Vaccine Day

Elation. Relief. Grief. My 84-year-old parents got the Covid-19 vaccine this week, and I cycled through each of those emotions in the short span of 24 hours.

Elation because finally. From the moment we had to cancel my mom’s birthday brunch a year ago, until today, each passing day has felt like a precious gift. The day’s joy caught me by surprise, in part because I didn’t actually believe it was going to happen. Trying to get them an appointment required signing up on multiple lists, then trying to book one within seconds of a text alert before they filled up. My sister and I joked that it felt just like trying to get concert tickets by phone. At one point my sister succeeded in getting my mom an appointment in town, and I got my dad one in the town almost two hours away, which I bribed him to accept by promising I’d take him to Costco afterwards (a favorite outing, which we had cut out during COVID-19).

But by an accident of timing, they both ended up getting the vaccine locally. After a quick round of celebratory texts between my sisters, I sat down and let the relief wash over me. I am not a runner but I imagine it feels something akin to finishing a marathon—you are euphoric when you cross the finish line, then immensely relieved that you didn’t crash and burn along the way. And if the last year has been an exercise in anything, it’s of trying not to crash and burn—the stakes were just too high.

Like so many, my sisters and I were suddenly thrust in the role of having to parent our parents. We followed the science and realized quickly that if one of them got sick, the odds were pretty high that we’d lose them both. And though they could see the tragedy unfolding in Italy and then New York, I believe their Fox News filter contributed to a sense of complacency that we battled daily as we tried to convince them of the gravity of the situation and the need to change their routine. For my dad, who is pretty social, this meant giving up lunches with his friends and workouts with his physical therapy pals. We shopped for them, and helped them stay connected to family with zoom calls. But try as we might, the mysterious Dollar Store bag would show up in their house full of his favorite prune juice (Dollar Store and Safeway were absolutely off-limits due to poor mask and social distancing enforcement). Thanks to Governor Newsom’s meal delivery program for seniors, they received meals daily, but that didn’t stop my dad from having an occasional lunch outside with friends. When my sister happened to observe his group sitting mask-less and huddled up at a small café table, we realized this needed to stop as well.

The straw that nearly broke all the camels’ backs was church. Both my parents attend weekly mass, my father even has the distinction of being the youngest altar boy in this very senior congregation. But this Catholic church continued to hold mass inside, in defiance of the health orders, which effectively put a high-risk population all together in one old building (and found me calling the priest on more than one occasion to complain). I’ll never forget walking through all the questions we asked my parents when they claimed it was safe. Besides the obvious questions about mask-wearing and the congregants sitting six feet apart in their pews we went deeper: “Did he remove the holy water?” “Is he touching the communion wafers?” “Is there singing?” “Are prayerbooks wiped down?”  My mom begged to go for their anniversary, insisting that the secret of their marriage lasting all these years was the fact that they’d attended mass on every anniversary (to which I remember thinking that if their marriage failed this year it would be because they’d never spent so much time in each other’s company). They ultimately went to mass, but to an early service which seemed like a reasonable compromise.

They began to treat us, somewhat jokingly, as their jailers, which got old pretty fast. We tried various approaches: we would eat together every other week and make sure to update them on what was happening locally, both in terms of COVID-19 in the county, but also connecting it to the daily reality of life outside their house. Our coastal town is very popular with tourists, and it’s remote, so people from other parts of California defied their own shelter in place orders and flocked here for a change of scenery. This explained why checkout counters were wrapped in plexiglass, but also why shopping at the small market put them at greater risk. My sister and I frequently ended up in a good cop/bad cop routine as we talked through the latest infraction and its potential consequences. And yes, we were asked to back off, which we would try to do. But this meant we saw them less, because we made it clear that their actions also put our families at risk.

Our other two sisters would step in when needed; at one point we each sent them a letter about how much we needed and wanted them to stay alive, which was an emotionally brutal exercise early on in the pandemic.  Add to this crazy family dynamic, a black sheep sibling who would periodically try to undermine our efforts by trying to convince my parents that hydroxychloroquine was the cure, or that they were better off avoiding the vaccine and waiting for natural herd immunity to take hold. You can see why the relief that I experienced on vaccine day was monumental.

