The Trickster

Tom and I are having an ongoing discussion regarding some of our observations while hiking. This discussion involves things we see a lot of, and our continuing debate takes two sides (which either one of us takes arbitrarily at any given time), both of which seem probable.

Side 1) We’re seeing a lot of (insert practically any item here) simply because we are logging more miles. The fact that we hike so much more than we used to naturally means that we see more of the item.

Side 2) We’re seeing a lot of (you name it) because there is actually more of it. This is because of greater drought, or heat, or specific conditions that cause the thing to proliferate.

As an example, earlier this year the item in question was lupine. For maybe two months we saw lupine en masse during every hike. Was it a particularly good year for lupine, and if so, why? Or was it just that we were on trails that always have lots of lupine and we just never noticed before? (Hiking long distances leads, sometimes, to really evolved conversation; other times, it just leads to perseveration.)

Another example - quail. It seemed like we used to see quail a lot in the 90s. Then in the 00s and 10s, hardly ever. And now - thrillingly - quail everywhere! Were we just completely checked out during our kid-raising years? Or is it true that quail were in jeopardy, and are now making a comeback?

I can’t answer these questions, or more accurately, I don’t have the time to do the research that would give me an answer to these questions. Maybe you know. In the hopes you do, I present to you the latest thing that has me constantly dickering with myself while I hike. That thing is Toxicodendron diversilobum, more commonly known as Poison Oak. Remember binomial nomenclature? In this case, the genus, Toxicodendron, means ‘poison tree.’ The species, diversilobum, means ‘diversely lobed.’ Yeah, we know about the poison - no surprise there. But the diverse lobes is interesting, and refers to the fact that the leaves are irregularly lobed, resembling oak leaves. Hence the common name, poison oak.

I’ve been seeing SO much poison oak this year. So much. It runs all along the trails and often even reaches a delicate branch out into the middle of the trail, causing me to anthropomorphize this poor opportunist plant and screech “NOT TODAY, SATAN” around every curve. You will forgive me for my hysterics, because poison oak is supremely tricky.

To wit:

Poison oak can be green…

… or it can be red, or a combination of green and red.

Poison oak can be a loner plant…

… or hang out in a group (or a freaking hedge).

Poison oak can be a bush, or a vine…

… or a ground cover.

Poison oak can have tiny, finely lobed leaves…

… or big, blowsy, looks-like-a-pear-tree leaf.

In spring, poison oak has really pretty flowers…

… which later on, turn into berries. Birds love the berries, which is one way this plant spreads.

Poison oak can have glossy leaves….

… or dull leaves.

Every part of the plant is ‘poisonous’ and can cause a skin reaction. Don’t go gathering those pretty leaves by the side of the trail! For heaven’s sake, don’t make a pile and jump in! And if you must pee on the side of the trail, by all that’s holy, drip dry!!!

And what you might think is a dormant tree might actually also be poison oak.

The stuff that we react to in poison oak (or ivy, or sumac - they are all in the same family) is called ‘urushiol.’ In most people, it causes a blistering, itchy rash. I once knew a woman who sat by a campfire on which, unwittingly, someone had thrown some poison oak branches. Because all the people around the fire breathed in the smoke, they had a reaction in their mouths, throats, and lungs. So it can even affect your insides.

At my school garden, I’ve been finding poison oak entwined with invasive Himalayan blackberry in just about every corner. The other day, I watched some bare-legged athletes who were headed to the field behind the garden take a shortcut behind our barn - you guessed it - right through one of these thickets. When I said, dismayed, “you just walked through poison oak!” the athletes said, “how do you know it’s poison oak?” So we had a little lesson, right then and there. I also told them to go to the bathroom immediately and wash with cold water and soap. It’s best to use cold rather than hot water, because hot water opens pores and that can cause the poison oak to spread rapidly.

Since poison oak is so tricky, and so prevalent (especially this year???), I have taken to keeping rubbing alcohol wipes in my car.

If I think I’ve had any contact at all, I rub my legs (or arms, or face, or shoulder) with one of these wipes. Then, as soon as I get home, I wash with Tecnu, the miracle cure.

I swear on this stuff. I put it on, rub it around, wait a few minutes, and then hop in the shower and wash with cold water. Works every time. (OK, 99% of the time. I still get a spot of poison oak every once in a while.)

