Tag: San Gabriels (Page 4 of 10)

back to baldy via register ridge

June 13, 2019 / chris / 0 Comments

I was thinking about Leonard Cohen sipping expensive scotch with Roshi at the Mount Baldy Zen Center, writing:

After listening to Mozart
(which I often did)
I would always 
Carry a piano
Up and down
Mt Baldy
And I don't mean
A keyboard
I mean a full-sized 
Grand piano
Made of cement
...

from "His Master's Voice"

And imagined that that was why I had trouble breathing, why my thighs and calves were screaming, why my hat was soaked with salty perspiration, why another thought crept into my strained consciousness: why am I doing this exactly? Why does it feel like I am lugging a grand piano up Register Ridge, the steepest trail to the summit of Mount Baldy? Like the sage in the poem, I don’t regret a single step, but I did feel every stride.

I was paying the price for the naive excitement with which I’d pushed all four cylinders of the Prius up the windy road to Manker Flats, feeling welcomed by row after row of Spanish broom lining the roadside, like cycling fans at the Tour de France all dressed in yellow; and the eagerness with which I’d opted out of the steep-but-not-as-steep ski hut trail. It was my first visit of the year to heights above six thousand feet and I couldn’t wait to dive in the deep end.

And then, after an hour of relentless climbing, dogs barked above me. Yes, dogs; two, maybe three of them further up the trail, from the sound of it. Dogs are not uncommon on backcountry mountain trails, but they are typically of the chill, well trained kind, and not barking, territorially at approaching hikers, and they are usually accompanied by humans. Not these guys. There was no one in sight, or within earshot. The barking eventually stopped; at the speed I was going, and from their vantage point, I couldn’t possibly present a threat. I spotted them, or at least two of them and a furry four-legged shape scurrying uphill as I approached. The two were posted under the shade of a solid jeffrey pine, one seated, the other on his belly, occupying a flat area blanketed with pine needles, just wide enough for them, right on the edge of a five hundred foot drop. Had they decided, or been ordered to, prevent my passage they couldn’t have picked a better spot. I got close enough to take note of their collars, which reassured me but also reinforced a daunting thought. What if the owner had slipped down that cliff they were perched on and was laying in the canyon floor below, injured, immobilized and unconscious? I’ve heard too many stories from rangers and search and rescue volunteers about hikers who get hurt or lost, generally because they do something stupid, to dismiss the possibility. Yet, I observed my canine ridge buddies and found them far too relaxed and weary of my presence to substantiate the accident theory. I now had a good look at them. They were of similar, average size, and similar features, they could have been brothers, but one was gray with wolf-like steel-blue eyes and the other a more generic sand color. Gray, or White Fang, got up and trotted down the ridge, between the trail, where I stood, and the precipice. He passed me as if I wasn’t there and parked himself some thirty feet below, on a rock, to gaze at, not me, but the stunning views of Baldy Notch, the three T’s and Ontario peak.

I wasn’t going to disturb such a zen moment so I put my hand out and took a couple of steps towards Sandy. That drew a growl and a warning show of teeth. I got the message: keep your distance. You stink. Or, I don’t know you, and how dare you disrupt our peaceful morning sortie? Go away! Fine. Be that way, I thought. See if I care, and I sidestepped up the trail keeping my eyes fully focused on Sandy’s stance. Not aggressive, but alert, like me just way quicker and with a more menacing jaw. And so we agreed to not become buddies after all. I trudged on and Sandy lazily joined White Fang in a quiet tableau of alpine harmony.

footpath to gooseberry

June 7, 2019 / chris / 0 Comments

The plan was simple, straightforward. Up Tanoble to link up with the Altadena Crest Trail (ACT), go east then ascend the ridge, the one that looks like it might connect with the abandoned Gooseberry Motorway–a dirt road carved into the mountain when the power lines were installed but abandoned since, leaving barely a walkable trail that dead ends above Eaton canyon and that you “enter at your own risk of serious injury or death”. I’d cased the area from above a couple of years ago, and while I wasn’t then able to trace a continuous visible path, no section of the ridge appeared impassable and I promised myself that I would one day attempt to pass it. Many of the outings documented in this blog are first inspired by a similar desire to find new paths, trails I haven’t treaded, and then fueled by the discoveries, large and small, made along the way. Put another way: I am curious, to the point of being stubborn, and walking enhances that particular character trait. Why hike ‘out and back’ if you can loop it? Seeing more is living more, right?

