It Was So Pleasantly Improbable

On Wednesday, I made a deal with the universe that if I didn't get called in for jury duty, I'd still get up early, but to go for a hike, which sounded infinitely more appealing. No jury duty, so at 8 a.m. I met up with the Santa Ynez Valley Women's Hikers for a drive up Happy Canyon Road to Cachuma Saddle and from there a little stroll to Hell's Half Acre.

I guess it was given that name under circumstances different from the ones that prevailed whenever I've been there, which have always been more heavenly than hellish. We're basically talking about a rock formation along a dirt road that eventually leads to McKinley Peak. There are pines and meadows and a fine view of Hurricane Deck along the way, and we even saw patches of snow. (That's how I like my snow: in small patches, on a warm, sunny day, while I'm comfortable in a t-shirt, and the mountain air is fresh against my skin.)

The walk is steep at times as it follows the crest of the San Rafael range, but never terribly difficult, and after about six miles of walking, we came to the rocky outcropping of Hell's Half Acre, where we settled in for our lunch. Everyone found a perch someplace, avoiding the spiky agave and other scratchy cacti, and the air was filled with chatter and laughter.

I enjoy the energy of women...the confidences shared while walking, the irreverent humor, the various paces and graces and colorful attire. It felt good to have gone that far on our own power, to be deliciously free in the middle of the week, looking out at sky and local wild lands, the familiar tones of chaparral and sandy earth.

Remind me, if I ever forget, how much this helps.

The walk back down to the parking lot was more up and down than I'd remembered, and I have to admit I was glad when I saw the glint of vehicles in the distance. (I guess a moderate 12-mile walk is about my current level.)

Anyway, I was sitting on the ground with some fellow hikers waiting for the others to arrive, when a white van with these words pulled into the lot: Strolling Mandolinist.

Seriously? A strolling mandolinist?

Then the driver, possibly a strolling mandolinist, disembarked and walked towards us to ask for directions. "Are you really a mandolin player?" I asked. "A strolling mandolin player?"

I couldn't quite get my mind around this.

Well, he was. And he proceeded to retrieve his mandolin from the van and play us a tune, right there at Cachuma Saddle....pines and mountains all around us, mandolin music in the air. Purely implausible, don't you think?It was another of those I-love-my-life moments.

Here's a clip: http://youtu.be/WLqzmdC3bt4(Top photo from SB Independent)