chris' walking project

Every walk tells a story

Tag: Santa Monicas

the day after – LA96C – Mandeville Canyon

January 9, 2021 / / 59 Comments
The Nike missile site LA96C on San Vicente mountain, seen from the Mandeville Canyon fire road.

During the cold war, the Los Angeles basin was ringed by sixteen missile and radar silos whose job it was to defend the city by intercepting the feared incoming Soviet nuclear attack. It never happened, but ruins of the abandoned sites still linger, and the one atop San Vicente mountain is even maintained as a tourist destination. I had planned to visit this piece of Angeleno history for some time. What I hadn’t planned was to do it the day after the country was rocked by an assault from the enemy within. 

Time to pause breathe walk
meditate find the center--
yesterday was mad--
blessed by swirling prayer flags
where missile silos once stood

Tiny yellow bloom
in brown grass and mustard field
afternoon sun glow
alone flutters in the wind
joyful prayer rain dance

fresh and salty – nicholas flat trail loop

January 18, 2020 / / 0 Comments

In December 2017, I spent two days filming in the Leo Carillo campground. The winds barreling down the dry creek were fierce and carried an ominous threat: a few short miles to the north the Thomas fire was raging. A change of wind direction would have forced us to shut down. We watched the sunset from the bluffs, filtered by clouds of brown smoke drifting miles out over the ocean, beautiful but daunting. A year later, almost to the day, the Woolsey fire burned through that very canyon, and the surrounding hills.

The devastation is still very visible today, but so is the rebirth of a resilient ecosystem you can’t help think has been through this cycle before, since long before there were trails, campgrounds, or even Chumash settlements. It’s an old story in these coastal mountains, for which Man seems to have little respect, intent as he seems to be on changing it forever. And so, with our help, it’s become a story of self-destruction. The zeal we’ve shown in attempting to dominate and control our environment will ultimately make it uninhabitable. Is that also just a phase of a grander cycle? The prickly pear that grows out of its charred carcass, the leaves beginning to fill in the canopies of singed stately oaks, the bright green dandelion that dots the charcoal dust, the vibrant red young laurel leaves, the ducks frolicking in the pond, I’d like to think have a greater story to tell.

under surveillance – Solstice Canyon

September 27, 2019 / / 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 / / 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.

fields of mustard – griffith park

April 20, 2019 / / 1 Comment

Rough year to be homeless in Los Angeles, especially if you’d taken up residence on the islands of dirt and debris occupying the center channel of the LA River between Burbank and Figueroa. A year ago, a resident of the area told me they’d moved to the islands when the city dislodged them from the higher, safer, gated zones between the 5 freeway shoulder and the bike path. Where did they find refuge this winter, during our exceptional rainy season? Some have built shacks on the cement shore, in the mouths of smaller drainage arteries, but that can only be a small portion. A man loaded with a grocery bag slips through a breach in the fence next to the Griffith Park tennis courts. The brave soul who had settled halfway up the ridge leading to Beacon Hill, in Griffith Park, has vanished. Not surprising, the hill is invaded by black mustard (Brassica Nigra), or is it shortpod mustard (Hirschfeldia incana), tall and dense, and quite pretty in full bloom like today, but not habitable. They say you can eat the greens and flower though. I won’t try it. Not today. Today, I’m surrounded by the color of this invasive, non-native plant and I’m thinking of a Mingus tune, “Orange was the color of her dress, then blue silk.”

Evidently, it’s the colors in the title that prompt the connection–or is it ‘conection’?–but I also find that the many tempo changes, the many conversations that take place between the players, the sense that at any moment the thing can unravel into anarchy but doesn’t, the drive of Mingus’s bass, somehow fit a good ramble across Griffith Park. The many changes of pace–fast going downhill, slooow uphill–the subtle changes in scenery, the inevitable urban incursion–“Cristo Viene” spray-painted on rocks, trash piles and the need for a multitude of signs forbidding entry, marking property lines–all contribute to a complex composition that gently comes together during a nap near the wisdom tree. So, yellow was the color of the hills thanks mainly to the sprawling mustard, and then blue made an appearance in the shape of a single flower at first, then patch of lupines.

On the album where I thought I’d heard “orange was the color of her dress…”–memory lapse, it wasn’t–there is another superb performance of another tune fitting the occasion, “I’ll Remember April”. A classic, with a memorable Bud Powell piano solo, full of reverence for the music that Mingus, in much of his work, pushed forward, beyond its comfortable boundaries. This ‘conection’ didn’t occur to me until later, long after I’d exited Griffith Park proper, skirting its southern perimeter along Mulholland, and I’d run into a library of sorts, which, in typical LA fashion was nothing but a facade, or rather a cleverly decorated garage door. Some titles of note: Marx and Hegel, Think, Conections of the world, and my favorite, Aphorisms.

