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!

The Perfect Peach

If you prefer your fruit cold or canned, I can’t help you, and there’s nothing for you to see here, so click or scroll away to something more satisfying. But before you go, in the name of the goddess Pomona and all that is botanically holy, take those bananas out of the refrigerator—and the tomatoes, for crying out loud, if you’ve stashed them there. No tomatoes in the fridge. Ever.

Where was I?

Peaches. I have a peach tree. I didn’t plant it. It was here when I moved in. How lucky am I? And I dare say, on far more than one occasion, I have been blessed to find the perfect peach.

When I’m picking, I search only for ripeness. If the fruit, ever so gently impressed by my thumb, gives way, the globe is plucked.

During a brief shower for each peach individually (just to rinse the dust off—no chemical sprays to be concerned with here), if a single peach (or perhaps two…probably three) is discovered that may fit all my criteria, it is placed to the side to be consumed immediately, while it is still fully infused with the sweet warmth of the sun, its color alone a reflection of the sunrise in its perfect balance of rose and gold hues.

A sharp knife will glide through such a peach, the two halves falling away from each other as if relieved at their release. A slight tug, and the skin, thin as a gossamer veil, will lift away, leaving the pale flesh exposed and inviting.

To have such a peace in hand, to bite into a season’s worth of good health and joy and pleasure, unencumbered by bowl or utensil, the nectar sliding through one's fingers, is a sublime experience indeed.

 

Dolly

 

Dolly

Who wants to adopt an old dog?

Well, no, I mean, not this cutie. She's already been adopted. But I mean, in general, how many people go looking for an older dog? My neighbor didn't. She went looking for a "younger" dog. As we know in the dog world, though, we don't always get the dog we want; we often get the dog we need.

Let me backtrack just a bit. My neighbor and her husband lost their beloved pug mix just a couple of months ago. I can attest to the fact that she was the sweetest girl, and much loved by her humans. But her loss left a void, so they decided to look for another dog. I volunteered to help, which ended up with the neighbor and I on a wild goose chase at first, driving all the way to Riverside County Animal Shelter, only to find it closed due to COVID restrictions. Arrrgh! We turned around and drove all the way home--well, almost.

As I navigated the freeway system, my neighbor called several other local shelters--all closed. "Well," I told her, "before I take you home, let's pop up to Cherry Valley and stop in at BARC. Maybe they have a little dog in the store right now."

BARC is Benevolent Animal Rescue Committee. They keep their small dogs on a large property in Cherry Valley and the big dogs on an even bigger place in Apple Valley. The rescue also runs a thrift shop in Cherry Valley, and the proceeds go to rescuing dogs and cats. I've dealt with these terrific volunteers before, and they're one of my favorite local rescues.

The thrift store (located at 39245 Vineland in Cherry Valley, right next to the feed store on the corner of Vineland and Beaumont Avenue) was open, so we wandered in, and my neighbor shared that she was looking for a small dog, "preferably young" and female. A volunteer pulled out her phone and began to show us photos of the small female dogs they had available.

Here's where the story gets goose-bumpy: My neighbor, a woman of strong faith, had already mentioned to me that (1) she had prayed for guidance and direction in making this decision and (2) she had already picked out a name for whatever dog she might adopt: Dolly. The photos on the volunteer's phone showed the dogs' pictures and their names.

"Stop," my neighbor said. "Can you go back? Was that dog's name Dolly?"

Yep. Goosebumps. Well, when you ask for a sign....

"Yes," the volunteer said, "but she's a senior. She was actually one of our rescues years ago, adopted by an older couple. But the husband passed away, and the wife is now in the hospital with serious medical issues. She can no longer care for this dog or her other two, so her daughter brought them back to us." Of the trio of dogs that were returned, Dolly was the only female.

Within the hour, my neighbor had filled out an application, the ranch had been alerted we were coming, and there we were, moments later, walking Dolly around and getting to know her.

"Well, Dolly, they say you're an old lady," I heard my neighbor say as she walked her new friend around the yard. "I'm an old lady, too, so that should work just fine."

In short order, Dolly was meeting her new dad, exploring her new home and yard, and receiving plenty of love and good food and treats.

Already potty trained and used to snuggling on the couch, Dolly fits right in with her new family. She is a mellow, sweet girl who will help her humans heal from the loss of their previous dog, and they will help her heal from the heartbreak of losing her family after all those years. Win. Win.

"I don't care if she lives two months or two years," my neighbor told me. "We'll deal with that when the time comes."

I will say Amen to that.

By the way, as of this writing, Dolly's two brothers are still available for adoption. Alex is eight and Pepper is eleven. Both are housebroken, well-behaved dogs. I'll just leave their two adorable photos below. If interested, just click on the link to BARC and fill out an application. A volunteer will call you.

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.