The black dotted track on the Alltrails app confirmed what I suspected; the ridge was passable. More accurately, it had been walked by somebody at some point in time. A bit of bushwhacking is a plus on any hike, a minor adrenaline rush, but I tend to follow existing trails. I’m no kamikaze; in the face of granite cliffs, snow storms, exhaustion, I’m quite happy to turn around, accept defeat and return home for a warm shower and a beer. As I veered north from the ACT onto the steep firebreak it was instantly clear that I would have to earn the shower and beer with at least a fair dose of sweat. The mid-afternoon sun was baking the hillside, with little to no sign of a breeze for relief, and for shade, nothing. Until, about three quarters of the way up the first incline, I found an improvised awning. Someone–the Alltrails tracker?–had tied an elephant-themed blanket–a republican?–to a laurel bush overhanging the trail, leaving just enough room for a weary, sun-struck passer-by to hide under. Things were looking good, even though the views of the sprawling San Gabriel Valley below were hazy and uninteresting. I caught my breath and trudged on.

Shortly thereafter, I reached the first plateau, approximately the halfway mark, and, to my surprise, the first of many dead ends; a wall of thick chaparral covered the backside of the promontory and the small saddle connecting it to the continuation of the ridge. For the next fifteen minutes, I followed every possible insinuation of a previous track to no avail. Do not underestimate the ability of thorny, rugged, Yucca infested brushes to deter human passage. A machete would have made the task easy, but I typically don’t carry one, and besides, I wasn’t looking to blaze a trail, finding one would be more than fun enough. Go back? It seemed inevitable. What a shame though. The saddle was a mere fifty meters long, if that. After that the ridge climbed steeply towards the electrical towers, and the vegetation thinned; from there there had to be a way to reach the ‘Motorway’. What if I advance thirty, forty meters and can’t go any further, or worse, disrupt a cougar or a bear during a midday nap, step on a rattler, slice a wrist on a manzanita branch? I chased these pleasant thoughts away with a smile and dove into the least obstructed opening I could find.

It was slow going, and scratchy, and precarious, and fun, I’ll admit. I pushed, dug, crawled, doggedly scrambled my way through the next fifty meters, trying to guess where a trail should be, if it ever existed. I came across a yellow tee shirt, half buried under fallen leaves and dead branches, which helped me feel less alone; it was physical proof that someone had done this before, in the past five years. When I reached the end of the saddle, things got easier, and quite a lot steeper. Carving my own switchbacks in the sandy soil, using abundant sagebrush as a rope to pull myself up the hill, checking my foothold at every step, I eventually reached the electrical towers, and then easily enough the coveted Motorway. I looked down, through a grid of metal power towers at the road I’d traveled and felt like I often felt as a kid after getting away with some forbidden deed, like a million francs. I smiled and carried on.

downed oak – echo mountain

May 28, 2019 / chris / 0 Comments

The great oak tree that reigned over a not insignificant portion of the mouth of Rubio Canyon, on the slopes of the reservoir, has lived there far longer than I’ve known it. It stood tall and wide last time I ambled up the trail that passes under its broad forest green canopy, a month ago, almost to the day. Since then, sadly, it has perished, from the weight of years, illness, struck by lightning, natural causes at any rate, I’ll never know. I do know however that the the sound this stately gnarled trunk emitted, for an instant, up and down the canyon, when it split, was louder than the peacock flock on Maiden Lane, louder than the cock(s) of camp Huntington, and the omnipresent crows, louder too than the saws and shredders that will be dispatched to clear its carcass. That much life cannot does not exhale in silence. A tree falls and the whole world reverberates. It wants us to know, the tree, now is my time to wither, to feed the soil so it does not forget, this is a land where my acorns are currency because these damn gray squirrels spread them all over the hillside, digging holes to bury them and then forget, they’re spreading my seed, which will one day, in the right circumstances, grow into a majestic survivor like me.

bee crossing Bee Flat

May 17, 2019 / chris / 1 Comment

It’s an arduous climb from the foothills of La Cañada to Bee Flat. The views from the Teepee overlooking a misty Southland, and the company of a gazillion bees visiting my shaded resting spot made it worth every drop of sweat. The fire road ramble to Mt Lukens is gentler, gradewise, but looong, and exposed pretty much the whole way, which is perfect, and even more so thanks to the abundance of spanish broom perfuming fun, giddy stretches of what could have been a boring walk.

