Though the vegetation in this frigidity changes little, static would be a false image. Evolution and growth are imminent in all seasons and wane only through degradation, an absence of observation. You can't force a blossom or a bloom, or deter erosion on these terraced rocks.
How gorgeous the poison ivy appears in contrast to these evergreen 'scapes. Hiding below the fresh lime and lemon hews of the emerging yaupon, the ivy shines an illuminating blessing for my day. Nature breathes dichotomies, allowing saplings to tangle with towering willows, the hints of winter warmth only evident as they stretch through benevolent gaps toward he lapping tongues of sunlight.
Each step is a descent through another realm, a breath of arrival, passing alternating communities of laurel and silktassel. And then the outcrop, returning to sunlight I stand in and the yuccas, their ability to hold steadfastly in lingering fissures since ancient seafloors. How resilient and stoic they seem, surviving these downpours of late after a summer of mundane and dredging heat. Amazing still how a day's rain can initiate second bloom upon the sumacs, such regal red stems abounding in fruit for the last birds heading south. Maybe they knew these rains were sure to come; maybe it was their plan all along.
Heading off trail, I approach the terror emanating from Highway 360, the fumes almost visible, the rubber loud and quick. A small caterpillar waits for a bit more sun, hiding among the seep mulley, wondering if he can metamorphose before the first frost bites. The Mulley is pervasive, overstretching every niche across these slopes. As I bound downward, the rains bless me with the juiciest nostoc I’ve ever encountered. It’s as if it has been awaiting these rains its whole life. To believe it once wasn’t so is equally difficult and simple; how could this land be so if not for millennia of xeric lives. No less troubling is the attempt to recount the snowscapes that our forebears purported from three scores past.
The impressive displays are always the least encountered, and are so justly because. Sliding off a ledge, I stumble to a tributary bed of Bee Creek and crossing spot a magnificent burrow with a dual entrance, as if the beast was is cognizant of escape routes. Needing to relieve myself upon absorbing this creeks majestic flow, I think better of it and find ignorance in the foolish consideration of leaving my scent near their homestead. I press on up the creek.
The turbulence was once great here as the rocks can attest to; a true microcosm of
The smell was secondary as I moved further west up the creek. The buck was young I noticed quickly, recognizing his two initial antlers protruding a the upper end of a foot long ruler, a perfect specimen of a spike. Though pungent, it was refreshing to be engulfed, knowing that this place is breathing, breathing beyond the intrusion from the road and the trash among the leaves.
His skeletal companion’s demise was recent, the marrow and blood still prevalent, thick and syrupy. The consumer was only interested in the torso at this location, possibly transporting the limbs to preferred vistas. I appreciate its dining here, the near water now ample. Upon turning on my rear, I find its trail, the limbs still meaty, fleshed and likely to be visited again. I deliver my thanks and apologies for tainting this hallowed ground and retire, promising to not return for a season.
I leave noting how heavy the water is with iron near the upper reaches of the creek, making note to return with sampling equipment.
The snow is to arrive Friday. I hope the caterpillar has made his amends.
