Page 118 - People & Places In Time

Yokohl Valley
The hill we left unclimbed
One of those climbs was a Saturday morning in the spring of 1963, with a friend, Bev Marshal. We had grown up together through grammar and high school, and on this day, we would drive into Yokohl Valley to climb a hill that I had looked at many times. There’s a rock formation at its peak which had always intrigued me. We parked beside the road part way up Blue Ridge, climbed through the barbed wire and began our climb. Easy at first the climb becomes increasingly steep. The insurmountable problem, however, would be the thick brush, I’m sure even the cows could not get through this stuff. After several hours of futility, we are back to the car, failed in our attempt. Once more a trip into Yokohl Val- ley with a friend for whom I have lost all contact; some- one who simply has become another incomplete piece from my past.
Now, more than sixty years have passed, and the sounds and smells remain permanently layered throughout my memories.
These days it has become the sound of quiet which tugs at me; the smell in the air following a spring shower or the bullfrog croaking in a vernal pool that soothes the anxieties brought from just over the hill. The emotions of past and present flow through me while waiting for the right light, perhaps for a cloud to pass as I’m ever in search of the perfect spot to place my tripod and camera.
On a recent photo trek into Yokohl Valley follow- ing a storm that dropped an inch of rain, there is plenty of water in Yokohl Creek, though I have seen it higher. It’s always nice to see water flowing in such contrast to the dry sandy creek bed prevailing during most of the year.
Each season in the valley has its own appeal. I enjoy the contrasts; in this case the quiet, punctuated by the frogs and the sound of moving water, the breeze in the tops of sycamore and oak trees and always there are the birds. I become aware of the low snow line from the current storm, well below Blue Ridge on this day, unusual for this time of year; yet soon enough giving way to the dry hillsides of summer. A vulture lands close by on a fence post startling me, however, I’m never disappointed by the surprises that come with being close to nature. The valley is so alive following a storm, so much more in- tense. Distant thunder adds to the symphony around me and light rain intensifies the smells, the air is so sweet and clean. As the sun shines through a break in the clouds
it highlights the already intense green of a young spring bloom. This is as good as it gets.
Not every drive through Yokohl Valley is for tak- ing photographs. On this particular evening, my board meeting at the Exeter Art Gallery ended early, about eight o’clock. As I turn onto Rocky Hill Drive heading home to Visalia, the setting sun shown on Rocky Hill such that I could only follow the opportunity beckoning straight ahead. As I crested the hill and descended into Yokohl Valley the radio was tuned on 60’s music, the temperature is in the low 80’s a perfect time to turn the music louder than I would otherwise; to open the roof and lower the windows. In the evening twilight, the hills covered in dry grass have a softness that beckons me onward
I turn right instead of left at the bridge, my second chance to head home. No cars are on the road and only a couple of bicyclists finishing their ride. The night air has all the familiar smells and as I drive slowly through a familiar landscape my thoughts drift back in
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