Last week I spent seven nights on the bank of a classic California mountain stream, where big brown trout reputedly lurk (wild, meaning they're impossible to catch) in a deep smooth channel filled with snowmelt. The long, broad meadow bisected by this creek was too soggy and spongy and soaked to walk across, but on the far side was a so-called spring reputed to have been and be sacred to Mountain Maidu people. So I went there, the roundabout way, through warming pine groves redolent with scent and over a fence that keeps out the few remaining cattle in the valley. Found a bog, waded through grasses growing out of water, paid due respect. Elsewhere, praised the goddess at springs bubbling up through red mineral rock and soil, drank sparkly pure water. Heard the one (reputedly) Willow Flycatcher on territory in the valley since cattle were removed from most of the land in 2000. Fitz-bew to you, little guy. Thank you, powers that be, for admitting me to this heavenly setting. Earth: what a beauty!
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