Descending into Haines canyon, via the blue bug I’m happy to note someone has freshly painted, was a welcome breezy, green stroll through a lush canyon that buzzed like a giant beehive, home to at least one rattler who rattled so late and sheepishly I almost stepped on it.

Another great day walking along the northeast edges of Tovaangar, the world originally inhabited by the Tongva we broadly call the LA basin.

“Aweeshkore xaa.” (We are happy, in Tongva, according to an LA Times article).

bee bash – echo mountain

April 26, 2019 / chris / 0 Comments

A Tale of two trails.

One day I will manage to get my lazy backside out of bed early enough to catch the sunrise from the Echo Mountain Resort ruins. One day, not today, today I was only a third of the way up the trail that more or less follows the bed of the funicular that used to shuttle visitors between the bottom of Rubio canyon and the White City, the Echo Mountain Resort, when the sun peaked over the ridge on to the east. The trail was steep and overgrown, maintained mostly by its infrequent users, looks like, and that’s perfect. About a month ago, I was shocked, and a little weary, to find two couples here who, to add insult to injury, had been directed to the spot by Yelp. Fortunately, today I was happy as a lonesome lark as I bushwhacked my way, brushing up against the wonderful fragrance of wild sage and thyme, staying clear of them spiky yuccas, and checking for ticks every so often. Those little pesky bugs like to latch onto warm-blooded bodies passing by, and I was definitely warm, sweating like a hyperhidrosed high -schooler on a first date is more like it. Cooling off at the summit was easy. I joined an ongoing party; the bees in the neighborhood were throwing a pollinating bash, loading up on the stamens of Coulter Matilija Poppies like they’re going out of style.

I left the foraging insects, who will one day save the planet, to follow the Lower Sam Merrill trail back to the Cobb Estate, and ultimately a nice little coffee place on Lake. Now. I like people. I am even happy to witness the increased usage of trails in the area, ‘my backyard’. I am not selfish, but this was extreme. I didn’t count the number of hikers, joggers, dog-walkers and mountain bikers I crossed, but maybe I should have; the number would have been telling. And I repeat, it’s all good, but I’m not used to it, as I’ve said many times before, I much prefer solace, the company of ants, bees, chipmunks and the occasional rattlesnake. I belong to that species that goes into hiding when crowds of tourist flock to their turf, the ‘local’. Next time, I think I’ll go back the way I came, or follow the mystery path I will not speak about, and get lost in the chaparral. I’ll still have to get up early though.

if i were a hawk – Inspiration Point

March 30, 2019 / chris / 0 Comments

if i were a hawk

I’d hang out in the morning updraft above Rubio canyon. The creek is running again, after years of drought, and it attracts all sort of mammals perfectly sized for my consumption. Earlier, at dawn, this coyote pup came trotting up from the people neighborhood, all giddy from his own feasting on some pet, he stopped to have a slurp, his stomach so full he threw caution to the wind, forgot to look up and whoof! Benny and I shared a succulent breakfast. Benny’s my hunting partner. We’re stocking up energy, we’ve both got kids on the way, eggs in the nest, literally. Not that Benny needs to put on any more weight, he’s already hefty, which means he struggles in mild winds and over long distances, but when he dives on a prey, he’s got me beat every time. So he gets first dibs, but since his size allows him to pick out bigger targets it all evens out, there’s usually plenty to go around. We make a good team, he’s the muscle and I’m the brains.

Anyway, just because I’m a hawk doesn’t mean I’m hawkish; I only kill what I need to survive, nothing less, nothing more. It’s what I was built for, you know? The fun in it is just hanging out with Benny, who I have known since our first flying lessons, that and watching the bipeds walk up the mountain it takes us a mere two or three wing flaps to cross. I don’t get it. They’ve got machines, even ones that fly, and yet they flock to the mountains to climb them on foot, at considerable effort. They even bring their own food. I guess when you’re a biped that’s what you do: walk, but if I were in their shoes, I’d pick easier trails, flat ones. Watch me, no unnecessary movement, I let the elements do the work, follow the law of minimum effort. Hah! Look at them, trudging up the steepest ridge, like ants in their neurotic ceaseless dance to feed the colony.

