Tag Archives: Mussey Grade

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #25. Origins of Quail Mutterings (December 13, 2013)

Posted on by

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #25.  Origins of Quail Mutterings (December 13, 2013)

 

               I have been fascinated and intrigued by quail my whole life. As a young child one of my first memories was of the quail living around us. I remember hearing them rustling under the bushes talking to each other and watching them glide over the rocks in single file. They were always part of ‘Being Home’ for me. A sense of ‘All is well with the world’ fills me still when I hear their distinctive call echoing through the canyon. When a flock of them takes flight amongst the sage brush the sound of their wing-beat is unique. One can tell without seeing that it’s quail. I think their muted, staccato-like voices sound like they’re muttering to each other as they peck around on the ground under the buckwheat. They don’t sound insistent or particularly forceful in their opinions – just having an open dialogue. So I coined Quail Mutterings for my essays since I mostly just ramble about my experiences meandering through the canyon. Perhaps similar to the way the quail communicate. I only hope my mutterings provide a little entertainment.

I remember a ‘little happy,’ as I like to call them, that I shared with my dad. It was during the year following the fire that he motioned for me and said, “Come on, Chi. 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 old. We toodled on down the dirt road going five miles-per-hour, turning northward at the T, halfway to the main road. At the top of the hill we stopped and shut off the engine. He pointed out landmarks in the adjacent valley.

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. Both of us 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. We kept very still, breathing lightly, so as not to disturb the family’s journey. I felt lucky to be there, so close to them and to my dad.

 

Just this week we broke ground, beginning my grandmother’s (Bamoo’s) rebuild, ten years after the Cedar Fire. Designating corners and marking boundaries for the new house – a simple rectangle built into the hill, only three-square-feet larger than what was previously here, is exciting and at the same time a little scary. Building small, just over nine-hundred square-feet, enables us to have the potential to make this project financially feasible. I sure hope this proves to be the case.

Our two old horses, which normally get to roam free in the canyon, have been unhappily corralled more often, in order to protect them from the open trenches and stretched-string boundaries on the house site. Our feed bill goes up too since they usually supplement their diet on the various grasses growing in the creekbed and up toward the saddle. For every action there is a reaction, as we learned in physics. Even though we are only replacing what was already here before, it will be different. And also, time has passed and things (wildlife and plants…) have changed. But then again, even if we don’t consciously change anything, nothing ever really stays the same. Change is inevitable.

Sometimes I find this extremely sad, like when I can’t help dwelling on how things used to be when my parents were still around. I miss them both terribly. I know that things will never be the same again. At this point, if I’m lucky, I start to live in the present. Be grateful for what is. Right now. Because that too will be gone shortly. So I’m trying to remember to stop and smell the flowers.

As the holidays approach let’s take the time to appreciate each other and fill those memory banks with good, quality experiences. I have so many fond memories of growing up here. These are probably the main reasons I’ve chosen to stay and embrace this lifestyle. There’s a timeless peace that permeates the canyon which works for the quail and for me. Rebuilding and preserving a legacy that my family began generations ago feels right and fulfilling to me. So, may each of us find that inner compass that helps steer us not due north, but allows us to meander just enough to happen upon those ‘little happies,’ wherever and whenever they might present themselves. Let’s just make sure that we’re awake enough to recognize them when they appear.

 

Chi Varnado is the author of two books. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire; and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail, are both available from www.amazon.com. Chi directs The Ramona Dance Centre: www.ramonadancecentre.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #24. Ten Years Later (November 8, 2013)

Posted on by

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #24.  Ten Years Later (November 8, 2013)

               In October of 2003, our extended family lost five houses here in the canyon. The Cedar Fire claimed our cabin, my mom’s house, my grandmother’s cottage, my sister’s dome, and my first house. So far, the only one rebuilt was our old cabin from the 1920’s. Now, a decade later, I’ve just submitted plans to rebuild my grandmother’s (Bamoo’s) house.

I’m trying to be careful about how and what we bring back into the canyon. It’s important that it blend into the environment and not disturb any more nature than necessary. That, after all, is what our home really is. The beautiful canyon nestled in the backcountry of Ramona. This is what we came back to after the fire and decided that yes, it’s still worth it. I’m planning to construct a berm house, built into the south-facing hill, like Bamoo had before. The thermal mass from the concrete wall behind and partway down the sides, sitting on a slab, will help keep the small abode a more even temperature and have a greener effect.