And as I, like many others, exhale a sigh of relief so great that it carries all of these moments and memories into the wind, I feel crushed by the thing I have not faced head on: grief. At various times during the past year my mom has said something to this effect, “we’ve lived a good life, if it’s time for us to go, it’s ok.” And while that might be a parent’s natural way of reassuring their child, I found myself having to repeatedly force her to see my side of that same coin. It was, and is, unbearable to imagine them both dying alone and without family, especially if there’s something we can do about it.

Also, in our efforts to protect them, I found myself worrying about my teenager’s own potentially risky behavior and saying things to her like, “you cannot be the reason your grandparents get sick and die.” What a terrible thing to say, and to write now. No grandchild should have to carry that, and yet, the gravity of the situation necessitated this caution.

So, the grief will take many forms. The ongoing grief for the people who have died during this pandemic, and their loved ones who have to somehow pick up the pieces of their lives and go on. Grief for the toll this pandemic has taken on the selfless health care workers who have given so much. The mourning for what our communities have lost, which may not be fully appreciated until we come together again, into the sunlight.

But my tears today – of joy, of relief, of grief—are for my beloved parents, who for now, are mercifully with us and looking forward to their own eventual resumption of life as they knew it. It is only right to close with gratitude, for this, and for my beloved sisters, whose love is the beating heart at the core of our family. The day of his vaccination, my father sent a bottle of champagne along with a beautiful note to my sister and me. He expressed his own gratitude, and understanding—in hindsight—of our efforts this year, and a pledge to do his best for the duration of the pandemic. He even offered to give up the Dollar Store. Cue the tears.

Of Chain Saws and Martinis

I know, I know, chain saws and martinis don’t mix. But there is something else they have in common, at least in my life: they are best served by someone else. And at my age, I need them both. The chain saw to keep up with the astonishing tree and shrubbery growth around my property, and the martini to reward me for not crawling under the blankets and leaving these 2.5 acres to revert to their natural state.

After 25 plus years of home-ownership, I’ve learned to do a lot, thanks to the magic of YouTube (and the endless number of people willing to film themselves doing all manner of home repair). If you’d told me when I was a teenager that I’d be able to fix a dishwasher, operate a power washer, build gopher-proof garden beds, tile a kitchen—you get the idea—I’d have laughed, and probably cried about all those future chores. I definitely would have taken shop class. But I draw the line at chain saws and martinis. In the case of the former, well let’s just say that’s a job best left to professionals. I have all my original limbs and digits to prove that. As for the martini, that falls in the category of “what you don’t know can’t hurt you.” I am not a big drinker, mostly out of self-preservation, having seen what it can do to those who over-imbibe. To put it plainly: if I never learn how to make a good martini, there is no chance of ever drinking alone in front of the TV. That may work for some, but for me, the martini is a social drink!

I love a good martini. I was introduced to this marvelous beverage by my friend Marilyn, at that venerable old San Francisco steakhouse Harris Restaurant, when I was about 25. At the time I felt so sophisticated, and honestly, I still do. Trendy cocktails come and go with their fancy names, craft booze, and sun-kissed botanicals, but nothing ever brings me quite the same joy as that martini. That said, there are mediocre martinis, which will inevitably bring me less joy. But in the 15 years I’ve lived in Mendocino, there is one bartender, who works most reliably on Tuesdays, who makes my favorite martini. His name is John, and you can find him at the historic Mendocino Hotel. He’s not a chatty fellow, but he knows his cocktails. I complimented his technique once and he replied: “It ain’t rocket science.” Oh John, to me it is. Even the lovely bartender he trained does not have his loving touch.

