Archive for August, 2009

Where was I? Oh yeah.......

After settling down to a snack of apples and cheese and feeling our bare toes instinctively kneading the short grass and cinder, Ty and I went into the cabin to check the progress of the water heating on the stove. It was a rolling boil, so I pulled a pound of pasta out of my pack (say that fast five times) and Ty grabbed the pesto. Now one thing you usually find in the cabin kitchen is salt, but tonite, none.

During the course of the hike I realized I had forgotten seven things, one of which was salt, and i'd just taken delivery on a five pound bag of pink himalayan salt which is made from the crystallized perspiration of sherpa guides collected at the exact moment of reaching the peak of Everest. Seriously.

I knew the pesto would be less than spectacular, but figured a little carbo loading would be good for the hike to Paliku. Cooked up the pasta, drained off the water, mixed in half the container of pesto and ended up with enough pasta to feed us all and have four pounds left over to dump in the crapper the next day. By the way, a definite improvement to the overall aromatics.

I hadn't seen Noemie eat or drink all day, except for a slice of apple at the base of Sliding Sands. She had about a half a small bowl of pasta for dinner. She looked fresh as a daisy, needed no bandaids for blisters and had a not so subtle glow going, even after she had popped her lenses and donned the Tina Feys. I was beginning to suspect extra terrestrial origins. Everyone had settled into their respective bunk spaces with packs open and clothes being balled up into pillows.

After a spirited round of cards by candle light , with pecans doubling as poker chips, I figured to take the bunk "mattress" off the stand and put it outside on a relatively flat spot to get the full effect of the nearly new moon sky and the tail end of the Perseid meteor showers. Besides, its hard enough for me to sleep with the pitterpatter of little gecko feet on the ceiling in my bedroom no less four other people tossing, or in Emily and James' case, whispering, giggling and snogging.

So Ty and I pulled one out and carried it to the side of the cabin where I rolled out the mummy and zipped up. Ty had a ground blanket and his bag and hung out with me until it got too cold for his gear. We watched as satellites appeared and meandered across the heavens in varying orbits and elevations, two of which came careening at each other and missed by a space inch. We were bummed when they didn't crash 'cause that would have been awesome.

The milky way hung like a gossamer fixed cloud draped over the crater, we stared into the center of the galaxy or thereabouts. Jupiter had risen over the eastern ridges and was pulsing'. Scorpio was prominent to the south with Antares at its heart, glowing red. The breeze was still steady and my face was comfortably cold. Turns out the nene go clubbin' at night 'cause they were whooping it up well into the darkness. Beautiful sounds, really. A seamless community, day or night, their little black faces radiating thanks for the Obama presidency and that the National Park service's plans for the crater include a massive outer space theme park for residents of Dubai and Brunei only, then they can finally get some fucking good food to eat. Grass gets old.

There's no real sleeping up there, there's just the surface of dreams then waking to stare out at the living planetarium as the earths rotation presents a slightly different view each time eyes open. Saw four meteors. One for each awakening. Saw a bunch of those distant zigzaggy things too. You know, the ones that fit no rational flight pattern but go whipping around up there anyway. Anomalies are good.

Reflected on what a fine young fellow Tyler has become and how our Love, in the process of aging opens up the power of Two, Tao, Chokmah, Wisdom. All the while, mantra sounding in the background. Ommanipadmehumommanipadmehumommanipadmehum. ._.. ._. ... _.. __...

Upon waking for the fifth time, the starlight had diminished and the dawn was insinuating itself over to the Paliku ridges. I felt a bit like hammered dog shit. Like the dark wrinkle creatures had unpacked their bags under my eyes. Like even if I soaked my head in a bucket of ice water my face would still feel like a shar pei with a hangover might look, if shar pei's got drunk and actually cared how they looked. My sore shoulder had kicked my ass most of the night and a mummy bag is no place for a borderline psychotic with a fear of being institutionalized.

Breathed my way through all that and got a smidgen of comfortable rest before unzipping and heading around the back of the cabin to the outside water faucet at the base of the roof catchment tank. Cupped a few hands to my face and ran some wet through my hair. Turned to see the clouds on the eastern horizen had acquired some golden piping. Coming up on some photo op moments when I realized that my camera was the second thing i forgot.

I shifted into a sort of rasta dance mode to lube the brittle and chill out the cold. Rockin' too and fro mahn, wit' dee oh-kaijjinahl bouncin' up and dowen trown in. Suns morning glow now widespread. Sun itself cresting the clouds and spreading rays out over the crater ridges like locusts on a field of ripe corn. Not terribly warm at first, but totally reassuring. Ty came out the back door, we smiled and shared our standard "johnboy"......."budyoh" salutation as he headed for the outhouse. We were less than a full day in and life surged with glowing color and growing warmth.

