A quick sunset scramble up to the ruins of the Echo Mountain Resort, following the path of the funicular that used to haul up visitors from the floor of Rubio Canyon, to catch a colorful view of the windswept SoCal basin in winter evening light, six days from winter solstice, ended in drama. The drama of a sunset that was spectacular for all the wrong reasons. To the west, beyond the last visible ridge, an enormous cloud of deep purple fire smoke streaked across the sky, slicing, then filtering, and finally obscuring the blood orange disc of the sun. Less than a hundred miles away, nature is recycling, with such vigor and fury–“it’s a mega-fire” I’m told, the new normal–we are quickly reminded of our fragile existence; “we can’t fight these things, we just got to let them burn” I read in the paper. On the way home, with dusk turning to evening, pin pricks of white, green, amber, red lights piercing the dark expanse of Los Angeles below, I recall with dread all the bushwhacking I did to get to Echo earlier, through very dry chaparral, ideal kindling material, where the only evidence of moisture was the sweat on my back.

 

WP045_nice view – echo mountain from chris worland on Vimeo.