I am posting this from Petrolia, California, from atop a mountain with a view of the Pacific Ocean undescribable in its ferocious beauty.

The boys and I are at our friend Dale’s writing lair on Punta Gorda, the second-most westerly point in the continental U.S. His 40-acres of wilderness are 1,100 feet above the rocky beach. Six miles of dusty road from the pissant town of Petrolia. Thirty miles of hairpin turns from the bustling metropolis of Ferndale.

The drive from Ohio was fast and long. Uneventful accept for that empty stretch in New Mexico where forty Hell’s Angels flew past us like a tight formation of menacing geese.

We will be here until Sunday morning. Then we will re-pack the minivan and head east with our dirty laundry through Oregon, Washington, Montana, North Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana and finally comfy old Ohio.

Much has changed in my life since I was here eight years ago. I am married to a wonderful woman. My daughters are grown and settled into their adult lives. My father is dead. My grandson, Gabriel, already five. I have published five novels. I am fatter and grayer.

But nothing has changed here in Petrolia these past eight years. Which is exactly how the 300 or so independent souls who reside here want it. And exactly how I want it.