The sun creeps noiselessly over the mountaintops and pours brightly into the windows. We are used to the burst of sun on our faces, since there are no curtains, no need for curtains or locks or security devices. Who would hear anyway? There are no sounds except for the occasional owl, cow, rooster or donkeys. The goat dogs bark, but we never notice; it's part of our lives. They bark to protect the goats from the coyotes, bobcats, and mountain lions. The mountains are peaceful. Breathing in the mountain air that others come to camp in is all that I know. I want the mountains to remain as they are: I resist change and over population: nature can't handle it.

Everyday of my life I travel from high elevation fifteen miles above the town of Springville to the flatland city of Porterville. For sixteen years I have looked out the car windows or the bus windows and watched my world. Others comment on how difficult it must be to drive an hour and a half a day to get anywhere, but with the seasons, comes change and I have special things I look at each day.

As we wind down the upper mountains, I look down over the hillside at the tire tracks where my youngest brother slid off the mountain in the black ice. I peek over the edge to see if I can see where he was lodged in the mass of trees that kept him from falling hundreds of feet to his probable death. I pass the sign everyday where he added, "Damn" to the icy sign and chuckle at his humor.

We curve on down and I marvel at the new grape orchard out neighbor has planted and watch the deer easily leap over the wire fence to nibble happily on the soft, tender leaves. We live with nature everyday, yet some still think they can beat it. Sadly, his crop will be small until he figures out what too do next.

We climb down the mountain filled with oak trees and cattle grazing on the hillsides. Houses are seldom seen this high up. True mountain dwellers hide their homes back among the trees in the center of their land. Are we hiding, fleeing or just private folks? Most of the houses have the Frank Lloyd Wright feeling of nature. The structure should blend with the out of doors. As we descend in elevation, the land becomes flatter and easily conquered and the houses become structures close to the road, more city-like, less in keeping with nature.

So many people tire of their busy lives in the Los Angeles area and come to visit and ultimately try to live here. As we drive along, over the months and years, I have watched these city dwellers try to remake nature. The perfect example is the castle house, built of dark gray and black stones with squared edges and turrets. It stands against the hillside of oaks and tall grasses looking like a transplant from the castles along the Rhine River. After two years, the house went up for sale, and sits waiting for some other Don Quixote to tilt at the windmill of this out of place citadel.

I travel over the old bridge, built in 1929, made from the rocks of the Tule River flowing below. Someone, I imagine a flatlander, stole one of the decorative rock orbs from one side of the tower. All the upper mountain folks were outraged. It was replaced within a month. We cherish out few landmarks. I look over the bridge everyday to see the height of the water from the river. There are so many shares sold now that the river runs dry at the bridge in late summer and fall. It is divided and shared in ditches that run along Balch Park Road and through all of our land. With the drought, we all worry about the water. As in all of California, water may become more important than money. With the prospects of limited water, the mountain people want to stop the out-of-towners from moving in. How can they possibly not understand our anger at their hosing down their dirt driveways or watering their oversized lawns that will not survive the granite-based soil! Water remains a priority, and over the population draw from the diminishing aquifer. We live with the hope that this year will be like the winter of 1999. We were the last car allowed over the bridge, which over flowed the sides of the bridge.

As we pass over the river and continue down, our mountains open into a small valley. The river lies to the left and small foothills to the right. The river people are a culture of their own, crossing over roads built to withstand the river and ever ready to park on one side and take the aerial cart across. Their lives are very different from the mountain people, but they too worry about their riverfront property and the abuse by flatlanders and over population.

We continue down, less curves now, to the next Los Angeles tragedy. After building his dream house, which was a nightmare to everyone who passed by, this transplant built a wood stat, neighborhood, backyard fence, six feet high encircling his entire land. "What was he thinking?" I wondered as I looked out at the beautiful valley and Chaparral Mountain he built his house to face. What did it matter to have a fence covering his view since he designed his house with inadequate, undersized windows that wouldn't allow him to enjoy the view anyway? The mountain community revolted, however, Mother Nature solved the problem. The wind simply knocked the whole ugly thing down. New people bought the house, hauled away the bones of the old fence and began the slow process of embracing nature by enlarging windows, making porches and including sliding glass doors to let the outdoors in. We all watch the progress and wave daily encouraging their efforts. Nature ultimately won.

As we travel closer to town, the houses or mobile homes become more visible and closer together. I expect the mobile homes are the answer to those who can't afford the expense of building in the mountains allowing the owners a little piece of nature. We don't mind them, but three in a row on one small plot of land? It's as though they multiply like mice once one arrives.

We are almost to town. As we come around the last bend, we come across our one and only mill, the last remaining mill of the Springville area. Our house was built on the old road that led to the old Dillon Mill where the trees were cut and sent down water slough troughs to the mill. Our last mill is small but still running. Our mantel over the rock fireplace in our home was a rough piece of redwood my father had milled there. It too once thrived, but now is just a small reminder of days gone by.

We now are on the edge of town, the site of another of our landmarks. The white barn looms at the end of the road, splitting Balch Park Road from Highway 190. The white barn was once the grand scene of horse races. This was a time when Springville was a resort town. Trains traveled from Porterville through where Lake Success now rests. Springville was the stop off for the mountain resort Camp Nelson. The white barn has seen better days, however, I have only seen it in its present sad state. Arizona owners tried to make a dying barn into a wedding spot. The lack of taste left the owners a sad mixture of country and ugly. The last straw for the barn to fail was the position of the outhouse next to the scenic gazebo. One could never get a wedding picture from any view without the outhouse being directly in view. The new owners have successfully removed the eyesore and have improved the condition of the property, however, only three or four parties have been held there this year. Perhaps next year will be better.

We are now out of our element, all of us mountain folks. We stay in the mountains as much as possible, but as a child, I was here everyday to attend school. My nine years were happily spent. Springville School is not like other schools. It still has the flavor of a small mountain school. It sits at the base of the foothills with beautiful grass yards for the students to run in. We ate lunch everyday on picnic tables under the trees in the front yard. Up until perhaps twenty years ago, students weren't required to wear shoes at school. I spent all of my years barefoot on the playground. It was here that I first began my bird studying. Mrs. Owen was my teacher for tow years. I know more about birds than most adults. My father continued my education in our glass dining room where we could look up and out at the birds that came to visit our many bird feeders. As soon as I could write, I began labeling the Audubon book with tabs for each bird I saw. Many of the teachers taught us more about our mountains and the love for nature. As the school grows and the community changes, I fear that this too will be lost.

As we travel on down toward the flatlands, we pass the lake. I always wonder where the name Lake success came from. After doing a science project on pollution and finding Lake Success to be one of the most polluted of the five lakes I studied, I hardly call it a success.

Beyond the lake is a foreign land; it is here that I wish we could build a gate. Enough people have moved up to our country wilderness. Enough have scarred the mountainsides with their city homes. I have traveled around the world and visited enough large cities to know that I cherish my rural mountain home and wish for nature to remain as the draw for those of us who truly love mountain life. Leave us with our water and our wildlife and our quiet, secluded ways. Stay in your cities with your city houses and wasteful ways. Join us only if you embrace nature.

To Sit.To Muse.To Slowly Trace

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,

To Slowly trace the forest's shady scene,

Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,

And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;

To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,

With the wild flock that never needs a fold;

Alone o'er steeps and foamy falls to lean;

This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold

Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.

Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage