The hills of California

Nothing makes a place so sweet as the knowledge that one will soon be leaving.

This morning, after accepting a job offer to go write about the Gulf oil spill, I am in love with my corner of California. Out for a walk along one my favorite trails – a fire road that wanders through Bishop pine and California scrub – I’m assaulted by the beloved and familiar. Here is crunch of the rocky trail, there is a symphony of birdsong. The smells are the most profound though, rooted in my bones from early childhood.

As pine trunks warm in the sun they let off a sugary sweet smell, half bark and half pitch. Alder and moist earth mingle musky in the shady ravines where creek drop toward the bay. Pepperwood, ceanothus, and tan oak all have their signature scents as I pass by. Added in are more subtle notes: bracken fern and madrone and chinquapin.

It’s nesting season for raptors, or so I’ve guessed from all their activity and complaint lately. Now, an osprey chides me from it's treetop roost. In the underbrush, a varied thrush is thrashing for snacks. Rising sun gilds moss-drenched trunks and the pleasing forest geometry of crown and snag that falls away to Tomales Bay and the rolling grassy hills beyond.

There is no place like home.