Every martini lover has their preferences, and mine is this: Bombay Sapphire gin, served up, with a twist. If I’m feeling spendy, it’s Hendricks gin, and now I’ve discovered this beautiful Grey Whale Gin (available locally at Harvest). But it is always gin, no vodka for me. God bless the juniper berry. The ‘up” refers to serving it at a cold temperature (some do prefer it “neat,” aka no chill), and of course, there is the traditional olive. I’m not an olive lover, hence the lemon twist, but I did have a martini once with an olive stuffed with blue cheese that was surprisingly delicious. And of course you can head into “dirty martini” territory which includes the olive juice, or you can order it “dry” which earns you extra vermouth. Thanks to James Bond, we have the “shaken not stirred” preference when it comes to how the martini is mixed, but there is quite a bit of debate on which is the better method. I love watching the bartender do the cocktail shaker dance. But the final piece of my martini love letter is the barware. From the cocktail set with the gleaming shaker, stirrer, and jigger, to the iconic martini glasses, this drink is equal parts ritual, taste, and aesthetic. I recently purchased a set of beautiful glasses at a Catholic Church yard sale, which I have yet to serve martinis in given my resistance to learning how to make them. I’m waiting for a guest to fill them for me!

Celebrating last day on the job.

So friends, a toast to your health and happiness. After this post, I’m feeling a tad thirsty, and you can guess where I’m headed. This is post is dedicated to all the friends and family who've clinked glasses with me over the years. You know who you are, and I'm waiting to be served.

Note: I wrote this post the week before the pandemic hit and just didn't feel like putting it up, because things have been so sad and tense. I have not had my favorite martini in months because dining is closed, but I have perfected an at-home gin gimlet. My family bought me a shaker one month into the pandemic, and it's a staple around here these days, lol.

Silver Linings: Embracing One's Natural Beauty

My sisters and I keeping it real

I heard this beauty salon ad on the radio yesterday (during COVID-19 pandemic): “As we shelter in place, now is the time to let your natural beauty shine through.” Cue to my jaw-dropping, because here is one of those random silver-linings of the pandemic: people—especially women—discovering what they actually look like without make-up, hair dye, polish, waxing, bleaching, exfoliating…insert every other imaginable “beauty” treatment the cosmetics industry convinced us all that you need.

As a child of the Seventies, I embraced the concept of “natural beauty” and have spent my life living it, despite suffering the judgment of those who thought me unpolished. At 58 I've come by my grey hairs and laugh lines honestly; they reflect everything I've put into this time on the planet. In my younger years – it felt like a cultural movement was afoot – we thought women would stop shaving their legs like European women (sadly, European women copied Americans, and now it’s all about removing hair from everywhere it can possibly grow on both men and women). I found leg stubble so horribly uncomfortable, I was convinced society could be trained to see that women’s legs could be as sexy as men’s, hair and all. Boy was I wrong. In one particularly painful moment, I interviewed for a job as a waitress during a youthful summer spent in Hawaii, and was told during the interview that I’d have to shave my legs to get the job. Guess what? I shaved, but then I didn’t take the job—and I have not shaved them since. (But truth: I don’t bare them much in public because I hate the way people stare.)

Which brings me to the other reason I opted for the “natural” look as I aged—it was a matter of economics. On average, women spend $3000 annually just on cosmetics. As the single mother of two, that money was always put to better use. The cosmetics industry is valued at over $500 billion annually – that’s a lot of consumerism built on the notion that you can and should look different than you do. We are capable of seeing beauty in so much of the natural world, why do we hold humans to such a narrowly defined standard of beauty? Why not accept, embrace and celebrate different hair, skin, and body size and ask our culture to reflect that back to us?

One of my family members recently told me that she’s gotten many compliments on her hair color since COVID began. She’s in her 40’s and her grey-streaked bob is suddenly coveted by all the women who can’t dye their own hair. Even at the social distance of 6’ they stop to admire her natural hair, which until the pandemic garnered little attention. Even celebrities are “revealing” their natural color—how great would it be for all women to celebrate their natural beauty and then donate the money they’d spend on stylists to those affected more harshly by the pandemic.

