Moab Trail Marathon

6 November 2014

The last time I trained for a marathon, my wife complained that it consumed too much of my time. When your long runs are eighteen miles long, lasting several hours, then I completely agree with her. This time, I decided to cure the problem by not training at all. She liked that.

It's not by choice, however, that I haven't ran at all for the last month. About two and a half months ago, I strained the ligament that runs directly behind my left knee. I stayed off of it for a couple weeks and I was able to run a half-marathon with no problems. Since then, every time I build up to seven or eight miles, it flares up and gives me problems. When it flares up, if I keep running on it, not only does the ligament hurt, but it causes pain in my entire knee. About a month ago, I decided to stay off of it completely - at least no running.

In two days I will run my very first marathon. (The first marathon I trained for didn't happen because of an injury.) I am scared to death. I have no idea if my strained ligament will flare up again, and my longest run is only thirteen miles.

During the last month, I have done my best to keep my cardio up, but that is difficult when you can't use your legs. Cross-training hasn't worked because it works the same muscles that I need to rest. My typical regimen consists of a mini-cross-fit workout that focuses on arms and stomach, followed by a twenty minute yoga session. I have altered my diet to include a daily breakfast of oatmeal with flax seed, nuts, chia seeds, and bananas. My vitamin pack includes vitamin C, zinc, magnesium, and fish oil.

What I am trying to explain is that I am trying the best to maintain fitness without exercising very much. But this marathon is still daunting. Not only is it a twenty-six mile race, but it is a trail marathon. That means that if I get injured during the race, they can't just haul me out. The sections with access to a road are several miles apart. It also means that it is not all downhill. The race starts and ends at the same point.

If I weren't injured, I would be very excited. The scenery will be beautiful! We'll see how it goes. If the injury flares up in the first few miles, then I'm toast. If it flares up halfway, then I have a fighting chance, but it will be a long day. If I can make it past the up-hill climb at mile 14, then I will be in decent shape.

I leave tomorrow morning for Moab. The race begins in two days. It's hard to say how my injury is feeling, because paranoia can do crazy things to a person, and just today I have felt the injury move from my left knee, to my kidney, to my hip, to my right knee, then to my left calf. Makes sense, huh? But, the great thing about any race is that adrenalin kicks in. Adrenalin can take away pain and make you do things that you never thought possible.

7 November 2014

I am in Moab now, camping in my vehicle at the Drinks Campground on the Colorado River. I am here for the marathon tomorrow and drove over by myself. I picked up my packet at Milts, a local hamburger joint and popular hangout. I arrived at the campground at dusk and spent my first half hour taking pictures. Then I used the gas-stove to cook pasta from a box.

This location is nice. I am just above the water. From here I can hear a patch of white rapids. The rest of the water is placid. Steep walls rise up on both sides of the river. The paradox of this peaceful location is the constant commotion of traffic. For being out in the boonies, the road is very busy. My plan tonight is to read until I'm tired. I brought For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway.

I am excited for tomorrow, and so far, my body feels great.

8 November 2014, 7 a.m.

One hour until start time. I am in the parking lot waiting, next to the Kane Springs Road. I am parked much closer to the starting line than I anticipated. I woke up at 6:00 and left the campground at 6:45. There was fog in the lower valley of Moab.

Here, the sun hasn't yet crept over the horizon, but it is shining on the cliff walls. We are next to the river. People are beginning to arrive. There is music and the MC is announcing time and other information. It is cold. Most people are bundled up in their cars. The full moon is still up. Some people are moving around and stretching.

6:50 p.m.

I am done! Both knees hurt like heck and I am icing them now – twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off. This is by far the most beautiful race I have ever done.

Before starting, I probably felt better than any race I have ever participated in. I think this in large part due to the good sleep I've had all week. I took some sort of sleeping pill every day.

I began roughly at 8:44 in the third wave. The first several miles felt great. We ran up Pritchett Canyon along a jeep trail. Most of it was sand, but there were rocks also. Looking down at the placement of the feet was a necessity most of the time, but I had to look up to see the scenery. During this point, I was passing far more people than passed me. Gaining this extra ground saved my bacon later in the race.

We passed three jeeps along the trail. I don't think they were anticipating a marathon when they planned their trip.

A small arch stood high on the rock wall on the right-hand side of the canyon.

After completing the first major hill at approximately four miles, I could begin to feel two areas of my body tightening up: my right piriformis muscle and my left calf. I am certainly no doctor, so my diagnosis of the piriformis muscle may be a little shaky. Whatever it was, it was in the area of tissue where the top of the leg meets the buttocks.

At 5.6 miles, I welcomed the first aid station and took the chance to stretch the two areas of my leg that were tightening up. The stretches felt good, but once I continued running, I found that I wasn't passing as many people.

We passed a solitary spire and another arch. A deep canyon opened up on our left. One of the runners who passed me commented, “You're running with wings!” The comment caught me off-guard and I thought he meant that I was running fast, which I knew wasn't the case. Then it made sense to me. He read the back of my shirt which had an image of an angel and words to commemorate my daughter, Brittany, who had passed away. He was the first person to say anything about the shirt and I was grateful that someone noticed.

