👣 The Band of Scrub Oak
By Brenda Colwell | A Collection of Wanderings
Listen to this Essay:
Been thinking about that Band of Scrub Oak that hangs along the ridge on the top of the lot in my backyard. It stretches across most of the width of our parcel. Starting at the top of the ridge where it is mostly flat, its branches and trunks flow over the edge, growing at something of an angle. It looks healthy from down here with its full head of sturdy, green, waxy leaves. Sitting on my front porch today and over the years, I watch creatures of all sorts appear from and disappear into that clump of mystery. I have enjoyed how it burns orange in the fall, and how it stands bare without leaves all winter. But I haven’t been up there in a while and I am curious.
We are in a drought and the ground is dry. I am pleased that the scrub oak stands strong and green. I need to go up there. It must be full of interesting treasures. I grab a hiking pole, call Chevy, and start the climb up.
Crossing my yard, I can hear this winter’s severe drought in each crunchy step. Grasses and flowers that are usually so rich and green haven’t popped up out of the dry ground. The slope is bare and brown, and my hiking boots leave dusty clouds. It doesn’t smell like that fresh summer wildflower meadow I am accustomed to this time of year. It is not our first drought since we built this home 25 years ago, but it may be the driest I have ever seen.
Suddenly, the climb gets steep, and this part takes all my attention. Still, I choose the most direct route with very little zigzagging, making use of plant clumps and embedded rocks as stair steps. It is a little dizzying being slightly off balance most of the time. It is a measly 100 steps, but I still take breaks to steady myself and to secure my footing.
Arriving at the Band, I am not quite at the top where I find a well-used game trail that crosses the ridge horizontally at a slight cant, yet flat enough to easily enter the short forest. Like an old friend whom I haven’t seen in years, I am full of pleasant anticipation. I know I am welcome here. Since I know the way, I just let myself in.
The wind is blowing hard at 40 mph, but as soon as I enter the heart of it, I am mostly protected from the gale. The hair on top of my head is being whipped just like the leaves at the tops of the bushes. The bushes are still just about my height. Each branch is dark and textured, almost black and sometimes gray. I haven’t explored this little trail in a long time, yet it still seems exactly the same.
I follow the game trail a bit deeper and discover it now meanders into a network of trails of varying sizes. My trail is wide enough, in most places, to pass through without touching the limbs. Some lower trails disappear under the canopy, maybe bobcat-sized, some even smaller. I conjure up memories of the animals that I have seen navigating these same trails at high speed.
Chevy runs ahead sniffing every trail, ducking half her body into the dark spots hoping to make chase. No luck. Nobody’s home. I suddenly feel like a stranger and try to really look into the bush. Where are all those birds that were singing brightly this morning? No deer? No bobcat? No hawk? This can’t be right. The wind is so noisy that I can’t hear a thing. I can’t smell a thing either. Maybe today is not the right day for a visit.
I peer harder into the branches looking for signs of nests or a perching bird or just a small clue revealing the secrets in here. There are no obvious signs. Of course, this makes me even more curious. Here at an even higher altitude with the wind whipping my focus, my hair and my clothing around, I can’t concentrate. I decide to go higher, turning this way and that way seeking a path out before the wind picks up its intensity or it begins to rain. Each turn is just a few steps from the last, but I am not entirely sure how deep I have wandered into this thicket. My dog stays close while I find the exit. Eventually, we step into the clearing and find ourselves at the top of the lot.
Walking along the ridge until the view opens, I happily realize, I have never left our property. The whole thing exists solely within the invisible lines of our lot. Is this mine? It feels like a place I don’t know by now. I feel a little empty, I should know these rocks and branches and hiding spots.
Up here on the open ridge at 10,000 feet, I can see the whole unobstructed, breathtaking view of the valley below. But the wind doesn’t want me up here today.
I can see dark clouds forming overhead, and I hope for rain. Time for us to get off this ridge. I glance back at the short forest. The weather has chosen who gets to stay and who must go. I will return another day when nature permits me to enter.
CHOOSE YOUR NEXT WANDER
