A Gift by Special Delivery

 

We live in a magical time of consumerism, don’t we? I mean, make a wish—“I’d really like a pair of flannel pajama pants with dogs on them”—and here’s a pair for you in The Big Shopping Warehouse of Rocketman Jeff.

Can you imagine this for someone in the late 1800’s? “Oh no! The paddle on your butter churn broke! It’s gonna take Grandpa a day or so in the barn to make one. Oh, wait—we can order a new paddle. Better yet, let me just order you some Kerrygold butter from Whole Foods. Yeah, the milk comes straight from Irish cows so you know it’s good….”

Ah, it’s lovely, isn’t it? And weirdly, part of the charm is getting that brown box at the door—especially when we didn’t order anything. I love opening my front door to find something a friend or family member has sent. “Hey, kids!” (Of course I mean Maya, Maudie, and Jenny.) “Look what someone sent us! Let’s see what it is!”

Exactly one year ago this month, I received an unexpected gift. But it didn’t come in a brown box, and it wasn’t left on my front door. It definitely came from a friend, though, and it was left in my back yard, more specifically, in the planter. You can see a photo of it here; Nature gifted me with that young cottonwood tree you see at the top of this post.

Quite a beauty, isn’t she? Of course, she didn’t start out that way. She started out like this:

Can you believe it? A tiny seed like that! There are cottonwoods that grow in the nearby ravine (aka “Coyote Gulch”), and they slough off their seeds in the spring breezes like Californians shed sweaters. The air is filled with these floating puffs of seed pods, reminiscent of the Who Horton heard.

One of those puffs blew into my yard, and one single seed—somehow—took root. Sometime in September, when I was weeding that section of the planter, I discovered a tiny baby tree. My first thought was, “Oh, honey, you can’t grow up here. There won’t be enough water, and your roots will eventually wreak havoc on the block wall.” That’s me. Always leading with the pragmatic aspect of my being.

My next response was this: Thank you, Nature, for gifting me with this tree, a place for the little finches to rest in the heat of the day and perhaps even nest one day when the branches are tall enough and strong enough (instead of inside my aluminum patio cover). Thank you for offering a place for Jenny and Maudie to find shade where there was none before. They love to lie up there in the tall grass, but by summer it has dried to a crisp brown in the heat. In seasons ahead, they will have shade. And so will I, on that side of the house.

I know, I know, you don’t have to tell me; cottonwoods spring up quickly and fall down easily and break branches in strong winds and ask me if I care. I don’t. I wanted to worry about all those things, but you know what? I already have so many things to worry about—the health of my aging cat, the health of my aging friends, hell, the health of my beloved country—this one tree can do what it’s going to do. Nature offered it. Nature must care for it. I’ll just stand back and enjoy the benefits.

And maybe, from time to time, I’ll climb up there and give that tree a hug. Because that’s just who I am. Thanks, Nature. I love you!

 

Three trees and a dog

 

I park in the lot above the meadow in Bogart Park. It’s early and cool. As I step out of the truck, the quiet settles on me like the light embrace of a beloved friend.

This is how I know it’s October: The slight bite in the air. The scent of wood smoke that drifts down and hovers in the meadow. The tone of the leaves rustling; soft and lilting in mid-summer when the leaves are new and tender, it is a crisper sound now, as they dry and die and fall.

Maya alights from the truck eagerly, her nostrils twitching. She knows where we are, where the trail begins, and she heads that way at a trot before I’ve barely had time to close the door and hit the lock button.

Finding the trail, she pulls to the end of her twenty-foot leash and takes the rolling hills as if they are red-carpet flat, while I laugh, struggling to keep up as I tell her, “My, slow down, honey.” But she is thrilled to be out here, so I let her charge on, and my tempo increases as my boots kick up dust.

She slows when we reach the big hill. She doesn’t like this trail because she cannot see around the corners as we wind up and around on the climb, but she comes along beside me as I reassure her. Halfway up, she veers over to a single-track trail, a deer path that she has asked so many times to follow. Every other time, I have said no. Today I tell her, “Okay, My, let’s go your way,” and once again she is charging along. I gently slow her down; I have to watch her feet and mine for rattlesnakes, as it is still warm enough to see them out.

I know where this trail goes, and I know it will double the distance of our walk today. But it is a trail I have taken before with Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, and one I have loved—though not chosen—for several years.

