Snow melting into Spring

I gave myself an hour and a half of factoring quadratic equations and trying to remember how to divide square roots. Meanwhile, a pale blue light was emerging through the oak branches. Robins, wrens and nuthatchers were creating a ruckus competing for sunflower seeds outside my window. I threw a variety of fruits and bottles of water in a day pack and headed to my usual morning trail, Stonewall Peak, stunned to find snow still comfortably carpeting much of the hillsides.

Earlier hikers had taken out the cobwebs at face level. The recent high winds had toppled some new trees across the trail. I watched a man carefully clear snow from the final steps leading up to the peak for his less sure-footed hiking companion: such a generous act, I could see she was quite flattered and grateful. From the top, mounds of progressively fading blue led to the ocean. Switchbacks in white cut across the landscape of grey and green trees on Cuyamaca.

 It’s a perfect Spring day when there is still deep snow in the shadows on the highest peaks, but in the canyons below, icy cascades flush into deep green pools one after another under a brilliant sun.

Back in the parking lot at Paso Picacho…too early yet to go home. There’s work there. I could always lie around reading maybe. Neither was appealing. This would be an excellent time to test the veracity of my tires on 13 miles of unpaved county backroads.

As it was already late morning, 20 cars had beat me to the intersection that marked the trailhead to Three Sisters Waterfall. Remote, my tuckus. The metal gates were decorated with empty glass and plastic bottles. Next time I’ll bring a garbage sack to clean up after my fellow humans.

I wanted to cloak myself in the shade of the tall oaks on the ridge as I headed down that dusty red dirt excuse for a trail into the canyon. The pitch of this path puts the Saddleback to Cedar Creek Falls trail to shame. I’m just saying. There’s always the surprising fashion parade of other hikers that makes you wonder: long white skirt (how long would it stay white?), bikini and hiking boots (not a bad idea), no shirt and tight jeans (bad idea), carrying a small dog (really bad idea). I helped one woman in ballet slippers find footholds on the rope ladder/rock section.

Passing the first clear river pool, …okay. The second pool: too inviting to pass up. I ducked through the boulder tunnel to inspect a hint of emerald green water fed by a small but noisy rush of water. No turning back: I plunged gratefully into my first icy bath of the season. Countless warm, flat, smooth, clean rocks ringed the pool. Does it get any better?

People perched on the rock walls above the different Sisters. Strangers helped each other across the slipperiest parts where placid pools became spectacular drops. Another random act of kindness where a wrong choice in foot placement could be an E ticket.

From the falls, one can look across to the red dirt trail that meant hot, dirty effort. It could wait. One more icy dip, then to dry on the warm polished rock.

Eventually, when clouds floated up from the coast cooling things down, it was time. Back on the ridge, at the ring of tall oaks, the new grass beckoned, and my shoulders let go of the pack. The grass smelled like… skunk! Uh oh. From elbow height I saw nothing, and surely I smelled worse than he did. But if I fell asleep now I knew I’d wake to Cruella de Ville perched on my belly fat, so thus ended the siesta.

Walking by the largest oak, what looked like a melting bee hive was dripping from a wound. No bees though, and it smelled like tar. Someone must have discovered oil, plopped an oak down to mark the spot, and run off to get a 30-gallon drum. In the meantime the growing geyser blew off a giant limb, from where it commenced to ooze. That’s my theory anyway. But sadly, on inspecting a different tree, one that had barely any leaves, near the bottom, casings like slugs in the shape of giant one-a-day vitamins lay piled in black sludge. Those dastardly gold-spotted oak borer beetles. It made me want to cry. We have no solution yet to deal with these climate change opportunists.

Of course, once home, I inspected my oaks. Knock wood, no signs of the pests, yet. But the dead trees in the next field have me worried. How long can we hold on to paradise? We just better make the most of every perfect Spring day. And they’re all perfect.