As the parent of two girls, I tried hard to counter the messages they were bombarded with from the media (and my family) about how they should look. Middle school was tough—kids start skipping meals to be thin, and most experiment with makeup. My rule was no make-up till high school unless it was a special occasion. My philosophy about makeup goes something like this: “You are beautiful in this moment, inside and out. Cosmetics are simply a mask and masks can be fun when you want to have some fun and change up your look. But when the world can only recognize you with your mask on, they you become a slave to both the cosmetics industry, and the idea that other people are defining your beauty.” Fortunately, I had a couple of excellent visual aids. The first was a neighbor girl we gave rides to who followed in her mom’s footsteps—never leaving the house without full makeup and perfume (I had to ask her to leave off the perfume when I drove). We knew her sweet face pre-makeup and started to miss it instantly. We never knew what her mom looked like underneath all the foundation, but what we did know was that the time it took our young friend to get this look ALWAYS made us late to school!

My other indispensable tool was the issue of People or Us (I forget which) that came out periodically showing celebrities without make-up. This was game-changing for my kids. They were used to seeing their stars in full make-up and could barely recognize the same celebs without it. That just seemed sad to them, and combined with the time and expense all that fluffing up cost, influenced their own decisions to keep things more natural.

I’m going to enjoy this silver lining as long as I can. I will make a point of complimenting everyone I see on their beauty. I am under no illusion that there won’t be a gigantic spike in the beauty industry once this shelter in place is removed, but I do hope everyone gets a little closer to embracing their natural look, it is so utterly freeing.

And here is a bonus movie recommendation if you made it this far. We watched a movie on Amazon called Like A Boss. It’s a female buddy movie with Tiffany Haddish and Rose Byrne playing best friends who own a beauty business, but they advocate for letting their clients’ natural beauty shine through, which I appreciated.

Also, bonus track, courtesy of Cathy S!

You Belong Among the Wildflowers

“You belong among the wildflowers, you belong somewhere you feel free.”

It’s pretty clear from those lyrics that Tom Petty, honorary Californian, spent some idyllic hours in a poppy field. Springtime in California brings rolling waves of wildflowers, which cascade down vibrant green hills and dot the rocky coastal landscapes. (The first glimpse I got of a poppy superbloom was driving through the Grapevine--CA’s infamous Hwy 5 mountain pass—where the hilltops were so orange I thought they were on fire.) For over 30 years I have made annual pilgrimages to some of the loveliest wildflower trails on the north coast. Tom captured the feeling—you do feel free—when you emerge from your winter hibernation to bask in the chaotic, colorful, joyous beauty of the first flowers of spring.

redood violets

But this springtime is different. Yes, the wildflowers are blooming, and as always, my body aches to belong somewhere it feels free. But it’s springtime during Covid-19, which means we are still sheltering in place. Our parks, beaches, and trails are closed, and we are limited to outings within walking distance of our house. So now let me just add this caveat: we are living during a pandemic killing thousands of people, so not being able to walk among the wildflowers is a small price to stay to enforce the social distance we need to minimize the loss of human life.That really goes without saying. So, take this post in the spirit in which it was intended: as a love letter to wildflowers. I may not be seeing many this year, but I can share my photos from years past, so you can enjoy their beauty, their stamina, and the simple fact that beauty abounds even in the midst of a crisis.

Poppies and lupines

Let the love fest begin! At present, I feel profound gratitude for the California poppy. This native plant also goes by nicknames like “flame flower” and “cup of gold”, which better conveys both their glorious color and their god-like stature, (which seems appropriate for our state, says a native California with all pride). They are among the first to bloom in spring, and they reseed in open meadows, along roads, in garden beds. They are prolific, resilient, and yet oddly resistant to taming – try transplanting one and you will rarely succeed. As I write this, California’s early adoption of social distancing flattened the curve and helped curb the spread of Covid. Under the leadership of Governor Newsom, Californians demonstrated that same reliance and independence, which helped keep more of our community alive.

Tower of Flowers, wild radish

And just like peanut butter needs jelly, the California poppy, IMHO, is always better when served with a side of lupine (shown with poppies above). These purple or blue flowers usually bloom at the same time as poppies, and when you happen upon fields where they mix, your artist’s heart will skip a beat. Its name is Latin for “wolf,” because it grows in nutrient deprived soil. It was originally thought to deplete soil, but is now credited with helping restore it. And a bit of trivia: University of California chose its school colors of blue and gold, because the campus they built in 1868 was surrounded by poppies and lupine.