We wind down to the far side of the hill, Maya surprised to find the trail opening up and skirting an expansive meadow. She glances often to our right where she can hear the penned sheep that sometimes graze here.

Then we come to the first tree.

 

A fire in the fall of 2016 burned much of this side of the hill down to rubble. Black ash is still visible in the soil along the trail. But look at these oak trees. Strong. Steadfast. Beautiful. How old is this one? How many fires have threatened it? Still it endures.

The last oak we pass before taking the steep trail back up toward the parking lot boasts a picnic table beneath it. Maya waits patiently as I snap a photo… and I imagine myself sitting down with a book or a notebook and a snack, whiling away a few hours in the shade… in the quiet… in the solitude.

 

Maya does that all-over dog shake—as Frost’s “little horse” did when the poet stopped to watch the snow fall in a similarly hushed and serene place.

I, too, have promises to keep.

So we tackle the last arduous climb, then pause briefly in the shade to catch our breath before heading back to the truck and civilization.

There is another way I mark the path into October, and that is by the shorter days, the diminishing light. At one time, October was my least favorite month. As the darkness came on, my spirits would flag, my anxiety rise, often leaving me depressed until January.

No more. The cure for darkness is light. So I will be out here as often as I can be, letting Maya charge up the trail (as long as it’s safe to do so), pushing myself to walk farther each time, to take the longer route, the steeper trail, to hear my heartbeat pounding, to know that I am still alive, still surviving, and will be when the light returns once again in spring.

Another Day....

 

Despite the heat, skies have been beautiful here lately, and I owed Maya (and myself) a long walk out in the hills to clear the cobwebs and to be reminded that Nature is still magnificent (even if what we see on TV isn't), so Saturday morning we left the house early for one of our favorite spots in the rolling hills just south of town. I also wanted to see how Maya would do on the fifteen-foot leash I bought for our hikes.

We hadn't gone a hundred yards when we saw this:

I think I know my sister well enough to know that if she's reading this, she's making an "Are you kidding me?!?" face if not saying that out loud. Yep. Sad. Someone had no use for Grandma's little white spinet piano, so they drove it out to the hills and pushed it out the back of a truck onto the ground. I've seen a lot of things out in these hills, but this just broke my heart. I thought of three different places it would have fit in my little house. Damn, people. You didn't have to toss it out like some kind of garbage.

Speaking of such: As I said, I've seen a lot of things out there. Our next discovery, about a half mile past the piano, was this guy:

Sad, huh? When we came upon him, his tie was askew, so I fixed it. Then, because Maya was just happy to be out in the hills, and she was willing to wait patiently, I sat him up so that instead of staring at the sky all day, he could see some sky and hills, birds and coyotes, maybe some dirt bike or mountain bike riders (I imagine the latter stopping to chuckle and take a photo), and possibly some more miscreants offloading junk they can't be bothered to drive to the dump.

Isn't he handsome? I love bears. People think I love giraffes--and I do, don't get me wrong--but my first love will always be bears. Stuffed ones, live ones. Doesn't matter. I have bears all over my house, in one form or another (mostly stuffed). And in my car. (Ask my sister, who sometimes rides shotgun. Raggedy Bear travels with me wherever I go.) I can't imagine what prompted someone to toss this dude out, especially when he was dressed so nicely.

But then, people aren't always thinking clearly when they drive out to the hills. See this big, beautiful oak, and that small yellow something at the base of its trunk?

If the device you're using to read this has the capacity to zoom in, you'll discover, as I did, that it's an empty Pacifico box. Niiiice. (For the uninitiated, that's beer.) I mean, if you're going to drive way out in the hills, sit under an oak and experience Nature, that just might be the perfect beverage to consume. From the Pacifico website:

"Pacifico is a pilsner-style lager with a crisp, refreshing flavor and a touch of grass-citrus and ocean mists."

Seriously. I want one now, and I don't even drink beer. (Well, hardly ever.) But the ad copy had me at "ocean mists."

I guess I'm glad the drinker(s) left all the empties in the box. I mean, they could have smashed them against the tree, creating a dangerous hazard for wildlife. Just to note, that box has been there a long time. Maya and I have passed it often. No, I haven't picked it up to carry it out. It's a mile in on the trail, and I have both hands full handling Maya on the way back to the car. And my phone, if I have to take a picture. Case in point, this lovely gourd and blossom:

After we saw that, we saw this. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was a bear print, but there are no bears out there. Just, apparently, tremendously huge dogs. I held my hand over it so you can see how big it really was.

