On the Verge

The transition from summer into fall out West has become one of my favorite times of year. After months of heat and dryness under the glare of the California sun, subtle changes begin to occur. Right around the same time the sunflowers and bumper crop of tomatoes start showing up at the farmer's market, the nights get noticeably cooler. A lightweight blanket on the bed starts to seem like a good idea. Windows open up earlier in the evening and stay open longer in the morning. And then one day it happens...

I walk out my apartment door at noon, bracing myself for the blast of heat waiting on the other side. And instead I'm greeted by the pleasant feeling of fresh air with a hint of ocean humidity. The breeze even has a little bit of a cool edge to it. Moments like this feel amazing, especially when they come as a surprise.

This is the time of year that teaches us how to savor. We can't help but enjoy completely everything the world has to offer. Thickly sliced tomatoes layered with basil and fresh mozzarella, ears of sweet corn dripping with butter, ripe peaches and juicy watermelon. Bouquets of cheerful early fall sunflowers, vivid zinnias and stunning dinnerplate dahlias, which all seem so much more colorful and hardy than their early summer relatives. They grew through the heat and will stand until the frost, helping to celebrate the harvest time that precedes the long, cold winter. 

We can also savor those last days of Indian summer, because we know they won't last. Soon the vegetables will all be picked, some of them canned or frozen to eat throughout the coming winter. Soon the trees will start to change their colors and the first cold rain of fall will soak the ground. And eventually, the snow will return.

But not today. Today the sun feels warm and the bright faces of the sunflowers shift as they watch its glow trek across the blue sky. There are peppers waiting to be picked, cucumbers to pickle and a seemingly endless supply of squash to share. And in the evening when the sun goes down and there's a chill in the air, it might be the perfect night for a fire in the backyard. On the verge of fall, it's possible to enjoy the best of both worlds - cherishing the end of one, while welcoming the newness of the next, reminding us yet again that the only constant in life is change. 

Come Rain or Shine

We've been famously short on moisture here in California recently, with 2013 now having the distinction of being the driest year on record. According to tree ring comparisons, climatologists say it may also have been the driest year in five centuries. But no amount of statistical analysis can make a dent in the rainfall deficit.

The drought makes for compelling headlines to accompany shocking images of vastly shrunken water reservoirs and dire predictions of produce price spikes and shortages. Farmers are planting 200,000 less acres this season and in an effort to prevent disease and insect infestation, tens of thousands of mature drought-stressed almond trees are being ripped out of the ground. But while these stories generate sympathy and discussion, they too cannot produce any rain. No amount of knowledge, research or prediction will - all we can do is wait.

On the clear days, I sit outside on the deck in shirtsleeves soaking up the midday sun with a chilled glass of wine and a salad. The weather is perfect for tackling yard work - warm with just a hint of breeze. We rake up dried leaves and cut down dead limbs, hauling everything to a burn pile at the back of the property. I mow the lush green lower part of the yard, where what little rain we've had tends to settle. The scent of narcissus and daffodils rise up around me as I wage my never-ending war against the weed sprouts in the flower beds.

On the infrequent rainy days, I huddle up on the couch under a fleece blanket in my warmest pajamas with a bowl of hot chili. Low gray clouds hide the mountain peaks out the living room window as droplets pelt the skylight above my head. I catch up on my reading while the cat naps in my lap and when the rain really starts coming down I pause to admire the sheer white curtains of moisture drifting across a backdrop of dark tree trunks in the neighbor’s yard. The fire in the wood stove burns all day long as I feed it pieces of the oak trees we cut down last spring.

They say we will not get enough rain the rest of this season to make up for the past few months of sun. Towns around the state need to ration water and so people should expect fewer showers, parched gardens and dirtier cars. No one dares to talk about wildfire season yet. Instead we talk about forecasts and miracles, hoping each new inch that falls will take us closer to that mythical yearly average.

In spite of all the worries and fears, I find myself appreciating more these days. The hot sun on the back of my neck in the middle of winter. The daffodils that sprouted and bloomed despite the lack of moisture. But most especially, those glorious days when the clouds gather and darken overhead, releasing their precious moisture. I breathe in the smell of damp earth as I walk around the yard with my camera, trying to capture the ephemeral beauty of the fallen rain.

Thoughts Across the Central Valley

I had one of those rare experiences last weekend driving back home from a visit with my aunt in the Bay area, where the beauty of the present moment completely overwhelmed me. I was filled with wonder for the sights I saw while crossing the Central Valley even though I had made the drive many times before. Maybe it was the clarity of the air having finally been washed clean by the previous night's rain after two long parched months, or the disorientation imparted by the high gray blanket of cirrostratus clouds rippling across the sky. Or perhaps as my understanding of the valley culture has increased over time, my resistance to and judgement of the land has been reduced. I see now that where there is conflict, there can also be beauty.