The tightness in my left calf went away, but that in my piriformis muscle continued. My right knee hurt a little bit, and I wondered if blisters were forming on my feet.

At about mile 8, we came to a short, but steep decent toward the road at Kane Creek. One of these descents included a ten foot drop down a crack in the rock. At the bottom, we crossed a little creek and soon came to the aid station.

I refueled with Heed and grabbed some grub from the table. Each station was well furnished with goo, cookies, pretzels, gummy fruit snacks and granola bars. I also refilled my own water bottle.

This aid station was at 9.7 miles. It was here that I first felt the true pain in my left knee. By mile 10, I knew that my injury was back. From this point on, it was never the same.

Here we met the Kane Creek road, and the half-marathoners ran right, and we, left.

Running on a flat-surfaced graveled road was nice. I thought I would have to walk, but slowing my pace was enough to keep me going. People started passing me.

When we turned up Hunter Canyon, it was a different story. This was an out-and-back section where you punch your bib about a mile up the canyon. The trail was constant sand and all up and down. Both were excruciating.

It was on this section that a shirtless guy commented he liked my shirt. When he passed, I saw that his back had “In memory of _________,” tattooed or marked on it.

I managed to make it to the punch and back to the road. After the next aid station at mile 14, we left the road and ran through a tamarisk-filled forest. The pain in my knee had temporarily lessened a bit, but just in time for the big hill.

This is the big climb of the race on a seldom used, old jeep trail. It is called “Scorched Earth Wall.” I knew that it would not be smart to run this hill, and to my surprise, no on else ran it either, with a few exceptions. That meant I wasn't losing time. I don't know how long we walked up this hill, but the road went on forever.

Scorched Earth Wall

By the time we reached the top, we had great views of the Colorado River, the La Sal Mountains and best of all, we were at mile 16.

The next six miles all blend together and they were the most scenic of the entire run. The snow-capped La Sal Mountains peaked out around several corners. Red boulders and hills, juniper trees, with cactus scattered about, just to keep you on your toes. Several ledges provided great views below.

We began to pass bikers as we were sharing their trail. I noticed landmarks such as Captain Ahab's Rock and Hymasa Trail.

The trail was difficult to follow in spots. Red ribbons tied on branches and bushes marked the entire route, and here was no exception. Several times I found myself stopped at a red ribbon, unable to spot the next one. The route seemed to be tortuously crooked.

Near mile 20, a sweeping view of the river comes to sight, and the downhill begins. This section hurt like the dickens. I grunted or groaned with nearly every step. As had been the case since mile 10, people continued to pass me. I walked many small sections of the downhill, and where I didn't walk, it wasn't a very fast run.

At one point, you could probably do a 200 foot dive into the river. A paved road hugged the opposite side of the river. In the far distance we could see the finish line, and hear the announcer on the loud speaker.

At last, we arrived at the finish line, or at least we passed just below it on a sandy path along-side the tamarisk. There is an aid station here and it is mile 23.

For the last three miles, we made a long loop. We crossed a creek, climbed a ladder, and ran beneath the road through a giant culvert. A small tunnel blasted into the rock is brief, but shady. Much of the route is sand, and not very fun to run in.

Although difficult to see, this is the ropes section.

A rope section leads the runners up a precarious ledge. Holding onto the rope was a mandatory. The man assisting at this section asked if I had enough water because, I was "looking kind of staggery.”

The route continued through sand and over rock, and always up and down. Any significant uphill, I always walked. I found, at this stage of the race, that I could walk uphill as fast as most others could run.

We circled back toward the finish line, with only 1 ½ miles to go. I had been in constant pain for the last three hours, but I was proud of myself for still running. Much slower, but still running. Yes, I had walked when the pain was too much to bear, but the walks were always short-lived.

Our big loop connected back with the trail and we came upon the path near the huge culvert and ladder. One small run along the tamarisk jungle, then I climbed up a very steep and sandy hill to the finish line.

The time for my first marathon was 5 hours and 55 minutes. They handed me a finishers mug, and for the next hour, I walked around to cool down and stretched a couple of times. Quickly, my right knee began to hurt and for the rest of the evening, I looked like a crippled old man with two bum knees.

One of the runners, Jeff from Provo, came up and commented on my shirt and asked me questions about my daughter. That gave me the opportunity to talk about Brittany and to meet a new person. His wife and daughter were there and he had ran the half-marathon last year.

Food was in plentiful supply: soup, quesadillas, chips, cookies, and all the usual food from the aid stations.

Despite all the grub, I wanted to drive into Moab and use my five dollar coupon at Milt's. I ordered a double bacon cheeseburger and fries. The line was long because everyone else in the race had a coupon also. My knees did not like the wait. By the time I ordered and received my food, my limp was bigger and the pain more intense.

Then I stopped at the Maverik in Moab and bought two Gatorade's and filled my cooler full if ice. I asked the cashier if he had a couple spare plastic bags that I could use. We found them in the trash can.