Look at that guy in a bright yellow soccer jersey pointing a shiny device up at us? Grandpa used to tell us stories about humans pointing shiny objects at the sky, followed by sharp earsplitting noises, and friends of his falling to the ground, dead. Let me gain some altitude here, get within safe distance. Benny says we should skedaddle. He’s probably right. I wouldn’t want to end up dead, or worse, like Grandpa, in a cage.

Grandpa got caught because he was curious, and greedy, and a little blind in his older days. He was swooping around one day, on his daily morning constitutional, when he spotted this bleating lamb in the middle of a meadow in Griffith Park. He was a little hungry so he gained some altitude and went for it, only he hadn’t noticed the rope that extended from the lamb’s front right leg to a nearby sycamore, and the two uniformed parkies–park rangers–hidden under the tree. No sooner had Grandpa dug his talons into the lamb’s wooly skin that the parkies thrust a net over him. These days, when they catch you, most of the time they just tag and release you. You have to fly around with that stupid ankle bracelet, which is kind of embarrassing, but it doesn’t land you in a cage. Sadly, that’s where Grandpa finished his days, and those stories he told us, we had to listen to them through iron bars, when the rangers weren’t paying attention.

It wasn’t all bad though. One day, he said, this guy with a rumpled suit and a funny hat, carrying an odd size case, walked through the park early in the morning. He stopped and stared. Grandpa didn’t feel like being ogled, so he turned his back to the stranger. He heard him open the case and fought the itch to look back. A couple of minutes later a sweet sound filled the air. Instantly, the general cacophony of birds all around doing their morning routine ceased, even those pesky, and loud, green parakeets shut up. Grandpa couldn’t help it anymore, he glanced at the stranger over his shoulder. The man was holding a shiny, sinuous, horned object to his mouth, from which this tantalizing disturbance of the morning air emanated. At first the effect was plaintive, hurt. The player was still staring, only now Grandpa held his gaze. The space that separated hawk from Hawk–for I imagine it was the famous saxophonist Coleman Hawkins Grandpa was talking about–collapsed, reduced by the notes that flowed out of the instrument to an emotion, a flurry of emotions that was at once completely removed from the world and encompassing the whole universe. It spoke of pain, joy, betrayal, love, existence. Grandpa scanned the surroundings, looking for reactions from other caged birds but he couldn’t see any. He must have thought he’d died.Could this be what happens when your heart stops beating? But no, his pulse was strong, and not only that, it was magically in tune with the music. Hawk closed his eyes. A robin flew down from a nearby oak tree, to land on his shoulder. It started singing, as if in response to the horn, and Hawk in turn, responded, effortlessly moving through keys to join the robin in dialogue. Grandpa, the hawk, laughed; the kind of laugh that is infectious, indisputable and so profoundly real it echoes through time and the universe, maybe even into the far reaches of Rubio canyon, where a lone hiker, who’s just quenched his thirst from the raging creek, feels rather than hears a flutter and looks up at the misty morning sky. He recognizes the silhouette of a red-tail hawk, no, two hawks circling above him, rapidly gaining altitude.

flow – Rubio canyon

March 19, 2019 / chris / 0 Comments

My preferred route to the ruins of the ‘White City’, or Echo mountain resort, follows the steep incline on the eastern ridge, where the funicular once hauled visitors from the bottom of Rubio canyon to the resort. It avoids the crowds that flock to the very popular Sam Merrill trail on the western slope. In fact, it avoids them so well that hikers are as scarce as mountain lions on that trail; I haven’t encountered either in the fifteen years I’ve frequented it. But, as the saying goes, this was one of those first times. I passed two couples on the way up. It’s not a crowd, and I really don’t care. Actually, it’s nice to have company sometimes, and to see others ‘dwell among the mysteries and beauties of the earth’, as Rachel Carson puts it. What gives me pause however, is that both couples found the trail thanks to our friend Google. How long before some googlorithm of sorts sends crowds to this secluded spot? Another thing I don’t remember seeing in Rubio, except in thin, rare patches, is a steady flow of water in the creek, gushing downward, carving yet a few more inches out of the floor of the canyon, sculpting the ever changing landscape, and occasionally washing out a portion of trail.