I love being outdoors so much, and I love hiking, and I especially love side trails, the narrow ones that take you places other people don’t often go, the ones where you seem to find a secret around every corner. My daily hikes keep me physically healthy and mentally sane, and there’s no way I’m giving them up, even if there is a plethora of poison oak this year (???). So it’s good to recognize this trickster in all its forms, so that it can be avoided, and it’s good to know how to treat it, if you accidentally come in contact with it.

Now, if I could just figure out if there really is more of it this year…

Wasps: One Sign of a Healthy Ecosystem

When I started teaching at Merritt College, I was “given” the Environmental Center property as a place to hold my labs - basically, as a place to grow a garden. In years past, it had been used for that purpose (though, I would argue, not to its full potential), and even held a few remnants of the old raised beds. But it had long been abandoned and unused; my co-workers had several truckloads of junk and trash hauled away, which revealed a rather shabby and sad space. The ground was either rocky, or covered in weeds. The outbuildings were mostly being taken over by nature, with mushrooms growing out of roof tiles and critters nesting in walls. Invasive Himalayan blackberry vines covered every corner. The first lab I held there, I had the students spend an hour just being in the space, mapping it out, taking an inventory of what was there, noting how the sun might move across the sky, how the wind moved through the space, and what they thought could be done with the property to make it a ‘real’ farm. On that day, I watched them move through what would eventually become our garden, and took my own inventory of the space. And I realized something that day. I realized that there were no bugs.

A female (identified by the curled antennae) tarantula hawk-wasp taking a break in the Environmental Center garden, on my newly formed paths

Actually, no birds either, except one curious scrub jay. No scuttling lizards. Nothing zooming past, not even a pesky fly. Now, sure, it was late January, but that’s no deterrent in coastal California. If it’s above 50 degrees (and it was, that day, as it is nearly every day of the year in Oakland), bugs are generally out getting some stuff done. But not at the Environmental Center.

My feeling was that the space had been abandoned so long, and was so full of invasive (rather than native) plants, and was so crowded with non-flowering weeds (mostly exotic grasses), that nothing really wanted to live there. This is not an uncommon thing. Urban spaces are increasing across the globe, destroying valuable habitat for all kinds of creatures. How can an insect live in a place with only concrete, glass, and steel? Urban spaces not only lack flowering plants, they also often devoid of any kind of slow-moving water, crucial for drinking but also for many insect nurseries. Cities trap heat to become even hotter than their surroundings, becoming ‘urban heat islands,’ uninhabitable to many species. Vehicles rush around, creating dangerous circumstances for any surviving insect just trying to get from here to there. And people are fearful of insects, generally, and are quick to squash and kill anything they don’t understand.

As I’m sure you’ve heard, insects are absolutely vital to our human lives. Not only do they provide pollination services, they are a critical food source for so many animals that live further up the food chain. Many, like wasps, are also important biological controls, keeping a check on other insects, feeding them to their young. And others, including yellow jackets, are valuable detritivores, cleaning up dead animals and other organic matter so that we are not buried in refuse.

A common blue mud-dauber wasp dragging a spider to its nest to feed its larvae, at the Environmental Center

I know that over the (almost) ten years I’ve been writing this blog, I’ve given some mixed messages regarding pests. I have used yellow jacket traps in the past. I mean, yellow jackets are annoying as hell, there’s no question about that. Eating outdoors is one of the absolute joys of summer, and some yellow jackets make that next to impossible. They also bug my chickens and my honeybees, which I don’t like. So for many years, I rationalized my trapping, until I started to read more about general insect decline and the way that decline affects us. (By the way, if this is something you’re interested in learning more about, I’d recommend checking out Dr. Dave Goulson, or Dr. Doug Tallamy.) Now, I make it a practice not to kill any insect on purpose, and rather to learn as much about them as I can. I find that when I learn more about something, I become fascinated with it, and that in turn leads me to appreciate it fully.

This point was driven home to me when my folks shared that they’d recently read an article in the Wall Street Journal about how beneficial yellow jackets really are. I had been talking about insects in a positive light for years, but it wasn’t until my parents read an article for themselves that they had greater fascination for the subject. This made me realize that, though I’ve written on this subject before (here, and here and here, among others) it really bears writing about again.

