This past Saturday morning, I had to get to Plaza del Valle in Van Nuys for a Metro community event. Two journey options: one achievable in 28 minutes by car and the other, 1.5 hours by transit, and I chose the latter — and that has made all the difference.
Why, Eileen, why?
1. To get a chance to ride the amazing Metro Orange Line for the first time.
2. To reduce polluting emissions into the air.
3. To get an up-close tour of neighborhoods new to me.
4. To relax and leave the driving to a pro, and avoid affliction with road rage.
5. To have an adventure.
The pressure to catch the 501 bus afforded some benefits. My dear garrulous neighbor ceased his sidewalk effusion when I mentioned I had to catch this once-per-hour bus. Off I sped, on my bike from home in East Pasadena to Raymond Avenue and Walnut in old town. One beat after my bike lock clicked into place, the bright orange of the 501 Metro Express from Pasadena to North Hollywood bus loomed on the horizon. The actual stop was only ten paces away, which I covered with an alacrity that, I would soon discover, is essential to getting around LA on mass transit.
The speed of the 501 on the 134 East at 9AM on a Saturday morning is totally impressive. With free wifi onboard and plentiful seating, my satisfaction became pure delight when we rolled into North Hollywood Station’s lot a mere 20 minutes later.
I had to ask a stranger for direction to the Metro Orange line connection. It was across the street and, according to the LED sign, required a four-minute wait for the next one. First time on the Orange Line, I was practically shocked by its frequency and the pleasantness of traveling in a bus-only lane mostly secluded from car traffic and parallel only with walkways and verdant foliage. It was immensely tranquil and efficient. About 15 minutes later, I arrived in Van Nuys, where I would wait 10 minutes for the 233 Local bound for Pacoima.
As I boarded this bus, the atmosphere was more of the familiar Metro experience. At near max occupancy, this included a lady with a wagon full of boxes in the Seniors/Disabled priority area. A man was blasting ranchero music from his smartphone, while others grimaced and endured. The neighborhood whizzed by through the windows: auto shops, neverias, pawn shops, mom and pop taquerias, county aid offices — signs of a neighborhood trying to get a foothold on LA life in its own way. Engrossed in studying the surroundings, I missed my stop and overshot my destination by three miles before I snapped out of it. At that point, I decided to get off at the next stop, cross the street, and ride the 233 in the opposite direction to my original destination.
My Transit app and Google both said the wait for the next bus would be ten minutes but, even after three minutes, the wait remained a steadfast ten minutes. My finger yearned to open the Lyft app and be done with it but I held out. Soon a few other riders appeared at the stop waiting for this bus. I noticed one girl count perfect change in her wallet and I decided to give her one of my extra TAP cards in my wallet. As I explained to her what a TAP card is and how it would help her save money, she nodded but her eyes conveyed blankness. I realized that getting the point across is not as easy as I had assumed. She stared at the card that I gave to her with a look of “What in the world is this?” I realized, she needed to hear it in Spanish.
Eventually the bus came and I rode it back. None of the buses have a digital map onboard that shows where you are on the route, at any given time. Furthermore, the apps don’t have a way to tell you where to get off the bus. The onboard announcement of forthcoming stops are consistent, muffled but vanquished by the ambient noise. You just end up having to look out the window and count the stops very carefully.
Getting to the actual community outreach site was not easy. This downtown Van Nuys area looks like Ensenada to me! And the visual inundation was obliterated any temporary signage that Metro may have put up to attract passerbys. Eventually, I found the coven of white tents and was able to identify my Metro colleagues.
Without going into too much detail on the Van Nuys new light rail line, pedestrian walkway, and bike path improvement public engagement event (which was a blast and such an improvement over typical civic meetings, the details of which I wrote into a report for my Metro work), I’ll just say that taking Metro there gave me an authentic and insightful exposure into the people, cityscape, and overall vibe of Van Nuys Boulevard. This was crucial information for participating in the outreach event with the public and for evaluating the effectiveness of our informational material. I certainly would not have gotten that if I had driven there.
The ride back was not bad. The 233 arrived just like the Transit App said it would. However, when I got to North Hollywood, the app said that I had an extra ten minutes before the 501 would depart for Pasadena. As I leisurely strolled towards the sun-drenched stop nearly three blocks away, I spotted it, to my horror, pulling away from the stop and already exiting the bus terminal. OMG WTF! I didn’t care whether the app was wrong or if the Metro bus operator decided to take off early— I just did not want to wait 40 minutes for the next one.
Remember the essential alacrity that I mentioned earlier? This is it. Recalling that the 501 took Lankershim Boulevard on the way over, I knew that it would take it going back, making one more stop before blasting off to Pasadena, and thereby crushing my hopes.
I bolted down the street, thanks to a combination of my favorite Converse sneakers and my 40-something machinery that won’t let up. Fortunately, the 501 was hindered by a series of red lights behind me, but soon enough I was neck and neck with it at the last intersection preceding its last stop.
I turned my head and looked at the bus operator through the bus door window. She seemed to detect the searing energy of my beseeching glance and turned to me. I pointed to the bus stop across the street. She nodded and gave me a thumbs up.
Of course the bus got there before for I did, but not by long. She held as I ran up. Breathless, I put placed my Metro badge on the farebox TAP validator. “Thanks.” I said to her. “Never give up.” I said to myself.
I love the 501 for whizzing past traffic and just shuttling between its destinations. Pasadena arrived to us faster than to any driver from North Hollywood.
Yes, that roundtrip did take time but I got to see, learn, and experience a lot. I had that hunch all along. It was an investment and a luxury that we each decide whether we want to have.
This past Saturday morning until noon, my friend Michael and I, along with about 100 others of all walks, participated in a public tour led by the Los Angeles County Sanitation Districts at Puente Hills Landfill and San José Creek Water Reclamation Plant.
