A weekend realisation
So I'm still trying to get another hour of kip when this bird starts up near the tent. "Peepety-peep-peepPEEP". Pained, I roll over to unzip the tent flap, fix the feathered fiend with as good a stare as I can at that time in the morning with no glasses, and cry "Oi!, Cut it out, I'm trying to sleep!" Bird is not impressed, looks at me and I swear that it shrugged its little shoulders before raising its beak to the heavens and starting again. "Peepety-peep-peepPEEP, peepety-peep-peepPEEP!", it goes, and then stops, hops a little closer, and says "I'm a bleedin' bird, what do you want from me? This is what I do."
The Cockney perturbs me for a moment, given that I am in the Sierra Nevada, but what can I say? Bird is right, it's doing what comes naturally to it. Thousands of generations have moulded the creature into its habitat, and twittering its little heart out with delight at the sunny (though chill) morning, is part of the deal. Its inheritance covers not just the behaviour, but the right to behave like that right here, right now. I'm somewhat ashamed of myself, and apologise profoundly for disturbing its daily routine of worship. Bird is unimpressed, and carries on anyway. Awake now, I listen, and hear the song of sheer joy for what it is. Subtler than cockcrow, more melodious than sparrowfart, it raises the spirits, and like the rising sun, proclaims a hopeful new day.
Of course the conversation is imaginary, but the circumstances aren't. Astonishingly, I am camping near the South Yuba River, just north of Nevada City on a rare weekend getaway, and I am probably sitting on more gold than I could carry. The hills are packed with the stuff, not that it impresses Bird, or me, for that matter. The day before, Christine and I had been down in the canyon watching the river. I'd gone exploring while Christine painted. About fifteen feet away was a chunk of rock that sparkled. "Sparkly rock!", my heart cried, though Christine was quick to point out that it was probably not gold, but mica or iron pyrite (fool's gold). In a way I was pleased about that. To be frank, I would rather leave the pretty stuff where it is, and if you are interested enough to go and drag a few grams of gold out of the boulder, you'll have to fight me for the location.
Nevada City is one of those places that grew up from the gold rush of 1849, and it manages somehow to keep its charm, despite the changing times. There's a new gold rush nowadays, and it's called "tourism" - everywhere you see signs on old buildings, announcing things like "This is the oldest continuously-operated brick hotel still in use in Northern California", and "The most-photographed firehouse..." Despite being reminded of the several claims that Nottingham appears to have for "oldest pub" (Ye Olde Trip To Jerusalem and The Salutation Inn being two), I did the necessary tourist thing, and photographed them anyway. I'd hate for them to feel I didn't care.
I like playing tourist - it feels good to get the feel for a place, some sense of its history and human use. Almost the first thing I'd done in Sacramento was to visit the old downtown, paralleling the riverfront and railway lines. The area is a tourist trap, sure, but interesting to me because it gave a glimpse of the realities of the Wild West, fascinating because right there was a backround to the old westerns that were so much a part of the Saturday morning cinema matinees of my childhood. The museum was most interesting, showing the development of the city along with the growth of gold mining. The curator, having heard my British accent, was almost apologetic for the exhibit on archaeology ("We don't have as much history as you Brits, you must be laughing at our pride..."), but in a way it was as exciting as being in the British Museum's Egyptian Room. After all, this was real history, about real people, and the realisation of all those childhood Western fantasies.
The Gold Rush is over, the sound of mining machinery and pumps has been replaced by birdsong, the rivers and canyons are no longer torn apart by those seeking wealth. The scars are still there though, if you know where to look - whole hillsides were torn apart and stripped of their treasure, and the little towns are slowly expanding into straggling roads covering the mountains, whilst struggling to maintain an income from the rich folks passing through them to find recreation in the country. In summer, these roads will be full of cars and trucks and SUVs from the city folk trying to escape the pollution they themselves cause, starved as they are of greenery in their concrete and tarmac and growing McMansion sprawl, desperate for the sound of birdsong, the tinkling streams, rushing rivers and the susurrus of wind in the trees.
It's a great land, is America, full of beauty and ingenuity and fabulous surprises. No wonder I'm happy being here. I just hope that Bird and his descendants find us easy to live with.