After leaving Asheville, Tucker and I headed north for a Thanksgiving adventure. First, a stop in Pennsylvania with a friend where Tucker discovered that a child’s trampoline makes a fine dog bed,
to Massachusetts where Tucker enjoyed the view from my childhood bedroom.
Then back in the truck again to cross the nation. In just under four days, we made it to California where oddly, Autumn was still in full swing on my back deck:
Luckily for us, “Friendsgiving” was delayed to December this year, giving Tucker and me the perfect excuse for a weekend getaway to San Francisco. There Tucker endured a few holiday accessories.
He clearly likes the Fargo style more than the elf-look.
And if he gets kisses, what’s the harm?
With so little time before the holidays, I didn’t get to arrange for a Christmas Tree (I don’t believe in chopping one down; I rent one from Living Christmas Trees), but we still had a Christmas adventure.
Like much of New Mexico, Southern California is a desert. So finding woodsy, shady trails with water can be challenging. With a little searching, I found Sturtevant Falls 25 miles from home. The falls itself was only about 3.5 miles round trip, but Tucker and I could do a whole loop that included Mount Wilson and the falls that nearly doubled the mileage. A six mile hike was much more what I had in mind for Christmas. Nature is my church, and I was looking for the equivalent of a Christmas mass, not just a Sunday service.
It's an adage among many that "The best thing about LA is getting out of it." I agree--day trips up the coast are beautiful, and skiing in the mountains when it's 80 degrees in the city is a pretty nice perk of where I live. But sometimes you need only go twenty miles in any direction to be in a whole different universe. I don't think anyone would see this in their mind when they think of Los Angeles:
Like much of New Mexico, Southern California is a desert. So finding woodsy, shady trails with water can be challenging. With a little searching, I found Sturtevant Falls 25 miles from home. The falls itself was only about 3.5 miles round trip, but Tucker and I could do a whole loop that included Mount Wilson and the falls that nearly doubled the mileage. A six mile hike was much more what I had in mind for Christmas. Nature is my church, and I was looking for the equivalent of a Christmas mass, not just a Sunday service.
It's an adage among many that "The best thing about LA is getting out of it." I agree--day trips up the coast are beautiful, and skiing in the mountains when it's 80 degrees in the city is a pretty nice perk of where I live. But sometimes you need only go twenty miles in any direction to be in a whole different universe. I don't think anyone would see this in their mind when they think of Los Angeles:
One thing that reminds you that you are close to the city is that no trail can begin as nature intended: with soft dirt beneath your feet. They all begin as paved paths as if man just had to graffiti over a perfectly lovely piece of art made by Mother Nature.
Not only is it unsightly, but it's dangerous. At the edge of the pavement, a sign warns dog owners to check the temperature of the pavement by placing the back of their hand on it. Burned pads and heat exhaustion are common for Los Angeles dogs whose owners don’t consider that their canines aren’t wearing trackshoes and shirts made of UV protectant that wick away sweat.
This particular stretch of pavement lasted for three quarters of a mile downhill. The pavement was cool to the touch as it was only 9am. The trail I had picked out had an option to avoid the paved ascent on the way back, so I didn’t need to worry once we hit natural earth at the bottom of the canyon.
Near the bottom, man's made trail cracked and splintered off, revealing Nature's original walkway. A bridge, one of man's more useful interventions into nature, spanned across a tiny brook.
Not only is it unsightly, but it's dangerous. At the edge of the pavement, a sign warns dog owners to check the temperature of the pavement by placing the back of their hand on it. Burned pads and heat exhaustion are common for Los Angeles dogs whose owners don’t consider that their canines aren’t wearing trackshoes and shirts made of UV protectant that wick away sweat.
This particular stretch of pavement lasted for three quarters of a mile downhill. The pavement was cool to the touch as it was only 9am. The trail I had picked out had an option to avoid the paved ascent on the way back, so I didn’t need to worry once we hit natural earth at the bottom of the canyon.
Near the bottom, man's made trail cracked and splintered off, revealing Nature's original walkway. A bridge, one of man's more useful interventions into nature, spanned across a tiny brook.
Once across, it was clear we had arrived: to faerie land. We were worlds away from the city, and now in another plane of existence entirely.
The wide path wove through groves of tall trees, under the canopy of giant ferns and alongside a bubbling brook. Cabins with no seeable driveway or pathway out except on foot were here and there in the woods on either side. They were constructed of old redwood and stones that had been mortared together with hands not machines. The cabins looked like a natural part of the woods, as if they had just blossomed and grown right there on the spot.
They probably had. Los Angeles has a history of people escaping the city by buying land in the middle of forests or in the deep ends of canyons, constructing edifices and calling them their weekend getaways. Even in the 1930's, the best part of LA was getting out of it. But you needn't get that far away to really get out. You did, though, have to hike to get where you wanted to go. There were no roads in or out, and still aren't. That three quarters of a mile of pavement was all Nature and her loyal and faithful subjects, allowed.
The wide path wove through groves of tall trees, under the canopy of giant ferns and alongside a bubbling brook. Cabins with no seeable driveway or pathway out except on foot were here and there in the woods on either side. They were constructed of old redwood and stones that had been mortared together with hands not machines. The cabins looked like a natural part of the woods, as if they had just blossomed and grown right there on the spot.
They probably had. Los Angeles has a history of people escaping the city by buying land in the middle of forests or in the deep ends of canyons, constructing edifices and calling them their weekend getaways. Even in the 1930's, the best part of LA was getting out of it. But you needn't get that far away to really get out. You did, though, have to hike to get where you wanted to go. There were no roads in or out, and still aren't. That three quarters of a mile of pavement was all Nature and her loyal and faithful subjects, allowed.