I was very excited to attend this tour because, five years ago, I worked with Los Angeles County Department of Public Works (LADPW) on a publication called the Countywide Siting Element, an integrated waste management plan for the County’s 10.16 million residents. The document made it clear that the County was running out of local landfill space. That time has now arrived. It had all been in the abstract until now.
The Landfill Tour
Puente Hills Landfill, the largest in the USA at 600 acres across and up to 500 feet deep, is now closed and no longer receiving dumps. The trash items are encased in a concrete-lined basin and buried at least five feet deep in soil. No water penetrates it. You can see a tree-studded mountain off of the 60-freeway.
It looks very natural but as you get closer, you see that the trees are all non-native: figs, eucalyptus, and myrtles, with pipes, full of liquid leakage or methane emissions from the trash, weaving among the tree trunks. You can also see croppings of mysterious tanks and pumps throughout the mountainside. Nonetheless, there are plans to transform it into a public park.
The methane leads to a furnace where it is burned and the heat is used to create electricity. Water is used to cool down the air from the energy conversion and the vapor is released through these stacks.
At the foot of the mountain is a giant warehouse, the size of which I’ve never seen so large in my life. The big trash trucks departing from them, after unloading, look like tiny dots.
Inside, each truck must pay depending on what it is dropping off and how much. The types of trash are sorted into much more specific categories than just “recycling.” For example: wood, concrete, produce, paper, glass, etc.
After sorting and breaking down the categories of trash, they are either sold or transported by truck or train to distant processing sites.
The Sewage Tour
San José Creek water reclamation services existed before Puente Hills Landfill became a thing. It is the oldest sewage processing plant in LA County and a large one too. Check out these buttons. They don’t make them like this anymore!
San José Creek Plant alone process some 100 million gallons per day. Sometimes, more sewage arrives than can be processed, particularly during storms. In such cases, the raw sewage goes straight into the ocean. A new plan, the Clearwater Project, will have large pipes built and installed into the Pacific, sending sewage a few miles out before it is released into the ocean, so it is away from the coast.
While this preserves the quality of water along the beaches and coastal properties, it does also send a bit of the wrong message: Out of sight, out of mind.
Not today — raw sewage is gross!
Our guide and Sanitation employee told us about the three stages of sewage processing. He said this is basically nature’s own process — accelerated.
Primary – Raw sewage in tanks, settling beneath closed metal doors. Our guide opened some for us to see. It was too dark to see and the smell was too strong to approach.
Secondary- The debris in the water is digested by the same kinds of microbes in your intestines. The liquid is exposed to the air to enable further breakdown through natural processes. The odor is strong but less so.
Tertiary – The water goes through intense sediment filtration and becomes clear.
Our guide let us know that this water was clean enough for gardening and for washing our hands. He passed around a flask of this water and poured it over open palms of the audience. He also told us that about 1 billion of the world population is drinking water less clean than the tertiary grade.
The residual solids separated from the water are hauled to distant sites to be transformed into fertilizer. In fact, you may know the brand Kellogg from Home Depot’s nursery section (not the cereal brand). H. Clay Kellogg took the solids from sanitation filtration and transformed it into agricultural and residential garden fertilizer in the 1920s, launching his successful business.
Adjacent to the plant, concrete-lined San Jose Creek finds new life through the reclaimed water.
Over 50% of LA’s water is from Sacramento and from the Colorado River. With those sources reducing their exports to LA, we need to curb water waste and, when it does rain, let rainfall recharge our groundwater sources. This means letting it drain into the soil rather than let it run off into the sea.
As we face a city and world that are stretched thin for resources and changing as a result human impacts, what struck me the most during the tours was how much fuel and energy we are expending to manage waste. A toilet flushed in Pasadena must travel through a network of pipes to reach Whittier to be processed. Trash collected from a residential bin from Monrovia travels 30 miles in a heavy diesel truck to be sorted and then put on a diesel train to be hauled to Mesquite Canyon Landfill in the Mojave Desert. We are compounding our waste.
The desert is a strange place. It is where the hardiest of creatures can live and the rest just die trying.
A few Saturdays ago, I bit down on a long-lived desire to visit Death Valley. I recall my elementary school days, in geography class, seeing its outstretched name over a big swath of eastern California. Its largesse and meaning stoked a quiet terror in me. As an adult who”s been to Joshua Tree several times and a friend of a Coachella native, Michael, I”ve actually grown fond of the desert and have come to see the faded greens and strewn rocks as a fertile ecosystem for the small, stern survivalists on this planet. That which once inspired fear now inspires mesmerization.
Along the nearly 300 miles from Pasadena to Death Valley Junction, we encountered scattered settlements, towns anchored by familiar chainstores, conspicuous federal infrastructure facilities, and abandoned commercial enterprises riddled with graffiti. The latter fascinated us. They are remnants of grandiose dreams of vacation oases and of metaphysical healing spas for fleeing urbanites, now left to weather under an unswayed sun and through the erosion by prolific vandals.
That kind of visionary”s mirage is also what brought Death Valley into the collective consciousness — through mining. 10,000 of them. From borax to gold. All and all, unsuccessful with priceless costs. In the end, humans” attempt to claim nature”s gifts evolved into nature reclaiming her own gifts for humans to awe.
In the four hours that we had at DV, before heading back, we saw quite a few sites and realized that we would need to return again one day to see more.
There was a contemporary look to this stripped down, minimalist, barren scene. The nearly consistent light beige of the mounds and the hazy sky united in visual harmony. I remarked to Michael that this looked like an art exhibition, or that today”s art more and more takes note from the desert. I can”t tell if its minimalism is post-apocalyptic or pre-civilization. Well, if you ask Earth, these are one in the same, I guess!
