Timber Mountain Hike: Icehouse Saddle via Chapman Trail

We've hiked to Icehouse Saddle twice before, making this our third time. This is a big deal to Emmett and me since there are very few trails we hike even twice...only because there are so many trails to hit we just don't have time to do the same trail again, let alone three times! But, this is one of my favorite hikes in in the San Gabriel Mountains so it is well worth it. On this trip, we added an extra .9 mile and 800 feet in elevation gain to "bag" Timber Mountain peak.

Total for the day: 3500' in elevation gain, nearly 9.5 miles of trail, and seven hours of hiking! The altitude totally kicked our butt (mine more than EJD’s!) but we had a blast.

Moss Beach Part 3: A Husband Visits

If Nan’s visit set the tone for my Thoughtful Travel Adventure, then Emmett’s visit set the Gold Standard for my daily routine.

The thing about EJD’s job is that it’s completely unpredictable. One second, his schedule is totally booked and then the next, it’s wide open. So I went ahead and planned this trip assuming he couldn’t make it, because at the time, he couldn’t. Turns out, when the trip finally came, he still couldn’t join me. And then a small window of opportunity opened and he booked a last-minute flight to San Fran. Five minutes after I dropped Nan off at the airport, I picked up Emmett. I had him from 1:45 p.m. on Saturday until 8:00 p.m. on Sunday. In addition to sleeping and eating, this is what happened in those 30 hours:

A Full-moon Kayak – another “to do” on my list has been to kayak under a full moon.

It was a beautiful evening for a kayak…the wind was virtually non-existent, the temp was mild, and the swells were easy-rolling fun.

While we started out under somewhat clear skies and saw a lovely sunset, the marine layer moved in and the full moon was obscured…until a half hour after we got off the water! But that didn’t matter. It was so fun being out on the ocean at twilight and then in the harbor with all its twinkly lights, quietly gliding through the water between boats and being trailed by a harbor seal.

Tidepooling at the FMR – Emmett was just as impressed with the FMR as I was and we had a blast together! It was another day of great discoveries and fun, fun, fun!!

Breakfast on The Lawn and a nap on The Hammock – More on this later

Hiking Purisima Creek Redwood Land Preserve – There was a large possibility that the weather along the coast would be cold and wet and just too much for me to bear for an entire week so I had identified some inland hikes that I could do to escape the dreary June Gloom that is typical for this time of year. The weather ended up being unseasonably sunny and warm so I didn’t need the inland hikes as an escape and could approach them more as a destination. After a morning of tidepooling, Emmett and I drove to the top of the Purisima Creek Redwood Land Preserve and hiked the North Ridge and Whittemore Gulch Trails.

Lunch on The Lawn – More on this later

Hiking along the Moss Beach Land Preserve Bluffs – This is the same trail that Nan and I took the day before and I was happy to see that Emmett enjoyed it as much as we did.

Dinner on The Lawn – More on this later

Emmett not only brought Southern California weather to Moss Beach (the second he stepped foot in Moss Beach, the fog disappeared, the sun came out, and clear skies dominated…and it stayed that way until the morning I headed back to LA!), his visit also helped me see how I wanted the next five days to play out. Thus, my routine for the rest of my Thoughtful Travel Adventure was established:

• Up at 5:45 a.m.
• Tidepooling at FMR for at least three hours
• Breakfast and journaling back at the cottage
• Six- to seven-mile hike
• Lunch and hammock nap back at cottage
• Moss Beach bluff hike
• Dinner at the cottage
• Dessert, journal, and sunset by the outdoor fire pit at the cottage
• Plan for the next day
• Bed by 9:30 p.m.

After Emmett flew back to LA Sunday night, I was technically solo the rest of the trip…and yet never once would I feel alone. Perhaps the joy and comfort and warmth that came from great visits with Nan and Emmett kept me company. Maybe there were just too many exciting things going on that distracted me. Or perhaps that feeling of being “filled up” had already begun. It’s hard to believe, but over the next five days, my Thoughtful Travel Adventure would only get better and better.

Next up: The Cottage of Solitude, Peace, and Beauty

Moss Beach Part 2: A Girlfriend Visits

In my world, there are friends and then there are girlfriends. Girlfriends are what make cookies taste better, the sun shine brighter, and bad days seem not so bad. I wouldn’t call it their job, but rather their effect. Like the moon’s gravitational pull on the ocean, I can’t resist an opportunity to see a girlfriend when one presents itself. Through an exchange of emails with my girlfriend Nan (who lives in Minnesota) about whatever it was we were talking about at the time, I learned she was going to be in San Fran for work just a day before my arrival into Moss Beach, which is a mere 20-minute drive away. So I added a day onto the beginning of my Thoughtful Travel Adventure and invited her to join me for a couple of days.

I love Nan for many reasons. She is one of the sweetest and most positive people I know. She’s also one of a very few people who can make me laugh so hard, I can’t breathe and have tears running down my face (my mom is another such person, believe it or not). She’s incredibly smart, she’s a great mom to her two boys, she’ll eat anything, and she likes outdoor adventures as much as I do. I knew when she joined me, I wasn’t going to have to change my plans at all; she would simply come along for the ride and love every minute of it.

I picked up Nan late, late Thursday night, in a heavy fog that made driving 2 mph seem like a wild ride. Add to it a light mist, extreme dark (no road lights), and the curvy, one-lane road that makes up Hwy 1 and you’ve got for some serious white-knuckle driving. By the time we got back to the cottage, we both gulped down some wine and ended up chatting for hours. As usual. Our first night together, wherever we meet up, always seems to go that way…wine and talking, wine and talking.

The next morning, under a heavy marine layer and gray skies, we jumped in the car and drove a few miles north to Gray Whale Cove. There, we walked the beach and then took a short, but wildflower rich, hike along the bluff. I think we were both stunned by the number of wildflowers not only in bloom but in diversity. So many different colors and around each bend was something new. Reds, blues, violets, oranges, greens, whites, browns, yellows…I’m not exaggerating when I say there was more than the mind could behold. The path was a little bit, shall we say overgrown, and we both came back damp (okay, more like sopping wet) and with pollen on us from head to toe, but it was worth it.

After Gray Whale Cove, we headed south on Hwy 1 to Pigeon Point Lighthouse. There, we were greeted by the sun just in time for a little picnic lunch. Nan and I refuse to talk about the bathroom situation there. Don’t even ask us. All I have to say is that the state of California is bankrupt and apparently we are trying to save money by closing down bathrooms with indoor plumbing, putting out port-o-potties, and then only emptying those port-o-potties once-a-month. Please…stop talking about it! I’ll start gagging again.

BESIDES that though, we had a lovely, lovely picnic lunch, soaked up the sun, and took in the peaceful views…waves hitting rocks, sea lions and dolphins swimming by, pelicans and gulls flying above us while cormorants floated on the water below, and a beautiful shoreline occupying our gaze.

Back on the road heading toward home, Nan and I made a quick stop off at Bean Hollow Beach, a place that caught my eye on my drive up the day before…which is something to be said after you’ve been driving for seven hours and just want to get to your little cottage only 25 minutes away.

Bean Hollow turned out to be just as cool as I thought it was going to be…rocky shores (which makes for good tidepooling) and riddled with “tafoni,” better known as “honeycomb rock.” I liked Bean Hollow so much, I would return to it later in the week for another wonderful time (more on that later).

The next morning, Nan and I bopped down to the Fitzgerald Marine Reserve (FMR) and I introduced her to tidepooling.

I’m always amazed when someone tells me they’ve never been tidepooling before. Especially someone like Nan, who enjoys the outdoors so much. Having experienced a tidepool is like watching a sunset…I assume everyone has done it at least once in their lives. But apparently not. Of course, that didn’t stop Nan from jumping in and following my lead: carefully walking on algae-topped rocks toward a pool of water, squating down, peering in, and…discovering! She caught on real quick (I told you she was smart) and then became HOOKED. That’s what tidepooling will do to you. What seems benign suddenly turns into obsession. You can’t stop scanning for pools. You can’t stop yourself from wanting to look in every single one of them. You can’t simply ignore someone’s excited squeal—you have to go over and see what they found. You can’t help but want to learn to identify everything. You can’t help but want to show the world a great find. You can’t help cursing the tide as it comes in and cuts off your tidepooling time. You can’t help wanting to shoot the idiot who picks up a star fish and carries it away (a BIG no-no in the world of tidepooling…NEVER remove a single thing!! Not a single shell. Not even a rock. Never. Ever. Never.). You can’t help but fall in love with every bizarre, ugly-looking creature. You just can’t help it.

Next thing I know, Nan’s off exploring her own set of tidepools when she hollers, “Hey, Barb! Come look at this!” I walk over and there, right before us, is what would turn out to be the BEST FIND of the trip: a sunflower star!!

I had never seen a sunflower star before. In fact, I didn’t even know they existed, so it was a delightful surprise and learning experience. I can still close my eyes and be right back there.

And that is one of the benefits of tidepooling with a buddy: you can cover much more territory and you double your chances of finding something cool. And sometimes they see something that you don’t even though you’re looking in the same pool. People bring their own perspective to whatever it is they are doing and that impacts what you see, both literally and metaphorically. Perhaps that’s why I enjoyed being with Nan so much on this trip. I liked watching her get totally absorbed in the ocean. It made me happy to hear her mention several times how much she loved the sound of the waves. I was thrilled to see her immediately—and intuitively—GET the fun of tidepooling. I loved it when she was in awe of the flora we were surrounded by. Sharing in those experiences with her in the first few days of my Thoughtful Travel Adventure, even though they are similar to the ones I have nearly every time I visit the central and northern coast of California, really set the tone for the rest of the trip. It was hard NOT TO be enthusiastic right along with her. From the very beginning, I was conditioned to see things anew, over and over again. What a wonderful gift that was.

After tidepooling, Nan and I made our way back up to street level and walked the side streets high above the ocean until we got to the Moss Beach Land Preserve. There, we meandered along beautiful trails that took us through native chaparral and the bluffs right above the famous surfing beach, Mavericks. We saw colorful birds and more blooming wildflowers. I loved this Preserve and its trails so much, it would become my regular late-afternoon walk for the rest of the week.

After the walk, Nan and I had a quick lunch back at the cottage before we dashed off to the airport for her flight back home to Minnesota. Five minutes after dropping Nan off (and two circles around the airport later), Emmett jumped in my car. He had flown up for a quick, 30-hour visit!

Next up: Part 3 – A Husband Visits (which involves full-moon kayaking, more tidepooling, and an inland hike).

Moss Beach Part 1: Thoughtful Travel

My love and enthusiasm for travel has never wavered. Since being bitten by the bug nearly 20 years ago, thanks to Emmett, it’s safe to say I haven’t met a trip—or a potential destination point—I didn’t like. Sure, some trips have been better than others—maybe more scenic or more adventuresome or more tasty or more historical or more whatever (and I have definite priorities—Maui is higher on the list than say Cleveland) but I’ve never left a place and thought to myself, “Well that was a waste of time and money.” I like to think that it has more to do with my outlook and attitude than the particulars of the destination point, but it’s probably a combination of the two. There’s always something to be learned, experienced, or enjoyed regardless of where you are. Plop me down in the middle of a cornfield in Nebraska and I’m pretty sure I’d find something interesting to take away from the experience (well, that might be a stretch, but you get my drift).

Last year was a particularly active travel time for me. I was gone nearly once a month and it felt like I was unpacking from a trip only to repack for another one: Costa Rica, Philly, San Fran, the Mendocino coast, Mineral King, New York, Pinnacles, Vancouver and Seattle, Wrightwood, Savannah and Charleston, Morro Bay. And while I certainly am not complaining about the plethora of travel opportunities, I did feel a bit breathless and burned out by the end of the year. We were supposed to pack in a trip to Australia in November and when we had to cancel it at the last minute because of Emmett’s work (and because his back went out due to said work), I readily admit that I sighed with relief (and immediately began rescheduling everything for February!).

Below is my 2009 Travel Map.

[googlemaps http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&msa=0&msid=114028724701773870754.00048aba0f601bc9e33cb&ll=33.28462,-97.558594&spn=50.41214,74.707031&z=3&output=embed&w=425&h=350]

So this year, 2010, I made a promise to myself: thoughtful travel. I don’t want to imply that any of my 2009 travels were un-thoughtful. That’s not how I operate—with travel or life in general. No, I just mean that there are a lot of things on my “to do” travel list that I really, really want to do but keep pushing off to the side because other wonderful travel destinations present themselves. Thoughtful travel means that not only will I think twice about saying “yes” to any and all destinations just for the sake of travel, but that I will also MAKE HAPPEN getting my butt to places I really need to be.

And that’s where Half Moon Bay comes in. For years I’ve wanted to visit this area, which is known for its hiking trials, tidepools, dramatic coastline, scenic drives, and water activities (kayaking, surfing, sailing). Anyone who knows about Northern California’s big-name coastal communities—Point Reyes, Big Sur, Mendocino, the Lost Coast—would say that these places offer the same things. One could argue, in fact, that if you’ve been to these other places (which I have!), you don’t really need to see Half Moon Bay. But what Half Moon Bay does offer that the others don’t is the Fitzgerald Marine Reserve. And that was what ultimately compelled me to make this “thoughtful travel” destination happen.

The Fitzgerald Marine Reserve (FMR), technically located in Moss Beach about seven miles north of Half Moon Bay, is 32 acres large and consists of a three-mile stretch of beach, tidepool habitat, and bluff-top hiking trail through a cypress and eucalyptus forest. The tidepool habitat has long been prized as one of the best in Northern California, and, in fact, has been designated by the state as one of 34 places with “Special Biological Significance.” The location of the reserve is what makes the diversity of the tidepools so amazingly rich; it is the farthest north most southern species will be found and the farthest south most northern species will be found. The incredible reef that makes for great tidepooling (both because of size and shallowness of the shelf) was created by the Sea Cove fault that runs through the area (and eventually hooks up with the San Andres fault farther north in Bolinas). In other words, the FMR is a “perfect storm”: a collision of just-the-right physical location with just-the-right geological formation. Nature is amazing that way.

Tidepools have been a fascination of mine since I got to truly experience one up close and personal with a park naturalist while on a trip to the Olympic National Forest in Washington waaaaaaay back in my 20s (I still have on my wall an 8x10 photo of two Pacific star fishes that I took during that particular tidepool exploration!). Living in Minnesota, there weren’t many tidepools around to feed my growing passion so when I moved to Southern California, I recognized my chance to seize the opportunity. That being said, I never really set out to find and explore tidepools. If I happened to stumble across them, that is to say if I was at a beach with rocky shores, I’d wander over, take a peek, and go all marine-geeky for a while. But my obsession with hiking in the mountains (another thing I couldn’t do in Minnesota) tugged stronger at my soul and tidepooling took a backseat. Besides, tidepooling requires more than spontaneous action. You have to find a specific environment (rocky shores with a shallow shelf) and be aware of the tide schedule (you can only tidepool during low tides, preferably a minus one, which doesn’t happen but a few days a month, if at all). Hiking only requires that you put one foot in front of the other.

With many of our hiking destinations checked off our list (some of them more than once), I turned my attention to a tidepool vacation, which lead me to Half Moon Bay and eventually to Moss Beach. I had a certain amount of expectations for this trip, which I tried desperately to keep in check since expectations can lead to huge disappointments. The last thing I wanted was to spend a week alone, frustrated and with a heavy heart. So I simply armed myself with a tidepool guidebook and tide schedule, had in mind a few inland hikes should the weather turn really bad on the coast, found a little cottage right next door to the FMR, and set my sights on rolling with the punches when I got there.

I am home now, with a few days under my belt with which to fully absorb the experience. Because that is what those nine days in Moss Beach did to me—filled me up. With what, I’m not sure, which is why I’ve remained in seclusion in our little house in the hills of South Pasadena for the past four days (with Emmett, of course…after all, he is the best bartender this side of the Mississippi River!). I’m allowing myself to mentally, emotionally, and physically sort through everything and find the right places to store it so I can recall it when I need to. I am more full than I’ve ever felt in my life. I don’t know what that means but I know what it feels like: alive, aware, right...and strangely pre-historic. This trip tapped into something in me that is “of the before”—before me, before my ancestors, before the dinosaurs, and maybe even before earth itself. At the very least, I can say it comes from something old—and yet feels very new and fresh.