I am lucky to live within walking distance of a redwood forest, so the daily sightings of new blossoms thrill me—just ask my kids (I offered to give them a $1 each time they correctly identified a flower). This year’s award for first flower goes to Trillium, a lovely white (fading to purple) lily-like flower that looks heavenly when illuminated by sunlight filtered through the canopy. Much easier to miss is the aptly named white Modesty, the charmingly named pale Milkmaids, and tiny yellow Redwood violets. In late April and early May (if trails are open) venture into any redwood forest for a display of showy pink wild rhododendrons, tall shrubs that get to be several stories tall as they reach up toward the light, dotting the forest with bursts of pink.

Footsteps of Spring

Coastal walks reveal different varieties still, and this year I was sad to miss my favorite early bloom, “Footsteps of Spring.” They often occur on paths and the flowers look like flattened or pressed flowers. They come by their name honestly, as they grow about a foot-step apart from each other. Expect to see coastal daisies, deep red Mendocino paintbrush, purple Salsify, plus flowering mustard. There’s a section on the southern part of the Fort Bragg Coastal Trail (now open to locals) where the wild radish grows so tall and dense it blocks all views of the ocean for a few yards. I’ve dubbed it the “Tower of Flowers” and it feels magical to walk through it. Also keep your eyes peeled for the native, symmetrical succulent Dudleya, which is sadly now being poached off the coasts.

Nuttall's Tootort, growing out
of a redwood tree knothole

Friends, this is just a tiny taste of some of California’s beautiful wildflowers. I am so grateful for all the photos posted to social media by friends sheltering-in-place. The snaps of your favorites from your own local walks connect me to you and to nature. We all belong among the wildflowers!

Saving Face During a Pandemic

Three weeks into our “shelter in place” order and we are seeing hopeful signs that the curve is flattening here in CA. It is spring, and hope is what we need. The sheer brutality of this pandemic…there are no words. Every day we mourn the dead, we grieve for those who could not say farewell, we fear for those we love. We try not to cry in front of our children, or medicate our way through each night. We watch, we hope we are spared, and we bear witness. So, despite having little desire to write, write is what I will do so we won’t forget. We can’t repeat this tragedy.

Like many last week, I had to curb my news-watching as the body count soared. I wanted to help by doing more than staying at home. So, I started making fabric masks for my family. Then on Facebook I offered to make them free for locals. For four straight days I sat at my dining room table and sewed fabric masks until my muscles pinched, my vision blurred, and my foot cramped on the presser foot—as of today I’ve made 70. My curve is bending too, demand has slackened, and my body has some time to recuperate.

The decision to make masks was an easy one. I needed to feel useful AND I had the raw materials. I am not an accomplished sewer by any stretch, but I have made baby quilts for quite a few kids over the years. And I love fabric—I collect scraps from thrift stores because at Christmas we have ditched the wrapping paper in favor of wrapping gifts in colorful cloth bags (try it you will NEVER go back, and the environment will thank you). Like many fabric lovers, I can’t bring myself to toss any of the bold, loud, colorful fabric scraps I’ve accumulated over the years. Who knew they’d come in handy during a pandemic?

But the mask-making became a form of therapy for me. The fabric was nostalgic—here was the last piece from my youngest daughter’s quilt, which she still sleeps under today (she’s 17)! And here were remnants from the placemats our crafty friend group made 20 years ago. I remembered dining off them at their houses, eating the latest concoctions from Moosewood or the Green’s cookbook. Community, friendship, love, gratitude, these memories were mingling with my sadness and it was ok. And with each new mask I sewed for a friend in the community, I stitched some of that beauty, that connection, into their masks. I chose fabric for people I thought would appreciate it – my friend Lisa, who has been my parent-coach and confidante all these years, was given a mask with Lily’s fabric. My friend Tracy—a foodie and gardener, got the strawberry pattern. All of my mom friends received floral masks because they have brought such joy and color into my life and those of my kids. I just started calling their masks Face Flowers.

