California, I love you.

California, I love you, You are all green and brown and purple, dotted hillsides and trees feathered out like amazing plumage. Up in Humboldt, strangely friendly hippies come out of their houses and RVs with stocky babies, full of good tidings and dark warnings.

Mishka rubs her muzzle in the dark soil and bounds with incredible buoyancy over fallen branches. Later, she will curl up on a mossy stump, nestled between the redwoods, and take a nap, looking royal and exhausted. We will dig a fire pit and burn dry wood and pine cones, their sap sizzling as they glow black, red, white, and then dissipate into the crisp air.

We've brought too much food, not enough booze, and wonder if we should ration our beer or start drinking cinnamon whiskey at dusk. The sky goes cold and we hang a bright lantern, drinking around the fire, and in the damp morning we drink watery coffee and seek out little patches of sunlight to defrost in. I change my clothes on a sunny hill and marvel at the soft sun all across my bare shoulders.

After scrambling eggs on a wobbling single burner, we gather bread and water and blankets and go tromping down a trail marked with big arrows made of sticks on the forest floor. The ground is soft with layers of fallen leaves and crackling twigs. We weave between skinny saplings and dark madrones, climbing beneath fallen trunks, and above branches that grasp at our ankles.

Up on the hilltop we spread our blanket in a sunny clearing and sprawl and explore and snack. Mishka disappears into the rustling bushes and emerges grinning and dirty, her long tongue lolling. We paint each others' faces, laying on our backs with our eyes closed, soft strokes turning us vibrant blue purple, yellow and red, stark white, smooth brown.

The sun droops, shadows stretching long across the yellow-brown leaves, and we gather up and head back down the hill, scattered in clumps. When we arrive at our spot, aglow with late afternoon sunshine, the rickety log benches, the still fire pit, our green and blue tents side by side, the little table perched in the shade, if feels strangely familiar. We spread out, building a fire, reading, gathering bread and pesto, slicing tomatoes. We cook paninis in a cast iron fireplace press, and eat them in little shared pieces. They are sticky and melty, warm and crisp.

California, I love you, and the golden singing treetops high up and green, while down below we crouch low to the cold packed dirt, listening to the crackle and hiss of the fire. The pine cones hold on tight, and the ashes come floating down, elusive and white.

I love the cold apricot ale at dusk, and layers of smoke-smelling clothing, bundled in hats and thick socks. California, I love you, and the promise of spring and the promise of pasta. I love you and the painted faces of my friends, wavering behind a plume of smoke across the fire, and my lover, with his hands on my shoulders, and my dog, gnawing on pine cones and bringing us twisted sticks, triumphant.