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A Sense of Place: Your California State ParksMany of you know our local parks to be a fabulous place for a quick drive, a picnic lunch, a good surfing set, or as a "must do" for your out of town guests. We love our parks. But how many of you remember that you are landowners? And not just a tiny bit of land, but thousands and thousands of acres? These parks are literally yours, your legacy as citizens of the State of California. I’ve been invited to write a regular column here about your landholdings, your parks. I grew up on a wheat and cattle ranch in the middle of nowhere in the eastern Washington desert. Although married to a native Central Californian for over 25 years, I am relatively new to California: two-and-a-half years. Land and place, as a farm and ranch girl, mean everything to me. I am in awe of my new state and this magnificent system of state parks. But even if you have been lucky enough live here your entire life, I don’t think you take your parks for granted: beloved seems to be the word I hear most when I ask people about their parks. I once heard about a fundamental difference between how Native Americans looked at place and how Europeans looked at place. This is a huge generalization, but I’m trying to make a point. Traditionally, native people didn’t travel very far, but knew their land deeply, vertically, while Europeans tended to cover a lot of territory, but didn’t know it well; they knew the surface, they lived horizontally. When a ranching friend of mine was growing up in Wyoming on a ranch encompassing thousands of acres, his grandfather took him out riding one day. They stopped, dismounted, and his grandfather drew a three-foot square on the ground with a stick. He said, "Sit here, study the life in this square for two hours, and you’ll understand the ranch. Look at it. Really look at it." My friend did. That has stayed with me for years and years. I want to impart that with this column. Beyond the great surf waves, horseback rides, and picnics, I want to show you the vertical life of your parks. The people who have dedicated their lives to caring for and protecting them, the volunteers who teach our children about nature - the otters, the kangaroo rats, the cougars - the history of people who lived there, the pickleweed, and the chocolate lilies. I want to hear your stories as well. Since it’s November, let’s start with the Monarch Butterfly Grove off Highway One between Pismo Beach and Oceano. If you have been there, you know the magic of which I speak, thousands upon thousands of black and orange butterflies overwintering in a Eucalyptus grove. Visitors will stare transfixed at the spectacle, myself included, the sun shining on my back, the visual feast overhead, and suddenly that to-do list doesn’t seem so important. It can wait. This – this gentle, tranquil dance. To stand witness suddenly becomes the most important thing, the most calming thing. But the deeper story includes the 50 volunteer docents who make the experience. They are almost fanatical in their enthusiasm for the butterflies. They work with Dr. Dennis Frey at Cal Poly to complete population counts. They spend hours gardening the grove, removing invasive plants and planting native species. They spend hours training and planning educational talks for visitors. And they have infinite patience and joy talking to our visitors. So with this first column, I want leave you with one of my favorite images of the parks. It’s a quiet January morning, a bit cool, a bit foggy, but by noon, the sun will be out. One of the butterfly docents, Heather Brasco, is middle-aged, beautiful, and prepared for the day in her khaki shorts and tennis shoes. She is all business, her eyes to the ground, scanning. Docents do this every morning to ensure our visitors don’t inadvertently step on butterflies. She’s quiet and focused. Suddenly she stops, leans over, and gently scoops a Monarch off the ground. Its wings are closed, showing only the dull brown camouflage that makes the butterfly hard to spot on the ground, and therefore easily stepped on. It’s too cold to fly back up to the safety of the trees. Heather looks at me, smiles, and gently cups her hands around the butterfly. "This is what I call a butterfly spa, " she says quietly. Softly, she blows gentle breath into her cupped hands. She does this several times, patiently waiting. Finally, the butterfly opens its beautiful wings, and, warm now, it flutters up to the trees. |
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