Old oaks

We leave the two-lane for a single lane paved road that moves from the grassland valley up into the oak-forested hills. Summer has turned the ground cover a golden yellow and the canopy above a sharp, dark green. The deep veined crevices of the oaks make them feel old to me and, I'm told, some of these are hundreds of years old. We are on a trek to look at a hunting cabin for a group event in a remote part of the Tehachapi Mountains. Here, bears and mountain lions outnumber people. This land, a working ranch, is undisturbed except for wayward cows and wild pigs. We turn a bumpy corner to find a golden eagle drinking from a cow trough and it takes startled flight, lighting upon an oaken branch to settle itself.

My companion, a biologist, shows me the telltale sign of trees distressed from drought. I feel an odd sense of heartache at this for reasons I can't explain. He says the trees give up on parts of themselves, allowing those parts to die and eventually fall away. Cells at the periphery of these areas are poised to crank up again should water relief come. Sacrificing some to save the whole seems noble to me, but then everything about oaks seems noble to me. And I feel blessed to be here amidst these old masters.

I captured this image of an oak back in the Spring. The colors behind the tree are the green and wildflowers of the time. This one is called Oaken Dreams.