There are several different kinds of yellow jacket wasps in California. They are generally either in the Vespula or Dolicovespula genera. Some nest in the ground, in old rodent burrows, and some nest in walls or trees; some that are strictly insect-and-nectar eaters, and some which are scavengers. The scavengers are the ones that annoy us at picnics. They are also the ones who generally will enter a trap. However, the others are great for ecosystem health, and deserve our respect and admiration.

A yellow jacket pollinating at Poppy Corners

And there are many other interesting wasps, such as the ones in the photos near the top of this post. Many wasps, such as the tarantula hawk-wasp and the common blue mud dauber wasp, take other bugs home to their nests to feed their young. The tarantula hawk-wasp, for instance, stings a tarantula between the legs (!) and drags it back to the nest, where it then lays one egg on the spider, takes pains to keep the spider alive until the egg hatches into a larva, which then feeds on the living spider until it pupates. I mean, the stuff of nightmares, yes? And yet also intriguing. Other predatory wasps do this with the very caterpillars that threaten to eat our crops.

In fact, in a 2021 study by the University of London, it was shown that “predation by insects -- as biocontrol to protect crops -- is worth at least $416 billion (US) per year worldwide,” and that wasps actually regulate populations of agricultural insects. This is a priceless service.

Another priceless service that wasps perform is pollination. Many wasps use nectar for their primary source of daily energy (the ‘meat’ is for larval development only), and the study states, “pollination by insects is vital for agriculture, and its economic importance has been valued at greater than $250 billion (US) per year worldwide.” These are not small numbers. Our food supply is already under threat, for oh so many reasons - so let’s use any and all of the free ecosystem services that nature provides us, shall we?

an old paper wasp nest in the eaves of our train shed at Poppy Corners

With all of these services firmly in mind, at the Environmental Center, one of the first jobs I gave the students was to plant a pollinator garden. I had obtained a grant for seed from Pollinator Partnership, and they sent us a large bag of various native California wildflower seeds. We knew that our vegetable and fruit plantings would attract pollinators, but we wanted to ensure as much diversity as possible, and that seed grant gave us another 30 species of flowers with which to attract and feed insects. (Also deer, but that’s a story for another time.) And once the goldfields started coming up, and the tidy tips, then the gilia and the poppies, the bugs started arriving - hover flies came first, then honeybees, then butterflies, and finally now, on these hot summer days, I’m finally seeing the wasps. I’m delighted. Now that there is the buzzing and zooming in the air, I’m starting to see lizards, and skinks, and snakes. Birds of all kinds have found us. Each of these species brings a new set of challenges, but that’s ok - we know that having a healthy ecosystem brings far more benefits than it does problems.

As the garden evolves, my plans for it does, too. I intend, this fall, to have one class build an herb spiral and plant fruit bushes and trees, which will attract even more pollinators. Another class is going to create a garden full of traditional, cultural crops, which should bring in even more native insects. I look forward to seeing the ecosystem develop and create a closed loop, where everything within the loop thrives, including the humans who eat the food grown there.

A Childhood Favorite

When we moved to this property 18 years ago, we were delighted to inherit a few fruit trees located on the north side of the garden. Close to the fence line were an apple and peach, both gnarled and wonky in form, with old, disease-spotted trunks, and riotous overgrown greenery tufting absurdly out the tops. In another corner was a bushy quince, something neither of us had any experience with (and still don’t use to full advantage). The peach succumbed to disease several years ago; I replaced it with a mulberry that has yet to fruit. The quince, still vigorously bushy despite repeated attempts to contain it, mostly acts as a shady haven for the chickens in summertime. But the apple - well, I’ve worked hard to keep the apple producing. On low fruit years, I calendar a hard pruning for winter, and that always rewards me with a large summer harvest. On bushy years, I summer-prune it to manage its size. And as our garden has filled up with coops and raised beds, I’ve also halfway espaliered it to keep it flatter against the fence, and it doesn’t seem to mind that in the least. It just keeps on truckin’.

We don’t know what variety this tree is, but it ripens in July which is early for apples. The fruits are small and green, with a russet tint where the sun hits the skin, and they have very delicate flesh. They tend to be on the tart side, so it’s likely a variety meant for cooking rather than eating in-hand, but we eat them that way, too. The trunk and some of the larger branches have spots of canker, but I can’t bear to give up on it yet, not while it’s still producing so well.

