Across from the Spreckels Organ Pavilion, the jewel in the center of Balboa Park, a couple of very large fig trees with enormous roots grabs the attention of those who walk across the little wooden bridge. The bridge with the dramatically tall trees is popular with wedding photographers. A set of wooden stairs leads down to a small dirt path. Most people do not venture very far from there, but within just under a mile is a world of wonder: Palm Canyon Trail.
I was with the teenage girl whom I was mentoring in the early 2000s when I first discovered the beginning of the path, although I did not recognize at the time it was a trailhead. After I’d treated her to lunch at the Prado, she had shown me how to take selfies with my phone, and I was giddy and giggling as I experimented. We headed over to the giant fig trees and down the wooden staircase. I took snapshots of her and me hiding behind a small stand of palm trees immediately after the start of the dirt path. We were in selfie-heaven when we heard a scuffling sound in the brush and we both shrieked and jumped sky-high from fright. After scampering away a few feet from the wild animal in the bushes, we laughed ourselves silly when we saw that it was a little fox squirrel. I made a mental note to someday walk the rest of the trail.
A few weeks ago, my husband and I ventured out on that trail. To the right and left, the giant roots of the fig trees stretched out over the ground like a giant troll’s fingers and arms. Several years ago, a large branch had fallen down onto one of those finger-like roots; it carved out a huge chunk of the root. It made me sad then but when my husband and I explored the trail, the wound from the fallen branch looked smaller, almost like it had healed over. As we descended down the wooden staircase, we heard and saw figs dropping from the trees overhead.
“Glad we’re wearing hats,” I said, stepping around the fallen fruit on the stairs. The fragrance of the figs is a sweet, musty one. I always wonder why we don’t see more birds in the area. I suppose figs are an acquired taste for our feathered friends.
It took just twenty minutes to walk the trail, palm trees everywhere beside, under and above us. Bright green palm fronds fingered the azure sky. As my husband and I headed up to the secondary path to the left and above us, we marveled at the robust leaves of exotic palms we’d never seen before. The leaves resembled the hands of giant gnomes. We went on, the path slowly elevating in height and becoming overgrown with healthy shrubs of all kinds, such as laurel sumac. The fragrance in the air was light and sweet, warming us in the gentle afternoon sun.
Soon we found ourselves behind an adobe-style building with an intriguing back yard area with an old stone fireplace and relics of hornos, the ovens you’d find at a typical home in Mexico. It was as though we had arrived at another land. But I recognized it as the Balboa Park Club, a place where we do attend once in a while the bimonthly ballroom dances.
Behind the fireplace, hornos and other relics of the club, tall Matilija poppies demanded our attention, their white fragile petals resembling crepe paper. Their bright yellow centers look like fried eggs; hence, their nickname of fried egg flowers.
From there, we turned around and went back down the upper trail. As we neared the fork in the trail, we made a sharp left and followed the path to the very end where a gate was securely shut and locked, the rush of 163 traffic roaring below us. The fence puzzled us because we’d seen groups of young people amble down the path; they must have climbed up over the fence to heaven knows where.
Returning on the lower trail, we couldn’t resist getting up close to the roots of the enormous fig trees, the bottoms of our shoes turning purple with the dried figs that had dropped. The walk up from the trees below the wooden bridge brought us out to the startlingly bright and loud streets, seemingly worlds away from the secrets of the giant fig trees and peaceful, tall palms.
— Cynthia G. Robertson is an award-winning freelance writer and photographer, putting together interesting and informative articles for more than 30 years. Her stories, essays and poems have also been published in “Acorn Review” and several anthologies, including “Six Feet Apart…in the Time of Corona.” She blogs about her observations of nature and spirituality, and in 2019, she penned her first novel, “Where You See Forever.” Find out more at www.cynthiarobertson.com.
