We were coming back from days of brushing; removing plants and shrubs from the trail corridor on a new national forest service trail. The whole area east of Ramona burned 5 years ago, and as we dug out agave, yucca and sage, we found burned root-balls from the previous generation of flora. The area has filled in with a variety of chest-high desert scrub and a passerby wouldn’t guess at the recent fire; the scars that are really visible are the fall-line trails that hikers and bikers cut as they continued to use the fragile land. As suburbia fades into federal land, 5000 foot peaks hide creeks and waterfalls that are running at record levels after the recent rainstorms. Residents head out from their palm-treed estates every day with dogs, bikes and friends to explore the space, and they all gravitate to the same community trails. There are a lot of problems with fall-line trails (straight down the mountain); they’re steep, slippery, dangerous, tiring, not fun to walk on, but most importantly they become drainages during rain storms and erode like crazy. The compacted soil supports no vegetation, and canyons as deep as my waist run right down the center of these paths. So, the national forest service designed and staked out a new trail that our crews will devote 17,000 man hours to build over the next year.
(Cedar Creek Falls, where our trail leads to)We had two days of training with our program director right off the bat and had a chance to cut new tread while learning about the principles of good trail-building. Our trail is out-sloped at a 5% grade and never descends at more than half the gradient of the cross-slope. This keeps the water flowing across the trail, not down it, and is an important part of building a sustainable trail. Our lessons were laid out in the work of the previous crew, which had built 150 ft of new trail right before the rainstorms hit San Diego. The parts that were built correctly survived unscathed, while the tiniest error was highlighted by the formation of a mini-canyon. We did some survey work using a clinometer (to read grades) and practiced staking out our own trails in groups which we then critiqued. After training, one member of our crew headed to Phoenix to try and win a grant for solar panels on our main office, and the rest of us laid into the task of clearing two miles of trail corridor.
The work was straightforward and tiring. We spent 10 hour work days swinging pick-mattocks, pulaskis and shovels at everything in our way and then shuttling the debris down-slope to tuck it into the landscape. At times I felt like the destroyer, razing the landscape while small woodland creatures took flight from my blade. A baby bunny huddled shaking in one of my brush piles for 10 minutes, too scared to move, and I barely spared a thumb sized rodent as I twisted out of a swing half way. I turned up a scorpion and another crew member discovered a small diamondback rattler as he reached to pull up a bush. We were all on lookout for the highly toxic Jerusalem cricket, which took a nip out of my coworker’s wrist. Amidst the carnage, the positive effects of the new trail stood out. Once our trail is finished, the fall-line trails will be re-vegetated and the whole area will be healthier, more beautiful and more sustainable.
Surprisingly, (to me, though probably not to anybody who has attended a home-owner’s meeting) there is some contention in the neighborhood over the new trail. There has been local press about the project, and feelings run the gamut from supportive, to indifferent, to opposed. Since our campsite was located on the side of a road by the trailhead, less than 50 yards from the nearest homes and property lines, anybody who wanted to come visit us could and did. On our second night, an angry, drunk old man, who we named Mordecai, drove his truck into our campsite and insisted that we leave. “Y’all don’t have a f***ing permit! Y’all are f***ing liars!” Our supervisor went to handle it while we all enjoyed the entertainment from the comfort of our tents. He threatened to call the cops on us (which he did), so our supervisor called the cops on him (it was the same cop) and relayed the man’s license plate number. Not to be outdone, Mordecai recited our license plate number out loud to no one in particular (“now I got your f***ing license plate!”), and unleashed his anger on a helpless MSR dromedary, kicking it into a ditch and then hurling it against the side of our trailer. Realizing that his bluff had been called and the cops were on their way, Mordecai jumped into his truck and ran over another dromedary as he high-tailed it out of there. Our super talked with the cop, who ran the plate, and the next day a forest service rep was over at Mordecai’s place to confirm our good word. Friday night at 4am, some friendly So-Cal stoners rolled in and tried to pry open our gear trailer “to see if anybody was inside”, totally oblivious to the fact that they were surrounded by 20 tents filled with sleeping trail-workers. Our supervisor scared the shit out of them by materializing out of the dark yelling “What the f*** are you doing?!?” and then amiably moved them on their way. Most people who came through our camp were just walking their dogs or getting on the trailhead, and everybody we met on the trail was friendly. We brushed 7900 ft of trail in three days, which now awaits a bulldozer to cut the tread and backslope and crews to put in switchbacks and armored drainages.
Right as the work days wound down were some of the best times. The sun cooled and threw pink light on the granite peaks as the moon rose orange behind us. Muscles relaxed and sweat cooled on the walk back to camp, and tools rocked lazily in our arms. The roar of the propane stove meant food was on the way, and food chests were raided by people too hungry to wait. Knives click-clicked on cutting boards while onions hissed, and people relaxed like only hard-working people can. Then, it was the sloshing of soapy water on dishes and the frenetic tak-a-tak stirring of hot cocoa in big plastic cups. Red embers shone from the fringes of camp as someone smoked the day’s last cigarette, and people laughed too loud as they careened through their swiss-miss sugar rush. Finally, everybody drifted off to their tents to sleep amidst the chorus of zippers, snoring and padded feet, under the light of the full moon. (pictures coming later...I'm off to the Grand Canyon for 8 days tomorrow)
Dave,
ReplyDeleteLove the Posts! Keep'em coming.
KLE