tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66341835537132836392011-11-28T10:37:47.724-08:00Shawnténoreply@blogger.comBlogger311100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-29838676221446766602011-10-21T19:22:00.000-07:002011-10-21T19:39:56.319-07:00<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/6268217418/" title="Griffith sunrise by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6120/6268217418_08583cd302.jpg" width="500" height="374" alt="Griffith sunrise" /></center></a><div><br /></div><div>This is an ode to the humble morning hike. </div><div><br /></div><div>To one of the only reasons I'll wake up at 6am. To seeing the sun before most of you. To brisk air slapping my face. To flexing my toes and stretching my legs. To feeling the heat flush my cheeks. To rabbits and birds. To mist and fog. To the middle-aged Asian couples in their matching respiratory masks. To the elderly dudes in their short-shorts. To the people walking dogs...lots and lots of dogs. To the solitude of the less-beaten path. To the rising hum of the city. To the rustling leaves and crackling twigs. To the dirt tan swirling up my legs. To the ocean views on a clear day. To the haunting haze on others. To the pain of hustling it up a steep incline. To the freedom of running full-tilt on the way back down. To the feeling of being on top of it all. </div><div><br /></div><div>To owning the day before it has a chance to own me.</div><div><br /></div><div>***</div><div><br /></div><div>Re-reading this, I think I just wrote the copy for a new Nike ad. </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><insert swish="" thing=""></insert></i></div><div><i>JUST DO IT!</i></div><div><br /></div><div><b>What Would Ed Do?</b></div><div><i>It. </i>But on, like, Aconcagua or something.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-2983867622144676660?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-31984646422266830832011-08-25T20:14:00.000-07:002011-08-25T20:50:26.063-07:00 <center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/6081691378/" title="Hidden Bears by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6183/6081691378_06b4ff1615.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="Hidden Bears" /></a></center><center><i>(I can assure you that the bears in Sequoia National Park are NOT hidden)</i></center><div> <br /></div>The plan was to stuff the car with tents and marshmallows and head up to Sequoia National Park for my birthday weekend, but talk of LA's infamous (*cough*...<i>lame</i>) "Carmaggedon" weekend instilled the fear of gridlock into my would-be companions, so we pushed it a week and finally arrived at the Dorst Campground just as the sun set.<div> <br /></div><div>In doing research for our trip, I read over and over again that Sequoia has a much more active bear population than Yosemite, and that we should be extra vigilant in our campground and on our hikes. We dutifully shoved all potential bear attractants (read: everything we brought with us, magazines and all) into our bear box, scarfed down some dinner, and called it a night. I popped my earplugs in (standard "I don't want to hear what's coming for me in the dead of night" procedure), and slept with visions of ursine visitations dancing around my head all night.</div><div> <br /></div><div>I was relieved, then, to wake up unscathed in the morning. Our campsite was pretty spectacular, the morning sun filtering down in a hazy curtain from the tippy tops of the massive trees encircling our site. I puttered around, swayed in the hammock, and forgot all about the bears - there were giant trees to see, and I was going to see them all. </div><div> <br /></div><div>In the interest of saving the environment (and because I hate to drive when I'm on vacation), we hopped the free shuttle bus and jumped off here and there to take in the sights - The Giant Forest Museum, Tharp's Log, Crescent Meadow, Big Trees Trail. When my thoughts wandered toward bears, they were happily distracted by a handful of Swedish Fish and further exploration of one of the most gorgeous places I'd ever been.</div><div> <br /></div><div>But then IT happened. I pushed for us to lay off the tourist wagon for a bit and instead take a rarely-traveled side trail from the Crescent Meadow area to the General Sherman Tree. Rebecca sort of agreed, and just a few minutes up the trail, we passed a large boulder on the right side...and directly on the other side of the boulder, just a few feet to my right, stood a bear. A black bear. A large black bear. And not just any large black bear, but a blonde black bear, which kind of looked like a grizzly bear to me. </div><div> <br /></div><div>If it's possible to emotionally pee one's pants, I emotionally peed my pants.</div><div> <br /></div><div>The bear was pretty big. Definitely big-sized. Large. Sequoia-sized bear. Giant. Did I mention it looked kind of like I imagined Sasquatch to look? Feral. Hungry. Clearly ready to tear into my flesh, which at the moment was only protected by a thin layer of SmartWool and a backpack I shrunk in the wash while trying to blast out the funk accumulated on the <a href="http://whatwoulded.blogspot.com/2010/09/mt-whitney-aka-hallelujah.html">Mt. Whitney</a> trip. </div><div> <br /></div><div>I froze and Rebecca nearly bumped into me from behind. Then she saw it, too, and uttered two words in the most hushed of hushed voices:</div><div> <br /></div><div><i>"Oh, shit."</i></div><div> <br /></div><div>My mind was racing. In preparing for this trip, I brushed up extensively on my "bear encounter" etiquette, probably to the point of obsession, but at this moment, I realized that much like most of my testing experiences in college, everything flew right out of my head the minute I needed it. </div><div> <br /></div><div><i>"Ohmygod. Ok, just walk away slowly. Ohmygod, Rebecca. Walk backwards. Slowly. Ohmygod."</i></div><div> <br /></div><div>We hyperventilated ourselves back a safe distance, and once we realized that the bear wasn't following us, started sprinting through the woods, spraying adrenaline-laced sweat on everything we passed. I laughed nervously. Rebecca laughed nervously. We swore a bit. Then we laughed even more nervously, and swore a bit more.</div><div> <br /></div><div>Our heart rates eventually returned to normalish, and we made it through another near-encounter the next day. Upon reflection a month later, I have to say that it was pretty awesome to stumble upon a bear in the wild, doin' its thang. </div><div> <br /></div><div>But seriously, though - my mom would be SO PISSED if I got eaten by a bear. I'm just saying.</div><div> <br /></div><div><b>What Would Ed Do?</b></div><div>Ed speaks the language of the bears. He would have high-fived the large gigantic huge blonde black bear, then hopped on its back, side-saddle-style, casually galloping up to the top of Moro Rock together to watch the sunset. </div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /> <br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-3198464642226683083?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-28982185843485074622011-04-17T18:41:00.000-07:002011-04-17T19:13:42.436-07:00<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5629820590/" title="Topping out in cloudfire by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5303/5629820590_d9abbe3bf9.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Topping out in cloudfire"></a></center><br /><center><i>I do not know this guy, but he did a lovely job.</i></center><br /><br />Before this weekend, I theoretically understood that there existed such things as "approach shoes." I theoretically understood that one wears such footwear in order to approach a place where one might want to apply actual climbing shoes to their feet, so as not to ruin said climbing shoes on the, uh, approach. I theoretically understood that in order for "approach shoes" to be a necessary item, there must exist the sort of terrain that cannot be crossed in flip-flops. <br /><br />Just because I theoretically understood all of that does not mean that I was somewhat shocked by the serious amount of steep scrambling it took to approach the Dairy Queen Wall, one of Joshua Tree's classic climbing destinations. Good Ranger Laura was leading Rebecca and I up towards a series of routes - my first time climbing in Joshua Tree (if you don't count the <a href="http://whatwoulded.blogspot.com/2011/03/conans-corridor-aka-heart-attack-rock.html">Conan's Corridor scramble</a>), and only my second time climbing outdoors in my entire life (the first time happened, I don't know, thirteen or five billion years ago). About half a minute into the scramble, I stopped and said to Laura, "Um, is THIS the climbing?" knowing full well that this was exactly why the "approach shoe" was created. <br /><br />After skinning approximately 15% of my exposed skin on the scramble up to the base of the routes, we reached our destination - some purported 5.6 climb whose frozen-dessert-related moniker I can't remember. I belayed as Laura led the route, and watched as she reached a sort of open, featureless area in the middle of the route. Hm. Hmm. For a brief moment, Laura considered where she'd place her next protection, then with the wingspan of a freakin' pteradactyl, lunged gracefully across the open space and proceeded with the climb. I studied her moves, and calculated that my own wingspan was about that of a blue jay, so we might have some problems here. <br /><br />Nevertheless, I volunteered to go first, and then realized that to start the climb, I'd have to stem up using the boulder behind me - a skill I was pretty sure I didn't possess, especially since when I initially launched off the wall, I ping-pongged between the two rocks, skinning off an additional 5% of my exposed flesh. However, flush with the feeling that I couldn't let myself get soft-served by this frozen delight, I found myself aloft, pinching the grippy holds, and practicing all of the super-useful stuff related to weight and tension and movement that I'm really glad I learned at the rock gym. <br /><br />I didn't make it all the way up (turns out that blank spot in the wall was too much for my old granny hip), but no matter - it felt good to shimmy up the rock. We then moved over to Frosty Cone, rated a 5.7, but it played out a lot better than this jerky 5.6 did. After a few minutes, I forgot about Laura and Rebecca below (for a bit, at least), and focused on what felt right on the rock, shifting my weight and working up the face. Once again, I got stuck the crux, but looking back over my shoulder at the desert below, I was proud of what my normally acrophobic self had accomplished.<br /><br />A few climbs later, we began to downclimb the approach route, and almost immediately, I started to whimper. I felt secure up on the rock, but here, facing the slabs and boulders, and air beneath them, I lost all confidence. With some patient guidance from Really Really Good Ranger Laura, the shaking subsided and although I skinned off another 25% of my exposed skin, I made it to the bottom, my pride from my first Joshua Tree climbs (mostly) intact.<br /><br />The rock tore up my skin, the approach tore up my confidence, but it felt good to be out there, realizing new limits for my body and mind. I'll definitely be back, and this time I'll still bring my "approach shoes," but hopefully also my "approach attitude," acrophobia be damned!<br /><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5629820740/" title="Thar she climbs! by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5102/5629820740_db63b8e0f9.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Thar she climbs!"></a></center><br /><br /><b>What Would Ed Do?</b><br />Ed guided something like 20 million ascents of Mt. Rainier as a young buck, so I have a feeling he could probably coax me up and over some unclimbed summit in the Himalayas if he had to. That said, Ed would probably high-five Laura for her supreme patience and general awesomeness, and hopefully high-five me right afterwards for being up there in the first place.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-2898218584348507462?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-32092645348508959602011-04-13T20:44:00.000-07:002011-04-13T21:08:18.161-07:00This beauty came in the mail the other day:<br /><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5618335648/" title="Annapurna by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5189/5618335648_c2ac471cf6.jpg" width="400" height="299" alt="Annapurna"></a></center><br /><br />In internet parlance: ZOMG!!!<br /><br />This isn't just any old badass T-shirt - this is a replica of the badass T-shirts sold to raise funds for the first successful American expedition to the summit of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Annapurna">Annapurna</a> (Annapurna I, if you're being technical), the 10th highest mountain in the world, back in 1978. <br /><br />The woman behind the expedition - and the badass T-shirt - is famous mountaineer/scientist/environmentalist <a href="http://www.arleneblum.com/">Arlene Blum</a>, and the reason I'm mentioning any of this and the reason why I'm so excited to sport my very own replica T-shirt is because she wrote a book called <span style="font-style:italic;">Annapurna: A Woman's Place</span> that I just finished reading. You see, not only was her expedition the first American team - and only the third team in history - to reach the Annapurna summit, but they were also the first <span style="font-style:italic;">women</span> to do so, during a time that was less than hospitable towards female climbers or adventurers of any sort.<br /><br />I saw the T-shirt in a photo towards the front of the book, and for all of the obvious reasons (mountains! double entendres!), I had to have it. But since finishing <span style="font-style:italic;">Annapurna</span>, that tee seems a bit more symbolic. There's a reason Maurice Herzog famously (well...famously to mountaineering nerds) said: "There are many Annapurnas in the hearts of men" - this mountain has the highest percentage of fatalities (the ratio of fatalities to summits) of any of the big dogs - yep, even more than Everest and K2 - and if you want to translate his sentiment into non-mountain dork parlance, it basically means we all have our own crap to conquer. <br /><br />In her book, Arlene recounts the struggles of being a female mountaineer in the 70s - that's to say, the struggles of dealing with all of the sexist bull that came both from outside and within the patriarchal mountaineering community at the time. To add to that the daunting task of organizing an expedition up the most dangerous, and at the time, only barely explored, of the 8000ers is a helluva challenge. I ended the book gutted by the fatalities that occurred during the expedition, but in awe of the strength of this team of women. <br /><br />So hell yeah, Arlene - a woman's place is definitely on top.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-3209264534850895960?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-25535456400867823232011-04-10T11:22:00.001-07:002011-04-10T12:06:39.728-07:00<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5607077726/" title="Mugu Peak sentinel by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5309/5607077726_d1e940a7b9.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Mugu Peak sentinel"></a></center><br /><br />In contrast to last year's flurry of slightly obsessive pre-Whitney hiking and camping activity, the first three months of 2011 have been woefully inadequate, leaving me to flip nostalgically through old photos and stare wistfully at the REI catalogue. In essence, life has just gotten in the way of LIFE, so in an effort to reconnect with Ma Nature (and one another), Rebecca and I met up for a moderate spring trek through the grassy La Jolla Valley of Pt. Mugu State Park, including a traverse of Mugu Peak, an oceanside bump bearing some awesome views. <br /><br />The day couldn't have been better for hiking - clear blue skies, bright grassy fields, mild temps, a gentle breeze - paradise in boots. Our hike took us through a verdant (and Boy Scout-filled) La Jolla Canyon, past some temptingly climbable rock walls, above a sleepy waterfall, and up to the overgrown grasslands above, where I tried to temper my intense fear of ticks (I do not want Lyme disease. I DO NOT want Lyme disease. I DO NOT WANT LYME DISEASE.) with an appreciation for the height of spring exploding all around. Leaving the valley behind, we ducked onto the Mugu Peak Trail, bounced over a clover-choked, low-flowing creek, and up we went.<br /><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5606493949/" title="The path to greatness by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5226/5606493949_1d1b17efbd.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="The path to greatness"></a></center><br /><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5607078372/" title="Clover-choked stream crossing by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5306/5607078372_a2b2bc8e7b.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Clover-choked stream crossing"></a></center><br /><br />From here, we wound around a hillside perched over an unnaturally aquamarine Pacific, darted across a side trail, zig-zagged over a sizable bump, and then up to Mugu Peak itself, the small-but-steep rollercoaster ridge recalling a bit of our special (read: leg-killing, emotional-trauma-inducing) <a href="http://whatwoulded.blogspot.com/2011/01/mt-zion-loop-aka-escape-from-kelp.html">Mt. Wilson traverse</a> last summer with Casey. On top, we chimed in on a group discussing various means of descent, then plopped our butts down on a small rockpile for some chocolate and a sweeping view of the Pacific, all the way out to the southernmost Channel Islands.<br /><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5607077254/" title="Three strangers and a clear blue sea by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5070/5607077254_a0f8f3d68a.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Three strangers and a clear blue sea"></a></center><br /><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5606493473/" title="Almost Caribbean by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5261/5606493473_b1755bd56a.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Almost Caribbean"></a></center><br /><br />We quickly realized we were short on time (a girl's gotta have a social life, you know), and decided that the best way to descend was via the use trail that shot straight up the opposite end of the peak, down towards the top of the Chumash Trail. Once again comparing this to "Casey's Special Birthday Hike" (aka the Mount Wilson Marathon), we started down a steep, but nicely compacted dirt trail, wherein Rebecca offered up, "This is the worst of it here." <br /><br />It wasn't.<br /><br />We reached the little sub-summit hump and stared down a much steeper, less compacted vein of dirt and rock, and lurched downward towards the grass below, skidding and engaging every single one of our abs (or our singular ab, in my case), until we reached the bottom...only to watch a bare-chested man emerge from the steep Chumash trail next to us and thrust up the use trail towards Mugu Peak at full speed. SHOW OFF.<br /><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5607076972/" title="Contemplating spring by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5301/5607076972_8a8ce2767f.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Contemplating spring"></a></center><br /><br />All in all, it was a perfect day on the trail - the weather and scenery cooperated for a morning worth the mileage, and we both bounced back to the car on that sweet Santa Monica Mountain High. <br /><br />I chuckled, thinking back to my first trip to Pt. Mugu State Park several years prior - a booze-filled car camping trip with a group of (mostly) new friends. One morning, we decided to hike to a waterfall listed in the guide book I'd brought along. I pulled on a pair of jeans (mistake), laced up my Sauconys (big mistake), and led by optimism and a vague map, we trudged along in the searing mid-day sun, veering off on what turned out to be a use trail. Members of our group flaked off one by one, done in by the heat, lack of water, and rapidly deteriorating trail. <br /><br />A few of us stubbornly carried on, the promise of a gushing waterfall somewhat clouding our (my) judgment. My slick-bottomed tennies slid around on the dirt trail, which had turned into less of a single-track than a half-track, perched sort of diagonally on the side of an oceanside bluff. Unable to control my anxiety, with no waterfall in sight and convinced I'd soon slip off and drown in the ocean below, I said that I needed to rest for a minute. We turned a corner and I plopped down precariously on the side of the trail, shaking from nerves, when something just to the left of my hip caught my eye. I turned just in time to watch a baby rattlesnake slither away from my left thigh. I screamed, and headed back down towards camp as far as my crappy shoes would allow.<br /><br />Strangely, this didn't mark the end of my hiking days (although I was convinced for a short while that I would never again set foot on a trail), but rather the start. I ditched the Sauconys and bought a pair of Keen hiking boots from a girl I met during the camping trip, and the confidence they brought was enough to completely blow open the world of hiking possibilities available to me in SoCal. <br /><br />And you know - I still have those Sauconys...but they're strictly Disneyland-issue footwear these days. <br /><br /><b>What Would Ed Do?</b><br />Ed is a Spiderman among mortals. I am convinced he could hike upside down and sideways if he wanted to, and his feet probably have built-in crampons at this point.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-2553545640086782323?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-55549523773224081962011-03-14T21:39:00.000-07:002011-03-14T21:40:31.427-07:00<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5422369141/" title="Rest stop by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5097/5422369141_b73a69ec15.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Rest stop" /></a></center><br /><br />I gots the desert fevah.<br /><br />A little over a month ago, I drove out to Jumbo Rocks Campground in Joshua Tree National Park for a short weekend with <a href="http://www.thehikeguy.com/">The Hike Guy</a>, Kolby Kirk, and a few of his friends (including photographer <a href="http://www.wanderingworld.org/">Matthew Laine Nall</a>). I considered staying in town, to do esoteric things like "cleaning the house" and "catching up on stuff," but Kolby promised not only an ascent of Ryan Mountain, but also an exploration of Conan's Corridor, an off-trail slot canyon, so the lure of adventure strong, I knew "stuff" could wait.<br /><br />We rallied the troops and wound our way slowly up a gently thigh-busting trail to the tippy top of Ryan Mountain. What the path lacked in foliage, it made up for in gargantuan views of the park far below, rendering the desert into never-ending waves of speckled beige.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5422976150/" title="Up the mountain by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5099/5422976150_97bea42c3e.