Julie Milner

English 380

June 8, 2007

 

A Walk Through Strawberry Canyon

 

                                    As one walks the neighborhoods in the Lodge Hill area of Cambria the words of OvidÕs Golden Age rise to mind, Òthe mountain-trees in distant prospect please, e're yet the pine descended to the seas. (Ovid, 1567. v.1:123-124)Ó Here the forest is still in control of the land in many places. Yet the advance of man cannot be ignored. So desirable is this forested nook that many a person would slay the forest to build a house among the trees. Before all of these woodland lots could be snatched up by eager developers, an eco-conscious group of Cambria residents bought out of bondage a few large sections of undeveloped land to be preserved as natural habitat for local wild life and for the community enjoyment. These Green Spaces, as they are called, stand in contrast to the open private lots that have been cleared. They will never feel the steel plumbing running through their soil or cold cement covering their sunny meadows. They feel only the trails made by the feet of humans and animals that meander through their quiet beauty. Strawberry Canyon is one small section of Green Space. This is the direction that my heart and feet are calling me this evening.

                  Strawberry Canyon can be found on the southern side of Burton Drive, and consists of approximately five acres. The path from the street is marked by a hand-painted sign and is well trod from years of passage. Once on the footpath, scarcely ten meters from the road, it is hard to tell that you are still in the middle of a residential area. The thick woods provide a barrier from the outside world and it is difficult to even hear the sounds of the surrounding neighborhood over the din of birdcalls.

                  Two sloping hills create a riparian woodland just inside the entrance. A great Arroyo Willow stands guard, sprawling almost thirty feet along the path. In this area the water is subterranean most of the year, but the dry, sandstone streambed is clearly visible at a few points from the path. To either side of the footpath blackberry vines and poison oak knit together forming a dense thicket extending into the woods. Twenty yards into the canyon the forest widens its stance to form a large opening. A bench overlooks the expanse like a pew in a sanctuary. Here the ferns lay out a dense carpet of brilliant green, dotted with changing blackberry leaves as red as Chinese lanterns.

I pause from my walk to drink in the open cathedral-like space and listen to the choir of birds. The twitters and the tweets strike a chorus with the chirps and the squawks echoing through the woods. Cackles of the acorn woodpeckers are the most distinct. A single voice calls out followed by a gale of coarse ÒHa-haÕsÓ as if the first were a comedian in his own right. The mocking bird and bushtit, crow and towhee join the ruckus. Without the wild birds, untamed vines, the undomesticated animals and the fallen trees the land would cease to remember from whence it came. Surrounded by the dead wood of human houses, pines and oaks stand living, breathing and teeming with the life of animals that call them home.

Just after the bench the path splits in two directions forming a loop around the interior of this woodland area. This time of the year grasses are abundant everywhere, and the resident umbrella sedge and spike rushes are visible following the small underground stream. Twenty meters past the fork the path stumbles upon a sewer manhole protruding three feet from the surrounding soil, a stark reminder that I am not far from civilization. The rusty, filthy exterior of the sewer line is a telling symbol of what lies within. Waste of human origin courses below in unseen chambers running parallel to the creek bed. Two paths of water, one stream bringing life to the surrounding habitat on its way to be reclaimed by the sea, the other flushing refuse from the civilized world to be reclaimed at great expense by man. How different is the way that nature treats her waste products. They can hardly be called waste, for they do not go to waste. Fallen leaves, branches, animal scat, decomposing bodies of fruits and animals all become a beautiful part of the cycle of the ecosystem. They are transformed as compost for the nourishment of living things. NatureÕs litter sculpts her beauty. What would a forest be without the ruddy, pungent pine needles to carpet the floor? Or the colors of autumn blown into mounds of vibrant color? Or fallen branches lovingly constructed into a beaverÕs home? Aldo Leopold spoke of the painting that the river made. Layer upon layer nature creates her masterpieces. So it is with the forest, each season builds upon the progress of the last, making beauty out of rubbish.

Ten meters after the manhole, the footpath turns directly up a hill and the woods take on a slightly different shade of green. White Oak and California Live Oak make their presence known among the pine trees and a small grassy opening widens at the top of the hill. A grass for which I have no name covers the open area. The stalks measure only six inches high and dangle small, peculiar florets that resemble the tip of a rattlesnakeÕs tail. They make a pretty picture when blown by the breeze as the dangling florets dance like little beads strung from a bracelet.

In the middle of this opening sits a bench, dedicated by a local couple in appreciation of this special place. The plaque reads, ÒA tree is a nobler object than a prince in his coronation robes.Ó This quote by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) implies what it is to be noble. Nobility means far more than a mere birthright. In this case extends beyond the impressive regalia to more practical qualities; the strong stand on oneÕs ground, the resilience in the fight against oneÕs enemies and the humble service rendered without thank or petition from those benefiting from it. In the case of trees, we use their wood, their sap, their bark and their air and still they do not complain. They are able to fight off and survive wood beetles, fires and animal damage. The roots run deep enough to hold them up against a fierce wind and shifting soil. The forest sheds tears of golden sap for the wounds it receives, and yet the scars only add to the beauty of each silent warrior.

Down the other side of the hill from the bench the pines dominate the neighborhood. Old, fallen grandfathers lie prostrate on the ground surrounded by young saplings. The tall, adult trees sway with the light breeze, letting go of their dry needles which fly spiraling to the ground. A rhythmic tromping noise beats softly from deep within the foliage. Raccoon, skunk, mule deer, coyote and countless others are all known to share this environment, so I stop and wonder if I am to be treated with a visitor. The sound gets closer then quickens. I hold my breath. The steps halt as the doe mule deer emerges from the thicket. She pauses, flits her tail and disappears into the woods. I stand in awed silence for a moment and take a breath.

The clouds have turned pink and orange with the last fleeting rays of the setting sun. They hover like ostrich feathers suspended in a blue canopy. Bats dart, black against the dusky sky. They echolocate in high pitched clicking noises as they gather the abundant beetles, flying termites and moths for their evening meal. For them this is just the beginning of the day, but the fleeting twilight ushers me home with a brisk kiss of the night air on my face. The path meets again with the first leg of the loop leading back to the road. I bid farewell to the canyon until another day when perhaps I may enjoy a strawberry or two...  

References:

Ovid (1567). ÒMetamorphosis.Ó http://cla.calpoly.edu/~smarx/courses/380/ovidgold.pdf

Marx, S. (2002). Cal Poly Land: A field guide. San Luis Obispo: Cal Poly Foundation. CA.