Dropping the ball on 2012

With the Holiday-That-Must-Not-Be-Named behind us for another year, the secular/politically correct/mainstream media world can at last stop using the politically correct “Happy Holidays” and begin wishing us all a specific “Happy New Year.”

With next week’s big celebration in mind, the only time I’ve ever thought it would be fun to live anywhere near the city of Las Vegas is on New Year’s Eve. I mean, if you’re looking for a good time, that place must throw the mother of all parties to ring in the New Year, right? The blinding bright lights, the head-pounding music, the human crush of drunk-out-of-their-skulls party goers … um, never mind.

On second thought, what happens in Vegas can happen to someone else, as far as I’m concerned. Our family’s own New Year traditions have always been much milder and, well, subdued. How mild? Let’s just say they usually involve Dick Clark on the tube, a few minutes pre- and post-midnight standing on our balcony overlooking the Crescenta Valley, a bag of “exploding” confetti poppers and a glass of Martinelli’s non-alcoholic sparkling cider for each of us. But wait, there’s more. If we’re really feeling festive and rowdy any particular year, our big celebration may even include the banging of pots and pans with wooden spoons. I know … woo hoo! We don’t exactly need a doctor’s clearance to participate.

It’s not like we don’t ever socialize, though. The past couple of New Year’s Eves we’ve actually spent the evening with some great friends in Altadena and haveenjoyed a wonderful dinner, excellent conversation, a somewhat sedate card game or two and a quick side hug at midnight. Then it’s back home to warm, flannel sheets and hopefully enough sleep to get up early enough to watch those shock-jocks, Bob Eubanks and Stephanie Edwards do the pulse-quickening play-by-play on yet another Rose Parade. Again, woo hoo!

Least you think I was born old and boring, I have been known to camp out all day and night along the Rose Parade route on several past New Year’s Eves. Yep, there’s nothing like sitting for days in a broken down lawn chair and “sleeping” on a damp grass median or filthy concrete sidewalk with the soothing lilt of air horns lulling you to sleep and Silly String wafting all around you through the cold night air like flying neon-colored spaghetti.

Then again, being right there when a 200-plus member high school marching band passes by close enough to count the pimples on the tuba-players’ cheeks has always been worth any hypothermia, loss of hearing and superficial wounds inflicted by flying tortillas and stale marshmallows. Good times, indeed.

My all time favorite way to welcome in any New Year, however, is to do it in the mountains above Mammoth Lakes. I like nothing better than to leave the warmth of our family’s log home a few minutes before midnight, walk out into the middle of the street – usually lined with shoulder-high berms of snow at that time of year – and simply gaze up at the inky blackness of the midnight sky while one year ends and another begins. That high up in altitude, the nighttime sky is filled with a blanket of stars that are simply not visible down here in Southern California. As I look up, I like to say thank you to God for the grace that helped me make it through the past year and to pray for His blessings throughout the new one. 

Next Monday night, we unfortunately won’t be up in the Sierras or at our friends’ home in Altadena, and thankfully, nowhere near Las Vegas. Barring a surprise invite to a party, we’ll likely be out on the balcony again with our sparkling cider in one hand and a party horn in the other. But the prayers for the coming year will be the same, nevertheless. Happy New Year, and I’ll see you ‘round town.

Taking the Weekend By Storm

This past weekend while my CV Weekly colleagues were dog paddling down Honolulu Avenue during the Montrose Christmas parade, my wife and I were having our own weathery adventures out of town. We drove north on Highway 14 late Friday afternoon, stopping in Mojave to fuel up and getting our first clue of the wild weather ahead. Getting out of my truck at the gas station, I had to hang onto the door handle with both hands to keep the wind from blowing the thing out of my hands and off its hinges.

Our first clue of the strength of the gathering storm should have been the fields of towering windmills spread far out across the horizon, their triple blades spinning like airplane engines at takeoff speed and the setting sun backlighting their massive whirling silhouettes.

The wind grew progressively stronger the further north we drove, building to a sustained and buffeting blow by the time we merged with Highway 395 near Pearsonville. Not surprisingly, we passed scores of tractor-trailer rigs pulled over and parked in sheltered areas of towns like Independence and Bishop – their drivers wisely waiting for the worst of the winds to blow over.

Arriving well after dark in the town of Mammoth Lakes, we followed slushy tire tracks up Main Street as the falling snow thickened the higher we climbed above town. After some slipping and sliding and many thanks sent aloft in appreciation for our truck’s four-wheel-drive capabilities, we pulled up to our family’s log home to find a thigh-high blanket of wet, dense snow covering the 50-or-so feet of driveway from the street to our front porch. Apparently, unlike the gentleman who has been plowing our driveway for the past many years and who automatically cleared clients’ driveways of snow after six or more inches had fallen, the new guy our family is using requires that you call and leave him a message 24 hours in advance of your arrival. Who knew?

But no matter, the richest adventures often happen when you least expect them. Like in the darkness and biting cold of an early High Sierra winter snowstorm when you suddenly find yourself shoveling and muscling a snowblower up and down the driveway for hours to clear a path to the house.

As much hard work as it was, we wouldn’t have traded the effort expended to get into the house last Friday night for any other experience. Coming in from the freezing night outside, we collapsed on the couch – exhausted, but warm with a sense of rewarded efforts (the crackling, sputtering logs burning in the stone fireplace contributed a welcome bit of heat, too).

Another weather-related adventure last weekend was even more memorable, if not nearly as enjoyable. Driving back home early Sunday afternoon, we were caught in a windstorm the likes of which I have never seen, much less driven through. Several miles south of the town of Lone Pine we were caught between two massive columns of tornado-like wind carrying huge amounts of debris – uprooted sage brush, whole branches and whirling walls of sand and dirt. As these angry funnels of fury pummeled our truck and blacked out the daylight, we couldn’t see our own hood or even the road directly beneath us. Let me tell you, at 70 mph, that gets your undivided attention.

We hurtled through the seemingly solid brown cloud until a particularly violent fist of air punched our truck up onto its two left-side wheels. As my wife did her best Steven Tyler impersonation and I fought to keep us from rolling, another vicious blast of wind, this time from the opposite side the highway, slapped our truck back onto all four wheels. Over the next thirty seconds or so – it seemed much longer – we emerged from the worst of the windstorm and could once again see the lines on the highway and brightening daylight through the remnants of the cloud.

As we slowly continued south on 395, caught our breath, and nervously laughed about the experience (my wife said she felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz) I realized that our windshield was now pitted from one side to the other, top to bottom. But it could have been worse. We passed a couple in a Volkswagen camper van who had made it safely to the side of the road, the entire roof of their vehicle torn off and hanging to one side.

Yep, it certainly could have been much worse. Next year, I have a feeling we’ll be staying in town for the annual Montrose Christmas parade. Whether (weather?) it’s dumping rain or not.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Our Year of Living Adventurously

I’m sure my wife would agree that when she married me 26 years ago, she had no idea what she was signing up for. Poor woman. But, lucky me.

On that unseasonably cold, early Spring day over two and a half decades ago, standing together in the outdoor gazebo at the Saddleback Inn in Lake Arrowhead, we said our vows before God, my favorite uncle (who just happened to be a Presbyterian minister) and a handful of family members who drove up the winding mountain roads through pea soup fog for the event. Sometime later, as we planned our future plans and dreamed the dreams of the just-married, we promised each other that upon reaching our 25^th anniversary, we would celebrate by taking a trip to Europe, specifically Austria and Switzerland.

Surely by then our kids would be grown and independent. Surely too, my upward career path in the ad biz would have provided enough financial stability by then to afford such a romantic getaway. Surely we would have the time to relax with an overseas trip in celebration of a quarter century of wondrous wedded bliss (we were newlyweds, okay?).

But as Leslie Nielsen once said in the movie, Airplane, “Don’t call me Shirley.” I’m also reminded of the sage Yiddish saying, “Man plans, God laughs.” If so, they must be holding their angelic sides and gasping for air in heaven.

I’m pretty sure we were at least right about our kids. Yes, our four progeny are healthy, independent, wise beyond their years and, for the most part, well on the way to realizing their own dreams of family, faith, careers and a fulfilled life. May it be ever so. Amen and amen.

As to my career? Bwah-hahaha. Chortle. Guffaw. Snort. Titter. That’s a good one. You know that steep, upwardly mobile rise to a creative corner office on Madison Avenue West I mentioned above? It quickly began looking more like a dive off a steep cliff not long after I left the ad (mad) agency world and went freelance nearly 16 years ago.

And so a year ago this week, our 25^th anniversary was upon us and there was no way in financial fantasyland that we would be going on any European adventure. I mean, if we couldn’t afford the gas to drive to San Diego, flying to St. Moritz was absolutely, ridiculously out of the question.

So, instead of letting the 25 year milestone pass like “just” any another anniversary night out with a nice dinner, some flowers and a card –  we decided to celebrate in an unusual way for an entire year – by attempting to complete 25 low cost, semi-local mini “adventures” during the 12 months until our next anniversary. (Yes, ladies, I did the dinner, flowers and card routine, too. I may be challenged in the disposable income department, but I’m not an idiot.)

