The hills are alive with the sound of twittering — the natural kind. The morning may bring June gloom all over the Los Angeles basin, but in the Angeles forest, the sun is shining in a perfect sky and the animal world is loving it.
Driving up Angeles Crest Highway in the clammy mist is uncanny, going from black and white to glorious Technicolor, Kansas to Oz, in 100 yards.
In parts of Southern California, I read, the dry winter has inhibited spring growth; but not here. Perhaps it is the aftermath of the Station fire, which was called devastating at the time. At any rate, the undergrowth has never seemed denser to me. The fire roads and trails on the front slope are bordered by huge growths of Scotch broom, bright yellow bouquets that in places almost blot out the way.
I met a hiker the other day who said he had turned back at 10 o'clock a few days before because it was getting uncomfortably warm; but at 6 o'clock, it is cool and fresh. And like Wordsworth 200 years ago on Westminster Bridge at the same time of day, you can look out and reflect: