Once upon a time before Manifest Destiny, before the Gold Rush, and before it was plowed under and sold off as the “Golden Empire,” California’s Central Valley was clothed with vast plains of rippling bunchgrasses and tules; dotted with vernal pools; crisscrossed with free-flowing rivers, riparian woods, and wetlands; and peopled with Yokuts, Miwoks, and other native tribes. Migrating birds passed through in clouds. Antelope roamed. A mythical paradise.

Where did it go?

In fact, a few riparian valley oak forests and their tangled understories—together called “valley jungle”—still live on as tiny, remnant islands amidst that vanished California. This jungle is, almost by definition, a “useless tangle.” Some spots near the Stanislaus, San Joaquin, and Sacramento rivers, or deep in the Delta, were simply too much work to clear or plow…and thus spared by that. Others were saved by forward-looking folks that believed in oaks and birds and parks and preserves—with names like Caswell; Cosumnes; Bobelaine; Gray Lodge; and Woodson Bridge.

I’m shooting in one of the ancient oak groves on a damp autumn day, with another storm due in shortly. It’s like standing in a hushed cathedral. Wild grape arbors hang from the oaks, and their autumn reds and yellows glow like stained glass. In other spots they engulf the shorter trees like the whimsical works of Edward Scissorhands. Cottonwoods mark the river. Wherever you can walk you’re shushing through deep piles of leaves. The rest is tangle.

In the jungle, understory = life and protection. It’s a refuge for ancient totem species, a place for time travel—like the memory of a ringtail cat’s eyes blinking back at me from beyond my campfire. Ducks, geese, and cranes call from on high as they follow the river. Owls hoot from somewhere hidden nearby. Old pathways are still worn through the undergrowth and in the sky. I hear many tongues and rustlings in the dry leaves.

I also hear the distant din of mooing cows and barking dogs and farm machines across the river, and the faint waves of cars and sirens from the highway beyond. Suburban housing tracts march closer and closer. This tiny island is surrounded by today’s strip malls and fast-food ghettos and car dealerships. There’s yet more “progress” on the wind.

But for now, the souls of the Valley’s past live on in the tangled bush. And I’m wishing them all peace and shelter thru this chilly November night and, hopefully, for many years to come.

By Scott Atkinson

Into the Jungle

Simple Things

Where’s the Light?