One year later, how’d we do on our adventure quest? We made a valiant attempt, to be sure. Although we didn’t quite make it to 25, we came awfully close, including making several long bike rides (one as far as 65 miles round trip from Duarte to Long Beach and back), an attempt to summit Mt. Whitney, the highest peak in the continental U.S., cross-country snowshoeing in Mammoth Lakes, hiking to the top of Mt. Baldy, riding with the CV Weekly team on a “float” in the annual Montrose Christmas Parade and quite a few others. It’s been an adventurous year, to say the least.

So, how did my wife and I celebrate our 26^th anniversary this week? Here’s a clue: it wasn’t in the Alps, but it did involve the Matterhorn (which, unfortunately was closed for renovations … arrrghhh!!). And even though the gas to Anaheim cost almost as much as airfare to see the real thing, can you really put a price on true love? (Men, the answer to that one is “Absolutely not!” Got it?)

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a repost of my column first published yesterday, 4.12.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper.

© 2012 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.

Boots, Bug Juice and the Beauty Before Us

Last Friday, my wife and our home-from-Montana-for-the-summer son made an early evening escape 300 miles up California's Hwy 395 to Mammoth Lakes, a small resort town in the Eastern Sierra Nevada mountains. During the winter, Mammoth Mountain is a mecca for mogul-seekers and downhill danger junkies. In the summer, mountain bikers, fishermen, backpackers and outdoor lovers of all sorts find themselves drawn to this high altitude wonderland of recreational adventure. 

Due to the reality of too much work and not enough vacation time, our stay this past weekend was limited to, well, the weekend. Still, we managed to come back to our Southern California home on Sunday night filthy, sunburned, sore, bug-bit and thoroughly exhausted.

If a getaway to the mountains ever really needs an excuse, this past weekend ours was to get in a fast, high-altitude hike to help us prepare for our upcoming hike to the top of Mt. Whitney next month. If you don't have your north American mountain peak statistics at hand, Mt. Whitney is the highest peak in the contiguous United States. And yes, my wife and I are certifiably nuts.

We have our permit for the mid-September attempt to reach the 14,505-foot summit and have been trying to take as many hikes (as  high up as geography allows without driving to Katmandu) as we can before the big day. I’ll write more about that crazy goal next month.

Our training hike this past weekend was to a stunningly beautiful, above-timberline glacial pond in the John Muir Wilderness with the less-than-dignified name of Barney Lake. The actual hike was only seven miles, but the training value was in the elevation of the destination – some 10,000-plus feet above sea level. It was a breathtaking hike, not only because of the scarcity of oxygen.

On the way to Barney (I can’t write that without thinking of Fred and Wilma) Lake, the trail winds its way past other dazzlingly blue, Jeffery pine-rimmed lakes, through verdant mossy meadows, below shear granite cliffs and over crystal clear streams flowing from under snowfields still impressively large after a record winter. I’m sure we added hours to our sunrise hike with all of the times that the three of us rounded a corner or crested a hill to see revealed a panorama of such exquisite beauty that we were simultaneously stopped, speechless, in our tracks.

I have no idea how many times I said to my wife something along the lines of, “Tomorrow, when we’re both sitting in front our computers with a week’s worth of office work ahead, remember this view and where we were only 24 hours before.” Of course, it sounded more like, “Tomorrow (pant! pant!), when we’re (wheeze! pant!) both sitting in front of (pant! gasp!) our computers with (cough!) a week’s worth of office (pant! gasp!) work ahead, remem-(gasp!)-ber this view and (gulp! gasp!) where we were (pant!) only 24 (gasp! cough!) hours before.” I’m pretty sure our shadows shifted slightly underfoot in the time it took me to utter that simple sentence. But it was worth it.

Fast forward to the next day when, in fact, my wife and I were both in our respective offices basking in the glow of our respective computer screens. I opened up an email from the too-tired Mrs. expecting to read that she desperately wished we were back on the trail dodging fresh road apples, swatting suicidal mosquitoes and sucking scarce oxygen into our lungs instead of the slogging through the mundane meanderings of our day-to-day jobs. I know that’s what I was thinking, at least.

So, imagine my surprise when I read in my wife’s email a heartfelt reminder from her that we are richly blessed to be able to enjoy the outdoors at anytime, anywhere. Even right here in our hometown Crescenta Valley. She was referring, I knew, to our recent discovery and frequent use of hiking trails not 300 miles from here, not a three, four or five hour drive from here – but more like five minutes from our driveway.

She’s right, of course. Over the past few months, many of our training hikes have been done (and thoroughly enjoyed) as close to home as the Cherry Canyon trails above Descanso Gardens, or the extreme vertical climb from Altadena up to Echo Mountain and the ruins of the old Mount Lowe Railway.

I’ll write more about our adventures in local hiking next week. Maybe I can catch my breath by then.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a slightly revised version of my column titled “Happy Trails” first published yesterday, 8.11.11 in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper. 

© 2011 WordChaser, Inc.