IN LATE FALL
Living in the hills above Escondido, 1985
by Richard Graham
Our mail is delivered to an address on Meadow Glen Way East, but the street sign one hundred yards before our driveway reads Cougar Pass. In years past, I’m told, mountain lions wandered the hills which surround the house where I live. Long ago chased out by the encroachment of man, the cougar here is now merely a memory evoked by a street sign.
The dirt driveway, scarred with gullies from heavy rains, leads down past a pond. In late September, bass fed on insects flying above the pond’s placid surface, but now, early in the new year, such activity has ceased. Often muddy from the rain, the pond is home for a few frogs, and its water occasionally quenches a cautious rabbit’s thirst.
Up in these hills avocados are king, but they still have to compete with thousands of rocks and boulders and scruffy patches of scrub brush. Grapefruit, orange and lemon trees, planted with foresight and heavily laden with fruit, give color to the otherwise green landscape.
The view from the house looks down into a wide canyon that is split down the middle by a red-dirt road. About seven miles away, Escondido, mist-covered in the morning, sits under a canopy of wind-rippled clouds. In the evening, city lights shine brightly, a carnival of color in the night.
In the wide expanse of sky above the valley leading down to Escondido, hawks soar in the updrafts. Sometimes, if the wind conditions are right, these graceful birds hover in one spot, their sharp eyes combing the earth below for their next meal. Perhaps conscious of this threat from above, squirrels, mice and rabbits scurry about quickly on their daily rounds.
Down in the valley, trees at Orange County Nursery that were so fiery with red, orange, yellow and purple leaves just a short time ago now seem muted and cold. The canyon wrens, singing vibrantly in late summer, are quiet now. Even the dogs in our neighbor’s yards bark less frequently.
Some of the animal life in the area is rarely seen in this more somnolent time of year. A snakeskin found in a rocky crevice gives evidence that although unseen, certain creatures lie hidden just out of sight.
Up until November, a green heron graced our pond, its bright orange legs and feet trailing behind it when it flew, startled by the presence of a human, into the stand of trees near the pond’s edge. Probably forced south by cold weather, our heron may now be somewhere in Mexico, displaying its beauty to more southern eyes.
The rose bushes on either side of the driveway grew impressive flowers of pink, red and yellow until early October. Now mostly bloomless and forlorn, they quietly await the next season of growth.
Lizards that used to dart out from behind stumps and rocks not long ago have almost disappeared. With less sun to bask in, they seem averse to showing themselves at all.
Their energetic yips suddenly breaking the night’s serene silence, coyotes awaken me. Just as suddenly, they stop. Sleep returns quickly and leaves the raucous interruption more dream than reality by the light of the morning.
On another night, two owls on a telephone wire trade hoots in the quiet. They leave only when I come to satisfy my curiosity and shine a flashlight beam up at them. Gracefully gliding away into the darkness, the owls will find a new perch where they can converse unmolested.
The rain comes lightly at first, like tiny tap dancers from heaven, then in a downpour, drumming a steady beat on the roof. As the rain begins to subside, water drips off the leaves of the trees like tears. Swollen by the rain, a small stream winds its way down into the valley from the pond and forms rushing waterfalls over the rocks in its path.
Days later, the stream, too tiny now to roar or rush, whispers. Flakes of pyrite reflect brilliantly in the shallow water, golden reminders of last summer. Unlike the cougar, summer will return.
Our mail is delivered to an address on Meadow Glen Way East, but the street sign one hundred yards before our driveway reads Cougar Pass. In years past, I’m told, mountain lions wandered the hills which surround the house where I live. Long ago chased out by the encroachment of man, the cougar here is now merely a memory evoked by a street sign.
The dirt driveway, scarred with gullies from heavy rains, leads down past a pond. In late September, bass fed on insects flying above the pond’s placid surface, but now, early in the new year, such activity has ceased. Often muddy from the rain, the pond is home for a few frogs, and its water occasionally quenches a cautious rabbit’s thirst.
Up in these hills avocados are king, but they still have to compete with thousands of rocks and boulders and scruffy patches of scrub brush. Grapefruit, orange and lemon trees, planted with foresight and heavily laden with fruit, give color to the otherwise green landscape.
The view from the house looks down into a wide canyon that is split down the middle by a red-dirt road. About seven miles away, Escondido, mist-covered in the morning, sits under a canopy of wind-rippled clouds. In the evening, city lights shine brightly, a carnival of color in the night.
In the wide expanse of sky above the valley leading down to Escondido, hawks soar in the updrafts. Sometimes, if the wind conditions are right, these graceful birds hover in one spot, their sharp eyes combing the earth below for their next meal. Perhaps conscious of this threat from above, squirrels, mice and rabbits scurry about quickly on their daily rounds.
Down in the valley, trees at Orange County Nursery that were so fiery with red, orange, yellow and purple leaves just a short time ago now seem muted and cold. The canyon wrens, singing vibrantly in late summer, are quiet now. Even the dogs in our neighbor’s yards bark less frequently.
Some of the animal life in the area is rarely seen in this more somnolent time of year. A snakeskin found in a rocky crevice gives evidence that although unseen, certain creatures lie hidden just out of sight.
Up until November, a green heron graced our pond, its bright orange legs and feet trailing behind it when it flew, startled by the presence of a human, into the stand of trees near the pond’s edge. Probably forced south by cold weather, our heron may now be somewhere in Mexico, displaying its beauty to more southern eyes.
The rose bushes on either side of the driveway grew impressive flowers of pink, red and yellow until early October. Now mostly bloomless and forlorn, they quietly await the next season of growth.
Lizards that used to dart out from behind stumps and rocks not long ago have almost disappeared. With less sun to bask in, they seem averse to showing themselves at all.
Their energetic yips suddenly breaking the night’s serene silence, coyotes awaken me. Just as suddenly, they stop. Sleep returns quickly and leaves the raucous interruption more dream than reality by the light of the morning.
On another night, two owls on a telephone wire trade hoots in the quiet. They leave only when I come to satisfy my curiosity and shine a flashlight beam up at them. Gracefully gliding away into the darkness, the owls will find a new perch where they can converse unmolested.
The rain comes lightly at first, like tiny tap dancers from heaven, then in a downpour, drumming a steady beat on the roof. As the rain begins to subside, water drips off the leaves of the trees like tears. Swollen by the rain, a small stream winds its way down into the valley from the pond and forms rushing waterfalls over the rocks in its path.
Days later, the stream, too tiny now to roar or rush, whispers. Flakes of pyrite reflect brilliantly in the shallow water, golden reminders of last summer. Unlike the cougar, summer will return.
