Wild Blackberries

Wild Blackberries

Published August 2003, CommunitySeed

9 AM and the teenage boy rolls out of his sleepy bed to meet the cool, foggy morning. A hasty meal of peanut butter and jelly toast and orange slices is chased by chocolate-flavored instant breakfast drink. A screen door bangs closed as he hastens to capture the last cool minutes before the fog burns off at the appointed hour of ten.

Pausing momentarily to focus on the whipporwhill whistle of the old steam railroad at Roaring Camp as it echoes for miles through canyons of redwoods and across tan corduroy rolling hills of California grass, he turns to finding another that will join with him for the day’s exploits.

Getting lost for the moment in a stand of eucalyptus trees amid the crashing of his steps through the loose shards of bark, he scoops up acorns and they become projectiles aimed at nothing in particular. The last of the morning’s fog still dripping from the leaves above, the air is full of the pungent smell that reminds him of cough medicine. It will soon be coming from his hands as well.

Having found a co-conspirator for the day, they speak of secrets and adventures that might be gotten within their domain. They hop the barbed wire fence that keeps cows in but does not keep boys out. A grove of live oaks finds its way through the waning fog its ruff of prickly thistles setting the day’s first challenge. It captures the boys and they plot their way into the inner sanctum under the trees. Once inside they climb the long limbs that hang low, bend and twist, some even touching the ground. And then a second challenge. Can they make it from one end of the grove to the other without touching the ground? Grunts and shimmying, called dares to match one feat or another, skin scraped raw by the hard, dry bark, bits of moss stuck in hair, and finally success.

They emerge from the shadow of the oaks and back into the field of parched, brown grass. The fog is gone and the air beginning to warm. The forest is in sight now. Just half a mile of open pasture separates them from it.

A hail of wild oats sails past the boy, missing their mark. “You’re gonna get it!” he calls to the other and the chase is on. Galloping across the open space they grab handfuls of the passing stems, pulling the oats off with a satisfying brrrrrp that is felt in the hand more than heard. Salvo upon salvo. Volley and return.

“Got you bad!”

“No you didn’t. Missed!”

They follow a zigzag path toward the forest until they collapse laughing and gasping for breath.

“No trespassing. Henry Cowell Foundation.” Long pause. “Riiight.”

“Hey, if we climb the fence over there, we can say that we never saw the sign!”

“Have you ever even seen anybody out here?”

“No.”

“Well then, c’mon. It doesn’t matter.”

Years of practice make climbing over the rickety board gate a snap and they’re into the dark shade of the forest. The old dirt logging road winds gently through the trees deeper into the canyon. Tall firs amid the taller redwoods with their shaggy, rust colored bark have carpeted the road with dropped needle-like leaves. The lingering musty smell and rings of dampness around their bases speak of the tree’s symbiosis with the morning fog. But the boys don’t know this or care. They only care that this road through the redwoods leads to the furthest reaches of their domain.

At the deepest point of the canyon the road meets a stream. A bridge of some kind of logs left from a century ago spans the creek at a narrow point. Wagon upon wagon of lumber and Portland cement passed over the bridge in its heyday. Today it carries just two boys as they deftly negotiate past the missing bits where you can see through to the water below.

The road winds back, in mirror image, up the opposite side of the canyon. Another gate, less rickety and they’ve reached the frontier of their realm. They plumb into the darkness of collapsed limestone kilns and find nothing more than dirt and crumbled bricks in cramped spaces. The bony remains of a ramshackle barn yield a few rusty square iron nails among the splintered boards and an old fragment of paper with burned edges and words that are no longer decipherable.

Leaving the shade of the forest, crossing another field of dry grass, they venture deeper into the unknown territory of the old limestone quarry. The heat of the day is fully present now and beads of sweat flow down their faces. This whole world smells like a bale of hay. Hidden cicadas chirp out their eerie chorus filling the silence that would otherwise be there. The rocky cliffs of limestone beckon, as only adventure can, challenging the boys to master them. The climb is slow and in the end a quicker and less treacherous approach prevails. Victory is theirs when they reach the highest point and can survey the place from above. Planting a large branch upright in a pile of rocks, they devise a suitable name and apply it to commemorate the event. The “Warner/Howell Quarry Expedition” has reached the peak and the world is amazed.

Gradual awareness dawns that stomachs are empty and mouths are dry. A plan is hatched to retrace their path to one home base or the other for a lunch of PB&J’s, Oreos and tall glasses of milk. The company is mobilized and the withdrawal begun.

As always the return is faster than the way out. The first gate and road winding back down to the creek pass almost without being noticed. But at the bridge, the cool, clear water of the creek beckons and their thirst makes them no match for it. They plunge down the bank to the water’s edge, fall to their hands and knees in the sand, and thrust their faces to the water. They splash and wet their heads. Droplets fall down backs of shirts causing shivers and shrieks. They suck in the coolness of the water, slaking their thirsts and for a bit, the urgency of their retreat is forgotten.

Hot, sweaty sneakers and sticker-laden socks fly off, landing in random scattered piles in the sand. Pant legs are provisionally rolled up and feet meet the numbing coldness of water that was underground in limestone caves just half a mile upstream. Water skeeters flit about dodging the invasion of feet and thrown stones cascading from the heavens. A rolled pant leg slides down and is hastily pushed back up again but not before it becomes a soggy holder of a bit of sand and gravel.

Thus refreshed the boys are ready to continue. Pulling out those stickers that are most annoying, they don their shoes and socks, and going round the bridge by hopping rocks across the stream, head for home. Once again in the full sun they sweat as they trudge back across the cow pasture. The smell of dried grass is punctuated every now and then by a ripe cow pie. They are back over the barbed wire fence at the end of the fields and nearly home when they arrive at the blackberry patch.

After a short discussion, a final diversion from the expedition ensues. Skillfully they work their way into the heart of the patch, thankful for tough jeans and yet still yelping at the occasional pricks and scrapes. There are plenty of ripe berries and soon their hands and mouths are stained red and purple from finding the best and especially gooshy ones that the birds have missed. A cap becomes an impromptu basket.

Secreted in their chairs made of giant driftwood stumps, two boys cool in the shade of a weeping willow and devour their well-earned meal. Soon a mother will find that the goblins have left an empty milk carton, an open half loaf of bread, and peanut butter and jelly knives out on the counter with an empty Oreos tray. In return they’ve left a mound of ripe wild blackberries.