(August 19) Summer’s last sigh manifested itself in a scalding heat wave. Our plans to flee last week to Palomar were foiled by the Chihuahua fire which, though not on Palomar mountain, was close enough that the weather map showed smoke. This week’s fire took place in the mountains East of San Diego but the skies above Palomar were clear.

Palomar Mountain is about 1.5 hours drive from San Diego and it has damp forest paths and loads of pines and cedars. It was a relief when we could turn off the air conditioner and open the windows and feel the comfortable mountain air. We drove down a shady road to the Doane Pond parking area. When we’d visited Palomar before (in spring or early summer), there were tons of dragon flies, swallows and goldfinches. This time the atmosphere was different. There were more butterflies than before, but only a few dragon flies and not one single swallow. But the air was beautiful. I looked up at the calico shades of green made by the different trees—light ashy green cotton woods, greenish yellow cedars and blue green pines—and inhaled air redolent of cedar. The cattails were beginning to go to seed showing light beige puffs at their tips and some of the stinging nettles were over 7 feet tall. I could hear the laughs of Steller’s jays and the knocking of an acorn woodpecker.

Acorn woodpeckers are a new birder’s friend. They are obvious. They fly in a loping wave pattern with white feather patches flashing from the bottoms of their black wings. Their call is mocking and loud. When they land in the trees, instead of hiding, like many birds, they call out and drum against the trees. They are beautiful birds with their striking red cap, black mask and white face. As if afraid that someone might not know they’ve been there, they leave trees riddled with holes stuffed with acorns. Some of the dead trees have small oak trees sprouting from them.

From the pond there was an occasional splash of a fish or frog or a quack of a duck. The huge black oak trees fractured the sunlight. On the path I had to tiptoe around the California sisters (Adelpha bredowii) sunning on the dirt. Coming back around the upper end of the pond (eastern, perhaps) I saw an unfamiliar umbel. I approached it and saw it wasn’t an umbel at all, but yarrow (Achillea millefolium). I’ve been wanting to find some yarrow growing in the wild. I scolded myself for not recognizing it immediately from its fine feathery leaves. There was a lot of yarrow around. Yarrow is actually in the aster family and if you look at the individual flowers that make up its false umbel, you can see they are actually made up of more little flowers: a little tower of flowers surrounded by petals. Although the name is millefolium (million leaves) perhaps it should also be millefloras. It is nice to know that if I’m ever bleeding near Doane pond (caught by a flying fishing hook perhaps), I have a way to staunch the blood.

There were many other flowers and so many butterflies that it seemed I couldn’t take a picture of a flower without one landing on it. There was a huge patch of roses near the parking lot. The hips weren’t ripe but I could smell the delicious scent of the fruit in the heat of the sun. They have an intense sweetness rather than the delicate sweetness of the flowers.

The Doane Valley Nature trail has a useful little book you can pick up for a $.25 donation at the trailhead. It refers to numbered posts along the trail. As I walked down the shady path I saw some red berries. I thought they might be unripe blackberries but the leaves were different. In the guide there was a picture showing they were raspberries. I could only find 2 ripe ones. Everything else had been picked clean by hikers or wildlife. They were delicious.

When I walk through the quiet shade of evergreen forests I think of growing up in the Pacific Northwest. The forests were damper but the pine smell is reminiscent. Alone but happy and comfortable, there was no pressure to be one way or another or to think of things to say. All you had to do is watch.

I stood still and watched the forest. A lizard crept across dead branches. The flash of yellow from a wandering satyr comma butterfly, the slow cautious movement of a squirrel on the ground, looking for food before it raced to safety on a tree and flicked its tail at me as a warning. By being still I could notice the odd movement in tree branches that wasn’t the wind but rather a nuthatch leaving one tree and flying to another. I could hear the hum of flies and bees, the rustle of wings, and the distant chirp as the nuthatch called to its partner and they flew off to a tall pine. I moved again and was surprised how much noise my footsteps made. I looked around to see if an animal moved at the same time, but it was only me. I caught up to Rowshan who was sitting in front of a huge incense cedar. The bark of cedars was ropey and rough. For some reason it made me think of lava. I saw a yellow headed bird with a black cap and greenish body (Wilson’s warbler).

As the forest opened into meadow I noticed interesting purple flowers whose leaves had a strong minty scent. Fritillaries and other insects seemed to love them. I suspected the mint family and later learned they were mustang mint. We were looking forward to going to our favorite swimming hole, but the trail was blocked with a sign that said “Closed for plant restoration.” Instead we headed back down the French Creek trail to the Weir trail and went to the historic weir: a small shallow pool made by a little dam, guarded by a stone tower that looked like a chimney with a window at the top. There was no one at the pool so we changed into our bathing suits and took a dip in the cool refreshing water. Roses and nettles dangled their leaves in the water. Wild Celery grew among the rushes. Hummingbirds darted their beaks into the orange monkey-flowers growing around the pond. The hillsides around the pool were steep and crowned with pine trees. I noticed towering cumulus clouds gathering to the north and threatening thunderstorms,  but above us the sky was still clear.