A Mountain of Memories

In an article for the Sierra Club Bulletin in February of 1932, legendary photographer and  California native, Ansel Adams wrote about the feeling of being surrounded by the majesty of the High Sierra mountain range. “No matter how sophisticated you may be, a large granite mountain cannot be denied,” he wrote. “It speaks in silence to the very core of your being. There are some that care not to listen but the disciples are drawn to the high altars with magnetic certainty, knowing that a great Presence hovers over the ranges.”

I felt that same primal attraction – that massive, nearly smothering silence of the mountains first as a teenager hiking the entire length of the John Muir trail with my Dad and again two weeks ago when my wife and I made our attempt to reach the summit of Mt. Whitney. Even hiking several hours in complete, predawn darkness, we could not help but feel the cliffs of vertical stone around us, over us, ahead of us with every step. That’s just one of the fantastic, almost other-worldly memories she and I have talked about with each other countless times since our return to Southern California and the “real world.”

Another of our never-will-forget memories is of that same heavy silence being broken suddenly with the first rays of the sun coming up over the Owens Valley, thousands of feet below us. As if in response to a carefully rehearsed script, when the first golden glow of light lowered down to touch the tops of the Lodgepole and Red Firs clinging to the steep granite hillsides, a lone cry of a hawk screeched from somewhere high above. Almost immediately, its solitary call was answered by a chirping and cawing chorus of birdsong from every direction – echoing off the nearby granite cliffs. The swirling, soaring symphony of sound was so purposeful and practiced we instinctively knew that the Stellar’s Jays, White-headed Woodpeckers, Vaux’s Swifts and other birds were welcoming the warmth of the morning sun with their appreciative voices.

Somehow we had been fortunate enough to be in just the right spot on the mountainside – at just the right time – to witness this particular miracle of the mountains. We stood momentarily silent and still listening to the morning musical as it continued for several minutes and then … it was over. As quickly as it had started, some unseen conductor brought the high altitude concert to a certain, silent stop. In the distance, a river tumbled over a rocky precipice. But there was no other sound. Wow. What a privilege to have experienced that moment.

Flash forward several hours and thousands of feet in elevation as we climbed the notorious “99 Switchbacks” section of the trail. We watched with growing unease as a few puffs of whispy white clouds quickly grew more impressive. And dark. And ominous. Looking back the way we’d come, I scanned the trail far below us, looking for any other hikers coming up towards the summit and didn’t see a single one. Growing numbers of hikers were coming back down, however, having turned back due to wind and ice that had already turned a narrow, orifice-puckering trail into a treacherous and risky route.

And so, somewhere above 13,000 feet and with snow beginning to fall, we turned back. We did not talk to a single hiker who made the summit that day. We did meet several who had gone even further than we had and still turned back. I can only imagine their sense of defeat. Then again, the rational adult in me knows that it’s better to be disappointed than dead. But the romantic, weather-be-damned adventurer side of me is still back on the massive mountain, gulping the thin air and wondering if we should turn back or climb even higher into the black clouds. We were so close. So. Danged. Close.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a repost of my column first published yesterday, 9.29.11, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

Peaks and Valleys

Unlike a climber on a rope, I won’t leave you hanging. (RIMSHOT!) Our attempt to hike to the 14,505-foot summit of Mt. Whitney is over. And – drum roll, please – we did not reach our goal. We came close. Oh, so achingly, frustratingly close. But, no cigar. And as I’ve always said, closeness counts only in dancing, horseshoes and hand grenades.

Last Tuesday morning, at 3:30 a.m. with only our headlamps and a full moon overhead to light the path before us, my wife and I set out from the trailhead at Whitney Portal (elevation 8,300 ft.) and began the 13 mile trek to the summit of the tallest mountain in the contiguous United States. By the time the morning sun lit the town of Lone Pine and the Owens Valley far below and behind us, we had already climbed to well over 10,000 feet in just over three miles and were – to be completely honest – burning up precious minutes of the cloudless morning by stopping to take in the breathtaking (quite literally) sights before us.

