I’ve been grateful to have some
extra work in Exeter this month. It gets
me out of town, which is great for anyone, but especially for community
watchdogs. Provides perspective, if you
know what I mean.
I take the backroads most of the
time. Travelling from Lindsay to Exeter,
I take Parkside up to Myer, down to Spruce, crossing the canal twice. At Spruce I either stay on Myer, going past
the Sun-Pacific packinghouse with its decent rail crossings, or turn right and go
north to Firebaugh, taking my chances crossing the tracks near Cosart’s Shop. Either way, I’ve travelled through the
countryside between our two towns, passing homes and businesses, fields and
groves belonging to members of both communities. It’s a way of staying in touch with the rural
landscape – the people and land - that I love.
But the highlight of the trip is
going past the Source of it all. It’s the
northernmost half mile of Parkside, heading up the steep incline of Rocky Hill,
staring straight into its heart. The
hill was formed by a small pluton (a polyp of magma that rose through the
earth’s crust toward the surface.) That
molten rock intruded the sediments of Valley fill and cooked them to a
fine-grained fare-thee-well, producing the smooth slopes surrounding the hill’s
bouldered, granitic core.
This heart doesn’t throb. Its stillness is part of its beauty, broken
only by echoes bouncing off the rounded rock surfaces - echoes of crows
calling, hawks whistling, small rocks falling, the audible signs of nature at
work. There are visible signs as well,
from the microscopic breaking of mineral grains as the rocks’ surfaces weather,
to the soil scarps left behind when gravity pulls another massive boulder down
to a new level. Many things grow in the
cracks, from mosses and lichens to blue oaks, delighting lizards, snakes, birds
and mammals of many sizes.
It was the first landscape feature I
was introduced to by Tulare-born geographer Bill Preston when he began showing
me around his beloved Basin, and it has been a touchstone for me ever
since. Before I found the house I would
buy in Lindsay, I dreamed I was riding my bike up Parkside to visit Rocky
Hill’s heart, seeing myself below from above, as if suspended from ravens’
wings. Since moving here I have dreamed
myself floating above that slope several times.
When my car isn’t running well, I
can take a less strenuous route to work, sticking to the flats. But I miss the holiness when I do. On my way to Quaker Meeting one Sunday
morning during a dense Tule fog, the entire hill was invisible. Going up that last half mile of Parkside, I
felt like I was leaving the earth’s surface, driving straight into
nothingness. Then the dark outline of
the heart appeared like a premonition or a promise. It took my breath away.
I think one of the things we love
about mountains is the effect of their presence on us. I grew up in view of Mt. Ranier, a dormant
volcano in Washington, which was so majestic and awe-inspiring I felt I
belonged to it, despite the fact it might blow its top. For the whole family, a good day weatherwise
was described as one where “You could see the mountain today.” When I was 17 we left it and moved to Maui,
where Haleakala (which had already blown its top) sortof took its place. But from my 20th year until my 43rd,
I had no mountain, no centerpost to keep me grounded to the earth.
From the end of my front sidewalk in
Lindsay I have a distant view of Rocky Hill.
I’m comforted by having that peak nearby, one with an igneous
heart. One made from the earth’s blood
rising to the surface, reaching for air and maybe even admiration. Maybe love.
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Trudy
Wischemann is a geomorphically-inclined writer who respects forces that can’t
be seen. You can send her your mountain
love letters c/o P.O. Box 1374, Lindsay CA 93247 or leave a
comment below.
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