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

Gypsy Caves of Sacromonte

There has always been something mysterious and fascinating about the gypsies. I had never met a gypsy until I moved to Spain. My first encounter occurred at Plaça Catalunya in Barcelona when a gypsy lady successfully swiped 70,000 pesetas from my coin purse while trying to sell me flowers. I later met much nicer gypsy ladies who invited me into their homes and fed me lunch. Her people were much rougher than the other Spaniards. Their neighborhoods were worn down and their music and talk very loud. Mothers begged for handouts on the streets while they sent their children door to door selling bushels of garlic.

View of the Alhambra from Sacromonte

The Gypsies that lived at Sacromonte were supposedly no different. All the guide books that I read recommended that a person who comes to the area bring only that which they are willing to part with. And certainly don't come at night. That is when the alleyways become seedier and the eerie walkways become paths of pillage. They will lure you into their caves to watch flamenco performances and then ding you with some exorbitant charge that you didn't expect.

So, where exactly are the Gypsy caves of Sacromonte? They lie just beyond the Albaicín in the town of Granada. The Albaicín  is the old Moorish district, full of white-washed buildings that rise on a hillside, overlooking the Alhambra. From the far east side of the neighborhood, turn east onto the Camino del Sacromonte, and it won't be long until you're there. Arriving there on foot is a piece of cake.

The caves seem to have been constructed by the Moors near the end of the 15^th century when the Christians completed the reconquest of Spain with the victory over Granada, and forced them to flee the city. They used “pick masters” to dig into the rock and excavate the dwellings. Later, when the Moors were eventually driven from the peninsula, the Gypsies took over the caves. The Gypsies originally came with the armies of the Catholic Kings where they were hired as blacksmiths and kettle-makers.

So, this was our day. We did not take the added risk of traveling there at night. But I did bring my coin purse and camera, two items that I did not want stolen, yet I was somewhat confident that I would keep them from getting robbed. We traveled east on the Camino del Sacromonte and within minutes we arrived where we thought we should be. There was no street sign that said, “Welcome to Sacromonte.” At first, there appeared to be no caves. Yet on closer inspection, many of the buildings appeared to extend into the hillside, with only the entrance of the dwelling containing a facade that made it look like a normal building. We later learned that this was a normal part of the evolution of the caves, transforming them from a primitive cave dwelling to an extension built on it to create a more modern appearance. Yet, here and there, we still found raw caves built directly into the hillside.

Almost all the buildings were white-washed. They resembled “Smurf  houses” to an extent because of the their rounded nature, the chimney poking from the hillside, and the blue and white colors which were used together. Other than the main road from which we came, most of the other paths were only wide enough for pedestrians. Most of these stone paths were on a slope, winding from one dwelling to the next, with chumbera cactus growing along the side and cats and dogs roaming around in great abundance.

We read of a “museum” somewhere in the area, and at the top of a long stone stairway, we found that “museum.” A lady sat at a table and took our money (5 € each), and in front of us were several white-washed caves which had been restored to their original appearance and furnished with beds, baskets, tables, pots, kettles, stoves, brooms, and other items to give them the appearance of their original state. Another section contained signs describing the construction and history of the caves. The public bathrooms were even inside a cave. Even though this wasn't your standard museum, I thought that it was very helpful, especially since I wasn't about to knock on someone's door and ask them if I could go inside to look at their cave.

If there were a central section of Sacromonte, I would say that we were there. I wanted to move beyond this part, and into the outer regions where the tourists didn't go. We walked down a stone pathway, along white-washed façades with decorative pots hanging freely, clothes hanging out to dry and the occasional table and chair set out in front of the door. We came to a very small plaza with one small green fountain and a bench next to it. A set of stairs led up the hill and disappeared out of view. My wife decided to wait for me on the bench while I ventured to explore the stairs.

Not too far up, the stairs ended, turning into a grassy alley-way between two walls like those of a shanty-town. Trash littered the ground and foul smells arose. I felt like I was about to walk into someones back yard. I continued up the hill, past the walls, and the hillside opened up.  I found myself on a grassy slope, within sight of the old Arab walls. I was soon determined to walk up to the almond-colored walls and touch them, which I did, but I did it very hesitantly, because also within sight was a gypsy camp, built into a cave.

Nobody was visible at the camp. An old wooden fence surrounded a portion of the cave and a strange netting hung over part of the fenced portion. A tarp covered a large rectangular item and a wooden table held a flower pot. I saw a small, arch-shaped window. A skinny, metal chimney bent from another window and turned skyward like the letter “J.” Behind some of the scattered junk, I could see a door that was built into the hillside.

Looking back toward Sacromonte, this is the gorge of the Rio Darro.  Snow-capped Sierra Nevada in the background.

But the one item that caught my attention the most was the dog that was off to the side, just staring me down. He looked like a black and tan German Shepherd and at that moment, he was more worrisome than any Gypsy in the camp. Since I was already at the wall when I noticed him, I still took the time to touch the bricks and to notice the beautiful vista from where I stood. The jaded wall continued down-hill toward the Albaicín , and in the near distance stood the formidable palace of the Alhambra.

The old Arab walls.

I kept an eye on the dog and watched him hold still while I quickly moved down the hill and back through the shanty-town alley-way and down the stairs to the white-washed Smurf  houses. As I reached the safety of the small green fountain next to the bench, I was startled to feel the dog following me down the stairs. I don't think that he barked, or even growled, but his presence was enough to scare me. I cautiously moved away, and so did he.

As we finished our walk through Sacromonte, there was nothing that felt dangerous. We passed a teenage boy riding his bicycle up the hill and he smiled at us when I took his picture. We also found a cute little girl sitting just outside her doorway playing with a cat. Except for the experience with the dog, we never did feel unsafe. The whole experience, in some ways, was anticlimactic, because we did not get robbed. I'll take that.