Magical Wildwood

Fairies, come take me out of this dull world

For I would ride with you upon the wind

Run on top of the disheveled tide

And dance upon the mountains like a flame!

~William Butler Yeats (The Land of Heart's Desire)

Looking for Fog in All the Wrong Places

It's the season of fog. That time of year when blankets of dense mist steal into the coastal canyons and valleys while the world sleeps to envelope the landscape in a veil of monochromatic opacity. It's also the season of darkness. That time of year when we all determine (or somebody determines) that daylight isn't worth saving anymore. So we unceremoniously cast it aside in favor of a late afternoon drive home from work with the headlights on. 

I have conflicted feelings about what we call this "Standard Time." I bristle at being forced by celestial bodies and government functionaries out of the blue and into the black before I'm ready. And I abhor what the premature darkness portends: incessant devil winds and the unseasonable heat and predictable wildfires they bring. On the other hand, autumnal blue skies and cool morning air are something to be relished. And then there's the fog that makes driving a challenge, but transforms familiar ground into a surreal and oddly disconcerting playground of mystery and enchantment. 

On the Sunday morning that we all "fell back," the cloud bank clung close to the ground, obscuring views and transforming familiar landmarks into strange apparitions. It was a perfect moment to go wander the in the hills. But I surmised that I had an extra hour in the bank, so I squandered it on caffeine and the news. My dallying aside, visibility was still poor by the time I finally left the house and started for the Nicholas Flat trail deep in the Santa Monica Mountains. I've trod that trail alone in the silent murk before and it's a ethereal experience. But as I began the climb into the Santa Monicas on State Road 23, the cloud cover thinned and began to dissipate. I'd lingered too long at home. Aggravated, I doubled-back into the pea soup skies that hung over the Conejo Valley naively believing that I still had a chance at a ghost walk.

Heading for Wildwood Regional Park

I figured the canyon-bottoms would cling to the fog the longest, so I headed for the ravines of Wildwood Reginal Park. But as I raced toward my destination, visibility improved as the cloud bank began to lift. By the time I pulled into the crowded parking lot along Avenida de Los Arboles, the heavens were still gray, but the canyons were completely clear of the cottony sky candy I came to play in.  

Determined, I alighted from my car and headed into the canyon. I knew the masses would be amassed along the mesa, at the teepee, and down by the falls, so I avoided those areas. Instead, I dropped into the cool green of the Indian Creek drainage where I knew I could find some solitude. There, I found a decent amount of water flowing in the creek-bed. The water is disgusting mind you as it is mostly residential run-off that is full of chemical pollutants, dog shit, and other suburban refuse. But when you're in the bowels of the canyon sitting creek-side, listening to the squirrels chattering and the brook babbling, its easy to ignore all that. Certainly the crawfish and the ducks don't seem to mind. 

As I strode down-canyon, something large and gray flashed near the water's edge to my right. A Great Blue Heron perhaps. Or maybe a gnome. Neither likes to be seen. Further on, I found a pleasant glade guarded by Sycamore and Oak trees where I stopped and imagined that I had inadvertently stumbled into Mirkwood. Above, voices of excited children sitting in the "Indian Cave" punctuated the silence. The Chumash inhabited these canyons for 8,000 years before the white man arrived which explains some of the current park nomenclature (Indian Cave) and motifs (the tee pee).      

Further into the canyon, I veered off the beaten path and onto the Lynnmere connector trail. The North Fork of the Arroyo Conejo runs adjacent to this path here so I made my way down to the water's edge to see what I could see. In the dark shade of the canyon I found a placid pool surrounded by luxurious and colorful foliage, proof that Southern California does in fact have a fall season. It was a marvelous spot that I'm fairly certain is inhabited by fairies and unicorns.  

After indulging my over-active and phantasmagoric imagination, I started back the way I came. I was still disappointed that I'd missed the early morning mist, but was quite satisfied to have experienced a little bit of the mystery and magic of Wildwood.