QUAIL MUTTERINGS #4. Birds of a Feather – March 30, 2010

I opened my bedroom window the other morning and heard a quail calling from up the hill. Looking out the sliding glass door I could see a whole covey of them scuttling over the rocks, one at a time. As soon as one would disappear into the bush another would cross the rock. There must have been a dozen of them. Even after they all seemed to have passed by I could still hear their muted mutterings as they scurried through the underbrush on their way to wherever they were going.

The scene inspired a memory about a similar experience that I shared with my father shortly after the Cedar Fire.

“Come on, Chi,” my dad encouraged. “Get on the back here and let’s go for a ride.”

More for him than for me, I climbed onto the back of his quad and we putted down the dirt lane. Usually I’d much rather walk than drive a noisy, smelly, gas-guzzling machine, but that wasn’t an option for him at eighty-three years of age. We toodled on down the dirt road going five miles-per-hour turning northward at the T, halfway to Mussey Grade. At the top of the hill we stopped and shut off the engine. Dad pointed out landmarks in the adjacent valley which used to be the nudist camp, Samagatuma. Now it was a sea of trailers, mobile homes and vehicles known as MG Village.

Dad straddled the seat on the quad while I leaned against the rack on the back enjoying the warm spring evening. Suddenly, a male quail, with his beautiful top feather, walked over the small boulder we were parked beside and jumped off the edge into the bushes. A plump, gray female followed, over the rock and then jumped into the brush. And then a baby quail, with its quick little running steps, ran across the granite. Dad and I both held our breath wondering what might happen when it got to the edge. It jumped off the end! Then it scurried through the leaves below, catching up with the parents. We smiled at each other as another wee one appeared on the rock and did just what the first had done. And then another and another and another. My dad and I kept very still, breathing lightly, so as not to disturb the family’s journey. I felt lucky to be there, so close to them.

There is a tall eucalyptus tree over near where my grandmother’s house used to be. This tall warrior survived the Cedar Fire as did many other eucalyptus trees in the Ramona area. I can remember, as a kid, before this tree existed. Then later, as a teenager, I could see this emerging giant from my bedroom window, looking down toward the opening of the canyon. It steadily grew into my line of sight. A few years ago we heard massive branches breaking and crashing down from it, but the main trunk survived and sent out new growth. I’ve always had a kind of affinity with this tree. I somehow felt a sense of peace whenever I looked at it.

For a while now, there has been a large, dark-looking blob high up in the top branches. I hadn’t taken the time to go look at it up close and assumed it was either parts of branches that didn’t fall all the way down or an old nest that was coming apart. This morning while sitting outside looking across the creek at the tree, I saw a large Red tail Hawk fly over to it. A minute later it flew away. Wow, it is a nest. I’ll have to go check it out, I thought.

Later, about dusk, I grabbed my binoculars and headed across the creek. My husband, daughter, and two-and-a-half year old grandson joined me. Once we got over there it was difficult to make out any details of the massive nest, even though we were much closer. That eucalyptus tree is so tall and looking upward from down below wasn’t making it much easier to assess. We trekked over some poison oak on our way to the uphill side of it. This provided a slightly better vantage point, but we could still only gaze upward toward the bottom of the nest.

A few acorn woodpeckers flew amongst the branches flashing their single white splotches on each wing. Their distinctive, raspy chatter is unmistakable. It’s fun to watch these pranksters. They’re the birds that gather acorns and rat-hole them into indentations they’ve pecked into power poles and large trees.

Little Ian decided it was dinner time so he and his mom went back. Kent and I took turns with the binoculars, staring up into the towering canopy, getting a sneak peek into that active environment. Meandering back down the trail, we stopped to look at the place where my grandmother’s cabin used to be. You’d never know, now, that there was ever a house there. The old burned Ingleman oaks have fallen down on top of the remaining foundation and sumac bushes push up between them. Perhaps someday we’ll rebuild. But I wonder.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #3. The Meadow – March 17, 2011

            The canyon sides are highlighted in blues, purples and violets: the colors of native lilacs blooming. Ramona and Lakeside lilacs and other Ceanothus are indigenous to this area. There are literally hundreds of them in full bloom right here in this valley. When I go outside first thing in the morning or just before dark in the evening, the air is pungent with their sweet aroma. It’s fabulously intoxicating.