It was a great walk, and Maya enjoyed having the freedom to wander a bit on her new leash. But all good things do come to an end, so we trotted back to the car for the short drive home. Just another day in paradise.

Morning

 

It’s fitting that Sirius, “the dog star,” is the brightest star in the night sky, since I am out with Thomas and Maya before dawn. I look for the constellations first, sighting Orion, standing guard with his bow ready to the west, and Ursa Major in the southern sky. (Okay, well, maybe just the Big Dipper; I can never see all of the bear.) Then I walk along the side of the house until I get a clear view of the eastern sky, and yes, there is Sirius on all the cloudless mornings, shimmering away. Seriously someone’s sun, I think, and chuckle to myself.

If we are out before first light—and we are not so much anymore, as the season waxes on toward summer and the light comes so very early—we may hear one, two, or all three of the venerable residents of the neighborhood gossiping loudly from tree to tree, the Great Horned Owls that will sometimes answer if I mimic their call. (If you'd like to hear what we hear, click here.)

We are long past the days now when Thomas would spring up out of bed at 4:00a.m. as soon as I set my feet on the floor. He prefers to sleep in until 5:00 or 5:30, and I let him; old dogs need their sleep. Sometimes, if he’s had a bad night, he will sleep as late as 6:00. He started this, of course, right around the time I brought Maya home, so that the opportunity for me to sleep that late seemed almost possible, a dream come true! But no—the new dog needed to go out early, so even though the old dog snored on, I had to clamber out of bed and get dressed anyway. It is with a grateful sigh that I wonder—Will my life always be blessed with a good dog to wake me early and take me outside to see the night sky? I hope so.

Maya is the one now to literally bound out of her bed when it’s time to go out in the morning. This is the only time of day in which she is animated, and it is a joy to see. Out she pops from her crate—her den inside my den, where she hides during the daylight hours, even though the door is wide open, and she could venture out at any time. She chooses of her own volition to remain where she feels safe, until I come to take her out several times a day, and in those times she emerges reluctantly, dragging her feet, stretching, cautiously stepping out to the patio, her nostrils flared as she sniffs for danger.

But not in the predawn hours. When I am dressed and striding down the hall, I call to her as I turn on the kitchen light, grab my jacket from the hook in the laundry room: “I’m coming, Maya,” and I hear her scramble up. If Thom is up, he trots along with me, his tail wagging. Not like hers, though. In these fleeting moments, Maya’s tail wags her, her toenails clicking as her body tap dances across the floor.

I slide the heavy glass door back, and she leaps down the steps, then hops and skips to the grass, her tail still wagging as she finds the right spot to squat, leaving the old man and I to amble along behind.

While the dogs sniff and snort and pee and poop, I listen for the owls, look for the stars, and think about the tasks before me in the new day. Often, this is a time of affirmations for me.

“You can do this, Kay. Just pick up the phone and call and get past the first few awkward sentences.”

“You can do this, Kay. The quality of your writing is not defined by one person’s criticism or rejection. Get back to work. You know you can write. You know you can.”

It is also, often, a time of gratitude.

“I’m up! I’m ambulatory! I’m functional! Thank you!”

“The marine layer is gently dropping liquid sustenance on my garden! Yay!”

“Maya is happy! Thom is alive! Jenny’s warm little purring body was a comfort last night. I am blessed.”

“All my children and grandchildren are well and safe right now. I am so, so grateful.”

Always, it is a time of meditation, to take deep breaths in the still, quiet air before we go inside to the frenetic energy of feeding and watering and walking and training, to the pseudo-urgency of needing to check messages, check email, check Facebook, check Twitter, start laundry, make lists, pay bills, get groceries, pick up mail, ship books, return calls, and oh yes, maybe just sit and write for a while if I can bring my brain back to equanimity by then.

Those few moments—gazing at the stars, watching Maya hop and spin and dog bow to Thomas (who ignores her), or standing with my hand on Thom’s soft shoulder while we wait for her to finish taking bites out of my rosemary bush—those few moments before the sun ushers in birdsong and traffic noise and all the chaos of the day—those moments are priceless.

