Every outing involves two important choices, variables over which I have some control, questions I need to answer before leaving the house: 1) where am I going? and 2) what book am I taking with me?

  1. Today, the destination is another John Robinson-themed ramble, the first itinerary in my dog-eared, heavily-used copy of “Trails of the Angeles”, Hike #1, “County Road N2 via Horse Flat to Liebre Mountain.” Because of its remote location at the northwest tip of the San Gabriels, I have avoided this trip thus far mainly because, in that respect, I am spoiled; within an hour’s drive, I can hit trailheads to pretty much anywhere in the front range or the high country of the Angeles National Forest, I don’t even have to get in the car to hike Wilson or Lowe, and to the south, the Verdugos are a stone’s throw away. It’s also a matter of bang for your buck. Why drive an hour plus to walk a paltry seven miles to a summit that pales in comparison with its more glamorous cousins in the range, Baldy, Baden-Powell, Waterman, Wilson, Strawberry, Cucamonga, Ontario…? Because Mr. Robinson says it’s worth the effort, that’s why. Good enough for me.
  2.  As tempting as it is to haul the other enlightening John Robinson tome I’ve been reading at home, “The San Gabriels”, so as to bathe in the history of the place while soaking in its physical atmosphere–my favorite kind of excursion blends adventure, effort and history–I refrain myself. Too heavy and bulky. Alternately, a short paperback collection of poetry should do the trick, especially “Alcools” by Apollinaire. Because it’s random, because it’s not necessarily light, because I like Apollinaire.

Two days later, here’s a quick verdict on my choices. First, Liebre mountain was inspiringly moody, with high northerly winds–the same infuriating winds that are seriously, and tragically, complicating the job of putting out the Woolsey fire to the south–a trail littered with dead leaves, acorns and California Buckeye seed pods, and looming barren oaks dressed with clumps of mistletoe.

We should not omit to mention the great admiration that the Gauls have for it as well. The druids – that is what they call their magicians – hold nothing more sacred than the mistletoe and a tree on which it is growing, provided it is a hard-timbered oak[robur][4][5]…. Mistletoe is rare and when found it is gathered with great ceremony, and particularly on the sixth day of the moon…. Hailing the moon in a native word that means ‘healing all things,’ they prepare a ritual sacrifice and banquet beneath a tree and bring up two white bulls, whose horns are bound for the first time on this occasion. A priest arrayed in white vestments climbs the tree and, with a golden sickle, cuts down the mistletoe, which is caught in a white cloak. Then finally they kill the victims, praying to a god to render his gift propitious to those on whom he has bestowed it. They believe that mistletoe given in drink will impart fertility to any animal that is barren and that it is an antidote to all poisons.

from The Natural History, by Pliny the Elder, cited on this wikipedia page

Second, Apollinaire provided this fitting stanza

Et que j’aime ô saison que j’aime tes rumeurs

Les fruits tombant sans qu’on les cueille

Le vent et la forêt qui pleurent

Toutes leurs larmes en automne feuille à feuille

Les feuilles

Qu’on foule

Un train

Qui roule

La vie

Qui s’écoule

last stanza of Automne Malade, Guillaume Apollinaire, Alcools

My (almost) literal translation:

…

And season O season how I like your rumors

The unpicked fruit that falls

The wind and the forest that weep

all their tears in autumn leaf by leaf

The leaves

You tread on

A train

that moves on

Life

that passes by