I love a good abandoned building, so imagine my glee at a whole town full of them.
But for a ghost town to truly be experienced authentically, it can't be full of people.
Bodie, a former gold mining camp-now-state park in the Eastern Sierras near the Nevada border, is full of people - hundreds of parents, their children, and their dogs. (There are also some free-range cattle that have figured out how to get through a hole in the fence.)
To escape the crowds, I climbed up the hill to the hazardous warning fence and get some good shots of the buildings, burned by fire in 1939, abandoned in 1942, and preserved in the 1960s in their current condition.
My timing was perfect to jump on a guided tour with a ranger that got me past that fence, not only straight into the hazardous area, but straight into one of the hazardous buildings: the old stamp mill, whose equipment is still in place, functional, and extremely dangerous. With an exterior constructed of metal, it survived Bodie's last fire relatively unscathed (unlike its predecessor, which burned to the ground in Bodie's first big fire).
Its water tanks weren't so lucky.
The interior is dark, dusty, smelly, and shadowy, with water-warped floors, uneven stairs, low clearance doorways, and wires and belts hanging from the ceiling everywhere.
Bodie plays a key role in California's gold mining history, so it stands to reason it would be so popular. It's interesting, and huge.
I just prefer my ghost towns to be a bit more...ghostly.
Last night I found the well-hidden Travertine Hot Springs, a no-fee Bureau of Land Management site in a geologically significant area south of Bodie, the famed gold mining ghost town.
I would never have known about it had I stayed in Lee Vining, the "Gateway to Yosemite" where Mono Lake is located, most convenient to most of what I had planned for this weekend. I would have never even looked for it. But instead, I chose to stay farther north in Bridgeport, a three-block town featuring the Mono County courthouse, jail, and other historic sites. And hot springs.
It was a simple excursion, only a couple of miles from my motel, but it took two tries to get there, and even when I found the parking lot, I had to ask someone, "Where do I go now?!"
I only spent an hour sitting in the spring water, muddy-bottomed natural pools of travertine eroded smooth by the warm flow that has left a rainbow of color behind in its wake...
...but, as I commiserated with a couple of my fellow bathers, if you're adventurous enough, you learn that there are an unlimited number of places to explore out West, each unique and fascinating, even if you only spend a brief amount of time there.
Traveling alone, I've also learned...
Stay off the beaten path, even if it's 30 miles out of your way.
Try something new.
If you look for something and can't find it, ask for help, then go back and look again.
Embrace the unknown.
Talk to people. Answer their questions. Ask them questions.
Catch the sunset wherever you are. Get outside. Climb a volcano. Drive to the top of a hill. But don't miss it.
Accept invitations. Be willing to share a meal, a car, a canoe, or a trail.
Plan ahead, but don't stick so closely to the plan that you miss out on something special you didn't know about, or couldn't have anticipated.
Don't be afraid to abort mission if something doesn't turn out like you'd hoped. You don't have to eat food that doesn't taste good; you don't have to hike a boring trail. Don't be afraid to move on.
If you can't do everything in one trip, you can always go back.
I have been right by Yosemite this weekend, and I didn't even go to Yosemite. There has been enough to keep me occupied on its outskirts.
So I'm considering this trip more or less an exploratory one, getting the lay of the land for when I return.
And I will return. I'm not done yet here in the Eastern Sierras.
But today, I have to go back. I have a long drive ahead of me, but I've already got a few pit stops planned, and am sure I'll find plenty to do along the way...
I'd thrown together this trip up to Mono Lake kind of at the last minute, my sense of urgency increased by Mono Lake's inclusion on California's slated state parks closures, and their canoe trips ceasing after Labor Day. So I didn't have as much time as I normally do to plot out all of my adventures.
In fact, I'd forgotten entirely that I wanted to go to the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest, an hour and a half detour off Route 395 not counting time spent there, until I passed its sign while going 80 mph down the highway. I slowed at first, swerved between left and right lanes a couple of times, and then resolved to turn around and check it out.
This is an area (similar to the Great Basin National Park in Nevada) that was once submerged under a prehistoric sea, where now groves of ancient trees 4000+ years old still flourish.
Of course, it's startling to discover that it's not the biggest trees - redwoods, sequoias, etc. - that are the oldest. These trees are stubby and gnarly, roots exposed from soil erosion.
Who knew Compton, infamous in hip hop lore for crime, drugs, and gang-related violence, was such a friendly place to visit?
I think most Angelenos - and my fellow 33,000 residents of Beverly Hills - would never step foot out of their cars in Compton, much less drive there at all, but when I heard that there was a rich history of urban farming there, and I'd have the chance to visit some of the farms, I thought, "Eh, why not?"
Turns out I should have been more enthusiastic. The area of Compton zoned for agriculture, Richland Farms, is freaking awesome.
We were welcomed with open arms by Dr. Wilkins, our host for the day, whose natty suit paled in comparison to the 200 year old carriage he appropriated as his pulpit, telling us about the community he leads, in a neighborhood they are desperately trying to preserve.
Sure, some of the custom homes there have seen better days, and look a bit worse-for-the-wear compared to the "mansions" that stand alongside them. Sure, some of the cars, both parked and crawling down the streets, look a little rough around the edges.
Sure, the locals peered at our walking tour group through their car windows like we were total wackos. After all, with no sidewalks, Richland Farms doesn't look too pedestrian-friendly.
But there are some amazing things happening just beyond the surface of Compton, including a horse-riding and training camp for kids, who learn to take care of the horses and to compete, teaching them essential skills and keeping them off the street.
There are also horses everywhere, ridden through the streets by caballeros while the cars drive on past. The horses will show off a bit if you ask them to, doing a little clip-clop dance in place on a street corner. But where they really get to show their stuff is on the farms and ranches that lie behind the inner city homes in this close-knit community.