Unexpected things

 

 

Last Sunday, I needed to get out, to get away from everything demanding my attention at the house (except the furries; they never demand, they ask nicely and wait patiently), so of course, I took to the hills just west of me (and just south of Calimesa, if you live here and wonder where I roam). Since Maya has decided that the best thing about coming to this new, strange home (besides the good food, the treats, the peaceful quiet, and the opportunity to go outside to relieve herself more than once a day) is hiking, of course I took her. She is great company on a hike because she is as curious and excited about everything around her as I am.

This time, we took a side road Maya has always wanted to wander down, which brought us up to a ridge, which then took us down a slope and along a little used, mostly overgrown path. From far off, I could see a giant oak. It wasn't until we got close--until I'd decided to try and get a picture with my phone that would show how massive and old and beautiful the tree is--that I saw the mattress lying beneath it.

My first thought, of course, was "Stupid jerk." Since there are ways to access the hills if you have a 4WD vehicle and a little gumption, certain types of people will drive to some far corner out there and drop loads of crap--after a remodel, say, or after cleaning the junker car parts out of Grandpa's shed. And yeah, the occasional discarded mattress shows up. But... not usually so strategically placed. I mean, if you're just dropping it, why not push it out of the bed of the truck next to the road? Why drag the unwieldy thing all the way over to the tree? Unless....

For a moment, let your imagination run wild. (Okay, not too wild; this blog is approved for all family members.) I want to think--I choose to think--that our culprit here is a hopeless romantic who loves the outdoors, maybe hikes out into these hills frequently and sometimes packs in a sleeping bag... and/or a date. ("It's okay. I brought a blanket and bug repellent.") Maybe I think this because, once upon a time, long, long ago, these were the sorts of Romeos who would occasionally come courting around my door. There is something to be said for being out under the moon and stars with someone whose company you enjoy. Anyway, enough of that (again, family blog).

I took the picture (Maya sitting patiently and waiting on the other end of the leash, as she has been trained to do), and we walked on--but stopped in our tracks about twenty yards past the tree. Because I happened to glance to the side and see a nice, big, fluffy coyote standing in the grass, watching us walk past. You won't be able to see her in this photo:

Unless you have the means to zoom in. But she's the brown dot in the center of the green swath. Trust me, she looked very big as she stood there and stared at us. Maya did not react, other than to look, and she sat down to wait patiently again when I pulled my phone out to try to get a picture. Ms. Coyote (Wiley's wife?) didn't move a muscle until I said, "It's okay, 'yote, we won't hurt you," at which point she spun around and trotted away (which is when it became possible to detect her gender). I love seeing wild creatures looking healthy in their own habitat. It gives me hope for the world.

We walked on. (But yeah, you can bet that, since Maya is half the size of that coyote, I looked back over my shoulder a dozen times or so until we were a half mile away.)

We were headed for the trail that would lead us home when we saw a flash of white, so we stopped once more, and, oh look! A balloon!

Actually, the first photo I took was from much farther away, when the balloon was just a white dot, and I could only tell what it was by the way it bobbed in the breeze. Here's the thing about balloons way out there, though: They can be dangerous to wildlife. String or ribbon of any kind is bad as it can get wrapped around critters, and if birds use it for nesting material, the chicks can get tangled in it and, helpless to free themselves, it can lead to their death. So in most cases, I snatch the balloon (if I can reach it), pop it, put it in my backpack and carry it out to throw away. In this case, snagging the thing would prove a bit tricky.

While it was low enough to grab, the area around the tree was riddled with ground squirrel holes, which meant snakes were a possibility. Of course I had on high-top hiking boots and long pants (always!), but I also had my little terrier-wolf mix in tow, and she hikes naked. (Well, she does!) So I thought about this a while before venturing in. But given the time of year (end of January) and the weather (in the low 60's), I thought we'd be relatively safe (since rattlers are still in a state of brumation). Just as I reached it, the balloon turned in the breeze, and I could see that it had writing on it.

Ah. Someone's uncle had passed away, and at the memorial service, loved ones wrote on balloons and then released them. As much as I love the image of this--all those white balloons being released into the sky simultaneously and gracefully floating toward our perceived notion of heaven--I hate when people do it. Directly east of my little 55+ community--conveniently located--is a cemetery. So my balloon discoveries are frequent, sad to say. Which means lots of trailing ribbon that doesn't bio-degrade for a long, long time. And I can't always be out there, cleaning up the woods.