I left the food in the bag and drove thirty miles to Thompson Canyon before I ate it. By this time, the sun was down again, and I was alone. I ate the hamburger and fries and they really hit the spot. Then I stepped out of the vehicle and walked around to get blood circulating in my legs. Both legs were stiffening up from the drive and I was know feeling greater soreness in my quads and calves. Cold wind blew and I could feel it seep through my nylon mesh shorts.

I returned to the vehicle, to the back seat now, where the seats were laid down and a long foam mattress laid flat. That is where I sit now. Icing my knees.  Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off.

I just had to throw this in.

Malibu

Malibu Pier is set in a beautiful landscape just below the rugged Santa Monica Mountains and not far from Billionaires Beach. We are there on a December morning, just as low lying clouds creep over the hilltops. From the pier we can see beach-side homes built on stilts to allow high-tide to roll beneath their decks. The solitude of Malibu is peaceful. The chaos of L.A. traffic and sprawling freeway and skyscrapers and millions of people feel a world away. In truth, they are only on the other side of the bay, but from where we are, they can be neither seen nor felt.

We walk to the end of the pier and up the balcony where we take pictures and breathe in the sight of the ocean. The clouds are thick and gray and the water is dark and deep. Not many people are on the pier this morning and those who are wear jackets to keep them warm. Some wear knit caps over their ears. A Mexican man in a straw hat and long-sleeved flannel shirt works with a fishing pole of the edge of the pier. A cart with watermelons piled inside sits idly outside of a restaurant. Everything is closed right now. People are just beginning the days work.

I will admit that one reason we are here is to satisfy curiosity. We want to see how the rich and famous live, and perhaps run into Charlie Sheen, Courteney Cox, or Mel Brooks. Also, I am always looking for new places that are beautiful. But the primary reason we are here is to commemorate my daughter, Brittany, who died exactly one year ago yesterday. She would have loved to be here in such a pleasant place, “mingling with the stars.” We have plans to remember her, but that will come later in the day.

After the pier, we walk up the street toward the Adamson House. Along the way, we notice several cars pulling to the side of the road and people unloading surf boards onto the sidewalk. They begin to pull on black wet-suits, stretching them over their bodies, and zipping them up to their necks. Some of the will-be surfers are unabashed to change in front of passing pedestrians, even when disrobing down to their underwear. We pass by nonchalantly, wondering why so many surfers are showing up at once, but not daring to ask.

We arrive at the Adamson House to find that the interior is closed, but grounds are open to the public. The house, built in a Spanish Colonial style in 1929, overlooks Surfrider Beach. The home is very elegant, with several tiled fountains and large patios. The Spanish tiles on the roof and the white-washed walls give it the quintessential Spanish look.

But it is the location and history that fascinate me. Many years before the house was built, the land was the location of a ranch and country home of the Rindge family. When they owned it, Malibu was truly a wild place. No billionaire homes, no roads, no pier, no other people. Not as far as far as the eye could see. It felt remote. It probably looked as it did when the Chumash Indians lived there or when Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo landed nearby in 1542.

The thought of living isolated along a coastal beach, in a tropical setting, with wild verdant mountains stacking themselves behind the ocean, and a nighttime sky that would be so clear that the Milky Way would radiate like a large luminous band, gives tingles along my back. It sounds like a true Swiss Family Robinson adventure. Maybe I am making it a little more romantic than it really was, but I would love to beam myself back in time and spend a few months living among them.

While roaming the grounds at the house, we watch the beach, and watch the surfers who are now paddling into the water, about thirty of them. Some kneel and others lay on their boards, stroking with their arms and kicking with their feet. They paddle into the ocean a couple hundred yards where they form a large circle and hold hands.

Many onlookers watch from the beach. Most are friends and family of the surfers, not just random tourists like ourselves.

While holding hands and attempting to keep their circle while waves and the drift of the water toss them around, some within the circle speak to the others. We can't hear a thing, but it is obvious from their gesticulations and the attention heeded from the others in the circle, that words are being spoken. Within a few minutes, the circle is broken and they paddle back toward the shore. Upon arriving on the sand, some pack up and return to their cars while others head back out to the water to try their luck on the waves.

After finishing at the Adamson House and walking back along the sidewalk toward the pier, we pass a young man who is next to his car, dripping wet with salt water and slipping out of his wet-suit.

“You were with the group of surfers that formed the circle, weren't you?” I ask.

“Yes,” he affirms.

“What exactly were you doing?”

He goes on to explain that they were taking part in a “paddle-out” ceremony. One of their very own, a twenty-three year-old surfer, had died last week from a brain hemorrhage. This was their way of memorializing him. They carried flowers in their teeth or around their neck as they paddled out, then held a small ceremony, then left the flowers at the site.

This is a special privilege for us. We feel that it is no mere coincidence that we traveled over five hundred miles and happen upon a memorial service on the beach. We thank the surfer for his helpful insight, and tell him that we are in Malibu for the same reason, to hold our own memorial celebration for our daughter.

