Avoiding Regret

Photo Essay: Elysian Park, Beyond Dodger Stadium

2012-02-10T05:20:00.000-05:00

In my explorations of LA, I have seen more in one year than most locals - or even natives - have seen in several years.

But there are still areas I don't really want to go to alone, and so they remain as-yet unexplored.

Despite having house-sat near Dodger Stadium in Highland Park in Summer 2010, Elysian Park was one of those places...

...until this weekend, when I joined the Meetup hiking group excursion led by Lee, one of my new friends from the Mount Lowe Historical Society.

Elysian Park is decidedly urban...

...situated somewhere between Echo Park, Glendale, and Highland Park...

...and housing Dodger Stadium...

...But despite the hum of the nearby freeway traffic on the 5...

...and the graffiti that frequently greets you...

...you can get some good easy climbing in...

...to overlook the suburban sprawl below.

We climbed along a narrow ridge...

...through a tree...

...past the LA River...

...and the Elysian Reservoir...

...to an area well-populated by homeless.

Despite the predominance of fire roads in the park (something I am not much of a fan of), the trails do manage to display a burst of color...

...and plenty of palm trees.

With little elevation change, Elysian Park was a good way to get 6 or 7 miles of walking in on a Saturday morning after sitting at a desk all week.

But since I simply followed the group and didn't have to navigate myself through, would I ever be able to go back and reexperience it for myself?

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Not Hot Enough

2012-02-09T12:48:00.001-05:00

"I've been trying to stay away from you," said one of the many otherwise spoken-for guys in my life once. "But it's not for the reason you think..."

"No, I know you love your girlfriend," I jumped in, and then paused to ask, "What reason do I think?"

"That you're not hot enough."

But after losing 50 pounds and moving to LA, it had been a while since I chalked up my perpetual singlehood to not being hot enough. I'm not sure I can get any better-looking than I am now given the genetics I've been given, and I know that I'm better-looking than a lot of girls out there who are not single. (This is of course contrary to the guys in bars who just love to say things like, "You don't know how beautiful you are, do you?" so they can be the ones to make me feel pretty. It may sound obnoxious, but I do know, thanks.)

It must be something else.

"I don't understand," one of my many married LA girlfriends once said. "You're so beautiful..." and proceeded to try to diagnose my issue, investigating some lack of self-confidence or emotional unavailability or underlying self-hatred or general inaccessibility. She then reiterated how beautiful I am.

"Clearly," I sighed, "It's not because I'm not hot enough. That's not the problem."

I then tried to dismiss the conversation by telling her that long ago I'd stopped trying to rationalize or reason why the Universe has left me so alone. I'd stopped trying to explain it because there was nothing to explain. It wasn't my fault, it's just the way it is.

But then in Vegas, when I met a 38-year old single local who seemed interested in me, he of course felt compelled to ask, "Why aren't you married?" Apparently most 36 year-old women he encounters are either recent divorcees or out to cheat on their husbands.

"Because nobody ever wanted to marry me." Perhaps my response was overly simplistic, but it most certainly was true.

"Well, I don't know why," he said. "You seem awesome to me." And I suppose as a reassurance, he told me how cute/sexy/hot/beautiful/pretty/adorable I am.

And four days after my return from Vegas, he disappeared.

As a short-haired, overweight, bespeckled child, all I ever wanted was to be one of the pretty girls. To have long hair and pierced ears. To play the flute. To wear nail polish. I was smart, sassy and funny, but no one loved me for my good grades. If only I could lose weight, get contacts, grow my hair out...

I thought those things were means to an end. I thought if I could improve my exterior shell, I would attract more people who ultimately would have the chance to get to know me, the real me, and love something beyond what they saw.

That never happened.

But somehow, with each new person and each new city, I never cease to have hope.

And then after one nice date with a tall, handsome, talented, age-appropriate, single man, I get a text message that reads, "Ok, so, this might seem abrupt, and I don't mean it that way. I like you, and I'm attracted to you, but I also would like to be just friends at the moment."

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Open Letter to the Wrong Tree

2012-02-09T05:25:00.000-05:00

Dear Tree, Oh Wrong Tree, Oh You Very Wrong Tree,

Show yourself. Show yourself now, while I still know better. Show me how wrong you really are, so I can stop barking up you.

At the turn of the year, I vowed to stop barking up the wrong trees. And if you are wrong, I want to be right. I'll stop right now.

But I am persistent and patient. I have faith in you. I see the best in you. I won't automatically know that you're wrong. You have to show me. You have to really show me.

If you leave me, I won't beg you to stay. I won't try to prove myself to you. I'll let you go. I won't hold out hope.

But you have to leave me. Leave me, and I'll accept it. Don't stick around and give me hope, or pull me by a string, by the thread by which I hang.

Tell me to leave and I will go.

But you have to tell me. Otherwise I'll stay.

Because although every tree always turns out to be the wrong one, I always hope that the next one will be the right one. And I'll believe that you are right, until you prove to me that you are oh so very wrong.

Forever resolved,
Sandi

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In My Bubble

2012-02-08T04:07:00.000-05:00

Sometimes when I drive home, I pull the car close to the curb on the street outside my building, shift it into park, and just sit there.

I hang the parking permit from the rear view mirror.

I turn off the headlights.

I leave my foot on the brake.

And I just sit there, waiting. I watch the blinking red light on the dashboard, with the steady red glow of my brake lights reflecting off the nose of the car behind me.

Sometimes, the radio is playing, and I'm dipping my hand repeatedly into a bag of snacks. Snacks somehow taste better when eaten in the front seat of my car - traveling on a road trip, or just sitting parked outside my apartment, not wanting to go inside.

Sometimes, I hold my cell phone in my lap, turning its screen into my lap so as not to illuminate my face to passers-by. Because I'm just sitting there, maybe snacking.

I can't snack all night in the car. At some point, I have to stop, and go upstairs. I snack in the car because, unlike snacking in bed, it must stop there. I cannot fall asleep there, amidst the snacks.

I don't want to go inside.

The car is off, but the brake lights are still on. My foot is pressing down, but I don't want to stay.

On occasion, I have parked my car outside of my apartment building, participated in this ritual, and then turned the car back on and headed somewhere else, wiping the flavor dust from the snacks on my car seat or my jeans or my skirt or my bare legs. I leave the snack bag open on the floor of the passenger's side, hoping its contents will become stale so I won't want to eat any more.

But on a night like tonight, with no snacks, no radio, and nowhere to go, I just sit, marveling at the near-silence, the muted tones of few cars drifting by, in one direction or another. The street is dim. The businesses are closed. The dogs are walked. And I am just as alone in that car as I am in my apartment.