fire and bloom – Paramount Ranch

March 24, 2019 / / 0 Comments

I did not visit Paramount Ranch in search of this year’s already mythic superbloom, I swear I didn’t. And let me disclaim right away that no flower was trampled in the making of the above video. Let me also confess that the only wildflowers in the piece that I can identify with confidence are the california poppies, the purple lupines and the yuccas. Needless to say, I felt quite ignorant roaming the various trails in the park, surrounded by bright green fields in every hue dotted with patches of orange, golden yellow, princely purple, violet and white. But life is a learning process, right? And I haven’t delved into the chapter about wildflowers yet. What I did notice, was the total disappearance of the chaparral I am slightly more familiar with. Laurel, manzanita, ceanothus, toyon and scrub oak were comprehensively consumed by the Woolsey fire, leaving only charred, spiny carcasses stubbornly planted on the hillsides. Only the shaded north-facing slopes retain more visibly the barren, rock and dirt, lunar landscape look. On the sunny slopes and in the valleys, grasses have sprouted like wildfire, thanks to all the rain we’ve had, leaving a green carpet swaying gently in the breeze and from which the silver and brown remains of old growth oaks, many of them famous like movie stars, still stand. They will not be written off so easily, already, only three months after the blaze, tufts of green leaves adorn their less ravaged limbs; they will be back! Like the landmark Western Town that is already being rebuilt, and the ants that are already busy gathering who knows what from the ashes, and the butterflies.

Zigzagging haphazardly from bloom to bloom, migrating painted ladies cross my path by the dozen. They see me coming, I know, and they tease me; one after the other they land as if to rest, or pose, on a goldfield, I think, only to take off as soon as I approach. I’ve tried talking to them, slowing down my approach, waiting for them to land in frame, all to no avail. Either they’re camera shy or in a hurry. I guess when you’ve got thousands of miles to cover and only a limited time to do it, optics are not a priority. Besides, I don’t care, I get ensnared into their dance, a smile blooms in my soul, and eventually I take note, the ladies spend a few more seconds on the blue flowers.

Speaking of painted ladies, Abbey Lincoln recorded an album entitled “Painted Lady” and I’m spinning it right now, because life is like that, right? you look for connections. It doesn’t always work because it’s often forced, artificial, but this music is doing something very sweet to my disposition, kind of like dancing with butterflies. And when it fades, I’m left lying in the grass, happy like the poet.

The Herdsman

by Alberto Caeiro (Fernando Pessoa)

trans. by Richard Zenith

I’m a keeper of sheep

The sheep are my thoughts

And each thought a sensation

I think with my eyes and my ears

And with my hands and feet

And with my nose and mouth

To think a flower is to see and smell it

And o eat a fruit is to know its meaning

That is why, on a hot day

When I enjoy it so much I feel sad

And I lie down in the grass

And close my warm eyes

Then I feel my whole body lying down in reality

I know the truth and I’m happy.

A Walk in the Park – Griffith Park

May 28, 2017 / / 0 Comments

“The Cat’s Dilemma”, a short story

So I scrambled down a steep grassy slope on the northern face of Mt Bell, following a use trail that soon disappeared. I wasn’t lost. I knew the trail or Vista del Valle drive had to be just below, as long as I treaded downhill I’d be in good shape. But the brush was thick, the vegetation gone wild with all the rain this winter. Suddenly the landscape was savage, miles from anywhere, silent but for the sounds of nature, birds, a breeze whispering in the oak leaves and, the delicate but telling crackle of a twig snapped under a foot, or a paw.

I froze and turned around. He was there, under the shade of a low profiled gnarly oak tree, hidden in a thicket of laurel sumac. He was staring me down, not seemingly worried or nervous, but alert, confident. I recognized him, of course. He’s famous. I had read the feature the LA Times ran a few weeks back, “A Week in the life of P-22, the big cat who shares Griffith Park with millions of people”. I even followed his twitter feed.

I was a little taken aback when he spoke to me.

“Dude, can’t you read? It’s posted everywhere, “Stay ON the effin trail”.

I must have laughed or smiled, anyway I relaxed a little.

“What? You think that’s funny?” You think I’m funny?”

I made a conciliatory gesture, not knowing what to say, or not able to say it.

He squinted and gave me a long, silent, meant-to-be-threatening gaze.

“You don’t look so tough. Probably a vegetarian…” He swatted the brush in front of him as he bellowed “but you woke me up man!”

I blurted out, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” And took a step back, ready to dart.

“Don’t even think about it dude!” He laughed. “I hope for your sake you know you can’t outrun me.”

“I wasn’t trying to run. It’s just…”

“What? A little scary? Your adrenaline’s pumping? Your palms are sweaty?” At each phrase P-22 took a step, circling around me. He barely made a sound, but he kept talking, “Your legs want to run, but your brain’s telling you different?”

I nodded. I was trying to inconspicuously scan my surroundings for a rock or a stick, something to throw or hit with.

“I didn’t hear you.” P-22 said, singsong like.