We arrive back to our vehicle and now it is just a few miles west along the Pacific Coast Highway to Latigo Canyon Road. We can't pass up Malibu without gawking at least one celebrity home. I prepped the kids well for this. Back at home, we all gathered around the computer to watched my favorite Guns N' Roses video, Estranged. Many of the clips in this video were shot in and around Axl Rose's home, including a few areal shots. The last scenes of his home show Axl dressed in a white t-shirt and white shorts, getting into a white limousine, and being driven down the winding hill from his home, with extensive views of the ocean in the background.

That winding road is exactly where we are now, only we are traveling up. I studied this well on Google Maps before we came, knowing exactly how many turns in the road there would be and at which point the home would come into view. I knew that we would only see a portion of the southern wall, a chain-linked fence and several of the trees around his property. We would also see his white-gated driveway.

The kids are all excited as we approach the property. “Those are his trees,” I say as I point to the left. A few seconds later I point again and say, “That's his fence and there's his house! Look, look!” All the kids are gawking, and Kaitlyn has her hand out the window with her phone trying to take a video. I am surprised at how dilapidated the roads are for being in the neighborhood of celebrities. That is about all I can focus on with the road being as windy as it is. We drive past the driveway, noticing it, but not expecting to see anyone there. I already checked the tour dates for G-n-R, and Axl Rose is on the road.

We drive a little bit further on Latigo Canyon Road, then turn around for one last look at the mansion before we head back down to the coast. The kids don't seem as excited on the way down. I guess that the novelty has worn off. I am very impressed, however, at the view of the Pacific, large and blue in the distance. I can't help but imagine Axl Rose sipping a beverage, holding a smoldering cigarette, and watching the view out the window as he descends this same road in his limousine.

Malibu is twenty-one miles long. With the exceptions of a few side-roads like the one we just took, most of its residents reside in close proximity to the Pacific Coast Highway, which runs adjacent to the coast for the entire length of the city. Our next stop is several miles away and is a grocery store to buy snacks for dinner. I don't see any grocery stores and we have to ask a mail-lady for directions and then we backtrack a couple of miles.

We find our store on Heathercliff Road, and manage to buy our snacks without seeing any celebrities. That's alright, because my mind is more preoccupied with sunlight than celebrities. Our short December daylight is winding down.

We speed west on the PCH and arrive at our final destination, El Matador State Beach. I wasn't sure what to expect when I researched this place, other than I knew it would be beautiful. I wasn't expecting the parking lot to be located on a butte, high above the beach. We eat quickly in the vehicle (because of a cold breeze outside), then slowly make our way down to the beach.

We carry with us six glass bottles, each with a tearful message that we wrote for Brittany this morning while in our hotel room. The path down to the beach is dirt, with steps along the steep parts. The beach is located at the foot of some impressive rugged cliffs.

The sun is slanting close to the horizon now, illuminating the rocks and sand with a golden hue. Jordan quickly finds a starfish washed ashore and picks it up to show us. We take off our shoes and socks and feel the foamy tide as it washes across our ankles. The water is a little chilly, as would be expected in December. Coming off the sea with the waves is a slight breeze. We choose to keep our jackets on. The sand beneath the soles of my feet feels like little Styrofoam balls.

We find a secluded section of beach with no rocks projecting from the surface of the water, and one-by-one, we chuck the bottles as far as we can into the ocean. Jenelle kisses her's before she throws. The two little girls have a hard time getting distance, so I pick up one of theirs and sling it further. Kaitlyn has no problem and throws her's out like a center fielder.

The situation, being very emotional and tender, turns comical when we spot one of the bottles, fifty yards up the beach, already washed ashore. I run and retrieve it, tossing it back, only to spot a second bottle marooned on the sand. I hurl it back into the ocean also. We all begin to laugh. Three more bottles wash ashore and we decide to keep them with us and attempt to throw them out another day. I guess that this land-locked family learns a lesson in physics.

We gather for a family portrait on the shore before heading out on our own exploration of the beach. Mine is a solo quest, and I leave with camera and tripod in hand. The sun is within minutes of being buried beneath the Pacific. The world I find along the beach is full of coves, arches, and sea stacks. My bare-feet feel the kelp and large pebbles on the sand. The hue of sunset reflects on the thin veneer of water left on the beach with the ebb of the current. Sea birds perch and wait atop egg-shaped rocks in the ocean. Some of the large rocks look like they were formed from a caldron of boiling pebbles, left to harden like Roman statues.

I am not the only one with this same idea. Other photographers vie for prime vista locations. But, there aren't many bad locations. The entire beach is of another world. It is surreal. It could be out of a Dalí painting.

I snap several pictures and watch as the shade of the ocean turns a darker gray and sea stacks turn to silhouettes. I return back to my family, who have also been admiring God's great wonder. In my mind and in my heart, I feel that all my family is here this evening. 

 

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

October is one of my favorite months of the year. Fall leaves turn orange and red, and drop from mountain trees. Elk are in the rut, and their bellowing bugle echoes through the forest. Hot summer air transforms into a crisp autumn breeze. And finally, televisions are turned on to watch a batter come to the plate, tap the base with his bat, then test his skill against a ball blazing at ninety-five miles an hour.