But just as every fabric has the unfinished, uglier side, so did my therapy. I used this manic sewing to get out some of my frustration over how this national health crisis has been mishandled by our administration. When the sewing machine runs hard it has an aggressive staccato sound that provided the background music for a lot of expletive-filled mental ranting. How was it possible that novice seamstresses like me were the go-to for personal protective equipment? Mask maker groups blossomed around the country, answering the desperate pleas from health care and other essential workers who were re-using masks and needed an extra layer of protection. After I finish this post, I am delivering a dozen masks to a friend who works at the local clinic so that her patient advocates have some extra protection.

But now I am in a new phase of therapy that brings me back to my community. People are sending me photos of themselves in their masks (groups here are families living in one place). The stories behind the mask requests make me want to weep. For example, my daughter Roxanne discovered her passion for singing thanks to a local musical theater company here, Gloriana. During her performance years, I put in more than a few shifts at the concession stand where I befriended a charming older woman who gave me the shirt off her back when I admired it (actually she bought another one so we could both have one). A mutual friend requested masks for her, and her husband who’s battling cancer, and two extras for the caretakers. Sweet, sweet love and gratitude went into her masks; this was the moment when I imagined them as the fabric version of chicken soup.

That is my mask journey. Should you find yourself with a stack of fabric, and the desire to do something for your community, I’ve included a couple links to good tutorials.

Also, if you are in need of masks, you most certainly can ask me. I’m trying not to add to the postal service’s load, so just local requests for now. If you are a health worker and need multiple masks, I found a great group on Facebook called the Mendocino Mask Makers (almost 300 members!) that takes requests. https://www.facebook.com/groups/726774797726939/

Mask tutorials

No elastic? no problem!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2UejCpjfbn8

Can’t sew? no problem!

https://www.facebook.com/dani.magill/videos/3029245817133940/

Punchbowls, Blowholes, and Sinkholes, Oh My!

Imagine you’re walking along a section of the coast, on a trail you’ve been using for years. You’re hoofing along, not watching the trail because you can’t take your eyes off the big waves and rocky coastline stretched out before you. But woah, hold up, take not a step further! There is a huge hole in the ground that wasn’t there yesterday. We are not talking a hole the size of a storybook wishing-well, we are talking a hole the size of a swimming pool. You look down and see the fresh dirt and coastal scrub sitting at the bottom, a drop of twenty to thirty feet. Your jaw drops, your pulse races, that was a close one! You just missed a dive into the geologic wonder on the coast knows as punchbowls.

Before you panic, this isn’t a common occurrence, but we did just get a new one near the Spring Ranch trail, and this walk did happen to my sister. Believe it or not, we have quite a few of these large holes, formed over centuries, which go by the name punchbowl, blowhole, or sinkhole.

Aerial view of Noyo Headlands punchbowl by Mateo Ortiz

How are these formed? Sinkholes, as you may recall from famous ones that open up in urban areas where whole streets cave in, occur when water collects underground and has nowhere to drain. The earth above becomes unstable and eventually collapses. In coastal areas, the sinkholes form when pounding waves erode the cliffs over time and create sea caves. “The whole coastline is like swiss cheese, with notches, caves, holes, arches, and tunnels,” says Kate Erickson, sea kayak guide and owner of Liquid Fusion Kayaking. Periodically the cave roof collapses, forming a sinkhole with an added feature—water will enter and fill up the beach below, giving curious hikers no end of aquatic entertainment. Blowhole is what you’d imagine—the water shoots upward because it has nowhere to go, but most of the holes below are so book here is little blowhole action.

As you might imagine, some pretty amazing tales of coastal life take place in punchbowls. My favorite is about a shipwreck in 1898, where the captain, his son, and the cook all went down with the ship as it crashed into a sea cave on the Mendocino Headlands. Here's an excerpt from the local paper with the headline "Schooner Swallowed by a Small Cave and No Trace Ever Found of It:"

"The last we saw of that brave man he stood with one hand on a spoke of the wheel and with his other arm fondly embracing his son's waist, disappeared forever from our view- We waited all night with the hope that on the turn of the tide the vessel might possibly drift into the bay, but we never saw so much as a bit of her planking again. She had gone into the blow hole and her destination will ever remain a mystery. “-San Francisco Call, Volume 84, Number 124, 2 October 1898