So I might as well go where I can sleep.

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Is It Hard?

2012-02-07T03:00:00.000-05:00

Over the nearly 15 years of my career as an entertainment marketer, with each position I've worked at smaller and smaller companies, and have somehow taken on more and more responsibility.

Once just an assistant, then a product manager - a job that seemed overwhelming at the time - I eventually made the transition from VP of Marketing at the record label level to GM of a company where I manage an artist, run his record label and music publishing company, and negotiate new business deals including endorsements and sponsorships.

I'm way beyond my comfort zone, and 15 years into my career, I am doing this without the help of an assistant, coordinator, manager, or any of the other support staff I once knew at larger companies with better-defined division of labor. My access to interns is sporadic, with mixed results.

Unfortunately, this means I cannot do everything. It's just not possible. Some issues will be neglected. Some emails will go unanswered. Some calls will go unreturned.

I have always been of the mindset that not everything has to be attended to as it comes in, that most things can wait an hour or a day or a week or a lifetime. Sometimes, when you decide not to decide something, the Universe adapts around you and the answer just...becomes revealed to you. You just have to wait for it to happen.

Other times, you end up neglecting something that actually does deserve attention, though it may seem so minor that it's easily forgotten.

When this happens, often our colleagues and associates will ask, "What's the problem? Is it hard?"

And the answer is, "Well, no, not by itself. It's not difficult to do. I've just chosen to do other things instead of it."

The answer is also, "It requires time and mental bandwidth that I don't have."

The question "Is it hard?" is aways a tough one for me, because I have always approached business like an SAT test - get as much of the easy stuff done as soon as you can, so at least you're getting something done. Put the ball in someone else's court. Free yourself up to tackle what is hard, during the few minutes you've got before someone replies to you or pulls you into an impromptu meeting or conference call.

So when something that's not hard falls by the wayside, it's hard to excuse it.

But none of these tasks can be judged individually, out of context. They pile up, viciously, systematically. Even if you have someone to whom you can delegate, you have to stay on top of them to make sure it happens (sometimes taking more time than if you had just done it yourself).

This is the stuff that causes many executives to check their emails all night long, to reply late at night and question when they have not received a response first thing in the morning. I used to be that type of person, but at my advanced age, in my years of experience, I have decided that I cannot be judged by how quickly I address the minutia of the daily course of business. I can only measure my success - and the success of those who work for and around me - by the general trend upwards, forwards, whatever direction progress goes in. Just as in my own weight loss journey, one day you're at goal, the next day you're three pounds heavier, the next day you're two pounds lighter, without any real obvious rhyme or reason. The weight will go up; the weight will go down. But as long as the number is generally going down over time - not down every day or every week - then you are moving in the right direction. (Financial advisors say the same thing about your 401K investments.)

Sticking with it, and not allowing yourself to be derailed, is the hard part.

Post Script:
The great contradiction is that in life, it seems that it's the easiest things that dog me: washing the forks, flossing my teeth, getting up in the morning. But I can somehow motivate myself to learn to drive stick shift on a Formula 1 racer, climb a mountain, and zipline across a canyon despite a nearly-crippling fear of heights. I can't quite explain that.

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Photo Essay: Climbing the Hidden Hollywoodland Stairs

2012-02-06T00:45:00.002-05:00

I've often said that LA is a hidden city, easy to love if you know where to go. But sometimes even when you know what you're looking for in LA, it's hard to find.

The last time I went to Beachwood Canyon in search of an urban hike along its old Hollywoodland public staircases, I couldn't find all of them. Ultimately, I got nearly hopelessly lost, despite the aid of a GPS that sent me walking in circles.

Last weekend, I went back, armed with a better guide, and my camera.

The first one, on Woodshire, was out in the open, easy enough to find...

...but others were a bit more enshrouded...

...and wedged next to private properties.

Some of the staircases were indicated by a post and reflector...

...but mostly I could only recognize them by their distinctive granite pattern.

Some of the staircases go straight up, with little to no breaks...

...and others have plenty of landings...

...though most of the time I was the only person climbing them (save for one runner).

Going up and down those stairways - sometimes up and down the same ones - I found myself still walking in circles in Old Hollywoodland, but this time on a distinctive path, cutting up and down the Hollywood Hills around which roads have been built to circumvent.

All the while, I got to walk through private backyards, under trees and past landscaping as the sun went down.

I love this Hollywood, this Old Hollywood, this Hollywoodland, that tourists never get to see, and residents rarely explore.

When most people think of "Hollywood," the word - today a metonym for the American movie business - conjures images of smarmy producers, busty starlets, red carpets, and maybe hookers, drunken nightclubbers, and costumed street-walkers. But my Hollywood, the Hollywoodland that I continue to discover, is (still) full of rolling hills, coyotes, a vineyard, a lake, castles, and secret stairways that lead you everywhere and nowhere all at once.

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Moving On

2012-02-05T14:35:00.000-05:00

I've always said: Sometimes you need a good kick in the pants to reset your life.

This was true when I got laid off from Atlantic and JibJab, fired from CMJ, and treated so horribly at Razor & Tie that I was forced to quit. All good changes. None of those jobs were lifetime commitments. I had to move on.

The same can be said for people as well as jobs. I've had to let some friends go. It took me long enough, but I had to sever ties with my parents.

But I've never been very good at moving on from my past crushes, romances, and full-blown loves. I would've stayed attached to many of them if I hadn't graduated from high school and gone away to college, or graduated from college and moved to New York.

But in New York, I had 14 years to dwell on every one night stand, every third date that never made it to fourth, every makeout, take out, dinner, dance, taudry affair, bartender romance. Even if they got married, had babies, moved away, and moved on from me, I was still there, surrounded by the reminders of whatever we did together, wherever. The glass he drank out of. The bed he slept in. The things he left behind.

And then, a year ago, I got to move away from it all.

And moving away allowed me to move on.

Mostly.

Some feelings still linger, about the one that got away, and the one who wouldn't take the world I tried to give him. But at least I'm not reminded as often as I used to be, living in New York. I've moved on as much as I can.

But when you love someone, do you ever really move on? Can you ever? I don't understand falling out of love as much as I don't really understand falling in love. I still love the same colors, movies, music, foods as I have always loved, even since childhood. In my heart, there is no such thing as used to love. I still do. Despite everything.

But what does "moving on" truly mean? Getting over it? Or just finding someone else to distract you, to spend time with, to get your heart broken over, all over again? In my world, there is no rebound guy because they're all rebound guys from the guy before them. I am still rebounding from January 2011. I am still rebounding from May 2008. I am still rebounding from December 2004.