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Up the mountain" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5422368977/" title="Stoic? by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5217/5422368977_0b9e4220d7.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Stoic?" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5422975658/" title="Heave ho by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5054/5422975658_c97a159125.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Heave ho" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5422369279/" title="Ryan Mountain high by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5259/5422369279_6fe589ec56.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Ryan Mountain high" /></a><br /><br />Arriving back at our campsite, the wind was a-rippin', so we huddled around the picnic table, refueled, and hopped across the road to set off for Conan's Corridor. Scrambling up and around giant boulder blocks, we were at the entrance of the slot canyon within a few minutes, and once we squeezed out the other end, we stood in a small ampitheater, flanked by tall rock walls. <br /><br />A pair of climbers were working their way up a crack to the left, as our group began to quickly disperse up the rock. Confused, I asked Kolby what the plan was.<br /><br />"Oh - we're going up and over."<br /><br />Hm. I didn't know how I felt about this up and over business. I thought we were coming to smoosh ourselves through a cute little slot canyon, admire our handiwork, then force ourselves back out the same way. <br /><br />Hm.<br /><br />I approached a chunky area next to the climbers as half of our group went over some slabby stuff. This appeared the better route, but not three steps up, I was questioning its doability. Or, rather, my own "do" ability. <br /><br />With the patience of a patron saint of the trepidatious, Kolby reaffirmed my steps, offered suggestions on hand holds, and gently coached me to victory, as I stood victoriously on top of the scramble, surveying the desert below. My inner wuss had been shushed, stomped out not just by the plain necessity of getting over this thing, but also by the sheer awesomeness of it all. My heart was ready to take flight out of my chest, but damn - that was AWESOME.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5422367949/" title="Into the canyon by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5175/5422367949_1131e082b5.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Into the canyon" /></a><br /><br />So awesome, in fact, that within a week of this trip, I signed up for a rock climbing series at <a href="http://www.rockreation.com/">Rockreation</a>, and started exploring the scrambly, wiry little world of bouldering (sent my first problem last week!!). <br /><br />To my sheer surprise (and utter joy), I love it. Super love it. Super duper duper love it. Like love it so much that I'm going to go ahead and buy the excessively expensive shoes because it is that fantastically awesome.<br /><br />Once again, score one for the desert for showing me not only what is, but also what's possible!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5422974290/" title="I spy... by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5131/5422974290_3d5d321750.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="I spy..." /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">What Would Ed Do?</span><br />Ed would encourage my pursuit of the safe mechanisms by which to propel oneself up a mass of rock. Ed would then free solo El Capitan in 24 hours, barefoot.<br /><br /><br />[Shawnté]<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-5554952377322408196?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-19143204154629445452011-01-11T19:17:00.000-08:002011-01-11T20:01:15.765-08:00<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5347564555/" title="A girl, a camera, a hole in the trees by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5169/5347564555_cd625a651f.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="A girl, a camera, a hole in the trees" /></a></center><br /><br />In preparation for our Mt. Whitney adventure last fall, Team Awesome spent the summer bagging peaks and logging miles, conditioning our quads and internal fortitude for the task ahead. One such training excursion was a 14-mile loop starting at Chantry Flats and highpointing at Mt. Wilson. Casey vaguely described that we'd go off trail for a bit, following a firebreak, and then rejoin the Manzanita trail, which would lead us to our rather civilized goal.<br /><br />Having knocked off some 14- and 16-milers in the past, coupled with the relatively low-elevation profile of the trek (Chantry Flat rests at 2200'; Mt. Wilson at 5710', with lots o' miles between the two), we knew we'd come out with sore quads...but even then, we had NO IDEA WHAT LAY AHEAD.<br /><br />If you're not one of the masochistic few who've put in the grunt work on this special route, let me describe the first half of the trek: <br /><br /><i>Walk on a fire road. Cut up a faint use trail. Cut up a faint use trail rife with poison ivy. Cut up a faint use trail rife with poison ivy at what feels like a 45-degree angle. Nah, make that 30-degree angle. Curse. Curse at poison ivy. Curse at incline. Curse silently at Casey.<br /><br />Emerge far, far up original fire road. Apply anti-bacterial hand sanitizer to all exposed skin to ward off potential poison ivy outbreak. High-five Casey for cutting a bazillion boring fire road miles from our journey. Round a curve. Helipad! Epic view! High-five Casey again for great idea. Adventure! <br /><br />Ascend firebreak. Grunt a little. Reach a lovely ridge. Notice rather large bump ahead. Propel self quickly up rather large bump. Grunt some more. Lose exactly the same amount of elevation on the way down other side of bump. Grimace. <br /><br />Shower, rinse, repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Make mean faces at Casey when he's not looking. Commiserate with Rebecca. Break quads. Break calves. Break hammies. Break ass. Sweat. Slide down hill. Gently turn ankle. Whimper.</i><br /><br />The second half of the journey was lovely, full of trail dogs and resting in the sun and various degrees of eating. But man, that first half. Casey sure knows how to pick 'em.<br /><br />Despite our masochistic undertaking, I fell in love with the greater Santa Anita Canyon/Mt. Wilson area. The Pack Station and its inhabitants (both human and animal) are adorable, the trails are well-signed, wet, and green, and it's so damn close to home. A few months ago, I completed the Winter Creek loop with my friend Cristin, and this weekend, we took a turn on the longer Mt. Zion loop, which went a little something like this:<br /><br /><i>Sail down, down, down the pavement, carefree and full of vim, vigor. Pass slow pokes. Crack jokes. Sneak past Sturtevant Falls crowds on the Gabrielino trail. Cross stream. Boy, the water levels are high. Cross stream. Cross stream. Wet toes.<br /><br />Snack amongst the spruces. Decidedly cold when not moving. Re-wool self. Left turn from Sturtevant Camp. Is this trail? Trail covered in water. Trail is one with creek. Consider options. Begin creation of log bridge for crossing purposes. Am chastised for poor bridge-building skills. Use stick to pole vault across instead. <br /><br />Mt. Zion Trail. Mt. Zion! Join Boy Scouts on top, enjoy view with about 5% visibility, thanks to decidedly non-generous ma nature. Rejoin trail. Ooooh - trail builders done good! Enjoy dirt underfoot, greenery all around. Realize that through the misty veil, mountains appear to be moving, as if they're comprised of kelp. Trip for a moment. <br /><br />Refocus. Oh, trail builders stopped here. Oh, trail decidedly thinner. Oh, trail decidedly slope-y. Oh, trail decidedly thin and slope-y. Walk at 45-degree angle for a minute or two. Resume breathing. Pick way down improperly-angled rocky section of trail. Resume breathing. <br /><br />Hoegee's Camp! Consider bathroom break. Oh - hot guy with dog! WAIT...HOT GUY WITH DOG HEARD EMBARRASSING CONVERSATION ABOUT INCONTINENCE. Blush. Laugh nervously. Cross stream. Cross stream. Cross stream. Balance on stick. Wet toes. Wet feet. Cross stream. Cross stream. Nearly fall in. Cross stream. <br /><br />Up pavement. Ugh. Up pavement. UGH. Up pavement. UGGGGGH. Up pavement. @#$%^^^&*). </i><br /><br />Moral of the story - it's really pretty and super wet there right now. GO!<br /><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5348175394/" title="Verdie McVerdant by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5288/5348175394_413b8f5eca.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Verdie McVerdant" /></a></center><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-1914320415462944545?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-73474360707993357842011-01-10T09:43:00.000-08:002011-01-10T09:51:29.993-08:00With my hammies still aching from this weekend's 9.5-mile up-down-up-down loop in Santa Anita Canyon, I logged on to the ole Facespace this morning to the most awesome email from the administrator of the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=5605533259">Ed Viesturs Fan Club</a>, explaining that I won a set of autographed books (<a href="http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.amazon.com%2FNo-Shortcuts-Top-Climbing-Highest%2Fdp%2F0767924711%2Fref%3Dsr_1_1%3Fs%3Dbooks%26ie%3DUTF8%26qid%3D1294329896%26sr%3D1-1&h=10380h5q__s0hEbY0WYrQz7Jm1Q">No Shortcuts To The Top</a> & <a href="http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.amazon.com%2FK2-Death-Worlds-Dangerous-Mountain%2Fdp%2F0767932501%2Fref%3Dtmm_hrd_title_0%3Fie%3DUTF8%26qid%3D1294330071%26sr%3D1-1&h=10380LjXxJ1wwwNbLcGHe7kyMtQ">K2: Life And Death On The World's Most Dangerous Mountain</a>) by none other than Ed himself! <br /><br />YEAH!!!!!<br /><br />If you're any sort of mountain nerd, I highly encourage you to check out Ed's books for yourself. The guy's a great adventure writer, with a knack for balancing out equal measures of inspiration, adrenaline, and smarts. <br /><br />And on a related note - send your good wishes down to Ed in Antarctica, as he and his team hopefully summit its highpoint, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fblog.firstascent.com%2F2011%2F01%2F10%2Ffirst-ascent-team-moves-to-high-camp-on-vinson-massif%2F&h=10380CtFDs6T8_eymbj7s3M-ZSg">Mt. Vinson</a>, today!<br /><br />-Shawnté<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-7347436070799335784?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-54248291256879345272011-01-03T21:09:00.000-08:002011-01-03T21:39:35.645-08:002010 was a banner year for waving my hiking nerd freak flag. Here are some of the visual highlights:<br /><br /><center><b>MOJAVE NATIONAL PRESERVE</b> // <a href="http://whatwoulded.blogspot.com/2010/01/mojave-national-preserve-aka-oh-desert.html">WRITEUP</a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4287217510/" title="Kelso ridge by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2721/4287217510_983eefff3f.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="Kelso ridge" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4286471999/" title="Dune-top handstand by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4049/4286471999_fb315e1078.jpg" width="400" height="300" alt="Dune-top handstand" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4287207714/" title="Down! by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4023/4287207714_fd4ce6961c.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="Down!" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><b>MT. BALDY</b> // <a href="http://whatwoulded.blogspot.com/2010/07/mt-baldy-via-ski-hutdevils-backbone-aka.html">WRITEUP</a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4765352655/" title="Snapping our fearless leader by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4080/4765352655_a578e0b745.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="Snapping our fearless leader" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4765358891/" title="Descending by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4099/4765358891_92137a077e.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="Descending" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><b>MT. WHITNEY</b> // <a href="http://whatwoulded.blogspot.com/2010/09/mt-whitney-aka-hallelujah.html">WRITEUP</a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4955660705/" title="As viewed from Tuttle Rd. by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4124/4955660705_d3cef49d54.jpg" width="400" height="300" alt="As viewed from Tuttle Rd." /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4956259578/" title="Closing in on Consultation Lake &amp; Trail Camp by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4087/4956259578_680f95a323.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Closing in on Consultation Lake &amp; Trail Camp" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4955668237/" title="Summit dance by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4106/4955668237_194ce8988b.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Summit dance" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4956259964/" title="Summit hut, finally! by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4110/4956259964_17a9774ccd.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Summit hut, finally!" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><b>JOSHUA TREE NATIONAL PARK</b> // <a href="http://whatwoulded.blogspot.com/2010/11/joshua-tree-national-park-aka-epic.html">WRITEUP</a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5161359683/" title="Swirls by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4045/5161359683_93764bd8b7.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Swirls" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5161359861/" title="Valleyview by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1387/5161359861_a32e19bf66.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Valleyview" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><b>MALIBU CREEK STATE PARK</b></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5318439342/" title="Follow me by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5287/5318439342_b7b1e874d8.jpg" width="400" height="305" alt="Follow me" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5317844117/" title="Through the looking glass by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5166/5317844117_c32d5f84df.jpg" width="305" height="400" alt="Through the looking glass" /></a></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5317844965/" title="Arch peek by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5242/5317844965_852c102173.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Arch peek" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><b>MORE PHOTOS, VIA FLICKER:</b> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert">flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert</a></center><br /><br />-Shawnté<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-5424829125687934527?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-44057317339594162652011-01-02T18:25:00.000-08:002011-01-02T18:47:26.990-08:00<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5318437780/" title="New Year's Day by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5210/5318437780_622780f3a2.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="New Year's Day" /></center></a><br /><br />After a week of nonstop rain in Los Angeles, and another of wet winter weather in Milwaukee, I woke to a sunny, exceptionally clear New Year's Day and my first instinct (other than hunting down some sorely needed post-NYE caffeine) was to lace up and get high to enjoy the sprawl from above. <br /><br />And so I found myself on a quick jaunt to Inspiration Point in <a href="http://www.parks.ca.gov/?page_id=626">Will Rogers State Historic Park</a> late that afternoon, spurred on by resolution and Resolutions, clear weather and sunny skies. We trotted up the trail and glimpsed Catalina plopped down in a glittery Pacific, saw miles and miles of buildings and highways, and marveled at the San Gabriels, glowing pink in the fading sun. This never gets old. Ever.<br /><br />It seems apt to kick off 2011 at a place called Inspiration Point. The last 365 days were marvelous, filled with adventures of all stripes, and I'm ready to keep moving. It's time to revisit rock climbing and snowshoeing. To learn how to procure and attach tire chains. To strap on some crampons. To aim for high peaks. To search out deep canyons. To slide on my butt down a very big hill. To fall asleep to crickets and owls. To burn out a headlamp or two. To walk in rhythms fast and slow. To spend that REI return as soon as it comes in. To help others find their place in the outdoors. To face my fears. To plant a LOT of trees. To sit for sunsets...and maybe some sunrises. To move further away from distractions and closer to inner peace. <br /><br />Here's to the next 365 (well...364).<br /><br />-Shawnté<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-4405731733959416265?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-3938293178270688502010-11-15T20:14:00.000-08:002010-11-16T08:44:45.376-08:00<center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5161359861/" title="Valleyview by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1387/5161359861_a32e19bf66.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Valleyview" /></a></center><br /><br />If you're one of the three or four people who read this blog, you may recall that my brand new love affair with the desert sprouted last January during <a href="http://whatwoulded.blogspot.com/2010/01/mojave-national-preserve-aka-oh-desert.html">a magical camping trip to the Mojave</a>. <br /><br />Unfortunately, I've been a bad lover. <br /><br />Blame it on summer heat and this year's vaguely obsessive (yet successful!) quest to summit Mt. Whitney, but I haven't been back out to the land of cacti and tumbleweed since the Mojave trip. So when summoned out to the patchouli-and-marijuana-scented environs of Pioneertown, just north of Joshua Tree, for a friend's dude ranch birthday bash, I decided to take a dip back in the sand. <br /><br />After some yummy ma 'n pa cookin' at <a href="http://www.crossroadscafeandtavern.com/">Crossroads Cafe and Tavern</a>, I stopped at the ranger station, bought a somewhat mediocre map, loaded up my buddy Casey's <a href="http://www.modernhiker.com/2008/02/01/hiking-the-maze/">informative write-up</a> of the general area I wanted to hike, and set forth on my adventure. <br /><br />I chose the relatively newly created North View / Maze / Windows loop for both the solitude (it's not in guidebooks) and the scenery (epic ridges, canyons, and rocks for days), and not a minute away from my car, I stared slack-jawed at giant stone temples and gnarly old Joshua Trees, babbling to myself about how fucking awesome nature is (true) and how fucking great it is to be alive (true). <br /><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5161963508/" title="Pyramid by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4006/5161963508_54f12d5dfc.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Pyramid" /></a></center><br /><br />Entranced by the desert and her siren ways, double-fisting my iPhone and Canon to catch every little windswept boulder and cottonball cloud, I didn't know that I was off trail until I nearly stepped off a ledge into a small slot canyon below. I studied it. I studied my map. I studied it. Hmm. Hmpf. This was not the trail.<br /><br />I backtracked and then I saw it, a thin dirt path leading up through some rather chunky rock formations. Apparently, I was so mesmerized that I wandered right past it, over a rather obvious "waterbar," and nearly right into some trouble. Clearly, the desert requested a bit more focus, so I slugged some water, adjusted my sunglasses, and focused my way up, up, up until I reached the really incredible valley pictured at the top of this entry, and then I cackled out loud at the sheer magnificence of it all, and the sheer insignificance of myself in its midst.<br /><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5161963616/" title="Sentinels by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4063/5161963616_28492685a8.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Sentinels" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5161359765/" title="Phalli by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4027/5161359765_86036c2786.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Phalli" /></a></center><br /><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5161359683/" title="Swirls by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4045/5161359683_93764bd8b7.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Swirls" /></a></center><br /><br />I danced around here, completely alone, in giddy, wondrous euphoria for a long time. A long, long time. So long, in fact, that when I checked the time on my phone, I realized that I'd gone maybe just under two miles in an hour's time, due to my off-trail exploits and rock worshipping, and was due at the ranch in an hour for dinner.<br /><br />Not wanting to backtrack, I stowed the camera gear and picked up the pace, running downhill into a wash, then back uphill along some switchbacks, passing one trail junction for a viewpoint, then another. Suddenly, I found myself at the top of a ridge, gazing down at the wide desert valley, once again cackling with glee, until I realized that the trail just ended. Stopped. Went. Nowhere. <br /><br />Crap. Crapcrapcrap. I peered back into the valley and saw my car, checked my compass, and picked my way along the ridgeline, figuring the trail must ride along the top for a bit until dipping back down below. <br /><br />It didn't. <br /><br />Instead, in my haste to bust booty back to the barbecue, I mistakenly took the second viewpoint turnoff, leaving the main trail. From my erroneous perch, I saw the trail ribbon through a valley behind me, and was able to reason my way back to it, suddenly not enjoying my desert adventure as much anymore. <br /><br />This is the part of hiking that I usually name the "Get Me Off This Mountain" phase of the adventure, except now it was "Get Me Off Of This Godforsaken Sunburned Swath Of Sandy Misery." I was walking so quickly that it almost qualified as running. I cursed my sense of adventure. I cursed the Stabby Little Asshole Plants along the trail. I found myself fixating on thoughts of rattlesnakes. And tarantulas*. And mountain lions**. <br /><br />Then I wandered into the wrong wash twice, backtracked twice, followed some footprints to a dead end, backtracked, and almost cried. Then my phone rang, and it was my friend David, asking me to stop and pick up some assorted meat products for the barbecue, and then I laughed at what a freakin' idiot I was being in the most beautiful place I've ever been.<br /><br /><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/5161963080/" title="Barren by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1211/5161963080_7145dde4bc.