Walking with Oaks 3

October 16 was a hot day; too hot I was afraid to be out hiking.  But I wanted to experience the oaks in all kinds of weather, not just in the lushness of spring.  I had the day off work and the morning’s forecast was lower than the hundred-degree heat that I had feared, so off I went.

I started down the trail, stopping at the first oak, which looked like it has slowly been dying from Goldspotted oak borer for years, the top of the large tree largely denuded. The lower branches were still full of the small dark green leaves of coastal live oak, with scalloped edges and tiny sharp points.  I stared intently, looking for acorns after the wet spring, but all I saw were a few dried catkins hanging down from the leaves.  I moved to a different part of the tree, looking again, finding nothing until suddenly I was startled by a large black cow staring at me, only a few feet away.  I had occasionally seen cows much further down the trail in the large grassy meadow, but never right here beyond any fence, almost to the parking lot.  The cow didn’t seem to pay me much mind, and quickly went back to munching the dried grass.  Nonetheless I hastened along.  I could look for acorns later.

I quickly came to the creek where a small wooden sign with an arrow directs hikers to cross the stream and continue along the trail as it climbs rather steeply up the other bank.  Pine Valley Creek flows year-round, offering a green respite to the typically parched fall San Diego landscape.  The banks were crowded with willows that were still green except for an occasional patch of yellow. The grass underfoot was lush, if clipped close to the ground. A lone evening primrose flower bloomed. It was easy to cross the creek at this time of year, but a narrower trail continued straight ahead, so I thought I’d ignore the sign and enjoying walking amid the willows right next to the water’s edge. I could always turn around and come back to the creek crossing. I expected the trail to end a short distance ahead, as I remembered from the past, but instead it seemed to continue.  Why not experience the canyon from a new perspective?  What a treat to walk among the willows, cliffrose and gooseberries, immersed in greenery away from all of the poison oak lining the opposite slope. 

But it didn’t last. Soon I came to a dry rocky patch with plenty of poison oak. The bright red leaves was one of the few reminders of the season.  But despite the red warning not to touch, the trail barreled right through increasing taller, thicker clumps. I looked for an alternative and spotted faint trails veering off in other directions, up over the rocks.  The poison oak was too thick to continue so I ventured upward, hoping to avoid rattlers. I tried one trail for a while, then another, until I wasn’t sure if I was on a trail at all.  At the same time, it got steeper, and there was still poison oak ahead even as I climbed. I slowly picked my away across the boulders, dodging the worst of the poison oak, and wondering if I should turn around, go back to the creek crossing and follow the well-worn trail on the other side. Or might I forge ahead, just a bit further?  But the passage way I thought I saw ended in thick brush. If only I went a bit higher, might I find a way through?  Just a few more steps… I kept thinking I should turn around, but instead I persevered a few steps forward, or sometimes even backwards, continuing to climb. Sometimes I forged straight through the poison oak when it was below waist high, lifting my arms and my camera high overhead. The further I went, the less I wanted to turn around, the more perilous the passage.

Primed to seek lessons from my walk, I can’t help but think that my obstinacy is what so often gets people in trouble. Or maybe I should say why humanity causes so much trouble: Just a little further, we’ve already invested so much money, so much time, not to mention that the lure of discovery is intoxicating.

In my case it was easy to rationalize my stubbornness. Fortunately, I didn’t encounter a rattler. I appreciated seeing a part of the canyon that I normally only catch glimpses of from the trail high up on the opposite bank or from the road that is still considerably higher up on the same slope. I wanted to end up on this side of the creek anyway, and this was a shorter route. There was a lot of poison oak along the official trail as well.  I could continue rambling on.  However, by not following the trail, I contributed to forging a path down this bank that others will inevitably try to follow.

Eventually I picked my way through the rocks and brush and down to the broad meadow beyond, littered with huge logs and denuded trunks, the oak charnel ground that I visit so often. The dried grass was very short. I wouldn’t have to worry about stickers and burrs if I wandered from the path, now clearly marked. The ground was covered with cow pies. Cow pies everywhere, big piles, littler droplets one after the other, many very fresh. However, I didn’t see any more cows for the rest of my journey. I wondered where they were hiding or if they have been moved on. Their droppings followed me everywhere.