Perhaps this is nothing more than my own personal “perfect storm.” Maybe this trip came at a time when the combination of everything—of the person I am today with all my cumulative experiences, of finding just the right little cottage in just the right location, of having unseasonably warm and sunny weather on the coast—could only result in something that felt so alive, aware, and right. And that pre-historic feeling…well, that’s probably just me feeling the effects of being on the verge of turning 40!

Regardless, I’m basking in the glow of whatever glorious gift I’ve been given and I look forward to sharing my photos and experience over the next few days.

Hope you enjoy. (Next up: Moss Beach Part 2 - A Girlfriend Visits)

The Difference Between a $250 Seat and a $10 Seat

When my friend, Kelly, called me up last week and asked Emmett and me to join him at a Dodgers game, I didn’t hesitate to accept. Weather wise, it was a classic Southern California evening (mild and 75), it was a Friday night game, it was against the Angels, and his seats were just five rows behind home plate. With that kind of a grand-slam combination, how could I say no?

I love outdoor baseball. I love baseball in general but I know it all stems from the pure pleasure of watching the game under a big, blue sky. Going to Dodger Stadium brings back fond childhood memories of watching the Twins play outdoors at the Old Met Stadium in Bloomington, Minn. I couldn’t have been older than 10 (and maybe was as young as 7) but I distinctly remember the heat of the sun on my arms as we sat in the exposed box seats that we would sneak into. And I remember the smell of the sometimes hot and crisp, sometimes stale and humid air mixing with the wafting aromas of hot dog and cotton candy and “3-2” beer. My brother and I would always have our baseball gloves on, ready to catch a foul ball had one come our way. The only time our gloves would come off would be to shell the peanuts my mom or dad would smuggle in.

I took Emmett to his very first professional baseball game shortly after we started dating. I was horrified to learn that he had never been to one before (“But I’ve been to the bull fights in Spain,” he retorted upon my scoffing) and I immediately set about to rectify this childhood malady. Sadly, his first game would be at the horrible Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome, the Old Met having been demolished over a decade before during the covered-stadium building boom of the 80s. The Metrodome was not a baseball stadium. It was what they called a “multi-purpose stadium,” home to football, soccer, tennis, monster truck races, and any other event that could be shoved into the space. Needless to say, it left a less than stellar impression of the joys of watching a baseball game “live,” so to speak, but with players like Kirby Puckett, Kent Hrbek, Danny Gladden, Timmy Laudner, and Greg Gagne, it didn’t really matter too much. The game’s players made up for personality where the stadium left off and Emmett was hooked on going to baseball games as much as I was. (Side note: the Twins now play at the recently built Target Field, an outdoor, baseball-only stadium, just like the Old Met was. And the pendulum swings once again.)

Luckily, just a few years later, Emmett got to experience outdoor ball with the arrival of the minor league’s St. Paul Saints (thank you, Mike Veeck and Bill Murray!). Their home, Midway Stadium, was just down the street from the apartment we lived in together. We could see the glow from the lights of night games as we sat on our deck and the cheers of fans were welcome background noise in an otherwise quiet little neighborhood. Midway Stadium is not very big—we’re talking only 5,000 seats. So it’s a pretty intimate baseball experience when you’re there. And did Minnesotans love it. Tickets to games were nearly impossible to get but somehow we managed to score a few every season, and when we did, I felt like a kid again—I’d even smuggle in peanuts (but got to enjoy them with beer this time around!)! We were there for Darryl Strawberry’s “comeback” and watched one of professional baseball’s first female pitchers, Ila Borders, step on the mound. We waved, along with everyone else in the stands, to conductors of trains that went by on the railroad tracks behind the stadium and laughed out loud, along with everyone else in the stands, when the announcer encouraged us to watch a replay on the “mini-tron,” a 26-inch TV out in leftfield (the Saints’ spoof on big-stadium jumbo-trons). Saints games were (and still are) legendary for their between-inning crazy antics and silly competitions (sumo wresting, dragging the field in drag) and their unique and funny baseball promotions (mime day, booblefoot give away instead of bobblehead). In other words, it was outdoor fun with a baseball game going on.

Fast forward to today where Emmett and I consider Dodgers baseball one of a few really good reasons to continue living in L.A. despite the state economically imploding and a 10% sales tax. Dodgers Stadium isn’t anything fancy, but that doesn’t stop the celebrities from showing up or corporate sponsors from investing marketing dollars in it. We love the fact that you can bring your own food into the place and planning our menu (which has included veggie sushi, gourmet sandwiches, Thai food, chips and guacamole, decadent desserts, veggie hot dogs topped with their fixings, and even Pringles) is just as much a highlight as being at the game itself. Dodger Stadium has a comfortable feel about it, as if you’re sitting at home in your backyard just chillin’ out. As a result, those sitting around you feel like your neighbors and it’s not uncommon to hear conversations with the impression of familiarity going on between perfect strangers. Adding to the fun is that Dodgers fans are engaged. You won’t find one sitting through the 7^th inning’s “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” (sung passionately by some more than others, but everyone sings, nonetheless!). And then there’s the setting. With the San Gabriel Mountains as a backdrop, you can stare longingly out over the outfield and watch the mountain range light up in beautiful sunset hues without ever missing a play. And as the marine layer settles in (usually around the 5^th or 6^th inning in a night game) or as the afternoon sun deepens shadows in the stands (around the same innings for day games), there is something magical about the experience, as if you are riding on the back of day itself. Add to all of this, players who have captured the hearts of many Angelenos (Manny Ramirez, Russell Martin, Rafael Furcal, Matt Kemp, Andre Ethier), and once again I ask, how could I turn down tickets to a game?

