In 1977, during a solo, 90-day sea kayaking exploration of the San Juan Islands I began keeping a journal of sensory impressions--sight, sound, taste, touch and smell. Good, bad, evocative, distasteful--everything that rang my bell.
Some sixty days later, while camped on Matia Island in the northern San Juan Islands, I met a gentleman hiker and we swapped a few yarns. When I mentioned the "sensory journal" he immediately responded that I really should meet his daughter who was camping with him and his wife on the other end of the island, and an invitation to dinner (in a "powerboat" camp with ice, cold beverages, fresh produce and a lantern) was irresistable.
My hosts proved fascinating: he an English teacher at the federal penitentiary on McNeil Island in Puget Sound and his wife an art educator in Tacoma. But it was the daughter and the journal that brought us together--she had received her M.D. degree from UCLA, and was completing her Ph.D. in endocrinology there. Her research involved her learned ability to identify by smell ten different types of cancers from laboratory cultures, and her work in objectifying/describing the scents so she could train technicians to replicate her skills and results.
Whether it was my reaction to tredding on human feces at the first beach I camped on that summer, or a later experience of following a game trail out of a campsite and feeling my hackles rise, and caution/fear grip me, as the scent of nettles permeated my senses with long-forgotten painful lessons learned at six and seven years of age in verdant western Washington streambeds, we conversed at length about all manner of sensory stimuli. And the habit continues....
Sounds--
The first sensory input I noted after our departure from Northwood Elementary was a cell phone ring!! Never having been an owner/user it was a shock, much like a day some forty years before as I serenely kayaked north until an overhead Navy helicopter set up a sympathic vibration in the fiberglass deck of my kayak and made me feel like a tympanist in the Berlin Philharmonic.
The cell phone became a fixture of the journey just as compass/timepiece/chart had served me in the past. The best was establishing communication/coordination with Ian for the Petaluma River crossing by kayak; the bittersweet side of instant communication occured as we hiked a steep grade in the Marin Headlands on our last leg to San Francisco and were rewarded with our first vista of the Golden Gate Bridge--photos, cheers, exuberance, and then the tear-laden downer as one of the party received word by cell that a beloved grandfather had died.
But the cell phone rings will probably fade with time, and it will be music that remains. In past journeys it has been Pablo Casals and Bach on the church steps in Xalapa de Vera Cruz, and the Gregorian Chants of the monks of Santo Domingo de Silos, and fado in Lisboa. This time it was Eli's Suzuki-trained, after-dinner violin recital at David and Naomi's in San Rafael; I was enthralled; my dentist, concertmaster of the San Luis Obispo Symphony, will share my excitement.
Sights--
So there are always greener palms, more magnificent religious monuments and edifices, sunsets that excel. Or faces that radiate joy, sorrow, ethnicity, youth, age, wisdom and life. But I think for me it is textures that imprint.
Even the short Petaluma River crossing refreshed memories of the random fractal interplay of wind and current, while the sky above brought back images of halos, rainbows, sun dogs, mirages, lunar phases, constellations, satellites, the moons of Jupiter.
The black-tailed jackrabbits bouncing along in front provided great entertaiment, as did the loquacious/melodious red-winged blackbirds beside us, but it was the step-by-step textures that stimulated my senses. Concrete, blacktop, gravel, sand, grass, vineyard soil, irregular rails and sleepers and ballast, and then rails with a bed of driftwood between (and my mind drifts to a hundred, a thousand scenes of driftwood), a terrazzo mall floor, steel grating and wooden plank bridges, and finally, a carpet and a buffet of champagne, cheese and caviar....
Touch--
So the grip of a kayak paddle in my hands, the splash of the water, yet another stroke to add to the 1,000,000++ repetitive moves I've made reminded me of pleasures past at day's end--the firewood-heated, bucket-bath of salt water with a one-quart fresh water rinse; a freshly prepared campfire meal; a padded bed on leveled ground and a (hopefully) dry sleeping bag.
And so, the contrast could not be greater, but nonetheless just as real, at our sponsors and hosts' accommodations: copious steaming showers, wonderful meals, and blissful white sheets with ethereal pillows.... Sensory experiences are what one encounters, not what one presupposes.
Smell--
It seems to me that smell is the most evocative of the senses, and I might add, the one that I register ever more weakly as the years pass. Kari clearly processed more information about scents than I did, but even a little waft put me at an advantage, as I have years of catalogued memories to recall and compare. The railroad-track route we chose had some wonderful sensory hits--like the ankle-high, shin-high, waist-high spring fennel sprouting from the roadbed. Or the little stream washouts of the roadbed where we tramped over/were enveloped by the intoxicating scent of mint. And that of course took each of us to distant scented memories.
And so, my mind returned to gathering driftwood for my morning breaking of fast, and the major dinner fire. The scent of splitting Western red cedar kindling, and the rare but treasured experience of a piece of Rocky Mountain juniper to fill the evening campsite with an incense worthy of Shangri-la.