Unfortunately, when I moved to LA, though I left behind a lot of heartbreak in New York, I moved into a whole new world of heartbreak to get over and move on from. And I'm trying to do that, but he's here, and I'm here, and as hard as I try, since I plan on staying here and not moving again, I haven't been able to find someone else who measures up. I haven't been able to find someone else who wants me as much as he used to.

But I have constant glimmers of hope: with every phone number, dinner bought, lunch date, and kiss goodnight, it seems that there's a chance for me to find happiness with a new person, in this new place.

Wanting to move on is the first step. And if my kiss goodnight from my dinner date Thursday night is any indication of what may lie ahead for me, I hope it happens soon.

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Nevada Test Site: A Matter of National Security

2012-02-04T21:36:00.000-05:00

photo courtesy of National Nuclear Security Administration / Nevada Site Office

When I read that there was a tour you could take in the middle of the Nevada desert, that is so popular it must be booked months in advance, that is so secure it requires a background check and makes cell phones, cameras and GPS units verboten, I knew I must go.

"Why are you going to Vegas?" people asked me.

"To take a tour of the Nevada Test Site." Silence. A pause. "You know, where they used to test atomic bombs."

"Uh, why are you going there?"

"Because I like to take tours of things, and it's kind of a weird thing that seems like nobody else would do. Except it's really popular apparently."

When I arrived, I realized with whom it's popular: retirees. Welcome to my world.

Most of my fellow passengers on that coach bus had probably not taken the day off from work (or, in my case, three days) to drive 70 miles outside of Vegas, 100 miles around the campus, and 70 miles back. There were a couple of nerdy-looking dudes flying solo like me, looking quizzically at me like they do when I walk into their haunts like Forbidden Planet or Games Workshop (or the Pinball Hall of Fame), but mostly my travel companions were ex-military history buffs and generally people of a certain age who could have worked at the Nevada Test Site during its heyday.

Normally when I do this sort of thing, I look forward to taking photos and sharing them with others, giving them a view of something they would never see on their own. But not being able to even sneak any photography in (for fear of thwarting the whole tour and being sent back home), I wasn't sure what to do with myself. I went anyway, saying they could take my camera away but not my words, but without taking on the task of documenting the trip in photos, between the whirr of the coach and the lull of the narration of old instructional videos we were shown, I had a hard time staying awake.

I expected more of a walking tour, I guess, having applied sunscreen to my face, but between the drive out to the site, around the site, and back, we were mostly vehicular tourists. And because the tour is run by the Department of Energy, it's intentionally full of education and propaganda about how positive the work is that they have done and continue to do there, including radioactive waste management (Area 5) - which involves cleaning, disposal, and burial of radioactive waste and radioactively-tainted materials.

photo courtesy of National Nuclear Security Administration / Nevada Site Office

But I was most interested in the dry lake, Frenchman Flat, where weapons effects tests were once held, Bilby Crater towards Yucca Mountain to the north, and Sedan Crater, both created by an underground detonation. We actually got to get out and gawk at Sedan Crater, much larger and deeper than Bilby, a result of testing the use of nuclear explosives for excavation projects (like building tunnels, etc.). The radioactive debris that the explosion created made this method of excavation - a "peaceful" nuclear explosion - impractical in the U.S. As with many of the other locations around the Test Site, there is still a lot of unreclaimed material lying around out there.

The interesting thing is that although it is thought that nuclear reactions sterilize all living things around them, what you actually find is tremendous revegetation in the areas of past detonation. "See that concentrated area of brush over there? That's where the bomb went off."

There are plenty of other indications of past explosions, of a less organic nature - industrial remnants, and even some structures, as with the Apple II houses. One of the series of tests that were conducted - widely covered by attending media at the time - was the effect on a nearby above-ground bomb explosion on a variety of types of buildings (concrete, wood siding, etc.) with a variety of different kinds of fallout shelters inside (in the basement, bathroom, etc.), all furnished in impeccable detail to the interior designs of the times (curtains, dishware, etc.) with even mannequins dressed in the fashion of the era. Some of the remaining houses - partially destroyed, damaged, or relatively unaffected - still stand onsite, begging to be photographed.

The Nevada Test Site is way out in the Nevada desert, next to Nellis Air Force base, not far from Area 51 and Indian Springs where unmanned aircraft is tested. It feels mysterious, creepy, and abandoned, but it also feels institutional, like any other military base, with abandoned barracks, and a grid-like system mimicking a real town.

The Nevada Test Site's last mission was supposed to be Icecap in Spring 1993, but the moratorium was signed by President Bush in October 1992. Since then, much of the Nevada Test Site's former amenities have been razed, with new facilities (like a fire station) being built in their place, but the footprint of the entire site remains just as large as before. The land was originally purchased by the government from the BLM, and the deed entitles their use of the property for hundreds of years - which feels like a necessity given all of the hazardous, radioactive waste buried underground, and all of the naturally-occurring and man-created radioactive material lingering practically in the air and certainly in the soil and underground.

Everyone who works there wears a radioactivity monitor around their neck, just to make sure they're OK. But they all say no one is at risk there, whether you're a daily employee or just a one-time visitor. They say that even if they were to move out tomorrow, and new residents were to move in immediately and start planing crops, that everyone would still be OK.

It seemed doubtful to me, but I didn't really care either way.

The Nevada Test Site tour wasn't the most exciting thing I did during my most recent Vegas visit, but it was a good reason to go and build a whole trip around it.

Related Reading:
Seeing Ground Zero in Nevada - New York Times
Tourists Revisit the Cold War at Nevada Test Site - Los Angeles Times

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Photo Essay: Pico House Ghost Hunt

2012-02-03T14:34:00.003-05:00

Pico House is more or less an abandoned hotel situated in the middle of El Pueblo de Los Angeles Historic Monument in Downtown Los Angeles...

...situated in Los Angeles Plaza, within earshot of the hustle and bustle of Olivera Street, supposedly the birthplace of the city of Los Angeles (though some might argue that the city was probably founded closer to the LA River).

Its relatively recently restored ground floor lobby is used for a variety of exhibitions and shoots, but its deeper, darker corners - the Masonic Hall, the theater, the basement - are rarely open to the public and only occasionally explored by some brave paranormalists.

And looky-loos like me.

Built in 1870, Pico House was built by former governor Pio Pico, whose ghost may still haunt the structure. It's more likely that the ghosts of some of the men and boys killed in the 1871 Chinese Massacre never left the scene of their demise.