A play in one act:

"Do i have to go to sleep now unky Jp. Cantcha just tell me a little more of your crater adventure, huh, pleeeesohpleeesohpleeees." O.k., little feller, maybe a few more lines." " Thanks, unky Jp."

Next week, Morning two and the hike to Paliku.

"Sorry little feller, i lied, get used to it."

This afternoon, in the process of doing chores as in kissing the asses of chickens who could give a shit (thankfully), I filled my belly with a scrummy apple banana, a handful of strawberries, a soupcon of lemon guava and a perfectly tree ripened r2e2 mango. Just thought you'd like to know.

The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp

High there, Final notice on the party because I forgot to mention things like the address and the day, so spacey was my week. 2233 olinda road, Sunday the 23rd, 5pm, pot luck.

After watching Tiger beat himself to death at Hazeltine we all bounced into the truck and headed up to the crater. Jeremiah the transformer (as in transforming the farm with his might and bright) and nurse Cassie (the high priestess of compassioneat), drove us up the mountain on a splendid Sunday afternoon. Ty and I were accompanied by Noemie, our darling French wwoof, who had never taken a hike before, as well as James and Emily, a young couple from the Midwest who had just robbed several banks on Oahu and were on the lam looking for a place to lay low.

After checking into the ranger station and watching a seven minute buzz kill of a slide show advising us not to flick our cigarette butts, defecate in the wood stove or cook up any nene geese, we piled back into Beauregard and blazed up to the summit where we were greeted by brilliantly clear skies and air that when taken in deeply felt like ethereal spun honey mixed with ecstasy. A kind of instant giddiness ensued. Could have been partly due to the shrooms we ate during the slide show.

We pulled the truck over on the summit road to unload the packs and pick up the trail a ways up from the visitor center. As we were doing so, a ranger cop pulled up behind us, lit up his bubble gum machine and explained in his condescendingly superior voice that there is a parking lot provided at the visitor center for this sort of thing. It was almost like he wanted us to throw the packs back into the truck and park down there, you know, so that we did it by the book. Jeremiah just walked over to the guy and clocked him so hard that his teeth turned up on the Hamakua coast. We left him toothless and bloodied laying on the road and booked it down the trail. Dontcha just wish you could do that?

No matter how many times I hit that part of Sliding Sands that affords a full view of the caldera, I am left totally speechless. There's just joy bubbling to the surface and inspiring giddyup. You can be packing in thirty pounds but you feel like you're walking on air. For Tyler and I, it carved out the tenth anniversary of hiking the crater together and a lot of memories that get packed away like your favorite christmas tree ornaments stashed in a box in the attic, or in our case that stack of vintage Mad magazines. I think we can safely say that our mutual love for this ritual is no flash in the pan.

We were all a bit concerned for Noemie, being the novice and weighing in at about a hundred pounds (including a pair of Jane Mansfields which fortunately helped to balance the backpack), but she seemed very at ease and kept pace with no problems while flashing her signature smile at each and every eye contact. I'd see her growing more and more enchanted by everything she was taking in. We all hiked at our own pace and took rest stops together where energy bars and apples were munched and water guzzled. The afternoon sun was just right and we figured to get to Kapalaoa cabin somewhat before dusk. We passed from rock scape to sparse flax plants into silversword groves, fern patches and earth tone cinder cone outcroppings, all along being embraced by the silence and purity of the place.

Not sure what got into me, but I was really feeling the trail and made it down to the bottom of Sliding Sands well ahead of the youngsters. Kicked back in the shade and had me a long pull on the water bottle and a handful of the mix i'd put together made out of pecans, almonds, dried blueberries, tamari sunflower seeds and raw cacao nibs. My heartbeat slowed and my skin cooled in the shade. I heard the call of the nene reflecting off the ridges as the others arrived. We all sat half mesmerized and burned a bone. Silence punctuated by the occasional curious buzzing fly followed. Its a raw, stark, beautiful, peaceful place that gobbles up all but that which is of the Essence.

Ty took the lead for the last leg of the hike. He's in good shape due to the his membership in the Howler monkey fight club. I watched him move along the trail occasionally stopping to do a three sixty or crouch down to check out a flowering plant or roving insect. I caught him up a little ways before the cabin and we flashed on the time that we were hiking through on a July fourth weekend a few years back. It was one of those simultaneous memory bubbles. Turns out that around the beginning of July, the afternoon sun plays off the foothills on the opposite side of the crater to produce a sprawling shadow that looks exactly like a t-rex poised to pounce on some unsuspecting prey. No, really. Given the declination of the planet and the rapidly changing solar angle we figured that the shadow probably only lasts a week or two and that we wouldn't see it this time. We were right.

