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.

My Milky Way is better than your Milky Way

A treatise on selfie-sticks and stone monks

I've never been a mother or a teacher but I have studied Pema Chodron, and have gently removed live rattlesnakes from my office to the outdoors.

One might say that qualifies me for just about anything, but I take nothing for granted in the muddy eclipse where humans collide with the Real World. I know there are rules.

Rule #1 :  Don't sleep under a coconut tree. 

Half asleep on a warm lava rock our first day on Kauai, surrounded by the soporific slapping of waist-high waves, the thud of a coconut making a crater in the sand reminded me paradise has potholes. Glad I brought the first aid kit.

Everyone in our little quartet had unique "play hard" chores and goals. I was responsible for securing surfskis, Sue researched hikes. Elaine tried everything, and Lynn found the best Mai Tais.

Up before dawn, scouting the best beaches from which to watch the sunrise, Sue and discovered hermit crabs every five feet at Anini Beach excavating in the cushiony golden beach sand. We waded in the turquoise water before bringing home mangos and pineapples from local honor stands for breakfast, then headed off to pick up our skis.

Tropical Storm Hilda was slow arriving, but we could feel her building up, as we fought the current around Queen's Bath, up towards the Kialoa Lighthouse. The hard-fought six miles we covered in 1.5 hours, disappeared in 20 minutes riding the swells returning to Hanalei Bay. 

Over Mai Tais, Elaine decided to join us the next day, taking a lesson from Dylan Thomas, on a downwind run.

Turtles are best appreciated in the water; a shape that seems ungraceful and heavy on land becomes a torpedo underwater. They let us swim right alongside in the fingers at Queen's Bath while they casually chewed the algae on rocky ledges, spinning and diving with ease in the churning white wash. When we paddled past turtles some two or three miles offshore they popped back underwater jackrabbit fast.

Looming above Kapaa, the Sleeping Giant doesn't look approachable. A rock pillar rising above dense jungle, the trail is smooth red clay: a local's hike.

The view is stunning, and what quickly became Peggy's Happy Ferns greeted us in the dense groves under sprawling acacia trees.

In the lower-lying regions where residential areas meet the foothills, a shorter hike to Opeaka waterfall follows a river dotted with local swimming holes.

 

I would have recognized the Napali Coast trail with my eyes closed. True to memory, the perfume of ripe guava rises from the clay soil, drips down from the trees, infuses your clothes. The lilokoi take over in the next mile, a different sweet. At the first lookout I waited for dawn and my hiking buddies, while groups headed for Kalalao 10 miles further down the coast, adjust their packs.

  Day hikers stop for a quick "selfie with mountains" and I wonder, in photographing one's self amidst splendor or with an oversized fried carnival encounter is it a full detour around the senses? How would they answer a question later about what they saw or felt or smelled along the trail? If it's not posted on Facebook, did it happen?

I have clear memories of sitting on the Hanakapiai Beach rocks with the few other locals: drying off after body surfing, watching for dolphins and storms like attentive monks ritualistically affirming each day with a sunset vigil.

I feared my memories would be tainted by that eclipse with the Real World; that there would be picnic tables or worse: a building.

But the opposite happened.

Hundreds of smooth black stones cairns greeted us. Poised stone monks held sentry, representing those warm-blooded souls who had passed through and been transformed by the magic of Hanakapiai Beach.

Rule #2 Always have a back-up pair of hiking sandals you've already worn in.

My Croc sandals gave out six miles into our eight-mile Napali trek. No problem. I had some new Chocos back at the condo. We'll revisit that.

 

I keep an Eleanor Roosevelt quote taped to my computer at work: "Do one thing every day that scares you."

Hilda had hit the Big Island hard in the night. We got the tail of the storm on Kauai, bringing strong winds and swells. Dylan came with us along our 17-mile Napali downwind run and said the conditions hadn't been this good in a long time, certainly not three weeks prior when he won the Na Pali Race. So we were pumped, but anxious.

The water itself put us at ease. Here it is soft and warm, almost comforting, unlike the cold slap in the face of California swells.

Dylan graciously coached us in combining swells for maximum speed and fun. We took occasional breaks to gawk at the cliffs beside us and considered turtle sightings good luck.

In the last five miles, from the edge of the rugged Napali to the smooth white sands of Polihale Beach, we were out of the main current, moving more slowly over near-transparent waters teeming with colorful fish and coral. Overcast skies all morning spared us a blinding sun on the water and blistering sand at the end. A perfect day.

That night, it didn’t rain, no clouds impeded our view of the stars dancing across a lava black sky on their journey across the vast Pacific Ocean and these tiny volcanic islands overflowing with flowers and geckos.

About those shoes. Those new Chacos had given me blisters in the first mile. So I wore the $14 rubber-soled water shoes from the ABC store the next day, for the 13 miles of hiking on the trails above Waimea Canyon, and out the Na'ulolo ridge trail through a magical ginger forest to the ocean, without a problem.

Trying to beat the thick fog that regularly shrouds these peaks by mid-morning, we made it out to the edge just in time to be engulfed by fog and rain.

Not wanting to get lost on a slippery razor's edge ridge, we made our way back up and over to the east side down the trail overlooking Waimea Canyon.

The petite Waipoo waterfall at the base of the trail left us wondering where the river below it led. As we were driving down the canyon in search of an IPA, we saw where that waterfall fell, invisible to us when we were hiking above it.

Rule #3: Learn to pack gloves when you know you are borrowing a paddle. Just saying'.

Callouses are one thing, blisters are different. They can get infected, especially in the tropics where they never dry out properly. I felt the sting of the denser salt water on our last paddle to the Kialoa Lighthouse.

The seas were a bit mixed up and the wind was down, so I felt every stroke, but it was worth it to be out on the ocean one last time before that last sunrise, that last rooster announcing the obvious as golden light clipped the edges of breaking waves before landing softly on a Kauai beach.

 

Mahalo