I spent most of the weekend at a cabin in the woods, where my sister, Gertrude*, lives in sweet domestic harmony with her lover, Gaylord*. They are studious and lascivious creatures, and often sit at the kitchen table leafing through reference books while idly feeling each other up. The two have big plans for their merger and expect to profit highly from the combination of their considerable assets, if you know what I mean. It’s all happening a bit too fast for me. Just a few months ago Gertrude and I were sharing a quaint apartment downtown and making ex-boyfriend voodoo dolls.** Now she’s snuggling in a sleeping loft with a gorgeous guy and making plans.

The cabin feels both cozy and spacious. Cradled in tall trees, it faces out over a little valley from which mysterious noises drift after dark. Solar power runs the lights and refrigerator and stereo, but there’s not enough juice for kitchen appliances or a computer. The centrally placed wood-burning stove ensures warmth and demands caution in the kitchen. A wrong move could leave you with a burn on your ass, but that doesn’t stop Gertrude from leaning ever closer to the warmth like a yogi preparing to levitate while Gaylord looks on with loving concern. Gaylord! I wanted to shout at him. Let her burn her ass! It will serve her right!***

They were perfect hosts, except for the small matter of running out of coffee on the second morning, which I hope won’t happen again. My favorite part of the weekend was when the three of us took a long hike from the cabin to the ocean. Next time, I’ll take pictures along the way so those of you who don’t live in Santa Cruz can froth with envy. Like so many hikes in this area, it had the feeling of a magical journey through wonderland.

We walked up their long driveway to a rocky dirt road, the same one that nearly bounced the teeth out of my head when we drove over it the night before. This road led to another one. I had no idea where we were going. A few houses could be seen at a distance, but all were too far away to get a look through their windows. We heard voices, but saw no people. Flushed and damp from trotting uphill, we made a turn and stepped into a dark tunnel paved with soot-colored slabs and bright wet moss.

This path is made of natural asphalt, Gaylord told me. He explained how, a long time ago, oxen pulled asphalt here from a deposit nearby, laying the rock all the way to the ocean. I looked down at brilliant green leaves, tiny and soft, curling between the stones, and imagined how much labor must have been required to make this path. How many sweaty, sweaty men pushed and heaved and– well, you get the picture. High above us, sunlight filtered through the tops of the redwoods. To our right, a wrecked minivan reposed in peace; Gaylord told me it fell out of the sky in ‘82 and nobody ever figured out where it came from. At that moment, the Baby Jesus drifted down on a gilded feather and landed on my shoulder, and I kissed his wee laughing face.

After a few minutes in the green tunnel, we emerged at the top of a ridge. The trees began to disappear, replaced by sprawling, artistic-looking bushes and isolated stands of eucalyptus. All around us was tall grass bleached to brown and gold and white. Valleys dropped down on both sides of us, hiding moss-covered trees. I remember one old tree in particular, its bottom half hidden in the curve of the valley, its branches waving long hanks of moss that looked exactly like lime cotton candy. The path led us gently downward and with each step we had a better view of the hills that surrounded us, other ridges with the same brown-gold grass and vivid green vegetation. Above was achingly blue sky and strands of cirrus. Behind us was the outline of the woods. In front of us was a flaming ocean.

Where our path divided the horizon, the ocean glowed such a shattering gold that it seemed to be part of the blazing afternoon sky. A startling effect: the ocean seemed to float above the land. As I puzzled over this from my altitude on the hill, I felt dizzy. Gertrude and Gaylord, no strangers to this view, were already sitting down near the path and pulling cheese out of a rucksack. I joined them and we ate cheese and sprouts and apples. We got up and walked down the path. The land flattened out and the view became something like this:

Image borrowed from this person’s website. He seems very smart.

I felt deliciously alone and small in this landscape. Every step reminded me of meadows in the Berkshires that I loved in college, except this meadow is larger, brighter, and not so tame. And the path that runs through it leads to a clothing-optional beach, something I never saw in Williamstown. Down on the sand, Gertrude’s new shoes got wet. We saw a magnificent naked man who took no notice of us whatsoever. We ate more cheese and I pondered life, amazed again to live in an area that hits me with beauty like a baseball bat to the head.

Gertrude and Gaylord, thank you for a real good time.

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*Not their real names.

**We didn’t actually make voodoo dolls. Bad karma, y’know?

***Just kidding, it wouldn’t serve her right at all.