Discovering your knees

October 19, 2013.  The lumps under the bedcovers murmured something to me as a I stumbled into the morning fog -- far earlier than on a workday and far more eager. A caffeine-soaked drive to the trailhead.  Humor as always from hiking companion. We hustled up the steepest trail to the top of San Gorgonio: Vivian Creek.  The trail had been hacked into the mountainside 100+ years before and was loose enough for the occasional slip.  

Beautiful sites were seen and strange people: 

1) Two teenagers with little more than sweatshirts and bottles of Fiji water and no maps at 10,000 feet. 

2) Two men with $100's in gear telling us the best way to the top of the mountain was "up the wash," which would have been a 3 mile slog through parabolic scree.  The men were taking a break from eating in their tents, ostensibly to attract bears that might have otherwise been discouraged by the men's choice to pitch their tent literally on the trail.

3) The microwave sizzle of UV the skin at 11,500 feet: the perfect way to finish off a cerebellum fried by high altitude and the brilliant choice of pursuing So Cal's highest mountain for one's first major peak.

4) After mile 12, a troop of Boy Scouts were encountered who asked how much farther their camp was: the author stupidly answered 2 miles and nearly brought 12-year-olds to tears.  The camp was actually 500 yards away.  

Self-actualizing was achieved and the author was familiarized with his knees -- which protested a bit on the way down after 5 or 6 miles.  They had every right.  

The Ancient and Honorable Order of Squirrels

Terrain climbed: Vetter Mountain, at 5900+ feet
Length: not tough, about 4 miles and 500ish feet of elevation gain
Surface: paved fire road traversing the charred wilderness
Achievements: Ciaran joined the Ancient and Honorable Order of Squirrels at the summit
                        Good conversation with a fire lookout
                        Pet an Australian shepherd mix
                        Survived a self-induced fall from a bench
                        UCLA beat Nebraska and dad went like this in the forest:
                               http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PwpD3USKEKw

Country Gent, Inc

Oldest/best friend and I hit the Santa Monica mountains midweek.  There was some guilt involved dropping the C-Monster off at baby school, but better to miss an evening with the boy than a weekend.  And who knows when adult hiking will occur again?

In addition to the meandering hike up to the Lost Cabin/MASH site at Malibu Creek, we did Sandstone peak, which weighs in at 3111' and is the highest in the range.  A fairly strenuous hike, to be sure, but well worth the vista all the way down to San Clemente island. The original intent of the outing was to go from Manker Flats to Mount Baldy, but a tropical storm promised misery in the San Gabriels so we diverted.  Good times were had.

In the normal course of routine escapism, one has occasional big dreams but mostly whims that pass like dandelion seeds, then are lost in the landscape beyond.

One such dandelion puff: Country Gent.  A cross between cross-fit, REI, Cabela's, ACE Hardware, and LuluLemon, Country Gent would be located on the border of Beverley Hills and West Hollywood.  If Mount Hollywood is your K2, then Country Gent would be for you!

-We would sell all forms of goggles, helmets, pants that blouse, merlot caddies, and other accoutrement to perfect the dawning of a Second Golden Age of Hiking.  For info on the first: http://www.kcet.org/updaily/socal_focus/history/la-as-subject/from-sierra-madre-to-the-san-gabriels-a-brief-history-of-socals-crooked-mountain-range.html.

-For each trip a dues-paying "Gent" makes on one of the less-than-3-mile hikes on our website, we would send them an ascot with a map of their sublime conquest on it.  As you strut through Gelson's on a Sunday morning, everyone will know that you conquered Mandeville canyon by the magenta flash of your ascot.

-For Gents desirous of an upperbody workout, Country Gent can drop off a cord of wood for you to chop with our responsibly mined hatchet.  We will also provide discreet packaging for you to return it to our warehouse so your friends don't think you have actually chopped down a tree (we also have a line of scented dirts for you do other gent-like activities in your apartment like digging holes, filling holes up, or luxuriating in a bathtub while playing chess.

Sadly, work beckons on Wednesday and I don't think our escapism can save me.

