American Scientist

The green space bordering the American River was the wildest place I knew as a kid. The park nearest my house in Sacramento, California, was all asphalt, mowed lawn, and damp wood chips. But in contrast, the unmarked place behind the state fair grounds, 20 minutes away by car, was truly untamed. As I walked up from the parking lot to the surrounding dirt road, the highest part of the greenway, I could see a swath of mist-veiled greenery sloping down into the river. I could breathe fresh air (and petrichor). Yellow-billed magpie calls cut through the quiet like two rasps rubbed together; black phoebe cheeps popped from dew-laden manzanita. Swallowtail caterpillar eggs to collect! Raptor cries to listen to! Horsehair worms to stare at in a mix of horror and disgust! Although he told it frequently, my dad loved to tell the anecdote of how he and the family pit bull had once come upon a puma in the area. It gave me the slight hope I might see one, too.