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I thought it would be interesting to include in this narrative an occasional glimpse into the workings of the authors mind as the tale unfolds. These are scribblings of the author on yellow pads as he contemplates the numerous paths the narrative might take, and will be simply identified as: Authors Notes. Indeed, that is how we shall begin.

**Authors notes:**   I want to grab the attention of my readers. How shall I begin? Something catchy. Something that pulls the reader into the story. The first sentence is perhaps the most important one of the entire book, other than the last. Should I begin with action, or an obvious attempt to startle ones mind? Should I avoid starting the tale with "I" or "the"?  And the title? Paths? Transformation of Days? That's kind of catchy, but not quite right. No this is not just a story of The Transformation. It is a story of a man, and all the intricate paths that weave their ways together and through him, the prophet. The Last Prophet. Yes, The Last Prophet.


<center>**CHAPTER ONE**</center>



Early autumn, late afternoon. The weather is mild, and remarkably the river is still flowing well. Usually by this time of year the farmers and ranchers up stream are pulling millions of acre feet of water onto their lands and the river is low, but not so much this year. There was so much rain and snow last winter that the mountains are still being drained by a thousand little streams ultimately feeding the Carson River as it flows out into the desert, into a wetlands at the foot of barren, sun burnt mountains. Today the river sings a quiet song as it drifts beneath overhanging willows and gurgles over mossy rocks. Shadows creep out across the water. Crows play in the breeze as it lofts them up over the foothills that topple down abruptly into the rivers channel. Cottonwoods are shushing with trembling leaves that have begun to turn. There is a sense of change in the air. There is a very faint sound of the high school marching band practicing after school for tomorrows football game. Very faint, but there. A reassuring sound. Life goes on. 

Washoe Indians and Paiutes once made their way along this river in search of game, fish, fowl. It had been, of course, a wilderness paradise on the eastern slopes of the Sierra's. Now people walk their dogs here and families come down in the heat of summer to swim in dark pools. On the east side of the river there is a path, a game trail, a way through sage and willows that had been in use for thousands of years, since the time after the last ice age when humans first came here to this valley and made it home. ![IMG_0193.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmS5N4hmpRH286Wc2GqKvPSr2NH5mXjZzAvhMjd2vZUQf5/IMG_0193.jpg)

I was alone as I walked along the trail. The dogs ran with an exuberance only they could fully know, in pursuit of rabbit and scent of coyote. Perhaps the dogs would come upon wild horses, or find an owl perching in a grand old cottonwood, just waiting to be barked at. I was on a path that gently led to a quiet grove of trees where I would sit upon the gray skeleton of a fallen monarch and contemplate. With each step I sank deeper into a meditation, deeper into a frequency of earth and stars and ancient histories. With each step I slipped further into a luminous inner life that was beyond the literal events of the day. This short pilgrimage to the grove prepared me to embrace realms of soul, and events yet unknown.

It is here that I am whole. It is here I am most at peace. The river and trees draw me to them each day and I've come to know a presence that is sweet to the taste, a presence that nurtures my heart as events in the world threaten to overwhelm me. I never know from one day to the next what dreams and visions I might have while in the grove. Some days there is nothing other than peace, at other times poetry flows in unexpected, vibrant streams; and then there are the special days when I see and sense things in the future. I speak of this to very few. I'm no fool. I know what most people would think. I keep these things to myself. Usually. 

I stood among my friends, the trees, and felt their presence. It's a rather subtle energy I felt, one that I've grown accustomed to. Imagine what it's like to be in a room by yourself and then someone comes into the room and the energy changes. Thats how it is. There is a presence one becomes familiar with. And it's real, not my imagination. In the winter the trees sleep. In the early summer mornings they fairly vibrate with life. In the afternoons they nap. And I talk to them. And they know me. Funny, I'd have never dreamt I'd be a tree whisperer but I am. I'd have never dreamt I'd see and sense things that have not yet happened, but I do. 

I recall one of the first times I "knew" a future happening. It was on August the 15th of 2016. There was a very harsh drought going on in California and Nevada. People were very concerned. Reservoirs were dry. Municipalities in California were running out of water. Lawns were dead. Orchards were being cut down for lack of water. There was fear in the air. But on that day, the 15th, I knew the drought was over. I called my son, a tech genius who owns an IT company in Sacramento and told him, "The drought is over. You haven't seen the rain yet of course, but you will."

"Oh, yeah?" he says.

"Yep", I replied. "This will be a record year for rain and snow. The drought is over. Just you watch."

"O.K. Pop", he says,"I'll be watching." 

It rained torrents of water in the lower elevations and snowed in record amounts up in the mountains. Heavenly Valley Ski Resort at Lake Tahoe had 55 feet of snow. Squaw Valley had 63 feet of snow! Incredible. Reservoirs filled, rivers flooded, farmers exulted, municipalities dodged a bullet.Indeed, the drought was over.

A year later I was walking down by the river in the early fall when I felt an ominous foreboding energy in the air. At first I thought it might be the trees just knowing fall was coming and winter soon there after. But it wasn't the trees. It was something heavier, something more pressing. I felt it. But that is all I got that day and the next. Just a very strong impression. On the third day the terrible fires began over in Marin County, just north of San Francisco and the feeling of doom passed. I had not know what was going to happen, just that something would. Thats the way of these things sometimes. Sometimes I get very clear information and at other times just impressions. 

And so here I was, once again within the sheltering presence of the trees when I felt the strongest impression I'd ever known. I gasped from the suddenness and alarming power of energy. I saw a 30 foot tall tsunami wave crash into the beach at Santa Cruz. I felt the earth shift just off the coast of northern California in a godzilla-sized earthquake...the strongest earthquake in California in the last 500 hundred years. This was the literal "Big One" and it changed everything.


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There will be future, regular, installments to The Last Prophet. Watch for them. Christopher.![27459094_1731040416954460_8110938635129439225_n.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmcVV84uFRicqBjkMqCf9sG92eQJ7kJcwbQLX99z6yUAGK/27459094_1731040416954460_8110938635129439225_n.jpg)





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