In this case, though, I made the decision to leave the balloon. The truth is, it wasn't practical; I didn't have my backpack with me this time (because I had Maya), which meant I also didn't have a knife to cut the ribbon, nor did I want to terrify my little dog by popping a balloon. And besides, the family was hoping that "Uncle" would read their message. It seemed as though it had been recently released. Maybe Uncle hadn't finished reading all the messages yet. Who am I to say?

So (borrowing a bit from Frost), I left the balloon for another day. Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.

Just kidding. I'll be back over there hiking in a few days. I'll snag it then and carry it out. 

UPDATE: I did return the following weekend to remove the balloon, but some other hiker had apparently gotten there first and taken it down. Good on them; it had served its purpose.

Back to Whitewater Preserve

 

When life gets chaotic, my therapy includes going for extra hikes. Last week I headed back to Oak Glen for a gorgeous morning hike in the mountains, and this week I took off for an oasis in the desert, so I'm doing back-to-back posts about each one. If you came to this page through a link I shared on social media, you should be able to scroll down past this post and see the Oak Glen post. I think. I hope.

Last time I went to Whitewater, the preserve was closed for the day due to the possibility of flash flooding. I did hike along the river for a bit, but I didn't stay long, and I kept a constant eye on the weather. This time the preserve was open, and oh, what a beautiful place it is! There's a ranger station, a very clean restroom, picnic areas in both sun (for the cooler months) and shade (for the warmer months), and a couple of deep, beautiful ponds connected by a nature trail.

The ponds and picnic area are a short walk from the parking lot. The trail for longer hikes heads off to the north, deeper into the canyon, but there are short connecting trails that lead to the river, with sturdy wooden bridges installed for easy stream crossings.

I took more videos than I usually do on a hike, simply because I love the sound of water pouring over rocks, and this water is so clear and lovely and unexpected here in the desert, I wanted to share it with friends on social media. I can't post it here, but if you click on this blue writing, the link will take you to YouTube and 48 seconds of tranquility.

And that was why I went back to Whitewater Preserve. For the tranquility. My mind has been greatly troubled of late, what with the earthquake in Haiti, the chaos in Afghanistan as the U.S. withdraws, and the alarming rise in COVID-19 cases due to the Delta variant (and some people's choice not to get vaccinated). Also my grands are going back to school, my kids are going back to teaching in the classroom, and all of that concerns me. We've all been vaccinated, but there is another concern with the rise of "breakthrough" cases of the virus among vaccinated folks. Yikes. And I miss my friends. We were all finally starting to climb out of our bunkers when the Delta variant began jumping from victim to victim. Ugh. But...walking along the river, listening to the water or just the crunch of my boots in the sand along the shore gave me some space and time away from the madness. I'm grateful as always for these beautiful places. Shout out to the Wildlands Conservancy for making sure these beautiful places remain wild but accessible. (The conservancy is, by the way, the largest provider of free outdoor education for kids in California).

Back to Oak Glen

 I've been meaning to share a post about going back to Oak Glen to hike, but life has gotten in the way a bit. There were friends who needed help and dogs that needed training and some other pieces of writing to work on. This will be the first of two pictorials. Because two weeks ago I hiked in Oak Glen but a week later I hiked in Whitewater again. I have nothing profound to say about these hikes. I just feel so blessed to have been outside in Nature, with all its wonder.

This hike began with a small miracle. I started down the trail at the Oak Glen Preserve, which is maintained by the Wildlands Conservancy, and I'd only gone as far as the public restroom before I was stopped in my tracks. There before my eyes was my nephew, Kevin. I hadn't seen him in many, many months, not since he'd brought his young sons to my senior community to feed the ducks in our pond. Before that, during the height of the pandemic, I hadn't seen him in over a year. And there he was, standing outside the restroom, waiting for a friend to emerge. We had a hug and a quick catch-up and another hug, and if you know the good science around hugging, you'll understand how happy I was to start my hike on a high of oxytocin, serotonin, and dopamine.

Kevin went off to hike with his friend, and I headed down the "boardwalk" trail looking for blackberries. And lordy, did I find them.

 Ripe, juicy, sweet, delicious blackberries, growing alongside the trail. Okay, you're really not supposed to pick them. But...heck, are they gonna begrudge me two or three (or a dozen) ripe blackberries? Along that path, I encountered two women who were also sampling. I asked if they were finding any ripe (as I hadn't yet), and they gave me the advice to pick from the top (which was spot on). They also engaged me in conversation about when blackberries are in season in Connecticut (July, as compared with late August in California), and we went on to exchange stories about blackberry pie and other delights, standing in the warm morning sun and waxing nostalgic about our childhoods. Then they moved on, and so did I, following the boardwalk trail down into the shady canyon.