No t-rex but only three tenths of a mile to the cabin, which after a five and a half mile slog is a welcome site given that a normal days excercise consists of bossing people around, hitting a few seven irons into a net, hefting a bottle of scotch and reaching for the remote. The typical gang of nene's was hanging out in front of the cabin making their nene sounds, browsing the stubbly grass and hoping for the appearance of an insect or two. They have a complex, sonorous and interesting language. We figured they were saying, "quick, look cute and they'll break out the grub". We sloughed off our packs, kicked off our shoes, unlocked the cabin and sat our asses down. Doobage and food were first to be unpacked. Its about then that the whole immersion into the crater experience really settles in. Total disconnect. No more nothin'. Only-eye.

Sitting out in front of the cabin, without the focus of the hike, the movement of the environment takes over. A passing trio of flying nene's. The quick moving red masked partridge like birds that scamper around the flax. The yellow jackets checking out the apples and the ever present fly by. There are wasp traps hung in the brush and small spiders clinging to webs that strain in the wind. Ty found some small psychoactive mushrooms in the nene poop as well as in the area close to where the horses get tied off. He's got a good eye for that shit. I can't for the life of me figure where he got that.

We'd packed in some farm pesto and a couple of pounds of pasta so we got to boiling some water. Emily and James were huddled together cooking up their next heist and Noemie was out front gathering it all in. Ty and I were cutting off a hunk of Fontinella to go with our Pink Lady apples (i kid you not) as dusk began its descent and the eastern horizon boasted a few stars. We took it all in, looked at each other, shared a high five smile and in the vernacular of corporate america, had a kodak moment.

That's right, we've got food too. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp

Oh slow-mo,

That's the way I've been feeling lately, like everything is fishbowl friendly and moving like a remora sucking algae off an aquarium wall. So lets get the business out of the way. Auntie Dorothy and yours incredulously cordially invite you to the thirteenth annual fiftieth birthday party of some poor schmucks who are turning sixty two. Don't get me wrong, i like the aging process, especially in wine, mango trees, cheese, single malt scotch and editorialized life stories. Its applying the template of time to myself that just somehow doesn't seem fair. Know what i mean? And yet , the end of another year approacheth like a foil destined for the heart of Hamlet. I've broken all the mirrors in the house in preparation.

There will be music and fine potlucking at the sumptuous Rainbow Acres high atop Rockefeller plaza in downtown olinda. The festivities begin at 5pm and go until Grimes pops out of the cake and has sex with a blowup doll in the midst of a frenzy of flying icing. Don't know about you but I wouldn't miss it, 'cause to pass up a free meal these days is chust cwazy.

Now, for the less frivolous news; there is this one leghorn that is most assuredly the runt of the batch. She's pint size for her age and in serious danger whenever competing for feed is involved. Soooo, we decided that it might be wise to give her a shot at the full free range spectrum, not unlike Smartypantz. We let her out to roam for the day. She seemed to do fine until the evening feeding time came and i went into club Leghorn to dispense the goods. So intent was the runt at getting back in to be with her abusive sisters that she literally pushed her way through a slight breach in the chicken wire and merged with the flock. We've named her Cinderella and wish her luck.

Ty arrived yesterday with tales of howler monkeys, senorita's and coconut moonshine. He shows the signs of self assurance that are the ultimate comfort to a parent, and in spite of marking a transition to independence of thought, speech and action we are very much on the same page and remain devoted to the lunatic fringe with its many and varied creative sideshows. We have three days of the crater ahead and look forward to clearing a few cobwebs from the attic.

I was told on Friday that our application for ag. water rates had been approved and its as though an area of creativity in my mind that had been put on hold for over a decade decided to make its way sheepishly into the light of day and quietly ask, "for real"? Apparently so. Put simply, we get to use twice as much water for half the price we presently pay, which should forestall the anxiety attacks that have plagued me whenever the hills turn brown. I look forward to a more relaxed and productive time ahead. I'm off to pack for the crater. See you at the party. Peace, Jp

Hello Padre,
Its been sixty one years since my last confession. Just thought i'd throw that in. I feel much better. Thanks. How are you all doing? Of course I don't expect you to actually carry on a hypothetical conversation with me, but around this time of day, you know, the time when you drizzle some scotch over your Kashi to take the edge off before morning prayer meetings with the chickens, it sometimes occurs to me that warm, caring, soothing conversation, albeit imaginary, is better than yelling "die choad die" while watching Glenn Beck soil himself on cable. Not that that doesn't have its merits. I'm fine, thanks. How are the kids doing?