So there are travel scents that pique the senses, and those that sweep over you and set a whole tone, like the sea air across the Golden Gate or the increasing gas/diesel fumes as we approached our final goal.
And it was the sea air and the fennel and the mint that recalled to me my greatest olfactory high.
I was at the end of a day-long, 30-mile paddle up a coastal fjord in British Columbia, and after clearing the final tidal current narrows I headed for the fjord-head Chatterbox Falls. The 2,000-foot-deep fjord was flanked by peaks that reached 8,000 feet, 1½ miles in from the fjord margin.
As the summits cooled with the long summer setting of the sun, the now heavy cooler air careened down the sun-heated slopes of forbs and shrubs in a catabatic cascade. The result? A priceless, once-in-a-lifetime immersion in the olfactory botany of the British Columbia coast....
Taste--
When one is on a journey, a pilgrimage, a trek, food becomes a focus, a fixation, a reality. First of all it is the fuel, the tiger in the tank. Miles traversed become calories consumed. And if the fuel you consume meets other aesthetic needs, so much the better. One of the pleasures of traveling with Kari is that we are both dyed-in-the-wool foodies.
From Indian pudding at Colonial Williamsburg to salal berries on Blind Island to din-din at the French Culinary Institute in NYC, we dig it. So many highs I can't include them all. Brut Rose at Domaine Carneros and Marshlands Chardonnay at Acacia Vineyards to accompany Unsuk's wonderful, refreshing fruit offering (on a lovely Italian ceramic plate).
TJ's helped us all along the way with cashews, almonds, spicy pecans, chocolate, dried pears, cherries, apricots, ginger snaps, cheese and sausage. And there were fresh loquats off a suburban sidewalk tree. Three Twins Ice Cream with allspice, blood orange sorbet, and coffee choices.
And the first beers--Boont Amber for Mike and a Hefeweisen for Kari in Ignacio. Which skips over the Moules Mariniere and fine wine of our first night out in Sonoma. And for our umami tastes, the wonderful grilled lamb with artichoke risotto at David and Naomi's.
The picnic at the Marin Headlands Hostel was outstanding; I made outrageous sandwiches, snacked on great cookies, and relished the "Manifesto!" sauvignon blanc which later appeared as a splendid gift to the medical personnel at CalPacMedCtr.
And so, one journey ends, but only after being immersed in its sensual dimensions. Already we talk of next year's trek--perhaps Napa → Sonoma → Petaluma → Tomales Bay → and south on the coastal trail/route to Marin Headlands and San Francisco.....
Some sixty days later, while camped on Matia Island in the northern San Juan Islands, I met a gentleman hiker and we swapped a few yarns. When I mentioned the "sensory journal" he immediately responded that I really should meet his daughter who was camping with him and his wife on the other end of the island, and an invitation to dinner (in a "powerboat" camp with ice, cold beverages, fresh produce and a lantern) was irresistable.
My hosts proved fascinating: he an English teacher at the federal penitentiary on McNeil Island in Puget Sound and his wife an art educator in Tacoma. But it was the daughter and the journal that brought us together--she had received her M.D. degree from UCLA, and was completing her Ph.D. in endocrinology there. Her research involved her learned ability to identify by smell ten different types of cancers from laboratory cultures, and her work in objectifying/describing the scents so she could train technicians to replicate her skills and results.
Whether it was my reaction to tredding on human feces at the first beach I camped on that summer, or a later experience of following a game trail out of a campsite and feeling my hackles rise, and caution/fear grip me, as the scent of nettles permeated my senses with long-forgotten painful lessons learned at six and seven years of age in verdant western Washington streambeds, we conversed at length about all manner of sensory stimuli. And the habit continues....
Sounds--
The first sensory input I noted after our departure from Northwood Elementary was a cell phone ring!! Never having been an owner/user it was a shock, much like a day some forty years before as I serenely kayaked north until an overhead Navy helicopter set up a sympathic vibration in the fiberglass deck of my kayak and made me feel like a tympanist in the Berlin Philharmonic.
The cell phone became a fixture of the journey just as compass/timepiece/chart had served me in the past. The best was establishing communication/coordination with Ian for the Petaluma River crossing by kayak; the bittersweet side of instant communication occured as we hiked a steep grade in the Marin Headlands on our last leg to San Francisco and were rewarded with our first vista of the Golden Gate Bridge--photos, cheers, exuberance, and then the tear-laden downer as one of the party received word by cell that a beloved grandfather had died.
But the cell phone rings will probably fade with time, and it will be music that remains. In past journeys it has been Pablo Casals and Bach on the church steps in Xalapa de Vera Cruz, and the Gregorian Chants of the monks of Santo Domingo de Silos, and fado in Lisboa. This time it was Eli's Suzuki-trained, after-dinner violin recital at David and Naomi's in San Rafael; I was enthralled; my dentist, concertmaster of the San Luis Obispo Symphony, will share my excitement.