Parts of the Pico House complex are certainly creeptastic (and ripe for photography), but haunted? We can't be sure. Apparently past ghost hunters have heard the Masons' "secret knock" coming from a door in the Masonic Hall, in front of which we heard a screw fell to the floor from...somewhere...in the dark.... We also saw lights apparently turn on and off - upon our command - in the basement. And the headache that began to plague me in the Masonic Hall, which subsided in the theater and the hotel, worsened dramatically in the basement.

When I reported it to one of our guides, she said, "Just take care of yourself."

"What does that mean?" I asked, pain intensifying.

"Go to your faith - your god, your spirituality, whatever it is - and hold onto that."

As everyone else plead with the other side that they just wanted to talk with them, get to know them, understand why they were there, etc., I was simply there to photograph it all. Ghosts or no ghosts.

The Masonic Hall

Merced Theater (the oldest theater in Los Angeles)

Pico House Hotel

Basement

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Easy Lover

2012-02-03T00:32:00.001-05:00

"Do you fall in love easily?"

I'm not often rendered speechless, but this question threw me for a loop.

I was on a lunch date at the Yard House in Summerlin outside of Vegas, with a local who I'd only known for less than three days, who'd offered to take me out hiking and to feed me first.

He really cut to the chase. He asked a lot of questions and listened to my readily-provided answers.

But with this question, he waited patiently while I stammered.

"Do I. Fall in love. Easily?" I recited back to him, considering each clause individually.

Do I fall in love...at all? Yeah, I guess so.

Do I do it...easily? I don't know.

What does "easily" mean? Quickly? Often? With little resistance? Of the people that I have loved, or think I've loved, or do love, in some way or another I resisted at first. In one case, it took years before I felt love. And in no case was loving them ever easy.

Besides, the question felt like a test. Falling in love easily doesn't seem like a good thing - if I said yes, I might seem so capricious to also fall out of love easily - but admitting not falling in love easily might suggest an impenetrable fortress not worth pursuing. If I won't fall in love easily with you, why bother? And if I will fall in love easily with you, how can you trust it?

I'd mentally wedged myself into an inescapable mental conundrum, so instead of answering, I dodged the question.

"Well, I can say that I've never loved anyone who's loved me back." Once I'd said it, I realized that my admission might be ever so much worse than answering the question that had actually been asked.

"It's tough," my date said. "Because you can't choose who you love --"

"And you can't --"

"--Force someone to love you," we said in unison.

I didn't fall in love that day, on that date, despite all of the attention he paid to me and all of the affection he bestowed on me.

And he didn't fall in love with me, despite how refreshing he said I was and how passionately he kissed me goodbye before I drove back to LA.

And now, he knows the answer to one of the first questions he ever asked me, the night we first met: "Why aren't you married?"

Because it just never happened. No one ever fell in love with me easily. No one ever wanted to marry me.

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Photo Essay: Bootleg Canyon Zipline

2012-02-02T01:41:00.002-05:00

After my ziplining experience in Catalina last spring, I was kind of dying to go again. Since I hadn't made it to Wrightwood in the Angeles National Forest yet (on my list for this spring), and I was looking for more non-Vegasy things to do while I was in Vegas for the Nevada Test Site tour, I jumped at the chance to test out the zipline in Boulder City, a half hour outside of Vegas.

Bootleg Canyon is home to some of the most epic mountain bike trails (some of an extreme downhill nature) in the country and in the world, as well as to some grizzly lore dating back to the bootlegging days of Prohibition and a historic Railroad Pass.

It was raining when we departed the foothills of Boulder City to climb the narrow single-track road up Bootleg Canyon in a van. It was actually sunny when I'd arrived in Boulder City at noon for lunch, but the weather quickly worsened and I worried about getting rained out.

"Is it safe? In the rain?" I asked one of our guides.

"Oh we'll go out there and check the lines once we get up there to make sure everything's ok..." he said.

"Actually I don't even really care," I admitted. "I just felt obligated to ask."

As our van ascended, we could see some bright spots of Boulder City, the Hoover Dam, and Lake Mead revealing themselves in the distance...

When our van stopped - not quite at the top - we had to hike the rest of the way...

Leading us past a rainbow...

...and up towards blue skies...

...to our departure point for the first of four runs that would take us back down the canyon.

As the sun streamed through the clouds...

...the wind whipped around us...

...making the descent a bit more daunting than usual.

We kept warm by hiking back up a bit to the second departure platform...

...But at some point, my little thin hoodie, running pants and hiking shoes were no match for the bitter cold, and after initially refusing it, I had to borrow one of our guide's puffy vests.

It was calm, peaceful and quiet when no one was zipping, only the sound of the wind, muffled by the hood hugging my ears.

But when someone was zipping, their trolley whirring down the metal lines, at the endpoint platform you could hear them before you could see them. And as they braked with their red straps and lifted their legs up, the crashing against the stop blocks and the rebound from the springs was practically deafening (as were my own squeals as each zip met its own demise when it came to a crashing stop).

For a first-hand view of the zipline excursion (with some of my unintentional commentary), watch the video below:

Bootleg Canyon Flightlines Zipline - Boulder City, NV from Sandi Hemmerlein on Vimeo.

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How Much Farther Does This Go?

2012-02-01T04:15:00.000-05:00

It felt like I'd been walking a long time. And none of the trails in Red Rock Canyon were supposed to be that long, though negotiating my way over the rocky terrain was taking me a little longer than my usual fast hiking clip.

As I hiked through the ancient forest of Pine Creek Canyon, red rocks facing straight ahead, I wondered if I'd be able to recognize the end of the trail, or if I'd get stuck at a pile of rocks again like I did at the Tanks.

I spotted a couple of fellow hikers with walking sticks, and in a rare gesture to seek help, I asked, "Excuse me, do you know how much farther this goes?"

They looked at each other. "Well, infinitely."

"Uh..." I wasn't ready to traverse the entire planet. Not quite yet, anyway.

The one hiker continued, "I mean, there are 13 or 14 miles of trails back there. You can go as far as you want."

"Oh, OK," I said, thanking them.

But that didn't help. That's not what I meant. I'd asked the wrong question.

I should have been more specific, asking how far that particular trail goes, before turning into another trail, intersecting with another trail, etc. Because even when the trail ends, you could keep walking. The earth doesn't end there, just the designated path. And as it was, half the time I spent getting to that point, I wasn't even sure if I was on a trail or a creek bed or what.

Peering into the rocks, I realized I didn't want to walk infinitely. I wanted a milestone I could reach, an achievable goal. I was tired, but I could have kept going - just not forever. But I needed to know that I would get somewhere at some point.

I went a bit farther, but I was daunted by infinity, and when the trail became confusing (AGAIN), I turned around, retraced my steps, and headed back to my car.