Last week I picked up my friend’s twelve-year-old son from school and brought him home with me. She was away for the day and it gave us a chance to hang out together. For longer than I care to admit, he’d wanted to try his hand at milking a goat. After enticing the better behaved goat up onto the milking stanchion I demonstrated how it was done: gently encircling my thumb and index finger above the teat and then lightly squeezing down through the nipple, one finger at a time, descending against the palm of my hand just below the base of my thumb. This is performed slowly and rhythmically, alternating hands, one on each side of the udder. Christian got the hang of it quickly, squirting streams of white nectar into the stainless steel bowl.

Now it was time for a hike. My daughter, Kali, and two-and-a-half-year-old grandson, Ian, joined us for the trek up the mountain. On the way up we pass the caged gardens. Even the tops are fenced to keep out the four-legged, chirping, bushy-tailed vegetable robbers. The fruit trees are beginning to bloom and are waking up to the spring.

Half-way up the slope I point out a boulder that’s shaped like a giant bird looking over its domain with wings tucked in. I tell Christian that in the late 1970’s the other half of this huge boulder split off and rolled down the mountainside crushing trees and bouncing off other rocks before finding its final resting place below, shoving massive mounds of dirt around it. My grandparents happened to be home at the time and heard the mighty crashing.

On practically every step we take there is a blue lilac blossom at nose level. We revel in the experience. The path is richly green with the new growth coming forth with powerful determination. This trail may need some clearing soon.

Up on top of the south mountain is a marshy meadow which sits in line between Iron Mountain and Cuyamaca. Biologists in the area have deemed this a very unique, unusual site sitting on top of a mountain. The lush, diverse grasses sprouting in the meadow are typically found only in low-lying, wetland areas. But here we have it, this paradise for the deer and other animals to enjoy along with us.

An outcropping of large, flat boulders lay just beyond. We walk gently across the marshy meadow to the view points on the rocks. From there we can see San Vicente Lake and Kimball Valley straight ahead; Iron Mountain and Mt. Woodson to the west; and Cuyamaca to the east. We usually come up here at least once a month and almost always on Christmas afternoons. Three members of our extended family have been married on the property, two of them on the meadow. Kent and I had our ceremony with our friends and relatives standing in a circle holding carnations.

Using Christian’s phone I take pictures of him standing on top of these massive flat boulders with the blue mountain ranges beyond as the backdrop. He sends them to his mom since, amazingly, there is cell reception up here on top of the world. We know she’ll appreciate this.

On the hike back down we notice the oaks are blooming. The yellowish-orange, caterpillar-like blossoms hang dutifully from the dark green branches of the Live Oaks. They won’t stay long before drying-up and crumbling to the ground below. But right now they’re soft and feely to the touch. Grandson, Ian, likes them. Each tree looks like it’s wearing thousands of dangly, golden ear rings.

Coming around a turn in the trail a whirring in the brush startles us. We’ve surprised a covey of quail, dozens of them, flying down the mountainside for cover. It seems there are a record number residing in the canyon this year. I often hear them when I walk outside: their sharp, trill “aah chews” muttering in the bushes. I’ll wait and watch the families parade over the rocks, the male sprouting his head feather on top and the females hovering close. I’ll listen to the loud, incessant calls to others before the group takes off in flight announced by the loud whirring of quail wings flapping.

