wet, it’s slippery as hell. If you’ve driven your car on black ice? You don’t see it, but you can skid a car in circles on it when the tires roll over it. Same goes when you walk across wet clay. It’s the soil’s version of highway black-ice conditions.”
“I’ve lived in the San Francisco area most of my life and we don’t get black ice or snow,” she jested.
“There’s a good patch of exposed clay soil in another part of the ranch. I’ll take you out there one day, throw some water across it, and then you’ll see just how slippery it really is.”
“That’s amazing information,” she said, giving him a look of pride. “You learned all of this as a sniper?’
Shaking his head, he said, “My family instructed me about the different soils. My grandfather taught me how to track, starting when I was eight years old. He’d take me pheasant hunting with him, and later, deer hunting, when in season. That’s where I learned most of my walking-without-being-heard skills.”
“I would imagine the sniper instructors were happy to see you coming, then?”
“It’s part of it,” he said, losing his smile. He straightened to his full height and Cari followed him into the grove. “Now that we know the soil, the next thing you have to assess is what is lying on top of it. Chances are, whatever it is, there will be something that makes noise if you step on it, thereby alerting the enemy, or the animal you’re tracking.”
Frowning, she looked around. “Well, there’s no spring grass on this ground, that’s for sure.”
Chase leaned down and picked up a couple of acorns and opened his palm. “That’s because acorns have tannic acid in them and these scarlet oak leaves are acidic, and most grass doesn’t grow well in shade, anyway. This is a grove that is almost entirely in shade due to the canopy of the trees themselves.” He pointed upward, tiny slats of light dancing here and there through the canopy. “And these acorns, while edible, aren’t tasty at all, except to animals. They’re pretty bitter tasting to us humans.”
“I’ve never heard of a scarlet oak tree.”
“They’re an eastern- and middle-America oak,” he said, dropping the acorns to the ground. “My family planted several large groves of them for lumber purposes. They’re a great oak for furniture. In fact, in your office, that big double-wide oak desk you work from? That was made from another grove east of here by my great-great-grandfather.”
“That’s such a wonderful family heirloom. I never knew that.”
“Just about every piece of furniture you see in the ranch house came from one of the generations of my family,” he said. “I like it because I grew up being taught by my parents about the history of every one of them, whether it was the kitchen table, a sofa, or a head- and footboard on a bed. Kind of gives me an appreciation for the hours and skill that went into making them in the first place. Most of our furniture comes from those scarlet oak groves.”
“My mother has some of my grandmother’s furniture, made of monkeypod, from Hawaii, that she had shipped over to the US. I loved hearing the stories about that beautiful wood. Nowadays, they use monkeypod for lovely wooden floors in the Islands. Our furniture has gorgeous streaks of red, brown, and gold in it. I never tire of looking at it.”
“I’ve seen monkeypod,” Chase said, “and I agree, it’s beautiful, hardy, and can handle flooring. Did you know that it’s a hardwood? And this tree also grows in Central America and tends to be a golden color, without the red or brown streaks in it.”
“I had no idea.” She gave him a humored look. “I can see that my knowledge of my surroundings is really lacking.”
Chase shrugged. “Your focus is on bee culture. I know you absorb natural-occurring information about where you want to place the hives. I’ve seen you study the soil, the trees, and surrounding bushes or grass, and how it might affect them. I don’t think you’re lacking at all.”
“That’s true,” she agreed, “but my focus has been what makes an impact on bees and where they create a hive.” She lifted her arm, looking around the grove, hearing the song of a western meadowlark. She’d often seen the yellow-breasted, large songster out on fence posts, singing their hearts out, their song melodic and beautiful. “How I wish you could grow monkeypod trees here.”
Grinning, Chase said, “Me,