I couldn't help but wonder, though, how far I could've gotten if I'd just kept walking. What might I have seen? More of the same or something completely different?

Or, perhaps I would've seen nothing, or, at least, nothing new. That was my bet, anyway. I went as far as I wanted, and only that far.

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Another Sort of Anniversary

2012-01-29T15:19:00.000-05:00

Last week marked not only the anniversary of my move to LA, but also the anniversary of the last time I spoke with my parents.

How do I remember that?

Because it was on my father's birthday, January 26, a date I still am able to remember despite not using it, like my mother's work phone number from over twenty years ago, the last time she ever worked (315-422-0121).

What don't I remember?

How long it's been.

I have a sense it's been about five years. But time hasn't been dragging. I haven't been counting the days, much less the years. I've been living. I've been doing all the things they never let me do, and way more.

And what have they been doing?

It's weird when you're new in town, because besides "What do you do?" and "Where are you from?", the most commonly-asked questions are "Are your parents still back there?" and, oddly, "Are they still together?"

My answer is inevitably "As far as I know," bringing quizzical looks to faces and cracking open an unexpected nest of unwelcome conversation killers.

Are they alive? Are they still in Syracuse? In the same house? Together? As far as I know. I have no reason to believe otherwise.

If I ever really cared to verify their status, of course I could always just call. I could have stopped by while I was in Syracuse for Christmas. My sister could have checked in with them. But after a lifetime of alternating abuse and neglect, neither one of us have any desire to have anything to do with them.

And if they had wanted to have anything to do with us, they would have called. They would have sent something in the mail.

But now five(ish) years, later, we've both disconnected our home telephone lines, moved to different cities (my sister, twice), and forged our own parentless lives. I rarely think about my parents unless someone else brings them up, mostly because I've embedded myself into a new family that actually loves me and isn't shy about saying it - something I didn't think would happen until I'd snagged myself some in-laws, which is taking longer than expected.

So upon the passing of another year, the anniversary becomes more and more of a celebration rather than simply a commemoration. As I meet new people, whose fallen faces express pity over my broken family, my parents' abortion of their adult child, I have to try to convince them that this is a good thing. My unloving parents, unto whom I was born, did me a favor by releasing me, making me available for those who would really love me to snap me up.

Pity my parents. They have to live the rest of their lives (whatever is left of them) without their own children, and no loving surrogate children to replace them.

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A Year in LA

2012-01-28T16:13:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was my one year anniversary of living in LA.

I'm renewing my apartment lease.

I renewed my car registration.

I renewed my renter's and automotive insurance.

And so begins another year in LA.

I guess some people who move here - especially from New York - don't make it this long. I wasn't sure I would, having been up for an HSN hosting gig that would've moved me to Florida less than four months' into my residency here. But when I lost my job, and everyone asked if I would return to New York, I simply said, "Uh, NO...."

Even still, even now, people - from both NY and LA - seem surprised. "Do you miss New York?" they ask.

"I miss my friends terribly," I say. "But I don't miss New York."

"So would you ever consider moving back?"

"Uh, I don't think so."

Will I stay in LA forever? I don't know. Maybe after 14 years alone in LA I will have had enough and will want to move onto another city, another country, another life.

But for right now, I still feel new in town. It took me three years before I felt like NYC was really home. I don't know when I'll feel like I belong in LA, maybe never.

But regardless, it's where I live now, and where I'll live for the next year.

Unless the Universe has other plans for me. And that, I do not yet know.

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Photo Essay: Red Rock Canyon, Nevada

2012-01-28T15:56:00.002-05:00

I took a trip to Vegas last weekend to tag along on one of the popular monthly tours of the Nevada Test Site, which I had to book months in advance and unfortunately on a Tuesday, necessitating a few days off from work.

After griping about not getting Martin Luther King Jr. Day off, and anticipating no President's Day off, I was grateful for a little post-Christmas vacation.

But being a not-very-Vegasy Vegas traveler, besides the test site tour, I wasn't really sure what I was going to do while in Vegas. After all, most of my trips there have been on business, during which I've been stranded on the Strip carless, shackled to my hotel casino.

Once I got to Vegas Saturday night (after an uneventful stay at the Hooters Casino), all I could think about was getting out of Vegas.

Fortunately, like many popular getaways of the mid-20th century, Vegas is nicely situated in the middle of nowhere desert land. Although densely populated and commercialized now, a half hour drive in any direction takes you out into the wilderness, and to the northwest: Red Rock Canyon.

Red Rock is probably one of the best-maintained Bureau of Land Management sites I've ever visited, with clear signs off the main road, a large visitor's center (with multiple bathrooms), and a paved scenic drive loop that takes you through the park, past all of the overlooks and trailheads.

It also takes you by some desert tortoise crossings...

...and wild burros, grazing their way off the shoulder.

Of course some people just drive through Red Rock Canyon (as I would've been apt to do four or five years ago), but between two visits in four days, I got out of the car and meandered along four different trails, including...

Calico Tanks

(where the moderate trail seemed to end at a big pile of red rocks, prompting me to turn around and go back)

Pine Creek Canyon, site of an ancient pine forest

(which featured ruins of an old homestead)

Lost Creek

(which required some pretty unfamiliar bouldering from me)

On my final hike in Red Rock, towards the end of daylight on Wednesday, an hour before I was supposed to start driving back to LA, my hiking date (a local who I'd only just met three days before) led me deep into Ice Box Canyon, whose temperature reflected its name. I didn't take any pictures, mostly because I was trying to keep up with my fellow hiker whose familiarity with the path allowed him to hike at a pretty fast clip. And I started to wonder why I'd agreed to hike with a complete stranger, out into the middle of nowhere, surrounded by no one, with nothing but rocks to echo my own screams back at me. Alone, I usually worry about getting lost, but with this other person, who knew his way well around the canyon, I worried about never coming back. My inner New Yorker took inventory of my hiking pack - car keys, ID, Blackberry - and wondered what might be taken or used against me, what might be left to identify my discarded body should something go terribly wrong.

But in the cold box of the canyon, we sat on a rock and rested, sweat cooling my hot, worried forehead, breathing slowing. It was quiet, though I thought I could hear a distant creek, one of the many lost creeks of Red Rock.

I waited to see what would happen.

My date got up and faced me.

"Ready to go?" he asked, as he held out his hand.

I scrambled up off the rock on my own. "OK..."

A quick hug and a kiss later, and we hiked back to my car before the sun dipped behind the mountain.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest
Photo Essay: Joshua Tree's Pine City

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Photo Essay: Pinball Hall of Fame, Vegas

2012-01-26T00:16:00.003-05:00

I'm like a bird.

