I was in my late twenties and my mom was fifty-something when we got the hair-brained idea that we would climb the highest peak in Southern California, Mt. San Gorgonio. Never mind the fact that neither one of us had done any hiking to speak of. So, one fine morning, at the crack of dawn, Mom, Uncle Ted, my cousin Dan, and I, set off equipped with day packs and naiveté.

We opted for the Vivian Creek trail as it was the most direct route to the summit. It didn’t occur to us that the most direct route would also be the steepest. The trail ascends about 5,500′ in less than 8 miles. Within view of the summit, but with 1,000′ of climbing ahead, my body rebelled at the unaccustomed abuse. We were on a steep slope of broken shale, above the tree line, where I laid down in the middle of the trail (the only relatively flat spot) and fell into a deep sleep. My mom stayed with me while the boys continued to the summit. I vaguely remember other hikers stepping over me but it was beyond my power to move.

The hike back down was not noticeably easier than the climb had been, especially for my uncle who had well-worn knees.  It was dark before we reached the parking lot.

With that indelible memory, I loaded the girls into the car for a short day hike. I told myself that I would turn back before I was completely enervated, so that the return would be as enjoyable as the climb. Ha! Have you EVER been able to resist going up just  one last steep pitch, or around one more twist in the trail, just to see what’s ahead? Me neither.

The first half mile was rather too steep for a comfortable warm up and the next mile was was like climbing a relentless staircase. Even the dogs were happy to pause occasionally to catch our breath. Just past the “wilderness” border, our efforts were amply rewarded by the lush riparian canyon of Vivian Creek where the trail leveled out.

This trail is probably the most popular trail in our area, so we were never lonely nor did we need to be wary of wildlife. There were a surprising number of small children on the trail, one whose tiny Asian mother had CARRIED him up. He looked like he weighed at least 45 pounds. Most of the children were cranky and complaining, making me question the wisdom of dragging them on such an adventure. Of course, if the plan was to abandon little Hansel & Grettle in the deep dark woods, I could see the appeal to the strategy.

So, we kept plodding uphill until it wasn’t fun anymore (for me; the dogs saw no reason to reverse course). And then we had to retrace our steps for three miles. My knees creaked, my feet groused, my stomach growled; the cacophony was audible. The good part was, there was no place I would rather be; there was nothing I’d rather be doing; and there was nobody I’d rather be doing it with.

 

One of our favorite trails is a section of single track on the Santa Ana River Trail that runs along the side of the mountain midway between the highway above, and the river below. We like to climb the dirt river road which ascends gently up the canyon, shaded by towering cedars and pines and sprawling oaks. The road crisscrosses the South Fork of the Santa Ana River where fishermen while away hours in pursuit of stocked trout. 

We make the trip back down the canyon on the single track which follows the contours of the mountain, undulating into and out of every drainage, some of which used to be perennial streams but are now dry.

A couple of weeks ago, Sally had caught her handlebar on a protruding tree root and had been launched over the side of the cliff in a particularly steep section. She was unhurt but it was quite a struggle to get herself and her bike back up onto the trail.

So, today she wanted to revisit the site and recreate the scene to take some pictures to share with her family, and I eagerly agreed to be her camera man.  We had no sooner reached the treacherous turn in the trail, and were preparing to lower her bike into position for the photo, when several young men came riding up the trail. Two of them rode past us without incident, but the third caught his handlebar on the aforementioned root, and before our horrified eyes, was launched heels over head down the same ravine. Fortunately, his bike was caught by a bush at the side of the trail.

I was deeply disappointed that I had not yet been in position with the camera to record his descent.

Thankfully, the wrecks of others do nothing to dampen my confidence and I continued down the trail feeling strong and extremely lucky that today was not my day to wreck. There was only one “oh shit!” moment when an unexpectedly sandy turn threatened to grab the front wheel and hurl me over the bars. Luck and skill averted a spill as I instinctively released the front brake and shifted my weight back without conscious thought. At the end of the ride Sally described an “OS”moment and I knew exactly which turn she was talking about. We congratulated ourselves for having lived to eat again. And so, we went to our favorite Indian restaurant for vegetable koorma and a mango laasi.

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My old Xanga friends may recall that years ago, I used to regale them with tales of mountain biking adventures in the nether reaches of Utah. I had found a clever little pop-up trailer, after years of sleeping on the ground in a tent, and felt that life was as good as it could get.

But, someone needed it worse than I did and ran off with it, leaving me bereft. It wasn’t only that I’d shopped for it for two years, or that I’d spent far more than was justified for the little time I had to use it; it was mostly that I grieved for the loss of the possibilities it represented.

So, for the past two years, I’ve been casually looking for a replacement. Americans like big and they like to take their entire home with them when they go “camping”. I suppose when you live in a 3,500 square foot house, a trailer seems small. But I live in a small house so a tiny trailer works just fine. However, there are not many tiny trailers on the used trailer market. A few weeks ago, I found another Aliner, several years newer and several thousand dollars more expensive, but commensurately nicer. I vacillated for over a week but finally decided that life is too short to delay this purchase.

I loaded the girls into the car and drove to Arizona to pick it up. This little gem is not only stored inside the garage, but it has three different locks on it. I’m sincerely hoping the garage doesn’t catch fire.

I spend rather more time than the normal city dweller trekking in the rough. I find it restorative to wander in the relative wild of the wash and mountain trails where evidence of human desecration is minimal. And so when I encounter evidence of the “wrong” kind of human polluting my bit of paradise, I seethe.

Last evening, I walked up the Morton Peak fire road just before sunset. A gentle on-shore breeze blanketed the valley in a cooling marine haze, and the long shadows on the eastern slopes made the steep climb comfortable.

At the gate to the fire lookout tower some Cretin had answered the call of nature, leaving behind an unsavory mess for everyone who came after to suffer.

Disgusted, I figured that I would collect up the dirty tissue on my return. I always carry a zip-lock sandwich bag for just such personal emergencies. I wonder if I should add a pair of gloves to my bag.

The old watch tower is being restored and updated for the comfort of folks who care to shell out $85/night to sleep in a tower with no water, no wi-fi, no electricity, and no cooking facilities. There is a picnic table, a pit toilet, and a splendid view.

To my surprise, I found that someone else had picked up the filthy litter at the gate. So, it was a case of mixed emotions: one inconsiderate slob was balanced by one like-minded nature lover. Interestingly, the person who had done the good deed was probably the shirtless, nicely muscled, young man I’d met who was headed downhill. I had taken a picture of his car when I parked next to it, thinking it looked a bit disreputable because it was dirty and had no wheel covers. Just goes to show, you can’t always judge a man by his car.

The three mile walk back down went by pleasantly as I skipped down the smooth sections. Skipping is about as fast as jogging downhill and spares old knees the jarring of running, though it does look a little silly. Molly openly laughed at me.