Photo Essay: Up and Into Catalina's Wild Interior

"I need to find some hills in New York," I heard Edith gasping from behind me. I was leaving her behind in my dust on the Hermit Gulch Loop trail on Catalina Island because it's easier for me to sprint the steep slopes and then take a moment to rest in the shade, rather than take them slow and steady.

"Yeah, the thing is," I said, "pretty much every trail in LA is an up-and-down."

This is particularly and literally true on Catalina Island, which was formed when tectonic plates went crashing into one another, forming a mountainous outcropping off the shore of Southern California in the Pacific Ocean, which you can see from the Santa Monica Mountains on a clear day.

About a mile and a half from town, a trailhead appears off the Hermit Gulch Campground, and quickly, you are in the wild.




In fact, most of the interior of the island is off-limits to vehicles or the golf carts that threaten pedestrians in the port town of Avalon, save for the occasional tour bus or open-air tour jeep crowded with sedentary tourists eager to catch a glimpse of the rare wildlife and flora, much of which is unique to the island.



But we, adventurous as we are, or perhaps naive, decided to walk. All the way in, and all the way up.





The steep, narrow, overgrown path that greeted us for the first half of the trail soon gave way to expansive views of the mountains that surrounded us (and the fire breaks that recent wildfires had necessitated)...



...and, of course, the ocean.



Our hearts were pounding in our heads as the ocean breeze cooled our sweat-soaked faces, and reminded us of how wet our backs had become. We heard neither waves nor crowds nor cars, only our own chests heaving, and the flap of predatory birds encircling above.



"We're almost there," I reassured myself, since I was probably too far ahead for Edith to hear me and receive any comfort. "It can't keep going up. At some point, it has to go down."



And soon, though perhaps not soon enough, we spotted the ocean on the other side of the island, and we knew we could go no farther...except down.

The return path is a wide, gently graded fire road, which we guessed most people would choose as the beginning of their loop.

"We chose the steep way to go up," Edith surmised.

"Yeah, but it's better that way," I said. "I'd rather go up steep than go down steep."

And as we looked around at our surroundings, though our pace had quickened, our heart rates lowered and our breathing softened, we said, "It would have been really boring to go up this way."

Related:
Dangling from a Wire

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Have a Nice Life

"Don't read too much into this..." I prefaced my declaration to Edith, because I'd been fairly obviously dropping hints about her moving to LA ever since I did five months ago.

"But isn't this nice? Isn't LA nice?"

We were standing at an unusually high elevation in the eastern end of Hollywood, with a view normally necessitated by a tall building in New York, but provided to us Friday night by the top of Barnsdall Art Park, a weird little hilltop public park that lets you look down onto the city without having to hike a mountain. I pointed westward, where palm trees dotted the hazy gray horizon, providing a smog-stockinged skyline of tropical stillness, their top-heavy trunks delicate like dandelion stalks. We couldn't see the buildings below them, only the filtering haze and the disappearing light.

Glass of wine in hand, I inhaled the open air, looked up at the Griffith Observatory and Hollywood Sign - always my beacons whether up there in Griffith Park or down below - and could only utter the simplest, most mundane descriptor: nice.

Somehow in my time in New York, or before that in childhood, I forgot what nice was, or why nice was so nice. Maybe I never knew. The New York attitude dictates that "nice" be considered weak, boring, bland, soft, pale, effete, effeminate, ephemeral. To be strong and interesting and worthwhile in New York, you have to walk around covered in dirt, living in filth, breathing in black air and black thoughts and black intentions. Grit and grime, darkness and shadows, shivering and sweating and soaking feet make you cool and resilient. You don't have to grin and bear it; you just have to bear it. Or be gone.

I did my time, and then I got gone. And now I'm allowing myself to drive a nice car down a nice palm tree-lined street to my nice apartment with my nice neighbors and jasmine-scented yard.

Back home at my apartment, Edith and I were chatting and she remarked, "I like the way your building smells" - a compliment considering its age (80+ years) and its inhabitants (20- and 30-something singles).

"I know!" I chimed in. "Isn't it nice?"

Related:
In Praise of the Nice Guy

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Make It Happen

You can't force an employer to hire you.

You can't force someone to love you.

You can't force someone to forgive you.

You can't force someone to miss you.

You can't force someone to let you love them.

But when do you give up, and accept defeat? When do you admit it's over?

