Storm? What Storm?

So it’s winter in San Diego, and after the sunrise workouts in 50 degree water, what else would a handful of ocean paddlers do to ease their pain but take a trip to Oahu for a four-day skills clinic in the surf?
To be fair, even Hawaii has a winter. this is why the big surf competitions are held there in winter on the islands’ north shores. And since we planned to spend most of our time in the ocean, where the temperature was warmer than the air, no problem. Just bring a rain coat.

I keep a note on my desk with a quote from Eleanor Roosevelt: “Do one thing every day that scares you.” Not hard for me to accomplish since I’m claustrophobic and afraid of heights. I ride the local wooden roller coaster once a year on my birthday to set a personal tone: everything appears relatively mild after that. And that’s why I said yes when a group of ocean paddler friends invited me to join them on this excursion. Never mind I don’t paddle outrigger canoes, only surfskis, and we were headed to do a surf clinic in Hawaii in winter. This is what E.R. had in mind, I’m sure.

On our first day, Suzanne arrived on her bicycle, smiling brighter that the sun, happy to be staying with her sister a few blocks away. Clouds hung low over the mountain tops. Greens in the forests flowed into cultivated sugar cane green fields and down into a silty green-brown river that muddied the layers of emerald-turquoise-sapphire green water curling up onto the pink-brown sandy beach.

We followed our guide/coach Jim Foti like a string of ducklings, zig-zagging to avoid the reef. After surfing the small waves beside Flat Island and paddling some distance, we retreated to lunch, then watching the videos taken that morning, to critique our stroke techniques.

After having dinner with Suzanne’s family and some respected paddling elders, the trip could have ended there, but it had only just begun.

Each morning was announced by red-headed birds wearing straw conical hats with radical feather tufts jutting backwards.

Day 2: Suzanne’s birthday, we switched canoes and found a different surf break. In the calm, shallow Mokapu Channel we talked about balance and flying the ama, then set out to challenge the secondary stability of our new canoes. I was pleasantly surprised I’d chosen a canoe that practically surfed itself and liked to keep the ama up! Great day for me. The sun came out, the waters turned from greens to blues. Jim paddled the two-man so we took turns paddling in the surf with him and flying the ama. Turtles observed, certainly smiling, from open water. After Jim paddled alongside, re-adjusted the rigging on my canoe it was a different boat entirely. I liked it even better, but who knew? Takes a pro, which I certainly am not, and he is.

We celebrated by going into town for lunch at Lanikai Juice before going back out into the surf and repeating the fun of the morning. Though I got some good rides on big waves, this new canoe was heavier, designed totally differently, and I had trouble flying the ama. She just wanted to go straight.

My night to cook: veggie stir-fry with ginger and tofu, meant someone else was mixing the drinks and we all watched the Olympics on the giant t.v. Though I made some vegetarian converts, the shopper still cleaned out the local deli of the poke in their display.

Day 3: Jumping into the back of a pick up, we headed to the next beach to launch two four-man canoes from their beds of sand among the tarot vines at Lanikai Beach. The sand was like plaster, stuck to our feet, and the water a clear turquoise. Air and water were the same temperature, a mild 70. Jim navigated us to the exact spot where a private plane was resting against a reef some 25’ deep. We again navigated the reef in jagged lines till we arrived at the small islands known as The Mokes. We chose right. Jim was so excited about the conditions he borrowed a phone to call his friends and alert them.

A passel of tourists in sit-on-top kayaks flooded the beach and settled in to watch us. Fortunately both Karen and I brought GoPro cameras so I was able to record the surfing from all directions. I only steer once in a while, usually during a practice, so I gave major props to Jim for steering us in steep waves in small boats. He’d grown up there, doing just that nearly every day, he said, and the fact he’s still there doing it, is a testament to just how awesome surfing the four-man canoes can be.

Rain, rinse, store canoes. So nice to be traveling with no-maintenance women. No one leaves till all the work is done. No one leaves for the afternoon hike till everyone’s had at least one beer. I admit to being a bit sore after three straight days. Of course my roomie, Wendy, a serious veteran paddler, had the right oils and ointments for those aches. That’s why she’s always smiling.

It poured all night. Alarms blared warnings calling for evacuations to high ground. It was still raining as we rigged the canoes. Locals from Kailua Canoe Club headed out for a 12-mile workout up and back to Rabbit Island. Jim shook his head, and directed us to the point in the other direction, straight into the wind, so we could ride swells back to the beach rather than take the swell on our ama side for miles, then slog back. As we carried our canoes to the water, the rain ceased. “Slash,” a local paddler and artist waited to finish painting one of the canoes between downpours.

