There is no match for New England when it comes to fall foliage. So as a New England girl, every Fall my heart yearns to go back east. The Aspens do turn here in California, and my liquid amber in my yard comes through to give me a touch of Massachusetts in December, but I am always seeking something more.
I had been hearing about Oak Glen, home to apple orchards galore about a hundred miles east of Los Angeles, for many a year. Friends and colleagues have made the pilgrimage to pick apples and eat apple-everything-baked-goods, and go on hay rides. While apple picking was out for the year due to that being not so sanitary during a pandemic, orchards were still open to buy apple products and walk about their property.
And so, with an online tip that the dog-friendly Snow Line Orchard makes the very best apple cider donuts (another New England staple), Tucker and I hopped in the truck and headed east into the mountains for a hike and some special donuts at that orchard.
The hike itself, Wildwood Canyon, was not what I was expecting. But I fault myself as a New England girl setting my expectations too high.
And so, with an online tip that the dog-friendly Snow Line Orchard makes the very best apple cider donuts (another New England staple), Tucker and I hopped in the truck and headed east into the mountains for a hike and some special donuts at that orchard.
The hike itself, Wildwood Canyon, was not what I was expecting. But I fault myself as a New England girl setting my expectations too high.
A few leaves had changed, and the winter skies were stunning, but for the most part, the trail was open land that we trekked on and the only fall foliage was off in the distance where a few Aspen trees had begun to yellow in the adjacent small town.
Oak Glen itself was also not quite what I had expected. It just proves that most unhappiness is the result of high expectations being dashed. I should have expected nothing and been surprised with the outcome.
In their defense, a fire had raged through the surrounding mountains only a couple of months earlier, so it’s possible that what was now just scorched earth used to be acres of deciduous forest abundant with fall foliage in previous years.
Oak Glen proper was just a stretch of a few miles on one road that had a few apple orchards. The roadside was packed with cars, and people and dogs walked along the shoulder to get to one orchard or another. It wasn’t the idyllic apple orchards I had thought of with sweeping views of trees in the landscape.
Snow-Line was the perfect place for Tucker and me. Not just because of the donuts or dog friendliness, but because of its out-of-the-way-ness. At the far end of the stretch of highway, long after the final fruit stand, I spotted a van coming down out of an inconspicuous dirt road. Next to it was a hand-painted sign touting its “hot, fresh cider donuts!” There were no cars parked along the roadside, and it was unassuming and quiet. Just what I wanted.
We wove our way down the short dirt road to a red barn-like building. A few people were there, and cars were parked around the back. We continued beyond it to the parking lot where there were a surprisingly good number of spots left. People lined the front of the building, all dutifully six feet apart (so really the line wasn’t long in terms of number of people, just geographically due to mathematical distancing).
In their defense, a fire had raged through the surrounding mountains only a couple of months earlier, so it’s possible that what was now just scorched earth used to be acres of deciduous forest abundant with fall foliage in previous years.
Oak Glen proper was just a stretch of a few miles on one road that had a few apple orchards. The roadside was packed with cars, and people and dogs walked along the shoulder to get to one orchard or another. It wasn’t the idyllic apple orchards I had thought of with sweeping views of trees in the landscape.
Snow-Line was the perfect place for Tucker and me. Not just because of the donuts or dog friendliness, but because of its out-of-the-way-ness. At the far end of the stretch of highway, long after the final fruit stand, I spotted a van coming down out of an inconspicuous dirt road. Next to it was a hand-painted sign touting its “hot, fresh cider donuts!” There were no cars parked along the roadside, and it was unassuming and quiet. Just what I wanted.
We wove our way down the short dirt road to a red barn-like building. A few people were there, and cars were parked around the back. We continued beyond it to the parking lot where there were a surprisingly good number of spots left. People lined the front of the building, all dutifully six feet apart (so really the line wasn’t long in terms of number of people, just geographically due to mathematical distancing).
