asphalt pilgrims

it is uncommon for a desert to lack light. but here we are, cloaked in a damp kind of low shade. it is not surprising for these things to happen for those who live on the coasts, or who live in the Eastern parts of the country. but here we rely on the light; it is a pouring that informs time, change, ritual, sleep, exploration. without it we are disoriented, torpid; we seek to be low to the ground. we are suspicious. it is, maybe, because the wide open spaces are so inexhaustible that the thought of cloud cover enough to keep the whole stretch of day snuffed and diffused is mind boggling.

there is no rain- only the shocking tendrils of the smell of ambient water. we brace ourselves, let our skin lift slightly from our bones with the expectation of being sprinkled by rain. none comes. if you clamber high enough and stay your feet against wind, you can see that the sky dips and smudges towards other horizons, evidence that water is downward sighing somewhere. enough thirst of any kind (mind, body, bone, brain) kindles exasperation. you can combat it by reaching past your arms and waiting or you can put your ear to the ground and source the refuge of deep drinking elsewhere.


Toll canyon is a refuge of many kinds. for those trapped in suburbia it offers refuge from the grinding sound of perpetual highway traffic, for those of domesticated four legs it is a tonic for long naps and close quarters, for the wilder creatures (those displaced and divested of pure homestretches and tender greens) it provides shade, quiet and water. all kinds of living things manage to share this deep place despite its proximity to bulldozers, mobile home park spaces, five car garages and those tiny mechanisms installed to emit sounds terrifying to deer, elk and other garden-browsing creatures. in fact, the proximity to the lives of others requires the pilgrim to plod down the long and exquisitely manicured driveways of private homeowners, lambasted by barking dogs and eyed suspiciously by the gardening help. it is a feat of bravery to reach the head of the trail looking likely suspect: uncombed, slicked in spf, brandishing water jars, leaving trails of granola from a backpack that's seen better days...

but! after proceeding down a slight grade, here and there paved and tufted with eager penstemon, milk vetch, lupine and wild rose the road and the hillcuts give way (with relief) to a narrow canyon fringed with conifers, buffered with trembling aspen groves and grooved everywhere with moving water.

it is often a startlingly still place. this is likely because, due to small claims of private ownership, menacing (if unfounded) signs and that dreadful approach, few people venture into the canyon from its midpoint, choosing instead to access it  lower down the Big canyon. usually, it is hard to pinpoint the direction from which bird calls reach come, so tucked away in the steep branches are they. butterflies are attracted to the bluebells and the flax flowers and they serve as a kind of wobbling yellow atmosphere at shoulder height as one walks along. but birds and butterflies aside, water muffles both ambient sound and movement and it is more like swimming among coral formations than like tracking along forest trails. this pleasant kind of disorientation anchors me in the familiar natural world in an unusual way. here, i am mostly guided along by smell and the sensation of plants and breezes moving across my bare arms rather than by sight and sound. resplendent in blooms, buttercup, wild raspberry and young willows emit such a potent fragrance it is as if you can smell their burgeoning.

i wonder if this is how dogs move through the world: with their noses aloft, eyes closed to a slit, rushing at full speed through bracken and bush.

i am most cheered by the bravery of the wild strawberry. everywhere, it seems, the sprawling spiderlike leaves, with their red trailing stems, punctuate the topography of the little canyon. bright and modest, the little five petal flowers nod agreeably as the little winds jag and bloom in the canyon.

so? jam. and also because it is time to confront my relationship with rhubarb. that is, to cultivate a relationship with rhubarb. specifically. to me, its rigid red stalks are reminiscent of celery or chard, with their minerally woodiness and ungamely strings. but i was fortunate to be served something rhubarby, warm and baked in butter that immediately kindled excitement, and was further spurred on by a rather stoic pile of the stalks at last weekend's market.

somewhat overwhelmed by the esteemed Christine Ferber's recipe for strawberry rhubarb preserve (from her famous Mes Confitures) and put off by Alice Waters' adaptation in her Chez Panisse cookbooks, both of which call for a process involving three days of boiling, simmering, cooling, I took to Liana Krissoff's recipe (from her new, articulate, beautifully photographed, deliciously composed Canning for a New Generation which I can't recommend enough!) and am pleased to report that her traditional one-day escapade had glorious results.also, my clothes smell delicious, as a result of stove-vigilance.

it is humble thing, to melt down the complications of a plant's life. it is less humble to drag it across a thick piece of warm bread, velvety with a cloaking of soft butter. this gesture- toast and jam - heralds the integrity of those things that bloom in the uncomplicated bastions of quiet and shade, and who can find a refuge in the most unlikely of places.