Whiting Ranch is reborn after fires

http://www.ocregister.com/ocregister/homepage/abox/article_2086855.php: "Photo report: Whiting Ranch is reborn after fires"
At times, nature's power to destroy and its power to create seems mystical, infinite and out of our grasp.
But then there are times when we can actually touch the opposing forces of the natural world, bear witness to a flower, a deer, a splash of green in a charred landscape.
Such is the experience at Limestone Canyon and Whiting Ranch Wilderness Park, an area of 4,300 acres that just eight months ago was a raging inferno, endangering lives and destroying homes.
Now, the same land offers us the privilege to see – simultaneously – both the destructive fury and the gentle healing of the natural world.
It's a misty morning in late June. The marine layer is just beginning to burn off. I'm running slow, peaceful and totally alone in the park.
It's my first time here in a few years. It's also the first time, in theory anyway, a civilian has moved through the park unescorted since the firestorm swept through, burning 90 percent and forcing the park's closure. With the reopening of the area to the public on Saturday, officials have been kind enough to allow me a special preview.
To be honest, the park never has been at the top of my list. Too many ridgeline views of homes. In fact, I've only mountain biked Whiting, which coincidentally carries my family name. But today, I'm going slower than biking would allow. And therein lays the secret to discovering the mysteries here.
Rather than focusing on the tiny bit of trail just ahead of my front tire, my gaze wanders. Red Indian paintbrush, yellow mustard plant flowers, white morning glories stretch before me. Ancient oaks that were left black in the wake of the flames now boast small bunches of green leaves, promising shade and recovery to the land.
The contrast between the charred wood and the new plants is stark, even jarring. But after a bit, this new world left by the fires seems in harmony, something Lion King Simba would call "the circle of life."
Nitrogen-rich ash is food for the new plants. For the first time in decades, sunlight is finding its way to what were shaded forest floors, allowing photosynthesis to more quickly heal the wounds.
I usually run with my iPod blasting. For some reason, I don't turn it on as I roam this sacred ground, running the same trails that were soaked with the blood of both Mark Reynolds and the mountain lion that killed him Jan. 8, 2004.
A gentle rustle prompts me to look down and left. A snake? Just the wind making its way through golden mustard stalks that already have grown and died since the fires.
Birds around Upper Pond sing from bushes, some of which will never recover, others already ablaze with new leaves.
A trio of deer, including a young buck, makes their way up Dreaded Hill. Near the crest is a bench dedicated to Reynolds. It sits miraculously untouched, still watching over the trails the dedicated mountain biker loved to ride.
An old song drifts into my head, but the words are a bit different. "We've seen fire and we've seen rain…"
I make my way to Sleepy Hollow, fearing the worst. It was just weeks ago that I visited the closed burn area in the Santa Ana Mountains, a stone's throw from the northern border of Whiting Ranch. There, many oaks were either destroyed or severely burned. Thousands of acres of the steep hillsides were bare, save for patches of wildflowers.
But here, in Sleepy Hollow, the story is far different. Most of the oaks appear untouched, as if shielded from the flames by an otherworldly force.
This scene of survival plays out again and again as I run Cactus, Edison, Santiago Ranch, Vulture View roads.
Topography and those same homes that bugged me on earlier visits played critical roles in leaving Whiting a combination of old growth, new growth and blackened ground.
Compared to the steep escarpments on Saddleback Mountain, Whiting Ranch's hills are relatively mild, allowing water to soak in. Additionally, firefighters fought relentlessly to save the park and the adjacent homes.
Standing high on Dreaded Hill or Mustard Road, the swath of the fire is frighteningly clear: right up to backyards in Portolla Hills, right up to homes in Foothill Ranch.
It's humbling and inspiring.
Coming to Vista Lookout, however, is simply mysterious.
Acres of blackened ground surround the hilltop at 1,500 feet.
But the little site is an oasis. Small green oaks shade an old picnic bench. A large doe roots at the base of the largest tree, disappearing in a flash as I approach.
There is an even higher summit nearby. But there are no trails in the steep, rocky area.
Only a cross, at the top.