The other night,
making dinner and almost out of garlic, I peeled my last shriveled cloves which
jostled a memory of an almost miraculous event that occurred a decade ago. It
bears telling. But this is also a story about a special place.
That
day my friend and mentor, “Lucky” Lorenzo, and I drove north from Lone Pine in
search of the best bloom April had to offer thereabouts. This was one of those
exceptional years and I knew the very place: where the purple river flows.
Lorenzo had never been so it was time to go and we seized this glowing day by
the tail.
About
halfway between Independence and Big Pine a poorly marked but paved road heads
west toward the Sierra and passes Division Creek Power Station with its ominously
whirring generators. Beyond there the road turns to sandy washboard with deep
ruts you could easily slide into if distracted by a purple river of Grape-Soda
Lupine which, in terms of sheer assault on the senses, is arguably the most striking
“wildflower” in the region. A robust, shrubby variety with gray-green leaves,
it can be tall as a man—taller yet come springtime when a couple of hundred slender
foot-long spikes, each one whorled with scores of violet-blue blossoms, turn
the whole plant purple. I’d guess that a single bush might produce ten thousand
flowers in one season. For some reason they’re abundant in this locale, more so
than anywhere else around, and they line the now-dry course of Division Creek
(whose water is captured up higher and piped down to spin the powerhouse’s turbines).
From Highway 395 in April, especially during a good year, you can’t help but
notice the sinuous, mile-long “river” of purple. When you’re amongst them the
dry air is redolent of (no kidding!) grape kool-aid®. And there’s more: farther
up the road are big patches of Desert Peach, a shrub whose small, dark-green
leaves are eclipsed by a profusion of pink flowers that bloom all at once and
then we have to wait til next year. Betwixt scattered bushes are a myriad of
tiny ephemeral flowers, all colors of the rainbow and then some. Lorenzo and I
strolled through this desert Eden trying to grok it all, chatting away, not
even aware of majestic mountain walls to the east and west. Big silence aside
from hordes of buzzing insects feasting on all the free food (and each other).
I was reminded once again that it’s purely incidental we humans are attracted
to flowers: they’re for the bugs….
Our
next destination was another bumpy mile or so up the road to a place of
exceptional beauty. From the highway a dense grove of trees is visible just
north of Armstrong Canyon (from whence Division Creek flows). Scotty Spring is
one of many that arise from the main fault at the foot of the Sierra up and
down the valley but this one is unique: it waters a small forest of cottonwoods
and oaks. These are Black Oaks—the
kind that make Yosemite Valley even more magical, that personify “oak-ness”—but
they occur east of the crest only in the vicinity of a few watercourses west and
north of Independence. Only at Scotty Spring do they thrive in such a dense,
tall grove. The road ends there unless you have a jeep and want to crawl in
first gear up a narrow track that switchbacks over two thousand vertical feet
up the mountainside to an old mine. But once you arrive under the tall trees’
shade it’s time to stop and let serenity take hold of your spirit; this is one of
those places where after a few minutes you find yourself thinking, I’d like to build a little cabin here and
spend the rest of my life.
It’s
that appealing. The gusher is a quarter mile up the steep, loose-sand slope that
rises immediately behind the grove but here, where it’s almost flat, a smaller
spring has been tapped—hidden in a glade you can hear the music of cold, pure
water flowing from an old rusty pipe. Ravens nest in the cottonwoods and Long-Eared
Owls I don’t know where but you hear them calling at night. (I’ve camped here
many times). Birds galore; critters striped, spotted, and plain. Curiously,
bushy-tailed gray-squirrels live in the oaks but nowhere else on the Sierra’s
eastern side. Their crazy chatter lends this place even greater allure.
So
we parked and I took Lorenzo, a legendary ranger who is no stranger to mountain
glory, on one of my favorite short walks anywhere. And that’s saying something.
Past
the first switchback we left the old 4X track and headed straight upslope,
zig-zagging on deer trails through sagebrush and, trying not to crush too many
flowers. Sweating already, we took a breather before turning south into a
jungle of willow and dogwood, back under the oaks with their welcome shade and
evocative aroma, the sound of tumbling water ahead. Some thrashing and crashing
through this dense undergrowth—I was in the lead so got to be the one wrapped
with spider silk—and then… “the carrot.”
Able
to stand up straight in a small clearing we were suddenly confronted with a
happy freshet cascading out of an impenetrable tangle of willow, water-birch,
dogwood and rose, slowing as it flowed
into the quaintest cement-walled aqueduct. Only a foot wide and obviously old, with
moss-filled cracks, it was leaving this verdure to contour across the dry hillside
toward a more open forest of shorter but still-stately oaks. At once Lorenzo
fell silent to absorb this lovely and completely unexpected vignette while I
watched him, grinning. We both knelt with cupped hands to savor long drinks of
nature’s finest brew. Something about the tiny, enclosed clearing with its
flowers and moss, its shady intimacy, and especially the wild water suddenly
tamed gave this place the feel of an out-of-doors temple. Holiness was in the
very air. Over the years it’s been a real joy to lead my choicest friends into
this presence, hearing and feeling their surprised reactions of delight to the
intangible something living here.