Today, I was wandering around the garden trying to figure out what to have as a side to our steak and potato dinner. Unfortunately, I have covid, so I’m trying to stay out of the grocery store, and I am also taking a break from my school garden for a couple of days so I don’t accidentally infect anyone (thankfully some members of the Sustainability Club are taking care of the watering for me while I’m recuperating). This means I don’t have access to the produce there, and there’s so much more produce in the school garden (which has surprised me - I’ll be writing a post about that soon) than in the home garden. I don’t have any tomatoes or cucumbers yet at Poppy Corners; the only available peppers are spicy; I lagged in my harvesting of green beans and they all got giant and flaccid. After stripping those off and putting them in the compost (hopefully I’ll get another flush of beans soon), I was basically left with herbs and apples.

To complicate matters, I’ve been thinking a lot about a podcast I listened to recently in which a gut-health doctor/expert explained what our microbiomes prefer to eat. It turns out that the ideal diet for those little guys is plant food (I mean, did we really need someone to tell us that?), and a great variety of plant food at that - apparently they prefer 30 different plant foods per week. Simply put, the more diverse your diet is, the more diverse your microbiome is. Again, not terribly surprising, but 30 different plant foods can sound a little daunting, so I’ve been on a quest to determine if the Boegel diet meets that preference. Turns out, we’re doing quite well (the doctor said that nuts, seeds, and herbs also count, which helps), but it does take a little extra work, especially considering that I have a little… um… tomato addiction, and think eating them every day in season is quite reasonable.

Anyway, back to our dinner dilemma. I snipped some fresh thyme and chives; thyme and garlic could be mixed into softened butter, which would be an excellent addition to both our meat and potatoes, and the chives could be sprinkled over everything. As for the apples, I went down a rabbit’s hole trying to figure out how I could fry apples and onions to make a savory side dish (does anyone do this? If so, please share your recipe), but eventually decided to make that old childhood staple, applesauce.

I have good memories of my mother making applesauce every year in my youth. Actually, she still makes it every year. Growing up, we had a large vegetable garden, but not a lot of fruit. So we’d take several trips to a local farm called Butler’s Orchard to pick from their fields of berries and fruit trees. Then we’d eat some of it fresh, and mom would preserve the rest. She made jams with the berries, and sauce with the apples. She’d water-bath can these, often during the hottest days of the year, so we could eat them all year round. I must say I never appreciated that properly at the time! (Sorry, Mom, and thanks.)

My mother was an excellent steward of fresh produce and believed that nothing should be wasted. I remember her cooking the apples down in a little water, pits, cores, skin and all, to get as much nutrition out of the apples as possible. Then she’d put them through a food mill, add a teensy bit of sugar, and we’d have fresh applesauce sprinkled with cinnamon for supper before she canned the rest.

Reading this, it would be reasonable to assume that I too have been doing the same every year - I mean, how delicious! But I must confess that I have not been good about making applesauce in my adult life. Honestly, I’d rather have apple pie, or apple crisp, something firmly in the dessert camp (I do have such a sweet tooth). But today, I decided that applesauce could be a decent nutrient-dense side dish, standing in for a salad in my covid-housebound state. Also, supremely easy. I figured I could wing it, but just for kicks, I went through my cookbooks.

Years ago, Tom and I spent a ‘stay and cook’ weekend at The Apple Farm in Philo, up near the Mendocino coast. It was a revelatory weekend; we learned so much about cooking using ingredients from the farm and garden, and came home with so many recipes that we use frequently, like sorrel soup and rhubarb clafoutis. The Apple Farm is also a very beautiful place and the little cabins extremely cosy and comfortable, and the meals were just so delicious (duck! ribolleta!) . We also got to meet Sally Schmitt, a bit of a hero in the world of California cuisine. Sally Schmitt was the original owner of The French Laundry before they sold it to Thomas Keller. Before Chez Panisse even existed, Sally was one of the un-sung pioneers of farm-to-table cooking.

In retirement, Sally and her husband bought The Apple Farm, and along with their daughter and son-in-law, operated a farmstand and cooking classes. At the time of our visit, Sally and her husband were quite elderly and largely out of the day-to-day operations, but we saw them at mealtimes, which was a thrill.

