La Jolla

The sand at La Jolla Shores is no different than any other beach. Kids use it to build sand castles and adults use it to walk on, letting the soft grit squish between their toes. I slipped off my shoes, my socks, and stepped into the undulation of the water and felt the whooshing sand across my feet.

The beach is a novelty for my family. We live two states away from the coast and where we live, water is scarce and palm trees are non-existent.

The three girls put on their swimming suits and played in the waves, while Jordan rode his long board to the pier and back, fulfilling a desire for that quintessential California experience. Jenelle reclined on a blanket and enjoyed watching the kids play in the water.

A beach is always a good place to watch people: surfers trudging into the water, board tucked beneath their arm and leash strapped to their ankle; a little boy playing with shovel and bucket; teenage girls snapping pictures with a phone; and lovers walking hand-in-hand along the washed-up water. I also spotted para-gliders and a blimp.

I've always wanted to eat a picnic lunch on the beach. With this in mind, we brought a cooler full of food. I sat on the blanket and pulled two slices of bread out of the bag, spread mayo on both sides and placed a slice of salami and a slice of cheese and a few shreds of lettuce onto one side of the bread, then folded the two slices back together. I also opened a bag of chips and another of cookies.

We began to notice a large flock of seagulls hovering around us. Some circled overhead and others paced toward us on the sand. Kaitlyn tried waving them away to no avail. They were after our lunch.

The first sandwich made I gave to Kaitlyn. She paced nervously away from the birds, holding her sandwich against her belly. They persisted to follow. I began making another sandwich, keeping the bread low near my knees on the blanket. During this process, Kaitlyn came running and screaming, chased by a flock of birds, throwing her uneaten sandwich to the ground, and running away. Within seconds, a gull swooped down and devoured it with her strong bill.

Savanah, my eight year-old, took the second sandwich. We advised her to keep the sandwich low and in front of her, and not to do anything that would draw attention to the sandwich. This strategy worked well for two minutes until another gull dove in, not only stealing her sandwich, but pecking her shoulder, leaving a bright red mark. She cried for the next five minutes while my wife held her in her arms.

Now it was my turn to eat a sandwich. I felt the best strategy would be to leave the area near the blanket and clandestinely eat my food somewhere else. I moved twenty yards away and felt good about how I was doing things. I would take a bite of sandwich, then hold it close to my right hip. I watched the seagulls swirl around our blanket, while they all seemed oblivious of me. I had finished half of my sandwich, when from behind me, a bird swooped down and stole my sandwich from my hand! He nipped my thumb during the process. A slice of salami fell to the ground. I shook my head in disgust.

After having managed to eat lunch, I opened my backpack and pulled out a yellow Frisbee. This yellow disc traveled five hundred miles just for this purpose. Like the picnic, I have always wanted to play Frisbee on the beach, and hadn't ever done it.

Kaitlyn and I played together, just tossing it back and forth. It was a little tricky with other people in the same area. Our first several throws were really off-target, tending to turn side-ward and veer off to the right. Any time that a person walked near us, we learned that it was best to wait and let them pass.

Finally, we got the swing of things and were catching most of the throws made to us. My favorite throws were those involving a running catch. We began playing on the dry sand, not far from the water, but soon we were intentionally throwing toward the water so that we would have to run and splash into the current to catch the Frisbee. Sometimes we would accidentally throw well off-course and the Frisbee would land in the waves. But it always washed back to shore. Kaitlyn and I had a lot of fun playing together.

The sun was making its way toward the western horizon on this short November day, and we knew that it was time to move on if we were to make it to Seal Rock. We had spent our day on the long beach that is called La Jolla Shores. This section is extensive and straight. The coast continues south where the flat beaches give way to steep cliffs as the coast curves to the west. Beyond that curve is Seal Rock, where the seals hang out. My friend from San Diego told me that he thought there was a walking path between La Jolla Shores and Seal Rock, the distance between the two being a little over a mile.

We set out on a journey to see the seals: two parents, two teenagers, two kids, and several feet wearing flip-flops. We followed the beach south, hoping to find a foot-path soon. A brick fence crossed the beach, perpendicular to the water, but not reaching the water. I didn't see a sign that prohibited us from crossing this point, so we continued.

