Notes to Self

There is a campground that exists only in my dreams. It’s somewhere close to home, because it doesn’t take long for me to get there. It sits on the map north of where I am, and towards the ocean. Sonoma County? In my dream that’s where I go, onto the back roads of Sonoma County, through the forests and into the hills.

The campground is always full of people. Setting up camp, preparing food, taking care of camp like business. The air is pristine and forest is green. The water in the creek is pure and clear. The land underneath the forest is dry and dusty. It smells of evergreen. Whenever I arrive at the camp, I drop my gear off at my spot. My friends are there working already and they’ll take care of everything, at least enough so that I don’t have to worry. I head up the hill out of the camp and onto the road.

Once on the road I hike a few miles to the next left turn. I take this road until it turns into a trail. This is the crossing point. The place where things get interesting. From this point on anything can happen.

It’s not a path of adventure. So far nothing out of the ordinary has happened to me on this trail. One time the trail took me to a cave and I went spelunking. It was cavernous and a peaceful place and somewhere where a clan may have lived in ancient times. Through an opening at the back of the cave the trail continues up a steep climb.

Sometimes the cave isn’t in the dream and the trail goes from the trailhead up the steep hill through the forest. On the way up the hill, sitting in a small flat area is a village. The first time I visited this village it was market day. The town was lively with the market in the square, the open cafes, a little pipe band playing on one corner of the square. It had a feeling of being in Mexico, but it could have been anywhere in Latin America. The people of this village wear a lot of red.

I have been through here a few times. Only once so far has the village been there with people in it. The last few times the village itself wasn’t even there. Last night I found the village again, but it was empty. The shops were closed and the market empty. I felt disappointed. The village told me that Fridays were market days and that I should come back.

At the top of the hill is a beautiful green meadow. The trail continues through it. If I walk far enough I come to a place where the land narrows and there is ocean far below on both sides of the mountain crest that I’m walking on. There is not one cloud in the crystal clear sky and the ocean is an incredible shade of turquoise. I continue on, taking in the view, weighing my options: should I continue walking to the place called Argentina or should I hike down to the village on the shore and take boat?

Argentina is not much further down the trail, but in past dreams I haven’t gotten that far. Once I found myself in a village at the tip of Tierra del Fuego, but I didn’t walk all the way there and the colors were different. In this dream, the one I am writing about, I have done one of two things at this point. I’ve turned around and gone back to my camp or I’ve hiked down to the village at the shore.

In that village everyone is happy. The homes and small building are built of stone, and everyone seems to love a traveler passing through. In the village there is a cozy B&B where I’ve stayed for a few days at a time before returning home. I’ve spent the days riding the B&B bicycle through the curvy streets of the town. My sketchbook is always with me and I stop to make drawings, and to talk to whoever I might meet along the way. The B&B also has a nice patio and people stop by to talk. I never seem to get on the boat, or care about getting on the boat, and I never make it to Argentina.