I ended up with the tippier of the canoes that day. Swells were steeper and crossed up. Wind was strong and shifting. The troughs were narrow between swells, making it easy to nose-dive if you didn’t plan your surfline. Most of the crew headed back at an angle to the beach, but Suzanne and I just rode the swells straight back to the beach. She reminded me to relax and stop paddling once I was on a wave; that made all the difference. Of course then she and I had to paddle parallel to the shore several miles to get back to Flat Island and surf with the gang. Wind would get under my ama, threatening to flip me over, it felt like every minute. It was an important lesson in boat handling in the choppy surf; kinda why we came. Thanks Eleanor.

Rain, rinse, store canoes the final time. Just as we said our farewells, admiring Slash’s artwork, it began to rain hard.

We dashed off to showers, beers, the Olympics, and the local bar, Buzz’s, with everyone else stuck in low ground. As we posted photos of ourselves at Buzz’s on Facebook, local paddlers responded with “You’re HERE?! I’ll be right over!” until we had added four or five more people… until the bartender cut us off.

On our final morning, Lisa brought back a photo of a beautiful sunrise from her walk on the beach before we all drove to the North Shore for souvenirs, meeting Vicky at the airport and sadly waving goodbye.

The 25-foot Tall Woman and the Flaming Marshmallow

We packed the car so tight we didn’t have room for the last bag of chips. Wait, I lied. Amy the Tetris queen made room for the chips. Rear view mirrors are overrated.

Heading for the Alabama Hills… the ones in the Eastern Sierras below Mt. Whitney…. this was a roadside attraction trip, not a head-down, straight-to-the-destination trip. First stop: Randsburg Ghost Town, complete with tumbleweeds and fading wooden buildings with bull horns mounted over the doorways. A skeleton with a pink bow sat on a swing over the creek. Two mannikins in dusty Old West clothes lounged in jail, complete with bed pans and empty flasks. About 20 off-roaders dressed like storm troopers road up and down the town’s one street on bikes and dune buggies, then parked and unpacked the fluffy lap dogs from under their jackets before heading into the bbq place where a tower of smoke rose into the noon day sky.
Leaving Randsburg the mountains became jaggeder. That’s a word.

We pulled into Fossil Falls for a late lunch beside the canyons of lava formations, watching rock climbers scale the walls from below, touch the top carabiner under our feet, then disappear again. We headed out before losing the last of the daylight so we wouldn’t have to make camp in the dark.

It was getting cold already as we stopped under the 25-foot woman. Beside her was a water tower proclaiming Pearson, CA the hubcap capital of the world. I’m still suffering from the disappointment of not seeing a single hubcap. But reading the stickers people left under the tall woman’s skirt was fairly entertaining.

We set up our tents in Tuttle Creek Campground next to a large group of guys in cowboy hats drinking around a huge fire. For hours we laughed our way through a game of Cards Against Trump, exhausting our firewood while listening to the neighbors’ good music. In the morning, they offered us coffee and the rest of their firewood, since most of them would be leaving that day. Firefighters from SD County, CalFire and Dept. of Forestry, mostly family, they were on a bachelor party camping trip.

All day off trail hiking through the Alabama Hills and washes we followed GPS coordinates instead of the pathetic map and guide book we tried to use. We were actually able to find most of the famed arches and discovered our own arch in a place we dubbed Coyote Wash for the path of scat we hoped came from coyote, not mountain lion.Wendy said it was cat scat. hmmmm.

Big-eared rabbits scampered out from hiding places in the rabbit brush (aptly named). We never found the biggest arches, Whitney and Charred. Amy developed a blister hiking the whole day in her Ugg boots while I fought the urge to serenade everyone with the Hamilton show tunes. None of us ate all day, so the cheese and crackers with beer chaser back at the car put us in a coma.

We headed back to the campsite where Kevin and Rigo, the last two firefighters, invited us to share their leftovers and talk story at the fire pit. After enough beer and tequila Amy and I started peppering Kevin with musical requests from his smart speaker. Amy definitely had the better dance moves. Rigo kept us liquified and eventually Amy retreated to our campsite to retrieve the marshmallows and graham crackers. Rigo found some shish kabob skewers. When we played Apple Bottom Jeans like three times…. someone ends up waving flaming marshmallows in the air…. nearly hit the flo’…

Slow moving the next morning. ‘nuff said. We could see out the back of the car finally.

