On the Trail




 

 

The cottonwood quest

Even on a nature quest, it may be advisable sometimes to follow a modified version of Glinda the Good Witch’s famous travel directive to the wizard-seeking Dorothy Gale.

On my quest to track down some native Fremont cottonwoods growing in the riparian woodland surrounding my rural Agoura community, I learned it was wise to “Follow the yellow leaf road.”

Some nice folks with Mountains Restoration Trust in Calabasas had sent a note alerting me that I could find a number of these tall trees—noted for broad airy canopies of fluttering foliage—along a hiking trail I’d traipsed for years.

It is with considerable chagrin that I confess to having missed something as large and lovely as this tree, Populus fremontii, named to honor 19th century explorer, soldier and politician John C. Fremont.

The “cottonwood” moniker derives from seeds borne in fluffy masses by female trees. In autumn, the deciduous cottonwood transforms into an incandescent mass of golden foliage.

The cottonwood is in the willow family. Willows can be the most undisciplined trees in form; even when trunks or limbs break and sprawl on the earth they continue to grow every which way. Intertwined willow branches appear substantial enough to securely cage King Kong.

Into just such a willow fortress my pup and I plunged in search of the willows’ cottonwood cousins. Adding further visual obfuscation were drifts of wild rose, poison oak, blackberry and golden currant. We wandered in circles like happy captives, caught in this remarkable willow maze, hoping for a sign.

And suddenly there it was, spiraling through the air to graze the pup’s nose: one glossy yellow heart-shaped leaf (to romantics; “triangular” to others) with whimsically serrated margins and pointy tips.

I reset the quest to ground level. The pup’s paws were planted on mounds of these leaves. I’d been taking only sidelong glances till then and failed to see this most conspicuous clue right underfoot.

Deer and coyote trails led in many directions, layered in drab decaying vegetation, except in this one area, where “we walked in fields of gold,” to borrow a line from a song by Sting.

I raised my eyes. Shed cottonwood leaves were trapped in spider webs—another clue missed. If only I’d swiveled my head. Risking neck strain, I peered skyward.

And there it soared above the tangled growth, the first of the Fremont cottonwoods we would track down that day, its stout gray trunk divided by numerous Y-shaped forks.

The tree’s summer foliage was a buoyant light green, aging to vivid golden yellow then fading to mustard brown. Fallen leaves reflected the varying color phases, creating a mosaic on the ground.

Occurring at the terminus of long, thin stems, the cottonwood’s leaves were the playthings of that afternoon’s wind gusts. Sunlight suffusing the tree’s crown produced a silver dappling on the quivering foliage.

With my water bottle, I toasted the beautiful native tree as well as the Mountains Restoration Trust staff, who inspired me to follow the yellow leaf road.

Glasser is a writer fascinated by the flora and fauna surrounding her home in the Santa Monica Mountains. Reach her at ranchomulholla@hotmail.com.


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