One Magical Day

...and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain springs
With a soft inland murmur....

From "Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey," William Wordsworth

The inspiration for Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey” poem was his return home to England after five years in France. I love that one of the first things he did upon his return home was to go hiking. Of course. One always yearns to know if the music of the stream still sounds the same as it tumbles over the stones it has been smoothing for generations, or if that one large boulder still hangs out over the ridgeline, untumbled as of yet, or if the centuries-old oak is still standing strong against every storm. I can relate.

Some weeks ago I needed to take a run up to Forest Falls (a small mountain community about a half hour’s drive from me) as I needed to purchase an annual Adventure Pass. (It’s a parking pass required for many mountain areas.) I also needed a gift for someone, so I went the long way, driving first to the little town of Oak Glen where apples grow. I bought some lovely jam and a cup of coffee, then climbed back into Sky (the Subaru) to head for the mountains. As I left Oak Glen, however, I was surprised to see an entire herd of deer lounging about in one of the apple orchards. Mind you, I’m in Southern California. Most folks don’t see deer very often. When I see them, it’s only when I’m wandering the hills. The most I’ve seen is five. I counted a baker’s dozen in this group. Sorry the photo below is dark and grainy, but it’s the best I could do while pulled over on the opposite side of the road trying desperately not to get hit by other drivers flying past me at breakneck speeds.

And then it was on to Forest Falls… where there are so many memories for me….

I made my first journey to the falls as a high school student with a group of kids I used to hang with at a Christian coffee house. My high school sweetheart was with me that day. (Tarry with me here while I heave a sigh for those days of young innocence.)

A few short years later, I was married—and already a writer. I won a national writing contest and was awarded free tuition to a writers conference at Forest Home, the conference center in Forest Falls. For four days, I immersed myself in all things related to publishing, and I loved every second of it. I learned how to write a book proposal, and I went home and wrote one. By the next year (because I couldn’t wait to attend again), I was seeking a publisher for my first book. By the third year, I’d become a published author. I attended seven years in a row. In those early years of my marriage, when my life revolved around cleaning and child care and trying to placate a chronically irascible husband, those four days I spent away were my annual retreat and re-focus time. All of it was magical—chatting at dinner with other writers, sitting in lectures taking copious notes about what publishers wanted, meeting kind and encouraging people… and roaming about the grounds of Forest Home, with its pond and squirrels and everywhere the scent of pines lingering in the fresh air. (May I please pause here for another sigh in remembrance of all those special times?)

Many years later, after my children were having children of their own (and I had happily disassociated myself from both my former husbands), on a beautiful early spring day, I picked up three of my grandchildren for a day’s outing. Ben, Ellie and Reese were ten, six and four at the time—the perfect age to wander around in oak duff, get dirty, freeze their fingers in the stream, find rocks and sticks that are “pretty,” and marvel at the height of trees. Of course I took them to Forest Falls. They were so young, I doubt they remember the trip. I will never forget it. In less than two years from that day I would be living in a cabin on a mountain myself, and they would come to Nana’s house to do all those same activities (including feeding the bluejays and woodpeckers), but that first time in the mountains with them was priceless.

These are all the memories that bring a tidal flood to my heart when I drive up good old Highway 38—the same route I drove at 16 (1970, if you must know) the first time I went—and follow the narrow winding road that leads into that beautiful canyon.

Each time I do, I am surprised and blessed to find that yes, just as Wordsworth found, “these beauteous forms” and “the sounding cataract" are still the same as they were all those years ago.

I have an old faded photo of the waterfall in Forest Falls from 1970. I could not copy it here as my then boyfriend is in the photo, standing above the falls with his arms outstretched. I have his number… I suppose I could have called him to ask his permission to use the photo… but look, I took a new one! And trust me on this: The waterfall is the same now as it was when I was sixteen.

Oh, the memories are still ruminating! But what Wordsworth was getting at in his poem was that, while the world around us can be fraught with chaos and upheaval, Nature remains immutable (unless Man mutates her), quietly, steadfastly continuing, going about the day to day business of completing, over and over, the cycle of life.

Going back, sitting by that same stream, listening to the sound of the water falling over those same rocks, anchors me to earth again when I begin to feel unmoored.

Oh—and there was snow on the ground that day, but I couldn’t get a decent photo. Next time!