On October 23rd I spent six hours down at the County submitting my plans, visiting the various counters attempting to gain their sign offs. My cell phone rang. It was KUSI Television asking me to come down the next morning for an interview on Good Morning San Diego to commemorate the ten year anniversary of the Cedar Fire and discuss my book about our experience with it.

“You’ll never believe where I am right now,” I said.

“Unbelievable!” he said. “Ten years later?”

The live segment aired on October 24th at about 8:10 AM. It was actually kind of fun. I got to discuss both books and, of course, they wanted to hear about our evacuation. In the end, after reminding the audience that the Cedar Fire was the largest fire on record in California’s history, he asked if there was anything I learned from the experience or what I do differently now. I laughed. I figured everyone expected to hear how I now clear the hell out of my property to avoid any future fire danger. But no. I simply told him that I try to take more time out to smell the flowers. “They’re always there, you know. We just have to remember to take a moment and breathe.”

During the past few months while readying the site to build the nine-hundred and sixty square foot dwelling I’ve taken time to remember Bamoo. I framed a small picture of her to place on top of a bookcase. She taught elementary school in Poway for thirty years and was a member of Delta Kappa Gamma, an honorary society for women educators. Bamoo and Papoo (my grandpa and her stay-at-home husband/inventor) bought one-hundred acres back in 1955. A few years later my parents bought forty-five acres from them. Then in 1992 my husband and I purchased an adjacent twenty acres to complete the whole back end of the canyon. Five generations of my family have inhabited this valley.

Bamoo’s old cottage was built in the 1920’s by an artist. The same guy who built our cabin. I love those old craftsman-style houses. They’re my favorite. She had a patio in back demarcated by high rock walls. An old ice box sat next to an outdoor fireplace and a cement ledge seat ran along the rear wall. I sometimes go over there and duck under the dead, fallen trees obscuring it and sit to contemplate the eternal verities, as my dad used to call it. It never fails to renew my spirits. I feel it’s important for me to keep connected to my family’s roots as well as to the wildlife and plants that surround us here.

Upon collecting the plans back from the County for corrections, a couple weeks later, I watched as the agent wrote four digits on the stamp on the front page. My jaw dropped. Those four numbers were Bamoo’s last four digits of her phone number! Maybe she is still here after all. It somehow makes me feel like I’m doing the right thing. I can’t help but smile.

We spent the ten-year anniversary of the Cedar Fire having a quiet dinner with another couple whose house also burned. And yes, they have also rebuilt. Things have changed dramatically for all of us. It seems that our reference for the relative time of things is either BEFORE or AFTER the fire. It’s simply the system most of us have adopted. But let’s raise a glass and toast to a happy future; filled with compassion, community spirit, and an air of acceptance for life. May we all linger in the moment and smell the flowers because they are always around us.

 

Chi Varnado is the author of two books. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire; and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail, are both available from www.amazon.com. Chi directs The Ramona Dance Centre: www.ramonadancecentre.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #23. Bound For Minnesota (October 11, 2013)

Posted on by

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #23.  Bound For Minnesota (October 11, 2013)

 

               Adventures are important. The destination or what you do doesn’t really matter so long as it takes you out of your comfort zone and keeps you on your toes. It’s how you handle yourself in those situations that enables growth to happen. If we never step out of our routines we can become too complacent and sure of ourselves.

When I first received the wedding invitation from Minneapolis I simply put it aside thinking it highly unlikely that I’d be going. Minnesota seemed out of the question financially. My sister thought otherwise.

“We’ve never been to Minnesota before. You know what else is in Minnesota?” Bo asked. “That wolf preserve that Mom used to donate to.”

It was also her idea that we could canoe on one of those “ten thousand lakes” and camp out and hear wolves howling in the woods. This prompted her online search for outfits there that could facilitate her plan. It was at my little Fourth of July party, sitting in rocking chairs on the front porch, that our plan was hatched. Heidi was game if we included a little “antiquing” in the Midwest. One thing led to another and after a considerable amount of hemming and hawing, from each of us, flight tickets were purchased and reservations were made.