Yes, October is World Series time, and I will admit that now days, it is the only time I watch a ballgame. I used to be an avid Braves fan, coming home from school each day to watch Atlanta play on TBS. I rarely missed a game.

Things are different now.  Family and responsibility force baseball lower on the totem pole of priorities. Plus, we no longer have TBS.

Yet my love and nostalgia for the game haven't diminished over the years. This year, the Kansas City Royals are playing the San Francisco Giants in the World Series. As I write, game seven is tonight. Winner takes all.

I can't help but recall that I watched Kansas City play earlier this year. The game was in May and it was at The Big A in Anaheim against the Angels. I brought the whole family. Not only was it their first time watching a Major League ballgame in person, but it was mine also. I was as excited as a little kid!

We left our motel an hour and a half early, just to be on the safe side, and arrived at Angel Stadium twenty minutes later. Men with batons waved us to our parking stalls within the gigantic lot that surrounded the stadium. We felt a little out of place without our Angels shirts and caps.

We found our seats behind the right field foul line and up a deck. There didn't appear to be a bad seat in the house. At this time, the stadium was mostly empty. Fans trickled in little by little. I wandered back downstairs to field level and perused the gift shops. An Angels dog feeder was very adorable, but not worth the money. I looked at the caps and jerseys, very tempted to buy, but not willing to break out the wallet.

Meandering the hall again, I found a memorabilia display that fascinated me. Photos of famous players, their signatures emblazoned across the front, adorned the wall.  Behind a glass were baseballs signed by Mickey Mantle, Joe DiMaggio, and Ted Williams.  I was reminded of the great players of this game, many who played in this very stadium.

I returned to my family in the stands. We were all very excited and just like children in a candy shop. We enjoyed watching the “Kiss-cam” on the Jumbo-tron. A camera crew covertly filmed unsuspecting couples in the stands, then expected them to smack a big one with everyone watching.

Field crews worked on preparing the white lines in the dirt. Girls circled the field with blow guns that shot souvenirs into the stands. Little by little, players drifted to the field to stretch their legs and warm up their arms. Before I knew it, a lady was singing the National Anthem at home plate, and fireworks fired off near the center field fence. It was time to play ball!

I admit that I had to do a little research to find out who was on the team, as I am out of the loop now days. I found three names that I recognized: Mike Trout, Chris Iannetta, and Albert Pujols. The latter of the three, Pujols, is probably the biggest name, and a future Hall of Famer. His career is full of many accomplishments. Currently he is twenty-first on the list of all-time home run leaders with 520 dingers.

My daughter, Kaitlyn, brought her mitt. We waited the entire game, but didn't get a foul ball to come anywhere near us.

With baseball being America's national pastime, we couldn't let the game pass by without buying some of America's greatest food. We spent $41 on four hotdogs and six drinks. That included two souvenir cups that we needed to bring home to prove we had been to the game. Jenelle desperately needed to spend $12 on the Nacho Daddy, a huge serving of nachos inside a plastic Angels helmet.

The game was very enjoyable to witness. Mike Trout hit an RBI double over third base, Albert Pujols was hit by a pitch, Chris Iannetta blasted a home run over the left field fence, and Howie Kendrick was hit by a ball on his way to first base. I was very impressed at the sharpness of the crowd. When there was a controversial play at home plate, they were the first to let the umpires know about it. Likewise, after two impressive diving catches, the crowd was on their feet with loud ovations.

I anticipated the seventh inning stretch. As a boy, I remember Harry Carey leading the song to Chicago Cubs fans, but I had never participated in the tradition myself. The time came, and everyone stood up and sung in unison. I am big on tradition and culture, and few things can match true American tradition more than standing at a Major League ball game and singing: “Take me out to the ball game, take me out with the crowd, just buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks . . .”

What took me completely off-guard was when we also sung, “God Bless America.” We took off our caps and watched the waving flag beyond the outfield.

Kaitlyn and I decided to take a stroll around the stadium. Behind the stands in right field you can see the 230 foot tall “Big A” sign next to the freeway. Beyond center field there is a large sign with Albert Pujols' picture and the number 505 across the front. They change the number every time he smacks a round tripper. We watched the game for a few minutes from the outfield perspective, hoping that a home run would soon be blasted over the wall. It never happened.

At last, it was the top of the ninth inning and the Angels were up 4-3. There were two outs and a runner on third base. The crowd came to their feet, chanting, “Let's go Angels, let's go! Let's go Angels, let's go!” - That is is except the two Royals fans that sat in front of us. They inserted "Royals" instead of "Angels," but no one could hear them. Everyone watched the batter in anticipation as he popped the ball to second base. Angels win! Fireworks blasted into the air from the center field fence along with two plumes of fire.   Almost everyone was on their feet, clapping and hollering - except for those Royal fans in front of us. They sheepishly stood up and walked away, leaving their Angel cups on the floor for the taking. 

