I am turning 44 years old in August. As of last Wednesday, my spiritual, youthful buoyancy was superseded by the reality of my evident “tree rings.” Somehow, I suddenly felt the weight of my age. I was no longer young, no matter how you cut it or how I attempted to coax, fool, or delude myself.
This made me sad.
Very sad. Depressed, in fact.
How I have relied on my smile and charms in times of strife and stress, and now they evanesce like a springtime flower under the indiscriminate beating of the sun. How some women have felt compelled to tie their identity to it and work so hard to cling to the vestiges of yesteryear’s dewiness, whether from botox injection to rigorous pilgrimages to gym workouts to even just additional coats of foundation.
I not hopeful enough to adopt these strident measures but look deeply inside for a some other way to face the inexorable/regrettable. (We all must do it in different ways. Denial is also a way too!)
And then I thought about all of the great women who I admire in my life. Never was the admiration pinned to their external veneer, but to the energy and wisdom that they imparted to those around them. I think specifically of the great creative and my former boss, Deborah Sussman.
Having had the honor to attend her memorial service at LACMA in 2015, I bore witness to the ethereal transformation of her being from physical form into transcendent energy. Each person who spoke about her referred to her in the present, as if she were still here, because she is, and with certainty that what she was offered was still genius and true. Her exterior had simply become too limited to hold the spirit that she had accreted. She needed to be everywhere.
With this reminiscence, I understand now how feminine beauty transforms with age. In youth, we must experience and surmount so that in later years we can radiate all the strength and insight that we have gathered.
Here are some recordings from Deborah’s Memorial to share with you, so you can get a better idea:
This past Saturday, June 23, I attended one of a plethora of free lectures and tours offered in conjunction with the 2019 LA Design Festival. TALK: New Vision for LA x Designing Our Future featured a panel of Elizabeth Timme, co-director and architect of LA-Más and Jim White, Founder of “Home for Good” were moderated by Michela O’Connor Abrams of MOCA.
On the event webpage, the presentation is described as:
… how design thinking is positively informing civic planning…thought-provoking discussion about how creative collaborations are reshaping the future of Los Angeles and how you can be a part of it.
Elizabeth Timme is knowledgeable in a pragmatic way, twitching with intensity as she names a litany of agencies, partner contractors, and regulations vis-à-vis specific projects at high velocity. Jim White is a human resources executive at an entertainment company. Also a real estate investor on the side, he sees the cost of space in this city and how the overall real estate market makes it prohibitively expensive for those with moderate incomes. He also states that the cost of public assistance to the homeless (those without a fixed residential addresses) is exorbitant and wasteful. The money is better spent getting people into affordable or free housing, so they can start and benefit from treatment for whatever their ailments. Uncanny how he is able to translate humanitarian need into fiscal cost-effectiveness.
I thought this panel presentation was going to be on strategies of public engagement, public-private partnerships, and the image of the urban future. It was… and squarely in the domain of the cascading homeless crisis and the lack of social structures for mitigating, moreover eliminating it.
White talked about advocacy groups, including Everyone In LA, and the need for policy improvements while Timme spoke about the more telluric processes: community outreach, engagement, awareness, and navigating the multiplex of government regulation and contractor partnerships to forge new solutions for this housing issue.
The conversation found its plateau around ADU’s (Accessory Dwelling Units or “Granny Flats”) as a viable means of increasing Section 8 housing density in existing neighborhoods around transit hubs, without displacing longtime residents and houses. The triangle of daunting city permit acquisitions, rocketing marketplace prices, and well-meaning homeowners but who cannot stomach the $115K design/construction cost to convert their garages into ADU’s continue to be a barrier.
Both speakers recognized that easy access from housing to transportation is crucial to getting people back on their feet again. White said he takes the Metro 10 Local everyday to and from work, and asked for a show of hands of how many in the audience of 50 have never taken Metro bus or rail. Only one sheepishly raised her hand. Timme said transit must be more frequent in order to become a reliable mode. Transportation and housing remain inextricably intertwined basic necessities.