As I mentioned last week, I had last hiked these trails in my teens. It’s safe to say that, as much as I appreciated the pulse-pounding panoramas of the high elevation Sierra Nevada wilderness, as a young person I couldn’t possibly have fully grasped how rare and precious these mountains truly are. Today, having traveled extensively throughout North America, Europe and Australia and having been duly impressed by the many natural wonders unique to each continent, my wife and I were nevertheless repeatedly struck speechless last Tuesday as we looked at vista after vista that couldn’t possibly be real, and yet, there it was before us.

I’m not ashamed to admit that my times along the trail, I stood in silence (except for some rather pathetic heavy breathing, of course) to behold the wondrous beauty in front of me as tears of joy and appreciation blurred my vision. Frankly, I’m watering up just remembering some of these moments from our recent adventure. To think that this glorious display of God’s handiwork is a mere three hour drive from my Crescenta Valley home is mind boggling. In fact, it’s taking a fair amount of will power (and “responsible, adult thinking”, bleh!!) not to push away from my keyboard, grab the car keys and head north on Interstate 5 towards the Sierras right now.

Sigh.

But back to the hike itself. I honestly believe we had trained “enough” to reach the summit and return to the trailhead – a round trip of 22 miles. When we ultimately turned back, we still had plenty of energy left in our reserves, our breathing was labored, but not any more than you’d expect at such altitudes and our desire to reach the top was painfully strong. So what prevented us from reaching our goal? In a word; weather.

One of the first – and most important –  words of advice experienced Mt. Whitney hikers will give you is that you’d better be on the summit by noon, linger on top an hour at most and then begin your descent. The weather in the Sierras is notoriously fickle and had already dumped almost six inches of snow on the mountain the day before our hike. Picking up our permit last Monday, in fact, the ranger warned us that very few hikers had been able to summit that day due to lightening, rain and snow. Crud.  

Even so, hitting the trail at such an early hour in the morning, combined with cloudless blue skies overhead as the sun began its arc from east to west – the next day my wife and I were lulled into forgetting how quickly the weather can change in the Sierras. We could (and probably should) have hiked at a slightly faster pace. We could (and probably should) have taken less time standing in awe of the beauty around us. We could (and probably should) have stopped less often to snack, drink water and, well, breathe. Silly us.

I’ll wrap up my big Mt. Whitney adventure next week. In the meantime, if you pass someone taking deep breaths with a far away look on his face, that’ll be me. I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a repost of my column first published yesterday, 9.22.11, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

A True “Cliffhanger”

By the time you read this, my wife and I will either have fulfilled our goal, met the challenge, lived the dream, slayed the dragon – whatever bromide you wish to use – or flamed out, bit off more than we could chew, crashed and burned, ie: failed miserably.

By way of explanation, as of today’s publication date we will have either been successful in hiking to the top of Mt. Whitney, or not. One thing is certain, we will have given it our best shot. If you don’t know, Whitney is the highest peak in the continental United States, and lucky us, living in the Crescenta Valley means we’re just a three-hour drive away. Only one state, Alaska, boasts a higher mountain, Denali (formerly, Mt. McKinley).

I have hiked to the summit of Mt. Whitney once before – way, way back when I was a teenager. The hike up the west side of 14,505 foot peak and down east side was the final leg of a backpacking trip that was three weeks from start to finish and covered the length of the John Muir trail – all two hundred and twenty some miles of it – from the floor of Yosemite National Park to the parking lot at Whitney Portal above the town of Lone Pine. Back then, you didn’t need a permit (or pay any fee) to make the hike. But I suppose too many people were putting too much burden on the trail system or more likely, the forest service personnel were fed up with rescuing poorly prepared, exhausted or injured hikers with no training or ability to make the difficult climb to the top.

Sometime back in March, my wife and I decided to attempt to hike Mt. Whitney together as an “adventure” to celebrate our 25^th wedding anniversary. (I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m an incurable romantic. Right ladies?) The process of dealing with the professional bureaucrats at Inyo National Forest headquarters in order to obtain the required “Whitney Zone” permit was an arduous test of endurance in and of itself.