Sights--
So there are always greener palms, more magnificent religious monuments and edifices, sunsets that excel. Or faces that radiate joy, sorrow, ethnicity, youth, age, wisdom and life. But I think for me it is textures that imprint.
Even the short Petaluma River crossing refreshed memories of the random fractal interplay of wind and current, while the sky above brought back images of halos, rainbows, sun dogs, mirages, lunar phases, constellations, satellites, the moons of Jupiter.
The black-tailed jackrabbits bouncing along in front provided great entertaiment, as did the loquacious/melodious red-winged blackbirds beside us, but it was the step-by-step textures that stimulated my senses. Concrete, blacktop, gravel, sand, grass, vineyard soil, irregular rails and sleepers and ballast, and then rails with a bed of driftwood between (and my mind drifts to a hundred, a thousand scenes of driftwood), a terrazzo mall floor, steel grating and wooden plank bridges, and finally, a carpet and a buffet of champagne, cheese and caviar....
Touch--
So the grip of a kayak paddle in my hands, the splash of the water, yet another stroke to add to the 1,000,000++ repetitive moves I've made reminded me of pleasures past at day's end--the firewood-heated, bucket-bath of salt water with a one-quart fresh water rinse; a freshly prepared campfire meal; a padded bed on leveled ground and a (hopefully) dry sleeping bag.
And so, the contrast could not be greater, but nonetheless just as real, at our sponsors and hosts' accommodations: copious steaming showers, wonderful meals, and blissful white sheets with ethereal pillows.... Sensory experiences are what one encounters, not what one presupposes.
Smell--
It seems to me that smell is the most evocative of the senses, and I might add, the one that I register ever more weakly as the years pass. Kari clearly processed more information about scents than I did, but even a little waft put me at an advantage, as I have years of catalogued memories to recall and compare. The railroad-track route we chose had some wonderful sensory hits--like the ankle-high, shin-high, waist-high spring fennel sprouting from the roadbed. Or the little stream washouts of the roadbed where we tramped over/were enveloped by the intoxicating scent of mint. And that of course took each of us to distant scented memories.
And so, my mind returned to gathering driftwood for my morning breaking of fast, and the major dinner fire. The scent of splitting Western red cedar kindling, and the rare but treasured experience of a piece of Rocky Mountain juniper to fill the evening campsite with an incense worthy of Shangri-la.
So there are travel scents that pique the senses, and those that sweep over you and set a whole tone, like the sea air across the Golden Gate or the increasing gas/diesel fumes as we approached our final goal.
And it was the sea air and the fennel and the mint that recalled to me my greatest olfactory high.
I was at the end of a day-long, 30-mile paddle up a coastal fjord in British Columbia, and after clearing the final tidal current narrows I headed for the fjord-head Chatterbox Falls. The 2,000-foot-deep fjord was flanked by peaks that reached 8,000 feet, 1½ miles in from the fjord margin.
As the summits cooled with the long summer setting of the sun, the now heavy cooler air careened down the sun-heated slopes of forbs and shrubs in a catabatic cascade. The result? A priceless, once-in-a-lifetime immersion in the olfactory botany of the British Columbia coast....
Taste--
When one is on a journey, a pilgrimage, a trek, food becomes a focus, a fixation, a reality. First of all it is the fuel, the tiger in the tank. Miles traversed become calories consumed. And if the fuel you consume meets other aesthetic needs, so much the better. One of the pleasures of traveling with Kari is that we are both dyed-in-the-wool foodies.
From Indian pudding at Colonial Williamsburg to salal berries on Blind Island to din-din at the French Culinary Institute in NYC, we dig it. So many highs I can't include them all. Brut Rose at Domaine Carneros and Marshlands Chardonnay at Acacia Vineyards to accompany Unsuk's wonderful, refreshing fruit offering (on a lovely Italian ceramic plate).
TJ's helped us all along the way with cashews, almonds, spicy pecans, chocolate, dried pears, cherries, apricots, ginger snaps, cheese and sausage. And there were fresh loquats off a suburban sidewalk tree. Three Twins Ice Cream with allspice, blood orange sorbet, and coffee choices.
And the first beers--Boont Amber for Mike and a Hefeweisen for Kari in Ignacio. Which skips over the Moules Mariniere and fine wine of our first night out in Sonoma. And for our umami tastes, the wonderful grilled lamb with artichoke risotto at David and Naomi's.
The picnic at the Marin Headlands Hostel was outstanding; I made outrageous sandwiches, snacked on great cookies, and relished the "Manifesto!" sauvignon blanc which later appeared as a splendid gift to the medical personnel at CalPacMedCtr.
And so, one journey ends, but only after being immersed in its sensual dimensions. Already we talk of next year's trek--perhaps Napa → Sonoma → Petaluma → Tomales Bay → and south on the coastal trail/route to Marin Headlands and San Francisco.....
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