I longed to see the real Artist”s Palette, after seeing a bunch of heavily photoshopped versions online. And here it was, at the most ideal viewing time of the day, sunset. The mountains swirled with color like a Rite Aid ice cream flavor. Artist”s Drive must”ve been the inspiration for Big Thunder Mountain at Disneyland. The roads dipped, swooped and turned in extremes in characteristic ways. Every turn brought another array and display of color in these barren mountainsides.
\r\nA display of tectonic dynamism, examples of undulating, collapsed and tossed masses of landscape of towering proportions, striated with multi-hued minerals variegated our every vantage point. I have never seen such extreme and stark tectonic results. A single stripe of color, a strata of rock layer, was visible across a range of mountains: at first horizontal, then zigzagging up and down, and finally ending up vertical — all denoting the kinds of buckling, bunching and colliding of earth that needed to happen in order to create it. The mountains were like frozen tsunamis of rock looming above us. None of it looked friendly but all of it was awesome. Nothing was gentle about this landscape. Its magnitude and grandeur conjured the greatest orchestral pieces in Michael”s synesthetic mind. As we left, the sun sank over the highest peaks. Haze shrouded the day and shut out all light at night. Outside my car, you could not see anything beyond one foot”s distance. It was dead silent and pitch black. For Michael, this totality summoned the most striking moments of every horror film he had ever seen (and that was a lot). For me, my backpacker”s wonderment was piqued by the extraordinariness of this phenomenon and the ecological qualities it afforded, especially in contrast to those heavily influenced by human activity. What a luxury this place is to nocturnal animals with supersonic senses and night vision. It is totally unpolluted by noise and light. I could indulge myself in this imagination, only because our paper map assured us that we were on the correct route!
Trepidation gave way to voracious hunger when the sparkle of city lights appeared in the windshield. At this point, Michael released a breath of relief, reassured by these beacons of civilization, and for second, we shared the probably the same sentiment as our ancient ancestors returning from a long wilderness journey on a much less human-inhabited earth, heartened to see the distant flicker of the tribal bonfire. It is a prehistoric feeling.It was nearly 9pm. How early all of the restaurants close in the desert! We drove all of the way to Barstow before stopping at an In-N-Out with copious seating for perhaps 70 but occupied by a motley 15. I regained vitality first with a hot chocolate while Michael went straight for the fries and burger. After refueling both the car and ourselves, I said to Michael, you can sleep now. I”ll drive. He said no. He would stay up and DJ an 80s playlist because our spirits still needed fueling. We sang to young Madonna, The Jets and Janet Jackson during this final stretch. Before we knew it, the 210 junction appeared and the whole day felt a lot like a dream.
Honestly, this trip should really be made in a minimum of two days, with overnight camping in the park. There was so much left to see, including the dunes, the canyons, and the kilns. DV also features an impressive Visitors” Center and Ranger Station, with a comprehensive museum and screening room about the history of the park. We had had to race through the exhibitions and forego the film. Many visitors were inside, including those in line for Wilderness Permits for backcountry backpacking. We did it all in one long day. Too much! It was more of a charter expedition to scope out the territory for a more in-depth and extended journey in the future. Rangers said that November is usually and ideal time to visit.
I needed to hit reset by way of adventure, nature, and novelty. It”s so weird that I could actually achieve that in such a short period of time! I”m spending my night at home now, typing on my laptop on the dining table, even though the morning of this very day began atop the Sierras hundreds of miles away. Such is the phenomena of modern life.
For a mere nine miles, I was my own transportation: these two 42-year-old limbs. It had been a good long while—decades for that matter—since I have done any significant amount of backpacking in the wilderness. While an undergrad at UC Berkeley, I had picked up the pastime, through a student activities organization on campus called Outdoor Adventures. This time, I was going to go backpacking alone for the first time, and for just one night on the Lakes Trail in Sequoia National Park. Destination: Emerald Lake.
Going at it alone does require additional precautions. I read up on it on the interwebs, and ended up bringing mace, per recommendation of this kindred spirit, Ali Gates.
But why even?
The winter had bestowed an unusual amount of precipitation upon the Sierras. My last trip to Yosemite after a markedly wet winter rewarded me with unforgettable views of swollen rivers and waterfalls and verdant foliage. I did not want to miss the opportunity this year to see the Sierras rehydrated after five years of drought, even if no hiking buddies had time to join me. Plus, the wilderness had been calling me for a long time, and this moment seemed like the right one to carpe diem.
I shoved off from Pasadena midday on a Wednesday and got to Kaweah Oaks Campground in the town of Three Rivers about 3.5 hours later. During the trip-planning phase, I had discovered the Visalia Transit Sequoia Shuttle service, which stops at a handful of pick-up points between Visalia and Three Rivers and takes passengers to the Giant Forest Museum, the heart of Sequoia National Park. For a $7.50 each way, you can leave the 1.5 hours of driving up the windy, construction-ridden 53 miles to a pro. In a way, it was perfect, as the Three Rivers stop is at the town’s Historical Museum, just next door to Kaweah Oaks Campground. I paid the grounds manager an extra fee to leave my car in their shaded parking lot for the night I”d be tenting in the forest. Known as a “cyclist’s campground”, the outdoor lodging is perfectly no-frills. Capacious individual sites to pitch even Coleman-sized tents, plenty of water of the non-potable variety, a common port-o-let, and a common booth shower. If one truly is a cyclist camper, I noticed that each Sequoia Shuttle is also fitted with a rack to carry two bicycles.
That night, bats careened over me, as I walked in the dark from the sink and back to my tent. I prefer to exercise my natural night vision as much as possible, before resorting to the flashlight. It is amazing how many more details you see in your peripheral vision, without the harsh spotlight of a lightbulb. At first, I was a little leery, because I was the only guest at the campground, but by 9pm, company showed up, as in a couple with three coolers full of drink and victuals. They seemed jolly enough. I walked up and thanked them for their presence. They smiled and said no problem, as if there wasn”t ever anything to worry about.Across the street, behind the karaoke bar, the Kaweah River roiled and raged, emboldened by the meltdown of this year’s oversized snowpack. The snarls of current were ready to pull in anything that got close. The overlapping roars created a white noise, that drowned out any sudden sounds that might disturb sleep, if it weren’t for the nocturnal 85-degree heat. Without the respite of a breeze, I lay in my tent slightly sticky.
