Hills of Honey: The Bloom after the Burn

by Colleen Lennehan (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find USA

Wildfires suffocated the Malibu mountains, leaving burn marks like messy brushstrokes across the land. Months later the rain finally drenched the coastline and began to nourish the earth. In the fall of 2018, the Woolsey Fire devastated just shy of 100,000 acres of land, inhaling trees and destroying any evidence of decades-old love letters stuffed away in the attics of the Golden States’ residents. Flames jumped from neighborhood to neighborhood, creating a frightening glow across the shoreline of Southern California. In April of 2019, I spent a few days in Malibu, along with a few friends–two of which were California born. We drove through winding roads up the mountains, surrounded by peaks that eroded well above us. In a pull-off restaurant on the side of PCH sat a small seafood restaurant. Its name erased from my mind, blurring with the other characteristic shoreline shacks. We planned to stop for a bite before exploring a trail that ran just behind the building. The manager of a high-end hotel had suggested it. “It will be the best place to experience the bloom, and there shouldn’t be any tourists taking up space,” he said with a confident nod. We sipped wine from plastic cups and caught up on our predictably thrilling lives. Moves, men, and daydreams filled the conversation until the urge to explore cut our banter off. Past the small parking lot, a narrow dirt path began. All around us hills erupted, typically they would have been coated in dry brush and desert vegetation, but five months’ post-Woolsey Fire, as if painted by a humble artist, shades of golden yellow coated the mountains. The path dipped down, leading us to cross a shallow stream. A traveler before laid a slab of wood for easier passing, water bubbled over pebbles and through small patches of grass. We all audibly gasped when we saw the starting point that led to the honeyed hills. Aly, a precocious artist who impressively wore many hats, lived in Malibu her entire life. “The fires came and destroyed everything, then after a five-year drought, it rained for weeks. These wildflowers haven’t been in bloom for decades,” she said while running her hands through the abundance. Tangles of weeds and yellow wildflowers stood tall, only breaking for a single path that emerged just past the stream. As we slowly ascended the rolling hills the mustard flowers grew taller and taller, soon they blew in the breeze above our heads. I had never stepped under wildflowers, only over or amongst them. The sea of yellow grew dense, the path narrowed, the coastline now glowed a different shade of yellow. We stopped towards the top where an opening appeared and overlooked the ocean. The salt breeze and floral scent mixed, blending two of the greatest forces: the sea and the earth. While we laid in the sun we went back and forth on the shocking beauty that arose in the aftermath of loss. “It’s like when people bring flowers to a funeral. The earth is mourning its loss and look what it gave us,” another friend thought out loud. I could have lived in those endless meadowy hills forever. All I ever need is the sea, the sun, and some flowers, I never imagined being spoiled by all three so greatly. The hills of honey may never surface again. The perfect blend of torched earth followed by extraordinary rain created a wonder that sounded practically unbelievable to those familiar with the area. A bloom of such scale, it benefit us all.