Soil and Sky

The scale of agricultural operations in the Central Valley is epic. Coming down the east side of the coast range, rolling ranch lands give way to a vast expanse of orchards, vineyards and fields. This valley is the primary source of tomatoes, almonds, grapes, cotton, apricots and asparagus for the United States. Hundreds of miles of aqueducts bisect the land transporting snow melt to irrigate these crops. The largest feedlot in the country spreads across hundreds of acres along the interstate. These facts do much to generate controversy and strong opinions in peoples' minds for many reasons.

Grapevines

My very first trip across the seemingly homogeneous landscape left me feeling unsettled. I described the flowering almond orchards to a friend as "living things lined up in a perfect grid pattern with absolutely nothing growing on the ground beneath them. Beautiful, but kind of eerie too." Since that time, I have driven past countless farm workers picking in the fields, purchased local produce from independently owned farm stands and stores, and heard the descendants of migrant farm workers reflect back on their family contribution to valley agriculture with great pride, having overcome adversity and raised children who were able to go to college. I've experienced the impact of weather on the variety of fruits and vegetables that arrive in my weekly local produce basket, and better understand now that while a night below freezing may not affect me, it is a very real financial threat for our farming community. These realizations have given humanity and purpose to an otherwise artificial looking landscape.

Flowering almond orchards in the spring

Conversely, I have connected the sickly brown haze obscuring the mountains and sky at the end of every October with the valley nut harvest when all the trees are being violently shaken, and been cautioned to avoid traveling through the valley when the cotton plants are being chemically defoliated. My job at work revolves around monitoring unhealthy levels of ozone in the summer, and particulate matter in the winter. I have seen how conversations about snow pack, groundwater and water rights immediately increase the level of intensity in a room. I have read about the impacts of shifting wealth over the past few decades, as more and more acreage is concentrated into fewer and fewer hands. The Central Valley is now known as much for its stunning poverty rates as its agricultural power, with isolated rural communities that lack even the most basic services most of us take for granted. History and tradition are now laced with fragility and concern, as the people of the Central Valley come to terms with the results of increased production and profit.

Cotton tufts

It is important for us to consider our need for food in balance with the resources required to produce it. We would do well to remember that although our current agricultural system has changed dramatically over the past one hundred years, it was started by people attempting to meet a basic human need. All of us can appreciate the sense of pride that comes from self-sufficiency, and many of us know a special connection to nature through the seasons. These sentiments are still felt by farmers today, even in an age of industrialized agricultural practices. Perhaps the first step toward compromise involves opening our eyes - to the people who own and are employed by the industry, to the resources that are being used and the impacts that occur as a result, to the consumers who partake of the bounty from this land, and to the land as it exists today. If we can break away from our indignation even for a moment to look around with a fresh perspective, we might see that humans have accomplished the impossible in so many ways, harnessing the power of nature to our advantage for thousands of years. We derive inspiration and connection from the natural landscape at the same time we reside upon it and use its resources. Perhaps in being able to acknowledge both the beauty and complexity present in places where controversy resides, we can find common ground and move forward in our efforts to peaceably sustain.

Ranch land on the east side of the coast range

Changing Seasons

After six months of verdant green, the valley is shifting into the dry golden summer season, so I took a drive this morning to document some of the changes taking place.

The olive groves are in "bloom" right now, which may not appear very spectacular from the highway, but close up the flowers have their own unique beauty.

Winter citrus have been forgotten for the moment, now that we've all eaten our fill and moved on to strawberries and cherries.

But the farmers haven't completely forgotten about them. Spring is a good time to trim up the trees so they're primed for picking again next winter.

Pomegranate bushes happen to have a lot in common with the olive trees. Both are ancient fruits that have been cultivated for thousands of years around the Mediterranean, in a climate very similar to the central valley of California.

Where the olive tree flowers may lack in traditional beauty, the pomegranate blossoms more than make up for it.

Lake Kaweah is on the rise as ample snowpack from the Sierra melts and runs down into the rivers and streams that feed into it. The trees that are slowly being submerged will reappear in the fall as water is used by farmers in the valley for irrigation and the lake level drops. Shortly thereafter, new leaves will appear on the trees as if nothing had ever happened.

Even as everything is drying up, there are still flowers to be found.

This flower's common name happens to be "Farewell to spring". What this says about the discoverer's opinion of the arrival of summer I'm not sure, but it certainly is nice to have such a profusion of beautiful flowers to usher in the season.

I ended my trip at the Sierra Garden Center where I bought a few drought tolerant herbs for the porch. I know from personal experience now that it's going to be a long dry summer, so a little bit of green by the front door will go a long way!