 Usually on this trail I see something fun--quail, deer, bear tracks (or scat). On this day, though, the family directly ahead of me on the trail was traveling in a large pack (hooray for parents who take their young children hiking!) and also had their dog with them--a large male Doberman Pinscher--so I knew I wouldn't be seeing much wildlife. Still, I snacked on blackberries, took photos, enjoyed the aroma of fresh pine, and rejoiced in my ability to amble cheerfully along.

Of course the ambling stopped when I had descended to the bottom of the canyon and had to walk back out again. To complete the loop, back up to the picnic area and across to the parking lot, it is necessary to ascend these stairs:

That's just a small portion of the trail. It continues upward at that incline for a third of a mile. If you have compromised lungs, I suggest frequent stops. Okay, I don't know why I even wrote that; you don't need me to tell you to stop because you'll stop on your own when you can no longer breathe. (If you don't have compromised lungs, you may not fully understand. But yeah, you can have all the leg strength in the world, but no air means no up. Or at least a very slow ascent.)

I did finally reach the top and, of course, did a celebratory jog in place, Rocky style--not really, but I wanted to. I just didn't have any air left. The happy thing is, every time I've done this hike in recent years, I've done it in less time. Not that I'm hurrying--I'm still sauntering and ambling--but I am so much stronger now than I was five years ago when I first hiked this loop. Yay me! And next time I'll go on a weekday when there are few people. Maybe I'll actually see a bear!

Whitewater

 

It rained last Monday. Steady rain for hours. Unusual for us here in Southern California in July. I sat down to work on a writing project, but did a quick scroll through Twitter first while I finished a cup of tea, and I came across a tweet by some baby-man lamenting the fact that he had just turned 49 and was "sad" because now he is "old." Are you kidding me?? This was my reply to his tweet:

But as I shot it off, I thought, "Well, K Murphy, when was the last time you went hiking?" And I realized I hadn't gone since John and Lisa, my hiking buddies, left town on vacation. And so (as they say in Ireland). As soon as the rain stopped, I threw on my hiking boots, kissed two dogs and two cats good-bye, and took off for Whitewater Preserve. Normally, I wouldn't go there in the summer at all, as it is far too hot, but since it rained, and temps were lower-than-normal (still in the 80's though, sheesh), I thought I'd be fine up in the preserve where there is plenty of shade and cool running water. Except the preserve was closed.

So I did what I always tell other hikers NOT to do: I hiked on a closed trail. The thing is, I knew that the preserve was closed because there'd been flash flood warnings, and the rangers didn't want to be hanging out in the intense heat and humidity, dragging dead bodies out of the stream. I get that. So I didn't drive all the way into the preserve (because the gate would have been closed anyway). I followed the road to the first big stream crossing, parked in a turnout, and headed downstream, all the while watching the clouds and the weather and never going so far that I couldn't beat it back to the car if the water began to rise. Still a bit dangerous, I know, but I was feeling spunky. And it was so beautiful.

Whitewater Preserve is in a deep canyon you would never suspect was there (unless you're a curious person like me and you decided to exit I-10 to see why this seemingly isolated place is called "Whitewater"). Like the sign says, it's only 4.5 miles from the freeway. These photos show the area outside the preserve. It's way, way prettier (eventual blog post to come when the weather cools the hell down) inside the preserve itself.

Anyway, there was water in the stream, flowing enough that the videos I took had a water-over-rocks soundtrack.

 

And since I was the only human around (at least at that time)

...it was quiet. So very, very quiet...peaceful...lovely...and soul restoring (because that morning, while I waited for the rain to stop, a friend had called with a serious issue that would impact his life going forward due to his age).

Getting old is not for babies, whiners or wimps. The older I get, the more my independence will be challenged. I realize and accept that. But as long as I can still climb (carefully) over rocks or walk (slowly) along a streambed or place my feet (cautiously) in wild, running water, I will still feel strong and capable and joyful.

Sunday

The Pasture, by Robert Frost 

I’m going out to clean the pasture spring

I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away

(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):

I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.

I’m going out to fetch the little calf

That’s standing by the mother. It’s so young,

It totters when she licks it with her tongue.

I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.

