Yucaipa, CA

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On the fringe of the San Bernadino forest, a stunning view of the duodenum of the LA basin. 120 miles from the end of a three-month, 6600 mile jaunt. I feel like a seamen coming into port, so many long missed comforts await, but they come with the toll of saying goodbye to the sea and of the end of a chapter. I had the same feeling chugging into the Nak Nek river after three dreadful weeks fishing for herring on Bristol Bay and the Bering Sea. Three weeks without a shower and I was so eager to shave that I spent 45 minutes that night with a safety razor—just the razor, I'd lost the handle—regaining my jawline. Somehow the struggle of that shave in the bathroom of a deserted cannery, the interplay of eagerness and melancholy, yielded the same imprint that I'm trying now to record. But to what end? So these experiences become postcards left to fade in the scrapbook of a feeble mind? Yes, I think that may be the source of this feeling: given the fragility of our recollection, it takes a monumental effort to not let all that we experience just diminish like an expanding ripple on a pond that one day we won't even remember visiting. The plague of routine life is that extraordinary moments seem so rare and fleeting—What! Must I travel to the edge of a continent and throw myself at the mercy of a maniacal boat captain, or circle the country chasing a cure, just to feel that life is extraordinary?—Certainly not. I'm blessed with a life of extraordinary moments and my routines are defined by interactions with amazing, beautiful people. But the fringe experiences do help hone the perspective that these moments, defined as much by joy as they are by sadness, are for taking stock... they are the milestones, the roadside monuments, that remind us we're on our way, ever moving, from here to somewhere…