I guess those two Royals fans got the last laugh. Now I am at home watching the World Series on television, knowing that Kansas City beat the Angels in the playoffs to get there. That's alright. I can root for the Royals now. Or I can just sit back and enjoy the game, wishing I were there, or else imagining I were there: the crowd on their feet, the smell of pop corn and hot dogs, and the sound of the ball on the wooden bat.

   

Oceanside

The pier at Oceanside, California is a long, wooden walkway that juts seaward from the beach. On bare feet it is hot and slivered. Not very comfortable.

A bottle with a hand-written message is held in my left hand. I wrote it a few minutes ago while sitting on the beach on the north side of the pier.

The message is for Brittany, my daughter who passed away a year and a half ago. We hope to make this a long tradition. I feel closer to her every time I write a letter.

We walk to the end of the pier, and one by one, we toss our bottles into the deep blue water. We watch them far below us bobbing up and down and gradually drifting one way or another. There is no clear direction yet. We hope they drift seaward instead of toward the coast.

When we are done, we make our way back to the beach and settle down south of the pier. The beach is busy. Today is Memorial Day. A Spiderman kite flies high with the wind. A family sits beneath a large umbrella with a cooler full of food. Women in bikini's and men in swim trunks lay on towels on the sand and brown their skin in the full sun.

One of the first curiosities I notice about this beach is how shallow it is. Frolickers of all sorts stand in the water at a significant distance from the shore and the water only comes to their thighs. What a good idea!

My shirt, my socks, my shoes, and my glasses all come off, and all that is left are my flowery-blue swim trunks. My bare feet step into the wet sand and white, foamy water rushes in and covers my ankles, then sucks back into the ocean. I walk in further and the water covers my shins, then knees, and now my thighs. A large wave with its rolling white water are within my reach and at once, I bring my hands together over my head and dive into the wave. A cacophony of tumbling seaweed and sand spin across my body. I stand up, my body above the waist out of the water, wipe the wetness from my eyes, and feel another rolling torrent hit me from behind. It knocks me off-balance and I fall to my side, a big smile on my face. I don't know that I've had this much fun on a beach since I was a kid!

I look behind me, and see my seventeen year old son, Jordan. He is here to join me. He's taller than me now. His trim, sculpted body is stronger than mine also. He was on the water polo team a couple of years ago.

We both dive into deeper water. We try swimming with the flow of the wave and ride it the way surfers do. That doesn't work too well. All our bodies manage to do is to sink beneath the water.

The crest of the waves lift high. The undulation of the water moves up and down and I find that if I can stay afloat on top that it is almost like jumping on a trampoline. The waves seem to be building bigger. We float atop the crest and watch the people on the shore become smaller as I am lifted higher. Pure exhilaration!

Soon, we realize that we are not quite so close to the beach anymore. The waves are no longer breaking, but just bobbing us up and down. Sometimes our feet no longer touch. Jordan and I look at each other and know that it is time to swim back to shore.

I go to my belly and begin swimming. Another large waves beats against us and leaves me panting.  I look at the shore and realize that we're not getting any closer.  I look over my shoulder to make sure that Jordan is still with me.

A life guard is in the water near us and yells out, “A rip tide is starting! You need to move, now!  It's an underwater current. Swim that way! Can you still touch?”

A small panic comes over me. I can see the distance we have moved from the shore and I can feel the swift traveling sand against my legs. We paddle and walk in slow-motion in a diagonal direction toward the beach. At last, the water comes to our thighs, then knees, then ankles. My chest heaves in and out and I feel light-headed as I walk toward the shore.

"We're lucky to be walking out of that one," I say to Jordan. 

The situation wasn't dire, but could have ended much worse. Perhaps Brittany was there with us. A nudge here, a whisper there.

  

Run for the Border

I've always wanted to take my kids to another country. Not when they're too young, because I don't believe that they would appreciate it. The ideal time would be when my oldest son is seventeen or eighteen years old. That would put the youngest one at eight, and all of them, at one level or another, at an age were they could recognize the worth of being in a foreign country.

My original plan was to take them to Spain. I quickly learned that I wasn't rich enough to do that. I will admit that it was my only plan. Soon afterward, the idea of taking them to another country just fizzled out . . . unless I somehow won the lottery.

Now, my son is seventeen, and we are going to Southern California. We decide to spend a day near San Diego, so I determine that it may be wise to take the whole family as close to the border as we can get. (We would go completely into Tijuana, but I don't want to buy passports for each of the kids for just one day.)

We don't have a lot of time on our hands. We're traveling from Anaheim and we have already spent a few hours at the beach in Oceanside.

Our first stop is at El Ranchero taco shop on Main Street in Chula Vista. We are only six miles from the border, and according to my research, this is the best taco shop around. I want my kids to feel like they have entered that zone where American and Mexican cultures cross. What better way to do that than through their tummy's.

El Ranchero is a small building. In fact, we accidentally drive past it the first time. A portable taco bus is parked behind it and beneath a white tarp a man grills beef over a flame. Inside there is not a lot of space. There are just a few tables and behind a partition are the cooks. Most of the names on the menu appear familiar from other places I have eaten. I order a barbacoa burrito. The meat is well flavored, although not as flavored as the carne asada.

