Now, like so much that was treasured, in the Los Angeles area post wildfires, she is gone.
In the beginning, for a couple months, I loaded a backpack with water bottles and trudged down the trail. My back began saying please no. A dainty, slightly antique handcart that my dad may have used wayyyy back in the day became my back saver. With cardboard covering its bottom, my backpack sat for the bumpy ride ferrying water up every other day over the summer and every three days in the hot spells. Up the hill, over gravel stretches, rough spots, smooth spots, ruts in the dirt, week after week, month after month. I couldn’t have managed without that little handcart from the Steele Street garage. And Rosie’s part of the routine was slurping water from a bottle as soon as I got the backpack situated. We stood right next to the tree so no drop was wasted. Patient, she waited while I emptied six of them.
Part of everything.