Author: chris (Page 4 of 17)

bobcat trail – Altadena Crest

January 3, 2020 / chris / 1 Comment

The walking project has been on forced hiatus for a while–injury, work, life–that’s also prompted an identity crisis of sorts. What exactly and why exactly am I doing (with) these videos? The answer, as should have been obvious from the get go, lies in walking. I had to ramble a few miles in the foothills overlooking the buzzing city bathed in a filtered, soft winter afternoon light to rekindle the passion, and if not find the path forward, at least understand anew why I am walking it in the first place. It’s a way of coping with the constant brouhaha, the visual carpet-bombing, the sensory warp speed of life in laid-back Los Angeles; it’s an escape, but not an avoidance. It’s a way of absorbing the landscape, of growing a sense of place and belonging. One step at a time, I fill in my own map of the world, charted with idiosyncratic observations, chance encounters and an ever-increasing belief in the power of looking up and around, listening to the wind and the birds, slowing down.

“When the yellow leaf dropped from the tree…it struck me how that will never happen again, with that particular leaf.”
Jerry Ellis, “Walking the Trail, One man’s journey along the cherokee trail of tears”.

truck route – Altadena, arroyo seco, Pasadena

October 27, 2019 / chris / 0 Comments

In Passing

Metro still runs buses along millionaire’s row, East Mariposa street, but the tram line headed for the base of the Rubio canyon funicular has been paved over, a familiar LA story. A few landmarks remain, among other imposing properties, the Rand McNally House, the Zane Grey Estate, the Altadena library, the Waldorf school. A film crew tows and films a ‘moving’ red pickup, flanked by police cars, another familiar LA story.

Turn left on Fair Oaks, across the liquor store parking lot, Abounding Grace Ministeries and the Altadena Church of Christ, then a few steps south, Hillside Voz de Esperanza; La Venezia court leads almost directly to the Pizza of Venice pizzeria. Where else but Altadena? reads the bus bench ad.

West on Ventura, the Charles White park, named after the painter just recently celebrated in Museums all over LA–nice to name places after local artists–and although the site isn’t exactly memorable, it does boast a detailed fitness panel, including a chart that tells me my BMI is 29. Walk faster.

Sheriffs hang out at the entrance to Franklin elementary, an all too common sight and sign of the times. A man–musician?–carries a sitar case to his car. Toy trucks parked along Ventura, dead end at the Arroyo Seco, where a constant flow of semis haul away dirt from the Devil’s gate reservoir, destroying a wildlife habitat itself a result of damming the Arroyo, which was done to prevent floods that swept away houses built too close to the water in the first place. A human story.

Crossing over the heavily fenced ”suicide bridge”, looking for a path to descend into the arroyo. On the west bank of the arroyo, tucked in the shade of small scrub oak, a homeless encampment–another LA story–towered over by the Batman Mansion.

Defenders Parkway, traverses Defenders Park, ending at Orange Grove, where Pasadena was founded, where the founders ‘picked out their lots’, home to plaques honoring Founders and Veterans, and the statue–“Enduring Heroes”–of an unarmed, ungeared, soldier walking and waving a flag at the Elks Lodge across the street.

I salute another statue, Rodin’s “The Thinker”, less that a block away, hovering over passers by on Colorado who’ve just left the Norton Simon Museum.

kickin’ it – Three Points/Mt Waterman loop

October 10, 2019 / chris / 0 Comments

Along the Path
Along the path
Singed peeled white pine trunks erect in fields of ferns
eroded boulders cradling many fingers in bloom
spiked pinecones dripping sap kick'd to mark time.
Along the path
Feasts of scents sounds textures colors
thresholds into the imagination
Bear plays a scintillating saxophone to a swarming cloud of gnats
resting crosslegged on a bed of blue-eyed grass
hosting a drone choir of drunken bees
foot thumping the air on the downbeat
while oblivious workman-like ants zig and zag in double-time
he turns to camera 
"honey-infused ursine blues is sooo much sweeter"
a painted lady weaves in approval around the bell of the horn
Oh Yeah
suddenly lizard scurries off beat crow shrieks the alarm
An intruder like a tourist walks into the alpine scenery
along the path he hums a few bars of Giant Steps
he enters the landscape like a painting a jam session a cinemascope drama an eight-hundred page romantic novel
with some anticipation much curiosity and measured wonder
long then short then long shadows drift and define 
what he sees hears smells commits to memory