I walked past the logs littering the ground, trying to imagine what it must have been like when they were talk oaks.  It certainly would’ve been much cooler. Now the tallest plants were the mullein that grew to heights of over a meter.  Their large soft leaves were still green, but the tall stalks had long since flowered and dried.  I carefully watched where I stepped. The cows left a stinky mess.

The oak borers prefer the most mature trees that grew in the middle of the valley, but there were some smaller oaks still thriving along the valley slopes. I walked towards a clump of these still living trees that were covered with flowers on my last excursion in May, anticipating trees laden with acorns.

Where are they?  I don’t see any acorns. I try another tree and still don’t see any. Continuing on, finally I stop in welcome shade, take a drink, pause and suddenly I notice a green acorn in the foliage right in front me.  It is maybe an inch and a half long, slender, coming to a point, just a shade lighter green than the leaves that surround it.  I look around me and find another, and then another.  I take a few steps to where all I can see is the underside of the oak leaves. No acorns.  Moving from under the tree, I find a low hanging branch, stare again until my eyes come into focus, and an acorn comes into view. I find that I have to stop and focus my attention before I see them.  They are hard to find. Finally, I find a branch with a whole clump of acorns.  I imagine myself as a forager.  It would take a lot of work, many trees, to fill a basket. 

I continue on, further down the valley past fields of logs to where a small group of large oaks are still standing in the middle of the grassy plain. A couple of the trees have been reduced to barren skeletons, but several are thriving. A small miracle. Straining my eyes, looking up at the branches I do spot an acorn here and there. I even see a few branches that have several acorns. But the acorns remain hard to find.

Where are all the acorns that I expected to follow the copious spring bloom? After years of visiting the oaks, I realize how little I know. I am left with so many questions. Despite the profusion of flowers, was this a year of small yield? Did I come too late?  Or too early? Still green on the trees, are the acorns so camouflaged that I can’t see them? Did the cows eat them all? I never heard of cows eating acorns, but looking it up when I return home, I find that they might, even if large quantities could make them sick. Of course, there were jays, woodpeckers and squirrels who may’ve enjoyed a feast.

Looking for acorns, instead I find myself standing in cow pies. Eventually I cross the creek, continue down the main trail all the way to the start of the wilderness area, then turn around and head back to my car. Even here the trail is completely covered with cow pies, something I’ve never on this trail before.  What were cows doing on this narrow trail, meandering along a slope flanked by chaparral?

With so many people staying at home and the consequent improvement to air quality and modest drop in carbon emissions, I had thought that this year might be one of recovery, especially given the late rains and the glorious spring bloom. A bumper crop of acorns could speed regeneration, the seeding of new trees.  At the trailhead there is a sign celebrating the reforestation of willows and oaks that was undertaken almost thirty years ago, in 1991-1992 to mitigate years of intensive grazing.  How much would the recent trampling by cows contribute to the undoing of this effort?  Or was my view skewed by the fact that I seldom come here in fall, and might not have seen the full evidence of grazing over the last decade?  There has been recent literature about the importance of herbivory to grasslands, particularly the benefits of high density grazing over a short period of time as an aid to soil health and carbon sequestration.  But I doubted that was what I was seeing.  High density, yes. Duration, unknown. But if the cows were crossing the creek and leaving the meadow for the steep valley slopes, they must’ve lingered in this area too long.

I am reminded again of how much I have to learn.  Even so, I feel the weight of responsibility to advocate for the proper care of the forest. It was people who inadvertently brought the oak borers to the valley. Anthropogenic climate change, accompanied by drought and a warming climate increased the trees’ vulnerability to beetle infestations, making it harder for oaks to mount a defense, to produce the sap to push out the boring beetles larvae.  In light of over a decade of devastation to the oaks, do grazing permits need to be adjusted? Or should these rights be eliminated given that cows contribute a potent greenhouse gas, methane, to the atmosphere through belching and the decomposition of their manure? The oaks are demanding that humanity face hard questions.

…I had a strong desire to return to Pine Valley Creek a few weeks later to walk with the oaks on election day. I wanted to stand with them in recognition of how much they could be effected by the election results. I wanted to stand in recognition of how urgent major changes in governmental policy are to the health of the trees. I wasn’t able to make the trip, but as I biked along with the crowds of cars and pedestrians that flooded the streets of San Diego the following weekend, when the election was finally called for Biden, the oaks were with me in my heart. The green new deal is aptly named.  The oaks have been experiencing a pandemic for over a decade. They urgently demand attention to their plight now.