It’s nice to have company to share this with. Hopefully, the children in particular, take something important from these hikes which can instill a life-long stewardship of our natural world. And, perhaps, through watching their innocent curiosity, we adults can pick-up on this enough to slow down and be there with them. So why not take the opportunity to borrow a friend’s son or daughter, or your own kid or grandchild for that matter, and meander into our own Valley of the Sun’s backcountry.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #2. Chorus of the Frogs – January 9, 2011

 I lay here in bed at 3:30 AM listening to the beautiful chorus of frogs. My window is cracked open allowing the sounds of the symphony playing down at the creek to drift into my consciousness. Normally I’d probably miss out on this Overture de Croak, but I have a nasty head cold which is keeping me awake. I suppose I shouldn’t complain. It’s probably been close to a year since I’ve had one. Everyone around seems to have had several since I have so I guess it was my turn.

We’re so fortunate to have had such an abundance of rain recently, enough so the creek was running even in December. This was a local record since I’ve been around. We’ve had over sixteen-and-a-half inches of rain this fall, in just a couple of months. In fact, we had over ten inches in two weeks! The run-off has kept Kent and me busy digging trenches to keep the dirt road from washing out. Aah, the pleasures of country living.

The road leading into our place is more than a half mile long. The first part of the street, nearest Mussey Grade, is better maintained. There are a couple folks with hearts of gold who enjoy playing on their tractors. As one progresses further into the canyon there are fewer of us and the bulk of the maintenance falls onto those willing to roll up our sleeves and do the work – by hand, with shovels. By the way, there are only a couple of us. And then, once in the canyon, there’s just us, with more real, unpaid work than we can handle already. We just have to pick and choose the jobs that are screaming the loudest or the ones that are threatening to ruin some project we’ve already sunk our blood, sweat and tears into.

On the occasion when outsiders come in to fix something for us, or simply to visit, one thing usually registers in their minds. And this is that they have somehow stumbled back into perhaps the 1930’s, a time when things took longer to accomplish, with a lot more planning and time investment necessary. Everything seems more difficult here. There are no paved roads and the dirt lane is narrow and canopied by old oak trees making deliveries with large trucks practically impossible. The landscape is steep and unyielding with rocks and boulders literally everywhere. Everything we do here requires a hike – not like walking on Mt. Woodson’s paved road or Iron Mountain’s wide trail. This is more goat terrain.

Our washing machine is out on the side porch and the clothes line accessible only by a hike up the hill. The garden, where we pick our dinner, is up the mountain even farther. We turn our two horses loose during the day so they can forage for themselves while munching down the fire hazard. If they don’t come home by supper time we have to walk back into the canyon to fetch them. The goats and chickens, as well as the horses during the night, are a traipse over to our west side. Keeping enough firewood cut, split and collected is a time consuming and fitness insuring activity.

In other words, ours is not a life of convenience. Nor is it exactly ‘simple’ or ‘slower’. But these days we know that a simple life is usually more difficult and a slower pace probably entails more physical labor. Not always, but it’s funny – the choice of words in our language. It’s not to say that our lifestyle is not rewarding. It most definitely is.

The other night as I went to bed – with my window open a little, of course – I heard a porwil’s three-syllable call. It’s one of the most comforting sounds I know. A barn owl screeched a couple times in the distance. And yes, the chorus of frogs. Have you ever noticed how deafeningly loud and robust they can be and then instantly quiet? It’s almost as if they are all aware of a single music conductor waving his wand to play and then sharply cutting them off. And then luring them on again, one section of the orchestra at a time, building to a crescendo and then falling away again: all night long. What perseverance and passion. The ebb and flow of the symphony parallels our lives. If we slow down and listen, we might, perhaps, become more in tune with our own surroundings, our community, and the world that we live in. We’re each a single instrument – important in our own right. But together, as part of the orchestra, we can do wonderful things.

Until next time, may your life be full and blessed as you take the time to enjoy your walk or sit in the garden. Don’t miss the symphony!

Chi Varnado is a contributing writer for The San Diego Reader. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire, is available on www.amazon.com. The Tale of Broken Tail, her children’s book, should be coming out this spring and she is currently working on a novel set in her father’s Mississippi homeland. Chi directs The Dance Centre of Ramona. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, will appear on Ramonapatch.com every month or so. Please visit www.thedancecentreoframona.com & www.chivarnado.com.