The brick fence must have indicated a point of demarcation, because now the beach was nearly empty and the sand had recently been raked. A long rustic building, in the same color of the brick fence, sat at the beach's edge and a table with white linen, wine glasses and utensils wrapped in white napkins with a pink bow tied around them sat outside one of the rooms of the building. At the far end of this exclusive beach, the sandy shore abruptly ended and the steep cliffs began. No foot path here. We definitely felt like we were in the wrong place and found a door to enter the building where we could quickly exit the other side. (We later learned that this was the private La Jolla Beach and Tennis Club.)

Instead of navigating a sandy path, we now found ourselves guessing which La Jolla street would be the best to take. All led uphill. We walked along Spindrift Drive up to Torrey Pines Road. The distant cliffs were now out of site and the sun was inching ever closer to the horizon. Jenelle was complaining that we would never get there in time, and she had good reason to do so. Cars zoomed past us at speeds that forced us to keep all our kids to the far right of the narrow sidewalk.

We knew we were close to the ocean, but all the houses on our right side blocked the view. I knew that the view they had out their back windows must have been amazing.

The next street sign we came to read Coast Walk. This was certainly our best bet. We followed the narrow paved road down a short hill where it ended and a foot-path began. Hallelujah!

The trail ran along the edge of a high cliff. Far below us the crest of the waves crashed into black rocks at the foot of the cliff. The pier and the shore that we just came from were visible across the vast corner of ocean.

To our left, literally just off the trail, were the backyards of large homes. Ahead of us, perched along the crevices of the cliff that bent inward, hundreds of black cormorants dotted the face. Where they overflowed to the top of the cliff, we watched them up close, only steps away from the trail. Not only were there cormorants, but also seagulls and pelicans. Splats of white guano stained much of the cliff-side.

The view from this vantage point was amazing. But with the sun already dipping below the horizon, I knew that Seal Rock would be difficult to reach with any kind of suitable light.

We enjoyed what we could, which at the moment was plenty. Below us, a rocky promontory with a wide tunnel or arch stood defiant in the water. Waves beat against it and water moved freely through the tunnel. The passageway was short, I knowing that because I could sense the light from the other side. A lone man with a swimming suit sat at the tunnels edge, hanging his feet in the water. The maps name this promontory as Goldfish Point.

We walked around a bend in the trail and found exactly what we were looking for: seals. This wasn't Seal Rock, but whatever its name was [La Jolla Cove], it was full of them.

A low wooden fence separated the trail from the seals, or sea lions, and a little gate allowed access to join them on the other side with plenty of signs warning tourists not to get too close. And there were plenty of tourists, mingling, but not too close, with seals and cormorants.

Most of the seals lolled on the rocks, occasionally rolling around and barking. They reminded me of a wailing corpse in a horror movie, with no arms and no legs. When one decided to move a considerable distance of a few feet, he raised his on his back flippers and waddled up the rock.

They were used to the human crowd, and didn't appear to shy way from anyone. I watched one sea lion raise his head and spew air at a young teenager. The startled boy jumped back. I think the seal was only playing with him. Several of us smiled.

Other sea lions dropped into the choppy water to take an evening swim. The blue water, now taking on a shade of darkness, tossed them like a washing machine would toss a shirt. The water appeared cold to me, but I am sure that the seals were content and completely within their realm.

Anxious tourists took advantage of the final minutes of light that their cameras would allow and snapped portraits of themselves with the seals.

As for us, it was time that we started making the journey back to our vehicle. The lights around La Jolla were now illuminating and some reflected far into the ocean. The last hue of sunset rested over the city. Even in the darker light, the white-capped waves could still be seen twirling toward the bay.

Thompson Springs

The first thing that one notices when they drive through Thompson Springs is the abundance of single-wide trailers and junk. The vacated buildings certainly outnumber the inhabited ones. I was surprised to see one house, probably built in the thirties and hadn't seen a paint-job since, with new curtains in the window and a vase holding a fresh rose.

I drive a long Bogart Avenue, one of the main roads, yet it only lasts a block or two. On one side there are single-wide trailers, one with an old picket fence that is falling down. Other trailers are obviously vacant, the yard and garden and dog-house next to them out of use for years. The opposite side of the road looks like a storage lot for equipment and old vehicles.

The town has certainly seen better days. Honestly, when I came here, I wasn't expecting to find anyone. I was surprised to see a gas station and a handful of dwellings that were inhabited. I knew that a scene from the movie Thelma and Louise was filmed here: the bar scene. I think they may have revamped one of the old cafe's in town.

