A camping trip with my wife for a few days, in which we take our little truck camper, Rosie--named after Steinbeck's Rocinante-- down to Big Sur, some eighty miles south of our home in the Santa Cruz Mountains. The spring season has been coming at us with such speed, a determined and unalterable path recklessly aiming toward summer. I feel like if I do not get out and see some of the raw local beauty of our coastline that we will have slipped into the next season with hardly a notice.

A late morning drive south of Carmel, beginning with such pleasure in seeing a warm and pleasant couple of days of sunshine ahead of us. That changes abruptly when we reach the Point Sur Lighthouse. If Greek gods had ruled in California during the golden era, Point Sur would have been one of their points of interest, because here the interaction with humankind's sciences of understanding, our joint knowledge of the predictive forces to which we all must yield, comes constantly into disruptive play. When I would think calm and passive weather as I drive through the geography of this prominent point of land, what really happens unbeknownst to me is that the divine entities desire, instead, an intense wind fest that modifies and humbles all human desire for pleasant outdoor spring activity and interaction with nature--our common, celebrated, and nearly-forgotten mother.

Our first night camping out on the coastal bluffs overlooking the sea at Kirk Creek, we had a large bonfire to keep us warm. A marine layer of wind and fog had moved in from the south. Maybe I'm becoming a softy if I require this large consumption of fuel just to remain moderately warm, but I feel okay with having reached this age of limitation and desire for comfort. My body doesn't seem to want to generate the heat that it once did, so I rely on other material elements to satisfy my passion for warmth. My main quest in life these days seems to be one of comfortable living.

Kirk Creek is one of the few camp spots on the entire California coast where one can look west to see sunsets over the Pacific. To occupy any campsite here, whether the season is on or off, is cause for celebration. We share this grand view in the campground with a few late-season Canadian wanderers who huddle inside their mini-RVs in anticipation, perhaps, of an over-extended Arctic snowstorm. Do the visiting Canadians believe a campfire in April to be impossible? I don't see one of them come out of their RV to embrace this California evening.

Our intent in planning this trip, other than to get completely off the grid and further remove ourselves from the nadir of public empty-headedness, is to go join conversation with this gentle, rippling Big Sur River that flows with such graceful force and peace from out of inaccessible mountain cracks and peaks on high. I can no longer load a pack on my back and hike inland, up a myriad of twisting and forking paths to some discreet and amazing location, as I did years ago on this same river, so must be content to roll in on four wheels to the back of the redwood and fern-laden canyon and park my folding chair above the banks for a quiet spell of river listening. Here we are better protected from the coastal weather.

The wild flowers are out right now. Warm sunny days ahead will strike down their glory. Most of these flowers I know by name: owls clover, paintbrush, Indian warrior, poppy, yucca, iris, lily, scarlet bugler, periwinkle, lupine, sage, lilac, ice plant, buckwheat, manzanita, pampas grass, and french broom. They are all currently in bloom. Knowing their names helps me keep them in my memory, but I seem to have forgotten the names of some of the more delicate species. It's an annual litany for me, in which I must open the hymnal and once again sing what I am able to summon from the back of my mind. I must adjust my voice and disposition, which may help me recognize and celebrate the finer and prettier things that I believe make my life worth the sustained effort of participation.

The river is terribly low this year. The winter rains just never came with enough persistent force to supply the small feeder streams. April's trickle looks like November's thirst. By the next rain season the river may be reduced to isolated puddles and pools, without that wonderful talkative sound that I love to come listen to when my own inner monologue needs a restorative purging. Unless we see rain all summer, these mountains that plunge wildly into the sea will appear so bereft of plant life. The fields of lupine and poppy that spread along the tops of the cliffs will turn to a brown and grassy look that will hardly turn my head.

The late afternoon of the day of camping along the river, back deep in the gorge, we hike around the edge of the water flow, through the campgrounds, studying birds and trees. Brightly colored mallards fly up and down the middle of the river while crows circle and swoop, beaks wide open, through the late afternoon bug traffic. Splendiferous bay trees exude their full fragrance as they spread out over steep bluffs along the edge of the river. We stay out of the camper until after dark and cook dinner on a steel grate over a fire. We are awake two or three hours into the evening darkness, while burning a stack of wood and listening to the night sounds of the surrounding forest. But when the flames begin to flicker and the shadows begin to blend more evenly with a deeply darkened sky, we crawl into the modest truck camper and fall asleep with a renewed love of spring beauty.

I always tell myself that I do not get out enough in these mountains, little more than an hour from home. What is so engaging about staying home when I could be doing this instead? Well, yea, I do live on the edge of a redwood forest and see many sights and wonders come from it on a daily basis, but the river and the dramatic scenery that Big Sur affords should be higher on my list of priorities, or maybe even toss out the rest of the list and dwell here much longer?

On the road home we drive beyond the edge of the marine layer, and back into the bright, contrasting colors of rocky, earth-colored cliffs that stack up against Pacific blues. The intense colors extend nearly forever on the horizon. This thick, layered bank of fog has rolled back some. I can see a little of what is under the veil of the large thick blanket that covers Big Sur all day. I just know it will pull back on to land sometime this evening. By then, however, I'll be home, and will miss the sudden movement of cool air up the canyon of the Big Sur River.