And
it’s special in another way: historically. The first section of the Los Angeles
Aqueduct was completed in 1913 (before being extended north to Mono Lake Basin
almost thirty years later) and it began right where we stood. Built in 1905,
Division Creek Power Station’s turbines are spun by the significant flow of
water that comes down Armstrong Canyon from snowmelt up on the crest. But
someone deemed it worthwhile to tap this miniscule addition from Scotty Spring
and construct a half-mile of micro-aqueduct to take it. Originating from this
source, water-generated power was used to animate giant machines that excavated
the long ditch. It was the very first time electricity was thus employed in a
large-scale construction project. An odd thing, when standing in such a
peaceful spot, to contemplate the remarkable story and know that the sweet
water drunk from your cupped hands also flowed from faucets in people’s homes,
far away in a strange land.
So we strolled along this diminutive waterway
as it contoured almost imperceptibly downhill toward Division Creek beneath
scattered oaks. In contrast to the dry scrubland it was flanked by lush grasses,
moss, and colorful flowers—the Grape-Soda Lupine, three types of penstemon, the
red-and-yellow columbine, sunflowers various. Part way along it was joined by the
flow of another, larger spring and became two feet wide. Many pauses for
admiration and some glimpses through the trees of broad vistas up-valley and
across toward the stark Inyo Mountains.
Like
many of my friends, Lorenzo tolerates (perhaps even enjoys) my tendency to
rattle off random anecdotes about the
natural world. Earlier I’d mentioned how strange it was that these oaks lived
here. They could be a remnant population from a period of moister climate…or
there’s a possibility that the Owens Valley Paiute, who were known to practice
some forms of crude agriculture, may have traded for the particularly-prized
acorns and carried them from the west slope over nearby Kearsarge Pass and
planted a few along Independence Creek. Jays, woodrats, or squirrels might have
carried the nuts to caches where they could’ve taken root, spreading over time.
Scotty Spring would’ve been a choice place for The People to gather and process
acorns on their seasonal rounds as well as other foodstuffs.
In
this light, awhile later I pointed out a delicate wildflower called “Blue Dicks,”
(a variety of Brodiaea, a lily-like
plant). “This is another thing the Paiute would’ve been harvesting,” I told
Lorenzo. “One of their favorites. It has a small, starchy bulb that my book
says is quite tasty, roasted. You can’t just yank ‘em out of the ground—the
stems break off—so they’d dig ‘em up using a pointed stick with its tip hardened
by fire.” With a flat shard of granite I unearthed one. Once the rough, outer
layers of skin were stripped off it looked just like a miniature onion,
chestnut-brown and shiny, about half an inch wide. I finished peeling it and we
each had a bite. “Not bad,” said my friend, “but it’d take a bunch to feed your
whole family.” The tiny bulb was so cute I dug up another and put it in my
pocket to take home.
At
the time I lived on property eight miles west of Lone Pine. Like Scotty’s
Spring, it was right at the foot of the mountain near a dirt road’s end with
sweeping views up, down, and across the Owens Valley. A funky, old single-wide
trailer was Home. The top of a fully-loaded bookcase served as house-shrine and
that’s where my choicest rocks, feathers, bones, dried seedpods—what I call “nature trinkets”—were
displayed. When we got home from our journey late that afternoon I put the Brodiaea bulb next to my big quartz
crystal.
And
there it remained.
Months
went by. At some point, noticing that an outer layer of the papery skin had
started to peel, I removed it and underneath was a brand-new version, shiny and
firm. A year later, maybe more, I did this again and the slightly diminished
bulb was still hale.
Come
November 2002 this wonderful property I’d been renting for going on eight years
was suddenly sold and I had to move. While I own considerably less “stuff” than
most people it was an unexpected shock to discover how much I’d accumulated
since moving in. There were boxes and boxes of books, outdoor gear, clothes,
kitchenware. And all my nature trinkets (which I’ve ever been able to resist
bringing home) had to be carefully wrapped and padded—even the rocks. While
packing them up I found something that completely shut me down:
The
little bulb, now all dusty and visibly shrunken, had sprouted. A glistening, vibrantly green—and very much alive—incipient
plant had emerged from its tip, like a clove of garlic way past its prime. After
waiting patiently on top of my bookcase for two
and a half years it just couldn’t wait any longer. Now…or never.
Amazed, I gently
picked up the bulb and placed it in the palm of my hand. With jaw gone slack, simultaneously exalted and
humbled, I heard myself whisper a drawn out “ahhhh…”, the universal exclamation
of Sacred Awe. In a flash I perceived something about what this force called LIFE
actually is; how patient, how strong, how indomitable and fierce it is—all
life, all of it—the whole enchilada. It is one thing. You can neither kill it
nor stop it. LIFE will always somehow persevere. In this moment of epiphany I understood
(remembered?) a thing of monumental significance, something which should be completely
obvious to us all but that we’ve perhaps forgotten how to understand.
So what did I do with
this insight? This unforeseen gift of amazement?
Of course.…
I carried the tiny
spark outside and planted it in a bit of warm, moist earth.
12
Feb, 7 Dec 2012
© 2012 Tim
Forsell
All
rights reserved.
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