Somehow, I got through the night, precarious with a heavy-headedness the next morning. Let’s give this a good pour-over of freshly ground coffee beans and leftover Saag Paneer with brown rice from last night. Reheated on my compact MSR stove, it was supremely delicious, elevated by the magic seasonings of my extraordinary fatigue and hunger. Recounts of such details would often perplex or sadden my family members, prompting them to ask why I subject myself to such so-called miseries. In my perspective, these are the small sacrifices for larger gains which, in this instance, was the experience of being in the wild. Oddly enough, I also do achieve a re-calibration of my senses through operating close to baseline. For some, this is deprivation. Regardless, a session of it can make you realize how little you need to feel sated and powered up for the next undertaking.Swiftly, I refueled and packed up, shedding excess materials in my car and carrying the essentials in my internal frame pack, which also contained my sleeping bag, sleeping mat, and tent. As I waited at 6:50am at the Three Rivers Historical Museum for my shuttle ride, a man living in the house across the street walked over and told me that the shuttle is never quite on-time. Silver hair overflowed from underneath his sun-beaten baseball cap. Eventually, we started chatting about life in Three Rivers. He told me that the place had pretty much been caught in a time warp of the 1970s until recently, when milllenials from LA and San Francisco started coming in with their city cash, and driving up the cost of everything, especially property. As they are not showing signs of reproducing, and the native kids are growing up and moving out to the bigger cities, the class sizes at schools have continuously dwindled. He also said that these millenials imported with them their “city politics” and their liberalism. He said he’d rather take capitalism over Muslim proliferation, and at that point I interceded. Perhaps I was yet another manifestation of the liberalism of which he referred (I don’t know) but I suggested that unbridled capitalism is not the way to go. After all, even good old Sequoia National Park, the glory of Three Rivers and the balm of over-frenzied city dwellers like me, was on the chopping block, under the prevailing administration. He paused, and said, ok, then we have to have a third choice of moderation. As I nodded in agreement, the shuttle pulled up and I waved goodbye to the conversant neighbor. Transferring to one of the free Seki local shuttles connecting the Giant Forest to Lodgepole Visitor Center, I would obtain the wilderness permit there for my Lakes trail. Since it was one of the few trails whose permit is only available on a first-come, first-serve basis, I wanted to maximize my chance of securing one by getting there as early as possible, which was, by now, 9AM. As luck would have it, Sierra Swinney, the ranger, assigned one to me for a fee of $15 and took notes on the description of my tent, pack, and emergency info. She also gave me the scoop on the trail conditions and the depth of the snow towards the lake. She had a natural and outdoorsy ruddiness, with glowing complexion and a lean strength to her build. Sierra assured me that it was safe for me to backpack solo and that, in fact, she has to backpack alone regularly on various trails for her job.I also rented a bear canister, where I would store my food that night in the forest. These sturdy bulky plastic cylinders have tops that pop open with a turn of a coin or screw driver. Bears cannot get them open no matter how they kick and bang them. Some forego using these and opt to do a bear hang instead, which is a method of hoisting the sack of food with a rope over a proper tree branch 15 feet off the ground. The only problem is, you may not have such the ideal tree branch arrangement where you set up camp. Taking another Seki shuttle from Lodgepole to Wolverton trailhead, I unloaded even more excess baggage and left a cinch-sack full in one of the several bear lockers that every trailhead has. It’s always hard to figure out how much you’ll eat out there but, more often than not, you eat less than you think and you feel burdened carrying the leftover.Hitting the TrailNow, the pack weighed about 30 lbs, which is kind of a lot, especially considering how constant and difficult the ascent was. The trail started out with partial shade, surrounded by many decomposing fallen pines and firs, and dry, hot air, perfumed with sawdust smells. As I proceeded further, I neared creeks, which gave life to tall grasses and delicate blue belladonnas. The moisture cooled the air here. Butterflies of variegated colors and patterns fluttered. The nice relief countered the increasing difficulty of planting successive uphill steps. Along the trail, I sporadically crossed paths with other hikers of all ages and nationalities. Many were day-hikers, doing the roundtrip in one shot. There was also a solo backpacker lady returning from her trip, bouncing down rocks with contentment.How could one not read the allegory in this backpacking trip? Life is like a long hike and we get so focused on executing the routine that we don”t lift our hands to take in the beautiful environment. It is like life in other ways too. Everytime you reach a lake or a vista point, the anguish of the physical journey disappears instantly to make room for feelings of pleasure and joy. You become glad that you stuck it out to this point. It”s also like life in that responsibilities or chance may pull you in one direction or another.