The seats Kelly had to the game Friday night were practically on the field, just left of home plate with the Dodgers dugout a few feet away. The section was aptly called the “Dugout Club.” If I told you I could smell the players as they stood in the on-deck circle taking practice swings, you might think I was exaggerating. But you’d be wrong. We were that close. The only other time I’ve ever been that close to a baseball field during a game was when I watched my brother play in grade school (and years later high school). Sometimes I’d sit in a lawn chair behind his team’s bench. Other times, when my dad was coaching, I would sit on the bench right alongside the players and keep the scorebook. I loved recording every play using the special code, a series of numeric and letter abbreviations as well as symbols, that made it feel like I was privy to a secret ancient language. Petroglyphs for baseball, if you will. And like professional baseball, my brother’s teams also had a cast of colorful characters on them (Fast Eddie being one I remember fondly). Perhaps this is where my love for outdoor baseball was forged—on the neighborhood fields in communities called Lakewood, Brooklyn Park, and Osseo.

But being in the Dugout Club section that night was the closest to the field Emmett and I have ever been at a Dodgers game. We usually get the cheap seats and while they too are behind home plate, they are high above it (three levels higher!), somewhere in the last few rows the stadium has to offer. I was looking forward to watching the game from this new-to-me Dugout Club section, thinking that after such a close-up experience, we’d never be able to go back to our cheap seats again. But really, other than being able to see the facial expressions of players as they ran on to and off of the field (and other than having servers bring beer to you rather than having to stand in line for it), it was just like any other Dodgers game for me (or for that matter, any other baseball game). And this only reinforces my love for outdoor baseball, because in the end, it doesn’t matter where you sit in the stadium—you’re always in the best seat in the house.

Memorial Day Weekend Roundup

Every time I think Emmett and I should break out of our holiday-weekend routine--which usually consists of hiking, eating, drinking, and chilling in the "pool"--a weekend like this Memorial Day comes along and I'm reminded that if ain't broke, don't fix it. Inspired by spring's bounty and my newest cookbook, Vegan Soul Kitchen by Bryant Terry, I lined up a three-day feast that would make even the least excitable foodie raise an eyebrow. The highlight of this was the Open-faced BBQ Tempeh Sandwich topped with Carrot-Cayenne Coleslaw (from Vegan Soul Kitchen), served alongside my Artichoke, Spinach, and Kalamata Olive Potato Salad, and our newest specialty drink: the Watermelon-Cucumber Martini (modified from Vegan Soul Kitchen). Emmett said it was one of the Top 10 Meals I've ever made him...which says a lot since I've been cooking for him for almost 20 years! I made other delights this weekend, including Sangria, homemade pizza, soba noodles with broccoli and red pepper, a tofu scramble for breakfast, spontaneous gazpacho, spinach-arugula-spring greens salads, and fresh peach cobbler (to name a few) but really, we could have eaten the BBQ sandwiches all weekend long and been just as happy.

The other highlight of the weekend was our 6.5-mile hike through Bouquet Canyon to Sierra Pelona in the Angeles National Forest with our friend Tamra. We were totally taken by surprise by the number of wildflowers still in bloom, the undulating landscape which included lush chaparral (yes, lush!), soft prairie-like grasses, clusters of canyon live oaks that were 100+ years old, and views of the desert and three different mountain ranges ("I feel like I'm in Oz," Tamra said). We were actually hiking part of the Pacific Crest Trail and met several people that were four to five weeks into their 2,650-mile hike from Mexico to Canada (which means they'll be hiking 20-miles a day for about five to six months). Oh, and we saw a beautiful black rattlesnake (who promptly let us know he was there and was not happy with us being there).

So aside from washing all the windows inside and out and doing some yard work, this holiday weekend was like any other holiday weekend...and we're not complaining one bit!

Pictures from our Hike

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Friends Don't Let Friends Go Through Life without Laughing

There are many reasons I love the friends that I have, but one stands out more than the others: their senses of humor.

It's the thing that makes me seek them out when I'm having a bad day...and even a good one.

Life without funny friends is no life at all.

Being Schooled in the Un-normal

The spring issue of The Normal School (TNS) arrived in my mailbox yesterday and it was all I could do to keep myself from screaming with delight and jumping for joy right there at the end of my driveway...and then run into the house, lock myself in my bedroom with a bottle of champagne and a package of Pringles, and spend the evening with every single word on every single page. If you haven't guessed by now, I am a HUGE fan of this new literary magazine published by The Press at California State University, Fresno. And when I say new, I mean new, as in this is only their fourth issue. But the quality of this ingenious work of art, because that is what every issue is, has anything but a learning-to-swim feel to it. No. No. No. Every issue feels like a well-aged bottle of wine whose exquisite and unique flavors come from a winemaker who knows how to work with his ever-changing fields and barrels and bottles and corks to produce magic on the palate. In other words, they know their shit. If the cover art alone of each issue of TNS doesn't catch your eye, then you have to be blind because no one with even a sliver of light in seeing capacity could deny themselves a second look. The same cover artist provides illustrations throughout the magazine, weaving a visual story that permanently affects the way you dream. While the inside of TNS is black and white (but somehow doesn't feel like your standard black and white), they shoot the wad, so to speak, on full-color front and back covers with incredibly rich tones that are irresistibly inviting (I always succumb to the desire to delicately run my fingers across the covers...I truly can't help myself). I like that TNS only features one artist throughout an entire issue, and, it's my understanding, that the work is created just for that specific issue. Other literary journals I subscribe to usually accept art submissions rather than solicit or commission an artist. While this exposes me, the reader, to a diversity of artwork, I feel like I'm only getting part of the artist's story. I don't want to say I'm left feeling empty, but I certainly don't feel fulfilled the way I do after experience the artwork in TNS.

