Moments of awe and grace are so very unexpected. The tight ess curves of Highway 1 above Russian Gulch demand one's full attention and gazing out the window at the hazy blue expanse of the Pacific and its coast is more a case of sneak peeks while keeping one's eye firmly on the road. Yet yesterday as I indulged in one of those seruptious glances, a red-tailed hawk appeared in my field of vision at the road's edge. So close that I could see individual definition in the feathers of its mottled brown underside, beak and rusty orange tail feathers. It seemed to rise from nowhere with such a huge wingspan, upturned smaller feathers at the tips of the wing reaching skyward as it soared away on the warm air currents.
The silence of the roadside at Styla Grove evokes inner calm and peace. A concert of small birds filters through the underbrush while the limbs of a massive tree undulate their scarred length toward the light and are inhabited by myriad circular spiderwebs of every size. Apple blossom petals float slowly down from the trees in a graceful ballet onto a carpet of new grass. Birdsong provides theme music. Apple blossoms struggle on trees where lichen has stubbornly taken hold and drapes itself in long hairlike streams.
I was hesitant to walk the path through the redwood and fir trees to what was once Styla's open meadow--muddy, uneven and littered with branches the path is somewhat more than I think my knee was ready to attempt yesterday. I have not been to that magical place for a very long time; yet, have a memory of vivid wild iris around a small pond.
It has been too long since I have been out alone drinking in the earth's peace. Cawing of a crow or rook, chirrupps and rustling of small birds in the underbrush, sounds of the air moving through the grasses and trees. Rusty green poison oak leaves hug an old fence whose wooden cross pieces and pickets are worn and weathered--bleached to a soft silver. The low insistent moan of the sea remains constant.
Along the darker portions of Fort Ross Road, a few turkeys hustle across the road and into the dense forest. Their dark sillouettes are barely visible against the dark trees. At the crest, dark shapes of hawks float above the newly green hills.
Few wild flowers are along the road that is usually bordered with bright California poppies and wild iris--too early, not enough rain who knows. Fields of wild mustard are in evidence at the vineyards closer to home.
It's about the light--its always about the light but especially in the early days of spring.
Henweigh's on Highway 116 for sheperd's pie for lunch.