Singed peeled white pine trunks erect in fields of ferns
eroded boulders cradling many fingers in bloom
spiked pinecones dripping sap he kicks to mark time
along the path in the painting he enters like a landscape

life is…

October 3, 2019 / chris / 0 Comments

…an early fall scramble on a little-used trail along the steep line of the white city funicular nature is slowly but certainly reclaiming; brushing against dry brown buckwheat, sagebrush, laurel, wild thyme and manzanita, dizzy with herb scents, drunk on testosterone; watching the sun drown in the distant ocean mist still powerful enough to brush the hills yellow ochre then blood orange, a few slim clouds pretending they’re going to cry a little but then just passing by; birds crowing, twittering, shrieking as they return to the nest for the night not paying too much mind to the clumsy and noisy intruder who stops often to catch his breath, before reaching the picnic tables at the summit, in the ballroom now reduced to its crumbling foundation, to savor a cup of hot tea in the chilling air that is finally letting go of summer; a sunset ramble.

under surveillance – Solstice Canyon

September 27, 2019 / chris / 0 Comments

Thick, desiccated fields of mustard pose as a Jackson Pollock canvas

Under Surveillance

For the sixth time since leaving the Solstice Canyon parking lot, the hiker stopped in his tracks. First, there were the two “SMILE, this area is being monitored” signs guarding the fenced-in ruins of the Keller cabin and the “Tropical Terrace”, the ill-fated mansion renowned architect Paul Williams built in 1952 for Fred and Florence Roberts, which burned down a short thirty years later. Then, higher up the canyon, the two consecutive creek crossings guarded by “STOP, Not a designated trail” postings, paired with “Federal Property, No person shall disturb, destroy, remove, gather, deface, or injure any property of the National Park System“. And then higher up still, on a hot, exposed section of trail climbing through dense and dry chaparral, the intersection with a use trail, blocked by the no nonsense “CLOSED, NOT A TRAIL” and “PRIVATE PROPERTY, No Trespassing” warnings. Keeping in mind the five thousand dollar fine and/or six month jail sentence advertised somewhere below, the hiker, at every sign, suppressed an instinct for exploration, and pressed on when finally, with the promised ocean views lying just beyond a ridge a mere two hundred yards away, with no sign posted, no warning, no threat, a large coiled rattlesnake sat in the middle of the trail, silently surveilling the hiker’s every move.

There was no room on either side to circumvent the reptile, nowhere to go but back and that wasn’t going to happen, the effort to get this far forbade the hiker from contemplating turning around this close to the goal. A sort of staring contest began in which neither party wished to be the aggressor, the bully; a stare down meant to reassure rather than intimidate. The snake’s tail, though erect hadn’t made a sound yet. The hiker, once the initial adrenaline rush subsided, heard only the cicadas’ mating calls and a whisper as the mild ocean breeze floated through an oak tree that shaded the trail. He thought about his luck, first for not stepping on the snake, and second for not being forced to wait under the grueling early afternoon sun. He was thirsty but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the diamond-shaped head from which a forked-tongue spurted out rhythmically. He did, however, feel for his smartphone, thinking he might as well record the moment, or at least snap a picture, a proof of his wilderness encounter with a dangerous killer, a cool dinner story. But the killer was camera shy apparently. By the time the hiker had tapped and swiped the camera into action the rattler had all but slithered away into the dense underbrush.

The trail dead-ended at a junction with a firebreak-slash-dirt service road with sweeping views of the Malibu coastline. There, the hiker saw the back of yet another sign, which he glanced at as he walked by, “TRAIL” it read, with an arrow pointing at the blue sky. He kept walking.

ocean views – bulldog loop trail

September 12, 2019 / chris / 0 Comments

The plan was to hit the MASH site, explore a little beyond, and swing by the rock pools on the return. An open itinerary: limited mileage, minimal elevation, some sightseeing and hope for a rewarding dip. And then I got the idea that it might be pleasant to get some ocean views. A refreshing breeze swept into the canyon, stirring the thick carpet of dried mustard, egging me on, c’mon, that ridge can’t be more than a couple of miles away. Hadn’t I just affirmed to the friendly Canadian gentleman who walk with me for a mile or so that I had the whole day and that I would go as far as I could? What’s a man’s word worth if he doesn’t at least try to live–and walk–by it?