Or a cat.

I like shiny things.

And bells and whistles.

And flashing lights.

This attraction leads me to amusement parks, Times Square, Hollywood Blvd, arcades, and Vegas, which is full of all of those things.

Vegas' Pinball Hall of Fame is billed as sort of a roadside attraction - a museum of oddities - but really it's just an arcade full of old pinball machines (and some video games) from the last several decades, dating back at least to the 1960s, maybe earlier.

And with enough quarters, you can play almost all of them.

X-Files

Revenge from Mars

The Twilight Zone

The Twilight Zone

Eight Ball Deluxe

Firepower

Pinball Wizard

Nugent

Big Flipper

Dr. Dude

KISS

The Bally Game Show

The Bally Game Show

Lawman

After playing nearly 20 of them, all circa 1970-2000, I realized I have a strong affinity for the pinball machines of the 1980s. Perhaps it's merely because of the familiarity of my childhood and what I must've played at Chuck E. Cheese, but given the fact I wasn't really allowed out of the house and never went to an arcade besides Chuck E. Cheese until I was an adult, I think it's more than that. In the 1980s, the pinball machines hit a nice sweet spot between electronic technology (at least, the score-keeping) and analog, manual mechanism. This era pre-dates the time when you press a button to launch the ball, and the predominant sounds are those of rattling metal, contracting springs, flipping flippers, bumping bumpers and kicking targets. You don't need LED video projections or movie quote sound effects to generate excitement. You feel the entire box quake.

Yet another amusement worthy of a trip away from The Strip.

More to come.

Related posts:
Photo Essay: Fremont Street Experience, Vegas

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Photo Essay: Fremont Street Experience, Vegas

2012-01-25T02:19:00.000-05:00

When I first visited Las Vegas in the late 90s - dragged there by my friend Tony who abandoned me when I got sick on our trip, leaving me shivering with chills under the covers in our room while he galavanted around town, not even spending the night in our hotel - I couldn't figure out where the Vegas I'd seen on TV and in the movies was.

Back then, the Sands was still open, as were many of the other soon-to-be-imploded "Old Vegas" resorts, including one nearby with a mechanical bull, which I gazed at wistfully through the window of our hotel room at the Stratosphere.

But even back then, Vegas seemed too...new.

Now, in the advent of Steve Wynn's Vegas takeover, glimpses of that old Vegas - predating my first visit - are hard to find, but not impossible.

And one of the best places to find Old Vegas is downtown, on Fremont East...

...And at the Freemont Street Experience, where the Neon Museum has preserved many old classic neon signs that are all lit up, which you can whizz by on a zipline under an LED screen ceiling, and see some of the costumed characters you find on The Strip or on Hollywood Boulevard, somehow charming on Fremont Street...

Related post:
Photo Essay: Neon Boneyard, Vegas

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Photo Essay: The Mysteries of Brand Park in Historic Glendale

2012-01-21T04:56:00.001-05:00

What draws me to any trail?

Usually, it's some sense of history.

Which there is plenty of in LA.

Airplane parties were numerous in the days of private flying, and Miradero, the estate of Leslie Brand - who had a strong hand in the establishment of the city of Glendale, just east of Los Angeles - was central to the era of private flying parties. Brand had his own airfield on his private property - just south of the mansion and estate which now constitutes Brand Library in Brand Park - but his estate was also situated close to the old Grand Central, one of the many now-defunct municipal airfields of Los Angeles County.

Climbing the trails behind Brand Library, you can see some of the remnants of those private flying days, most notably a light beacon, perhaps having served Brand's airfield, perhaps Grand Central.

But there are plenty of other mysteries surrounding the old Brand estate, including some post-Brand city of Glendale developments whose vestiges litter the historic trails.

When hiking behind the library, I discovered some concrete footings that reminded me of the remnants of the Corralitas Red Car Property in Silver Lake, which would have been bizarre given the elevation of the Verdugo Mountains back there (although apparently there once was a plan to build a funicular in the Verdugos...).

Most certainly there hadn't been another incline railway here, but Glendale does have plenty of rail history...

...And Brand himself (the man often referred to as "The Father of Glendale") had been instrumental in a lot of the railway development in the city of Glendale, where one of the Pacific Electric lines used to end.

So then...what?

The Parks Department thinks that they look like remnant from some old water line components left over after the systems have been demolished over the years. Apparently, long gone are the water tanks and other piping servicing some of the improvements below, but concrete items like these would have been left behind because they were too heavy to move and wouldn't have had any scrap value.

And there are some pipes still up there.

The interesting thing is, no one really seems to know.

"That's Glendale..." said the librarian I visited at Brand Library.

Down below, along the fire road that becomes the Brand Motorway past the Debris Basin, you can find plenty of other ruins - your garden variety stairs-to-nowhere from once-razed structures, etc.

Equally mysterious is the Brand Cemetery, which was once the family's dog cemetery while they still resided at Miradero, and where the family is now laid to rest. The cemetery - and the pyramid-shaped headstone - lie behind a locked gate amidst the ruins...

There is a graffitied shed (reminiscent of Murphy Ranch) that historians speculate could have once served as a meat locker...

But what the heck is this boat doing there?

For now, much of it remains a mystery.

But that doesn't mean I'll stop trying to figure it out...

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Sound Horn

2012-01-20T12:22:00.000-05:00

On the fire road in Brand Park, behind Brand Library on the way to the Brand Cemetery, the S-curves in the road are so tight that a low speed limit isn't enough to prevent accidents, so there are regularly-posted signs instructing you to "Sound Horn." Presumably, that's to let those who are approaching you from around the curve to know that you're on your way, and also to let those whom you approach know of your imminent arrival from around the bend.

If someone or something is on its way to me, can it please sound its horn?

Now?

I feel like I've been sounding my horn for ages, maybe centuries, certainly decades, since the first contraction erupted in my mother's dilating cervix, and I emerged bellowing from the birth canal four hours later, wailing so much as a baby that my Grammy predicted I would become an opera singer.

Since then, I've sung, screamed, speeched, hollered, and used my stage voice and projected even in normal everyday conversation. I've sounded my horn. Everyone knows when I'm coming, and when I've arrived.

But does my horn fall upon deaf ears? Does my horn warn or transform anything around me, anything at all?

Or maybe I'm warning nothing and no one, because they're not over there, on the other side. Perhaps nothing this way comes.

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Photo Essay: The Lost Ruins of Rustic Canyon

2012-01-19T03:11:00.000-05:00

I first tried to visit Rustic Canyon by hiking through Will Rogers and then Topanga State Park.