Sally’s cookbook was published earlier this year, just after her death in March. I immediately bought a copy. It’s full of fun stories about the early days of what would become ‘California cuisine,’ and great pictures of ‘70s clothes and hair, and of course, wonderful recipes.

Being owners of an apple farm, naturally there is a section in the cookbook for apples, so I consulted their applesauce recipe. It wasn’t at all how I remembered my mother making it. Sally used apple juice instead of water, a full cup of sugar (to 4 cups juice and 8-10 lbs apples), a knob of butter, a tablespoon of salt, and no cinnamon! Also, she peeled and cored the apples first!

Well. I was torn. I called my mother, just to check in and see if I remembered her method correctly. That was a fun conversation, leading mom to later go look in her own files and books to see where she learned to do it that way, only to come up empty-handed. A mystery! I decided to go ahead and try Sally’s recipe this time, for a change. However, I didn’t have any juice on hand, so I used water. And I added several tablespoons of lemon juice. And I omitted the salt. Ok, maybe I just basically made up my own recipe.

Gotta say, it’s delicious. Creamy and sweet, but also tart, and full of the memories of childhood.

What’s your favorite applesauce recipe?

The Mountains Were Calling

So naturally, we had to go!*

Tom and I have always wanted to explore Lassen Volcanic National Park, so when I realized that both the kids would be home this summer and the house might start to seem a bit small with four adults knocking around, I took advantage of the long holiday weekend and booked the two of us a trip up north. We left Friday, driving up through Chico, then traveling across a butte and through Lassen National Forest to get over to Chester, a tiny town at the north tip of Lake Almanor. We stayed at a delightful inn called The Bidwell House, which was about a half hour south of the park entrance; our room came complete with a Japanese soaking tub, which was heaven for tired hiking feet.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning.

You may not know that I totally fangirl over thru-hikers. I’ve never fulfilled my dream of going on a months-long hike - I’ve never known how to make that work, logistically - so I satisfy my adventure cravings by watching PCT/YouTubers every summer as they document their journey from the CA/Mexico border north to the WA/Canada border, a walk of 2,650 miles. When I saw that our drive would take us right through the PCT, I planned for us to stop and take our Friday hike there, giving me a little slice of what it’s like on the trail.

What I had completely forgotten was that starting July 13, 2021, and continuing for four long months into late October of 2021, the Dixie Fire (the largest single fire, not part of a complex, in California’s history, and the second largest overall) burned through nearly one million acres, across five counties (Butte, Plumas, Lassen, Shasta, and Tehama). As we drove west on highway 36, from Tehama into Plumas county and Lassen National Forest, our excited chatter turned to silence as views of lush green forest turned to blackened trunks and stumps. In our Bay Area privilege, we had totally blocked out the memory of red skies and falling ash last summer. Mile after mile we drove, heavy of heart, looking out into the destruction.

We parked the car at the turnout for the trailhead, tied on our hiking shoes, and silently started walking.

We walked quietly, without talking, except to greet passing hikers. We walked on the designated path through the burned trees. In some places, life was returning - manzanita, snowberry, and hardy grasses seemed to dominate - and along the one creek we crossed, there was a riot of wildflowers. But there was no birdsong, no butterflies, no insects. We reached a high point; as far as we could see, the forest was burned.

It was less a hike and more a prayer. We were deeply, deeply affected. How many times, in this blog, have I written about fire? How many times have I opened the Cal Fire website to be greeted with more statistics about yet another fire? How many times have I turned on the TV news and watched as a family walked back onto their property to find only soot and ash? This one hike made it all real for me. The Dixie Fire was a massive, massive event. Lassen Volcanic Park, we learned later, was 69% burned. The city of Chester, where we stayed, was mostly intact, with the lake nearby, but all around it? Burned. We were constantly faced with the real fact of the fire on our weekend; it was present every moment. And it didn’t end when we left on Monday, either - our trip was bookended by the sorrow of wildfire.

But before we get to that, let’s talk about the good stuff. Because, oh, there was some good stuff. Lassen is a magical place.

After that first sobering hike, we checked in at the hotel, took a soak to wash off the soot, and headed to Lake Almanor to find some dinner. Chester is a one-street town; there’s not a lot of dining or entertainment options available. We managed to find a serviceable dinner of sandwiches and salad at a golf-course grill next to the lake. Afterward, following our innkeeper’s directions (“just drive down the west side, and anywhere there isn’t a house, you can go down to the lake”), we found a rocky beach to explore. From there we could watch people boating and swimming, the cliff swallows catching a sunset meal, and view a snow-capped Mt. Lassen far in the distance, a possible hike for us during the coming weekend.