Fourteen miles and three thousand feet of elevation later, I felt a long list of body parts that objected strongly to that logic. Thankfully, even in matters as trivial as my favorite pastime, the human soul has fortitude. How else is it fulfilled? I stood on a boulder with Castro peak shrouded in rolling fog, sipping a cup of warm tea, overlooking the ridge I then followed, the West Valley to my left, the Pacific to my right. I got my Ocean views alright, even through the thin layer of fog, I could see and smell the surf. Through fields of tiny yellow, honey-scented flowers, packs of dogs and wolves–not kidding, but they were very friendly husky/wolf mixes and they were accompanied–funky rock formations , rock art, and graffiti–sad face–I trudged, and loved every minute. Quoting another fellow hiker I lunched with: “A city of thirteen million people and just the two of us out here”. Even though I’d seen others, I get his point, it doesn’t get any better than this.

short story, long walk – san gorgonio

August 27, 2019 / chris / 0 Comments

Sometimes the trail just doesn’t want to be filmed, at least that’s what I kept telling myself on the ascent, as I concentrated on inhaling enough oxygen to take the next step, and then the next, and the next, and…you get it, it’s the highest peak in Southern California, so lots of steps. Now, I could’ve made up for it on the way down, video-wise, but I didn’t because I was too busy chatting away with a fellow hiker, which helped ‘shorten’ the trek, as well as keep the surroundings safe from my nosy image hunting. There’s always next time.

sTREEt trunks

August 17, 2019 / chris / 0 Comments

I’ve been thinking about trees…You, the trees that keep me company on these walks, with your anthropomorphic features, your textures, your resilience to cling to the side of an eroding cliff and at the same time hold that cliff together, with your roots, the pain that my imagination transfers onto your knife-carved, lightning-torn, chainsawed and otherwise disfigured structures–by man and nature alike–the music you whisper under the caress of a breeze or the bending force of a gale, the fragile world that each of you feeds on, protects and nourishes which includes ours–the delicate balance of oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide and organic matter that makes our air breathable and our soil fertile–and I wonder sometimes as I walk by and hear or see something about you that catches my attention: are you trying to tell me something?

trail bugs – Mount Wilson via Bailey canyon

August 16, 2019 / chris / 0 Comments

For architectural reasons, the structures of the Mater Dolorosa Passionist Retreat Center, seen from the Bailey canyon trail, remind me of California missions, like the San Gabriel Mission, barely visible in the distance through a thin layer of morning fog.

Muted bells of Bailey
Cool dawn whisper
a moment of silence...
    (for the enslaved Chumash Indians who built the San Gabriel Mission with lumber pillaged from the southern canyons of the San Gabriels)

There’s no escaping the urban rumble, the honking of trucks backing up, the many chainsaws, lawn mowers and leaf blowers prettying suburban yards below, the sirens, but as soon as the trail ducks deeper into the canyon, the atmosphere goes quiet, though not silent. Any warm body moving through will be escorted by a cloud of swarming flies, mozzies, and bees pollinating late summer blooms. Only a breeze or extreme temperatures would keep them away, and it’s a perfectly still, warm summer morning. What did the Chumash do about bugs?

Traversing soft white
buzzing buckwheat fields
A bee lands, dies in my coffee

I remember reading that, in the summer, groups of Chumash would migrate to higher altitudes in the range, places like Chilao to hunt and forage. They would thus also avoid the high temperatures of the foothills (and the armies of flying insects?). My return from Mt Wilson, contrastingly, is a long toll road slog in and out of sun-drenched, breezeless, dry chaparral. Still, it doesn’t get any better than this.

Whiny flies hover
like bloodthirsty drones
Summer trail schadenfreude
   (for the drones)

three cups of tea – three T’s

August 8, 2019 / chris / 0 Comments

It’s the time of year when the boughs of Jeffrey pines bend under the weight of green cones oozing resin that drips on the forest floor, on a boulder, or on the hat of the occasional passer-by, like the sweat from their brow drips on the trail, on their boots, or on the pages of a sketchbook.

Gray summer stillness
through clouds of flies
buzzing, views of Mount Baldy

Three cups of tea, three views of Mount Baldy (also known as San Antonio), from each of the three T’s (Mounts Timber, Telegraph and Thunder), and three totally trite attempts at trail poetry.

Mozzies attacking
three bites a minute
August mountain peacefulness

It’s not often I’ve reached a rugged, exposed summit like Telegraph when the breeze was lesser than what the microphone on the smartphone picks up, which made for a warm day, sweetly punctuated by a canteen refill at the Columbine spring, and a hammering cold shower under the San Antonio falls.

Silent summer heat
ice-cold spring water 
sun, shade, nature takes and gives