But, as usual, I got lost.

I visited a second time more directly, by approaching it from the Sullivan Fire Road in Pacific Palisades, and reaching what I thought was my ultimate destination: Murphy Ranch.

But it turns out there are plenty of other ruins to be seen in Rustic Canyon. And during my last visit, I only found a few more of them.

Like some rusted-out canisters, sinking into the ground...

...a graffitied reservoir...

...and the old fuel tank that would have allowed anyone in the main Murphy Ranch power house to survive for quite some time...

There are also other roads, once paved in asphalt, now only somewhat disrupted by the grass and weeds erupting forth...

...lined with stone shoulders, along what looks like the banks of a creek...

...lined by more graffitied walls...

...leading to the juncture of the Rustic Canyon trail, one way leading back to the Backbone Trail in Topanga, the other leading back to Will Rogers State Park. This is the juncture I was looking for upon my first visit, when I could not find the trailhead of the Rustic Canyon trail along the Backbone Trail.

And at this juncture lies an old farmhouse barn, also graffitied, rumored to have been a part of the Josepho Boy Scout Camp, now located just north of Murphy's Ranch off the paved end of Sullivan Fire Road.

Although it lies behind a chain-link fence, there is more than one way through it and over it, leading directly to the delicious abandonment.

Among the perils surrounding the ranch house include tall, overgrown grass (I was worried about ticks), instability (including a caved-in roof), and, surprisingly, bees.

Supposedly, there are many more ruins within Rustic Canyon, including an old stable, a disembodied chimney, and an old rusted machine shed, but I didn't find any of those things on my last visit, with the dipping temperatures and disappearing sunlight.

Which means there's plenty to go back and explore...

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Another Case of Not Getting the Part

2012-01-18T18:42:00.000-05:00

At 36 years old, living alone in Los Angeles, I'm still learning about life.

Being alone in a new city teaches you a lot.

Several months ago, when I'd only lived in LA for less than half a year, I connected with someone who called me a kindred spirit. I thought I'd found a real friend, maybe more.

But when things became romantic, he backed off, citing excuse after excuse as to why getting involved would be too complicated: all of our mutual friends, our semi-professional association with each other, his need to focus on his writing, etc.

Knowing there was no reasoning with him, I tried to seduce him again, only to be told, "I'm not a piece of meat."

And then the final judgment came down: "Whatever you're looking for, Sandi, I'm not your guy."

And there was no protesting. There was no convincing. The finality of the statement was undeniable, and, though not devastating (especially since I was and am still hung up on somebody else), definitive.

At least for the moment.

But our connection was so strong that I held out some hope for a rekindling. Maybe he'd change his mind. Maybe he'd get a lot of work done and would make some time for me. Maybe he would get to know me better and like me more. Maybe enough time would pass so that he would stop worrying about all of his excuses.

Most importantly, I just wanted to stay connected, even if that meant not romantically. If we were, indeed, kindred spirits, I wanted to keep him in my life. I'd been waiting a long time for him.

He, apparently, had an easier time letting me go, successfully fading away by not replying to text messages or emails, ignoring invitations to movies, hikes and events, and avoiding me when we inevitably saw each other in person.

And then, just as I'd come to terms with his unavailability, he started pursuing someone else.

Right in front of my face.

It was blatant to me, maybe because I know him. I know how he operates.

And when that relationship had been consummated, he didn't do a very good job of hiding it from me, though somehow he's managed to hide it from most of the rest of the world - so far.

So I now have two of his secrets to keep: me, and now this other girl, who, for some reason, though seemingly far less his kindred spirit, and only slightly less in his social circle, makes him want to be her guy.

Now, of course, I realize that sometimes an excuse is just an excuse. It's not a reason. It's an escape. It lets someone off the hook from saying that they're just not that into you, or that they've gotten what they wanted from you and now they're done.

At 36 years old, I'm still learning these things.

At 36, I can't get that upset about it anymore.

I have to remind myself, as in the world of auditioning: if I'm not right for the part, I'm not right for the part. My feelings aren't hurt. But don't call me back, and for God's sake, don't cast me for a day and then release me from the role. Don't pretend that the reason is that the role got cut or that the play has been postponed.

Cast who you want in the role, if they want to be cast, and be proud of your choice. Let the rest of us move on to some other audition.

Let the rest of us off the hook to find an actual real friend.

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The Emptiness Beside Me

2012-01-18T05:20:00.001-05:00

As I approach closing out a year in LA, I can't help but feel a bit defeated. I'm lonely. I didn't think I'd be so lonely.

But I don't feel like the emptiness is inside of me. I feel enriched, fulfilled, adventurous, accomplished, intelligent, and expanded.

No, the emptiness is not inside of me. The emptiness is merely...next to me.

As I prepared to move from New York, I considered which of my possessions to sell, give away, throw out, or just leave behind. All along, I planned to get rid of my full-sized bed and upgrade to a Queen, not because I had anyone to share it with, but just because I'd started to fill up the bed built-for-two all by myself. But when I signed the lease on an apartment that came equipped with a murphy bed frame that only fit a double-sized mattress, I gave my 10 year-old one to the movers and had it hauled across the country.

As I sleep in it now, all by myself, I can't imagine having a Queen- or a King-sized bed. It would just be...embarrassing.

It's as embarrassing as buying a bike rack that fits three bikes, when clearly it's just me, it's just one bike, and there are and will be no more bikes.

Occasionally, when I go out to dinner alone, the hostess tries to seat me at a large table, built for two, or three, or four, or more. I campaign for a seat at the bar so I can sit alone, in one seat, in my own little space, with the bartender as my date, but sometimes there is no bar, and I'm forced to dine alone at a table, the wide expanse of tablecloth stretching out before me. Instead of sticking to my tiny little area and leaving the rest of the table's blank space to the imagination of my fellow diners, sometimes I order enough food for two, as much food as I would order if I were splitting dinner with another diner, to try as many items as possible, filling the entire table's surface, knowing that I'll take half home and have another nice meal all to myself.

But sometimes, the waiter tries to put my leftovers in a too-large container - two slices of pizza in an entire cardboard pizza box - and I have to stop them. "Just give me a piece of foil," I say. "It's embarrassing to walk out of here with that giant thing."

My life is full. My heart is full. But my bed, my bike rack, my dinner table and my pizza box are all half-empty.

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No Stopping Any Time

2012-01-13T18:20:00.000-05:00

Even though LA is slower-paced than New York, I still feel like I'm always rushing.

I still hurry through my breakfast and my shower - taking short-cuts along the way (like not washing my hair) - to get to work on time. I rarely get to work on time.

