Every walk tells a story
Three little Dragons (for Bob Marley) Walked up to echo to smile at the setting sun Three little dragons sunning themselves silent as the rock their eyes winking at me saying, this is my message to you Don't worry about a thing 'cause every little thing is going to be alright...
Three dragons soaking fading orange winter warmth Big Black, Silver Stripes and Yellow Belly, content we share afternoon Fika (Fika: Swedish social coffee break)
Wild sage burnt white dry thirsty like everything else this early summer morning above Rubio creek from space the hillside is brown Blooming yuccas bear clusters of sweet white flowers and green fruit atop their edible stalks ringed by forbidding bayonets
squish crunch squish crunch squish soaked footsteps April morning ramble in the mist spring fresh caress as I brush every bush along the trail
Ceanothus bloom wild silver wild sage early early March morning wispy silk thin clouds explode over the ridge like signals Peel a blood orange watch the crimson juice run down your fingers, inhale its perfectness, let the mountain breeze wisp it away, then smile (AND pack out your trash)
This one is dedicated to Hiroshige and Brett Harte. And Quincy Troupe, whose “Sonic Fireflies” I read several times times while waiting for a ranger to finish servicing a National Forest privy. The “syncopation of syllables flowing free form” set the perfect beat for the day, even if the mood was quite different. There were no fireflies or prowling black panthers on the yucca covered mountain slope, but you do have to wander what kind of metaphor those decorated eggplants might conjure.
Five sun baked eggplants on the steep Sunset Peak ridge enlaced with copper bracelets, eco-friendly art secret terroir recipe?
I suspected I wouldn’t see too many people on this hike, especially on a weekday, and I was famously rewarded. I crossed a lady walking her dogs, and a jogger, both within a half mile of the trailhead, separated by six hours of complete solitude. Except for those booming voices…
CHRISTO! AHORA! trance preaching voices float over ridges in the breeze answering their lord's call, NOW! louder than crunchy footsteps
I scanned the hilltops and canyons, but never found the provenance of the ceremony. It remained a mystery, or was I hearing things in the breeze that weren’t there? Voices in my head? The question lingered until I was distracted by magical and lonely little white clouds.
Tiny white clouds form and then dissolve rapidly fluffy moisture ghosts shape-shifting brushstrokes up high in the azure sky like dreams
I always hike with an alter ego, or two voices, an internal dialogue, a little devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other, one clamoring it's half-empty while the other insists it's half-full, one asking why put yourself through this much effort today when you could wait 'til tomorrow as the other argues why wait? Two fellows hiking only two more miles, said one what? came the reply we're halfway there, piece of cake we're s'far as I go, my legs ache The voices are mostly silent, and no, I do not talk to myself, at least not out loud. Time on the trail is time to enjoy nature, and solitude, a time for méditation, and the occasional encounter. Three mountain bikers pedaling proud old fogeys happy to see snow leave tire tracks in the bright red fire retardant phosphate goo
There is a bench, somewhere above Jones Peak. I won’t divulge its exact location. You have to sweat a little–ok, a lot–to chance upon it, to discover it. It is well constructed in the middle of a small dirt clearing ringed with rocks, surrounded by yerba buena and chamise, and like its numerous cousins on the slopes of the San Gabriels, it serves the sitter with spectacular views of the Southland. The sunsets from here must be special, I thought, as I debated whether to sit and take advantage or forge on. I still had a good two hours walk to reach the trailhead. The sun was lazily diving towards the ocean, and clouds to the west predicted it would soon be obscured. I didn’t want to walk in the dark, but I took thirty seconds to read the small dedication plaque, then again I always read dedication plaques, thinking that, if I wrote one and went through this much effort to post it in a special place, I’d hope the passer-by would read it.
“Sit down, take a deep breath“, I’m paraphrasing, “and take in the views.” I did.
…
“Let your soul be still.“
Walkin' in the wind through swinging chaparral windswept ionized the rambler seeks no answers when his blue hat blows away Ruins in Arroyo Seco, all but washed away remind visitors trees water and wind swallow the dreams of colonizers
Snow on the mountains drew crowds starved for outdoor fun in the winter sun lucky the path to the falls passed an outhouse with a view
Running in the rain. Smell the chaparral scents suspended in the droplets hanging from the laurel sumac bushes that brush against your thighs, cheeks and forehead as your feet dig into the softened dirt when you pass. Hear the pitter patter, the quenching chatter of upturned manzanita foliage gathering moisture, the excitement of slender sagebrush, the delight of minuscule chamise. Dried silvery tree trunks littered on the hillside, yesterday long dead, now like freely drawn charcoal marks that will rot and fuel the undergrowth of scrub oaks who’ve spread their precious acorns in hope of many futures, and today, because it rained, can imagine their progeny rising from the slope, or the canyon floor to shade a hot, sweaty jogger for just a brief second, on a warm sunny day.
© 2024 chris' walking project
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
Recent Comments