Date: | Aug 1, '13 |
Location: | Eaton Canyon, Pasadena |
Hike: | Mount Wilson Pavilion RT (elevation ± 4,000 ft) |
Today’s miles: | 14 miles |
Planned Trip: | 18 miles |
I got a late start. I feel rushed. I hurry through the Pinecrest gate down the slope to the bridge. Seems like I'm always catching up, even if there's time. I gather my breath. It's an 8-hour hike, but the day is long. By this evening, I'll know if I'll be reaching for a credit card at REI.
I can walk this route in my sleep. I hardly notice the discontinuity at the fault that may, one day, shake our house down. My thoughts are no where near my feet. They are rehearsing the morning obstacles: Angel's stretch routine, making lunch, planning the future; the usual morning claptrap. I notice the loose conglomerate in the road cut. Brecca? Fanglomerate? I love the words of Geology.
My legs loosen. I hit a stride. There's a haze in the basin; it's muggy but not too hot. It may not heat up. I'm carrying 4 liters of water, probably more than I need. Maybe I should have added that 2-pound ankle weight. A heavier pack would be a better test.
A pair of Red Tails are circling; plaintive calls echo. A fit jogger pounds past with her two dogs. The trailing dog pants to keep up. Its tongue hangs out. There's sadness in its brown eyes. I pity the poor thing. It didn't ask for this adventure. Yet some do. Testing limits; facing fears. Why? Isn't there fear enough? Why seek out more with danger and suffering? Why call it fun?
I pass the Rattlesnake Junction. The grade steepens. A passing twinge in the foot. No need for the sticks. I ease off so nothing else breaks. It will. No longer 20. No longer 40. I'm now more and less—I matriculated from my career. Destiny has been discovered. It's mastery, not control that counts now.
The road tops a ridge. It's powder dry. Each step creates a puff. Another mile to Fuji camp, three to the bench. No one in sight. Just me, the rocks and the mountain. Things could happen here. When do hazards make an adventure? Will I know?
My hike has become a dinner topic. "Is he really going?" "When? "Is that safe?" "Will you be alone?" Of course I'll be alone, but I equivocate as a hedge against the damning tide of expectation. Like the time I had a crush on a girl who I introduced to my parents. Or I decided to become a vegan. Or the time I quit my job and moved to LA to write novels. I cringe to think of it. "They seemed like such a nice couple." "I knew that wasn't healthy." "His poor parents. Maybe he'll finally settle down and find someone nice." Despite the decades, those doubter gloats still cut. And that's not even the blackhearts who brighten at the prospect of schadenfreude. The bloggers say it's the "hike of a lifetime," Why dwell on the perils of injury and failure? It's such a downer.I take a break at Fuji Camp and chew a Picky Bar. The city shimmers under the inversion layer. My spirits lift. I decide to push for the bench without using the sticks.
I leave Fuji just as a young couple passes the junction. Their combined height is no more than 11 feet. They are attractive and fit—most everyone under 40 looks that way now. I doubt they could buy a beer without a fake ID. Their bookpacks look heavy. He carries a gallon jug of water in one hand and sleeping bags in the other. Her arms are wrapped around a sack of groceries. She wears flip-flops, loose top and shorts. He jeans, T-shirt, and buzz cut. She looks zonked. She puts down the sack and says something to him. He catches my glance and comes over.
"Say mister, is this the way to the Idlehour camp? We're camping there tonight."
"The junction is up ahead."
"How far to the camp?" she says.
"Not quite three miles. You've done most of the climb."
"Cool," he says and nods at her reassuringly. She sighs and then rewinds hair. The hike must be his idea.
I could have grand kids their age; I'm sure they see that. What they don't see is that 40 years doesn't eradicate your 20s. A photo, a letter or a song and the past springs alive belying the fact that there are no do overs. They'll find out. Eventually.
He hands her the sleeping bag and picks up her sack. I grab the water. It's heavy. "I'll take this for a bit."
"Thanks man!"
We walk three abreast past the Henninger water tanks. I like being with them. I like the fact they are so unprepared. I won't do that anymore. I know what's in store. The black flies at Idylhour camp are venomous. The burned sections of the trail are draped with branches of Poodle Dog Bush. The water in the creek is stagnant but for a trickle between little pools that are bright green with algae. In a few hours they will be miserable. I remember the true-thru creed: "Death to fear mongers!" Far be it from me to discourage them. They'll have plenty of privacy. That's what they want. One day this will be an adventure. Makes me feel like my old college self except for the age-appropriate taboos that fill me with creepiness and stop me from becoming wholly ridiculous. But age has its privileges. I know they will love talking about themselves.
"Where you guys from?"
"Chico," he says.
"He goes to Butte State. I go to UCLA," she says. She smiles sweetly. "We went to high school together."
"Aaron Rogers went Butte," he adds defensively then nudges her. She acts annoyed, but not really. "Next week she's going to Buenos Aires. She's pretty amazing!"
"My first trip away from California," she says.
"Going to school?"
"Not really." she says. "I'm gonna try to get a job for a while."
"That's a big decision."
"Yea," she says. "I've been bored. I want to do something different."
"Sounds like quite an adventure."
"I guess," she says.
We walk in silence while the import of her trip sinks in. This is his last hurrah before experience, education and culture wedge them apart. But he has tonight. That he'll have forever.
The marine layer burns off and the day is heating up. We pass the junction to the helicopter pad and pass into the first stretch of oak forest. We chat. He's taking accounting. The math is hard. She thinks she likes social work, but also likes psychology. He works part time on the dock at a distribution center. She helps out at the family nut farm.
We reach the Idyllhour junction. She wants another break. "I can't wait to jump in the water," she says. He breaks into a lurid smile. She gives him a friendly push in the chest. But they won't find decent skinny dipping in the upper canyon this year. Looks to me like his powers of persuasion will be tested. In time he'll grow accustomed to disappointment. Maybe this time, she's forgiving.
I leave them there. It'll take her a couple hours to cover the two miles to camp. I've still got 6 hours of hiking. There's plenty of light yet.
My legs feel tired at the bench. I pull out the sticks, but don't take a break. I follow the road across the shoulder to the west side of Yale Peak. I can see Eaton canyon cut across the terrain. There! I see them moving on the trail below. I wave, but only for my own benefit. By the time I cross over to the east slope of Mt Harvard, my legs are rubbery. I call it quits at the Mt. Wilson Trail Junction. No Pavilion today.
The trip down is long. My leg gets wonky and my foot numb. I lean heavily on my sticks. No trouble really, the sticks make up the difference. I pass the Idyllhour junction and wonder how they're doing. That's not an adventure I'd want. In 2 hours I'll be home. I'll sleep good tonight. Tomorrow I'm going to REI.