wilson in three acts

March 1, 2019 / chris / 0 Comments

Mt Baldy and the eastern range of the San Gabriels from Mt Wilson Observatory

A Screenplay

ACT 1 – BASTARD RIDGE

EXT. OLD MOUNT WILSON TRAIL; EARLY MORNING

FADE IN on the porch of the restored historic LIZZIE’S INN, a landmark establishment at the trailhead of the historic OLD MOUNT WILSON TRAIL, where, starting in 1864, mule packs loaded with building materials, telescope parts and other necessities would start their nearly eight mile climb to the building site of the MOUNT WILSON OBSERVATORY. A MIDDLE-AGED HIKER sets off on the trail and soon catches up with another hiker who’s clipped a small cow bell to their backpack that rings rhythmically, reminiscent of the sound of mule packs of yore, or the cow bells of the HIKER’s native Switzerland, although admittedly not as loud. Soon the MIDDLE-AGED HIKER veers off the main gently-graded trail. The cow bells are seen and faintly heard a few minutes later in a LAWRENCE OF ARABIA shot, a tiny moving dot in the mountainous landscape.

We hear huffing and puffing, scraping and stumbling, as the HIKER trudges up the aptly named BASTARD RIDGE. We meet GASTON, a small plastic figurine snuggled in the shoulder strap of the hiker’s backpack. He’s the loyal buddy–modeled on the classic Franquin comic strip creation Gaston Lagaffe–who accompanies the HIKER on nearly every outing.

GASTON: You okay there big boy?

HIKER: (catching his breath) I’ll live…(breath) I think.

GASTON: Are you sure about this? They don’t call it the Bastard’s Ridge for nothing.

HIKER: Bah! How hard can it be?

MONTAGE, the hiker’s boots battling the steep incline, the rutted user trail, the smoggy Los Angeles basin, GASTON napping? The beat of footsteps, counterpointed by accelerated breathing, some stumbling. Finally we reach a bench. We’ve arrived at JONES PEAK. We take in the view.

ACT 2 – TWENTY-ONE VIEWS OF WILSON

EXT. OLD MOUNT WILSON TRAIL; LATE MORNING

After a much needed refueling break the HIKER resumes his ascent, continuing straight up the ridge to HASTINGS PEAK, opting once more for the rougher road instead of the connection to the OLD WILSON TRAIL.

GASTON: (Humming an old French marching ditty) Un kilomètre à pied ça use, ça use/Un kilomètre à pied ça use les souliers/Deux kilomètres à pied ça use, ça use/ Deux kilomètre à pied ça use les souliers/ And so on…

HIKER: (VO, to himself) Why am I doing this again? Have to keep drinking or I’m going to cramp up. What if I skip the last two miles, the fire road bit? Who’s going to know? Gaston?…Okay. Fine. Carry on. Next stop, lunch with a view.

GASTON: (continues to sing)…Huit kilomètres à pied,,,

A final near-climb to reach the Mt Wilson Toll Road leaves the HIKER near dead. He takes a nap on top of a huge boulder settled on the shoulder of the dirt road before tackling the last two miles. The heavy rains have left mounds of mud, piles of rocks and trees torn out of the hillside blocking the road. Patches of snow cover the path as the road contours the mountain to the east-facing slope, the shaded side. A deer darts off in the distance. The last mile leaves the road to switchback more directly through a patch of chaparral that burned just last year. Amidst the charred remains of manzanita and laurel bushes we cross paths with a couple of hikers on their way down.

GASTON: (still singing) Trente kilomètres à pied…HEY. BONJOUR.

DESCENDING HIKER #1: Hey. How’s it going?

HIKER: Inaudible(panting heavily).

DESCENDING HIKER #2: You’re so close!

DESCENDING HIKER #1: So close! (Over their shoulder) HAPPY TRAILS!