Is it ever over?

Is it over with my parents, with whom I haven't spoken in almost four and a half years?

Is it over with the one I left behind in New York?

is it over with the one who left me behind in LA?

Will I ever sleep?

Will I ever love?

Will I ever marry?

How do I know when it's over for me? When I'm 35? Or when I'm 65?

Will I be lying on my deathbed in fifty years, gasping my last swallow of air, when someone will burst through the door with a last-ditch confession of lifelong love and obsession, finally gathering the courage to say what they'd been feeling all along? When I'd waited 85 years, and now it was too late?

There are many things I can do. I can answer the phone. I can put myself in the right place at the right time. I can do a good job and live a good life and have a good heart.

But I cannot take any more control over my life than I already have. For now, I can only wait.

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Dangling from a Wire

"Oh shit."

I was standing on the first platform of our zipline excursion - the one they called "The Bunny Slope" - watching our instructor demonstrate how to step off the edge and let our weight carry us down a metal wire with our knees tucked in for speed. For the first time, I felt scared.

I've jumped out of a plane, taken a running leap off a cliff, flown a sailplane, and crashed a snowmobile into a creek before, but the only prior time I was ever really scared was standing on the high rickety platform, leaning over the edge to grab a trapeze bar. With no glasses on or contacts in, and no ability to hear anything beyond the westside traffic roar, my most relied-upon physical senses were disabled, leaving me only with the sensation of sweaty fingers slipping over the bar, a lurching stomach, and a watering mouth.

Embarking on my first zip, I recalled the terror of trapeze, a physical activity I was embarrassingly bad at (a self-criticism that a friend likened to complaining that I was no good at swimming with sharks). Nevertheless, though I've never gone back to try to swing my legs over that bar, I did feel like I conquered those selfsame fears on Saturday, when I zipped through the canopy of Catalina Island's interior.







Oh, you're safe enough, skull crammed into helmet, straps digging into chin, tethers woven around pelvis and hardware dangling from carabiners.

That doesn't make it any less scary. You're in the mountains. With the sun setting. And you're pretty sure you're going to do it wrong.



Before my first giant leap for womankind, our instructor asked if I had any questions about the positions I'd have to execute: cannonball, starfish, etc. I said, "What happens if I don't starfish when he signals me to? What if I don't see him?"

"Well, you'll just be going really fast, and he'll have to stop you. But that's OK. If you do cannonball all the way, that's OK."

She'd strung me up and clipped me in while I was standing atop a box of stairs, which I had to step down one at a time to get to the ledge. I started to get really nervous, because with every step, I felt the tethers pulling at my waist, practically lifting me off my tiptoes and dragging me forward.

"That's OK," our instructor said, "I've got you. It'll be easier once you get to the ledge."

And it was. Once I got into position, the wire line above me sagged down with my weight, and waited for me to give it its cue: one confident step forward and vertical plunge down, and then a tilt back with straight arms, tucked-in knees, and crossed ankles.

My first trip down, I didn't look around at any of the scenery. I tried to keep my eyes on the instructor waiting for me on the other side, telling me whether to slow or keep going. When I landed, I said, "Did I starfish properly?", concerned with perfecting a technique I would have no previous knowledge of - not any more than trapeze, or swimming with sharks.

"Well, you'll get there..." he said.



This is what a perfect starfish looks like (this is not me):


With every leap, my form got better and the scenery got prettier, the sun casting its golden glow on us and imbuing the ocean with a deeper blue.



From the Bunny Slope, our lines got longer, lower and faster, allowing me to actually see my surroundings, the boat-flecked ocean shore to my right, the darkening peaks to my left, and the canyon of trees below as I sliced through the tree-tops.



I stopped asking questions.

I stopped looking before I leapt.



But I started looking at everything that passed before me on my way down.

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Photo Essay: Venice (Beach) Canals

I was reticent to go back to Venice after having worked there for three months and the subsequent awkwardness of getting laid off.

But as with many areas of LA, there was still plenty I hadn't seen.

Especially since I'd spent all my time, you know, working.

Witness: the Venice Canals.

















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The Lost Road to Glendale Peak

"We might get lost today," I told Kevin as he climbed into the passenger side of my car. He was in LA for a few days and suggested we go on a hike together to catch up.

"That's OK," he said. "I'm ready to get lost."