I crossed babbling brooks and clambered over large fallen logs. Many rest stops slowed my ascent. As I got higher, more giant rocks appeared, which made breaks easier, as they helped prop up my pack and gave my bum relief on the cool granite surface. The proximity of rivers on this trail also made it convenient to refill bottles with water, filtered through my hiking pump. I was so thirsty, drinking lots of delicious cold water and passing it through in the form of profuse sweat. Too bad, I couldn’t take more pictures. One discovery during this trip was that my iphone is really just a gadget for the city. It is of no use in the wild. The battery drains quickly for some reason and none of the basic apps work. The best equivalents to carry into the forest are:
Topographic map (preferably of durable and waterproof material)
Kinetic watch (such as a Rolex)
A real camera
As I was panting up the steepest portion leading up to the ridge before Heather lake, I started to question my own competence as backpacker. Should I simply look now for my spot for the night? Would forcing myself forward only cause more problems, like getting a migraine that would jeopardize tomorrow’s return to Wolverton? Backpacking provokes substantive questions, as it is very analogous to life itself. The wilderness puts you in your place without fail, and you feel very small. At the same time, this sense of inconsequence empowers you to pursue joy. I watched a honeybee collecting copious pollen from a flower while another was riding her. Just at that moment, a descending hiker came into view. I asked him what the trail was like ahead and what wonderful things I could hope to see. He was smiley and encouraging, saying that the trail would get easier, the upcoming snow patches were manageable and that I had got to see the a spectacular sweep of the mountain range across the valley. Such sudden incidents of strangers appearing at cusps of surrender would recur.He was right. This is what I saw. I wish that I had enough juice in my iphone to record the sound. It was thunderous. Every so often, you would hear a pop as a new stream would burst through the snowpack and create another waterfall. I hung out for a while, wondering if this should be my final destination. The thickness and extent of the snow was formidable. While my hiking poles would help a lot and my boots were very solid and waterproof, I did not have snow shoes like the three young men did ahead of me. Smoothly, they proceeded into the engulfing whiteness.
Recalling traveling on snow during a past hike through the Anselm Adams Forest in Inyo National Forest, I remembered that it is much easier if you step into someone else’s footsteps. So, I decided to go for it — this time down the mountainside. Careful not to barrel forward and turn into a snowball, I leaned back a bit and planted my poles hard. There were a few unforeseen slips and falls but fortunately nothing major. The air was still warm, so I didn’t feel as cold as the scenery would suggest. At the foot of the descent, a brook ran, and there again, I would filter refreshing snowmelt and drink it with satisfaction.
It is amazing to see how eagerly the new season of greenery takes root and sprouts. These little plants poke out of every patch of thawed earth. They don’t skip a second to start growing. The snow around the trees and rocks are the first to melt, and it was clear that many rivers gushed invisibly beneath the whiteness. You have to be careful to make sure not to sink and fall into one of those streams. If not a stream, there could be tangle of branches and rocks underneath that could really mess up your ankle or leg. Then, you’d have to contend with injury and immobility with no one to hear you and with freezing snow all around.
Just a few yards ahead was Heather Lake, half-frozen and mysteriously awesome. Of the three hikers ahead, one had already stripped down to shorts and got ready to jump into the chilly water. His shout was silenced by a splash. After a few seconds, he scrambled out, laughing. Without regret, he said he had become too dirty and sticky. He had to do it.
I walked slowly around the perimeter of the lake, admiring the translucency of the lake’s water and the opacity of the remaining ice. The bordering mountainside blended into the floating whiteness. I could only imagine how wonderful it would feel to swim in it in about two month’s time.
At this point, I was dead tired. Heather Lake is 2,000 feet higher than the trailhead, which was already 4,000 feet above sea level. Plus, struggling through the snow takes up lots of upper body strength. The jury was done deliberating. The verdict was to set up camp on the next ridge, which divides Heather Lake from the valley adjacent to Emerald Lake, which would be surrounded by even more snow. Emerald, Aster, and Pear Lakes would all have to wait until another time.
And it wasn’t bad either. To say the truth, the views from this ridge were stunning and immense.I started to set up my tent on the soft snow when two more hikers showed up, two young men who had the build of waterpolo players. They were wearing shorts, t-shirts, and mountain running shoes, and only carrying the most compact of backpacking packs. I said hi and asked them if they were cold. They looked at me incredulously and asked me why I wasn’t heading to Emerald. It’s only a mile or so away, they said. The forest clearly behold many animals, even a variety just within the human species. When I told them that I was exhausted, they hunted around for a better place for me to set up my tent and found one a bed of pine needles, softened by freezing and thawing and propped up by a single vigorous pine. No sooner did I thank them did they start skipping down the mountainside of snow. I relocated my gear and started to put together my kitchen, on a cluster of big rocks. It’s best to eat before sunset, as things get harder to see and the temperatures start to drop.
The good thing about camping around snow is that you don’t have to hike down to the river to get water. The water is everywhere! You just have to melt it. As I enjoyed a cup of green tea, I boiled more water to make mac-n-cheese from a box. Adding some real cheddar and powdered milk, I made it extra rich. It was soooo yummy! It was the most satisfying meal I’ve had in a long time. After eating a sizable serving, some celery and carrot sticks, an apple, and a piece of chocolate, I boiled yet more water for a sponge bath and finally completed the toiletry rituals. All food and fragrant things had to go into the bear canister, which got shut tight and crammed into a crevice. At last, I rolled into the tent about the same time that the last bits of light retreated from the sky. I spread out my spent limbs. The bed was so soft and relaxing. Sleep came in no time.
The next morning about 6am, bird chirps and the first sunrays woke me up. The bear canister was exactly as I had left it. My pots and cookware were undisturbed and now dry. I guess no quiet visitors came last night. That’s nice. Knowing that I had to catch the Sequoia – Visalia shuttle from Giant Forest in the late afternoon, I did not laze through the morning. A breakfast of fresh coffee, more mac-n-cheese (it was so good), and fruit materialized pretty quickly. I broke down the tent, consolidated all equipment and took a moment to make sure to leave no trace. This location had served me well and I gave it a little prayer of thanks.So longThe return hike up the mountain of snow was much harder than I thought. It’s like three steps forward and 2.5 steps worth of sliding back down. After trying this a few times, I realized that it would totally exhaust me without reward, so I devised another plan. Given that there were scattered dry spots, I made freestyle switchbacks between them and eventually zigzagged my way up the mountainside. The only problem was that now I was completely off the trail. I had no idea where it was anymore. Time to consult the compass and the map. Hmm, I could hike in the trail’s general direction. After about 200 feet of cutting through bushes and branches, the brightness of a magenta silk rose on the sunhat of a woman hiking with her husband caught my eye. I waved to her and shouted that I couldn’t find the trail. She stopped and pointed it out. All order was restored. They were heading in a different direction and zipped away. (I’m always impressed about how my presumptions about age and diminished vitality are continuously dashed.)
