“So Chester, where do you think we can start gathering the pine nuts?” Dad asks.
He answers, “On our way into the park I saw a pine forest about two miles from here. That’s where we can start.”
Piling into the van we drive a couple miles and stop near a hill dotted with dark green pine trees. After we pull the van off the road, we get out.
I look around, “So this is where we will find the pine nuts?”
Neewa runs off into the forest, she cannot help herself. She follows her nose to a nearby trickling stream.
All of us walk the hundred or so yards to the middle of this mountain and plan our strategy. Chester directs Jackie, Dad, and me up the ridge. While he and Marlene go toward the lower end of the mountain.
Dad, Jackie, and I start up the hill in front of us, headed for higher elevations. I’m in the middle of a deserted forest with no one around me for miles. Of course there are probably wild coyote, deer, lots of prairie dogs, and who knows what else is out here?
“I think Neewa is looking for her uncles and cousins,” I huff and puff catching my breath as we ascend.
“What cousins?” Jackie asks.
“The ones she was talking to last night,” I answer.
Dad is already ahead of us, leading the way up the ridge.
The trees are scruffy, short and in small groups of five or six. Pruned by the whipping winds coming off the flatlands, they resemble fifteen-foot high Japanese Bonsai trees. It looks like I’m entering a Japanese forest.
Walking on sandy dirt, ledge rock, and an occasional patch of moss or lichen, we march on. Between the rock crevasses are clumps of grass and wild flowers. Brittle and dry twigs crackle under my sneakers.
Seeds are brought here by animals or scattered about by the wind. Some fall on the steep slopes and sprout. While others end up in soil made of decaying pine needles and windblown dirt. Still others are brought here by the infrequent rain runoff.
The trees here seem to be able to grow precariously anchored to scraps of dirt and rock.
According to Chester the growing and harvesting of pine nuts is supposed to work like this. Each pinyon pine tree grows hundreds of pine cones with seeds in them called pine nuts. The pine cones mature they fall from the tree and open like petals of a blooming flower. Inside the pine cone scales are pine nuts ready to be eaten.
Jackie and I reach the first pine trees and run under them glowing with excitement and the anticipation of discovery. Beneath the trees are pine cones, spread about. We move quickly to pick up the cones on the ground and inspect them. But there are no pine nuts. Out of breath from the incline, I run to the next grove of trees gathering up more cones. As I break them apart with my hands, the dry scales yield nothing but dust.
“Jackie,” I question, “did you find any pine nuts?”
“No, no pine nuts, there are pine cones but no nuts in them.”
I pick up a couple of pine cones and squeeze them in my hands. They are brittle and crumple into pieces. The broken flower peddle like scales are about a half-inch long and a quarter-inch wide.
Looking over at Jackie, “Yuck! There are bugs in these cones.”
Dusting the bugs and scale flakes from my hands, I run frenzied to the next tree and pick up more cones. Breaking them apart one by one I expect to see beautiful pine nuts falling gently into my hands. But instead I get more bugs and toss them aside. Rubbing my hands till all the junk is gone, I stand still, exasperated, and stare off into the valley.
The sun is hot and there is little wind. The only relief from the heat is the shade of these trees. The sand and rock in the barren sections of the slopes around us reflect the sun’s rays at us. I feel the sweat dripping from my brow and beading up on my lip.
“Jackie, maybe we’re doing something wrong? What if we are supposed to pick the pine cones from the tree? Before they hit the ground and the bugs get them.”
“Maybe the bugs are eating the pine nuts?”
Dad walks by complaining, “I can’t find any pine nuts, you?”
“No,” we answer in agreement.
“Just bugs,” I add.
He walks away toward a stand of trees just above us on the sloping hillside warning, “Be careful climbing those trees.”
Lucky thing these are scrub pine trees. We are in a forest full of the shortest full-grown trees on Earth. The trees don’t grow more then fifteen feet high because the whipping winds prune the limbs and branches back.
With no ladder or anything to stand on, Jackie cups her hands together and gives me a boost up into a tree. This would never work back East where the trees are ten times bigger.
I pull myself up onto the first branch and sit, then reach down to help Jackie up. Perched on the lower branches, we start plucking pine cones and tossing them down on the ground. After a good amount of them land below us, we jump down from the tree. One by one we methodically bludgeon and pry open the new cones. I twist and squeeze them, anticipating finding what I’m looking for. Struggling, I fight to obtain the bounty of delicious oval white nuts.
“No pine nuts,” I frown throwing the remnants of the cones onto the ground.
“No pine nuts,” Jackie adds, disgusted.
It’s clear to Jackie and I, there are no pine nuts here. Well, we’re pretty sure there aren’t any.
We give up on the pine nut hunt and sit in the shade, throwing rocks down the slope. They roll and bump over the outcrops of the ledge and fall over the rim, out of sight.
I’ve not seen or heard Neewa in a while as I get that sinking feeling in my stomach again.
I stand and cry out, “Neewa, Neewa, come Neewa,” I call out.
After hesitating and taking a deep breath I shout, “Neewa, Neewa.”
Jackie whistles, “Whewwwwwwwww, whew.”
“I wish I could whistle like you,” I lament looking at her.
Waving my hands in the air at her, “Listen Jackie, stop whistling, listen. I hear something. It’s her.”
Her bark grows louder and louder, echoing over the mountainside. I anticipate her running over the ridge and jumping up on me.
“Come girl, come on girl!” Out of the blue she careens into us, stomping on our feet as she gallops by almost bowling us over. Her paws spread wide as she grips the dirt, sand flies up behind her. Her muscles tighten to control her stop.
I’m so happy to see her you’d think we were separated for days, not minutes. I cuddle her, patting her head and stroking her soft coat. She positions herself against my knee signaling me to scratch her behind the ears, which I do.
From the rock face where we stand, we begin walking up the ridge. Neewa quickly takes point, leading us along the rocky terrain. After a few moments she runs off again, nose to the ground, having picked up a scent of something. She is on the hunt, sniffing along the surface of the dirt, stalking her prey.
We meander along occasionally checking a pine cone or two, not wanting to give up. Continuing on our hike, we are high above the road we left this morning. We decide to escape the heat and hike toward a grove of trees.