Home from Mammoth yesterday. I'm back in the splendor of my backyard, looking over at the mesa on the other side of Trabuco Canyon. The air is warm and smells of late summer. Light morning breeze. A vase of sunflowers to my right. A couple notebooks on the table. All manner of stone paperweights (from the soon to be late, great Stone Brewery) holding the tablecloth in place. a penitent Sadie curled up at my feet.
Penitent? We'll get to that.
My eight days in Mammoth were hard, solitary, fulfilling, demanding, and an all-around joy. I wrote well, read long and often on that beautiful back porch looking out on Sierra peaks, and coached what I thought to be a wonderful week with the teams. Everybody worked hard, everybody behaved themselves. I received a nice compliment from an opposing coach that my teams looked like runners. In coach-speak, it means they're rounding into racing form quite naturally. You can see it in the confidence with which they approach the hard runs, the compact gaits, that eyes-up confidence of a veteran. They absolutely crushed the tempo miles on Highway to Hell.
I checked my favorite restaurants off my unwritten list: Roberto's, Mammoth Tavern, John's Pizza, Distant Brewing. At my sister's suggestion, I tried the breakfast burrito at Looney Bean and agreed with her (after a decade of thinking there could be no better burrito in town) that it was far superior to Stellar Brew's.
Hiked without turning on Strava. Napped. Started and finished Project Hail Mary. Showed my support for the local bookstore, Booky Joint, by returning it the next morning so they could sell it as used. Started A Gentleman in Moscow for the third time, seeking to deconstruct its many charms. Looking back, I didn't mean to stay busy, though I did. Having said that, reading four hours each night on the porch, using my phone's flashlight to see the words after the sun went down at 8:03 (then 8:01, then 7:59, then 7:58 as we continue the march from the summer to the winter solstice), is not busy-ness. It is a way of relaxing without the chatter of television or the addiction of doom scrolling.
Many was the night I stayed sitting on the porch in the darkness when my eyes grew tired of reading. I'd sit there for an hour in the complete black of a night without ambient light. Once, I even fell asleep, waking with a start to realize I might have heard a bear. Another night, during a sudden mountain rain, I continued reading as the wind shook the pines and the downpour made the gutters shake. The air was warm and the rain reminded me of those midday storms that come daily to tropical Pacific islands — come and forgotten within 30 minutes. One of those "force of nature" storms.
Left unsaid is that Calene was everywhere. We had so many memories of Mammoth. Roberto's, Mammoth Tavern, John's Pizza, Distant Brewing. Booky Joint. Hiking those meadow trails. Highway to Hell with the team. Me reading in the darkness on the porch while she watched TV on the other side of the screen door. Her presence made the week exhausting. Some inner battle to balance the now and the once-was. Couldn't sleep at night, nothing but nightmares and the unbearable sensation of being utterly alone. Just lying there, waiting for morning so I could coach, and write, and read, and hike, and eat breakfast burritos, all in the name of distraction.
I absolutely cracked on the final day as the team ran up the mountain to Minaret Vista. A friend texted me out of the blue as I looked out across the valley to those stunning peaks. The summit of Mammoth Mountain at more than 10,000 feet loomed over my left shoulder. This kind person, who is far more intuitive than I ever realized, wrote unbidden: "Great job powering through just like she would've wanted you to. Thanks for being there for the kids when it's so hard."
I broke. I turned my back on the team and cried until my shoulders shook, keeping my sunglasses bolted to my face, standing on the spot where Calene and I had taken so many photos of our boys, my teams, and just the two of us. I wiped my eyes before anyone could see me, then I waited until everyone had driven back down the mountain to let it all go again.
Back to penitent. My dogs were excited to see me. I was glad to see them. But they always do something unusual upon my return from a trip. I don't know if it's delayed anger or just . . . I have no idea. Anyway, there was barking in the night. I heard it but rolled over. Sadie whimpered and I let her out. Twice.
In the morning, as I came downstairs feeling quite refreshed, there was a pair of very large presents waiting for me on the kitchen floor. So I started the morning on my knees, using an entire roll of paper towels to fix the mess. A sheepish Sadie skipped off to hide.
I'm not mad. I'm the problem. I'd seen an Insta reel about feeding Black Labs watermelon and blueberries. Maybe I overdid it because the dogs were so cute lapping it all up, forgetting about the effects of too much high fiber. At least I can laugh about it.
One last note about Mammoth: A childhood friend of Calene's, a great artist, painted a wonderful canvas called "Force of Nature." It's a violent setting of tall pines buffeted by the wind, raging whitewater, and a full moon beaming down its light. She dedicated it to Callie. I took it to Mammoth last week and hung it over the couch, right above where she used to sit.