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Barren" /></a></center><br /><br />* Two weekends ago, I finally saw a tarantula. My friend screamed as though she was being skinned alive and pointed at this hulking furry beast crawling up a rock on the side of the single track leading up to Bear Flat. I'M SO GLAD I DIDN'T SEE ONE OF THESE ON THE TRAIL IN JOSHUA TREE. I would have cried then, for sure. Serious tears. WHY ARE THEY SO LARGE??? Come on, evolution - throw a girl a bone here.<br /><br />** The following day, I took off on a 6-mile hike from the Black Rock Campground, in the Northwestern corner of the park (not realizing until afterwards that this was exactly where <a href="http://www.scpr.org/news/2010/10/05/lost-hiker-recalls-surviving-six-days-joshua-tree-/">that dude got lost for a week</a>), shitty National Geographic map in hand, and had to step over a fresh, steaming pile of mountain lion crap about four miles in. I threw my hands above my head, acted big, and sang Aretha Franklin very loudly and very off-tune for about a half mile, until my heart attack subsided and I was able to enter the "Get Me Off Of This Godforsaken Sunburned Swath Of Sandy Misery" portion of my three-hour tour.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">What Would Ed Do?<br /></span>Ed would probably study trail write-ups a bit more closely, and would certainly not use the shitty, poorly detailed National Geographic map of the area. He would probably also tell someone where he was going, lest he become part of said fresh, steaming pile of mountain lion crap***. He would also have no use for the trail, and thus would not become lost, because he would just shimmy up and over the rocks like a very tanned Spiderman. <br /><br />*** I'm kind of glad I didn't see <i>127 Hours</i> until after this series of hikes<br /><br />[Shawnté]<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-393829317827068850?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-83652685525576618592010-09-06T15:35:00.001-07:002010-11-15T20:14:07.368-08:00<div><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Georgia; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "></p><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4955668337/" title="Sight for sore eyes! by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4120/4955668337_e30f338bb4.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Sight for sore eyes!" /></a></center><p></p></div><div> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">No more numbers, no more statistics. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">During last week's Mt. Whitney adventure, I realized that for me, hiking is not about calculations or measurements or stopwatches, mileage accumulated, altitude gained - it's about truly living in the moment.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><i>And what a moment! </i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">To begin...</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Mt. Whitney burrowed her big granite self in my gut about a year and a half ago, thanks to a sudden devouring of mountaineering literature, courtesy the outdoorsy aisle at Portland's print utopia, Powell's Books. I convinced some friends to join in my growing Sierra fever, and after winning an overnight permit in the somewhat bureaucratic lottery process, I busied myself with physical and mental preparations - lots of mileage and elevation and presentations and message boards and books and gear and early morning runs. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Even so, it snuck up on me. With only days left until our departure, I frantically ransacked REI and Adventure 16, gathered up every stitch of SmartWool in my closet, and purchased an asinine amount of Swedish Fish. I packed, then re-packed, and then stared at it all for a good long while.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">And then we hit the road. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">***</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"></p><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4956254796/" title="As viewed from the Eastern Sierra Inter-Agency Center by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4120/4956254796_bccc9b75e0.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="As viewed from the Eastern Sierra Inter-Agency Center" /></a></center><p></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Three expertly crafted mix CDs later, we rolled into the Eastern Sierra InterAgency Visitor's Center to the anthemic strains of "One Moment In Time." We belted along with the lesser Whitney, until we stumbled out of the car in a daze to stare incredulously at her more luminous sister, jutting out of a distant alpine scene across US 395. Gobsmacked, I ran to the edge of the parking lot, loaded up with camera in one hand, iPhone in the other, snapping away in awe. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">The familiar sawtooth ridge was unmistakable. <i>I can't believe we're really here. </i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">After a quick stop inside to retrieve our permit, pack tags, and WAG bags, we shoved all of our food and scented items into our bear canisters to avoid being jumped by what the Whitney message boards described as some <i>verrrrry</i> hungry mama bears loitering around the campground we'd be staying at that evening. This is also when I began compiling a private mental list I referred to as Things I Hate, something I'd add to frequently in the final few hours of our trip. [#1 - BEARS EATING ME SO THAT THEY CAN THEN EAT MY FOOD]</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Leaving the Visitor's Center, we breezed through tiny Lone Pine, and angled up Whitney Portal Road, the Hallelujah Chorus of Handel's "Messiah" blasting through my speakers, cheesy grins slapped across our faces. One hairpin turn and thirteen quick miles later, we found our campsite at the Whitney Portal Campground, and stared slack-jawed at our surroundings - fatty pine trees, house-sized boulders, cascading streams...and not one hungry bear in sight. Hello, paradise! Hello, nirvana!</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Cautious, we shoved every single thing we brought into the bear locker, ran around in a fit of delirious photo-taking, then headed up the mile-long recreation trail to the Whitney Portal itself. The altitude (8000') left us a bit winded, but we slowly wound our way alongside the creek, shouting out things like "This place is so freaking gorgeous!!!" and "Oh my god, I can't believe we're really here!!!" every minute or so, enamored by the emerald swimming holes, never-ending waterfalls, and epic bouldering opportunities left and right.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"></p><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4956254880/" title="Gorgeous granite by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4080/4956254880_e2cf69b663.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Gorgeous granite" /></a></center><p></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">At some point, Casey said, "This place is a destination in and of itself," something we'd repeat too many times to count in the days to come. This is when I started to realize that despite what we heard to the contrary, the Main Mt. Whitney Trail might actually be...<i>awesome</i>.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">To the casual reader, I suppose this sounds confusing - why <i>wouldn't</i> it be awesome? This is the Eastern Sierras, after all - it <i>should</i> be all Handel's Messiah and '80s pop anthems and foaming at the mouth... </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Except that every single printed word, every online exchange, every oratory tale we internalized about the Main Mt. Whitney Trail (MMWT) was that it generally sucked: Hordes of hikers, knee-wrecking granite steps, general eau de piss, never-ending switchbacks, deranged marmots. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Maybe we were just lucky, but we found absolutely none of this to be true. In fact, quite the contrary...</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">***</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"></p><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4955663249/" title="Whitney Portal Store by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4131/4955663249_6b69fe1f7b.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Whitney Portal Store" /></a></center><p></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">In the morning, we padded over to the Whitney Portal Store and hungrily eyed the simple menu. I opted for an overflowing plate of egger/hashbrown, while the rest of our party took a chance on Pancake. Yes...Pancake. Singular. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">When Pancake came out, he came loaded onto three plates to support his massive circumference. Still, the force of hunger was strong, and while I tucked into my own epic portion, they were taking fork and knife to theirs. Laura and Rebecca split Pancake, eventually leaving him in a crumbling mess spread across five plates. Casey began excavating the center of Pancake, but quickly capitulated to the fluffy behemoth. But Tim held his ground, methodically shoveling in forkful after forkful of Pancake, until his plate was clean and his face was bulging in pain. Tim won breakfast; a true hero among men.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">After a brief recombobulation pit stop in Lone Pine and a goodbye to Pancake-stuffed, Yosemite-bound Tim, we rolled through the Alabama Hills and scampered around a bit on the incredible rock formations there (including yet another utterance of "This place is a destination in and of itself.") Then we began the slow 7000' climb up to Horseshoe Meadows...and SNOW.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><i>SNOW</i>!</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">It was cold at Horseshoe Meadows. Freezing. Frigid. We layered on every stitch and still wished for more. I began to fear our upcoming night at Trail Camp, even higher at 12,000'. Stamp collecting...becoming appealing. [THINGS I HATE #2 - SNOW WHEN I'M CAMPING]</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">With frozen fingers, we quickly set up camp in a rather uninspiring site located off of the main parking lot, got in a quick nibble, and then assessed the complete overabundance of food we'd hauled up the mountain - successfully parsing out our ten tons of grub turned out to be the biggest challenge of the entire trip, leading to some tense moments and fearful flashbacks to the Chilnualna Falls trip. Suffice to say, none of us suffered from starvation on this trip.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"></p><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4955661147/" title="Wilford Brimley?!?! by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4112/4955661147_b838ac602d.jpg" width="400" height="300" alt="Wilford Brimley?!?!" /></a></center><p></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">A late afternoon stroll took us to a horse-filled pack station attended by a man who can only be described as Wilford Brimley in chaps, a meeting with a scampy little trail dog, and a stroll across a very un-meadowlike meadow leading to a surprise encounter with three very large, very ornery-seeming, very wild cows. Cows. <i>COWS. </i>[THINGS I HATE #3 - BEING TRAMPLED ON A MOUNTAIN BY A PACK OF RABID WILD COWS]</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">While Laura braved crossing the hoofed beasts to attain some nearby pass, the rest of us beat it back to the campsite, and after some dinner and unsuccessful fire-starting, we retreated to our tents to recharge for the next day's ascent.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">***</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">I woke up intermittently throughout the night, a mixture of excitement and really having to pee. [THINGS I HATE #4 - PEEING OUTSIDE WHEN IT IS ANYWHERE BELOW 65 DEGREES OUT] When I finally slunk out of my sleeping bag, I scraped against ice on the inside of the tent, thought once more about stamp-collecting, and eased myself out into the cold. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">After a slow-moving morning, we barreled back to Whitney Portal, scarfed down another delicious breakfast (minus Pancake; lesson had been learned), and finally hit the trail. Once we crossed the John Muir Wilderness boundary, it was all brand new. Right away, we started up a long series of lazy switchbacks, and the higher we climbed, the wider the vista spread out below us - the Inyo Mountains, the Owens Valley, Lone Pine, and Whitney Portal. We marveled at the excellent construction of the trail (mad props, trailbuilders!), gawked at the scenery, and enjoyed a leisurely pace.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">It wasn't until we came to the Lone Pine Lake junction, though, that the grandness smacked us on the ass. We could glimpse a bit of sapphire-blue water through the trees, and while I went to find a lofty pee perch, my friends went to investigate. [THINGS I HATE #5 - PEEING ON MOUNTAINS] When I joined them, I almost collapsed - Lone Pine Lake is basically a completely still, flat, blue mirror hanging right on the edge of the mountain, giving it the appearance of an alpine infinity pool. After a few spastic laps across the shoreline, I collapsed with a Snickers bar and a very, very satisfied grin.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"></p><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4955668071/" title="Lone Pine Lake by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4123/4955668071_cc428d0f3e.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Lone Pine Lake" /></a></center><p></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">From here, the trail turns into permit-only territory, and let it be said that neither on the way to Lone Pine Lake, nor on the way from the lake towards Trail Camp did we see more than a handful of people. We had the mountain practically to ourselves, a feeling that's incredibly hard to describe. For the time being, it was <i>our</i> mountain. Or at least, it let us think that.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">After a few more switchbacks, the trail took a dip down and dropped us into magical fairytale land - Bighorn Park, a place that barely registered in all of our pre-trip recon. But it was one of the most magnificent sights on the entire trail - a wide swath of fluorescent green wetland, flanked by granite sentinels all around. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"></p><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4955667849/" title="View from Bighorn Park by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4120/4955667849_edd14d73e2.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="View from Bighorn Park" /></a></center><p></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Sailing on our alpine high, we crossed into Outpost Camp, which was nearly empty, nary a whiff of pee to be smelled. A waterfall cascaded down into one corner, a creek burbled along one side, and once again, we thought,"A worthy destination."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">A billion calories and several dry socks later, we made our way up past Mirror Lake, and into the lunar territory above the tree line, scampering up granite slabs and steps, marveling at the High Sierra majesty looming in front of us. By the time we reached the thin sliver of Trailside Meadow, I was a bit fatigued and ready to set up camp, but the promise of sleeping in Whitney's shadow urged me on to Trail Camp, where we all collapsed on a sandy slab just south of tent city, with just enough energy to set up our windblown tents, load up several layers of clothing, and boil up some water. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"></p><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4956259578/" title="Closing in on Consultation Lake &amp; Trail Camp by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4087/4956259578_680f95a323.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Closing in on Consultation Lake &amp; Trail Camp" /></a></center><p></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">It was here that I realized - I needed to go to the bathroom. By that, I mean - I needed to use the WAG bag. For the uninitiated, the WAG ("Waste alleviating and gelling" or "What?? Ahhh...gross!!!!!!") bag is a necessity on Mt. Whitney, due to the intense foot (and waste) traffic and the nature of the mountain itself - granite does not an in-ground toilet make. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">We'd all hoped to escape using our WAG bags, but I knew my time had come. I stood and stared at my bag for a while, and then announced that I was going to find a comfortable spot. My trailmates stared incredulously - "You're going to go for it?" "We want a full report afterwards." "Good luck!" </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Nervously, I gathered my supplies and headed toward a big hump of rock at the far side of camp, away from tents and people and water, shielded from the wind. I unwrapped the bag, spread it out on the ground, and stared at it. FOR A LONG TIME.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Shitting in a bag is not natural. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">[THINGS I HATE #6 - SHITTING IN A BAG]</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">But I shat in a bag, coaxed into a vague state of relaxation by the incredibly gorgeous setting sun. In fact, it would have been incredibly picaresque...had I not been SHITTING INTO A BAG.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Somewhat satisfied, I returned to camp, my deposit quadruple-bagged, slung from my shoulder. I felt strangely proud, even more when my friends inquired about the WAG experience. I recounted my epic adventure, gave them the necessary precautions, then hid that damn bag under a rock far, far away from my tent. They say the double-bagging system prevents odor leaks, but "they" weren't with me somewhere around the 18-mile mark the next day. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Exhausted from my sojourn, I slept like a rock, on a rock, at 12,000'.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">***</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">I woke up sometime in the late, late evening or early, early morning with a dull thud of a headache wrapped around my skull. Worried about needing to pee in the middle of the night, I stopped drinking water when we rolled into Trail Camp, a rookie mistake I'll never make again. I slammed ibuprofen, and curled up next to my Camelbak, slowly sipping until the dull thud transformed into a mild annoyance, and woke up at 3:15am ready to hit the trail.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Strangely, in those first few minutes of the pre-pre-pre-dawn morning, we were all moving fairly quickly - redressing, boiling water, sorting out our daypacks. For me, it was the excitement, the need to pee, and the magical tricks the nearly-full moon was executing across the range. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">But then we crashed, and sluggishly choked down some oatmeal, sulking onto the trail in complete silence. But after a brief stop on the third or fourth switchback to remove a few unnecessary layers, we hit our stride. Laura suggested we turn off our headlamps, and so we did, guided quickly above Trail Camp by the light of the moon. We flicked on our lamps around a few icy spots (including the notorious cable section), and surprisingly quickly found ourselves on the homestretch of the infamous 99 switchbacks just as the dawn was breaking behind us. We stopped occasionally to watch the incredible alpenglow light show play out on Mt. Muir to our right, first a faint pink, then a deep salmon, and finally settling into an Oompa Loompa orange before the sun illuminated the sky - a visual experience I'll never forget.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"></p><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4955662575/" title="Alpenglow rules! by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4154/4955662575_140fa53dd6.jpg" width="400" height="300" alt="Alpenglow rules!" /></a></center><p></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">When the sign for Trail Crest came into view, we practically bounded up to it. A few photos and a slightly demoralizing descent later, we were on the backside of the mountain, picking our way through a scramble of talus chunks, easily my least favorite part of the trail. Occasionally, I thought about what would happen if I fell straight down to Sequoia National Park below, but mostly I focused on counting the Windows (not bad at all, scaremongers!), and closing in on the backside of Keeler's Needle.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">On the last mile to the summit, I realized that I would make it to the top. I slowly chugged along, wind-chapped, but thrilled, and finally saw Casey on the trail above me, working his way up the backside of the Whitney massif. I waved and he waited, and then we slowly picked our way up together. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Then the one thing the trip reports and speakers got right - the moment when you get just far enough up on the backside to see the Smithsonian Institute hut above you is a moment you'll never forget. Tears sprung into the corners of my eyes - in fact, they're threatening to well up there now as I write this. What an unforgettable, incredible, indelible moment. I couldn't believe it. I kind of still can't.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"></p><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4956259964/" title="Summit hut, finally! by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4110/4956259964_17a9774ccd.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Summit hut, finally!" /></a></center><p></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">I slid my gloved hands across the rock walls of the hut as I walked past it, then found the summit plaque and laid down next to it. The only other people on the summit - 3 hikers we met at the start of our journey - were headed down, so it was just Casey and I for a few minutes, until Laura and Rebecca joined us. I had a a Titanic "king of the world" moment, and just laughed and laughed and laughed with joy. It was perfect.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"></p><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4956254462/" title="I DID IT!!!!!! by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4089/4956254462_20fba12fe7.jpg" width="400" height="300" alt="I DID IT!!!!!!" /></a></center><p></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">***</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">The 11 miles back to Whitney Portal weren't my favorite in hiking history. The slight downhill on several talus sections was slightly heart-stopping, the 99 switchbacks seemed like 199, and the hard granite slabs and steps were a bit more jolting in reverse. [THINGS I HATE #7 - FALLING INTO THE ABYSS] [THINGS I HATE #8 - DOWNHILL] [THINGS I HATE #9 - CARRYING A BACKPACK] [THINGS I HATE #10 - CARRYING MY OWN SHIT IN A BAG] I felt fatigued, and the last few miles, nauseated, until I gave a sudden dry heave right at the John Muir Wilderness sign. And then we walked down and out, and right over to the Whitney Portal Store for one last epic meal. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">***</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">In the week since returning from Whitney, I've relived every mile of trail, flipped through my photos more than a dozen times, and thought about how to process it all. I stood on top of the continental United States, something I dreamed of doing for a long time, something that almost seemed impossible to a girl who was afraid of the monkey bars as a kid. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">I feel different, in a good way. It was a mental and physical challenge, spread well over a year in preparation. Whitney's been a part of my life all this time, and to finally have that communion on her rocky slopes and summit was undeniably triumphant. I think I truly understand that I really can do anything. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Anything.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"></p><center><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/4955668237/" title="Summit dance by Shawnté, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4106/4955668237_194ce8988b.jpg" width="400" height="400" alt="Summit dance" /></a></center><p></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>PHOTOS</b></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">I have no idea why it's not showing the full photos - to view them in all of their glory:</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/sets/72157624750186191/">http://www.flickr.com/photos/shawntesalabert/sets/72157624750186191/</a></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>What Would Ed Do?</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">I've said it before, I'll say it again - Ed would be proud. Damn proud.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">[Shawnté]</p></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-8365268552557661859?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-63879122849706030562010-07-09T22:31:00.000-07:002010-07-09T23:20:24.663-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/TDgQTI4ITCI/AAAAAAAAAEw/mYuPF89LQ4Y/s1600/HohGreens.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/TDgQTI4ITCI/AAAAAAAAAEw/mYuPF89LQ4Y/s400/HohGreens.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492157666564787234" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;">(This photo is unrelated to this post; I just know that people like to look at photos when they read blogs. I took this in Olympic National Park almost four years ago. Enjoy.)</div></span></span></span><div><br /></div><div>I just returned home from an angst-ridden viewing of what may only be described as an epic, timeless love tale for the ages - <span style="font-style:italic;">Eclipse</span> (aka the third <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Twilight</span> film). Movie night was an early birthday gift from my friend, although whether or not this was truly a "gift" is probably up for debate.<br /><br />In the morning, I'm heading off on a mini backpacking trip to the Cucamonga Wilderness. I figured that packing might be a good task to accomplish this evening, a perfect way to rinse away the ten metric tons of sparkly vampire schmaltz vomited out of the screen tonight.<div><br /></div><div>But I am not packing. I'm writing a blog. And before writing this blog, I was laughing my way through <a href="http://www.27bslash6.com/">this amazing website</a>. And before that, I was eating some delicious Trader Joe's Irish Cheddar With Porter and Trader Joe's Original Savory Thins rice crackers, two things that were supposed to be part of my trail lunch tomorrow. Oops. I guess I'll be going to Trader Joe's in the morning. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh yes, packing. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I am still mulling the lessons learned from the Yosemite backpacking trip two weekends ago, I don't exactly have high hopes for myself in this department. I'll leave the deodorant at home this time, but I'm still tempted to bring the playing cards (what if we get bored?), the newest issue of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">New York</span> (it's thin, plus there's a crossword puzzle; see "what if we get bored?" above), and a tiny pillow (I sleep best when my head is cradled in a soft billow of fluff; easier to pretend I'm at home in bed instead of splayed on the side of a mountain, masquerading as bear bait). </div><div><br /></div><div>I am, however, very excited to pack <a href="http://www.rei.com/product/734514">my brand new sleeping pad</a>, purchased last night at the Santa Monica REI. I nearly punched an entire parking structure in the face once I realized that a) it was $5 to park, even though I would only be in the store for maybe 20 minutes, and b) there were no available spots to park in the damn structure, even after circling around for 10 precious could-be-buying-overpriced-and-vaguely-unnecessary-outdoorsy-things-at-REI minutes. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I made it to the store, with 25 minutes to shop. I bee-lined for the sleeping pad section, wherein I proceeded to find every inflated pad marked "Women's," and threw them all on the floor, commandeering the entire back corner of the store. Then I systematically began a complicated process that involved flopping on my stomach, rolling onto my side, propping myself up on one elbow, kneeling, then rolling onto my back. I went through three pads before I realized I had an audience in an overzealous sales dude whose name I didn't register.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Hi, I'm (insert generic sales dude name)! Can I help you with anything?" he asked as I gently spooned the generic REI Trekker Self-Inflating Sleeping Pad-Women's Regular*. Strangely, I didn't feel compelled to move or assume a less risqué position when answering him. "No, thanks - just getting a new sleeping pad." This, of course, served as an invitation for him to stay there and prattle on about each one as I systematically continued my testing. When I finally selected the Therm-A-Rest of my dreams (aka budget), we said our goodbyes (him, somewhat reluctantly) and I left with the slightly off-putting feeling that he got a whole lot more out of the exchange than I did.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, right - packing. I'll probably just do that in the morning.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">* This, along with many of the "Women's" options, was purple. I DON'T WANT PURPLE CAMPING GEAR.  Just because I have a uterus doesn't mean I want my tent to look like a goddamn sorority house.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">What Would Ed Do?</span></div><div>Ed is a combination sherpa/pack mule/MacGyver. Ed could beat my pretend husband, Survivorman and that jokey Man Vs. Wild dude in a cage match, and is probably equipped to survive in the wild on nothing more than granite dust and slugs. But if he needed a sleeping pad, he could probably kill, gut, and skin a wild boar, then inflate its pelt for a good night's sleep.</div><div><br /></div><div>[Shawnté]</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-6387912284970603056?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-22495198124525392362010-07-05T19:59:00.001-07:002010-07-05T20:19:19.493-07:00<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><center><img src="http://www.shawntesalabert.com/Baldy2_Start2_3.jpg"></center></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>Hike</b>: Mt. Baldy</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>The Inspiration: </b>Climb Up So Kids Can Grow Up</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>Highest Altitude: </b>10,064'</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>Trip Mileage</b>: 7.4</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>Total 2010 Mileage</b>: 118</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Money raised, nemesis faced, mountain climbed!</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">It was about this time last summer that Rebecca and I first talked about hiking up to the summit of Mt. Baldy. We decided to spend the summer whipping ourselves into shape and mentally psyching up for the (seemingly) dreaded Devil's Backbone trail, and by the time our minds and bodies seemed ready, the Station Fire whipped in and screwed up the whole thing. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">We knew we'd get a crack at Baldy this summer, but the opportunity came sooner than expected when <a href="http://www.modernhiker.com">Modern Hiker</a> put together a team to raise money for the American Foundation For Children With AIDS, as part of their nationwide <a href="http://www.climbupsokidscangrowup.com">Climb Up S0 Kids Can Grow Up</a> event. Rebecca signed up, I signed up, we both raised a nice wad of dough, and on Saturday, July 3rd, we found ourselves staring down 10,064' of mountain madness.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">A nice scrum of people gathered at the trailhead, and after passing out some mini Larabars (note: Key Lime Larabars= tangy tropical vomit) and a few words of encouragement, our intrepid leader laid waste to the trail, with a baker's dozen of us in tow. We soon passed a hairpin turn with a vista of the somewhat non-splashy San Antonio Falls, and (purposefully) ran into photographer <a href="http://davidkiang.com">David Kiang</a>, who snapped some pro-pro shots of the group in various states of adventure.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><center><img src="http://www.shawntesalabert.com/Baldy5_PhotographerSnap.jpg"></center></span><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Moments later, Casey shouted for us to hang a left.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><i>Where</i>? I thought.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">I looked to my left. Nothing but slope. And trees. And dirt. And rocks. And wait...was that a faint-looking, very steep-looking, very unpleasant-looking footpath?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Why, yes it was. The Ski Hut trail. <i>Our</i> trail.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Memories of internet-researched trip reports all flooded back at this moment - the climb from trailhead to summit on this route was about 4000' in about 4 miles. For those non-hikers out there, this is like hiking at a 45 degree angle for an unbearable amount of time - add to that the steady thinning of oxygen, and its various effects, and you'll soon come to understand the slightly masochistic undertaking ahead.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">True to my fears, this sucker wasted no time ziggy zagging up the slope, sending us 2.5 miles up to the Sierra Club's <a href="http://angeles.sierraclub.org/lodges/sanantonioskihut.html">adorable little green ski hut</a>. Though I spent most of these miles sucking in air and giving off steam, it was hard not to appreciate the gorgeous alpine scenery surrounding us - conifers galore, butterflies, birds, and peaks for miles.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><center><img src="http://www.shawntesalabert.com/Baldy15_SanAntonioRidge.jpg"></center></span><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><center><img src="http://www.shawntesalabert.com/Baldy9_SkiHut.jpg"></center><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">At the hut, we took a well-earned break, and Rebecca made a break for an outhouse behind the ski hut that she heard was the most beautiful outhouse in the universe - or something similarly incredibly (inaccurately) superlative. I shot a few snaps of the outhouse from afar and when Rebecca returned, she summed it up: "It's bad. It's really, really bad."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">For some reason, this sent my bladder into overtime - kind of like when someone says, "This is disgusting - try it," and you try it. Suddenly I HAD TO PEE. I wandered up to the adorable green outhouse, emblazoned with an adorable crescent moon. And then I smelled it - and heard it - before I got close enough to grab the handle. The flies (and I would soon learn, bees) were swarming around inside and out, and what can only be described in my best Vincent Price voice as the foulest stench in the air, the funk of forty thousand years, all massed up inside this tiny little green outhouse.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">I choked a little bit. I let two people go before me. Then I decided that I'd rather pee in this rank den of poo than off the side of the mountain, so I dashed in, did my business, and made a mental pact with myself to try and forget what I smelled, lest it permanently taint my olfactory sense.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><center><img src="http://www.shawntesalabert.com/Baldy11_RancidOuthouse.jpg"></center></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">After a decidedly more pleasant hang outside the ski hut, we refilled our water bottles at a tiny waterfall just down the trail, and made our way across the "Rock Garden," a jumble of large boulders that brought back memories of the alien above-treeline landscape of <a href="http://whatwoulded.blogspot.com/2009/10/rebeccas-experience-on-san-gorgonio.html">San Gorgonio</a>. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">All was well and fine until we hit the portion of the "trail" that would take us up the far slope of the Baldy Bowl. "Trail" is in quotations because this was not a "trail," this was a dusty, loose, gravelly little death march straight up the side of the mountain. This part was quick, but this part was not fun, and I'm pretty sure I used up my fairly healthy stock of swear words here. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">We came out on top of a ridge, and headed up for another set of scrambly, hand-and-foot-power-requiring "switchbacks" (Hahahaha, trailbuilders - you guys are a freakin' hoot!), coming to rest on a wide saddle with the rest of our group, where we refueled for the final climb. At this point, my pace was down to an elderly shuffle, and switching to autopilot, I was stunned when I crested the last "switchback" (Ha! HA HA HA!) and yelled out to no one in particular, "Is this Mt. Baldy!?!?" </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">And it was.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">VICTORY!</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><center><img src="http://www.shawntesalabert.com/Baldy21_MeBaldySummitMarker.jpg"></center></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Not content to lounge about, I ran back and forth across the wide summit, snapping photos of everything and anything. In my semi-crazed summit fever, I barely registered the mustachioed man carrying on about singing something together, until I was handed a lyric sheet for "America, The Beautiful," which we all sang, terribly off-key, but joyously, at the top of our lungs. All four verses (three of which I didn't know existed until this moment). </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Pumped full of patriotism and delirium, I was ready to face the challenge of the much-ballyhooed Devil's Backbone trail on the way down. Mildly obsessed, I spent a lot of pre-hike time scanning the interwebs for horrifying photos of this ridgeline trail, and <a href="http://whatwoulded.blogspot.com/2009/08/mental-preparation-for-mt-baldy-aka.html">subsequently spent a lot of time trying not to throw up when thinking about crossing it</a>.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Before the most devilish part that gives the trail its name, we had to descend some 700' in a little more than half a mile. On loose, gravelly, poorly-constructed, slippery, slidey "switchbacks." I would just like to state for the record that whomever constructed these trails is a total jerk. </p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><center><img src="http://www.shawntesalabert.com/Baldy32_Descent.jpg"></center></span><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><center><img src="http://www.shawntesalabert.com/Baldy33_MtHarwood.jpg"></center><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">I found myself on my butt at least twice (once on purpose; once not), and nearly hugged the mountain when the trail spit us out on relatively flat ground next to Mt. Harwood. The next part was easy going, until we started winding around Harwood and the trail got a bit thinner and steeper, and my heartbeat got a lot faster and stronger. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">But then the ski hut came into view! And the narrowest stretch of the Devil's Backbone came into view! We were almost there!</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">And then there was a rockslide, and you <i>know</i> <a href="http://whatwoulded.blogspot.com/2009/08/tom-sloan-trail-aka-rockslide-mountain.html">how we feel about rockslides</a>. This one occurred on a particularly thin section of trail, probably mere minutes after the bulk of our group passed this very spot. First, one rock. Then two. Then more than two. Then a lot more than two. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">I estimated the rockslide to take about minute, but it felt like a century. And in that minute/century I had one very concise, clear thought: "I am not going all the way back up Mt. Baldy and down that damn Ski Hut trail. I will wait here patiently for rescue." And then the rocks stopped falling and the family in front of us crossed carefully, one at a time (and set off a smaller rockslide below), and then Rebecca and I crossed carefully, one at a time, and that was that. Rockslide over.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">When we finally got to the supposedly hairy portion of the Devil's Backbone, it didn't feel very hairy at all. The views were superb, spread for miles and miles on either side. <i>This</i> is what I spent an entire year worrying about? This grand patch of trail? I chided myself and enjoyed the epic views as we descended to the ski lodge, where I promptly devoured the best bunless cheeseburger, Coke, and french fries that have ever crossed my lips.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><center><img src="http://www.shawntesalabert.com/Baldy38_Destination.jpg"></center></span><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Then we paid ten bucks and took the chairlift down, because according to Modern Hiker, that's not cheating. I had a mild heart attack when our chair suddenly stopped and swayed gently over this yawning gap in the mountains, but soon we were on solid ground, in the car, and on the way home, and in the days since, I've crowned this not only the hardest hike I've done, but also my absolute favorite. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Now, having topped out on Baldy and San Gorgonio, it's time to complete the trifecta of Southern California's mountain crown jewels - San Jacinto. Soon enough, soon enough... </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>What Would Ed Do?</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Ed would be proud. Damn proud.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">[Shawnté]</p><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-2249519812452539236?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-66635966240183868682010-06-28T22:48:00.000-07:002010-06-28T23:14:52.007-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/TCmKb0GUNnI/AAAAAAAAAEg/womI-OBY3tk/s1600/CFFalls.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/TCmKb0GUNnI/AAAAAAAAAEg/womI-OBY3tk/s400/CFFalls.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488069831373895282" /></a><br /><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color:#333333;"><b>Hike</b>: Chilnualna Falls</p> <p color="#333333" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; "><b>The Inspiration: </b>High water in Yosemite</p> <p color="#333333" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; "><b>Highest Altitude: </b>7,800'</p> <p color="#333333" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; "><b>Trip Mileage</b>: 10</p> <p color="#333333" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; "><b>Total 2010 Mileage</b>: 110.6</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p color="#333333" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; ">I've come to the conclusion that the substrate of Yosemite National Park is not composed of granite, but rather, genuine crack rock. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p color="#333333" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; "><a href="http://whatwoulded.blogspot.com/2009/11/yosemite-falls-aka-am-i-having-stroke.html">I first ventured to the storied Yosemite Valley last fall</a>, late enough in the season to grunt through most of the Yosemite Falls trail without encountering too many passersby. For my second run, I once again joined Rebecca and her (my) friend Good Ranger Laura, and this time we set out for a leisurely backpacking adventure up the <a href="http://www.yosemitehikes.com/southern-yosemite/chilnualna-falls/chilnualna-falls.htm">Chilnualna Falls trail</a> in the Southern part of the park.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p color="#333333" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; ">After ingesting something like ten pounds of delicious homemade oatmeal, we ventured to Wawona to nab our permit and begin the <span style="text-decoration: line-through">5.6</span> 4.1 mile hike to the top. Almost immediately, we were presented with the thunderous sound and powerful spray of the lower Falls, and I was presented with the first mental challenge of the hike - safely navigate the small set of equally small granite steps carved out next to this raging beast of a waterfall, with a full pack on, natch. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Several minutes of quiet hyperventilation later, my heart rate hit double-time as we trudged up the first mile of trail - this sucker's steep, folks. Not monstrously so, but enough to make me wish I didn't bring along that <i>New York Magazine</i>, deck of playing cards, pillow, bag of Reese's Pieces, extra pair of socks, deodorant stick, rain jacket... </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">However, once I sucked down enough water and we entered the foresty-meadowy-not-so-devilishly-uphilly portion of the trail, things brightened up considerably - the forest lit up almost neon green, punctuated by tiny floral bursts - lupine and a bunch of other things I don't know the name for. As we continued upward, the falls and the Wawona Dome peeked in and out through the intermittent tree cover, and although it was a sweaty affair, the hike proved to be totally crack-rocky, as anticipated.