When three major timber companies all yanked up stakes and fled Northern California, they left behind the sprawling, scrofulous fuzz of logged-over timber land, debris-clogged streams, idle lumber mills, idle loggers and idle mill-workers.
Dark and early at 6 a.m., John Weed and I rolled from our sleeping bags in the waterfront shack of the Lost Coast Rowing Club that had provided us with a welcome refuge.
It’s been said that behind every successful man is a great woman.
Napoleon opined, “An army travels on its stomach.”
Poseidon had now blessed us with two sweet, easy days.
