• Dripping Drought Relief

 

Setting: Solitude Day on Devil’s Slide Trail in Strawberry Canyon, San Jacinto Mountains, southern California.

 

My pulse is pounding.
My legs are beginning to feel wobbly.
An altitude headache is on the edge of hurt.
It’s hard to get enough air.
I pause to fill my lungs, hydrate and oxygenate my brain, steady my legs, slow my heart.

 

I wonder, Perhaps my spirit is as out of breath
as my body seems to be out of shape for this elevation.
As I continue to contemplate, the need for time and discipline
to refresh my spirit becomes a desire to match these mountains.
Perhaps my life is in such a rush
I cannot catch my breath.
I must find more days like this
to imbibe the breath of the mountains
and their Maker.

 

I’m climbing as rapidly as my body will let me at this altitude,
somewhere above 7,000 feet.
Despite the scary name, the switch-backing trail is excellent,
a far cry from the sheep- and cattle- herding days
of a century ago when the trail’s name was an apt description.
Nevertheless, coming from near sea level,
I’m painfully slow and would be panting if I hiked any faster.

 

While my skin is sweaty,
my chin is chilly, as are my ears and elbows.

 

The air is brisk and fresh,
free for full, deep draughts with every inhalation,
and I relish each breath for its purity and mountain perfume.

 

The sky, in full daylight, is electric blue,
apparently unpolluted to the east,
but a lighter blue with barely visible haze far to the west.

 

Magnificent monoliths of granite tower toward the heavens,
creating an awe-inspiring, rugged skyline
that surrounds me on three sides.
Crystals in the granite glint with reflected light from the westering sun.

 

Panting stops and photo opportunities provide time
to soak up the silence and sights, both great and small,
of these mountains.

 

Twice, at the inside turning point of a switchback,
I come to a ribbon of deciduous green in a ravine.
It’s a distinct contrast from the predominant and much darker
coniferous green.
The map shows a spring or an intermittent stream,
but today there’s not a trace of water.
Nevertheless, I study the greater density of plant life,
and smile at the beauty of a patch of willows
turned yellow by autumn.

 

After a few more long switchbacks I come to another green ravine.
The ribbon of green is brighter and wider than the previous two,
(though it still ascends only a few feet, perhaps five or six,
up the steep slope on either side of the bottom).
Sounds of wildlife break the silence of the forest.

 

A thick patch of monkey flower plants hiding a streambed and possibly water catch my eye.
A two-inch long bright orange blossom with rich yellow anthers
blazes from the top of the five tallest spikes, each of them nearly three feet tall.
They are the very last flowers of the season.
Beneath these final flowers there are scores of spent blossoms
that have dried to a very attractive yellow-studded garnet.

 

Other vegetation invites a closer look.

Bird calls and chipmunk chatter intrigue me,
along with flitting shadows, a fallen tree, and a fascinating cave.

 

Quickly I dismiss my goal of reaching the Saddle at 8,000 feet,
though I probably would have but a half mile to go.
Instead I find a stone suitable for a seat,
and sit entranced for most of the next hour.

 

A tall ponderosa pine, still hanging onto its dead needles,
has fallen up the mountain side, its roots nearly perpendicular to the slope
and forming the roof of an open-mouthed cave.

 

Within the cave a spring has been exposed.
It feeds a pool protected by broken limbs and branches of nearby shrubs.
Moss carpets the pool edges in velvety green.
Roots drip like stalactites, and along with miniscule riffles in the streambed below,
play delicate water music, peaceful and enchanting.
I relish the tune, letting it calm and quiet my soul.

 

Guarding the entrance to the cave
a lush clump of current shrubs
invite bird and beast to feast on dried bunches of current fruit.
Gooseberry bushes still have a few late maroon thorn-covered berries available.

 

Bracken ferns march up and down the ravine,
joined by azaleas, columbines and elderberries.
All of them show the first signs of autumn—
popping seed heads, thinning foliage, hints of yellow.

 

It’s a beautiful and restful glade below the open forest
of incense cedar, white fir, sugar pine and live oaks.

 

There is indeed water in the streambed, and along with the tiny pool in the cave,
provides relief from thirst for the creatures in a very dry land.
I meditate for a few minutes on my Lord’s offer of Living Water.

 

At the same time I watch fox sparrows stealthily enter the cave,
hop to the pool,
and drink the cool, clear water.

 

Several pairs of mountain chickadees call to each other
as they flit down from high in the firs
and find an open stretch of water just below the monkey flowers.

 

A flock of pygmy nuthatches, far more skittish than the chickadees,
swoop from the pines,
start to land on streamside bush,
but carefully eyeing me,
return to the pines.
The procedure repeats several times
before they at last get to the water.

 

A number of bluebirds are only slightly less cautious.

 

While I watch, pine siskins, juncos, and a purple finch
come for their drinks.

 

Farther up the mountain side,
Clark’s nutcrackers, mountain quail and a yellow-rumped warbler
all wait their turn.

 

Sounds and actions of the birds
both express a strong feeling of joy and thanksgiving.
I gladly join in the sense of celebration.

 

During the entire time I’ve been watching the birds drink from the tiny creek,
several pairs of chipmunks have been chattering,
playing tag with each other,
and alternating with the fox sparrows
in drinking from the pool in the cave.

 

Other creatures also spend time in this charming forest glen.
Little lizards sun themselves on the rocks
and catch a fly for supper now and then.
Some half inch shiny, metallic blue-green wasps
search fallen branches for their meal.

 

Midway through my hour sitting on the stone,
the flurry of activity around the water is briefly interrupted.
A couple of collegiate guys come up the trail,
busy talking and expressing bodily needs.
They stop to rest a dozen feet below me
and continue their conversation.
Suddenly, after a number of minutes, one of them whispers,
“Someone’s up there.”
The other man turns to look.
I wave, and they wave back.
Soon they hike on up the trail,
and shortly the avian chorus continues,
along with the joyous drinking.

 

All too soon my watch tells me that time for reveries is over,
that I must race down the trail
lest I be late for evening appointments.

 

Now I must hike west instead of east,
and face the encroaching haze,
which by this time is filling Strawberry Canyon.

 

Thirty minutes later my Solitude Day ends,
and I pray that the day of reflection
will help thwart the haze of ordinary life,
and instead keep me fresh and communing with my Creator.

 

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