We prevailed, however, and almost immediately started our “training” hikes. We did the Mt. Baldy and Icehouse Canyon trails in the San Bernardino mountains for longer, higher elevation training, and locally the Echo Mountain, Cherry Canyon and Deukmejian Wilderness trails just to break a sweat and to get our boots dusty. We’ve also been hiking some of the higher elevation trails in and around the Mammoth Lakes area whenever time (and gas money) permit, and have been road biking our butts off and our brains out locally and in the San Gabriel Valley to burn calories and boost our aerobic capacity. Whew.

With every activity, however – even though I’m able to hike or bike further than ever before, and have tremendously enjoyed the experiences and each mini-adventure – I can’t help but notice (and feel!) the changes that time inevitably inflicts on a body. Namely, soreness that takes longer to go away, achingly stiff joints and enough pulls, pains and strains to keep our primary care doctor practicing for years to come. Oh well, it is what it is.

I’m writing this column/post from a hotel room in Lone Pine. In the ridiculously early pre-dawn darkness of tomorrow morning, we will drive to the trailhead and set off on our adventure. Ready or not. What once seemed like a frustratingly distant date in the future is now just a frighteningly few hours away.

Will we make it to the summit and back? Or will exhaustion, middle-aged knees, altitude, the predicted possibility of dangerous thunderstorms – or some combination of these immutable conditions – force us to turn around and try again (or not) next year? I for one am anxious to find out.

Stay tuned for next week’s column/post. Legs willing and my knees hold out, I’ll see you around town.

Note: This is a repost of my column "Feet (and Knees) Don't Fail Me Now!" first published yesterday, 9.15.11, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

Birds On My Brain

One of my fondest childhood memories is of watching Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dyke in the classic 1964 Disney film, Mary Poppins. In particular, I always loved the scene where Mary sings “Feed the Birds” as hundreds of pigeons coo and nibble at the bread crumbs covering the cobblestones at her feet.

Maybe I’m channeling my much younger self, but more and more I’m enjoying watching the flocks of feathered visitors who show up at the bird feeders in our backyard. I have a clear view of the feeders from our kitchen window and often find myself smiling at the antics of the goofy squirrels and their bird-brained brethren who can empty out a newly-filled feeder in under an hour. It’s an amazing thing to see.

In fact, my wife and I often laugh out loud watching the big, bushy squirrels comically stretch far beyond their ability to balance in order to reach the bird feeder hanging from the branches of a young sycamore in the middle of our lawn. They only make that extraordinary effort when they’ve decimated the supply of seeds in the larger feeder that sits atop a single pole closer to our house. The squirrels quickly shimmy up the pole, squeeze their chubby bodies in the cramped space between the wooden roof of the feeder and its base, and then get busy snarfing up the bounty of seeds, peanuts, corn kernels and sunflower seeds inside.

If I could put a soundtrack to their antics, it would be of a circular saw ripping through wood. The smaller seeds are sent flying through the air as the pigs disguised as squirrels fling out everything that isn’t a peanut or sunflower seed. It’s a hoot. When they’ve had their fill (or have been sent scurrying across the lawn and up the nearest tree by our dog bursting through his doggy door into the backyard), birds soon flock all over the feeder and nearby surroundings to see what slim pickings the squirrels have left.

The only birds able to chase off the squirrels are either the pigeons or the massive, ink-black crows (ravens?) that swoop into the yard like organized crime bosses arriving in town to take care of business. They land like graceful stealth fighters, strut confidently towards the feeders and every creature in the yard beats feet to get out of their way. Even our poor yellow lab slinks back into the house when those big birds arrive and seize control of the yard.   

Obviously, I’m as far from being an ornithologist as the birds in my yard are from being newspaper columnists. (And yes, I hear you out there saying the birds could probably do a better job, thank you very much.) But definite patterns and personalities have emerged as I’ve watched these winged wonders over the years.