Thompson has been at the crossroads for some time now. A few miles up the canyon, Ute, Fremont, and Barrier Canyon Indians have left their markings on the rocks. In 1870, E.W. Thompson was the first white man to establish a residence at the springs. The Denver Rio Grand Rail Company built a rail station here in the 1890's, which became a key to Thompson's early success.

The railroad still runs through Thompson, but no longer stops. The rail station was moved twenty-one miles away in Green River. As I cross the tracks on the north side of Main Street, a kid on a custom-built bike with an extended front wheel passes me going the other way. It is a reminder that people actually live here, and the kids have got to find things to do.

Have I said how remote Thompson is? The nearest town is Green River, population 929. Moab is 35 miles to the south, Price is 90 miles to the west-north-west, and Grand Junction is 77 miles to the east. Any civilization to the north in inaccessible.

As I drive down Main Street, I realize that Thompson was a much more thriving place than it is now. I pass a motel, grocery store, cafe, and several houses, all in disrepair and vacated for quite some time. The townsfolk probably have to drive to Moab for groceries now. There is one hotel, or more likely a bed and breakfast, that looks like it has been restored to its former glory.

A small kiosk on the corner provides some useful information on the town. I was about to peruse the sign when the kid on the bike pulls next to me and asks, “Do you want to ride my chopper?”

The first thought that came to my mind: is this town so lonely that you stop strangers on the side of the road and ask them if they want to ride your bike? On the other hand, I was flattered that the thought would even cross his mind. I was far too sore to ride and odd-shaped bike, but it did lead to a good conversation with this fifteen year old kid, Brandon.

He was very excited to tell me all about his bike. “I got the parts from three different bikes. My friend put it together for me.”

“So they call that a chopper?” I asked, feeling a little bit stupid.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling a goat head out of his tire. “I hate these things. I've already had to pump my tire up once today. Check out these new add-ons.” He unscrewed the cap on the stem of his tire and handed it to me. A shiny new skull.

“Nice,” I said, examining it with my fingers. “So, how many people live in Thompson?”

“Twenty-seven.”

The answer was much lower than I expected. Just then, a girl in a white car passed the intersection. (This was the only vehicle to pass during our conversation.) “That's my sister,” he said. “She's a crazy driver. She got up to one hundred and eighty on the highway!”

“Are you related to the whole town?”

“No, but we know everyone.”

“So, where does everyone work,” I asked. “Do they work in the coal mines?”

“No. They work at the gas station.”

Before I left, Brandon asked me if I'd like to take his picture. I was glad to do it. It is a reminder to me of the living aspect of a town that is mostly dead. We shook hands and then he continued on, peddling on his one-speed chopper through ghostly streets.

On my way out of town, I passed the gas station, and as I was about to enter the freeway, I noticed the train coming from the west and about to enter town. I pulled over to look at it. The bright yellow engines moved distinctly across the desert, with the palisades of the Book Cliffs behind them. The horn of the engine blew several times, loud enough for me to hear. The clanking of wheels on the rails thumped swiftly. But I knew that this train would not be stopping at Thompson Springs. No, those day have long been over.   

Thompson and Sego Canyons

From the mouth of Thompson Canyon you can hear the horn of the train and the power of the engine from three miles away. The railroad, which now completely bypasses the little town of Thompson Springs, once was at the heart of Sego Canyon. Until the 1950's, a spur of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad began at Thompson Springs and went up Thompson Canyon and into Sego Canyon where it loaded up on coal from the mines. At that time, Sego was a thriving little town of several hundred people. Now, no one lives in the town of Sego, except for the wild animals and ghosts of the past.

I spent the night in Thompson Canyon, listening to the sounds of the wind and trains. I drove up the canyon soon after first light and was immediately surprised when a small herd of deer crossed the road in front of me, a nice four-point buck with them. This reminded me that I was in big buck country. Absolutely no one was in the canyon that morning, so I didn't hesitate to stop in the road to take pictures.

The buck seemed oblivious that I was there. He was just chasing the doe wherever she went; in and out of the sage brush, up the hill, around the trees, and across the road. This was November, and the rut was well on its way. Several other does were there also, but he only had his eye on the one.

A little further up the canyon I arrived at my first destination. High on the canyon wall, in three separate but proximate locations, are petroglyphs from three different Indian groups: Barrier Canyon, Fremont, and Ute.

