Last weekend I went hiking up at Castle Crags, a very steep rugged granite outcrop in northern California. I followed the contouring Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) for a few miles and then went cross-country, climbing a drainage in search of open spaces with wide views. Because my ascent was steep with lots of rock climbing on cruddy rock; I did not want to return that way. So I opted for making my way over to the prominent ridge dividing two drainages. It offered a longer, gentler descent than the drainages.
The ridge started as a bare spine, devoid of soil or plants. Every 3-4 feet along the ridge was a pile of animal droppings. What a strategic location to pass on one’s gift of fertility! On the very top, the nutrients will spread out slowly in all downward directions, reaching first the pioneer plants on the edge of life’s colonization, the plants that need the nourishment the most.
Within a hundred feet, the bare ridge ran into manzanita. For those of you who don’t know manzanita, it’s a bush 3-5 feet high with smooth, rigid branches with sharp, broken branch tips. Pushing through manzanita is a strenuous, scratch-inviting experience. Manzanita was not the only plant I would have to move through. This area of California contains incredible diversity but it would all be a steep thicket. This was going to be an intense experience. I paused.
In that pause, I realized that it was absolutely impossible for me to get lost in this situation. I knew the land well enough to know that no matter how I descended, I would have to encounter the PCT. And, if for some reason, I crossed the trail without recognizing it, I would come to a road in another half-mile or so. So all I needed to do was go down – by whatever route I could. Normally I navigate by ridge and drainage, always “staying found”. But because of the manzanita, I decided to let the vegetation guide me and not even attempt the effort of staying oriented within the larger landscape. I started off down an animal trail that skirted the thickest of the manzanita. So started a lovely dance between the vegetation, myself, and the animals that had passed this way before. I was soon deep in the world of the animals local to this steep terrain.
There were always trails to follow. I never had to crawl. Rarely did I need to even crouch low or push aside thick vegetation. There was one very steep slope carpeted with pine needles too slick to stand on. I sat and slid down over the needles, slippery as snow. But other than that, there were always trails. The largest ones tended to contour across the slope. A falling tree had crashed recently upon a well-established trail. I could see in the broken branches to either side the fresh marks where animals were picking out a new trail detouring beside the fallen trunk.
The up-down trails interested me because I’ve done enough trail maintenance to know that a trail beaten straight down a slope will erode into a gully. So I tried not to tread on any trail that seemed too steep, bare, and straight. I didn’t find any. The ones where erosion looked like it had started were now covered with leaves, apparently abandoned, with a new trail detouring around the area. In fact, on the steeper stretches, instead of a descending trail, I found a descending zig-zag of steps, hoof-created depressions to place your feet. Instead of a trough which allows water to concentrate and flow, the animals create disconnected, staggered depressions that gather rain and hold it until it percolates in. This “trail maintenance” can be explained in at least two ways. Bare, steep ground tends to be slippery when wet. If you live in the area, it’s in your interest to maintain trails that can be safely followed even during the stressful winter storms. Alternatively, if you turn many square feet of your home to bare earth, you and your children will have a bit less to eat. Either explanation leads us to the “mindfulness” that would develop among animals that spend their entire life within a few hundred feet of their birthplace.
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