"I need to sell this one....it's too heavy to keep moving around," M. says.
It's quite striking and I could see it hanging over a huge mantle in some large horse ranch living room.
Walking each Brushstroke inside a Landscape Painting.
I pick up Matt in Ojai at the bus stop where Rt 33 takes a sharp turn towards the Los Padres. He's never been to Carrizo Plain and was excited about seeing wildflowers in showy display.
"I'll carry the weight, and you can just drop me at an Amtrak station on your way out and north," he had pleaded.
One of my hopes now is to balance my alone time out in the wild lands with companionship with those who also love to be out there. My back and neck are still tentative, and he was so generous in the Sespe to make it possible for L. and I to get out to the Willet Hot Spring.
"That would be perfect," I had told him. "We leave Thursday morning."
The 33 winds up through the mountains and down the other side into Central California's heat basin usually reaching triple digits in the heart of summer. Here in March, the sun is warm, but the air still whispers a slight chill that dances along the sun's rays. Nights should be in the high 30's to mid-40's. Crisp. We follow the 33 to it's end with Rt 166, turn right towards the southern entrance into the National Monument, and pull over.
Wow!
We had hoped we weren't too soon for the wildflower show, so we are totally encouraged by the hillside of blinding yellow Goldfields petals. Giddy, we drive on into the Carrizo.
Matt stuffs a gallon jug of water into his pack along with our other filled water bottles. I put one on my backpack and one small one in my fanny pack that I wear in the front. I have my sleeping bag and the tent, my pocket stove and lightweight clothing layers. Matt takes all the food weight as well as his clothes. Right now this is the only way I can be out for a few days. We lock up the truck and start out along the Caliente Ridge Trail towards Caliente Mountain. Whether we reach it or not doesn't matter. We are on the hunt for wildflowers and wildflower views. Having gained most of the elevation along the winding dirt road, the trail along the ridge looks like a small sine wave of ups and downs. The greens and golds of the hills bleed into the folds and yellow petals flap in the wind along the trail. Surreal. About four miles in, we find a place off trail to set up base camp for two nights. Under a branchy tree, on soft grass, we assemble the tent, blow up pads and flow out the sleeping bags that will keep us cozy once the night comes on. Clouds blow in fast now and we prepare for possible rain. Noticing a few small holes in my tent rain fly, I patch them over with duct tape and Matt ties down his rain poncho over the top of the fly, just in case. Dinner? Taste of Thai glass noodles in a coconut ginger sauce with added tuna. Matt doles mine into my small plastic bowl and he cuts up a hot pepper to add to his. Some dessert chocolate had been our appetizer and some remains for after dinner. Later on, Matt brews up some hot chocolate with special chocolate he had brought back recently from Ecuador, mixed in with some high grade hot chocolate I've been carrying. Once in our bags for the night, the dark clouds slowly drop their cargo, and we listen for any drips through the fly. All is well for staying warm and dry. The weather forecast had insinuated only 20% rain tonight, and clearing tomorrow, so we agree to sleep in and let the morning work itself out. |
With day packs on board, we slog into the sun trying hard to break through the low foggy cloud cover. Clay mud cakes onto the bottoms of our boots.
"Moon walking boots!" Matt laughs as he picks a foot up and kicks to see if the mud will fall off on its own. Nope.
We slip, slog, muck, and drag our boots across rocks as we slowly hike through the mush. Neon yellow lights up with the broadening sun and the green hills push the giggling flowers up higher into the fragrant air. We keep hiking farther along the ridge towards Caliente Mountain but flowers diminish behind us as the chaparral pushes in on us along the trail. In and out to the peak is about a fourteen mile round trip. People hoof it in a day hike, but Matt and I had decided to attune ourselves to petal beauty and so we turn around to find ourselves a meadow paradise for sitting. Warm sun wraps around my bare legs and arms even as the chilly breeze brushes against my face. Matt leans up against a rock skirting the flower field and we break out a snack of trail mix and oranges. I wonder to myself what it would be like to be able to step inside a painting and have it come alive for me. I could hike around in it, or walk down some street, crash a gathering, row in a boat. Right now I could be laying about inside a Matisse or Van Gogh. Regardless, my grin reaches all the way across the Carrizo.
By the time we head back to base camp, the mud has dried up some. We scrape the clumps off of our soles and no longer have to "moon walk" our way along the trail.
We drive by Soda Lake where Baby Blue Eyes roll down from Overlook hill. We drive across the valley width to lay amongst Tidy Tips, then continue on to the other side of the floor along the San Andreas Fault line and back across the valley to camp out along the trailhead road and our first night's view camping spot.
To the Coast
Dark threatens the day's end as I pull into the first one at Sweetwater Campground and into the one shady remaining open spot down the hill from RV's and tents. I nest overnight, then drive up the hill to the Laguna Mountain Campground to secure the last remaining spot there for the second night. From the campground parking area, the trail to Laguna Mountain follows a fire road along the ridge overlooking Hernandez Reservoir and a few ranches spread over in the valley. Not interested in peak bagging Laguna Mountain in a day hike, I mosey, stop to write, watch for wildflowers and breathe solitude. Others are not hiking this trail today. Everyone in both the campgrounds are extremely quiet, and the peace of the valley hovers low. Upon return, I set up my beach chair on a promontory view off of my campsite and I set the day with the sun, then watch the stars tentatively emerge while laying my head onto the tailgate, cap door closed above me. I pull my sleeping bag up against my chin and around my face to stay warm as I watch for shooting stars, of which there are two. "Whish" They fly across the sky and disappear into the dark surrounding the constellations offering yet again their specific soliloquys.
I make small offerings into that wind whisking across the plains: "Thank you for what has been. Within this wind, I let the petals scatter amongst all the other petals, leaving room to create my own flower, one I have not yet seen myself."
I head north now towards Santa Cruz, feel myself scatter along the road as I move. I leave my trace behind, a wake of beauty and grace.