I’ve noticed a definite hierarchy (“pecking order” seemed too expected here) in the bird kingdom – from the rude and pushy jays that bully every other bird in sight or the lumbering, ‘we’re here, we’re hungry, get used to it’ presence of pudgy pigeons, to the timid gracefulness of the doves that prefer scavenging seeds from the grass below the feeders than bothering the birds above them on the feeder itself. Some of my favorites, however, are the smaller, blurringly fast finches and sparrows that flit in and out and around and over all the other birds, snatching individual seeds and flying off to consume them somewhere else. These smaller birds are the most colorful and entertaining of them all, often arriving immediately after I’ve refilled the feeders or just before the sun goes down and the other creatures have left.

To this day, I still wish Mary Poppins was a true story. But I’ll settle for singing “Feed the Birds” to myself as I watch the daily birdie ballet outside my kitchen window.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a repost of my column first published yesterday, 9.8.11, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

Wondering All Over the Map

I often wonder if other people wonder about so many different things like I do on any given day. How bad is it? Well, here are just a few musings from my personal wonderland of late:

I wonder …  how much money AT&T and Charter waste on my mailing address alone each month? A week hasn’t gone by for as long as I can remember that I don’t receive two or three solicitations in the mail for this U-verse bundle or that Charter package. Here’s an idea; why not bundle up the cost of wasted paper and postage and have these relentless marketers subtract it from my monthly bill?

I wonder …  why the price of gas jumps up by three or four cents a gallon overnight, but when it goes down, it’s more like seven-tenths of one cent over a week or longer. The least the oil refiners could do is buy us dinner first.

I wonder … why left-leaning pundits and professors are quick to say that all cultures and faiths are equally important and have something to offer. And yet, these same counter-culture educators, protestors, peaceniks, alternative lifestylers and other aggressively anti-conservative activists would be the first ones on a long list of people and groups to be silenced and locked up (or worse) if those same supposedly egalitarian cultures and/or religions ever establish a majority foothold in America. As for me and my house, I fervently pray that we as a country wake up and not only appreciate, but promote and teach our Western values and traditional American liberties before they’re taken from us either by force, fiat, foreign zealots, activist judges or power-drunk fundamentally transforming socialist politicians. One and done, folks. One and done.

I wonder …  who, if anyone, bought the 6.20 carat diamond solitaire ring I saw available at Costco.com recently for $1 million? What do you think that conversation would go like? “Sweetcakes, I love you so much, I got you a little something. Now, don’t worry, it was only a million bucks at Costco. Oh, and I picked up some more toilet paper, dish soap and a big honkin’ bottle of fish oil capsules, too.” Brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it? Then again, I’m an incurable romantic.

I wonder …  if I’ll ever be at an economic place that I don’t start laughing hysterically when I get an unsolicited email blast about special jet discounts now available for all my private aviation needs. If these people knew that the only “flying” I’m likely to do these days is off the second story balcony of my home office when I can’t figure out how to pay the bills any given week. Sigh. It is fun to dream, though.

I wonder …  why I’ve never before heard the term “haboob” to describe the massive sand storms that roll across the summer landscape in Arizona. This seems to be the year of the haboob – and I’m not talking about our current Vice President. Rim shot!

I wonder …  how I can ever thank the star-makers at NBC News enough for promoting Ann Curry, the former overly empathetic, drippingly sentimental and hyper-politically correct news-reader on their flagship TODAY Show, to her new position of co-couch-sitter alongside Matt Lauer. I now have one less weekday morning distraction and am able to work on pressing projects much sooner than I used to. Not that the über-liberal Ms. Curry is ideologically any different from her predecessors, Meredith Viera and that irrepressible cheerleader for all left-leaning causes, Katie Couric. Heavens, no. It’s just that Ms. Curry’s interviews and “reportage” drip so heavily with breathless sincerity, hand-wringing angst and feigned concern, she routinely gets in the way of her stories and subject matter. The power-off button on my remote is so much easier to push on now.

Whew. See what I mean? It’s a wonder I get anything done. I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a repost of my edited column first published yesterday, 9.1.11, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

© 2011 WordChaser, Inc.