Souls in the Rain

The soul needed a day in the rain. Low hanging clouds cruised past the granite boulders outside the windows from first light, beckoning. Who was I to argue?

A new trail was in order. New trails make me smile, for all the obvious reasons but also because if there’s a vague trail marker, or none at all, I will take the wrong fork. I calculate an extra 20 minutes for just that purpose. So if you ever hike with me, be prepared to laugh, as I channel consternation, moving in circles, chasing my tail in the red dirt like a puppy stung by a bee.

The beauty of low clouds is you can’t see how far to reach the summit. The mystery will keep you concentrating on the gifts right in front of you.

 I found myself confused in the first five minutes at an unmarked fork, followed the wider trail uphill, turned back, tried the other one with more footprints in the dirt, and saw other humans ahead, so kept on.Then had to laugh when the trail markers appeared but weren't much help either.

Below me, fishermen cast lines onto a windblown lake; I couldn’t help wonder where the cigarette dangling from one fisherman’s lips would end up. Because this was Poway, the trail was immaculate, with trashcans and outhouses. Too bad people couldn’t be compelled to use them. Piles of dog poop dotted the trail. I’ve always thought if you can’t care for a pet, you should have one. (I feel the same about humans, but I digress).

Rain was only light mist at first. A necessary cool during the climb. By the time there were no more forks to decipher, I’d hiked into a stronger rain. The trail narrowed, got steeper and a couple came down from the mist, laughing, enjoying the wet weather. I was the only one wearing a rain jacket, and felt embarrassingly overdressed. But after we passed each other, I heard the woman pointing out the duck’s back rain cover on my pack, so I felt less nerdy.

 Most of the next two miles were mine alone: me, chaparral, the sandstone boulders like Easter Island sentries appearing out of the clouds and fields of white sage.

Rain adds holiday ornaments to leaves, berries, the underbelly of spider webs. Colors and textures dance together: the spiky yucca leaves and the gentle sweeping angel hair grasses around the base of a burned Manzanita stalk. All were relishing the rinsing of dust from their shoulders.

At the famed potato chip rock I met two young women in hoodies, one popping candy in her mouth and letting the wrapper fall as she photographed the rock. She grabbed the wrapper back up when she saw me. At least the youth are hiking, getting some exercise, I thought. I met four more sopping wet young hikers half a mile further up the trail, and a few empty Clif bar wrappers, which I stuffed in my pocket, hoping to return them to their rightful owners.

  I stayed at the top long enough to grab some celery from my pack, and a scarf for my neck. The rain was serious now, and visibility was maybe 30 yards. The unsightly cell towers that adorn the summit were eery skeletons in the clouds. Not a pleasant place to rest.

  The few trees on this trail stand out, since there are virtually none. Most of it is wide open. Reviews I read warned of needing more than two liters of water, hats, sunscreen. Good choice to venture out in the rain.  A mile below the summit, the rain became a mist again. The whole world was a wide circle around me about 50-yards out: yucca, sage, sandstone.

 I would have liked to be around when they carved a trail through some of the massive boulder fields.

I passed another couple, he was ahead, she behind, clutching a thin sweatshirt around her waist, her cotton workout tights soaked. I wondered whether she was re-thinking the relationship at all. In another mile, I came across a drawing in the sand that wasn’t there on the way up: a big heart. Nah, she was gonna follow him into the clouds no matter where that led.

  Re-entry is a bitch after any soul-filling experience, but Lake Poway is not a bad buffer between lost-in-the-wilderness and bumper-to-bumper traffic leaving nearby Poway High. Rounding my last turn towards the lake, two teenagers nearly ran into me, laughing, and the third one, several steps behind, was concealed under a huge plume of fragrant smoke. He turned his back, put it out, we all laughed. At least they’re getting some exercise, I thought.

On the trail around the lake, the his and hers outhouses have spectacular views. Perhaps the City of San Diego can take a lesson… or not. Stopping to take lots of pictures along the way up and back, the hike was a gloriously well-spent three and a half hours that felt like a full day. Thankfully there’s a feast of leftover brussel sprouts and tofu in the truck. And at home: a hot shower and a glass of whiskey waiting. Perfect rainy day.

 

Invitation to a Storm

This is how the ocean looked this morning.

Small craft warnings; and we were small crafts. Or we had them. We wanted to race them here.

The only people crazy enough to be out on the beach in this 20-mph wind are the regulars who gather with their boards, our group, and some seriously mind-altered young people dancing over a fire pit.

  So we tucked our tails and moved our band of athletic water junkies south a few miles to the bay, where it was only blowing 15 mph, but with a surface less threatening for the beginners in our midst, and that would be me.

Dogs and people had to adapt to the winter rules in the park, meaning the bathrooms right next to us were closed for the winter, and dogs were not welcome in the park between 9 a.m. and 4 p.m. Huh? Dogs not welcome in a public park? Through the winter days? Really? Common sense would suggest putting people to work maintaining the parks would give them jobs. It would also encourage our overweight masses to use those parks. Maybe.

Despite the hurdles, race organizer Cheance Adair masterfully rallied us all into two successful races: a short course of 4 miles (that’s me), and a long one out into the channel and back (that’s the big boys and girls). Jon Brindle and I were still smiling before getting on the water.

  Our race took off with a nice following sea that lulled us into a false sense of speed. Once we rounded the first island we were now broadside to the wind swells. It got choppy. Waves coming from the shore collided with wind waves underneath me, and the paddler just ahead went over. He adroitly remounted his surfski and in an embarrassingly brief quarter mile, passed me again.

I set my sights, when I could, on the backs of the young paddlers that train at the San Diego Canoe and Kayak Team, with coach Chris Barlow, a former Olympian who’s dedicated every spare moment to training the next generation of Olympic kayakers. These kids are fearless and tough and fast. Needless to say, I only saw their faces when they had finished the race and were doubling back in my direction to cheer for members of their team still on the course.

Paddling a borrowed boat that’s wider and therefore more stable than my own, yet slower, was a good idea.  The sloppy wind chop tossed me around a few times and I had to brace three or four times to keep from dumping myself over. I straightened up and got a better pace about the time I reached the next island and my two good lady paddler buddies were standing on rocks cheering me on. Now, who does that any more? Dedicate their morning to cheering someone else on in a race or any endeavor, for that matter?  We are a selfish society, myself included, who can rarely be pulled from a me-centric agenda. I have most-excellent friends. The kind that make me want to grow up and be just like them.

  When my race was finished, I had enough energy to do it again; which makes me wonder how I should have been using that energy during the race. Darn it, now I have a new goal. Sigh, it’s a moving target. New goals every day.

This is Veteran’s Day, and the birthday of the Marine Corps, so our race is dedicated to veterans, especially the Challenge Athletes and Wounded Warriors. We had a few competing today. They are always an inspiration.

The wind was getting stronger. I drove out to the jetty to watch the racers navigate the open ocean. A guy was zipping around the parking lot on a skateboard by holding a small parasail, having a blast. I had to lean into the wind to stay upright. But the leaders didn’t seem to feel a thing. They just plowed right through the chop like it wasn’t there.

Paddlers are good people. Strangers helped each other bring the boats up onto the grass, no one complained (very loudly) the race was moved, nor anything else for that matter (except the bathrooms being closed).

  Hopefully my muscles will recover in time for the next one. And I can possibly work towards being as skilled as some of these killer athletes! But you know, there's rarely a bad day on the water, storm or no storm.