Saturday morning we drove past the tiny town of Mineral, where we saw a cowboy-hatted caballero leading a horse through a meadow to pasture (postcard perfect!), into the park proper. Immediately after paying the fee ($30 for a week’s access to the park; truly, the NPS is one of the best bargains of all time) we headed into the visitor’s center to talk to a ranger about conditions. This is the first thing we do in any park that is unfamiliar to us, and it is always fruitful. In this case, the ranger showed us a map of the park and explained how most of it was inaccessible due to last year’s fire. Many of the hikes I had planned for us to do were no longer an option. And it turned out that Mt. Lassen still had quite a bit of snow on it. The ranger said, in no uncertain terms, that unless we had experience hiking in snow, it would behoove us to skip it - they had airlifted two people off the mountain the day before in two separate helicopter rescues. Ok! No Mt. Lassen for us, then!

Noticing that a ranger-led talk was starting in ten minutes, we hightailed it up the road to the Sulphur Works, where we learned about the four types of volcanoes and that all four are present in Lassen Volcanic Park. We also saw a bunch of bubbling mud pits. That was way cool.

owlcation.com

The park is huge, so we decided to drive all the way through it and see everything from the road, first, and when we got to the northernmost end, we’d stop at Manzanita Lake and have a hike. We figured we’d have time afterward to stop at all the small, interpretive walks (such as the ‘devastated’ area, resulting from the 1915 eruption of Mt. Lassen) scattered along the road on the way back. But it turned out that the drive to and from Manzanita Lake took more than an hour each way, along a very curvy road with lots of congestion at the marked pull-outs, so we never did get to do all those little interpretive walks. However, we did get a wonderful hike on the backside foothills of Mt. Lassen, from Manzanita Lake up into the subalpine forest, through alpine meadows, past Chaos Crags to Manzanita Creek.

And the flowers, my goodness, the flowers. It’s like we went back in time three months, back to Spring. That was cool, but also these were flowers that I had only heard about or studied, never seen in person before. Alpine flowers! Hardy little souls, blooming in the leanest of soils, after a snowy, cold winter: scarlet gilia, longspur lupine, pine violet, Sierra penstemon… and the trees! Subalpine fir, Jeffrey pine, cedar, alder, and birch. These alpine meadows made me so happy, and I can’t even explain why. Maybe because, despite the state of the world, nature just digs in and survives, even in harsh conditions.

We spent a little time at Manzanita Lake, watching the families on vacation. Then, a long drive out of the park, a long soak in the tub, and off to a surprisingly good dinner on the peninsula in the middle of Lake Almanor. We made sure to get to bed early, since we needed plenty of rest before our biggest hike on Sunday.

Sunday’s hike: Brokeoff Mountain. A remnant of an andesitic stratovolcano within ancient Mount Tehama, part of the Cascade range of Northern California. Over the course of almost four miles, the trail to the top winds through open meadows, over creeks and tree blow-downs, through snow (often the trail is snowed in until August), through forests, then into scattered hemlocks, volcanic sand, and steep fields of volcanic scree, until you climb above the timberline and into the broken rock at the top, all while gaining an elevation of 2500 feet. For the last few months, I’ve been doing regular hikes that range between 8-10 miles with about 2200 feet of elevation, so I was confident that I could do this hike. Tom was skeptical; he works at a desk for a living, and most of his exercise consists of daily walks to and from the BART station, our weekend hikes being challenging enough, thank you. I might have heard him muttering things like “brokedown and brokeass,” however he was game - and by golly, I appreciate a man who is game.

Coffee slurped, drive to the park completed (today, the caballero was leading two haltered horses in an obvious training exercise through the misty meadow), we checked in with the rangers and got the go-ahead - there was very little snow on the trail and conditions were fine. There was nothing for it, then, but to tighten our laces, shoulder our hydration packs, strap on our poles, and get moving. I set a measured pace, resolving not to take pictures at all on the way up. This was difficult as every other step revealed some treasure; on this south-facing slope, the trail was simply overflowing with flowers.

