I celebrated my retirement from the Parks Commission with a
year-end visit to Lafferty Ranch, a place that kindled my interest in City
government. It was dark as I drove up the road (too dangerous for a park, said
the County, but not bad enough to pursue any of our suggested low-cost safety
improvements.) I stop and park on the weedy patch of public right-of-way between
the crumbling asphalt and the gate. Many memories here… a hundred cheerful
marchers greeted by a dozen County and City squad cars… years later, the City
Attorney refusing to allow a sign simply identifying the land as City property,
for fear of upsetting the neighbors.
Happy to leave those thoughts behind, I walk across the long
meadow under lowering moonlight. The crest of the mountain emerges as
silhouette against the rising dawn. Onward, toward the marsh and the cries of
red-winged blackbirds. To the south, Mt. Tam is visible beyond the edge of the
meadow. I pass the spring, and begin to hear the creek, swollen with recent
rains. I consider braving the slippery, poison oak carpeted slope to get closer
the torrent… then think better. Wait for the trail.
The daylight grows as I skirt the edge of the canyon woodlands,
climbing up a modest grade before looking back, getting chills: a membrane of
fog covers the Petaluma Valley, bounded by the hills west of town. I plunge
into the riparian forest, mosses bright green on dark tree trunks, a carpet of
golden and earth tone oak and bay leaves at my feet. My path crosses of the deep
creek channel, meanders through a bay grove, then switches up a steep slope,
crossing rock-bedded rivulets. Then back to the main fork, a Japanese garden of
black rocks and white water, oak branches forming high gothic arches overhead.
At the upper end of this cathedral the slope tapers off as
the canyon emerges into the emerald green upper meadows. This is one of my
favorite places on earth. I arrive just as the sun has crested the mountain.
The stream spills over series of small waterfalls beneath the oak branches and
amongst their dark roots, splashing sparkling droplets backlit by the sun.
Reverently, I step out of the trees and up to the rock ring, high point destination
of the 1995 tours. Once, years later, while guiding a group of community
leaders to this point, I waved hello to three surprised neighbors who were shooting
target practice with their semi-automatic rifle. A week later, their lawyer wrote
the City Manager protesting my unofficial visit, claiming my group threatened Golden
Eagles (as well as any fish that might have been in the poison-oak protected canyon.)
I spend the morning wandering the upland meadows, a vast sculpture
garden of specimen ancient oak trees divided by seasonal waterways. The views
are top-of-the-world breathtaking. To the south, one neighbor’s cattle fence is
broken down where it passes over a bubbling stream in a small ravine. At one
time she seemed agreeable to our offer to literally mend fences, but their
lawyers pulled her back. I think it was for the same reason they later
sabotaged our plan to bring school kids up to do stream bank restoration: good
people must not be allowed to see the land, or be seen doing good things for
it.
But I never tire of this place: it’s like inheriting a
mansion, and on each visit discovering a new room: a secluded grove, a pond, a
waterfall. This time it’s a hidden boulder-strewn clearing near the north
border, surrounded by dense forest. Behind that wall of green is another
neighbor’s new fence, a mile of stark seven foot chainlink.
As the sun falls toward the shining Pacific, I ramble down-slope, legs tired,
mind wonderfully empty. Picking out a new route from the northwest terrace
meadows back to the creek-side trail, I discover a good sized wetland tucked into
a wooded hillside fold. I take time out to chant with some frogs. A final detour brings me to the lower overlook;
I watch the New Year lights twinkling on in my home town.
A fantastic day!