I'm A Tree People

After a late night of delicious wine, tasty Thai, and scrumptious list-making, my friend Brooke and I made a groggy drive up the coast for a morning mission: join TreePeople at the mouth of Topanga Canyon to do some restoration work. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but when we pulled up there were shovels, buckets, work gloves, and seedlings – all doled out by a man I was all but certain was Kolby Kirk, circa 2033.

Future Kolby gave us a rundown on what we were doing – this part of Topanga Canyon was actually part of the State Park, but had long been neglected, allowing an encampment of squatters to build a veritable homestead in the area. They dammed up the creek, effectively stranding the steelhead trout who used to do this whole salmon-spawning shebang up from the ocean every year. They also tracked in invasive species, killing off the native shrubs and trees, leaving a whole lot of adorable forest creatures homeless.

It was interesting being the volunteer and not the supervisor, as I have been with past TreePeople endeavors (San Gabriel & San Bernadino Mountains, post-Station Fire). It was hard work – sweaty and dirty – but it felt good to strike the seemingly hundred-pound dig bar into the ground, push the shovel down into the rocky soil, and excavate any number of man-made junks from the dirt, making way for a tiny little leafy life to take root. Each planting felt like a little miracle; I’ve spent hours (well, days...weeks...when you add up all the hours) tromping these canyons and hillsides. I try to be a conscientious hiker, but to do something so pointedly give-backy felt really, really good.

At the end of the session, I felt tired, sweaty, warm, dirty, and achy. But I also felt a lot like the adorable kiddo next to us who commented: "We're doing a favor for the Earth!” (Cue the “awwwwws!”).  

We drove up the canyon a bit and had lunch at Abuelita’s, both of us exhausted but quietly proud of the work we’d done that morning. “I want to do that again,” Brooke said, after we’d spent a length of time staring out the window into the leafy beyond.

“Me, too.”

And I will.

And she will.

And so will many, many other people.

For all of the graffiti that bums me out on the way to work, the marked-up concrete gray expanse of our metropolitan bowl: because I know that people are willing to do this kind of work, to get their hands and knees and elbows and ears dirty, I know that all is not lost.

>>> Sign up to volunteer with TreePeople

The Cadman Spur

Today I took the path less traveled…which also happened to be the path of more resistance (but the good kind).

Since I was working from home this morning, I made plans (with myself) to sneak in a good Griffith Park hike this morning. My alarm sounded at 6:15am, and after a cursory (read: psychologically dependent) check of my various internet presences, I snuck in a quick ab workout, then left for one of my favorite morning jaunts via the unnamed trail that starts at Cadman Drive in Los Feliz.

Flush with that new year’s feeling of adventure and discovery, I hitched a left at a fork in the path – a fork I ignore every single time I hike this trail, despite its grassy green insistence that I give it a go. I wandered this chlorophyllic path until my stroll became a forty-five-degree angle of squelchy mud and sweat. I pressed on, happy for the workout and curious about what lay ahead. During one of my frequent wheezy rest stops I turned around and took in a view I’ve never quite seen before – not from this angle, at least.  The trail sloped down through the greenery out of sight, and the San Gabriels rose on the horizon, silhouetted in the morning haze. I could see my originally intended path weave along the hillside below, now looking pretty boring next to my spectacular muddy green perch.

Not too shabby, Griffith Park. Not too shabby.

I kept going, figuring this trail (which I have now dubbed “The Cadman Spur”) rejoined that original path (Coolidge Trail), but instead it continued to climb past fancy houses and up a grassy plain, eventually depositing me in a thicket of conifers.

Yes, there are pine trees in Los Angeles, if you just look hard enough.

I smiled a big, sweaty smile, and found myself on a familiar fire road, Vista Del Valle Drive (though not the one I thought I’d land on), and wound around some water tanks to a hairpin curve in the road. To avoid heading back down the slippery hillside, I was hoping I could link back up with the Coolidge Trail and glide down the dusty fire road back to my car.

And I did.

Adventure and intuition paid off, and I emerged back on Cadman Drive a happier, sweatier person than I was an hour prior. I took the path less traveled and discovered an even better way to start the morning, with misty vistas and surprise pine trees, not five minutes from home.

Sometimes it pays to go left instead of straight ahead.

An Ode To The Morning Hike

This is an ode to the humble morning hike.

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.

To owning the day before it has a chance to own me.

***

Re-reading this, I think I just wrote the copy for a new Nike ad.

JUST DO IT!

What Would Ed Do?

It. But on, like, Aconcagua or something.

Sequoia National Park aka "BEAR!!!!!!!!"

(I can assure you that the bears in Sequoia National Park are NOT hidden)

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*...lame) "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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

If it's possible to emotionally pee one's pants, I emotionally peed my pants.

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 Mt. Whitney trip.

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:

"Oh, shit."

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.

"Ohmygod. Ok, just walk away slowly. Ohmygod, Rebecca. Walk backwards. Slowly. Ohmygod."

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.

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.

But seriously, though - my mom would be SO PISSED if I got eaten by a bear. I'm just saying.

What Would Ed Do?

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.

Dairy Queen Wall aka "Um, so the approach is the crux, right?"

I do not know this guy, but he did a lovely job.

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.

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 Conan's Corridor scramble), 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!



What Would Ed Do?
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.

Annapurna aka "Every Chick's Got One"

This beauty came in the mail the other day:



In internet parlance: ZOMG!!!

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 Annapurna (Annapurna I, if you're being technical), the 10th highest mountain in the world, back in 1978.

The woman behind the expedition - and the badass T-shirt - is famous mountaineer/scientist/environmentalist Arlene Blum, 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 Annapurna: A Woman's Place 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 women to do so, during a time that was less than hospitable towards female climbers or adventurers of any sort.

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 Annapurna, 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.

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.

So hell yeah, Arlene - a woman's place is definitely on top.

Mugu Peak aka "Where It All Began...Sort Of"

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.

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.





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) Mt. Wilson traverse 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.





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."

It wasn't.

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.



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.

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.

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.

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.

And you know - I still have those Sauconys...but they're strictly Disneyland-issue footwear these days.

What Would Ed Do?
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.