I still hustle may way through the work day, multi-tasking between dozens of open applications and documents, typing away while on the phone, juggling interns, email attachments, spreadsheets and contracts.

I race through canyons before the sun sets. Sometimes I don't make it and I have to finish in the dark. I don't like the dark very much so I have to hurry more.

I bob and weave my way through traffic, learning short-cuts, bypassing freeways, scooting down alleys, changing lanes and turning right on red just to shave a few minutes off of my journey.

When a night for which I have no plans approaches, I make a plan - even if it's by myself, at the restaurant around the corner.

If I have a plan that ends early, I squeeze in a nightcap.

I'm so much calmer than I was in New York, than I was ever in my life, but as much as I may have slowed down, I'm not stopping. I can't stop.

I can't stay home alone.

I can't stay inside if the sun is shining.

And so I find myself...kind of hoping...for a rainy day...so I can just....

...stop.

For a day.

Or even just for a minute.

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Photo Essay: Brand Park Trails

2012-01-12T03:34:00.000-05:00

What draws me to any trail?

I talk to so many people - so many strangers - in LA, all of whom have advice about where to eat, drink, hike, explore, that I generally take their advice and just put it in the coffer. I don't remember who told me what, where I read what, why I bookmarked what, but I have a good running list of spots to hit within a day trip's distance of Beverly Hills.

Brand Park was one of those places.

I wasn't sure what was there, but I saw a Meetup posting about a climb up Mt. Thom, and it seemed easy enough to tackle on my own on a Saturday, within close driving distance, so I headed there by myself, without aid of a group.

Upon my first attempt at climbing the mount behind Brand Library in Brand Park, I considered that a mistake.

Of course I arrived too late in the day to spend much time tackling the hike, and as usual, my impatience got the best of me.

I started the hike at the American Green Cross statue...

...partially because it seemed easy enough with the well-maintained trail...

...which was easily navigable with plenty of landmarks to guide the way, like the nearby water tank and fire road.

But the trail quickly becomes harrowing.

The trail becomes slippery, steep, and harrowing.

It keeps getting steeper and steeper, requiring a scramble on all fours...

...until the hike became so scary that I became frozen in place, unable to go up, unable to go back down.

I was alone on the trail, so I couldn't follow in the footsteps of fellow hikers, learning from their footholds. The thought of going any farther up freaked me out, mostly because it seemed like I would have to return the same way back down. Which, as we know, is always worse for me.

I looked down, and couldn't imagine descending.

So I sat down for a while.

Eventually, I decided to go down instead of up, but I felt like a failure.

So when I got back down to the bottom, I decided to go back up.

I decided to go back up a different way.

I reapproached the mountain from a different trailhead, this time the Boy Scout's nature trail from directly behind the library.

As the sun began to set, I ascended a hill until I could see that the two trails met at the peak, creating a loop trail. One of the women who passed me on the way up the first time now passed me on the way down on my second try, meaning it was all connected. But with the disappearing sun, I didn't have enough time to complete the loop, so I headed back down, retracing my steps once again.

When I returned to LA after spending the holidays back east, the first thing I wanted to do (besides take a tour of the JPL) was revisit Brand Park. I had to conquer that hike.

So I went up the other way again - up the Boy Scout Nature Trail behind the library, otherwise known as the Library Trail - which I would soon come to find out was "the easy way" but by no means easy.

And although its steep grade was far less scary than the American Green Cross Trail way, I was terrified on this trail by something else: a rustling in the bushes, and the backside of something which I can only guess was a baby bobcat. After having witnessed coyotes and giant teddy bear-sized raccoons in Beverly Hills, and rattlesnakes throughout LA, I thought I'd had my fill of southern California wildlife, but I always knew in the back of my mind that there was a chance I'd seen a mountain lion (common in Griffith Park) or a bobcat (especially since two babies had recently been discovered under a car in Burbank).

I was too terrified to pause for long, or to snap a photo. I heard loud purring. I could've turned around, but I decided to move on.

Like the American Green Cross Trail, the path behind the library was steep, slippery, and eroded.

Its elevation revealed panoramic views of the city of Glendale - and beyond - below.

And although I was once again alone on the trail, this one seemed achievable. This was surmountable.

And it was placid at the top, at a small plateau with several benches from which to enjoy the view, but I knew I couldn't pause there for long...

After all, it was a loop trail, and I would have to go back down the American Green Cross trail, which originally freaked me out so much.

In the end, I took an easy way out. I saw the path that led straight to my turnaround point from last time, and I bypassed it, choosing instead to take an easier trail that would meet up with the American Green Cross Trail farther down, past the really harrowing point.

But, of course, even when I met back up with the original trail - the one that had defeated me - I still had to scoot on my rear at a certain point to descend the mountain, preferring to crab-walk on all-fours rather than risk tumbling head-first down a rocky demise because of the inevitable effects of inertia and gravity.

Were the trails in Brand Park part of just any ol' hike, I might not have been so proud of my accomplishment. But, it turns out, Brand Park is full of many mysteries - both on the trails and beyond - that were worth my double exploration, and further exploration in the future....

Stay tuned.

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Photo Essay: Paramount Ranch & Raceway

2012-01-09T02:55:00.001-05:00

I'd had Paramount Ranch on my list of places to visit in LA for a while, but I'd been putting off my visit. Sure, I was interested in the Western Town which still stands as a living movie set for a variety of westerns, but what else was there?

For me, given how much LA has to offer for exploring, it just wasn't enough that Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman had been shot there.

And then I discovered the part of Paramount Ranch's history that intrigued me most: the decommissioned raceway.

The famed race track was only open for a few years, and it was shut down in the late 1950s after fatalities on the figure-8 track, with its hairpin turns and dangerous conditions, became too numerous.

Part of the historic track's original straightaway has been repaved and serves as an access road to the national park site...

...but besides that, there's a surprising amount of asphalt that remains...

...though parts of it are clearly crumbling, with weeds and trees sprouting through...

As you follow the original path on foot (no motorized vehicles are currently allowed), you can imagine the adrenaline rush of racing those curves in a car...

...and you can almost hear the revving of phantom racecar engines, til you realize it's just the motorcycles roaring down the highway above.

In one section, far from any traffic of any sort, the tarmac is barely interrupted by nature or weathering...

...and you can still spot the original double yellow line painted down the middle...

The race track was featured in the 1957 film The Devil's Hairpin, whose nail-biting race scene featuring the original track can be seen here:

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M*A*S*H at Malibu Creek State Park
Photo Essay: Franklin Canyon
Off to the Races: Part One
Off to the Races: Part Two

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