I was walking by an empty, overgrown lot the other day and got a whiff of cedar. It was remarkable. I closed my eyes and I was back in California. I was walking the shadowy Independence trail, ducking under branches, sliding, ever-so-carefully down the empty creek bed, hopping across the teetering, wooden foot bridge, dipping my feet in the freezing pool at the end of the trail — filled with mating newts, twirling and spinning and fucking in groups — and plopping myself onto a hot rock.

There is nothing better than that smell. Add a cloud of freshly kicked up red dust, crushed pine cones, manzanita branches and wild blackberries and you’re in the Sierra Nevadas of Northern California.

I have so many memories attached to smells. Tomato leaves, wilted from the sun, dampened dust after rain, freshly mowed grass and trampled mint. Each season has its own particular scent. Each occasion its own distinct blend.