In attempts to
prevent nature from “invading” the land we now wish to build upon, we see that
nature has no bounds. My neighborhood is an epicenter where human dwelling and
nature collide; city boundaries do not exist in this world. The limits are
endless from the rocky terrain of the Damonte Foothills to the preservations of
wetlands around. I define my neighborhood not only by the people and houses that
exist before me, but by the life that interacts with me. My neighborhood is
defined by the horses that visit to graze upon the land, by the cries of the
coyotes and the croaks of the frogs at night, by the scorching sun that travels
across the skies to the illumination of the full moon rising above the mountain
side; my neighborhood thrives on a positive relationship for which human
culture and nature can coincide. In reality, my walking routes are guided
towards the East where I am closest to the vastness of nature and farthest from
the city yet still calling the area my backyard.
I start by heading up my street that still has
undeveloped plots; there are two empty plots above my house which are usually
scattered with tumbleweeds and contains a little dried up pond. In the spring
months, the pond is filled with movement and sounds. One of my neighbors put a
sign on their fence that reads, “Please be kind, do not leave POOP behind.” The sign refers to the
neighborhood’s dogs, but we do not really fret over the poop the horses leave
behind. Actually, their poop ends up turning into obstacles we avoid when
driving up the street; Driving 101 this street has become, and I have so far
passed with flying colors. All the people that live here are really quite friendly;
we are almost like family. We frequently throw parties taking turns in whose
house we are at next. Up until about two years ago, we used to go up to the
mountains to visit the horses and give them some munchies to snack on, that was
until an officer told us that we were not allowed to feed them anymore (but we
sometimes, by accident, drop some hay and carrots and apples on the mountains
away from residential life). Respect is the code we live by, being respectful to
others like us and to those who are not and to that which has no say.
Me feeding some carrots to
some of the neighborhood’s horses. January 2012
Once I finished the climb up my
street, I found a surprise neighborhood guest. Why it was no other than the
neighborhood horse, Solo. (Well, that
is my name for him). He is a lonely mustang that roams around the neighborhood
looking for some greens to chow on. The story goes that he once had a partner
and they used to walk together all around the Damonte region. Unfortunately,
one night when the moon was not full, she was hit by a car by a distracted
driver. Now Solo, true to his name,
travels by himself without a herd, without a friend. I passed by him giving him
his wish of solidarity.
Solo,
the neighborhood’s mustang.
I approached the
little blocker that the city built to prevent the horses from getting into the
residential development. Years before there used to be a metal gate that
blocked the main opening where the horses could pass into the neighborhood and
where people could go hiking up the mountains ahead. Well, some idiots that
were not from my “residential neighborhood” were too lazy to get out of their
cars so they just drove into the gate and would ride away. Well, eventually,
the city got tired of continually having to replace the metal gate, so they
instead installed an even more brilliant blocker that would not only try to prevent the horses
from getting in but would also make it easier for the idiots who drive up the
mountainside from getting out of their cars. They installed a cattle guard.
Now, a cattle guard is used to warn livestock from passing over it because if a
cow (for instance) does try to walk across, it senses the gaps in between and
gets startled. A cattle guard basically looks like a hole that is dug up and
steel bars are lined horizontally (and a few are lined vertically) creating
gaps of about 3-4 inches. However, this cattle guard was not meant for horses
because it was not the appropriate size in which if a horse got its foot stuck,
it would be able to take it right out with the knowledge to no longer pass
across it. This cattle guard was a death trap. One morning, a herd was trying
to pass by it to graze on the grass some twenty feet away. The lead mare was
the individual to test out this odd contraption lying on the ground, and in
sheer need for food she took the risk and crossed. She got stuck and later had
to be euthanized. She was the leader of her herd and the mother of three. That
tragic incident was the start of my community’s cry to get rid of the cattle
guard and to stop this nonsense of attempting to immobilize nature. After the
mare’s death, the city put other bars in between the gaps of the cattle guard so
that the other horses would not get stuck. As of today, it has remained this
way and although the continued existence of those hunks of metal bring back
despondent images, no horse has had to face that end again.
A horse roams around by
today’s still unwanted cattle guard
I continued my journey east towards
the mountains away from the city, away from the housing, away from people to
visit my other neighbors, the horses. The route is a relatively short distance,
but is still a little strenuous. I was not only in complete exposure to the
morning sun, but had to walk on the sloped mountainsides. In the beginning, the
route was not too tough (it gets your heart rate going though), but as you get
higher, the path becomes your own. It is rocky and dusty and bushy and hot, but
the destination is worth it. The horses, in the summertime, like to move higher
up where the trees are and so that is where I have to go. I finally saw their
faces and I watched their behavior and observed how they reacted to mine. Once
I sensed that they were comfortable with my presence, I walked closer to them
while leaving an appropriate distance. These horses are truly beautiful; they
are a family of their own, living among us, living with us. I moved onward to
find new discoveries in my neighborhood.
A herd of horses
Four years ago, this growing
development was built under a pretense where people and nature had to be
separated. Barriers were constructed to prevent nature from getting in. A
tragic event opened up the eyes in my community to shun the city for employing
ways to allow separation to exist turning it into what I now call my
neighborhood. Although I wish that some things were different (such as that
cattle guard that still remains on the ground yet not serving its purpose), my
neighborhood is the way it should be. People and nature coincide merrily. An
authentic relationship exists were people do not say this is my land, but this
land is ours. The horses come visit the houses and I go to visit the mountains
of my backyard. A walk in my neighborhood is filled with new adventures and
surprises. You never know when you’ll stumble across a neighbor watering their
grass or grazing on it.
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