A local named Scott relates this completely charming story:

“Once, while viewing the blowhole in the forest just west of the Little River Cemetery, we watched a kayak come through the tunnel from the sea and beach itself on the sand at the bottom of the punchbowl. A young man and woman, dressed as pirates, got out of the kayak, opened a map, and began searching the area. At one point, the young woman excitedly began digging, and soon pulled out a small box. The young man ran over to see what she had found. They opened the box and immediately the young man knelt down after pulling the ring from the box (which he had apparently hidden earlier) and proposed. She appeared to say “yes” and we quickly and silently departed before they discovered that we had observed the beautiful scene from above.”

Curiosity piqued? I’ve listed a few below, easy to see in a day because they are located between Fort Bragg and Little River, just few miles apart by car. But if that’s more punch than you can handle in one morning, I’ve given them each awards, so you have a handy cheat sheet for deciding which to visit.

Most Atmospheric

Little River Blowhole

It can’t be a coincidence that there is a charming old cemetery right next to this blowhole. This one has always struck me as the most precarious, both because the trail hugs the edge, but also because people try to get down to the beach on the steep trail. But the coastal pines that surround it give it an eerie feel, plus news that some of the older graves are in danger of collapsing into, definitely gives this one the title of ‘most atmospheric’! Park in the small turnout alongside the Little River Cemetery and take the trail alongside to the left.

Best Active Blowhole

Mendocino Headlands

Take the trail from the end of Main Street out to the point, where the remains from the old mill (chains, and a wooden platform) perch over the coast. This sinkhole (now actually a natural bridge as there are openings on two sides) was formed during the 1906 earthquake. A leaky water tank kept the ground especially wet, so the quake opened the hole and swallowed the tank. Now you’ll see marine life during low tide. To see water spouting up from the opening of the blowhole, walk west past the carved totem. Turn around and look for the mouth of the cave—just above it is a smaller hole formed in the rock. Wait for the waves to crash through and enjoy the fine spray that comes up through this smaller blow hole.

aerial view of Devil's Punchbowl by Branden McGuinn

Most Famous & Best Name

Devil’s Punchbowl

Just after you enter Russian Gulch State Park make the first right and park at the end. It’s an easy walk to the punchbowl, which is sixty feet deep and over 100 feet across. Great ocean views and if you go at high tide, the sound of the waves filling the punchbowl sound devilishly loud and eerie.

Most Accessible by Land and Sea

Noyo Headlands Coastal Trail

Park in the south parking of the coastal trail in Fort Bragg and walk along the trail to the point where the bay opes out into the ocean. An aerial view of this punchbowl is shown up above, and on her blog Kate Erickson writes about (and shows) the view from her kayak when she takes folks into the punchbowl from the bay.

And now a word of caution: Be careful when walking around these holes. Admittedly, I am what my family calls “a nervous Nellie” and when I took my kids to the Little River Blowhole and saw how close the trail runs to the edge, and how precarious the earth under that trail looked, I backed everyone WAY up. Squashed any desire to scramble down the steep side of the hole to touch bottom (plus poision oak alert)!

Water Towers and Flights of Fancy

Yours truly

As a young girl I was often found perched in the branches of the tree in our backyard, nose in a novel. In winter, I’d be wrapped head-to-toe in one of my mom’s knit afghans, a flashlight inside illuminating the pages of an Agatha Christie mystery. Fast forward many decades and that same girl, now well into mid-life, spends her winters spellbound by her favorite author’s latest gothic novel.

I love to read. After moving to the north coast, it occurred to me that I have lived in places that feed my imagination. Take yesterday for example. After days of gloomy overcast weather, a bright blue sky beckoned me and a friend outside for a walk on the headlands. But the wind! We were nearly blown from the cliffs, and watched as even the hawk nearby was buffeted about while trying valiantly to hone in on its prey. The sea was an artist’s dream: whitecaps dotted the turquoise-colored water while monstrous waves lashed the coast, spraying plumes of water high into the air as they crashed against the rocks. My face nearly frozen, we beat a hasty retreat back to town, but the experience conjured up images of Heathcliff and Catherine wandering the moors in Jane Austen’s Wuthering Heights. Time to go home and curl up with a good book!