Hiking downhill was much easier than hiking uphill, though the knees and the quads work harder to stay engaged. Be that as it may, at last, I could thoroughly take in the scenic richness of this trail, without concentrating so much on breathing and energy flow. I saw fur-fluffed marmots, wild grouses, lots of chipmunks, and even a lithe doe, who carried on feeding upon moss without a care about my presence. The early morning and quietude offered so many precious encounters. On the way down, I met a solo hiker with a surfer”s aura in his late 40s, who proclaimed he was from San Diego and explained that he loved doing solo hikes, including 160 miles over nine days along the Pacific Crest Trail between Yosemite and Inyo. I asked him if he ever got nervous. He said that he trusted his judgement and found exceptional fulfillment in communing with abounding nature. He recommends it to anyone with the physical strength. I looked at his wiry and moderately muscular build, his wild hair, and the leatheriness of his skin. This guy was the real deal. Another remarkable variety of the human species.And it was Friday, the gateway to the weekend, and the stampede of hikers was on its way. For example, a 14-member squad of the Sierra Club hiked past me. Whole families with preteen kids, receiving hands-on inculcation into the ways of the outdoors. They are lucky!By 1PM, I arrived at Wolverton trailhead. Such a surprisingly quick trip back! I had to return my bear canister to Lodgepole and then go to Giant Forest to catch the Visalia shuttle, but greed, untamable greed, intercepted me and I hard-lefted to the Giant Forest grove to be surrounded by the Sequoia Trees. I’ve been to this park before, so I thought I could bypass this familiar grove but I still really wanted to see them one more time. It never ceases to amaze me how these powerful and gigantic creatures originated from a small seed in the soft earth. Over the course of thousands of years, they soar towards the sky. They are truly magnificent and mesmerizing, no matter how many times I see them. My silent reckoning with their telluric persistence seguéd to the brevity of my own, by comparison.
Back to Civilization
Alas, shuttle I must catch, and downhill to Three Rivers we rode. It was still hot as hell down there. Though initial plans involved staying one more night at Kaweah Oaks, I felt at this point I would much rather drive the three hours or so back home to Pasadena, take a shower, and sleep in my own bed. I did exactly that, passing by farmlands and fracking fields. It was weird to face the terrain of very evident human influence after being in the forest. I guess we need to do this to survive, or do we? As much as I tried to minimize waste and take public transportation at Seki, the ridiculousness of me driving 200 miles to a location, just to hike nine miles — it”s nuts. To make it worth it, I need to make it a longer trip next time, and bring friends. And that might even actually be more fun.
On Solo Backpacking
My assessment of solo backpacking now is that it is overall good. One must have one’s calm, wits and resourcefulness about herself. One must also be ready to carry slightly more weight than when hiking with another. I’d do this again sometime. As for the being able to touch the water, I went a little early. I think late August or September may be better, insofar as the rivers will not be so pernicious and of a more soothing temperature for a good swim.
AIGA Conference program, notebook, and my Metro mug.[/caption]We”re in Las Vegas. The sun is setting, and peeks at us right above the horizon, blasting its honey rays through the full-length windows of gate C22 at McCarran Airport.I just wrapped up 3.5 days of the annual AIGA conference. Sadly, missed the Chuck D finale presentation for fear of not being able to pierce the thickening ring of security that was tourniquetting the roads and freeways to my outbound flight. The final Hillary vs. Trump presidential debate was taking place that night at nearby UNLV.The confluence of events may have been a coincidence but, by most indicators, this year”s AIGA Conference found a way and a need to grow in the midst of a barrage of uncertainties in the national landscape, the least of which was the shaping of our future presidential leadership.From the outset, I was unprepared for the gush of show(wo)manship but then found my second wind or got high on my own greed. The event”s productions were immense and elaborate, with multi-level stages, three giant screens, music intro”s, and lighting design.And the presentations examined subjects as diverse as the speakers themselves. It seemed that AIGA wanted to offer something for every kind of designer. From the looks of it, about 700 people were involved, including attendees, organizers and speakers. The average attendee was a young woman, either a student or a neophyte of a design practitioner. For this reason perhaps, a number of presentations were pep-talks (i.e. AIGA Executive Director Julie Anixter’s opening speech, Alina Walker’s David Bowie presentation, Diógenes Brito and “Earning a seat at the table”, etc.). As part of the more veteran minority, I thought it was sweet.I attended none of the additional fee events because the “standard package” was already over-the-top — I mean literally: from 7:15AM until 10:30PM at night with 1-hour breaks in between for meals. The morning symposia occurred simultaneously so the selection was tough. Based on what I was able to attend, these were the main themes of the talks:Encouragement\r\n
Equal pay and career opportunities for both genders.
Have fun. Find audacity and fervor, exuberance, and personality to express through your work.
Dare. Don’t fear messing up. Learn from each mistake.
Don”t forget who the real clients are: the client’s customers.
Educate the client. Many don”t know what design is or what it can do for them.
Show empathy for the user.
Being ready to do your own research and not relying solely on the facts that the client has given you. It may not tell the whole picture. Initial research to inform the design project and then, follow-up assessment research on the performance of the final design in the environment and with the audience.
How to iterate quickly and productively.
Have a complementary practice outside of design, whether it is music, writing, and/or art. It”s a way of digesting one’s work and giving it inflection.
Be more than a traditional designer: Designer as content-maker, as programmer, as venture capitalist, as business manager, president of a school, as motivational speaker.