And that leads me to the design of TNS, which comes under the brilliant skills of Joan English Wood of Letterdress Designs LLC. (Joan, I don't know who you are, but if I were a lesbian and single, I'd ask you to marry me just to see what kind of wedding invitations you'd create for us). If all that filled the pages of TNS was dummy copy (lorem ipsum, as they call it in the graphic design world), I think I would still be in love with it. Sadly, TNS doesn't identify the individual typefaces it uses but it is a stunning combination of serif and sans serif, contemporary and classic, edgy and warm, crisp and wistful. Other tools, like the use of boxes, borders, pull quotes, blocks, and reversed text, make reading and page turning effortless yet still part of the entertainment quotient. And then there are times the stories themselves are artistically laid out to complement (without distraction) the storyline. For example, in this issue there is a piece called "Album" which is anchored at the side edges of the layout by what looks like a vinyl record and the copy is laid out as it would be on the inside dust sleeve/album liner thingie. How fun is that? The only other literary journal that rivals TNS's design is Tin House. But what gives TNS an edge in my book is its appealing smell. Their printer, Printcrafters, Inc., must do something mystical with the ink and paper because even my letter carrier's smoke break doesn't penetrate the essence of a TNS issue the way it does my junk mail. Bottle it, please. I love the earthy, dry leaf, farmer's-field scents that waft about me as I hold it.

But ultimately what makes this literary magazine orgasmicly pleasurable is the writing. They publish poetry, fiction, criticism, and nonfiction that push the boundaries of prose and genre and subject matter. I'm continually surprised and dazzled before being sent twirling in whatever word-fueled direction their contributors decided to send us readers. When I read through an issue, I gasp, I laugh, I cringe, I sigh, I get choked up, I am in awe, I am intrigued. I fawn over sentences and swoon over paragraphs. Well known writers' works stand beside lesser known and unknown, seamlessly, effortlessly and without burden on the reader. I have yet to be disappointed by the quality of writing in a single piece. Everything I've read is solid and strong, even in the chaos of blazing new literary trails.

The single disappointment I have with TNS is that is is only published bi-annually. Such a shame. Knowing I won't get my next issue until fall is already sending me into hyperventilation mode. It's just not fair.

If nothing I've said so far has convinced you to subscribe to The Normal School, try this on for size: a two-year subscription (four issues) is only $20! TWENTY DOLLARS, PEOPLE! You can't get a one-day pass to Disneyland for less than $80 and The Normal School is a billion-kazillion times more thrilling than anything Disney has to offer. Plus there's the added bonus of not having to pay for parking, stand in line, or wear mouse ears. Unless you want to.

Deal of the Summer

Nothing says DEAL better than finding EXACTLY what you want on craigslist for the right price after scanning the ads for over a year. And then, as it just-so-happens, your husband is working from home that very day you discover said DEAL so you can go over to the seller's house and scoop it up before all those poor folks who are looking at the very same DEAL from the confines of their office cubicle get off work.

$50.

6' teak table (that can also close up to a super-cool 2' square table).

6 teak chairs.

Great condition.

Perfect for the porch.

Let summer begin!

All Things Girl: Couchless

I hope I never forget the feeling of getting a piece published. No matter how many times it may happen, no matter how big or small the publication is, I want to forever fly high on the feelings that come with 1) someone besides my husband and parents thinking my material is relatable and worthy of sharing with others and 2) putting something I've created out there in the world. Okay, "world" is a bit of a stretch, but still. At least the readers of the May-June issue of All Things Girl get to experience my essay, "Couchless." And who knows, maybe one of them actually lives on a different continent. This essay originated from a writing prompt given to my writing group months ago: to write about our couch from childhood. It was an assignment I did not look forward to doing, thinking I had nothing to say about a piece of forgotten furniture from way too many years ago. But as I began to write, a solid theme, a strong metaphor, and some beautiful images emerged from both past and current memories. I then tweaked it for the May-June theme of All Things Girl, "Heart & Soul." As I pitched it to the editor, "Every home has a main room, the one that is the center of activity...the 'heart and soul,' if you will, of where life unfolds on a daily basis."

And so, that is where this piece begins and ends...in the heart and soul of my home: my living room. As always, I warmly welcome you into it.

Couchless All Things Girl May-June 2010

Emmett Tried to Kill Me (or at least my legs)

Emmett and I spent a lovely Sunday morning and afternoon hiking the Heaton Flats trail in the Angeles National Forest. While it was only a 6.2-mile hike, we could feel the elevation gain burn in our legs...an average of 650 feet per mile. The last time we did a big elevation hike was way back in August when we were in Mineral King. So, needless to say, I sit here now, very glad for the fresh strawberry lemonade spiked with vodka that Emmett has made me while hoping the ache in my legs will go away very soon. What did we do when we got home? Well, I took a one-hour nap while Emmett washed and waxed my car, did a load of laundry, and prepped the veggies for the Zen Soup I made when I got up. I love that man.

Tadpoles and Snakes and Horned Lizards, Oh My!

Well, I could go on and on about this weekend's volunteer adventure with Habitat Works. I could talk about the gorgeous weather, the stunning setting, and the wonderful volunteers. I could try to explain the feeling that comes with accomplishing the task of ridding a section of the Los Padres National Forest of the invasive knapweed and thistle. I could tell you how humbling it is to be around people who know so much about the area, from plant names to leave-no-trace practices to the history. I could attempt to list all the highlights, from the grandest (driving the S-10 by myself through 40 miles of dirt road and four water crossings) to the most subtle (Tom and I getting down on our hands and knees to try to identify animal tracks). Instead, I'll give you the bare details: 21 volunteers, two days, Sierra Madre Ridge (sacred cultural site to the Chumash Indians), campfire and crescent moon, springtime, and a deep appreciation for the opportunity to be a part of something physically and emotionally transforming. I've always been an ardent supporter of Habitat Works. They do what they say and they say what they do. If you're looking for a way to celebrate Earth Day this Thursday, I can think of nothing better than signing up to participate in a Habitat Works project or making a financial contribution toward their efforts. The reward can be seen in the slideshow below: the preservation of something incredibly special. [slideshow]

Just Another Thursday in L.A.