And yes, we climbed over blow-downs. We forded a small valley lake/wide stream. We tramped through snow. We picked our way up steep volcanic slopes. We reached the craggy ledge just below the top and saw Mt. Shasta in the distance. We celebrated at the summit with a young couple from Berkeley and exclaimed over the views. Tom turned to me and said, “I’ve always thought people who climbed mountains were crazy, but now I think there’s something to it.” Frankly, it was one of the best moments of our marriage.

And then on the way down, I took picture after picture of the beautiful scenery. Mountain scenery. The kind of things I needed to store in my memory for the months at home hiking in the completely brown and dry hills near our house. The green trees, the colorful flowers, the mountain streams, the grand views.

But the very best thing happened at the very end of the hike, when we were only steps from the road. We stopped to talk to a hiker going up, and at some point I looked up the hill, and there was a bear. A black bear! Maybe 20, 25 feet off the trail, browsing through the greenery, munching away. A juvenile, probably - a young bear, but older than a cub - a teenaged bear! I could hardly believe my eyes.

Well, that made it a red-letter day for sure, and we rode that high for several hours afterward, through a pizza/salad dinner, and a dessert picnic on the bed in our pj’s.

Unfortunately, on Monday morning, we needed to head out of Chester before the neighborhood 5k fun-run and 4th of July parade began, so our journey home started early. We left the area with a promise to return (we still have more than half the park to explore!) and took off for home in a different direction, south towards Bucks Lake Wilderness, where we stopped for a hike around the lake to an inlet where we were able to dip our toes in the cold mountain water.

But our real reason for going home this direction was to drive through Berry Creek, north of Oroville, to see the aftermath of the 2020 North Complex Fire. Berry Creek was the home of our beloved Camp Okizu, a camp we have been attending as a family, and the kids on their own, for many years. Okizu is a camp for children with cancer and their families, and when Adam was diagnosed with leukemia at age 2, one of the first things our social worker shared with us was information about the camp. We went for the first time as a family when Adam was three (he was too sick that first year to attend). Thereafter, we attended family camp every year in the autumn. It was a wonderful time to share information and stories with other parents who had kids with cancer, and our children made lifelong friends at camp. When Adam was 7, he started attending for a week in the summer by himself. And the truly different and special thing about Okizu is that they run sibling camps, so Rin was able to start going by themselves at age 8 for a week every summer. So, three times a year, without fail, Tom and I made the drive up to Berry Creek; I would drop a kid off, he would go pick them up. Then the other kid a different week. Then all together as a family in the autumn. We LOVED it there. The kids with cancer could do anything anyone else did. There were doctors for those that needed medical assistance and golf carts for those with mobility issues. There was hiking, fishing in one lake, swimming and boating in another lake, a ropes course and zip line up the next hill, a campfire with s’mores and silly camp songs. The cabins were wonderful and the main lodge was the main meeting place, where we ate meals, played games, and made countless friendship bracelets. No devices were allowed. Hammocks and naps were encouraged. All of this was free to us and to every family that attended.

Okizu had many close calls with wildfire before, but in August of 2020, the North Complex fire ripped through the area north of Oroville and burned nearly 320,000 acres before being completely contained in December. Camp Okizu was totally destroyed.

We wanted to drive by, even though we knew we wouldn’t be able to go in and see the area where the camp had been. As we left Bucks Lake, and drove south towards Berry Creek, we got quieter and quieter. The scenery changed from verdant forest back to charred stumps. The North Complex fire was two years ago, so in contrast to the Dixie Fire area, the ground was beginning to recover with all kinds of bushy growth. That was good to see, but the scope of the damage was still overwhelming. The front gate of Okizu, once in the middle of dense forest, was now completely bare. Properties that had once contained houses were now empty except for a foundation, and often, a trailer. That, especially, gave me pause. After two years, families are still living in trailers. How can that be?

As if to add insult to injury, our drive out from camp took us past the Oroville Lake Reservoir, and the water level looked impossibly low. How strange, to be one day in territory where water is abundant and snow is still on the ground in July, and the next day in an area that is clearly drought stressed. The drought is never far from our minds at home, where water falling from the sky is an event limited to a month or two in winter; being at the reservoir underlined the need we feel for conservation of resources. Water management in California has a long and sordid history, and I’m not sure how we’re ever going to make it right again. Suffice it to say, between seeing the demise of Okizu with our own eyes, the results of two different enormous fires, and the low water level at Oroville, our hearts were heavy as we headed home from our vacation.