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"></p><center><img src="http://www.shawntesalabert.com/CFStart.jpg" /></center><p></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Once on top(ish), we set off to make camp in a super-secret-ain't-never-gonna-tell-you spot far from the beaten path, as advised by a very smart friend of GRL. In California terms, man, were we stooooooked when we saw this place - nothing but granite, trees, and plenty of air. Epic. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Tent pitched (well, GRL slept under the stars), bathing suits on, daypacks fastened, we set off to find a worthy swimming hole to dip our sweat-slicked bods into. When an unseasonably high (and fast) river crossing gave us pause, we followed the bank off-trail, until we found a sweet little array of shallow potholes and sunny slabs to flop ourselves into and onto. Temporarily forgetting that this was effectively snowmelt, I plunged my tootsies in and let out a painful yelp. I spent the rest of my time on a rock, preening like a seal. And I'm fine with that.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"></p><center><img src="http://www.shawntesalabert.com/CFSwimspot.jpg" /></center><p></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">After our, uh, "swim," I made a quick pit stop to answer nature's call. Whilst in the most vulnerable of positions, I heard a low growl. I paused, mid-squat. Perhaps that was just the river. Right? Then it came again, this time a little louder. I would have peed my pants if I was wearing pants. But I wasn't. And that made it worse that some large mammal was upset that I was marking its territory. So I scooped up my trousers and ran like bloody hell back to my friends, and hopefully out of claw's reach of whatever was making it's angry presence known.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Back at our secret campsite, the thought of dinner was a happy one. GRL planned a delicious Thai noodle dish, and we set up our little kitchen on a sunset-ready chunk of granite and got to work. And then we realized something. Something important. Something <i>reallllllly</i> important. </p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"></p><center><img src="http://www.shawntesalabert.com/CFdinner.jpg" /></center><p></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">We had waaaaaay too much food to fit into the bear canister once dinner was over. Like...WAAAAAAAAAAAAAY too much food. We snacked a bit, and when our dinner was ready, we sat back and ate. And then we ate some more. We ate noodles until they just stopped going in. And then we waited a minute and ate some more. Rice noodles definitely expand in water. A LOT.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">There were groans. Moans. Uncomfortable silences. Nervous laughter. We assessed the situation. Definitely couldn't fit our food, as it stood, into the canister. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">And then there were toiletries. Dammit. We forgot the toiletries.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">We systematically began to eat. I finished off the Swedish fish. Rebecca knocked off at least half a bag of trail mix. We moved the whole shebang down a slab and made a fire. We continued to strategize - if we make the chocolate pudding, add in the creamer, some pretzels, the rest of the Reese's Pieces, the dried mango, and if we each eat a piece of fruit, maybe we can fit it all in. <i>Maybe</i>. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">There was a point during all of this bear-attack-prevention eating that I think I got high. No, seriously. I think I got high from eating too much food. I was actually convinced that because I ate so much food, the bear would just come for me anyways, because I smelled like a damn grocery store.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">But the bear didn't come, and somehow we all woke up the next morning and ate a ton more food, and then a few hours later, Rebecca and I stopped at the <a href="http://www.olkettle.com/">Ol' Kettle Restaurant</a> in Oakhurst on the way home and each ate a massive plate full of grub. Actually, Rebecca stopped short of devouring her sweet potato fries, so I finished them off for her. And then I ate cinnamon bears, some trail mix, and a fruit bar in the car. I think I permanently messed up my stomach, but man - what a pretty hike. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>What Would Ed Do?</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Ed would wait until the waterfall was frozen and would scale it with nothing but an ice axe and sheer grit. Regarding the bear canister snafu, Ed probably subsists on a diet of said grit and determination, augmented with periodic shots of ambition. He doesn't need a bear canister. He is a human bear canister.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">[Shawnté]</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-6663596624018386868?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-53853518790407830102010-06-20T18:29:00.001-07:002010-06-20T18:32:23.382-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/TB7A2SNMMjI/AAAAAAAAAEY/USQonsDRidI/s1600/photo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 347px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/TB7A2SNMMjI/AAAAAAAAAEY/USQonsDRidI/s400/photo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485033435016475186" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">View of Mt. Baldy from atop Telegraph Peak</span></span></span></div><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>Hike(s)</b>: Icehouse Canyon to Telegraph Peak</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>The Inspiration: </b>The allure of the 3 T's</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>Highest Altitude: </b>8,985'</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>Trip(s) Mileage</b>: 13.8</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>Total 2010 Mileage</b>: 100.6</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Telegraph Peak is quite the deceptive little ballbuster. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">The plan was for Team WWED? + <a href="http://www.modernhiker.com/">Modern Hiker</a> to stroll through Icehouse Canyon and head for the Three T's trail from the Icehouse Saddle, passing by Timber and topping out on Telegraph. Which we did. But it proved a bit more labor-intensive than any of us initially thought.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Arriving at the ranger station before the hike, we grabbed our wilderness permit and were duly informed that there was a hungry and very social little bear hanging out around the trail. Where?, we asked. The ranger very helpfully circled the trailhead, then made a big red asterisk right next to it.  Right there. At the beginning of the trail. <i>Oh.</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">We practiced our bear-scaring measures (stomp loudly, clap loudly, repeat) and sped past the trailhead, continuing warp speed ahead, dodging slow trekkers left and right, rushing past an incredibly full flow of water, making record time to the Cucamonga Wilderness boundary. And then we all panted. And panted some more. Slow and steady <i>does</i> win the race when the race is more like a nearly 14-mile marathon. Lesson learned.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">We carried on, tromping relatively quickly up the never-ending switchbacks to the saddle, passing a gushing double-decker waterfall in the canyon's crease. (Note to readers: Go to Icehouse Canyon NOW. Winter snowmelt = massive amounts of water everywhere. <i>Bonus!</i>)</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">At the saddle, we recharged, a mix of cold pizza, Clif bars, trail mix, and ginger chews fortifying us for the next set of quick switchbacks up towards Timber, and a surely quick 2.2 mile jaunt to Telegraph.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Ha. Bwahahahahahahahahahahaha!  Quick 2.2 mile jaunt, my ass!</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">At the junction with the Timber Mtn. spur trail, the Three T's trail continues towards Telegraph, and quickly descends to a very, very windswept saddle at about 7740'. Of course, we knew we'd have to climb back up to reach Telegraph, but we had no idea just how much elevation we lost on the way down from Timber. It was only afterwards that we realized that we put ourselves through 1,245' of elevation gain in just over a mile. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">During said mile, I cursed. I mumbled things under my breath. I considered finding a new hobby. It was a very, very, very silent mile. A very, very, very shitty mile. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">At what felt like the 666th switchback, we came across a group of people descending, with a few of them opting to cut across said switchback. Prompted by general crankiness, my inner self-righteous hiker asshole blurted out, "You know, you're not supposed to cut the switchbacks. It ruins the trail." The offending hiker retorted with, "Well, we're good hikers and we wouldn't cut the trail, except there's snow on it." I looked over. There was definitely snow on the trail. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Telegraph Peak was turning me into an asshole. I needed to take a rest. I considered the possibility of scooting down the mountain on my butt. I considered the possibility of continuing on to Thunder and taking the ski lift down. I considered stopping at that very switchback and taking a nap, but I found myself nervously tromping across the snow and back up the damn mountain. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">When we reached a luxuriously wide and vaguely forested saddle, we all sat down, fueled up, and I proclaimed that I was done with this jerky portion of the hike and would be sitting out the last chunk to the top. Then we looked at the map, and the map said that it was only 0.1 miles to the top, and I bucked myself up for the last haul. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Once on top, I realized that Telegraph Peak was not as assholey as I thought - it was just very, very picky. It wasn't going to let just anyone stake a claim - you had to earn your way. I felt proud. I soaked in the 360 degree views of Baldy, Cucamonga, San Jacinto, San Gorgonio, and beyond. Then I ate 4 slices of well-earned cold (well...lukewarm) pizza.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">The mile or so back to the saddle was relatively uneventful (save for my constant fear of losing my balance and pitching myself thousands of feet down off the mountain during some hairy parts). It didn't seem nearly as steep, nor as exhausting, though the climb back up Timber was a minor pain in the ass. But as we gained momentum and busted our knees sailing down past Icehouse Saddle, through the canyon, and back to the car, I think we all felt a sense of pride in earning our spots atop Telegraph Peak. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">And then we went to Baldy Lodge and scarfed down burgers and fries and sugary drinks, a worthy prize for such a worthy endeavor. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>What Would Ed Do?</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Ed would take Icehouse Canyon up through the Three T's, across Baldy, then hop in the car and tag San Gorgonio just for fun. Ed would, however, be proud of our camel-like abilities to collectively carry something like 11 liters of water on this trip. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">[Shawnté]</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-5385351879040783010?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-90703888472697051772010-06-06T18:11:00.000-07:002010-06-09T21:53:59.110-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/TAxHdnsqcpI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/S0obDt652SE/s1600/batcaves.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 274px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/TAxHdnsqcpI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/S0obDt652SE/s400/batcaves.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479833420801143442" /></a><br /><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>Hike(s)</b>: Batcave/Hollywood Sign/Mt. Wilson/Temescal-Will Rogers-Topanga Loop</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>The Inspiration: </b>Mt. Whitney prep</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>Highest Altitude: </b>5,712'</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>Trip(s) Mileage</b>: 35.6</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>Total 2010 Mileage</b>: 86.8</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">And so it begins. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">In less than three months, Team WWED? and <a href="http://www.modernhiker.com/">Modern Hiker</a> (joined by Good Ranger Laura) will (hopefully) stand proudly atop the highest point in the continental United States - the grand diva herself, Mt. Whitney (that's <i>Ms.</i> Whitney, if you're nasty).</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">So we must condition ourselves and prepare our bodies to be the best high-altitude summit-seeking machines they can be. This training entails the following:</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">1) Miles. Lots of them. In a row. Without the aid of motorized vehicles.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">2) Altitude. Lots of it. Progressively higher. Without vomiting.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">3) Swedish Fish*. Lots of them. And then more of them.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">As a little wake-up call to our legs, Team WWED? + MH began pre-conditioning in mid-May by playing tourist for a warm-up <a href="http://www.modernhiker.com/2010/05/18/hiking-mount-lee-to-the-hollywood-sign/">6.6 mile jaunt</a>, ducking into the Bronson Caves (aka Batmobile Garage), then searing our calves en route to the top of the Hollywood Sign. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">The following weekend, confident in our abilities, we led a full-on masochistic assault on our bodies, a sweaty, energy-sapping, ab-engaging, knee-breaking 15-mile cross-ridge loop from Chantry Flat to Mt. Wilson and back. Not three minutes in to said adventure, MH already had us bushwhacking up a poison oak-laden firebreak that nearly rivals the (lovingly) dreaded Chumash trail (for the record, that's the one that boasts a lovely 845' gain in 0.7 miles, straight off of PCH to the La Jolla Valley). </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">After emerging from the second of these lovely scrambles, we caught the last hairpin turn on the San Olene Fire Road and hopped up on the Santa Anita Ridge firebreak - aka NOT A REAL TRAIL. But we knew this going in, and MH assured us he'd done this trail (albeit mistakenly) before - and he's a hiker of his word. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Now, if you're reading this and thinking, "Well, I'd really like to do something painful to my legs today," I have just the solution for you - hike the Santa Anita Ridge firebreak. This sucker is no joke - up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, for what felt like an eternity. There were a few slips, a few slides, and a few times when I found myself on hands and knees - but you know what? Once it was over and we were back on the real trail, I realized that I must have a slightly masochistic streak, because it was a hell of a lot of fun (at least until I woke up the next day unable to walk properly).</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Less than a week later, Rebecca and I decided that since we'd already begun the pre-Whitney physical beatings, why not carry on, but with significantly less firebreak madness, so we headed off to Temescal Canyon to begin a 14-mile loop that quickly led us up and out of Temescal into Will Rogers State Park, then on a very overgrown, bee-and-fly-ridden trail around the bend of a canyon, which took us through Topanga State Park, and then back into Temescal. This time, 14 miles didn't feel so rough.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">And so it began. And so it will continue, all summer long, until we've ascended the infamous 99 switchbacks, passed quickly across the dreaded "windows," and find ourselves on top of the (continental) U.S., full of Swedish Fish and enjoying the biggest natural high I've ever imagined.**</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">*<i>Swedish Fish is the unofficial energy snack unofficially endorsed by Team WWED? We highly recommend the traditional red variety, also good for trail-marking when in a pinch.</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><i></i><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><i>**Until the next big adventure...</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>What Would Ed Do?</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Ed would do quadruple the miles at triple the altitude, but then again, Ed has major sponsorships and time at his beck and call; we have finite paychecks and jobs.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">[Shawnté]</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-9070388847269705177?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-27286994025615027812010-04-22T20:53:00.000-07:002010-04-22T21:02:41.885-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/S9EbdI4InKI/AAAAAAAAAEI/ZTlYGdtWgY0/s1600/26752_383780957236_535802236_4388136_7907599_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/S9EbdI4InKI/AAAAAAAAAEI/ZTlYGdtWgY0/s400/26752_383780957236_535802236_4388136_7907599_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463178010390207650" /></a><br /><br /><br /><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color:#333333;"><b>Hike</b>: Backbone Trail - Corral Canyon to Castro Crest</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color:#333333;"><b>The Inspiration: </b><a href="http://whatwoulded.blogspot.com/2010/04/latigo-canyon-castro-crest-aka-meth-lab.html">Stubbornness</a></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color:#333333;"><b>Highest Altitude: </b>2,250'</p> <p color="#333333" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; "><b>Trip Mileage</b>: 6.6</p> <p color="#333333" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; "><b>Total 2010 Mileage</b>: 57.8</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p color="#333333" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; ">Last weekend, Rebecca and I set out to avenge our misguided journey on the Santa Monica Mountains Illicit Drug Trail, hoping that if we started at the Corral Canyon parking lot entrance to the Backbone Trail, we could retrace our steps and figure out what in the holy hell went wrong back there. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p color="#333333" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; ">Legs stretched, packs fastened, and sheer determination at full throttle, we quickly wound our way down to the canyon floor, leaving a few lumpy cairns in our wake, lest we end up in Meth Lab Valley once more. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p color="#333333" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; ">We took our time wandering underneath a thick canopy of greenery, crossing a shallow creek eight or nine times, emerging at one point in the mist of a mini-Manservant Meadow (I'll explain that some other time), where we later spotted this phallic, yet adorable piece of work:</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p color="#333333" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size:16px;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/S9Ea4KRpGAI/AAAAAAAAAD4/SfuCgIGlSfQ/s400/26752_383781387236_535802236_4388140_4096165_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463177375110469634" /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p color="#333333" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; ">Not a care on our minds besides finding the damn effing damn mothersucking effing other side of the Backbone Trail by the Castro Crest, we sauntered through the thick foliage, until we heard an utterly frightening noise. We both froze.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p color="#333333" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; ">My inner monologue: <i>Is that a woman being attacked in the woods? I'm really starting to hate the Backbone Trail. </i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Rebecca looked at me. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">I looked at her.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Then the godawful sound happened again.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">"Oh, that's just a bird," I say, ignoring my inner monologue.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">"Well, it sounds like maybe a baby mountain lion being mauled to death," says Rebecca, clearly in tune with her own inner monologue.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">"Just a bird," I mutter, and unconvinced, we barely restrain ourselves from running as fast as humanly possible away from the sound...until we hear another sound. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><i>O</i><i>hmygod, it'scomingforusandit'sgoingtokillusandwe'regoingtodieonthiseffingdamneffingtrail. </i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Oh, nevermind. Just some people hiking with a dog. Perhaps I should lay off the <i>Lost</i> marathons for a while.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Without trying, we've both summoned up the maximum levels of adrenaline permissible in the human body, and we hightail it up the trail until we come to it...the other end. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Wait a minute. Waiiiiiiiiit a minute. I know where we are. And I know how we completely missed this the first time - see photo below:</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size:16px;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/S9EbMaDxL-I/AAAAAAAAAEA/Y5R90lmSL8w/s400/photo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463177722944630754" /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Pretend you're walking straight ahead, facing East in this photo, towards that humpy thing in the background. Do you see a trail turnoff? No, neither did we. So we kept walking due East, towards the humpy thing, and that is how we ended up on the Santa Monica Mountains Illicit Drug Trail. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Now look a little closer at the left side of the photo - do you see a wee little itty witty bitty area that maaaaaaybe might be something? Yeah, that's a 90-degree turn in the trail that's unmarked and pretty easy to miss when you have a large humpy thing distracting you straight ahead. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Now you know. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">And so do we.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>What Would Ed Do?</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Ed would not be distracted by humpy things in the distance - Ed would look around at his surroundings just a weeeeee bit. Also, Ed would have saved us both from certain death by the woman/baby mountain lion-mauling machine lurking out in the forest. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #0b2bde; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">[Shawnté]</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-2728699402561502781?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-48723903394423289362010-04-17T19:37:00.000-07:002010-04-17T19:41:53.551-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/S8pxQorTjSI/AAAAAAAAADw/HfnVP7_pbQ4/s1600/LatigoCnyn.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/S8pxQorTjSI/AAAAAAAAADw/HfnVP7_pbQ4/s400/LatigoCnyn.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461302028751047970" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b><br /></b></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>Hike</b>: Backbone Trail (Latigo Canyon Rd. to Castro Crest to Meth Lab City)</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>The Inspiration: </b>Our maniacal urge to complete the Backbone Trail in its entirety, segment by segment</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>Highest Altitude: </b>2,250'? Who the eff knows!</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>Trip Mileage</b>: 5.0...ish</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>Total 2010 Mileage</b>: 51.2*</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #001ee6; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">I met my outdoor nemesis and it is the <a href="http://www.localhikes.com/Hikes/CastroCrestLatigo_4472.asp">segment</a> of the Backbone Trail that begins at Castro Crest and winds down to Corral Canyon Road. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Please allow me to explain. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Caffeinated, Rebecca and I flew down the 101 last weekend, excitedly heading for the junction of the Backbone Trail and Latigo Canyon Road. According to the P-circle on our handy waterproof Tom Harrison map, we were looking for a real parking area. Something defined. Maybe signed. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Or maybe not. Maybe we turned around TWICE in two very inopportune, barely two-lane-width areas on Latigo Canyon Road, me cursing in a progressively more audible way, Rebecca gritting her teeth in a progressively more audible way, totally unable to locate said Harrison Map P-circled parking lot. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Several curses, teeth grinds, and less-geographically-challenged cyclists later, we found said P-circle, parked, and fired ourselves back up. The Backbone Trail! WE'RE GONNA DO IT! RARRRRRR!</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">We found ourselves down in a lush, green canyon of sorts, rife with purple-y, pink-y wildflowers, split by a trickling stream. Despite hopping off-trail a few times to avoid being flattened by several maniacal cyclists, we were having a damn swell time. We LOVED the Backbone Trail!</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Several cyclist-dodgings and a small bit of climb later, we emerged on a fire road in the Castro Crest section of the Santa Monicas. One option was to go left, which according to two dog-walking know-it-alls was a bad idea, since there was a private gate a half mile up. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">We shrugged. It did not matter. The Only Thing That Mattered Was Continuing On The Illustrious Backbone Trail, Full Of Wildflowery Beauty And Lush Green Fantasyland. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">We turned right on the fire road. At a fork, the dog-walking know-it-alls ascended the road to the right. We descended to the left, on the well-marked Backbone Trail, dodged a few more cyclists, and took in the epic valley view. One of us might have said "I love this trail." </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">One of us might have regretted that a short time later.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Continuing our descent, we suddenly found ourselves faced with what can only be described as a tightly-knit thicket of bramble crap. I said something about how the recent rains must have stimulated some growth in the area, wondered for a moment how all of the renegade cyclists must have a hard time navigating this area, and then plowed right through, logic be damned. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Ow. Yowch! Grrr. Ouch!...pfffft. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">"Hm, do you think this is really the right way?" one of us might have voiced.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">"Yeah, of course. I mean, we followed the Backbone Trail sign,right?" one of us might have responded.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Once we fought our way through the mess, we faced a conundrum. To the far left was a dry riverbed of sorts, just right of that was a grassy bump, and then a fork in the fire road. We consulted our handy Tom Harrison map. Then I made the fateful decision to follow the left fork of the fire road, in the hopes that it was the Backbone Trail, and we would end up at the far end, Victorious!!!</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">But I was wrong. So. Totally. Wrong. We suddenly found ourselves stomping our feet and wading through knee-deep weedy grasses, making our best attempt at scaring off lurking snakes. We consulted the trusty Tom Harrison a few more times. We stopped and took a photo of a tennis ball jammed into a dead bush. We skirted fallen trees. And we think we stumbled upon some meth labs. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">We were most definitely NOT on the Backbone Trail. We came to a high spot and broke out ole Tommy H. We used our compass. We knew North, South, East, and West. But we weren't on the map. Tommy was of no use. We were in the wilds. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">We were also probably not too far from <a href="http://www.modernhiker.com/2010/04/14/more-pot-found-in-the-santa-monica-mountains">this</a>. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">We considered the possibility that someone from the sure-to-be meth labs might come out and shoot us. We finally turned around.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Curious as to how our spidey senses, T-Harr, and the official Backbone Trail signage could have pointed us towards certain death on the Santa Monica Mountains Illicit Drug Trail, we retraced our steps and considered the options we first encountered when we emerged from the scratchy thicket:</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">1) Dry riverbed - NOPE. This was not the Backbone Trail. This was a dry damn riverbed that suddenly fell deeper into the canyon.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">2) Grassy bumpy thing - MAYBE? I ran up and scouted the area. I thought I saw a trail. Maybe. Well, definitely. But whether or not it came from here...I do not know.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">3) Left fork - NOPE. GUN-TOTING MADMAN METH LAB CENTRAL.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">4) Right fork - Aw, the hell with it. Let's go home.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">We WILL return, Backbone Trail. We will find you, and we will triumph. TRIUMPH, I SAY!!!</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia"><i>* Yes, the milage jumped quite a bit between the last posted hike and this entry. That is because I've been a hike-posting slacker, and in the interim, Rebecca and I have completed jaunts down into Hondo Canyon, around the Temescal Canyon Loop, and over to Eaton Canyon Falls, which maybe I'll write about if I'm not completely sidetracked by the 5 seasons of </i>Lost<i> my co-worker recently bequeathed me.</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #001ee6; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #001ee6; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333"><b>What Would Ed Do?</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">Ed would have turned around at the first sign of off-trail bushwhacking and/or possible meth lab activity. However, please allow us to redeem some points here because Ed would be proud that we not only used a map and compass together, but used them <span style="color:#000000;"><i>correctly</i></span> together.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #001ee6; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Georgia; color: #333333">[Shawnté]</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-4872390339442328936?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-48605093731368957712010-01-30T21:31:00.000-08:002010-01-30T22:11:25.295-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/S2Ueb3R_v3I/AAAAAAAAADo/zTsFXRI9ni8/s1600-h/CaseyCrossingStandstone.jpg"><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/S2Ueb3R_v3I/AAAAAAAAADo/zTsFXRI9ni8/s400/CaseyCrossingStandstone.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432781989537103730" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">Hike</span></b><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;color:#333333">: Sandstone Peak via the Backbone &amp; Mishe Mokwa Trails<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">The Inspiration: </span></b><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;color:#333333">Memories of </span><a href="http://salabare.blogspot.com/2009/05/dry-my-eyes-so-i-wont-show.html"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;color:#4A2387">our last trip to Sandstone Peak</span></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;color:#333333">; the promise of post-rain water everywhere!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">Highest Altitude: </span></b><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;color:#333333">3,111'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">Trip Mileage</span></b><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;color:#333333">: 6.6<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">Total 2010 Mileage</span></b><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;color:#333333">: 28.6<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">The recent-ish spate of wet weather here in SoCal prompted a return trip to one of our favorite trails in the Santa Monica Mountains - the Mishe Mokwa Trail to Sandstone Peak. This was actually the first trail Rebecca and I trod on together, and it was time for some re-treading, full of anticipation for the wet wonderland surely laid out before us.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">Joined by </span><a href="http://www.modernhiker.com/"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;color:#4A2387">Casey</span></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;color:#333333"> and </span><a href="http://www.thehikeguy.com/"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;color:#4A2387">Kolby</span></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;color:#333333">, we tightened the ole bootstrings and began the muddy hike in from the Backbone Trail.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">The <i>very</i> muddy hike in.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">The <i>very very</i> muddy hike in.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">I blurted out, "This is kind of like walking in poop."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">Rebecca looked back at me, clearly disgusted.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">I continued on, anyways, brain-to-mouth filter broken for the moment: "Yeah, just the color and the consistency and everything. <i>Totally</i> like walking in poop."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">We carried on in silence.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">Whilst I quietly and perversely contemplated the position of this particular mud on the Human Waste Color/Consistency Continuum, the landscape opened up like a fresh post-rain bloom all around us - the snow-capped mountains of the Los Padres National Forest, the newly greened hills cleaving into canyons drenched in rainwater, the almost unnaturally blue skies…<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">Even once we hit the familiar Mishe Mokwa Trail, it was all new again – the trail turned into an active creekbed and mini waterfalls tracked down the sides of cliffs like so many Smokey Robinson tears, the unfamiliar sound of gurgling water bouncing off of echo-fed walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">Not too shabby. Any and all mud-poop comparisons totally left the building.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">The rest of the hike was just really, really fantastic, and if anything, it was a reminder that mother nature isn’t static; even in a place with the kind of weather predictability that leaves potential retirees foaming at the mouth, she can throw a curveball and leave us slack-jawed and giddy like schoolchildren skipping through fresh puddles on sidewalks we thought were nothing but concrete. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">What Would Ed Do?</span></b><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 17.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;color:#333333"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">Ed would have worn gaiters, and for that, Ed is a smart, smart man.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:17.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:17.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:48.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;color:#333333">[Shawnté]<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> </span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/S2UdjVL4hfI/AAAAAAAAADg/W8yrjOGYN5s/s1600-h/MuddyBackBoneTrailSandstone.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></b></span></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: -webkit-xxx-large; "><b><br /></b></span></span></p> <!--EndFragment--><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-4860509373136895771?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-63839088396851109342010-01-19T20:10:00.000-08:002010-01-19T21:08:21.065-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/S1aO_GGvqxI/AAAAAAAAADQ/uFxDUwAtxeI/s1600-h/RebeccaRidge2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/S1aO_GGvqxI/AAAAAAAAADQ/uFxDUwAtxeI/s400/RebeccaRidge2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428683615463516946" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 20px; font-size:13px;"><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: normal; font-size:13px;"><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Hike</b>: Kelso Dunes, Cinder Cones National Natural Landmark, Teutonia Peak trail (Mojave National Preserve)</div><div><b>The Inspiration: </b>Discovering desert deliciousness without battling the heat</div><div><b>Highest Altitude: </b>appx 5,000'</div><div><b>Trip Mileage</b>: appx. 8</div><div><b>Total 2010 Mileage</b>: 22</div><div><br /></div><div>During a recent meeting of the minds between <a href="http://www.modernhiker.com/">Modern Hiker</a>, <a href="http://www.thehikeguy.com/blog/">The Hike Guy</a>, and 1/2 of Team WWED?, it was decided that winter should involve two very excellent, and very different, activities - snowshoeing and spending time in the desert. </div><div><br /></div><div>When a three-day weekend presented itself in the form of Martin Luther King Jr.'s Monday birthday, we decided to haul our buns off to the winterized expanse of the Mojave National Preserve. Plans were made, maps were purchased, marshmallows were packed...and poor Modern Hiker had to bail the morning of the trip due to unforeseen circumstances. </div><div><br /></div><div>The remaining two-thirds of Team Awesome was shaken, but not stirred, and decided to forge on, with Team WWED? arriving at the <a href="http://www.nps.gov/moja/planyourvisit/visitorcenters.htm">Kelso Depot Visitor Center</a> just in time for an impromptu chili taste-off with the affable Mike Williams of <a href="http://www.nps.gov/moja/planyourvisit/beanery.htm">The Beanery</a>! Let it be said that free chili is probably the best start to a camping trip, unless you are sleeping in close quarters that evening. And even then...</div><div><br /></div><div>After a hugs-around-the-campfire type evening, Team WWED? + THG rose early and bundled up for a bumpy drive down to the <a href="http://geomaps.wr.usgs.gov/parks/mojave/kelso1.html">Kelso Dunes</a>...</div><div><br /></div><div>O, land of wonderment! O, land of awe! Big, sweeping sandy landscape loomed ahead, curls of dust at our feet, oceanic desert plants strewn left and right, dreams of flinging ourselves like out-of-control childrenfolk into the sand clutched at our collective breast.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have now driven twice across the desert from Texas to California, and twice have declared the desert to be "boring and sucky" - but at this very moment of sand-fever, I fell in love with the desert.</div><div><br /></div><div>The trail to the dunes is deceptive, nothing like frisking about on the beach, but one by one, our group made it to the saddle, and then the summit ridge. Watching Rebecca climb towards the summit prompted the observation that this is exactly what <a href="http://www.edviesturs.com/">Ed</a> would do, and exactly what he would look like, if this was about 20,000' taller and capped in snow. <i>Exactly</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Once we all reached the top, we flung ourselves onto the sand in various states of rest. Rebecca stood on her hands; Kolby reclined on the slope; I flopped down prone, like a beached whale. Then we all took turns running awkwardly straight down the side of the dunes like newly-birthed Frankensteins. It wasn't pretty, but it sure made some great noise.</div><div><br /></div><div>We later returned to the dunes area, Kolby drawn by the promise of kit fox den-seeking, and Rebecca and I by the notion of sliding down and otherwise burying ourselves in more sand. But before this was to commence, we spent some time at the <a href="http://www.nature.nps.gov/geology/usgsnps/mojave/cinder1.html">lava tubes</a> (<i>lava</i>!) and patiently waited for the tiniest shaft of light to stream through while completely trying Rebecca's patience and feeding her desire to avoid being stuck down there if an earthquake struck at that precise moment and showered us all in a bazillion years' worth of volcanic residue.</div><div><br /></div><div>Luckily, we emerged unscathed, and after another stop at the Beanery and our late afternoon sand diversion, we packed up our top-secret campsite and headed through the world's largest concentration of Joshua Trees, towards Teutonia Peak, while continuing our daylong tradition of inexplicably bursting into refrains of "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tMwhl4IrPNc">Lookin' like a fool with your pants on the ground</a>" every twenty minutes or so. </div><div><br /></div><div>After missing the sunset, we turned around at the saddle, headlights on, and eventually blasted out of Mojave on I-15, about five minutes before it began to rain, bound for the greased-up, calorie-laden delights of <a href="http://www.peggysuesdiner.com/">Peggy Sue's 50's Diner</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>Start a trip with a free chili cook-off and end it with fried pickles, grilled cheese, and pie. Now that's the spirit!</div><div><br /></div><div><b>What Would Ed Do?</b></div><div>Ed would be proud that we had the common sense to leave before the storms hit. Ed would be concerned, however, that our weekend diet consisted solely of concession food and marshmallows.</div><div><br /></div><div>[Shawnté]</div><div><br /></div></span></b></div></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-6383908839685110934?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-87497426025833538122010-01-13T23:00:00.000-08:002010-01-19T20:15:34.479-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/S07IWGMmnJI/AAAAAAAAADI/VyeG705Ofjw/s1600-h/22267_245250312236_535802236_3773806_2356219_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/S07IWGMmnJI/AAAAAAAAADI/VyeG705Ofjw/s400/22267_245250312236_535802236_3773806_2356219_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426494882974178450" /></a><br /><div><b>Hike</b>: Echo Mountain - Mt. Lowe Railway (sort of)</div><div><b>The Inspiration: </b><a href="http://www.100hikes.com/blog/?p=1140">Kolby's 100th Hike</a></div><div><b>Highest Altitude: </b>3207'</div><div><b>Trip Mileage</b>: 8</div><div><b>Total 2010 Mileage</b>: 14</div><div><br /></div><div>As I mentioned <a href="http://whatwoulded.blogspot.com/2009/12/2009-in-hikes-aka-holy-shit-i-did-all.html">a few posts back</a>, I thoroughly enjoyed my maiden trudge up Echo Mountain as part of <a href="http://www.thehikeguy.com/">The Hike Guy</a> Kolby Kirk's celebratory 100th hike. In fact, I enjoyed the peak-top views and resulting thigh-burn so very much that I suggested to Rebecca that Team WWED? recreate the jaunt in timely fashion.</div><div><br /></div><div>The trail was a bit more steep and sweat-inducing than I recalled from that misty evening, and the amount of masochists running nonchalantly up the side of the mountain did nothing to quell my sense of inadequacy, but 1400' and a bazillion lazy switchbacks later, we stood atop Echo Mountain, drinking in a pretty large swath of greater Los Angeles...with a pretty large cross-section of Angelenos. </div><div><br /></div><div>"This would be a great place to come at night and set up a picnic blanket with some dinner," Rebecca suggested.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Yes, if we could push all of these people off of the mountain first," </i>I thought.</div><div>And "Yep," I replied.</div><div><br /></div><div>As Rebecca traipsed off to explore the ruins, I settled in with a mound of satsumas and considered an option to extend the hike - we could make our way down into the canyon, back up some 1300', catch a loftier view at Inspiration Point - then backtrack down and up and down and up and down and up and down until we returned to my car, parked halfway down Lake Avenue thanks to the glut of drivers parked on the mountain.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, no. We didn't do that. Instead, we decided to saunter down the Middle Sam Merrill Trail for a bit, then return the way we came. Except that when we got to the trailhead, the trail was closed by the park service or someone important like that, so said the sign on the brown stick.</div><div><br /></div><div>I looked at Rebecca. There were people up higher on the very trail we hoped to hike. Hm.</div><div>Hm.</div><div>Hm.</div><div><br /></div><div>"It says 'RESPECT' on the sign," said Rebecca.</div><div>"Yeah. You know what - I think we <i>should</i> RESPECT it," said I.</div><div>So we did.</div><div><br /></div><div>You know why? Because:</div><div><br /></div><div>A) It said so.</div><div>B) We could see signs of the Station Fire damage just west of Inspiration Point, no doubt imperiling the Sam Merrill Trail as it climbed higher...and if there's one thing we don't want, it's anything even vaguely resembling the <a href="http://whatwoulded.blogspot.com/2009/08/tom-sloan-trail-aka-rockslide-mountain.html">Tom Sloan Hell-Trail Experience of 2009</a>.