Back to Baldy

Last week The Grandson (Ben) asked if I would take him and his girlfriend hiking in Mt Baldy, something we hadn't done in a year or so. Ben is twenty now, will be twenty-one in October, and yes, he still hikes with me (aka "Nana"). How blessed am I? Miraculously.

Yesterday the stars aligned so that we could take that hike. Unfortunately, The Goddess Diana (Ben's girlfriend) was off on a family trip to Northern California, so she was unable to accompany us (though the two exchanged text messages and photos throughout the day as she explored the Monterey Bay Aquarium and he the mountain, so they shared each other's experiences in a lovely 21st Century way).

I had some reservations about this hike. With work, writing, an ankle injury and the past spring's pneumonia, I haven't been able to hike since last summer when I enjoyed long walks in Baldy with Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. My exercise lately has consisted of walking him, doing yoga a few times a week, and constant weeding in the garden. I didn't know how my legs would hold up, so I didn't know how far I'd be able to go. I told Ben as much, but he was game for anything, mostly because he can find adventure anywhere, and partly because he'd been promised lunch afterward at Mt Baldy Lodge.

If you've read this far, dear reader, you may be wondering how that hike went, and I must say I'm eager to show you. (Teaser: I'll share a link to a very short video later in the post.) But... will you indulge me for just a moment while I reflect upon the words of William Wordsworth in his classic poem, "Lines Written a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey"? These are the opening lines:

Five years have passed; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a sweet inland murmur. --Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
Which on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

Certainly it has not been five years, but the poet's excitement at revisiting a place which has carried significant meaning for him is something with which I can identify. I had deeply missed hearing the waters of San Antonio Creek "rolling from their mountain springs" and the serenity of that connection of "the landscape with the quiet of the sky." And I love that mountain because it has been, for twenty years now, one of my favorite places of "deep seclusion."

One of the themes which runs through Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey" poem is that Nature is immutable. In other words, you can leave a mountain for a year or five years or twenty and return to find everything--trees, boulders, streams--in place where you left them so long ago. It's one of the magical aspects about hiking in the forest (although there is the potential for that aspect to inflict profound boredom on others if you keep repeating, "Oh my gosh! I love this tree! I've been passing this same tree on the trail for twenty years now!" and other such statements of joy and familiarity with those who haven't shared the same experience).

But back to that glorious hike in sun-dappled shade along the still-running (despite the drought) creek: Yes, we had a lovely time. We walked farther than I had anticipated I'd be able to go, Ben patiently waiting for me each time I stopped to catch my breath or greet an old tree-friend. Ever the explorer, he found multiple treasures in beautiful stones and sturdy walking sticks, and along the way we had those great moments of spontaneous conversation one can only indulge in when one passes into a mystical realm which holds no cell phone service. We took copious photos and videos, with Ben continuing my education in How to Use an iPhone 6. Later, when I had returned to the luxury of home wi-fi, I deftly uploaded pictures to Facebook and videos to YouTube. (To see and hear the "waters, rolling from their mountain springs," click here and here.)

If I can leave you with any parting thought, dear reader, it is this one: Get yourself up to the mountains or into the woods or the forest. Find a place in which you are surrounded by Nature (so much so that there is no cell service, preferably) and just breathe in the cool air and the soft breeze, and let the music of birdsong replace every other sound in your head, even if it is just for a few brief moments of tranquility.

The bird in the basement....

           Five years have past; five summers, with the length

Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.--Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
             ~ William Wordsworth, "Lines (composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey...)"

As I rolled slowly around the last switchback turn, a young deer suddenly leapt out onto the highway from the brush at the side of the road.  I hit my brakes hard—not out of concern that I would hit him, but because I’ve been taught by Bob Walker, my favorite old timer on the mountain, that “there’s never just one.”  I slowed to a crawl, scanning each side of the road for the mother as the little one bounded ahead of me on legs seemingly made of rubber.  Eventually he had the good sense to veer off into the forest again, and I resumed my short journey to the post office.

That was yesterday.  This morning at 5:00a.m. I shared a banana with a polite but hungry raccoon who had grown frantic scavenging because she had three small kits to feed.  A few hours later, on another trip to the post office and in the exact same spot where I saw the deer, I watched a mama mountain quail scurry across the road.  And I stopped again and watched as her chicks turned tail at the sound of the truck and scuttled into the bushes.  I knew they would wait until it was absolutely quiet again before attempting to cross over, and their mother, by clucking, would be the one to signal the all-clear.