(Slideshow at end of post.)

Believe it or not, there is a long list of places I still want to visit here in L.A. While I do my best to make new experiences and visiting new places a priority, it seems that with each things-to-see-and-do I check off, I’m exposed to two new things-to-see-and-do to add to the list. One step forward. Two steps back. I’m not complaining. It’s a nice problem to have.

This past Thursday, I finally got to the Antelope Valley Poppy Reserve for the annual spring poppy bloom. I fully intended to hit up the place last year and even penned in a date with my neighbor, Raynee, on my calendar. But 2009 turned out to be a bad poppy year—low rain fall, high temps, and extreme wind—and by early April, the poppies were all, “I’m outta here.” The opportunity whizzed past us faster than a hummingbird heading for a feeder and Raynee and I were forced to cancel the excursion.

On the heels of a wonderful wildflower experience at Anza Borrego, I wasn’t necessarily going out of my way to make a special trip out the Poppy Reserve this year. It wasn’t until I was driving home on the 110 Freeway last week when I passed by a section of poppy clusters in full bloom on the side of the road (there unabashedly in all their beautiful construction-orange glory amongst bland trash, gray cyclone fencing, and black tar) that my intention was remembered. And then everything else seemed to fall in place...weather, wind (is that part of weather?), work (yes, I do work despite not working for the man). Next thing I knew, I was trying to decide if I should take the 14 Freeway or cut through the Angeles National Forest on San Francisquito Canyon Road to get to the Poppy Reserve and filling my hiking backpack with sunscreen, my journal, and lunch.

I fully expected to see “carpets of orange,” as the Reserve is often described as. Yet, when I did, when the first glimpse of the vast prairie-like valley merging into the hills hit my retina, it took my breath away and brought a tear to my eye. And I was completely taken back by this reaction. I knew it was coming but it still took me by surprise. I can sit here and try to describe the scenery to you but it will never, ever even come close to the real experience itself. So I won’t even try.

But there are two dizzying things I will try to impress upon you. The first is that with all that commanding orange and ostentatious goblet-like features of the poppy, there is a tendency to miss the less flashy, more subtle beauty at the reserve. And that would be a shame. A pure, Catholic shame. Once I realized that there was more to the Reserve than its beloved California poppy, I got dizzy from constantly refocusing my mind and senses on the other glorious details…a meadowlark’s call, a single silver puff flower (the only one I saw!) amongst hundreds of poppies, a painted lady butterfly enjoying the bounty, the seasonally orange belly of the western fence lizard (returning to ash-brown when the poppies die off), and the ladybug that perched on my knee while I ate my lunch. There were so many layers to the park to enjoy that a leisurely walk through just a small section of trail left you exhausted.

The second mind stirring event came when a section of poppies quivered for a brief 10 seconds. The Antelope Valley is known as a wind tunnel, completely immune to gentle breezes and instead home to unforgiving wind gusts that make Katrina look like a walk in the park. But on Thursday, the wind taking an unheard of break, the poppies suddenly stirred as something passed through and they made a sound like whispering grade schoolers discovering that chocolate milk was on the lunch menu. Or maybe it was more like the sound of rustling tissue paper as a bride opens her wedding gifts. In either case, it literally stopped me in my tracks and I waited for more. But it never came.

And that’s what I love about California; if you blink, you could miss something. And it’s that “what am I missing” feeling that compels me to explore, compels me to make a list I know I’ll never complete, compels me to seize an opportunity when I sense it, even if it means cancelling appointments and rescheduling my week, getting behind on work and writing projects, and driving three hours round trip for a four-hour visit to a poppy reserve that I’ve been wanting to visit for years.

Excuse me while I happily take two steps back.

[slideshow]

Color Chart Interpretations

Conversation with my husband as I changed out of pants and put on a pair of shorts to go for our evening walk. Me: Oh, wow. This does NOT match. Him: Your top is blue and your shorts are green. Of course it matches. Me: It’s teal and olive. Him: Yeah, blue and green. It looks fine.

I changed into a white t-shirt.

Road Trip to Anza-Borrego Desert

(Note: A slideshow of photos is at the bottom of this post. It will automatically start and advance so if you want to manually advance the photos, just hover over a photo and you'll see arrows pop up.)

Land For Sale

The large plywood sign on the side of the road was the handmade kind with spray-painted stenciled lettering in black on a faded yellow background. It said 119.5 acres of land were for sale by some guy named Jim and gave a number to call. It wasn’t the first such sign we came across on this road trip to Anza-Borrego Desert State Park. Sometimes the offerings were much smaller (three acres, quarter acre) or a point of differentiation was made (includes well, zoned commercial, legal easement).

“There’s always land for sale in the desert,” I said to Emmett, recalling our visits to Joshua Tree, Death Valley, and Mojave over the past couple of years. This was our first time to Anza-Borrego and as I watched the landscape whiz by from my vantage point on the passenger side of the Rav4 we rented, I couldn’t help but wonder aloud, “What makes people want to buy it in the first place if all they are going to do is sell it?”