Tucker took a quick journey across the brook on a fallen log, and was thrilled we didn't have to drive 3000 miles to do such a thing. It really was like we were in another world:
We meandered along the trail, taking our time to enjoy the energy of this faerie land.
At the end of wide dirt “road,” I had three choices on where to go. I had wanted to hit the falls first and then loop upwards to the summit of Mt Wilson, and then back around. On my first attempt, I did not choose wisely. We struck up the hill, and when I reached the top, out of breath, I checked my map to see I was headed in the opposite direction. One could say the creature of the fae are a tricky bunch. Or one could say I have a horrible sense of direction. The latter is most likely true.
We double-backed and headed for my second choice. We definitely got closer to the falls, but evidently missed the turn to get to the bottom of the falls. From here, we viewed the 50 foot falls with ease—fifty feet down and many more feet away.
At the end of wide dirt “road,” I had three choices on where to go. I had wanted to hit the falls first and then loop upwards to the summit of Mt Wilson, and then back around. On my first attempt, I did not choose wisely. We struck up the hill, and when I reached the top, out of breath, I checked my map to see I was headed in the opposite direction. One could say the creature of the fae are a tricky bunch. Or one could say I have a horrible sense of direction. The latter is most likely true.
We double-backed and headed for my second choice. We definitely got closer to the falls, but evidently missed the turn to get to the bottom of the falls. From here, we viewed the 50 foot falls with ease—fifty feet down and many more feet away.
The path Tucker and I stood on was a sandy, gravel ledge about six inches wide, with one side being the sandy mountain wall and the other being a sheer drop to the cascading rocky slope below that. If I planned it right, we could dive off the ledge, bounce all the way down and land in the water—we just might not be alive at that point. Faerie folk have an amusing way of protecting their land.
Much to Tucker’s disappointment, I calculated the risk, deemed it too high, and turned ourselves around on the six inch wide ledge to head back the way we came.
Just before the trail turned away from the view of the falls, there appeared to be a small trail leading down the slope. Precarious and unstable, but a trail nonetheless. I can only assume it had been forged by hikers before me with the same idea: this was so not worth it.
Using Tucker as my solid four-wheel drive partner, I mostly scooched on my butt the entire way down, as rocks and gravel and sand fell apart around us and rolled downhill. It might not have been the right path, but it was the right answer to how to get closer to the falls.
Much to Tucker’s disappointment, I calculated the risk, deemed it too high, and turned ourselves around on the six inch wide ledge to head back the way we came.
Just before the trail turned away from the view of the falls, there appeared to be a small trail leading down the slope. Precarious and unstable, but a trail nonetheless. I can only assume it had been forged by hikers before me with the same idea: this was so not worth it.
Using Tucker as my solid four-wheel drive partner, I mostly scooched on my butt the entire way down, as rocks and gravel and sand fell apart around us and rolled downhill. It might not have been the right path, but it was the right answer to how to get closer to the falls.
Ten long minutes later, we arrived at the sign facing the waterfall that stated, “PREVENT EROSION - DO NOT CLIMB UP.” There’s wasn’t a sign about us climbing down, so technically we hadn't violated any written rules. And anyway, I imagine falling down would have been a lot worse for myself and the ground beneath us than navigating our way down on purpose. Intent is everything.
As I sat and dusted myself off, I heard and then saw three hikers above in the same place Tucker and I had just been. I heard the young man falter. “Um, guys, I don’t have a good feeling about this. I think we should turn around.” And he didn’t have a dog on a leash—he was only concerned for his own safety. I no longer felt like an old fuddy-duddy for turning back.
Pride intact, I turned my attention to the falls in front of us. Although certainly no match for North Carolina or Georgia, it was pretty impressive for the City of Angeles.
As I sat and dusted myself off, I heard and then saw three hikers above in the same place Tucker and I had just been. I heard the young man falter. “Um, guys, I don’t have a good feeling about this. I think we should turn around.” And he didn’t have a dog on a leash—he was only concerned for his own safety. I no longer felt like an old fuddy-duddy for turning back.
Pride intact, I turned my attention to the falls in front of us. Although certainly no match for North Carolina or Georgia, it was pretty impressive for the City of Angeles.
Tucker was less impressed, and more interested in the people and dogs who were arriving.
Since we had wandered around on the upper falls and then come down, many more hikers who started after us were just arriving. When it was no longer a serene waterfall church-like setting and more of a public park, Tucker and I headed back. Within moments we were back in the faerie-woods away from the crowd.
Experiencing this little plot of peacefulness,
and then coming upon expansive views of the wilderness that surrounded us,
I was thankful for my California Christmas. It wasn’t the Oregon Coast, but it was still a place of discovery for Tucker and me. Just as my own backyard does not feel like one imagines a desert backyard to be, southern California has many secret places to explore and surprise me.
At the trailhead, it was clear that the people from the City of Angeles had finished their homebound Christmas morning rituals. The road was lined with cars, and people waited for parking spots. As Tucker and I drove down the mountain, we saw people parking their cars more than a mile away, and trekking up to the top of the trailhead.
I was thankful for our early arrival. And thankful for this life I have with a loyal canine partner that I love more than life itself. Tucker is thankful for his gifts—and for the life he has here even if he didn’t get wrapped presents next the the non-working fireplace once a year. He only wishes he didn’t have to wear silly hats.
I was thankful for our early arrival. And thankful for this life I have with a loyal canine partner that I love more than life itself. Tucker is thankful for his gifts—and for the life he has here even if he didn’t get wrapped presents next the the non-working fireplace once a year. He only wishes he didn’t have to wear silly hats.
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and most of all, may you celebrate and appreciate the light returning to the world in this season of darkness. It is a day of hope and a time of love.
May all your wishes come true.
May all your wishes come true.
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