This is the other Southern California, the one you don't hear much about except when a wildfire is roaring through it (which it did three years ago next month). This is the Southern California I prefer: the one without surfboards, without wall-to-wall buildings, without interstates, without Mickey Mouse, without celebrities, without swimming pools, without the deafening din that is inescapable. This is the Southern California of birdsong and blowing winds, of golden grasses waving in the breeze, of people traversing trails slowly on foot or horseback, of air scented with pine and wildflowers, of room to stretch both physically and psychologically.

Last Saturday, I took this photo while sitting under a large oak at the top of a meadow. As far as I could see, there were no buildings or billboards or bimbos or baseball fields or beachgoers; just trees, some burnt; fields of golden grass; wildflowers; mountains; the high desert; and the horizon.

This is part of Cuyamaca State Park, which is about an hour east of San Diego in the Laguna Mountains near the small mountain village of Julian. I wish I lived closer.

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