Every now and then, you get lucky enough to meet one of your heros. For me, yesterday was one of those days. I got to spend a little time with writer Jim Harrison at an intimate reading in the San Rafael Valley. Philip Caputo was rolling out his new book, Crossers, in a modern new ranch house owned by Ross and Susie Humphreys.

The new ranch house is a pared-down transparent box set in a sea of native grasses. I had the privilege of drawing a garden design for it. It was an honor to be able to put together a plan with some native plants that would compliment the house and surrounding landscape. While I was drawing the garden plan, my mantra was, "Don't screw it up!" It was in the living room of the house, overlooking the wide valley clear into Mexico, that I was introduced to Harrison.

"Sorry about my hair," he said, smiling and making a mock show of trying to smooth down some tufty patches.
"I've got the same problem," I said, my own thinning hair doing something similar.

Harrison was holding a glass of good French Bordeaux, a 2004 Chateau Margaux, in one hand, and a plate with some steamed pork sticky buns in the other. During the reading, I noticed that he was getting a kick out of a restless kid near him who couldn't suppress an occasional squawk as his parents struggled to keep him still.

I discovered Harrison when I was 21 and studying English at Brigham Young University. I picked up a copy of his Selected and New Poems, a book peppered with nude line drawings by Russell Chatham that somehow made it past the censors at the BYU Bookstore. For a kid who, on account of religious training, did a lot of living in his head, Harrison's work was refreshingly tactile and rooted a physical world of dogs, quail, travel, women, wine, cooking, and fishing. It was a world I wanted to inhabit. I have followed his career, and 30 some-odd books, with keen interest.

Since I was tipped-off that Harrison would be at the reading, I bought a copy of his collected non-fiction, Just Before Dark, so I could get him to sign a copy as my dad's Christmas present. We stood outside on a patio in the watery winter light with the wind blowing through the tawny blue grama seedheads and a trio of handsome English setters running around nearby. Harrison signed the book for me while I explained that he was a favorite author of my father, uncles, and cousins. "What are they, uneducated?" he asked. "Mostly," I replied with a smile.

I asked how the hunting was going, and he said the doves all fly away when they see his car coming. His wife Linda, standing next to him said, "we have your book, Yard Full of Sun." I had forgotten that our hosts, and my publishers, Ross and Susie Humphreys had given Harrison a copy of my first book. Jim said, bring some of your gardening books over and I'll trade you for some of mine. A much better trade for me than him, but I'm looking forward to obliging.

He inscribed my dad's book:

To Wayne,
Gardens!
Yours,
Jim Harrison