Miguel, the man behind the counter, gives me a selection of hot sauces to use. Really, I don't know his name, but Miguel seems like it should fit. He speaks in a very strong Mexican accent, and sometimes I can't distinguish which language he is speaking in. He invites me to try the habanero sauce, which proves to be a good choice. I've never tried this kind of sauce before and I find it very flavorful with a huge kick.

My youngest daughter, Savanah, asks me, “Dad, why does everybody here speak Spanish?”

“That's because we're only five miles from Mexico,” I respond, hoping that she is beginning to understand what I am trying to do.

We return to I-5 and drive south a few miles south to the exit for Dairy Mart Road. Not far from the exit, the road crosses the Tijuana River. We stop for a moment to explore the river. Above us a model plane buzzes in loops and swoops through the air. In the distance we see a man with a large controller in his hands.

I see a lot of green vegetation, but it is so dense that I can't see the river. I walk over toward the bridge, then I follow a dirt path that leads under the bridge. Who knows what has taken place beneath this beneath this bridge over the years. I don't know if I will find a bum, or an illegal alien. I find neither. But I don't find a river, either. I see a pool of stagnant water and plenty of thick riparian vegetation, but no river. I don't know if it is because of the drought year, of if Mexico commonly saps all the water out. Neither surprised nor disappointed, we move on.

I must say that at this point, the view into Mexico is very close. A busy highway just over the border runs parallel with the fence. A patchwork of houses fill the hillside. A large white church with red trim, Gothic windows, and twin bell towers sits amidst the houses.

We pull onto a dirt road that will take us right to the fence. I found this road on Google Maps and became excited and wary - at the same time - to travel on it. If we were to park at a certain place and walk to the top of the hill, we could have an up-close view of Tijuana. On the other hand . . . we could get shot.

Immediately, I realize that walking up to the view point is out of the question. The path to get there is chained off with signs reading No Trespassing. Instead, we park by the fence and observe. The fence is concrete with slots, and there is another sign warning us not to cross. I don't dare touch the fence. I fear electrocution, or getting dropped by a hidden sniper. We can't see into Mexico as well, although we can hear the rumble of cars and have an up-close look at a billboard on the other side. The sign shows pictures of colorfully dressed ladies and advertizes an event called Las Lavanderas.

Looking to the east, we still have a good vantage point into Mexico.  There is a stark contrast between the crowded buildings of Tijuana on the south of the fence, and the barren California desert on the north.  

As we turn around on the dirt road, we notice a white truck up on the hill in the off-limits area. I'm sure that they were watching us through binoculars the entire time.

We return to the paved road and drive west toward the beach. The ride is pleasant. Small ranches are scattered throughout. A cowboy on a horse spits up dust in the distance. Corrals, avocado trees, and plenty of No Trespassing signs.

A gate blocks off the road, accompanied by a small parking lot. We are at the Border Field State Park and due to budget restrictions, the road to the beach is closed off. Pedestrian traffic is alright, but we don't have the time to make the three mile round-trip hike. Perhaps on another day.

We turn around and return the way we came.

The Lone Cone

From the top of the hill where my grandparents lived in Blanding, you could always gaze into four states. To the west there were the prominent buttes called the Bears Ears, jutting along the horizon from the distant hills of Elk Ridge. Separating the ridge from north to south was a teardrop gap called The Notch. From the green mesa of Milk Ranch Point, the terrain descended into rocky canyons around Comb Ridge, a stony spine emerging from the earth that seemed to run endlessly to the south. I could see Black Mesa, Butler Wash, and in the distance, the spires of Monument Valley, which run into Arizona. The one prominent landmark from New Mexico was Shiprock, a craggy-looking stone that rises sharply in the southeast. Moving my eyes into Colorado, there was the Sleeping Ute Mountain, a landmark sacred to the Utes, giving the appearance of a proud Indian Chief laying on his back and folding his arms. Further north were climbing peaks of the San Juan Mountain ranges. I didn't know the name of any of them, except for one, and that was the Lone Cone.

It stood by itself and looked just like its name indicated, an isolated cone. During early morning drives between Blanding and Monticello, the prominent silhouette of the Lone Cone, against the orange hues of sunrise, struck me with interest and mystery. For some reason, I never got close to that intriguing mountain. As we would travel further into Colorado, usually going to Cortez, it would disappear about the time we passed through Dove Creek. It was during that time, many years ago, that I decided that one day I would hike to the top of the Lone Cone.

View of Lone Cone from Norwood, Colorado.

My dream wasn't realized until about twenty five years later when I decided to hike it with my sixteen year old son, Jordan. I learned that there really isn't a short, direct route to the Lone Cone. From Blanding we drove a seventy-something mile circuitous route that led us through Desolation Valley and Norwood, Colorado. In Norwood, we were truly close. The cone rises due south of the little town and is so close that the individual patches of trees can be seen. Our route took us along a very rocky, two-mile road that climbed the southeast flank of the mountain. I forgot my GPS, but we were probably 10,000 feet high in elevation.