Luckily, a farmstand saved the mood. It may seem trite to say that peaches turned our world around, but the thought of peach pie for 4th of July dessert gave us a much-needed refresher, and when we saw the sign for fresh-picked fruit, you better believe we stopped to get some. The heavenly smell of ripe peaches, warm from the sun, accompanied us the rest of the way home.

A couple of final thoughts.

- We often desire to travel far from home, when something wonderful can exist just down the road. We’ve all been isolated at home for several years now, and a bit out of practice when it comes to leaving our comfort zone. A short trip to a location close to home can be the perfect bridge between that comfort zone and a more ambitious trip. I’m guessing that, no matter where we live, we all have regional, state, or national parks within a day’s drive of home. It’s worthwhile to get out and explore, even if it doesn’t seem exotic. A change of elevation, or microclimate, or even zip code, can be as refreshing and informative as a trip across the planet.

- While this trip was bookended by melancholy, and maybe that doesn’t seem like much of a vacation, the truth is that life is bittersweet. The older I get, the more I appreciate that true joy cannot be felt without a bit of sadness underneath. This is not depressing; on the contrary, it makes the joyful moments even sweeter. I am grateful to have a companion that is always up for an adventure, and likes to laugh, but also doesn’t shy away from the hard parts of life. Denial doesn’t enrich anyone, and it certainly doesn’t promote necessary change.

- Five years ago, I took one of my first classes at Merritt College with Stew Winchester, a true expert in native California plants and the communities in which they thrive. Stew would often share photos of the places he’d been and the flowers he’d seen, using slides and a vintage projector. He’d always ask, “Have any of you been to the Carrizo Plain? Antelope Valley? The Klamath River?” Most of us would shake our heads or dissent. Stew would look around with his eyebrows raised, and simply say, “You gotta go.” He was a firm believer in seeing these wonderful plants in their native environment, thriving in the perfect niche that nature had designed for them. I’ve never forgotten that. I’d like to think I’ve taken it to heart, and tried mightily to just “go,” to see, to learn, to experience, to feel. Being in Lassen checks another box for me, and encourages me to continue exploring. I hope you will, too.

*A famous quote by John Muir. “The mountains are calling, and I must go.”

Worm Leachate

My class made this worm bin back in March, and I’ve been faithfully adding food scraps, as well as carbon-rich material, every week or so. Worm bins are actually made with TWO bins, one nested in the other. The ‘top’ one has a bunch of holes drilled in the base, to let the leachate drain out, which collects in the ‘bottom’ bin. Today, I checked to see if there was any leachate, and found about a cupful of liquid! At this point, you might be wondering: What the heck is leachate???

“Leachate” is a umbrella term for any liquid that, while passing through matter, extracts soluble material. Leachate from a worm bin can be a mix of things, such as excess moisture (too many food scraps, not enough carbon) or worm urine. In a regular compost bin, this sort of thing soaks in to the ground below, but when composting in a worm bin, which are often used in concreted places such as a patio or porch, it is caught be the bottom bin. This liquid can be used in the garden as a fertilizer, but it’s hard to know what exactly the liquid contains. So to be safe, the liquid should be diluted 1:1 and experts recommend that you only use it on non-leafy vegetables or fruit trees.

After diluting the leachate, I decided to apply it to the Milpa/hugelkulture bed that is a riot of different plants. The squash leaves in this particular bed have been looking a bit yellow to me, which indicates that they could use some nitrogen (not a surprise, since hugelkulture beds are made using un-composted material which require nitrogen to break down, leaving little for the plants). We’ll see if adding this diluted leachate helps at all. I’ll give it a week, and if I see no improvement, I might give it a dose of fish fertilizer.

I’ve been quite happy with this bed overall. It’s super fun to watch what comes up, what dominates, what flowers, and what’s producing fruit. There have been a lot of buckwheat flowers, and right now there are a bunch of sunflower buds. The peas grew, but never bloomed. The beans are doing quite well, and there is corn too, though it is very short. The squashes are the true stars of this bed. I’ve already harvested summer squash here, but I see a ton of winter squashes beginning to fruit, too. Hopefully the leachate will help those to grow big and ripen beautifully!