On the Trail

A Trip to the
Great Beloved Somewhere

The bicycle sits ready in the driveway, primed for a Sunday bike ride. But something compels me to move it aside, pick up my car keys, and drive the 15 or so miles to my former home in Trancas Canyon, in the foothills above Malibu. The property I rented, lived and gardened on for more than a dozen years is up for sale.

Although the canyon had been homesteaded and owned by one family for a century, modern day things like inheritance taxes forced the heirs to put the family’s remaining 17-acre parcel up for sale, at a price so reasonable by today’s booming standards that it is expected to change hands very quickly. If not for stringent zoning, this rural homestead could become another bloated pocket of garish mini-estates.

So a very long era may be coming to an end. Pioneers are, by laws of time and nature, crusty old stock without a lot of newfangled notions. The million dollar price tag for their modest cinder-block home, some ramshackle trailers and rusted farm and well-digging equipment scattered on a rocky hill would have shocked these hard-working, thrifty and unpretentious old-timers.

They built the present house themselves after monstrous fires consumed their previous two homes on the same site, unprepossessing except for its hilltop privacy and incredible bird’s-eye coastal views.

Years ago they rented me and a friend a little trailer near their orchard of nut and fruit trees. It was a raw, barren spot beneath the last tier of their orchard, which was terraced into a hillside. The compacted adobe soil begged for a jackhammer to wrest one planting hole for the flower garden I wished to create there.

Years of work––a passionate, obstinate obsession––resulted finally in a bright apron of year- round bloom encircling our little abode. Though we were fortunate fire never visited the canyon while we lived there, we battled fierce winds, voracious rats, rabbit, birds and deer, destructive moles and ground squirrels, drought, heat, cold, to make the garden flourish.

Backdrop for the vivid orange of Chasmanthe, gold of Euryops, pink of western redbud and silver of Dusty Miller was the chaparral-coated flank of Zuma Ridge, high above us and occasionally wearing a mustache of mist.

Living on private property in Trancas Canyon provided us access to trails little used except by coyote and deer. Though our "home life" was extremely rustic and basic, the trade-off was the great open space of the canyon to wander in.

In spring the wildflower show was as fine as anywhere; the creek usually flowed year round with pools deep enough to float in and let the dog take a swim; waterfalls spilled picturesquely down cliff faces in winter. And always there was a pervasive quiet filled only with the sounds of nature: wind rustling, birds chirping, insects humming, water tinkling.

For an urban refugee frazzled by the rat race, this was an unimaginably wonderful world to wind up in, full of peace and offering a plenitude that had no price tag.

I moved away only when the desire to own my own land won out, and my heart and budget were able to agree on a place in the Santa Monica Mountains of Agoura whose virtues weren’t that dissimilar from my former canyon home.

But Trancas had represented my first real home as a Californian; my first real growing grounds as a lifelong gardener; my first access to trails as a neophyte hiker. Its impact on my life would forever be indelible. No matter where I go, it will remain that great beloved somewhere I once lived.

So I find myself "called" back this particular Sunday, though no one has summoned me to visit. I don’t really know anyone here anymore, and potential buyers passing by see in me only a stranger with a wide-eyed plaintive countenance.

I worry what will happen to my old garden, now mature and self-sufficient, conceived with love and enthusiasm and providing so much joy and beauty. Will someone else value it, or will it become fodder for a bulldozer? Perhaps buried under the foundation of a guest house, barn, garage?

I pick some calla lilies, Dutch iris, freesias and roses to take home. I know the history of every plant and tree in this garden.

My dog Zoe is buried here beneath an almond tree she so loved for its shade, and which graces her grave with its white blossoms each spring. What will become of her resting place? It is all beyond my control.

Now I know what called me here today.

I came to say thank you, Godspeed and goodbye.