Last week I got back from almost a full week on the Russian River in the company of some very fine people. We rented a house, which we lounged about and cooked in. There was a deck surrounded by a redwoods, a hot tub from which we could see shooting stars, and, of course, the river.
The Russian River area is so very Northern California. It's 90 minutes north of San Francisco, and is a hot sunny place to escape the fog. The river winds its way through huge redwoods from wine country inland to the coast, where it splashes into the Pacific in a pool where seals play. The heart of the area is the small town of Guerneville, which all hicks and bears, according to the dude that runs the canoe rental shop. On a run one morning along the river I saw only four people, and all were big old men with long grey hair and grey beards down their chests. Bearsssss.
The purpose of the getaway was an unofficial Wellesley reunion, and we had a fab crew of Wellesley ladies and their partners, all of whom were game to cook big meals, kayak, sun on pool toys in the river, and drink beer at a table that we had dragged into the shallow water just off our dock. I can't wait to do it again.