Figs on Saturday
After ducking through the first gate, I was just starting up the trail, fifty, maybe as much as seventy-five feet along, when a rider on a gravel bike came down the other direction. I hadn't noticed him coming down along the trail on the other side of the canyon, and was taken by surprise; his brakes took hold and tires scratched against the loose granite surface after, I believe, being as surprised by my sudden appearance as I was by his. "Sorry," he called out; "no problem," I replied.
"...Every day now, the figs grow softer
and fuller; they are taking the rain
and the warmth of a hundred summer day
and making them over into pleasure;
taut green skin and soft pink flesh..." (First Fig, Allison Elrod, 2009)
Without the clouds of yesterday hanging around, mucking things up, the morning was growing warmer. I spun easily, with all the slowness that a solo ride would allow. The rich brown dirt of a freshly scraped road drew my attention and I followed it as if it were made of yellow brick, missing my turn as a result. Eighty yards further along, the shoe tree came into view and, oops. Backtrack.
"...A profound emptiness and longing filled me.
In an instant I knew it all:
the end of seasons, days, and summers...
a knowledge that has slept within me
some forty-odd years to awaken here and now
at the smell of figs..." (The Smell of Figs, Torre Devito)
None of the trails are abandoned today; with a bright dawn and rising warmth none were expected to be. Also not unexpected, the further east my wheels spin, the more there are - people, I mean. Walkers, runners, equestrians, bicyclists, even one on tour, rig fully loaded for a journey of indeterminate duration. Hello's and good mornings exchanged all along the way.
"...Deep within the orchard you crush a fig
underfoot; the ripe, heady scent mingles with
the milky sap of the trees, fruit peeping out
from clusters of glossy leaves..." (Rawaan Aalkhatib)
The Cucamonga Creek spreads wide across my path. Across and away the slash of Skyline and beyond its end, leading to where I wish to go, deep into the mountain cleft where waters still flow, and only the quiet road winds. It was not to be, though. Not today; the way I thought would be open was closed. As I stood atop the dam looking down, the idea of going further down stream and then back up crossed my mind, but my legs said no, not today, and when the legs say no, no amount of coaxing or coercing will change the course. The higher grounds will have to await another weekend.
Back through the fig grove for a second time I stopped in the middle, trail winding forward and back. The silver branches were bare of leaves, new buds beginning to sprout, two of late summers' fruit left over, clinging to life unscathed. But the scent was there, as it always is, the fragrance unmistakable, rising from the leaves littering the ground, old fruit hidden beneath, branches spreading wide.
"...But in that moment everything has a scent to me
Even the moon flavors the air faintly
Of apricots and figs, vanilla sorbet..." (The Moon has a Scent, Virginia Stark)
"...Every day now, the figs grow softer
and fuller; they are taking the rain
and the warmth of a hundred summer day
and making them over into pleasure;
taut green skin and soft pink flesh..." (First Fig, Allison Elrod, 2009)
Without the clouds of yesterday hanging around, mucking things up, the morning was growing warmer. I spun easily, with all the slowness that a solo ride would allow. The rich brown dirt of a freshly scraped road drew my attention and I followed it as if it were made of yellow brick, missing my turn as a result. Eighty yards further along, the shoe tree came into view and, oops. Backtrack.
"...A profound emptiness and longing filled me.
In an instant I knew it all:
the end of seasons, days, and summers...
a knowledge that has slept within me
some forty-odd years to awaken here and now
at the smell of figs..." (The Smell of Figs, Torre Devito)
None of the trails are abandoned today; with a bright dawn and rising warmth none were expected to be. Also not unexpected, the further east my wheels spin, the more there are - people, I mean. Walkers, runners, equestrians, bicyclists, even one on tour, rig fully loaded for a journey of indeterminate duration. Hello's and good mornings exchanged all along the way.
"...Deep within the orchard you crush a fig
underfoot; the ripe, heady scent mingles with
the milky sap of the trees, fruit peeping out
from clusters of glossy leaves..." (Rawaan Aalkhatib)
The Cucamonga Creek spreads wide across my path. Across and away the slash of Skyline and beyond its end, leading to where I wish to go, deep into the mountain cleft where waters still flow, and only the quiet road winds. It was not to be, though. Not today; the way I thought would be open was closed. As I stood atop the dam looking down, the idea of going further down stream and then back up crossed my mind, but my legs said no, not today, and when the legs say no, no amount of coaxing or coercing will change the course. The higher grounds will have to await another weekend.
Back through the fig grove for a second time I stopped in the middle, trail winding forward and back. The silver branches were bare of leaves, new buds beginning to sprout, two of late summers' fruit left over, clinging to life unscathed. But the scent was there, as it always is, the fragrance unmistakable, rising from the leaves littering the ground, old fruit hidden beneath, branches spreading wide.
"...But in that moment everything has a scent to me
Even the moon flavors the air faintly
Of apricots and figs, vanilla sorbet..." (The Moon has a Scent, Virginia Stark)
road scraping in the spreading grounds
around the shoe tree
the wide wash of Cucamonga Creek
silver branches of the fig thicket spilling down the canyon
thicket
So much broom - going to be a lot of yellow along this trail soon
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