Speaking of which, the hanai son approacheth. Tyler,  love of my life, bane of my existence, radiant soul, turd in a bowl, smart as a whip and hung like Shadowfax, arrives next week for a much needed break. He's been Wwoofing in Costa Rica where he picks peach aphids off sugar apple trees ten hours a day. Then he washes dishes in a sleazy cantina called the Stuffed Donkey until two a.m. at which time he goes back to his tent to sleep on a dirt floor teeming with kookaracha's. In his spare time he keeps the servers up and going at the local web-cam house of porn where fifty or so lovely senorita's stream live flesh. He says it beats college.

We've been hiking the crater pretty much every year since he was ten. Missed one here and there, and he did his first solo hike last year. Well, he's twenty now and I figure that gives it the weight of a tradition in this rag tag family, the only other one being liftime memberships in the "Venerate the Pussy" society. Haven't seen him since we turned the corner on 09'. He said he met a shaman in a remote village that could charm the eggs right out of a chicken. Said it gave the chickens "human skin" just to be in his presence. He's turning into quite the little raconteur. We'll have the cabins for a couple of days and then out the gap. He may make a guest appearance at the Grimelock where he will debut the first chapter of his new cookbook called "The Homeless Persons guide to Roadkill Recipes".

We picked up thirty more Ameraucana chicks. Those are the ones that lay the tinted eggs in the blue to blue green spectrum. They won't be kicking in for awhile but when they do, they'll give us at least a couple per dozen to mix with the white and brown ones if all goes well. Doc Bebockboc took some time out of his busy schedule and torrid affair with nurse Sally (yes, its official) to swing by and take a look at the layers. He was all smiles. Said they looked like rose petals and chocolate pillow mints strewn on your bed at the Four Seasons when you get back to your room after a sumptuous feast and start popping buttons on a buxom blond. He's totally gone over nurse Sally who looks like she lifts weights with her breasts. So firm they are, young skywalker.

We're into a nice planting rotation and starting to fill in as much space as we can with layers of edible goodness. In having developed scalable models of plant guilds that prove to be productive and beneficial to the landscape we stand poised and ready to develop more of the property once we start paying about 23% as much for water as we are now. I'm gonna have to create a new wwoof job description. "Water wwoofer" will be a revolving job, shared amongst the intern population and affording the opportunity to commune with the plant life in a way unparalleled by any other farm task. When you give water to thirsty plants and wash the accumulated dust off their leaves and just stand there in the mist and scent there is a bonding. There is a sense of gratitude. There are bigger freakin' mangoes.

Hard to overestimate the critical importance of water to dry-land farming. Its everything. We will continue to employ conservative methods for our use of water and liberal to gonzo philosophical models for all else. As in, "two rabbi's and a kidney walked into a New Jersey bar". I'm more amused than amazed at the news these days. Not sure that's a good sign cause' there sure is a lot of shit being slung over yonder. We're about seventy percent water. You'd think we'd be all sloshin' around merging with everything and flowing into the most natural position gravity could afford. More like a viral form of robocop with notable exceptions being hippies who overdosed on acid at Winterland, dancers of any stripe, the young and the young at heart, in their minds.

Its dry as the pig femur you find digging a hole in the dry dry dirt that crumbles when you look at it too hard. The chickens kick up a cloud of dust every time they come runnin' to praise the food guy with the magic blue bucket. The cloud drifts through the orchard dusting everything cinnamon. The cow pastures across the road show no sign of green. It is a golden brown embrace. Just add water and get baked.

Lets see, what else? Oh yeah, we're having a contest to find out how many nurdles it takes to constitute an area twice the size of the continental united states that is currently swirling slowly in the pacific gyre (a.k.a. garbage dump) and composed of some hundred million tons of plastic debris oozing just beneath the waters surface and inexorably becoming part of the food chain. Soon we'll be able to hike from Maui to Alaska using my new web foot water shoes (patent pending) which allow for easy maneuvering across the buoyant plastislime.

Random factoid: When Bush took office there were 77 non organic substances that were permitted to be used in u.s.d.a. certified "organic" foods. This number was to be reduced over time to protect the integrity of organic labeling. There are now 245 non organic substances that are allowed into our foods. These foods are still considered certified organic. Codex Alimentarius baby, codex alimentarius.

Soooo, as strategic alliances for resources and markets continues to grind humanity into a high protein food supplement, and political posturing continues to pose as progress, we here at the Rancho are hunkered down with our psyche's tuned to higher frequencies and our expectations at the lowest setting available. That way, when the turds hit the turbine we'll feel like a monster truck hitting a speed bump at sixty with a cd of Jimmy Hendrix playing Red House not missing a beat.

Check the c.s.a. tab on the website for this weeks food selection and give us a shout if we can help you out.

The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, jP.