"OK because I'm taking you to a place that's not on most maps..."

I was taking him to Glendale Peak in Griffith Park.

We found the trailhead easily enough, situated between the two tennis courts at the Vermont Canyon tennis complex, and navigated the unmarked trails that wound up and around towards the peak...





...past the landmarks we knew to look for...



to the green pump house, where the bridle trail is marked.



And then I got confused.

We faced the choice of heading left towards Glendale or right towards the city skyline. I tried to remember the lines on the map, to no avail. We headed right first, and then I second-guessed myself and led us left, through an open gate. It felt wrong, but I knew the other way was wrong too. And I thought we only had the two options.

Kevin was a great hiking partner because he was interested in everything we saw - the sandstone crumbling alongside us, the lizards crossing our path, the garter snake slithering away, and the bridge looming high above us.

"Oh," I said. "We're supposed to be up there. But how do we get up there?"

We kept walking until I checked the time and remarked that we had to go back in order for Kevin to check out of his hotel in time, so we retraced our steps to the pump house, where I discovered my previous error in judgement: there was a third path, a bridle trail that would lead us behind the pump house, up the hill and, eventually, across that bridge.

But it was too late to hike the rest of the way to Glendale Peak, so we abandoned mission, and went back.

I returned to Griffith Park Tuesday night after work to complete the hike, with about an hour left before the sun set, on the longest day of the year.



I found the bridge...



...and the sign for Henry's Trail to Glendale Peak...



...and I found Glendale Peak, whose narrow trail was overgrown with mustard and brush, slippery silt crumbling beneath our feet, brittle branches for grabbing and possibly breaking if we lost our footing.



But once we were at the top, with the sun setting behind the much taller peaks to our west in the park, and only a half hour left of daylight on the longest day of the year, what were we to do but simply go back down to where we started?

I took a moment to point out where I'd gotten lost before, down below, now having a high-level view where my mistake seemed so obvious to me.

And now I can move onto the next opportunity to get lost for a while, and find my way...

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All Dressed Up

I wore the same dress tonight as I did last night.

I wore it Tuesday night, too.

I wore it for you. I don't know where you are. I don't know who you are.

I wore this dress to a party last night. I didn't have anyone to talk to. I sat in this dress alone, sipping a mojito with too much mint in it. I hoped not to spill my drink on my dress.

I left the party early in this dress, and went to my car and took it off on the street. I left this dress in the car while I took a walk in shorts and a t-shirt as the sun set, lying down on the Silver Lake Meadow with bare feet, watching a couple play soccer with a too-small ball, blocking the setting sun with my crossed legs.

I put this dress back on and sat in it in the dark at the movies.

I took this dress off and went to bed early.

I put this dress back on tonight, and I still didn't find you. I don't know what I'm looking for. I don't know if you've seen me.

I took this dress off tonight and hung it on its hook. I slipped it over my head and slung it away for the night.

I might put it back on tomorrow.

I might sleep in it tomorrow.

Just in case you visit me in the middle of the night.

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Photo Essay: A Sunset Stroll Up Mt. Hollywood

There is more than one way to climb a mountain.

Friday night, I experienced the third way to climb Mt. Hollywood in Griffith Park.

I'd wanted to do a group activity so someone could show me a new hike in Griffith, whose 50+ miles of trails are still largely a mystery to me, having only scratched the surface of them in the last year. We met in the north parking lot of the Merry Go Round - a huge group of us, making photographing the scenery difficult not only to avoid people in my shots, but to avoid creating bottlenecks along the narrow trail while I dawdled with my new camera - and set off on the little-known "Lingerie Trail," a steep climb along tree roots and through lush vegetation.







It was touted as a "full moon hike," but with a 6:30 p.m. meeting time shortly before the summer solstice, we had plenty of sunlight to get to the top, and plenty of time to loiter while the sun set behind the Hollywood Sign.



























I watched the sun set and then quickly left most of the group behind to join a few hikers back down the mountain in the dark, but I never got to see the full moon. I followed the glow cast by a flashlight somewhere in front of me, and the sound of voices behind me telling us where to turn, but otherwise, I was pretty much barreling blindly down the hill. When I returned to the parking lot, I realized that parking my car in the more familiar south end of the Merry Go Round lot was  mistake not only because of its distance from the hike's starting point, but because of the pitch black absence of street lights.