Nature’s beauty aside, there’s something else special here that induces a bit of literary fever in me: the water towers.  These 19^th century towering redwood structures spark curiosity in visitors, pride in historians, creativity in artists, and fantasies in dreamers like me. Drive or walk around either Fort Bragg or Mendocino and you’ll see plenty of them, often of varying architectural design and adornment. Built during the logging heyday to provide water to homes and businesses, they were accompanied by windmills that would pump groundwater up to the water tank, which was perched on a platform at the top (which needed to be high enough to ensure gravity provided enough pressure to move it where it was needed).

About a third of Mendocino’s original water towers (the town boasted ninety at one point) are still standing, while most of Fort Braggs' are gone. While some are still in use, many have been converted to vacation rentals or artists’ studios. I’m sharing a few of my favorites, along with the literary association they inspire in me.

Weller House tower

The Weller House  (Fort Bragg). Built in 1886 to supply water to the adjoining mansion (listed on the National Register of Historic Places; it is now a B&B). The water tower overlooks the ocean and the town, claiming to be the tallest structure in Mendocino County. They rent rooms in the tower (it has been rebuilt so it is structurally sound) and I can’t think of a better place to curl up and read a gothic novel that takes place in a spooky old house. Try a classic like Rebecca by Daphne de Maurier or for something by a contemporary writer, The Clockmaker’s Daughter by Kate Morton. The Weller House even rents water tower rooms for extended stays, perfect for writers!

John Doughtery House carving on tower

John Dougherty House (Mendocino). The first time I walked past this water tower and saw the carving of a stern-looking woman on the front, I blurted out “why, it’s Bertha Rochester!” Fans of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre will remember the novel’s big reveal: that Jane’s beloved Rochester was keeping his crazy wife up in the attic. He didn’t tell Jane of course, so Bertha would appear mysteriously in the window, scaring the metaphorical pants off of Jane. (Another great novel by Jane Rhys, Wild Sargasso Sea, explores Bertha’s story from a feminist perspective and paints her as a sympathetic character.) I, of course, am only projecting my Bertha onto this water tower, I do not know what beloved family member of the Dougherty’s is memorialized in this carving.

Simpson Lane Tower (Fort Bragg). I pass this dilapidated tower on my way home every day and will be saddened when it finally falls. The pine tree growing out of the tower’s platform never fails to make me smile, and puts me in mind of my favorite childhood book (in photo at top), The Secret Garden, where beauty blossoms amidst chaos. It’s about three-quarters of a mile east on Simpson, on the left.

Jade’s Tower (Mendocino). Clearly renovated by artists, this gorgeous tower with its windows, whimsical water vane, and hidden garden enchant passerby and lodgers alike. With its stunning views and tranquil setting…wait, why aren’t I writing this blog post from that tower?! If you’ve ever read Virginia Woolf’sA Room of One’s Own--this would be that room. “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” Woolf argues that had women been given the same social and economic freedom as men, their creative output would be voluminous (illustrated wonderfully in a made-up story about Shakespeare’s sister who dies young from poverty and domestic drudgery). Published in 1929, Woolf imagined that in one hundred years things would be different for women writers.

Jade Tower

As we approach that remarkable anniversary, I think she might be heartened by how many female authors are published today, but also dismayed by the economic disparity between women and men that still exists. But that is a topic for another time. (I must confess a secret that would do Woolf proud. On the day of my windy walk I volunteered to do inventory at the local bookstore. After we finished counting, we straightened the books on their shelves and I got to choose which books to face out on the display stands in my sections. I chose all women authors. Heeheehee)

So hopefully I have enticed you do a little water-tower fantasizing of your own. Better yet, come stay in one and pick up a good book at the best independent bookshop, Gallery Bookshop to read while you are there. I invite you to experience the beautiful coast water towers as a wonderful refuge, much like that tree I sat in, or that afghan that warmed me (thanks mom!).