Pair of left turns in Mill Valley, a right up Mt. Tamalpais, passing Green Gulch Farm, bending north at the Pacific, a bearded man hiking by sign to Slide Ranch takes me back: Hauling wood from ocean to driftwood house's oil drum stove; nights sprawled on attic floor, watching tankers' lights crawl across horizon, while scratching blisters of poison oak. Bolinas Lagoon. Turn where there's no sign, to a lunch of leek soup, avocado salad, and Jerry Garcia's favorite desert, at a Doss house I hadn't seen before, John and Margot catching me up. Margot recalls inviting Richard Brautigan to dinner. "Thanks," he said, "but I have dinner under my arm (a slab of meat). After I finish it, I'm leaving for Montana." His body found several weeks later, "covered with flies." We remember Jack Boise, who fell to his death from a beam of the house he was building. "And Don Allen?" "He's alive; but Bill Brown died." I relate the story of how one night to their old house Bill Brown arrived, woke me, and spent most of the night pacing the parlor speaking his biography in lines like "She knew she was mine by the length of my glance." Next day, sober, the poetry gone. John discusses their two years living in Samoa, his doctoring for smallpox in India and Bangladesh. Then we drive to the mesa, Eucalyptus greener than thought, peeking toward Joanne Kyger's house—phone call, no answer, she's on the road--to visit Arthur Okamura.