The glyphs are very impressive. The Fremont and Barrier Canyon drawings are high enough that a ladder would be needed to create them. Many of the figures are life-sized. Two Fremont figures depict what looks like warriors adorned in war or other ceremonial dress. Several Barrier Canyon figures look like a cross between a ghost and an alien. Wavy lines give the appearance of floating in the air. I wonder if they are depicting spirits of the deceased. It is also interesting that both the Fremont and Barrier Canyon use upside down triangles, or near triangles, to depict the body, even though the two groups never knew each other and lived hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years apart.

Ute.

Fremont. (Notice they are etched over the top of  Barrier Canyon petroglyphs.)

Barrier Canyon Style.

Another interesting observation is the comparison of the three styles of drawing. If this were an art gallery (which it is), and I were to rate the three based on the pleasing of the eye, I would have to rate the Barrier Canyon first, Fremont second, and Ute last. This is ironic because Barrier Canyon is the oldest, and Ute the newest (some of the Ute even depict horses). It is as if something had been lost over time.

Further up the road, the course splits and the right fork leads to Sego Canyon and the ghost town of Sego. The last major relic left standing, the general store, appears majestic, but out of place in this isolated canyon. The roof is gone, the insides are gone, but stone walls, two-stories high, remain standing.

Next to the store are the remains of the collapsed boarding house. The pictures I saw showed an impressive house, two-storied with many windows. I was expecting to find the house still intact. Instead, I found a house completely razed, either by human or natural forces. Much of the roof still retained its original shape. It was as if someone took a gigantic bat and whacked out the middle section, causing the roof to drop to the ground.

Both the store and the boarding house were built around 1910 by the American Fuel Company after they bought the property from Harry Ballard, the original owner. Thus, the name of the town changed from Ballard to Neslin, after Richard Neslin, the general manager of the new company. Five years later, when business wasn't going so well, Neslin was fired, and naturally, the name of the town changed again, this time to Sego, after the sego lily, which abounded in the canyon.

Remnants of a railroad spur have survived in the canyon, primarily at points where it would have crossed the wash. Wooden bridges still stand, fully erect, without the rails. They are reminders of livelier days when enough coal was mined in the canyon to be brought out on trains.

A dugout.

Further up the canyon are several dugouts. The majority of Sego's five hundred residents lived in these modest dwellings carved into the side of the hill.

Much further off the road I found another brick building built into the side of a hill, but this one was much larger than the dugouts. It may have been a storage building. Inside there is nothing but a dirt floor and a square room with ample space to walk around.

My guess is that this dugout was used to store machinery.

The road up Sego Canyon continues another seven miles or so until it hits the Ute Indian Reservation. It is a reminder, once again, that this land was used by another people.

I decided to turn around. On my way down the canyon, two more nice bucks crossed the road in front of me. The bigger one disappeared into the trees, while the other buck stuck around and chased a doe. I watched him as he moseyed down a hill and found a large growth of brush where he raked and scraped his antlers on the branches. At one point I thought he got them stuck in the tangle of branches, but he pulled them out a couple of minutes later.

My final stop was at the cemetery. No ghost town would be complete without one of these. A barbed-wire fence surrounds this picturesque burial ground at the junction of Sego and Thompson Canyons. The majority of the plots are marked, but unidentified. Crude wooden crosses and piles of rock make up most of the grave markers.

This was difficult for me to comprehend. Buried here are men and women and children who lived lives as real as the one you and I are living. They laughed, cried, and hurt. They bore children who continued to bear children and right now live somewhere in this great world. But their descendents may no longer remember them. And if they were to come here, they would never be able to find their ancestor's grave, because nothing is marked. It is as if the inhabitants of Sego never existed.

Some of the dwellers here immigrated from Italy. One of the few marked headstones identifies a Giovanni Ascani, from Frontone, Italy. He died in 1918. A slab of rock identifies he Stortini baby who died in 1926.

Where are the Ascani and Stortini's now? Do they know that their grandparents mined coal in Sego Canyon? Which of the dugouts belonged to them? Or did they have a larger home, that no longer exits? Did they buy goods in the general store? Were they curious about the ghost-like writings painted on the walls in Thompson Canyon? Did they have dealings with the Ute's? Baby Stortini, did he or she die from harsh conditions made worse by isolation?

So many questions on my mind as I drive on down the road toward Thompson Springs.

Graveyard near the confluence of Thompson and Sego Canyons

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.