July 30
Perched on top of Spanish Peak; 7000, overlooking the wide valleys and bending slopes of northern California, the clearcuts and reservoirs and roads and endless layers of ranges extending north to Lassen and south to the Sierra Buttes.
An extensive climb out of the Feather River valley this morning. Amongst a thick air, woven with humidity, sharp slopes carpeted with dogwood, alder, big leaf maple; densely shaded and darkly enclosed in curtains of vegetation, sunlight distilled through a filter of branch and leaf. Climbing with staggered breath upwards from the valley bottom, conifers begin to appear and then oaks, the sunlight breaking through an evermore open canopy. The columns of pine throw shafts of shadows until, finally reaching a saddle, the slopes are fully exposed and carpeted by manzanita. From gully to summit.
An alternate route took us along a road to a lake resort for lunch cheeseburger and chef salad where we met a guy named Bill with his puppy Thumper. I enjoyed his company. He spoke in a plain but sloppy tongue. Hed been all over these hills, knew every jeep road and every little valley, the history of its use. He bummed me a cigarette on the porch, in exchange for me listening to his stories. He worked for the utility company, cleaning brush away from lines. Most would disregard the guy as uneducated but I admired his working knowledge of this place. He told me about the origin of A Tree a place where I had just gotten water the day before a surveyor stamped a red fir when scouting a route for a railroad that never got built. I wanted to hang out with this guy. Go fishing, drink beers, drive the jeep roads, listen to more stories.
Its taking me a while to get the feel of northern California, to settle into the modesty of its subtle hill-strokes.
Perched on top of Spanish Peak; 7000, overlooking the wide valleys and bending slopes of northern California, the clearcuts and reservoirs and roads and endless layers of ranges extending north to Lassen and south to the Sierra Buttes.
An extensive climb out of the Feather River valley this morning. Amongst a thick air, woven with humidity, sharp slopes carpeted with dogwood, alder, big leaf maple; densely shaded and darkly enclosed in curtains of vegetation, sunlight distilled through a filter of branch and leaf. Climbing with staggered breath upwards from the valley bottom, conifers begin to appear and then oaks, the sunlight breaking through an evermore open canopy. The columns of pine throw shafts of shadows until, finally reaching a saddle, the slopes are fully exposed and carpeted by manzanita. From gully to summit.
An alternate route took us along a road to a lake resort for lunch cheeseburger and chef salad where we met a guy named Bill with his puppy Thumper. I enjoyed his company. He spoke in a plain but sloppy tongue. Hed been all over these hills, knew every jeep road and every little valley, the history of its use. He bummed me a cigarette on the porch, in exchange for me listening to his stories. He worked for the utility company, cleaning brush away from lines. Most would disregard the guy as uneducated but I admired his working knowledge of this place. He told me about the origin of A Tree a place where I had just gotten water the day before a surveyor stamped a red fir when scouting a route for a railroad that never got built. I wanted to hang out with this guy. Go fishing, drink beers, drive the jeep roads, listen to more stories.
Its taking me a while to get the feel of northern California, to settle into the modesty of its subtle hill-strokes.
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