\r\nVegas is an interesting place to have this AIGA conference. It can be seen as the epitome of all that design does not aspire to be: gaudy, excessive, contextually fragmented and jarring, a visual assault with lights and fire. While the The Strip entranced with its dazzle, the limpid swimming pool and jacuzzi taunted with its refreshment and the plethora of restaurants promised copious and savory offerings, I was here for design first, and relaxation second… Although nearly every one of the design presenters mentioned that having fun was the magic elixir of making great work!Vegas is also a uniquely fecund seed tray for fantasies, dreams, and alternate realities of all sorts, including the diaspora of notions contemplated throughout these three days. A metaphor that encapsulates its mystique was the nightly eruptions of the volcano at The Mirage, the location of this year’s AIGA action. An enormous, custom-made outdoor water feature of fiberglass boulders, pyrotechnics, and tribal percussive rhythms and toucan calls. It was tremendous, and impressive, not unlike the conference itself.Ok, perfect place for AIGA.The mornings from 9AM to noon held the symposia. On Monday morning, I kicked off with the Management Practice Symposium, on how to run (keep financially afloat) an independent design entity.Husband-and-wife leadership, Justin and Sarah Ahrens, of Rule 29 in Geneva, IL were rockin’ and talked about the push-pull between balancing the business’ revenue and expenses, and how to seek projects: some of the more creatively enticing ones may not be as lucrative as the cut-and-dry ones, but with a grasp of the business’ needs, a balanced design diet can be achieved. Harvest was their business software of choice. They also discussed the imperative of having an advisory team, consisting of a CPA, a lawyer, another creative professional, and a professor, with whom they check in on a quarterly basis. They addressed when it makes sense to hire freelance staff versus full-time staff. All of this to say that a pro-active business posture, with foresight and anticipation for future income and project types, is just better than a reactive one.What I appreciated about these two was their clarity, the abundance of memorable anecdotes, their willingness to use their mistakes to exemplify points, and the live performance of the jovial and respectful chemistry they have together.The value of a strong creative and financial partnership was echoed during our round-table with Ken Carbone of Karbone Smolan in NYC. Ken is a designer, artist, entrepreneur, rock guitarist, writer and educator. He is in charge of the creative and Leslie Smolan “knows how to make money.” They”ve been partners for 40 years. He credits her with being indispensable to the success of their firm. “How did you find her?” Another asked. Ken replied that it was pure fate. I”d say he must be a good judge of character!Ann Harakawa, Principal of environmental graphic design firm Two-Twelve, flavored the symposium with how to seek and prepare proposals for new projects, drawing the difference between public and private sector pursuits. She talked about how to get as much information as possible before embarking on one’s own submission of quals and how to figure out the secret of the budget. She also touched on the interview experience and, once short-listed, the negotiation rigamarole. All and all, one could extrapolate from her wisdom that advice is helpful but the ability to procure a project is a skill truly mastered through practice. Ann said that she’s had many failures and many a lesson learned from each one of them. Ann is both business leader and creative director of her firm, and a Yale classmate of my CalArts prof, Lorraine Wild.Linda Joy Kattwinkel and Shel Perkins talked about copyright and what of graphic design can be copyrighted and therefore compensate the creator. They even walked us through applying online for copyright and the careful language that must be used and what words must be avoided.So the morning started out with the hard facts of how to keep the lights on. The opening ceremony was to follow after the lunch break. After a series of celebratory intro’s from the leadership and organizers of the event, the speeches veered back towards more aspirational messages.As I absorbed the panoply, it became evident to me that design is a gaping broad gamut. We had Luke Woods of Facebook talking about user flow processes on mobile devices and Gemma O”Brien talking about mural-sized calligraphy. From appearances and from the nuts-and-bolts, these are like totally different professions. They seem like night and day but something links these disparate practices…what is it? I would propose two hypotheses:\r\n
A deep interest in and commitment to the quality of the user”s experience. The emphasis was on knowledge-gathering to drive the design process. Several dealt with digging deep and investing significant time and creative measures just to find out what were the heartfelt issues that their audiences contend with.
Soft power. Design thrives in the world of soft power, of cultural permeation and evidencing behavioral change through persuasion (or dare I say inspiration) in contrast to force or coercion. While many businesses now grasp the strength of soft power, it”s something that still needs to be articulated and demonstrated to clients.
\r\nEach designer”s approach was individual and distinct, with their specializations not exactly interchangeable but the commonality, the linchpin, seemed to be empathy. Hearing all of the presentation, I walked away with the question as to how do I engage empathy? What is my personal design approach for doing so, at least for right now?Designers can have different approaches at different points in our lives. The esteemed Paula Scher humbly looks back on her own and acknowledges that she”s lucky to be able to keep working in design at her age, when many contemporaries failed to maintain relevance. Her talk was framed around what I call Paula”s 10-Step Program to Staying Relevant as a Designer:\r\n
Think about and remember the pieces of design that inspired you to pursue design as a career.
Who are your own heros and heroines?
Push back against something, like a norm or a convention. Challenge it.
Defy the age staircase. Climb further instead of extending the plâteau.
Go the distance. Stick with it even when the going gets tough or confusing.
Be a neophyte and keep learning and stretching.
Have a point of view. Sometimes this means doing personal work on the side. It will find a means, a beneficial way, to influence your design work.
Work for free to build relationships in your community.
Hang out with people smarter than you.
Do what you do best but change with the times.