Who doesn't want to see a horse show and eat chips and guacamole on a sunny Sunday afternoon?
In some ways, life is simple in Richland Farms. People raise farm animals, harvest their milk and eggs, and then either kill and eat them for their meat, or barter them with their neighbors for other foods or supplies they need. They drink the milk raw, spiked with a bit of tequila to kill off any bacteria.
Young men wash horses in their driveways the way other teens wash their cars, soaping them up in the sun, hosing the suds off, white water running down the side of the street.
The multiple generations of families who have grown up and live there resist change, and would prefer to preserve Richland Farms exactly as it is (ideally through the designation of a historic district, which they're trying to get).
But Richland Farms is just one small enclave within the City of Compton, a city whose bad reputation precedes it, a bad reputation that is not unearned. Its residents are up in arms about having to pay for parking permits to park in front of their own houses (welcome to my world). They welcome visitors, so they can create awareness about their community, and educate their Angeleno neighbors about their way of life.
But I wonder if it isn't better to not draw too much attention to themselves, if they don't want to invite change. Sometimes that which is hidden can only remain special if they can remain truly hidden.
People say that there are two ways to hike Runyon Canyon: the hard way and the easy way.
The "hard way" is taken when you turn right at the fork, and soon enough you meet a sign that warns of such steep slopes, you must be in good physical condition to take them.
It's a scramble all right, though really dedicated athletes sometimes run up the slope. But when I hiked it tonight, by the time I finished the entire loop, I thought, "That was too easy."
The last time I hiked Runyon, I went the "easy way," turning left at the fork. After a steady climb, with a nice payoff of a scenic overlook, I reached the top of the steep slopes and said, "Oh my God."
Vertigo kicked in. Panic ensued. I tiptoed across the wood planks and down the uneven terrain, sliding along the gravel. I felt top-heavy, weak-ankled, and, at times, paralyzed. I pretended that I was taking a breather, or taking in the view, but I was really taking inventory of my bravery, since I'm occasionally so easily undermined by such simple things.
I made it down that day a couple weeks ago, but not easily, and not without paying the price of sore quads and wobbly legs for days.
Most hikers are relieved when they reach the descent of a hike, when they've climbed a few hundred (or thousand) feet and have to climb back down. But I would rather climb uphill the whole way (if that were even possible), sweating and chest heaving, than catch my breath and slow my heart rate while teetering along a narrow ridge, surely to tumble head-first to my inevitable maiming.
Downhill has never been easy for me. I'll stick with climbing upwards, tackling the steep ascents, and I'll take the more gentle slopes back home.
I was doing some Beverly Hills historic home-stalking on Sunday morning when I was dismayed to see that the Neutra-designed home on Sunset that's slated for demolition was well-protected behind a high chain-link fence covered in a gauzy green tarp.
I walked the perimeter of the driveway, peering through any slight opening I could find, trying to cram my camera's lens in between the links to catch a glimpse of the ill-fated home that lie somewhere behind.
I got a bit spooked when I heard footsteps behind me, and quickly put my camera back in my purse and started to go on my merry way.
A man approached me, climbing up the driveway. "Oh are you here to look at the house too?" he asked. "I was sent by my boss."
"Oh I was sent by my friend!" I said, relieved, willing to pull the grad student / historic preservation / non-profit card to give me an air of legitimacy.
I pointed out how fenced off it was, and he asked me, "What's back there?"
"I don't know," I said. "But let's have a look."
Suddenly emboldened by his presence, I got down on the pavement and executed a limbo scoot under the fence as he first looked on in disbelief, and then pulled up on the fence gate a bit to give me some more room.
He then followed suit.
Now on the other side, we were greeted by another gate, a long driveway, and no house in sight. If that area weren't so populated I might've managed to hop the fence, but I feared being spotted by the neighbors. So, in defeat, we went back the way we came, under the fence, scraping along the blacktop, collecting twigs and other debris on our backsides along the way.
I don't know what it was about his presence that made me more fearless than when I had been alone. Maybe I was showing off. Maybe I just felt brave in comparison to him, his demeanor a bit more skittish than mine (though, in the end, he did climb under the fence too).
But regardless of the reason, imagine what I'd be capable of if I could find more partners in crime!
When describing my hiking adventures, I often refer to the "path" or the "trail," but honestly, in Southern California, that trail is more like a road.
It may be a dirt road, a fire road, a private road, or just a plain ol' road road, but regardless, I'm following not only in the footsteps, but also in the tire tracks of those cars, trucks, bikes and wagons, of those who have climbed before me.
In Black Star Canyon in Silverado, CA - known as "the last frontier of Orange County" - I hiked a road to ruins of several former ranches, a road itself which has more or less become abandoned - or, at least, that might be the hopes of the people who reside there, and relentlessly post PRIVATE signs despite the land being under an easement by the country.
You can see the empty signs that once warned drivers of the private road conditions, unmaintained by Orange County.
You pass the white metal signs lined up low along the shoulder to keep drivers from running off the road, now target practice for ne'er do wells wielding pellet guns or other firearms.
Sunwashed signs warn of narrow bridges whose shoulders have collapsed into dried-up creeks.
Other signs peek out from the overgrown brush...
...and feebly attempt to keep trespassers off the private road.
Fences are everywhere, rusty wrought rails holding in the delicious abandonment of broken-down vehicles, crumbling trailers and other delights behind barbed wire and rotting wood.
There are a few relics scattered about, their origins unknown, their utility mysterious.
That road has become enshrouded in mystery surrounding several macabre historical events in the canyon - including a massacre, several murders, and supposed car accidents. I didn't witness any of the paranormal activity that has made Black Star Canyon a place of infamy, but then again, I didn't hike it at night.