This path leads deep into the forest. Care to join me? 

I chose this hike today for two reasons. The first—the best—is that it rained last night, and I love what happens to the woods when they are saturated, all the colors and contrasts, the rich scents and quiet drippings from the tall trees. The second reason isn’t nearly so nice; this is a hike I rarely do because Thomas, my favorite hiking buddy, doesn’t like it. No doubt he has gotten more than a whiff or two of the wild things that roam here, and he is always on high alert and anxious when we come. Alas, I resignedly accepted the news from the vet on Friday that Thom will no longer go on walk-abouts with me. He has severe arthritis in his shoulder, poor old man, so he has been placed in retirement, limited to short walks but not limited at all in the amount of love and affection (and treats) he will continue to receive.

If it’s 40° when you set out, taking a photograph—even with your phone—requires removing hands from pockets, the glove from your right hand, and the phone from your left pocket. Take the shot, then repeat the process in reverse. We may do this a few dozen times on this walk. Never, though, get so caught up in getting the right shot that you cease to be vigilant. Your eyes must always keep scanning for movement, for the deer or the bobcat or the bear or the coyote… or the mountain lion you’ve heard tell lives here but have never seen.

Have you noticed, as we walk deeper into the woods, that the rush of traffic on the freeway has died away? The soft crunch of our footfalls on the damp, leaf-strewn earth is all we hear. Wait—that quick, muted thudding we hear as we stop for another photo is… something. Deer? Probably. Let’s assume so, and keep walking.

Oh! Did you see that? If you looked up in time, you saw the redtail hawk gliding past directly over our heads. She carried nesting material in her beak. Is it time? Already? It’s time. This is what winter is for. Getting ready for spring.

A brightly colored male towhee hops around on a branch, eyeing us suspiciously without taking flight, flicking his tail dismissively. “I am not afraid of you, wingless creatures!”

You can see now how the rust color of the wild buckwheat looks almost crimson with its saturation of rain water, and the moss on the side of that tree trunk is the best color of “forest” green.

How do woodpeckers make such perfectly round holes in the trees? It's another one of those mysteries of Nature that makes us stop in our tracks in amazement.

My goodness—Have we walked a mile already? I have hot soup waiting at home. Let’s turn around now and walk back.

 

The Thing With Feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all.... 

Emily Dickinson 

 Yesterday, Thomas and I went out to walk here:

But as I pulled up to the trailhead, I could see other cars parked there, so I turned around and drove to another spot. Again, I saw cars. I get it; people are doing what I'm doing, walking off into the hills to exercise instead of walking around town on the sidewalk where others might be walking (because our sidewalks simply aren't wide enough to stay six feet--or even half that--apart).

So I turned around again and drove to this spot:

Heavy, dark, early morning clouds were looming, but we had plenty of space here and no one else on the trail. Well, almost no one else. About a quarter mile in, we happened upon this pretty girl:

You might have to peer closely to see her, but she's a lovely, light-colored tarantula, probably a "desert blonde tarantula." (I'm assuming female, as they live much longer than the males, but I could be wrong.) Generally, they hunt at night and remain burrowed during the day, so I'm not sure what was going on with this gal (or fellow). We sometimes see them when they migrate in August. I've never seen one in early spring before, so this was quite surprising.

We also saw some lupine that had already jumped out of the ground to celebrate all the rain we had in March:

Forgive the poor photo; it's challenging to juggle my phone while holding Thom's leash and making sure that when I go down on one knee to take a picture, I'm not crushing anyone or anyone's habitat.

What surprised and delighted me even more than the wildflowers or the tarantula, though, was this:

Behold the rolling waves of grass! From a distance, that oak looks just fine. But a close up view (which I took but discarded as it made me sad) reveals that the tree is actually completely charred.

This is where the wildfire burned in October. These hills were burned to ashes last autumn. Now they are covered in beautiful, lush, green grass. Some of the old oaks burned, but some survived, and clearly our little arachnid did as well, as did the seed pods for the lupine and other flowers that grow here in the spring.

Nature is absolutely amazing, isn't it?

As Thomas and I turned and walked back toward the truck, the gray clouds of early morning began to brighten into fluffy white cumulus, and I thought about the ability of so many living things to survive the most catastrophic events and still emerge with such beauty and resiliency.

And that gave me hope.

We will survive. We will endure. We will emerge with renewed joy to celebrate all that remains.