ACT 3 – LA DESCENTE/DOWNHILL, YELLOW

EXT. MOUNT WILSON TOLL ROAD; AFTERNOON

Revitalized by lunch calories and a cup of hot tea, having refilled his water bottles at the Cosmic Cafe, the HIKER starts the familiar, easy, but long descent to Eaton Canyon in Altadena on the Mt Wilson Toll Road. A thin cloud layer announces the front end of a storm due to hit the region in the next day or two. The pace is brisk but not fast–legs are battered from the brutal climb earlier in the day. This is a path the HIKER has traveled a dozen times or more, he has the landscape memorized but the harsh alpine climate keeps reshaping it. There is always something to notice, something that was different last time, something that wasn’t there last time, or something he hadn’t noticed before, like those yellow reinforced concrete posts that line the mountain side of the fire road at regular intervals. There is also plenty of thinking time. We come across a MOUNTAIN BIKER pedaling uphill.

GASTON AND HIKER: How’s it going?

BIKER: Great. How are you doing?

The BIKER doesn’t break his stride; he’s barely breathing hard, despite the incline. The HIKER watches him quickly disappear behind a bend in the road.

GASTON: Don’t even think about it.

HIKER: Think about what?

GASTON: Getting a mountain bike.

HIKER: I’m not. But, see how quickly they can ride up a mountain?

GASTON: You mean how quickly HE can ride up a mountain. He’s twenty, twenty-five max, and in perfect shape.

HIKER: Right. But with training…Hey, wait a minute. How did you know?

GASTON: Know what?

HIKER: Just now, you knew what I was thinking.

GASTON: What were you thinking?

HIKER: The mountain bike?

GASTON: Hah, Yeah. I know everything you’re thinking.

HIKER: (puzzled) what?

GASTON: I’m your best friend; I know everything you’re thinking. It’s perfectly normal. Like right now, you didn’t say anything but I know you need to pee. Am I right or am I right?

HIKER: Yeah, I do. WTF? That’s creepy. You’re creepy.

GASTON: Not really. I can tell because you’re walking faster and looking around for a good spot.

HIKER: (shakes his head) Isn’t it time for your nap? (He ducks behind a large cedar by the side of the road).

GASTON: You start riding a bike, I’m staying home.

Eventually, GASTON dozes off, lulled by the rhythmic bounce of the HIKER’s gait cushioned by soft dirt that has been recently plowed and leveled by a John Deere parked on the side of the road. At the HENINGER FLATS CAMPGROUND, he rests just long enough for a last cup of tea and energy bar, on a bench overlooking the San Gabriel valley. The grass has grown tall all around the empty campsites. The sun peaks through the clouds. There’s about an hour left before sunset and they’re two and a half miles from the Eaton Canyon trailhead. He gets up and regrets having sat down. That fast, joints and muscles have stiffened. On the edge of the campground, he spots A DEER FAMILY, MOM, DAD and TWO YOUNG ONES, grazing. He thinks he recognizes them from the last time he came through. MOM and DAD look up, perk their ears, evaluate the threat.

HIKER: Hey there! Just me. Walking by.

DAD returns to grazing while MOM stays alert, until the HIKER waves and walks on.

thirty-two views of dtla on a winter afternoon

February 25, 2019 / chris / 11 Comments

Baby it’s cold – Echo mountain via Rubio Canyon

December 29, 2018 / chris / 0 Comments

For the third time in a row, I walk into a sunset in the Altadena foothills. It’s a nice habit. It’s trash day, after christmas, the bins are full of cardboard boxes, colorful and glittery wrapping paper, and a pair of soccer cleats that look unused–it may not be what you asked for, but did you have to throw them away? Dejected, imported trees will line the sidewalks a week from now. The deflated cloth reindeer, penguins and snowmen will be returned to an attic, garage or closet. The ornament someone hung on the bell rung by joggers and hikers who reach the top of the concrete stairs at the ruins of the Echo Mountain Resort will most likely have disappeared. I’ll have to remember to write 2019 until it becomes automatic, which can take a few weeks. But I bet the flock of peacocks who’ve found a home in the neighborhood I walk through on my way to the Rubio Canyon trailhead will still hang out in the great cedars, and lazily make their way up to the shelter of its upper branches after sunset, as I walk by, and long after.