A Late V-Day Gift

Many of the larger local canyons have relatively accessible perennial streams.  These can generally be reached by driving or hiking along their banks.  There are steeper more remote canyons, however, that contain intermittent tributaries to these perennial streams.  Because there have been no natural or anthropogenic disturbances—fire or forestry—in these side canyons for many, many decades, they have become choked with brush.  Some of them can still be navigated by foot if you don't mind some rough walking, (In the image above, Tiger is trying to surmount a narrow cascade to avoid the thicket.) but others are nearly impenetrable.

I found myself in one of the latter yesterday.  It was the proverbial dog-haired-thicket.  I persisted for about half an hour, but as I struggled through the alder, big-toothed maple, and downed spruce, I began to wish for a helicopter evacuation.  When I finally turned around, I started to think that the afternoon had been a failure.  At Rural Ways we live by the axiom that "there is always something interesting to be found in these little canyons," but it was looking as though I might have found the exception to the rule.  I felt sad as the thorns pulled at my clothes and slapped at my face.  I wondered if I should submit a story about this brush choked slog to the editors at Rural Ways, or if I should just cover it up.

It was at this low point in my emotional journey that my eyes fell on the balloon.  It was one of those shiny aluminum foil balloons that come with a big bunch of flowers and say "Get Well Soon," or something like that.  My first thought was that every time some suburbanite releases one of those silly things—either intentionally or unintentionally—it returns to the earth as trash, and most of the time it trashes the woods, where you sort of wish it wouldn't.  I forgot all about trash, however, when I reached for the object and discovered that it was a Valentine's Day balloon with a dollar attached to it by a pink ribbon.  My spirits soared.

I stuck the package in my pocket and made a bee-line for the Chev.  The whole way down, I was thinking, this is one of those moments of destiny.  I'm going to un-roll the dollar and find a message with a telephone number:  "You were meant for me.  Call me.  Love, Candi."  It was going to be one of those Hollywood endings where Candi would whisk me away from the drudgery of Rural Ways to a villa in the south of France or something.  I mean, some chicks must dig grumpy, aging, dumpster-divers, with an 8pm bedtime, right?  When I got to the Chev, I cut the pink ribbon with a shaking hand.

The dollar was, of course, just a dollar.  After the initial surge of disappointment, I began to be irritated with Candi.  I mean, if not a French villa, you could have at least sent me a ten.  Even my irritation evaporated, however, when I realized that there is always something interesting to be found in these little canyons.