\r\nThere was a generosity and awesome strength to Paula”s choice to confide in us her own fears and struggles throughout her magnificent career. Her personal accounts that intimated each point in her 10-step program resound with poignancy and pertinence. I really appreciated the soulfulness of her presentation.Same would be true for John Maeda”s. He has engineering, art, and MBA degrees and now runs, Automattic, the company behind wordpress.com and which is hiring, by the way. All that follows a stretch of serving as president of RISD. The arc of his career is driven by “why not?” and “what if?” choices that run on iron rails of vision, curiosity, and, of course, hard work. He says that most creatives are bad with money and the business side. “Why not look at money as institutionalized love. If you love me, give me money.” He quipped.A nice respite came from Quindar, a joint project between Mikael Jorgensen and historian & curator of modern and contemporary art, James Merle Thomas. Suited up and bobbing their heads, these DJs worked their electronics against the projected backdrop of photos of 1960s astronaut trainings and archival footage of deep space. Sound waves pervaded:
That”s the great thing about design conferences… Entertainment and education coalesce in the brackish waters of – was it a kind of edutainment?Shifting from the speech format to film, the evening showcased a documentary called Design Disruptors, which examines the endemic role of design in the vitality of businesses and products, which, the piece notes, is really being embraced today. Here”s the trailer:\r\nhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W4AViRgrgkUI slept some and the next morning… Design criticism symposium — an unprecedented subject at the AIGA conference. My favorite part of the entire conference!Andrea Lipp, associate curator at the Cooper-Hewitt Museum of Design, said, this is the first and hopefully not the last time criticism gets a spot in the lineup. Ed Fella, Prof Emeritus at CalArts, explained, “Well, you know, the AIGA has historically been for the practitioners and the commercial side of graphic design.” Louise Sandhaus, Prof at CalArts, succinctly responded,”Yay!”I enjoyed Andrew Blauvelt”s presentation on design”s place in culture. (Before I go any further, Andrew Blauvelt is the head of Cranbrook”s art museum. He started out as a Designer at The Walker and became Creative Director. He has also taught design.) Andrew made a distinction between public curation and social curation where the access afforded by the former does not equate to the kind of participation by the latter. Tracing examples through history from the French Salon (as it went from monarchical to public), to the Whole Earth Catalog, and to the modern day pinterest, he argues that participation in the form of reviews (judgement and criticism) can evolve into more artful criticism, thereby pervade a larger practice of active involvement in culture-making. Social criticism about design enriches the tradition and health of design criticism, much the same way that art criticism arose out of the democratization of The Salon. He suggests that such a spirited and active dialogue could usher in a new and overdue age of enlightenment.While Andrew was trying to start a movement, Jeremy Mendé operated as a one-man shop for instigating change. Jeremy runs his own firm, Mendé Design in San Francisco, for commercial clients. He questioned that if design is so good at messaging for consumerism, then why not use your powers to vocalize the roar of your own conscience, designers?He lamented how a google search for “Deep water horizon” now brings up Mark Wahlberg and an IMDB rating before the actual historical disaster. He commented that if that explosive oil hemorrhaging of the earth”s surface in the Gulf of Mexico was of an apocalyptic level, then the public nonchalance towards its aftermath is as well. Jeremy felt compelled to stir consciousness and did so with graphic design as public art in a provocational campaign, 100 Years from Now in Italy, in which he printed one of five verses of a Futurist poem on separate posters. Jeremy explained how jarring these plain and direct ads appeared amidst the mosaic of other ads in the landscape. Confronting the poster”s appeal, the viewer must decide to act or ignore, and neither is easy for the conscience.I was really moved by Jeremy”s personal design intervention and motivation.During break, I cut out and went to another symposium on design and yoga (essentialy Buddhist tenets), which was intriguing in theory and strong in principle but was difficult to relate to. On Wednesday, I attended an interaction design symposium MC”ed by NPR Creative Director Liz Danzico. Luke Woods effectively presented Facebook”s design efforts on humanitarian capabilities such as disaster relief communication functionality. I felt less persuaded by the Littlebits presentation, as it centered more on the product and its sales successes rather than its particular insights on the nature of interactivity and the future potentials for interactive product development.The Branding symposium was entertaining too with Yo Santosa, Creative Director of Ferroconcrete. She is such a colorful and bubbly personality, translating her childhood joy of shopping and hanging out at malls into her adult profession of thoughtful product branding and merchandising. A substitute presenter (sorry, I missed his name) for Andrea Sullivan of Interbrand told the story of their Sydney Opera House rebrand project. Interbrand converted the client”s source of confusion and fragmented identity into a noteworthy characteristic. The Opera House envelopes myriad arts programs, retail spaces, and dining venues. Rather than letting these dissipate a single branding image, Interbrand devised a graphic system that was porous to its various offerings while still conveying a single strong identity to encompass them all. See it.99% Invisible”s Roman Mars was the MC throughout the conference. I didn”t know about this Oaktown podcaster and design critic with a mischievous molasses voice.He gave a little slideshow featuring Kate Wagner”s critiques of McMansions but what was really awesome was “Unpleasant Design”. During the introductions, I fully applauded how he prefaced each speaker and rounded each out with a short interview. His wry humor and sardonic wit took the edge off of things as 700 designers in a room can get pretty intense.All speakers were recorded and to be accessible via the AIGA website. Don’t know when, but sometime. Worth catching!* * *\r\nBtw, let me say, nearly every guest speaker really knew how to present. As a Toastmaster, I’ve got a few clues as to what”s the stuff of solid oration. Not only chucking the notes but also:\r\n
Naturally flowing yet concise language
Eloquent and varied vocabulary.
Movement around the stage, using the space entirely and effectively.
Projecting one’s voice and enunciation.
Emphasis techniques: Intonation, dramatic pauses, hand gestures and body language.
Using humor and personal anecdotes to illustrate a point.
Using slides to augment what is being said, not for reiterating it.
\r\nFrom a TED talk standpoint, most of these guys have got it. In fact, they got it so bad that one of the speakers, Pat Kelly of Kelly&Kelly, parodied the Thought Leader presentation rubric. It was hilarious. They have a radio show called This is that, if you want to hear some.* * *The exhibitors were fantastic: Adobe, some art schools, some paper companies, Pantone.* * *Maybe I”ll add yet more to this blog as new thoughts arise. If you go to next year”s in Minneapolis, tell me about it too.