I nodded more visibly and replied, “Yes. I’m scared. I want to run but I know better. I don’t know what to do?”

“Welcome to my life. You may think I’m like, guided only by instinct, that I’m programmed. That, whatever I do, I’m just ‘being a wild cat’. He lifted his right paw and flicked it up and down twice to illustrate quotation marks. “Not so dude. Uh Uhm! Every time I get close to one of your lot, I have to do some serious thinking, e-va-lu-ate the situation. Like I’m doing right now. Kill, not kill. Threat, no threat.”

“I mean no harm I promise, I could just…” I pointed down the hill.

“Not so easy man! Not SO EASY.” He raised his tone, which did concern me.

“Okay. Okay.” I tried to appear calm and steady since there was no fooling this cat. “I…I’m not moving. I’ll stay right here.”

“Good. Now look. I just want you to know. I’m not going to eat you. Think about it. You look like you got half a brain. If I so much as scare you the wrong way, they’ll be on me as quick as flies on a fresh turd. You’re lucky that way, plus I’m not hungry today.” He looked up at the sky, grinned as if recalling a fond memory. “I had myself a deer last night”, he licked his chops, “tasty and fat. Even got some leftovers.” He reached a spot above me, with the sun in his back, and stopped. He was now silhouetted so I couldn’t read his expression, but when he snapped out of his reverie, his voice had lost its edge.

“What was I saying?”

“Leftovers…”

“No, before that.”

“You’re not going to eat me.”

“Hah! Yes. Kill not kill. See, here’s my problem. I have no one to talk to. The rangers, they’re cool, but if I start blabbering with them, I’ll end up in a lab somewhere, like a freaking experiment. And there are no other cats around, not that I can relate to anyway. The truth is, I’m lonely.”

He sounded genuinely depressed so I made an attempt at flattery, “I don’t believe you. You’re P-22. People worship you. You’re famous. You have thousands of followers on twitter. You’re the King of Griffith Park.”

“King? King…I get it. Lion, king. Clever. Nice try.” He shook his head slowly in sorrow and said, barely audible, “More like an emperor with no clothes. I’m a king in a cage, that’s what I am. And you know what’s even worse?”

“What?”

“I’m a virgin dude. A king without a queen. Let your instincts deal with that.” P-22 slumped down in the grass. “I wish they’d just shoot me.”

Flattery fell flat, so I went for reverse psychology. “You know what? You don’t sound like a king to me.”

He perked up.

“Pick yourself up! You’re better than this.”

“Huh?” He raised himself to a seated position.

“What do you think people are going to say when I post this all over?”

“You wouldn’t?”

“What’s keeping me? You? You’re nothing but a pathetic overnight media star, looking for a few more likes. Look at you. You’re so sorry you’re trying to scare me into listening to your sorry story. Get a life.”

Quick as a flash, the cougar leapt forward with a loud roar. I’d anticipated his move though, by ducking sideways, and then letting myself roll down a patch of tall grass. The fall lasted what felt like an eternity and I went crashing into a dead fallen oak tree. I was dazed for maybe two seconds but managed to curl into a ball and roll behind the tree trunk. I was fully expecting to get mauled and laid my hopes of survival on the angry puma getting bored with tossing a lifeless corpse around, and maybe being truthful about not being hungry.

A moment passed. Another eternity. Silence. No blows. Nothing. I didn’t dare look up. This smart cat was probably just waiting for me to offer my head as a target. I steadied my breath, and waited. I surveyed my body mentally. Nothing feels broken, I thought. I could try another leap downhill. The road must be really close. I inhaled deeply, and, fighting the instinct to stay curled up, on the defensive, jumped again, and rolled again, eventually landing on my feet. Without looking back I scrambled down the slope, on the verge of loosing control at every step, hoping a tree wouldn’t plant itself in my path. A branch I couldn’t avoid, ripped, snagged my t-shirt and the recoil sent me tumbling again. Finally, I came to a stop on a flat surface. This time it took me considerably longer to gather my thoughts and take toll of the situation. I was sitting on a dirt road, alone. Not a living soul in sight. I kicked the dust and scampered away, nervously scrutinizing the hillside.

 

Fifteen minutes later, I was hiking down the road back to my car when a park ranger drove up in a truck. She stopped, rolled down her window, shouted at me.

“What happened to you? You look awful.” She got out of the truck, looking me up and down. I noticed she carried a service weapon because she put her right hand to it when she approached me.

“Do you need assistance sir? You look pretty beat up.”

“I’m fine. Thanks. Just took a tumble. Nothing broken. I’m fine.”

 

I’m not sure why I didn’t tell the ranger about my encounter with P-22. They would want to know so they could track his behavior and act accordingly, and then who knows? Was it misplaced pride? Maybe. Disbelief? Definitely. Though I would like to imagine that I simply preferred to leave him in peace.

 

 

 

 

Walking Project 010_signs from chris worland on Vimeo.

Archives

© 2024 chris' walking project

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