I headed my truck and camper east on another rendezvous with mother nature this past week. I wanted to go see the wild flowers in the low Sierras before they wilt in summer heat, and find some quiet time away from the building project that continues at my house. I drove a rather indirect route through a few of California's lesser traveled towns, so that I might avoid commuter traffic. I managed to run across every hard-hat work crew in the countryside, people in orange vests strewn along the highway, filling potholes with new asphalt. Two of the crew stand beside the road with walkie talkies while they hold stop signs and chat with each other about the number of autos they are able to hold back. I drove through perhaps twenty of these road construction zones this week. Fortunately, the wait at each seemed tolerably short.

My own impatience with the project back home caused me to run away for a few days. I detect a repeat of my old pattern of thinking I can run away from myself, when all I really do is drag my weary old self along for the ride. I drove for several hours up to New Melones Reservoir, a few miles outside Sonora, but the campgrounds that are nicely treed and give easy access to the water were closed. What are the park people thinking? The only spot open was on a high hill in the hot sun, far from the edge of the water, so I headed further into the high country, and spent an evening in the giant sequoias of Calaveras County, a few miles up the road from the town Mark Twain made famous for frog jumping.

The next day would be another hot one. The Sierra wild flowers, mostly heat intolerant, disappear quickly in the spring. Rather than sit out another day in this unusually early season of heat, I thought it best to make my way slowly back toward the coast, so I followed Highway 49--named after the gold rush of 1849--as it snaked through hills and river canyons, passing abruptly through the ruins of old mining towns that had their mother lodes quite thoroughly picked a hundred and fifty years ago. Columbia is perhaps the most interesting of the towns, because it has been well preserved by the state park system. Walking up and down the streets and looking into the old red-brick buildings and wooden shanties shoved me backward in time, a delightful retreat from the quickly churning modern world.

Beyond Columbia, I pass through Sonora, Jamestown, then skirt around the edge of another couple of man-made reservoirs--Don Pedro and McClure. The mountains through which Highway 49 passes don't have many people dwelling in them. The road follows the contour of the land so closely, with many narrow stretches. I find a shade tree along side the road where I can park and eat lunch and enjoy a long view down a canyon of brush and pine. I noticed that I managed to bring along with me the tension I experienced back home from the building project. Spending two days in the mountains and looking at all this wild beauty, though I enjoyed looking at the scenery, did not seem to quiet my mind. Of course, this piece of road is not exactly relaxing to drive either--it's narrow, bumpy, and no fifty feet of it are straight.

By the end of the day I'm anxious to come down out of the mountains and head closer to home. I know the coast will be much cooler. This dry, still air has spoken its piece to me. I am reminded of why I live by the sea. I stop and camp another two nights in the lower country, on the edge of another reservoir---San Luis--because here the coastal breeze is now flowing, which helps bring down my own internal heat.

Sometimes when I go camping, the first-hand encounter with raw nature feels like medicine for my soul. I should perhaps make note of my own disposition before planning such a trip again. Actually, I should be better aware of my disposition at all times, and not just when I'm trying to run away from myself. I need to practice more mindfulness in my daily living, rather than let emotion and frustration rule my inner calm. That need has been at the front of my mind today.