It took about an hour, starting around 9 in the AM to take Cahuenga Pass to Barham to Forest Glen to the 134 to the 210...to exit at Baseline to Padua to Mt Baldy Rd. to Mt. Baldy Village. I stopped off at the visitors center, ringing the bell over the door like a lunatic fucking bandit as I entered, as a room of children turned, as a park ranger's speech about coping with rattlesnake bites came to an immediate halt. I said something like trail maps and no less than three children pointed to the main desk. I swiped my guide and got out, not really in the mood to re-live whatever they were living in that moment or ever again.
From there, I parked at San Antonio Falls Road, packed up and started my climb. It was 70 degrees at the main entrance, starting at 5000 feet and across the way, the first thing I saw was a waterfall stampeding between two large masses of snow. It was alright. I spent the next 3-4 hours following the direction of the ski lifts, just hiking up and up. At the top of the lift, I climbed into one of the chairs and sat. There was no noise, no people. There were birds, maybe...and some bees, maybe...and then there was me. I set the chair into a rock and rested my head for a moment before falling into a short sleep. It was alright.
From there, to continue, I had to go a bit off trail, to this section of the mountain called "Devil's Backbone." It felt like the air was starting to thin and I could feel my temples pounding as I moved up and up, just telling myself to keep moving. A couple times, I tried to start an avalanche but the snow was too heavy.
Sometime between 2 and 3, I reached the summit, spent...maybe a little burned on the skin, a touch chapped in the lips. I hung out for a good little while, taking pictures...mostly gratuitously of myself. Once I got over serenity, I consulted my map and instantly decided I didn't want to take the same route back.
There are a couple of things you need to know about me before we proceed. First, I'm not a super strong map reader. I could be if I wanted to be, maybe, but the possibility of my being that will always fall victim to the second thing you need to know about me, that I am the world's #1 authority on behaving like an improvisational dipshit. What does this mean? Well, it means I was supposed to pick up the new trail somewhere to my East. Somewhere. I crossed through a couple mini snow valleys, thinking I would hit the path somewhere, that everything would work out fine because that's usually how things work for me. When I ran out of valleys and hit the edge of a rock cliff, I looked to a grade that seemed passable, and to a clear trail in the valley below. I think I was overcome with an initial abundance of pride, thinking I would be back in no time, that the descent would be a breeze, that someone should give me a Nobel Prize or something of the like so I started down.
I'm going to tell you a major key to descending a mountain, in case you don't already know...you can't really judge a drop by looking down on it.
Also, if you don't know what you're doing, maybe stay on the fucking path. Maybe they're there for a reason.
It took me about an hour to get down the first ridge. If you want me to fractionalize, I will...I was about 1/15th of the way down, just fucked. Have I made this abundantly clear yet? I started talking to the rocks, because they were so fickle. Most rocks were small and most steps caused them and about 30 of their ankle smashing friends to slide. So when I'd find a good one to grip, I'd say things like be strong my friend or take care of me now. Please don't think I'm kidding. There were at least two instances where I lost my footing and saved myself from a tumble with three fingers of an outstretched arm. Sometimes, I'd laugh it or the pain I'd recently suffered off, but most of the way, I was a little more panicked than I wanted to be, wondering what things were going to be like when the sun goes down.
Slowly, the grade began to mellow out...about two hours after I began. And by mellow, I mean if I lost grip and fell, I would fall 20 feet as opposed to 50. In the distance, I kept focusing my eyes on the path ahead...distantly ahead, using it as my only real form of comfort. The moment I believed myself to be making progress, I stepped over a rock that started to hiss. Yeah, no...I'll say that again. The motherfucking rock started to motherfucking hiss. Rattlesnakes. Apparently, this was their stomps, too. I told myself that it was too steep, that the one I crossed was an anomaly - that it must have been cast out from the flatter grounded rattlesnake communities, scorned even. That's what I told myself, maybe a thousand times in the next 10 minutes before settling my fear, self-affirming that if I got bit by a rattlesnake, I would fucking deal with whatever accompanied that and that that would be that...because that's exactly what I was on the mountain to do. The sun was beginning to fall and the temperature was falling and I was over and in the middle of everything I was out to chase.
