The pass

   I took the turn off from the little road to the smaller road and drove up the valley. Hung a left just past the old firehouse onto the bridge with the asphalt so worn that the metal framing is sticking up through the surface. So far, it hasn’t cut my tires, but the day is coming.

   Past the pond at the bottom of the meadow on the right, ringed by willows, fringed by mountain oak. Past the ponderosas on the left, where a fire cleared out the underbrush two years ago. Wind by the little stand of eucalyptus dropping spent woody flower buds all over the road, strips of bark hanging off, waving like flags. And so to the top of the ridge, where the sparkly old seabed rises out of the coyote brush and sticky monkeyflower, carved by roots and feet and wind.

   A wide curve to the left drops us down the side of the valley and through the chaparral. Houses on sandstone hillsides, interspersed with madrone and manzanita. Foot off the gas and sway down wide switchbacks all the way into the redwoods.