And this afternoon I watched in dismay as Luna Cat slunk into the cabin and down to the basement, a dark-eyed junco hanging from her jaws.  I followed her down, scolded her, and she dropped the bird at my feet.  Immediately it flew up, beating its wings frantically against the basement window.  As I approached slowly, the bird stopped fluttering and became still, turning its head to watch me with one tiny onyx dot of an eye.  I cupped my hands around its body, leaving its head exposed, and slowly walked up the stairs, out the door and into the forest (leaving poor Lu still downstairs, prowling and puzzled, searching for her bird).  I stood for a long minute, the bird now nestled on one open palm, talking softly and stroking him with a finger to pull away the pin feathers he’d lost in his brush with death.  When he was ready, wits about him now, he simply flew away.

I had this experience with a hummingbird once.  I had removed all the screens to rinse the dust off after washing windows on a brilliant summer day, and the hummingbird just flew right in.  The scenario played out in the same way; the bird, with wings whirring, pushed its body forward against the clear glass, confused, becoming still as I moved toward it.  I cupped it in my bare hands, walked outside and for an instant marveled at the miracle of holding this creature—until it dashed off without so much as a buzz by of thanks.

Two weeks ago, as I was showing the cabin to some prospective buyers, a bluejay hopped into the cabin through one of the French doors left open.  I reached down to shoo him out, but the motion startled him and he flew up to a kitchen window.  Wrapping my hands gently around his folded wings, I carried him back to the yard and set him down.  After a moment, he flew to the safety of a low tree branch.  The potential buyers were amazed.

“Yes,” I laughed, “I’m the bird whisperer.”

I’ve held a baby ‘possum in my hands as well, though I had the presence of mind to pull on my thick leather work gloves before I scooped it up.  The mother ‘possum, heavily laden with five other joeys on her back, hadn’t managed to make it back to my neighbor’s shed under cover of darkness.  The sun had risen and people were about—including some excited children—when Junior toppled off, and she was frantic, unwilling to subject the clinging babies to the danger of the humans and equally unwilling to leave the wayward child behind (a situation that, sadly, I’ve had some experience with myself).  I picked up her pink-nosed, beady-eyed child and followed her as she trundled toward their home, setting him down just outside the shed and then backing away to watch her turn and gather him in.

It’s been hot in recent days, even up here on the mountain, and after over-doing it yesterday, I chose a quiet day today, mostly reading and writing.  During a peaceful interlude of dividing my attention between the huge thunderheads rolling by and the acorn woodpeckers pecking at the hanging feeder, I wondered again what I will do to find these miracles when I no longer live on the mountain.  I have been witness to amazing things here—bears on my back porch, a baby bobcat chasing a lizard nearly at my feet, a small fox lunging through three-foot snowdrifts on a full moon night to sniff hungrily at my French doors, bighorn sheep standing proudly at dawn to face the rising sun, the gorgeous buck who simply walked out of the forest and into my backyard in search of water (which is always left out for anyone who needs a drink), the mama raccoons who’ve brought their babies at dusk so that I can see and remark upon their cuteness, countless shooting stars, a lunar eclipse…. 

And yet, as I continued to reflect, the stories of the stranded baby ‘possum and the hummingbird came to mind.  Those experiences did not occur here on the mountain.  I rescued the hummer when we lived in Chino, the ‘possum after we’d moved to a housing track in Rancho Cucamonga.

And so I guess… miracles are everywhere.  Of course, it’s easier to see these things here on the mountain where Nature still retains the luxury of being wild and unfettered, so it might be that I will have to look a little closer, be a bit more attentive to the world around me once I settle in the valley again.  But I’m sure I will have adventures there as well.  Thank goodness Nature is immutable, that we can go away for years at a time, as Wordsworth pointed out, and still return to the same “steep and lofty cliffs” to find them virtually unchanged.  There’s a certain comfort in that, as if it were possible to place a bookmark in time, and by returning to the physical place, return to some point in our past.  It sounds like magic, I know, but that’s why the mountain is so alluring… because the magic is so strong here.