Halfway down, once I had left the sporadic, large rocks behind, I started to ski. The rocks had settled into bunches that would cave and slide as I stepped and for maybe 10 feet at a time, with superb agility and grace (I obviously possess both), they could serve as transport. This is where I started to make up ground, turning single steps into tens of steps. Just as I was getting into a rythym, I heard rocks falling to my left, and in bunches. I looked over and saw a deer. But it wasn't a deer, it was a form of ram - it had horns on its head. I looked below me and saw 5 more. Then, to my right, there was another. Somehow, I had gotten in between a pack or family...and they were either studying or circling. I had heard stories of animals like this charging people like me and spent enough time in the African bush to know how the wild world works...I was way off path and if they thought I was threatening their young, I was going to be met with bad intentions on the side of that sliding hill. A new form of fear started to run through me. They weren't moving, just watching. I began picking up rocks and throwing them in their nearby - maybe as a demonstration of my might in hopes it might back them down. At this point, I'm not sure I was thinking things through. They didn't move. I calmed myself, decided that if I had to fight a fucking pack of rams on the side of that mountain on a Wednesday, then that's what I was going to have to do...because that's exactly what I was on the mountain to do. I back-tracked across, trying my best to demonstrate that I was suddenly and now backing down and by the time I had started my descent again, they were packed and moving off, watching me...actually, probably judging me. Fuckers.
I got back to the slide and the mountain was somewhat easing and I could see the path...or a path, but it was still so far away. And I don't know if it was the residue of adrenaline still in my guts or paranoia, but my mind moved to the sight I must have been, fireworks shooting off over my head as I rode an avalanche of rock down the face of that mountain. I began to think about the family of rams, and the ways of the world...and that if any hunting predator was after them, it certainly called an audible the moment it saw me. I searched the ground and picked up the two sharpest rocks I could find, decided I would walk with them, and that if I had to fight a fucking lion or something of the like up on that mountain...if I had to try and stab out its eyes before it ripped off my face, then that's what I was going to have to do...because -- yeah, we all get it.
Finally, the grounds began to flatten out. Finally, I stumbled onto something that resembled a beaten path, followed that for about a mile. Across a nearby stream, there was a green hut and outhouse. It was called something like camp Mt. San Antonio. On the other side of the hut, a true path began to take shape. It was somewhere around 630 and I started to jog, so happy to be somewhere someone else had maybe recently been, I couldn't contain myself. After about another mile, I saw a large and darting animal out of the corner of my eye and thought it was a wolf until I heard the ringing tags on its collar. It was a dog, and it ran up and I actually gave it a hug. Behind it, a man was trudging up the path, sweating and out of breath. There was so much love in my greeting, it knocked him off his feet. We had a quick conversation and I told him about the rams. He was either impressed or humoring, I don't know which. It didn't matter. I had found my way.
When the trees cleared and I got clear view of where I'd been, this is what I saw, the exact path that didn't seem that steep from the top...
I paused because I usually do when life calls for it, realized not for the first time in my life, that one day I am going to pay for the decisions I make. Just not today. I got back to my car and actually applauded, not caring if anyone was around to see or ask why I was clapping, or why my eyes looked like they were housing delirium. I drove into Mt. Baldy Village and stopped at the one restaurant in town. They were serving a special of "spaghetti" for 8.95. I took that without question and a beer. "Love Hurts" was playing on the stereo or jukebox and the locals were singing along and all I could do was try -- fucking try to take it all in, to let everything in a day stick to and become me.
...
I got back on the 210 around 8 and the roads were clear. I flew home, music so loud it numbed my speakers. I was dirty and hurt everywhere and the only thing that remained in my day was sleep. It felt like something...
Like I had taken a life shower. Maybe I had. It felt like I had borrowed time from another world. I absolutely did.
