Page 28 - The NOISE December 2015

Winter Wanderlust
STORY BY GRAPHIC BY CLAIR ANNA ROSE GEAN SHANKS
The day before the Winter Solstice I am taken with a strong sense of wanderlust. This feeling can often be slaked by a drive to the outskirts of town and then back again, but sometimes calls for a trip down the switchbacks to Oak Creek Canyon. I throw on my muddy jeans and
load Perry Paddleton, the Border Terrier that came to stay, into the car.
A fool’s errand, maybe, the hope to scavenge some wild mistletoe in time for the holidays. The road is clear and no one is behind or in front of me as I wind through the shadowy
canyon with one eye on the highway and one eye seeking a flash of green from the barren roadside trees.
We stop for a sandwich at Indian Gardens and sit in the backyard patio to eat and strategize. Perry seconds each point of my plan by giving me high fives (or he may be giving me high fives because the reward is a bite of sandwich).
“Perry, I think our next move will be to cross the highway and walk along the creek,” I say. High five. “Then we’ll go home.” High five. “Then I shall be able to kiss whomever I please.” A hairy eyebrow rises. High five.
We cross the highway and wander along the creek-side path. Perry is content to dive into each pile of leaves we pass as I scope out the trees for the possibility of low-hanging mistletoe. In the trees at the water’s edge mistletoe grows in big, green bunches, extremely high above ground, far out on long, delicate limbs over shallow water.
When I find a small sprig I get excited, but at the same time, feel like it’s almost like buying it when it’s that easy to get. I didn’t even have to reach for it.
At least I found some mistletoe, I console myself.
Perry and I dawdle along the path, he rolls in the vines and stirs up the leaves. Just as we are about to leave the path for the car I notice a tree full of mistletoe I missed before ... unfortunately it is growing out of the side of a cliff.
Eyeing the tree for a while, I climb down to the water’s edge and pick my way over the rocks to the tree. I see one bough about three feet in circumference that seems to hang lower to the ground the closer I get to it. Right below it a rock is conveniently placed that might just bring it within reach.
Even standing on the tips of my toes the mistletoe remains a mere two inches from my touch.
I glare up at it as tactics run through my mind: throw rocks at it, fish for it with two branches, whack it out of the tree.
“If I can manage to jump off this rock and land on it again, without falling into the creek ... ” I trail off and glance over my shoulder at Perry. He winks.
I decide to take my chances.
Gazing up at the mistletoe I reach, bend my knees, spring up, and miss.
With the next jump I manage to grasp the very tip of a branch. It breaks off, but it’s like
winning a hand at poker; I want to keep playing now because I might win bigger next time.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, bend my knees and leap up into the air. My feet land squarely on the rock below me. I open my eyes. I have the mistletoe firmly in my grasp. I pull it down a little closer to me and grasp the meaty part of the branch with both hands and give
it a good yank.
To my surprise the whole thing detaches from the tree and suddenly I am the proud owner
of a giant shrub. Its leaves are perfectly shaped and bright green, its berries a translucent white that hang like droplets of milky glass.
I glance around to see if anyone saw, and ask Perry, “Is taking mistletoe from a tree stealing? It’s a parasite, I’m helping the tree, right?” He looks shifty.
We scramble back up to the road and dash across the highway. Not too many people are around, but I quickly stow my loot into the trunk of the car, get in and speed away with a giant smile on my face and a quickened pulse.
“Maybe I like feeling like I’m getting away with something,” I say. High five.
I notice as I drive home through the canyon that my wanderlust has evaporated and my spirits have lightened as I imagine holding this behemoth branch of mistletoe over the head
of the man I want to kiss.
28 • december 2015 • the NOISE arts & news • thenoise.us
| Clair Anna Rose has a hearty stash of mistletoe. Beware.
KAREN CLARKSON
editor@thenoise.us