I pointed my compass south yesterday and headed home. Away I went, down 2-lane roads darkened by tall groves of redwoods, over bridges spanning creeks, rivers, bays of silvery water. Through mile after mile of impossibly green hills, row after row of grape vines. Flocks of grazing sheep, coyotes leaping over fences, red-winged blackbirds, turkey vultures, and hawks. Lush pastoral scenes straight from my inner landscape opened as I sped by.
Until at last, I left the verdant north coast wine country and motored on through the central valley of California. Coastal ranges to the west and snow- capped high sierras to the east. Me and my car humming along in the flatland between both.
Over 500 highway miles later, I reached the land of cars and people. Rows of grapes replaced by long strings of cars. Freeways flowing over the hills now instead of streams of bubbling water.
I closed the Mendocino storybook. Left this window far behind. Rumbled across a network of familiar freeways all the way home to my little house, on a little hill, in the middle of the gleaming metropolis. Home to Moss Cottage.
Where I pulled the dogeared copy of LA stories out of my back pocket and picked up where I left off.