It seemed to me that these procedural and cost issues were overshadowing another huge obstacle: “homed” people don’t trust homeless people. As a mass transit employee, I have witnessed time and time again how drivers are skittish about trying mass transit and the attendant sharing of space with strangers. The fear of strangers looms large. Between personal vehicles and single-family homes encircled with fences, this very notion of personal possession or property has cultivated a very staunch private bubble mentality. To share means to pop that bubble — and that is a terrifying, unacceptable notion to many. Timme deemed this issue as “fringe” and collateral, as something that we need to move beyond, but I wouldn’t downplay the magnitude of social-psychological shift required to get us all into the necessary sharing and caring way of life. Many are still unapologetically myopic and peering out with parochial vision— and that is a BIG problem.
And I’m not sure where the “design thinking” figured into this talk beyond creative partnerships and pricing. If there was a mention of design, it was in the context of Timme lamenting the bane of Dwell magazine-type ADU. Stark, graphic and minimalist, these coveted mini-homes are realized at no small cost. These ADU’s become jewels of affluence rather than mitigation measures for affordable housing.
Can design just stop being so elitest? Where is accessible, functional, beautiful design in the context of affordable dwellings near mass transportation? When does beauty and ease of function become an everyday enjoyment for everyone? Or, to put it bluntly, why does the accessible have to be cruelly boring or ugly?
I hope next year, the Design Festival tackles the headier issues of how design both perpetuates and redefines aesthetics of class and power. As I strolled around The Row after the lecture, I was impressed by how the Brutalist concrete panopticon (the abandoned shell of the former American Apparel factories) has been re-appropriated for boutiques, a chocolatier, and restaurants. The veneer of the redesign is nearly transparent. The site of blue-collar working class industry is now the playground of the amply endowed. Our ability to embrace and mix up the different design vocabularies across classes gives me hope that we can do it in other essential aspects of life too, from housing to transportation to social relationships.
How you travel is like how you eat. We in LA have a tendency to eat this same meal everyday: Pulling out car keys and driving. There are actually way more travel options out there—each with its own tradeoffs. Being intentional about them can maximize reward for you and everyone else.
One 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, bike, and walking.
I chose the latter.
Why? These were my goals:
To experience for the first time the phenomenon of a bus-only lane, the Metro Orange Line.
To give the air quality a break.
To get an up-close tour of neighborhoods new to me.
To relax and leave the driving to a pro, and avoid affliction with road rage.
To have an adventure.
Connecting to the First Ride on Bike
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.
Metro 501 Express
The speed of the 501 on the 134 East at 9AM on a Saturday morning is totally impressive. Metro express buses are fantastic at $2.50 paid with a TAP card. 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.
Metro Orange Line
At North Hollywood, I caught the Orange Line for the first time. I was practically shocked by its frequency and the pleasantness of traveling in a bus-only lane. It’s like the express but also secluded from car traffic and parallel only with walkways and verdant foliage. About 15 minutes later, I arrived in Van Nuys, where I would wait 10 minutes for the 233 Local bound for Pacoima. The fares for these connections are no additional charge if you paid for your initial ride with a TAP card and the connections occur within two hours.
Metro Local 233
Now, taking Metro Local buses, here’s a different experience: this is about slowing down and zeroing in on a neighborhood. The storefronts 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 overshot my stop and would have to backtrack three miles.
Arrival Info Apps
My Transit app and Google both said the wait for the next bus would be ten minutes but, even after three minutes, the apps remained steadfast at ten minutes. It took 15 minutes for the bus to come. 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. You just end up having to look out the window and count the stops very carefully.
Civic Engagement Event in Van Nuys
Without going into too much detail on the Van Nuys new light rail line, pedestrian walkway, and bike path improvement public engagement event at my destination (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. I certainly would not have gotten that if I had driven there.
The Return Trip
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 but, to my alarm, I spotted it pulling away from the stop and already exiting the bus terminal. OMG WTF!
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. I bolted down the street. 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.
Of course the bus got there before for I did, but not by long. The bus operator held as I ran up. Breathless, I put placed my fare card on the farebox TAP validator.
Was it Worth it?
Yes, since I wanted the journey to be part of the destination.
We can each have this adventure if we choose our transportation modes thoughtfully!
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.