Luckily, though I was willing to continue fumbling in the dark, a fellow hiker offered me a ride back to my car, where I changed my clothes in the dark to get ready to start my Friday night...



Related:
Photo Essay: Franklin Canyon Night Hike

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Swimming in Circles Under a Wide Open Sky

I first visited the West Hollywood municipal pool - where you pay $3 and bring your own towel to an open-air pool practically in the middle of San Vicente, amidst construction, traffic, and playground children - a couple weeks ago while housesitting for friends nearby, forgetting to bring a towel and sunscreen. Of course it's the opposite of what I'm used to swimming in in New York: neither a hotel pool nor a fitness club pool with amenities like lockers, it's a city pool, in Los Angeles.

In a city where nearly everyone seems to have access to a backyard or rooftop pool, I've been having a hard time finding a place to swim laps, an activity that has always brought me relief and solace, throughout stressful work and unemployment alike. I need to be swimming now, tightrope-walking the line between the two, not worrying so much now, but knowing I'll probably have to start worrying later.

I'm not a fast or a strong swimmer, relegated to the "SLOW" lane in speed-segregated lap sessions, but I've always swum with grace and precision, never splashing my neighbor, never gasping for air or littering the communal bathtub with my spittle, as many swimmers do.

But somehow, in this great expanse of a public pool, under that great big California sky, I appear a histrionic athlete plunged into foreign waters, gesticulating wildly as I attempt to gather my bearings. While facing upwards attempting the backstroke, I cannot swim in a straight line.

A couple weeks ago, I thought perhaps I was being blinded by that California sun, raging above in the noontime hour, searing my retinas through my tinted goggles and burning my unprotected nose. But tonight, I arrived shortly before closing time, when the sun was no longer visible in the sky, but its rays still shone longwise from the west, golden and glimmering, soft and amber, illuminating but fading. I watched as the marker flags flapped and reflected, first the day's final glow, then the evening's first flicker of white bulb set in metal cone on metal rod, a harsh, inelegant, contrasting means of lighting the park at night. They sent no flares my way, no glare to astound or bewilder or disorient. I wasn't squinting. My eyes were wide open.

So why could I not swim even remotely straight?

It occurs to me that I'm used to swimming predominantly indoors, save for a few splashes at the beach or at a Palm Springs swim club. When I'm really seriously swimming (and not leisurely paddling or bobbing or splashing or swirling), I'm used to being in an enclosure, with a ceiling at which to stare, its tiles and lines and marks and scars and lights and beams guiding my path from one end of the pool to the other.

So what do I do, when I look up, and all I see is blue?

Apparently, I flap like an oil-soaked seabird.

I try swimming next to the lane dividers, guiding my hand along it with every turn of a stroke, but my body starts to creep under the line, into the other lane, and thereby into the other swimmers. I veer violently in the other direction, overcorrecting my path and nearly clocking my cranium on the concrete wall instead.

I consider not doing the backstroke at all, but my arms get too tired doing the breaststroke the whole time, so I persist.

In an empty lane, I'm allowed to be as frenetic as I wish, but on a night light tonight, I have to be considerate to share the lane. Despite my ridiculous appearance, I continue to try to swim in a style most would consider unnatural since it is, by nature, backwards. I hold my head up and peer down my body towards my feet, in the opposite direction from where I'm going, towards the curious face of the swimmer behind me waiting to launch off the wall. I try to maintain a straight course. I briefly glance at the sky, and then try to tip my head all the way back to see behind me, in the direction of my approach, but my neck cranes to no avail and my ears flood with muffled waves. I try to swim straight but I know I'm weaving like a drunk driver on the Sunset Strip at 2 a.m. on a Saturday night. I anticipate being pulled over, but even the lifeguards aren't policing proper swimming technique in this pool, which is about to shut down for the night and be covered by huge rolls of blue plastic tarps until the morning, when the blinding sun makes its triumphant return, and I have an excuse again for swimming with a total lack of sense of direction.

Evening falls before I can figure it out. The sky's daytime blue has shifted to dusk-ridden gray, a discolored pallor from the city's pervasive light pollution. I pull myself out of the water and into the evening's air with its newfound chill, wrap myself in the dark blue towel I brought myself, and walk a straight path into the locker room, where I can see where I'm going the entire way, down Melrose to my apartment, where I've learned to call home.

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