Highlands of the Los Angeles Basin
In the style of Aldo Leopold – The sounding of rushing wind pounds my ears as I turn to face the burning red sky. The grasses I like to remember as waving, deep green, and full of life now lay sun dried and dormant. The echo of a hawk’s screech echoes throughout the valleys and hills of the Las Virgenes Highlands. The oak dotted chaparral foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains that seperate the San Fernando Valley from the rest of the Los Angeles Basin are unique, and its mostly unforested features allow for exquisite views in all directions. The mighty blue Pacific lies just to the west beyond the green tinged Santa Monicas, while to the east the snow capped peaks of the San Gabriel mountains are visible through the valley haze. The tall grass poked my sides as I maneuvered my way through a skinnier section of trail, and the barren coast live oak branches hauntingly hanging above my head reminded me this landscape would soon resemble the meadows featured in The Sound of Music once the rains of spring came. As the sun dipped below the 3000′ peaks of the Santa Monicas the all too familiar yipping of a pack of coyotes was audible, sounding relatively close to me, presumably hunting a cotton tail rabbit. Dust covered my sneakers as I trudged back to the trailhead, the cold of dusk seeping over the hills, dark fully enveloping my surroundings as I drove back down into the valley.
In the style of Mable Wright – The cool, damp woods surrounding Burlington differ greatly from the sweltering savannah of Southern California. In the forested Champlain Valley, mixed armies of deciduous and coniferous trees stand tall and at attention as far as the eye can see, and the mess of sticks and leaves are sparsely covered by pearly patches of snow. A blanket of snow covers the surrounding vegetation rather than dust, and the timid sun sparingly graces the cold earth with its presence. Poison ivy is the largest threat in my wooded grove rather than menacing rattlesnakes, however I find myself warier of the former. Amongst the bald foothills of the Santa Monica mountains, the lone oak guards its sanctuary on the summit, and its naked form prepares to embrace the cooling rains to come, needing to be refreshed after months of intense heat and sun exposure. The loud howls of coyotes fill the nights on one side of the country while the silence in Vermont is unbroken except maybe by the hoot of a snow owl or the stirring of a bobcat. Wind blows both through the coastal California grass and Vermont maples, and no grass in either region is a stranger to swaying. As the day comes to an end, the moon rises amongst the clouds of east while the sun beams strongly in the west, continuing its reign for another 3 hours.
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