230 | Alcoholic Pass

1987 | Pat White near Alcoholic Pass, Anza-Borrego

I was intrigued by the mark for this place on the map, named perhaps by prospectors at a high point on a much older Native trail between Coyote Canyon and Clark Valley. It was said to be so narrow at its saddle that travelers had to unpack their mules to work their way through.

Pat White and I had started up one of the broad washes from the east and didn’t see any notches ahead of us, so we veered north and climbed a rocky ridge to get our bearings. From there, we could look directly down at our goal; the tight little canyon wriggled just enough to be invisible from our earlier vantage points. Only from above could we locate our “ground truth.”

It was one of those ideal old camps, above the heat of the flats on either side, exposed to cooler breezes, and offering shelter among large interlocked boulders.

228 | Arroyo Tapiado

1991 | Arroyo Tapiado, Anza-Borrego Desert State Park

This canyon winds through a fascinating pseudokarst region; these hills are laced with subsurface streambeds forming complex mud-caves — some open-arched, like ruined cathedrals, some closed and vertical with single skylights, like shrines.

Visitors are advised to walk only on the ridges when exploring the mudhills from the top; there are caves below, and sinkholes which may have not yet broken through. I clearly remember a day on top with my desert regulars, when one of them said quietly, “David, your’e going up and down.” Quickly and very carefully, we tiptoed to the highest and firmest ground to regroup and plan a good route out.

Later, I climbed up with my view camera to find a lookout. Seeing this picture 30 years later, I can’t believe that’s where I parked my car. The protection of the shade seemed advantageous, but the sun filled it quickly, and I had been seriously ignorant of gravity.

226 | Butte Valley

1996 | The Geologist’s Cabin

This one reminds me more of Robert Adams that it does of myself — clear, bright, sober, hopeful, and a book.

This is a rare large window for a stone cabin; just out of view is Striped Butte, which stands on its side with contrasty, vertical strata. This place is as peaceful as the road out is difficult. After I added my name to the visitors’ register, I wrote in my own notebook, “Always carry two spares.”

225 | Birthday

1975 | Washington DC

I’m old-school; I like to celebrate the 12th and the 22nd, and I have fond memories of two school holidays in February, ten days apart, so they never occurred on the same day of the week. For first few years of my own teaching, I enjoyed the old holidays before they were “normalized” — the two days off busted up the semester and we all came back with different kinds of pictures.

I like to keep the old dates in mind; if I can remember the year of George Washington’s birth, I don’t have to remember the square root of three…

224 | Lives

2018 | Old Lifesaving Cemetery, Point Reyes

I had climbed this knoll above the graves, bowed under the low cypress as I negotiated the steps carved into the stone outcrop, and settled on this bench with my body aligned to the linear heart of its tree.

The surfmen who are remembered here rowed out from the old lifesaving station on Ten Mile Beach in their effort to assist sailors and passengers who were in even more danger somewhere along the craggy double-claw of Point Reyes. They dragged their boats down the beach and rowed out into the steep shorebreak, facing unchecked energy gathered on the long fetch from Alaska.

These men were beyond heroic, deeply committed even though some of them could not swim. The memorials here are for those who lost their lives during training. For me, their souls were the sober and hopeful atmosphere I was breathing in that place.

When I got home from my last visit there, I looked up their motto — “You have to go out, but you don’t have to come back.”