Commentary : Teaching the VCR Generation About the Wild World of Canyons

“Are there snakes out there?”

I’m confronted by the dark and intense eyes of a young man. The loud laughter and high spirits of the five children waiting to be led into the canyon perceptibly changes. They suddenly look apprehensive while waiting on my answer.

“There are snakes in our canyons, yes.”

I want to tell the children that, out of more than 10 million Southern Californians, there are usually fewer than 50 snake bites a year, but it’s not the time for statistics. And their expressions tell me that they’re not yet ready to hear a public relations message about snakes. I decide to save that spot until later.

“It’s rare that we encounter a snake,” I explain. “They don’t want to bother us. And by keeping our eyes open, we won’t bother them. Now, are we ready to go?”

Into the valley of death, their eyes said, not into the canyon of possibilities. Most of San Diego’s children are better prepared for concrete than for dirt. I start forward. My party reluctantly follows.

“Are there big spiders out there?”

A little girl asks the question this time. Spiders and snakes. The sibilant symphony. It’s a fearful litany in human psyches that ranks somewhere near Dorothy’s “Lions and tigers and bears! Oh my!”

“Yes,” I answer, but immediately start in with the hand gestures. Sometimes, if you’re fast enough with words and hands, you can cut off the chorus of, “I hate spiders.”

“We’re likely to see funnel spiders,” I say, moving my hand in a funnel motion. “We’ll look down a web and see a funnel, and usually in that funnel we’ll see the spider. And, if you have real sharp eyes, maybe we’ll even spot the lair of a trapdoor spider. You’ll have to look closely though. Their homes are hidden on the slopes. We’ll only be able to find them by searching for a half-dollar-size indentation that looks sort of like a crescent moon.”

For more than 25 years, the Canyoneers, outdoor docents for the San Diego Natural History Museum, have been leading tours. The genesis of the group began at Florida Canyon in Balboa Park. Its goal then, as it is now, was educating San Diegans to the wonders of our canyons. The program has expanded to include tours all over the county.

“I want all of you to step back in time with me,” I tell the children. “Imagine no 7-Elevens. No drugstores. Can you think like the Indians did? Could you find your own food and shelter out here? Our Native Americans did that. Does anyone know the name of those Indians that lived around here? No? We call them the Kumeyaay.”

We approach some healthy dark green foliage, a common shrub in our canyons. I pluck off a berry and hold it aloft.

“What’s your favorite drink?” I ask.

The children stare at one another. If a cat’s got their tongue, I decide, it must be domesticated cat.

“Come on, what do you like to drink?”

“Coca-Cola,” one says.

“Orange soda,” another adds.

“Indians didn’t have Coca-Cola or orange soda,” I say. “But they did have this. Lemonade berry. They soaked this fruit in water to make a beverage.”

I pop the berry into my mouth. Immediately, all of the children want to do the same.

“OK. You can do it but don’t bite into the berry. Just suck. The seed inside is bitter. It contains tannin, and that could make you sick.”

I amplify on a warning given earlier, that they shouldn’t touch or eat any plant they are unsure of. We’ve already identified poison oak and repeated the rhyme, “leaflets three, let it be,” but there are a number of other plants, including stinging nettle, jimsonweed and tree tobacco, which are best avoided.

But youth is hard to dissuade. They still reach tentatively for their own lemonade berries, and begin to suck. One finds the taste to his liking (“like a Sweet Tart”), but the rest soon spit their berries out. That allows me a ready avenue to discuss seed dispersal and how animals and the elements help distribute plant life.

Show-and-tell continues while we walk. We touch the fragrant coastal sagebrush and black sage and white sage, and we discuss the many ways the Indians used these native plants.

I talk about the introduced plants, seen prominently in the form of fennel and horehound. A few of the children know about fennel and call it licorice plant because of its telltale smell. But they don’t know about horehound.

“Who likes Hershey bars?” I ask.

Every hand quickly rises.

“Well, the settlers didn’t have Hershey bars, but like most of mankind they did have a sweet tooth. They boiled down the horehound and added honey. It made a nice sweet. Horehound cough drops used to be sold in stores.”

The children listen, but it is clear they would rather be eating a Hershey bar. We continue. I point out wild cucumber, toyon, flat-top buckwheat and chaparral broom and describe some of their uses. I try to make the items more than patches of green and brown. We stop at an oak tree, and I detail how important acorns were to the Indian diet. But putting mortars and metates on the same level as a McDonald’s is a hard sell.

The Canyoneers always try to impart to their groups how vital and alive the canyons are, but sometimes it is difficult to gauge whether we succeed.

Children are often the toughest audience. They are used to holding a TV remote control, used to having constant audio and visual stimulation.

Bucolic strolls are not necessarily that way. More often than not, animals don’t put themselves on display. So we take the time to try to show the children how and where to listen and look. We explain how the canyons’ sights and smells change dramatically over the year, and proselytize a little about nature. All of that usually keeps their attention for perhaps 10 minutes. Then, they expect things to happen with a snap of their fingers. We’ve arrived, now where are the animals?

“There are lots of animals around us,” I say, “but they don’t want to be seen. Lizards, wood rats, rabbits, squirrels and birds are just a few. Does anyone hear the birds?”

The heads crane, and then everyone shouts that they hear the birds.

“Wren tits,” I say. “They’re all around, but they’re shy, flit in and out of the brush. If you look carefully, you might be able to see one of their nests.”

I start describing what their nests look like, which bores one of the children. He kicks at a weed. Maybe he himself was kicked out of a nest at too early of an age. You never know.

“Don’t kick that,” I admonish him. “We don’t pick, kick, or litter. The only kind of bugs I hate are litterbugs. And remember, we’re supposed to be Indians on this walk. We’re supposed to abide by nature’s rules, and that’s to leave this place in better shape than when we arrived.”

I make a point of picking up some trash. There’s plenty around. Our canyons feel the stress of the urban world surrounding them. Then, I examine the weed.

“That’s pigweed,” I say, “also called lamb’s quarter. It’s good eating, believe it or not.”

Judging from the expressions, even Robert Ripley couldn’t win my crowd over.

“A man named Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, ‘What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.’ I’ll bet you see dandelions out in your schoolyard. Young dandelion greens are good for salads, and their unopened buds can be used as fritters. Why, their roots are even used for coffee, and their flowers for wine.”

“Who would eat a weed?” asks a young lady with a condemning tilt to her head.

She aborts my sermon just as it is beginning. It’s good to lecture to the young. You’ll forever stay humble that way.

We continue our walk and encounter prickly pear cactus. I try to describe the taste of the fruit but end up telling how I once neglected to remove all of the spines, which resulted in my having a very sore tongue.

A patch of red monkey flowers makes us stop. Each of us takes turns gently touching their white tips, and watching them close. Pollination syndromes suddenly become interesting. I describe how bees tack to smells, and how birds are attracted to colors. I show them how certain flowers are landing platforms for bees, complete with marked runways. When I look at my watch, I’m surprised at how late it is.

“We’re going to have to start back,” I say.

Groans mark my words. There are entreaties to continue. Next to nature’s sounds, I think Canyoneers like those best.

“OK,” I say, “we’ll continue to the next bend, but then we’re going to have to hurry back.”

We march forward, to see what we can see.