golf course is acreage that looks desolate, empty. The expanse stretches all the way to the fault, up the mountains, beyond. It’s one of last dune ecosystems in the Coachella Valley, set aside in the 1980s when the debate over That-Damn-Lizard started and ended with a preserve being formed. That damn lizard is the fringe-toed lizard, an endangered species. In fact, you can hardly kick a rock in California without hitting an endangered species. Funny – that hasn’t kept developers at bay. But developers had to give in on the fringe toed lizard preserve, because environmental groups had protested enough to halt any further development of the valley. Even Lowell Weeks, at that time head of the Coachella Valley Water District had to concede, and this is the man who, legend has it, said, “There’s only one person more powerful in the Coachella Valley than I and that’s God, and that’s only advisory.” Oh, there’s never a shortage of hubris in this world.

At any rate, I spoke with Cameron Barrows the other day about the state of water in the valley. We had spoken a couple years ago, as well, when I first started writing an article that will now be published in the Los Angeles journal Slake. Cameron is a big bear of a guy, bearded, sandy-haired, spectacled. He exudes the aura of being grounded, comfortable in his skin. He doesn’t speak loud, so when he’s lecturing you have to listen up. In his office there is a photograph of him and his wife, Katie, when they look like they’re about 16. Both are adorable. I met Cameron when I started in the creative writing Masters program at UCR-Palm Desert. He offered the staff a tour of the dunes; later, he offered a tour of the palm oases on the fault. Later still, there was a tour of the Boyd Deep Canyon Preserve, where only researchers get to hang out. Cameron was the in, and I wasn’t able to go. Don’t know if I ever will get to go, now, since the staff at the campus has been decreased and the traditional graduate program has been converted to a low-residency model, so there’s a lower demand for things like that. But in his role as head of the conservation biology department at UCR-Palm Desert, he’s the guy to do it.

Anyway, I found it ironic – or fitting – or something – that his office overlooks the habitat that he researches. The building sits in the Sonoran Desert, and from his window he can see the Santa Rosa mountains, home to parts of the San Andreas fault system and the San Jacinto Mountains, really part of the Baja California range.  He points in various directions and says, “those mountains are essentially northern Baja California, and those mountains out there are essentially southern Sierra Nevada; that’s the Mojave Desert; this is the Sonoran Desert; that right over there is the Coast – and they all come together in one place which is the Coachella Valley. So you have this amazing biodiversity compared to other desert areas. Sand dunes amplify that because of their nature of being sort of islands, and like islands everywhere, they tend to have a lot of unique species associated with them. So you have that. But because we are at the edge of the Sonoran Desert and the Mojave Desert, we are ending up with these really dramatic issues associated with climate change and we’re dealing with water issues associated with what people are doing for the most part, but also with what could be happening with regard to climate change – the more erratic water supply that we should expect in the future.”

There you have it. That’s the story of California. All these different ecosystems butting up against each other, desert floors giving way to 10,000 foot mountains an elevation change that accommodates up to five different systems from arid desert to arctic alpine, everything from lizards and tortoises to big horn sheep. And lots and lots and lots of fucking golf courses. And communities that thrive because of a resort economy and the influx of snowbirds from November through April.

It’s an odd place, worthy of a love-hate relationship, I think.

Floods

I grew up in the Red River Valley of the North, that part of Minnesota and North Dakota that is about 200 miles long and 50 miles wide. The valley itself is actually the bottom of prehistoric Lake Agassiz, the remnant of which is Lake Winnipeg in Manitoba. The river actually flows north (hence the name of this blog, by the way, "Run North ...") The land is so flat, the drop per miles is only inches, and the southern valley thaws before the northern valley, so there are floods. The water spreads like a blanket, seeping east and west, dissolving snow like sugar, lapping at the top of dikes.

The most recent record flood was in 2009, but the big deal flood was in 1997, when downtown Grand Forks, North Dakota was inundated. Local newspaper, The Grand Forks Herald, kept reporting from their downtown office and produced a paper daily until the building caught fire. After the waters receded they published a book called "Come Hell and High Water" because, of course, they had had their fill of both.

What I remember of flooding is primarily the one in 1978, when the junior and senior boys were released from school to help sandbag around the Two Rivers, as well as at family farms closer to the Red. We lived about four miles from the River, but I could see the water half a mile away from my west-facing bedroom window. To me, Spring thaw and flooding was a novelty that was occasion to drag the old row boat out of the garage, make sure it didn't leak too much, and then set out across the coulie just across the driveway. It wasn't really flood water; it was just full of snow melt that was waiting for the still frozen ground to give in. I regarded it as a terrific occasion to goof off in a boat.