Out of sand and into the dirt

Glad to be home early from the desert.  I now have a new hiking buddy.   As much as the romance of taking a photo of a Chinese-made rubber diesel engine appealed to me (and helped me get through the absence), nothing like the obstinate owner of said diesel for company. We don't go very far, and when we get there, we watch Looney Tunes on an I-pad and eat cheerios with our filthy hands.  Today we went to Temescal Canyon and did a loop of the Canyon and Ridge trails (4 miles / 1000 ft with 40 pounds of boy and gear).

A desert compound, guarded by unicorns

For a brief moment in the life of the Arabian Desert, childhood dreams and hyperbole converged like sand and wind swirling into a pointless dust devil.  Upon landing in Kuwait, I was assigned to a base in the northern desert, literally down a dirt road and I could honestly say that I had my own desert compound guarded by mercenaries.  What kid wouldn't think that wasn't very badass sounding?  Of course, the mercenaries did not have sleeveless leather vests, battle-axes, or bandoliers of grenades.  They also did not ride stallions or shoot crossbows.  They mostly looked like the Target Loss Prevention Team, but with more guns.  Two months passed: rides out to remote bases, long runs in the rolling desert, drinking O'douls in the office, missing the boy and wife.

Work was hard (for some), but the DOD's drive to save money resulted in relocation to a Dickensian slum in the southern desert, where I now live separated from my neighbors by blankets in a concrete warren lit by desk lamps which I try to imagine run off whale-oil (to complete the Victorian analogy). 

When I first arrived at the new spot, there was a raging sandstorm, and the volume of hot sand in the air was only aggravated by the construction project upwind of our tents. 

"I wonder....," I thought out loud.  "They must be putting up more tents." 

"No," said a nearby Soldier unironically.  "They are removing the gravel from the desert." 

Apparently, the local government has leaned on the US Government to withdraw from certain areas and return those areas to their natural states.  This means that the US government is paying construction crews to pull rocks out of sand for months on end, which is funny because civilization-adjacent desert is covered in plastic bags.  In fact, I have a theory that the large monitor lizards living in the region live off plastic bags and candy wrappers.  But one must return the desert to its natural geologic state.  No rocks allowed. 

And that is deployment in a nutshell: pulling rocks out of sand and convincing oneself that it's important.

Stopped in Stamford

Dumb Old Dad had grand plans for heading into THE BIG CITY to see the sights and eat 5 hamburgers and drink 12 milkshakes, catch 3 foul balls, and ride 7 subway trains.  But just as he was passing the docks, he once again heard rustling in his backpack.  I bet I'm about to get an earful, thought Dumb Old Dad.

From inside the backpack, Salty shouted, "Bust my buffers! What are you doing!?"

"Everything!" yelled Dumb Old Dad.  "I've got a lot of stuff to do.  Like eat 5 hamburgers and drink 12 milkshakes and catch 3 foul balls and ride 7 subway trains!  We can't just sit here.  It's a nice day!"

Salty screamed, "Bollards!  You need to sit on this bench, watch the birds and think about the boy and Mean Old Mom!"

"Good point!  Now let's stop yelling at each other!" bellowed Dad.

Dad took Salty out of his backpack.  Salty smiled and he and Dumb Old Dad sat down on a bench by the bay.  While most of the birds had flown away due to the strange man who was shouting into his backpack, there were 4 geese still splashing in the water.  Dad and Salty watched them splash, thought about the Ciaran boy and Mean Old Mom, and promised never to shout at each other again.

Graduating from the Western New Jersey Military School for Naval Gentlemen

Upon arriving in New Jersey, at least 3 different people warned me about the New Jersey Devil, a winged creature of pre-revolutionary origin that supposedly stalks the Pine Barrens and makes sasquatch look like a tenderhearted hydroponic gardener.  And while the woods were thick with vegetation and trembling with deer ticks, what I found at Fort Dix was really a variety of discrete military experiences that will hopefully synthesize themselves into decisive action should something unpleasant happen. I can't say that I'm particularly expert, but I can theoretically shoot guns, read terrain, put on gas masks, apply tourniquets, and identify explosives.  And that's kind of cool. But mostly scary in its necessity.

Not really sure why some people are obsessed with having these things.   They are a pain to keep clean and American democracy is not that fragile.