Anza-Borrego is the largest of California’s state parks, clocking in at an astounding 600,000 acres in the Colorado Desert. Its 500 miles of dirt roads and 12 wilderness areas span from 16 feet in elevation to 6,193 feet. To say we were about to visit the mother lode of all California parks would be an understatement. Even though we would explore the park from its very north and south boundaries to its very east and west boundaries, returning the rental car with 700 additional miles, we didn’t even come close to scratching the surface of all that this place had to offer. Then again, I’m not sure I could have handled much more than what we did see in the four days we were there. My mind would have exploded. My senses would have imploded. It’s an area that needs to be absorbed—slowly, over time—and not simply “done” the way some parks we have been to can.

Anza-Borrego is similar to other desert areas in that if all you do is drive by, you miss the point. You have to get up and personal with the desert, bury your nose in plants to see if that is the smell that keeps wafting by, use the zoom lens on your camera or the object of your attention will get lost in the background, stand still while holding your breath to catch where a sound is coming from and what is making it, and reach out to touch something you aren’t sure is going to be hard or soft. But that is where the similarities end. Anza-Borrego is the only place in California where the elephant tree grows. With 27 snake and 31 lizard species, it is home to the most diverse reptile population in North America. The endangered desert pupfish, thought to be remnants from the Ice Age river system, survives only in San Sebastian Marsh. The desert fan palm, the only palm native to the western United States, can be found in oases throughout the park’s myriad of canyons. Anza-Borrego is the last viable habitat for the endangered Peninsular bighorn sheep (or “borrego” in Spanish). The take-your-breath-away badlands contain the largest amount of Pliocene and Pleistocene megafauna in the United States. And that’s only what plays out on the stage before us today. Pull back the curtain of time and you’ll find mastodons, camels, and sabertooths wandering alongside ocean, streams, and lakes before earthquakes and volcanoes pushed the land higher and higher creating a barrier that blocked the moisture-laden coastal breezes and turned it into the arid land we see before us now. Yes, Anza-Borrego is definitely the mother lode when it comes to state parks, if not mother earth herself.

As we drove out of Anza-Borrego—four days, eight hikes, and three miles-long canyon drives later—I thought about those 119.5 acres of land for sale and wondered if I called Jim and made him an offer, what that land would hold. Would it have the ridiculous number of wildflowers we saw in various stages of bloom throughout the park—desert lily, popcorn, barrel and fishhook cactus, golden poppy, and lupine among my favorites? Would the cream-colored desert iguana, like the one I jumped out of our moving car for in order to get a closer look at it, scamper across my newly purchased dusty earth floor and duck into the protection of a creosote bush? If I only bought half of Jim’s plot, would there still be roadrunners dashing across it like the ones we saw on the west side of the park or the always seemingly spastic California quail making mad dashes between sagebrush bushes? Would I see tracks from a bighorn sheep making its way across a wash like we did on our Bow Willow Canyon hike? Would my purchase still come with my beloved ocotillo shooting out of the land every few feet, sending up its spear-like trunks covered in Kelly green, shamrock-size leaves and topped with clusters of orange flowers dangling like limp wrists in the desert breeze? What if I only bought an acre or a half acre? Would it have a slot canyon that got as narrow as only a foot wide and then open up into towering 50-foot walls that were hosts to huge hawks’ nests and ravens’ nests high above? Or would the land be on a long, lingering stretch of alluvial fan that spread far and wide along the base of mountains and created the illusion that you could see the curvature of the earth right before your eyes? If I only bought a square inch or just a footprint worth of land, would it hold a surprise for me one morning, a light dusting of snow late in the season, just as the Laguna Mountains did our last day there? Would the harvester ants be busy at work, the blister beetle ungracefully stumble its way to the next flower, or the Scott’s Oriole fly by in a streak of bright yellow and black that always takes me by surprise? Would I see more kangaroo rats and their delightfully long tails with a puff of fur at the very tip? Or finally catch a glimpse of the non-venomous hairy scorpion or the coachwhip snake I so want to see?

When we moved from Minnesota to California nearly eight years ago, I never in a million years (back in the day when Teratornis—a vulture with a 17-foot wing span—rode the thermals in Anza-Borrego) would have seen myself fall so head over heels for the desert. Growing up in lush Minnesota green and always around, on, or in lakes, I thought I would naturally gravitate toward the ocean, being pulled toward the coast like a car with bad alignment. I was taken by surprise when it was the mountains that first captured my heart. I couldn’t get enough of the hikes that took me from chaparral to alpine in eight miles and 3,000 feet in elevation gain. I found myself swooning over mountain sunrises and sunsets much more than ocean ones. And then one day, Emmett said he wanted to visit Death Valley. I agreed to go only because I love the man immeasurably and because it would give me leverage for the expensive Kauai vacation I wanted to take. “But we went to Death Valley for you,” I could hear myself argue. “Isn’t it only fair that we go where I want to go?” Next thing I knew, I was the one planning our desert trips, checking off destinations and adding new ones to our list faster than our mountain adventures.

I always learn something new about myself and the land after visiting the desert. It constantly challenges my perception of what is possible by redefining what is impossible (ladybugs and hummingbirds live here?!! There are how many waterfalls in this park?!!). This trip wasn’t any different. At home, after washing off the dust and pollen and sunscreen, after spending the next day in a haze of memories filled with vistas and colors and vast space and layers of sound, I realized that no matter how many land-for-sale signs there are out there, no matter how many deeds are written up and boundaries staked out, one never truly owns a piece of the desert. Maybe Jim and all those others sellers have finally figured out what I have felt for a long time but never understood completely until now: it is the desert that owns you.

[slideshow]