</div><div>C) Because it's what <a href="http://www.edviesturs.com/">Ed</a> would do, dammit. </div><div><br /></div><div>Proud of our increased capacity for rational thought, we retraced our steps and decided instead to tack on some of the Mt. Lowe Railway Trail...</div><div><br /></div><div>...Until it, too, was thwarted by a brown RESPECT stick.</div><div><br /></div><div>This time, though, the reason for the RESPECT stick was obvious - everywhere to the North and West of the damn stick was toast. </div><div><br /></div><div>Station Fire toast. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was oddly beautiful, though - every nook and cranny of the mountains exposed, chaparral-free, cast in an eerie greyish hue. I was awestruck, standing on the Sunset Ridge fire road, snapping photos with my phone, when Rebecca pointed out that the fire stopped right at the edge of the road. When I looked up, I noticed the tree you saw in the photo at the top of this post - 2/3 burned, 1/3 bright green. </div><div><br /></div><div>That tree gave me hope - these mountains and trails are a tenacious bunch, and spring is sure to bring lots of surprises.</div><div><br /></div><div>Until then, please RESPECT the brown sticks, yo'. </div><div> Ed wouldn't have it any other way - and neither would we.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>What Would Ed Do?</b></div><div>For once, Ed would have done what we did. <i>For once!</i></div><div><br /></div><div>[Shawnté]</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-8749742602583353812?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-39199572653702557622010-01-03T19:55:00.000-08:002010-01-19T20:15:45.568-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/S0F1j5caM6I/AAAAAAAAADA/yRu55nqRfdE/s1600-h/photo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/S0F1j5caM6I/AAAAAAAAADA/yRu55nqRfdE/s400/photo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422744685906637730" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Hike</b>: Trippet Ranch-Eagle Rock loop</div><div><b>The Inspiration: </b><a href="http://www.modernhiker.com/2008/01/13/hiking-eagle-rock-and-temescal-peak/">Modern Hiker</a></div><div><b>Highest Altitude: </b>1957'</div><div><b>Trip Mileage</b>: 6.5</div><div><b>Total 2010 Mileage</b>: 6.5</div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>My last hike in Topanga State Park was a memorable one, filled with waterfall-seeking, creek-hopping, cave-exploring, and pagan ritual worship simulation. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>You know how it goes.</i></div><div><br /></div>So when Rebecca suggested a return visit to try out the figure eight loop from Trippet Ranch to Eagle Rock and back, I strapped on my sense of adventure and readily agreed. <div><br /></div><div>We began on the Musch Trail, winding through grassland, past an equestrian-friendly campsite, and down, down, down to the valley floor.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then we climbed. And we climbed. Nothing matching the intensity of the Chumash Trail to La Jolla Valley or the godforsaken steep scree mess of the Cucamonga Peak-bound trail barely stitched onto the side of Bighorn Mountain, but sweat-inducing all the same for a girl who has spent the past month basically bathing in Santa-shaped chocolate.</div><div><br /></div><div>Once at the foot of the rock, Rebecca moved forward and began up its diagonal slope. I called after her, "You just head up there. I'm going to stay put and just enjoy the view from here."</div><div><br /></div><div>I glanced around. The view options were the backside of Eagle Rock or the Valley's urban sprawl.</div><div><br /></div><div>I followed Rebecca up, vertigo-prone mind imagining that my shoes were made out of a combination of spider monkey and Spiderman. After crawling around for a bit near the top, soaking in the 100-mile, nearly 360 views, I awkwardly placed myself on a bump and asked Rebecca to take my photo. Upon further inspection of said photo, you can see the fear in my eyes. I will not be publishing this on the internets.</div><div><br /></div><div>On the way back down, things were going along swimmingly. My heart rate was decreasing. There were nice people hiking. Nice people biking. Nice people running. </div><div><br /></div><div>And nice people riding horses. <i>Horses</i>! From a distance, they're all pretty, mythical, shiny, majestic - very Misty of Chincoteague, in league with the unicorn. I fought back the urge to run up to one and slap its chocolately haunches.</div><div><br /><div>Yet, for all of my wishes, when I finally got close enough to one to initiate said haunch-slapping, I realized something very important:</div><div><div><br /></div><div>I am afraid of The Horse. </div><div><br /></div><div>The Horse is no Misty of Chintoteague, The Horse is no unicorn; The Horse is an erratic 10-ton wildebeast, all flared nostrils and blistering muscle, waiting for the precise moment in which it might rear on its hind legs and proceed to throw its entire body weight upon me, crushing all of my very delicate vital organs in one giant <i>thruuuump</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, yes. </div><div>I am afraid of The Horses and I am afraid of The Heights.</div><div>But I would still do that trail again because it was amazing, and amazing trumps fear anytime.</div><div><br /></div><div>(Unless "fear" trumps "amazing" by materializing in the form of an attacking Horse.)</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;">Addendum</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;">- 1/5/10:</span></i></b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;"> Rebecca has informed me that I am not allowed to be The One Who Is Afraid Of Animals, as that position is already occupied on our team. Henceforth, I shall return to being simply The One Who Is Afraid Of Heights. </span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>What Would Ed Do?</b></div><div>Ed would have a gentle, but firm conversation with The Horse, guiding it through the pros and cons of crushing all of my very delicate vital organs, after which Ed would mount The Horse and ride it North to the summit of Mt. Whitney, setting about twelve world records in the process.</div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-3919957265370255762?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-49922299090351768502009-12-31T15:59:00.000-08:002010-01-13T23:04:03.305-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/Sz1Dt2PcvYI/AAAAAAAAAC4/_AoGGG28Smc/s1600-h/n535802236_2276382_7953523.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/Sz1Dt2PcvYI/AAAAAAAAAC4/_AoGGG28Smc/s400/n535802236_2276382_7953523.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421563981357432194" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Yesterday evening, on New Years' Eve-Eve, I joined an esteemed group under the well-heeled leadership of Captain Kirk (<a href="http://www.100hikes.com/">Kolby Kirk</a>, that is) in summitting Echo Mountain, completing Kolby's mission of enjoying 100 hikes before the year's end.<div><br /></div><div>It also marked my last hike of 2009, which gave cause for reflection as I submerged myself in a tub full of steaming hot mentholated eucalyptusized bathwater afterwards. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've always been a little nutty for the outdoors, thanks to summers spent at gloriously pine-laden Camp Whitcomb/Mason, but it metastasized this year into a full-blown love affair. I bought actual hiking boots and a Camelbak. I carefully crafted weekend itineraries packed with trails and cloud-skimming elevations. I built up a small arsenal of SmartWool socks. </div><div><br /></div><div>I mean, I own a headlamp now, for chrissakes. </div><div><br /></div><div>These mountains have become my church, my sanctuary, my gymnasium, my backyard. I cried when they burned. I drive out-of-towners to see them up close. I trace familiar peaks from airplane windows.</div><div><br /></div><div>I trudged up the ass-kicking Chumash Trail to the La Jolla Valley; got lost in the Verdugo Mountains; raced to the top of Mt. Hollywood; broke a sweat at Temescal Canyon; found a cave en route to the Santa Ynez Waterfall; wrecked my knees and discovered creepy concentric stone circles on the 14-mile Bulldog-Backbone Loop at Malibu Creek SP; took friends old and new for waterlogged adventures in Solstice Canyon; enjoyed boulder-fed confusion at The Grotto; barely mustered the strength on a blisteringly hot day to earn a stunning ocean view atop the Leo Carillo SP Ocean Vista; felt sweat turn to awe on the Serrano-Big Sycamore Loop at Pt. Mugu SP; dug deeper into Bear Canyon, past Switzer Falls; nearly burst a lung reaching the fly-swarmed San Gabriel Peak; delighted in the tree-filled high mountain topography of the Silver Moccasin Trail from Charleton Flats; spent several weekends becoming intimately acquainted with Icehouse Canyon and her never-ending switchbacks, eventually leading to summits of both Timber Mtn. and later, the queen ass-buster herself, Cucamonga Peak. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, and there was that also that one time on the Tom Sloan Hell-Trail....</div><div><br /></div><div>But perhaps most surprising - and most fulfilling to a girl who has a lifelong intimate acquaintance with vertigo - I climbed my very first peak, Sandstone (3111'), earned my first breathtaking panorama of the Yosemite Valley atop Yosemite Falls (6740'), and summitted the highest peak in Southern California on my first non-summer-camp-related backpacking trip (San Gorgonio, 11,500').</div><div><br /></div><div>Didn't know I had it in me. Never would have dreamed.</div><div><br /></div><div>So here's to you, o gorgeous chunks of canyon-gouged, summit-strewn earth. Thank you for opening my eyes, testing my thighs, and blistering my feet.</div><div><br /></div><div>Can't wait to see what 2010 has in store.</div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>What Would Ed Do?</b></div><div>Keep going, aim higher, keep dreaming.</div><div>And above all else, remember that getting to the top is only half the climb.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>[Shawnté]</div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-4992229909035176850?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-29687554541404763122009-11-10T21:42:00.000-08:002010-01-02T19:04:09.619-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/SvpUmlV0hVI/AAAAAAAAACw/CGLB2PK4d8o/s1600-h/13843_175485787236_535802236_3392031_5086660_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 270px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/SvpUmlV0hVI/AAAAAAAAACw/CGLB2PK4d8o/s400/13843_175485787236_535802236_3392031_5086660_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402723724819727698" /></a><br />What follows is a mostly verbatim transcript of key moments in my very active inner monologue during our recent ascent of the Yosemite Falls Trail in, you guessed it, Yosemite National Park:<div><br /></div><div><b>Drive along Merced River to park:</b> Oh, the road is closed and we need to take a fake-looking bridge across the river. Oh, it's closed from a rockslide. Oh, it's a BIG rockslide. SuddenlyI'mhavingflashbackstoTomSloanHell-Trail. Must prevent self from hyperventilating before we even park the car. Does not bode well. Am doomed.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Exiting freshly parked car:</b> Holy shit, it's cold. I wish I had more clothing on [despite fact that I am swaddled in SmartWool from head to toe]. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>5 minutes later, on first of 1,000 switchbacks </b>: Holy shit, it's hot. I wish I had less clothing on [removing layers of SmartWool].</div><div><br /></div><div><b>5 more minutes later, on fourth of 1,000 switchbacks</b>: How many more switchbacks do we have? Who invented the switchback, anyways? That person is an asshole.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>5 more minutes later, on eighth of 1,000 switchbacks</b>: Why does it feel like I'm carrying a medium-sized orangutang on my back? I think it's all of the extra food I'm carrying. [Stop and remove carrots and celery; pack not any lighter.] Oh, nevermind. It's the twelve layers of SmartWool I insisted on slapping on.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>About 500 vertical feet and about half a mile into our 3.5-mile, almost 3,000' elevation gain journey to the top</b>: We have to be halfway, right? [Spotting something furry behind a bush in front of me] Huh, that looked like something furry. Nah.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>5 minutes later, pausing to catch breath for eleventh time</b>: Snarggllfllfllllugh. [Group of hikers approach, ask if we saw the bobcat just behind us drag a fresh kill up the mountainside] Oh. Something furry.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>At Columbia Rock overlook</b>: Why does the top of the waterfall still seem so far away? The view is quite nice from here. Let's call it a day and get a hot chocolate. Anybody? Bueller?</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Looking at a switchbacking hillside made out of a steep, soft slash of sand</b>: Bwaaaahahahahahahaha - you're so funny, Mother Nature!</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Rounding corner, Upper Falls in sight!</b>: NOW can we have the hot chocolate? Or can we parachute down to the parking lot? I can see it down there...</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Moments later</b>: Um...why aren't my hands working? WHY AREN'T MY HANDS WORKING???? </div><div><br /></div><div><b>One more moment later</b>: NOW WHY AREN'T MY FOREARMS WORKING? AM I HAVING A STROKE????? [I tell Team YF that I must stay behind and nap on a sunny part of the slope; Team YF assesses the situation and commands that I sit down and eat something] I am a hiking failure. This is embarrassing.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>After eating a delicious lemony Luna Bar, sensation returns:</b> Maybe it was just anxiety. I should do something about that.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Begin ascending last million switchbacks</b>: My mental math tells me that these are a) somewhat exposed and steep, b) mostly composed of granite, and that if I add a) + b), I get c), which entails falling to my death on the way back down the trail. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Reach the top of the damn switchbacks</b>: Oh, glory be! I need to pee and lay down. In that order. [I pee; I lay down] Ahhhh....this is the life. I shall rest here until the rest of Team YF returns from their surely dangerous explorations of the Falls</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Laura tells me that if a bear approaches, I should make a lot of noise and throw things at it:</b> WHAT DO YOU MEAN "IF A BEAR APPROACHES"?!?!?!?! [Rebecca places a single, solitary chunk of granite next to me, apparently for throwing at bears] Ok, so this is it. I better enjoy the view before I'm mauled. Maybe I should give them my mother's phone number. </div><div><br /></div><div>If I were to summarize what happened after this, it would basically entail a) not getting eaten by a bear, b) enjoying an epic view of the Yosemite Valley, and c) clenching every muscle in my body during the entire hike back down.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>What Would Ed Do?</b></div><div>Ed's inner monologue would read: "Should I attempt this one barefoot or blindfolded? Oh! I know! With both arms tied behind my back. Cakewalk." </div><div><br /></div><div>[Shawnté]</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-2968755454140476312?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-90269533227036770922009-10-04T13:11:00.000-07:002010-01-02T19:05:31.424-08:00Surrounded by a group of parents I loudly confessed to my hiking partners that sometimes I hate kids. I suppose that at that moment I should have realized that my trip would be doomed.<br /><br />I was on my very first backpacking trip, accompanied by my hiking rock <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Shawnté</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Kolby</span> from 100 hikes, and the hiking king himself, Modern Hiker. Our destination was San <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Gorgonio</span> Peak. Our plan was a 6 mile trek to camp and a summit attempt the following day. If achieved, this would mark my longest hike, greatest elevation gain, and highest ending altitude. I wanted to make sure the rest of the group knew what they were getting into if I tagged along, and sent out a very explicit email documenting my hiking successes to date, and how close they were to this trip. I also documented my back-up plan in the event that I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">couldn</span>’t make it. I felt that I knew what I was getting into, they knew what they were getting into by including me, and hoped that the amount of thought put into my ability to tackle this trip would guarantee it’s success. Usually worst-case scenario planning has that effect.<br /><br />But I ruined it all with that “kids” statement. We were hanging out by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Jenks</span> Lake, adjusting to the altitude. I wanted to make sure I hit the restroom before 2 days of no toilets. I waited, for what must have been 10 minutes outside the stall. And all I heard was a kid singing. And singing. And singing. Really, I hate kids sometimes.<br /><br />There was another restroom closer to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">trailhead</span>, so fortunately the singing child <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">didn</span>’t actually prevent my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">pre</span>-hiking bathroom needs. After that was done, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Kolby</span> interrogated a ranger about the legitimacy of our parking situation, we headed up the trail. Within minutes we arrived at our lunch destination. Where I met a dog, a dad, and a kid. A really cute kid. On his first hike and SO excited about it! I made it a point to talk to this kid, unconsciously hoping to make amends for my earlier statement. And truth be told I really enjoyed talking to him. Really, kids are great. When they don’t interfere with my needs.<br /><br />We put our packs back on and continued on the trail. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that hiking with 30 pounds on my back <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">didn</span>’t feel nearly as hard as I thought it would. I like to be prepared, and don’t like dealing with unpredictable situations when they can be predictable. Weeks before, I posted a question on Modern Hiker’s forum asking about how to prepare for backpacking. I bought the recommended book, spent hours in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">REI</span> buying the perfect (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">ok</span>, on sale) hiking boots. I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">ve</span> been hitting the treadmill at incline 15 for as long as I can stand it and have taken conditioning hikes up the Chumash Trail and others with gallons of water stuffed in my day pack. I was physically prepared. And that preparation paid off.<br /><br />The hike itself was beautiful. Modern Hiker did a wonderful recap and managed to capture the surroundings as best one can over the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">interwebs</span>. We hiked about 6 miles to our camp. Set up the tent. Found the teeny tiny baby spring we were reliant on for our water. Then we prepared dinner. I was against the idea of paying $5 for prepackaged camping food, so did some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">internet</span> exploring to come up with alternatives. I made pasta with spinach drenched in olive oil and cheddar cheese that unfortunately got kinda squishy during the journey. Despite the questionable state of the cheese, the result was both a beautiful and wonderful tasting dish that earned the jealous stares of others. Over dinner Modern Hiker told us about these backpacking cooking competitions where chefs will backpack in all their ingredients and make these incredible meals. I looked at my meal and exclaimed that I would win. To my credit I followed the statement up with the observation that I was getting cocky. But that, combined with the statements about kids, was too much for this mountain to bear. It was time for me to pay.<br /><br />I lay down to sleep and quite suddenly <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">didn</span>’t feel so well. I felt dehydrated and nauseous, and my previous experience with these combined symptoms made me realize that bad things were highly probable. I told <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Kolby</span> of my symptoms. He got out his wilderness medical emergency book and started reading off all the symptoms of altitude sickness. Not reassuring. Particularly not reassuring for someone prone to bypass reality and head straight to worst-case scenario images. And I’m sure that the other campers in the vicinity were less than thrilled with having altitude sickness symptoms announced to them, accompanied by the frantic pacing and moaning sounds of a clearly sick human. As the list continued, and I asked <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Kolby</span> if there were any camping options lower down the trail, I heard rustling. Then the sound of a tent zipper. And then Modern Hiker emerged from his tent, with a halo of glory over his head, and the most beautiful pink pill wrapped in sparking cellophane I have ever seen in my life. I listened to his sage words about how to take this magical pill, followed his instructions, and was lying in my bed with a calm stomach an hour later.<br /><br />I woke up the next morning feeling pretty great. I reasoned it would be a really stupid idea to start up the trail to the summit just in case I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">wasn</span>’t really healthy yet, or it was altitude sickness that I was experiencing, and decided to stay behind at camp. All I wanted was water, which had been used up during breakfast. The others headed to the teeny tiny baby spring to refill. After about an hour they <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">hadn</span>’t returned, and I started getting worried. Worst-case scenario: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Kolby</span> got really bad mountain sickness and he passed out and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Shawnté</span> and Modern Hiker were frantically trying to resuscitate him! They appeared not long after this ridiculous thought popped into my head, my water bladder filled half way, with the distressing news that the water filter stopped working. Worst-case scenario realized.<br /><br />After <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Shawnté</span> and Modern Hiker started up the summit, I forced my friendship upon some nearby campers, and they were kind enough to let me use their filter to get me some much needed water. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">rehydrated</span>. I stuck around camp. Felt iffy, and was really ready to go back down. Via another hiker headed up the summit, I sent a message to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Kolby</span> (who was behind <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Shawnté</span> and Modern Hiker at this point) that I still <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">wasn</span>’t feeling well. He came back down. And fast forward a few hours and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Kolby</span> and I started the journey back down the mountain.<br /><br />The trip down was pretty uneventful. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">didn</span>’t stop much- I had hit that “get me off this mountain” part of my hike and was dreaming of a nap. Unfortunately for me something changed in those last few miles. And as soon as I made to the bottom I became sick. Really sick.<br /><br />A few hours later <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Shawnté</span> and Modern Hiker came down the mountain, overjoyed to see us. I was in turn overjoyed to see them because it meant we could finally start the trip back home. Not 5 minutes into the car ride we had to pull over for me. And this continued all the way down the mountain. I was miserable, and I can only imagine that this must have been the worst car ride ever for the rest of the crew. A few hours later I was in the hospital. Officially diagnosed with mild dehydration and a stomach bug.<br /><br />So, my very first backpacking adventure has been completed! And I ended up in the hospital! With a $500 medical bill because the hospital was out of network so my insurance won’t cover it! Joy! I learned that as much as you prepare, you can’t prepare for everything. Hiking and backpacking <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">aren</span>’t predictable. And mistakes are made. I will remember these mistakes: I will never backpack again without my very own water purifying device that I know how to use. I will make wiser food choices. I will always carry <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">pepto</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">bismol</span> in my first aid kit. I will not insult the mountain by insulting her younger guests.<br /><br />And I will always travel with people as great as this group. I really don’t like being the weakest link. I really don’t like feeling out of control. I was forced to surrender those wishes on this trip, and was fortunate enough to do it with a group of people who truly took care of me, and brought me to safety. So to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Shawnté</span>, Casey, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Kolby</span>- Thank you.<br /><br />And to those parents and kids at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Jenks</span> lake, I’m sorry.<br /><br />So…<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">What Would Ed Do?</span><br />I think Ed would be proud of a lot of what I did. Ed would have prepared for the physical rigors of the trip, like I did. Ed would have stayed in communication with his team, like I did. I suppose Ed would have done a much better job of staying hydrated than I did. And Ed would never have insulted the mountain by criticizing children in front of their parents.<div><br /></div><div>[Rebecca]</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-9026953322703677092?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-708043765181251332009-08-30T21:00:00.000-07:002010-01-02T19:05:47.524-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/SptQIClTrcI/AAAAAAAAACo/sbyQzPdekwM/s1600-h/5409_129150377236_535802236_2930886_4009696_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/SptQIClTrcI/AAAAAAAAACo/sbyQzPdekwM/s320/5409_129150377236_535802236_2930886_4009696_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375978679259344322" /></a><br /><br /><br />Today, Rebecca and I were to spend the early hours huffing and puffing up Mt. Lukens, a local peak known for it's ass-busting training qualities.<br /><br />Not so, said the Station Fire.<br /><br />Instead, we spent our second day in the greater Malibu area (the previous day having been spent in a swimming hole deep in Solstice Canyon), trucking straight up the Chumash Trail for 1,000 feet, the ocean at our backs, Mugu Peak beckoning in the sky. It was a great ass-busting substitute, as far as ass-busting substitutes go, with crashing waves as our soundtrack and the grassy La Jolla valley spread open wide to welcome us at the top.<br /><br />After barreling back down, we grabbed breakfast, joined MaryEllen on the beach, and then on our way back East, quietly ruminated on the giant thunderdome A-bomb fire cloud filling the sky above the Angeles National Forest, shooting up higher than Whitney, just shy of Denali.<br /><br />I've lived through three Southern California fire seasons, each one expected, yet awful in its inevitable destruction. I remember watching a large swath of Griffith Park burn in 2007, and walking up to Los Feliz Blvd. from my apartment to take photos, only to choke on large snowflake-sized ash. The sky glowed an eerie red, the air reeked, my throat burned. <br /><br />I also remember when Solstice Canyon burned, taking away my favorite hiking spot - in fact, my first-ever California hiking spot - in an instant. When it reopened what felt like almost a year later, it was still Solstice, but it had been stripped of not only several research buildings, but also it's very essence; what once was lush was now a barren lump of scrappy chaparral and blackened sticks jutting out at eerie angles. I still go there, just like I returned to Griffith Park's denuded trails, but it chips away at my gut a little each time.<br /><br />Looking towards that ominous cloud is more than a gut-chipping; it's a punch in the stomach. It's the realization that during the past three years, and especially over the past six months, those very mountains have become one of my absolute greatest joys, hosting moments of spiritual revelations, friendship strengthening, and limit-testing. To watch them burn - and especially to learn that two firefighters died today while trying to control the fire - brought tears this evening.<br /><br />Whether this was arson or accidental, nature will always take her course, because she's the one with the most authority; she'll strip and birth as she sees fit. There will be other trails to walk, other mountains to climb, other peaks to bag, other treks to make, of course.<br /><br />Just give me some time to mourn the ones we're losing.<div><br /></div><div>[Shawnté]</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-70804376518125133?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-61242937317557471132009-08-17T23:18:00.001-07:002010-01-02T19:06:03.680-08:00I popped over to REI after work today to return a pair of North Face pants that just didn't fit right. <br /><br />(<i>Clarification: by "just didn't fit right," I mean, "creep up in the crotch because they are made for unnaturally proportioned women with concave asses."</i>)<br /><br />After confirming the excellent and unbelievable return policy (i.e. the ability to return pants that I bought in June and have worn at least 4 times, on verrrry hot days, in very dusty conditions, <i>before</i> I got the magical SmartWool undies), I set about trying on every pair of convertible pants I could find.<br /><br />No. Nope. Not even close. Crotch creepers, every single one!<br /><br />My head hung in defeat, I wandered past the overpriced yoga crap and floral dress vomitorium until I spotted them - the pants made for normally proportioned women with appropriately convex bums. I skipped downstairs, my prize in hand.<br /><br />Cash register guy took the old pair, scanned the receipt, and asked why I was returning them.<br /><br /><b>Me:</b> Well, they don't fit right.<br /><br /><b>Cash Register Guy:</b> Oh?<br /><br /><b>Me:</b> (<i>Unnecessarily over-explaining</i>) Yeah, you know - I've tried them out during several pretty long hikes and they just get...uncomfortable. You know?<br /><br /><b>CRG:</b> Oh, <i>I know</i>. Sometimes they just don't <i>feel right</i>.<br /><br /><b>Me:</b> (<i>Thinking this is a natural place to end this conversation</i>). Yeah.<br /><br /><b>CRG:</b> (<i>Thinking this is an excellent place to dive a little bit deeper, enters a full-on TMI-fest</i>). I mean, sometimes you're walking and they just go <i>up there</i>. And it gets so uncomfortable - because they're, like, waaaaaaaay in there. So yeah, I totally understand why you'd want to return these if they're doing that when you walk. It's really the worst feeling when they get up there.<br /><br />He then hands me my new receipt and I mumble "thanks" and trip, fully and completely out of embarrassment, as I head towards the door.<div><br /></div><div>[Shawnté]</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-6124293731755747113?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-30950380215983074652009-08-15T18:48:00.000-07:002010-01-02T19:06:23.068-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/SodsoBR7CAI/AAAAAAAAACg/Ej5eJsDwpf4/s1600-h/IMG_4732.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/SodsoBR7CAI/AAAAAAAAACg/Ej5eJsDwpf4/s320/IMG_4732.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370380515456780290" /></a><br /><br />This is probably pretty early in the blogging process to begin divulging the intimate details of my lingerie collection, but considering my readership is probably "party of one, Rebecca," I feel comfortable enough to tell you this:<br /><br />My butt will not be restrained by mere fabric. <br /><br />She is a monster of bubbly proportions, a genetic gift from my mother that is both a well-padded blessing and a difficult-to-clothe curse. Whenever I go hiking, I have to carefully consider how best to clothe her so as to a) not create any unsightly (and uncomfortable) bunching, and b) minimize ass sweat.<br /><br />The answer arrived to me in the form of a SmartWool sample sale, flush with socks, shirts, pants, and....<i>underwear</i>. I looked at them, stretched the waistband, rubbed the fabric betwixt my curious fingers. "Wool underwear?" I asked the hostess, my friend Lindsay. "Are they for winter?" <br /><br />"Nope, you can wear them anytime. They'll help wick the sweat away."<br /><br />I held them up to my waist (clearly the best way to figure out if they'd fit) and looked back at Lindsay. She urged me to go try them on (dressing-room-swimsuit-style, of course), sure I'd be won over by their wooly goodness. I was unconvinced - the She-Butt has a nasty habit of eating underwear.<br /><br />I stole away to her bathroom, locked the door, and slipped them on over my pre-existing undies. I did a few turns in the mirror, resolved to pick up the ole workout slack a bit, and realized that dear gracious lord who art in underwear heaven, they fit! OVER MY BUTT! Flush with excitement, I pranced around a bit more, doing some squats and high kicks to test whether or not they would slide into the great divide during intense activity (yeah - <i>high kicks</i> - dude, you don't know when you're gonna need to defend yourself in the forest!)<br /><br />I snapped up a few pair and finally had my first real test today, on a stroll through a trail in Altadena, when I found myself palpably <i>excited</i> when putting on my new underoos - so much so, that I felt I had to tell my hiking buddy Michelle and her boyfriend Trip that I was wearing new wool underwear. They were noticebly less excited than I, but that did nothing to dampen my spirits. It was time to sweat! BUT NOT ON MY WELL-OUTFITTED BUTT!<br /><br />After an hour of light hiking, I broke free to enjoy the fine services of a campsite restroom. While approaching, I suddenly heard a kid's voice: "Moooooooom, I can't get out!" (<i>Cue door jiggling</i>) "Mooooooom. I'm stuuuuuuuuck in here!!!!!" I paused. I looked around and saw Moooooooooom down on the trail. I considered my options:<br /><br />A) Help release child from outhouse prison. Look like a winner!!!<br />B) Help release child from outhouse prison. Look like a creeper trying to break into child's bathroom stall.<br /><br />By now the kid was hyperventilating. I went all toilet commando and started jiggling the door up and down, urging the kid to keep jiggling on his side. Moooooooom ambled over as soon as we freed the door. She thanked me for executing the rescue, and the kid looked at me like I was a creeper, so it was a 50/50 split. I can live with that.<br /><br />But finally! The moment of truth! I went inside the stall and dropped trou...<br /><br />After an hour of walking, on a sunny, hot day...my SmartWool undies were not only still securely wrapped around each cheek, but they were TOTALLY DRY!!!!!<br /><br />File that under TMI, but damn. Go, go SmartWool!<br /><br />So...<br /><br /><b>What Would Ed Do?</b><br />Ed would already own the next-generation SmartWool underwear, with bionic sweat sensors and a time-release scent that smells like clothing drying in the breeze in your grandmother's backyard. Ed would <i>not</i> talk about his butt on the internet.<div><br /></div><div>[Shawnté]</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-3095038021598307465?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-17887190937106788612009-08-06T12:56:00.001-07:002010-01-02T19:06:33.820-08:00As I mentioned in the harrowing, sure-to-be-made-into-an-after-school-special account of our poorly executed traverse of the Eastern portion of the Tom Sloan Trail, Rebecca and I are preparing for a late summer climb of Mt. Baldy.<br /><br />Stop the snickering. <br /><br />I mean - we're actually pretty good with the (relatively) high-altitude, long-distance business. After dragging our poor, hobbled friend down from Cucamonga Peak to the Icehouse Canyon parking lot not too long ago*, we proved that we have the fortitude, endurance, and mental capabilities for long, high hikes...and that we are strong like bull.<br /><br />Really, all that stands between me and Baldy is our insistence on doing the full loop, which includes the dreaded (at least in my super-active monsters-are-under-the-bed imagination) Devil's Backbone trail.<br /><br />Because I am a glutton for frightening myself unnecessarily, I enjoy Google Image-stalking things like "most dangerous trail," "most dangerous hike," and "Devil's Backbone Trail." With the latter, I figured that if I was emotionally prepared for what the trail looked like, I would be fine when it came time to actually traverse it.<br /><br />Bad idea.<br /><br />I stumbled across <a href="http://outdoors.webshots.com/photo/1056001864034174847fBsezL">this photo</a> of the trail, and promptly decided that stamp collecting would be a much more reasonable hobby. <br /><br /><b>Me, in an email to Rebecca which includes that photo link</b>: This is the part where I will throw up on you. Sorry in advance.<br /><br /><b>Rebecca's response, which includes <a href="http://hikertechnologies.com/mtbldy_devils_bkbone.htm">this photo</a>:</b> It's not so bad. Look at all those trees! Trees are our friend and they protect us from sliding down the mountain and give us confidence that no harm can come to us.<br /><br /><b>Me:</b> Just remember to repeat this often when I start breaking into a cold sweat, mumbling, "Rebecca, I don't like this," over and over again.<br /><br /><br /><br />So...<br /><br /><b>What Would Ed Do?</b><br />Ed is not a scaredy-cat like me. Ed would just cross the damn thing, probably doing cartwheels the entire time, with one hand pinned in a peace-sign formation behind his back.<br /><br />*<i> That's another story for another day; suffice to say it involves ill-fitting hiking boots, mysteriously leaking Camelbaks, and several choice curse words.</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; ">[Shawnté]</span></i></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-1788719093710678861?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634183553713283639.post-49563526693747547562009-08-02T18:30:00.000-07:002010-01-02T19:06:49.697-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/SnZFw9whzLI/AAAAAAAAACA/ElDSHY76hy0/s1600-h/IMG_6198.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UJfCDX3oL_o/SnZFw9whzLI/AAAAAAAAACA/ElDSHY76hy0/s320/IMG_6198.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365552713572666546" /></a><br />One-third of my body is covered in Neosporin, which is in turn covering an interconnected network of deep scratches and stabby wounds. It kind of looks like I got into a girlfight on the playground in middle school, and the girl who won musta been sporting some mighty pointy Lee Press-Ons.<br /><br />It all started innocuously enough: Rebecca and I, preparing for an upcoming ascent of Mt. Baldy and an eventual trek up Mt. Whitney, planned a "we'll wing it" hike from Eaton Saddle in the Angeles National Forest to either a) Bear Canyon Camp, b) Dawn Mine, or c) Mt. Lowe. It being the most mountainy of the three options, Mt. Lowe totally won.<br /><br />The plan was for us to go from Eaton Saddle to Tom Sloan Saddle, then circle back up the East branch of the Tom Sloan Trail to meet back up with the Mt. Lowe Railway, and continue to Mt. Lowe from there. Log some miles, deal with some slightly hairy terrain, catch a little elevation, come out victorious. Done and done.<br /><br />Wrong.<br />And wrong.<br /><br />When we parked at Eaton Saddle, there were some mysterious signs posted on the lowered gate...but we didn't read them. Who needs signs when you have a keen sense of direction, intuition, and intellect? Not us! Signs schmigns! We coasted up the fire road and reached the tunnel, which had a bit fat yellow "FALLING ROCKS" sign posted outside. Well, falling rocks, schmalling rocks - we had a hike to do.<br /><br /><br />And then we saw it. The rockslide. Freakin' big chunk of rockslide blocking the trail at the end of the tunnel. "Hm, I don't know if we should cross that," thought I. "Hm, I don't know if we should cross that," thought Rebecca.<br /><br />And then we crossed it, one at a time, the other person looking out for FALLING ROCKS. Rebecca went first and right after she buttslid down the far end of the slide to the trail, a rock fell. A freakin' FALLING ROCK. A FALLING ROCK the side of a baseball. Right where I had to walk. Gripping the mountainside in fear, I crouched and shimmied my way down without being bonked on the head. Rebecca and I exchanged a glance, then continued on our way.<br /><br />We passed Markham saddle, descended through some switchbacks, and finally found ourselves at Tom Sloan Saddle. To Mt. Lowe it was. <br /><br />Not ten minutes later: "OW!" <br /><br />Spanish Bayonets. Yucca gone wild. Stabby little asshole plants. Blood sprung up from the back of my hand. <br /><br />Five minutes later: "DAMNIT!"<br /><br />Manzanita fortress. Stabby little bushes, forcing us to plow through them with elbows and knees and hats. Scratch, scratch, scratch.<br /><br />Five minutes later: "SHIT SHIT SHIT!"<br /><br />The Spanish Bayonets and Manzanita join forces on a rather thin, unstable section of the trail, as a gnat flew right into my eye, to stab me RIGHT BETWEEN MY PEACE-SIGN FINGERS. More blood.<br /><br />We kept going, the trail got gnarlier, and we found ourselves leaping over gaps, sinking into scree, sending rocks careening over the side, and generally acting as one-woman adrenaline manufacturing plants. An hour into the hike, and we wanted to turn back, but "back" was a crap sandwich of a trail, and we just KNEW that the fire road had to be getting closer. So we kept going.<br /><br />Then Rebecca uttered the two words I never want to hear her utter on a trail again:<br /><br />"Uh oh."<br /><br />And then some more words I'd rather never hear again:<br /><br />"Um, I think we have a problem."<br /><br />I rounded the corner of the washed-out "trail" and saw what she was "uh oh-ing": another freakin' rockslide, this one a completely diagonal slash of scree and rock pouring over the trail. I considered crying; Rebecca considered our options.<br /><br />"I think that we can do it."<br /><br />I protested. I did not feel like dying in a rockslide today. I started thinking about just staying <i>right there</i> until help came. And then I thought about how many bloody stabby scratchy wounds I had on my body, and about how delicious that might smell to a mountain lion, and I decided to listen to Rebecca's idea.<br /><br />"I think that if I can hoist myself up and get a grip on that boulder, I can grab that tree and swing over the rockslide to the other side."<br /><br />Um, no. Let's not and say we did. <br />Wait...cougar dinner. <br />On second thought...let's.<br /><br />She planted one foot deep in the rocks and grabbed for the boulder. Then she dangled there, considering the tree branch. I considered peeing my pants a little. Luckily, Rebecca is full of the kind of internal fortitude that gets one through a situation like this (and gets me through a lot of situations like this), and in an instant she was swinging from a tree branch, wrapping her body around a boulder on the far side. And then she was over.<br /><br />I stared at her. I stared at the rockslide. I stared at my battle wounds. I stared behind me at the hell-trail we just spent at least an hour navigating. I stared at the rockslide. <br /><br />An eternity later, I went for it, thrusting myself through the rock, gripping the crumbly boulder with every inch of my fingers, hands, and arms, and found the tree branch. Then I froze with fear and my feet started sinking deeper into the scree. Rebecca coaxed me forward and as I gave my body one last swing to get around the boulder, I triggered a rockslide within the rockslide, which sounded like a small waterfall or herd of oxen and made me think that we were going to be swept into the shrubby abyss below, never to be found. <br /><br />"LET'S GO," I said. And we went. And then Rebecca stopped. "Did you hear that? I think I heard something?" We stopped. I listened. She turned to me with a boatload of fear in her eyes: "So what are you supposed to do when you see an animal in the forest? Act big?" Instinctively, I threw my hands above my head and stared at Rebecca. She stared at me. I acted big.<br /><br />We continued on the trail, clapping and shouting for a few minutes, until I convinced the both of us that it was just a lizard or something, even though in my head, I thought the mountain lion was coming to lick my wounds and enjoy a fine afternoon snack of Stupid Hiker.<br /><br />We spent the last 40 minutes of Tom Sloan Hell-Trail mostly in silence, having entered the "Get Me Off Of This Mountain" portion of the hike. When we finally made it up the steep slope to the fire road, we collapsed in the shade. We would live to see another day, another hike...and we'd never take that damn trail ever again.<br /><br />So...<br /><br /><b>WHAT WOULD ED DO?</b><br />Ed would not have risked life, limb, and sanity by crawling through piles of loose scree and rock. Ed would have read the damn signs posted at Eaton Saddle and turned around.<div><br /></div><div>[Shawnté]</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6634183553713283639-4956352669374754756?l=whatwoulded.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Shawnténoreply@blogger.com5