But wait there’s more. Appropriately, it being MLK Jr. Day, we stopped at Manzanar, a glaring monument to our country’s abuse of human and civil rights; the Japanese-American internment camp in the cold, barren high desert. People had taken most of the barracks when the camp was closed and used them for their homes, barns, community buildings. Places like this need to be preserved, so we can be reminded, so children can learn, so we don’t repeat.

50 miles down the road from Lone Pine, the Lemon House and accompanying motel are for sale; only $350,000. It’s like a scene from a Hitchcock movie. It looks empty. But I bet all the stolen hubcaps are somewhere in one of those rooms.

Can't wait for the next road trip.

Joshua Tree Super Moon New Year Melted Banana Surprise

We packed the teardrop trailer against an indescribable boulder in Joshua Tree National Park just shy of the end of an exhausting 2017, set up a few tents and headed for the ridiculously understated Split Rock Trail to see the profiles of George Washington and a massive gorilla carved by wind into sandstone and granite. It’s a race against the looming darkness, but even moreso against night in the desert where the temperature after twilight drops some 20-30 degrees from the daytime highs. We see critters and faces in all the rock piles. We are drunk on long shadows and warm afternoon light on the red rock.

Traveling with experienced campers, who bring luxuries like pop-up tents, games and camp chairs, takes all the kinks out of sleeping on the ground, no matter how slim your air mattress might be. All I know are the Big and Little Dipper, Orion’s belt and Pleiades. Enter Star Finder and Sky Map apps. We found Ursa Minor, the big bear, and Hydra, the sea serpent, before they disappeared under the horizon en route to Japan. But it’s a near-full Super Moon. So only the brightest were visible.

“If it looks like a tortilla it’s the moon,” said Kellen, prophetically, before crawling into his tent for the night.

Hiking to Lost Horse Mine, reading the stories of early homesteaders and claim holders, one can only imagine life on this desert in the 1800s, held back from excavating on your own property by a gang of bandits openly camped on your land. Where was the water? How did you feed horses in this wasteland of jumping chollas and Joshua trees? Where did you find wood to build houses? No wonder the horse got lost.

Two hundred years ago, searching for entertainment, they must have done exactly what we did that afternoon: head to the local thrift store to try on all the clothes that fit and smell the hand-made soaps.

Fashion was the theme for the afternoon. We dressed Kellen in different outfits and had him assume the appropriate GQ pose on the red rocks. After which I was summarily destroyed at nearly every game BJ and Mike pulled out of their trailer, none of which I’d ever heard of. But now I’m ready for ya…. lol. The huge owl on the rock overhead thought it was a hoot as well.  S/he was the size of a small refrigerator and let us know what s/he thought of my gaming skills.

Even Mandy was warm that night, what with the cloud cover, and her extra blankets. She greeted the sunrise with a cup of coffee in her penguin uni and candy cane socks. More fashion on the rocks.

Nothing like leftover cornbread from the Dutch oven for breakfast! Cooking with a Dutch oven is so amazing it makes you want to get more camping gear and take vacations just so you can cook with one. I’m even more convinced that this couple can do anything they set their mind to. I’m in good company. In fact, I couldn’t imagine a better way to start the new year. I’m lucky and I know it.

Resolutions? Maybe. I think I’ve broken some already though. The idea is to invite uplifting, healing, communal, environment-based and creative endeavors into my life. Make mistakes, laugh at myself, do ten more push-ups and one more mile on the water. Do what it takes to get something done; seek balance in life. Jettison toxic people and confront bullies. I think that’s good enough for now; a nice daily mantra.

At Barker Dam and Ryan Mountain: the popular trails; we meet people from Canada, the east coast, families from who-knows-where America. After dinner and another round of games I didn't know, it was a rough night for bananas on the hot coals. The secret recipe involves chocolate, caramel and nuts. I’ll be happy to make it for anyone that takes me hiking from now on. 

Mandy shuffled Jiffy Pops over the fire pit in each hand until they became aluminum turbans. She spent the rest of the night swatting away field mice that swooped in for errant kernels.

At midnight, the group campgrounds saluted the new year with karaoke and horns. I make a mental note of the places I want to come back and photograph again in Joshua Tree. Waking in the middle of the night to hoots from the owl chasing mice around the park, I got a face full of Super Tortilla moonlight. I’m sure the owl felt it too: the Super Moon, the New Year, the height of winter on the desert and a new dawn.