This was probably Tucker’s favorite part—waiting in line. There were people! And Dogs! And the air to sniff!
Being outside and distanced, I wasn’t too concerned about my health. As a first-timer, I learned from another patron that usually the place is open for customers to come and go but due to health advisories, there was now an outside line and a limited number of people allowed indoors to shop. So it became more of an assembly line or cafeteria style space, rather than open market.
Tucker got to see them making the donuts (not at all like what Dunkin’ Donuts dude used to do at 4am).
Tucker got to see them making the donuts (not at all like what Dunkin’ Donuts dude used to do at 4am).
I ordered up a dozen mini-donuts, caked in cinnamon and sugar, and then walked through the market.
A sign at the other end of the market pointed the way to the bar where I could get my other favorite fall (or anytime) treat: hard cider.
There I got a beverage and Tucker got a cookie. Another upside for Tucker, making it much more interesting than our hike earlier.
On our way out, Tucker got a bonus treat from the cash register clerk as well.
I stepped outside, trying to juggle fresh hot donuts, a cold cider, and Tucker at the end of the leash wanting to sniff everything all at once. And of course, having my mask on, I couldn’t just sip the glass to reduce the liquid from spilling, or shove a donut in my mouth to lower the load.
A sign at the other end of the market pointed the way to the bar where I could get my other favorite fall (or anytime) treat: hard cider.
There I got a beverage and Tucker got a cookie. Another upside for Tucker, making it much more interesting than our hike earlier.
On our way out, Tucker got a bonus treat from the cash register clerk as well.
I stepped outside, trying to juggle fresh hot donuts, a cold cider, and Tucker at the end of the leash wanting to sniff everything all at once. And of course, having my mask on, I couldn’t just sip the glass to reduce the liquid from spilling, or shove a donut in my mouth to lower the load.
For the most part, people wore masks—unless they were stuffing their faces with donuts and drink.
I chose a table out on the grassy knoll beside the barn and listened to the live music.
Taking off my mask, I was able to finally imbibe of the beverage and taste these donuts I had driven a hundred miles for.
Tucker lay under the table, taking in the little bit of almost-normalcy around us.
Once my drink was finished and I held onto the willpower to not eat every.single.donut.in.the.bag, we got up and began our wanderings in the orchard.
I was a little confused by how small the orchard was. I kept expecting acres upon acres of apple trees, and the short trees didn’t seem enough to make this booming business.
The raspberry field where people could come pick raspberries during the allotted time of year (and not during a global health crisis) also seemed rather small… more of a patch than a field.
When I compare New England to California in my mind, New England is always small, quaint—even the sky seems lower (a scientific impossibility). California’s towering mountains and craggy peaks are dramatic and imposing compared to the rolling “hills” of the Berkshires, the places I thought of as “mountains” until I saw the Rockies for the first time.
But when it comes down to the microcosms—the farms and the orchards—New England wins for sweeping landscapes. What they lack in mountain peaks, they make up for in rolling fields and meadows. Here along the San Bernardino Mountains, they planted trees wherever they could hold. They didn’t have miles of flat land in which to plant trees.
When I compare New England to California in my mind, New England is always small, quaint—even the sky seems lower (a scientific impossibility). California’s towering mountains and craggy peaks are dramatic and imposing compared to the rolling “hills” of the Berkshires, the places I thought of as “mountains” until I saw the Rockies for the first time.
But when it comes down to the microcosms—the farms and the orchards—New England wins for sweeping landscapes. What they lack in mountain peaks, they make up for in rolling fields and meadows. Here along the San Bernardino Mountains, they planted trees wherever they could hold. They didn’t have miles of flat land in which to plant trees.
There is no substitute for New England Autumn. But when you’re 3000 miles from it, this is certainly a little taste of it. The 100 miles was worth it for the donuts, the cider, and of course, for being able to stand beneath the trees and listen to the wind.
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