True Nature: New Book From a Favorite Author

Greetings, readers and trail blazers.

I highly recommend a new book by a young author whose first effort was my favorite book of 2020.

David Smart’s True Nature: The Wise Woman in Nepal and Searching the Himalayas for Enlightenment is a captivating story about his adventurous quest that was filled with twists.

His first book is The Trail Provides: A Boy’s Tale of Walking the Pacific Crest Trail. I have read a library full of trekking books and The Trail Provides is the one I couldn’t put down.

Here is the Amazon description of True Nature:

“After receiving a mysterious invitation to train with a spiritual guide in Nepal, David and his monastic friend Bradley leave behind their old lives and embark on a journey to find spiritual enlightenment.

“The two soul searchers find themselves on a madcap trip through the chaotic streets of Kathmandu and the breathtaking peaks of the Himalayas. Along the way, they meet a few friendly nomads, a clever businessman with an enticing offer, and a wise woman who teaches them unexpected lessons about friendship, soulmates, and ultimate liberation.

“Filled with more than 50 photos from David and Bradley’s real-life travels, True Nature is a captivating blend of adventure, spiritual insight, and personal reflection. Whether you’re looking for a companion novel for your own spiritual journey or simply want to escape into a dream-like adventure, start reading True Nature today.”

I would love to hear your thoughts about David’s work.

Brushes With Fame Come to Life at St. Louis’ Blueberry Hill

Stars on the Walk of Fame line the sidewalk at the Blueberry Hill nightclub, which has been visited by a plethora of musicians and other celebrities. Chuck Berry performed here for many years. Four U.S. presidents dropped by.


I pointed to the star imbedded in the sidewalk along Delmar Boulevard, home to the St. Louis Walk of Fame.

“I know that guy.”

Sue and I had stopped for a visit the other day on our way to the east coast. She had heard the story about how I knew the guy, so I kept my reminiscing to myself.

It was the summer of 1970. I was 18, loving another visit to Dodger Stadium. Before I began my college years, I yearned for more memorable events that marked my three years as a sports journalist.

Bill Clark, my Oxnard Press-Courier newspaper colleague, sat next to me in the Dodger Stadium press box. In the row in front of us, Los Angeles Herald-Examiner baseball writer Bob Hunter, a former colleague of Bill’s, took his usual place at Dodger home games. After the game, Bill drove us to Hunter’s bar near the stadium. My 21st birthday was a lifetime away, so I waited in Bill’s white Chrysler Imperial while Bill went in for “a drink.”

An hour ticked by. A knock on the car window jolted me awake. Bill peered in.

“Bob said you can come in.”

In a world of grownups, I sat at the bar next to Bill. I sipped a Coke, wishing it was spiked with a couple shots of rum. I downed several Coke refills while Bill drank a few more of his drinks. We talked baseball with Bob as he worked behind the bar. At first, I hardly noticed the middle-aged guy who pulled himself onto the barstool to my right. The auburn-haired man and I exchanged friendly words; I shared that I had just seen the Cardinals beat my Dodgers. He asked me all about how I got into sports journalism.

It was well after midnight when Bill and I walked toward his car.

“Here.” He handed me his keys. “You’d better drive.”

The V-8 engine roared to life. I pushed the “D” button next to the steering wheel and the car lurched forward a bit faster than I intended. Bill didn’t seem to notice. He said he was not looking forward to his sports desk shift that would begin at 6 a.m.

“Now, Reg, you know who was sitting next to you in the bar, don’t you?”

“Nah. Kinda dark in there.”

Bill shook his head. “Jeez! That was Red Schoendienst! You do know who that is, I hope.”

I had to think quick. “Just kidding.” I chuckled. “Of course I knew who he was.”

As I steered the huge car toward the freeway, I wondered if I had disguised the fact that I had not recognized the man who would be inducted into the baseball Hall of Fame. He wore a major league uniform for 74 years as a player, coach, or manager. On the night we chatted, he was the winning manager.

I was the kid without a clue.