Middle Peak (middle), Dunn Peak (right), Wilson Peak (far left)

Lone Cone from east side.

This is where we camped. It was probably as beautiful as any place I had ever camped on earth. The air was crisp and clean, and I couldn't help but breath deeply and take in the scent of the wild flowers that surrounded us, and the pungent smell of pines. Every now and then I caught a whiff of elk. We didn't see any, but without a doubt, this was their country. I found a few wallowing holes and saw their sign on the ground. To our west stood the bulk of the Lone Cone. It looked less like a cylindrical cone from this angle and more like a tooth, with a sheer wall hanging from its belly like a belt. The most impressive sight, however, was the impressive mass of Middle Peak, soaring well above the treeline, in the near distance at our southeast. The sun was setting about now and I watched with fascination as the hue of this impressive peak changed colors.

I must mention, as a side note, that one of the reasons that I was so fascinated with Middle Peak, was that I mistakenly thought it was Wilson Peak, the infamous 14,000 foot summit that finds itself on all of the Coors beer banners throughout the world. I knew that we were close and from what I remembered, it looked very similar to what I was viewing right now. I hope to hike Wilson Peak some day, so I inspected it closely, planning how an amateur like me could scale its ridges. It wasn't until I got home and looked at my maps a little closer, that I discovered that what I was really looking at was Middle Peak, an overlooked neighbor with a puny altitude of just over 13,000 feet.

So I digress. To make a long and beautiful story short, we took pictures, ate kebabs, and slept in a tent until early next morning.

Northeast slope

We awoke and set out to climb to the summit of the Lone Cone. I don't know that I will go into tremendous detail, but suffice it to say, by the time we were done, we had circumvented the entire cone. Our first attempt to reach the top resulted in failure. This was on the northeast corner of the mountain and we got pretty near the tip, but the route to get there was becoming too sheer and rocky, and considering that I am a chicken when it comes to heights, we decided to move to another side.

Now, this wasn't easy. We moved to the northwest side, which reports had told us, was the easiest way to ascend to the top. But in order to arrive there, we had to lose some elevation and cross the giant rock field on the north side called the Devil's chair. It looks like a giant finger pressed itself against the north side of the cone, dug into it, and scraped a path northward. This divot in the mountain makes it impossible for an average guy like me to ascend the summit from here. Instead, we just crossed the width of this long field of rocks to the northwest side. The concern here is not falling, but twisting an ankle as you jump from boulder to boulder.

Northwest slope

At last we made it to the northwest side and began our way up the hill. The climb up the shale rock was very steep, but very doable for anyone in decent shape. After a long ascent, we finally made it to the top with no problems.

Did I mention what the elevation is at the top? It is 12,666 feet. What a nice feeling it is to be at the top of a peak and to know that you are higher than any human being for miles. It was gratifying to know that I was fulfilling a dream that I had since I was a kid. I tried looking for the little hill where my grandma and grandpa's house still stands, with no luck at all. The Blue Mountains that bulge from the ground north of Blanding were just small hills in the hazy distance. To the south we could see Ground Hog Reservoir and to the southeast, Middle Peak and peaking out from behind it, Wilson Peak.

Devils Chair

Looking south from the peak.  Groundhog Mountain (left) and Groundhog Reservoir (right).

Looking west

Middle Peak group, Wilson group, and Little Cone.

Our trip to the top took us roughly two hours from our campsite. Not bad. We stayed on the top for about twenty minutes, then began to work our way down. Originally, I thought that we could descend the southeast side. But gazing down it, we changed our mind. It was too steep and too craggy, and one of my goals was to return home alive.  So we opted for the southwest side, which proved to be just about as genteel as the slope we ascended. The slope worked a steady angle to the bottom. Our only concern was that our truck was on the opposite side of the mountain. About half way down, we decided to take a short-cut down the even steeper south side. We made it, but it was kind of rough going down. Jordan slid down about twenty feet at one time and lost his water bottle and tore a hole in his pants. I'm lucky that I didn't do the same. I was mostly worried about creating an avalanche of rocks and having them come down and break my leg.

Southeast slope

We finally made it to the bottom of the south side, then hiked along the base to the southeast side. Looking up at the cone, we were immediately glad that we did not attempt to come down that way. It would have been ugly. From this corner of the cone, it was just another steep descent until we reached the wild flowers and the streams that gushed from the hillside. This is where we completed our circumvention of the cone. We saw a porcupine climb a tree, took pictures of strange flowers, and drank deeply from the fresh mountain water.

Back at the truck, we were grateful to have beaten the July thunderstorms. I wont go into detail on our trip back to Blanding, but I will say that we took a different route. It was much prettier, and until we got to Dolores, all the roads were graveled and rocky. At one point, about twenty miles in, I was worried that we would have to turn all the way around because the rocks on the road looked like something that was made for four wheelers. We passed Ground Hog Reservoir and about fifteen minutes later got a flat tire. That was fun!

View of  Lone Cone from Groundhog Reservoir