In early August the three of us boarded the plane with our accompanying luggage to support a wilderness adventure in The Boundary Waters of northern Minnesota, a road trip traversing the length and width of the entire state, a formal wedding at a mansion in Minneapolis, along with my personal supply of gluten and dairy-free snack foods. Hopefully, we were sufficiently prepared for the next eight days.

I don’t think any of us were ready, or really even aware that we would be carrying what felt like hundred-pound sack backpacks containing our food, clothes, camping gear… over hill and dale portages consisting of narrow, rocky trails up to a half-mile long which you had to traverse to get to the next lake. It might have been a little easier had we been able to use our hands to help heft up the sagging weight on our backs. But no. We had to carry paddles, fishing poles and zippered canoe pouches with our free appendages. All three of us were astonished, but unwilling to admit our reluctance to appear weak or “not game” for the adventure. So instead, we helped each other into our gravity-enhancing contraptions and careened forward in our hunched-forward stupors. Amazingly, we didn’t topple over or break anything, although each of us secretly believed that in all probability we would. It was literally impossible to stand upright which forced a completely unnatural hip-displacing posture. Only in retrospect can we laugh uncontrollably at the absurdity of our plight. Each of our three days out on the lakes required two hiking portages. Thankfully our twenty-two-year-old guide, a skinny but strong young buck, carried the canoes.

The time spent on the water was almost as “interesting” as we learned paddling and, more importantly, “steering” – which was done by the back person in the canoe. If there had been many other people out there in the wilderness we might have appeared positively drunk as we fish-tailed and “j-paddled” in S-shapes toward any general direction. The front person provided the power to the vessel. We each took turns in order to learn the basic skills required to maneuver a canoe with a partner.

As dusk began to settle each evening our trusty guide would find an unmarked, but established campsite on an island or peninsula; then we’d put our face nets on under our hats to brave the mosquitoes. The air borne blood-suckers descended on us from the thick woods just behind the shore-line. Luckily for me they preferred the others’ sweet smell to mine in spite of their constant slathering on of Deet-laced insect repellent. I guess my garlic consumption, or just my lack of sweetness, kept them at bay for I only used a natural bug spray twice a day. Even the smoke from our nightly campfires did little to deter those mini vampires from their instinctive duties. They came out in droves when one of us hiked back into the forest for a pit stop. The privy on each of these islands had no walls or roof. Just a tall metal cylinder coming up out of a concrete base over an open pit. One had to continuously fan the air behind the exposed, bare ass straddled over the cold, hard ring while scanning the area for bears. We’d heard there were some bear problems on the very island we camped on that first night. Thankfully they left us alone, perhaps feeling sorry for our red, itching behinds.

The scenery out on the lakes was serene and beautiful. Eagles graced the nearby sky as we paddled through wild rice paddies and caught glimpses of turtles, herons and lily pads. It was profoundly peaceful.

Days later, out on the open road, we’d stop at interesting places. There were several captive wolves grooming themselves in The International Wolf Center. We collected agates on a walk along The North Shore (Lake Superior.) We saw majestic waterfalls in a state preserve. Antiques were much more affordable here in the Midwest than at home in Southern California. It’s too bad it would have cost too much to bring them home with us. We stayed a couple days with friends who were visiting family and went to the local pig races. A must see for anyone not having experienced these before.

And finally, on to Minneapolis to the fancy wedding of our cousin’s daughter. The Van Dusen Mansion was grander and more stately than I had imagined. The ceremony took place in the courtyard, refreshments and an open bar in the mansion proper, dinner and champagne in the formal dining hall, and dancing and more open bars in the carriage house. Weddings are great for cutting a rug. We hadn’t shook our booties like that in years. Very therapeutic indeed.

So, like all good things, our trip came to an end and we departed Minnesota and headed back home. Even though we did not hear wild wolves howling in the woods we were all changed slightly, as the experiences we left behind infiltrated our beings in subtle ways. Not that any of us can always explain or understand the influences, but they are there regardless. So why not take up that next offer you get for an out-of-the-ordinary adventure? Who knows? It might do you some good. It did us.

Chi Varnado is the author of two books. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire, and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail, are both available from www.amazon.com. Chi directs The Ramona Dance Centre: www.ramonadancecentre.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com.