“[W]e followed the 99 down to Fowler, tacked east toward Sanger, and then, without warning, there we were.
‘Stop the car,’ Conor said, and although I am usually loath to walk a farmer’s land without permission, we had to step out into that cloud of pale color. We found ourselves in an Arthur Rackham illustration: the boughs bending over our heads were heavy with white blossoms, the ground was covered in moss that was in places deep green and in others brown, like worn velvet. I kept turning back to make sure the car was in sight, but then I gave up my last hesitation and we pushed deeper and deeper into the orchard, until all we could see were the trees.”
–Caitlin Flanagan. “The Madness of Cesar Chavez.” Atlantic July/Aug. 2011: 128-135. Quote on page 135.